by Tom Wilson
"Red Quon, turn and fly nine-four degrees," came a quick response from the controller. "Target at five kilometers, one hundred meters low."
Good. It was time to turn, and the entire approach had been fortuitously hidden by clouds. He'd seen no Thunder planes; therefore, he was confident they hadn't seen him.
He deftly motioned to his two wingmen to drop back, then flattened his hand and moved it downward. He wanted them behind and slightly lower, prepared to pull up and fire rockets when his own were expended.
He abruptly turned the MiG on its right delta wing, and in the harsh turn grunted as the gravity forces pressed him. The Russian advisors tried to convince him to wear one of their full-body antigravity suits, but he shunned it as too hot and unnatural. He liked to feel the gravity forces, wanted to remain aware of every slight nuance of flight.
He was in a slight dive, picking up speed, for he wished to be lower than his quarry. He interpreted the indicated speed to be 1,220 kilometers ground speed, likely a bit faster than the Americans would be flying, and checked the weapons wafer switch to ensure he'd set it properly. The number-one K-13 heat-seeking rocket was indeed selected. Unlike later models that used audio, the early MiG-21's used a light to show when the missile was locked on. It would remain off until it detected heat from a target, then would flicker until it locked on, at which time the light would become bright and steady.
He flew at the edge of the cloud, moving in and out of its wispy reaches, steadied on a heading of 100 degrees, then called again for directions to target.
The controller was excited. Quon was within 3,000 meters and slowly closing, the Thunder planes ten degrees left.
He corrected, broke out of the clouds, and saw the big planes before him. He slapped the paddle switch to activate the rocket head, and throttled back ever so slightly, tracking precisely on the rearmost aircraft, which was slightly high and dead ahead.
The amber-colored tracking light flickered, then came on steady. He pulled the trigger, felt a slight tremor, then watched the K-13 rocket flash into view, tracking true.
A hit! The Thunder plane slewed and began to disintegrate.
No time for celebration. He'd already shifted his attention to the next aircraft in the flight, selected right outer station, and slapped at the spring-loaded tracking-head switch.
The radar-hunters before him hadn't realized they'd lost their fourth ship, for they continued as if nothing were amiss.
The Phuc Yen radar controller was shouting instructions, but Quon ignored his calls.
He closed on the third aircraft, this one a two-seater. Well within 1,000 meters now. The light blinked, steadied. He fired and watched the white trail of the rocket as it sprinted forward.
Another kill! The Thunder plane staggered and fire-torched behind the rear cockpit. A split second later he saw first one and then another flash as the pilots ejected.
He was about to call for his wingmen to pull forward to join him when the lead Thunder plane turned hard right, followed closely by his number two.
Quon broke left and down, not bothering to select reburner boost.
Not a bad afternoon, he crowed as he saw that both of his wingmen were with him. They sped northward toward the safety of the areas restricted to the Mee by their own rules.
1407 Local—Route Pack Six, North Vietnam
Major Lucky Anderson
In a matter of twenty seconds they'd lost three aircraft, two in the Wild Weasel flight and one in the strike force. Counting the two men in the dual-seat Weasel bird, there were a total of four people swinging in four parachutes, all floating earthward at the same time, and the strident squeals of four emergency beepers were raucous and confusing.
No one knew exactly what to do for a moment, except to circle the chutes, wonder what had happened, and look out for more of whatever the hell it had been.
Lucky felt it had likely been MiGs coming up from their six o'clock, so he called for everyone to stay on the lookout for them. Tiny Bechler, flying in one of the rearmost flights in the gaggle, said he saw a flight of MiGs north of them running like hell. Knowing he'd been right didn't make Lucky feel better.
Colonel Mack was mission commander, and after a minute or so, when he'd gotten things fairly well in hand, said he felt they just might luck out and pick up the pilots, all of whom had survived their shoot-downs and were in radio contact. He canceled the strike mission so they could concentrate on the rescue effort.
