Top Gun

by T. E. Cruise

  Until now. Here they were, not computer-generated enemy planes but the real thing, looking sleek and sexy and ripe as peaches ready to be plucked from the branch. They were his peaches, and he was going to enjoy every juicy bite out of them that he could possibly take.

  No way, Greene thought. No way am I going to pass up this chance, even if I am stuck in a Mud Mover.

  The irony of it was just too delicious: the Q-5s were fighter bombers. Thanks to their dual 30MM cannons and AA-2 Atoll heat-seekers, their dual supersonic turbojets and their rugged, simple mechanical design, these Chinese aircraft were for midable dogfighters. But these particular Q-5s were presently flying a ground-support mission; they couldn’t go into an ACM mode unless they jettisoned their ordnance. Greene, meanwhile, was flying a Mud Mover, but he had no ordnance, and at these low speeds and low altitudes his bird had something approaching fighter-plane capability.

  “Wolf three, this is a direct order,” Rodriguez thundered. “Do not bounce those Chinese whatzits!”

  If a trick worked once, it might work again, Greene thought. He began clicking his mike on and off as he had with Colonel Dougan that fateful day he and Buzz Blaisdale had staged their mock dogfight over Dayton. “Something’s wrong with my radio…. You’re breaking up, Wolf lead….”

  “Goddammit, Wolf three! Don’t do it! You stupid jerk!” Rodriguez alternately cursed and pleaded. “You’re too stupid to realize it, but what you’re attempting is impossible.”

  Difficult but not impossible, Greene thought to himself. I’ve got an idea….

  Actually, it was a modification of Sweeny’s idea. It was the image of Sweeny taking out that fast-moving truck with a rocket salvo that had prodded Greene to formulate the tactic he was about to use against the trio of Q-5s.

  Greene was grateful for his superior altitude as he put his A-7 into a dive to coax every ounce of speed out of her. About a mile ahead and below him, the Q-5s were flying three abreast, like great green-and-brown-mottled sea birds, skimming the waves.

  Greene was now a half-mile away from the Q-5s, dropping down on them like a hawk toward a bevy of quail. The middle fighter bomber was entering into the red pipper gunsight that floated in the center of the A-7’s ghostly green HUD display. Another few seconds and the show could begin.

  “Wolf three, Wolf lead.” Rodriguez said. “Phantoms are here! Back off and let them handle it.”

  Not on your life, pal. Greene thought savagely. And not on mine.

  “Wolf three, this is Papa lead,” Lieutenant Saunders radioed from his fast-approaching Phantom. “We’re here! Now, get out of our missile-launch envelope so that we can use our air-to-airs.”

  Greene chuckled as he glanced up at the high-flying Phantoms, glinting specks wheeling like vultures in the sky. No way could the Double Uglies use their missiles as long as he was this close to the Q-5s. AAs did not distinguish between friend and foe. As long as Greene stayed tucked on the Q-5s’ sixes, the Phantoms could only watch and wait.

  The center Q-5 was now framed in Greene’s cherry-red gunsight, but then Greene saw twin bursts of flame coming from the trio of Q-5s’ dual engines. They were going to full throttle to try and get away.

  Greene smiled as he watched great splashes rise up from out of the sea as the Q-5s jettisoned their ordnance. The Chinese pilots, like Greene’s fellow Navy fliers, had finally come to the realization that Greene was going to go through with his audacious plan. Also, the Q-5s had likely spotted the Phantoms and realized that their surprise attack mission was scratched. There was no longer any point to the Chinese planes’ hugging sea level.

  Greene’s HUD display told him that the range was a little over a thousand yards; Greene was not as close as he would have liked for what he had planned, but it would have to do. The Q-5s were supersonic aircraft capable of almost twice the speed of the A-7. If Greene allowed them to spool up their dual engines, he could kiss them good-bye.

  The Q-5s began a three-way defensive split. Their problem was that they were still flying so low that their split was pretty much two-dimensional. They could only spread apart gradually as they climbed for altitude.

