by Tom Wilson
"Standoff weapons?" That was what they called munitions that could be released beyond the range of hostile fire.
"Standoff smart weapons. So accurate, we'll never hafta go after th' same target twice."
"Have you got hardware?"
Moods deflated a little. "Not yet . . . won't be long. Right now a few guys 'n' me're trying to iron out the bugs on paper . . . but we're buildin' a workin' model."
"What kind of guidance are you talking about?"
"Two kinds. I gotta Texas team 'n' a California team . . . both workin' on their own thing." Moods started to add more, then looked around and shook his head. "Wait'll you get to Nellis. We keep it classified right up there with nukes. . . . When I tell you 'bout it, you'll understand. They'll be that accurate, Benny."
Benny was interested. Their friends were having to dive-bomb through flak and SAMs and then go back again. Numerous sorties were often required to knock out a single target.
"When will you be ready to put one of your smart bombs together?"
Moods calculated, then whooshed a breath. "Dunno. . . . Not long if we c'n get the proper priority, but like I tol' ya . . . that's not easy. Hardest part's gettin' th brass to listen, if you c'n imagine. Be easier when we get a couple prototype kits put together."
"Kits?"
"It's a modular concept . . . sort of like building blocks that let you mix and match 'n' build your own bombs. Each kit'll contain two modules we'll attach to th' bombs."
Benny had difficulty trying to envision it. "What size bombs?" he asked.
"Doesn't matter. Any bomb you choose. You pick th' right size bomb for a particular job . . . bolt on th' module with movable fins, then screw on another module that provides terminal guidance and fuzing."
"A homing bomb," Benny said. "Why not use missiles?"
"There's more bang in bombs . . . and they're a lot cheaper. I'm using ever' bit of math I ever learned, and I got a master's degree in math, Benny . . . still a lotta problems with it . . . biases and keeping the dam' things locked on to th' aim point . . . things we're tryin' to anticipate before we build 'em for testing."
Benny was utterly baffled. "Have you live-dropped anything?"
Moods sighed again. "Not yet. It's hard t' get funds, and . . . ah . . . not everyone's convinced they'll work. We'll need your support n' more, we're gonna continue with it." He raised an eyebrow. "When you think they'll let you outa here?"
"I'm trying for next Monday."
Moods looked at him lying there flat on his back and not moving and cocked his head to emphasize a puzzled look. "The nurse tol' me more like a couple months."
"She's a pessimist. I'm working some angles."
Moods glanced at the door. "I'd like t' work on her angles." That, for Moods, was romantic talk. "Know when she gets off?"
"Any time now. She's on the early shift."
Moods opened his mouth. . . .
"She lives in an apartment in Fairfield. Alone."
"You after her?"
Benny almost shuddered. After Lady Dracula? "No."
Moods glanced at his watch. "I'm meetin' some guys at Stanford in a couple of hours . . . maybe she'll come along." Moods raised a hand. "I'll drop by in th' morning before I crawl back in my trusty jet."
"You flying with anyone?" The F-4 was a two-place bird.
"Guy from procurement. Th' general sprung a few bucks from his discretionary fund . . . enough so we might interest some Stanford engineering support."
"Then you've got some support for your project."
"Not enough. I'm serious about this modular smart bomb bein' the answer for th' future. . . . Preach to ever' general I c'n get into a classified briefing room." He nodded at Benny. "Maybe if you'd been carrying one of my bombs . . . you wouldn't be layin' here like a fuckin' radish."
"Maybe."
"I think this CROSSFIRE ZULU campaign's a perfect vehicle to try out my smart bombs. . . . I'm pushing it with th' Seventh Air Force project officer."
Benny should have picked up on that, and later he would regret not doing so. But his mind was on other things.
"When you drop by tomorrow," he said, "I should know more about when I'll be getting out of here."
"Don't press it, Benny. Soon's I heard you were in th' pipeline, lobbied to have you put in charge of the team . . . we need you. But don't try to get outa th' hospital too early . . . not if it might screw you up later on."
