When Pigs Flew

By Paul Cardinal

Everyone says Pete Cardinal sounds just like John Wayne on the radio. People who have never seen him are often surprised to meet a six-foot mustang lieutenant instead of a six-four admiral. Leaving San Diego with just a year to go before retirement, hes headed to a cushy desk job in Memphis. Or so he thinks

Pilots Jerry and Psycho are just getting a handle on their secret missions special weapons and tactics when a crash landing ruins their day. Also ruined is the career of the guy who put bad fuel in their plane as well as Petes plan for an easy year in Memphis. Bidding his family a hasty goodbye, he heads for a bay in Vietnam where he isnt sure he will live to see tomorrow. With Petes support from the mother ship, Jerry and Psycho can focus on their mission, eliminating North Vietnamese supply boats using an obsolete seaplane meant for hunting submarines.

In this military tale, things that actually happened meld with war stories (things that might have happened) to bring to life a little known episode from the Vietnam War.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475946383

Paul Cardinal

Paul Cardinal is an Auburn University graduate who by trade is an electrical engineer. He has published numerous electrical technical papers. Paul and his wife, Elvia, have three children and live in Houston, Texas. This is his first novel.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Afterward

Prologue

The unmistakable chatter of an AK-47 caused Pete Cardinal to press his head into the damp Vietnamese earth only to jolt into consciousness upon hitting the headboard of his bed in Tennessee.

Dad obviously piled it on high and deep to the young preacher who gave the eulogy today, said my sister as we and his neighbor Barry drove the twisting valley road to his house that first day of spring in 1997, Lieutenant Commander! Dad never went beyond Lieutenant. And there was only one tour in Vietnam rather than two.

Nightmares full of the chatter of AK-47s, I scoffed.

I think I passed that one on, Barry said sheepishly.

As far as I know, Dad was shot at only once in Vietnam and that was at such a long range that he never heard anything, I said chuckling, Dad never was above pulling someone’s leg. May God and the preacher forgive him.

Crunching to a stop on the gravel driveway, the three of us entered a side door to avoid the crowd at the pot luck on the porch. We naturally gravitated to the eight by ten add on sunroom that had been my father’s studio. I brushed the rusted strings of the old banjo hanging on the wall and gently stroked the worn pewter casting of a silhouetted duck in flight. The room smelled of coffee and cigarettes. They were the signature aroma of the man that the two of us knew as our father. In unison, all looked at the worn caning on the stool beside the drafting table. We wished Dad were there, rather than resting in the urn on the sideboard.

My focus was on a lacquered jewelry box that for forty years I had been forbidden to touch. My sister looked over my shoulder as I rummaged.

I claim this, she said holding up a sparkling solitaire ring, It has to be fake, but isn’t it gorgeous.

I don’t think it’s fake, I said upon quick inspection.

If it’s not fake why isn’t the second Mrs. Cardinal wearing it?

You, of all people, know that Dad sometimes had weird ideas. If this is the ring I think it is, he probably thought it should never be worn, but couldn’t force himself to throw it away.

Pam gave a curious look, shrugged, and slipped the ring in her jacket pocket. I changed the subject.

There are things I haven’t seen since I was eight. I wonder if they are still here or the same as I remember. Maybe I’m looking for things I gave him to see if they made the box. I said looking for signs of approval in the treasure box of the man I thought I could never please.

That reminds me, said Barry opening a drawer and removing an automatic pistol, Your dad wanted to be sure you got this.

The Colt Woodsman, I said testing the smooth action, Dad loved these when he was on the Navy shooting team. I found this one at a gun show in Houston.

Navy shooting team… Barry pondered, He was a fine shot.

It was his eyes, I stated, They were incredible. I remember him shooting quarters at seventy-five yards with an iron-sighted rifle. I couldn’t even see the coins. Dad said he would have made the Olympic team in 1956 if it weren’t for a plane crash.

I never knew he was in a plane crash, said Pam.

