The Fly Boys (46 page)

“The bandits should be closing on you anytime now, Fist Three,” Larsen radioed. “Better punch your tanks, to get them all
hot and bothered.”

The plan was for Steve and his wingman to appear as if they were preparing to engage the MiGs, but they would not do so unless
the plan somehow went wrong, and they had to save their skins. The lopsided odds were not the issue. The problem was that
their airplanes did not have enough fuel left to engage in combat maneuvers.

“You heard Fist Lead,” Steve told his wingman, Lieutenant Garret. “It’s time to look tough.”

“Might as well drop my tanks,” Garret chuckled. “They’re as dry as my mouth was this morning.”

Steve laughed. There’d been quite a bash last night at the officers’ club to celebrate the Helsinki Summer Olympics, which
had ended with the good old U.S.A. having whipped the Soviet Union.

Steve, with Garret sticking close by, banked his F-90 in a wide turn meant to entice the MiGs to come on ahead; that the two
lone BroadSwords wearing the 44th’s bright green, diagonal double slash on their aft fuselages, tail rudders, and wings were
foolishly willing to stay and do battle.

“Heads up, Fist Four,” Steve radioed Garret. “When they come, it’ll probably be from up high.”

“Affirmative. I just hope the hook gets here when it’s supposed to.”

“Wouldn’t you like a chance at these bandits?” Steve joked.

“Normally, sure. But not when I’m running on fumes. And not with this hangover.”

Yeah, it had been some party last night, Steve thought as he searched the sky for signs of the enemy. It had done everyone
good to blow off a little steam. There had been so much pent-up frustration over the way things were going.

In Panmunjom the peace talks were stalled on the question of whether the commie POWs who wanted to stay in the South would
be forced to return behind the Bamboo Curtain when the war was over. Out on the battlefield fighting had entered into a morale-sapping
series of bloody skirmishes like the one at that aptly named hellhole, Heartbreak Ridge. Meanwhile, the stalemate on the ground
had reached up into the sky. The BroadSword pilots were far superior to their commie counterparts, but their prowess was blunted
by the enemy’s superior numbers. Not only weren’t there enough BroadSwords, but maintenance of what was available was continuing
to be a problem. The commies, meanwhile, seemed to have an endless supply of fresh MiGs.

When all that bad news was taken into account, it was no wonder that the news that the Americans had whipped the commies’
asses at Helsinki had been cause for celebration at Chusan. Sure it was just sports, but at least it had been a
decisive
victory, and that was something that was so far sadly lacking in the Korean War….

“Heads up, Fist Three,” Garret said. “Bandits at two o’clock…. Coming in low for a change.”

“I’ve got them, Fist Four.”

There were eight of them, flying in a line abreast. Eight specks glinting in the sun and closing fast, like a pack of wolves
falling on a pair of lambs.

“Fist Lead, come in,” Steve radioed Larsen. “We’re about to be engaged. No sign of hook.”

“Hook’s on the way,” Larsen replied.

“Maybe so,” Steve said, arming his guns. “But if hook don’t get here soon, this worm is going to have to
turn
.”

“Here comes our guys!” Garret broke in. “They’re coming in at four o’clock.”

“Beautiful!” Steve laughed as the eight MiGs were intercepted by six BroadSwords. The MiG battle line fell apart as the commie
pilots scattered in confusion. A BroadSword locked on to a MiG’s six o’clock and began firing. Steve watched the sparks rise
up off the MiG and the BroadSword chewed a big bite off the commie’s starboard wing. The MiG’s canopy blew, and the pilot
ejected.

Oh, it’s turning out to be a lovely day, after all
, Steve thought, supremely happy to be where he was.

There were times when being a VIP’s son came in handy, he had to admit. It had been only a couple of weeks after his telephone
conversation with his father that his new orders had been cut, instructing him to join up with the 44th Fighter Interceptor
Squadron operating out of Chusan Airfield, near Seoul. He’d settled in by the middle of February, and had trained in his F-90
eight hours a day, seven days a week. On April 2, he’d been deemed ready for full combat duty.

