by Tom Wilson
The F-105's cockpit was armored to protect the pilot from small-arms fire, and the instrumentation was superb. The avionics, indicators, and controls were made for flying fast and sure with only an occasional look inside the cockpit. Controls knobs were sturdy and easily memorized. The primary instruments used vertical tape readouts rather than round dials and could be interpreted at a glance. The radio electronically tuned to frequencies preset before takeoff, so you didn't have to dial in numbers laboriously while you were flying. Air-to-air and air-to-ground radar modes were controlled by finger switches beneath the throttle. Other avionics included a radar altimeter, Doppler navigator, a sophisticated weapons-release system, and a good stability-augmentation system. All were easily monitored and simple to operate. The Thud was forgiving, which meant you could ham-fist it around the sky and make a screwup or two and it wouldn't go bananas on you. The pilots said it was the most honest airplane in the sky, because it wouldn't spook you with adverse yaw and control reversal as some fighters did, and it always warned you before you got into deep trouble.
"She ready to fly?" Bowes asked in his Oklahoma accent. His speech included that curious midwestern mixture of southern y'awl and western yep.
"Yes, sir," answered the crew chief.
Billy took in the flight line's pungent kerosene and hydraulic fluid odors, and the raucous human and mechanical noises. They were the same as he'd smelled and heard at other airfields throughout the four years of his Air Force flying career. He pulled on calfskin driving gloves, which gave him a better feel of the airplane's controls than did the cloth and leather ones they were issued. Billy liked to sense every nuance the bird could pass to him. He was a good pilot and had known it two weeks after reporting for pilot training at Laredo, Texas, as a second lieutenant fresh out of ROTC.
Don't give yourself time to get nervous, he reminded himself. Which was why he was keeping his mind busy with trivial bullshit.
He started his walk-around inspection, the black crew chief following closely behind. They started at the shiny Pitot boom extending from the pointed radome and moved back past the Gatling cannon gunport, walking slower as they looked over the six M-117 750-pound bombs on the multiple-ejector rack hanging beneath the belly. Then all the way back past the aft-air inlets that purged the electronics bays of dangerous gases, and the fuel vent pipe to the shiny petals of the speed-brakes. When closed, the petals covered the eyelet exhaust of the huge J-75 turbojet engine. When you opened them in the air, they blossomed and the aircraft instantly began to slow. Out to the right wing's outboard station, where he examined the ECM jamming pod, then to the inboard station with its 450-gallon fuel tank. Around to the port-side wing, then to the other 450-gallon tank and the lone AIM-9 Sidewinder.
At Takhli they called the load, the centerline 750-pound bombs and inboard fuel tanks, the standard combat configuration. Clean, the F-105 Thunderchief could be flown at more than a thousand knots of airspeed, but the M-series bombs, built for internal carriage by World War II bombers, slowed you down with their high drag and presented bright returns on enemy radar scopes. More aerodynamic bombs, the Mk-series, had been developed for jet fighters. Sleek 500-, 1,000- and 2,000-pounders. But someone up there said they had to carry the old M-series bombs to save taxpayer money since so many had been stockpiled after World War II and Korea, and that they would continue using them until they ran out of the damned things.
He kept his mind preoccupied with thoughts like that, and with double-checking bomb fuze settings and fuze wires, and inspecting for hydraulic and fuel leaks. The Thud looked good. The crew chief had his shit together.
Satisfied with his preflight inspection, Billy returned to the yellow boarding ladder and prepared to mount up. He removed his blue service cap. It was well-worn, as a fighter jock's should be, the cloth stained, the officer's piping frayed, and the silver first lieutenant's bar scratched and dull. He folded it in half, then tucked it into the pocket on the leg of his g-suit and zippered it inside. It's time, he told himself. He hefted the parachute and began to strap it on, more nervous than he'd anticipated.
"How you doin', Bowes?" an unexpected voice sounded from behind him.
