First Day

Jet lag surged through my veins leaving a lethargic aftertaste in my sluggish mind. The morning’s alarm pierced thin walls from across the room, rousing the neighbors to abuse the “military-issued” room dividers. A Gunny Sergeant, connected to my tiny suite through the bathroom, was already showering. Steam rolled under the solid oak door. Good for you, Marine. More sleep for me. I stretched and rolled over, instantly regretting the move that exposed my highly sensitive skin to the scratchy, wool blanket. A white sheet tangled around my feet shirking its assignment of protection. My sky colored eyes opened; long blond hair wrapped across my face and wound around my neck. Spitting the wheaten strands out of my mouth, I acknowledged defeat with a resentful growl. I kicked at the itchy sleep-shroud and made the mattress bounce and creak. A sigh exploded from my chest.

This is how the day would begin. Well, fine. So be it.

Next to the tiny T.V. was an equally miniscule coffee maker nestled inside a cubby. My uniform overlaid the morning beverage device. A smirk drew life to my features as my thumb slid across the Tactical Aircraft Maintenance Technician badge sewn into the chest. My recruiter had argued against allowing me to enlist in the labor intensive, male dominated career field, but I refused to sign the contract otherwise. He warned of the hardships, prejudices against women, harsh elements, long hours, and complete lack of respect. I heard none of it, declaring, “I want to work on things that go fast.” And so here I stood, reconciling myself to an extra layer of deodorant and the understanding that if I was set to work right away—as I hoped I would be—no amount of morning showering would counteract the subsequent afternoon sweaty lather. I brushed at the singular Airman stripe, careful not to unroll the sleeves on which they perched. In only a few short months another stripe would join the first.

A knock at the bathroom door caught my attention, redirecting my thoughts to the Gunny Sergeant. What a funny thing that was. It had never occurred to me that there might be complications due to the gender incongruity of my name. In some parts of the United States, Shannon is a girl’s name and either/or in other parts. At Kunsan Air Base South Korea during the summer of 1994, Shannon was presumed to be a man’s name. I’m a nineteen year old woman. Sharing a bathroom with a forty year old, about-to-retire, family man. A lone Air Force E-2 in a row of all male Marines’ temporary quarters.

The door latch worked smoothly, opening to reveal black eyebrows and piercing gray eyes on the seasoned face of the man swelling into the doorway. “I just wanted to wish you good luck today. It’s your first day at your first base, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, let me know if you need anything when you get back. I’m not Air Force, but I do have some pull.” He tapped an expansive rank insignia laying heavy on a broad lapel. “Rank has it’s privileges.” A sly grin warmed the tanned skin, lit the pale gray eyes, and sent jovial wrinkles into his salted, black high top.

The smile was infectious and I returned it despite my previous griping. “I will! I’ll be fine. I can handle myself.” I gave him a salacious wink and donned my uniform shirt as he closed the door between us.

Billeting was located on the opposite side of the base from the flight line where I would soon be working. A few busses passed me headed in the wrong direction, but I ignored them, enjoying the freedom of my own two feet. I had allotted two hours for my trek and, with any luck, I hoped to come across a dining hall or the Shopette to fill my belly with treats. It was unlikely that I would get anything more until I was finally dismissed for the day.

Upon my arrival at Command Quarters, CQ, I learned that the staff from billeting had called my Squadron’s Chief Master Sergeant to inform him of my arrival and the unfortunate circumstances of my housing. This had prompted an immediate base wide search for my wandering soul—apparently nobody considered that I may have walked the four miles to work. My sense of independence demanded that I find my own way there.

The Chief stood before me, well worn lines of a frequent scowl deepened into their places of agitation across his face. I was most certainly not the nineteen year old man they had expected. A playful grab at the front of my t-shirt, paired with a glance inside, made light of the assumption. I returned a mocking gaze to his stiffening glare. My mischievous grin widened as I twisted my face an inch or two sideways to give him the full effect of my slanted amusement.

He huffed.

He sighed.

