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.

In a flurry of activity, the trailer was moved out of the bomb bay, and the doors were dropped and locked into their normal position. "Wow," said Deanna as the crew lined up and Angie called "time." The pilot turned to Mark and asked, "How long was that?"

Mark looked at his watch and frowned, "Twenty-five minutes."

"You said this was an hour job, that's pretty good."

"They usually do it in twenty-two minutes."

Now Mark's LSC team took over as trainers and they walked the B-52 flight crew through downloading the bombs. This time the atmosphere was good natured, both teams had gotten over their anger at having to waste a Saturday on this and had fun with the load. Information was shared, jokes were told, backs were patted and an understanding had been reached. All throughout the job Mark and Deanna followed their checklists and Mark pointed out things he paid attention to as an evaluator. As the afternoon drew on they were seen off to the side talking quietly as Angie's team and Deanna's flight crew completed the download.

As the flight crew left in their van, Angi asked Mark, "Do you think they'll give us a hand the next time the weather is crappy and the ground is covered with ice?"

"No," said Mark, "I just hope they learned enough to stay out of the way. Go on and turn in your tools and take Monday off. I'll do the post load inspection and close up the hangar."

"See you Tuesday!" said Angi as her crew headed back to their building.

Deanna appeared at Mark's elbow as he watched Angi drive a step van towing the tools leading the two-and-a-half-ton truck that pulled the bombs and the aircraft tug that pulled the missiles parade back to the Munitions building. "That's a lot of equipment to haul around."

"It's part of the job ma'am," said Mark as he closed the hangar doors. He turned back to Balls Forty and pulled out a small checklist. It's Mark's job to go over the plane making sure that the items listed in the checklist were back in their original configuration. Deanna followed him through the bomb bay as he checked the pins and latches that hold the doors in position were locked in place, she stayed quite close to him, their uniformed bodies brushing against each other in the dark canyon of the empty bomb bay. "That was quite a show your team put on," said Deanna, her mouth quite close to his ear.

"It's what we do for every brand new team," said Mark trying desperately to ignore the scent of her perfume, especially as she read over his shoulder. He's looked at the same step in his checklist four times and still can't remember whether he checked the left aft equipment bay panel or not. He shook his head and fought his way back on track making sure that all the panels that had been opened were properly shut, all the entries in the aircraft forms were properly signed off, then up into the cockpit to make sure all the switches and circuit breakers that they touched were back in position.

Mark didn't need to turn on power just to check switch positions so he left it off and worked in the dark cockpit using his flashlight to illuminate his work. The switches that were integral to releasing the weapons were sealed as part of the load, but now that the weapons were gone Mark had to make sure that the switch seals were removed.

He closely examined the lower cockpit and if the statuesque blond captain following his every step and peering over his shoulder intimidated him, he didn't show it. With a flashlight he carefully checked every switch in the Radar Navigator's position, that section was in the left side of the lower cockpit. The radar navigator had all the switches necessary to perform the job of bombardier and as he tried to concentrate the warmth of her closeness and the scent of her perfume was making his head spin. Once he made sure everything was good, he rose to go upstairs and she was right there at the base of the ladder. "Uh... ma'am?"

"Yes?" In the dark he could see a beautiful smile inches from his nose, a simply stunning smile that made his mouth go dry.

"I need to go upstairs," he was finally able to croak.

"That can be considered a euphemism under the right circumstances, sergeant." And with a foxy smile she turned and headed up the ladder first giving Mark a view of one of the greatest assets in the Strategic Air Command.

He followed her up the ladder to the upper cockpit and he headed forward up the narrow walkway, squeezed his way around the luscious captain to the pilots position. There was a very difficult switch to reach, it was in a panel that he had to check to the left of the pilot's seat.

Mark checked all of the safety pins on the pilots ejection seat then kneeling on the seat he reached around and checked and found that the switch was still sealed... damn it JP! It was JP's job to remove this switch seal during the download. He didn't have a wire cutter but a good yank on the seal should break the wire... "What are you doing sergeant?" purred Deanna.

"I'm breaking the seal on the pilots consent switch."

