[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.