Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (31 page)

Despite Tom’s reservations, he spent every hour he could get in the F-4 simulator, learning all the emergency procedures and bringing his instrument flying up to snuff so that when he got into combat he’d not even have to think about routine things—he’d just be there to fight.

When he arrived at Nellis, it had taken him only a few hours to check out in the North American F-86H Sabre that was being used in Operation Feather Duster, an attempt by the USAF to devise new tactics to use against the small and nimble MiGs being encountered in increasing numbers in Vietnam. The idea was to fly the Sabre against a super-secret MiG-19 to find out what kind of maneuvers might work best against it. Then there was going to be a second series of tests, using the McDonnell F-4 against the much more modern MiG-21, to refine the tactics.

Much had already been learned about the Russian-built aircraft. The MiG-19 was very close to the North American F-100 in performance and was more maneuverable. The MiG-21 was reportedly a delight to fly but had very poor visibility. The pilot was so blind to the rear that a rearview mirror was an obvious quick fix. The windshield glass was so thick that the pilot could see only about three miles forward.

Tom would have to check out in the F-4, too, but that was part of his plan. He wasn’t sure he understood the rationale for using the Sabre. It seemed to him that the best way would have been to use the F-4 and forget about the F-86H, which was now in service in only a few National Guard and Reserve outfits. But he didn’t protest, since the project had landed him exactly where he wanted to be, preparing to return to combat.

Nor did he inquire as to the source of the MiGs. He presumed it was Israel, but they were in use in air forces all over the world, some of them satellites of the Soviet Union, some of them not. Scuttlebutt had it that these were from Syria, but it couldn’t have been too difficult to obtain examples from a number of countries.

The crew chief signaled Tom that the airplane was ready. He did a thorough walk-around—he always did, no matter who the crew chief was—and soon was strapping himself in, feeling like he was back in Korea, ready to go to MiG Alley.

Twenty minutes after takeoff, he entered the MiG’s operating area ninety miles north from Nellis. The MiGs were maintained at Tonopah, an isolated field, about thirty miles southeast of the town of Tonopah, Nevada. Unlike another super-secret facility, the Groom Lake facility in Area 51, the Tonopah air base was easily visible from public land and there was even a sign pointing to it on the highway. Nonetheless, the MiGs were kept under heavy security to keep their existence secret.

A glint of silver in the sun revealed the MiG-19, orbiting at the edge of the operating area. Tom pulled into formation, admiring the functional beauty of the aircraft. It was painted in U.S. colors, but there was no mistaking the MiG profile, with its portly fuselage, gaping engine intake, and huge slab-sided rudder. Its sharply swept-back wings attested to its supersonic speed capability.

The test was very tightly programmed to extract the maximum information from the limited airtime their fuel allowed. The two planes were to fly programmed paths, checking on acceleration, deceleration, turn radius, and climb speeds. When they completed the prescribed turns, they were free to engage in mock combat as long as their fuel state permitted.

Tom called, “Outlaw One, this is Sabre One.”

“My God, is that you, Tom? This is Owen Clark. What’s a nice guy like you doing in an old airplane like that?”

Tom recognized Clark’s Texas accent as easily as Clark had recognized his voice. They had flown together in Korea, thirteen years before, and then again at an air show two years ago.

“Good to hear from you, Owen. Let’s get cracking on these profiles, and then I’ll wax your ass in a dogfight.”

The two planes moved in unison, the MiG-19 accelerating swiftly past the F-86, its afterburner kicking out a long plume of flame. When it came to turns, it was no contest—the MiG-19 had a much better turning radius. The same was true on the deceleration tests—the MiG would throw its big dive boards out, slowing down as if it had hit a wall, while the F-86 sailed past.

“Owen, I’m damn glad we were fighting MiG-15s in Korea and not this brute. How does it handle?”

“It’s about like an F-84F, if you’ve ever flown one. Not bad, just not like a Sabre. Let’s hassle; you must be getting down to fumes.”

As the pre-flight instructions had called for, the two planes circled and then made a head-on pass to start the engagement.

The two fighters turned, and Tom broke suddenly, intending to close behind the MiG into a firing position. Instead, the MiG, with its low wing loading, turned inside him, chewing up the distance, getting into a firing position.

