Part 19 (1/2)

”Get your G.o.dd.a.m.n hands off the stick,” he snapped. He held his dive and pickled the second bomb at 5,000 and junked off-target.

”Your first was a little short, Three, but your second was right on,”

Beaver Two Four transmitted.

”Roger,” Court replied in as level a voice as he could summon. Then he spoke to Connert on the intercom.

”What in h.e.l.l you doing back there? You hit the pickle b.u.t.ton, then tried to pull back on the stick.”

”Well, I thought you forgot or were hit or something, so I thought I should do it for you.” Connert's voice was breezy and seemingly unconcerned.

”Christ Almighty!” Court exploded. ”You thought ...

Look, from now on put your hands in your lap and shut up.

I'm going cold mike. I don't want to hear from you unless it's Mayday.”

He snapped off the intercom switch that cut out their open microphones.

Now if either one wanted to talk, he had to press a b.u.t.ton on the throttle. He made the next pa.s.s without hearing from Connert.

”Nice bombs, Silver,” Beaver Two Four said. He led the three airplanes through two more bomb pa.s.ses, then started them in on the low-level CBU and napalm runs. Connert had made no comments from the backseat and Court certainly hadn't asked for any. When Silver flight had exhausted its supply of napalm and CBU, Beaver Two Four had Silver Three One and Three Two make two strafing runs each. Court orbited high and dry, wis.h.i.+ng he had a gun.

Beaver Two Four was ecstatic as Silver flight checked out.

”Great job, guys,” he said, ignoring proper radio procedure. ”The guys on the ground have broken out and are back at the village perimeter.

They thank you much. Right now I have no BDA for you due to smoke and haze. But I'll give you one-hundred-percent ordnance within fifty meters of the target area. Good job. You're cleared off-target. Beaver Two Four out.”

Morelli led the flight to Tan Son Nhut, where they split up and made single-s.h.i.+p GCAs in the worsening weather. After Court taxied in and shut down the engines of the big fighter, he hurriedly unstrapped and, without waiting for the crew chief to put up the ladder, crawled along the canopy rail to the backseat. Connert sat there, helmet on, still strapped in.

Court grabbed his chest strap and shook him.

”Listen, you son of a b.i.t.c.h,” he grated, ”you don't ever release a bomb or take control of an aircraft without instructions from the AC. You get the h.e.l.l out of this c.o.c.kpit and never climb in it again. I will never fly with you again.”

The crew chief lieutenant moved the ladders in place and Court climbed down, Connert hadn't moved. He stared down at Court with wide and guileless eyes and a half-smile on his lips.

Court grabbed his gear and stomped over to the crew van that was waiting with Morelli and Jensen. They had seen the action and heard Court's words. He climbed in.

”Let's go,” he snarled.

”What about Connert?” Morelli asked.

”Let the son of a b.i.t.c.h walk.” The driver let the clutch out and the van moved down the flightline toward the operations building. A light rain dotted the windscreen. Court savagely pulled out his crumpled pack of Luckies and lit one.

”Why crawl to the back c.o.c.kpit?” Jensen asked. ”Why not wait until he had climbed down?”

”Because I'd have broken his jaw,” Court snapped. ”With his helmet still on, I knew I couldn't hit him.”

After the three pilots hung up their gear and debriefed, Dieter called Court into his office. Connert hadn't shown up yet.

”I'd like to turn you guys around right away, but it's too late to get some more F-100s down there. Things are popping at the Tacan station at Can Tho. The station just went off the air and the bad guys are attacking the radar site on the Army side of the base. Spooky will be on station all night, and we'll launch Skyspot from the alert pad when they can work them in. Between the fighting at Can Tho and Bien Hoa, we will be launching just about everything we have at first light tomorrow morning.”

Dieter glanced at the scheduling board and the big clock mounted over it. It was almost six o'clock. ”Court, get a good night's sleep and I'll launch you first thing in the morning.”

”Mac, I got a problem. I need a new backseater. There's something wrong with that Connert guy.” His face was hard. ”I absolutely refuse to fly with him. Furthermore, I don't think he should fly with anybody.”

”How did he get through the upgrade course?” Dieter asked.

”They must be d.a.m.n hard-up for F-4 frontseaters. He's so bad in the back, I'd hate to see what he is like up front.

Look, just give me one of your Hun jocks. I can check him out in the backseat in half an hour. All he needs is to handle the INS and the radar. I'll do all the rest.”

”How about me?” Dieter said as they walked out of the office into the ops room.

”Sure,” Court said. ”I think it would be great to fly with YOU.”

d.i.c.k Connert walked in the door to the ops room, a hurt look on his face. ”Why don't you want to fly with me, Major Bannister?”

Court glanced around the operations section. The clerk and several other pilots had stopped what they were doing to watch what was happening. It wouldn't do to embarra.s.s a fellow officer in front of the troops.

”Let's just say I want to give Major Dieter the experience of flying in an F-4 backseat.”

”Don't you think I'm good enough? Don't you think I can hack it?”

Connert's voice became shrill. ”Just give me another flight, will you?

I'll prove to you how good I am. Just give me another chance. I'll show you what I can do.”

”Connert, come here,” Court said, and walked back into Dieter's office.

Connert followed him in. Dieter winked, stayed outside, and shut the door.

”Connert, I don't know where you came from and I don't care. You have no business being in an airplane . . . in any capacity, front or back seat. The minute you get to a squadron, someone will give you a check ride and you'll be out on your a.s.s. I really don't know how you got this far.” He studied Connert's face. It was smooth and bland, his blue eyes as guileless as a baby's. There was something odd, then Court realized what it was. Connert had no lines around his eyes, under his eyes, around his mouth or on his cheeks. It was the face of a baby or a young priest. There were no sins or mistakes behind that face to give the evidence of experience so obvious in the faces of military pilots and race-car drivers.

”Why don't you like me, Major Bannister? What have I ever done to you?”

Court felt uneasy. He wasn't getting through to this man.

There was something about his att.i.tude and his rigid calmness.

”What cla.s.s were you in?” he asked on a hunch.

”What do you mean?”

”What pilot-training cla.s.s?” Court asked. Most pilots knew exactly what the question meant, unless it was in another context from a military-academy graduate.

Connert hesitated briefly. ”Ah, sixty-four.”

”Sixty-four what?” Court knew he was on to something.