Major Lucky Anderson was standing a few feet away peering at Billy, likely checking to see how rattled he was, since this was his first combat mission.
Billy was careful to keep his voice even. "My airplane looks good, Major. Yours?"
Anderson grimaced, but it was difficult to tell if he meant the expression. His features were ill defined, a sheath of thin, transplanted skin stretched over bone and muscle. The nostrils were small, unprotected holes, the lips scarred and misshapen. Beneath his strong chin, the skin of his neck was crinkled, as an old man's might be. Until you were used to it, the sight of Lucky Anderson's face was startling.
That's what a fire could do to you in a fighter . . . if you were fortunate enough to survive being burned by the syrupy, clinging jet petroleum. Billy had met other pilots around the Air Force who'd suffered bad burns like Lucky Anderson's, but very few who'd been able to stay in fighters. Most had been permanently grounded, or at least restricted to flying less demanding birds.
The damage to Lucky Andersons face had been limited to the area unprotected by his helmet and visor, for his short brown hair, brows, and eyelashes were healthy and normal. His mood was best determined by examining the pale-blue eyes, with their innate intelligence and piercing stare.
Except for the face, Lucky Anderson appeared normal. He was tall, with a strong neck, broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and ample muscles of upper arms and thighs bulged under his flying suit. It was obvious he worked to stay in shape.
"Too bad, you having to go to pack six on your first mission," said Anderson in his pleasant voice. "It'd be better if we could get you a few missions down in the lower packs before throwing you into the frying pan."
North Vietnam had been separated into six route packages by the headquarters planners. Route pack one was just north of the demilitarized zone with South Vietnam and was considered a low-threat area because most of the big guns were massed up north. The defenses were said to get tougher as you progressed northward through packs two and then three. Next there was pack four, just south of the badland, and pack five, just west of it. The old-timers said flying in packs four and five could get as hairy and dangerous as you wanted. But it was pack six, the Hanoi-Haiphong area, that had become legendary among Air Force and Navy pilots. It was the most lethal flying area in the world. There, in the broad Red River Valley, were found more hostile surface-to-air missiles, antiaircraft artillery, and interceptors per square mile than anywhere else in the world.
"I'm a quick study," Billy said cockily.
"You just hang on my wing," said Anderson. "We start maneuvering too hard, drop back in trail. Try not to fly directly behind me, or they'll shoot at me and hit you."
Billy kept his face impassive.
Continuing to measure Billy carefully, Anderson stripped the cellophane sheath from a cigar, a fat one shaped like a torpedo, and then mouthed it, not lighting it but savoring the taste. By regulation you couldn't smoke within fifty feet of an aircraft. Lucky Anderson was C-Flight commander, Billy's superior officer and reporting official. He likely followed the rules down to the dotted i's, thought Billy Bowes.
Anderson was about to lead Ford flight, four F-105 fighter-bombers, into aerial combat, and Billy would fly as his wingman. Bowes didn't know Anderson, but he knew his own capability. "I'll be there on your wing, Major," he said confidently, careful to keep his voice free of the irritation he felt, "and you don't have to worry about your six o'clock."
A wingman's primary responsibility was to continuously check the airspace around his leader and make sure no one crept up on them unannounced. His job going to and from the target area would be to stay in position, keep a good lookout, and gain experience.
Anderson pursed his scar-twisted lips thoughtfully, his gaze still squarely on Billy Bowes, then nodded abruptly and
growled, "Engine start in ten minutes." He strode off toward his own aircraft, slowed, and called back over his shoulder, "And get rid of those fucking unauthorized gloves."
Billy burned, first with anger, then with embarrassment as he realized the crew chief had overheard.
"You could do worse than to listen to Major Lucky," said the black sergeant with a measure of respect. "He's got a reputation for knowing what he's talking about."
"Well, you heard the man," Billy barked in a piqued tone. "Let's get the show started." He would make his own judgments about Anderson.
