by Tom Wilson
"You're dismissed."
Billy stared for a heartbeat longer before giving a wiseass, highball salute and left the room without waiting for Lucky to return it.
By God, I'll have his ass, Lucky fumed.
But the door closed behind Bowes, and just as quickly as the anger had swept over him, it was gone. Lucky slowly sat at his desk, and as he calmed down, he wondered, What the hell have I done?
He ran a shaking hand through his hair and sighed, feeling ashamed.
What an asshole I've become, he thought.
He wondered about the cause of it.
What if he had been where Billy had been, and the site had fired its missiles? No thinking to it. He'd have attacked the bastard, just as Billy had. Bowes had reacted quickly and appropriately and had very possibly saved a man's life, and he'd just chewed his ass for it.
Why?
Had he been so preoccupied, so consumed by the thought of facing Linda Lopes over lunch that he'd taken it out on Billy?
Can't be, he reasoned, but . . .
If it was true, he should be doubly ashamed. It was a cardinal precept for a leader to keep his private life separate from his work. He'd always believed in that rule and abided by it. Except this time. Before the morning mission he'd stewed about Linda's visit, and it had affected his thinking.
So what should he do about Billy Bowes? The guy was a fucking hero and he'd treated him like shit. He mulled it all over in his mind for a moment or two, and the impact of what Billy had done continued to sink in. He retrieved the steno pad from the drawer and laboriously printed:
11 AUG 67: CAPT. B.—SUBMIT FOR DFC—"DODGED MISSILES, DESTROYED SAM SITE AT GRATE RISK TO HIS OWN LIFE TO PROTECT WINGMAN—ETC."
He thought about it for a moment longer, then scratched through "DFC" and penned "SILVER STAR?" above it.
After the dreaded lunch with Linda, he'd find Billy. Maybe explain that he was having a personal problem and . . . No . . . Just apologize and tell Billy he'd done good work.
He returned the steno pad to the lower drawer, then rose and sighed and began to think of how he could best prepare himself for Linda.
Max Foley opened the door and peered inside.
"What the hell do you want?" Lucky snapped. Foley should have knocked.
"Jesus, I'm sorry. You having your period, Miss Anderson?" The way Max was grinning could mean only one thing.
"We get the go-ahead?" Lucky asked.
"You betcha. The frag order just came in. The Doumer bridge with M-118 three-thousand-pound bombs. Takeoff at thirteen-fifteen. Time over target at fifteen hundred."
Lucky's mind raced. "Jesus, Max, that gives us only an hour and a half before takeoff. There's no way we can make it."
"B.J.'s asking Seventh Air Force to push everything back an hour so the guys can change the weapons loads."
"Still doesn't leave much time. Let's get over to the command post."
"You don't hurry, you'll be eating my dust."
On his way out Lucky told the duty officer to call the club, have them page a Miss Linda Lopes, and tell her he couldn't make it for lunch but that he'd see her for dinner, and . . . this time there wouldn't be any snakes involved.
The duty wog didn't understand about "snakes," so he repeated the message, then went out to join Max Foley.
As they hurried toward the command post, Lucky pondered only once about the lunch discussion. Saved again, he thought. Then his mind turned to the tactics they'd use on the afternoon mission against the Paul Doumer bridge.
Captain Billy Bowes
Billy watched the two majors hurry from the squadron building and idly wandered outside himself, wondering what the rush was all about. Since leaving the C-Flight office, he'd felt like shit in a gunny sack. During the past weeks he'd worked hard to regain Major Lucky's trust, and now he'd blown it again. Hell yes, he'd known he was in the Chinese buffer zone when he attacked the site, but if what he'd done was wrong, then somehow it was hard to make sense of anything they were doing here.
Lucky Anderson had said he'd been wrong, so he supposed he was. Major Lucky wasn't one to fuck with your mind. Billy regretted the silly highball salute he'd given, because it had not at all reflected the way he felt, but dammit . . .
Standing outside the squadron building, he saw the flight line was going into a sort of frenzy. Bomb cradles were being rushed toward the aircraft, and the crew chiefs were acting as if they were going to download everything on the airplanes, even those already loaded in standard combat configurations.
