The Hot Pilots (32 page)

Every pilot down the line waited to hear what Pogo lead had to say. His was the strike’s lead flight; the first to try and
set alight Yen Lam’s giant fuel tanks. Whatever defenses the enemy had kept quietly hidden from the Wild Weasels would now
be going into action.

“Heavy guns. Negative SAMs—” Pogo lead muttered. “Executing attack dive now!”

“Rio, check,” Wilson called.

“Two.”

“Three,” Robbie said.

“Three, green up your air-to-ground mode,” Wilson said.

“Rog.” Actually, Robbie had already switched over from air-to-air Sidewinder capability to bombsight-in/release mode. From
previous experience he knew that there was very little likelihood of MIG interference over Hanoi.

“Four,” Steve said, checking in.

Robbie saw a giant plume of oily black smoke rising up thousands of feet into the blue sky. Pogo flight’s bombs had found
their target.

“Pogo withdrawing,” the flight leader announced, sounding understandably relieved.

“Rio, roll in for attack setup,” Wilson ordered. “Let’s get this over with.”

Rio’s four Thuds would attack simultaneously. Yen Lam was a sprawling complex of huge fuel tanks, warehouses, and freight
car yards. During the main briefing the depot had been divided into four separate sectors, one to each flight. Each sector
had then been subdivided into targets for each individual Thud at the squadron level briefings.

“Four, you stay tight with me,” Robbie cajoled.

“Rog, li’l nephew,” Steve replied lazily.

Robbie pushed the stick sideways and kicked rudder, going to afterburn and pulling hard Gs as he skidded his Thud across the
sky fifteen thousand feet over Hanoi. His screaming bird carrying its four-and-a-half ton load of explosives stood on a cone
of orange flame as it nosed up in a 180-degree popover.

“Stay with me, stay with me,” Robbie groaned to Steve as his Thud slithered through the maze of bursting flak. His safety
harness cut into his shoulders as he jinked and turned. His eyes felt like they were going to pop out of his head. His gut
felt like he’d just swallowed a rancid bowling ball.

“Think of me as your shadow from here on in, my boy…” Steve said lightly.

Jesus Christ!
Robbie thought. Steve sounded like they were taking a leisurely Sunday afternoon drive through the country.
Is the guy immune to Gs?

The city of Hanoi cartwheeled beneath Robbie. From this altitude the narrow, twisty streets and gabled rooftops looked weirdly
like the aerial views of Paris that he’d seen in picture books. Looking down, he saw sparkles of light like flashbulbs popping
off: He guessed every small arm in Hanoi was just now firing straight up at the Thuds hanging overhead.
Let’s get this over with was right
.

“Kind of nice to think that all that sizzling hot stuff they’re firing up at us is going to fall right back down on their
little sloped heads.” Steve chuckled.

Robbie couldn’t get over how relaxed Steve was sounding. It really did sound as if the Gs he
had
to be suffering weren’t bothering him in the slightest. Robbie glanced out his canopy, thinking that maybe Steve was swinging
wide, in that way sparing himself the worst of the G punishment … He should have known better: There Steve was, glued tight
on Robbie’s wing; any closer and they’d be sharing the same airspace.

Robbie would have smiled if he weren’t so busy wincing in pain: The fucking birds weren’t as at home in the sky as Steven
Gold …

“Commence attack!” Wilson ordered.

The four Thuds of Rio flight dived toward their target sector through the white and black clouds of flak and the streams of
tracer fire like crisscrossing strands of sparkling rubies. As always was the case during these few seconds spent attacking,
the war-torn, fiery, noisy world receded, and Robbie felt an odd, inner calm.

From the reading he’d done he’d come to the conclusion that the inner peace he felt was a meditative, Zen warrior kind of
thing. Usually there were so many anxieties, concerns, and ambitions buzzing around inside his mind. During these intense
moments of life or death it was a relief to be able to quiet his soul by focusing on the only thing that mattered: working
stick and throttle and rudder to get that red pipper smack where he wanted it on his target.

The pipper was moving into position now, crimson against the half dozen circular fuel tanks arranged in two rows of three.
The tanks glinted like silver coins in the shrouded sunlight and wafting smoke. Steve hoped he would be dropping his bombs
on the airplane hangarlike complex of buildings that housed the fuel-pumping machinery, just to the right of the tanks. Rio
lead and Rio two would be zeroing in on the freight cars and the railroad track-switching apparatus several hundred yards
to port.

