Authors: Richard Herman
Waters picked up the phone to the Security Police bunker. “Have the GCI controllers made it in yet? I ordered them in an hour ago.”
Chief Hartley answered: “Sixteen of them have made it across the causeway. They say Captain Hauser is right behind them with seven more. Colonel, they reported seeing troops and scout cars. I think we may be cut off. Everything is awful quiet here.”
6 September: 0110 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0410 hours, Dhahran, Saudi Arabia
Sid Luna told his crew to wait outside the Airlift Command Element while he went inside. He was amazed at the number of people wandering around the ramp in the early morning, most of them wearing flak jackets and helmets like a badge of honor. The C-141 they had come in on was already taxiing out with a full load of people and he could see one C-130 on the ramp. The place—known as ALCE—was deserted except for one angry-looking chief master sergeant behind the high-topped desk counter.
“Say, Chief, if you’ve got a Herky bird, I’ve got a crew.” Luna handed the chief a copy of the flight orders that identified his crew as available for staging out of Dhahran.
“Where were you when I needed you?” Pullman snapped, then angrily explained what was happening at Ras Assanya, how he could have used Luna to replace a crew that had been flying for over twenty-four hours, how
they had received two messages, the first from the Pentagon declaring Ras Assanya to be evacuated, the second from headquarters MAC forbidding all flights into Ras Assanya since the base might be attacked.
“Chief, you’ve been on duty too long,” Luna said. “My old man was a chief and he would have handled this one…like this. Get communications to request a retransmission of the message you don’t like, claim it was garbled. Then get on the phone to the com center where the message came from and make sure they
really
garble it on the second transmission. Any chief worth his salt can do that.”
Pullman nodded his thanks, surprised that he could learn from a trash-hauling captain.
“Relax. Chief, you’re doing them a favor,” Luna said. “MAC will get it all straightened out in about twenty-four hours. That’s their normal run-around-with-their-heads-up-their-ass time. Now, you got a bird for us? We want to go allying.”
Twenty minutes later Toni D’Angelo was reading the start-engines checklist while Dave Belfort plotted a course into Ras Assanya.
6 September: 0345 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0645 hours. Ras Assanya, Saudi Arabia
Jack stood defiantly in front of Waters. “Don’t evacuate me out, Colonel. I’m the freshest pilot you’ve got. I’ve flown once; you know I’m ready. I can pound the bastards into the ground…” For Fairly and the rest, he silently added.
“Jack,” Waters said, “you’re still recovering; you’re bound to be weak. In a jet that could jeopardize—”
Jack shook his head. “This is what I’m all about, what I’ve trained for. Colonel, you know I’m the best pilot you’ve got, and I’m not bragging. I’m ready for this…” He searched for more words to convince Waters. Finally: “Colonel, I’m at least good enough to get through this. Isn’t that all that counts here?”
The words struck home. Besides, maybe he’d been overprotective of Jack. And if not the best, Jack was close to it, certainly the best technician in the wing. And with Bull Morgan, it was a helluva team…“Okay, okay, you’re with Bull. Good luck—”
Jack was already half-sprinting, game leg and all, toward the aircraft bunker, where Bull was with his wingmen, Thunder and Craig, the latter a pilot from the 378th. He slowed, though, when he saw two medics rushing a wounded airman on a stretcher toward an aid station. The man was covered with blood-soaked bandages and leaving a trail of blood. Jack glanced inside a destroyed bunker and saw two body bags lying side by side. He hurried on.
The sun was well clear of the horizon, promising another hot, sweltering day, making Jack glad he had brought two canteens of water. Finding the blast doors of the bunker closed, Jack darted inside the small access door as another artillery barrage ranged over the base. The four men were sitting in a back corner of the bunker with the two crew chiefs, trying to ignore the pounding. Jack sat down and waited. After about fifteen rounds, the shelling stopped. “Just enough to crater the runway and keep us from taking off,” Bull said disgustedly.
“Craig,” Jack said to the big man he was replacing, “Farrell wants you on the next shuttle with him.” The pilot’s eyes went from man to man. When he saw no hint of condemnation he stood up, body aching with fatigue, reached out and touched Thunder’s shoulder, his way of saying thanks for flying with him, pulled himself around, and left.
