The Hot Pilots (31 page)

“Uncle Steve —”

“How many have you bagged so far?” Steve demanded.

“None, dammit!” Robbie exploded.

“Hey, kid, take it easy,” Steve said, startled by his nephew’s angry reaction.

“Those guys were right!” Robbie said, swiveling his bar stool in order to confront Steve. “You
are
living in the past. You can forget about what Grandpa experienced flying with the Red Baron, or what it must have been like
for my father dueling with Me-109s, or what it was like for you mixing it up with Zeros over the Pacific, and even what you
experienced sporting around in your BroadSword over MIG Alley—”

“War is war, kid,” Steve argued. “I know how to handle myself.”

“Dammit, you keep that attitude, you’re
asking
for an extended stay at the Hanoi Hilton.”

“They’ll never take me alive,” Steve said lightly.

“Right, just keep it up …” Robbie sulked.

“Why are you getting so steamed?” Steve asked, bewildered.

“Because you don’t seem to care whether you live or die.”

“Come on,” Steve demanded. “Don’t tell me you’re like the rest of these guys: all dressed up like fighter jocks, but with
accountants’ souls. You all sound like you’re afraid of your own shadows—”

“And what are you afraid of, Uncle Steve?” Robbie asked softly.

“I’m not afraid to die, and that’s for sure,” Steve growled.

“I know that,” Robbie countered quickly. “How do you feel about living?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve warily demanded.

“Grandpa writes me all the time, lets me know what’s going on. He told me that General Simon has retired, and what the general
has to say about you: that you ought to get on the stick, and get your ass into war college. Grandpa told me that you’re afraid,
and
why
…”

Steve could feel his temper boiling over. Why did everyone—especially Robbie—have to know all his dirty laundry?

“Fuck it—” He forced a grin as he put his arm around his nephew’s shoulder. “I’m not
afraid
… It’s just that all that classroom stuff is for sissies, right? Maybe after this tour is over I’ll get out, go to work at
GAT.”

“You’ve been threatening that for as long as I can remember,” Robbie said.

“Yeah, but maybe this time I’ll really make good on my threat—”

Robbie shook his head. “Grandpa’s told me that as much as he would love to have you in the business, he’d much rather you
did what made you most happy. That’s why he’s hoping that you’ll come to your senses and let the Air Force send you to school.
He’d love to see you wearing a general’s stars.”

“Oh, so Pop’s got me promoted to general already, has he?” Steve asked sourly. “Somebody better tell him he’s dreaming …”

“It’s
your
dream, not his,” Robbie insisted. “But it doesn’t have to be just a dream …”

Steve struggled not to lose his composure. “I don’t want to talk about this war college crap anymore—” he muttered. “I’m full
up to here with it, get it?”

“All you have to do is get over this last hurdle,” Robbie persisted. “There’s no telling how high you could rise.”

“Right!” Steve snapped, losing his temper. “Nothing to it, huh?” he sneered. “I’ve got to say it’s kind of funny hearing
you
promote the value of higher education. You didn’t exactly end up at the head of the class in
junior
college—”

Steve regretted the remark as he saw the hurt flare in his nephew’s eyes. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything,” he tried to joke.
“You were just pushing too hard. You hit a nerve, you know…?”

“No problem.” Robbie shrugged, looking away.

“Come
onnn
!” Steve joshed, again putting his arm around Robbie’s shoulder. “You and me flying together like you’d said you’ve always
wanted. Remember how you used to talk about it happening someday during our hunting and fishing trips? Well, tomorrow’s the
day. We’re gonna tear up the sky. We’ll make a
great
team. After all, we’re two peas in a pod—”

“You know, I always thought we were alike,” Robbie said slowly. “But now I’m not so sure.”

“What does
that
mean?” Steve challenged.

“Maybe we’d better change the subject again,” Robbie warned.

“I asked you a question!” Steve demanded, growing angry all over again.

“Okay … If you really want to know … It means that unlike you, I’m not willing to admit that something’s beaten me without
first trying my best,” Robbie said.

“Like school, you mean?” Steve eyed him.

