To Slip the Surly Bonds

by Chris Kennedy

  Robin stepped into the building behind Benny, followed by Jesus.

  “What’s going on, Tex?” Robin said, his usually cheerful face grim.

  “The base at Pleiku and the outpost at Kon Tum are under attack,” Tex said. “The French crossed the border in division strength an hour ago. We’re loading bombs now, and we’re sortieing the whole squadron because we can get there faster than anyone else. Ground intercept radar doesn’t report any enemy air, but we’ll be cautious. When we get there, Benny and Jesus will take the first bomb runs, while Olds and me fly high cover, then we’ll switch. Eventually the prop birds will catch up, and we can rotate out to refuel and rearm. Get to your birds.”

  * * *

  Benny pulled his stick back and leveled out twenty feet above the treetops. Ahead of him, breaking up the green jungle-infested hills of the highlands was a massive blue lake. On the northeast bank of the lake he caught muzzle flashes in between the tiny gaps in the vegetation, but couldn’t make out any of the human shapes beneath the canopy.

  “Ajax Main, this is Tiger Four checking in,” Benny announced over the advisor’s frequency. He was answered immediately.

  “Glad to hear it, Tiger Four,” the same Midwestern voice he’d heard back at the AVG answered. “Stand by for the advisor on the scene. Ajax One-Six, we have air, over.”

  “Roger, Ajax Main,” another voice said , this one with a French accent. “Tiger Four, this is Ajax One-Six, recommend you make your run northeast to southwest, parallel to our position, initial point on or north of Zebra-Baker Zero-One-Zero, One-Five-Two. That pattern should keep you clear of the gun-target line from the artillery at Ajax Main.”

  Cool customer. Benny could hear intense machine gun fire, thuds, explosions, the screams of the wounded, but Ajax One-Six’s voice was steady as a rock, and he had the presence of mind to try and deconflict friendly artillery with air. Benny relayed the new plan to Tran, Ngo, and Lee in French, then switched back to English to talk to Ajax One-Six.

  “Ajax One-Six, roger,” Benny said. “You have sixteen P-80s with two thousand-pound bombs each. We can’t see shit through the canopy, can you mark your forward position and the enemy’s approximate center of mass.”

  “Roger, Tiger,” the voice answered. “Marking our forward position first.”

  A few seconds later, a plume of green smoke drifted through the tree-tops, about two hundred meters from the riverbed.

  “One-Six, I see green smoke,” Benny said. “Confirm green smoke, over.”

  “Roger, Tiger,” One-Six said. “Green smoke, stand by for enemy center of mass.”

  Even in the cockpit he heard the report of the howitzer from over in Pleiku. Thirty seconds later, a much larger cloud of white smoke billowed into existence over the treetops, about four hundred meter north and east of the green smoke.

  “Ajax One-Six, I tally white smoke,” Benny said. “I say again, white smoke. Be advised target mark is well within danger close of your position.”

  “Roger, Tiger Four,” the same calm tone replied. “I confirm white smoke on the target, acknowledge danger-close.”

  “I have visual on friendly markings, I tally target marking,” Benny said. “I am at the IP now. Four-ship in the initial pass.”

  “Roger, Tiger Four, you are cleared hot,” One-Six confirmed.

  “Get small, Ajax,” Benny said. “This is going to be close.”

  Benny dropped down to five feet off the tree tops and throttled back to just shy of stall speed. Dropping bombs without a bombsight was very much an art form. As the lead, his steadiness and judgment would dictate the effectiveness of the planes following him. He kept his eyes on the center of the smoke as he made tiny rudder and stick adjustments to maintain level flight against the turbulence bouncing him around the cockpit.

  Almost there…right…about…DROP.

  Benny hit the bomb release and pulled up and right, opening his throttle to regain airspeed. Even roaring away at hundreds of miles per hour, the detonation of nearly eight thousand pounds of high explosive rattled him in his cockpit.

  “Good drop,” Ajax One-Six reported. “Keep laying it on.”

  “Alright, Benny, you head to thirty-thousand feet and keep an eye out,” Tex said. “Robin, head for the IP.”

  “Much obliged Tigers,” One-Six said after the last flight, Tex’s own, had dropped. “We’re still taking fire, but we’ve got some breathing room.”

