The Warbirds (34 page)

“Regulations call for single-ship radar approaches after a ferry-leg,” Jack said quickly, ready to defend himself.

“Start thinking like a fighter pilot. Visibility is no problem, you can see forever. Always get your flight on the ground ASAP. You’re too vulnerable in the pattern in a combat zone. But glad you decided to make it. Too bad you missed the first go yesterday. We launched against two targets and plastered them. Come on in and look at the results,” Bull said, leading them into the COIC.

Jack and Thunder joined a crowd of pilots and wizzos around a large collection of reccy photos pinned to a wall. The high-resolution photos vividly recorded the destruction the CBUs had spread, among the soldiers. Jack shook his head. “And they thought napalm was bad stuff.” He was stunned by what his wing had done. The war was over, he figured, and he had missed it.

29 June: 1045 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0645 hours, Washington, D.C.

The colonel briefing Cunningham on the results of the 45th attack concluded with the standard, “Any questions, sir?” His stomach was churning as he watched Sundown’s fingers drum on the arm of his chair in the briefing room. After what seemed an eternity the general shook his head and the colonel beat a hasty exit. Cunningham did not mind keeping the large group waiting while he considered the situation at Ras Assanya. The 45th had been in place less than four hours and had inflicted serious damage on the forces operating in Iran. If he could believe the briefer, the attack had relieved pressure on UAC forces holding the line between Iraq and Iran at Basra.

Still, the lack of damage to the 45th had made it look too easy, too much like a milk run, and two colonels had deliberately commented within his hearing that they could have done better. Cunningham had raked the two men
with a quick look, convinced they didn’t have a clue about the developing situation in the Gulf. But Waters did, and he had a young Intel officer to stay on top of it…

Cunningham now probed the intentions of his adversaries, what they were likely to do with the forces they were committing into the Gulf
and
how they would respond to this latest setback. The buildup and positioning of forces gave the Tudeh and their allies a distinct tactical advantage and, he was sure, they would not fold their tents and steal away because they had suffered one major loss. The PSI, the People’s Soldiers of Islam, was still an Islamic Shiite organization with a strong penchant for martyrdom. Now they had another enemy to throw themselves against: the 45th.

Ras Assanya. The name kept pounding at him. Without a word to his staff he hustled out of the room, telling his aide to get Brigadier General John Shaw into his office immediately.

Cunningham told Shaw: “The President wants to convince the hotheads in the Gulf to cool their water.” He didn’t smile at the unintended pun. “Unfortunately his hands are being tied by critics in Congress and some of the media that’s scared of another Vietnam. The President’s advisers are telling him that he was lucky even to get the 45th in place, and he’s under a great deal of pressure to get out of the Gulf. He has taken the Rapid Deployment Force off alert and is keeping most of the naval task force in the Gulf of Oman, just outside the Strait of Hormuz.

“Since we got the 45th into Ras Assanya, I want to make it a force strong enough to hurt the PSI and make them back off. We’re going to reinforce the wing through Third Air Force and I’m making you Third Air Force’s Director of Resources, Material and Personnel. Set up the logistic support necessary to ensure the effectiveness and survival of the 45th…Make it a base that can fight a war.”

After Shaw had left, Cunningham buzzed for Stevens. The colonel entered the office and stood waiting, expecting what was to come. “Dick, how long have you been
sitting on Third’s list of possible replacement commanders for the 45th?”

“I had it Saturday night—”

“So why didn’t you give it to me then?” The general was calm, no anger in his voice.

“Because, sir, I wanted to read both inspection reports first. That’s why I ran out after you had finished with Waters. I figured he had them and wanted to catch him before he left. I hadn’t read them when all this broke on Sunday so I waited to see what would happen. Besides, you didn’t fire him on the spot; I figured there must have been some doubt in your own mind. I tell you, sir, I trust him. He said his wing was ready and I believed him. Events proved he was right—”

“What if you were wrong?”

“Well, sir”—the colonel risked a smile—“I was looking for a new job when I got this one.”

“And you almost got one, in Leavenworth,” the general said, dismissing his aide and keeping a straight face. After Stevens had left, Cunningham lit a cigar and paced his office. Dick Stevens just might be the first ground-pounder Chief of Staff. For sure he had saved one General Cunningham from a whopper of a mistake.

