Air Force Eagles (22 page)

Taking off was hairy. Each of the overloaded F-84s depended totally on their JATO bottles. These small canisters, locked on two shackles on the aft fuselage, were electronically fired rockets that provided an extra two-thousand pounds of thrust for fourteen critical seconds. As the F-84s scrambled in pairs, the moist Korean air seized upon the JATO exhaust and turned it into a manufactured fog, a grayish-white petrochemical mixture that stung the eyes and lungs. The second pair of Thunderjets had some visibility, but after that the pilots launched blindly into the fog, praying that the planes before them had cleared. Once airborne, the pilots went on instruments and jettisoned their JATO bottles later than usual. By the time the last pair of fighters had launched, the field was completely socked in with a choking haze, and the JATO bottles were sunk in fields all over Korea, waiting to be uncovered by a farmer's wooden plow.

Marshall was leading one of the strafing flights, enjoying the rock-smooth steadiness of his fighter. He loved the jets—they were swift-climbing, rock-solid in cruise, and gave the overwhelming sense of power at your fingertips. Tougher than piston-engine planes, they'd be more able to take the punishment that the airfield flak was sure to dish out. Marshall thought: Lordy, if I'd had one of these babies in Italy I'd have made Eddie Rickenbacker look sick.

The prospect of flak didn't bother him, but he was annoyed that he couldn't be flying top cover, ready to scrap with the MiGs. Moaning, he cinched the straps of his oxygen mask tight to keep it from falling off under the 8 or 9 Gs he might pull in a dogfight—if there was one.

The rapid Chinese ground advance had apparently overtaxed their early warning system, for at 0800 hours he led eight Thunder-jets across a surprised Sinuiju Airfield.

Bones Marshall felt a mild disappointment. There were only a dozen aircraft on the whole field; no wonder the flak wasn't tougher.

Thundering diagonally across the field, perpendicular to the openings in the aircraft revetments, he saw his bullets ricocheting off the concrete as they walked up to Yak 9, the little Russian F-51 equivalent, blowing it apart, the fuselage half-turning as a gear collapsed beneath it, sending one wing flat up against the rear of the revetment. It was fun, but unsatisfying—the Fifth Air Force didn't count ground victories toward being an ace.

In seconds, they were across the field and climbing.

"Red Flight, let's get some altitude. Nothing left worth shooting at."

As he climbed, he looked back; all of the 84s were with him, and there were fires burning in most of the revetments. The flak was opening up now, firing just to make the gunners feel good, for the 84s were long gone. The combat glow settled over him; he felt eager, conscious only of the pertinent—arming switches, fuel state, enemy locations—and ignoring the hard seat, the parachute straps cutting into him, and the sore where his helmet rubbed.

Across the river at Antung, the flight line was a swirl of dust, and he heard the group leader calling, "Thirty-plus MiGs airborne." There was another call: "MiG formation turning north."

Marshall cinched his helmet strap and tightened his shoulder harness. The 84s were all in formation now, at twenty thousand feet, where the MiGs' speed and climbing advantages would be offset by the Thunderjet's turning ability. He felt very comfortable, aware of where all the airplanes were, friends and enemies, and glad to be "the shooter" protected not only by his wingman "Boots" Burns, but by the second element of 84s. Boots had moved into fighting position, angled back, ready to follow him no matter what he did. The old story about leaders briefing wingmen ran, "If I punch a hole in the ground, you better punch one just beside me." Boots would have punched the hole.

The fight started when the first unit of four MiGs detached themselves from their circus like hornets from a nest, thundering down from altitude, changing from flickering dots with a contrail to fire-spitting cruciforms.

Bones hesitated just long enough to sucker the first four MiGs toward his flight. Timing was critical—too soon and he tipped his hand, too late and they got a free shot. He waited until the MiGs began firing. "Red Flight, break right, now!" As he reefed his graceful, slender-winged fighter around, he knew that his second element would endure waiting another agonizing ten seconds. They were dying to break with him, to bring their guns to bear, but they had to sit as a target to avoid telling the diving MiGs what their tactics would be.

