The Fly Boys Page 33

  Steve poured it on, but as the commie quickly shrank down to a speck on the horizon he bitterly had to accept the fact that there was no way he could catch a MiG in a Shooting Star.

  He broke off the chase as his low fuel indicator came on. It was now or never to start home if he wanted to land with something more than fumes in his tank.

  As Steve came around, he began broadcasting a Mayday. A Tactical Air Direction station answered the call. Steve identified himself and his flight, and explained what had happened. He was asked for the coordinates where DeAngelo had gone down. Steve wearily gave them.

  “Did you see a chute?” the TAD operator asked.

  “Negative chute,” Steve replied.

  “Well, we’ve got Search and Rescue on the horn, Major. They’ll put out a chopper anyway.”

  “It’s a waste of SAR’s time,” Steve said.

  “There’s always hope,” the TAD man protested.

  No, sometimes there isn’t, Steve thought. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Over and out.”

  (Two)

  Officers’ Club

  Kawon Airfield, South Korea

  2 September 1951

  At eleven A.M. on a Sunday morning Steve was the only customer in the officers’ club at Kawon, which was a badly deteriorating tarpaper shack built on low stilts to protect against flooding during the summer months. Inside, there was a rickety bar and a bunch of card tables and folding chairs. The windows were covered with cheesecloth curtains, which let in the breeze but still kept the joint dimly lit. The plywood walls were papered over with pinups and a series of posterboard renditions of the colors of the various squadrons based at Kawon. The 19th’s orange markings were prominently displayed.

  There were no bar stools. Steve stood at the bar, contemplating his bourbon. The Korean national behind the bar was polishing glasses and steadfastly ignoring him. The Korean had the radio on the shelf behind the bar tuned to a U.S. Army–run station broadcasting out of Seoul. “Tennessee Waltz” was being sung by Patti Page. The Korean crooned along with Patti whenever she got to the refrain part about remembering the night. The rest of the lyrics evidently stumped him. He just whistled through his teeth along with the tune.

  Steve knocked back his bourbon, and for the third time gestured to the Korean to fill his glass. While he was waiting, he lit a Pall Mall off the butt of the one that lay smoldering in the ashtray. The ashtray was made out of pine-green plastic and in bold white lettering strongly recommended to Steve that he guard against bad breath by chewing “Fresh-OH!” chlorophyll gum.

  The music ended, and the radio announcer came on and began to murmur unintelligibly. Behind Steve a lance of daylight stabbed into the club and receded as the door closed again.

  “Thought I’d find you here, Major.”

  Steve looked over his shoulder as his CO, Colonel Billings, came over to the bar. Billings was a barrel-chested, middle-aged man with pale blue eyes. He had a thick neck that overflowed his shirt collar, a shaved head, and a waxed, handlebar mustache.

  Billings slapped a thin manila folder on the bar in front of Steve.

  “What’s that? Paperwork, Colonel?”

  “Open it and see,” Billings replied.

  Steve pulled the folder toward him and opened it, remembering that in his brief stint as squadron CO he’d been saddled with paperwork. At the time, he’d hated it, but at the moment it didn’t seem all that bad to be stuck behind a desk where the worst mistake you could make was a typo in a memo. Typos didn’t cost lives….

  Steve squinted in the dim light to read the first paragraphs, and then he looked up at Billings. “Sir, this looks like your report on the incident with the MiGs….”

  “It is. Search and Rescue found the remains of DeAngelo’s F-80, and the wreckage of the MiG that you shot down. You’ve got yourself your first confirmed kill.”

  Steve skipped to the last page and quickly skimmed it. “Colonel, I strongly portest the conclusions you’ve reached.”

  Billings frowned. “But I’ve totally absolved you concerning the matter of Lieutenant DeAngelo’s death.”

  “That’s just it, sir.” Steve, unable to meet Billings’s gaze, stared at his drink, then picked it up and knocked it back. “It was my fault. I killed Mikey. I’m more to blame for his death than that commie.”

