ever had.
The
gray-haired colonel in him agreed that he ought to stand aside for the younger
men when it came to flying missions; most of them were better Hog pilots than
he’d ever be. But this afternoon he felt something ease into place as he
snapped himself into the A-10A’s ejector seat, something familiar; as he pushed
the nose up and started to climb toward ten thousand feet, Colonel Thomas
“Skull” Knowlington lost track of the line that separated him from the plane.
Some awkwardness lingered. He kept expecting more in the HUD, and maybe a
better view out of the side of the canopy; his eyes tripped when they felt for
the fuel gauge. But he knew this plane the way he knew the others; after so
many years of estrangement, the sky had welcomed him back.
No
reason I shouldn’t go north, he told himself. As long as I’m not a liability,
it’s where I belong.
Except
that the generals above him wouldn’t like it. As long as he didn’t screw up,
they wouldn’t court martial him over it, of course, but they could force him to
retire.
Then
his string of non-drinking days would surely end.
Knowlington
pushed the Hog through a series of twists and turns, gradually increasing the
pressures against the control surfaces. He had written down a cheat sheet with
all the maneuvers, just to make sure he didn’t miss any. But he didn’t even
have to glance at it. His hands were slower, true, and his eyes— damn, his eyes
weren’t the telescopes they’d once been. But his head was still there; that was
sharper than ever.
Your
head could also be a liability. Memories were like bullets in your wing. One
slipped into his brain now as he pulled the Hog into a steep dive. He tried to
work it away, ignore it. He even closed his eyes. But it came back, hard and
fresh.
He
was in a Phantom. They had just pulled out of a dive every bit as steep,
bombing a bridge near the Laos border. Knowlington recovered and started the
long run home. His wingman called out a SAM launch.
Soviet
telephone poles coming for them. The SA-2 was relatively new then, very
formidable. But he had encountered them a few times before; so had his wingman.
He jinked the missile onto his beam, pulled a few g’s and let the engine roar.
Nothing to it.
But
his wingman couldn’t break free. Somehow, some way, Captain Harold “Crush”
Orango had taken a SAM right in the tail. Skull’s backseater saw the hit. He
saw, or thought he saw, two ejections and chutes. By the time Skull recovered
from his evasive maneuvers and made sure his six was clean, they had lost track
of the stricken Phantom’s crew. Skull cranked back, unable to find the
parachutes in the low-lying clouds or draped in the jungle below. They found the
wrecked Phantom soon enough – the sucker kicked up more smoke than a flaming
oil tanker – but the pilot and weapons officer were nowhere to be found.
Skull
keyed his mike and called in the crash. At the same time, he greased his
Phantom down to treetop level, looking for his buddy in the thick canopy of
trees. He’d flown with Crush on something like twenty missions; he wasn’t about
to lose him.
Hell
damn, he’d have to start paying for his own drinks.
There
was no ground beacon, no signal from the pilot’s emergency radio. They were
over Laos a few miles, not the best area to be. For all Skull cared he could
have been pulling circuits over the Kremlin. He crisscrossed twice, low and
slow, he and his pitter taking turns peering out the side, looking in vain for
a pucker of nylon or a flash from a signal mirror.
He
spotted a village–sized clearing at the edge of the canopy just to the east,
probably straddling the border with North Vietnam, though he wasn’t about to
get out a map and check. Holding the F-4 about as slow as it would go, he eased
toward it. The clearing was a perfect place for a chopper to land. With luck
Crush would be hiding nearby.
Red
and brown rocks rose from the jungle to his left as he approached. There
The
gray-haired colonel in him agreed that he ought to stand aside for the younger
men when it came to flying missions; most of them were better Hog pilots than
he’d ever be. But this afternoon he felt something ease into place as he
snapped himself into the A-10A’s ejector seat, something familiar; as he pushed
the nose up and started to climb toward ten thousand feet, Colonel Thomas
“Skull” Knowlington lost track of the line that separated him from the plane.
Some awkwardness lingered. He kept expecting more in the HUD, and maybe a
better view out of the side of the canopy; his eyes tripped when they felt for
the fuel gauge. But he knew this plane the way he knew the others; after so
many years of estrangement, the sky had welcomed him back.
No
reason I shouldn’t go north, he told himself. As long as I’m not a liability,
it’s where I belong.
Except
that the generals above him wouldn’t like it. As long as he didn’t screw up,
they wouldn’t court martial him over it, of course, but they could force him to
retire.
Then
his string of non-drinking days would surely end.
Knowlington
pushed the Hog through a series of twists and turns, gradually increasing the
pressures against the control surfaces. He had written down a cheat sheet with
all the maneuvers, just to make sure he didn’t miss any. But he didn’t even
have to glance at it. His hands were slower, true, and his eyes— damn, his eyes
weren’t the telescopes they’d once been. But his head was still there; that was
sharper than ever.
Your
head could also be a liability. Memories were like bullets in your wing. One
slipped into his brain now as he pulled the Hog into a steep dive. He tried to
work it away, ignore it. He even closed his eyes. But it came back, hard and
fresh.
He
was in a Phantom. They had just pulled out of a dive every bit as steep,
bombing a bridge near the Laos border. Knowlington recovered and started the
long run home. His wingman called out a SAM launch.
Soviet
telephone poles coming for them. The SA-2 was relatively new then, very
formidable. But he had encountered them a few times before; so had his wingman.
He jinked the missile onto his beam, pulled a few g’s and let the engine roar.
Nothing to it.
But
his wingman couldn’t break free. Somehow, some way, Captain Harold “Crush”
Orango had taken a SAM right in the tail. Skull’s backseater saw the hit. He
saw, or thought he saw, two ejections and chutes. By the time Skull recovered
from his evasive maneuvers and made sure his six was clean, they had lost track
of the stricken Phantom’s crew. Skull cranked back, unable to find the
parachutes in the low-lying clouds or draped in the jungle below. They found the
wrecked Phantom soon enough – the sucker kicked up more smoke than a flaming
oil tanker – but the pilot and weapons officer were nowhere to be found.
Skull
keyed his mike and called in the crash. At the same time, he greased his
Phantom down to treetop level, looking for his buddy in the thick canopy of
trees. He’d flown with Crush on something like twenty missions; he wasn’t about
to lose him.
Hell
damn, he’d have to start paying for his own drinks.
There
was no ground beacon, no signal from the pilot’s emergency radio. They were
over Laos a few miles, not the best area to be. For all Skull cared he could
have been pulling circuits over the Kremlin. He crisscrossed twice, low and
slow, he and his pitter taking turns peering out the side, looking in vain for
a pucker of nylon or a flash from a signal mirror.
He
spotted a village–sized clearing at the edge of the canopy just to the east,
probably straddling the border with North Vietnam, though he wasn’t about to
get out a map and check. Holding the F-4 about as slow as it would go, he eased
toward it. The clearing was a perfect place for a chopper to land. With luck
Crush would be hiding nearby.
Red
and brown rocks rose from the jungle to his left as he approached. There
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