He was surprised at how pretty the Russian planes were, with their distinctive swept-back wings, high tail, and broad vertical surfaces. As they closed at better than one thousand miles per hour, Marshall observed the blinking fire from the twin 23-mm cannons, and the slower, bigger burps from the single 37-mm piece, the individual shells tiny deadly blobs reaching out to grab him. As the two flights passed head on, the MiGs were even more impressive, earth-brown camouflage coloring on the top, a lethal gray below, with a red ring around the jet intake matching the red star insignia.

A veteran now, Marshall enjoyed stalking the MiG, not firing too soon, waiting instead to stick the nose of his F-84 right up the enemy's tailpipe. A quick glance back told him that his flight was with him, and that the enemy planes were on the opposite side of the circle, trying to turn with them, a mistake on their part. At twenty thousand feet they should have been climbing and diving.

Marshall let his nose drop, gaining speed, creeping up on the inside of the flight of four. In the hot lust of battle he ignored the swift build of pressures of his G-suit, the downward smashing tug of G-forces, the raw discomfort of the mask and harness; all he saw was the flight of four North Korean fighters turning ahead of him.

Like pulling a heavy log up an incline, he tugged the nose up inch by inch until he had the lead MiG's fuselage centered in his gunsight. The MiG turned and another flight of F-84s flashed between them, spoiling Marshall's shot. He reversed and came back to find another of the MiGs settled in on an F-84's tail, matching every turn.

"This guy's a honcho," Marshall muttered, using the new slang for an experienced, determined enemy.

Ahead, the honcho saw that he was overrunning and obligingly popped his dive brakes, slowing down to get a better shot. His target F-84 was now diving toward the deck, pulling white vapor trails from its wingtips.

Marshall lined up the MiG in his Sperry sight, then took his feet off the rudder pedals to make sure the airplane was flying straight, that he wasn't making any casual control inputs that would send the bullets skittering wide. He fired a long burst of armor-piercing incendiary and saw strikes sparking from the MiG like a steel knife blade pressed against a carborundum wheel.

The MiG kept turning and Bones moved in on it,, firing steadily. At first, his six . 50s didn't seem to do much damage against the stoutly built aircraft, then pieces began to fly away, the tailpipe puffing a cloud of black smoke like an old train leaving the station.

It slowed perceptibly and the canopy blew off, turning wildly in the wind, the pilot following. It was like a training film; the ejection seat had a shot of flame behind it, then it tumbled away, the pilot strapped in like a mannequin.

Marshall turned to find another victim, but the sky was empty. The remaining MiGs were climbing away, heading for the safety of the Yalu.

"Red Flight, check fuel state. We're going home."

Boots Burns's voice came back, "Roger, Red Leader. I'll confirm that MiG. Congratulations, Bones!"

He had three that counted now; there were two to go. It wasn't such a bad war after all. Saundra would be proud of him—if she wasn't too busy making money.

*

Washington, D.C./April 1, 1951

Milo Ruddick whacked the
Washington Post
on his desk with satisfaction. Even that liberal rag had to print the story on the first page. The only thing that bothered him was that Julius Rosenberg looked just like Heinrich Himmler in the photo.

"They found the bastards guilty. Good. I hope they get the chair."

It wasn't that Ruddick was biased—he wanted
every
Communist to get the chair. But the Rosenbergs were special—they had stolen atom bomb secrets and given them to Russia.

Tom Finletter, the Secretary of the Air Force, was first up on his appointment docket. Ruddick would have much preferred to still be dealing with the Air Force's first Secretary, Stu Symington—he was a politician first and service secretary second. Despite his Foggy Bottom manners, Finletter was tough. He had become a rabid advocate of what he called "air atomic power," and he wanted the Air Force to assume the world policeman role the British Navy had played in the nineteenth century.

The Cold War and Korea proved that he was right. There was no turning back for the United States—the oceans were no longer barriers, and there would be no time to rearm in the next war. A professional military had to be continuously maintained now, no matter what the cost.

So far, Finletter had been very successful. The Korean "police action" had scrapped all of Truman's economy drives, and, in 1952, the Air Force had been given a bigger budget—more than $22 billion—than either the Army or the Navy. But Finletter was ahead of the Congress, ahead of the public; educating them would take time.