He paused for another judicious moment, then resolutely crawled up the tall ladder, still wearing the driving gloves. He wanted every possible advantage when he flew to pack six, and the gloves just might provide a tiny edge.
1310 Local—Green Anchor Air Refueling Route
Major Lucky Anderson
After takeoff from Takhli, the four-ship strike flight called Ford flew north-northeast on a heading of ten degrees and contacted Brigham. The ground radar gave them vectors toward their assigned KC-135 air refueling tanker, where it orbited in a long racetrack pattern along a route called "green anchor." When they'd approached within a couple miles of the tanker, Lucky throttled back, depressurized his cockpit, ensured that everyone had their weapons' master-arm switches in the SAFE positions, and called "Noses Cold" to the tanker. Then he sucked in 100 percent oxygen as he jockeyed his fighter behind the tanker. The enlisted operator, lying on his belly and clearly visible in his glass cage at the aft of the big tanker, deftly jabbed the nozzle of the telescoping fuel boom into the opened receptacle beside Anderson's cockpit. When the boom's nozzle was latched into place, the operator activated a pump and began to transfer fuel.
Unlike many pilots, Lucky enjoyed aerial refueling. Maneuvering smoothly at the slower limits of flight was a challenge, and there was little about flying he did not savor. After several minutes he finished topping off with the kerosene mixture called JP-4, and the operator disconnected and swung the boom up and away. Lucky moved to his left and watched with a critical eye as Bowes, his newly arrived wingman, maneuvered into position behind the big tanker.
Satisfied the kid was doing okay, he looked upon the larger scene, at the sleek fighters and the silver tanker against the background of white clouds and blue sky. If you flew fighters, you knew there was a God, because your view of the world was so delicately detailed, so spectacularly beautiful, that it could not possibly exist due to the random mistakes attributed by science.
As some men treasured other aspects of life, Paul Anderson loved flying fighters. Each time he retracted the gear and pointed the radome skyward, he experienced a rush and thrill that lingered until long after he'd landed. He enjoyed flying in clear or stormy weather, day or night, over deserts or snowcapped mountains. To him there was nothing to equal the spectacular views of blue skies and cloud-swathed earth, the alternating moments of serenity and exhilaration, of taxing his mental and physical resources to the utmost. To be able to do so in the F-105 was especially pleasing, for he believed the Thud was the ultimate fighter-bomber. To be able to fly the big war steed into combat to do battle with a canny and capable enemy who he felt were bestial assholes especially pleased him.
Other than flying, few pleasures were left to him. There was his physical training, but it was done to condition his body and reflexes, and therefore to enhance his flying skills. There had once been other personal pleasures, but that seemed long ago and in another life. He neither dwelled on the past nor disliked his present life. Flying jets and fighting communists—these were enough for a man who thought of himself as a professional warrior.
In the pursuit of his calling, especially given the ferocity of the present combat, the odds were not good that he would die of old age. Even that factor, of death residing in such proximity, somehow pleased him. He regarded death as not especially chilling, only infinitely final. He was appropriately prudent in his flying—only a fool would do otherwise in a high performance jet—yet there were worse ways to go than in a sudden, fiery crash.
Lucky considered himself to be a good military officer, but the other duties of a major in the Air Force paled when compared to the flying. The fact that he was a field-grade officer did not impress him, for he despised the accompanying bureaucratic paperwork and silly protocol. He believed heartily in what Manfred von Richthofen had once said, that the fighter pilot's job was to fly and to fight, and all else was rubbish. Except to improve their flying skills, he did not enjoy leading the men assigned under him. If someone ruled that only sergeants were to fly fighters, he would give up his major's leaves in an instant. But since he'd been appointed as a leader of men, he would lead them to the best of his ability.
