by T. E. Cruise
“What’s happened now?” Gold asked as Don hung up.
“Susan had been watching the midday television news. They announced that Tim Campbell’s dead. It seems his car went off a cliff.”
Viking funeral, Gold thought. Good for you, Uncle Tim, you old bastard. “I guess it won’t be necessary for you to make those calls. That investigation I threatened him with won’t have to proceed after all.”
Don nodded. “That’s if I could have pulled the strings to get it going in the first place. That was quite a bluff you pulled. I’m surprised you didn’t talk it over with me before you took it upon yourself to go see Campbell.”
“I wanted to spare you, partner,” Gold said lightly. “It wasn’t your fight. It’s me who Campbell’s stooge Turner Layten hates, and it was my father who Campbell thought had wronged him.”
“Excuse me,” Don said, sounding peeved. “But this was GAT’s fight, not your own.”
“I stand corrected,” Gold said dryly. “I promise that next time I get my hands bloody I’ll make sure you’re right there beside me so you can get equally splattered. Satisfied?”
“Your hands are bloody, you know,” Don said softly. “I think we need to talk about this a little. Is that okay?”
Gold took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. We can talk about this a little bit.”
“You weren’t the least bit surprised to hear that Campbell had killed himself?” Don began.
“I knew that Campbell would never stand for the indignity of a government investigation.” Gold nodded. “I knew that just the possibility of the SEC poking around in his doings would scare the shit out of him. I’m not saying that I knew for a fact that Campbell would kill himself. He had other alternatives once he’d bought my bluff. He might have taken as much of his dough as he could and gone to ground in some foreign country where U.S. law couldn’t touch him….” Gold trailed off. “But then, keeping a low profile was never Tim Campbell’s style.”
“So you drove him to suicide.”
“I prefer to think of it as having protected GAT by removing the only enemy we had who could possibly have brought us down.”
Don hesitated. “Do you think your father would have approved your actions?”
Gold sighed. “Tim asked me the same thing last night when I managed to convince him that I’d set the SEC hounds on his heels.” He shook his head. “No. Pop wouldn’t have approved of any of this. But Pop was a fighter pilot. He understood that war is about survival. I think that he would have wanted GAT to survive, whatever the cost.” He smiled wryly. “And in a funny way, I think Tim would have approved of my actions against him. He lived by the law of the jungle.”
“Last question,” Don said. “Does Linda know about any of this?”
“No,” Gold said quickly. “And I’d rather she never knew. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, you understand? I mean, I did it for us. All of us. The family, but—”
Don cut him off, saying, “I know why you did it. It’s one of the reasons that I have come to love you like a brother.”
Gold smiled, pleased to see that Don’s mood had lightened. He would do his own mourning—for Tim Campbell, for himself—in private. “A guy can always use a brother.”
CHAPTER 18
(One)
Ryder AFB, Nevada
30 June, 1978
Lieutenant Andy Harrison had trouble sleeping the night before the last day of Red Sky. During the previous four days of the war-game exercise, Andy had accumulated seven air-combat kills, making him a leading contender for winning the Warlord trophy. Trouble was, there were a number of fighter jocks with comparable tallies, so the ultimate winner would be decided during today’s ACM. Whoever was going to come away with the Warlord trophy was both figuratively and literally still up in the air.
At 0400 hours, Andy gave up on sleep. He rolled out of bed and quietly made his way to the trailer’s bathroom to get first dibs on the shower. His unease about this last day of Red Sky activity was compounded by the fact that throughout the war games he had yet to run into his half brother.
For the past four days Andy had been searching the sky with a mix of anticipation and dread for Robbie Greene’s flat-black F-5E, but the lead Attacker simply had not appeared. As a matter of fact, Andy hadn’t seen Robbie since they’d had it out behind the ice-cream parlor a couple of weeks ago.
At first Andy had found Robbie’s phantom-like disappearance during Red Sky to be both aggravating and unnerving. It was just like his condescendingly superior older half brother to be still calling the shots and controlling the situation. What was Robbie waiting for? Why couldn’t they get the fight on and get it over with?