Robbie waited until the last possible second, and then unleashed his twelve 750-pound bombs. As he pulled out of his dive
at 2,500 feet he saw Steve toggling off his own four-and-a-half tons of ordnance, and then both Thuds were twisting and turning,
trying to throw off the infuriated hornet swarm of flak and tracer fire as they clawed for altitude.

Back up at fifteen thousand, Robbie banked his Thud around, and had the satisfaction of seeing the fuel tanks and pumping
stations billowing flame and smoke: Rio element’s targets had been destroyed. Then he and Steve were out of the immediate
vicinity.

“Rio, flight check!” Wilson demanded anxiously.

After all four Thuds had sounded off safe and sound, the major happily announced to the two remaining flights, “Rio withdrawing,”
and then, “Rio, go to poststrike frequency.”

After another flight check to make sure that everyone was tuned to the right radio channel, Wilson took the flight up to twenty
thousand feet, saying, “Next stop is a gas station. I’ll see if I can get us one with a rest room,” he added cheerfully.

“Never mind a rest room,” Two cut in. “I could use a dry cleaner. At some point back there I think I wet my pants.”

Robbie found himself laughing hysterically. Probably everyone else was, as well. The dumbest jokes provoked a giddy response
in the emotionally charged rush that came when a flight managed to successfully complete a mission unscathed.

“Our Tankers are waiting for us at the prearranged poststrike refueling area.” Wilson paused. “Four, how’d you like your first
taste of downtown Hanoi?” he asked amiably.

“I’ve got to say it wasn’t as bad as you all led me to believe,” Steve replied.

“To tell you the truth, I was surprised at the lack of SAM activity,” Wilson confessed. “It’s very unusual for the Weasels
to get them all.”

“In a way, I’m kind of sorry the Weasels did such a good job,” Steve said. “I was hoping to get my SAM initiation over and
done with.”

“Bite your tongue, Colonel,” Rio two cut in, laughing.

Amen to that
, Robbie thought, as he anxiously studied the outlying city districts below for signs of SAM. The sites were usually made
up of four to six launchers arranged in a circle, with a radar/communications van a few yards away.

They left Hanoi behind, coming upon what looked like a large agricultural area. There was a small village, partly smoke-shrouded
by its myriad cook fires, and hemmed in on all sides by a green patchwork quilt of rectangular garden plots, bordered by dense,
green jungle.

“Let’s give that village a wide berth,” Wilson said. “SAM could be down there.”

“They put them in villages?” Steve asked skeptically.

“Affirmative, Four,” Wilson said.

There was no sign of SAM, but Robbie knew that being able to spot the missiles before they were launched was highly unlikely,
and that Wilson was right: There could easily be SAMs hidden among the thatched-roof huts in that village. In the beginning,
the Russian-built, concrete installations had been easy to spot, but with the advent of Iron Hand, the enemy had taken to
camouflaging his SAM sites. The village was a perfect place because the Rules of Engagement under which the Thud drivers operated
decreed that SAMs couldn’t be hit near so-called civilian areas.

As a matter of fact, the more Robbie studied that village, the more something—call it a sixth sense born of his seventy-six
missions—warned him that SAM was close by, lying in wait to rise up and snatch the Thuds out of the sky. The sooner that village
was put behind them, the better. Just now Rio Flight was at 22,000 feet, which was within SAM’s envelope, but high enough
to allow for evasive action should SAMs appear—

Provided
the launch was spotted soon enough—

“Sure would like to get a crack at those MIGs that were pestering us before,” Steve mused out loud. “Here I am in a real blue
balls-type situation—”

“Meaning?” Robbie demanded.

“Well, there, nephew, meaning I’ve got an ammo drum jam-packed with rounds hanging low beneath my cannon, and I’m feeling
frisky and light now that those bombs are away.”

“You’re feeling light because you’re low on fuel,” Wilson said pointedly. “Anyway, don’t expect to see any MIGs, Colonel …”

“Oh, no, Major?” Steve asked innocently.

Robbie began swiveling his head, searching the sky all around him. Once again something in Steve’s tone had tipped him off.
Growing up, Robbie had heard his uncle use that same tone of voice during their hunting trips. It was the teasing tone Steve
had used when Robbie had been ready to swear that there was no sign of game anywhere in the woods, and Steve was about to
prove him wrong …

Clearly, Steve knew—or
saw
—something as yet unknown to the rest of them.

