The Hot Pilots (25 page)

The pilot switched off the radio. He saw Robbie staring at him, and winked as he said, “It’s a good idea to check out the
battery…”

Robbie was anxious to please, but the thought of hearing that despairing keening coming from his own radio was unbearable.
“I’m not going to need it,” he said loudly.

He grabbed his helmet and satchel full of paperwork, and strode out of the room. On his way to the van that stood waiting
to take the pilots to the aircraft he patted his vest to make sure that his radio was there—

It was just dawn as the pilots were ferried to their parked aircraft. The line of F-105 Thunderchiefs, their fuselage racks
bristling with ordnance, their wing pylons heavy with extra fuel tanks, were parked with their canopies raised up, as if in
salute to the arriving pilots.

Robbie’s bird was near the front of the line. Like the others, she had a tricolor camo paint job: green and tan up top, with
a ghost gray belly. The Thud had a conical needle nose. She was huge for a single-seat fighter, sixty-four feet long, which
was almost the length of a DC-3, with a thirty-four-foot wingspan. A man could comfortably stand beneath one of those wings
without having to duck his head, and just climbing the ladder and settling into the cockpit put you about twelve feet off
the ground.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” the crew chief said, saluting Robbie as he approached.

“Sergeant.” Robbie nodded. The chief was wearing green fatigue pants and an oil-smeared, white T-shirt, and was looking tired
and pale beneath the outdoor lights. Robbie sure hoped the guy had been awake—not hung over or anything—when he’d been doing
his job checking out the bird. “How’s everything?”

“She’s ready to go, sir…”

Robbie nodded in what he hoped was a knowing manner, set down his satchel of paperwork, and began to walk around the aircraft,
pretending to be sagely giving it the once-over. It was a joke, of course. He knew there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell
of his spotting anything the maintenance people might have missed. He didn’t know why the other pilots persisted in peering
and poking at their bird, kicking the goddamned tires like they were on a used car lot or something, but they did it, so Robbie
was damned sure he was going to do it as well.

One thing Robbie did notice: There were only six 750-pound bombs nestled beneath the Thud’s belly. The bombs were painted
drab green, with banana yellow noses. Safety clips dangling long red ribbons were attached to the fuses.

The crew chief came up behind him as he was staring at the paltry war load. “Sarge,” Robbie began. “This airplane can carry
up to six tons of ordnance—”

“There’s a bomb shortage, Lieutenant,” the chief said in a whisper. “Between us, I’m surprised the old man even let you have
those six.”

“Huh?”

“If I could speak frankly … ?” the sergeant looked uncomfortable.

“Go ahead.”

“The old man doesn’t like to send out his buck pilots loaded up until he’s sure that pilot’s got the balls to go the distance.”

“I understand now,” Robbie replied quietly. The facts were the facts. It was his first mission, so nobody, including himself,
could know for certain how he would react in combat. Perhaps he would lose his nerve, and toggle off short of the target,
shredding jungle … Like the crew chief had said, there was a bomb shortage …

“Time to strap in, Lieutenant …”

“Right …”
Let’s get the fucking thing over with
, Robbie thought as he climbed the ladder.

He settled into the cockpit, strapped himself in, and then put on his helmet and sunglasses. He was reviewing the preignition
checklist on the pad clipped to his knee when the chief came scrambling up the ladder with his satchel.

The chief didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. Robbie, feeling like a fool, snatched the bag. He stuffed the more important
things, like his navigational cards to help him find the alternate targets, into the nooks and crannies around the instrument
panel. The knee pads of his flight suit were already filled to capacity with more paperwork.

He heard a clicking sound in his helmet as the chief plugged his mike into the Thud’s belly in order to go through the lengthy
starting procedure. Fifteen minutes later the Thud’s engine was droning.

The chief radioed. “You’re all set, Lieutenant. Now you go get them, and then you bring my bird home safe and sound to me
…” He disconnected his radio, took several steps back, and threw Robbie a salute.