  “Can you make it back to friendly lines, One-Six?” Tex asked.

  “We’re certainly going to try, Tiger,” One-Six said. “We’ve got a lot of wounded, though.”

  “Stand by,” a feminine voice interjected. “This is Angel Three-Five. We are a flight of three Ravens. Meet me at the clearing on the river bank one hundred meters south by southeast of your green smoke. My rotor cone will fit there. I can take your wounded first, then drop my litters and ferry the rest of your men on the skids.

  Margot?!

  Sure enough, low and to the east he saw three tiny shapes darting over the canopy toward the river. It took every ounce of professionalism in Benny’s body not to tell Margot to get the hell out of here.

  Let the woman do her job. You do yours.

  “Roger, Angel Three-Five,” the advisor on the ground said. “Thanks a lot, both of you. I take back every unkind word I’ve ever said about flyboys.”

  “All elements, this is Ajax Main,” the plain Midwestern voice from earlier blared onto the net. “Ground control radar reports sixteen bogeys coming in from the west. Too fast for propeller driven birds, bearing two-eight-three.”

  “Roger, Ajax, coming to two-eight three,” Tex acknowledged, his Texas drawl betraying a hint of eagerness. “Tigers, spread out and climb to thirty-thousand feet and we’ll see if we can dive on these bastards.”

  Benny relayed the orders in French to his flight and pulled his stick back, following the rest of the squadron up to an altitude the Me-262s couldn’t reach. He was surprised the French would sortie their limited number of jets when they had to know the P-80s were in play. They must have really wanted this attack to succeed.

  Which means we may be facing a full-scale invasion, not a glorified raid.

  With guidance from the radars, they vectored in on the approaching enemy. Three minutes into the approach, Benny spotted a series of black dots against the horizon.

  “Tiger One, Tiger Four,” Benny said. “I have visual on eight bandits, ten o’clock low.”

  “Tally, Tiger Four,” Tex said. “Maintain altitude until we get a little closer—”

  As Tex spoke, all eight dots shot up into the air, followed by eight more. They climbed fast, faster than any Me-262 he’d ever seen, and as the miles between them evaporated, Benny began to see the profile on the approaching enemy didn’t fit the cross of a straight-winged jet, but was more of a V.

  “Tiger One, those aren’t 262s,” Benny said. “Those are swept wing, I say again, swept wing airframes.”

  “Holy shit,” Van Camp, one of the newer American pilots, said. “Those are fucking Me-503s.”

  “Can it, Tiger Three-Two,” Tex snapped.

  Benny understood the younger pilot’s reaction. Intelligence swore on a stack of bibles that the Germans were retaining the Me-503, the most advanced fighter in Europe—maybe in the world—strictly for Luftwaffe squadrons. Yet here they were. Worse, they were seconds away from effective range now, and the 503s had outclimbed them.

  “Wait for them to dive,” Tex said. “Then try a defensive roll. See if you can force an overshoot.”

  Benny translated the orders once again for his flight. It was a liability having to repeat everything, but it was better than flying three pilots short. In seconds, Benny had the unnerving honor of getting to look right up into a German jet intake and, though he couldn’t make them out, he knew the ports for the 503’s thirty-millimeter cannons were trained on him.

  Don’t panic…not yet…NOW.

  “Roll,” Benny said. Matching deed to w
ord, he was thrown against the side of his cockpit as he violently pitched his jet up and out of plane and back down again, Tran, Ngo and Lee following close behind, just as four streams of furious red tracers stitched the sky where they’d been.

  The two lead 503s overshot, ending at Benny’s one o’clock low. As he pulled his nose violently over, centripetal force and Mother Earth’s gravity well cooperated to pull the blood from his brain, opposed instantly by the grip of his g-suit on his abdomen and thighs. Grunting against the pressure, ignoring the gray at the edges of his vision, Benny fought the gun-sight piper onto the lead 503’s flight path and fired.

  Six streams of tracers erupted from the nose of his craft, lancing through the sky towards the nimble, swept-wing fighter. Benny was rewarded with an orange flash and the sight of the lead Frenchman spinning off toward the jungle below. He gasped in relief as he came out of the high-g turn only to see the trail 503 perform an impossibly fast and tight bank right out of his firing solution.