"Don't worry. I don't intend to do anything that might keep me off flying status a day longer than necessary. I like the extra hundred and eight-five a month, and I like to fly. I'll take care."
Moods nodded and waved a hand. "See you tomorrow."
"I'm looking forward to it. Good luck with your engineers."
Moods gave him a secretive look. "Electro-optics experts . . . work with lumens 'n' contrast n' background shadows . . . anything that'll show up on a videcon tube."
"What's a videcon tube?"
"Sensor for a television camera."
Benny narrowed his gaze. "Television?"
"Think it over. We'll talk when you get to th' office . . . see if you've figured it out."
"You've flipped your wig, Moods. Television?"
Moods Diller laughed. "Texas team's working with lasers."
Benny had never heard the word. "What's a laser?" he asked.
" 'Bye."
As if on cue the nurse popped in, the special smile glued to her face.
Moods cleared his throat and looked very seriously at her. "Could I . . . ah . . . speak to you 'bout my friend here before I leave?"
"Sure," she said.
"In private?"
She smiled wider. "Of course."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wednesday, April 26th, 0345 Local—Briefing Theater, Command Post, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Captain Manny DeVera
When the air tasking order had been received at 2100 the previous evening and fragmented to show their part of it, they'd called Max Foley, the wing-weapons officer. After he'd read it, he contacted Manny DeVera, for Manny was as close to an expert on the AGM-12 missile as they had at Takhli, and they'd been directed to use Bullpups to attack the Doumer bridge the next morning.
When Manny got to the command post, they'd talked about the hand-guided missiles at length, and the more they'd talked, the more they'd disliked the idea of using them for any target in a high-threat area. When they reread the tasking order, they found that the headquarters weaponeers had discouraged arguments by including the remark that the missile had been designed for point targets such as bridges, and its use had been directed by PACAF.
"Bullshit," Manny told Max. "They were designed for use against tanks and buildings, not for big bridges located in the middle of a bunch of guns and SAMs."
At 2300 Manny had stood by while Max Foley spoke on the scrambler phone to the fighter duty officer at Seventh Air Force's Tactical Air Control Center. Max complained that the short-range, data-link-guided AGM-12 was good only for unprotected targets, for the pilots couldn't deliver them and take proper evasive action. He added that even if they were successful and hit the target, he wasn't convinced the small warhead would take down a sturdy structure like the Doumer bridge. The FDO told him to hang up and stand by for a response.
At 0015 they'd received a message from the Seventh Air Force Directorate of Intelligence pinpointing the critical stress points of spans near the northern and southern ends of the bridge. The message directed them to forward a detailed postmission report.
It was time to salute and execute, so Manny and Max had hurried to their quarters to get a couple hours of sleep, for both had volunteered to fly on the mission.
As the pilots filed into the briefing theater, they stared hard at the mission board.
It was again show-and-tell time for the 355th Tactical Fighter Wing, for again they'd been picked to fly a most dangerous mission. The pilots had seen the Doumer bridge as they'd set up to bomb other targets, had even used it for
a visual reference. The big bridge spanning the Red River between Hanoi and Gia Lam would not be difficult to find. It was located smack in the midst of heavy defenses, however, and they didn't relish going there.
The briefings started early, because there was a lot for the pilots to discuss and digest.
Colonel B. J. Parker was mission commander, and he opened by stating the importance of the mission to higher headquarters, and quite possibly to the war effort. He looked out upon them proudly and said he'd assigned his best men to lead and fly this one.
They were briefed that the test was important, and that General Moss was "extremely interested" in the outcome.
Several of the more knowledgeable pilots muttered that the "important test" was a bunch of bullshit, for they didn't agree with the weapons selection.
The alpha strike force would include KC-135 tankers, F-105F Wild Weasels, F-4D Phantoms, a flak-suppression flight, and eight strike aircraft, called "shooters" in this instance.
Captains Holden and Watson, an experienced Wild Weasel crew from the 357th squadron, would lead their four-ship flight of two-seat Thuds, call sign Red Dog. They would enter the target area first and would rove about the periphery of Hanoi during the period of the strike, firing radar-homing Shrike missiles in broadsides to keep the SAM operators busy.