Some kind of special mission?
He wanted to go to the command post to see what was happening, but he remembered what Lucky had told him . . . that he was grounded and to stay away from C-Flight . . . so he supposed that meant he was to stay away from the entire flying operation.
He began walking aimlessly toward the main part of the base.
1240 Local—Command Post
Major Lucky Anderson
To kick things off, B. J. Parker took the floor and gave a spiel about how important the mission was and how they'd been working to change the weapons and tactics to make it work.
"This time," he said, "let's knock the damned bridge down, because I'm sure as hell tired of going back there."
Then B.J. sat down and left things to Max Foley and Lucky.
Max gave a soliloquy on M-118's, how the things had been manufactured during the Second World War, but how they were still good bombs with fair aerodynamics for their size.
Which was not especially true. Flying with the big blivots was a bit like flying with your speed-brakes out, they created so much drag. But they wanted to get the guys' confidence up, and there was no reason to be negative about things the pilots already knew.
Then Max gave his tactics pitch. When he told the handpicked pilots they were going to get to fly in individual flights rather than a gaggle, they felt good about it.
Even when he told them the reason for not flying the big formation—that radar returns from the big bombs were so bright, the ECM pods wouldn't do them a lot of good, so he wanted them free to maneuver—they still felt good about it. They enjoyed flying like fighter pilots, rather than in bomber formations.
"You'll be using more fuel than normal because of the drag," Max said, "so don't be surprised if you come off the target with less than usual. But you should have about seven grand left, so you can use afterburner to get out of the area and away from the guns."
Lucky took his turn and talked about the flight profile, pointing at the large wall map
"We're going to fly down Thud Ridge to the target," he told them, "but this time we're going down its western side to a different pop-up point, here, just past the Phuc Yen MiG base. Pop up northwest of the bridge and roll in directly down the river. We're trying for saturation. We'll have so many Thuds coming at them, so closely spaced, they won't be able to shoot at all of us. Wind should be ten knots or so from the east, so offset about fifty feet downriver. Get a good sight picture the first time, because you're only going to get one chance at it. No reattacks, because there's too many guns in the area. If your bombs don't come off, jettison them into the river.
"After you've released, keep flying straight ahead. Make a dogleg or two if you want, but I want everyone in, bang . . . bang . . . bang, and then everyone out of there. We'll rejoin southeast of Hanoi near this island in the river and form into our gaggle for the egress out to the water and our tankers."
Lucky and Max took turns answering questions about the weapons, flight profile, and tactics.
"Don't expect the two bombs to hit together," said Max. "They're on the wings, which means they're separated by more than twenty feet to start with. And they won't come off the airplane precisely together, so you'll slew a little and throw the second bomb a few more feet."
"All you need to do is hit with one bomb," interjected Lucky. "One three-thousand-pounder will knock down a span."
Colonel Parker would lead the chopper flight and b
e twenty-five seconds in front of Max. The chopper flight's CBUs should still be going off among the guns at the sides of the river when Max Foley was delivering his bombs. After Max led the first aircraft onto the target, there would be three more flights of Thuds. The last of those would be Lucky's Barracuda flight.
Henry Horn was Lucky's number two. Three was Manny DeVera, and four was Joe Walker. He'd wanted to include Billy Bowes, with his uncanny bombing ability, but when he'd called the squadron, they'd been unable to locate him.
What Lucky Anderson did not tell anyone, either in the mission briefing or the briefing for Barracuda flight, was the reason he wanted to be last. If it went that far and things had not gone well, he planned to do whatever was required to knock down the damned bridge.
1340 Local—Flight Line
Staff Sergeant Larry Hughes
Just two hours earlier they'd received the orders to select eighteen birds, download their standard configurations, and upload with centerline fuel tanks and 3,000-pounders on the wings. Which meant they would change all the weapons, all the pylons, and all the fuel tanks with only a single hour's slip in the schedule. That was an impossible task, so of course they did it.
