The Pilot's Consent Switch

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. In real life some of these events were not pleasant stories, and one had an unhappy ending; I like this completely fictionalized version of events much better. This story was crafted for the 2023 On The Job Story Event.

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The Pilot's Consent Switch

- or -

That's Why It's Called a Cockpit

Preface: One frigid, windy evening at Bailey Air Force Base near Culbertson Montanna about 35 years ago, the SAC/IG (Strategic Air Command Inspector General) was inspecting the 360th Bombardment Wing (Heavy). The bomb wing had a set period of time to "generate" a specified number of B-52s, this means to bring them up to readiness to launch for war including a full load of fuel, bombs, and missiles. The first dozen aircraft were easy compared to the rest, the planes were in good condition, the aircraft maintainers and weapons loaders were rested and ready. It was the remaining aircraft that caused the headaches. The remaining aircraft were the heavy maintenance birds and it took the combined efforts of dozens of airmen to get them ready. The last one was known as a "hangar queen" and it needed a substantial amount of maintenance before it's status was brought up to FMC - Fully Mission Capable.

The last plane got moved to the flightline late due to maintenance issues, then the weapons were towed to the aircraft in blizzard conditions, twice the convoy commander called a stop and set out guards due to reduced visibility. The only weapons load team available to do the load had already put in 22 hours of grueling work in subarctic conditions. They had finished a 12-hour shift, got 8 hours of crew rest, then they were called back in and had been on duty for ten hours and loaded two other aircraft, a pretty good accomplishment considering the weather conditions. As they worked on the final plane the air crew showed up, a rare occurrence for B-52s, usually the air crew doesn't show up until after the weapons have been completely loaded. The air crew wandered around the aircraft on that cold, frigid night as the weapons team tried to load 12 tons of weapons on the plane in a shrinking amount of time. To make matters worse the air crew was in the way, slowing down the weapons crew and when asked, they refused to help the load team push the weapons into position. Finally, the weapons team chief (an E5 staff sergeant) angrily told the air crew commander (an O4 Major) "Look pal, your crew is in our way, you need to lead, follow, or get the fuck out of my way." That is when a bad night started to get worse.

It's a rare sight to see officers yelling at each other, but the man in charge of loading the weapons on the airplanes (Munitions Maintenance Squadron commander) and the man in charge of the airplanes and air crews (Bomber Squadron commander) standing toe to toe slinging accusations is one for the ages. In the end, a gentleman's wager was agreed upon and as often is the case, it's the underlings who must carry the burden of the wager.

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One week later, Master Sergeant Mark Hammond leaned on the toolbox that they had set up for a very special day of training. Mark was the NCOIC (Noncommissioned Officer In Charge) of the LSS (Loading Standardization Section). His teams were responsible for ensuring that all weapons loaders in the 360th Bombardment Wing did their job by-the-book, every time. When your job is working with thermonuclear weapons, perfection is required.

Mark had his top dogs to do the training today, the LSC, Load Standardization Crew. They were the best of the best, the most knowledgeable and conscientious weapons loaders in the bomb wing. Their job is to ensure that all weapons loaders can do their job in a safe and secure manner, and today the team that they were going to train hadn't shown up yet. As they waited, the LSC team was entertaining themselves by searching the aircraft hangar for anything that wasn't nailed down.

Mark looked up at the training aircraft, serial number 60-0040, or in USAF parlance "Balls Forty." Like the bombers of the past, this plane had a name, "Fire Ball," and a comet was painted in subdued colors under the pilot's side window. (The USAF is not known for hiring poets or artists) Balls Forty has a long and storied history with the 360th MMS (Munitions Maintenance Squadron), if something goes frighteningly wrong during a weapons load, it happens on Balls Forty. And Balls Forty seems to love to be in the maintenance hangar, it's almost afraid to fly. If Balls Forty were an Airman it would have been court martialed for malingering.

The load crew troublemaker (every load crew has at least one) JP Gravely, a two-striper from the deep south dashed up to Mark. "The commanders truck just pulled up."

"Thanks JP," said Mark and he called over to the team chief of the LSC, "Angie, the boss is here, line your crew up."

