“Have you called for close air support?” Kamigami asked. The executive officer did not answer. Calling for close air support was too important a decision for a subordinate to make. Damn! Kamigami raged to himself. When are you going to learn? The Chinese don’t do business the way we do. “Please do it now,” he said.
Tuesday, June 18
Nanning, China
“Twelve minutes,” Frank Hester said. “Not bad at all.” The booming thunder of the first flight of Warthogs taking off filled the building near the runway. A sergeant grease-penciled the launch time on the big status board as four more jets taxied out onto the active runway. “If that doesn’t impress old VD,” Hester grinned, “nothing will. Our first birds should be over target in twenty-four minutes.”
The tasking order to fly CAS, close air support, for the NCG had come in from the MAAG on the hour and Pontowski had sent his pilots racing for their waiting Warthogs. The “numbers,” or specific details of mission, were relayed by radio to the pilots once they had cranked engines. Tango Leonard had led the first flight of four onto the runway and started his takeoff roll exactly twelve minutes past the hour while Maggot followed with four more. It was fast and it was effective.
Pontowski stood to leave. “You got the stick here. I’ll lead the next go.”
“Thanks a bunch, Boss,” Hester grumbled. “When do I get a turn?”
“If I read this right,” Pontowski told Hester, “the NCG is going to need beaucoup help. Plan for a max effort. You’ll get your chance before the day’s over.”
When Pontowski finished briefing the three other pilots in his flight, they headed for personal equipment to collect their flying gear. All honored the ritual of a final stop at the only latrine in the building. The last thing a pilot needed was the distraction of a full bladder in the heat of combat. Because Skeeter Ashton was flying on his wing, she had to wait for the latrine to empty. “Squatting is a pain in the ass,” Snake Bartlett called to her when she entered one of the open stalls.
“Not if you do it right,” Skeeter shot back. “Put a door on one of the stalls and it won’t be a problem.”
A good idea, Pontowski thought. But it bothered him that Skeeter was losing her privacy. He made a mental note to talk to Waters about it.
The takeoff and climb out was routine and they flew a box formation to maintain good visual lookout. Damn, Pontowski thought, where are those bandits? We need to be talking to the AWACS. Another mental note. They met Maggot’s flight returning to base. All were still carrying their Mavericks. “Maggot, what happened?” Pontowski radioed.
“The place is a fuckin’ madhouse,” Maggot answered. “Tango was still working the area when we got on station. We were late getting in and only had time to drop our Mark-82s before hitting bingo fuel. We need a FAC for control.”
Pontowski made another note about using forward air controllers. Then he remembered. “Didn’t Hester use to be a FAC?”
“So the man says,” Snake Bartlett answered. “Hester the Molester, they called him.”
“Maggot,” Pontowski transmitted. “When you land, tell Hester to scramble as a FAC.”
“Rog,” Maggot answered. “We didn’t see any bandits in the area. If you run in from the south, you’ll get sun advantage on the Squints.”
The four Warthogs arced around Pingnan to the south. They could see columns of smoke belching above the city and numerous fires along the road to the east. “Folks, this is going to be sporting without a FAC to tell us where the Gomers are.”
“Our side doesn’t have tanks,” Skeeter said.
“Roger that,” he answered. “Skeeter, cover-shooter on the first pass. I’ll keep their heads down. Take your time sorting out the bad guys.” The two Warthogs turned inbound as Snake and his wingman orbited to take spacing. For the next twenty or so minutes, a Warthog would be constantly overhead the target.
A fresh wind knocked the smoke down and rolled it across the ground in heavy waves. As the Warthogs descended through fifteen hundred feet, they were forced to look more obliquely through the smoke, and the tanks they had seen at altitude disappeared. Pontowski leveled off at seven hundred feet. But he was in the smoke and couldn’t find a target. He pulled off dry and broke out on top in time to see Skeeter pull up. No bombs separated from her Warthog either. “Off with a malfunction,” she transmitted.
“Say problem,” Pontowski replied.
“LASTE,” came the answer. “The HUD was flickering.”
