The Hot Pilots (30 page)

“Right on, brother,” Dave said. “SAM is thick at Yen Lam.”

“What about Iron Hand?” Steve asked.

Iron Hand was the code name given to the anti-SAM search and destroy program run by the “Wild Weasels”: F-105 Thunderchiefs
with modified fuselages stretched an extra five feet to accommodate a second man in the cockpit. The Weasels flew advance
strike escort. Their motto was “First in and last to leave,” and it was true. The twin-seat Thuds were equipped with electronic
countermeasure equipment pods designed to lock onto SAM site radar. They’d fly over the strike target just in advance of the
strike, acting as decoys to get the SAM site to switch on its radar. If the SAM site did, the Weasels would fire off a radar-homing
Shrike air-to-ground missile to keep the SAM crew occupied, while backup F-105s came in with follow-up ordnance, including
CBU cluster bomb units.

“The Weasels do a great job,” Dave said. “The best job they can. But the Weasel crews are learning the game as they go along.
Meanwhile, gomer is getting all the Soviet-built SAMs he needs, so when we show up he just fires off a volley of the fucking
things. If the Weasels manage to take out a few SAM sites in the process, gomer figures that’s just the cost of doing business.”

“I understand that the way to beat the Sams is to fly in low, beneath their effective envelope,” Steve volunteered.

There was more knowing laughter. “Colonel, you come in
that
low, gomer’s guns are going to shred you,” Ritchie replied. “As a matter of fact, we’ve come to the conclusion that SAM’s
main purpose all along has been to force us down low enough to let those guns reach us—”

“Or else get us to jettison our bombs early,” one of the others said.

“In order to have the speed to outrun SAM,” Lieutenant Toback explained.

“I hear the flak around Hanoi is much worse than anything the Germans managed to put up around Berlin,” Steve said.

Toback nodded. “The first Thud drivers were told that there was no way an enemy gun could track a fast mover, and that’s true,
as far as it goes, but the Russians and Chinese have given the enemy so
many
AAA batteries that all he has to do is put up a curtain of fire and let us fly into it.”

Steve grimaced, thinking back on what the flak had been like in Korea. This was going to be much worse. “What about MIGs?
I haven’t seen any yet.”

“You’ll see them tomorrow,” one of the other pilots said. “Gomer keeps his fighters up north. It’s MIG-16s and 17s mostly,
but now and then a 21.”

“No shit.” Steve smiled, thinking that things weren’t all bad if there was the chance to mix it up with enemy fighters …

“Gomer has a solid radar net up over Hanoi,” Toback was saying. “He sees us coming and sends up MIGs to meet us. The MIGs
like it up high. They can’t compete with a Thud down low on deck. Our F-4 Phantom top cover escort does a fine job, but some
MIGs always manage to get through.”

“Bet you’re glad of that.” Steve chuckled.

“Come again, sir?” Toback asked, looking blank.

“Well … I mean, aren’t you glad that you get the chance to do a little dogfighting?”

“Sir, the MIGs’ objective is only to harass us into dropping our ordnance early,” Toback began, using that excruciatingly
polite tone usually reserved for the elderly or the infirm. “They’ll make a swooping pass or two, but you’ll be too busy setting
up your attack dive to do anything about it.”

“We’ll see about that,” Steve said, thinking:
Wouldn’t it be something to be a triple scorer? To shoot down the enemy in three wars …?

“Colonel, the MIGs don’t stick around to dogfight,” one of the others was saying. “You almost never see them too near the
target. They don’t like mixing it up with their own SAMs.”

“SAM’s like my pecker.” Someone laughed. “Get him fired up and he’ll drill any hot pipe he can catch—”

“And gomer is more than willing to hose off SAMs even if there are MIGs in the vicinity,” Lieutenant Ritchie added. “But then,
he’s got plenty of airplanes, since we’re not allowed to hit his airfields.”

“Fuck it, man,” Dave said scornfully. “Even if they let us, they probably wouldn’t let us use the right ordnance …”

“The protests back home are on the politicians’ minds,” Steve said, thinking about how the headline-grabbing demonstrations
at Dow Chemical and the other munitions manufacturers had led the government to ban the use of napalm and certain other weapons
in the north.

“Speaking of protest demonstrations,” Steve continued, choosing his words carefully. “Maybe they’ve got you thinking that
there’s no sense in playing the game all out, if we’re not playing to win …”

“You talking about those reports concerning how some of the guys have been stroking it?” Toback asked, looking sour.

