BAT-21 Read Online Free PDF Page B

orbiting four thousand feet to the south."
    "Roger. Have you in sight. We'll try not to
pluck any tail feathers."
    "Outstanding. Birddog out."
    The first Sandy came in on the deck so low its
black shadow snapped at its heels. It roared toward the target,
released its bombs, then whipped up into a sweeping climb as the
delayed-action ordnance exploded, sending visible shock waves
undulating over the terrain. Plane after plane came roaring down in
single file, each sowing its seeds of destruction. Hambleton watched
with pride the precision flying of the pilots.
    And of the planes. Depickled from last war's
storage—the Cosmoline scraped from her engines and the cocoon
plastic from her epidermis—the reliable old Sandy was a Vietnam
legend. Her relatively slow speed staying power, and prop-whining
maneuverability gave her an edge on her new, mach-busting
sisters in ground-attack roles, and she was earning her spurs in yet
another war.
    A secondary explosion triggered by one of the
bombed supply trucks sent a towering pillar of smoke into the sky.
"Bingo!" chortled Hambleton aloud. "You guys win the
fur-lined gaboon."
    "Birddog from Gumshoe," came the low
voice of the Skyraider leader. "Heads up. Coming in with a
strafe."
    "Earn your flight pay," came back
Birddog.
    Once again the planes streaked in, propellers
screaming, smoke streaming from their wings as they fired their 20-mm
cannons into the war machinery that glutted the highway. For five
minutes the attack was pressed. Then the Skyraider leader checked out
with Birddog. "Hello, Birddog from Gumshoe. We're Winchester.
Want us to reload and come back?"
    "Gumshoe from Birddog. Reload and stand by at
base. The sports cars are coming in now."
    "Wilco."
    "Nice shootin', Gumshoe. I'm buying the
drinks."
    "I heard that, Birddog. Gumshoe out."
    As Hambleton observed the attack he had noticed
several antiaircraft batteries opening up around him. He had been
right. The intersection was ringed with ack-ack. Hambleton had
actually felt the ground tremble from the recoil of some
heavier-caliber weapons as they tried to shoot down the feinting
Sandys that zoomed in at rice-paddy level to foil the radar and
computers.
    The first batteries firing nearby had scared the
devil out of him. He had mistaken the booming of the heavy guns for
incoming bombs, and couldn't figure out why the friendlies were
bombing so close. Then he had observed the flashes of the guns. The
ack-ack shells exploding overhead rained down tiny pieces of pot
metal like buckshot, and he was glad he had worn his helmet.
    Each time he saw either one of the large guns or
multiple implacements of automatic weapons fire, he made a mental
note of their camouflaged positions and spotted them on his survival
map. Then he called Birddog.
    "Birddog, Bat Twenty-one. Ack-ack guns on
hill thirty-one."
    "Roger, Bat. Stand by," said Birddog.
    "Birddog from Crabtree, over," said a
voice twanging with a Texas accent.
    "Roger, Crabtree. Birddog here."
    "We're on station at nineteen grand. We have
eight seven- hundred-fiftys and six five-hundred-pound snake eyes and
twenty mike mike."
    "Roger, Crabtree. Primary target fairly well
clobbered. Ack-ack guns reported on hill thirty-one. See if you can
pull their plug. Come in when ready."
    "Roger, Birddog," came the voice that
sounded like a guitar twang. "Comin' in."
    It was the first time Hambleton had seen Phantoms
in action close up. He had bent elbows with some of the F-4 pilots at
the bar: blowtorch jockeys who generally wore white scarves and
cowboy boots and who all seemed to hail from Texas. They tended to be
a bit tiresome on the subject of the big two-place aircraft they
flew, but probably they had reason to be proud. The F-4 Phantom was
easily the greatest fighter plane of the decade, destined to take its
place in the Air Force hall of fame alongside such famous craft as
the Thunderbolt, the Mustang, and the Sabre. Crammed with
sophisticated electronics gear, armed with both