Lucky enjoyed the camaraderie of his fellow pilots at the O' Club bar, but voluntary socializing ended there. In peacetime he'd tried to avoid all social functions . . . dinings in, hail-and-farewell dinners, change-of-command ceremonies, squadron parties, and such. Those demanded by military protocol he'd attended, but he d left as early as possible without unduly offending his hosts or the attending brass. Some military men and most civilians felt uneasy around Lucky Anderson because of his disfigured face, which was just as well, for it made it that much easier to maintain his privacy. At Takhli their pitifully few social functions featured discussions of flying and fighting, subjects that pervaded the minds of combat pilots, and these he attended. There were no American females assigned at Takhli, for there was a shortage of adequate quarters and sanitary facilities, and Lucky was pleased with that. For the past eight years women had been repelled by his burned face.
Ford two was doing well with his refueling. Lieutenant Bowes maintained a steady position in the center of the boom's reach, easily matching the wallowing motion of the tanker. The boom operator signaled that the refueling was completed, disconnected with a spray of fuel from the boom, and Billy Bowes smoothly slid back and crossed over to Anderson's wing. He'd made a good first impression. Lucky hoped he would prove as steady when they got to pack six and the test of combat.
It was Ford three's turn, and Lucky had no worries there. Turk Tatro was a capable and likable captain in Lucky's C-Flight, a southerner with a quick wit and slow speech. He easily moved his fighter into position and began to take on fuel.
High on the tail of each bird of the four-ship flight were the large white block letters RM, topped by a wide band of bright blue paint, showing they came from the 354th Tactical Fighter Squadron. They called themselves the Fighting Bulldogs, and their squadron emblem showed a tough English bull defending the Statue of Liberty. The pilots were dedicated to flying, and the crew chiefs of the 354th were a hardworking group who maintained their birds with pride. It was a good squadron, thought Lucky. They'd taken too many losses during the past few months, lost too many good pilots, but that was because they'd given the North Vietnamese hell.
The previous month they had methodically leveled the big steel mill at Thai Nguyen, thirty-five miles north of Hanoi, while the North Vietnamese had furiously protected it with every resource they could muster. The 354th, along with the other two fighter squadrons in the wing and the pilots at their sister wing at Korat Air Base, had kept bombing relentlessly, day after day, until the steel mill, as well as the enemy defenses there, had been beaten to pieces. It was still tough, flying to pack six, but they'd instilled a measure of respect and caution in the gomers and were confident that they could destroy any target, regardless of the sophistication of the enemy's defenses. With the showdown at Thai Nguyen behind them, they now knuckled down to the tasks of slowing the flow of supplies and generally making life miserable for the North Vietnamese. Most of the pilots felt they'd entered a tedious home stretch of the air war.
Today's mission was against the Hanoi thermal-power plant, just north of the capital city. Not a great, war-stopping target, but its destruction would make the Hanoi leaders' lives less tolerable, and that was part of their objective. It was certainly better than some
of the targets, like bombing a canopy of treetops under which intell thought might be located a truck park.
The big efforts like this were called alpha strikes and featured a composite force. First to arrive at the target would be a flight of fighters led by SAM-hunters, two-man crews flying dual-seat Thuds called Wild Weasels, who threatened and thus preoccupied the gomer SAM sites during the strike. Overhead, flying much higher than the Thuds, was a flight of F-4 Phantoms from Ubon Air Base, to engage any MiGs they found there. Next would come the flak-suppression flight, carrying cluster bombs to drop on antiaircraft guns, which the enemy massed about every potential target in pack six. Then the main players, six four-ship flights of Thuds, would dive-bomb the target. Lucky Anderson's Ford flight would be the first strike flight on the target.
The strike force would fight their way through the MiGs, SAMs, and flak to bomb the power plant. Considering the proximity of today's target to the thick defenses surrounding Hanoi, there was a probability they would lose an aircraft or two. Lucky hoped the losses would not be from his flight.
Ford four, a new lieutenant named Francis, was finishing with his refueling. Twice during the fuel transfer he'd gone into an up-and-down roller coaster, and the boom operator had been forced to disconnect quickly and stop refueling until he settled down. Anderson penciled a note on his flight plan card to work with Francis on his refueling technique.