30 June: 0245 hours, Greenwich Mean Time
0545 hours. Ras Assanya, Saudi Arabia

The next frag order committing the wing against new targets had come in. The weapons-and-tactics officers from each squadron had gathered with Waters, Tom Gomez and the squadron commanders to allocate targets around the wing. The message from General Cunningham commending Waters and the wing on their deployment and first mission had sent the wing commander’s spirits soaring but made Jack worry…The wing had set a standard of combat without him. He wondered if he could match it.

He found some relief by throwing himself into planning their mission against a line of heavy artillery that was pounding UAC positions near Basra. The 379th was tasked to attack with four Phantoms what looked like big howitzers on the reccy photos. Fairly had elected to lead a two-
aircraft element against the northern battery while Jack would lead the second pair against the southern battery. His doubt started to build again as they went through the final briefing and stepped to their Phantom. Thunder preflighted the Mark-82 Snakeyes hung on the Triple Ejection Racks on the inboard pylons. He jerked a thumbs-up when he was ready to go.

Jack walked outside the bunker and urinated on the sand, noting that other pilots and wizzos were doing the same, then clambered up the ladder into his cockpit and strapped in.

A pickup truck drove by, streaming a yellow flag from a fender mount that signaled them to start engines. Maintaining radio silence, they launched over the quiet waters of the Gulf, and Thunder commented on seeing a lone ship that looked like a fishing trawler cruising nine miles offshore. Jack grunted, tried to stow his self-doubts and worries…

Fairly, leading his two-aircraft element, jinked his Phantom hard as he came off the target. He had flown a short curvilinear approach onto the gun emplacement, making it almost impossible to track his fast-moving fighter, and had acquired a late sight picture. His thumb flicked on the pickle button and the six Mark-82s slung under his wings rippled off, walking across the artillery tubes. The first bomb exploded short of the target, sending fragments and flying rock over a wide area. The second and third bombs bracketed the first 122-millimeter howitzer, shattering the gun, taking out its seven-man crew. The fourth bomb impacted on the ammunition dump between the gun pits, setting off a series of massive secondary explosions as the shells blew up. The fifth bomb landed directly in a gun pit, but it was a dud. The sixth scored a hit on the dugout that served as a command post, wiping out the eighteen men inside. Fragments from the five bombs and the secondary explosions in the ammo dump reached out over a thousand yards, adding to the destruction…

A seventeen-year-old Soldier of Islam had jumped for cover when he saw the Phantom start its run onto the gun
emplacement. At first he thought the fighter was aiming for him, until he saw, with embarrassment, that he was well clear of the intended target. He jumped back onto his anti-aircraft gun, a Soviet-made ZSU-23-2, and raked the sky with a burst of twenty-three-millimeter high-explosive ammunition. The two barrels of the gun emptied eighty rounds into the sky in a rapid burst of fire. The teenager had been trained by his unit’s Russian adviser, but he had not understood the man’s explanations and, like the rest of the company, he detested the Russian for being a foreigner, even though he claimed to be Shiite and spoke fluent Farsi. Still, he was able to load and fire the gun, though he never saw the Phantom after it released its bombs.

One bullet hit the underside of Fairly’s aircraft as he jinked to the right, but the bullet’s fuse mechanism had jammed on impact and the shell did not explode. Fairly should have been able to recover the Phantom despite the battle damage it had taken. Unfortunately it was the “Golden BB,” the lucky shot, the aircrews often joked about, and it struck the LOX bottle under Johnny Nelson’s seat in the pit. The highly volatile liquid oxygen bottle exploded, shattering Nelson’s seat and jamming the wizzo through the canopy. Fragments of the LOX bottle and seat ripped through the lower part of his body while the canopy crushed his skull. The stick went dead in Fairly’s right hand as the Phantom rocked from its internal explosion. He automatically pulled the ejection handle between his legs, but nothing happened. He reached for the handles on the headrest of his seat and jerked them forward as the fighter spun out of control and into the ground, exploding on impact.