Robbie felt a shiver travel his spine as he saluted back, thinking,
Chief knows he may not be seeing me again
…

Robbie eased his throttle forward. As the Thud got rolling the chief used hand signals to guide Robbie through the gray dawn
light, out of the parking area and safely past the orange painted weapons and maintenance carts, onto the taxi ramp. There,
Robbie paused to allow other ground crewmen to make one last check that nothing had gone wrong or come loose, and for the
armorer to pluck the red-ribboned fuse safeties off his bombs and his cannon.

Holy shit
, Robbie thought happily as the armorer held up the red-ribboned bundle for his inspection.
This is for real. When I drop these bombs they’re gonna explode. For the first time I’m being sent out to put some wholesale
hurt on the enemy
.

“Warrior Four, hold position,” the tower radioed.

No! Now! Let’s go now!

“Warrior Four, cleared for takeoff,” sounded in Robbie’s ears.

Robbie joyfully began trucking down the runway. He built to full power, and then jerked his throttle sideways, activating
his afterburner. The kick in the pants flattened him against his seat as his Thud leapt forward, trailing a cone of orange
fire. The big bird hurtled along, eating up the concrete, and at 190 knots he lifted off, retracting his gear. Then he was
traveling at 250 knots, 290, 300; charging into the sky, eager to join the rest of the strike force on its way to war.

A half hour later the strike force was at 25,000 feet, approximately seventy minutes from the primary target. Warrior flight
was in the vanguard of the five chevrons of Thuds that curved across the mottled Asian sky. Flying ahead of Warrior flight
were F-100 SuperSabres from Danang, assigned weather recon and advance flak-suppression. More SuperSabres from South Vietnam
flew MIG-CAP escort, weaving protective swallow-tail patterns above the strike as they searched for enemy fighters. A recon
flight brought up the strike’s rear to photograph the damage done to the target once the bombs had been dropped.

“Warrior lead, to Warrior flight,” Lieutenant Colonel Farris radioed, cutting through the random exchanges from the various
flights that cluttered the frequency. “Weather recon says we’ve got clouds coming together up ahead. It looks too big to fly
around or over. Looks like we’re going to have to tough it out going right through.” He paused. “In honor of our new young
buck, let’s practice a channel switch to another frequency. Go manual—
Now
.”

Robbie hurriedly double-checked the list of call signs and frequencies, and then tuned his radio to the channel that had been
exclusively assigned to Warrior flight.

“—ior flight check,” Farris was saying. “Warrior flight check.”

Robbie listened as the other members of the flight sounded off, and when it was his turn clicked his mike and said, “Four!”

“Attaboy, Warrior Four,” lead said. “Are you close to element leader?”

“Rog, boss,” Robbie said succinctly, anxious to impress Farris with his radio discipline. He was flying as wingman to Captain
Strauss. Over the target area Robbie would become his own man for the seconds it took to execute his attack dive and toggle
his bombs, but going and coming it was his job to stick to Warrior Three like glue.

So far I’ve been able to manage that
, Robbie thought worriedly as he watched the rugged green and brown landscape that was the border between Thailand and Laos
passing beneath his wings. He had easy tallyho with Strauss; for that matter, he had visual contact with the entire flight.
But even with visual contact he was using every ounce of concentration and skill to stay in formation. Back at Fighter Weapons
School the instructors had concentrated on teaching straight-on, low-level, nuclear weapons strike delivery techniques. This
morning Robbie had not flown a straight course for more than a few minutes.

Robbie understood that the flight commanders had to have their people zigzagging all over the sky if the strike was to avoid
known enemy concentrations of defenses, but that didn’t help him to stay in formation. He invariably strayed during the abruptly
announced course changes, and then had to stoke his burner in order to catch up. It was no big deal because he could
see
where his element lead was, but if visibility should decrease to the extent that the strike had to resort to instrument flight
rules he was going to be one harried buck pilot …

“Warrior flight,” Farris called. “We’re coming on enemy territory. Start your music.”

Robbie scanned his flight checklist just to refresh his memory, and then set to work flicking the numerous switches necessary
to activate his weapons systems. He watched his weapons indicators go green, signifying that his ordnance was “hot.”

“Warrior Four, how’s your fuel situation?” Farris asked.

