by Doug Beason
Major Stephanie Hendhold emerged from Simone’s office.
“Colonel Bolte, General Simone is ready to see you.”
“Thanks, Steph.”
Colonel William F. Bolte pushed past Major Hendhold as he strode into the inner sanctum. He’d never really been chewed out by Simone before. Entering the general’s office normally didn’t bother him—he was here at least twice a week for stand-up, or status briefings. But then again, he’d never had one of his pilots pull an inverted roll on a final approach.
Thank God the general had had the weekend to mull it over. He knew that if Simone had really been upset, he’d have dragged him here Friday night after receiving the note. Still, Bolte steeled himself for the worst. He was here a good half hour before the weekly Monday morning briefings.
Bolte rapped lightly on the door. “General?”
“Come on in, Lightning.”
Bolte kept his face expressionless. When Simone used call signs to address people, it usually meant he was in a good mood. Bolte didn’t salute when he approached. He demanded it of his own people when they entered his office, but Simone had growled at him more than once for being so formal.
“What’s up, General?”
“Sit down, Lightning.” The general waved him to a chair. Simone picked up a sheet of paper. The office was decorated with plaques, pictures of fighter aircraft, and a picture of the Air Force Academy chapel; the chapel picture was covered with signatures. Wood paneling and thick, royal-blue carpet gave the room a cozy feel.
Simone rocked back in his chair. “How’s Michele?”
“Fine, sir. She took Nanette down to Thousand Islands with the Officers’ Wives’ Club over the weekend. Bought more stuff than she had money for.”
“How much longer will Nanette be here?”
“Stanford starts up next month—we’ll get her off in three weeks.”
This was one of the last summers that Bolte would have the family back together—when Nanette graduated next summer, there was no telling where she would wind up.
Simone rocked forward. “Great. Glad to hear everything is going well. So you had to batch it over the weekend?”
“I survived, sir. Only one incident downtown, and that wasn’t even a late one.”
Simone pushed a sheet of paper across the desk to Bolte. “How’s your new flight working out?”
Bolte glanced down at the paper—a copy of the memo he had sent Simone on Friday.
“As I noted, the last F-15Es were delivered; we’re back up to full strength,” Bolte said. Ever since the fighters had been pulled out of Clark because of the treaty modifications, a “temporary” crew would fly in-country for only a six-month stay.
“That’s not what I asked. Are they in McConnell’s squadron?”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Colonel McConnell has his hands full; he’s the last squadron to get up to full strength, so it will take a while to shake the bugs out. But Maddog Flight is coming along fine. In fact,” he glanced at his watch, “they should be over Crow Valley just about now for their familiarization flight.”
Simone drummed his fingers on the desk. “This Steele character. Is he as good as his record shows?”
“We’ll find out real soon, sir. They start Jungle Survival School on Wednesday. As soon as they’re finished, we’ll put them through the wringer—run them up against the Aggressors.” He made a mental note to give a heads-up to the Aggressor Squadron. Assigned to the 3rd Fighter Wing to keep the Wing on their toes, the pilots comprising the 26th Aggressor Squadron flew F-16s and acted as the “enemy” against the F-15E Strike Eagles.
“Keep a rein on these boys, Lightning. I don’t want them killing themselves. But don’t get too tight—I don’t want to stifle them, either.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else, General?”
“That’s it. You’ve got fifteen minutes before the stand-up briefing.”
Crow Valley
Maddog Flight leveled off at ten thousand feet as they flew out west, over the ocean. Bruce followed two thousand feet behind Catman and Robin, who were flying in the third ship. Flying lead, Skipper brought the formation around in a loose bank, heading back east. Revlon and Digger—Captain Heather Rheinquist and First Lieutenant Lucius Brown—had the number-two spot.
Socially, Skipper, Panther, Revlon, and Digger were as close as Catman, Robin, Bruce, and Charlie. Although the eight made up a tight flight, they tended to run together in the two different groups. Which was a good thing, because although the four married officers could join the bachelors and have a good time, unlike the single guys they always had to return to reality. Their families were due to arrive at Clark after Jungle Survival School, and then the social chasm would only deepen.
