The Hot Pilots (36 page)

Got to have a gun
, Steve thought. He scooped up the fallen AK rifle, slinging it over his shoulder as he ran.

“Mountie—Four!” he screamed into his radio, digging into his pocket for his compass. “On my way! On my way!”

“Rog, Four!” Mountie shouted back. “Chopper ETA ninety seconds!”

Steve could hear shouts and gunfire coming from behind him. He didn’t look back, but just ran headlong through the jungle,
his eyes on his compass, stumbling and staggering to keep his balance as he tripped over vines, ignoring the branches raising
welts and cuts as they whipped across his face.

He broke through the jungle and into the clearing. The air was filled with the sound of gunfire as enemy bullets coming from
the jungle whizzed past. He zigzagged across the field, toward the green and tan mottled HH-3 chopper coming in low toward
him.

They’ve got to hit me anytime
, Steve thought as he ran, but then the small-arms fire being directed at him was overwhelmed by the deep thunder of the Spad’s
quartet of 20 millimeters. Steve glanced up over his shoulder to see Mountie in his blue and silver, prop-driven dive bomber
racking his bird along the jungle’s edge, hosing down the trees to suppress the enemy.

The camo-painted chopper was setting down about thirty yards away. The chopper looked bottom-heavy thanks to its auxiliary
fuel tanks. Its rotor wash flattened the weeds and plants all around it.

High in the sky Steve saw two Thuds orbiting on MIG-CAP cover. Flying much lower was Robbie’s Thud sweeping down over the
two canvas-sided trucks barreling toward the chopper. The Thud’s Vulcan cannon began firing, and 20-millimeter tracer rounds
began sending up geysers of dirt all around the trucks. The trucks’ windshields imploded under the cannon barrage. They swerved
wildly, spilling men. One of the trucks turned over on its side. The other exploded as Robbie’s gun ignited its fuel tank.

Steve was at the chopper now.

“Let’s go, buddy!” yelled one of the chopper’s crew. He was wearing a drab green flight suit and matching helmet, and was
waving frantically from the open bay door. Another crewman dressed similarly was firing a pedestal-mounted M-60 machine gun
at the North Vietnamese soldiers advancing out of the jungle.

“Hey, I know the meter’s running.” Steve laughed as he threw himself into the chopper.

“Go!” the crewman yelled into the mike built into his helmet. The chopper began to lift off. The M-60 gunner kept up his lethal
field of fire as the chopper swung free of the ground and began to veer away.

Steve studied the AK rifle for a moment, then braced it against his shoulder, aiming at the line of enemy soldiers, and experimentally
squeezed the trigger. The assault rifle bucked, its barrel climbing rapidly as he fired off several bursts of full automatic
fire that quickly emptied the thirty-round banana clip. He tossed the AK out the chopper as the M-60 gunner retracted his
weapon and slid the door closed. Several of the AK’s ejected shell casings were rattling around the chopper’s floor. He picked
one up and put it in his pocket.
Souvenir
.

The chopper gained altitude. As it left the vicinity the Spad pulled in close in order to fly escort.

“We’re all right now,” the crewman shouted to Steve over the noise of the chopper’s eggbeaters. “You want any first aid for
those cuts and scratches you got?”

Steve shook his head. “I can wait until we land.” Exhausted, he curled up in a corner of the bay. “Could use a smoke, though.
You got a smoke?”

The crewman nodded, settling down beside Steve and handing him a package of Salems. “Hey, I hear you bagged a pair of MIGs
before you went down.”

“Yep.”

“Far out.” The crewman grinned in admiration.

Steve nodded. The menthol cigarette tasted great. Steve looked at the bug bites on the backs of his hands.
No big deal
, he thought, smiling.
I made it. I’m out!

“Bet you’re looking forward to a nice hot shower and a drink when you get back to base, Colonel,” the chopper crewman said,
winking.

“You read my mind,” Steve replied.
And a steak, medium rare
…

The steak came out of the kitchen somewhat well-done, but Steve Gold was in no mood to complain.

He’d arrived back at Muang Chi about 7
P.M.
Steve had showered and changed and gone to the infirmary, where the medics treated his bumps and bruises and then sent him
on his way to debriefing. There, he was told that his two MIG kills had been confirmed, and that credit for them would be
added to his record.