  Greene kept the center Q-5 framed in his gunsight and mashed the trigger on his cannon. The M61 Vulcan gun mounted on the port side of the A-7’s fuselage began snarling like a chain saw, its six revolving barrels spitting 20MM slugs at the rate of one hundred a second. The gun volley raised sparks off the center Q-5’s mottled hide and raised plumes of water on either side of the airplane. Greene, laughing, kicked rudder: The A-7’s nose yawed to left and to right, and the swinging cannon hosed down the Q-5s on either side of the center Commie bird, setting the ocean to boiling. At the same time, Greene triggered off a ripple salvo of all twelve of his 100MM rockets. His A-7 seemed to shudder in orgasm as the projectiles tore loose from their pods, and then the rockets’ own engines lit, spitting fire and slashing smoking contrails as they streaked downward. Due to Greene’s yawning maneuver, the rockets’ trajectories spread wide to form individual, smokey talons, a claw meant to scratch the Q-5s into the sea.

  The hundreds of rounds of ammo Greene had unleashed upon the enemy planes tore into the Q-5s’ wings and canopies, sending shards of metal and sparkling Plexiglass flying. Then the rockets struck. The port-side Q-5 was enveloped in flame and hammered straight into the ocean by a direct hit from a rocket. The center Q-5 was in the process of climbing when either cannon fire or a rocket sheared off its tail. The fighter bomber, trailing oily black smoke, seemed to hover motionless in the air for an instant before dropping ass first into the sea.

  Fortunately for the gomer in the starboard Q-5, his banking airplane suffered only a few cannon hits and none of Greene’s rockets had touched it. Unfortunately for the gomer in that bird, he banked his Q-5 too sharply in his attempt to get away. The Chinese fighter bomber’s wing dipped into the water. It tore himself into fiery wreckage, cartwheeling across waves.

  “I don’t fucking believe what I just saw,” Rodriguez murmured.

  “Roger that,” said Papa lead from his high-flying Phantom. “But then, I never saw anything like that before….”

  Greene thought fast, and then drawled, “Why, do you squids mean to tell me you don’t know the old Fan Dance?”

  (Three)

  Captain’s Stateroom

  USS Sea Bear

  “The Fan Dance? Is that what it’s called, son?” Captain Chase muttered dubiously, scratching his chin.

  “Yes, sir,” Greene said. “It’s called the Fan Dance, because when you yaw an airplane, the nose arcs from side to side, waving like a fan.”

  It was late Thursday night, several hours after all of the Sea Bear’s planes had returned home safely. The pilots and air crews had all been through their debriefings, and news had spread like wildfire throughout the carrier, to CINCPAC, and to the Oval Office itself concerning Greene’s triple kill.

  Now Greene, who was the hero of the hour, was lounging in an armchair upholstered in black leather with brass studs, just like the one in which the skipper was seated. Greene was sipping a scotch on the rocks in a cut-crystal tumbler. Greene was thinking it was very good scotch, and he was feeling glad that there was a cabin boy in a white serving jacket standing attentively nearby, ready to pour Greene some more of it should he so desire.

  The skipper’s stateroom was extraordinary by ship’s standards. For one thing, it was actually roomy and luxuriously furnished: there wasn’t a piece of gray metal office furniture in sight. There was deep blue, wall-to-wall carpeting, plenty of comfy leather furniture, teak paneling, and lots of brass detailing and green glass lampshades. Wonder of wonders, the stateroom also had windows—well, they were portholes, actually—but they let in sunshine and fresh air untainted by the pungent odors of jet fuel and diesel oil.

  Greene watched Captain Chase, amused by the skipper’s obvious befuddlement at his “Fan Dance” bullshit. Captain Chase was a short, stocky, swarthy man in his fifties, who was never without an equally sho
rt, fat, usually unlit stogie clenched between his teeth. Thanks to his jowls, his bulbous nose, and that ever-present cigar, he looked a bit like Edward G. Robinson. Sounded like him, too.

  “Fan Dance… eh?” the skipper repeated to himself.

  “Yep. Air Force jet jockies cut their teeth on the maneuver,” Greene said, managing to maintain a straight face.

  “Commander?” The skipper turned to regard Gil Brody, who was sitting on the sofa nursing a bourbon. “You ever hear of any such thing?”

  “I’m sure Commander Brody has heard of it?” Greene remarked expectantly.

  “I believe I have. Skipper….” Brody trailed off.

  Captain Chase looked down at some papers on his lap. Brody shot Greene a dirty look. Greene winked back.

