The Fly Boys (33 page)

On the first of October, ROK forces, acting on the orders of US commanders, had crossed the 38th parallel. A few days ago,
on the ninth, as B-29s bombed the North Korean capital of Pyongyang and South Korean troops rolled through the mountains of
the North, meeting little resistance, MacArthur informed the commies that he expected
all
of North Korea to surrender, not just those Reds still on South Korean soil.

It looked as if the war was almost over, but meanwhile there were still scattered pockets of enemy resistance, such as the
tank convoy in the valley below that had been spotted by TCG. Steve and his flight had been dispatched from Itazuke Air Base
to destroy this concentration of enemy armor.

As the Shooting Stars descended beneath the cloud cover, the river below became visible: a gunmetal-blue snake wriggling through
its rugged valley. The hills were carpeted with scrub oak and pines. Summer was fading into the dry winter season. The terrain
was fading as well. The hills had gone from mottled green to several different shades of brown. Sometimes the land was the
color of mud, sometimes it was the texture and hue of tobacco leaf, and sometimes it was as deeply burnished as an old leather
A-2 flight jacket.

About a mile distant, at twelve-o’clock low, Steve spotted the speck in the sky that was Evans’s T-6 trainer.

“Bugs Flight, check your systems,” Steve ordered his pilots.

“All green,” DeAngelo said.

“All green,” echoed Lieutenants Molloy and Brady, who made up the flight’s second element.

“Evans,” Steve called, his eyes fixed on the tiny prop-driven olive drab painted airplane that was hopping like a flea over
the brown-hide hills.

“Super Snooper here,” Evans replied.

“We’re closing on you.”

“About fucking time.”

Each pilot would have only enough fuel for two passes if he wanted to make it back home to Japan. The F-80 had been designed
as a short-range jet interceptor, not a ground-support airplane. Its internal fuel supply gave it an operating radius of only
one hundred miles, and that was when it was flying at the altitudes for which it was designed: above fifteen thousand feet.

Even with its original equipment auxiliary fuel tanks there was no way a Shooting Star could be running a mission like this,
but back in July some engineers attached to the 49th Fighter Bomber Wing over at Misawa Air Base had come up with a way to
increase the Shooting Stars’ range by cutting in half a standard wingtip auxiliary fuel tank and welding in a couple more
sections to make an elongated tank. A pair of these overgrown “Misawa” tanks shackled to the F-80’s wingtips strained the
airplane’s structure, but it gave the jet up to an extra hour of flying time. Steve’s flight was equipped with “Misawas,”
but in a situation like this, where the jets were going to be gulping fuel attacking ‘on deck,’ the extra-large tip tanks
only afforded a few extra minutes on target.

“X marks the spot,” Evans said as he began to fire off his smoke rockets. “Watch your assess coming through, boys. I count
three machine-gun emplacements on the slopes. I’ll mark them for you.”

It’s going to be a rough day’s work, all right
, Steve thought. The commies were dug in deep. Evans’s T-6 was darting and swooping like a butterfly as it fired off smoke
rockets to mark the positions of the machine-gun nests. The smoke plumed off the rocky slopes and swirled like dust devils
around the scrub and tall golden weeds that led down to the water’s edge. There, scattered in among the slow-moving but powerful
Russian-manufactured, canvas-sided GAZ trucks churning up mud on the riverbank, were the six T-34 tanks.

The Soviet-built T-34—Steve and the other pilots had learned all about the monsters at briefings, and through hard experience.
It had been the T-34 that had allowed the Russians to beat the Germans back in ‘45, and it was the T-34 that might still allow
the North Koreans to win this war. The tank was twenty feet long and ten feet wide. It carried a crew of five and was specially
designed for travel over mud and snow. Its diesel engine could take it hundreds of miles thanks to the auxiliary fuel drums
strapped to its rear decking, and its armor plate could deflect a direct hit from a 105-millimeter howitzer, as the American
forces had learned to their sorrow this previous summer. When it was time to hit back, the T-34 carried an 85-millimeter antiaircraft
gun and two 7.62-millimeter machine guns. The weaponry was quite capable of reaching out to swat an F-80 out of the sky the
way an ox might twitch its tail to rid itself of a pesky fly.