Two F-4D MiG-CAP flights from Ubon Air Base would provide escort, with one flight preceding and the other following the strike force. All MiG fighting would be left to the F-4's.
The F-105Ds would ingress to the target area at 18,000 feet in a twelve-ship formation and would feint toward another target before turning toward the Doumer bridge. Eight miles from the bridge the shooters would break off and descend to set up for their AGM-12 deliveries. The flak-suppression flight would continue for five more miles, then push over and dive-bomb their cluster bombs onto the guns to soften up the target before the shooters arrived.
Colonel B. J. Parker would lead the flak-suppression flight, call sign Trout. They'd drop CBU-24's on concentrations of guns along the banks of the Red River, one Thud concentrating on the northwest side of the bridge, another on the southwest, and so forth around the quadrants. They would be careful to release at the right altitude for optimum dispersion of the bomblets, for the recce photos showed large concentrations of guns.
As the eight shooters descended to 15,000, then to 10,000 feet, they would first swing south toward Hanoi, then around to the north, and one by one would break off to attack the target. Lucky Anderson would lead Tuna flight and would concentrate on knocking down one of the northern spans. Major Max Foley's Guppy flight would attack a southern span.
Lieutenant DeWalt took the podium and stretched a one-liner into a fifteen-minute harangue on bridge construction techniques. There were precisely twenty spans, he said, eight of which had been reinforced by dumping what appeared to be old vehicles into the water beside the pilings.
Few were interested, and the muttering in the room grew louder.
Annoyed that his words were being ignored and drowned out, DeWalt looked for support and found that B. J. Parker was holding his own side discussion. DeWalt concluded abruptly, repeating the direction from Seventh Air Force to aim for the critical stress points, the pilings over the deepest water.
Colonel Parker thanked him and said they'd now discuss the short, pudgy 570-pound star of today's show, the AGM-12.
Captain Manny DeVera, like Lucky Anderson and Max Foley, was a Fighter Weapons School graduate, but he'd also helped run the Bullpup missile program at the El Uotia gunnery range in Libya. He gave the pilots a thorough rundown on the AGM-12, describing its strengths and weaknesses, and everyone listened closely. They'd all sat through hours of simulator time, going through the Bullpup firing and tracking procedures, but Manny DeVera had actually launched and guided three of the things.
First he gave a brief description of the weapon. He explained how the data-link signal was transmitted from the aircraft and entered the missile's antenna, and caused the missile's fins to move and guide it. Then he talked about weapons delivery, saying that for best effectiveness they should set up at least three miles out and fly a straight-in, twenty-degree-dive attack. For this mission, since there were a hell of a lot of guns along the delivery track, which was southeast down the Red River, they would begin their runs at 10,000 feet, fly a thirty-degree dive, and release when they had a good sight picture, about 9,000 feet slant range from the target.
Max Foley interjected that it would be dangerous not to jink at all as they were diving, since the thirty-degree profile would make them very visible and vulnerable to the gomer defenses. But the shooters should jink very little between missile release and missile impact if they were to hit anything, because the Bullpup should remain between the aircraft and the target to receive proper steering corrections. The Bullpup's rocket motor burned brightly and would be easy to see. After motor burnout they'd see flares mounted on the fins and guide the bright dot into the bridge using a controller handle, giving up-down-left-right steering information.
"Just like you practiced in the simulator," said Manny.
Max and Manny tried to convey confidence, but few of the pilots were fooled. It was going to be damned dangerous to use the Bullpup missile in the high-threat area over Hanoi. More pleasing were their light and relatively aerodynamic configurations. Other than the Bullpup and its adapter, they would carry only a 650-gallon fuel tank on centerline and an ECM pod on the right outboard station.
Colonel B. J. Parker got up next and briefed that after delivering weapons, the flak suppressors and shooters would rejoin over Thud Ridge. Then he paused before telling his pilots to "kick 'em in the ass," as he sometimes did on tough ones, and sent them off to their individual flight briefings.
