The Warbirds (42 page)

The F-15s turned to the left, into the Floggers. The radio crackled with commands as the F-15s used their radar sets to break out the MiGs and assign each Eagle a target. Then the PSI started communications jamming. Only the GCI site had the brute power to override the jamming, and Mary Hauser’s cool voice could be heard as she paired up targets and F-15s, rapidly calling the Eagles to new, jam-free radio frequencies. The F-15s surged away from the F-4s and met the MiGs head-on while the attack birds dropped down to the deck, still over water.

Much to Mary’s surprise the F-15s did not mix it up with the MiGs but launched their radar missiles from a front aspect and then blew on through the MiGs, zooming out of the flight. The symmetry of the engagement shattered as the MiGs dodged the missiles and scattered over the sky. The MiG pilots were startled to find no F-15s to contend with and switched their attention to the F-4s, which they had no trouble finding, their camouflage paint
standing in stark contrast against the bright green of the gulf.

C.J. swore at the F-15s, angry at their poor tactics. He pushed forward the radio transmit button under his left thumb on the throttles to transmit an abort, and in his anger broke the switch off. Before he could tell Stan to transmit the message he heard Waters aborting the mission and ordering the Phantoms to jettison their loads. C.J.’s left hand moved over the weapons-selector panel, choosing what he would jettison. He punched off the F-15 type fuel tank on his centerline but kept the two valuable Standard Arm anti-radiation missiles carried on each inboard pylon, then toggled his pinky switch under his left little finger on the throttle to guns.

The voice of Stan-the-Man came over the intercom. “Bandit, left eight o’clock, coming to your nine, low. Hard left, engage.” He could have been at the bar ordering a round of drinks, for all the excitement in his voice. The Flogger was not in a position behind C.J. to launch a missile and was closing in for a gun kill with its twenty-three-millimeter cannon.

Without first looking for the bandit, C.J. wrenched his bird to the left as Stan had directed. When the MiG pilot saw the F-4’s nose turn and point directly at him, he chose to disengage, break off the attack, turned slightly to the right and accelerated ahead. But the Flogger pilot had given C.J. too much room to turn onto him. He should have pointed his Flogger directly into the Phantom. As it was, the thirty degrees he gave C.J. would cost him his life. With his Phantom still in front, at the Flogger’s eleven o’clock, C.J. now pulled his nose up, not wanting to shoot past the MiG in the opposite direction, and used the vertical to turn into the MiG. He was still on his back and pulling the nose toward the ground when the Flogger slashed into his sight ring. C.J. always flew with a “stiff sight,” reducing the amount of lead fed into the sight-picture, a mode especially suited for a close-in fight. Now he mashed the trigger for a snap shot, sending a stream of high-explosive bullets into the MiG. Over thirty rounds tore the plane apart.

But there was no momentary exultation in the kill for
C.J. He immediately checked his fuel and rolled ninety degrees for a belly check, looking for bandits beneath him. He was a professional going about his business. He would celebrate later.

“Shit hot,” his wingman yelled over the radio. “I’m at your six, come off right.” C.J. turned one hundred eighty degrees to the right and rolled out, heading for Ras Assanya. His wingman fell into place on his left and slightly above him in a tactical formation. Homeward bound.

Jack and Thunder were still sitting on the beach when the first of the Phantoms started to recover. Jack glanced at his watch. “They’ve aborted the mission; something must have gone wrong.” They stood in the hot sun and counted the returning planes. The worry they both felt lessened when a returning Phantom entered the pattern and did a victory roll as it passed down the runway. “The Eagle drivers aren’t going to like that,” he said. “Looks like one of C.J.’s Weasels got a MiG.”

“It was C.J.,” Thunder said. “I caught the tail number.”

“I only counted forty-seven F-4s,” Jack said. One Phantom was missing. “Let’s get over to the COIC and find out what in the hell went wrong.” They pulled their flight suits over their trunks and ran across the hot sand.

They found Waters in the crowded main briefing room of the COIC talking to Bull Morgan. The returning air crews were waiting for their turn to debrief and most were sitting dejectedly, not talking.

Stansell came into the room and marched up to Waters. “What went wrong?” the little colonel demanded.

Waters glared at him. He had seen bravado used as a smoke screen for a foul-up before. “I was going to ask
you
that question.”

