The Warbirds (22 page)

After the next morning’s brief Stand-Up, Waters headed for the command post, where he flopped into a chair next to Vern Yaru-Lau, the major in charge of the command center, and asked, “Major, what is our true combat status rating?”

Waters’ tone said not to hedge his answer. “We’re a five, maybe a four. Maintenance can’t keep enough of our aircraft fixed and MC…mission capable. These are old birds, sir. Also, we’re not meeting all our flying training requirements.”

“I know what MC means, Major…All right, report what’s driving our rating down in the remarks section of
the next message and tell me how many planes have to be MC and what our shortfalls in training sorties are so we can get a one rating.”

After leaving the command post Waters dropped by the small building that served as the RAF base commander’s headquarters. Sir David Childs was waiting and ushered him into his office. “Colonel Waters, good to see you.”

“Thanks for seeing me so soon, Sir David. I don’t want to bother you but I was wondering if I might change the sign at the entrance to the base?” Childs gave Waters a look and waited, suspecting that this one was just like Morris. “I’d like to drop my name and add the motto of the 45th, ‘Return with Honor.’”

“
Lovely
idea,” Sir David said quickly. “And please remove my name from the sign as well.”

“And are there any immediate problems I need to know about?”

“Ah…I think you will discover that your predecessor did not stress tactical flying. Which did tend to make my position less difficult, inasmuch as it reduced noise complaints.” Child spelled out how every RAF base had the same problems and that local citizens were always complaining. “This island is too densely populated, of course, and so no matter where you fly someone will be disturbed. But on the other hand I do believe tactical flying is the reason your wing is here…”

“Would you be willing to be the point of contact for noise complaints?” Waters asked.

Child smiled, nodded; the American colonel got the point.

“How else can we help you?” Waters asked.

“Well, I’d say don’t fly below a thousand feet unless you’re on a low-level route, and please avoid the mink and stud farms, especially during the mating season. Try not to make any unscheduled landings in the countryside. Disturbs the copulatory patterns of too many species.” The two men laughed, saluted and Waters left.

Twenty minutes later Waters entered the 377th Tactical Fighter Squadron, where the short stay he had planned turned into a three-hour ordeal. His mouth was set in a grim line when he left, and it was the same when Colonel
Sam Hawkins saw Waters enter his office…he had been warned about the results of the wing commander’s visit to the 377th.

“Why, Sam?” Waters asked, closing the door behind him. They both knew what he meant.

“Colonel Waters,” Hawkins said, “our flying program is exactly what Morris made it. He was more worried about losing aircraft than the crews maintaining flying proficiency—”

“Just what in the hell is a tactical fighter wing all about? Last time I checked it’s to train like you plan to fight. Your crews haven’t been doing that. You must have gotten the word that the 45th is earmarked for possible operations in the gulf. Has wing Intel been monitoring the situation there? Have your weapons and tactics pukes been working on ways to counter the SAM and Triple A threats down there? Have you run any true low-level flights onto similar targets? Sam, you’re an old pro, you’ve been around the damn flagpole as much as I have. You know how to use training sorties to get your crews ready to fight. Better to lose one or two birds in training than lose a wing in combat…”

“I couldn’t convince Morris of anything,” Hawkins said.

“Maybe you didn’t try hard enough,” Waters said, stood up and left.

Back in his office, Waters shut the door and slumped into his chair. Things clearly were worse than when the wing was in Egypt. Shaw had problems like lousy base housing and schools. Mine are worse, the wing has forgotten how to fight, Waters realized. Courtesy of Mad Stanley. Commanding a wing was something he’d wanted since his first combat tour in southeast Asia with the 8th Tac Wing. Taking men into combat
and
bringing them home was the ultimate challenge. Well, he had his chance to do that. But first he had to teach them how to fight without killing any of them. But if necessary—he cut off the unwelcome thought.