"Good briefing, Manny," Lucky said as the mission briefing broke up.
"I dunno, boss," said Manny. "I don't have a good feeling about this one."
Turk Tatro and Henry Horn, who were the second element of Tuna flight, waited for them near the doorway, and Lucky nodded in their direction. "Like B.J. said, we've got one edge. We've got good pilots flying this morning."
As he followed Lucky toward the door, Manny hoped to hell they and all the other "good pilots" would return. A sudden wash of apprehension swept over him, and he shuddered.
0718 Local—Route Pack Six, North Vietnam
Major Lucky Anderson
The Wild Weasels were beating up on the Hanoi SAM sites with salvo after salvo of Shrike missiles, and twice the MiG-CAP Phantoms had chased off MiGs, so thus far the Thuds had not been directly threatened. They flew at 18,000 feet as planned, easterly and directly toward the big MiG base at Phuc Yen.
"Probably scaring the shit out of the gomers," announced someone, for it was likely the North Vietnamese thought the target was their biggest air base. Lucky knew the someone was Turk Tatro, for he could never mask his heavy southern drawl.
Then B. J. Parker, flying at the forefront of the group, announced, "This is Trout lead. Turning, now!" and the Strike force abruptly banked right and rolled out on a heading of 140 degrees, toward a point just north of Hanoi, a colorful amoeba sprawling in the distance.
Abeam Phuc Yen, eight nautical miles from the bridge, it was Lucky's turn.
"This is Tuna lead. Descend, now!" he radioed, and both Tuna and Guppy flights nosed over into a rapid descent. A few seconds later Guppy disappeared behind as Max Foley led them into an S-turn for separation from Tuna.
It became the four of them. Lucky, Manny, Turk, and Henry Horn. Lucky looked his brood over carefully, feeling intense pride heightened by the surge of adrenaline that accompanied imminent danger. They were all jinking now that they were away from the collective protection of the gaggle, twisting and turning as they descended. Smoothly yet unpredictably, as the book said.
Through seventeen thousand feet.
Manny flew on his right wing, in perfect position. Turk and Henry Horn were to his left. It would come quickly now, but he felt his me
n were ready.
Sixteen thousand feet.
He turned hard right, toward the heart of Hanoi on another diversion feint, and they flew toward the largest buildings there. Two of them were headquarters for the NVA, intell said, and he hoped the bastards were sweating bullets or maybe shitting their pants.
Fifteen thousand feet, and he leveled.
His RHAW receiver rattled with a SAM indication, showing a LAUNCH light and making a squealing sound. He looked out, waited, then saw three missiles rising toward them, their fiery boosters still attached.
The brightly burning boosters dropped away into an eastern suburb of Hanoi.
"Dumb shits're doin our work for us," someone drawled, and Lucky wished Turk would stay off the radio with his comments. He'd speak with him about it when they landed.
As the flight paths of the SAMs were bending toward them, they crossed over the edge of Ho Tay Lake.
"Tuna flight. Turn and descend, now!" he called, then shoved the throttle forward, pulled the control stick hard left, and entered a steep dive.
A long moment later Turk Tatro called that the missiles were clear, and Lucky was damned happy he had this team with him. As they passed 11,000 feet, he began to level out, and as they reached 10,000, he looked right and saw the big bridge clearly.
"Tuna lead's in," he called, and turned, leaving the others. He dived for the northern end of the bridge and was pleased when the gyro settled and read precisely thirty degrees.
He could see a couple of Thuds from Trout flight pulling up from their weapons deliveries. Their CBUs would be exploding among the guns. Good timing, he thought.
He was jinking smoothly, concentrating his vision on the northern end of the bridge and ignoring the random flak bursts. Not much longer now. He fingered the pickle button in anticipation.
The sky erupted, filling with fire and fury. Flak bursts so thick, it seemed there was no place left to fly. He heard Parker's flak suppressors calling on the radio, but whatever they'd dropped had little effect, because there were more explosions going off around and before him than he'd ever seen. Not even at Thai Nguyen had he seen such flak. He jinked harder.