He wasn’t in the plane, I began, Dad was first there when an F-9 pancaked onto a carrier deck. Regulations called for the pilot to remain in the cockpit to avoid spinal injuries. Seeing fuel running toward the hot exhaust of the dark blue plane, Dad saw no time for procedures. He jumped on the plane, sat on the windscreen, popped the belts, jerked the unconscious aviator into a fireman’s carry and ran toward safety. Dad only took a few steps before the plane exploded.

Why haven’t I heard that story before? asked my sister.

Dad didn’t really like to talk about it, I explained.

How did you find out?

I knew something was going on in the sixties. Dad would get little bumps on the back of his head or neck. He would go to the hospital and the doctors would remove another small piece of that airplane. I think one of the pieces is in here, I said reaching in the jewel box and rattling a plastic pill bottle that contained a small chunk of aluminum.

That used to be part of an airplane? asked my sister.

Yeah, but I got the full story later when I was back in town from college. Dad and I dropped into the O’club. A guy with a noticeable limp offered to pay for our beer. It was the pilot. Whether or not Dad aggravated any injuries, the pilot held no grudge. If that day was any example, Dad never paid for a drink when that guy was in the bar.

That sounds just like Dad, said Pam, Even though the pilot was injured, I don’t see why Dad had a problem talking about the plane crash.

It was a black mark on Dad’s service record, I stated.

A black mark? questioned Pam, He should have gotten a medal.

He did, I said, He received an official commendation and a reprimand for the same action.

Wouldn’t that balance out? asked Barry.

No, I explained In the Navy one ‘Oh Shit’ wipes out a hundred ‘Atta Boys.’ It almost ended Dad’s career.

But that was 1956, said my sister, Dad served in the Navy for twelve years after that. He was accepted into the enlisted to officer program. People with bad records didn’t get into that program.

Not normally, but I think someone else’s ‘Oh Shit’ canceled out Dad’s. He was on the carrier Saratoga just after it was commissioned. Slime developed where gasoline and seawater met in the carrier’s huge aviation fuel tank, seeing the confused look on my sister’s face I explained, On aircraft carriers, seawater keeps the tank full and prevents the possibility of ignitable vapors. In a perfect world the gas floats on top with no problem. In a not so perfect world, microbes in the seawater react with the gasoline to form slime. Removing the mess called for draining the tank, but that would have shut the carrier down for a week. As an alternative, someone suggested diving into the huge gasoline tank in dry dive suits. Dad, due to his pariah status after the plane crash, was naturally one of the three men assigned to go into the tank. They were successful in removing the slime. Unfortunately the dive suits didn’t seal completely. All three men went to the hospital with lead poisoning. Dad was in the hospital for over three months. The other two men died.

Oh… my sister winced thinking how close we came to never existing, I never knew… Then the Navy selects him for one of their most prestigious programs.

It’s amazing how far you can go simply by obeying incredibly stupid orders, I said shrugging my shoulders.

I thought I knew everything about him, but… she pulled a ribbon with a small airplane on it from the box, What is this?

It’s a Berlin airlift participation medal, I said picking up a plastic badge, And this was his I.D.

Look at that photo. Can you believe he was ever that young, Barry said shaking his head at the seventeen-year-old kid in the picture.

The Navy accepted him after his junior year in high school, I explained, As a sixteen year old high school dropout he joined the navy to get away from Wisconsin winters. So the Navy sent him to Thule, Greenland to load cargo. Thule was pretty light duty. When the weather went sour they wouldn’t have anything to do for weeks. Their main task was avoiding freezing or dying of boredom. They liked to play cards, but didn’t have any tables. Everyone celebrated when a large unlabeled crate showed up. After they had been using it as a table for several weeks, someone bent over to pick up a dropped card, he noticed a piece of paper shoved in a crack. It was the cargo manifest stating the contents as the mortal remains of Captain John B…

And this has what to do with the Berlin airlift? asked Barry.

At first the airlift was all Air Force, but then Navy cargo crews were called in, I stated with a chuckle.

What’s so funny about that? questioned Barry.

At the time of the airlift, Germany was having one of their worst winters in history. Coming from Greenland, Dad thought it was summer.

