J. Curtis: Calexit: The Anthology

The master chief sighed, “Mike, I’ve been checking in with them every day at noon, but today, nothing. Trish had said something about getting her car. I’m hoping it’s just that the cells are having problems again. Have you gotten any texts or a call?”

Mike sat up, turned on the light, and checked his messages, “No, nothing since last night… Well, early this morning there.”

“I’m going to go check your house and the school. I’ll call you back in an hour.”

“Okay. Let me know, and I’ll…” A beeping noise indicating another call got his attention, “Hang on, I’m getting another call.” Punching the screen, he inadvertently conferenced the calls together, and said, “Hello?”

The voice on the other end said, “Captain, this is Admiral Clayborn. I need to notify you that we believe your wife and son were swept up in the riot this morning in Harborside. San Diego PD has notified us your burnt out SUV was found down there, but your wife and son are currently missing.”

“No!” Mike hissed softly, “Oh God, no…”

“Captain… Mike, we aren’t sure what has happened, but I’ve arranged transportation back to San Diego for you. There is a B-52 leaving Anderson in two hours. You have a seat on it. I’m sorry to be the one to break this news…”

“BUFF, two hours? I’ll be on it, sir. Thank you. Oh my God. Not this. No…”

“Is there anything we can do on this end?”

“Just find them, please, sir. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I’ll say a prayer too, Mike.” The admiral hung up, and Mike sagged, tears running down his face, moaning.

“Mike, I heard. We’ll meet you. I’m still going to go check the house, and reach out to my connections.”

“Jimmy, I… Find them please. I don’t care how. Just find them!”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I’m going to go catch the BUFF, I’ll call you as soon as I land.” Mike hung up, then dialed Villanueva, “Commander, I’ve got an emergency at home, I need a ride to Anderson ASAP. I have to catch an airplane at zero six hundred.” Villanueva said it would take him fifteen minutes, and Mike hung up. He tried calling both Trish and Mikey’s phones, but they both went to voice mail immediately. Looking at the clock, he realized it was four in the morning, and he got up, moving like an automaton as he showered and packed.

Mike was sitting on the bumper of his truck when Villanueva pulled up. He threw his pack in the back, climbed in, and said, “My wife and son are missing, and there was a riot in Harborside this morning. You’ve got the ball here. If there are issues, get with Master Chief Cameron.”

“Yes, sir.” Villanueva got him over to Anderson Air Force Base quickly and silently, and pulled into base ops at five in the morning.

Mike grabbed his bag and said, “Thanks.” Then turned and walked into base ops. An hour later he’d been to the bathroom, was stuffed into a flight suit, helmet, and oxygen mask and strapped into the Electronic Warfare officer’s seat on the upper deck in the B-52.

A click in his helmet was followed by, “Captain James, Colonel Horton, are you ready?”

Mike fumbled for the mic switch, “Yes. As ready as I’ll be.”

Another click was followed by a chuckle, “Well, we’ll do our best. Here we go.”

Mike felt the engines spool up, and the airplane started vibrating, then he sensed they were moving slowly. He kept waiting for the airplane to rotate, like an airliner, but he never felt it, suddenly, the vibration lessened, and he heard the pilots doing a checklist. Mike looked around but didn’t seen anything other than blank panels staring at him, as the systems were turned off. He squirmed around, trying to get comfortable, but his butt was already getting numb. At some point, he nodded off, and was surprised to feel a tug on his sleeve five hours later, with the navigator standing next to him, shouting, “You need to take a piss, sir? Colonel also wants to know if you want to watch a refueling.”

“Piss, yes.” Mike yelled, “Where would I go to see refueling?”

“Jump seat.” The navigator safed his ejection seat, and helped him unstrap, then pointed him at the honey bucket, “Don’t miss!”

Mike nodded, took care of business, and made his way to the jump seat behind the pilots. The copilot mimed plugging a cord in, and pointed to the bulkhead behind Mike’s head. He looked around and found a cord, and plugged it in, then heard a pop, and “Hear me?” He nodded.

“Okay, we’re gonna plug here in about five minutes. See the 135 out there?” Colonel Horton, pointed out the center windscreen, then bumped the throttles up slightly.

Mike looked and finally found the KC-135 a couple of miles ahead, as the B-52 slowly closed the distance. “Now we’re gonna get kinda close, so don’t panic. I don’t plan on hitting them, as that would screw up both our days, okay?” Mike glanced over and saw the colonel smiling at him, and he tentatively smiled back.

Mike heard a back and forth conversation with the tanker that left him confused, until he realized the tanker was talking the B-52 in. He couldn’t help but cringe when the tail of the tanker passed over, seemingly only feet away. He looked up through the overhead hatch and only saw airplane, but when he looked back at the colonel, he seemed to be relaxed and totally at ease. He heard something about passing gas, and fifteen thousand pounds, and saw the pilot with a grease pencil changing numbers on one of the sheets sitting on the center console. He finally remembered that aviators didn’t use gallons, they calculated their fuel weight and flows in pounds. He noticed the colonel adding power slowly,holding the airplane in position. A few minutes later, he heard, “Disconnect.” And watched the tanker disappear out the top of the windscreen, then the Colonel added power and started climbing the B-52 to a different altitude. Another pop in his headset was followed by, “Okay, we got gas, another five hours and we’ll be landing at NAS North Island. Captain, you can stay up here, or go back to your seat, your choice.”

Mike looked out the windows one more time, then made a motion that he was going back. He heard the colonel call the navigator as he unplugged, and made his way back to his ejection seat. The nav popped up beside him, helped him strap back in and armed his seat, giving him a thumbs up.

“Captain? Captain? We’re descending into San Diego. You awake?”

Mike fumbled for the mic switch again, “Uh, yeah. Awake.”

“We’ll be on the ground in thirty minutes. There was a message that you will be met.”

“Thanks.” Mike leaned as far forward as he could, then back, rocking his head side to side, he moaned softly, Good God, how do these people do this every day? I’d go nuts, and need a new ass after every flight! God, if you’ll let me, I want to ask a favor. Please let Trish and Michael be alive. I know that’s a lot, but please let them be okay.

Twenty-five minutes later, there was a thump, screech of tires, and he felt the airplane slow rapidly. Mike felt the airplane swerve off the runway, then slow to a stop, as the navigator climbed up, and started unhooking Mike from the seat. Mike took the helmet off, and the nav said, “Just leave it in the seat. When you’re ready, climb on down and I’ll have the ladder down for you. We’re on the taxiway, they’ve got a follow-me truck out here to pick you up.” Mike nodded and the nav disappeared down the ladder.

Mike stuck his head in the cockpit and yelled, “Thanks, Colonel. Appreciate the ride.”

Colonel Horton nodded and replied, “I’ll say a prayer.”

“Thanks!”

Mike climbed down the boarding ladder to find the navigator at the base of the ladder with his bag and briefcase in hand. He took them and yelled, “Thank you!”