Ten RAF umpires now walked out onto the ramp and dispersed as the four F-15s cranked their engines for a launch. Six minutes later Stonewood was attacked as four thousand awe-struck Yanks straggled outside to watch the “show.” The F-15s slashed down on eight German F-4s that led the attack and treated the spectators to a tight turning engagement over their heads. While the F-15s were occupied, the first two Tornados overflew the flight line at two hundred feet, then dropped down to one hundred to egress the target. In rapid-fire succession sixteen more Luftwaffe and RAF Tornados attacked Stonewood. While the Tornados cleared the base, a series of single U.S. and RAF F-111s attacked.
An evaluator came up to Jack, told him he was dead, then marked a big X on the squadron’s door with chalk.
Suddenly the base was deathly quiet, and the four F-15s started to recover, low on fuel. An umpire surveyed the area. “Quick way to die. Yes?”
At the debrief of the attack in the main hangar a lone RAF officer took the makeshift stage in front of a screen and introduced himself. The first photo on the screen shocked the crowd into silence: it was a picture of a dozen charred bodies in a bombed-out hangar. “This is how this hangar will look in an attack. At 1406 this afternoon this was a functioning base. By 1417 twenty-four aircraft on a mass raid attacked and destroyed Stonewood.”
Against a series of computer enhanced slides of destroyed buildings that bore an uncanny resemblance to their base and scores of dead bodies, the officer tallied their casualties. “We estimate that seventeen hundred of you are wounded, of which three hundred will later die. Eight hundred of you are unharmed, and approximately two thousand are a problem for Graves Registration. You ceased to exist as a base.”
They believed it.
20 April: 1935 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1435 hours, Washington, D.C.
General Cunningham’s aide, Colonel Dick Stevens, reread the secret intelligence report from the CIA that detailed how the French had been given an F-4 by the Iranians and how two Americans had flown it against two of France’s latest Mirages. He drafted a short one-paragraph memo summarizing the report, attached it to the cover and sent it into Sundown’s office. Later that day Cunningham called his aide in. “All right, what happened?”
“Sir, it seems two of our people flew an F-4 against two Mirage 2000s flown by the French test pilot Paul Rainey and a Saudi Prince, one Reza Ibn Abdul Turika.”
“Who were the Americans?”
“Lieutenant Jackson D. Locke, the pilot, and Captain James W. Bryant, the weapons systems officer, both assigned to the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing.” Stevens did not have to tell Cunningham they were also the crew that had shot down the Libyan MiG.
“And the results?”
“Locke chased them out of the area, they never got a shot at the F-4. It ruined a Mirage sale to the Saudis, and the French government is furious. Not much they can do about it…The prince said that the American pilot turned out to be right, although he didn’t elaborate.”
Locke and Bryant…crazy bastards. Now they’d set themselves up for a court-martial because of the unauthorized flight for a foreign government…“You say they defeated the two Mirages?”
“Ate ’em alive, sir.” The aide kept a straight face.
“I’ll be damned.”
Which ended the interview. As Stevens was closing the door he heard an unfamiliar noise in the general’s office. It sounded like a series of sharp grunts and someone pounding on a table, followed by an ungeneral-like “shit hot…”
21 April: 0920 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1020 hours, Mildenhall, England
A copy of the message ordering an investigation into the activities of Jack and Thunder while in France reached Blevins’ desk the next day. He scrutinized the short text, ignoring the detailed intelligence references and which office was tasked with the investigation…Well, well, Muddy Waters’ boys. Got you, you son of a bitch. He hit the intercom button to his aide. “Get me a car, I’m going to Stonewood.”
Blevins ordered his driver to go directly to the 379th when they got to the main gate, then proceeded without advance warning into Fairly’s office, slamming the door behind him.
Shortly, Lieutenant Locke and Captain Bryant were paged to report to the squadron commander’s office. Thunder sensed trouble and wanted to warn Jack. He had been waiting for something like this to happen, not able to believe they were going to get away with their freelance adventure in France. He asked the Duty Officer to call wing headquarters and tell them a general was in the building before he followed Jack into Fairly’s office.
