“So what’s his problem?”
“He’s a skirt-chaser, a womanizer of the first order. Hell, he’d screw a snake. In fact he’d screw a woodpile if he thought a snake was in it. And drink? Only Drunkin’ Dunkin can match him.”
“Then why keep Dunkin on your crew?”
“Best nav in the Air Force.”
“Okay, Beasely is a great pilot. We keep him. I plan to use his AC-130 as an airborne command-and-control platform and put General Mado and Thunder on board.” Mallard shook his head at this. “Is that a problem?” Stansell asked.
“Colonel, I’m just trying to give you the whole picture. The Beezer has absolutely no respect for what they call duly constituted authority.” Stansell didn’t blink. “Oh, hell, let’s keep him, he’s the most likable S.O.B. you’ll ever meet. He’ll fit right into this collection of misfits.”
CHAPTER 21
Doc Landis could hear the guard snoring. Old habits had reestablished themselves and the guard had slipped into a light sleep in the early morning hours. “Mary, talk to me,” he whispered under the door, his cheek against the damp concrete. Somewhere in the dark he heard the scurry of a rat. “Mary?”
“I need help, doc.” The words were faint. “It was awful, the worst it’s been … I’m still bleeding. Oh God, they even had a VCR, filmed it. Made me watch it. I don’t know how much longer …”
“Mary, how much have you told him?”
“Nothing. Yet.”
“Start talking some next time. Don’t let them get to the beating stage. Feed them a little at a time. Try to trade a few words for some relief. See if they’ll let me treat you.”
“But—”
“No buts. Do it.”
Crew Chief Staff Sergeant Raymond Byers jerked the chocks from around the main gear, freeing his jet for flight. He motioned the pilot to taxi forward and stop. He darted under the wings and ran his hands over the tires, making sure they were clean and uncut. His knowing eyes swept over his F-15, giving it one last check. Baby was ready. He ran out front, to the pilot’s left, gave him a thumbs-up, and with a backward wave motioned for him to taxi out into the stream of aircraft moving down the taxipath.
Grudgingly he admitted that the jet of his old partner, Tim Wehr, looked as good as his, and Timmy had launched his F-15 just as quick. They had had the two best jets in the wing at Holloman. “Yo, Timmy,” he called across the ramp, “looking good. Our drivers will beat the shit out of those assholes from Luke.”
Timmy joined him as they walked in. “Did you see Cap’n Locke? He was in that E model that taxied out. What d’you think Stansell will say when he sees us here?”
“Who gives a rat’s ass?”
Locke watched the four F-15s from Luke fly a low level combat air patrol for the string of C-130s working their way along a low-level route through the heart of central Nevada. His WSO, Ambler Furry, kept up a running commentary from the pit, the backseat of the Eagle.
“The C-130s are right on course,” Furry told him. “The lead C-130 looks like he’s flying a precision approach the way he keeps on track.”
“That’s Drunkin Dunkin on Mallard’s crew. He’s the navigator I told you about.” Locke was trailing behind the package, evaluating the F-15s and C-130s on their first integrated flight. He kept watching for the flight of four Holloman F-15s that were supposed to intercept them somewhere en route to the target.
“I got ‘em on the TEWs,” Furry said. “Nine o’clock on us.”
Locke pointed the nose of his jet toward the threat. His APG-70 radar system found the four Holloman Eagles on the first sweep. The radio came alive with chatter as Snake Houserman called his F-15s onto the Holloman birds. The four Eagles surged up and away from the C-130s, leaving them naked.
Locke was raging. “Snake knows better. The LOCAP was supposed to maintain radio silence and stay with the C-130s until Holloman found them and got a visual. Holloman was briefed to act like Iranians and not use their look-down capability to find us at low level.”
“Yeah,” Furry said, “well, Holloman sure forgot about that. The 49th was using everything they had to find us. Look at that, they’re really mixing it up now.” Furry watched the eight F-15s come together in the merge.
“We’ll stay with the C-130s,” Locke said.
The range controller in the mobile trailer that served as the range-control tower keyed his mike, “Cleared in hot,” he radioed, trying to get a visual on the F-111 that was running in on the tank hulk that was serving as a target.
“There,” Stansell said, pointing to the south. He could see the F-111 hugging the desert floor through the large window of the glass cupola on top of the trailer. “You can see the shock wave,” he said. A visible wave of air was rolling behind the F-111, kicking up a shower of dust and dirt.
“You’re in the green,” the range controller radioed. The F-111 pulled up in a forty-five-degree climb over five miles short of the target, loading the aircraft with four Gs in two seconds. It was a perfect toss.
“Bomb gone.” It was Torch Doucette’s voice.
“No laser guidance on this pass,” the range controller said. “Strictly a radar and computer delivery. The APQ-146 radar in the F-111 F is cosmic, the wizzo shouldn’t have any trouble breaking out the target we’re using today.”
“They can tell the difference between that tank and the building next to it?” Stansell asked, impressed.
“Yeah. He drives the cursor’s over the target, activates the system and the Weapons/Nav Computer and INS do the rest. The inertial nav system feeds winds, groundspeed, drift into the computer as they pull up. The computer knows the ballistics of the weapon they’re using, takes G forces into account and computes a release point thirty-two times a second. When it gets a solution it automatically releases the bomb.” The bomb was still in flight while the range controller talked and tracked the arcing bomb with his binoculars.
A puff of smoke enveloped the tank. “Bull!” the controller radioed.
“Why use laser guidance when they’ve got accuracy like that?” Stansell asked.
“Gives ‘em more flexibility and precision refinement on the target. Also allows the pilot more slop on delivery. When you’re coming in just below the mach and Charlie is throwing everything he’s got at you, you can’t always do a perfect toss like you just saw. Might want to do a laydown, and for sure you’re jinking like hell. For sure …” The controller stared over the desert, remembering a run he had made over Libya in 1986…
The next F-111 checked in. It was Von Drexler. Stansell listened to the radio traffic as the F-111 ran in and pulled up in a toss maneuver. “He’s steeper than Doucette,” the colonel said.
“Sure is.” The controller was shaking his head. “V.D.‘s honking back too hard on the stick — too aggressive and he’s way outside the max release range of the weapon. Way too steep. No way the computer can reach a solution. He’ll go through dry.”
“Off dry,” Von Drexler radioed, “system malfunction.”
“Malfunction, my ass,” the controller said. “He hasn’t changed since I was in the 48th. No hands.”
“I’m not surprised,” Stansell said, wondering what excuse Von Drexler would be using in the mission debrief.
“He’s probably giving his wizzo hell right now,” the controller said. “He don’t give a rat’s ass about droppin’ bombs where they belong just wants to play it safe and look good.”
CHAPTER 22