Pam smiled and shook her head saying, I always loved his stories. My favorite was when he had the anal retentive Captain on the aircraft carrier. It was one of the little ones like over in Corpus Christi…

An Essex class carrier, I filled in.

Whatever, continued my sister with a wave of her hand, Dad was in charge of one of the big ropes that ties up the ship.

A hawser, I defined.

Yeah, a hawser. Pam nodded. "Anyway, they had one line that was always set because it kept the ship tied to shore, but this other line was really just decoration. They were like line seven and eight. Nobody ever set line eight, but the Captain said as long as it was his ship, line eight would be set. Next time in port, not only did it have to be set, it had to be the first line set.

This was a tough order. That rope was never used because it strung out way behind the ship. To secure the line you had to throw the hawser to the pier and have someone on a tractor tow it down to its stanchion. Rather than use a tractor, Dad decided the crew would toss a coil to the pier as they passed the stanchion. In theory, the hawser would trail out as the ship moved down the dock. When the coil was thrown, however, it landed on the stanchion making a perfect clove hitch rather than playing out. The line grew taut and jerked the ship to an unexpected stop. As the captain picked himself off the floor of the bridge and wiped his bloody nose, the squawk box reported from the fantail, ‘Line eight secure.’"

Pam wiped a tear and said, He had a hundred stories. I wish I’d taken the time to write some of them down before…

I was thinking about it, I replied, I actually got him to make a recording for me.

You recorded some stories? Pam asked excitedly.

Not so much the stories as details that would help me fill in the blanks about his time in Vietnam, I explained.

Have you done anything with it? asked my sister.

Not much, I said, Either consciously or unconsciously I’ve been stalling. Dad didn’t want some things to be public knowledge while he was alive. He was afraid the Air Force would send him a bill for 350,000 gallons of gasoline.

So now you’re going to write a true story about Dad? asked Pam.

As true as any of his stories, I said.

So this is pure fiction, Pam said with a laugh.

If you know all the stories, tell me about this boat, said Barry looking at a picture that had fallen from a book, It’s a real beauty.

I smiled at the picture of the orange and white boat with a big 43 on the bow. Dad from thirty years before was at the helm with his dark brush cut hair and permanently squinted eyes. The big kid behind him was Boats. As a second grader I raced slot cars against that jolly ox’s at the base hobby shop. My eyes misted as I pictured Boats’ parents being consoled on our living room couch after the man-boy shot himself during an LSD trip.

I blinked and said, The four-three boat was supposedly a converted PT. They had replaced the aircraft engines with twin diesels. At least that’s the way Dad had it in his earlier stories. In later years, I think he put the big gasoline engines back. Judging from events of which I have personal knowledge, I’m pretty sure the earlier versions of the stories are more accurate. I never really called Dad on that, but a couple of years ago I gave him a mug that read ‘The older I get the better I used to be.’

He hated that mug, Pam said with a grin, "He used it as an ash tray and kept knocking it off the deck to break it, but you’re right about his increased gift of embellishment.

What about the boat? Barry got back to the picture, Was it really a PT?

I can’t be certain, I said, The last time I saw it I was eight years old. It was a big boat. Dad loved it as much as us kids and certainly more than our mother.

Paul! sister scolded.

Our parents weren’t getting along real well at that time, I explained to Barry, But Dad loved that boat. He almost cried when it was torpedoed.

Dad’s boat was torpedoed! Was he on it? Was he hurt? Pam asked.

Another long story, I stated.

We have nothing but time, said Barry.

And we’ve got a bottle of Irish whiskey, said Pam pulling a bottle from a duffel bag, I was going to pour this on his grave when we buried his ashes.

He’d reconstruct from those ashes and give you a sound whipping for wasting good whiskey, I said.

Then tell us a story, she said grabbing some glasses from a collection on the shelf.

First a toast, I suggested raising my glass, To Dad.

To Dad, echoed Pam.

To Pete, said Barry.

Chapter 1

The huge gray and white, gull winged seaplane swooped out of the sun like an angry bird of prey. Thunder from two, three thousand horsepower radial engines startled the crew of the orange and white crash boat with the big 43 painted on the bow. Pete Cardinal mopped sweat from his brow and returned a dark blue ball cap to his head. One hand reached for twin throttles. Fingers opened and closed on the helm.

