The Hot Pilots

by T. E. Cruise

  “… you know that your career has hit ceiling unless you’re willing to attend …” the general was saying.

  “I’m only a high school graduate—”

  “Doesn’t matter. I can finesse that part of it for you, as well,” Simon assured him. “Don’t forget that what we do here at Wright-Patterson falls under the umbrella of Air University Command—”

  Steve held up his hand. “Permission to speak frankly, sir?”

  “Go ahead,” Simon muttered.

  “Howard, it’s school,” Steve burst out, exasperated and embarrassed. “I don’t want any part of it!”

  “May I ask why?”

  Steve hesitated. “I don’t want to go because I know I can’t hack the program …”

  “That’s a lot of bullshit—”

  “It isn’t …” Steve paused, thinking: Why do I have to go into this? “You—you really don’t know me …”

  “Don’t know you?” Simon echoed in disbelief. “Get serious, son. You’ve been on my staff for almost five years.”

  “You don’t know how tough school was for me when I was a kid—”

  “You don’t think you’re smart enough, is that it?” Simon demanded. “You don’t think you’ve got what it takes to be a full colonel, or higher?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Then try this on for size,” the general replied evenly. “During the past months I’ve had you here at Dayton you’ve been doing a bird colonel’s level of work—if not higher—and doing it better than anyone I’ve ever had working for me, and that includes a brigadier general whose name I won’t mention.”

  “Really … ?” Steve was flabbergasted. “I don’t know what to say…”

  “Say yes to this opportunity I’m holding out to you,” Simon urged.

  Steve shook his head.

  “You’re still not convinced?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, sir. The fact that you’re pleased with my work means a lot, but …” Steve trailed off, shrugging.

  “All right, then. You had your opportunity to speak frankly. Now it’s my turn,” the general said fiercely. “You’re forty-one years old. You’ve got almost twenty-two years in. If you’re not going to give yourself the opportunity to advance, then get the hell out.”

  “I’ve been thinking about doing just that.”

  “You have?” Simon looked surprised.

  “You see, when you go, my clearance to fly fighter/interceptors will go as well,” Steve replied. “And the opportunity to fly is about the only thing that’s kept me in this long.”

  “I see …”

  “As a matter of fact,” Steve began, “I was hoping you could pull some strings to get me assigned back to Operational Command …”

  “A TAC squadron leader, huh?” the genera] asked thoughtfully.

  “Well, yes …” Steve said. “Preferably with an outfit that’s seeing some action …”

  “Hmmm, you’re talking about Vietnam?”

  “Yes,” Steve replied hopefully.

  “I don’t know about that … You’ve been out of Operational for a long time … Since Korea …” the general added meaningfully.

  “Sir, I’ve kept my hand in flying.”

  “The real problem is that you’ve cut yourself out of the loop. They’re handing out operational assignments to those officers on upward career paths.”

  “There is one way…”

  “Well, go on,” Simon demanded. “Spit it out, son …”

  “General, there’s a memo from Pacific Air Force headquarters in your in-box …”

  “Now what the hell are you doing rummaging around in my in-box?” Simon challenged.

  GAT, here I come, Steve thought, guessing that he would soon be perfecting his civilian sales pitch unless he could sell the general right now.

  “Sir, I was in your office the other day to find some files I needed, and the memo in question was lying right on top of the pile of stuff in your box. It had ‘Vietnam Air Combat Volunteer Request’ across the top in bold letters, so it caught my attention, you see …”

  “Go on, I’m listening,” Simon grumbled.

  “The memo says PACAF is looking for someone to act as a troubleshooter on a tour of our bases in Thailand.”

  “It sounds like things are going wrong over there if a troubleshooter is needed,” the general said, looking concerned.