The Wild Weasels, both the Weasel crew and their wingman, were down in the flats thirty-five miles west of Hanoi. The strike pilot was not far away, nearer the base of the mountains but also in the flatlands. Those were bad positions, for there was little cover to hide in, but Mack said that with a fighter force as big as theirs they could surely keep the gomers away while the rescue force came in and picked them up.
But shortly it became apparent that the rescue aircraft, especially the choppers, didn't wish to venture over the valley regardless of how many fighters were protecting them. They came in partway, then hemmed and hawed and made various excuses, and Lucky couldn't fault them. Out over the flats the rescue would have been a hairy one on a good day, and if the rescue pilots had an unlucky feeling, they might end up with even more people on the ground than were down there now.
Finally a chopper pilot said he had a fuel-flow problem, and the aircraft commander of the other chopper said he couldn't go in alone, so the rescue effort was scrubbed.
Colonel Mack told the guys on the ground—there were so many of them it was hard to keep them straight—that they'd try to put together another rescue attempt in the morning.
On their way back to the air-refueling tanker, Lucky thought a lot about what had transpired, for he felt that after such a debacle you should certainly learn something.
Lesson one was that the gomers had gotten their shit all together in one bag regarding MiGs and how to use them. No one had seen any of them during the fight—if you were generous enough to call it a fight—and the MiGs had cleanly gotten away. That confirmed the big ECM pod gaggle was no good for seeing and fighting MiGs. Lucky thought about it and decided to tell his C-Flight to become more wary, to keep checking their six o'clock positions, and to keep a plan in mind at all times.
Lesson two? Well, the guys had floated down in their parachutes and were likely seen by every gomer within a dozen miles. If he was unlucky enough to go down in an inhabited area like that, he decided to put as much real estate as possible very quickly between himself and where the gomers thought he'd come to earth. It would be dangerous moving fast through the vast populations down there, but it was a hell of a lot better than just hunkering down and hoping rescue would get there before the bad guys did.
His third and final lesson was that the MiG alerts had to be changed. They had to find a way to advise the pilots of precisely where the MiGs were without their having to look up some obscure quadrant on a map. He decided to call Pearly Gates in Saigon about that one.
On their return trip, as they neared the Laotian border, the individual flights slowed and circled the Termite Hill, where a guy from the 357th squadron had been mutilated by a group of enemy soldiers. In a dark and angry mood they armed their weapons switches and one by one dived at the mountain with their unused ordnance. There was no reason for accuracy, so they just generally aimed for any remaining patches of jungle growth on the mountainside. As each of them felt their bombs release, it somehow made them feel better. The 750-pound bombs were tail-fuzed for good penetration, so when they exploded, they created great spouts of red dirt and green trees. By the time they left, much of the eastern slope of the mountain had been denuded of trees, and a pall of red dust drifted eerily through the small valley.
1430 Local—Phuc Yen People's Army Air Force Base, DRV
Air Regiment Commandant Quon
Quon held his forces back as the attack force of Thunder planes milled about in the area where they'd lost their three aircraft. Finally, when the controllers confi
rmed there were no enemy aircraft left around, Quon directed all fighters to land.
The Mee rules said they could not shoot them down during final approach, for Phuc Yen was restricted to Mee fighters.
As he listened to the controllers give crisp instructions to descend and land, Quon felt a puff of pride. After only two days Xuan Nha and his protégé were already turning things around, and he had made it possible. He'd already sensed a surge in his pilots' confidence. After today it would be even better.
Quon made his approach, but pulled up the last moment before touchdown and smoothly performed a crisp four-point victory roll and then another, for the benefit of the men who would be observing below. He sharply turned the MiG-21 back on a downwind leg and prepared to land, feeling good about what he'd done.
With the reestablishment of radar control for his MiGs now accomplished, he could turn more attention to settling things with the man called Lokee.