Water whipped into froth as the plane’s two giant propellers skimmed just over the surface. Beneath the plane’s engine nacelles, doors swiveled open exposing four black torpedoes. Over the plane’s bulbous nose, Cardinal locked eyes with the two pilots. He thought he could make out a smile as a dark cylinder splashed into the water.

Cardinal studied the weapon’s entry point and called down the hatch, What do you hear Phillips?

Fast screws. She’s running hot and deep, said the acoustic gear operator.

A sailor’s hat blew into the ocean as the big plane buzzed over the boat’s deck. Cardinal looked over his shoulder and frowned at the big Tee tail speeding away. His attention returned to business at hand.

Is it locked on to us?

Too soon to tell.

Cardinal drummed his fingers on the throttles.

It’s veering away, announced Phillips.

Cardinal took a deep breath, Has it got the target?

Sounds like it. I’ve lost the torpedo in all the noise.

Looks like your fish found its momma, called Cardinal over the radio, But you missed the drop marker by fifty feet.

It’s a homing torpedo, replied Lieutenant Jerry Edwards from the cockpit of the P5M Marlin, All I have to do is get it in the water.

Them’s the rules today. The boss men want you to hit the smoke pot, said Cardinal, And could you come in a little lower next time?

Negatory, Sitting Duck, said Edwards, My plane captain gets all pissed off when he has to scrape squids off the props.

Next pass, remember. Red target. Orange boat, teased Cardinal.

Roger that cowboy, replied the plane, Ready to give us another shot.

Wait a couple minutes while your first fish floats up and our chase boat reels it in, said Cardinal watching the other boat accelerate in pursuit of the flotation bag deployed by the dummy torpedo.

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Jackson, you want to take the seat? Jerry asked the navigator, I think I’ll get some coffee while those boat jockeys are chasing down that fish.

Get me some too, said the burly co-pilot, I had a late one last night.

So Ben, how was that nurse? Jerry asked while unbuckling his seat belt and squeezing past the navigator.

She was a gymnast in college. You wouldn’t believe the things she can do. Ben tapped a fuel gauge that hadn’t moved since they took off.

You plan to see her again? asked Jackson raising the seat so he could see over the instrument panel.

Every chance I get.

Sounds like this could get serious, Jerry squatted between the two pilot’s seats.

It could. Ben continued tapping the gauge till it swung to three-quarters of a tank.

I thought you were the one who would never get serious.

That’s the great part. I can get as serious as I want. Three weeks from now we ship out and I get the lay of my life as a farewell gift, Ben schemed.

You are playing with fire, bud, Jerry warned standing to watch a boat lower a diver into the water, One of these women will track you down and poof, you’ll be setting up shop in one of those little two bedroom houses over in Imperial Beach.

They’ll never catch the fox, Ben assured.

Yeah, right, scoffed Jerry, Right now I’m picturing a foxes tail tied to the radio antenna of a station wagon heading for the commissary. You want anything in your coffee?

A little sugar to remind me of the gymnast.

You’re so sad. Jerry edged past the navigator’s station and stopped to examine the tactical display console, Wow, Clarke, you’ve been busy. I’ve never seen so many contacts. Are the subs leaving at the same time?

I think these are all false hits by the magnetic gear. The skipper took some spooks for a ride in this plane last week. The MAD gear hasn’t been the same since.

Jerry shook his head, in passing slapped the shoulder of the plane captain and stopped at the gimbaled coffeepot. While filling two cups he asked the ASW operator, What kind of crap are you feeding up to the TACCO?

The gain is just way off, said the tech, Look! The MAD gear picked up the engines in that damn wooden boat towing the target.

Hmmm. I wonder if that would help me hit the target? Jerry asked.

It would help you hit the boat, said the tech.

That’s the one thing we will not be doing today.

Noticing the intent look on the radio operator’s face Jerry took a few more steps back and asked, Radio Moscow?

