The Hot Pilots

by T. E. Cruise

  “No, it’s not like that over there,” Benny replied. “You’d like the way they do things, Steve. There’s no red tape, no bullshit, you know? They can’t afford it. They know that if they ever lose a war they’ll have had it.”

  “Sounds like you’re ready to re-up,” Steve joked.

  Benny just smiled. “Anyway, I’m glad we got onto this subject. You see, there’s something I need to ask you …”

  “What is it?” Steve asked. He noticed that Benny was looking troubled. “What’s eating you, old buddy?”

  “Care for some more cider?” Benny asked. “More whiskey?”

  Steve shook his head. “Why do I get the feeling you’re buttering me up smoother than you buttered this cider?”

  “Because I am,” Benny admitted. “I’m about to ask you a big favor…”

  “Well?”

  “I need something from you,” Benny began. He took a deep breath. “Actually, I need you to get something from your father. It’s no secret that GAT is in partnership with Aérosens to build a jetliner for the European market.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well, Aérosens is the same French aviation company that’s been supplying Israel with its jet fighters, the latest being the Tyran II—”

  “I’m familiar with that bird’s specs.” Steve nodded. “She’s a beauty. An outstanding, delta-winged fighter. She can carry a variety of ordnance, and a brace of thirty-millimeter guns.”

  “She is a superb airplane,” Benny said. “But she needs one thing to be able to outfight anything in the Arab arsenal, and that’s the Vector-A radar ranging weapons firing system. The catch is that the Vector-A is manufactured by GAT, in a co-venture with an independent avionics firm, and there’s a United States Government export restriction on the system—”

  Steve’s stomach sank as he finally realized what his friend was getting at.

  “I’d like you to convince your father to defy that restriction,” Benny finished.

  “You mean convince my father to break the law by smuggling Vector-As into Israel?”

  “I’d like to think of it as obeying a higher, moral law in order to bring about the survival of one’s people,” Benny said quietly. “Herman Gold is a Jew, after all …”

  “And I thought you were my friend!” Steve savagely shot back. “Getting around to this was the whole reason why you invited me for this stay, wasn’t it?”

  “No, of course not—”

  “Ah, stop it, Benny. For a successful lawyer, you’re a lousy liar …”

  “Look at me,” Benny commanded.

  “What?” Steve felt hurt and betrayed.

  “If you will speak to your father about this matter a lot of people will be grateful,” Benny said. “If you decide you’d rather not, that’s that. But I’ll always be your friend …”

  “This is real important to you, huh?” Steve sighed.

  “The importance goes far beyond me,” Benny said. “But if you prefer to think of it that way, then yes; with all you know about me, you should realize that I would never have asked such a thing of you if it wasn’t of crucial importance to me …”

  “Then I’ll speak to my father,” Steve said. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll speak to him …”

  “Thank you,” Benny said happily. “Whatever the outcome, you have the gratitude of an entire nation—”

  “What are friends for?” Steve murmured.

  (Two)

  GAT

  Burbank, California

  17 December 1964

  Herman Gold’s secretary buzzed him over the intercom to say that his call to Massachusetts had gone through, and Arthur Zolot was on the line. Herman reached for the telephone, leaning back in his big leather chair and swinging his feet up onto his desk. “Arthur? Yes, it’s Herman. How are you, my friend?”

  “Who’s Arthur Zolot?” Steven Gold asked Don Harrison, who was sitting at the opposite end of the burgundy leather upholstered couch. Steve was wearing a suit and tie and was feeling very businesslike hanging around the executive suite, jawing with his old man and his brother-in-law.

  “Arthur Zolot is the founder of Aero-Marine Radio Corporation, one of the foremost East Coast avionics firms,” Don said in hushed, reverent tones. “Arthur invented the Vector-A.”

  “No shit,” Steve said, thinking that this guy Zolot had to be really something special to get an egghead like Don Harrison so hot and bothered.

  “When you brought all this up last month about smuggling Vector-A radar weapons firing systems into Israel, your father felt that Arthur had to be consulted.”

