Pug 66

The summer of 1959 was notable for the number and size of storms, but always in the afternoon, when warm, humid air would come flowing in on the seabreeze off the Atlantic. This time it was dark as Jack's flight prepared for a night exercise, and flashes of lightning were crackling in every direction.

"Listen Mike, take off one minute behind me. Stay in trail, five miles back. Use your radar to follow me, but if you lose me, just follow the turns that the controller gives me, only just make 'em a minute later." He looked sharply at Mike. "Nasty night. You nervous?"

"Maybe a little." After that one storm, he'd lost his cocky attitude. And Jack was right...it looked like a nasty night, for sure.

The two sat on a bench in the locker room, in front of long rows of olive-green parachutes and garish helmets. Other members of Jack's flight stood across the room. Most were talking while suiting up, but Mike sat quietly, attentive to his instructions. Jack attached his Mae West around his thick chest while Mike pulled on his flying boots.

Mike thought of how men facing danger make a ritual of donning their equipment, like matadors putting on their suits of lights. In a way, he mused, it is like a Zen ceremony; one that helps you bring your mind into focus. Some pilots laughed and joked, others were deadly serious, but all were careful to do it right, to check the chutes and oxygen masks, making sure no item was overlooked.

"Your radar," Jack continued, "will show the worst of the storm cells. Don't try to be a hero and drive right through them, even if I do. The target will be at a thousand feet, but we've got to look up at him to see him out of the ground clutter, so we'll fly at five hundred. Watch your altitude, and don't keep your head in the scope!"

Mike couldn't agree more. A few months before he arrived, a guy on a low altitude night mission had driven right into the Congaree Swamp. The older pilots had delighted in telling Mike a lurid story of how the alligators had eaten the guy's body and all they found was his jawbone. Mike thought they made that up, but it still gave him the creeps.

A major problem with the old '86L was that the autopilot was useless, requiring almost constant attention to the instruments. To make it worse, the pilot had to periodically look away from the instruments and peer into the radar hood and try to pick out a small T-33 jet trainer on a fuzzy screen. His job was to lock on to the T-bird and make a simulated rocket attack, passing the target on a crossing path.

Jack and Mike walked out to their Sabrejets, glistening in the thin rain. Each fighter had nose art showing the fierce 888th demon brandishing a pair of rockets. Mike did his pre-flight and buckled in, assisted by a young airman. "Rough night, Lieutenant," he said.

Mike merely shrugged, lost in his thoughts.

The six planes in the flight fired up in pairs. Jack and Mike were to go last. Mike watched a pair of ships as they started their takeoff roll, afterburners booming like drawn-out thunder, flames shooting out the tails like giant roman candles. The second pair followed as Jack got his taxi instructions.

Mike started his engine and followed Jack's ship out to the runway. They ran up the engines together, then Mike pulled back to idle while Jack started his takeoff. The afterburner lit up Mike's cockpit, his plane shaking from the exhaust. After exactly one minute, Mike shoved his throttle forward and felt the fighter lurch ahead as the afterburner roared to life. As he rolled, a lightning bolt split into a dozen strands, filling the sky ahead.

Rain enveloped the plane as he climbed out. This soon turned into a fine spray of hail, hissing against the windscreen.

The controller ordered Pug Six-zero Flight to proceed to the target area at fifteen thousand feet. Mike looked for Jack's ship on his radar as soon as he leveled off. Peering into the greenish-yellow screen, he could make out a faint blob dead ahead at five miles. He called Mama-san to tell him he had radar contact with Jack. "Mama-san, Pug Six-six has tally on Pug Six-zero."

"Roger, Six-six," Mama-san acknowledged, "tally on Six-zero."

Mike leaned back and relaxed. It would be an easy flight until they reached the target area.

Twenty minutes later Mama-san called out, "Pug Flight Six-zero, descend to angels oh-point five, heading three-one-oh."

"Pug Six-zero, roger," Jack answered.

As he throttled back Mike saw a solid wall of clouds ahead, glowing from within by lightning flashes. Where the hell is Mama-san taking us? Can't he see that stuff on his radar? And is the T-bird waiting for us in the middle of all that? What made me want to be a fighter pilot, anyway?

Leveling off at five hundred feet, he watched his "basic six" flight instruments, just taking glances at the radar screen. For the moment he was out of any clouds, and stars were overhead. But the swamp below was devoid of lights, totally black and deserted. Except for the alligators.

On the scope he could see Jack's blob, and a few miles ahead a solid line of clutter. Rain cells, Mike thought. He looked up as a lightning flash lit a cloud with white-hot incandescence like a giant Japanese lantern. Oh, yes. And lightning too.

"Pug Flight Six-zero," called Mama-san, "turn starboard to three-four-oh. I'm going to steer you between the worst of the rain cells. Target is at range thirty, just beyond that line of clutter."

That's nice. At least Mama-san is looking at his radar. Only I don't see any gaps on mine.

Jack's blob disappeared into the rain clutter. A minute later Mike was also in the soup, heavy hail rattling, turbulence rolling the little ship around like a dinghy in heavy surf. Totally ignoring the radar scope, he struggled to hold his heading and altitude. He could hear the controller giving Jack directions to the target. Target? Who can think about a target in this mess?

Then, as quickly as it began, it ended. He was in the clear, in one piece. Mike checked his fuel state. It showed 2200 pounds. They were briefed to head for home at 2000 pounds.

"Pug Six-six, Mama-san," the controller called to Mike, "your target is forty degrees right, range six."

Wake up call! Shoving his nose into the scope hood, he looked where the controller told him. Nothing but garbage. At the same time, he heard Jack call, "Pug Six-zero, splash one." At least Jack could find the damn target.

Mike took a quick peek at the gauges to make sure he was still right-side up, then looked some more. Damn. It's hard to concentrate when you're so nervous.