The phone on the wall rang and Bull picked it up, acknowledged the message and returned to the group. “The Gomers blew that barrage. Range is still too great and lousy spotters. Civil Engineers claim they’ll have five thousand feet of runway open in around fifteen minutes. We’re first up, people. Going after the artillery batteries. Take off to the south, clean the bird up, arm ’em up and swing back around to the north. Go straight for them, ripple off your Snakeyes and escape over land. Keep punching chaff and flares behind you all the way around. Get on the ground quick as you can; get turned and ready
to go again.” He stopped and looked at the men. “We’ve only got eighteen operational birds and maybe seven hundred people left to get out. From now on we’re going to keep pounding at them, making them keep their heads down. Okay, let’s do it.”
For the next three hours Jack found himself on the treadmill Bull had briefed. On each launch he would hear Mary Hauser’s cool voice telling them the sky was clear of bandits and then she would fall silent. When he taxied back in, the crew chiefs, refueling tanker and gun-plumbers were ready to turn 512. Thunder would call their mission results in to the command post while Jack post-flighted the aircraft, looking for battle damage. The sorties were averaging less than twelve minutes from the time they taxied out until they were back in the shelter…
After their sixth sortie Bull and Jack had to hold south of the base as the Civil Engineers worked furiously patching holes in the runway with quick-setting cement and aluminum planking. To conserve fuel Bull climbed to eighteen thousand, where they found a C-130 also cutting lazy circles. When Bull called the cargo plane on Guard, asking about their status, a female voice answered, saying that like them the C-130 was holding and waiting for an opportunity to get in.
“I know that voice,” Jack told Thunder.
“Right. Sounds like Toni D’Angelo.” Both men were recalling the scramble a year in the past. Amazing…Jack, Thunder and the Grain King co-pilot together in the same piece of sky again, still involved in the same dirty little war for “allies” you could learn to hate.
Toni’s voice came over the UHF radio now. “Got to go, can’t get in this time. They’re recalling us to try again later, won’t let us hang around long if the runway isn’t open.”
They watched the C-130 head south, and after several minutes the tower told them to think about diverting to Dhahran, that the runway had just taken another barrage and was severely cratered, especially around the arresting cables, which eliminated any chance to take the barriers for a short-field arrestment.
“How much taxiway you got open?” Bull asked, thinking about landing on the wide strip that paralleled the runway. When the tower reported that only the taxiway between the aircraft bunkers was serviceable, Bull told them to clear any vehicles off. Minutes later Bull started his approach onto the narrow lane of concrete that connected the bunkers to the main taxiway, most of which was curved and twisted as it wound between the bunkers, and only on the southern edge did it straighten out for some three thousand feet—barely enough room for a landing rollout. Bull said he would taxi into the first open bunker to give Jack the wing-tip clearance needed on each side of the narrow path. “It will be tight; we can do it.” Bull came down a short final and planted his aircraft hard onto the concrete. The drag-chute was streaming before he slammed his nose gear down and managed to drag his bird to a halt just short of a large crater, then headed into a bunker, nose first, not waiting to be winched in backward.
Sweat rolled off Jack as he made his approach, glad that Bull had cleared out of the way; it was going to be a tight squeeze. He drove his Phantom hard onto the concrete, repeating Bull’s performance. The crew chiefs were winching 512 back into its bunker when Jack saw ten or twelve men pushing Bull’s F-4 out of his bunker so it could be turned around and stuffed in properly. Bull’s mask was pulled away, and he gave them a raised clenched fist.
“Beats diverting to Dhahran,” Jack said, “but I don’t want to do it again.”
In the bunker Jack called Carroll and was told they were down to ten aircraft and still had five hundred people left to get out. He relayed that to Thunder, adding, “The C-130s have only gotten in twice since sunup. Runway should be open in about forty minutes, Bill says, and we’re picking up Broz and Ambler for a threesome. Bill says it’s getting grim in the first-aid bunkers.” The image of the wounded airman on the stretcher forced its way into his mind, and he now understood why the infantry hated artillery…Thirty minutes later the phone rang and the three of them, Jack, Bull and Broz, were scrambled…
Bull’s voice crackled over the UHF as he arced onto the
beachhead for their seventh run at it. “Rats Ass Control, two tanks have broken out and are moving south along the coast. Coming your way.” Before Nesbit could acknowledge the warning Bull radioed, “I’m in.” He rolled in ahead of Jack, jinking furiously until his wizzo could lock on the lead tank. Jack saw Bull’s first Maverick streak toward the tank, then after a slight hesitation the second Maverick shot out from under the wing, its smoke trail pointing to the second tank. Bull’s right wing flared…and his F-4 disintegrated before the Mavericks destroyed the tanks. Jack broke off his attack and retreated to safety over the water, looking for Broz. “
What got him?