Steve was glad to hear that, even as he waited apprehensively for the downside. It didn’t matter who held the higher rank
on the ground. In the air, the flight leader was the boss. Rio flight’s lead, Major Wilson, had given Steve a direct order
not to chase those MIGs, an order that Steve had disobeyed. When would the base commander get around to telling Steve what
disciplinary action he faced?

It turned out that nothing was said about his dereliction, for which Steve was thankful but mystified as he left Operations
and headed on over to the mess. He had his steak and fries, and then went over to the perpetually twilight-lit officers’ club.

“Monday, Monday” by the Mamas and the Papas was on the jukebox as Steve entered the crowded, smoky club. He looked around
and spotted Robbie and Major Wilson having themselves a couple of beers at a table beneath a neon Coca-Cola sign.

“Well, I’m glad to see your ugly face.” Robbie laughed, standing up to embrace Steve as he came over.

“Roger that,” Major Wilson said as he stood up to shake Steve’s hand. Wilson was in his late thirties. He was clean-shaven,
with thinning, curly auburn hair and light blue eyes. “Glad you made it back, Colonel.”

“Thank you, Major. I owe it to my nephew here, and you, and Search and Rescue, of course,” Steve replied. “I wish I could
personally thank Mountie …”

“Spad drivers are like the Lone Ranger.” Wilson laughed. “They never hang around for thanks.”

Steve nodded. “Uh, Major…” he began uneasily. “During debriefing I kept waiting for someone to say something about how I bugged
out on you guys in order to go MIG hunting, but it was like the brass never heard that part of the story—”

“Yes, well …” Wilson smiled thinly. “Let’s say that I forgot to mention that little item during my own debriefing. According
to my report, you had my permission to chase those MIGs.”

“Thanks, Major,” Steve said gratefully.

Before the major could reply, Lieutenants Ritchie and To-back, two of the pilots from last night’s rap session, called out
to Steve from the bar.

“Congratulations, Colonel!” Toback shouted.

“You sure showed ‘em, my man, Colonel, sir!” Ritchie was grinning. “Right
on, brother!
”

“You see?” Wilson said quietly. “That’s why I left your insubordination out of my report. Your exploits today have already
taken on legendary status. You bagged two MIGs and almost outran three SAMs. On account of you the Thud drivers around here
are walking with their heads held high for the first time in months. And our pilots will make what you accomplished today
even more wondrous as they retell it to the new guys as they rotate in.” Wilson shrugged. “You did us a big favor, Colonel.
You did your job. You fired us up by setting an aggressive example.You’ve got the spirit, and you’ve instilled a bit of it
into our guys. I didn’t want to cloud the issue by hauling you up on insubordination charges. We’ve already had more than
enough of that sort of schizoid, Simon says bureaucratic, red-tape bullshit coming out of Saigon and Washington …”

“Yeah, well, thanks again,” Steve said softly.

“And your nephew here has made a pretty good reputation for himself in his own right,” Wilson added. “The way he hung in for
you, and knocking out that SAM with a Sidewinder, and the way he took out those trucks … Well, he’s impressed a lot of important
people by illustrating the proper, aggressive way to back up a fellow pilot. He’s being put in for the Silver Star, and I’d
wager that he’s going to get it.”

“Like I said,” Steve responded, smiling at Robbie, “I owe him my life.”

“I’d say that you do.” Wilson nodded firmly, shaking Steve’s hand a final time before taking his leave. “I’d say that you
do …”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for this kid …” Steve called out after Wilson as the major walked away.

“Is that a fact, Uncle Steve?” Robbie asked innocently.

Steve put his arm around his nephew. “That’s a fact. Anything you ever want from me, you just name it,” Steve fervently swore.

“Far out,” Robbie enthused. “Hey, listen up, everybody!” he shouted. “My uncle’s going to war college!”

“You little sonofabitch!” Steve gasped, looking around balefully at the other pilots, who were now all grinning at him, and
applauding
, for chrissakes. “Come
on
!” Steve hissed. “When I said anything, I didn’t mean—”

“No way, Steve.” Robbie grinned devilishly. “I’m not letting you off the hook …”

“Sonofabitch,” Steve grumbled. “You’re gonna be the death of me …”

“Hey, you said yourself that I saved your life, right? You owe me, Uncle. Going to war college and doing your best is the
way I expect to be repaid.”