Damn, Pontowski thought, that was what got Tango Leonard on the range. “Jettison your bombs on the road,” he ordered. “Hold to the west and contact the AWACS.” The troops are going to give her hell for jettisoning her bombs again, he thought.
“Snake,” Pontowski transmitted, “dogshit vis down low. Forty-five-degree dive bomb.” His grammar was terrible, but the message was very clear to Snake Bartlett and Jake Trisher, Snake’s wingman. The smoke was too heavy to see targets on low-level passes but by dropping from a high-angle dive of forty-five degrees, they could look down through the smoke. The Warthogs climbed to twelve thousand feet.
Pontowski watched as Snake led the attack. From his position to the south, the forty-five-degree pass didn’t look too steep. But from the cockpit, it looked almost straight down. The view from the ground was even more disconcerting. “Jink!” Jake Trisher yelled over the radio. “They’re hosing the shit out’a you!” Pontowski watched as Snake disregarded the warning and pressed the attack. He couldn’t see the ground fire but knew it was there. Six bombs separated cleanly from under Snake’s Warthog and dropped into the smoke.
“SAM!” Pontowski yelled. But it was too late. A small rocket riding a stick of flame reached up out of the smoke and exploded, engulfing Snake’s A-10 as it bottomed out of its dive.
A rush of anger and guilt swept over Pontowski and raked him with iron claws. Then Snake’s Warthog pushed its ugly snout out of the fiery cloud and staggered southward for safety, rapidly losing altitude. As quickly as it came, the raging emotion released its grasp.
“Oooh shit!” Snake shouted over the radio. “She’s comin’ apart.”
Pontowski headed for the stricken Warthog to fly cover. Flames enveloped the rear half of the aircraft as it descended through a thousand feet. “Snake,” he radioed, “eject!” But it was too late. The Warthog broke in half and tumbled forward onto its back. The canopy flew off and the seat came out of the cockpit—headed straight down, less than three hundred feet above the ground. A gut-wrenching pain cut through Pontowski as he watched the rocket on the ACES II ejection seat ignite.
But he hadn’t counted on the magic the engineers at McDonnell Douglas had built into the ACES II. The parachute streamed out and jerked Snake free of the seat. The parachute snapped open as Snake’s feet hit the water. The chute partially collapsed into the river. But a puff of wind caught the canopy and dragged him onto the southern shore, on the opposite side of the river from the main PLA forces. Pontowski made another mental note, about Snake being one lucky SOB. Within moments, Snake was clear of the parachute and talking on the PRC-90, his survival radio. “Head for the road about a mile south,” Pontowski told him. “Try to cross the road and reach the hills on the other side.”
“Moving,” Snake answered. “But some Fuckheads are shootin’ at me.”
“I’ve got them in sight,” Pontowski replied. He rolled in and lined up on the soldiers he could see running toward Snake’s position. “Jake, fall in behind me. Make ‘em keep their heads down.” This time there was no smoke hiding his target and the sight picture was perfect. He walked a long cannon burst through the men. Jake was right behind him. The two Warthogs established a tight orbit over the area, their slow speed allowing them to work close in and maintain visual contact. Any movement on the ground other than Snake’s gained their instant attention. When the downed pilot was well clear of the area, they started dropping bombs.
Skeeter was in radio contact with the wing at Nanning and arranging for
more Warthogs to fly cover for Snake before they ran low on fuel and had to return to base. The frustration building in Pontowski turned to despair as he worked the problem. Snake was in a losing situation. They had no search and rescue helicopters to extract him and they couldn’t fly cover during the night. Once free of the Warthogs, the PLA would have no trouble sweeping the area before sunrise and capturing the downed pilot.
Skeeter Ashton checked in. “I’ve got a visual on Snake,” she told them.
“Say position,” Pontowski answered.
“Holding over the road. No Gomers in sight. I’m going to land on the road and pick him up.”
“Negative,” Pontowski transmitted. “Maintain a low CAP.” Where are those bandits? he thought. So far, he had only lost one A-10 and he didn’t want to risk losing another pilot and aircraft in a foolish attempt to save the downed pilot.
