Jack was already half-sprinting, game leg and all, toward the aircraft bunker, where Bull was with his wingmen, Thunder and Craig, the latter a pilot from the 378th. He slowed, though, when he saw two medics rushing a wounded airman on a stretcher toward an aid station. The man was covered with blood-soaked bandages and leaving a trail of blood. Jack glanced inside a destroyed bunker and saw two body bags lying side by side. He hurried on.
The sun was well clear of the horizon, promising another hot, sweltering day, making Jack glad he had brought two canteens of water. Finding the blast doors of the bunker closed, Jack darted inside the small access door as another artillery barrage ranged over the base. The four men were sitting in a back corner of the bunker with the two crew chiefs, trying to ignore the pounding. Jack sat down and waited. After about fifteen rounds, the shelling stopped. “Just enough to crater the runway and keep us from taking off,” Bull said disgustedly.
“Craig,” Jack said to the big man he was replacing, “Farrell wants you on the next shuttle with him.” The pilot’s eyes went from man to man. When he saw no hint of condemnation he stood up, body aching with fatigue, reached out and touched Thunder’s shoulder, his way of saying thanks for flying with him, pulled himself around, and left.
The phone on the wall rang and Bull picked it up, acknowledged the message and returned to the group. “The Gomers blew that barrage. Range is still too great and lousy spotters. Civil Engineers claim they’ll have five thousand feet of runway open in around fifteen minutes. We’re first up, people. Going after the artillery batteries. Take off to the south, clean the bird up, arm ’em up and swing back around to the north. Go straight for them, ripple off your Snakeyes and escape over land. Keep punching chaff and flares behind you all the way around. Get on the ground quick as you can; get turned and ready to go again.” He stopped and looked at the men. “We’ve only got eighteen operational birds and maybe seven hundred people left to get out. From now on we’re going to keep pounding at them, making them keep their heads down. Okay, let’s do it.”
For the next three hours Jack found himself on the treadmill Bull had briefed. On each launch he would hear Mary Hauser’s cool voice telling them the sky was clear of bandits and then she would fall silent. When he taxied back in, the crew chiefs, refueling tanker and gun-plumbers were ready to turn 512. Thunder would call their mission results in to the command post while Jack post-flighted the aircraft, looking for battle damage. The sorties were averaging less than twelve minutes from the time they taxied out until they were back in the shelter…
After their sixth sortie Bull and Jack had to hold south of the base as the Civil Engineers worked furiously patching holes in the runway with quick-setting cement and aluminum planking. To conserve fuel Bull climbed to eighteen thousand, where they found a C-130 also cutting lazy circles. When Bull called the cargo plane on Guard, asking about their status, a female voice answered, saying that like them the C-130 was holding and waiting for an opportunity to get in.
“I know that voice,” Jack told Thunder.
“Right. Sounds like Toni D’Angelo.” Both men were recalling the scramble a year in the past. Amazing… Jack, Thunder and the Grain King co-pilot together in the same piece of sky again, still involved in the same dirty little war for “allies” you could learn to hate.
Toni’s voice came over the UHF radio now. “Got to go, can’t get in this time. They’re recalling us to try again later, won’t let us hang around long if the runway isn’t open.”
They watched the C-130 head south, and after several minutes the tower told them to think about diverting to Dhahran, that the runway had just taken another barrage and was severely cratered, especially around the arresting cables, which eliminated any chance to take the barriers for a short-field arrestment.
“How much taxiway you got open?” Bull asked, thinking about landing on the wide strip that paralleled the runway. When the tower reported that only the taxiway between the aircraft bunkers was serviceable, Bull told them to clear any vehicles off. Minutes later Bull started his approach onto the narrow lane of concrete that connected the bunkers to the main taxiway, most of which was curved and twisted as it wound between the bunkers, and only on the southern edge did it straighten out for some three thousand feet — barely enough room for a landing rollout. Bull said he would taxi into the first open bunker to give Jack the wing-tip clearance needed on each side of the narrow path. “It will be tight; we can do it.” Bull came down a short final and planted his aircraft hard onto the concrete. The drag-chute was streaming before he slammed his nose gear down and managed to drag his bird to a halt just short of a large crater, then headed into a bunker, nose first, not waiting to be winched in backward.
Sweat rolled off Jack as he made his approach, glad that Bull had cleared out of the way; it was going to be a tight squeeze. He drove his Phantom hard onto the concrete, repeating Bull’s performance. The crew chiefs were winching 512 back into its bunker when Jack saw ten or twelve men pushing Bull’s F-4 out of his bunker so it could be turned around and stuffed in properly. Bull’s mask was pulled away, and he gave them a raised clenched fist.
“Beats diverting to Dhahran,” Jack said, “but I don’t want to do it again.”
In the bunker Jack called Carroll and was told they were down to ten aircraft and still had five hundred people left to get out. He relayed that to Thunder, adding, “The C-130s have only gotten in twice since sunup. Runway should be open in about forty minutes, Bill says, and we’re picking up Broz and Ambler for a threesome. Bill says it’s getting grim in the first-aid bunkers.” The image of the wounded airman on the stretcher forced its way into his mind, and he now understood why the infantry hated artillery… Thirty minutes later the phone rang and the three of them, Jack, Bull and Broz, were scrambled…
Bull’s voice crackled over the UHF as he arced onto the beachhead for their seventh run at it. “Rats Ass Control, two tanks have broken out and are moving south along the coast. Coming your way.” Before Nesbit could acknowledge the warning Bull radioed, “I’m in.” He rolled in ahead of Jack, jinking furiously until his wizzo could lock on the lead tank. Jack saw Bull’s first Maverick streak toward the tank, then after a slight hesitation the second Maverick shot out from under the wing, its smoke trail pointing to the second tank. Bull’s right wing flared… and his F-4 disintegrated before the Mavericks destroyed the tanks. Jack broke off his attack and retreated to safety over the water, looking for Broz. “What got him? I didn’t see a thing, no SAM, no puffs of smoke from the ground, nothing.” Thunder couldn’t help.
What it was, what they missed, was a single round from an obsolete thirty-seven-millimeter Triple A cannon that hit Bull’s right wing. The fuse in the small bullet had detonated its small high-explosive charge inside the right-wing tank. It was enough.
When Thunder pointed out the other F-4 orbiting low over the water Jack keyed his UHF, assuming flight lead, and told Broz to join on him. The young lieutenant whipped his plane around and rolled up on a wing, showing them he was still carrying two Mavericks. “Thunder,” Jack said, “check out that ship at three o’clock.”
Thunder identified it as an Alligator-class landing ship. They circled the Sirri at a respectful distance as it moved in an eastward direction, away from the beachhead.