“Yep.” Steve nodded. He was sitting with his back to the bar, but he’d heard the squeak of a bar stool swiveling. At least
one of the guys at the bar was tuning in on the conversation. Steve decided to pretend not to notice. If the guy wanted to
pull up a chair and join in, he would.

“Look, Colonel. We don’t want you to take what we’ve been saying the wrong way,” Ritchie began. “Most of us do our job the
way it’s supposed to be done, but sometimes because of the difficult circumstances under which we’re being asked to operate,
some of us get a little sidetracked. Maybe we divert a little attention away from the target, and toward looking out for each
other.” He smiled. “I mean since the odds are stacked way against us, if we don’t cover each other, who’s gonna?”

“It doesn’t work that way.” Steve shook his head. “If we start concerning ourselves with covering our asses we might as well
exchange our ordnance for leaflets telling gomer he’s won this thing, and then turn in our wings.”

“Colonel—” Ritchie tried to interrupt.

“Hold on, son,” Steve growled. “I’m not finished yet.” He looked around the table, drilling each pilot with his eyes. “You
guys fly fighters. That means that you make your living by stretching your neck across the chopping block. Of course it’s
dangerous,” he spat disdainfully. “Of course the odds are stacked against you. Hell, if it were easy, everybody would be doing
it!”

The table stayed silent as Steve paused to light a cigarette. “You know, my father flew a fighter during the First World War,”
he resumed, exhaling smoke. “In those days a pilot’s life expectancy was measured in weeks. Things weren’t much better for
the men of RAF Fighter Command, back when they were trying to save London from the Luftwaffe—”

“Begging the colonel’s pardon,” Lincoln said evenly, “but you can save the history lesson.”

“Is that right, son?” Steve scowled.

“Yeah, man, that’s right.” Ritchie nodded vigorously. “You’re handing us this stiff upper lip stuff, man, but you don’t know
shit
about what you’re talking about—” he spat, disgusted.

“Easy, Linc,” Dave warned, casting a worried glance at Steve.

“No, let him talk,” Steve said. “I said I wanted you guys to level with me, and I meant it.”

“Thank you, Colonel, I appreciate that—” Lincoln began, sounding like he was calming down.

“But before you proceed let me also say that I
have
seen some action in my time,” Steve added wryly. “I was shot down and wounded over the Pacific, and shot down twice in Korea
…”

“We all know your record, Colonel,” Lincoln replied. “And I don’t mean to take away from it, but that was
then
. This is
now
. By your own admission, all you’ve flown over here so far have been chicken shit strikes. You ain’t danced with SAM—”

“
Tell him, Linc
—!”

“You ain’t ever seen the flak as thick as summertime flies on spilled honey—”

“
Right on, Lincoln, my man—
”

“Or heard the call, ‘MIG on your six!’” Ritchie continued. “And you so loaded down with ordnance you know your Thud’s a sitting
dead duck.”

He paused, his dark gaze locked onto Steve. When he resumed speaking the strident street patter was gone, replaced by the
quiet voice of an intelligent, educated young man who had seen more of hell in his twenty-odd years than most people experienced
in a lifetime.

“I don’t care what wars you’ve fought, sir,” Ritchie declared, “because you haven’t fought
this
war, which means that you’ve never experienced what you’re going to experience tomorrow.”

“I hear you.” Steve nodded. “And while I’ve been a lot of places, I understand that I haven’t yet been
there
. That’s why tomorrow I’m gonna strap a Thud to my ass and go leave my calling card with Uncle Ho.”

Steve glanced at his watch: It was midnight.

“Oh, shit,” Dave Toback said hurriedly. “We didn’t mean to keep you up all night, sir …”

“No problem.” Steve smiled. “I enjoyed the conversation.”

“So did we, sir,” Ritchie replied, straining to sound polite.

Tonight I’m an adversary
, Steve thought as the table quickly broke up.
But tomorrow I’ll be one of them
.

He was following the other pilots out when a familiar-sounding voice coming from behind said sarcastically, “… calling card
with Uncle Ho?—”

Steve turned. His eyes widened. “Robbie?” he stammered, staring at his nephew.

“Hi ya, Uncle Steve.” Robbie grinned, sticking out his hand. “Welcome to Vietnam, the wholesale hurt capital of the world.”