Throughout that spring, Steve and the rest of the 44th, and the FI squadrons like them, flew high-cover escort missions and
CAPs over the 6,500 square miles of Interdiction Zone A, the area surrounding the North Korean–Chinese border, better known
as MiG Alley. He’d scored his first BroadSword kill in April, when he’d downed a MiG near Sinaju. In May he got his second
and third kills on the same patrol, over the southern bank of the Yalu, near the Suiho dam. That double score had given him
four kills overall, counting the MiG that he’d dropped back in September ‘51 in his Shooting Star.

At that point Steve had figured that he’d be a jet ace before he knew it, but it hadn’t turned out that way. The MiGs became
shy, playing their new, favorite game of peekaboo over the Yalu. Steve hadn’t gotten the opportunity to fire his guns all
summer.

Now Steve and his wingman loitered on the battle scene at high altitude in order to conserve fuel, making great spiral passes
at close to five hundred miles an hour in order to watch the battle.

If only I had the gas to get into this brawl
, he thought enviously as another two MiGs fell before the BroadSword’s guns.

The remaining five MiGs had decided to run. Four of them split up into two elements, and then each pair made a wide, 180-degree
turn back toward the Yalu, climbing all the while in hopes of getting away from the Broad-Swords.

“Fist Three, remember we’re on bingo fuel,” Garret said nervously.

“Affirmative,” Steve replied. “Let’s go—”

The words died in his throat as Steve stared at the fifth MiG: it had a blue nose and tail, and a jagged, blue lightning bolt
running the length of its fuselage. Steve was able to get a good look at it because it wasn’t running away. Like a mama hen
prepared to sacrifice herself in order to keep a predator off her departing brook of chicks, the blue lightning MiG was hanging
back to engage the BroadSwords.

“Fist Three. We’ve got to break for home,” Garret said.

Steve didn’t reply. He couldn’t. He was too busy staring, thinking that he was hallucinating, that the blue lightning MiG
was a vision brought on by his own desire, the way a desperately thirsty man will think he sees water in the desert. How many
times had Steve
dreamed
about getting another crack at that son of a bitch who had blown Mikey DeAngelo out of the sky, and now here it was.

He blinked his eyes, looked away, and looked back, giving the MiG every opportunity to disappear like the mirage he half believed
it was.

It didn’t disappear. Instead, he watched the MiG come around incredibly fast, to drop down on the six o’clock of a BroadSword.
The blue lightning MiG peppered the F-90 with gunfire. Steve watched the cannon rounds roll like fiery baseballs from the
MiG’s chin pod of guns until it scored a hit, and when you were blasting away with 37-and 23-millimeter projectiles, one hit
was all it took.

Steve monitored the panicked exchange between the wounded BroadSword and its flight.

“
This is Lance Three! I’m hit! Mayday! Mayday! I’m hit! Get him off me!
”

“
Lance Lead on the way
.”

“
Arrow Three and Four on the way
,”

“
Diamond Flight on the way
.”

The shot-up BroadSword, leaking smoke, headed for home as the other F-90s broke off their pursuit of the fleeing MiGs to close
in on blue lightning.

That’s just what he wants you to do
, Steve thought, watching in admiration as the canny MiG pilot led the BroadSwords on a merry zigzag chase. As Steve had expected,
not one of the F-90 jockeys was able to draw a bead on him long enough to fire.

“Oh, I gotta get in on this,” Steve muttered.

“Negative, Fist Three,” Garret yelled. “We’re bingo fuel!”

“But—” Steve watched in frustration as the pilot of the blue lightning MiG did his signature eight-point victory roll before
banking away.
Yes, I do remember your little dance
, Steve thought savagely.

“This is Lance Lead,” Steve heard one of the attacking BroadSword pilots call. “Break off chase. I repeat, break off. It looks
like Yalu Charlie has outfoxed again…”

Yalu who?
Steve wondered.

“Fist Three!
Damn
you,” Garret swore. “We’ve got to go home.”

His wingman’s desperate tone jolted Steve out of his preoccupation.
Garret is sounding just the way Mickey did before I got him killed
.

No way was Steve going to let that blue lightning MiG make him responsible for another wingman’s life.

“Affirmative, Fist Four,” Steve said, bringing his Broad-Sword around. “No problem, Lieutenant. We’re going home right now.”

That evening Steve barged into the club with more on his mind than drinking. He elbowed his way up to the bar and got himself
a beer, then turned to survey the joint. It was crowded, dark, and smoky, so it took Steve a moment to find Larsen, but then
he spotted the flight leader sitting at a corner table, a shot of whiskey and a long-necked beer in front of him.

