The Pilots Conjugal Christmas

© 2023 Duleigh Lawrence-Townshend. All rights reserved. The author asserts the right to be identified as the author of this story for all portions. This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review or commentary. If you see this story on any website other than Literotica.com, it has been copied without the author's permission.

This story has its roots in a few actual circumstances, some of which got very ugly in real life. I tossed a few real-life occurrences together to create this story. Names, unit numbers and other identifiers have been changed to amuse the innocent. There is no Bailey Air Force Base near Culbertson Montanna, there's only 750 people in Culbertson Montanna and I don't think they want a big noisy base nearby. This story was crafted for the Winter Holidays Story Contest 2023. Please vote kindly and leave a comment.

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The Pilot's Conjugal Christmas

Stoking the fires of passion at -35°

Preface: Bailey Air Force Base near Culbertson Montanna about 35 years ago was experiencing one of the coldest winters it had in decades, it was a cold base fighting the cold war. The SAC (Strategic Air Command) Nuclear Alert was a real thing and games were not played. At Bailey AFB, six B-52H's loaded with twenty-four nuclear warheads each sat ready to take to the air at a moment's notice . Air crews sat on ready alert 24/7 waiting for the call to come to launch the bombers and head north with their deadly loads. Each aircraft carried twelve AGM-86/B cruise missiles (six on each wing pylon), in the aft portion of the bomb bay hung eight AGM-SRAM missiles on a rotary launcher. The Short Range Attack Missile carried its W69 nuclear warhead in any direction at supersonic speed. Ahead of the SRAMs hung four B83 gravity bombs. The yield of that bomb will be classified for decades after it's no longer used, but it is guaranteed to make Fat Man and Little Boy look like cherry bombs.

The 360th Bombardment Wing [Heavy] stood ready for the call that everyone hoped and prayed didn't come. Some were more ready than others. Colonel Lars Gulbrandsen was aching to see his men and woman in action, but he wasn't excited about taking over a B-52 wing with the first female bomber pilot. He didn't care if Deanna Ingler was a he, she, or it, just as long as he, she, or it could fly the heaviest bomber in the world like Eddie Rickenbacker, and she could make that airplane sing. The problem was the publicity. It seemed like news reporters were waiting for her to land after every mission. That had to end.

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The temperature was -26° with a slight breeze blowing the sandy snow around on the flightline. The air looked foggy, but it was too cold for fog, the air was obscured by a fog of tiny ice crystals, the humidity had frozen and was hanging in the air. Everything was covered with hoarfrost, every tree branch and every barbed wire fence, even the chain link fences topped with coils of razor wire looked festive. It gave a look of flocked garland to everything it touched, and at night it was magical, every light reflected a spike of light that shot straight up to the sky, and the moon had a circular halo, a moondog.

A Strata Blue metro van pulled into the vehicle bay of building 579, the Weapons building and pulled into a diagonal parking spot in front of the weapons loading office. Master Sergeant Mark Hammond

stepped off the driver's seat and opened his parka savoring the warmth of the heated vehicle bay before heading over to Munitions Control. The Munitions Control Room was a masterpiece of local design. The room was divided into three areas, a document storage area where all the classified documents were locked up, a second office where the lieutenant and the chief could watch the controllers in action, and the third area, the largest area was the control room itself.

Two big magnetic boards were on both sides of the back wall, one represented the flight line and the other represented the bomb dump. Every bomb rack, missile launcher, missile pylon, and trailer to haul all those weapons had a magnetic tag with the item serial number, and every plane had its own large golden magnetic tag. One who knew the secrets of reading the magnetic boards knew where everything was. On the side walls were plexiglass status boards with every open maintenance job listed for each maintenance shop, and between the two magnetic boards was a plexiglass board that currently had weather information. If an exercise or war kicked off that would become the "main board" and the big clock set to midnight above it would start.

Mark hit the buzzer at the control room door and stood in the glaring lights in front of the two-way mirrored window. The intercom crackled to life and a voice said, "Can I get your name, rank, and serial number."

"Fuck you," replied Mark.

"And the password?"

"Fuck me."