“Yeah, like school,” Robbie declared. “Sure I didn’t do so great in school, but at least I tried, and I got past it, and I’ll
tell you something else,” he continued fiercely. “If
I
ever get the chance to go all the way to the top, I’m not going to throw it away like
you.
” He stood up, tossing some money on the bar.

“What’s that? … I said I was buying you a drink—”

“I think I’d rather buy my own,” Robbie said quietly.

“Come on.” Steve grabbed hold of his nephew’s sleeve. “Don’t leave things this way.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Robbie insisted. “Things are cool. It’s just late, and we’ve got some flying to do tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure. You have it your way, kid.” Steve nodded, not looking at him.

“Good night, Uncle Steve.”

“Good night, then.”

Steve sat there for a long time after Robbie had left the officers’ club, thinking about what the kid had said to him. Who
the fuck did his nephew think he was? Steve wondered resentfully.

And when had Robbie gotten so smart … ?

“Float like a butterfly and sting like a bee,” said Cassius Clay, or as he was calling himself these days, Muhammad Ali …
The tactic had worked for the boxer up against Sonny Liston, thought Captain Robert Greene from the cockpit of his Thunderchief.
Maybe it would also work for this Thud strike up against the Yen Lam oil depot and railroad yard …

There were four flights of Thunderchiefs in the strike force that was just now cruising at seven thousand feet, hugging the
steep brown spine of rock the pilots called Thud Ridge. The strike had left its Thailand base at thirteen hundred hours, approximately
ninety minutes ago. Once all sixteen heavily bomb-laden Thuds had thundered aloft into the clear blue sky, the strike had
navigated a course over Laos, where they’d refueled off the fleet of waiting, orbiting tankers. Continuing on, the Thuds were
careful to give wide berth to the thirty-mile buffer zone paralleling North Vietnam’s border with Communist China. As they
flew they ran constant flight checks, and double- and triple-checked their weapons systems as they banked over the craggy,
dun-colored mountains and lush green jungle. They crossed the glittering silver thread that was the Red River, and then approached
Thud Ridge, the mountain range landmark that pointed the way like a skeletal finger, southeast, to Hanoi.

“Rio go to prestrike frequency,” radioed the flight leader, Major Wilson. “Rio check.”

“Two,” sang out Wilson’s wingman.

“Three,” Robbie said. He was Rio flight’s element lead.

“Four—” Robbie heard his Uncle Steve crisply announce.

Robbie glanced out the canopy to assure himself that his uncle was maintaining proper wingman position. Yep, Steve’s Thud
was tucked in nice and tight. His uncle saw him looking and waved. Robbie quickly waved back, anxious to communicate as much
friendliness as possible.

Robbie felt terrible about last night’s argument at the O Club. Last night he’d been positive that he’d been right, but in
the cold light of day he wasn’t so sure, and during the briefing he’d concluded that regardless of who was right, the fact
remained that he’d been sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. Sure it was frustrating to think that Steve was cutting
the legs out from under his own career by stubbornly refusing to go to war college, but just imagine how frustrated Steve
must be! Seeing it from his uncle’s point of view, Robbie had an inkling of how tough it was for Steve to admit his fear,
even to himself. Anyway, Robbie knew from past experience that the surest way to get his uncle to dig in his heels was to
try and pressure him. Robbie wished that there was some less confrontational way of convincing Steve to do the right thing
for himself, and he hoped that Steve had forgiven him for stepping out of bounds. His uncle had seemed to have forgotten all
about last night’s blowout.

He’d been as warm and friendly toward Robbie as ever during the briefings.

A tense radio exchange snapped Robbie out of his brooding.

“
Champion two, we got another SAM, ten o’clock.
”

“
Champion four, watch out. SAM on your six!
”

Robbie, monitoring the urgent transmissions, could only cross his gloved fingers, wishing the members of Champion flight the
best. Champion was a Wild Weasel flight in advance of the strike, just now approaching the target, and, he hoped, soaking
up all the SAM action.

“
Drover lead to Drover three
—”

Robbie listened. Above the Thuds were the hulking, twin-seat, F-4 Phantoms of Drover flight, on MIG Combat Air Patrol. The
MIG-CAP Phantoms had no guns but were armed with close-in (two-mile effective range), heat-seeking Sidewinder air-to-air missiles,
and longer range (up to ten miles), radar-guided, Sparrow A/As.