Bruce kept a loose hand on the stick. Skipper came over the radio.
“Tuck it in to echelon right. We’ll fly over Crow Valley for a look-see and a spacer pass. Two miles to feet dry.”
Bruce brought the throttles up minutely, accelerating the fighter. At first, it didn’t seem that he was getting any closer to Maddog Two and Three because they were accelerating as well. When Catman’s craft was closer, Bruce eased off on his throttles. They were well over land now. Bruce thought that he could spot Clark in the distance.
Skipper broke in. “Maddog, button five.”
Bruce punched to the preassigned frequency for the bombing range.
“Crow Valley, Maddog. Ten miles for a spacer pass, then dry work on target two.”
Charlie clicked the mike. “Down and to the right, Assassin. That’s the path we’ll be coming in on during our low-level sorties. What used to be rice paddies all slope down into the valley. We’re coming up on the gunnery range now.”
Bruce clicked his mike twice.
“Maddog, bring it down to five hundred.”
They flew across the valley, taking in placements and locations of various targets. Old beat-up tanks, shot-up trucks, and burned cars littered the area. Over a thousand tons of bullets, bombs, and external tanks had been dropped in the valley. In contrast to the lush greenery of the rest of the Island, the place looked like a hellhole.
Bruce knew it was his imagination kicking in, filling in devastation where there was relatively little growth, and yet the place did seem unusually sparse. Tiny patches of bare earth dotted the landscape. He was low enough to see trees fallen over on the ground, chewed up and disheveled by millions of rounds of bullets.
Once past the valley, Skipper clicked back over the radio. “Bring it back up to five thousand. We’ll go in for a strafing run—keep above two-fifty feet when you bottom out.”
Charlie clicked back over the radio as Bruce pulled back on the stick. “I thought this was only going to be a look-see.”
Bruce switched over to intercom. “Skipper’s getting nervous. He knows we aren’t going to get any flying in the next two weeks, and wants us to practice.”
They reached five thousand feet and circled Crow Valley in a broad, loitering pattern. There was a hint of clouds forming over the mountains, and off to the west Bruce could barely make out a line of wispy features, delineating a weather front. Skipper confirmed that they were still cleared for the airspace.
Skipper’s voice came over the radio. “One’s in dry.”
The range officer came back, “Clear dry, One.”
Bruce craned his neck to the left and made out Skipper’s bomb run. The F-15 tore down toward the ground, breaking from the loose formation. Dropping from nearly a mile above the ground, Skipper’s jet grew smaller and smaller, making it difficult to pick out in the surrounding jungle. Even the F-15’s paint scheme didn’t give that much contrast against the mottled greenery.
Seconds later Skipper’s voice came again. “One’s off, to the right.”
“Two’s in, dry.”
“Clear dry, Two.”
Revlon’s fighter broke from formation and followed suit. Bruce continued to follow Catman in a sweeping turn.
“Maddog, rejoin straight
ahead, altitude five thousand.”
“Two’s off, to the right.”
“Three’s in, dry,” said Catman.
“Clear dry, Three.”
“You got that, Assassin?” Charlie was looking after them again.
“Roger that. Just point me in the right direction after we pull out, Foggy.” He grew excited with anticipation. Even though the strafing run was “dry”—without ammunition—screaming down nearly a mile toward the ground kicked Bruce’s metabolism into high gear. It was like preparing for a game, right before he ran out of the locker room and onto the field. The crowd cheering, slapping a teammate’s shoulder pads, butting heads against another defensive back—the excitement fed on itself.
This is why he had joined the Air Force … to fly and get that rollercoaster-like thrill that came with an adrenaline rush: It was as if he were part of the aircraft, strapped onto a thirty-one-thousand-pound bronco that outperformed any other air-to-ground platform in the world.
“Three’s off, to the right.”
Bruce clicked his mike. “Four’s in, dry.”