The door buzzed and unlocked; Mark found Master Sergeant Johnny Ramirez sitting grinning at his desk. Johnny was 1/4 inch too short to be in the Air Force, but he enlisted during the Vietnam War and became a helicopter door gunner on rescue choppers, so no one is going to throw him out for being short. Too many officers had their asses saved by "Taco John" and consider him a hero and he's got the ribbons to prove it. "How did you know that the Wing King wasn't here?" said Johnny with a grin.

"Because you were the one asking me those dumbass questions," said Mark. "If Colonel Crankshaft were here, you would have been brown nosing him and Wombat would have been asking dumbass questions." Wombat was a staff sergeant 462 (Weapons Loader) like Mark and was assigned to the control room.

Mark stepped into the control room and stepped up behind Wombat, AKA Staff Sergeant Dennis Stadelmeyer, began massaging his shoulders and said, "Ten forty-one in hanger 4 is configured conventional with three cluster racks, the MAU-175 is in Release for its annual. {In English that means that B-52 1A1041 is now configured to carry non-nuclear bombs only, the rack that held the nuclear bombs is in the maintenance shop for an inspection} He handed a list of the cluster racks loaded on the aircraft to Wombat.

Dennis swapped out the appropriate tags reading the serial numbers from the work order as his old team chief massaged his shoulders. "If you weren't married..." said Dennis.

"Promises, promises," said Mark with a chuckle. "It's almost Christmas Eve, has anyone said anything about shutting this place down?"

Just then, Major Ayato Tanaka, the second highest ranking man in the squadron, the maintenance supervisor, stepped in the control room. Born in a Japanese detention center at the end of WWII there is no doubt that Ayato Tanaka is Japanese. He has incredibly thick glasses which plays into the old WWII stereotypes of the Japanese fighting man, but he has incredible hearing. It is said that if a deer pisses in the woods, Major T can tell his keto level by the sound. "Mighty Mark, I thought I heard you. What brings you to my den of iniquity?" The control room is Major Tanaka's #1 source of information, and he can be found in there reviewing the status boards throughout the day and into the evening.

"Just trying to find out some good rumors, sir," said Mark.

Major T, as he is commonly called, walked over to the flightline status board and reviewed all the planes, especially the planes on the alert pad. Each aircraft magnet had six magnets under it showing bombs, SRAM missile launcher, two ALCM pylons, tail gun ammo, and defensive flares. He scratched the back of his neck as he reviewed the board and all the controllers looked over at their boss Johnny Ramirez. Johnny trained them to keep an eye on Major T, when Major T scratches the back of his neck, something is up. The Bomb Dump controller, Tech Sergeant Julissa Prouse, looked at Major Tanaka. Something was definitely up.

Major Tanaka turned to Mark and said, "Why don't you take a crew out to the Alert Pad for lunch? Take a young crew that's never seen an elephant walk before."

Elephant Walk! Just the sound of that operation got the heart stirring, the actual show is quite a thrill. "Yes sir!" and Mark headed out.

"I don't believe you told him there was going to be an Elephant Walk!" said Julissa who was secretly crazy about the major.

"Did I say anything about an elephant walk happening? I just asked for a young crew that needs experience." He gave Julissa a grin, which he hoped was considered inscrutable and headed back to his office. "Training! Training is everything," he said as he left.

Mark headed back to the Weapons Loading office where a couple of load crews were lounging around; the game of choice today was double deck pinochle, it's usually cribbage. He checked in with the shop chief, and when Senior Master Sergeant Polo Ortiz agreed with the major, Mark turned to Buck Sergeant Steve Shaffer, a troublemaker but he was a damn good bomb loader, and he had a new crew that needed alert pad experience. "Get a box and full test sets, 'Guam Four' and Max Adapter, put the testers in the toolbox, nothing loose in the truck."

"What truck are we taking?" asked Danny Sorola, a one stripe airman on Steve's crew.

"I'm taking Hound Dog Three, you can ride with me if you don't want to walk." With a smile and a wink, he headed out to the vehicle bay. The call sign for the Munitions Maintenance Squadron's trucks was Hound Dog after the AGM-28 Hound Dog long range cruise missile that hung off the wing of the B-52s in the 1950s and 60s. The hound dog missile had a huge jet engine, and the B-52 carried 2 of them. They could fire up that engine without launching the missile turning the B-52 into a 10 engine bomber. One of the last remaining Hound Dogs was mounted on a pole, out by the Main Gate.