“Jettisoning my Mavericks now,” Skeeter radioed as if she hadn’t heard Pontowski’s last order. She rapid-fired her six Mavericks over the river, striking the north shore. Again, Pontowski ordered her to stay in a CAP above Snake. “Bossman, your transmissions are coming through garbled,” she said. “Turning final.” She lowered her flaps and gear and circled to land on the narrow road. “Say, boys, I would appreciate a little cover.”
Pontowski cursed under his breath as he and Jake headed for the makeshift landing strip. He saw Skeeter touch down on the only straight and clear stretch of road within miles. She rode her brakes and dragged the big jet to a stop. Pontowski wondered if she had enough room to take off straight ahead, because there was no way she could turn around. The canopy raised and he could see her waiting patiently as Snake Bartlett ran for the Warthog. Time slowed and the seconds dragged.
“Bossman,” Jake transmitted, “we got company coming down the road. I’m in.” Jake lined up on two trucks that were speeding down the road, approaching Skeeter’s A-10 from the rear. Jake fired when he was directly overhead her bird. Pontowski was in close trail and fired a burst into the trucks. But soldiers were fanning out from the trucks, still moving toward the waiting Warthog.
He orbited back over Skeeter as Jake made another strafing pass. Bartlett scrambled up the crew boarding ladder and sat on Skeeter’s lap. The canopy came down as the Warthog started to move. Not enough room, not enough airspeed, Pontowski thought, as the A-10 staggered into the air at 110 knots. Then its gear came up as it leveled off at treetop level and accelerated. Suddenly, he realized he hadn’t been breathing and inhaled with a deep feeling of relief. His stomach untwisted as the three Warthogs climbed into the sky and headed back to Nanning.
Jake’s voice came over the radio. “You two look real cozy in there.” Snake’s head was jammed up against the canopy and the top of Skeeter’s helmet was barely visible above the canopy rails as he pressed her back into the seat. The cockpit of the Warthog was definitely not built for two.
“It would be,” Skeeter grunted, “if he wasn’t such a lard ass and hadn’t wet his pants.”
Tango Leonard sank into the big overstuffed chair in the corner of Waters’ office and took a long pull at his cold beer. He had developed a taste for the local brew and it tasted good after flying combat. A feeling of contentment warmed him as he listened to Waters talk to her daughter over the phone. He checked his watch: Eight in the evening in Nanning meant six in the morning in Missouri. At least twenty other pilots had also wakened their families, calling on the new satellite communications system that had been installed that afternoon. “I love you, too,” Waters said as she hung up. The look on her face touched him deeply.
“Where did all this come from?” he asked, gesturing at the new phone.
“The Junkyard Dogs,” Waters answered.
“Where did they get it?”
Waters frowned. “I never ask.” There was no doubt in her mind that the Junkyard Dogs were engaged in serious criminal activity as they created their own supply system. Trucks and aircraft arrived at all hours with everything from dental floss to VCRs to high-output electrical generators. The wing was better-supplied than the MAAG and staff cars from the NCG were constantly parked in front of the Dogs’ compound.
“What’s the Bossman want to see me about?” Leonard asked. He didn’t expect an answer but enjoyed the chance to be around Waters and share her company.
“He didn’t say.” Her smile sent a shiver of hope through the lower regions of his body. Her intercom buzzed and she sent Leonard inside before he could pursue the thought.
Pontowski waved him to a seat near Hester. “We’ve been talking about Skeeter,” he began. “Do we have a problem?”
“Is this about the problem she had with LASTE today?” Leonard asked. Pontowski told him that was part of it. “A few of the hard asses are on her case about it. But hell, how many of the swingin’ dicks around here would have landed like that to snatch Snake out of there? It worked because they’re both squatty bodies. And she’s as good as Maggot with the gun.”
“Maintenance can’t confirm the generator problems she had the other day or duplicate the HUD malfunction today,” Hester grumbled. “Personally, I don’t believe she had radio problems today either. She heard every word the Bossman said.”
“Are you saying she disobeyed a direct order?” Leonard asked. There was no answer.