“The thing is, Colonel,” Wilson said patronizingly, “the MIGs know better than to try and tangle with us once we’ve dropped
our ordnance.”

“You know that and I know it, Major.” Steve laughed. “But someone forgot to tell those two, swept-wing beauties at one o’clock
low—”

“Huh?” Wilson stammered.

“What? Where?” Rio two was demanding.

Robbie stared in the direction that his uncle had indicated. Just as had always been the case in the woods, he’d been looking
that way a moment ago and had seen nothing, but now that Steve had pointed out what there was to be seen he wondered how he
could have missed it. The pair of MIGs was maybe two miles off. They were arranged in a loose echelon, making a wide turn
heading away from the flight, back toward that village. They looked to be down around fifteen thousand feet, which was unusual
for them. They didn’t like it down low, where the Thuds had the speed advantage, as long as the latter didn’t try to match
gomer’s turning ability…

Robbie, studying the MIGs, caught movement out of the corner of his eye. It was Steve’s Thud, peeling away from the flight.

“Be right back,” Steve said cheerily.

“Steve, no!” Robbie blurted.

“Negative, Rio four!” Wilson demanded. “Four, you get back here—”

Don’t waste your breath
, boss, Robbie thought angrily as he watched Steve’s tail pipe light up. Steve had gone to afterburn to close the gap between
him and the MIGs.

“Where does that fucker think he’s going?” Wilson demanded angrily.

“He isn’t
thinking
,” Robbie muttered as he watched Steve follow the MIGs back toward the village. “He’s like a fucking hound onto the scent
of quail. He’s just doing what he was born to do …”

“Boss, I’m getting low on fuel …” Rio two called.

“Rog,” Wilson began. “Hey! Three! Where are you going—?”

“I’m gonna watch my uncle’s back,” Robbie said, slinging his Thud around in a tight turn to set a course toward the MIGs.

“Negative—” Wilson began.

“Boss, you know as well as I do he could be heading into a trap. There could be more MIGs waiting to drop down onto his six
o’clock.”

“Three, come back here! Now, goddammit!”

Robbie, ignoring his flight leader, went to afterbum to try and catch up to Steve, never minding the fact that his own fuel
gauges were beginning to warn that he’d better take it easy on the juice or he’d find himself hitchhiking home. As he hurtled
forward he set up his Sidewinders, just in case cannons alone weren’t up to the task of getting them out of this.

Robbie was close enough now to the unsuspecting MIGs to see that they were 17s. Both were a dirty gray aluminum color, highlighted
with red on their snouts and tails.

Thank heavens for small favors
, Robbie thought, his gloved fingers nervously twitching at his missile and cannon triggers. The Thuds didn’t have the gas
to start shaking it up with state-of-the-art MIG-21s.

“Trust that’s you behind me, Three?” Steve said calmly.

“Roger.”
Fucking guy’s got eyes in the back of his head
, Robbie thought.

“Closing on the rear M1G, now,” Steve said. “You hang back, make sure I’m not being boxed in.”

“Three, we’ve got to leave the vicinity,” Wilson called. He and his wingman were orbiting where Robbie had left them. “Two
and I are both getting real low on fuel—”

“Roger,” Robbie replied. “You guys go on, and ask that tanker to alter its course to meet us as close to hostile territory
as it dares to come. I’m gonna be flying on farts by the time I manage to rope in my crazy uncle.”

“I heard that,” Steve murmured. “Don’t worry. This won’t take long.”

“The colonel’s closed on the rear MIG!” Rio two blurted.

Robbie saw that Steve had positioned himself above and to the rear of the MIGs. He was closing at an angle. Robbie guessed
his uncle intended to rake a single continuous burst of cannon fire across the upper wings and cockpits of the tightly grouped
MIGs.

“He’s opened fire!” Two yelled.

Robbie saw smoke and fire spewing from the cannon chin pod of Steve’s Thud. The 20-millimeter rounds hosed the rear MIG, shearing
off its port wing. The dirty silver plane dropped away, spewing black smoke. Steve shifted to the lead MIG, which was now
rolling and jinking in the general direction of that village in order to throw off his aim.

“Steve, get out of range and I’ll fire off a Sidewinder,” Robbie called.