Mark patted the sign on the side of his Strata Blue Metro van, the sign on the side said Hound Dog Three and the famous WWI flying ace Snoopy was shown in helmet, goggles, and scarf, flying his Sopwith Camel doghouse into battle, bullet holes and all. "Hurry up or I'm leaving you behind!" called Mark and finally the van shook as they connected the ten foot long, three foot wide, four-foot-tall toolbox to the pintle hook hitch. All of the boxes featured Snoopy, Steve's box showed Snoopy firing his imaginary bullets at a sexy girl's butt and was called the Tail Gunner.

The four team members of Steve Shaffer's crew were brand new, and this was Steve's first time in the team chief position, they normally don't make an all-new crew like that, they liked to mix experienced people with new people, but sometimes it happened. Steve was months away from his 4th stripe, so they gave him a crew and they did damn well in training. "All right! If any of you assholes get me jacked up I will sodomize you in front of your Sunday school teacher," said Mark as they pulled up to the gate at the alert pad. "Get out and follow momma duck."

"Fuck you," said Steve with a laugh and he purposely left the door slid back to let all that nice cold Montana air in for Mark to enjoy. The big vehicle gate opened and let Mark drive the van in then stop as the gate closed behind him. One by one the kids on Steve's crew entered the "Sally Port" through a turnstile and Mark used a side gate and entered the "Sally Port," walked up to the security window and put his green security badge in the bank drawer. The cop inside took his badge and found the matching red badge on a large rack.

"Word?" asked the young SP.

Everyone has a code word; it's printed on the red badge for the security policeman to read. If you give him the wrong code word you are indicating that you are being forced into a secured area by a Bad Guy. The cops get very excited when that happens because they get to point their guns at you and make you and everyone else in the area lay down on the -24° sidewalk while they put handcuffs on you. It's very exciting and it's called "being jacked up." The fun REALLY starts when you get to explain to your commander why Major T had to pick you up at the police station.

"Bondie," replied Mark, his code word was his wife's nickname.

He went back to the van and made light talk with the cop that was searching the truck and toolbox for explosives and terror devices, then Mark was allowed through the gate and into the alert area. It's a long, drawn-out process and it was a good idea that Major T insisted on sending a new crew out to learn how to get through security. All that security is a pain in the ass, but it's absolutely necessary because inside the fence sat twelve dozen nuclear warheads attached to the airplanes needed to deliver them. The aircraft are all considered "Cocked" like a cocked pistol. All you got to do is pull the trigger...

Just inside the gate was an equipment parking area and he had the kids drop the box off there then he pulled up to the flightline side of the alert shack and parked facing the airplanes. "Ok, go inside, stay on the top floor, have the best food on base. If the sirens go off, get out of the way, do not block the hallway or any door, they will run your ass over. Let the air crews out then come outside and watch the show."

The building itself looked exciting. Each door had a long, insulated tube called a tunnel that you walk through to get in or out of the building that was built up on a hill giving the tunnels a slope. The crew went inside but Mark stayed in the van, he had an apple and sat eating it while he read a copy of Field & Stream. The back doors of the truck were pinned wide open, and Mark had the heaters running full blast.

Inside, the guys of Steve Schaffer's crew looked around, there was a huge TV room with those deep comfortable recliners that you just sink into, but no one was in there. The aircrews were all in the various study rooms and game rooms. Shuffleboard was a big game along with cutthroat pool. Steve showed his guys where the chow hall was, "Guys, this place has the best food on base. No local farmers flipping burgers, these cooks are dynamite!" That day's special was chicken parmigiana and as Steve got in line, he noticed that all the bomber crews were wearing their flight jackets and were nervously looking at the window that gave a great view of the runway.

"Stevie!" cried a female voice and Steve turned to look, a beautiful blond flier jogged up and stood next to him. Tall, slim and athletic, she could make those floppy old flight suits look good.