“Can’t turn with this mother, so I better climb.”

Tom heaved back on the stick, converting airspeed to altitude. Feeling the g-forces, Tom looked up through the canopy to see the MiG-19 rolling out at the top of its climb and diving away. Tom pulled through the arc of his climb, rolled his wings level, and settled in on the tail of the MiG, which jinked right and left—but not soon enough to have avoided being shot down.

Clark came on over the radio.

“Good fight, Tom; you haven’t lost it. See you at the club tonight.”

Feeling pretty good about himself, Tom signaled that he was returning to base. Short on fuel, he throttled back, extending the glide, worrying about the possibility of a flameout but glowing with pleasure from having waxed Clark’s ass. He’d have to avoid talking about it tonight at the club—unless Clark mentioned it. When Tom touched down, the fuel warning lights were blinking.

Air Force Officers Clubs were pretty much the same the world over, slightly better than average food, much lower than average liquor prices, and a constant high-decibel level of conversation. The club at Nellis Air Force Base differed only in the higher testosterone level of pilots who put their lives on the line every day, either training or teaching in the hottest aircraft in the world. There were not too many fights but a lot of near fights, tempers growing with the beer intake. Most of the steam was let off with impromptu games that involved a lot of pushing and shoving.

Clark had driven down from the MiG base and was waiting for Tom when he arrived at the club. Tom slid in the leatherette seat beside him, signaled the waitress, and they began the usual endless process of matching names and dates and, always, deaths.

“So what do you think of Feather Duster?”

“So far so good. But I’m scheduled to check out in an F-4 and repeat the entire program in about six weeks.”

“I know; I’m scheduled to check you out. They figured that you’d be too much for some fuzzy-faced young instructor to handle. We’ll be doing the checkout concurrently with Feather Duster I—it means a hell of a lot of driving for me, but I come down here every night I can anyway. I like to see if there’s any action in town; if there’s not, I drive back. Kills the evening, and sometimes it’s not too expensive.”

“That reminds me; I had a friend here, a young guy named Steve O’Malley. Did you ever run into him?”

“Absolutely. He was a phenomenon, just like he was at the Air Force Academy. First in his class as a student, then probably one of the best instructor pilots we ever had. In fact, if he were still here, I’d recommend him to instruct you, but he was fighting to get into combat, so he’s on his way overseas, heading to the Sixth Tactical Fighter Wing at Ubon, in Thailand. He’s a hot young pilot and knows it, but he has a lot of class, very considerate, a really good instructor; none of this banging-the-stick-around stuff, he would analyze the students’ problems and then tell them how to overcome them.”

Clark drank his beer and said, “And he was really good to his backseaters. That’s unusual nowadays.”

Tom grunted. He wasn’t thrilled about flying a two-seat fighter, depending upon the guy in back to get them into trouble and then out of it.

“It must be hell for a young pilot to be stuffed in the backseat with a radar set!”

“Tom, it is a hell of a problem. The idea, of course, is that the GIB—short for ‘Guy In Back’—learns the ropes from a good pilot, then advances to become a front-seater himself. But it doesn’t work out.”

“Why the hell are they doing it? The Air Force is short on pilots and has a surplus of navigators—they could fly the backseat as well as anyone.”

Clark shook his head, saying only, “Let’s eat.”

They moved on into the dining room, ordered the inevitable steaks and baked potatoes, messed around with the salad bar, and when they were seated again, Clark continued, “The worst thing about it is when they crew them up overseas, they will put the strong front-seaters with the weak backseaters, and vice versa. Some of the old-time pilots have flown single-seaters all their lives, and they tell the GIB just to sit still, be quiet, and not touch anything unless he’s told to.”

“Pretty grim!”

“And of course it’s no better when they stick a competent backseater behind some guy who has been flying a desk for years, then gets stuffed into an F-4. There’s a lot of retreads out there and most of them are lousy, present company excepted. Then when they get in combat, the experienced young guy in the back raises hell with the senior guy in front. It’s no good at all.”

“Any solution?”