  The radio began playing “Come On-A My House” by Rosemary Clooney. The Korean broke into a wide grin and hurried to turn up the volume.

  Colonel Billings signaled the bartender. “You got any coffee, son?”

  “No coffee,” the Korean said, sounding peeved at the interruption.

  “Then how about Coca-Cola?” When the Korean nodded, Billings said, “Two Coca-Colas, then. Cold ones, son. And turn down that goddamned radio.”

  Sulking, the Korean did as he was told, slamming down the two bottles of pop and stalking away to the far corner of the bar.

  Billings threw down some coins. He gathered up the manila folder and the sodas, and said, “Come on, Major, let’s you and me sit down and discuss this.” He led Steve to a table, and after they were seated, slid a Coca-Cola toward him. “Drink that. The caffeine will help sober you up.”

  “I’m sober, Colonel,” Steve said.

  Billings stared at him and then nodded. “Yes, I believe you are….”

  “I’ve been trying to get drunk for a couple of days now, but every time I get close, I think about Mikey, and I sober right up.”

  “Okay, Major,” Billings said. “I want you to consider the fact that trying to lay blame on yourself for what happened a couple of days ago is about as profitable an endeavor as shoveling horse shit into the wind.” He sniffed. “Which you smell like you’ve been doing. Tell me, Major, when was the last time you took a bath, or had a shave, for that matter?”

  “Not since I killed Mikey, I guess,” Steve replied.

  Billings scowled. “You keep saying things like that and I’m going to lose my temper, Major, in which case I will have to take you outside this shithole and boot your ass up and down the airstrip.”

  Steve tapped the manila folder. “There’s something in there that’s wrong,” he said. “There’s something you don’t know.”

  “What would that be, Major?” Billings demanded skeptically.

  “I lied to you. Those MiGs didn’t bounce us. We bounced them.”

  Billings smiled sadly. “I knew that, son.”

  Steve stared. “But how could you have?”

  “Two things tipped me off,” Billings began. “First of all, taking into account the coordinates of the dogfight, there was no way a pair of MiGs would have dropped down into Shooting Star cruising altitude looking for trouble. Those two Reds were already pretty far south. No way would they have risked their skins chasing you very far at low altitudes, where they would have been gulping the fuel they would have needed to get home.” He shook his head. “No, the only scenario that held water was that you and DeAngelo went looking for trouble.”

  Steve nodded ruefully. “You said two things tipped you off, Colonel. What was the second?”

  Billings smiled. “I know you, Major. I’ve heard you complain about how unfair it was that F-80s have been restricted from MiG Alley without BroadSword escort.” Billings smiled. “No way would you have passed up engaging the enemy if the situation presented itself.”

  “Okay, then,” Steve shrugged. “If you know that I lied to you, that should make it worse for me.”

  “Nah, it doesn’t. You’re not the first F-80 jockey who’s used the old they-bounced-us dodge.”

  “Come on, Colonel!” Steve complained. “I’ve been going nuts about what happened to Mikey. I deserve some kind of punishment.”

  “It’s no use, son. You want me to crucify you because that might make the guilt you’re feeling somehow easier to bear. Well, I’m not going to do it. You’re a good pilot. You got your MiG. You fought him on his terms, but you got him.” Billings shook his head. “You’re much too valuable to be thrown away ov
er this one mistake in judgment on your part.”

  “Some ‘mistake in judgment,’” Steve sneered. “I cost a man his life!”

  “Nobody forced DeAngelo to follow you.”

  “Come on, Colonel!” Steve’s voice rose. “You know better than that. Mike was my wingman! He was honor bound to go where I led him, even if his best instincts were against it.”

  “He might still be alive today if he hadn’t lost his nerve up there,” Billings said. He hesitated, his eyes narrowing. “I presume you were telling me the truth when you reported that DeAngelo managed to break free of his MiG, and then passed up the opportunity to press his own attack.”

  “That part is true,” Steve said earnestly. “I think he got shook when he saw how good those commie pilots were.” Steve frowned. “I’ve got to say, Colonel, I got a little shook over that, as well. I’d heard that the North Korean pilots were green. But those guys knew all the tricks of the trade.”