The Phantom rolled in on the gunnery range at twenty-two hundred feet and nosed over into a twelve-degree dive.
The sight picture was perfect as the pilot, called Sooner, acquired the strafe panel in the lighted target-ring of his heads-up display. Gently he squeezed and released the trigger for a short burst of cannon fire as he passed through three hundred feet, then instinctively pulled the nose up and fire-walled the throttles. But the burring noise of the M61 gatling gun did not stop, warning him the gun had jammed on full-fire. Sooner jerked the nose to the right, pointing the gun out to sea, only to spot a small fishing boat in the range’s restricted zone. Automatically he pushed the nose over to direct the stream of bullets toward the water. By the time he had reacted the gun was empty and he was dangerously close to the water in a dive angle that was much too steep. For a split second Sooner thought he had bought it. Then, however, his quick reactions got the nose up and the Phantom bounced off the water, ripping off the wing-tanks but still flying.

The two men in the fishing boat were nearly mesmerized by the sight of the F-4 barely touching the water. They could hardly be aware of the tremendous forces at play when a sixteen-ton aircraft loaded with four tons of fuel ricocheted off water…accelerometers in both cockpits pegged at over ten Gs, not able to measure the full impact of the Gs breaking the plane apart, four engine-mounts on the right engine and two on the left snapping under the load, wing spars cracking. Like hitting concrete…

“Mike,” the pilot yelled at his wizzo, “you still with me?”

“Yeah, no place to go. We okay?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Sooner told him. For a few moments the two men just breathed deeply, trying to steady nerves as Sooner climbed to a safer altitude over the Wash. The English range controller kept requesting them to check in. Sooner answered him with a call declaring an emergency. And now Sooner’s wingman joined up on his left and checked him over while he ran his emergency checklist.

“You’re in one piece,” his wingman radioed. “It looks like the SUU-21 is hanging by its trailing lug and will probably fall off. Why don’t you jettison it before we coast
in?” Sooner selected the right inboard station where the practice bomb dispenser was hung, had his wingman check if the ocean’s surface was clear, and hit the jettison button. But the bomb dispenser did not separate from the pylon. Sooner’s panic was building. Rather than try anything else he called for a straight-in approach to runway 09, landing to the east. He would have to stay airborne seven minutes longer to get to that side of the base but at least he would avoid the village and other built-up areas. He hoped they had the seven minutes.

Two minutes later the Phantom started to fall apart as they crossed the coast. The F-4, an honest airplane, didn’t do things without giving its crew warning, sending signals to both cockpits. First the pilot’s warning lights flashed on and then off, then he got a momentary fire light on the right engine. “I’ve got smoke and fumes back here,” his wizzo announced.

“Hang in, I’m pulling the emergency vent knob—Jesus, both generators fell off the line.”

By recycling the generators he managed to bring the left generator back on-line, but smoke kept filling the cockpit.

“Jettison your canopy,” Sooner ordered.

The wizzo pulled the emergency jettison handle and the rear canopy separated cleanly from the aircraft, venting the cockpit but increasing the noise level, making it difficult to hear. Sooner realized he had to get his bird on the ground or start thinking about ejecting. His wizzo was thinking the same thing as he told him that a straight-in approach to runway 27, the west runway, was the quickest way to get on the ground, much faster than returning to the North Sea for an ejection. Sooner called the tower, told them he had to land immediately or eject. The tower had already been notified by ATC he had a serious emergency and had scrambled the crash trucks.

Sooner brought the Phantom down final, electing to take the approach-end barrier, he lowered the hook to snag the cable that was stretched across the end of the runway. When the hook came down the SUU-21 separated from the underside of the right wing. The wingman was flying a loose formation as Sooner brought the disabled plane in and noted the location where the bomb-dispenser came
off. Smoke started to trail from the right side of the bird as they crossed the approach lights and then engulfed the Phantom as the cable snatched the big fighter to a halt. The crash crews were still moving toward the plane when they saw two figures emerge from the smoke on the left side of the aircraft.

Anthony Waters looked at the map that pinpointed the locations where the canopy and SUU-21 had been found. Slowly he shuffled the map with photos of the burned-out hulk of the Phantom that had been given to the accident board investigating the crash. He flipped to the inspection record of the Phantom before turning to the men in front of him. “Sam, Sooner and Mike did well and I want to commend them for the way they recovered the bird.” The DO stared impassively at his commander. “Please tell your crews to think about what happened and tell them I’ve got lots of Phantoms but only one of them. There are times when an ejection is the preferred approach and landing. I can’t make that decision for them, but I’ll back them up when they get their bodies in a jam like this one.”