The only weapon an F-80 could carry that was capable of killing a T-34 was a five-inch high-velocity aircraft rocket. Each
of the F-80s in Bugs Flight had eight such HVARs mounted on racks beneath their wings.

But there was a catch—

The only way an HVAR had a chance against the tank’s low, sloped turret or 19-millimeter thick armor was if it was fired from
a thirty-degree angle, at a range of about fifteen hundred feet. Any closer and the rocket’s engine would not have the time
to kick in and increase its velocity, causing the rocket to bounce off the tank. Any farther away from the target and the
chances of accuracy were too slim. To further increase the odds of killing the tank, or at least hitting its treads and in
that way disabling it, the recommended procedure was to let loose with a salvo, or “ripple,” of four HVARs.

As Steve was mulling all of this over, his radio earphones suddenly crackled. “This is a fucking shit-brick run,” Steve heard
DeAngelo complain.

“Roger that,” Steve said. “Fucking Reds are going to be throwing everything including shit bricks at us, and we’re going to
have to fly low and straight and take it.”

The valley was narrow, and its walls were steep, so the strafing runs would have to proceed along the river. That meant that
the hills would hem in the Shooting Stars, keeping them from taking evasive action as the Koreans shot up at them. The jets
would simply have to endure this gauntlet of defensive fire until they were close enough to launch their HVARs at the tanks.

“Bugs Three and Four will go in first,” Steve ordered.

“Chicken, huh, Major?” Bugs Three, Lieutenant Brady, muttered.

Steve laughed. Brady knew as well as the others that he was doing them a favor. The first element would be in and out before
the commies could effectively zero in, but the enemy would be ready and waiting when it was Steve and DeAngelo’s turn to attack.

“Okay, Bugs Four. Follow me in,” Brady told his wing-man.

“This is the part I hate,” Molloy said as he took up his position a good ways behind and several hundred feet above Brady.

The valley was too narrow for more than one jet to attack at a time, so the two elements of the flight would follow each other’s
nose to tail to try and keep their attack constant. Molloy’s job as Brady’s wingman would be to suppress any answering fire
directed toward the lead jet, until it was time for him to launch his own rockets. Meanwhile, Steve would watch Molloy’s back.
DeAngelo would in turn watch his, and then Brady would be coming back in for his second run, hopefully in time to suppress
ground fire for DeAngelo as he attacked the tanks. Molloy would again cover for Brady, and so on, until everyone had made
his second pass.

“Yeah, I hate this part,” Lieutenant Molloy was muttering as Brady’s jet dipped low into the valley. “Major Gold, have I ever
mentioned that I hated this part?”

“You’ll get no sympathy from the major,” DeAngelo cut in. “He’s still a bitter man from having lost command of his squadron.”

Steve clicked on his mike so that the others could hear his laughter. DeAngelo’s ribbing was meant in good fun, and Steve
took it that way.

Back in April, after successfully completing jet fighter training, he’d received his promotion to major. He’d immediately
shipped out to join up with the Eighth, and take command of the 19th Squadron.

His command hadn’t lasted very long. Steve served as CO only until the end of July, when squadron command was transferred
to a full bird colonel named Billings. Steve had not been much upset about losing the squadron. He’d understood that the change
had nothing to do with him personally. FEAF had been considered a backwater post until Korea had turned hot, and then the
organization quickly became top-heavy with senior officers wanting a piece of the action. Billings was a good guy, and he’d
had experience running a wartime squadron from the last war. Steve had been assured that an outstanding evaluation of his
brief tenure as CO would be inserted into his record. Anyway, relinquishing command had allowed him more time to fly. All
the tedious paperwork that Steve had been saddled with as CO had kept him pretty much grounded.

Evans’s T-6 scout plane had climbed out of the valley as Bugs Three and Four went in fast and low. The commie troops along
the riverbank scattered as Brady opened up with his six nose-mounted .50-caliber machine guns. The armor-piercing, phosphorous-loaded
incendiary rounds stitched geysers of mud toward a truck, which abruptly exploded in a ball of orange flame. Tendrils of fire
reached out to lick another truck, and that one went up as well. A machine-gun nest dug into the hill began to track Brady.
Molloy instantly veered toward the muzzle flash, and opened up with his own half-dozen .50s. The machine-gun nest went silent.

“Thanks,” Brady muttered.

“No problem,” Molloy answered calmly.