Some ham guy in Spokane reciting Shakespeare.

Jerry took the pro-offered headset long enough for a quick sonnet, Ben needs this coffee before he falls asleep at the yoke.

The radio operator shrugged and returned to the bard. Jerry retraced his path down the flight deck and carefully balanced the coffee cups while climbing the short ladder to the pilot compartment.

You ready to miss another target? said Ben taking in the rich aroma that comes only from coffee made in Navy pots that have never been cleaned.

I got the target, I just missed that stupid drop point, said Jerry passing off a cup and standing aside while Jackson slipped out of the seat.

Jerry tried to sit down, but banged his head on the ceiling, You were only here for two minutes, Jackson, did you have to mess with the seat?

What good is the seat if I can’t see out the windows?

That’s what you get for being five eight.

That knot on your head is what you get for being six three.

I think I should wear my helmet all the time instead of just at take-off. Jerry rubbed his head.

That would save us the glare off that blond hair of yours, said Ben, Grownups shouldn’t have hair that blond.

Women have blond hair all the time, said Jerry.

They get it from a bottle, said Ben, That’s what I mean. It just ain’t natural.

You guys awake, the radio squawked.

You sure your swimmer doesn’t want to take a few more laps, said Jerry tightening his straps.

Maybe later. Let me get up to speed so that rattle I’m towing can make enough noise to attract your torpedo.

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Pete Cardinal set the throttles for fifteen knots. The seaplane came in low from the west. The torpedo splashed into the water. Cardinal shrugged. The smoke pot again dodged the bullet. Phillips confirmed the dummy weapon was running toward the target.

You’ll have to shoot straighter than that if you want to ride with me, Cardinal joked.

Who am I talking to, John Wayne? questioned Jerry.

Pete Cardinal could only smile. Everyone said he sounded just like John Wayne on the radio. People who had never seen him before were often surprised to meet a six-foot tall lieutenant junior grade rather than a six-four Admiral.

You got the Duke, Cardinal returned, Release a little later next time, pilgrim. You were short, but remember I said a little later. I don’t want you putting a fish up my ass.

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How was the surfing this morning? asked Ben watching the air bag pop to the surface.

It was a bit calm today, said Jerry banking to starboard, It was hardly worth going out if it weren’t for the fact that it’s always worth going out.

Your worst day of surfing beats your best day at work, eh buddy, said Ben?"

Nah, Jerry patted the top of the instrument panel, Even flying these pig boats, I have a hard time thinking of this as work.

Until you have to hit a target, reminded Ben.

You had to bring that up. I still think it’s stupid to put a guided torpedo on a specific spot, grumbled Jerry.

Maybe these torpedo runs are just practice for dropping something else, said Ben.

What else would you drop from a P5? asked Jerry.

I’ve heard in Vietnam they’re dropping bombs with anything that will fly.

I didn’t sign up to do no bombing, Jerry shook his head.

That’s the whole point of flying a bomber, said Ben.

Bomber? I thought this was a patrol plane. Isn’t that what the ‘P’ in P5 stands for? Why can’t I just patrol?

Because the object of patrolling is finding something to bomb.

I thought the object of patrolling was to build up a lot of hours so Delta will hire me as an airline pilot.

That’s your objective. The Navy’s objective is for you to blow stuff up. It’s time you got started.

The torpedo chase boat had been in a better position this time. Jerry pulled back on the yoke to begin another run. It’s just like shooting doves, he told himself. Paint the target with your sight. Except with this target you want to use a much larger brush. Also take into account that the red marker is standing still and you’re not. Come to think of it, this was nothing like shooting doves.

Jerry exhaled and took a bead. He punched the release button.

Ben watched the torpedo drop from the engine nacelle on his side, I think you’ve got it. I think you’ve got it! I think… you… missed it.

Sooo close boys and girls, Jerry heard over the radio, Let us set up again.

How’s that ride of yours running, asked Bed tapping the fuel gauge again.

Like nothing else on the road, said Jerry with a smile.

That was so cool the way you smoked that Dodge the other night on Shore Line drive. What do you have under the hood? Ben tilted his head to catch what sounded like a miss fire in the number one engine.