It was Gail Saunders who’d straightened Andy out, telling him that he was nuts to be psyching himself out like this. Gail had pointed out to Andy that the Ryder combat ranges covered a vast area, and that there was a lot going on simultaneously. Meanwhile, the Attackers’ F-5Es had minimal fuel capacity, which meant they could hang out above the designated targets looking for a fight for only about twenty minutes or so at a time before needing to return to base for refueling. (The Air Force’s F-5E’s were not equipped for aerial fill-ups from the orbiting tankers.) Gail had gone on to make the point that if Andy took all this into account, he would see that it was merely due to chance that he and Robbie had not run into each other.
Or maybe it’s been my good fortune, Andy now mused as he stepped into the shower, letting the spray wash away the night’s cobwebs, if not the night’s lingering fears. Andy couldn’t forget how slick Robbie had been during their first dogfight. No way am I going to win the Warlord trophy today if I end up being shot down by Ryder’s resident gunslinger.
By 0600 hours, Andy’s roomies were up and the radio was on, the trailer rocking to Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones singing “Under My Thumb.” Everyone was dressed in their flight suits and sipping coffee as they waited for the shuttle bus to come around to haul them over to the mess. Once there, Andy forced himself to choke down some breakfast. It was going to be one hell of a long Friday.
From the mess the hundreds of Red Sky participants walked over to the Tactical Air Combat Center for the mass briefing. By 0700 hours, the auditorium was filled and the mass briefing for today’s war scenario was set to begin.
The operations commander appeared on stage, and the big AV screen came down to show news footage documenting the ferment in Nicaragua, where Somoza was trying to hang on against the Commie rebels. It was just a little background color to set the tone for today’s fictional scenario meant to stimulate a possible situation at some hot spot somewhere on the globe.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” began the operations commander from behind his lectern. “The newly installed Marxist government of the Central American nation of Palahorra has defied our Blue government’s warnings, allowing the Red Empire to supply it with MiGs and Russian ground-attack helicopters. Clearly, Palahorra means to export its ideological revolution to its neighbors, and just as clearly. Blue Land will not stand for that. The President has ordered a preemptive strike.”
The newsreel footage ended. Now the giant screen displayed a series of maps of the various Ryder ranges marked to show the areas of enemy-force concentrations.
“Intelligence reports that Palahorra has been anticipating today’s military action,” the operations commander continued. “Red defenses will be on full alert, with greatest concentrations of enemy ground forces as depicted on these maps. Red air will enjoy superiority over Fox Range sector 3, the location of Fidel Airfield and Nikita Helipad. Blue Air will stage several air strikes at major Red targets simultaneously with our main strike against the airfield and helipad facility in order to divert enemy defenses. For further info on secondary likely active SAM and AAA sites and specific mission responsibilities, refer to the intelligence summaries you’ll receive during your individual flight briefings, but here’s the general rundown for the day’s strikes: Mission Package 5-A: Eagle Range secto
r 2, SAM site and truck convoy. Mission Package 5-B: Lion Range sector 4, AAA site and Karl Marx Railroad Yard. Mission Package 5-C: Miami Range sector I, SAM site and Lenin Fuel Depot. Mission Package 5-D: Conway Range sector 9, SAM/AAA sites and Tolstoy Industrial Complex. Mission Package 5-E: Dragon Range sector 3, tank convoy. Mission Package 5-F…”
Andy tensed. 5-F included his squadron flight.
“… Mission Package 5-F: Fox Range sector 3. SAM/AAA sites, tank defenses, Fidel Airfield and Nikita Helipad Complex. Mission Package F-G…”
Yes! Andy exulted. His Stiletto flight would be flying MiGCap straight into the heart of the enemy, which meant that he’d have ample opportunity to raise his kill score.
And maybe have his long-awaited run-in with a certain flat-black F-5E, for one final chance to prove who was the fiercest tiger in the sky.
Up on the stage, the operations commander was reading off the mission packages for the Airborn Warning, RESCAP and aerial refueling personnel. Andy tried to concentrate, but he couldn’t keep himself from daydreaming about the possible coming battle between himself and Robbie Greene. Finally, the ops commander turned the lectern over to a succession of support staff—weather, intelligence and weapons officers—who lectured on their specific areas of expertise. The first couple of rows of fighter jocks in the auditorium perked up when it was the weapons officer’s turn to speak.