Blevins started slowly, affecting a comradely attitude when he asked for an explanation of how they had come to fly an F-4 for the French. Jack caught Fairly’s near-imperceptible headshake, warning him to remain silent. But the question was exactly the one that Thunder wanted to answer and he started to relate the entire incident in a low and unemotional voice.
“Captain Bryant…” Fairly tried to shut Thunder up, to let him know he shouldn’t talk about an unauthorized flight involving a foreign government. Before he could warn Thunder, Blevins silenced him and told Thunder to continue. After Bryant had finished, Blevins turned to Jack and asked if what the wizzo had said was true. Jack, deciding to back up his backseater, confirmed everything the wizzo had said.
Afterward Blevins sat quietly for a few moments, then nodded, got up to leave and was on his way to the door when Waters came in without knocking. At the sight of his old nemesis, Blevins’ cool began to evaporate. “Colonel, this is an investigation of serious misconduct on the part of your people. I am surprised that you seem to have lost control here,” and then he proceeded, with some obvious relish, to fill in Waters on what he had just heard.
Waters was stunned, as well as furious at Bryant and Locke, two of his favorites. “I would appreciate disciplining my own people,” he began. “And an investigation is always conducted through a wing commander…”
“Waters, I don’t think you’re capable of such an investigation or the necessary disciplining. I don’t need to remind you that you are in my chain of command. Perhaps your problem, and theirs, is that you tend to become confused about that basic fact.”
“Ah, yes. That is a truism,” he smiled, infuriating the general. “But I do have one question, perhaps the most important question about the engagement with the Mirages.” Blevins waited, breathing heavily, his face flushed. Turning to Jack and Thunder, Waters deliberately hardened his voice, “Who won?”
The men could feel Blevins’ rage vibrate through the room as he fought for control of his temper. The general stormed out of the room.
“Well, Jack, you’ve opened the proverbial can of worms this time,” Waters said. “God, don’t you ever stop to think about the consequences of what you do? Don’t answer that; it’s obvious. You’re all stick and balls and no forehead. Okay, for now you two are going to have to sweat it out and let the system work you over. You’re also restricted to base until it’s finished. That’s for your own good. Who knows, you might figure to do a little freelance stint over Moscow…”
Waters turned and left, worried about Jack’s future in the Air Force. Damn it, I need you, he raged to himself. Morgan and C.J. are not enough. Blowing the Mirages away proved how good you are, no matter how dumb it was to fly that engagement. The colonel’s natural optimism broke through his despair over the pilot. I hope what Thunder did will give you a second chance, he thought. By the time he left the squadron, his grin was back in place as he visualized Blevins’ reaction to the news.
Jack and Thunder made a sort of unspoken pact not to hash over what they’d done and to try to make the best of their base confinement. They called Gillian and Francine to meet them at the Officers’ Club, and during dinner Thunder loosed some thunder by announcing that he and Francine were getting married. It wasn’t exactly music to Jack’s ears, inasmuch as he felt even more on the spot about Gillian. When he asked Francine if it wasn’t sort of sudden, she smiled prettily, told him not really,
but after their little vacation in France she thought maybe what Thunder needed was a little settling down. Jack immediately regretted the question, and even more the answer, and tried to change the subject. But no matter what they talked about for die rest of the evening the news hovered like a pall, at least as far as Jack was concerned.
The next evening, missing Gillian, Jack called her, asking her to dinner, and was told that she, all apologies, had another engagement. Another engagement, for Christ’s sake? What was going on?…
What was going on was that Gillian was being instructed by her friend Francine on how to force the issue…
“But it seems childish,” she said to Francine. “I don’t like playing games. Part of the best of what Jack and I have is the honesty between us—”
“Like what happened in Switzerland and France?” said Francine.
“We don’t discuss it…”
“Damn right, you don’t. Because if you did that would probably be it…Look, honey, I agree, games can be foolish, but if they work?…”
Gillian sighed, and decided to go along, or rather hold out, at least for the rest of the week.
