Part 26 (1/2)
”No lie, GI. My buddy in Transient Alert told me. Their officer is crewing him personally. Said he's a nice guy but doesn't tip much.”
Court switched his radio to Paris Control and checked in.
Paris, a radar Control and Reporting Center, confirmed the vector and alt.i.tude.
Court settled back in his c.o.c.kpit. The glow of the backlight from his gages was comforting, almost cozy. His alt.i.tude, heading, and flight att.i.tude were precisely pegged as he climbed. From time to time Paris vectored him around thunderstorms building in the early-morning air. He countered the moderate turbulence with control movements that were smooth and all but imperceptible. As they cruised through the black clouds, Court reviewed the Skyspot procedures in his mind. Soon he would be in contact with a disembodied voice that would give him a precise alt.i.tude, heading, and airspeed to fly. Then the voice would count down to give a release signal to the receiving pilot exactly when to drop his bombs.
When firepower was needed in the daylight or at night, but the weather was rotten and down to the deck, properly equipped airplanes could drop bombs by radar vectors from a ground station. Former SAC MSQ-77 radar bomb-scoring units were set up in vans at secure sites to track airplanes containing the special beacons. The Mis-que operator would key into his computer fixed information such as target distance and direction from his site, and height above sea level, along with the bomb types for which the computer already knew the aerodynamics and drop rate. Then the operator would add the weather variables: temperature aloft, air density, high and low winds. The computer would then give out a range of aircraft headings, alt.i.tudes, and airspeeds to complete the bombing equation.
The Mis-que operator would have the ground target fixed on his radar screen. He would ”paint” the incoming aircraft blip with sharp resolution on his radar screen by receiving a sharp pulse of energy from the beacon mounted in the aircraft. The F-4s had been recently equipped with these beacons and so were able to fly the mission, called Skyspot, as necessary. The missions were always over or in clouds, so the pilots never saw what they were attacking. They were dull and boring. The pilots called the mission Skydump or Skypuke.
”How's it going back there?” he asked Mac Dieter.
”As well as could be expected under the circ.u.mstances.”
”You mean you don't like the pit?”
”I mean I hate this f.u.c.king place. What pilot in his right mind wants to fly back here?”
”Not many. Just good navs.”
”How come you're still flying, Court? Back at SOS I thought you were just a short-timer. Thought you'd be out of the Air Force by now.”
Court chuckled. ”Maybe back at SOS I was a short-timer.
Now I've grown to like the job. Short hours, high pay. All that.”
”You still married to ... what was her name? I see her on the Bob Hope show.”
”Charmaine. No, we were divorced a couple years ago.
She wanted a career and so did U'
”Tough about you not getting that fifth MiG.”
”Yeah.” Court didn't elaborate, and they fell silent as the big plane climbed through the thick night clouds. Each could hear the other breathe over the open microphones in their oxygen masks.
Soon they could see sporadic glows of cloud-to-cloud lightning. The turbulence was increasing. When he reached 27,000 feet, Court eased the throttle back to the cruise RPM of 92 percent. Court radioed Paris he was level. Paris told Court to contact Tepee on 280.1.
”Tepee, Skyspot Tango, how do you read?”
”Loud and clear, Tango. Steer 360.”
”Roger. Steering 360. You ready to copy my lineup?”
”Affirmative. Go ahead, Tango.”
”Skyspot Tango is one Fox Four, mission number 3-0069.
We are carrying sixteen Mark-82 500-pounders with quarter-second fuzes.”
The Mark-82s were slicks. No point in carrying the high-drag Snakeyes on a high-alt.i.tude drop.
”I copy, Tango. Turn left 255. Descent to flight 170.
You're eight minutes from drop. Nice to have an airplane that can carry a few bombs.”
Inside his c.o.c.kpit, Court had turned his thunderstorm lights up full to counter the lightning flashes. The turbulence was ragged and jolting.
”Tepee,” he said, ”make sure you're not vectoring us into a thunderstorm. If this weather gets worse, we'll have to abort the run.
What's the target tonight? A suspected VC vegetable garden?” Court knew from the vectors and from where his Tacan needle was pointing he was over the western side of II Corps.
”Negative, Skyspot. Wish it were. An Army firebase, I can't tell you which one in the clear, is in bad trouble. So much so, we've got clearance from double-A GS to Skydump within two klicks.” AAGS was the Army Air Ground System.
There would be no weather aborting tonight. The target was critical.
Court checked his fuel. No problem there. They had been airborne forty-five minutes and his center tank was just feeding out.
”Skyspot, steer 351, hold her level 170, 310 knots indicated.”
Court did as he was told. It was imperative to have everything precise.
Variation of one degree in heading, a few feet in alt.i.tude, or a couple knots of airspeed could dump the bombs in the laps of the friendlies.
Because Skyspot relied so heavily on human skill but without visual contact, it ordinarily was not used for close troop support. Close being anything within ten kilometers.
” Skyspot, steer 350.” Just as Court complied, Tepee transmitted again.
”Skyspot, steer 349.” He led Court down the centerline with great exact.i.tude and steadiness; he even used halfdegree corrections at the end.
”Skyspot, Tepee counting down in five seconds.”
Roger,” Court answered.
”Skyspot, counting down now. Five ... four ... three ... two ... one DROP, DROP, DROP.” Court pickled and sixteen bombs carrying four tons of explosives gracefully fell away to begin the three-mile curving are wherein they would accelerate to over 300 miles per hour and impact in a spread no bigger than a football field.
Twenty-eight seconds later the GIs crouched in rain-filled foxholes at Firebase Sally were jolted and their ears rang in the soggy and oppressive night air as blast and concussion 600 meters down the hill blew thirty-eight hard-core NVA soldiers into shredded statistics. The moans of the wounded were absorbed by the incessant drumming of the rain on the jungle foliage.
”Close,” the ground commander, a fuzzy-faced lieutenant barely six months from OCS, said on the p.r.i.c.k-25 to his company commander. ”Very close. About six hundred meters to the south. Keep 'em coming.”
Court heard and felt through the aluminum and sinew of his airplane the chunking sounds as the ejector cartridges in the pylons rippled the bombs away from under the wings. He gave a little forward stick as his airplane, suddenly released of,8,000 pounds, wanted to spring upward.
'Turn port one seven zero degrees, Skyspot. Contact Paris Control.”
Court began his port turn to head back to III Corps and the base at Tan Son Nhut.
The turbulence had lessened since they turned south.
Court wriggled and surged against his harness to relieve the stiffness and the restricted blood flow caused by the straps.