  Steve nodded. Thinking of eggheads, he was secretly pleased to see that Don’s honey blond hair was thinning faster than his own. Since Steve had last seen him, Don had taken up pipe smoking, and had cultivated a neatly cropped golden red beard that gave him a professorial look that fit in with the tweedy sport jackets he favored. The beard made him look older, more distinguished: Don was a lot easier to take now that he didn’t look too young to be so smart …

  “So, Arthur, you got my letter?” Herman was saying. “Yes, yes, that’s why I wrote you. I agree that it’s not the sort of thing we’d want to discuss in detail over the telephone.”

  “And if this guy nixes the idea, that’s that?” Steve asked hopefully.

  “Yes.” Don nodded. “I must say, for someone who suggested it, you don’t sound very enthusiastic about this scheme …”

  “I’m not,” Steve replied. He looked around his father’s office, at the oil paintings of GAT airplanes in flight and at the glass display cases filled with mementos chronicling the company’s history, which was also pretty much the history of aviation since World War I. “I don’t like the idea of Pop risking everything he’s built by breaking the law. I proposed this matter to him as a favor to a friend. If Pop shoots it down, so be it. I can tell my friend I tried.”

  “Well, I’m with you,” Don said. “I hope that this whole outlandish idea gets shot down.”

  “Very well, Arthur,” Herman was saying. “I understand. No, the risk would be GAT’s; I just felt I had a moral obligation to confer with you … Yes, right. I understand. Goodbye, Arthur…”

  “Well?” Steve demanded as his father hung up the telephone.

  “He’s for the idea,” Gold said. “It turns out Arthur Zolot is a member and generous contributor to many of the same pro-Israel organizations as your attorney friend, Benjamin Detkin.”

  “Oh, great,” Don said broodingly.

  “Don, have you talked with your counterpart at Aérosens?” Steve heard his father ask.

  “Aero-Marine Radio Corporation can deliver an extra forty Vector-A systems within the next twenty-four months,” Don replied. “That would pretty much coincide with Aérosens’ shipments of Tyran II fighters to Israel.”

  Herman pondered this. “I guess we could juggle the records to let fall between the cracks an extra forty systems …” He glanced at Steve. “We’ve contracted for hundreds, you see. The Vector-A is just one of the black boxes that’s going into our new, twin-seat, Super-BroadSword fighter-bomber.”

  “I still don’t much like it,” Steve grumbled, looking at his father. “You still have to figure out a way to get the Vector-As to Israel …”

  “Jack Horton has a few ideas about that,” his father said.

  “Horton?” Steve blurted. “What’s that CIA rat got to do with any of this?”

  “Horton contacted your father to lobby for the idea just a few days after you put it on the table,” Don said.

  “No shit … ?” Steve murmured. “Why would the CIA want us to defy the government’s export restrictions on the Vector-A?”

  “According to Horton, the United States maintains its position as a friend to all parties in the Mideast,” Don said. “Which is why we don’t supply things like the Vector-A to anybody in the region.”

  “But off the record the CIA works very closely with its Israeli counterpart, the Mossad,” Herman cut in. “For
some time now the Mossad, in cooperation with the Israeli Air Force, has been working on a scheme to get an Arab pilot to defect to Israel with his MIG-21.”

  Steve whistled. His father nodded.

  “The MIG-21 is the Soviet Air Force’s top war bird,” Steve’s father told him. “When GAT proposes a new fighter design, the first question the Air Force’s R & D people ask us is can it beat the ‘21’?”

  “Exactly,” Don added. “But that’s a question that can’t be answered. We in the United States have no way of knowing the MIG-21’s capabilities, or even more important, its limitations, because we can’t get our hands on one. According to Horton, the Soviets have recently begun deploying them to their client countries, including those in the Mideast, but with the airplanes go KGB-trained security teams to guard them, and, needless to say, only the most senior, trusted pilots get to fly them.”

  “So how the hell are the Israelis going to get their mitts on one?” Steve asked.