  Captain Chase looked up, shrugging. “Well, whatever this Fan Dance business is, it sure as hell worked. I wish we could add those kills to the Sea Bear’s official talley stretching back to the Second World War, but, of course, under the circumstances, that won’t be possible.”

  “Yes, Skipper, I understand,” Greene said.

  It seemed that according to all advance intelligence reports those Chinese planes simply should not have been there, and in true military intelligence tradition, the error was being dealt with by pretending that it did not exist, or rather, that the Q-5s had never existed.

  “I suppose it does make sense for the United States to turn a blind eye to what happened concerning those Chinese birds,” Greene mused. “Especially in the wake of ex-President Nixon’s visit to China…”

  Captain Chase chewed philosophically on his stogie. “According to my understanding of the situation, the United States’ diplomatic strategy is to respond with equal silence to the fact that the Chinese have made no mention of the loss of their airplanes. The State Department thinks that there was dissent in the highest levels of the Chinese government concerning the question of lending military support to the Cambodians during this crisis. The Chinese hard-liners evidently initially prevailed, but State thinks that due in part to those Chinese Air Force planes being lost, the more dovish faction in the Chinese government has now gained the upper hand.” The skipper shrugged. “I guess the bottom line is that if the Chinese have chosen not to humiliate themselves by mentioning the clash, neither will the United States.” He looked apologetically at Greene. “I’m afraid that means no mention of your victory over those three planes will ever be revealed to the public. As far as the world will ever know, there was no air clash concerning the rescue of the Mayaguez.”

  “The world won’t know about it, but I’ll never forget it.” Greene smiled. “Anyway, when I attacked them in the first place, I did kind of disobey orders.”

  “Kind of.” Brody nodded, looking sour.

  Greene hastened to change the subject. “The Chinese have long memories. Maybe this lesson we taught them will make them think twice about any future attempts on their part to confront the United States.”

  Gil Brody interjected, “And maybe in the future they’ll return the favor we did them today of letting them save face in the international arena.”

  “The important thing is that the assault operation to rescue the Mayaguez and its crew was a success,” Greene added sincerely.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Gil Brody said.

  “And to the marines who gave their lives for their country’s honor,” the skipper solemnly added.

  The three men raised their glasses.

  “Well!” Captain Chase briskly began as he set down his scotch, sticking his stogie back into his mouth. “It’d be nice if you could teach the Sea Bear’s pilots your Fan Dance maneuver.”

  “No problem, sir,” Greene started to say.

  The skipper overrode him. “But you won’t be with us long enough for that.”

  “I won’t?” Greene asked, blinking.

  Captain Chase glanced at Brody. “Didn’t you fill him in, Commander?”

  Brody smirked at Greene. “Well, Air Force, I guess there’s something you don’t know.” Brody explained to Chase: “I thought I’d let you give him his good news, Skipper.”

  “What good news?” Greene asked, mystified.

  “You’re going to Miramar,” Captain Chase replied. “Top Gun School.”

  “I am?” Greene nodded slowly. “You mean as a student?”

  Captain Chase laughed. “No, as a guest instructor! The Air Force has proudly agreed to the Navy’s request that you teach the Fan Dance maneuver to our Top Gun fighter pilots. While you’re there, you’ll study the Navy style of ACM with our best jet-fighter jockies.”

  Greene looked at Brody. The air boss’s bushy eyebrows arched mischievously. “You can’t fight karma, Air Force.”

  “The Sea Bear is now headed for Australia,” Captain Chase said. “We’ll airlift you to the mainland when we get a bit closer; say, three days. From Australia, the Air Force will get you to the West Coast.”

  “Captain Greene,” Brody began. “What do you think of the wisdom of the military and of Project Indian Giver now?”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Greene murmured. “It’s a dream come true.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” The skipper chuckled. “It’s what you’ve done that counts, Captain Greene.” He paused, grinning. “Or perhaps I should say Major Greene.”

  “I’m being promoted?” Greene asked, astounded.

  “Oh, Christ!” Brody pretended to complain, rolling his eyes. “Now I know the Air Force is going to hell in a hand-basket!”

  The skipper said: “The Navy and the Air Force can’t very well decorate you for shooting down airplanes that don’t officially exist, so the Air Force decided to promote you instead.”

  “Congratulations, Air Force,” Brody said, grinning.