Angie smiled and called out to her team, "LSC! FALL IN!" Her clear, loud voice echoed through the hangar, when Technical Sergeant Angela Rastelli spoke, people listened. A Brooklyn NY native Angie is a woman with a sharp mind, a strong will, and an hourglass figure that would make a renaissance painter weep with envy. She also had a Brooklyn accent so sharp you could use it to chop wood. She was a short, raven-haired, large breasted firebrand who could take a joke and dish it out with the best of them and was the best damn bomb loader that Mark had ever met. She let the rumor that she was a Mafia hitwoman go with a godfather-esque "I can neither confirm nor deny da allegation."

When "Angie's Mob" fell in line just forward of the #4 engine, Angie took her place next to them and Mark took his place next to Angie. As the commander walked in Angie called "Team TEN-HUT!" and the team snapped to attention.

"No, thank you, as you were. Sergeant Hammond, we don't normally call maintenance hangars to attention."

"Well... there's no maintenance actually occurring sir..."

"I can see that, what happened?" Major Howard Schuler was experienced as a maintenance officer and knew his job inside and out. He knew what happened, he just needed Mark to confirm it.

"No one showed up," Mark said with a shrug. "We didn't get any calls letting us know they were going to blow us off either."

After blaming the failed Inspector General inspection on the weapons loaders, Lieutenant Colonel Bret Westcott, the new Bomb Squadron commander, began ranting that his air crews could load their planes faster and better than any enlisted load crew. The Munitions Maintenance Squadron commander Major Howard Schuler then countered that it was the air crew's interference that delayed the weapons loaders and if Westcott's aircrew had climbed down off of their ivory tower and helped, they would have finished well under the required time. The two colonels got into a heated argument until Lieutenant Colonel Bret Westcott suggested a $100 wager over which team could load a B-52 better, a load crew, or a flight crew.

"Oh, fuck this shit," Howard muttered under his breath. "I knew they weren't going to show, but we had to be ready."

"Shoulda had someone hold the bet money," muttered JP.

Major Schuler was interrupted by Angie calling, "HANGAR! Ten-HUT!"

Before Howard could correct Angie again, they noticed the Wing Commander enter the hangar, Colonel Davis McCarthy. It was said that Col. McCarthy had a fast track to a general's star and a position was waiting for him in the pentagon. "I expected to see some training," said Col. McCarthy, "are you done already?"

There was an embarrassed silence that was efficiently killed by JP. "They didn't show up sir. Probably still getting their beauty rest," said the young Airman First Class with a grin.

Major Schuler whispered in Mark's ear, "Sergeant Hammond could you..."

"Have a talk with JP? Yes sir," Mark replied quietly. He's had lots of talks with JP. Talking with JP is currently a large part of Mark's job. JP is a great bomb loader, and his knowledge of the job goes far beyond that of his peers, but the kid needs to learn to dial it back...

"Thank you, JP," said the 'Wing King.' Of course, the wing commander knew JP. "I need to find a phone."

"There's one over here," said JP and with Major Schuler following nervously along, JP led the highest-ranking man on base to an office that "accidentally unlocked itself" when JP performed a "security inspection" earlier. The Colonel made one angry phone call to his bomber squadron commander and fifteen minutes later a large van containing a chastised looking Lieutenant Colonel Westcott and six people in flight suits, a flight crew for Mark and Angie to train.

"Look who's with them," said Angie in a singsong voice to Mark.

"Oh shit," Mark groaned. It was Deanna Ingler, the first female command pilot of a B-52 in the 360th Bombardment Wing (Heavy). Wherever she went, Public Relations specialists followed. Everything she did, not just fly B-52's, was fodder for the newspapers which made her zealously protect her private life, only a few knew anything about Captain Ingler's home life. And she started as an enlisted woman before getting her commission and flight status, something that made the PR folks go crazy.

Deanna was tall and blond with an athletic figure and a stern beauty that was breathtaking. Deep blue eyes, small perfectly sculpted nose, luscious lips that never need lipstick and would look right at home wrapped around a cock. She swept into the hangar and the look in her eye let everyone know, whether they wanted to or not, that she wasn't happy to be there. She walked up to Mark and looked him in the eye, she's one of the few women on base tall enough to look him straight in the eye.