1850 Local—Officers' Club Stag Bar, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
The atmosphere at the O' Club bar reflected the successes or failures of the fighter pilots and their missions. Following a good day, such as the raid on Kep airfield, the atmosphere would be jolly, and you would hear a lot of laughter and horsing around, and the jocks would relate how they'd discovered this new tactic, or that new fact about the enemy. On the first day of May in 1967, there was little of that, for that particular Monday the MiG drivers had kicked the shit out of the strike force.
The mood of the men was downbeat, angry, and a little perplexed. They were educated and canny, the cream of America, and to a man they did not like or accept failure.
As often happened, the men shot down had been especially capable and well liked. The Wild Weasel crew was the most experienced in the wing, flying in the number-three slot only because they'd been filling in for another crew. The Weasel pilot had just been put in for the Medal of Honor for destroying a SAM site and killing two MiGs on a single, very hairy mission. The two single-seat fighter jocks had been among the best in the wing.
They'd all been lost in pack six, and the men in the bar knew that none of them would be picked up, and they spoke glumly about their downed comrades.
In corners of the bar two different groups held small celebrations. One was for a pilot of the 333rd TFS, a popular major who'd been named squadron-operations officer. The other, smaller gathering was for Billy Bowes of the 354th squadron, who had been promoted that day.
Captain Billy Bowes
The C-Flight pilots were gathered in a group, celebrating his promotion. Manny DeVera led them, and others in the bar joined in to sing the promotion song:
"Oh, he climbed up on the steeple,
and pissed on all the people,
but they couldn't piss on himmmm.
Fuck himmmmm."
Major Lucky held a pair of sterling-silver insignia before Billy Bowes. "I suppose you think you deserve these?"
"Well, sir, I was beginning to think I was a permanent lieutenant." During the past ten days they'd all developed an intense respect for Major Lucky Anderson, and the captain tracks meant more coming from a man Billy looked up to.
"You guys are pampered," growled Major Lucky. "It took my group six years to make captain."
"Only takes us four and a half years now," said Billy Bowes. "Shows you how much more valuable we are."
"Wiseass," Lucky grinned, then shook his hand. "You're a hell of a pilot, Billy. Congratulations." He dropped the shiny insignia into Billy's hand. "This particular pair of tracks came from a long line of fighter jocks, starting with Tommy McGuire."
The group was awed. McGuire had shot down thirty-eight Japanese aircraft in World War II and was the second leading American ace of all time, topped only by Dick Bong. If he'd lived longer, many pilots from that time felt he would have surpassed Bong.
Billy peered down at the captain's bars with a reverent expression.
Lucky nodded at him. "There's a lot of proud history that goes along with them. When it's your turn to pass 'em on, pick some young pilot you think will honor them."
Billy felt such emotion that it was difficult to answer, so he just nodded. The group remained quiet as everyone stared at the captain's bars.
Henry Horn finally spoke solemnly. "Billy, you've given me confidence. I used to worry about making captain. Now I know anyone can make it."
The others laughed and the awkward moment was past.
"A toast!" cried Bob Liebermann, and it was so out of character for the quiet captain that he gained everyone's attention.
They waited as he looked about at them, gaining courage to continue.
"C'mon, Bob," encouraged Manny DeVera, who was Liebermann's roommate, "he doesn't deserve much."
The others howled in happy agreement.
Liebermann lifted his beer bottle and looked at Bowes. "May you have a fast jet and blue skies. . . ."
"Hear, hear!" chanted the others.
"May your enemies falter and fall before you. . . ."
"Hear, hear!"
"And may your nerves and your prick turn to steel."
They laughed.
"By damn," concluded Bob Liebermann.
They looked at him inquisitively.
"Turk Tatro taught me that one, and I thought it was appropriate," mumbled Liebermann, looking about for reassurance.
"Hear, hear," they said in quieter voices.
Joe Walker looked sad. "Sure be nice if Turk was here with us."
"I'll bet he's giving the gomers fits," said Manny, "trying to understand him. Probably can't figure out why it takes him half an hour to give his name, rank, and service number."
