As the Hawkeye banked, its rotodome a golden disc in the fading sunlight, another AWAC, its green-jerseyed catapult crew sliding under and attaching the restraining and launch bridle forward and aft of the fuselage before scrambling away, readied for takeoff as more AWACS bunched up behind it, the control tower unforgiving in its insistence that at least three launches’ lead time had to be maintained. The unlettered green jerseys of the specialist technicians or “troubleshooters” could be seen nearby through the quivering heat curtain in the event that any of the plane’s electronic components suddenly needed replacing by slide-in, slide-out “black box” units.
The carrier’s commander, seeing the fighter was ready and receiving confirmation of no obstacles on deck, signaled, “Clear deck.”
“Landing light is red, sir,” repeated the executive officer in the tower.
“Very well. Turning takeoff to green,” said the captain, pushing the button for the harsh, metallic “tweedle” sound warning.
“Takeoff is green, Captain.”
“Very well.” Now the captain pushed the backup “horn,” whose sound was so powerful, it blasted its way through the line of roaring, waiting AWACs, above the whining elevator bringing up more planes, and could even be heard by the five-man crew of the orange-silver rescue helo.
The rotodome of the Hawkeye about to be launched was a platinum disc under a partially cloudy sky. Its pilot showed two fingers, signaling he was approaching full power; the propellers made of fiberglass to protect the plane’s radar from metallic-induced Doppler effect were now two black blurs. The pilot, his cockpit already splattered with sea spray, saw the yellow-clad catapult officer’s knee drop, left hand tucked close in behind and against his back, right leg low, right arm thrust forward and seaward. The catapult shooter pressed the button, and one deck below, the controller let her go, the force of the release throwing the plane aloft and leaving a long trail of steam rolling back over the carrier’s deck. The Hawkeye’s pilot was already flying his zigzag pattern at low level to prevent any enemy AWACs detecting his takeoff and thereby pinpointing the carrier’s position.
Down in the pilot’s ready room, the TV monitors were giving the pilots of the Tomcats up-to-the-minute weather information for the first of the patrols that would begin to clear the corridor for General Freeman’s three-pronged attack to be launched from the Saipan and other LPHs — Landing Platform Helicopters — in Salt Lake City’s battle group.
“Why the hell don’t they just bomb the shit out of the supply lines?” asked one of the pilots. “Get some of those B-52s up from Guam. That’ll cut their supply line fast.”
Frank Shirer, one of the F-14 Tomcat leaders, was idly flipping over old magazines, glancing now and then at the monitors. His would be one of the last of the patrols, not due to go out until early next morning before dawn, but often off-duty pilots would sit in on another briefing merely to get the feel of the weather and bone up on any added information that might come in handy. The weather was deteriorating, visibility having dropped from thirty-five to ten miles, heavy cumulus in places, freezing level twenty thousand.
“So why don’t we bomb the crap out of them with the BFUs?” He meant the big fat uglies — the B-52s.
Shirer, twenty-seven but looking older, dropped an old Newsweek, its cover bearing the promise of “New Peace Initiatives in the Middle East,” back into the magazine rack. It struck him as one of the supreme ironies of this war that the Middle East, most volatile area of concern before the war, was not yet involved, at least not directly, as it was generally believed that Israel was doing what it could to help the West. Meanwhile it was surrounded by ever stronger Arab states. Wait until we run out of North Slope oil from the Arctic, thought Shirer, and have to tap the Gulf.
“Hey, Major?” A lieutenant, his Tomcat’s RIO — radar intercept officer — asked him again. “What do you think?”
“Ever heard of the Ho Chi Minh trail?” said Shirer. “We dropped more ordnance on those gooks than we did in all of World War Two.”
The other pilots were now listening attentively. Shirer was held in high respect, for despite his relatively young age, he had been the pilot of one of the three big 430-ton “Doomsday” Boeing 747s on constant alert at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington. It was a Doomsday plane that the president would issue his orders from in the event of a nuclear war. Shirer was called “One-Eyed Jack” aboard the carrier because of the requirement of the Doomsday pilot to wear a patch on his left eye so that in the event of a nuclear flash blinding him, he would still have one good eye to fly by. But at the outbreak of war in Korea, Shirer had immediately requested transfer to a combat wing.
The truth was that Shirer, after the initial excitement and prestige of being “the president’s pilot,” had soon become tired of the routine and disillusioned with what he saw as a role of little more than highly paid chauffeur. At twenty-seven he craved some action, and after a while Washington had just gotten to be too small a town. Everybody there had SEXINT, sex intelligence, on everyone else. Not good for the president’s pilot, and why he was careful to “have it off” away from Gossip City. Trouble was that after more than three nights, the women always started talking about serious “relationships,” especially with the new AIDS strain on the march. Some of them were so businesslike about it. In New York two beauties had asked him to have a blood test — in their presence — to see if he tested positive. One of them even had an over-the-counter test kit ready. Put him right off, especially when he was prepared to take precautions anyhow.
“So what about Ho Chi Minh, Major?”
“Oh — supplies kept coming. Boat, oxen, you name it. Disassembled whole artillery pieces and transported them on bamboo poles. Four guys would carry a wheel for a howitzer. Air force always thinks you can bomb everything into submission. It’s not just the gooks either. More bombs Hitler dropped on London, more the Brits dug in.”
“You saying they don’t make a difference?”
“Not saying that, but bombers are only part of the triad-sea, land, and air. We bombed Ho Chi Minh’s city flat till it was nothing but rubble. They lived underground.”
“You think this Freeman guy’s plan’ll work any better?”
“Don’t know. But on the ground you can see more sometimes. High tech’s good, but hell, you bomb out a bridge, next day they float a pontoon link across right next to the old busted-up one, sink the pontoon a foot or so, and from the air, looks like there’s nothing there. Then they move stuff over at night.”