“Colonel?” Lincoln Ritchie called from where he was waiting near the door. “You going to need a ride?”

“You guys go on,” Steve said, and then turned back to his nephew. “What the hell are you doing here at Muang Chi? I didn’t
expect to see you until next month, when I got to Phanrat …”

“The 503rd needed an element leader,” Robbie explained. “So I’m here on loan until they can get one of their own guys up to
speed.”

“They needed an old hand, eh?” Steve grinned. “How many missions have you flown, nephew?”

“Depends on who you ask.” Robbie grinned. “Officially, seventy-six.”

“No shit …” Steve nodded, impressed. “Over three quarters through your tour.”

“Yep, but that’s the official tally. Actually I’ve flown over eighty. I arranged for some of my flights not to be recorded.”
Robbie blushed. “I guess I kind of like it here …”

“I hear you,” Steve said, laughing. “That’s just great!” he enthused. “My little nephew, an element lead!” He paused. “But
do you mean to say you’ve been sitting at the bar this whole time?”

When Robbie nodded, Steve demanded, “Why didn’t you come over?”

“I wanted to hear what you had to say to those guys.” Robbie smiled. “Watch how you handled yourself.”

“Uh-huh …” Steve studied Robbie’s face, pretending concern. “But what’s
that
?”

“What?”

“Is that a caterpillar crawling across your upper lip?” Steve reached out as if to swat it away.

Robbie, blushing, intercepted Steve’s hand, and then protectively stroked his black mustache. “A lot of guys grow ‘em. I’m
working on a handlebar. You like?”

“I think it looks fine.” Steve forced himself to smile, but now that he’d had the chance to study his nephew he was shocked
to see how much the kid had aged. It wasn’t just the mustache. Robbie’s face looked drawn and weathered. There were lines
etched around his mouth and at the corners of his green eyes. Thinking about it, Steve reminded himself that the fighter pilot’s
job had always tended to age men before their time.

Robbie pulled out a pack of Marlboros and a cigarette lighter. As he lit his cigarette the captain’s bars pinned to his shirt
collar reflected golden in the lighter flame.

“Holy shit!” Steve exclaimed. “You made captain—?”

“Uh-huh.” Robbie chuckled. “The promotion came through a few weeks ago.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone, you little shit?” Steve feigned rage.

“I knew you were coming.” Robbie shrugged shyly. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Goddamn, a captain …” Steve shook his head. “This fucking Air Force must be really hard up …”

“I knew you’d have something appropriate to say.” Robbie laughed. “Anyway, you’ve been promoted as well.”

“Mine’s temporary.” Steve shrugged. “Yours is for real.”

“
Yours
could be real, as well,” Robbie said meaningfully.

“Yeah, yeah …” Steve cut him off, and then gestured toward the bar. “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer to celebrate.”

“I guess one more won’t kill me.” Robbie smiled as they grabbed a couple of bar stools.

“First thing tomorrow you write home and tell your folks,” Steve instructed as he signaled the bartender for a pair of beers.
“
And your grandfather
—got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Robbie laughed. “But not the first thing tomorrow, I’m afraid. In the morning I’ve got to listen to your bullshit,
and then I happen to be scheduled to fly tomorrow afternoon’s strike.”

“You flying with me?” Steve asked.

Robbie, smiling, shook his head. “Nope.
You’re
flying with
me
. When you check with Operations you’ll see that you’ve been assigned as my wingman.”

“Aha!” Steve laughed, tickled by the notion of being his nephew’s number two. “And I suppose this assignment was a coincidence?”

Robbie winked. “Let’s just say that I had a favor to call in. I figured Mom would never forgive me if I didn’t look out for
you. Downtown Hanoi’s a tough neighborhood, you know.”

“You little twerp,” Steve said fondly. “We’re gonna have ourselves a great time … Say, you
said
you were listening in on the exchange between me and those other guys, so what did you think?”

“About what?” Robbie asked, sipping at his beer.

“Come on,” Steve chided. “Those guys were coming on like they don’t
enjoy
themselves flying strikes.” He nudged Robbie in the ribs. “We both know flying combat is better than sex, right?”

“I like sex better,” Robbie murmured. “You don’t need a chute in case you have to punch out.”

Steve laughed. “It’s gonna be you and me tomorrow, kid,” he enthused. “Maybe we’ll just sidle off and bag us a pair of MIGs.”