"Is this your idea of fun?" she asked.

"I'll let you know when the fun begins... ma'am. Would you care to join us and line up with your crew."

With a disparaging look Deanna turned and snarled, "Crew briefing, let's line it up."

When the flight crew lined up along with Angie's load team, Mark stepped out front and said, "This is a familiarization, the Loading Standardization Crew will load one clip-in assembly of bombs, and then we will train you how to download them. Any questions before we begin?"

"Yeah," said a wiseass looking captain on Deanna's flight crew. "I heard something about a wager?"

Mark suddenly became very stiff and made glaring eye contact with both squadron commanders. "I heard that rumor. As the bomb wing Weapons Safety Noncommissioned Officer, I cannot condone betting on weapons loading." Which was a lie, it happens all the time, but it would take forever to get a bunch of airplane driving frat boys trained to reliably load a weapon. Mark then continued, "tell you what, on the other side of the airplane is a trailer with some training missiles on it. Push the trailer to the tug, connect it to the tow vehicle and you win."

"You're on sarge!" called the captain and everyone ducked through the wheel wells of the B-52 to get to the other side. There sat an MHU-123/M trailer holding a rotary launcher with eight inert training missiles. The trailer was pointing toward the rear of the aircraft where a tow vehicle was waiting.

"Ok, here's the rules of the wager," said Mark waiving a checklist. "You can only push on the trailer. You move this trailer four meters and you win."

"No problem," grinned a lieutenant as he eyed the large rear wheels on the trailer.

"Before we start here are the safety rules," continued Mark, "you can't push on the wheels, you can't push on the missiles or any part of the launcher, and you can't pull on the tow bar. Also, when someone calls "brake" you stop and whoever is on the brake handle will apply the brakes immediately. Ready?"

The B-52 flight crew looked at the trailer, it's a large squared U-shaped device, the front of the trailer is the base of the U which has small steerable wheels. The nose of the missiles and the mechanics of the launcher stick out the open end of the U which has a huge tire at each end of the U meaning they can only push on the sides of the U.

Once everyone got squared away as to where they would push Mark called "Brake off!" the signal to start pushing. The three commanders, Captain Ingler, Mark, and his team stood off to the side to watch. So far, the trailer has gone nowhere. The flight crew pushed and grunted, shoving so hard that their boots slipped on the cement floor, but every time the trailer looked like it was going to move, it rocked right back to where it sat. The load crew stood close to their trainees and offered encouragement, but not a lot.

"How much does that thing weigh?" Captain Ingler asked Mark.

"Hmm, let's see, trailer, loading adapter, rotary launcher and eight missiles... that's about fifteen tons."

"Bullshit," gasped Lieutenant Colonel Westcott. He knew it was true, he just never had a personal connection to that kind of weight.

Finally, the trailer began to move, and inch after imperceptible inch the trailer crept toward the tail of the aircraft. "This is sad, sir," said Mark to Lieutenant Colonel Westcott as Westcott's flight crew grunted and groaned, straining for every inch the trailer moved. "We can put an end to it right now, there's no dishonor in saying your crew got their ass kicked..."

"They'll get it," said the lieutenant colonel.

"I don't know sir; one enlisted bomb loader can push that trailer backwards, along with your college boys..." said JP with a grin.

"That's true," said Mark nodding as if it were a known fact. Deanna raised one perfectly sculped eyebrow and looked at Mark.

"Do you want a part of this little wager Sergeant?" asked the new bomber squadron commander.

Mark pulled some bills out of his pocket, a fifty, two twenties and a ten. "Can you cover this?" When the bomber squadron commander nodded with a sneer and pulled out his wallet, Mark handed his money to Captain Ingler, "Would you mind holding the stakes ma'am?" and in a moment Deanna was holding two hundred dollars.

"I want part of this," said the Bomb Wing Commander, shocking everyone and placed another $100 on the flight crew while Major Schuler added $100 to back his weapons people. Deanna now held four hundred dollars and was wondering what the hell Mark had up his sleeve.