"Yeah," agreed Henry Horn, "and he's probably got 'em shook up with his jokes about chasing little women. Hell, that's the only kind of females they've got."
They laughed.
Joe Walker grew wistful. "Turk's tough. They question him, I'll bet he doesn't give them the time of day."
Billy started to say something about everyone having a breaking point, then shut up. They all knew that was true.
Lucky Anderson clapped a heavy hand on Billy's shoulder. "I've got an appointment."
Manny DeVera raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't be with a certain person from Bangkok, would it, boss?"
Major Lucky ignored the question. "Congratulations, Billy. Next week I'm putting DeVera on flight-lead orders. You'll be next."
Bob Liebermann listened with a frown. It was common knowledge within the flight that he wanted, very badly, to lead a flight of fighters. It was also known that Lucky wanted him to become more at ease with the Thud and to gain more experience first. So Liebermann studied relentlessly and learned the flying rules and regs as well as anyone in the squadron, and hoped he wouldn't have to wait long before Lucky relented.
Lucky Anderson left the stag bar through the side door leading to the trailers.
"Bet he's going to say good-bye to the Ice Maiden," said Manny. "She's leaving on tonight's base flight to Don Muang." Don Muang was the Bangkok airport.
"How the hell do you know that?" asked Billy.
Manny cast him a funny look, and Billy realized that he'd taken it as his mission to know everything possible about round-eyes who ventured onto the base.
"Lucky doesn't talk much about personal relationships with women," mused Henry Horn. "Because of his face, I guess."
That gave them all pause.
"Yeah," Manny finally muttered. "Maybe you're right."
Billy furrowed his brow at the thought. He'd met few officers in the Air Force like Lucky Anderson. He looked up to him, as he might have looked up to his father if he'd known him better. They all felt like that. They seldom spoke, or even thought about Lucky's deformity, for there was so much to admire in him.
It was known that even while recuperating from his accident, he'd battled to be returned to flying status. It was also accepted by most that he was probably the most tenacious combat pilot in the wing. But Lucky was also regarded by his men as a good guy
and a superb leader who gave an honest shit about their welfare. The burned face didn't figure into any of the factors of being a fighter pilot, a leader, or a man. Even Bob Liebermann, in his zeal to be placed on flight-lead orders, never doubted that Lucky Anderson would make the correct decision.
"I suppose," said Henry Horn, "women get turned off by his burns. I noticed that No Hab doesn't like to look at him. He is pretty ugly."
Bob Liebermann had been drinking beyond his tolerance level. "He's not really ugly," he said. "He just doesn't have a face."
Manny DeVera looked troubled. "It isn't right. A guy like him who's got more ability than anyone I know, living like a fucking monk. I know for a fact he hasn't gone to the Ice Maiden's trailer with her."
Bob Liebermann spoke up. "Turk Tatro said Lucky went downtown with him once, but he wouldn't go into the bars. Said he joked about there being no reason to scare the whores."
"Guess there's nothing we can do to help," Captain Billy Bowes finally said.
"Your blond girlfriend gone now?" Joe Walker asked Manny.
"She's at a Peace Corps camp not far from here. I called her a bit ago."
"Maybe she could tell the Ice Maiden what kind of super guy Lucky is," said Walker.
"I think she already knows. When I asked Jackie about what was going on between them, she just got all swimmy-eyed and said it was nice and wouldn't say anything else."
"Maybe," said Joe Walker, "they're already getting it on."
Manny shook his head. "He's got some kinda hang-up. He's not getting any."
"You guys act like we're a bunch of matchmakers," said Bob Liebermann uneasily. "Major Lucky wouldn't like us doing this."
"Hell," said Manny with a wry grin," he works his ass off trying to keep us alive. Least we can do is a little pimping for him."
Billy bought another round in celebration of making captain, and the conversation continued about how they might help get Major Lucky laid, then shifted to stories about how each of them had scored or missed out with females of the world's various nationalities.