“The Navy did it right with their F-4s, designed them right from the start to have weapon system operators in the back, same as a navigator or a radar bombardier. No flight controls, no question about who’s a better pilot, et cetera.”

Tom was thoughtful for a moment.

“And how do they award a kill? Suppose you get lucky and shoot down a MiG, who gets credit for it, the pilot or the backseater?”

“Believe it or not, they both do.”

“Holy Mother of Christ! That is bound to be trouble. I can just see it now, some Navy weapon system officer or some Air Force backseater could become the first ace in this war.”

“Maybe, Tom; it could happen. Unfortunately, we are not shooting enough of them down to have many aces. Besides, what do you care? You’ve been an ace in two wars; that ought to be enough for anybody.”

Tom was quiet, a reserved look drawing over his face. “That’s what my dad was trying to tell me. But, you know, being the only ace in three wars, that would be something. I can’t beat Rickenbacker’s twenty-six kills, or Bong’s forty kills, but I could be the only guy to be an ace in three wars.”

Clark’s expression changed from deep enjoyment to concern. “Don’t even think about it, Tom. You’ll wind up getting an Atoll missile stuffed up your ass, and your kid won’t have a father. Just go over there and teach the young bucks what you know; let them do the killing and take the risks. You’ve paid your dues.”

Tom nodded, his thoughts twelve thousand miles and five more kills away.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

September 21, 1966

En route to Ubon Royal Thai Air Force Base, Thailand

T
he pilot on the muddy Lockheed C-130 had apologized to Tom in the operations room on the military side of Bangkok’s Don Muang Airport.

“Sorry, Colonel, we’ve been in country all week, hauling supplies, and the birds needs a bath. I’m honored to be taking you to Ubon, but I wish we’d had a chance to get things cleaned up for you. It’s not good to bring in a new wing commander in a beat-up old plane like this.”

“Don’t you worry about it, Captain; I’m pleased to have a ride, glad to get out of the Bangkok taxis in one piece, and looking forward to the trip.”

“You can ride up in the cockpit with us, Colonel. It’s not much cleaner, but the view is better.”

And the view was magnificent. Tom watched the beautiful Thai countryside roll by. First there were huge patches of forest, some brilliant green, some overlaid with dust from the tapioca factories. The overgrown forest soon gave way to marvelous farms, the rice fields gleaming like mirrors in the sun. Little jumbles of houses, as if someone had spilled a Monopoly board, sprang up along the klongs, the canals that served as combination roads, food and water supply, and sewer. There were small Buddhist temples everywhere, flashing gold in the water and among the palm trees. At frequent intervals large compounds sat astride the few paved roads that connected one village to the next. They had the regularity of a Roman encampment and were almost always surrounded by a miles-long fence of pine trees. Tom spent most of the flight standing between the two pilots, watching the familiar efficiency with which they flew the plane, a cheerful nonchalance that spelled expertise. As the countryside flashed by, he tried to recall everything he had learned in his abrupt, almost savage briefing from General William “Spike” Momyer, Seventh Air Force Commander.

“Shannon, I’ll tell you first that I don’t like the way you’ve waltzed in and out of the Air Force at your convenience, making money when times were tough, but coming back in when there was some action. If everybody did that we wouldn’t have an Air Force; we’d have a massive Reserve outfit, nothing more, a fucking militia Air Force.”

Tom had no rejoinder for this. He had done exactly that—come in and out of the Air Force when it suited him.

Momyer went on, “But I’ve got no choice. I’ve watched you over the years and I’ve read some of the papers you written about going back to basics.”

Tom was granite faced. Over the years he had formally protested the emphasis the Tactical Air Command was placing on the delivery of nuclear weapons. He had insisted that this was the job of the Strategic Air Command and that TAC should become supreme in gunnery, in dive-bombing, and in dogfighting. Essentially he said that the key to air superiority was the fighter, not the fighter-bomber. It hadn’t made him popular.

“The Sixth is in trouble. It has been coddled too long, and it’s not getting any results. The pilots are all pissed off because we are being assigned worthless targets from Washington. Well, we have had a lot of worthless targets, but when we’ve had a worthwhile target, the Sixth hasn’t taken it out.”