“
Drover, this is Three
—”

“
Three, We’ve got two—No!—Make that four MIGs at eleven o’clock.
”

“
Drover, this is Rio lead,
” Robbie heard Major Wilson cut in. “Are they MIG-21s?”

“Affirmative,” Drover lead replied. “They’re giving us a wide berth so far.”

“They’re likely trying to draw you off,” Wilson warned. “Don’t you guys fall for it. They likely have buddies—probably 17s—waiting
in the wings … Rio three, come in.”

Robbie clicked his mike. “Rog, Rio lead. This is three.”

“Three, you monitored Drover?”

“Rog.” Robbie knew that the MIGs’ favorite tactic was to lure off the Phantom escort by dangling in front of the F-4 crews
the possibility of bagging a coveted MIG-21, in the process leaving the main strike force vulnerable to the enemy’s workhorse
airplane, the MIG-17. The 17 usually carried only cannons, but it was a very agile craft. A Thud driver’s best defense against
the 17 was his bird’s superior speed at low altitudes, but to use that speed the Thud driver had to prematurely jettison his
bomb load. If a MIG driver could force you to toggle off before you reached your target he’d won the battle, regardless of
who ultimately bagged whom.

“Rio three, green up your Sidewinders,” Wilson ordered.

“Rog, lead.” Robbie set to work throwing the series of switches that set up and armed the pair of Sidewinders slung from beneath
his wings. Because of the preponderance of MIGs in the Hanoi area the flight leader and element leader Thuds in each flight
were armed with the heat-seeking missiles, and, of course, all the Thuds had their cannons.

The strike, flying “downtown” from a southeasterly direction, was approaching the northern outskirts of Hanoi. The ground
below was a tan and green checkerboard pockmarked with bomb craters; a desolate moonscape of rubble and death. The enemy,
as if to thumb their noses at American air power, used the bomb craters as revetments in which to shelter their smaller AA
guns.

“Rio, this is four,” Steve said. “Light guns at two o’clock.”

Robbie saw pinpoints of red flame sparkling amid the debris-littered bomb craters.
Machine guns
, he thought, and shuddered. Pretty soon gomer would start in with the heavy stuff …

The Yen Lam depot was located to the north of the city. It would have been a relatively easy task for the strike force just
now closing fast on that part of the city to use the advantage of surprise to hit the facility before the enemy could put
up a solid cone of defensive fire. Unfortunately, Command Directives stated that all attack runs had to be executed coming
from the
south
. The directive was meant to protect Hanoi’s civilian population—any bombs that might overshoot the target would fall away
from the city’s residential districts—but it put the pilots at increased risk. The Thuds would have to execute a banking turn
over the city in order to achieve the required northerly attack heading, and that would give the enemy plenty of time to set
up his guns and SAMs.

“Rio, this is four,” Steve repeated. “What are those below? They look like groves of trees—”

“Negative, four,” Robbie said. “Those are AAA batteries —likely eighty-five-millimeter guns. Gomer likes to tie palm fronds
around the barrels for camo purposes.”

“Don’t remember that in Korea.” Steve chuckled. “Of course, there weren’t any palm trees …”

As if on cue, the AAA batteries opened up. The “trees” sprouted geysers of fire. An instant later the first ragged boulders
of black smoke blossomed and hung in the air. A second barrage of flak, this volley impacting closer to the Thuds, generated
shock waves of explosive force that buffeted the war bird.

“No SAM activity yet, huh?” Robbie heard Steve ask.

“It’s early yet,” Robbie said.

“Maybe the Weasels got them all …?”

“Maybe so,” Robbie replied evenly, privately very much doubting the possibility.

“Rio, go to strike frequency,” Wilson cut in, and then ran a flight check to assure that all of Rio’s ducklings were in a
line.

Robbie thought that Steve had sounded cool and collected when he’d asked about SAMs. Anybody else monitoring the exchange
would have been fooled, but Robbie knew his uncle well enough to hear the undercurrent of tension in his voice. For Steve,
SAMs were the only unknown. Everything else—enemy guns and enemy planes—he’d dealt with in Korea.

“Rio, this is Pogo, we’re over the target—”

“Rog, Pogo,” Wilson replied. “What you got, son?”