The sheer stubbornness of my birth-assigned gender remained to defy the occupational expectation with its feminine audacity.

His face crumpled into a frown.

“Wait here.” Speaking to a female F-16 “Crew Chief” ground rocks of agitation into the Chief’s voice. He executed a perfect about face and escorted his stoicism into his office, clenching his fists at his sides.

Dismissed, I allowed myself to slouch and view the room in which I was abandoned. A tall counter ran the inside length, followed the corner, and connected to the walls at both ends. Three young women busied themselves as I turned to face their work area. They had been staring at my back during my antics with the older enlisted man. Two of the orderlies met in the back of the room and whispered, casting glances in my direction and pointing at papers spread across a desk. The third smiled at me, her brown eyes wide and doey.

“I don’t know how you do it,” the young woman spoke in timid tones. I quirked an eyebrow upward. Shaking her head and licking her lips she continued, “I couldn’t manage that. Out in the heat and the cold—those long hours! All the dirt and grease. And dealing with the guys! You’re very brave.”

That baffled me. Why was I brave for pursuing my career of choice? My brow wrinkled while my mouth turned down at the edges. Maybe if I’d chosen to be a cop or infantry, that would make sense, but there would be no weapons firing at me on the flightline. My biggest danger was my own clumsiness. Leaning against the counter, I let my bewilderment manifest in a gush of breath. Before I could gather a verbal response, the Chief returned. He directed me to follow the paved sidewalk that carved a path through unkempt grasses and wound between the cement arches of Hardened Aircraft Shelters. In the distance nestled a building further sequestered inside the secured area of the flightline.

Inside this building, I was greeted by more high ranking enlisted men, equally confused as to what to do with me. They debated the merits of placing me in various out of sight locations, while casting glances at my slight figure and short stature. Standing five feet even and weighing in at a mere one hundred two pounds, I was well aware of my deficiencies inspiring confidence.

Appearances are deceiving, though, and to prove this, I burst into the conversation about me—in front of me—with an exasperated, “When do I get to work on the jets?”

To a man, each stared at me, every eyebrow raised and mouth smirked. They passed sly grins to each other and announced that I could begin right away. The air thickened with a pregnant expectation of my impending failure.

A Technical Sergeant driving a beat up, blue, bread truck rocked the vehicle through into the parking lot from the ramp, managing to keep at least two wheels ground bound. I climbed aboard, taking in the men habitually leaning to keep balance during the jouncing ride. They met me with wide smiles, winking to each other and mouthing indistinct remarks. The driver called over his shoulder, making introductions and giving directions. I did my wide-eyed best to follow his slurry speech, but my very first sight of live fighter jets ripped my attention away. My mouth hung open and sparking butterflies ignited in my chest.

The truck jerked to a sudden stop at the throat of a Hardened Aircraft Shelter. Twisting in his seat, the dark haired, mustachioed Tech Sergeant declared, “This is your HAS. Here’s your launch bag and tool box, there’s your jet, that’s your pilot getting out of the bus behind us.” Then he stared at me.

The blood from my face pooled in my toes dragging my stomach down with it. “You want me to launch that jet?”

“Yeah. Problem?”

I swallowed against the sudden nausea. “I’ve never launched a jet before.”

He slow blinked. A Senior Airman, tall and lanky, leaned forward to join the conversation. “What do you mean? You did ‘launch and recovery’ in FTD, didn’t you?”

I gazed at him. Sweat popped out across my forehead even though I felt a deceptive chill pricking at my arms. “What’s FTD?”

That nightmare of being on display, in the buff, before the entire high school spun through my mind. Wreckless terror scattered my thoughts to irretrievable places as my sense of military bearing grabbed at the fraying reigns of self composure. The truck sloshed a thick alphabet soup of shouts, angry faces glared at me, shaking and pressing into my personal space.

The lanky Senior Airman wrapped one hand around my arm as he addressed the Tech Sergeant. “I’ll take a ‘Y’ cord and run her through this launch.” His spoken assurance calmed the chaos. He pulled from the vehicle and I stood, watching it leave us in it’s wake.