"Here we go," said Mark and he then called, "ANGIE!" When TSgt Rastelli looked at him, Mark pointed to the trailer then toward the nose of the B-52. Angie nodded, she understood his signal, they've done it in the past to every team that they trained. It's a way to tell the trainee, "You don't realize how much you don't know."

Angie stepped to the front of the trailer, put her back to it, braced herself, and put her legs to work. With a growl she shoved hard with her legs and brought the trailer to a standstill. With another growl from the little woman the trailer and its load of eight missiles, each one weighing a metric ton started moving backwards. Even though the flight crew was pushing as hard as they could, Angie shoved the trailer back against them. Their feet slid on the cement as she pushed the trailer and the flight crew back to the starting point and a few feet further past. "Brake on!"

"Holy shit," said Deanna as she handed Mark the money.

"Brent," grinned Howard Schuler, "you just got your ass kicked by a little girl," and he pocketed his winnings also.

"When you put your back against the trailer, grip the frame with your hands, set your feet, and actually try to lift the trailer, you can push the whole thing yourself," said JP.

"Go ahead and hook it up for them guys," called Mark, and Angie's team took over and shoved the trailer and connected it to the tow vehicle. Even though it was heavy, Angie's team has moved that trailer time and time again, it's just a matter of knowing how to break the inertia, once inertia is broken the trailer is much easier to push, which is one of the reasons why Angie was able to push it back at the flight crew.

Thoroughly chastised, the flight crew lined up with the weapons load team on the left side of the plane, this time Angie's team was going to load a clip-in assembly holding four training bombs, each bomb weighing a ton, and the flight crew was going to watch closely the member of the team they were assigned to. Each member of the flight crew was paired up with a member of the load team. Since there are six personnel on the flight crew and five on a load team, Mark told Deanna, "Ma'am, you hang with me, I'll act as an evaluator, follow me and you will be able to see the whole process.

He handed her a stack of plastic covered cards held together by a pair of huge rings; the stack had to be four inches tall. "What the hell is this?" she asked.

"The checklist, our instruction manual, How to Stuff a Buff."

Deanna started flipping through the pages, this was indeed the loading checklist, the introduction alone went on page after page. As Deanna started looking through the checklist, Angie started her safety briefing. The briefing was standard instructions of what to do if you accidentally dropped a nuclear weapon, or if the plane caught fire, what to do if one of your teammates got sucked into a running engine, the usual. Angi was reading at auctioneer speed and she accelerated as she went, the instructions poured out in a steady stream and her team acknowledged when required as if they were part of the litany.

Deanna had a copy of the briefing that Angi gave and marveled at the girl's lightning speed and was startled when Angie suddenly called "BREAK!" and her team scattered in the direction of the B-52.

It was a frenzy of action as Angie's team set out tools, cables, ladders, and big cast aluminum devices at each end of the bomb bay. "What are those?" asked Deanna.

"The big metal things that look like pork chops are called pork chops and the big metal dog bone looking things are called dog bones, they hold the doors open," said Mark as he led Deanna into the bomb bay and gestured to her to stand in the middle. Then with a bang the 70-foot-long doors were hanging down like the wing of a wounded bird, the crew was working frantically putting the pork chops and dog bones in place and with a titanic shove the doors were raised in the wide-open maintenance position to make room to bring in the weapons.

As Angie dashed past Mark she whispered in a singsong voice, "She's making eyes at you."

"Keep your eyes on your checklist," Mark retorted, but it was too late, Angie and her #1 and #3 man dashed up to the cockpit.

Mark gave Deanna a pair of headsets and they plugged into the intercom system and listened to the team wring out the bomb release system. Deanna followed along with the checklist, but it was so fast! Angie was reading commands again at auctioneer speeds while her team threw switches, checked tester indications, and called out responses with a speed and professionalism that stunned Deanna. Mark explained that while Angie and her #4 man down in the bomb bay conducted the systems test the other two people in the cockpit were placing seals on the important switches up there.

Suddenly the wring out was over, Angie and the other two dropped out of the cockpit like they were ejected downward, and the crew gathered around the bomb trailer. The test equipment and ladders had been put away and they moved the bomb trailer into the bomb bay, an amazing feat to watch in itself. She watched the cluster of four bombs go up and with a click-click they were locked in place.