I didn’t see a thing, no SAM, no puffs of smoke from the ground,
nothing
.” Thunder couldn’t help.
What it was, what they missed, was a single round from an obsolete thirty-seven-millimeter Triple A cannon that hit Bull’s right wing. The fuse in the small bullet had detonated its small high-explosive charge inside the right-wing tank. It was enough.
When Thunder pointed out the other F-4 orbiting low over the water Jack keyed his UHF, assuming flight lead, and told Broz to join on him. The young lieutenant whipped his plane around and rolled up on a wing, showing them he was still carrying two Mavericks. “Thunder,” Jack said, “check out that ship at three o’clock.”
Thunder identified it as an Alligator-class landing ship. They circled the
Sirri
at a respectful distance as it moved in an eastward direction, away from the beachhead.
“That’s the baby that probably delivered those tanks,” Jack said, thinking about Bull. He studied the vessel, sensing that something was unusual…“Count the antennas. I’ll bet your sweet ass that’s a command ship.”
He keyed the radio. “Broz, I’m going to check this one out.” His fingers ran across the armament switches, selecting the Mavericks. “Thunder, lock on that S.O.B. soon as you can.” Adrenaline flowed; he needed to even the score for Bull. Abruptly he broke out of his attack run and headed for the base. Again he keyed his UHF, calling Broz to join up and switch over to the frequency for the command post.
“Rats Ass Control, Wolf Zero-Nine, flight of two.”
Nesbit acknowledged his call, Jack continued: “Lead bought it over beachhead, two tanks destroyed. Have observed an Alligator-class landing ship heading eastbound, away from beachhead. Ship has numerous antennas and signs of damage to superstructure. Standing by for words.”
“Roger, Zero-Nine,” Nesbit answered. “State ordnance remaining.”
“Lead and wingman have two Mavericks each.”
“Roger, Zero-Nine. Wolf Zero-One says your choice of targets, the ship or targets of opportunity on shore. RTB ASAP.”
“Jack,” Broz radioed, “it’s a command ship, worth hitting even if it’s leaving.” Jack could hear in the lieutenant’s voice the same anger he had felt moments earlier.
“Negative, Broz. That baby is loaded with SAMs and Triple A and it’s out of the action. We’ll split the beachhead for one pass. You take the north half.”
Broz followed Jack down to the surface as they looped south of the base before turning inland to circle and attack the beachhead from the west…
Waters had been monitoring the exchange between Jack and Broz over the radio, and though he would never know if Jack had made the right decision about which target to attack, he knew Jack was going after targets on the coast exactly as he would have done…
The two Phantoms split apart as they turned to the east, skimming across the gravelly dunes, kicking up dusty rooster tails as they ran onto the beachhead. They were crossing the thin line of UAC defenders when a string of tracers came at them. Jack jinked around the tracers and then jerked his Phantom into a sharp break to the left as a SAM flashed by and exploded. He felt a thump but continued the run, hoping Thunder could find a target on his monitor screen that the Mavericks could home on. He waited to hear Thunder’s pickle call. His telelight panel started to blink warnings at him, but without a fire warning light he was determined to press the attack.
“Cleared to pickle,” Thunder shouted. Jack raised the Phantom just high enough off the deck to get a decent launch angle and depressed the pickle button twice, send
ing both his Mavericks toward the tanks his backseater had found.
Thunder had his head out of the scope and was checking their six o’clock position, stabbing at the flare-and-chaff buttons. Suddenly he called out, “Broz is hit!”
Jack had descended to fifty feet and was still jinking hard as he ran for safety. Another two missiles reached over them, not able to guide on the Phantom below a hundred feet.
Thunder saw Broz’s Phantom buck from an unseen hit and then balloon up. Even in the bright afternoon sun the wizzo could see tracers reaching into the F-4, could see the rear half of the plane flare into flames as Broz climbed.