  “Things are going wrong.” Steve nodded. “I, um, took the liberty of making a few telephone calls using your name …”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “Go on …”

  So far, so good, Steve thought, relieved. “Well, sir, it turns out that there’s a serious morale problem permeating our fighter wings. There’s concern about it at the highest levels. We’ve been losing so many people going up against very heavily defended targets that our squadrons have begun to back off, to stroke it. They’ve been dropping their bombs too high, killing palm trees, or whatever it is they have over there, instead of the enemy.”

  “It’s not like the Air Force to back off just because the job is a little tough,” the general said.

  “Well, I don’t totally put the blame on our fighter jocks,” Steve continued. “I’ve been looking into the situation, sir.”

  “You have?”

  Now why the hell is the old bird smiling like that? Steve wondered. “Anyway, sir, in my opinion, the fault lies not with our pilots, but with the politicians back home. What’s needed is for our Air Force tigers to be unleashed. They need to know that they’ve got total backing to steamroll the enemy. You ask a guy to go up against a stone wall with a rubber mallet when what’s needed to do the job properly is a sixteen-pound sledge; he’s just bound to get tired and discouraged after a while.” Steve paused. “But I also realize that thanks to the way Washington has been losing the propaganda war to the enemy, nothing like that is about to happen.”

  “That sounds like a perceptive analysis of the situation, Steve.” The general nodded. “So, then, what does PACAF want this so-called troubleshooter to do, exactly?”

  “Visit for a while with each fighter wing, give a pep talk, and then fly a few missions in order to lead by example.”

  “The fighter wings are flying Thunderchiefs, aren’t they?” Simon asked.

  “The guys who are being given the tough armed reconnaissance missions are, yes, sir.” Steve nodded.

  “And, of course, since you spend every spare moment in the air, you’ve been checked out on the Thud, haven’t you?” the general asked dryly.

  “I have, sir.” Steve couldn’t quite muffle his smile.

  “I suppose you think that’s all that’s needed to make you the right man for this job?” Simon challenged.

  “No, sir—” Steve said earnestly. “I’m the right man for the job because I know what I’m talking about, sir. I’ve been there. I did the job in the Second World War, and in Korea. I’m a fighter pilot by vocation, and I’ve been at my trade longer than some of these pilots we’ve got in Vietnam have been born.”

  “Speaking of young pilots,” Simon began. “I believe your nephew is currently in a Thud Wing over there … ?”

  “Yes, sir, he is,” Steve said and then smiled. “I have to admit, General, the possibility of getting to fly in combat with my nephew only adds to the assignment’s allure.”

  “Hmmm …”

  “Speaking man to man, General, it’s what I want. Do you think you could swing it for me?”

  Simon looked thoughtful. “Maybe there is a way…”

  “Sir?” Steve perked up.

  “Seeing as how you’re adamant about not taking my suggestion concerning war college …”

  “With all due respect, sir, I am adamant about that.”

  “Well, then …” The general nodded. “I’m owed a few favors. Might as well call one of them in while I’m still wearing the uniform …”

  “Thank you,” Steve said.

  “You realize the assignment is only temporary,” Simon warned.

&
nbsp; “Yes, I know.” Steve nodded. “I’m prepared for that, but I figure the opportunity to fly a fighter in a third war is just too good to pass up. If it comes down to it, I’m prepared to accept this assignment as a fitting coda to my Air Force career.” He paused, suddenly puzzled. “But how would you know that, General?”

  “Know what?”

  “That it’s a temporary assignment,” Steve replied. “I mean, if you haven’t read the memo, or heard about any of this before now, sir?”

  Simon shrugged. “I just assumed as much. By it’s very nature a troubleshooting assignment is temporary.”

  “I see,” Steve said slowly. “I suppose so, sir…”

  “Now, get out of here,” the general gruffly commanded. “Let me start making those telephone calls on your behalf…”

  “Yes, sir!” Steve got to his feet and came to attention. “Thanks again.” He saluted smartly and then left the office, thinking about how great it was going to be to see combat one more time.

  (Two)

  You can lead a horse … Major General Howard Simon thought.