“Boss, you read my mind,” Robbie said, startled. All that maneuvering and extra afterburn had cost him fuel. For a while now
he’d been anxiously eyeing his steadily dropping fuel gauges.

Farris laughed. “The new guy always uses the most fuel. You’ve probably been leaning on your afterburner to maintain flight
integrity.”

“Rog.”

“Let me just get the coordinates on our tanker and we’ll get us all gassed up …” There was a pause. When Farris came back
on the air his voice was fraught with concern. “Ah, Warrior flight, especially you, number four. We’ve got a little problem
…”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Robbie muttered. “That cloud front is moving faster than anticipated.”

“Affirmative, Warrior Four. I’m going to turn you around, Lieutenant. You can make an emergency landing at—”

“Boss, don’t send me back—” Robbie pleaded.

“Got to, son. It looks like we’re going to have to go to Instrument Flight Rules.”

“I can handle it—” Robbie began.

“Negative,” Farris said. “You’re not ready for IFR, and
nobody
is ever really ready for aerial refueling in the soup, but especially not bucks on their first time out.”

He’s right about that
, Robbie thought. Standard procedure for a new pilot was to become an old hand at cycling on a tanker before trying it in
the murk. The sensible thing to do would be accept his boss’s decision and go home—

“Boss, I can handle it,” Robbie insisted.

“Warrior Four, you’re having enough trouble learning the kicks in the chorus line in the sunshine. How are you going to—?”

“Moot point, boss,” Captain Strauss cut in. “The slop’s found us.”

Maybe it won’t be too bad
, Robbie hoped as the first fingers of cloud began caressing his canopy.

“You’re right, Three,” Farris said. “Kid’ll never be able to find his way home in this … Warrior flight, make sure your lights
are on,” he said worriedly.

The sky ahead was fading to white. When Robbie looked down, the ground appeared as if it were being viewed through quickly
increasing folds of white lace. Robbie looked for Warrior Three, and could scarcely see him through the cloud wrapping around
his Thud like a blanket of cotton wool.

Then all he could see was the light on the end of Warrior Three’s wingtip …

Then even that faded from view.

“Uh, boss,” Robbie transmitted, peering blindly through the gray mess. “Uh, boss, this is Four—”

He was having trouble getting through the radio clutter. Every pilot in the strike was suffering through the same situation
and anxious to make contact with his flight mates.

“Warrior flight, go to channel seven—” Farris managed to transmit during an abrupt second of silence.

Robbie tuned to that relatively quiet frequency. “Warrior check,” Farris commanded to make sure that all his birds had followed
him to seven, and then gave flight coordinates.

“Ah, boss, this is Four,” Robbie began tentatively, feeling bashful about hassling his boss after he’d pleaded to be allowed
to stay. “I’ve got bingo fuel, boss.”

“I’m looking for those tankers, son.”

Robbie was sweating now. He felt claustrophobic flying through the cloud mass pressing in from all sides against his canopy.
He kept watching his fuel gauges; the needles were settling toward empty. He studied his instruments, trying his best to hold
to the course Farris had set for the flight. He had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was diving, even though his
instruments were telling him otherwise. The feeling was so
strong
. He
had
to be diving. His instruments were wrong!

“Warrior lead, this is Four. I’ve got negative instrument—”

“No, you don’t,” Strauss cut him off.

“But you don’t even know what I was going to say—” Robbie protested.

“You were going to claim that your instruments are fouled up; that you’re climbing or falling or doing barrel rolls, am I
right?”

“Affirmative—” Robbie said, stunned.

“I just had momentary tallyho on you, and you’re flying right. Your mind is playing tricks on you, kid. It’s vertigo. Like
a hallucination. Happens all the time when you’re flying blind. Just try to ignore what your senses tell you and maintain
IFR—”

“Warrior Three, get off the channel,” Farris said impatiently. “Here’s the coordinates to our tanker…”

Robbie set the new course. “My gauges are bouncing on empty, lead,” he heard himself chattering needlessly as if Farris could
do something about it.
Oh, well, so much for radio discipline
, he thought.

“Warrior flight, this is Blue tanker, we’ve got you on our scope—”

Talk about your last chance gas station
, Robbie thought, relieved.