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missiles and cannon,
it could go more than twice as fast as the speed of sound. And thanks
to its impressive ordnance-carrying capacity (up to sixteen thousand
pounds), the Phantom was as formidable in ground attack as it was in
its pure fighter role.
    Hambleton watched the monstrous jets howl in at
mind- boggling speed, hugging the deck. They put in their ordnance
with precise accuracy, clobbering the hill he had pointed out.
    Hambleton saw one of the heavy guns, a 100-mm,
actually leap into the air. A direct hit—"Banzai!" he
muttered. "That'll teach you bastards to shoot down defenseless
old navigators!"
    "How we all doin' down there?" asked the
jets' leader.
    "Stand by, Crabtree. Birddog to Bat
Twenty-one. How are we doing?"
    Hambleton transmitted. "Birddog from Bat.
Doin' fine. Make next pass a hundred yards east of the last one."
    "Roger, Bat. Nice having the coach right on
the field calling the shots."
    "That's a matter of opinion "
    Hambleton listened as Birddog relayed his message
to the jets' leader. They came in again. And again. From his vantage
point Hambleton could direct the assault with deadly accuracy. Even
six large tanks covered with camouflage netting at the side of the
road were quickly reduced to scrap metal.
    In pass after pass the Phantoms barreled in over
the target with their loads of destruction. Dropping low like great
sinister birds of prey, they unleashed their miniature hurricanes of
fire and steel, then whined back up into the heavens. When the last
of their ordnance had been expended the F-4 leader bade the FAC a
cheery good-bye and the whole dark flock thundered off to the nest
from which they had come.
    It was again comparatively quiet, but through the
ringing in his ears Hambleton could hear the crackling of fires and
the muted moaning of men. As a participant in the attack, Hambleton's
adrenaline had been pumping overtime. He had been calling the shots
to Birddog—"Make another pass a hundred yards left of the last
one," or "Repeat that last strike on hill thirty-two, but
fifty yards more to the right to get that bunker." He had
reveled in the joy of the gladiator, meting out punishment to an
adversary who had punished him.
    But now, in the quiet aftermath of the battle, his
glands no longer gearing him for combat, he felt a strange aftershock
as he surveyed the carnage before him. The twisted carcasses of metal
monsters were strewn along the roads before him as far as he could
see. The intersection was a burning, bomb-cratered funeral pyre
sending billowing smoke and the acrid smell of cordite into the sky.
Bodies were strewn along the roads, strange, unreal marionettes with
severed strings.
    He shook his head numbly. As a professional
military flyer he was no stranger to military operations or the grim
ravages of war. But until now his participation—as deadly dangerous
as it had been—had always been detached from the grisly reality of
close- quarter ground combat. Wrapped in a clean, pristine aluminum
envelope, he had done his fighting miles above the scene. It had
almost been a computer game—his electronic sophistication matched
against that of the enemy in the crisp blue skies of the upper
atmosphere.
    Down here it was no game. Down here were the guts,
gore, and grime of war. Here were the end results of man's inhumanity
to man honed to the highest degree of technical expertise. The
science of combat had been elevated to the highest art—if art it
was to efficiently turn healthy human beings into fertilizer!
    Hambleton felt his stomach churning. Maybe he was
going to be sick. He turned away and ran a clammy hand across his
face.
    "Bat Twenty-one from Birddog."
    He picked up his radio. "Come in, Birddog.
Bat Twenty-one."
    "Quite a little show, eh, Bat?"
    "Roger. Quite a little show."
    "Much action down there?"
    "Quiet. Gomers are licking their wounds."
    "You're a helluva coach. We just might leave
you down there."
    "Please, no favors."
    "We got a problem."
    "Oh? I didn't know we