  “Yeah, well…” Billings trailed off, looking hesitant.

  “What?” Steve demanded, perking up. “Come on, Colonel. You look like you know something.”

  “I do.”

  “Then spill—”

  “Ah, what the hell, Billings began, lowering his voice. “You came clean with me, and now I’ll return the favor. You weren’t flying against North Koreans; you were flying against Russians.”

  “Holy shit—” Steve gasped. “How do you know that?”

  “This is still restricted info, Major,” Billings warned.

  “I’ll keep my trap shut, sir, no problem,” Steve swore. “But please, I need to know.”

  “Okay. CIA reports have it that the Soviets have started to use this war as a training school for their fighter pilots.”

  “And so you think those two we tangled with were Russians?”

  “I don’t think,” Billings replied. “I know. When you told me how well those two MiGs handled themselves, I got suspicious, so I sent along your description of their markings to a friend of mine who’s in a position to know about such matters. He confirmed to me that those markings belong to a crack squadron made up of Soviet aces from the last war.”

  “Damn, that explains a lot,” Steve said. He thought back on how the pilot in that lightning bolt MiG had shown such determined concentration, refusing to be distracted as he finished off DeAngelo.

  “You and Mike were up against the best the commies have got,” Billings said. “You bested your opponent, and DeAngelo might have, if only he hadn’t lost his nerve.”

  “That’s being too hard on Mike,” Steve protested.

  “Here’s how I see it,” Billings said, cutting him off. “There are two separate issues here. Yes, you were wrong to engage those MiGs in the first place, but once you had, DeAngelo was wrong to cut and run the way he did. He was a trained fighter pilot, and losing his nerve like that, well…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “A fighter jock who turns pussy in a dogfight has got to be considered responsible for his own death.”

  “I still got him into that mess, Colonel.”

  Billings nodded. “Like I said, two separate issues. Yes, you broke a reg, but there’s precedent for me to look the other way if one of my tigers shows a little too much initiative. No other F-80 pilot has been disciplined for tangling with a MiG, so neither will you be. As far as the Air Force is concerned, the matter is closed.”

  “And I get off scot-free,” Steve said softly.

  “No, you don’t,” Billings said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Just look at yourself,” Billings demanded. “You’re putting yourself through worse hell than anything the Air Force could do to you. You’ve got your own conscience to deal with, son. Something tells me that no matter where you go, or what you do, Lieutenant Mike DeAngelo will be flying off your wing for some time to come.”

  Steve, nodding, put his hand up to his eyes. “What am I going to do?” he implored softly. “I can’t sleep. I close my eyes and I see him. I see him in that photo he used to carry around. The one where he’s with his wife and kids.”

  “Listen now, Major,” Billings said. “Just remember that you’re human, and that you’re allowed to make a mistake now and then, just like anyone else. It isn’t your fault that circumstances have put you in a place where those mistakes can cost lives.” He paused. “As for what happened concerning DeAngelo, that’ll ease some over time.” He sighed. “That much I can tell you from personal experience. As far as DeAngelo’s family is concerned, I think that it would be appropriate if you wrote them—”

  “I couldn’t!” Steve protested, shaking his head.

  “You can, and will,” Billings said sharply. “As a matter of fact, I’m ordering you to do it. I expect you to show some of the same guts you showed against that MiG, and carry out that order.”

  “What could I possibly say to them?” Steve began.

  “Off the record, I suggest you lie to DeAngelo’s wife, Major. Make up some bullshit about how her husband died a hero. Give her something she can hold on to, something she can maybe show his kids someday.”

  “Yeah,” Steve nodded slowly. “I can do that.” He looked up at Billings. “He was a hero,” he said defiantly. “He could have licked that MiG, but he just…” he trailed off. “He just got tired, I guess.”

  “Yeah, you’ll put the right things into that letter,” Billings said. His stern expression softened. “And although you may find this hard to believe, Major, writing that letter might even make you feel a little better.”