  He waited until Steve left the office, then pulled open the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk and took out a fifth of Jack Daniels and a glass. He poured himself a generous shot of sour mash, then knocked it back.

  The whiskey burned pleasurably going down. Simon knew that later on there’d be hell to pay for indulging when his ulcers began kicking up, but he figured his bad heart was going to get him long before his gut had the opportunity to do him in.

  He reached back into the drawer, this time for a cigar. He had a box of Macanudos stashed there. They weren’t as good as the Cubans he used to smoke, but everybody had to make sacrifices in the war against communism, and anyway, the good old days were long gone.

  The doctors had firmly told him to stay away from the booze and cigars, and he had just as firmly told them to go to hell. He didn’t want to live forever. His wife had passed away several years ago. His only child, his daughter, was married to an investment banker Simon didn’t get along with, and living in New York City, a place Simon despised. He had grandchildren, but they hardly knew him. The few times he’d been around them they’d called him “sir,” and tended to hide behind their mother’s skirts.

  The hell with it, he thought, nipping the tip off the stogie and firing it up. He’d been terrible with his own daughter when she was a child, so what the hell kind of chance was he going to have with children a generation removed? He was too old to change, and anyway his airplanes were his children—

  But the powers that be had decreed that he was too old for his profession. Just what in hell was he supposed to do with himself?

  The doctors couldn’t answer that question, of course. They didn’t even understand why he would ask it. They didn’t understand how frightfully hollow his life in Texas was to be; about the loss of his wife, and how that terrible emptiness was only underscored by this forced retirement from the Air Force. The goddamned doctors were maintenance people, preoccupied with keeping the machine running, without the slightest clue to what purpose. Simon had seen their kind before: well-meaning but narrow-minded men too involved in their areas of authority and expertise to see the big picture—

  But Steve wasn’t like that, Simon ruminated, puffing steely blue smoke rings into the air. Steve could see the big picture, all right. Take his insightful analysis concerning the morale problem among fighter wings operating in Vietnam. Steve was able to gather the input necessary to come to the correct conclusion: that the pilots were dispirited because they believed they did not have the full backing of the politicians. Even more important, Steve was then able to use his experience to deduce that because there was nothing to be done about the underlying cause of the problem, what was needed was another way to get the pilots motivated: to appeal to their esprit de corps …

  Oh yes, Simon thought. Steve was going to make an outstanding colonel, and eventually, God willing, a splendid general officer …

  He had already arranged for Steve to receive the troubleshooting assignment.

  He had been aware that Steve was coming into his office at odd times to use his files. For that reason Simon had left the memo prominently displayed in his in-box, going so far as to repeatedly move the memo to the top of the pile of the daily incoming blizzard of paperwork. He’d waited patiently for Steve to see it, and then to make the appropriate telephone calls to find out what the job entailed …

  You can lead a horse to water …

  Simon knew that he’d almost given away his scheme to Steve when he’d let slip that bit about the assignment being temporary. Steve had picked right up on that; Simon had been forced to scramble to get himself out of that hole. It was important that Steve think this was all his own idea; that he’d convinced Simon, and not the other way around. Steve could never know that Simon had orchestrated all this—

  The telephone rang, startling Simon. The call was from the Air Force Museum in Dayton. Simon had offered them his entire collection of memorabilia. They wanted to know when to send a truck around …

  He worked out a date with the museum representative and hung up, feeling sad as he looked around the office at his things. It would be disquieting not to have these mementos of his career close at hand. It would make the momentous transition he was about to experience irrefutably real.

  Well, to hell with it—Only thing worse than a crotchety old fart was a sentimental, crotchety old fart, he thought, disgusted. Goddamned junk would only gather dust at the ranch. Who was he going to show it to down there … ?