It’s got the motor from a fifty six T-bird, said Jerry also tuning in to number one, Actually it’s little more than the shell of a forty-six Ford Wagon sitting on T-bird running gear.

Seems like a waste of a good T-bird, said Ben, Do you hear that tick in number one?

Yeah. Smitty, are you listening to number one?

Looks like I need to check the plug in cylinder eleven, the plane captain said while twisting a knob on the engine analyzer.

Eleven! Jerry shook his head. Not seven, twelve or eighteen, but eleven. What were we talking about?

Why you wasted a T-bird, reminded Ben.

Oh, yeah. A spoiled kid back home wrapped the T-bird around a telephone pole. I put parts that would fit in the wagon and sold the rest of the pieces to pay for tuck and roll upholstery and the seven coats of lacquer.

It is the ultimate sleeper. Who would expect to get blown away by an old wood sided wagon, Ben said shaking his head, You thought any more about trading it for that guy’s new Stingray?

No way, said Jerry, There are thousands of Vettes. There’s only one Woody-bird.

When you going to let me drive it? asked Ben toying with the plane’s yoke.

Nobody, but me, is going to scratch those seven coats of lacquer, replied Jerry.

Uh, girls, called the radio, You ready to bomb something?

That’s bold talk from a one-eyed fat man, said Jerry.

Let’s cut the comedy and fire your round. We still have some time to get in some fishing, said Cardinal.

And I might just get a chance to hit a few golf balls, said Jerry.

I hope you hit them better than you hit this target, said Cardinal.

That is ironic, said Ben chuckling, You can hit a green every time from two hundred yards.

I care about hitting a green. My heart’s really not into hitting things with a bomb.

You better get a change of heart. When we get to Vietnam, landing a bomb may be the difference between coming home to a job at Delta or not coming home.

The dream of himself at the controls of a red, white and blue 707 began to fade in Jerry’s head. Suddenly all that mattered was that puff of red smoke on the green sea below. Jerry thought about the first run. He contemplated the other two. Calculations raced through his mind. His brow furrowed with concentration.

Drop, he called.

Ben looked at him wide eyed. Jerry was perplexed.

What happened, sun get in your eyes, the radio chided.

I think we have a problem, Jerry called, The torpedo failed to release. We’ll try another run.

Jerry lined up again. Still the torpedo would not drop.

No joy. How about taking a look to see what’s wrong? said Jerry banking the plane in a circle around the crash boat.

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Cardinal picked up his binoculars to examine the bomb bay under the engine nacelle. Suddenly the nose of the torpedo dropped. The boat skipper’s eyes grew wide. The black cylinder broke free of the plane. Pete immediately saw where it was headed. He pulled back the throttles and cranked the helm full to starboard.

The torpedo arced gracefully through the air. The bow of the four-three boat swung slowly out of harm’s way. Pete watched the torpedo’s flight. He glanced at the boat’s bow. A slight smile came to his lips. The torpedo splashed to port. Pete exhaled. The torpedo’s head rose from the water and careened off a whitecap. Pete winced as it made a forty five-degree change in course. He closed his eyes to the crunch of metal on wood.

Torpedo forward, he called down the communication tube, Damage report.

It’s lodged in the forward storage locker, shouted a voice from below, We’ve got some water lapping in, but the hole’s above the water line.

Target one, this is six. Are you all right? squawked the radio.

We’re okay. I have everybody standing on the starboard side of the boat. Now repeat after me. Red target. Orange boat, Cardinal said before calling into the speaking tube, What’s the status of the storage locker?

Pretty well busted up, sir, was the reply.

The contents? Cardinal inquired.

Pretty well busted up, sir.

The Admiral’s equipment? Cardinal asked earnestly.

Pretty well busted up, sir.

Crap! whispered Cardinal adjusting the gain setting on the radio, Six it looks like we will need a little help.

You want me to direct the coast guard, Jerry asked frantically.

It’s nothing that serious, Pete said adjusting the radio gain, You still read six?

"Roger, but your signal is getting very weak. Do