  “I don’t care about me,” Steve said. “But that letter will go out today, sir.”

  “All right, then.” Billings stood up.

  “Wait a minute, Colonel,” Steve began. “There’s something else I can do to try and somehow make amends to Mikey. I can kill MiGs for him.”

  “Look here, now,” Billings glowered, “I’ve kept your ass out of the fire this time, but from now on I expect you to leave the MiGs to the BroadSword jockeys.”

  “That’s what I’m getting at,” Steve said. “I need to be flying a BroadSword.”

  Groaning, Billings sat back down. “You’re just going to have to be patient about that, Major. Chances are we’ll be switching over to BroadSwords sooner or later.”

  “Begging the colonel’s pardon, but the 19th has already earned itself a reputation as a crack fighter-bomber outfit, so chances are we’ll get switched over to Thunderjets.”

  “Possible, but—”

  Steve shuddered. “Hell, they might even take away our F-80s and issue us refurbished Mustangs and new orders to fly ground-support missions for the rest of the war!”

  “That could happen, all right,” Billings admitted.

  “Even if it doesn’t, even if the 19th is put on line for F-90s, it could take forever to get them. You know as well as I do that we’re not getting all the BroadSwords we need due to our government’s commitment to NATO. The F-90s that ought to be here are being sent to Europe!”

  “Careful, Major,” Billings smiled. “You’re starting to sound like MacArthur, and you know what happened to him.”

  Steve smiled politely, but he was in no mood for jokes. “Sir, I respectfully request that you approve my request for a transfer into an existing BroadSword unit, or a squadron immediately on line for the airplane.”

  “It won’t happen,” Billings replied. “You’re not even trained to fly an F-90.”

  “Training is no problem,” Steve said. “They’ve got mobile training units that can check out a pilot in less than a month.”

  “This is certainly a turnaround for you, son,” Billings scowled. “I seem to remember that you made a few headlines when you bad-mouthed your daddy’s airplane. I seem to remember that in your opinion the F-80 squadrons were going to single-handedly keep Korea safe for democracy. Aren’t you sort of putting yourself in the position of eating crow?”

  “I don’t care about me. All I care about is evening up the score for Mikey,” Steve said firmly.
“If it takes flying a BroadSword to do it, so be it.” He smiled thinly. “Who knows, Major? If I get to patrol MiG Alley, I might even be lucky enough to run into a certain pilot who favors blue lightning bolts.”

  “Major, I sympathize with you,” Billings said. “I really do. To be frank, I think you ought to be flying a BroadSword. Hell, any F-80 jockey who can knock down a MiG being flown by a Russian hotshot has got to be a born fighter jock.”

  “Then what’s the problem, Colonel?”

  “The thing of it is, son, I’ll be glad to approve your request for a transfer, but I don’t think it’s going to cut much mustard one way or the other. The bottom line is that every damned fighter jock and his mother wants to fly a Broad-Sword. I just don’t have the clout to get you transferred.”

  Steve nodded, more to himself than to Billings. “That’s okay, Colonel. I know somebody who does….”

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  (One)

  GAT

  Burbank

  8 January 1952

  Gold was meeting in his office with the two engineers he’d come to rely on since Teddy Quinn’s death. The meeting was not progressing smoothly.

  It’s mostly my fault there’s so much tension between us, Gold thought, feeling guilty. He knew that he was behaving impossibly toward the men he’d tapped to run things. He knew it, but he couldn’t help it. He was just too filled with grief over losing Teddy, and could barely supress his rage toward his old friend for deserting him.

  There’d been a special chemistry from a friendship that had stretched over thirty years. They’d known each other’s quirks and had been able to finish each other’s thoughts so that together they’d been more than the sum of their parts; together there had been nothing they couldn’t make happen, and no problem that they couldn’t lick. Except for Erica, Gold couldn’t think of anyone he needed more in this world.

  But now Teddy was gone, and Gold felt lost.

  “Herman, are you listening?” Ken Wilcox suddenly demanded, like a teacher zeroing in on an inattentive student.