  “That we don’t know,” Don said. “But according to Horton, and to your boss General Simon, if they should succeed in snaring a MIG-21 the United States Air Force would give its collective right arm to get a chance to put it through its paces.”

  “Amen to that,” Steve agreed.

  “Here’s the bottom line,” his father said. “The Mossad has offered us a deal: If Israel gets its Vector-A systems, the United States will get its look at the MIG when the Mossad snares one.”

  “If the Mossad snares one,” Steve corrected.

  “Fair enough.” His father nodded. “But the CIA thinks it’s worth the risk.”

  “But whose risk?” Don demanded. “Certainly not the CIA’s … Tell me this, Herman: Are you saying that the CIA is going to get us official clearance to ship the Vector-As to Israel?”

  “You know they can’t do that,” Herman quietly replied. “They and the Air Force hope that we’ll go through with the deal, but Horton has emphasized the risk. If we’re caught, the CIA will disavow all knowledge of the scheme—”

  “In other words,” Don interrupted, “if we get caught, GAT gets hung out to dry.”

  “And take it from me,” Steve said. “I know from bitter experience that when Horton says he’s prepared to walk away fast from any public mess he means it. They don’t call these guys spooks for nothing.”

  “All right—” Herman was leaning back in his chair, studying the two men sitting across from him. “I sense that for once the pair of you are on the same side of an issue …”

  “I guess we are, Pop.” Steve chuckled, glancing at Don, who was also smiling and nodding in agreement.

  “So talk to me,” Herman decreed. “Convince me why I shouldn’t go through with this.”

  “It’s a tremendous risk, Herman,” Don began.

  “Tell me what I don’t know,” he intoned.

  “What’s the upside, Pop?” Steve asked. “I mean, say GAT manages to successfully get those black boxes to Israel without getting caught, and say that the Israelis manage to snare their MIG-21 and give the Air Force its peek, what does GAT get out of it?”

  “My point exactly.” Don nodded. “Any GAT employee involved in this is going to be risking a jail term, and the company as a whole will be risking financial ruin. If we’re caught there’s no way we’d be able to hold on to our security clearances, which means good-bye to GAT’s defense contracts. And for what? Surely not patriotism?”

  “And why not patriotism?” Herman queried. “Has this country been so terrible to you that you don’t feel you owe it something … ?”

  “Pop?” Steve asked softly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Pop, I know that tone of voice,” Steve said. “I think you’ve already decided you’re going through with this. So what’s up? What’s really on your mind?”

  “All right,” his father admitted, smiling. “You’re right, I have decided to do it, or at least try to do it,” he amended thoughtfully. “Exactly why I want to is all mixed up inside of me. Part of it has to do with something Arthur just said on the telephone: ‘You can’t run away from your roots; who you really are.’ ” He paused. “Now, I’m almost sixty-six years old, and I realize that all my life I haven’t so much been running away as just not looking back.”

  “You’re talking like your life is over,” Don chided. “It isn’t.”

  “No, of course not.” Herman nodded. “But I am feeling like it’s time to take that look back. I’ve accomplished a lot in my life, and yet I’ve never come to terms with who I am, and of who I’ll be when I die: a Jew, one cut loose and drifted away from a life he’s too ignorant to even imagine, but a Jew nonetheless …” He smiled wistfully. “I’ve come so far, I think I’d like now to take a few steps back, and maybe find a small bit of what’s been lost along the way…”

  Don was nodding. “And you think helping the Jewish homeland in this way is a first step in that direction? Is that it, Herman?”

  “You two are young men,” Steve heard his father say shyly. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Don said. “You’ve got to do what you think is right.”

  Steve felt incredibly touched as his father turned his pale blue eyes toward him. He wants—needs—my approval…

  The scales abruptly dropped from Steve’s eyes, and he saw his father not as he used to be when Steve was a kid, but the way he was today. The red was gone from what little hair Herman Gold had left; the red had weathered to wintry silver gray. There were deep lines etched into his father’s face; a lifetime’s worth of lines …

  “I’ll tell you what I think, one fighter jock to another.” Steve glanced at Don. “No offense meant …”

  “None taken,” Don acknowledged, smiling.