The range officer came on in a clipped tone, “Clear dry, Four.”
Bruce slammed the stick forward, as far as it would go to the right. The F-15E rolled instantly to the right and pitched its nose down. The horizon circled crazily around the cockpit. They accelerated down, still spinning. Bruce pulled the stick back to the middle after three rolls and concentrated on a blasted tank that sat in a clearing. His vision seemed to tunnel in onto the vehicle, wiping out any other sight as they descended.
“Passing three thousand.” Charlie’s voice came coolly over the intercom.
Numbers rolled past his vision, projected on the heads-up display. Flipping the protective cover off the button for the machine gun, Bruce’s thumb lightly tapped the red button. A crosshair appeared on the heads-up display, indicating that the machine gun, although devoid of bullets, was armed.
The triangle jumped around the screen, following the projected path of the bullets.
“Two thousand.”
They were traveling at a fifteen-degree angle. The seconds seemed to stretch into minutes. His mind raced ahead, thinking at unbelievable speeds. He flicked his eyes down to his instruments, rapidly checking for red lights. Back up to the heads-up display.…
“One thousand.”
His finger caressed the trigger. To lay down hot killing metal.
Bruce pulled the trigger. A red blinking light on the heads-up display showed that he was out of bullets, but he kept the crosshair fixed on the tank.
“Five hundred, approaching altitude. Pull up!”
Bruce pulled back on the stick. The fighter responded instantly, pulling its nose up. He immediately felt the g-forces grow.
“Two-fifty feet. Bottom out.”
“Four’s off, to the right,” said Bruce. As they clawed back up, the g-forces mounted. The g-indicator quickly rose past five, then slowed as it hit six.
Six times the force of gravity squashed him deep into his seat. It felt as if he were being covered by a load of cement. His vision grew hazy, like he was looking down a long tunnel. He grunted loudly as the g-suit constricted, preventing blood from pooling in the lower parts of his body.
Bruce forced his head to the side and looked out the cockpit window. The tank was far below; he imagined it smoking from the hit and decided not to climb up to altitude yet.
He pushed forward on the stick, bringing the fighter’s nose down and cutting back on the g-forces. At two thousand feet he leveled off. He clicked the mike, keeping it on intercom. He couldn’t find the flight.
“Four’s off wind.”
“Heading two-seven. I’ve got them on screen,” said Charlie, referring to his color radar. “At this rate, we’ll have an hour to kill before that appointment at the housing office.”
Lead came over the radio. “We’re at your right, three o’clock, Four, five miles.” He sounded pissed that Assassin had lost Maddog Flight.
“Four.”
The rest of the flight was still too far off for him to see. Below them, the valley fanned out to a patchwork of level rice paddies, broken up by dense clumps of jungle. He really needed another strafing run—the adrenaline still pounded through his veins, making him feel as if he had to burn off energy. He went to intercom only.
“Foggy, any traffic around?”
Charlie sounded skeptical. “You’re clear, Assassin. What you up to?”
“Let’s get in a little sightseeing, then hit the blower to catch up.” Bruce nosed the F-15 back down. They descended, moving down in altitude until they approached two hundred feet. The ground below them whizzed past as Bruce kept the throttles steady at five hundred knots.
He nosed the craft down until they were just at one hundred fifty feet. The tree tops looked like solid ground at this speed. Bruce hit the speed brakes and pulled back on the throttles, slowing the craft. They broke over the clearing; the next patch was at least three miles away. Bruce forced the fighter even lower, until they were a mere twenty-five feet above the ground.
“Yeowww!” An old song roared through his mind: “I Go to Extremes.”
“Fantail, Assassin. You’ve got a nice one.”
Bruce looked over his shoulder. Dirt swirled in two “fantails” as the F-15’s exhaust hit the ground. He turned back to the front. Flying so close to the ground was as exhilarating as diving toward it. They had about another mile until the jungle—time to pull up.
That’s when he spotted the people on the ground.
