“Quite frankly they’re the only aircraft in any supply we have left in this theater. Idea is that if this mission to China goes off then we could give Harrier escort. In-flight refueling of course.”
The Harrier, Shirer thought. Jesus — it might be better than jockeying the Big Ugly Fat Fellows, but it had always been the ugly duckling of production lines with its funny ferry tips or swivel jet nozzles at the end of each wing that made it look more like an aspiring fighter blighted by dropsy than a revolutionary new aircraft.
“Not the new Harrier Two, mind you,” Fowler-Jones explained, to show there was no misunderstanding. “It’s the Harrier One. Single-seater job we’re offering you people.”
“People?”
“Yes,” Captain Moore put in. “The idea is to put in a flight or two of Harriers to go in with the B-52s.”
“Yes,” Fowler-Jones cut in. “Riding shotgun, I believe you chaps call it. If we get the word go, it would mean two Harriers per bomber. As I say, in-flight refueling — in Pakistan before you go over the Hindu Kush to join the big chaps on the raid in. I assume you’re in-flight qualified?”
Shirer still hadn’t shown the kind of enthusiastic response Fowler-Jones had been looking for, and he snatched up his cap and gloves. “Well of course if you’d rather not. I just thought that some of you people were itching—”
“No, sir,” Shirer began. “I mean yes. I’d be happy to go, sir.”
“Good. Your combat experience — just the thing we need. But you’ll have to get used to the Harrier in short order. That’s up to you, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, sir. What field?”
“They’re squadroned in Peshawar. You’ll join them there.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, Shirer saluted and Fowler-Jones was gone.
“Is it anywhere near Lakenheath?” Shirer asked Captain Moore.
“What?”
“Peshawar.”
“You’re joking! Other side of the world! You heard him— Hindu Kush and all that. Harrier squadron is based in Peshawar. At the moment Pakistan is in bed with Washington and London. You see, this way they don’t have to move fighters around where they’d be noticed by the Chinese.”
“Oh? How about moving nine B-52s around? They’d notice that, wouldn’t they?”
“Sure would, but we’ve been flying C-15 relief planes from the military’s air transport command during the spring floods, dropping urgent food relief. At least that’s one reason why planes have been flying back and forth from London to Pakistan for the last two weeks. So when the B-52s show up on Chinese radar they won’t know the difference. That is, until they start turning in toward the Turpan depression. That’s when they’re going to need you boys.”
“Oh,” Shirer said, “and what do you think the Chinese’ll do then?”
“Don’t worry, pal,” Moore cut in. “All their top-of-the-line fighters — Fulcrums especially — are in eastern China. Right now they’re trying to bottle up Manchuria and keeping one sharp eye on Taiwan. They can’t have their jets all over the place at the same time.”
“No, but when the B-52s start crossing that old Hindu Kush or thereabouts, buddy, they’ll move a few.”
“Sure they will, but by then the mission’ll be half over. You guys in the Harriers probably won’t see anything more exciting than an avalanche.”
“This is all assuming that the Chinese don’t figure we’re going to hit them.”
“Right. Where’s your faith in Intelligence? Look how we pulled me wool over old Saddam Insane’s eyes.”
“Maybe, Captain, but the Chinese aren’t the Iraqis. Besides, once bitten, twice shy. Anyway,” Shirer continued, “what the hell are British Harriers doing in Pakistan?”
“They aren’t British, they’re Pakistani. But don’t worry. By the time you go up there’ll be Old Glory on the tail.”
“Jesus,” Shirer said, “this is all politics.”
“So what’s new? All you need to know is you’d better get a handle on the fuckers in case you’re going in. Brits’ll make the decision yea or nay anytime now.”
“Yeah, well I hope the Chinese fall for your relief flight routines.”
“Don’t worry. They’re too busy trying to lock up Manchuria.” Then Moore hit him with the bombshell. He’d have ten days from the moment he reached Peshawar to train on the Harrier. To brighten him up, Moore told Shirer that the older single-seater went faster than the newer Harrier Two.
“How fast?” Shirer asked, the veteran of Mach 2.3 Tomcats.
“Around point nine,” Moore said.
“Point nine!” Shirer stopped in his tracks.
“Not all the time,” Moore assured him. “Sometimes it drops to Mach point eight.”
“Jesus Christ! Has it got enough power to take off?”
“Well, it hasn’t,” Moore said, adopting Shirer’s ironic tone. “You see there are these four guys, good runners, one under each wingtip, one under the nose, the other under the—”
“Up your ass!” Shirer said.
“Not if I can help it.”
Shirer couldn’t help laughing. Well hell, at least he’d be flying again — a lone eagle.
Pulling out the coil of strong ply nylon rope and the tight roll of twenty-three-foot-long polyethylene balloon, Aussie clipped on the first of the Thermos-size pressure tanks and pulled the safety pin, releasing a hiss of helium gas, the balloon inflating in an obscene condom shape until the second tank kicked in and filled the twenty-three- foot-high balloon that now, with its flanged tail also inflated, took on the shape of one of those tethered AA balloons used during the German air attacks over Britain.
Within five minutes the white balloon, trailing its white nylon rope like some gigantic tadpole tail, rose to five hundred feet, the end of the rope trailing earthward, already attached by means of a ring bolt to a wide strip of canvas harness that was now clamped tightly against Salvini’s midriff. The Combat Talon’s dull rumble could be heard before the sudden scream and sonic boom of the F-15 fighters that were well ahead of the Talon passing over them.
Even though the dust had settled, it was still difficult for Aussie to see the horizontal V that extended from the Talon’s nose like a pair of scissors, one blade projecting left, the other right, the idea being that the Talon, using the balloon as a fix above it, would fly its V into the nylon rope like someone extending two index fingers in front of him, snaring the line, which would then jerk the man off the ground as the Talon kept going, winching him up.
Should the Talon miss catching the cable with its nose V, the cable, instead of endangering the props, would slide off the V against a taut protective wire strung from wingtip to the forward fuselage, thus buffeting the balloon rope along the protective wire away from the props. At least that was the theory. It was tough enough to do without interference, but with the knowledge of Siberian MiGs now scrambling aloft to meet the F-15s, everything, as Aussie said while checking Choir’s harness, was “a tad tight!” Next Aussie made sure that Choir’s chute was firmly attached in front of him and head held up.
“You ready, Mr. Williams?”
“No — Mother of God,” Choir replied.
“Ah! You’ll be laughin’ in a few minutes. Here she comes. Come on, Choir, legs straight out, hands palm down, head up — atta boy.”
The rope looked like a thread of curving cotton stretching between him and the four-tailed balloon. There was a line of orange tracer arcing from the east and then two orange streaks: Sidewinders from the F-15s. Aussie could see the slack taken up as the Talon’s V snared the line, then suddenly Choir was jerked violently aloft. It was the most dangerous moment, for if the Talon hit a wind shear or lost altitude for any reason, Choir would smash into the ground at over 130 m.p.h. But the Talon kept climbing, and slowly they could see the arc that was the balloon’s line with Choir at its end reducing in angle as the Talon crew continued winching him up, the line growing tauter. Salvini was the next to go, his balloon already hissing loudly, inflating with the helium and rising heavenward.
Aussie glanced at his watch. It was 1005. Smacking Salvini’s boots together, making sure he was in the correct position, Aussie joshed him. “Bet you ten bucks they winch me aboard faster than you.”
