“Your people look sharp, Pullman. How do you do it?”
“I don’t. They do it, General. They’re proud of what they did.”
The general shook his head. “I almost destroyed them and they’re proud of it… ”
“They don’t see it that way, sir. You gave them a job to do without starting World War III, and they did it. The fighting has stopped. They’re ready for next time.”
Shaw met them as they entered base Ops saying the fighters were ten minutes out. The three men went out onto the flight line.
“General,” Shaw said, “can we do something more for them?”
“You have something in mind?”
“I was thinking of a memorial… ”
“You mean like the Arizona in Pearl Harbor? Something to remember a defeat? Lest we forget?” Even his own generals did not understand that for the last forty years his Air Force had not won a war. “No. A memorial marks the end to something. This is not over. Death and waste and stupidity don’t need memorials, only memory so we won’t underestimate an enemy again. I don’t know about you, but there’s nothing wrong with my memory. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Will we have a second chance?” Shaw asked.
Cunningham was silent. He was fifty-eight years old, beyond normal retirement age, serving only at the pleasure of the President, who did not seem overly pleased with him. He studied Shaw, trying to fathom what was behind his troubled eyes.
“I was thinking of Waters, the others. Their chances are gone.”
“Yes, and we don’t have many like them left. Waters was a real combat commander. He could lead and people would follow. Do you know how rare that is? I had to tell his wife about his death. It was something I couldn’t let anyone else do. You know, she was more understanding and stronger about it than I was. She said, ‘Anthony understood the risks. He wouldn’t have it any other way.’”
An honor roll of names scrolled through Cunningham’s mind: Fairly, Nelson, Gomez, Conlan, Benton, Luna, D’Angelo, Belfort, Henderson, McCray, Morgan… He felt a deep personal accountability that he couldn’t shove into a bureaucratic niche. Human beings had been killed because of the decisions he had made…
“No, I was wrong,” he said. “They do need a memorial. Maybe not now, but in a few years when time has put this mess in perspective. When we can remember them for who they were and what they did.”
The three men stood there together, silently committed to making it happen.
Jack sharply rocked the wings of his Phantom, signaling his flight to rejoin into close formation. The four jets started to collapse together into finger-tip formation when Jack’s words broke the radio silence. “Echelon right.” Smoothly and with precision the two wingmen on the left joined up and slid under the other three. The four wingmen then stretched out to Jack’s right, each slightly behind the Phantom on his left, their wing tips almost touching.
Without scanning his flight, Jack checked in with Eastern Control. “Eastern, Poppa Kilo with four… ” He stopped. He wasn’t a Poppa Kilo on a routine training mission. Who was he kidding? And why? To appease the politicians? He was a Wolf, leading the 45th.
“Go ahead, Poppa Kilo, you are coming through broken,” Eastern replied, a voice Jack recognized from a long time ago. Now he remembered the face that went with the voice, a warm, humorous man with the deep-seated professionalism characteristic of a British controller.
“Correction, Eastern. This is Wolf Zero-One with four. Request clearance direct to Stonewood for an overhead recovery.”
Inside the control center every controller looked at the man directing the five fighters. They had, of course, heard what had happened to the 45th. They understood the political implications of acknowledging that now famous call sign. It would be one thing for Her Majesty’s government to explain the transit of five fighters under normal operations; it was an entirely different matter giving aid to five of the combatants in a war that was being widely condemned by the opposition party in Parliament. The thought of what the press would do to the RAF was sobering.
The Englishman stood up, nearly at attention. “Roger, Wolf Flight. Cleared direct Stonewood. Descend to sixteen hundred feet at your discretion. I will clear all traffic.”
“Roger, Eastern.” Jack acknowledged the clearance.
“Welcome home, Wolf Flight,” the controller added, looking around the room at the approving faces, and said quietly, “Bloody hell, it might be interesting here tonight.”
The sound of the fighters turning onto final echoed through Gillian’s salon, drowning out conversation. Margaret stopped her work and looked at her employer. “That’s the wing. They’re home. Jack’s with them.” She made it an announcement.
Gillian looked at the older woman, not quite believing her. “How can you be so sure?”
“I just am; he’s a survivor.” Margaret was carefully combing the woman’s hair in front of her, her voice matter-of-fact.
“I don’t know… he’s probably dead like the rest of them. Look at those wives at Stonewood. Hoping and waiting… ”
“Gillian, for God’s sake, go. If he’s there, he’s going to need you.”
Gillian stared at her, tears beginning to form in her eyes. What if Margaret was right? That Jack was back? “Oh, bloody hell,” she said, running out of the salon to find him…
General Cunningham watched the Phantoms’ final turn. He had been briefed that it would be a radar recovery with one aircraft landing at a time and about five minutes apart. But like every flyer on the ramp he knew that Jack was bringing the flight down final for an overhead pattern. Cunningham looked at Brigadier General Shaw, not concerned about the unauthorized change in landing. “You trained most of the crews at Alexandria South.”
“Yes, sir. But Egypt was some time ago.”
“What were they like then?” Cunningham asked.
“Typical fighter jocks, General. Hair on fire, young hell-raisers. That Captain Locke, especially. Got tangled up with the ambassador’s daughter.” Shaw paused, remembering not only Locke but Mike Fairly too…
“A regular skirt-chaser?”
“No, sir. A regular fighter pilot. One of the best.”
Cunningham nodded and watched Jack execute a sharp break to the left as he crossed thirteen hundred feet above the approach end of the runway. Every five seconds a Phantom would peel off to the left, circling onto a short downwind leg, bleeding off airspeed and lowering flaps and gear before circling to land at intervals of two thousand feet. The symmetry and grace of the recovery pattern was testimony to the skill of the pilots. Cunningham knew how battle weary the birds were, and knowing, especially appreciated the precision of the maneuver. He also knew the scars the pilots and WSOs would carry for the rest of their lives.
On downwind Thunder called the landing checks, then added: “Looks like they’ve got a reception committee for us.”
Jack extended his downwind leg, retracted the gear and flaps and held his airspeed. He rolled out on final and stroked the afterburners, accelerating straight ahead.
“Do it,” Thunder said.
“Tower, Wolf Zero-One on the go,” Jack radioed.
“Roger, Wolf Zero-One, report Initial.”
Jack leveled 512 off at a thousand feet and shoved the throttles into full afterburner, touching 450 knots as he passed the tower. He snapped the stick to the right, executing a neat aileron roll. Neither he nor Thunder said a word — the roll itself announced the 45th had returned home. Winners. One after another the warbirds went around, each doing a victory roll as they passed down the runway. The noise was overpowering and constant.