Pontowski buzzed for Waters to come in and leaned back in his chair. His face was haggard and his eyes bloodshot. The strain from the mission and the long hours were taking a ferocious toll. “Let’s tie up the loose ends so we can get out of here and get some rest.” He ran his list of mental notes. “First, when LASTE works, it is super. But the system needs constant care and attention to keep it peaked and tweaked. Any ideas?”
“Charlie Marchioni,” Leonard replied. He explained how the civilian who worked for the Air Force Material Command at McClellan Air Force Base in Sacramento, California, was considered the expert on LASTE. “He’s an absolute wild man,” Leonard explained. “But he knows LASTE.”
“Ripper, see if we can get him here,” Pontowski said. Waters made a note.
“Second,” Pontowski continued, “General Von Drexler wants to station ten of our A-10s at Guilin. I’m proposing we send sixteen pilots and a group from Maintenance. Two hundred people all together. That’s a good-sized detachment.” He considered the two men in front of him. “Frank, by all rights, you’re in line to be the detachment commander. If you want it, you got it. But I do need your body here. We’re growing like gangbusters and you’re the right man to train our forward air controllers. Your decision.”
“I’d like a shot at training the FACs,” Hester said. “Just call me Hester the Molester.” He grinned. “Besides, I’m getting real good at unscrewing you from the ceiling after a visit by VD.”
“Recommendations for the detachment commander?” Pontowski asked.
Hester didn’t hesitate. “Give the job to Tango here.”
Leonard’s mouth fell open and Waters shot a worried glance at Pontowski. She took notes while the men worked out which pilots would make the move to Guilin. “Third item,” Pontowski said. “The Gomers were up and flying today but never came out of their CAP. We won’t be so lucky next time. We need to be in direct radio contact with the AWACS for early warning.” Hester said he would work the problem.
“Fourth,” Pontowski continued, “without Search and Rescue and Sandies”—Sandy was the call sign for the aircraft dedicated to suppressing enemy ground fire for search and rescue operations—”we’re hanging our jocks out to dry if they’re shot down. Snake was lucky because Skeeter had a mile and a half of straight road for a runway. I don’t want the jocks thinking that’s the standard way to do business.”
Leonard laughed. “We do phone box training in the cockpit and find out who we can stuff in with who. My guess is that we’ll be lucky to find two other jocks who can sit two in a cockpit.”
“Colonel,” Waters said, “we’re flying over friendly territory and might be able to do what the original Flying
Tigers did. They paid a reward to anyone who helped a downed pilot get safely back to base. Let me work the problem with the MAAG. If that fails, I can get the Junkyard Dogs involved.”
“See what you can do,” Pontowski said. “And last but not least, we don’t want to underestimate the PLA. They are one tough bunch and calling them Fuckheads or Squints is an easy way to get caught in a mindset and get blown away. Besides, Squints is too easily applied to a lot of people I like. Encourage the troops to call them Gomers or something like that. But don’t underestimate them. Okay, that’s it. Get some rest.”
When Hester and Leonard left, Waters held back. “Colonel, the sat corn system is up and working. You can be talking to your wife in two minutes.”
“In a moment,” he said. He sank into his chair. “God, I’m tried …” Waters sat down and waited. She knew when her boss wanted to talk. “I froze out there today,” he said. “For a split second, when I thought Snake had bought it, I couldn’t move.” He looked at her. Did she understand?
The memories were painful as Waters recalled a distant conversation with her husband. “Was it guilt or anger?” she asked.
Pontowski closed his eyes. She did understand. “Both,” he answered.
“Muddy talked about it once,” Waters said. Her voice was warm and soothing, the calm after a storm. “Responsibility goes with the job and it hurts when your people are killed. It’s worse when you see it. The anger is natural and the guilt is the price paid to your humanity.”
“For a moment,” Pontowski said, his voice low, almost inaudible, “it consumed me.”
“Colonel, have you seen the sign on Frank Hester’s desk?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Waters had lived with a fighter pilot and knew when to force the truth into the open. “It says it all: ‘Do something—even if it is wrong.’ Hesitation can kill you out there.”
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