"That's not where my consent switch is located." Her voice was an erection enticing velvet. "And my seal is long gone."

Mark felt her hands running over his ass as he tried to break the wire sealing the pilot's consent switch. "Uh, ma'am?"

She reached between his legs and cupped his balls and hardening cock. "I think I found your consent switch; it feels armed and ready." Her smooth voice carried promises of long nights and tangled limbs, candlelight and soft music, an evening in bed with an athletic blond goddess. Mark finally pulled the seal off of the panel but when he tried to stand Deanna was right behind him, molding herself to his back, her tongue tracing the edge of his ear and she whispered, "did you get it?"

"Yes ma'am," he gasped and he held up the shard of 0.020" inch diameter wire and the small circular lead seal.

Her left arm held his back tight against her chest, her right hand cupped his cock and balls and she squeezed gently. "That's a good master sergeant," she whispered in his ear. "Would you like to find out why they call this the cockpit?" She continued to squeeze and kneed his cock and balls feeling his cock grow harder in his pants.

Mark's mouth was dry, he had to clear his throat before he could gasp out the word, "Tradition?"

"Silly sergeant," she said and grabbed Mark's shoulders and spun him around then took a step back. "Is there anything traditional about this?" With a grin she grabbed the zipper of her flight suit and slowly unzipped her flight suit, sometimes called "jet jammies," from neck to pussy. She pulled open her flight suit and the dim light coming through the pilot and co-pilot's windows showed that not a scrap of underwear was visible, her marvelously firm breasts were free of a brassiere's grasp and her trimmed pussy hair was clearly on display. She gave Mark a smile calculated to give Michelangelo's statue of David an erection. "I dressed in a hurry to get here; I knew you were waiting for me."

The touching and the teasing, the gentle innuendos and now the brazen exhibition of her perfect body was too much for Mark. Screw it, the post load inspection is complete, he's been a good boy, now it's time to play. He took off his camouflaged blouse then pulled off his t-shirt. The look on his face told Deanna that he's gone too long without sex and she was going to be on the receiving end of his ardor in a moment. For a fleeting moment Mark had planned to close the access hatch, but even in the dark of the cockpit Mark could see the captain's flawless, milky skin, her pert breasts, her erect pink nipples and he completely forgot about the hatch.

For her part, Deanna was TDY for weeks and had just returned that morning and she was expecting some delicious reunion sex. Her husband even put the child in daycare for their rendezvous and she was ten minutes from heading home free when her entire crew was grabbed from debrief and sent to the weapons load training hangar. She had cleaned up after her flight and left her underwear in her flight bag, a surprise for her husband.

Master Sergeant Hammond grabbed the shoulders of Deanna's flight suit and pulled them down fully exposing her torso and trapping her arms behind her as they both sank to their knees. Mark's hands possessed her, his left hand entwined in her perfect golden hair, his right hand roughly grasped her breast, kneading it just the way she liked, her nipple trapped between his thumb and first finger. Her eyes rolled back and she groaned as pent up passion took over both of them, nothing was going to stop him now, and she wasn't going to try.

His right hand shifted to her pussy and his left hand continued to hold her head as he drew her closer, their lips scant inches apart, their eyes drinking in each other's eyes, and his fingers... the things his fingers was doing to her pussy drove all rational thought from her head. This was wrong... not here... this was insane... she just meant to tease then they would head home but she got caught up in her own game, she's got to stop it now, but even those protestations disappeared when their lips met.

Military life can be hard on the troops; weeks and months of separation can happen at the drop of a hat and reunions can be destroyed by something as weird as Saturday weapons load training spurred on by a bet between squadron commanders. Now here she is in the cockpit of Balls Forty and not in a nice comfortable bed and... fuck it! As they kissed and their passions soared, their tongues entwined, whimpered endearments meant for another place escaped as they kissed. She wrestled her arms free as his magic fingers brought her rapidly closer to a climax.

"Wait," she gasped between kisses.

"Haven't we waited long enough?" he asked and drove his tongue into her receptive mouth. There was no way he could stop; the scent of her pussy filled the cockpit inflaming his senses. It's been so long!