“We engaged like we briefed,” Stansell shot back. The room went silent. “We plan and practice to shoot the bad guys in the face, blow on through and take on the next wave of targets. We maintain our flight integrity and use our head-on ability to the max extent possible—”

“That would be nice if you managed to shoot someone down,” Waters said. “As it was, you didn’t get a single
kill and left the area. We were right under the MiGs, still over water; they had no trouble finding us. We were lucky, they only got one. That’s my eleventh loss. At least the others got over Iran—for whatever that’s worth. You didn’t help, you just got in the way.”

Waters cut it off, turned and walked out of the room. Each loss his wing suffered made it increasingly difficult for him to keep pushing his crews into combat. As the war ground on, his chief concern was slowly shifting away from the mission he had been assigned and onto the survival of his aircrews. The Pentagon might not understand that. Well, they dealt in paper, not people.

Bull Morgan was experiencing a different reaction. He had seen his wingman explode in a fireball when an Atoll missile, fired by a MiG that had maneuvered behind them, found its target. When Stansell started to leave the room after Waters he found his way blocked by Bull’s bulk, which materialized in front of him. The corded strength of Bull’s neck muscles caused arteries to visibly pulse. He stuck a finger in the middle of Stansell’s forehead. “Stick around to fight next time or I’ll squash your fucking head.”

Stansell stood his ground. “Maybe a court-martial will remind you of the difference between a lieutenant colonel and a major. Don’t threaten me—”

“Not a threat, Colonel”—Bull’s finger punched a tattoo on his forehead—“a promise that you’ll be giving your testimony with freshly rearranged brains.”

Jack hurried up to put a hand on Bull’s shoulder, feeling the man’s knotted muscles ripple in anger. “Your turn to debrief,” he said, leading his squadron commander away.

Ten minutes after Stansell’s own debrief he walked across the freshly paved street to the small set of trailers that served as wing headquarters, where he found Waters’ office door open. “Come in, Colonel Stansell. I had a feeling you’d be along.”

“Okay, I’m a bastard. I know that…” Stansell’s self-appraisal caught Waters’ attention. It was probably the only thing the two men agreed on—Waters sure as hell didn’t like the bull-headed way Stansell ran the F-15s. True, both men had combat experience in Vietnam, yet both had come away with totally different reactions. For Waters it had
demonstrated that most men want a leader who trusts them, leaves them to do their job and is capable of gutting out the hard decisions and never losing sight of the mission of tactical fighter aircraft. Mostly, Stansell had found that war was a means of demonstrating his control over people, which flattered his ego.

“…and our tactics went wrong,” the F-15 pilot went on, fortunate he couldn’t read Waters’ thoughts. Waters motioned him to a seat, and rocked back in his chair, determined to give the man a chance. “I was told not to lose any birds. In fact, it’s my number-one marching order. But our job is to protect you by shooting the Gomers down. So far, you’ve managed to do that better than we have. That bunch of prima donnas that I sit on will start doing their own thing unless I find a way to use them. My own wingman wouldn’t talk during our own debrief. He told me that it was my show so I could debrief it any way I wanted. Do you know what else he said?” The hurt in Stansell’s voice was apparent, a condition Waters hadn’t thought the man capable of. “He told me to win engagements in the air, not in the debrief.”

“And?” Waters said, still waiting.

“We need to work out new CAP tactics with your people. What we did today obviously didn’t work.”

Waters continued to stare at the man.

“Okay, what I did today didn’t work. I screwed up big time.”

“Join the club,” Waters said, standing up. The man was human, after all. Besides, he needed his F-15s. “I’ve canceled tonight’s Wolf strike. Get your most creative tactics man with Lieutenant Locke and put them to work. Once they’ve worked something out we’ll hear their plan. We only make necessary changes. Got it?”

Stansell nodded quickly, then said: “Would you object if
I
worked with Lieutenant Locke?”

“Okay, but don’t pull rank. You’re equals on this project and I’ll tell him so.” Again Stansell gave a sharp nod. “By the way, Locke pins on his captain’s bars next Wednesday. It is about time he made it. Listen to him, he’s good.”