“Hey, pull up a chair,” Larsen said in welcome as Steve came over.

Larsen was in his late thirties. He was dark complexioned, with shiny black hair, bushy eyebrows, and a thick mustache. Given
a cigar and enough whiskey, he could do a creditable imitation of Groucho Marx.

“Things went pretty well today, huh?” Larsen said as Steve sat down. “Three MiGs killed, while only one Broad-Sword got a
little shot up, and it made it home okay.”

Steve nodded impatiently. “Who’s Yalu Charlie?”

“Yeah, I heard you ran into him today.”

“Why didn’t anybody tell me about him?” Steve demanded.

“Why didn’t you ask?” Larsen launched into his Groucho act, rolling his eyes and flicking the ash off a non-existent cigar.

“Cut the horseplay!” Steve fumed. “This is important.”

“What’s your big concern about YC?” Larsen asked, his smile fading. “He’s just another honcho MiG driver….”

Honcho
, Steve thought grimly.
I haven’t heard that word for a while
.

“Honcho” was Japanese for “boss.” It was a term of respect the BroadSword jockeys reserved for those MiG pilots who could
handle themselves in a dogfight.

“This Yalu Charlie son of a bitch is not just another honcho as far as I’m concerned,” Steve began. He quickly filled Larsen
in on what had happened back in August ‘51 when he and Mike DeAngelo had tangled with the blue lightning bolt MiG.

“Okay,” Larsen muttered. He paused to sip his whiskey, and then chased it with a swallow of beer. “Here’s what I know about
Yalu Charlie. Number one, like most commie honcho pilots, he’s Russian.”

“That much I knew,” Steve said, lighting a cigarette.

“An instructor pilot,” Larsen added.

“Right,” Steve agreed. “Part of some kind of crack Russian squadron?”

“I never heard that,” Larsen shrugged. “Anyway, like I said, Charlie’s an IP. Those MiGs you saw him shepherding today were
obviously his latest class. They must be close to graduating if Charlie was willing to bring them across the Yalu.”

“If those were student pilots, they’ve got some homework to do,” Steve said. “The hook flights were tearing them up until
Charlie decided to send his students home and hold the fort all by himself.”

“And he did, didn’t he?” Larsen chuckled. “He can pull shit like that because he’s that good. There’s no way to know, of course,
but my feeling is that Charlie’s got to be an ace.”

“I heard he was one, in the last war.”

“I mean
this
war,” Larsen said flatly.

“Someday we’ll have to ask him,” Steve said, smiling thinly.

“Yeah, right,” Larsen muttered into his whiskey.

“I’ve been here since February,” Steve said. “If the Yalu is Charlie’s territory, how come I haven’t seen him before?”

“I guess you just missed him.” Larsen paused. “Yeah, now that I think back on it, you did just miss Charlie’s finals week
and graduation ceremony. And then you missed him again in the spring, because we were flying about a hundred miles south of
the Yalu, mopping up some MiG activity near Sinanju, remember?”

“Sure I remember,” Steve said. “But what are you talking about concerning all this ‘finals’ and ‘graduation’ stuff?”

“Okay,” Larsen grinned. “I said that Charlie was an instructor pilot. Here’s his MO. When he begins training a new class of
MiG jockeys he keeps them well behind enemy lines. Then he gradually brings them closer to the Yalu—and us—all the while practicing
high-altitude combat maneuvers with them.”

Steve grimaced. “So that we can’t touch them.”

“Right,” Larsen replied. “When they come close to graduating, he starts to let them dart across the river, but still at high
altitude. That’s when we know it’s ‘finals week.’ Finally he lets them come down and engage in combat. That’s the ‘graduation
ceremony.’”

“And then Charlie disappears for a while,” Steve said.

“You got it,” Larsen nodded. “And when he does disappear, we know that he’s once again deep behind the lines, starting a new
class.”

“So, if this is ‘finals,’ the chances are that we won’t be seeing him again for a few months.”

“Maybe some CAP will spot him again, but yeah, basically you’re right,” Larsen acknowledged. “He’s winding down this time
around. We likely won’t get another good look at him until around October or November—for all the good it will do us,” he
added wryly.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Steve.” Larsen looked down at his drink. “You’ve seen Charlie in action,” he moped. “Nobody can touch him.”