But now, as he sat alone in the silence of space, where he could not even see the Earth, Bill’s call to his younger brother went unanswered.
“Bobby,” he said aloud. It was almost a snarl, almost a plea. “Bobby, where in hell are you?”
The valley was long and narrow, that’s why they had to go in Indian file. Bob saw the green ridges tilt and slide beneath him, then straighten out as he banked steeply and put the A-7 into a flat dive, following the plane ahead of him, sixth in the flight of six.
He felt a strange prickling at the back of his neck. Not fear. Something he had never felt before. As if someone far, far away was calling his name. No time for that now. He nosed the plane down and started his bomb run.
For once, intelligence had the right shit. The flight leader’s cluster of bombs waggled down into the engulfing forest canopy, then all hell broke loose. The bombs and napalm went off, blowing big black clouds streaked with red flame up through the roof of the jungle. Before the next plane could drop its load, the secondary explosions started. Huge fireballs. Tracers whizzing out in every direction. Searing white magnesium flares.
The second plane released its bombs as Bob watched. Everything seemed to freeze in place for a moment that never ended, and then the plane, the bombs, the fireballs blowing away the jungle below all merged into one big mass of flame and the plane disappeared.
“Pull up, pull up!” Bob heard somebody screaming in his earphones. He had already yanked the control column back toward his crotch. Planes were scattering across the sky, jettisoning their bomb loads helter-skelter. Bob glanced at his left hand and was shocked to see that the bomb release switches next to it had already been tripped.
The valley itself was seething with explosions. The ammo dump was blowing itself to hell and anybody who was down there was going along for the ride. Including the flight leader’s wingman. Who the hell was flying wing for him today? Bob wondered briefly.
“Form up on me,” the voice in his earphones commanded. “Come on, dammit, stop gawking and form up.”
Bob craned his neck to find where the other planes were. He saw two, three . . . another one pulling gees to catch up with them.
He banked and started climbing to rejoin the group, his own gee suit squeezing his guts and legs, his breath gasping. Hard work, pulling gees. And he felt a stray tendril of thought, like the wispy memory of a tune that he could not fully recall.
“Bill?” he asked aloud.
Then something exploded and he was slammed against the side of the cockpit, helmet bashing against the plastic canopy, pain flaming through his legs and groin.
The shock of contact was a double hammer blow. Bill’s body went rigid with sudden pain.
Bobby! What happened? But he knew, immediately and fully, just as if he sat in the A-7’s cockpit.
Flak, Bobby gasped. I’m hit.
Jesus Christ, the pain!
I’m bleeding bad, Billy. Both legs . . .
Can you work the controls?
It took an enormous effort to move his arms. Tabs and ailerons okay. Elevators. Another surge of agony, dizziness. Can’t use my legs. Rudder pedals no go.
Radio’s shot to hell, too.
They’re leaving me behind, Bill. They’re getting out of here and leaving me.
That’s what they’re supposed to do! We’ve got to gain altitude, Bob. Get away from their guns.
Yeah. We’re climbing. Engine’s running rough, though.
Never mind that. Grab altitude. Point her home.
Can’t make the rudder work. Can’t turn.
Use trim tabs. Go easy. She’ll steer okay. Like that time we broke the boom on the Sailfish. We’ll get back okay.
You see anything else out there? MiGs?
No, you’re clear. Just concentrate on getting this bird out over the sea. You don’t want to eject where they’ll capture you.
Don’t want to eject, period. Or ditch. Not in the shape I’m in.
We’ll get back to the carrier, don’t worry.
I won’t be able to land it, Billy. I don’t think I can last that long anyway.
We’ll do it together. I’ll help you.
You can’t . . .
Who says I can’t?
Yeah, but . . .
We’ll do it together.
I don’t think I’ll make it. I’m . . .