Deanna fought with Mark's belt buckle, finally opening it, now her shaking hands wrestled with his buttons... who the hell puts buttons on pants flies anymore? "Help me damn it!" she gasped; her climax was almost on her. Oh God those fingers!

Mark released her and drew up, pushing his pants and boxers down to his ankles as she did the same with her flight suit, then Deanna turned her back to him and propped herself up on elbows and knees in the narrow cockpit walkway and Mark wasted precious seconds admiring that ass of hers, firm and round and all his for the taking. She must have realized that he was trapped in a reverie and wiggled her ass in invitation. He brough his cock to her luscious pussy and eased in gently.

Deanna wasn't having any of that, this was a quicky in the cockpit, it called for fucking, so she drove her ass back at him, swallowing his length and stoking the fire that raged in her. Taking the hint, Mark grabbed her hips and drove into her, fucking as forcefully as he possibly could. Deanna was in heaven as Mark dove into her, stretching her out, piercing over and over. The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the airplane and they were beyond trying to muffle their sounds. She was covering them with her juices as he fucked as hard and fast as he could.

"I can't hold back," he hissed.

"Don't you dare hold back!" and she bit her arm to stifle her screams. Her orgasm crashed over her, wave after wave of blessed release shattered her mind and Mark was right behind her exploding in her hot, wet, convulsing pussy. His orgasm went on and on and on and he was still spurting into her cunt when the flashlight at the ladder from the lower cockpit lit up their faces, blinding them both.

"Captain Ingler! Master Sergeant Hammond!"

Oh crap, the voice came from LTC Bret Westcott, Deanna's commander. The man who got his nose bent out of shape by the weapons squadron just found the lead bomb loader with his dick in his star pilot.

"REPORT TO ME! MY OFFICE!" he roared. "ONE HOUR! DRESS BLUES!" They never saw his face because of the bright flashlight, but the sound of an angry Lieutenant Colonel Westcott was unmistakable, especially one that lost $100 to the man fucking his pilot. He stomped his way out of the cockpit and the lovers were plunged in darkness.

"Sir! I have to..." Mark started to say.

"ONE HOUR! AND BRING... YOUR... SPOUSES!!!"

"That couldn't have gone worse," groaned Mark.

"I've had better Saturdays," said Deanna.

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"He's really pissed," whispered a young two stripe orderly that was sitting at her desk outside of Lieutenant Colonel Westcott's office. "He's got Colonel McCarthy in there, and he told McCarthy to be quiet!"

"He told the Wing Commander to shut up?" gasped Deanna who was still adjusting her blues.

"Uh huh, and he's got some major in there with him too," said the airman who was shaken having been ordered to come in on a Saturday at short notice. "He's really yelling at the guy."

"That would be Major Schuler, my boss," said Mark.

"What did you guys do?" whispered the airman. "He called in the first sergeant!"

"I'll explain later," said Deanna.

Mark glanced at his watch and sighed. "Show time, are you ready?" Deanna nodded without saying a word and stood next to him at the office door. Mark struck the door once, incredibly hard and the knock sounded like an executioners rifle.

"ENTER!" roared an angry Lieutenant Colonel Westcott.

Mark and Deanna marched into the office and saw that Bret Westcott was seated at his desk and behind him stood two NCOs wearing first sergeant stripes, one was Mark's first sergeant meaning that Westcott was intending to press charges. To the side stood Major Schuler and Colonel McCarthy, Major Schuler looked concerned but Colonel McCarthy almost looked amused, the kind of look a wolf has when he finds a rabbit in his den... but who was the rabbit?

Mark and Deanna stopped one pace from Lieutenant Colonel Westcott's desk and snapped sharp salutes, their eyes glued to a spot on the wall above the commanders head, their faces were masks of calm. Their calm seemed to anger the bomb squadron commander even more and he made them hold their salutes a long time before he returned it with disdain. Mark and Deanna sharply dropped their salute and Westcott left them standing at the position of attention. Did Mark just see one of the first sergeants roll his eyes?

After a long, agonizing wait Lieutenant Westcott finally spoke. "Captain Ingler I fully intend to bring charges of adultery against you under Article 134 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice for conduct that is prejudicial to good order and discipline AND considering your position as the first female B-52 command pilot in the three sixtieth bombardment wing your actions are of a nature to bring discredit upon the armed forces."