The Third Air Force’s Judge Advocate had definite feelings about his coming meeting with General Blevins. Waiting, he again went over the way he was going to present the results of the pre-trial investigation. Impatiently he glanced at the clock, decided to walk over to the general’s office fifteen minutes early.
He found Blevins in his chair, waiting eagerly for the report, but after he got it the color had risen in his face and the judge advocate was afraid the man was going to have a heart attack.
“Do you mean to tell me”—Blevins tried to take a deep breath—“that they are going to get off on account of some damn technicality about evidence?”
Trying to keep his voice under control, the JAG answered: “Yes, sir, it comes down to that, you might say. It would also now be all but impossible to sustain a case against Locke and Bryant with the evidence available to us. It appears that neither the Arab prince nor the French pilot, Paul Rainey, will volunteer to testify at a court-martial, and it would be impossible to compel them to. The bottom line, sir, is that no lawyer would touch this case—”
“Are you positive about the technicality?” Blevins’ voice was subdued.
“Yes, sir, afraid so, sir. When you asked Bryant and Locke for their account of the incident without first reading them their rights against self-incrimination you ended for all practical purposes the chance of bringing them to a court-martial. The law is very clear, sir: because you are in the chain of command of the convening authority for the court-martial, evidence illegally obtained cannot be used…”
“What the hell do you mean illegally? Anyway, I thought that stuff only applied to civilians.”
“Whatever made you think we lost our civil rights because we are in the Air Force? Let me explain further. Both Locke and Bryant acted as subordinate officers in answering your questions. As I understand it, Colonel Fairly tried to keep the men silent, thereby protecting you, but you overrode him. I’m sorry, sir,” he said, suppressing his pleasure, saluted and walked out.
28 April: 1605 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1105 hours, Washington, D.C.
When General Cunningham heard the news about Bryant and Locke getting off, he couldn’t help but be partially pleased, but he was also concerned about their reaction and what the result might mean for the consequent attitude of the men toward military authority, in particular their misunderstanding of just what had and hadn’t happened. He called in his aide Colonel Dick Stevens. Chewing furiously on an unlit cigar, Cunningham said, “Dick, I want you to get the word to Waters and those swingin’ dicks in the 45th—I’m pissed.”
Stevens raised an eyebrow.
“Locke and Bryant figure they’ve beaten the rap, right? That General Blevins is a pompous jerk and they could show him up. Right?”
Stevens said nothing. He knew better.
“Let me tell you something about Blevins. And get this to them. Blevins is a career officer. He’s given his life to the Air Force, to something real corny, like the defense of his country. He isn’t planning to get out next year and work for some damned defense contractor and make a bundle. He isn’t looking for a rich wife or membership in some fancy club or a chance to hit the lecture circuit and clean up at ten thousand a crack. No, he’s just a career officer, a guy who isn’t very popular, who cares a lot and can turn off almost anybody. But you get out this message—I’d rather have one Blevins than a hundred hotshot flyboys who think service is an extended vacation. They may be smarter and prettier and younger, but right now they’re nobody I want to depend on, the way they’re behaving. In fact right now, if I saw one of them, I’d likely throw up. So get that message to them too. Who knows, maybe it might even penetrate their thick heads after a few hundred hours. It better, is all I can say. It damn well better. That’s all.”
When Stevens had left, Cunningham slumped back into his chair and shook his head. He may have laid it on a bit thick, but Dick would get the word out. The more he thought about it, the more Cunningham decided he’d done pretty damned good. Especially since he personally couldn’t stand that pompous son of a bitch Blevins.