  “Thanks, Boss,” Greene said shyly. “And thank you, Skipper.”

  Captain Chase waved his gratitude aside. “Like I said, son, you earned it. I’m sorry I can’t give you a set of USAF major’s oak leaves to pin to your collar, but I don’t have any. After all, this is the United States Navy.”

  Greene waited until he and Brody had been dismissed by Captain Chase and were in the corridor outside the skipper’s stateroom to say, “You know. Boss. I’m, going to miss flying a Mud Mover.”

  “Oh, sure.” Brody laughed sarcastically.

  “No, really,” Greene said. “Hell, I’ve got to admit that I’m looking forward to getting back into the driver’s seat of a fighter, but I’ve learned something on board the Sea Bear: It really isn’t the crate that makes the difference, but the guy in the cockpit, or rather, that guy’s attitude.” He paused, blushing. “I guess I learned that from you.”

  Brody looked thoughtful. “Hirato Soko, the great six-teenth-century Japanese samurai and zen poet, wrote, ‘Life is not about learning, but remembering what was always inside us, long ago forgotten.’ “ He patted Greene on the shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Air Force.”

  BOOK II: 1975-1979

  WIDESPREAD EUROPEAN ACCEPTANCE OF GAT FIGHTER

  Belgium Joins With Its Neighbors in Purchasing Stiletto

  Aviation Weekly

  VIKING ONE LANDS ON MARS

  Probe Spacecraft Sends Back Photos From Surface of Red Planet

  Philadelphia Post

  DEMOCRATS CHOOSE CARTER AND MONDALE

  Pres Candidate Stresses the Upcoming Election Will Hinge on Honesty

  Norfolk Evening Bulletin

  GAT POSTS RECORD EARNINGS

  Stock Soars as GAT/Aerospace Lands Space Shuttle Orbiter Contract

  California business Weekly

  CANARY ISLANDS AIRCRAFT DISASTER KILLS 574

  Worst Disaster in Aviation History as Two Jumbo Jets Collide

  New York Gazette

  PRESIDENT TO TELEVISE SPECIAL ADDRESS TO THE NATION

  Carter To Call Energy Crisis “Moral Equivalent of War”

  Los Angeles Tribune

  GAT/SKYTRAIN ANNOUNCE WORLD BIRD PROJECT


  Internationally Built Stiletto Hybrid to Replace Current Crop of Fighters

  Washington Star Reporter

  NICARAGUA REBELS SEIZE PALACE

  Somoza Struggles to Hold on Against Marxist Revolutionaries

  Boston Herald

  GAT JETLINER CRASHES INTO CROWDS AT PARIS AIR SHOW

  GC-600s’ Airliner’s Structural Innovations Faulted

  International Investigation into Possible Criminal Activity Promised

  Photo Weekly Magazine

  GAT STOCK PLUMMETS

  Investigators: What Did GAT Execs Know & When Did They Know It?

  California Business Weekly

  CHAPTER 13

  (One)

  Gold Aviation and Transport

  Burbank, California

  18 October, 1977

  Don Harrison swiveled around in his leather desk chair and stared out his office windows, pondering his own reflection trapped in the smoked glass. Harrison was wearing a gray silk suit of elegant European design, and his intricately patterned silk tie was a “Count somebody or other” original. He looked like a man in control. A tycoon. The image was bolstered by the accoutrements of power surrounding him. Reflected in the dark glass was Harrison’s marble-topped oak desk. The office’s moss-green wall-to-wall carpeting, paneled walls, and burgundy leather furniture groupings seemed to stretch into eternity behind him.

  Harrison smiled wryly. Sure the overall image was that of a captain of industry, but if you looked a little more closely at the guy seated behind the desk, you noticed that his wispy, unruly hair was a little long around his ears, and that his gold-rimmed eyeglasses gave him the look of an aging but still boyish academic don. The smoked glass helped the youthful illusion along by smoothing out the creases that had formed around Harrison’s eyes and mouth and shading out the silver in his hair.

  Harrison rolled his desk chair closer to the windows to look into his own eyes. He purposely narrowed his gaze, trying for a look of grim determination.

  It was no good. He could scowl and glower all he wanted, but his own inner nature underlined by the vague, abstract expression behind his soft hazel eyes betrayed him.