“Supply still reports negative supply of Sparrow air-to-air missiles,” the weapons officer announced. “Accordingly, we will again be flying without them.”
There were assorted groans from some of the fighter pilots, but Andy just grinned. A lot of the high kill scores racked up during the beginning part of the week had resulted from overuse of the Sparrow. A Blue pilot flying an advanced F-15 Eagle, F-4 Phantom, or F-66 Stiletto could get a radar lock on an Attacker and call a “Fox One” simulated Sparrow shot to score an easy kill before he’d even seen the enemy, but the pilot who depended on long-range Sparrows to score wasn’t getting much practice in ACM, which was the whole point of Red Sky. On Wednesday, Operations had countered certain pilots’ over-reliance on Sparrows by decreeing that Blue Airfield ordnance supply had run out of the long-range hummers. Now it appeared that the shortage would persist through this last day. Andy was glad of that because it increased his chances of winning the Warlord trophy. Throughout this exercise, he’d prided himself on not calling Sparrow shots. He’d wanted the Attackers to get into the fight, to give him a real run for his money, so that he could learn as much as he could. All seven of his kills had been made at relatively close range with Sidewinder heat-seekers, or eyeball-to-eye-ball with guns.
On the downside. Andy’s decision to pick knife fights with the Attackers had caused him to be shot down a number of times, which had handicapped him in his pursuit of the Warlord trophy. When the radio call came that you’d been shot down, you had to take yourself out of the battle by flying to a specified regeneration point before you could resume participation in the exercise. This made being shot down a real bummer, one you wanted to avoid almost as much as you would in a real war, because in addition to the heckling you had to take during each evening’s debriefing, the flight to and from the regeneration point cost you time that might have been spent in combat, which lessened your own opportunity to score more kills, further lengthening the odds against you winning the Warlord trophy.
On the other hand, the repeated dogfights into which Andy had thrust himself had made him a lot better pilot then he’d been two weeks ago, when Robbie had waxed him. That was why Andy was so eager to get another shot at his half brother. He was reasonably confident that this time, if luck was with him, he could take the bastard.
The mass briefing broke up at 0800 hours, and the personnel filed out of the auditorium and down the corridor to the classrooms used for the individual flight briefings. During the next hour Andy found out that his flight of four Stilettos had been assigned the call sign “Pinto” and would be commanded by Captain Marty Beckman. Beckman was a compact, swarthy man who talked fast and flew faster. On the ground he was a bundle of nerves, but in the air during ACM he was as cold-bloodedly patient as a spider waiting for a fly to hit its web. Beckman went over the specifics of Pinto flight’s mission, which was to fly MiGCAP for the A-7 Corsair Mud Movers and A-10 Warthogs that would be attacking the enemy’s airfield and helipad.
At 0900 hours, Andy and his fellow pilots moved on to the visiting players’ personal equipment room, where he stowed his personal belongings in a locker and shrugged on his flight gear. It was when he was grabbing his helmet that he noticed the folded sheet of paper taped to the visor. He removed the handwritten note and read:
Andrew
Here it is, last day. Final-exam time. I hear you think you’ve learned a thing or two, but blood will tell, half brother. I’ll be waiting for you above Nikita Helipad. I know you’ve been assigned that sector to patrol today. Have you got the balls to confront me? Or has the best man already won? I still say you’re only half the pilot I am, and you know why.
R.
“Damn you, Robbie,” Andy murmured as he crumpled the note.
“Problem, Harrison?” Beckman asked, turning around.
“No, sir.” Andy said evenly, stuffing the note into his pocket. “No problem at all.”
It was 0930 hours when the shuttle bus deposited Andy and his flight mates at their parked aircraft glittering in the desert sun. The concrete ramp was bustling with maintenance carts and planes taxiing into takeoff position, but Andy knew it would be a few minutes at least before his flight would be going anywhere. A whole lot of planes had to get into the air at the start of each morning’s Red Sky exercise, which made for one hell of a traffic jam out on Ryder’s spaghetti tangle of runways.
Andy looked around for Gail, and saw her directing her crew over on the ramp sidelines. She was dressed in baggy overalls and had her hair tucked up beneath a cap, but Andy, looking at her, saw in his mind’s eye her nude, supple form tucked beneath him while making love.