2 May: 0800 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0900 hours, Stonewood, England
The men gathered around the flight planning table in Intel’s vault looked up when Jack entered the room. He looked all business as he pulled up a chair and sat at the far end of the table, listening to C.J. Conlan and Morgan and Carroll and Gomez argue about the plan for the wing’s attack on the German base at Ahlhorn. C.J. and Morgan were hassling about whether the Wild Weasels should surge ahead of the main strike force or escort them in. Jack got up and peered over Carroll’s shoulder at the large-scale, detailed map of northern Germany. “It looks like an updated raid on Woensdrecht,” he said, his first words since entering the vault. Waters and the weapons-and-tactics officers from the 377th and 378th had just arrived. Jack picked up the planning map from the table, pinned it on the wall next to a larger map of eastern England, the North Sea, the Netherlands and northern Germany, then overlaid both maps with a large sheet of acetate and picked up a grease pencil.
“What if we run the Ahlhorn attack as an integrated exercise with Ahlhorn, TLP at Jever and the 32nd at Soesterberg…? To hit Ahlhorn, we’ve got to fight our way in and out of Germany. Our opposition will be launching from Jever and Soesterberg. So…I’m proposing we attack all three bases at once in a three-pronged raid. We make them fight for their bases while we sneak our main attack force onto Ahlhorn. We don’t tell them which is our primary target, they’ve got to figure that one out. We’ve got to concentrate our Wild Weasels on the air defenses at Ahlhorn. But I think we can con Jever and Soesterberg into thinking they’re the main target if we send one Weasel on each of those raids to act like…like a red herring, I guess you’d call it.
“Hauling bombs in an attack would cause us fuel problems. We fly a split-mission profile: high altitude-low level-high altitude and hit a tanker on our way in and out. We fly the low level part over land, into and off the target. Regardless of the base we hit it’s minimum time in bad guy land and over target. We’ve got to get them looking where we ain’t.”
He sat down, dropped the grease pencil on the table, and watched.
Waters was obviously pleased, not to mention surprised. He didn’t know Jack had it in him. Or rather wondered if he’d ever get it together. He looked around the hushed room. “Tom, Bull, C.J., what do you think?”
“Should work,” Tom said. “Wish I’d thought of it.” C.J. only nodded and walked up to the wall map, planning his tactics.
Morgan was out of his chair, swinging at his imaginary sparring partner. “I want Soesterberg,” he grunted.
“Good, then let’s do it,” Waters decided. As they walked out of Intel, Waters stopped Jack. “Where did you get the idea for this attack?”
Jack half-smiled. Actually seemed embarrassed. “Believe it o
r not, I read a book, by Liddell Hart, that Thunder gave me while we were sweating out the court-martial. He talked about the indirect approach to strategy. Seemed like a good idea. Still does.”
The two colonels looked at each other and left.
“What a surprise,” Gomez said as they walked down the hall.
“That Jack read a book?” Waters smiled.
“No. Well, he’s changed. Or at least seems to have…I’m worried, though. That mission, too damn many things can go wrong. Think our crews can hack it? We’ll be in deep kimshi with Sundown if we lose another bird.”
Waters only nodded, and Gomez changed the subject. “Any more feedback from the Puzzle Palace or Third Air Force about the fizzle on Jack and Thunder’s court-martial?”
“Only that they lucked out, and got a blivet from Sundown. My guess is that that’s part of Jack’s newfound religion…” And added to himself that Blevins, a canny in-fighter, wasn’t likely to let it go at that…
Chief Pullman took a quick survey of wing headquarters that afternoon, sauntered into the command post and cornered the on-duty controller.
“What combat status we reporting today?”
“A one, Chief. No problems except for night sorties. Not enough of them. The Old Man’s got a waiver and we’re reporting that in the remarks section.”
Satisfied at last that no surprises were waiting for his colonel, Pullman left the command post and headed for the NCO club, where he found the bar nearly deserted. The place didn’t fill up at quitting time as it used to, the bartender told him. Still, fifteen minutes later Chief George Gonzaga, Maintenance’s first shirt, sat down next to Pullman at the bar and ordered a beer. “Didn’t know your stomach let you drink, Mort,” he said.
“It seems to be cooperating these days. How’s things down in the trenches, George?”
“Busy. We’re launching more sorties than ever. Don’t know how much longer the birds can take it.”
The Warbirds Page 24