  “I was a fighter pilot, once …” Herman murmured.

  “Once means always,” Steve firmly insisted. “Always means that your entire life you lived according to the fighter jock’s credo: Trust your instincts. Well, I say you ought to keep on trusting them. You want to do this?”

  His father hesitated. Then he nodded, smiling boyishly, and Steve remembered that smile from when he himself had been just a little boy, and his father had been even younger than Steve was now; a robust, powerful man, standing tall beside an open-cockpit airplane …

  “Sonofabitch, but I don’t care about the possible consequences,” Herman said. “I want to do this.”

  Steve beamed at Don. “What’d I say? Once a fighter jock, always a fighter jock.” He looked back at his father and winked. “Then you go for it, Pop.”

  “I appreciate the way you backed me up—and Pop—in there,” Steve said to Don when they left Herman’s office.

  “That’s okay,” Don murmured.

  Steve glanced at him, thinking that Don seemed preoccupied. “You’re really upset about this Vector-A thing, huh?”

  “Not really…”

  Steve had to laugh. “Well I sure as fuck am. If you’re not worried then something really bad must be on your mind … Everything okay at home?”

  “Yeah!” Don said too heartily, and then, “Well, maybe not … I didn’t want to worry your father with it, but Robbie called home yesterday. He was all excited. He’s received his Wing assignment.”

  “And?”

  “With all this stuff going on in Southeast Asia since the Gulf of Tonkin thing last August, Suzy and I were keeping our fingers crossed that he’d end up in Europe, in support of our NATO commitment …”

  Now Steve understood. “But he’s not, is he? He’s going to Vietnam … ?”

  Don nodded, frowning, his shoulders hunched in apprehension. “He’s going to war.”

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  (One)

  Phanrat, Thailand

  22 August 1965

  First Lieutenant Robert Blaize Greene bolted awake. He sat upright in his cot, clawing at the mosquito netting clinging to his face. He glanced at the luminous dial of his wristwatch: 2:30 A.M.

  Robb
ie looked across the hooch. By the silvery moonlight coming in through the screened windows he saw Captain Stewart Saunders sitting on the edge of his cot. Stew was dressed in a flight suit. As he bent forward to tie his boot laces the moon and shadow turned his shaved head into a bone white skull.

  “I was having a nightmare,” Robbie murmured. He cast aside the suffocating mosquito netting. He was sweating like a sonofabitch. His sheets were soaked. He resisted the urge to rake his fingernails across the itchy heat rash ringing his neck.

  “I was dreaming I was back in high school …” He paused to catch his breath; the humidity made it hard to breathe. “… I didn’t know where my classes were, and I couldn’t find my locker.”

  “Verry interrresting—” Stew mimicked a German accent. “Ver you naked?”

  “What is this, like prison?” Robbie muttered. “They put the new guys in with the perverts?”

  “I was just going to wake you anyway,” Stew said. “Weather officer predicts clear flying.”

  “Well, all right,” Robbie said gamely.

  “It looks like this is going to be your day, kid.”

  “Yeah, all right …” Robbie trailed off.

  Stew smiled. “Don’t freak, Lieutenant. Everybody’s got to bust his cherry sooner or later.”

  Robbie nodded. At twenty-two years of age, he was one of the youngest pilots based at Phanrat. He was certainly the most inexperienced.

  Five months ago he’d gone from Fighter Weapons School, into a squadron that was part of the Tactical Fighter Wing at McConnell Air Force Base in Kansas. He’d had a gas flattening the wheat fields as he learned the ins and outs of his F-105 Thunderchief, and once the Wing was certified operational in their Thuds, the organization was rotated to Japan. Robbie knew that combat duty was preordained and he was looking forward to it: somewhere in the misty future. Then, just a couple of weeks ago, the Air Force’s all-powerful computers had whirred, spitting out Robbie’s card, and he’d found himself in Thailand ahead of the rest of his buddies, filling a slot in the 609th TFS, one of the three tactical fighter squadrons that called Phanrat home.