Mark and Deanna remained at attention; they had a feeling this was coming. Deanna remained as calm as ice but Mark wanted to lean across the desk and slap the fucker like the bitch that he is, but a sudden warning glance from his mind reading First Sergeant reminded Mark to keep his eyes glued to that spot on the wall.

"Sergeant Hammond, I shall leave you to your commander, I assume he will slap your wrist with an Article 15, but he may bring charges under Article 134 and under Article 92 Failure to obey a lawful order."

"Article 92 sir?" asked Senior Master Sergeant Holts, Mark's first sergeant.

In an annoying, smug voice, Bret Westcott said, "I ordered Master Sergeant Hammond to bring his spouse with him, did I not Sergeant Hammond?"

Mark finally broke his silence and spoke. "You did... and I brought her... sir." The way he pronounced sir made the word sound more like "Fuck you" which earned him a surreptitious wink from Chief Dawson, the bomb squadron first sergeant.

Lieutenant Colonel Westcott made a show of trying to see behind Mark and Deanna. "Excuse me but I don't seem to see anyone." That's when Chief Dawson, the first sergeant of the bomber squadron set a folder in front of LTC Westcott. Bret looked down and saw that it was Deanna's personnel file and with a pencil the first sergeant pointed to the name of Captain Ingler's husband. The name was Mark Hammond.

Bret Westcott froze, he was a believer in interviewing each member of his flight crews, but it was a big squadron and he's only been here a couple of weeks, he hadn't reached Deanna Ingler yet. He realized how deeply he fucked up by the way the Wing commander said, "Mark, Deanna, don't you have some place you'd rather be?"

"Yes sir, we have to go pick up our daughter at the base day care center before they close."

"Go, by all means, and have a nice reunion dinner," said the Bomb Wing Commander. "Head over to the club and get a steak, you're all dressed up and you have the cash for it." When Mark and Deanna looked uncertain, Colonel McCarthy said, "Please leave us, we have some talking to do here."

As they left the headquarters building hand in hand Deanna sighed. "I guess the cat's out of the bag now."

Mark shrugged, "Hey, we kept it under wraps for four years, we knew it was going to come out eventually. Angi's going to be pissed she wasn't there to see it happen."

"She kept quiet for a long time," agreed Deanna.

"Besides," said Mark as he opened the car door for his wife, "we're probably going to need these dress blues for a change of command ceremony soon, and I was able to find out what the word cockpit means to you fliers."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Notes:

- There is no Bailey AFB, I named it for George Bailey, who was played by James Maitland "Jimmy" Stewart, my very favorite bomber pilot and USAF general. There is no base of any kind near Culbertson Montana. There's really nothing anywhere near Culbertson Montana.

- There is no 360th Bombardment Wing, the 360th was organized as a Strategic Fighter Squadron in 1953 but it was never activated.

- Aircraft 60-0040 was a B-52H that exploded just after performing a touch-and-go at K.I. Sawyer AFB on December 06, 1988. It broke into three pieces as it lifted off the runway, the forward section containing the 6 man crew and 2 trainees slid 3000 feet down the runway, and all occupants survived. Being a wise-ass, I resurrected Balls Forty for this story and gave it the name "Fireball."

- Yes, there were times that flight crews got in the way of bomb loaders, mostly they stayed out of the way and most were great guys and I had heard a rumor that they would occasionally help push the trailers in bad weather conditions, but usually they stayed someplace warm.

- Yes, there was an occasion when a bomber squadron commander agreed to have a flight crew get a familiarization weapons load on a B-52 under eerily similar circumstances.

- No, the flight crew did not show up for training.

- Yes, one person can push the MHU-123/M weapons trailer and SRAM launcher back on a new crew that was trying to push it for the first time due to the superior leverage one has when pushing backwards from the front of the trailer. It happened quite often because trainers are cruel. Those trailers and the SRAM missile are no longer in use.

- Yes, there was a female bomber pilot who was known to stress the term "cockpit." Her fate was different.