Two hundred yards in front of him three people, all wearing coolie hats, looked up at the oncoming jet. They must have been working in the field; one of them carrying a bucket pointed at the fighter.
“Oh crap!” Bruce slammed the stick back; as the nose lifted, the aircraft was moving slowly enough that it felt like they were going to stall. An alarm shrieked throughout the craft, warning of an excessively high angle of attack.
“Stall, stall!” screamed Charlie.
Bruce shoved the throttles forward, hitting his afterburners. The fighter seemed to vault forward as they accelerated straight up. He swiveled his head around. Through the dust, he saw hats and buckets flying everywhere; there was no sign of the people. He must have pulled the fighter up right over the poor farmers.
He punched off the afterburners and arched the craft over in a loop, flying back over the field but at a thousand feet higher than before.
Charlie came over the intercom quietly. “What the hell was that, Assassin? You trying to kill us?”
Bruce banked the F-15 toward the rendezvous point. He could barely make out three people down below, shaking their fists at the fighter.
“Just seeing what this baby can do,” answered Bruce, trying to sound flippant. Inside he felt like crap.
And that was before the debrief, where, just like years ago at the Academy with Cadet First Class Ping, he knew he was going to eat shit.
Clark AB
Located on the north side of the base, the Officers’ Club sat between the senior and junior officers’ housing. Dyess Highway looped around the north side, past the Officers’ Club and down to the flight line. More than once, flight crews dining at the “O’Club” had to sprint up from their tables when an alert broke out.
Young and old alike used the club extensively. The younger, and mostly unmarried, pilots frequented the Rathskeller; the married officers tended to congregate in the formal bar and dining rooms.
The pool was a middle ground for both, and as such was a “demilitarized zone” between stuffy formality and wild parties.
Captain Charlie Fargassa relaxed in the sun. A thick book lay open on his chest. His eyes were closed, and the water from a plunge into the pool some minutes before had evaporated from his body. As he drifted in and out of sleep, for the first time since arriving in the P.I. he felt that he was in paradise.
The early afternoon sun purged this morning’s flight from his mind. He normally had the
utmost confidence in Bruce’s flying ability. The guy was good; his problem was that he knew it.
Charlie dismissed the observation—there he was, letting his interest in psychology take over and analyze his friends for him. Bruce was good. It was just that sudden pull-up, and Charlie screaming about the stall, that had hit Charlie hard.
That moment he had realized that Bruce was human, not invincible, and prone to the same mistakes and errors that everyone made. But when Bruce made a mistake, it wasn’t just him that was affected—Charlie’s butt was on the line, too. Through the pleasant folds of heat and drowsiness, he heard a familiar voice.
“Fooogggggyyyy!”
Charlie barely lifted his head and opened his eyes. Bruce, Catman, and Robin stood just outside of the pool area at the opposite side of the complex. They raised their beer bottles in a toast to him. Still decked out in flight suits—the ubiquitous “green bags” that distinguished the rated, or flying officers, from the rest of the Air Force—the three seemed to be having trouble standing up.
Charlie threw them a halfhearted wave.
“Fooogggggyyyy!”
Bruce and Robin were holding Catman as they would a log. They pantomimed tossing him into the pool. Catman started squealing like a hog.
On the other side of the fenced-in pool area, not twenty feet from the three officers, two women, who certainly weighed six hundred pounds between them, bathed. The officer’s squeals were meant for the two overweight women. Some people turned to stare at the men. Uproarious laughing drifted across the pool area as they left, staggering back down the steps to the Rathskeller.
Charlie sighed. Oh well. He’d have to commandeer another taxi for them tonight.
A shadow passed over him, then went away; probably a cloud. It was time to jump back into the pool. Opening his eyes, he sat up.
A woman laid her towel on the chair right next to him. Charlie drew in a breath. She had an ageless look, impeccable; he couldn’t tell if she was eighteen or forty.
A slight tan accented a white two-piece swimsuit; long blond hair was set off by dark eyebrows. She was slender but not skinny.
He realized that he had been holding his breath when his chest started hurting.
