The two A-10s cut a lazy racetrack pattern in the sky. Below them, broken clouds stretched to the horizon, with the incredibly green landscape of Malaysia peeking through. Bull Allison, the flight lead, scanned his instrument panel looking for telltale signs of trouble. But his Radar Warning Receiver — RWR for short — was quiet. He keyed his radio and called the ASOC at Segamat. “Hey, Waldo. Make a decision. We haven’t got all day.”
“Stand by one,” Waldo replied.
A bored-sounding voice came over the radio. “Standing by one.” It was Bull’s wingman, Skid Menke. The tone in his voice asked the main question — why were they turning jet fuel into noise? The Warthogs moved farther west and entered another racetrack pattern.
Waldo came on the radio. “Tulsa Flight, I have tasking.”
“Go,” Bull answered, his tone hard and quick.
“Visually recce the bridge complex at Bahau and report. Threat unknown.”
“Can we shoot back?” Bull asked.
Again the standard answer. “Stand by one.” A long pause while the two pilots fumed. “Tulsa Flight, you are cleared to return fire if fired upon.”
“How ’bout that,” Bull mumbled to himself. “Someone made a decision — finally.” He didn’t suffer from that problem and keyed his radio. “Skid, ingress from the west, fly up the river at low level, cross the bridge, and get the hell out of Dodge. Shooter-cover.” He turned to the north and headed for a break in the clouds as Skid fell in a half mile in trail. Bull rolled 135 degrees as he punched into the clouds and headed for the deck. What looked like a nice break in the clouds turned into a sucker hole, and he was back in the clouds. Immediately Bull was back on instruments as he rolled out and shallowed his dive. Then he broke into the open, fifteen hundred feet above the ground. He kept his rate of descent going and checked his six o’clock for his wingman. Skid dropped out of the clouds inverted, his nose buried, but immediately recovered. “What sort of maneuver was that?” Bull asked.
“An inverted rectalitis whifferdill,” Skid answered. “Standard procedure when you follow a blind asshole.”
Bull didn’t answer as he leveled off seventy-five feet above the river and turned to the east. In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of his wingman in his deep five o’clock, exactly where he should be. He firewalled the throttles. Ahead of him he saw a double span of bridges crossing the river. His RWR gear was quiet as he jinked hard, avoiding any ground fire. He might not have been able to see it, but he knew it was there. He rolled left, then right as he approached the bridge, and overflew it at fifty feet. Both bridges were packed with refugees fleeing southward. He saw the muzzle flash of a ZSU-23-4, an old but still-fearsome antiaircraft artillery weapon, or AAA, at the northern end of the highway bridge. The stick shuddered slightly in his hand as a single round hit his left rudder. Fortunately, the twenty-three-millimeter high-explosive shell did not detonate and only punched a hole through the skin.
“I’ve got ’em,” Skid radioed, rolling in on the offending AAA.
“Refugees!” Bull shouted. “Go through dry!” But it was too late. Skid squeezed off a short burst of cannon fire and pulled off to the south. Bull jinked hard to his right in time to see the ZSU-23 disappear in a flash of flames and smoke. He saw bodies falling off the bridge.
“Looks like a pool party to me,” Skid radioed.
“Join up and check my ass,” Bull transmitted, wishing Skid had kept his mouth shut. “I took a hit coming off.”
Skid slipped into a close formation and scanned his flight lead for damage. “You got a hole in your left rudder; otherwise you scan clean.”
“Controllability check okay,” Bull said. “Ground Hog, Tulsa One.”
“Go ahead, Tulsa,” Waldo replied.
“The bridge is packed with bodies. Trip A from northern approach. Engaged and destroyed one ZSU-23. I took a hit and we’re RTB at this time.”
“Say status of the bridge,” Waldo replied.
“The bridge is open, and troops are crossing in number with refugees.”
Pontowski listened as Waldo copied down Bull’s flight rep. “Rog,” Waldo replied, “copied all.” He gave Pontowski a long look. “They may have gotten some refugees.”
One of the Young Turks coughed for attention. “I find no fault here,” he said. “We know the PLA uses civilians as shields.”
I hope the GAO thinks like you do, Pontowski thought, contemplating the upcoming visit from the Government Accounting Office.
“May I suggest,” the same officer said in impeccable English, “that I remain here to train our forward air controllers. I am a pilot and have served as a FAC in the past. That would allow Lieutenant Colonel Walderman to return to his duties with the AVG.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Pontowski said. It was quickly arranged, and he headed for the helicopter for the return flight to Camp Alpha.
Clark’s driver was waiting for Pontowski’s helicopter when it landed at Alpha. “Missy Colonel say you go to command post now,” the driver said. In his world Janice Clark’s word was law, regardless of Pontowski’s rank. He drove at an alarming rate of speed, jamming on the brakes in front of the command post. Pontowski hurried inside, where his small staff was waiting for him. “Okay, folks,” Pontowski said. “What’s going down?”
As Maggot was the wing commander, he answered. “Tulsa One took a single hit in the left rudder, minor damage, and recovered without incident. Aircraft Battle Repair says they’ll have it patched in a couple of hours. Second, Kamigami checked in this morning and has requested resupply.”
“What the hell is he doing out there?” Pontowski asked.
“We’ll have to ask Colonel Sun,” Maggot replied. “Also, we got problems with POL.” POL was petroleum, oil, and lubricants — the lifeblood of the AVG.
Janice Clark stood up. “We’re not able to tank in enough JP-8 overland to maintain our flying schedule and keep a combat reserve. The roads are jammed with refugees fleeing south, and snipers have attacked three trucks. I’m working with SEAC but haven’t come up with a solution.” Like a good staff officer, she had a short-term work-around. “The GAO team is coming in on a KC-10. The aircraft has been directed to wait for the team, and we’re going to download a hundred fifty thousand pounds of jet fuel while it’s on the ground.”
Maggot shrugged. “Makes sense. If it can offload in the air, it can offload on the ground.”
“Can we get a dedicated tanker until the problem’s solved?” Pontowski asked.
“I’ll ask again,” Clark replied. “But SEAC’s having the same problem.”
“Any chance my cops on board that KC-10?” Rockne asked.
Clark shook her head. “The MAAG is working on it, but the Gulf has priority.” She hesitated for a moment. “General Pontowski, without a full complement of security cops, I cannot guarantee air base defense. In fact, with enemy troops reported less than a hundred miles to the north and our overland supply lines to Singapore coming under attack, we need help.” She was a very worried woman.
The sergeant manning the communications cab handed Clark a note. She glanced at it and announced, “The KC-10 is twenty minutes out, VIPs on board.” She hesitated for a moment. “I’ve dealt with the GAO before. I’ve arranged for quarters while they’re here so they can change and discuss whatever they talk about in private.” She pursed her lips tightly. “The last thing we need right now is them breathing down our necks.”
Pontowski stood up. “A GAO team is power unto itself,” he told them. “Tell your people to be polite, answer their questions as simply and truthfully as they can, and do not — I repeat, do not — volunteer any information. It tends to confuse them. Janice, why don’t you and I go howdy the folks?” An idea came to him. “Maybe we can assign your driver to them?”