  Holy shit, those things are nimble.

  A part of his brain processed the radio chatter as he tried to keep up with the Messerschmidt.

  “Tex, bandit at your six, break right and dive,” Robin said.

  “Affirm—ah, shit,” Tex’s voice cut off abruptly, replaced by Robin swearing briefly and vehemently.

  Benny pushed grief away without conscious effort. Nothing he could do for Tex now.

  “Two Bandits on our six,” Ngo’s voice remained steady, if strained. “They’re on us tight. Damn it, Tran is down.”

  Benny spotted the fireball of Tran’s P-80 plummeting toward the earth, and Ngo’s jet yanking and banking violently, trying to avoid the agile killers on his tail.

  “Lee stay on this one,” Benny ordered as he banked hard right to try and save Ngo. The 503s on Ngo’s six had both focused on the kill, the wingman having forgotten, if only momentarily, that his purpose in life was to watch the leader’s six.

  Benny made that mistake their last. Lining up the gun sight with relative ease, he sprayed the leader’s cockpit with .50 caliber rounds, then gave the wingman the same treatment as he obligingly flew into Benny’ sight picture.

  “Thanks, Tiger Four,” Ngo’s relief was palpable, but there was no time to celebrate.

  “Jesus, watch your six,” Van Camp shouted, “Fuck, Jesus is down!”

  “All Tigers, this is Tiger Three,” Robin’s voice said, still steady amidst the chaos. “Let’s set up a weave, we’ve got to get some distance on these assholes—”

  “Tiger Three, this is Hellcat One,” a new voice announced. “Stand by, we’re almost there.”

  “Two 503s are breaking off,” VanCamp announced. “They’re headed toward the river.”

  Fuck!

  “Angel Three-Five,” Benny shouted as he came around, desperately trying to close the gap and get his gun sight on the two runners. “Get the hell out of here, Messerschmitts are closing on you.”

  “Roger, Tiger Four,” Margot answered, but even as she did, the 503s were within range, they started blazing away at the helicopter formation. He saw the far right skeletal machine, two men hanging on each skid, shudder, then burst into flames and spin out of control into the river. The center bird sparked with impacts as well; it skidded on the opposite bank of the river coming to a stop without a secondary explosion by some miracle.

  “Margot!” Benny shouted, just as he aligned his nose on the trail 503 and mashed the trigger for his .50 cals. Despite the impressiveness of their machines, a lack of situational awareness killed their pilots all the same. The trail 503 joined its victim in the river. The lead 503 broke hard left and laid on the acceleration.

  Benny tried to keep the 503 in his sight, but it was no use. The damn thing was just too fast and agile when aware of a threat. If he split his attention, the bastard would get away, if he didn’t maintain situational awareness, he became a target.

  As if from nowhere, dozens of tracer streams raced overhead. Benny looked back over his shoulder and saw the sky was filled with sleek P-51s, robust P-47s and fork-tailed P-38s. Superior design or not, the Me-503s now faced the remaining P-80s and several dozen older prop driven fighters. The French pilots exercised the better part of valor and fled west, faster than any of their enemies could pursue.

  Which didn’t mean they didn’t want to.

  “This is Hellcat One,” the P-51 squadron leader announced. “We are pursuing.”

  “Negative, Hellcat One,” Robin remonstrated. “They’ll lure you until you’re low on fuel then sortie the rest of their fighters and cut you to pieces.”

  “Roger, Tiger Three,” the P-51 driver sounded pissed, but he wasn’t stupid.

  “Angel Three-Five, Angel Three-Five, do you read?” God, please let her be alive. “Margot? Do you read?”

  Several heartbreaking seconds passed in silence, Benny hit the transmit button again, but before he could talk his radio crackled to life.

  “Benny, I’m alright,” Margot said. “I’m walking out with the boys. I’ll see you back home.”

  “Roger,” Benny croaked, his throat unaccountably tight. “Be safe.”

  “Alright Tigers,” Robin’s voice cut through. “We’re pushing bingo. Return to base.”