The pilot’s stride faltered when his gaze swung in our direction. He caught himself mid-gape and threw his attention into the aircraft’s forms. “How’s it been flying chief?” he muttered, nailing his eyes to the page he wasn’t reading. The Senior Airman shrugged and dropped my launch bag under the left wing tip.

I floated to the jet, fellow humans forgotten. Here before me was the glorious F-16. It basked in my admiration of gray sleekness, beckoned me to touch—to run my palms over the roughened skin and explore every inch of the formidable beauty poised on white, folding landing gear. Flags of red “Remove Before Flight” ribbons toyed with a heated breeze that called the beast to rise up and fly away. I stood, stunned. My breath caught in my throat. Deadly grace and fearsome justice awaited union with a flight suit insert. The pilot’s form swam in my peripheral vision, openly staring at me. I jerked my head to meet his attention, then flicked stray strands behind one ear and returned to fawning the jet. His shoulders drooped; he sighed and slapped the forms closed.

The Senior Airman drew me to him with a wave. “I’m Alan Schlausky.”

He held a hand out to me, his grip firm and tight. I returned it with equal force, hoping a show of strength in a handshake would make up for my lacking stature. This was a world of men, and I wanted to keep pace with them.

Alan continued, unwrapping the “Y” cord that would connect both of us to the pilot during the launch. “This is like every launch you did in FTD. I’ll be on the comm with you if you have any questions. Just relax. It’s easy.”

There was that acronym again. My brow scrunched in perplexity. “What is FTD?” I queried.

He froze. His dark green eyes betrayed a wary suspicion in the way they crinkled at the edges. “That’s the school you went to after Tech School. At Luke AFB in Arizona.”

“I didn’t go to Arizona. I went to tech school and came here.” A black chunk of ice settled in my stomach, churning up another round of stress induced nausea.

Alan’s hands dropped to his sides, the comm cords falling to the ground. I squeezed my baby blues closed as panic climbed up my spine and swelled in my throat. How could this have happened? How did I miss an entire training school? But this couldn’t be my fault; I followed my orders and my orders led me here. Not to Arizona. Reality dropped away from my feet abandoning me to a sink hole of fear. Denial split my psyche, begging that I wake up in an alternate universe.

My eyes slit open to peer at Alan. He was still gaping. Having regained my attention, his head snapped down to the forgotten equipment at his feet. Broad hands plucked the cords from the ground. The man stood, straight and tall, face pinched and eyes narrowed. His steady gaze landed on me.

“I’m gonna teach you. We’ll figure out this FTD thing later. Don’t worry, it’s easy.” He slapped a thick stack of work cards into my hands. “Look these over and follow along. I’ll do the launch this time, you just observe. Then we’ll go launch my jet and you’ll take over. I’ll be right there shadowing you. We’ll tackle this together.” His cheery tone lightened his boyish face and he ran a hand over my rumpled blond strands.

“Okay.” My eye lashes fluttered in relief that threatened to break emotional strongholds. The offer of help played at my hopes like the summer breeze promising freedom to my tousled locks bound in a ponytail. Alan informed the pilot that we would both be launching him out and that I was “new.” He offered no further explanation.

Flight suit dutifully connected with his position between the joystick and throttle grip, Alan led me to the aft of the plane and pointed at two small silver doors on the left side of the engine cowling. I stood over him, while he crouched and leaned close. “That’s the JFS doors. When he asks for start clearance, make sure the doors open all the way and nothing catches fire.”

My brows peaked. “Does that happen often?”

He snorted, “No,” and flashed me a teasing grin. “After engine start, we’ll pull the main landing gear pins and stow them. Then he’ll ask for clearance to run a flight control test.”

A memory surfaced. I flipped through the work cards, “Oh, yeah, FLCS bit check.”

“Yup.” He turned his face up, studying me for a moment. Returning to the jet, he went on, “We’ll stand to the aft and watch the bit check. We’ll know before he does if it kicks out an error.”

“How do we know that?”