They’d spent their every spare moment together these past four weeks, and now Andy couldn’t remember what his life had been like before he’d met Gail. He sure didn’t want to think about what his life was going to be like without her, but that time was fast approaching. The Red Sky closing ceremonies, including the awarding of the Warlord trophy, were scheduled for Sunday. On Monday, Andy’s squadron would be starting back to Howard AFB in Panama.
“Hi, there.” Gail grinned as Andy came over to her. “You all psyched for the big day?”
“I was.” He took the note out of his pocket and handed it to her.
Gail read it quickly. “You know this is just bluster.”
“I doubt it.” Andy tried to tamp down the despair he was feeling. “Robbie won’t lose today. He’ll never lose, because he’s always going to hold all of the cards.”
“You’re wrong!” Gail argued. “You can’t let yourself think that way!”
“Don’t you see?” Andy muttered. “I was right. Robbie has purposely stayed away from me all this week. He wanted to let me build myself up, all the better so he could knock me down!”
“So what?” Gail demanded. “Assuming all that’s true, what difference does it make?”
“Come on!” Andy said impatiently. “Don’t you see he’s been playing a game of cat and mouse with me just the way he did in the air that first time? It says right there in his note that he knew all along I was going to be assigned to this mission package today.”
Gail put her hands on her hips and stepped in close to Andy, jutting up her chin to stick her face into his, like a drill sergeant instead of an AGS sarge. “Of course he knew your assignment. As CO of the Attackers, Robbie participates in personnel scenario assignments. But I still want to know what damn difference it makes. You can’t let Robbie Greene playing his mind-fuck games rob you of your confidence. If you let that happen, then Robbie won’t have beaten you in the sky today. You’ll have beaten yourself!.”
Andy studied her. “You really think I can do it? That I can beat Robbie?”
“It’s not going to happen just because I believe in you,” Gail told him, smiling now. “You need to believe in yourself, and the way to start is to forget that he’s your half brother Robbie. Just see him as Major Greene, just another Attacker pilot.”
Andy looked toward the ramp where the other pilots had climbed into their fighters and lowered their canopies. Only Andy’s jet remained empty, its canopy upraised as if summoning him.
“Get going.” Gail smiled. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
Andy blurted, “I love you! I mean, I realize we’ve only known each other a short time, but—”
Gail, her green eyes shining, put her fingers to his lips, reiterating, “Get going. And know that wherever you go, however long it takes, I’ll be here when you get back.”
A half hour later, the 5-F mission-package strike force was at twenty-five thousand feet, two minutes from their target. Andy Harrison’s ghost-gray Stiletto was part of the four-ship, MiGCAP Pinto flight cruising at high altitude on the lookout for enemy fighters.
Andy could see the entire mission-package armada of airplanes spread out around him. Up ahead were the F-4 Phantom Wild Weasels flying advance guard to pinpoint SAM sites with their radar. Directly beneath Pinto flight, outlined against the dark-brown desert terrain, were three chevrons of silver A-7 Corsairs loaded down with live ordnance. Flying closest to the ground, at about 15,000 feet, were a layer of six olive-drab, A-10 Thunderbolt Warthogs, the tank killers.
The brief flight from Ryder to Fox Range had passed quickly. Now Andy’s helmet came alive with radio transmissions as the strike force crossed into the target sector.
“Pinto flight, Pinto lead!” flight leader Captain Beckman radioed. “Heads up! We’ve got SAM activity!”
Up ahead, Andy saw the smoky white trails of the simulated SAMs scratching their way into the azure sky, and then the lit-up, bright-orange tail pipes of the F-4 Wild Weasel SAM killers as they dipped toward their burrowed prey in order to make sure that SAM’s first shot became his last. Andy anxiously looked around for more SAMs that might have been playing possum when the F-4s flew by in order to get a shot at the main strike force. Smoky SAM was more than just a Red Sky visual effect. If the Air Force crews manning the phony SAM sites could lock their video camera’s cross hairs on your bird for ten seconds, Operations back at Ryder would override all radio transmissions in order to call you out. Then, just as if you’d been shot down in a dogfight, you’d have to leave the exercise in order to tag the regeneration point.