  Benny’s heart expanded in his chest, and he took a deep shuddering breath as he formed up on Olds. For the remainder of the flight, he prayed, silently but fervently.

  * * *

  Robin and Benny stood on the flight line as the sun set on Gia Lam airfield, tallying the butcher’s bill and discussing how to proceed. Robin was the next most senior after Hill, now deceased, and Jesus, now deceased, so he would assume command of the entire group. Benny would take what was left of the P-80 squadron, which was really just two flights. The Me-503s had downed eight of the P-80s at the cost of only five of their own. If the prop-driven squadrons hadn’t arrived when they did, it would have been worse.

  Long after the decisions were made, Benny remained on the flight line, waiting. Knowing there was no point in trying to talk Benny into resting, Robin merely patted his friend on the shoulder and headed for the showers himself. Benny remained standing, stock-still next to the waiting ambulances until after sundown. Finally, the drone of a gooney-bird’s twin engines filled the night sky.

  Benny waited patiently as the cargo plane landed and taxied, then patients in various state of disrepair and dishevelment hobbled or were carried painfully down the C-47’s ramp. He even restrained himself when a familiar mane of thick, dark brown hair poked out of the plane door, and Margot made her way down the ramp. She was talking to nurses and medics about care for wounded men; he would not interrupt that.

  He waited until the C-47’s engines died, and Margot stood, alone at least for a moment, and then he could wait no more.

  “Margot,” he called, trying, and failing, not to break into a jog to reach her.

  She turned to face him. Even in the moonlight, her relief at seeing him was evident in her eyes as she likewise jogged to him. They stopped mere inches from one another, unsure of what to do next.

  “I’m so glad you’re alright,” he said.

  Margot’s hands twitched as if she wanted to reach for him, but she kept them at her sides.

  “I know,” she said. “I was afraid those new jets would cut you to shreds.”

  They stood for a long silent moment. Benny was lost in her eyes, a depth of feeling he’d never experienced before welling up inside him as the adrenaline dump of combat, his fear for Margot, and his affection for her all washed over him like breaking tidal waves.

  “My patients,” Margot said, finally. “I should—”

  Benny gathered her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers, kissing her intently. Margot did not stiffen—did not protest—but flowed into his arms just as she had on the dance floor and matched his intensity, returning the kiss with a will.

  After several blissfully sweet seconds, Margot pulled away from him and took a deep breath, then gave a throaty littl
e chuckle.

  “Oh, mon amour,” she said, caressing Benny’s cheek with her fingers. “You have the worst timing.”

  She tilted her head back and drew his lips down to hers, kissing him once again just as fiercely, albeit more briefly before pushing him away with both hands.

  “Now, go away,” she said. “You are very distracting, and I must work.”

  Benny watched her walk away for a few seconds, before turning his steps toward home.

  Well, as far as wars go, it could be a lot worse.

  * * * * *

  Justin Watson Bio

  Justin Watson grew up an Army brat, living in Germany, Alabama, Texas, Korea, Colorado, and Alaska while being fed a steady diet of X-Men, Star Trek, Robert Heinlein, DragonLance, and Babylon 5. While attending West Point, he met his future wife, Michele, on an airplane, and soon began writing in earnest with her encouragement. In 2005, he graduated from West Point and served as a field artillery officer, completing combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, and earning the Bronze Star, Purple Heart, and the Combat Action Badge. Medically retired from the Army in 2015, Justin settled in Houston with Michele, their four children, and an excessively friendly Old English Sheepdog.

  # # # # #

  Zero Dark 30 by JL Curtis

  May 18, 1985

  Moffett Field, California 0400Z

  The tactical grey P-3 Orion bumped through the night skies, descending over San Jose, California, toward Moffett Field Naval Air Station after a nine-hour flight off Seattle, Washington.

  “Charlie Fox 232, cleared to land 32 right,” crackled through the radio.

  LCDR Randy Hathaway nudged the rudder as Senior Chief ‘Scoop’ Vessels, the flight engineer, and LCDR ‘Fast Eddie’ Miller, the copilot, reviewed the lineup. LT ‘Tip’ Adams leaned forward from his position behind Randy and double checked the cockpit even though he didn’t have the landing. Fast Eddie replied, “232, cleared on the right. Say winds.”