Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [307]
Clint and Judy often said they had never seen two people more in love, more grateful for the existence of the other, more willing to give of themselves, more awed by their late discovery.
Colonel Matt Beck and his vice chief, Major Scott Davidson, sat before Hiram Stonebraker. The general chewed their asses out.
Incidents of Russian buzzings and close flying were mounting. A Skymaster had been bullied out of the corridor, was pounced upon by Yak fighter planes which forced it to land on a Soviet airfield. Matt Beck wanted fighter plane escorts.
The general said he didn’t have grounds for the request. Both Intelligence and his own estimates were that the Russians were putting on a last-ditch show trying to force more landings for face-saving value.
“What have we got? Gutless wonders? Now I don’t want any more of our people scared out of the corridors!”
When Scott and Colonel Beck were alone, they summarized the situation in a short sentence. “Too many replacement crews.”
Most of the original Airlift crews had been on bombers during the war and were disciplined to hold formation in the face of flak and enemy fighters. While the Russians annoyed the old-timers, they never made them deviate from course.
The two worked on a revision of pilot rosters to keep the maximum number of old hands in every time bloc and squadron.
Next day, Scott came into Colonel Beck’s office, annoyed. Y 80 had a time bloc scheduled for the 12th and 333rd Troop Carriers that showed it to be 75 per cent new crews who had never faced a buzzing. Moreover, nine of the crews were making their first run to Berlin. Russian activity was reaching a new peak.
“I think I’d better go down to Y 80,” Scott said, “and take this bloc in and out of Berlin a couple of times.”
The colonel agreed.
Major Scott Davidson briefed them. They looked to him with a sense of relief and with an admiration given an old flyer of his caliber.
“It’s a game of trying to make you flinch,” Scott said. “They’re like yappy puppies. Don’t let them know you know they’re alive. Let’s hack time now.”
Bloc time was twenty minutes away. Scott phoned Hilde.
“Going to take a couple of runs to Berlin, today,” he said, “we’ve got to get these people steadied down.”
Hilde masked her disappointment as always. She hated him to fly, and was in knots until he returned. She knew, though, that she could never say anything about it ... now or ever.
“I’ll go to the hotel and wait for you,” she said.
“I may be late.”
“I’ll wait ... Scott ... I go to my room and I look at the ring twenty times a day. Would it be bad luck if I wore it around my neck on a chain. That way I could tuck it into my bosom so no one can see I’m wearing it.”
“Great idea. I can fish it out later.”
“Scott!”
“Then ... you can stick it through my nose.”
“I’m serious. I want so much to have it close.”
“Sure. Maybe you’d better get some use out of it before it turns green. I’ll try to phone your sister if I have time.”
“Aufwiedersehen ... I love you ...”
“Me too ...”
He detected a tremor in her voice. Just sentimental ...
Scott lined them up over Fulda. They moved into the Southern corridor. Below the ground was lush and green with the coming of spring.
The interval was established for the 110-mile run to Berlin. For twenty minutes it was clear and smooth. Soon they would be under the control of Tempelhof radars.
His copilot, a likable young redhead a few months out of flying school, was on the yoke while Scott stretched. He looked over his shoulder to the flight engineer, another youngster ... and he missed Nick’s cigar smoke.
“Big Easy Fourteen calling all craft. Three Yaks at one o’clock.”
Scott took the yoke quickly. His copilot spotted them coming straight down the line. A hundred feet above them the Russians leveled off, ducked back into the clouds.
“They’re just clowning today,” Scott said on the intercom.