“It’ll stop.”

“Oh,” I frowned at missing the obvious. “What next?”

“Pull the EPU pin and then the chalks. And he’s outta here.”

“Kay.”

The comm crackled and a soft, keening whine broke through our muffled headsets with a quick clicking running underneath. I turned wide eyes to Alan, my butterflies flew with razored wings. He smiled and pointed to the pilot who had twisted in his seat to gaze at us over the left wing. A thumbs up passed between the two men.

The pilot straightened, looking down at his panels, “Okay, chief. Main power on. Clear for JFS start two?”

Alan nudged me, but I took a small step back shaking my head. He rolled his deep green eyes and spoke, “Yes, sir. Cleared JFS start two.”

His hand tapped my leg then pointed to the silvery doors. They snapped open with all the force of pressurized hydraulics and the small jet engine cried it’s strains, working to spool up the fighter’s main turbofan engine. Such a phantasm bemoaning it’s awakening, the ponderous jet came to life. A steady, shrill whirring denoted the craft’s readiness to move on to the next step. Alan waved me toward the opposite wheel well, cautioning me against walking into the jet wash on my way around. The pilot silently ran through cockpit checks as we passed pins through a small hole in the beam separating landing gear stowage. I skipped to the back of the plane eager for more.

“Chief, flight controls clear?”

Alan ducked his head, peering under each wing then glancing over his shoulder at me. There was no one here besides us three, but his action left an impression upon me to always check, regardless.

“Flight controls clear. Cleared for FLCS bit check.”

“Roger that. FLCS bit check is a go,” came the pilot’s distracted reply.

The tail of the craft jumped when the horizontal stabilizers popped into positions: up, down, roll. Then followed combinations that included the rudder and all other moving flight surfaces. More than one hundred settings run through in seconds. We stood near the engine’s exhaust and counted. Alan gave me a thumbs up. I nodded in wide-eyed wonder.

“FLCS bit check good, chief,” the pilot called.

We were already sliding between the right wing tank and main landing gear door, making our way toward the front of the aircraft. Alan tapped on a small pin jutting out of the side of the fuselage next to the comm panel.

“EPU clear, sir?” His green eyes settled on me while we waited.

A pause. I looked up to see the pilot’s head snap down and right. His search was brief,” EPU clear, chief.”

The man beside me yanked the pin out and tossed it. My gaze dropped to the thin metal in my palm and then back up to Alan. He waved to the left side of the plane. I dashed around to stow my treasure. A hand under the separating beam caught my attention. The dark haired Senior Airman gave me the “chalks out” signal. I nodded understanding pulled the chalks on the left, and returned to Alan. He held out a flattened palm, then snapped an index finger groundward, halting me in my tracks.

“Alright, sir. We’re all good down here. Ready to disconnect when you are.”

“Thanks for a good launch, chief. Both of you! You’re cleared off. See ya when I get back!”

“Roger that, sir!”

I beamed in the afterglow of the pilot’s praise, awaiting Alan’s signal to pull the last chalks and break for the safety of the wingtip. It only took a few minutes for the pilot to raise his hands, slapping his fists together, thumbs out. Alan nodded and relayed the sign to me. I deposited the chalks as I trotted up to my counterpart. The fighter taxied past and we gave a simultaneous salute, each tapping the AIM-9 missile clipped to the wingtip—a tradition meant for “good luck.” Relief washed through me like a spring thunderstorm, making my fingertips tingle and cooling the sweat at the back of my neck.

Alan ripped his headset off, “That wasn’t so bad was it?” I shook my head. He gave me a lopsided smile, his eyes at teasing me in from the side. “Next one is all you,” he winked with a click of his tongue. My jaw dropped open. He rested a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be there.”

With a deep breath indrawn, my fearsome independence reared it’s demanding head. Yes, I would be fine. I could do this. He’d be there watching for missteps, but it looked simple enough. And besides, I glanced down at the work cards still clasped in my greasy hands, I had the directions right here. I gave him a firm nod. Yes, I would be fine.