[GZG] RE: [GZG Fiction] Rejoining the Airforce

Rejoining The Airforce

New Guardian Times, Harper Airforce Base, December 5th, 2196.

It has been nearly two years since I last spent any significant time as
guest of our Air forces. In the short spot I have available tonight I
will endeavour to elucidate for you what this wing has become in this
theatre of the war on the Krak. 

I must confess that over the last year or so I have written so much
about the ground and naval forces here on Mars that I have become some
what enamoured, some would say obsessed with them. The infantry in
particular have caught my attention and blinded me to the plight of the
other services. Our grunts live and die so miserably and with such
determined acceptance that they draw your admiration as if all else
worthy of attention had ceased to exist. 

An individual's existence is a running movie of all they can perceive
within a few hundred metres of them. This has been the base of
philosophical debates far beyond this report for many centuries. For
some one caught up in war this means the world is concentrated down in
their personal fight against the enemy and their interactions with the
small knot of people who they interact with day-to-day. When caught up
in this way, the mind focuses in providing exceptional tunnel vision
that makes it easy to forget the millions that are also caught up in the
misery of conflict, caught up as you are in your intentness on your own
experiences, your own one hundred metres. 

This is exceedingly unfair however. All wings fight as hard, to the best
of their abilities and fullness of heart. All suffer, though often in
different ways and different dimensions. This means when you switch from
one wing to another, as a reporter, you are forced to make some
psychological adjustments. Reset the frame of reference. For instance, a
pilot's association with death is on a substantially different basis,
particularly for those directing VR fighters. 

Compared to the often gritty and brutish conditions of the grunt, the
Airforce at least gets the relative luxury of facing death well-fed and
clean suited. Not that that is much comfort. If you ever leave the base
it's only for a few hours at a time and with each return you're
guaranteed a bed, showers and a meal. Not for you the endless days of
camping in the cold and mud. 

There is none of the beastliness, the return to grooming habits of
bygone ages with the Airforce. Anything that puts you at ease amongst
grunts must be stood on its head with the air services or you'll feel
self-conscious and apt to abuse as a non-conformist flaunting their
status as an outsider. So I've abandoned the stubble and dusty wrinkles
of my time with the assault on San Juan for a clean shaven face and a
new hair cut. I've even gone and bought a new outfit. A form fitting
jumpsuit and knee boots. The new toned body I have after weeks toiling
at the front finally making such a get-up actually look good on me. Also
this way I do not stand out like a sore thumb amongst the jostling,
joking mass of flyers that swarm to and fro over Harper Airforce base.

I am not casting aspersions, the members of the Airforce are not vain,
no less committed than mud coated cussing infantry men. They have just
found that war happens for them under a different banner. 

This was no clearer to me than when I went to claim my rack in the
squadron dorm. I've been attached to the 127th VR squadron, though it is
actually a mixed unit with some live sortie flyers. They all bunk
together, irregardless of rank, in a large purpose built apartment
complex. Its origins rather obvious from the fact it closely resembles
the lay out of most government housing projects. 

There are 6-8 men per room, each with their own bed (usually in
plastisteel frame bunks), with a small shelf to put their things on and
a locker to stow their clothes and other gear. They have electric
lighting, an eternal pot of coffee on the heater, eat at tables sitting
on padded chairs and even have cleaning crews to do their dishes. Their
clothes come back from the Laundromat clean and pressed and crisp. There
are a couple of bars lining the communal square and a small gym. There
is even a raucous recreational centre with holo-vids, VRbooths, book
exchanges, racket ball courts, a pool, card rooms and even a couple of
real pool tables. Dating is even sanctioned. 

This is no doubt giving you the wrong impression. A civilian confronted
with such conditions would find them rudimentary, confronting and
restrictive. Life is not luxurious by common standards. It is only that
I was presented it in stark contrast to the hell of the San Juan front
line that made it seem such a sweet paradise to me.

After only two days the novelty was tarnishing. The toilets frequently
don't work, a pail of water kept at hand to help with that problem. The
lights often go out; the energy rationed for the main VR labs. There is
quite a black market in field lanterns. 

The human circadian clock also quickly grows to resent being yanked from
bed hours before dawn each day, for the first missions of the watch. The
experience made the crueller by the cold, hard tiles that cover the
floors. 

Then there are the flights themselves. The VR guys sit strapped into
couches all day, VR visors enveloping their heads. The pressure of a
hard flight enough to bust a blood vessel, even cause an aneurysm if
pushed too far too often. Safety protocols have been designed to avoid
just such an eventuality, but the immediacy of recall can see a VR pilot
back in the seat minutes after being downed. The need to cover advances
and attack the Krak can also mean these young people strap in again and
again risking death as entirely as if they were flying live sorties.

A live sortie over Krak territory is an adrenaline rush from beginning
to end. There is the sheer power of being physically in control of the
atmosphere capable, swept wing fighters that are used here on Mars. They
have a rotary take off, sitting on their tails and slide over to fixed
wing for the body of the flight. It is typically less than an hour to
the target area, longer distances covered more quickly by skimming
higher in the thin Martian atmosphere. Then it's a steep dive into the
live fire zone, Krak anti-air tracking you quickly. With such short
windows of opportunity you make pulsed attacks, have tremendous reflexes
or die quickly. Dogfights do happen, though HQ prefers for VRfighters to
pick up those where possible. The sorties with live crews kept to
actions where the on the spot human dimension remains essential.
Although the quality of VR feedback and immersion is so complete now
that live sorties are really only necessary in areas where Krak jamming
is at saturation effectiveness.

In persona the live flyers are a breed of their own. They are edgier
than their VR counterparts, a side effect apparently of consciously
physically putting their lives on the line. They are full of confidence
and witty rejoinders, as if the risks they run and the skills they need
have made them larger than life. For those of you who have known
Vac-pilots, these characters are even more pronounced than for the
pilots of space fighters. The chance of a bail out being fatal much
higher in atmosphere seems to heighten the associated personality
traits. They are good people though, friendly to those who earn their
respect and can keep up with their antics.

And yet, for all their bravado when you ask them straight they do not
actually rank themselves ahead of any other serviceman. Do not rank
themselves as more critical to the fight. They even unblushingly admit
that their life is almost idyllic compared to that of the frontline
infantry. They appreciate 100% that the infantry goes through hell - a
liaison program bringing the reality home. This has meant that despite
the physical distance between them and the divide in daily experiences
the air forces have a touching eagerness to assist the ground forces to
the fullest extent possible. Removing any hint of their missions against
the Krak being academic exercises. 

There has been the odd stim abuse incident, the odd friendly fire
mistake, but on the whole these are rare aberrations. It is teamwork and
they're own form of camaraderie that marks the air force out. It is
solidarity with soul, and I'm quite at ease with saying we're fighting
all the better for it.

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