Phantom Leader Part 26

"No lie, GI. My buddy in Transient Alert told me. Their officer is crewing him personally. Said he's a nice guy but doesn't tip much."

Court switched his radio to Paris Control and checked in.

Paris, a radar Control and Reporting Center, confirmed the vector and alt.i.tude.

Court settled back in his c.o.c.kpit. The glow of the backlight from his gages was comforting, almost cozy. His alt.i.tude, heading, and flight att.i.tude were precisely pegged as he climbed. From time to time Paris vectored him around thunderstorms building in the early-morning air. He countered the moderate turbulence with control movements that were smooth and all but imperceptible. As they cruised through the black clouds, Court reviewed the Skyspot procedures in his mind. Soon he would be in contact with a disembodied voice that would give him a precise alt.i.tude, heading, and airspeed to fly. Then the voice would count down to give a release signal to the receiving pilot exactly when to drop his bombs.

When firepower was needed in the daylight or at night, but the weather was rotten and down to the deck, properly equipped airplanes could drop bombs by radar vectors from a ground station. Former SAC MSQ-77 radar bomb-scoring units were set up in vans at secure sites to track airplanes containing the special beacons. The Mis-que operator would key into his computer fixed information such as target distance and direction from his site, and height above sea level, along with the bomb types for which the computer already knew the aerodynamics and drop rate. Then the operator would add the weather variables: temperature aloft, air density, high and low winds. The computer would then give out a range of aircraft headings, alt.i.tudes, and airspeeds to complete the bombing equation.

The Mis-que operator would have the ground target fixed on his radar screen. He would "paint" the incoming aircraft blip with sharp resolution on his radar screen by receiving a sharp pulse of energy from the beacon mounted in the aircraft. The F-4s had been recently equipped with these beacons and so were able to fly the mission, called Skyspot, as necessary. The missions were always over or in clouds, so the pilots never saw what they were attacking. They were dull and boring. The pilots called the mission Skydump or Skypuke.

"How's it going back there?" he asked Mac Dieter.

"As well as could be expected under the circ.u.mstances."

"You mean you don't like the pit?"

"I mean I hate this f.u.c.king place. What pilot in his right mind wants to fly back here?"

"Not many. Just good navs."

"How come you're still flying, Court? Back at SOS I thought you were just a short-timer. Thought you'd be out of the Air Force by now."

Court chuckled. "Maybe back at SOS I was a short-timer.

Now I've grown to like the job. Short hours, high pay. All that."

"You still married to ... what was her name? I see her on the Bob Hope show."

"Charmaine. No, we were divorced a couple years ago.

She wanted a career and so did U'

"Tough about you not getting that fifth MiG."

"Yeah." Court didn't elaborate, and they fell silent as the big plane climbed through the thick night clouds. Each could hear the other breathe over the open microphones in their oxygen masks.

Soon they could see sporadic glows of cloud-to-cloud lightning. The turbulence was increasing. When he reached 27,000 feet, Court eased the throttle back to the cruise RPM of 92 percent. Court radioed Paris he was level. Paris told Court to contact Tepee on 280.1.

"Tepee, Skyspot Tango, how do you read?"

"Loud and clear, Tango. Steer 360."

"Roger. Steering 360. You ready to copy my lineup?"

"Affirmative. Go ahead, Tango."

"Skyspot Tango is one Fox Four, mission number 3-0069.

We are carrying sixteen Mark-82 500-pounders with quarter-second fuzes."

The Mark-82s were slicks. No point in carrying the high-drag Snakeyes on a high-alt.i.tude drop.

"I copy, Tango. Turn left 255. Descent to flight 170.

You're eight minutes from drop. Nice to have an airplane that can carry a few bombs."

Inside his c.o.c.kpit, Court had turned his thunderstorm lights up full to counter the lightning flashes. The turbulence was ragged and jolting.

"Tepee," he said, "make sure you're not vectoring us into a thunderstorm. If this weather gets worse, we'll have to abort the run.

What's the target tonight? A suspected VC vegetable garden?" Court knew from the vectors and from where his Tacan needle was pointing he was over the western side of II Corps.

"Negative, Skyspot. Wish it were. An Army firebase, I can't tell you which one in the clear, is in bad trouble. So much so, we've got clearance from double-A GS to Skydump within two klicks." AAGS was the Army Air Ground System.

There would be no weather aborting tonight. The target was critical.

Court checked his fuel. No problem there. They had been airborne forty-five minutes and his center tank was just feeding out.

"Skyspot, steer 351, hold her level 170, 310 knots indicated."

Court did as he was told. It was imperative to have everything precise.

Variation of one degree in heading, a few feet in alt.i.tude, or a couple knots of airspeed could dump the bombs in the laps of the friendlies.

Because Skyspot relied so heavily on human skill but without visual contact, it ordinarily was not used for close troop support. Close being anything within ten kilometers.

" Skyspot, steer 350." Just as Court complied, Tepee transmitted again.