Stansell stood up, ready to leave. “Colonel Waters,
please tell Major Morgan that we will stick around next time.” It was as close to an apology as he could come. “And relay my congratulations to Major Conlan for getting a MiG.” Stansell then left wing headquarters, looking for Jack Locke. His ego had taken a beating and his stomach was tying knots around his backbone. He felt a sense of shame, near-humiliation, that he had not experienced since he was a fourth classman at the Academy in 1966. Only one way to shed that awful feeling: do better, and fast.

The stranglehold of tension that bound Waters’ existence did not fade as he paced his office, not sure if the feisty Stansell really meant what he said. No question, he had to cut his losses, and for the first time he seriously doubted that he could make it happen. He tried to push his thinking into more productive channels, putting his thoughts of Mike Fairly, Tom Gomez and the others into a hidden niche, walling them behind the detailed bricks of running his wing. But the number eleven would not be contained, and it kept flashing its defiance, challenging him: fifteen crewmen either dead or MIA, eleven aircraft lost, all because of orders he had given, decisions he had made.

A vivid mental image of a brick wall materialized in front of him and collapsed, revealing Sara, her arms outstretched, offering him refuge. With an inner discipline he didn’t know he possessed, he forced away the image. God, now I’m hallucinating. I can’t run this wing or anything else if I’m coming apart at the seams. He picked up his phone, dialed, listening to each ring. Relief came over him when he heard the mild greeting. “Doc,” he said, “I need to talk…”

The patient in Doc Landis’ office was handed on to another flight surgeon and the doctor hurried over to wing headquarters, concerned about his most important charge. The heat slowed him to a more sedate walk, giving him time to think about the burden Waters must be carrying, and how eventually it would wear him down.

Somehow, Landis realized, he had to find the words to make Waters shed any
exaggerated
sense of moral respon
sibility for the men. There were certain words Landis could not use, words that would only reinforce the basic problem. The same strength that Waters gave to his command could not be used to help him. In spite of their losses the wing’s morale was high and seemed capable of absorbing the shock of seeing their comrades shot down. Yet everything the doctor had seen and sensed as he talked to the men and women of the wing confirmed his original impression: the mortar holding the 45th together was a deep-seated trust in one Anthony J. Waters. But telling him that would only fuel the fire that was already consuming him.

The doctor found Waters sitting behind his desk, wading through a stack of paperwork. “Come on in, Doc, and shut the door.” Fatigue lines etched furrows around his eyes and mouth. A tautness had driven out the vestiges of his once relaxed nature. Every physical sign pointed to a man being driven by his own inner demands.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got the clap too,” Landis said straight-faced.

The wing commander tried to force a grin that would not form. But it was the doctor’s first chip in the wall of stress.

“Is that getting to be a problem?” Waters asked.

“No, not really. It’s just about the only thing I seem to be treating these days, that and The Rats Ass Crude, our local variety of dysentery.”

“Where’s the clap coming from?” A sparkle of amusement was trying to creep into the wing commander’s eyes.

“Not sure yet. Maybe from our imported ladies. There are certainly enough of them, and a few of our more resourceful airmen have found a way to break through the language barrier and expand their services.” Indeed, over one hundred-fifty girls, mostly from Sri Lanka, had been contracted for to provide janitorial and maid services to the Americans. Waters nodded at the thought of the girls and how their small lithe bodies, large brown eyes, masses of dark hair and graceful movements as they went about their work cast an aura of grace and charm. He could understand why his men found them attractive and looked for a way around the chaperons that the contractors had
provided to run the compound where the girls and other civilians lived.

“Colonel, all things considered,” Landis went on, “I’m not surprised that they’ve managed to get their things together. At least money hasn’t exchanged hands—yet.” The grin that was more characteristic of Waters finally broke through. “East meets West, so to speak, with a bang. At least I haven’t had any requests to marry. These girls strike me as being so giving and gentle that some of our troops are bound to fall sooner or later. It’s the good old American way of war—marry the locals. But, that’s not what I wanted to talk about, Doc. I had an hallucination or something like one a few minutes ago.” And Waters proceeded to recount his images of walls and bricks as Jeff Landis sat in front of him, hunched over, elbows on his knees, clasping his hands as he listened, not wanting to say a word until the colonel was finished. As Waters talked the doctor’s worry began to recede and Waters was finding the sounding board he needed to break his tensions against. The old Waters, he felt, was pretty much in place by the time he stopped talking. “I’m keeping too much bottled up inside me, aren’t I, Doc?”