Brain Needed Space

Originally published on 25 January 2008, this is one of my best stories in terms of composition. The ending is probably the best I’ve ever written; this story’s snappiness is what I strive for every time.

I worked Defensive Electronic Countermeasures (DECM) and Electronic Sensor Systems (ESS) on U-2s at several installations around the world, but for three years I resided at Beale AFB, California. A special feature of the aircraft hangers at Beale is that they open to the west. What that means is that in the summer, in the afternoon and evening, the sun would turn those metal contraptions into giant Easy Bake ovens. The heat in there would skyrocket way over 110 degrees because of the complete and total lack of airflow. That giant metal box with the sun pouring heat into the entrance was basically a torture device straight out of The Bridge Over the River Kwai.

One summer’s afternoon, I’d been working on the flightline on a U-2 for a while and thought I had determined the problem with a system, but it was time for the shift change. So at 1530, I was passing on the information I had gathered about the problem to the oncoming crew. The person who would be in charge of the next crew was a notorious goofball, Airman B. Physically harmless but capable of extreme and aggravated incompetence, it was standard procedure to write down instructions so he couldn’t claim ignorance of what was expected of him.

In my shift-notes, I wrote about the problem on the aircraft, what I had troubleshot, what my thoughts on progression were, and a safety note about the heat that was going to be coming from the setting sun and to make sure he had water for him and his crew. “Do Not Get Dehydrated! This is critical!”

He asked me what his people could drink. What a goober, sheesh. Just drink from the Igloo cooler on the truck.

“I don’t have a cup.”

Use the cups in the box behind the drivers seat!

“Um, the box is empty.”

THEN GET ON THE COMPUTER AND ORDER SOME, NOW NOW NOW!! GET THE SYSTEM FIXED, GET THIS AIRCRAFT FULLY-MISSION-CAPABLE, GET IT DONE SAFELY AND DO IT F-ING NOW!!”

And I left. Golf was on the agenda, perhaps a quick 9 holes, maybe a full 18. Back home, changed, grabbed the clubs, hopped in the superhero-green Honda del Sol, and boogied over to the golf course, desperate to get in a foursome somehow.

Bingo! A trio of older guys had a tee-time but their fourth had just radioed, saying he couldn’t make it as there was a huge emergency at his work. Am I available? You bet! I got picked up and away we went.

After the front 9 holes were behind us, we all went to the clubhouse for a drink. It was really hot and we were sweating buckets. As we stood at the bar, an announcement was made on the PA.

“Colonel X, please pick up the phone; you have an emergency call.”

Imagine my surprise when one of my golf partners said, “Excuse me,” and went to the phone.

He picked up the receiver, said “This is Colonel X,” and didn’t say another word. That is, until a stream of Yes Sirs started pouring forth from his lips. The final Yes Sir ended as the phone was slammed into the cradle. He came back to the bar.

“Well Dennis, you’re gonna get a call in a second.”

“Why?” said one of my other golf partners.

“General Z is on a rampage. The Supply Commander just went ballistic because one of my maintainers ordered a criminally stupid part for a nuclear aircraft.”

To myself, I thought, one of his maintainers? He’s a full colonel? Oh my god, he’s the Maintenance Group Commander! I’m playing golf with the Maintenance Group Commander… and I think I’m down three dollars to him.

A quick aside on U-2s and nukes. U-2s don’t have em, don’t carry em, and have nothing to do with nuclear power or detonations thereof, whatsoever. I promise.

A quick aside on the The Air Force supply system. Air Force Supply delivers parts on a priority schedule, and each priority has a code. When you order a part, you put the order priority code into the computer so Supply knows just how fast to get you that part.

You need office paper, that’s low priority. A part for a truck would be higher priority. A part for an aircraft is higher still. A part for an aircraft on a war-time footing is almost as high as it gets. The only things higher are parts for Air Force One and an aircraft on a war-time footing with nuclear payloads. An order made for this scenario was called 1AA-priority – it might be called something else now – and causes a massive hullabaloo, with possible repercussions across the world if a part is critically needed and not immediately available.

And it really upsets some folks if you order parts for a nuclear aircraft when there are no nuclear aircraft on the installation.

Back to our story, where the PA made another announcement.

“Colonel Y, please pick up the phone; you have an emergency call.”

Sure enough, Dennis walked over to the phone. Jeebus, what is this, a colonel-reunion?

The third member of our golf group approached Colonel X and asked, “What’s going on?”

“Apparently, an ESS airman ordered Styrofoam cups for his guys, but ordered them as if they were a part for an aircraft carrying a nuclear payload.”

“He did what?”

“He said the outgoing shift chief told him to do it. I’m gonna kill someone; I really hate being chewed out by the General and the Supply Commander at the same time. Especially before I finish a round.”

“Oh, is that why he couldn’t make today’s golf, he had to go talk to General Z?”

“Yes. The general was quite surprised to get a call and learn that a pallet of 8 oz Styrofoam cups were ready to be airlifted from Texas to repair a broken, nuclear U-2, but there was a question of just how many cups a nuclear U-2 carried and where exactly they were installed, cause that’s ‘a whole lotta f-ing cups.’ The general said he thought it was a joke until a two-star explained that he wanted answers or General Z would soon be running the ROTC detachment at the Arctic Circle School for Advanced Polar Bear Studies.”

Back on the phone… “Colonel Y speaking… No sir… No Sir! Absolutely not sir.” And Colonel Y hurriedly put down the phone. He came back to the group, and said,

“The general asked me, ‘As you are the Operations Group Commander, I am relying on your expert opinion. None of your aircraft are nuclear, are they? There are no cups installed as equipment on your aircraft, are there?’ And then he slammed the phone down. I don’t know who “Airman B’s” preceding shift supervisor is, but he’s about to get a phone call from General Z and that poor airman isn’t going to know what hit him.”

And the evil, dirty PA came to life one last time.

“Airman Howell, please pick up the phone; you have an emergency call.”

And the three Colonels: the Operations Group Commander, the Maintenance Group Commander, and as I would learn later, the Medical Group Commander, watched me put down my drink and, with rubbery resolve, slink to the bar phone. I stood at attention because I had no idea what else to do.

“This is Airman Howell.”

“Airman Howell, this is General Z. How are you?”

“I was enjoying around of golf with a few of your commanders, but I don’t think I’m going to complete my round, sir.”

“Are you losing?”

“I think I owe Colonel X three dollars.”

“Damn good man but can’t hit a wood to save his life. Let me be quick; you’re on speakerphone here. Did you order or request or threaten anybody to order Styrofoam cups to be installed on a nuclear U-2, priority 1AA?”

“No sir.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes sir.”

“Airman Howell, Airman B seems to think you did.”

“Sir, I told Airman B to make sure his guys were kept hydrated while they worked on the flightline in the evening. I told him to order some cups from supply if he was out, but I didn’t tell him to pretend that cups are an integral component of a U-2, and I certainly didn’t tell him to have them expedited nuclear-priority.”

“I didn’t think so. Thank you airman.”

“Yes sir, thank you sir.” And I gently hung up the phone.

My drink’s location happened to coincide with the gaggle of colonels still at the bar, so that was where my feet took me. The Maintenance Group Commander looked at me, befuddled, and asked, “Well, what did he say?”

“Sir, he said that since you’re in my direct chain of command, it is improper of you to place any wagers with me, and as such, you cannot collect your three dollars.”

“Fuck.” Said Colonel X, as he brought his drink to his lips. ”He probably said I can’t use a driver, too, didn’t he?”

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