Targets of Opportunity (1993) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Joe Weber
and spit drops of water on the floor. Brad had set a bucket under the dilapidated machine in order to catch the water.
Outside on the Hot Pad at the north end of Da Nang, two armed and fueled F-4 Phantoms sat in the searing heat. The fighter-bombers, each carrying twelve 250-pound fragmentation bombs and sixteen five-inch zuni rockets, had been configured for close air support. If army or marine ground units needed emergency air cover, the Hot Pad crews could be airborne in five minutes.
Both aircraft were connected to ground power units to expedite starting the General Electric J-79 engines. Support crews, sweltering in the shimmering heat and damp humidity, lounged near the fierce-looking Phantoms.
The waiting went on around the clock, wearing nerves thin and sapping everyone's strength. The oppressive heat combined with the underlying tension made Hot Pad duty an exercise in personal discipline.
Randy Wyatt tossed the dice through the homemade chute, watching them tumble across the stained game board. -Bird balls," he said listlessly as the two cubes presented him with a pair of aces.
Wyatt's close-cropped red hair was thinning at the temples. His aqua-blue eyes stood out in a sea of freckles on his angular face. An inch over six feet, the country-western aficionado had been a star pitcher on the Oklahoma State University baseball team.
-Let's take a short break," Brad suggested, unzipping his torso harness and flight suit. "It's so goddamn hot in here, I can't think." He walked to the chattering air conditioner and stuck his face next to the grille. "I can't believe that the same company that made this piece of shit manufactured the engines in our Fox-4."
Wyatt feigned a look through the window. "Yeah, they've got a bucket under the plane, too."
Brad closed his eyes and inhaled the semi-cool air. "What I wouldn't give for a swimming pool . . . even a kiddie pool."
"Why don't you draft a missive to the commandant," Wyatt said with a straight face, "and tell him this stinking hole he sent us to is lacking in certain amenities?"
Austin ignored the remark and returned to the table. "You know, Randy, I can't get over Stew and Vic hitting the mountain . . . nine feet from the top."
Wyatt looked down, sharing the same frustration about the tragic accident. "Stew was a damn good pilot, no doubt about that." He paused, observing his friend. "Brad, you need to put it behind you and think about the present. We'll never know what they were thinking."
"I know," Brad frowned, "but there has to be a plausible reason for Stew's actions. I would have flown his wing anywhere. He was a bright guy, and a good stick."
Wyatt noticed that their wingman's RIO was listening to the conversation.
"Brad," Randy said quietly, "at least they didn't know what hit them."
Austin sighed. "True, but that's little consolation for their families."
They flinched at the dull buzz from the Hot Pad phone. Everyone leaped to their feet while Wyatt yanked the receiver from its cradle.
As Brad and the other crew headed for the door, Randy Wyatt waved for them to stop. "No scramble," he mouthed, covering the mouthpiece, then thanked the controller. "Twenty-three is on the way back with extensive damage."
Brad looked at the tattered flight schedule. "Chitwood and Davey Perkins."
The four men hurried outside to watch the arrival of Rhino 23. Brad asked his plane captain to man the Hot Pad phone until the aircrews returned to the trailer.
Walking parallel to the runway, Austin and Wyatt passed a crushed water buffalo. The portable water cistern, with the wheels angled gut forty-five degrees, was mangled beyond repair. Twenty-five minutes after Brad and Randy had reported to the Hot Pad trailer, a CH-46 helicopter had inadvertently dropped the water container from a height of 200 feet.
"I'm sure as hell glad," Wyatt laughed, "that that mother didn't land on our shack."
"Yeah." Brad grimaced. "We'd have been about three feet shorter." They both saw
Outside on the Hot Pad at the north end of Da Nang, two armed and fueled F-4 Phantoms sat in the searing heat. The fighter-bombers, each carrying twelve 250-pound fragmentation bombs and sixteen five-inch zuni rockets, had been configured for close air support. If army or marine ground units needed emergency air cover, the Hot Pad crews could be airborne in five minutes.
Both aircraft were connected to ground power units to expedite starting the General Electric J-79 engines. Support crews, sweltering in the shimmering heat and damp humidity, lounged near the fierce-looking Phantoms.
The waiting went on around the clock, wearing nerves thin and sapping everyone's strength. The oppressive heat combined with the underlying tension made Hot Pad duty an exercise in personal discipline.
Randy Wyatt tossed the dice through the homemade chute, watching them tumble across the stained game board. -Bird balls," he said listlessly as the two cubes presented him with a pair of aces.
Wyatt's close-cropped red hair was thinning at the temples. His aqua-blue eyes stood out in a sea of freckles on his angular face. An inch over six feet, the country-western aficionado had been a star pitcher on the Oklahoma State University baseball team.
-Let's take a short break," Brad suggested, unzipping his torso harness and flight suit. "It's so goddamn hot in here, I can't think." He walked to the chattering air conditioner and stuck his face next to the grille. "I can't believe that the same company that made this piece of shit manufactured the engines in our Fox-4."
Wyatt feigned a look through the window. "Yeah, they've got a bucket under the plane, too."
Brad closed his eyes and inhaled the semi-cool air. "What I wouldn't give for a swimming pool . . . even a kiddie pool."
"Why don't you draft a missive to the commandant," Wyatt said with a straight face, "and tell him this stinking hole he sent us to is lacking in certain amenities?"
Austin ignored the remark and returned to the table. "You know, Randy, I can't get over Stew and Vic hitting the mountain . . . nine feet from the top."
Wyatt looked down, sharing the same frustration about the tragic accident. "Stew was a damn good pilot, no doubt about that." He paused, observing his friend. "Brad, you need to put it behind you and think about the present. We'll never know what they were thinking."
"I know," Brad frowned, "but there has to be a plausible reason for Stew's actions. I would have flown his wing anywhere. He was a bright guy, and a good stick."
Wyatt noticed that their wingman's RIO was listening to the conversation.
"Brad," Randy said quietly, "at least they didn't know what hit them."
Austin sighed. "True, but that's little consolation for their families."
They flinched at the dull buzz from the Hot Pad phone. Everyone leaped to their feet while Wyatt yanked the receiver from its cradle.
As Brad and the other crew headed for the door, Randy Wyatt waved for them to stop. "No scramble," he mouthed, covering the mouthpiece, then thanked the controller. "Twenty-three is on the way back with extensive damage."
Brad looked at the tattered flight schedule. "Chitwood and Davey Perkins."
The four men hurried outside to watch the arrival of Rhino 23. Brad asked his plane captain to man the Hot Pad phone until the aircrews returned to the trailer.
Walking parallel to the runway, Austin and Wyatt passed a crushed water buffalo. The portable water cistern, with the wheels angled gut forty-five degrees, was mangled beyond repair. Twenty-five minutes after Brad and Randy had reported to the Hot Pad trailer, a CH-46 helicopter had inadvertently dropped the water container from a height of 200 feet.
"I'm sure as hell glad," Wyatt laughed, "that that mother didn't land on our shack."
"Yeah." Brad grimaced. "We'd have been about three feet shorter." They both saw
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