Waters and Gomez sat in the broiling pickup truck near the end of the runway listening to the radio traffic as the flights started to recover, each flight of four checking in with the tower as they called for landing clearance. Both men sucked in their breath when they saw a flight of three enter the pattern. Waters shot his DO a quick glance when they heard Jack’s voice check the flight in with the tower. Jack was the
backup
lead…Mike Fairly was missing.
Gomez gunned his truck toward the COIC to await the arrival of the crews for debrief.

Mike Fairly. Johnny Nelson. The names beat a constant punctuation into Waters as he listened to Jack’s debrief. He wanted to ask questions, to interrupt the sergeant conducting the debrief, to get to the main point—the loss of Fairly. But he forced himself to let the young woman methodically plow through the series of detailed questions that reconstructed the mission.

“When did you last see Colonel Fairly?”

“When he rolled in on the target.”

“Did everything appear normal at that time?”

“What’s normal about taking on a battery of howitzers?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Locke, I phrased that wrong. Did you see smoke coming from Colonel Fairly’s aircraft or any unusual maneuvers on his part?”

“No.”

“Did you see Colonel Fairly’s aircraft impact the ground?”

“No.”

“Did you see any parachutes in the area?”

“No.”

“Did you see any wreckage?”

“Jesus H. Christ—! I was busy getting the flight together and getting the hell out of Dodge. Like Fairly taught me to do. Those people were hosing the goddamn sky down with missiles and Triple A…”

The sergeant, all cool and calm, finished the debrief. Waters put his hand on Jack’s shoulder, hoping the pilot understood. Jack shook his head and left. The sergeant handed Waters the report, “I’ll have to send it out immediately, sir. We’ll have to list them MIA. Sorry…”

Waters only nodded, feeling he had failed Mike Fairly and Johnny Nelson.

That evening, the 379th gathered on the makeshift benches that doubled as an outdoor theater and chapel. They were joined by the other two squadrons and most of the wing. After the chaplain’s opening prayer and a read
ing from scripture, Doc Landis got up from the front bench and stepped onto the stage. It was a dumpy man who stood before them, his hair in disarray and brown eyes moist.

“I knew Michael Fairly and John Nelson, Mike better than Johnny. At first I told the chaplain here that I didn’t want to speak. But then I thought maybe I should. They certainly deserve a memorial like this service, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m going to ask you to take a hard look at what Mike and Johnny were doing.” The doctor paused, summoning the courage to go on. “They were killed because they were engaged in the business of destruction and killing people.”

Jack started to get up and leave. Thunder’s big hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back onto the bench. “Listen to what the man has to say. He was Fairly’s best friend.”

Doc Landis was looking directly at Jack. “The Mike I knew was a kind and considerate man and Johnny had a rare intelligence and believed in his God. Why should two such men choose to engage in the business of killing? The answer—they were trying to buy time. Time to make some kind of peace before this dirty little war we’re in escalates to a bigger, uncontrollable one. They tell me that Mike and Johnny’s epitaph is MIA. Missing In Action. In time that will be changed to KIA. Killed In Action. I hate those words. But if we here can’t buy the world a little more time to stop this war, I wonder what our epitaphs will be. More to the point, will there be anybody left to write it…?” He stepped down and headed directly for the exit.

“Thanks,” Jack said to Thunder as they walked back to the COIC, where they would see if another frag order had come in for a new mission…

Waters found Jack staring at the mission-briefing boards in the COIC and sat down beside him. “Bull is going to be the new squadron commander, think you can handle that? I’ll reassign you to another squadron if you want.”

Jack shook his head and told him Bull Morgan was a good choice.

“Good. He’ll need your help. See if you can find C.J. I want you and him to get together with Gomez and myself
for some serious head-knocking tonight. I want to see if we can knock off a few more Gomers next time around without getting plastered ourselves.”

30 June: 1910 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 2010 hours, Stonewood, England

A blue staff car left the wing headquarters at Stonewood. Brigadier General Shaw sat beside the chaplain as he drove slowly into the base housing area. The mothers that were watching their children play in the warm summer evening halted at the sight of the staff car and shepherded their wards home, relieved to see the staff car pass and not stop in front of their houses. Connie Fairly saw the car park directly in front of her house. She opened the front door, steeling herself.