“Well, boys,” he said. It became perfectly silent. “This is the one we’ve all been waiting for. This should be the biggest one of the war.”
He paused. Cleve could feel his heart beginning to pound. His thoughts leaped sickeningly. The biggest one. A strike against Antung. The fields north of the Yalu. That was the first thing that came to him.
“The joint chiefs in Washington,” Imil continued, “have finally given the green light. Today, we’re going after the dam at Sui Ho.”
There was a hum of recognition. The target was on the Yalu itself.
“That’s the fourth biggest one in the world, with the second greatest output of power,” Imil said. “We haven’t touched it up until now. Too hot, I suppose; but it’s finally been approved. Every fighter-bomber in Fifth Air Force is going up there today, right across the river from the MIGs. They’ll be able to see the smoke from their fields, and they’ll be coming up, too, all of them, to stop us. You can count on that. I don’t have to tell you who’ll be leading them, either. You know as well as I do. He’ll be there. You can bet your life on it. Our job is to get those fighter-bombers in and out, and that’s what we’re going to do. Every ship that can fly is going. Do you have the numbers from the squadrons yet, Monk?”
“Right here.”
“Read them off.”
Moncavage announced the totals for each squadron: twenty-two planes, eighteen, and twenty. He gave a list to one of the operations officers who copied it onto the scheduling board, number by number. Then each squadron supplied the names of the pilots who would go, and they, too, were written down. Cleve watched as the eighteen blanks for his squadron were filled. The squadron commander was leading the first flight, with Pell and Pettibone as his element. Gabriel and three from that flight were next; then the operations officer, Nolan, and three from his old flight. At the very bottom, posted beside the two ships that made up the odd element, Connell and Hunter. It took only a few minutes until the list for the entire group was complete. The takeoff times were being written in.
“All right,” Imil said. “Weather.”
Cleve listened lightly. The words went skimming across his consciousness. He could feel his palms sweating.
“…scattered cumulus,” the weather officer was saying, “with bases at about two thousand and tops five to six thousand. There may be occasional buildups higher than that late in the afternoon. At thirty-five thousand a thin deck of cirrus, nothing more than scattered. Visibility throughout the area, fifteen miles or better.”
He went on to give the winds aloft, the azimuth and elevation of the sun, the condition of the tides, temperatures of the air and water, and finally the runway in use at the time of takeoff.
“What about contrails?” Imil asked.
“I don’t think you’ll see cons today at any altitude.”
“Good,” Imil said. “Now here’s the way we’ll go in.”
He began outlining takeoff times for the flights and squadrons, then the patrol altitudes. He told which of the fighter-bomber groups were going in first, and from what direction. He warned of the many guns, heavy and light, in the target area. They were all marked on the wall behind him.
Cleve jotted notes down on his map. He and Hunter would be the last ones off. That didn’t surprise him. He could feel warm beads running heavily down his back in the hollow between the shoulders and down his calves. It was unbearably hot in the room. They had been there for at least thirty minutes.
“Boys,” Imil was saying, “I kid you not. They’ll be up there today. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were five hundred of them. And they’re going to be after those fighter-bombers down below us. Fine, I say. We’ll be waiting for them.
“You flight leaders! Be aggressive. Don’t waste your time on long shots. Get in close where you won’t miss. And element leaders. I want you covering the flight leader as long as you can. Split up when you have to and not before. You wingmen. You’ve got the toughest job of all. Keep your eyes open. Keep your leader cleared. The air is going to be loaded with ships today, so don’t be calling a break for some goddamned speck five miles behind you. Make sure that they’re MIGs and that it’s time to break. Everybody! Keep off the radio unless you’ve got something important to say. Don’t clutter up the air with long conversations. If you lose each other up there, go to another channel and work it out. Watch your fuel. Don’t stay up there until you’re down to just barely enough to make it home, because if you do and you get bounced on the way back, you’ll never get there. When you’re down to fifteen hundred pounds today, clear out. Don’t make that one last sweep. Get going right then.
“This is one time when there’ll be MIGs enough for everybody. When you see them, go after them; and when you get close, put that pipper on them and keep it there. Hold down that trigger as long as you’re hitting them. I don’t want to hear about any goddamned damages when we come back. I want to hear about kills. Nothing but kills. Remember that.” He paused. “You can take a look around you right now, because there’ll probably be some empty seats here tomorrow. Just make sure it isn’t you.
“All right. Let’s get them!”
They were all on their feet and standing in place while the colonel stepped down from the platform and made his way between them toward the door at the rear of the room. Then came a general foot-shuffling movement as the pilots followed him out, jamming up at the door and waiting until they could funnel through. Cleve stood in the midst of them, carried along by the flow. He glanced at Hunter, who smiled cheerlessly. For some reason that defied isolation, Cleve had the feeling that he had flown this mission already, once before in days long past, and was now about to do it again.
“Feeling lucky, Gabe?” Imil said. He was out in the debriefing room calling to individuals in the crowd moving past him.
Gabriel nodded unthinkingly.
“How about you, Doctor? Are you going to get them?”
“You bet,” Pell said. He held up his small fist.
“That’s the way,” Imil grinned.
He stood there, looking staunch for everybody. He was full of excitement and nervousness himself. Occasionally, he clapped his hand on a passing shoulder.
“This is the one, boy,” he would say.
He turned once, abruptly, and feinted as if to punch Moncavage in the stomach. He laughed.
“What do you say, Monk?”
“I’m ready,” Moncavage said, after having to clear his throat.
“So am I. So am I.”
The locker room was stuffy and filled with flies. It was too early to dress. Cleve had more than an hour to wait. He went outside with Hunter and sat on a bench partially shaded by one of the eaves. It was quiet there. They sat aimlessly, soundless drums beating within them.
“The last damned flight,” Hunter said. “What a place to be on a mission like this. It’ll all be over by the time we get there.”
Cleve did not reply.
“One of your last missions and all, too. I think it’s pretty rotten.”
“So do I.”
“I wish you’d said something.”
“Who to? The chaplain?”
“One of the colonels,” Hunter said. “The major. Anybody.”
Cleve laughed.
“That’s it,” he said, “the true comic touch. I’d be better off praying.”