Larry's bird, 820, with CAPT W. BOWES painted in bold letters on the left canopy rail and SSGT L. HUGHES on the right, was one of two spares. It would be launched only if a primary aircraft went bad or crashed on takeoff.
They'd been told it was an important target, so like the other crew chiefs, Larry worked his butt off to get the airplane ready in the impossible period of time. He got all the wing tanks and pylons and the 750-pound bombs and the MER downloaded, but then he had to wait.
Since 820 was a spare, they brought the centerline tanks and M-118 bombs only after the sixteen primaries had been loaded. When the grumpy captain pilot arrived to preflight it and taxi to the arming area, where the spares would be pre-positioned, they were still uploading wing adapters for the bombs. The pilot wanted to raise hell with someone, but there was little to do but stand off to one side and glare while Larry and the load team worked their asses off.
When the pylons were in place and the bombs were loaded, there was a glitch when one of the bomb-load crews found a problem with a fuze.
The primary aircraft began starting engines. The pilot started to come over and bitch again, which would have just slowed them down more, when Major Lucky arrived, carrying his map case and helmet and lugging his parachute.
"My airplane had a bad gyro, chief. How's your bird?"
"Fine, if you guys'll give me a chance to finish loading it."
Major Lucky ran off the other pilot and returned, looking at his watch and asking Larry how much longer it would take.
Larry did not pause in his labors. "Every time you ask another question, it holds us up that much more."
Major Lucky backed off, grinning apologetically but looking fidgety. Ten more minutes passed before Larry waved to him and gave a thumbs-up.
Major Lucky Anderson hurried over, but when he looked up at the name on the canopy, he frowned as if he'd forgotten something. "Call Captain Bowes," he said, "and ask him to meet me at debriefing when I get back. I've got something important to tell him."
"Will do, sir," said Larry Hughes.
The other airplanes had begun to taxi by then, so Lucky crawled on up the ladder without checking things, accepting Hughes's word that everything on 820 was working.
The engine start and flight control check went smoothly and everything looked good. As the bird taxied out of the stand, Larry saluted as sharply as possible.
Major Lucky returned the salute, nodded crisply, and pushed the throttle forward, taxiing away in such a blast of exhaust that a nearby start cart almost tumbled.
"Asshole!" yelled a crew chief who was a friend of Larry's.
Larry Hughes stiffly walked over and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "You call that particular pilot an asshole again, you and me are going to come to an understanding."
He turned then and watched 820 disappear down the taxiway.
He'd done his part. The major had a good bird.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Friday, August 11th, 1545 Local—Route Pack Five, North Vietnam
Captain Manny DeVera
They were approaching the Red River when his airplane began acting up. By that time Manny had himself so hyped and ready to knock down the damned bridge that he knew he was going to do it. But the air-turbine motor, which was located just beneath the pilot in the Thud and created a terrible racket even when it was running smoothly, started making an even more god-awful howl. The sound became intermittent, whining loud, then dropping off, whining, then dropping again. The utility hydraulics pressure gauge rose and fell with the sounds from the ATM.
If the ATM went out, he'd lose his backup hydraulics, stabilization system, and primary instrument readout. It was a semiserious problem even in peacetime. It would be foolhardy to go into a combat situation with it.
He hesitated before he called the problem. They seldom lost an ATM. There'd been problems with them at first, when the early Thuds were coming off the assembly line, but those were the old B-models and with the newer D-models, problems with the ATMs were rare. Manny worried that someone might think he was faking it. He listened carefully and watched the utility-pressure gauge for a full minute before deciding it was a no-go.
"Barracuda lead, three's got a fluctuating ATM," he finally called. "I think it's about to go out on me."
They talked it over for only a couple of radio transmissions before Major Lucky sent him home. He sent Henry Horn, who was flying as Barracuda two, to escort him, and advised them to dump their bombs at the Termite Hill and land at Udorn.
Henry pulled in closer and the two aircraft made a sweeping turn, to head back and out of danger.
1547 Local—Route Pack Six
Major Lucky Anderson
Lucky watched as Barracudas two and three turned westward and away from the remaining two ships of the flight.