Steve stared darkly at his nephew.

“You gonna back down, or you gonna keep your word, Uncle Steve?” Robbie demanded.

Sonofabitch
— “You want it,” Steve mumbled, pausing to take a deep breath. “You got it …”

“What?” Robbie teased. “I couldn’t hear you?”

“I said you want it, you got it!” Steve roared, feeling like a guy who just got roped into making a high dive into a very
shallow pool … “
Sonofabitch!
I need a drink, and I mean a
real
drink, not one of those piss-assed beers—”

“Colonel Gold?”

Steve turned to see a young Air Force sergeant standing at attention. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Orders for you just came into Operations,” the sergeant replied. “I was told to get them to you on the double, sir.”

He handed Steve the sheaf of papers, which Steve quickly scanned.

“Holy shit …” he murmured.

“What’s up?” Robbie demanded.

“I said I’d pay you back for saving me by going to war college, and I will,” Steve said. “But it’s going to have to wait a
bit.”

“How come?”

“The rest of my tour here has been canceled,” Steve said. “I’m to get back to the States ASAP.” Perplexed, he stared at his
nephew as he held up his orders. “Robbie, it says here I’m going to Israel …”

“This way, Steve,” Herman Gold said, leading his son out of the bright California sunshine into the cool, dark quiet of the
deserted, unlit hangar.

It was a Saturday afternoon. Gold was informally dressed in brown corduroy trousers, a moss green and white vertically striped
shirt-jac (vertical stripes were supposedly good camouflage for a stout belly), tan loafers, and a loden green leather car
coat. He’d grown a beard, which had come in crimson, and which he kept closely trimmed, like the short ruffle of red curls
that now wreathed his ears. Erica had taken to calling him her “strawberry Falstaff.”

Gold began flicking switches on the light panel near the door. One by one the fluorescent banks hanging from the steel ceiling
rafters flickered to life above a large, sleek, jet airplane. The airplane was seventy-four feet long and seventeen feet high.
She was painted ghost gray, with scarlet and turquoise detailing on her nose and tail. On her wings and rear fuselage were
the Stars and Bars, and the X-prefix number that set her apart as a prototype.

“There you are, Steve,” Gold said. “The GAT X-11 Super-BroadSword.”

Steve whistled softly. “She’s a beauty, all right, Pop.”

“Isn’t she, though …” Gold smiled. “You know, as far as I’m concerned there’s still nothing like the thrill of bringing a
new airplane into the world.”

He walked around to the stern, to point up toward the double tail pipes. “Those are twin turbofans, each rated at twelve thousand
pounds of thrust. She’s got a seventeen hundred mile-per-hour top speed, and a service ceiling exceeding sixty thousand feet.
Range exceeds thirty-five hundred miles on internal fuel, and that’s carrying up to fifteen tons of ordnance.”

“Whoo-wee!” Steve exclaimed. “And I thought the Thud was a workhorse …”

“The Thunderchief was, in her day,” Gold remarked. “But it’s a new day dawning. The day of the Super-BroadSword. The first
airplanes off our production lines are being delivered to the Air Force this week. They’re calling her the F-110. We’ve got
high hopes she’ll make a big difference to the war effort.”

Gold watched his son slowly circle the aircraft. Steve was wearing wheat-colored jeans, black sneakers, a gray sweatshirt,
an L.A. Dodgers baseball cap, and a battered leather A-2 flight jacket circa World War II, still emblazoned with Steve’s Pacific
Theater squadron markings.

“She’s got the same Vector-A system that you sent to Israel, isn’t that right?” Steve asked.

“The Vector A is only one of the many aces up this airplane’s sleeve,” Gold said. “She’s loaded with innovations. First and
foremost, she’s got variable sweep, swing wings. The pilot can electrically pivot the wings into swept forward position for
takeoffs and low-speed ground support strafing runs, or he can sweep the wings back right up against the tail’s horizontal
stabilizers, to form what in effect is a solid delta wing that is ideal for supersonic flight.”

“So now the pilot’s got one more thing to think about,” Steve said. “I pity tomorrow’s fighter jocks; they’re gonna need three
hands to deal with all the gizmos these birds carry.”

“That’s why she’s a twin-seater,” Gold said. “She had to be. There’s just too much instrumentation. You need an electronics/weapons
officer on board.”