"Skyspot, steer 349." He led Court down the centerline with great exact.i.tude and steadiness; he even used halfdegree corrections at the end.

"Skyspot, Tepee counting down in five seconds."

Roger," Court answered.

"Skyspot, counting down now. Five ... four ... three ... two ... one DROP, DROP, DROP." Court pickled and sixteen bombs carrying four tons of explosives gracefully fell away to begin the three-mile curving are wherein they would accelerate to over 300 miles per hour and impact in a spread no bigger than a football field.

Twenty-eight seconds later the GIs crouched in rain-filled foxholes at Firebase Sally were jolted and their ears rang in the soggy and oppressive night air as blast and concussion 600 meters down the hill blew thirty-eight hard-core NVA soldiers into shredded statistics. The moans of the wounded were absorbed by the incessant drumming of the rain on the jungle foliage.

"Close," the ground commander, a fuzzy-faced lieutenant barely six months from OCS, said on the p.r.i.c.k-25 to his company commander. "Very close. About six hundred meters to the south. Keep 'em coming."

Court heard and felt through the aluminum and sinew of his airplane the chunking sounds as the ejector cartridges in the pylons rippled the bombs away from under the wings. He gave a little forward stick as his airplane, suddenly released of,8,000 pounds, wanted to spring upward.

'Turn port one seven zero degrees, Skyspot. Contact Paris Control."

Court began his port turn to head back to III Corps and the base at Tan Son Nhut.

The turbulence had lessened since they turned south.

Court wriggled and surged against his harness to relieve the stiffness and the restricted blood flow caused by the straps.

He took several deep breaths.

To the east, out over the South China Sea, the sun had se fortunate to be flying risen enough to create dawn for tho five miles or more above the earth. Court never ceased to marvel at the unblemished view of a sunrise or sunset from alt.i.tude. The cloud layer, barely a thousand feet under them, took on definition as the sunlight increased. It became a white field patterned with snow-covered tree undulations broken by billowy mountains honeycombed with smooth halls and giant caverns that soared thousands of feet upward. The scene was hypnotic and irresistible.

"Ready for a little fun and games?" he asked Dieter.

"You bet, as long as you let me fly."

"You got it," Court said, and waggled the stick. Dieter waggled back to prove he had control.

With great ease Dieter soared and rolled into the caverns, arrowed down the long white halls, and eased back on the stick to soar a mile straight up. Then, just short of a stall, he pulled the Phantom over the top of a huge Matterhorn of a birthing thunderstorm. While still inverted, they arced over a dome of a thunderstorm now smooth and round and dying Of old age. They flew through adjoining vaulted rooms and billowy corridors. The plane soared with grace like a hawk soaring over and around and through snow-covered mountain caverns, through pa.s.ses and below precipices of whipped cream. A voice in their headsets broke the reverie.

"Skyspot Tango, Paris. You're seventy-five miles out.

You may start your enroute descent anytime." They were back to straight and level flight at 270.

"Pull it back to eighty-two, Mac," Court said, meaning he wanted their throttles at 82 percent of maximum power. This RPM would ensure maximum distance attained while burning minimum fuel as they started down, losing alt.i.tude at a thousand feet per minute. Immediately as they entered the clouds, the world turned jolting and dark. A few minutes later Paris Control gave some more instructions.

"Skyspot, you are thirty miles out. Contact Tan Son Nhut Approach on 342.9." Court made contact with Tan Son Nhut Approach Control, who responded.

"Skyspot Tango, this is Tan Son Nhut Approach.

Squawk 62 for positive radar identification."

"Squawking 62," Court told Tan Son Nhut Approach. He made the radio calls while Dieter flew the airplane.

"Skyspot Tango, I have positive identification. Turn left to heading 155. You are now twenty-five miles north of Tan Son Nhut."

In less than ten minutes they were under GCA control.

They were at 1,500 feet and the weather was still as thick as old milk, "Skyspot Tango, turn starboard now to 270 degrees, descend to 1,000 feet, stand by to lower your landing gear in one mile."

"Okay, Court," Dieter said from the rear c.o.c.kpit, "you can have it back."

"You can keep flying if you want."

"Nah, you got it, I've flown every d.a.m.n approach here for months and I want to see someone else sweat one out for a change."

Court waggled the stick. "I've got it."

The GCA controller spoke' again. "Skyspot Tango, lower landing gear ...

now. Start normal rate of descent . . . now."

Court reached with his left hand to the instrument panel, moved the gear selector handle down, then moved his hand back to the flap lever located outboard of the throttle and pulled the lever back. His gear and flaps lowered at the same time as he made the control and throttle adjustments to compensate for the added drag. Court never took his eyes off his instruments. He made his movements by touch alone.

"You are on glide slope, you are on glide path," GCA said. "Turn right heading 278, maintain rate of descent. You need not acknowledge further transmissions." GCA released his microphone key for an instant in case Court had a transmission, then continued his patter, bringing the Phantom to the threshold of the runway. The plane was crabbed 5 degrees to the right to compensate for the crosswind. Court had to straighten it out and lower his right wing into the wind so as to not drift off the left side of the runway.