"Close it up, Barracuda four," he called.
"Four," came Joe Walker's acknowledgment, and he slid into place on his right wing.
They were not far behind the flight in front of them, but Lucky nudged the throttle forward and closed the gap even more. If they were jumped by MiGs, six Thuds were better than a two-ship, and by flying closer, they'd be better hidden in the ECM jamming.
They'd crossed the Red and were halfway across to Thud Ridge when a SAM signal rattled its warning on the RHAW. They looked out sharply, but there was no launch. Then they approached Thud Ridge and turned right to fly down its western side.
"THIS IS MOTEL. BLACK BART AT BULLSEYE, TWO SIX ZERO FOR THREE ZERO. I REPEAT. THIS IS MOTEL. BLACK BART AT BULLSEYE, TWO SIX ZERO FOR THIRTY."
MiGs thirty miles west of Hanoi, a long way from their flight. Still, they looked out sharply.
The Weasels were in the target area being harried by three different SAM sites. Twice they called SAM launches, then again. In the confusion of things they also called that target visibility was good.
The SAMs were very active, noted Lucky.
A few seconds later Colonel Parker radioed that he was in the pop-up for his bomb delivery, and Max called that he was hot on his heels.
Lucky felt adrenaline charging his system.
Two Firecan AAA radars and a Fansong SAM radar tracked them from the east, but he figured they were no problem. The threat was before them, and he made damned sure he was jinking unpredictably to foil the guns.
"Barracuda four has three bogeys at three o'clock level," called Walker.
Lucky swiveled and searched, then saw the MiGs. They were several miles distant and traveling north.
"Barracuda lead has them in sight. Three MiG-17's five miles west of Phuc Yen, Pistols."
The Phantoms didn't answer, so he assumed they were on another radio channel.
Since the MiGs didn't pose an immediate threat, he pushed them into a secondary tier of consciousness. Mayb
e later, after he'd dropped his bombs, they'd become more interesting.
Max Foley came off the target, and one of his flight said they were shooting like hell. Then B. J. Parker called that one of his flight had been hit by flak but was still flying.
The second flight was delivering bombs now, and the flight immediately before Barracuda was nosing up into their pop-up.
When Phuc Yen Air Base was at their immediate right, Lucky plugged in afterburner and began a series of wide S-turns as he climbed, to gain a few seconds of separation.
A covey of three surface-to-air missiles sped through the second dive-bombing flight, flashed, and created their tremendous orange airbursts. The flak was heavy, so thick, it looked impossible to fly through. Smoke from the tremendous number of guns along the river and throughout the sprawling city had created a low layer of haze. Above it was the white blanket of 37mm, and above that the big guns' bursts tracked individual targets. The visual obstacles and the distance made it impossible to tell if a span of the bridge had been knocked down by the first two flights.
Someone called from the third flight and said the target was standing.
Lucky snaked on upward to 12,000 feet.
"Barracuda four, start your roll-in," he ordered. "And don't wait around for me."
Joe Walker immediately called, "Four's in," and smoothly nosed over into his dive attack.
Lucky banked, watching and circling ever southward.
Walker released high, as Lucky had directed so they could stay out of some of the flak, and his bombs dropped toward the target. They bracketed it, one short and the other long. The concussive waves rippled outward as if huge stones had been dropped into the river.
Lucky's RHAW rattled and squealed, indicating a SAM launch. He looked harder at the CRT, then back into the distance. Two different SAM sites had fired missiles at him.
As he approached his desired roll-in point, he turned up onto his left wing, then rolled inverted and pulled the nose down toward the target. He was in a steep dive, more than fifty degrees nose down, aimed directly at the bridge.
He dived upside down for a few more seconds, watching as one covey of SAMs approached, going fast but too high, and missing because the operator hadn't anticipated his maneuver. He saw the second group of three missiles. This time the SAM operator had compensated, and they were turning toward an intercept point with his Thud. He watched and waited, and when they were very close, he jinked hard into them, groaning as he pulled the g's, then reversed back toward the target.