  He cheered himself with another drink, and with thinking about how surprised Steve was going to be when he found out that his new assignment called for him to receive a temporary, spot promotion to full colonel. This was necessary because a troubleshooter by definition ruffled feathers; he criticized. If Steve went throwing his weight around those bases as a light colonel he wouldn’t need to worry about the North Vietnamese on his six o’clock; his own fellow officers would wax him. The troubleshooter would have to outrank the lieutenant colonels who commanded at the squadron level if they, and the pilots to whom he’d be delivering his pep talks, were to take him seriously.

  You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink —

  Simon leaned back in his chair, feeling smug as a riverboat gambler holding a royal flush. Steve’s promotion to bird colonel would be as temporary as his assignment, but maybe the opportunity to wear a full colonel’s eagles would bring Steve to his senses. Simon was banking that once Steve had a taste of them, he’d want those eagles permanently. That meant war college, and once Steve got past that hurtle, Simon was confident that there’d be a general officer’s stars in his future.

  Major General Howard Simon was retiring, but he intended to leave two things in his stead: his aviation collection to the Air Force Museum, and the man he’d chosen to be his protégé—Steven Gold—to the Air Force, itself.

  Simon laughed out loud as he enjoyed his cigar. It was true that Steve was something of a hard case, but like he’d explained to his protégé, the Air Force never backed off just because the job was tough …

  CHAPTER 17

  * * *

  (One)

  Muang Chi, Thailand

  18 July 1966

  Steven Gold arrived at Muang Chi Air Base at 2200 hours on a balmy, rain-swept, summer night. He’d been in Thailand for a little over a month. This was the third stop on his troubleshooting tour.

  The drone of the GAT cargo airplane’s turboprops was still in Steve’s head as he lugged his bags down the transport’s ramp. He was exhausted, and tomorrow was a big day. In the morning he would give his pep talk, and in the afternoon he’d fly his first mission here. A few days from now he’d move on to the next stop on his itinerary…

  There was a fine mist falling as Steve turned up the collar of his trench coat, shouldered his bags, and began to cross the rain-slickened concrete. He heard the roar of auto engines and a horn honkin
g. He turned, shielding his tired eyes from the glaring headlights as a pair of Jeeps came toward him. As the Jeeps pulled up, he saw three pilots in each. By the fog-shrouded glare of overhead arc lamps Steve saw that the driver of the Jeep closest to him was a young black man, wearing pilot’s wings and gold second lieutenant’s bars.

  “Colonel Gold?” the driver asked, saluting.

  Steve grinned. After all those years as a light colonel he still wasn’t used to the fact that he’d come up in the world. No point in getting too used to being a full colonel, however. The promotion was as temporary as this tour of duty.

  “What can I do for you?” Steve said.

  “I’m Lieutenant Lincoln Ritchie, sir. We thought you might like to unwind after your flight. Maybe have a drink, talk about a few things … ?”

  Steve nodded, trying hard to forget how tired he was. What he really wanted to do was hit the sack, but he felt it was part of his assignment to listen to pilots’ complaints, and a lot of guys were more comfortable talking off the record, as opposed to the more formal exchanges that went on in the briefing room.

  “Are the beers cold in your O club, Lieutenant Ritchie?” Steve asked.

  “So cold they serve ‘em on a stick, sir.” Ritchie grinned.

  What the hell, Steve thought resignedly. These guys were going to have to be up just as early as he. If they felt what they had to get off their chests was all that important, he’d hear them out.

  “Tell you what, then, Lieutenant. Give me a lift over to Operations so that I can let them know I’m here, then let’s swing by my trailer so I can drop off my bags. Then we’ll investigate this cold beer situation, firsthand …”

  (TWO)

  The Muang Chi officers’ club was dimly lit, just like every other O club Steve had been in during this stint. Come to think of it, just like every club he’d been in, period.

  He was sitting at a table with the six pilots who’d intercepted him. He was smoking a Pall Mall. A beer, a bowl of pretzels, and a jar of Cheese Whiz—his dinner—was in front of him.