Immediately after touchdown Court pulled his drag chute, decelerated rapidly, and abruptly had to fight to keep control as the chute deployed from its storage position in the tail of the airplane. The violent crosswind into the chute pushed it downwind, tugging at the tail of Court's F-4, causing the nose to want to weathervane into the wind and run him off the right side of the runway. Court slammed the stick forward, ensuring solid contact between his nose-wheel and the runway, and he pushed the b.u.t.ton on the control stick to engage the nose-wheel steering mechanism. He quickly slammed pressure to the left rudder pedal and barely avoided running off the runway into the rain-filled drainage ditch. He pulled up his flaps to put more weight on his wheels at the higher speeds. As he slowed below 100 knots, he began to gradually feel out his brakes. Even though the wheels had antiskid brakes they could still hydroplane over the water, causing him to lose control as much as if he were on a sheet of ice. Holding left rudder while tapping the left brake with his toe, Court held the control stick forward and to the right to counteract the crosswind. In this cross-controlled position he slowed so much he had to add power to get to the end of the runway and turn off into the de-arming area. He thanked GCA for a greatJob. Under the direction of the de-arming crew, he braked to a stop. His body was tingling from the adrenaline flow brought on by his sudden fight to stay on the runway.

He heard a faint cough from the backseat. Then Dieter spoke. "You don't really believe I'd rather do this with you in an F-4 than fly solo in an F-100, do you?"

0930 HOURS LOCAL, FRIDAY 2 FEBRUARY 1968.

OFFICE of THE a.s.swwn SECRETARY Of THE ARMY Room 2ES94, PENTAGON WAs.h.i.+NGTON, D.C.

E. Hayworth Pulmer, the Princ.i.p.al Deputy a.s.sistant Secretary of the Army for Manpower and Reserve Affairs (PDASM&RA), had two men from the Audiovisual section set up the big l6nim camera and show the copy of the now famous Hermns film in his office. Present at the private viewing was a colonel from the office of Army Public Affairs and a civilian GS-13 from the Office of the Judge Advocate General of the Army.

"It's a clear, open-and-shut case, gentlemen," said E. Hayworth Puliner, "and we want action." He had the film of Wolf Lochert killing Huey Dan and throwing his body into a tree run three times, twice in slow motion.

E. Hayworth Pulmer leaned forward as he watched the film. His eyes glistened, and he slowly ran his tongue over his lips. He was fascinated. He was a man who hadn't quite made it all the way through Yale. He had transferred to Columbia and obtained his business degree after five years of diligent study.

He was known as Pinky Pulmer because of his habit of extending his little finger when he raised cup or gla.s.s to his lips. He did not enjoy being called Pinky. Nor did he enjoy being called Ed or Eddie, from his first name of Edward. He did enjoy being called Mister Secretary, which he was not ent.i.tled to. In his early forties, Pulmer was thin, pale, balding, and convinced he knew what was good for the United States Army.

He wore a gray pin-striped three-piece suit with school tie. The only uniform he had ever worn was in the Junior ROTC at the high school he had attended twenty-five years before. He had received his appointed position in the Pentagon from a late-night vote concession between the more moderate Eastern Democrats and the liberal California contingent.

The concession involved getting his opposite number (a contractor) on an urban housing committee.

"Report, please, the latest status of the case. Report,'

Pulrner said. He pointed to the colonel from Public Affairs.

"You first." Three days ago Pinky Pulmer had started the action he hoped would lead to the court-martial of Lieutenant Colonel Wolfgang Lochert after Pulmer had received a telephone call from his patron, Congressman Oscar Nebals from California.

The Public Affairs man, a bulky colonel, cleared his throat. "We have been deluged with letters and telegrams about what has come to be known as the Lochert Atrocity.

They run about ten to one against him. Several organizations and individuals are collecting signatures to send to their congressmen demanding Lochert be imprisoned."

"What organizations?" Pinky Puliner demanded.

"The Women's Strike for Peace, National Mobilization to End the War in Vietnam, Youth International Program, Students for a Democratic Society, and some individuals.

All of these people have been to Hanoi."

"Like who?"

He read from a list. "Mary McCarthy, Cora Weiss, Professor Richard Falk of Princeton University, Reverend William Sloan Coffin, David Dellinger, Thomas Hayden, to name a few."

Pinky Pulmer chewed his lip. "d.a.m.n it, none of these are impressive enough. What about Spock and Fulbright? Can't you contact them?"

The bulky colonel from Public Affairs shrugged helplessly. "Mister Pulmer, that's all I have to report. As much as I agree that Lochert's actions may have caused serious damage to the United States Army, there is simply no way I can contact civilians to elicit comments, unfavorable or otherwise, about him."

"Further," the GS-13 from the JAG office said, "the slightest hint of command influence and the case would never make it to trial."

"All right, all right. Just give me your report," Pulmer said to the civilian. "Save your negative att.i.tude for another time."

"The only item I have to report is that the Article 32 investigation is under way."