which was too bad.
At this point in its long service life, an alien invasion of Thule would have livened things up considerably.
*****
The unofficial name of the Base Exchange saloon was the Ice Cube, usually written as Ice ᵌ . Sitting at the end of its crowded bar at the moment were two men who'd been in town for only a week. They were the commanders of a massive KC-10 aerial tanker attached to the 157th Air National Guard refueling wing out of Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
Their airplane had wound up in Thule after making a routine training flight eight days before. A bad engine had forced them to stay grounded. Then the weather got worse and the orders came down that no unnecessary flight operations would be permitted until the weather broke. Between getting the bum engine fixed and the snow, seven interminable days had passed by.
So here the crew had sat, cold, drunk, and bored, waiting for a receiver valve for their engine and a break in the "summer weather."
The nickname of their KC-10 was "The Pegasus." It had a reputation of sorts around the Eastern Seaboard of the United States. Its crew was known as the best in the aerial refueling game. They were held in high esteem by fighter pilots who on occasion found themselves flying on dark nights over the North Atlantic with the weather getting bad and their fuel tanks getting low. Many times the Pegasus would take off from Portsmouth, find the lonely fighter, fill its tanks, and get it home safely.
The commander of the KC-10 was Major Jimmy Gillis. He was a tall, lanky, handsome man of fifty-three. His copilot was Captain Marty Ricco, stout, muscular, two years younger than Gillis. Both men were married and lived in New Hampshire; both had two kids. They'd been piloting the Pegasus for nearly twelve years together. Their crew of seven had been with them for almost as long. They were a tight group. Besides seeing service during the Gulf War, they'd participated in countless exercises over the North Atlantic, plus three European TDYs in support of NATO Bosnia air patrols. Together the crew had experienced many high points.
Being stuck in frozen Thule was not one of them.
*****
By 1930 hours, Gillis and Ricco had finished their third beer of the evening. Their enlisted guys were playing video games nearby. Country music was blasting from the PA system. The TV above the bar was showing some Alpine games—a cruel joke—but Gillis and Ricco found their eyes glued to the screen. So bored were they that even an hours-long program about skiing, skating, and bobsledding could capture their attention.
So neither they nor anyone else at the bar noticed the plane that landed on the base's main runway at precisely 1935 hours. It was the first aircraft to come into the base in three days, and it was, in a sense, an unusual one.
The airplane was a C-14 Jetstar, a bird usually reserved for flying big brass around. It was the military equivalent of a Learjet. Small, powerful, two jet engines, a rather luxurious interior.
The Jetstar set down quietly and discharged two passengers. Its pilots were told to do a "hot" gas-up—that is, take on fuel while their engines were still turning. If all went as the two passengers hoped, neither they nor the Jetstar would be staying in Thule very long.
Dressed in heavy parkas, the passengers made their way over to the Ice Cube, and after a battle with the wind and blowing snow, managed to open its inner door. Finally waddling inside, they quickly closed the door behind them and headed towards the bar.
No one in the place paid them any attention, least of all Gillis and Ricco. It was only after the two men reached the end of the bar that Ricco bothered to look up. Both men pulled back their hoods and wiped the ice and snow from their faces. Ricco stared up at them and then nudged Gillis.
"You believe in ghosts, Jimmy?"
Gillis looked up at the two men staring down at them.
"You got to be kidding me," he breathed.
He
At this point in its long service life, an alien invasion of Thule would have livened things up considerably.
*****
The unofficial name of the Base Exchange saloon was the Ice Cube, usually written as Ice ᵌ . Sitting at the end of its crowded bar at the moment were two men who'd been in town for only a week. They were the commanders of a massive KC-10 aerial tanker attached to the 157th Air National Guard refueling wing out of Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
Their airplane had wound up in Thule after making a routine training flight eight days before. A bad engine had forced them to stay grounded. Then the weather got worse and the orders came down that no unnecessary flight operations would be permitted until the weather broke. Between getting the bum engine fixed and the snow, seven interminable days had passed by.
So here the crew had sat, cold, drunk, and bored, waiting for a receiver valve for their engine and a break in the "summer weather."
The nickname of their KC-10 was "The Pegasus." It had a reputation of sorts around the Eastern Seaboard of the United States. Its crew was known as the best in the aerial refueling game. They were held in high esteem by fighter pilots who on occasion found themselves flying on dark nights over the North Atlantic with the weather getting bad and their fuel tanks getting low. Many times the Pegasus would take off from Portsmouth, find the lonely fighter, fill its tanks, and get it home safely.
The commander of the KC-10 was Major Jimmy Gillis. He was a tall, lanky, handsome man of fifty-three. His copilot was Captain Marty Ricco, stout, muscular, two years younger than Gillis. Both men were married and lived in New Hampshire; both had two kids. They'd been piloting the Pegasus for nearly twelve years together. Their crew of seven had been with them for almost as long. They were a tight group. Besides seeing service during the Gulf War, they'd participated in countless exercises over the North Atlantic, plus three European TDYs in support of NATO Bosnia air patrols. Together the crew had experienced many high points.
Being stuck in frozen Thule was not one of them.
*****
By 1930 hours, Gillis and Ricco had finished their third beer of the evening. Their enlisted guys were playing video games nearby. Country music was blasting from the PA system. The TV above the bar was showing some Alpine games—a cruel joke—but Gillis and Ricco found their eyes glued to the screen. So bored were they that even an hours-long program about skiing, skating, and bobsledding could capture their attention.
So neither they nor anyone else at the bar noticed the plane that landed on the base's main runway at precisely 1935 hours. It was the first aircraft to come into the base in three days, and it was, in a sense, an unusual one.
The airplane was a C-14 Jetstar, a bird usually reserved for flying big brass around. It was the military equivalent of a Learjet. Small, powerful, two jet engines, a rather luxurious interior.
The Jetstar set down quietly and discharged two passengers. Its pilots were told to do a "hot" gas-up—that is, take on fuel while their engines were still turning. If all went as the two passengers hoped, neither they nor the Jetstar would be staying in Thule very long.
Dressed in heavy parkas, the passengers made their way over to the Ice Cube, and after a battle with the wind and blowing snow, managed to open its inner door. Finally waddling inside, they quickly closed the door behind them and headed towards the bar.
No one in the place paid them any attention, least of all Gillis and Ricco. It was only after the two men reached the end of the bar that Ricco bothered to look up. Both men pulled back their hoods and wiped the ice and snow from their faces. Ricco stared up at them and then nudged Gillis.
"You believe in ghosts, Jimmy?"
Gillis looked up at the two men staring down at them.
"You got to be kidding me," he breathed.
He
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