Pontowski hit the transmit button. “Bag, how did it go last night?” He expected to hear a tale of debauchery and consumption to rival the Saint Helena episode. Whether it was true or not didn’t matter — it was the image that counted.
“Hit the sack early,” Bag replied.
“Hair not on fire?” Pontowski asked.
Another voice answered. “Naw. He burnt it off years ago.”
“Flying for the airlines does that to you,” a second voice said.
The years tame us all, Pontowski thought. Maturity had its own demands, and the airlines paid much better. Like most of the pilots, Bag hadn’t flown an A-10 in over two years. But no fighter jock really wanted to be an airline pilot, and after four flights and hitting the books for a few days, he was back in the groove, more than ready to ferry a Hog across the Pacific. Steamer flight cycled smoothly on and off the boom, proof positive that they hadn’t lost the old skills.
Maggot’s four aircraft, Bruiser flight, were next. “Clear Waldo on first,” Maggot radioed. “Higher fuel consumption.”
Pontowski watched as Waldo moved into the precontact position. “He’s not trimmed up,” the boomer said.
It was true; the A-10 appeared to be in a skid. “Waldo,” Pontowski said over the radio, “say problem.”
“This Hog’s a real pig. It’s out of rig.”
A voice that sounded suspiciously like Bag said, “You pranged it, you fly it.”
Waldo was flying the jet he had dumped on the runway, and the other pilots were not about to let him forget it. “Hey, meathead,” Waldo shot back, “I got it down.”
“One of your better landings,” another pilot observed.
“Landing, hell,” another voice said. “That was supposed to be a touch-and-go.”
Pontowski grinned. Some things never change. There was no doubt in his mind that the AVG was going to do just fine. Thanks for making it happen, Maggot. I can’t do this without you. But who would have ever thought it would be you? How many times had he seen it happen when a young and superb pilot — but all stick and balls, no forehead — matured into a leader men would follow into combat? Was this the same Maggot who bet that he could eat an oyster without its touching his lips or tongue and then won the wager by sniffing the oyster up his nose? Or during a flyby at a football game really took it low, thrilling the crowd? You drove me crazy! How ironic. I did the same to Jack Locke. But when the battle was joined and the odds overwhelming, Maggot was always there, ready to do what he did best — fly and fight. You saved my ass in China, and now I’m going to risk yours. What gives me the right? He would never find a satisfactory answer to that question.
“General Pontowski,” the KC-10 pilot called over the intercom, “we’ve got an incoming for you.” The KC-10 had recently been upgraded with a sophisticated communications suite that not only handled routine radio traffic over a broad bandwidth but also allowed encrypted message traffic, weather reports, and maps to be sent and received through an onboard computer and then printed out.
Pontowski heaved himself from his seat and worked his way forward, past the pallets of cargo and sleeping men. It hadn’t been the pilots who were partying on Guam. He stopped at the galley in the area aft of the flight deck. Rockne was standing by a window deep in thought. “How’s it going, Chief?”
“Problems. I talked to Colonel Clark on the phone while we were at Guam. She’s worried about security when the A-10s land. I’ve only got thirty cops with us. I’ve been promised a mobility team of four flights plus a headquarters element — max of a hundred eighty-nine people — with an officer in charge. But I haven’t got a clue when they’ll arrive.”
Pontowski thought for a moment. “We’ll have to use maintenance troops until they get here.”
Rockne was appalled. “Give a wrench bender a weapon and he’ll shoot his foot off.”
“You’ve got fifty or so bodies on board you can use,” Pontowski told him. “We land in four hours. Make something happen.” Rockne jerked his head yes. It was exactly the type of challenge he loved.
Pontowski went forward to the flight deck, and the copilot handed him the hard copy of the message addressed to him. It was from the NMCC and very short. When the American Volunteer Group crossed 125 degrees east longitude, they were chopped (change in command) to South East Asia Treaty Organization. However, as the commander of the MAAG, Pontowski was to maintain operational control of the aircraft at all times.
He scratched his head. How in the hell am I supposed to make that happen?
Janice Clark was waiting on the parking ramp when Pontowski climbed down from the KC-10. She made a mental note to get boarding stairs; one more item in the long list of what they needed to make the base more efficient. “Missy Colonel,” her driver said, “he is a general.” The man had simply confirmed what she already knew — Pontowski looked like a general. His jungle fatigues fitted his lanky frame perfectly. He jammed a dark green beret with SEAC’s badge over his close-cropped hair as he walked toward her. His slight limp added to the image.
It’s a good thing I’m happily married, Clark thought. She walked out to meet him. Much to her surprise, her driver trailed along. She snapped a salute. “Welcome to Alpha,” she said. Her driver was also trying to salute, his hand against his forehead in the British way, his mouth open.
Pontowski waved a salute back. “Glad to be here.” He checked his watch. “The jets are right behind us. We came on ahead after the last refueling to get the crew chiefs on the ground and let a KC-135 bring them in.” He pointed to the west. “There they are.” A KC-135 flew by at twenty-five hundred feet and turned away, its mission complete. Two miles behind, the first flight of four A-10s flew down final, level at fifteen hundred feet. They smoothly echeloned to the left, each slightly behind the other. Farther to the south, four more A-10s came into view. “Got all twenty,” Pontowski told her.
The three stood there as the flight crossed the approach end of the runway. “In the break…” Pontowski murmured. “Now.” On cue the flight lead pitched out to the right and circled to land. At exactly five-second intervals his flight pitched out in order. Clark glanced at Pontowski and caught the satisfied look on his face as the fighters lowered their gear and flaps to land at three-thousand-foot intervals. It was a classic overhead recovery, the way fighters recovered from combat. She smiled at her driver, who was transfixed by the sight. All around them the ramp was alive with activity, crew chiefs hurrying to marshal their charges in and a crew offloading the KC-10. The first four jets cleared the runway as the second flight of four approached for an overhead recovery.
“What a sight,” Clark said. The third flight came into view. “They do look good.”
“Good enough,” Pontowski allowed. His eyes narrowed in recognition of the first aircraft as it taxied in. That’s Bag. Maggot should have landed first. He shrugged it off. One of Bag’s flights was probably low on fuel, and Maggot had changed the landing order. No big deal.
“It’s too bad no one’s here to see this,” Clark told him. Now the fourth flight was in sight.