The anger he felt was not in his voice as he turned to his deputy for Maintenance. “Colonel Leason, the gun on that bird hadn’t been inspected since the wing arrived in Egypt. The accident board will probably find that to be a contributing if not primary cause of this accident. Just what the hell is going on?”

“Colonel Morris, sir, waived that inspection since he would not allow the crews to practice strafing…”

“Well, I
do
allow strafing. In fact I require it. Never mind Morris. Didn’t it ever occur to you to have the guns inspected after Ops asked for loads of TP ammo? TP does stand for ‘target piercing’ what do you think it’s used for?” No answer. “Get your inspections caught up, even if it means you have to work weekends and take birds off the flying schedule.”

The maintenance officer understood the long holiday they had been enjoying under Morris was over.

Another thought occurred to Waters. “Do you have a bird that’s totally current on all inspections?”

“Only 512,” the DM told him. “The crew chief
punched out a gun-plumber for not inspecting the cannon. We gave the chief an Article Fifteen for fighting and took a stripe.”

“Okay, at least we’ve got one warbird on this air patch. Give the chief back his stripe and assign a pilot and wizzo to 512. Make it Locke and Bryant since they got a MiG with it. Paint their names under the canopies. That’s their bird from now on.”

“Colonel,” the DM protested, “that’s against regulations—”

“I’m waiving that reg, Colonel. Second, paint my name on a hangar queen, the worst bird you’ve got. Tell the crew chief that I’m flying it tomorrow and that it had better be on the schedule. I’ll be out to check on my bird soonest. Sam,” he allowed a grin at his DO—“team me with the worst wizzo in the wing. Put his name on the bird with mine and get him on the flying schedule with me tomorrow.”

“Just how bad of a basketcase do you want?” Hawkins said happily, thinking that he was retiring too early. “I’ve got a few.”

“The absolute pits of pitters, the guy who has trouble even recognizing an F-4.” Waters looked at the group. “Also, I understand we haven’t found all the practice bombs that fell out of the SUU-21. Get some volunteers to start searching for those puppies tomorrow.”

The young crew chief was poring over the maintenance forms with Waters, trying to explain why his plane was the wing’s hangar queen. Nothing Maintenance did seemed to cure the Phantom’s ills, and aircraft number 744 spent more time grounded and in the hangar than on the flight line. A roly-poly first lieutenant scurried up to them, out of breath. “S-s-sir,” he stammered. “Lieutenant Ambler Furry reporting as ordered.” He made an awkward salute.

Waters took a deep breath; Lieutenant Furry looked like a walking disaster area—unkempt, out of shape, in need of fixing—like 744. “You don’t need to salute in a work area,” Waters told him. “It’s considered inefficient.”

“S-s-sorry, sir. No one ever told me that before,” Furry
said, following Waters and the crew chief as they walked around the plane.

The lieutenant’s slight stammer and fumbling gestures tugged at Waters’ memory…My God, he thought, it’s an overweight version of C. J. Conlan when he was young. Conlan was the air-defense suppression expert he had asked Cunningham for. Waters took a few steps away from the Phantom and pointed at the black letters and numbers painted on the tail. “What’s the SW stand for?”

“Stonewood, sir,” Furry answered, his stammer disappearing now that he was involved in prosaics.

“And the number 80-744?”

“It’s the aircraft serial number,” the crew chief said.

“And the eighty stands for the year it was built,” Waters said. “This is the last Phantom built by McDonnell Douglas. Five thousand F-4s and we’ve got the tail end. Well, we’re going to fly this baby tomorrow. You two get it ready.”

“But, sir, what if it’s not fixed—?”

“Then Ambler had better be damn good pulling the ejection handle,” Waters said, and walked out of the hangar.

The birdwatcher leveled his long telephoto lens on the tripod and sighted it down the runway. By zooming in on the Phantom he planned on taking a series of shots as the plane made its takeoff roll directly toward him. Then as the F-4 lifted off he would switch to the camera slung around his neck. He watched as the warbird hunkered down on its nose, caging the thrust of its engines as the pilot ran them up. Now the plane started to move and he could hear the crack of the afterburners kicking in. He shot three pictures before the big bird lifted off. He was pleased as the nose came steeply up, giving him a good shot of the underside of the craft. But something was wrong, the pilot ruddered the F-4 to the left, which brought the nose down and put the plane into a hard left turn, its wings perpendicular to the ground.