"Blon... uh, ma'am, good to see you." He almost called her Blondie, Mark's nickname for her. Captain Deanna Ingler, first command pilot of a B-52 in USAF history. He could see why the news folks are all over her, she's "as cute as a button" and gives great "copy" when asked a question. She speaks with perfect diction with a slight hardon producing Texas accent, smiles on cue, and flashes those glistening green eyes when chatting with anyone, especially the news reporters. She should be making TV commercials. There's a rumor that she used to be enlisted, which tells the average enlisted person that she's smarter than all other officers. She can drink beer like a regular bomb loader and Steve has been over to Mark and Deanna's house for parties, which is how she knows him.

"Is my husband here?"

"He is sitting in a truck at the end of the tunnel," grinned Steve.

"I hope he's not cold," she turned to the window and saw the van sitting facing the airplanes with its doors pinned open. She smiled and zipped up her jacket. "Tell your men to keep out of the hallway."

"Yes ma'am!" She's the only person on base that calls his collection of teenagers, "men."

Captain Ingler spoke to her crew that were edging to the doorway of the dining room, and they nodded, and Steve now noticed that everyone was watching the clock. "Bobby, come on." He led his #1 man, a tall lanky black kid named Bobby McDaniels, down a sloped tunnel that led outside.

Suddenly a LOUD klaxon horn sounded, and all the flight crews were dashing for the doors, if anyone was in the way they got shoved out of the way, knocked down, or ran over. Deanna was on the track team in college, and it showed. She burst out of the tunnel first and she flashed down the sidewalk and dove into Hound Dog #3 followed by Co-Pilot, Navigator, Radar Navigator, Electronic Warfare Officer and Tail Gunner. The Navigator was last and just barely made it, his crew dragged him in a second after Mark released the brake and hit the gas. "STUB FIVE!" Deanna cried as Mark flashed past the cop and floored the 350 cubic inch engine. Of course, her plane would be parked in the furthest spot.

"Gotcha," said Mark as he held her hand during their speed dash to the end of the alert pad. The alert pad had nine parking spots called Stubs and from the air it looked like a Christmas tree. The planes faced the center taxiway at an angle and Deanna's plane sat at the top of the tree like an angel.

The other flight crews had pickup trucks to deal with, and with pickup trucks if you're inside you have to wear a seat belt, it slows you up getting in and out. Hound Dog 3 only had one seat belt to buckle, and that was Mark's seat. He and Deanna had talked about doing this for a long time and this was the first chance they had to try it. As they approached her airplane, 1049, the crew chief was at work pulling the engine covers and kicking the forward wheel chock out of the way.

Mark hadn't stopped yet when Deanna's crew started jumping out, they were excited that they had a huge lead. Mark pulled up to the parking spot, and Deanna gave him a long passionate kiss then ran off. By the time she hit the airplane's crew door, her guys were inside, had their helmets on, and they were getting ready for the show.

Mark raced back to the alert shack, this is the only time you can speed on the flight line, get the crew to their plane by any means then get the fuck out of the way. He was parked in time to see a jet of smoke shooting straight down from each pair of engines on Deanna's plane and the growing howl of the engines as they started. As expected, the EC-135 Airborne Command Post aircraft flashed past Mark and dashed out to the runway. That plane is always the fastest getting to the runway.

One by one jets of smoke shot out of the B-52s on alert. These were starter cartridges; they were explosive cartridges the size of a 10-pound coffee can. The powder in the cart burned slowly and smoky, and the gases produced spun a turbine that spun the jet engine. Once the jet was up to speed the co-pilot hit the fuel pumps and hit the igniter. Once he had four engines screaming, he diverted exhaust gases from the running engines to the four waiting to start.

The air around the alert pad was thick with smoke from the starter carts and the screeching was incredibly loud, and still more B-52 engines added to the shrieking. Nick noticed that over on the tanker alert pad the tankers were running up too. The din was unbelievable as they ran the jet engines up to full power to get them cranking properly.

Then it happened! 1049's landing lights came on and the crew chief began directing the plane. 1049 leaped out of its parking spot and was dashing to the runway. Deanna won! She was the first B-52 to roll, and it looked like she beat the tankers too.