Brady fired a ripple of four HVARs at a tank. The rockets seemed to hang in the air, and then abruptly picked up velocity
as their own engines kicked in. They streaked down, trailing contrails of gray smoke, impacting to erupt in four terrific
explosions that quickly united into a curtain of destructive force around the tank.

“Bugs Three, you all right?” Steve called out. He was just entering the valley as Brady’s F-80 streaked past the enemy position
and climbed to come around in a wide, banking turn.

“Everything’s green,” Brady announced. “I think I got a tank.”

“Affirmative,” Molloy said. “I see it burning. I’m beginning my run now. Jesus Christ! It’s a regular shit-brick storm down
here, all right! Those machine-gun nests on the slope have me bracketed!”

“I’ll suppress,” Steve firmly cut him off. He quickly veered toward the slopes to rake the nest with his nose guns. He didn’t
want Molloy getting distracted. Shit-brick runs could unnerve even the most aggressive of pilots, which, in Steve’s opinion,
Molloy was not. He was a World War Two fighter pilot veteran, but he wasn’t an ace. Like DeAngelo, he’d been called back by
the Air Force, and like DeAngelo he was just as pissed off about it. DeAngelo had not let his resentment toward the Air Force
blunt his tiger instincts, but Molloy was a pussy by fighter pilots’ standards. He had more balls that average, of course,
otherwise he wouldn’t be in a cockpit, but he was no tiger. Steve had recognized the fact the first time he’d flown with Molloy.
He knew that when it got
really
hairy—like now—Molloy would need calm, steady encouragement to keep from losing it.

“Major! Where are you, dammit!” Molloy cursed. “I’m taking small-arms fire!”

“I’m on it,” Steve said as he dropped his fighter’s nose to strafe the commie troops who were firing into the sky with rifles
and submachine guns.

The small-arms ground fire coming up at them was definitely intense. The commies had to some extent countered last summer’s
air offensive by developing a devastating technique of putting up a curtainlike pattern of small-arms fire at low-flying attacking
planes. They’d even been known to throw stones, sticks, and, for all anybody knew, their own shit into the sky—hence the term
“shit-brick run.”

Back in July the commies’ tactic had seemed funny, but the Air Force stopped laughing when their prop-driven attack bombers
began to go down. Rumor had it that the Air Force brass back at the Pentagon were busy conducting a reassessment of the Air
Force’s capabilities and limitations in a guerilla war. The stopgap solution to the problem had been to restrict the relatively
slow prop-driven bombers to high-and-medium-altitude missions, leaving the on-deck action to the jets, which were supposed
to be fast enough to get in and out before the commie duck hunters could draw their beads.

Steve had stayed as close as was possible behind Molloy, and had kept hammering away with his nose .50s, scattering bodies
and torching another truck. “Okay, Molloy, do your job and get on out.”

“Firing rockets now,” Molloy said.

Steve watched the HVARs streak down and explode around a tank.

“Watch yourself,” Molloy whispered as he came out of the valley. “Down there is one stirred-up hornet’s nest.”

“Affirmative,” Steve said absently. He was concentrating on his flying. Wafting clouds of smoke from the burning trucks were
now moving across the valley floor. The smoke hid the enemy, but even worse, obscured the slopes. A slight miscalculation
on approach and the Shooting Stars could find themselves cartwheeling against the rocky hillside.

The smoke momentarily lifed from around the tank that Molloy had attacked. “Molloy,” Steve radioed, “you got his treads.”

“Sorry….”

“Don’t be. That was good shooting.”

“He’s not dead,” Molloy pointed out. “He can still bite.”

“Yeah, but he can’t go anywhere, which makes him almost as good as dead,” Steve replied. “Bugs Two,” he called as he began
his attack dive. “You with me, Bugs Two?”

“I’m here,” DeAngelo replied.

The twisting, turbulent ribbon that was the river slid beneath the Shooting Star’s nose as Steve careened through the valley.
The high slopes on either side whipped past as the smoking target site loomed.

A flicker of fire coming at him from his port side caught Steve’s attention.

“I’m pulling heavy machine-gun fire from the hillside—”

“I’m on it for you, Steve,” DeAngelo said.

Steve forced himself to concentrate on his run and forget about the machine-gun nests. Suppressing them was his wingman’s
job.
His
job was to kill a tank.