The door opened, and a death duel of courtesy began. Finletter, balding and stoop-shouldered, was a gifted lawyer and politician. Despite his senior position, Finletter was more than content to come to Ruddick's office as a gesture of obeisance to the man's informal but very real power. Finletter was soft-spoken, and his quick wry smile seemed to amplify the pain expressed by his bruised-looking, hound-dog eyes. He gracefully inquired about Ruddick's health, asked about Ginny, and commented on the economy in Little Rock—all in the warm, caring tones of the professional diplomat. Ruddick, armed with sorghum-sweet Southern courtesy, came right back with some pleasantries about the Army's prowess in artillery in Korea, for Finletter, like Truman, was an old artillery man. Ruddick then inquired solicitously about his health, praised him for his foresight in fostering the growth of the Strategic Air Command—and got ready for the business he knew would be forthcoming.

It came: "Milo, I hate to bother you, but the Air Force needs more Research and Development money
now,
this year."

"Are you really sure, Tom? R and D funds for the Air Force have gone up five hundred percent in the last two years. The Army and the Navy will accuse DOD of arrant favoritism if you get any more."

"Very sure. You know we're hamstrung now in Korea—can't use the atom bomb, can't cross the Yalu, can't bomb Manchuria. And while we're bleeding ourselves white, Russia's going ahead with its missile program. Worse than that, the Army's constantly trying to take over our missions."

Ruddick nodded; he'd hear the same sort of complaints from the Army secretary in about an hour.

"What do you need the money for, Tom?"
For
came out almost
Faaw.
The more Ruddick was pressed, the more Deep South he became.

"There's a breakthrough coming in the hydrogen bomb. It looks like they'll get the weight of a warhead down to about three thousand pounds, and that means we'll be able to build a true intercontinental missile—the Atlas. If we don't do it first, the Russians will have us by the throat."

They sat contemplating each other, political chess masters each thinking a dozen moves ahead. Finletter was one of the few men in government who saw past Ruddick's driving ability and Southern charm. He knew that Ruddick hated the Russians almost as much as he hated Jews and Negroes. It was crazy to have a reputed Klansman virtually running the Department of Defense—but there it was. Like Hoover with the FBI, Ruddick had proved indispensable to DOD through the years. When Truman and Louis Johnson were cutting the services to pieces, Ruddick had led the way, suggesting cuts that did the least possible harm. When the big Korean budget boom began, he had handled the expansion with equal skill. There was no doubt about his ability—or his ruthlessness. He got much by charm, more by fear. His intelligence network was formidable, and there were few people on the Hill without secrets that could harm them. And he successfully masked his bigotry from most people.

Ruddick sat quietly, contemplating the problem, which carried pluses and minuses for him. As a true patriot, an ICBM carrying a hydrogen bomb was a welcome addition to the country's strength. But he had diverted enormous R&D sums to McNaughton for the flying-wing missile. If the Atlas ICBM was successful, the Manta would be obsolete before it flew. That could mean the end for McNaughton Aircraft—and he couldn't afford to have Troy McNaughton unhappy.

"How much, Tom?"

"We need four million more this year, ten million next year, then two hundred and fifty million spread over the next three years. That will get it into production."

Ruddick watched Finletter leave, aroused by Finletter's challenge, aware that his problem now was to find substitute contracts for McNaughton's cancelled Manta missile. It would not be difficult, for the whole business of defense was a game, just like the little enterprise he had going with the esteemed senator from Wisconsin.

*

Little Rock, Arkansas/September 15, 1951

Stan Coleman eased the borrowed Chevy around the rise, then shut off his lights and coasted down Elmwood Avenue, where Little Rock's upper crust lived. The huge old houses sat on four-acre sites, surrounded by neatly mowed lawns and lines of magnolia trees. The place smelled of money and he loved it—marrying Ginny was the smartest thing he'd ever done, even if she was hard to get along with. When he'd gone to Korea, Ginny had gone back to live with her dad in the old family home, kidding Stan that she was going to see her high school sweetheart. She was really there to help settle her mother's estate.