"Got any infrared photos back there?"
Steiger looked doubtful. "I'll see." As soon as he had disappeared, Jake slipped half a dozen of the most interesting prints into his shirt. He was trying to pinpoint the major buildings on the chart when Steiger returned with three eight-by-tens taken from directly above the city.
These pictures could be mistaken for time-exposures of the city at night, but the light came from heat sources, not street lamps. The paved streets that had absorbed the sun's energy showed as faint ribbons. Some of the brighter hot spots were probably factories. The pinpricks of light might be kitchen chimneys. What else can I learn from looking at these pictures? Jake wondered. Would hot or cold air flow out of public buildings? Wouldn't it depend on the time of day? A magnifying glass might help. He realized he did not know enough to interpret the pictures, so he finally handed them back. "Mind if I borrow this?" he asked as he rolled the chart into a tube.
Down in their room, Sammy was asleep. Jake sat quietly on his bottom bunk and examined the stolen photos again before locking them in his desk safe.
A significant target-perhaps Communist Party headquarters? If he could drop two or three thousandpounders into it, what a message that would deliver to the Hanoi leadership! The Communists would assume that the American government had ordered the bombing. Perhaps that would drive them to end the war.
He watched his cigarette tip glow in the dark as he considered the implications of such a raid. It was tempting. This would not be a "suspected truck park" or another raid on a bombed-out rail yard. No, this would be a real target, something worth the trip, a hit that might have a positive effect on the outcome of the war. Communists have a sure feel for gun-barrel politics, Jake told himself. They'd get the message. Of course, they'll throw everything they own into the air to defend Hanoi, and we'll have to get through it,
Morgan would have agreed readily to go after party headquarters, Jake decided, but would Cole? If Cole were a competent bombardier and a fighter, as Jakee suspected, perhaps he could be approached. The next few days would tell the tale.
Jake stubbed out the butt and undressed in the dark. It would be so great to smash them!
FOURTEEN
Their torsos glistened with sweat in the early afternoon sun. Stripped to the waist, wearing bell-bottom navyissue jeans, the ordnancemen worked in teams hoisting the bombs from dollies to the aircraft's bomb racks, almost six feet in the air. Every time they lifted, their muscles stood out. Two different crews worked on the Intruders today. On the "up" shout of the crewleader, eight sailors grunted together and the thousand-pound bomb went up to the rack. They held it there with muscle power alone while the crewleader closed the mechanical latches that mated the weapon to the aircraft, then inserted red-flagged safety pins. When three of the big green sausages hung from each rack, one man went from bomb to bomb screwing in the mechanical nose fuses and installing arming wires. The ordnancemen reminded Jake Grafton of a high school football team, all youth and muscle, all wide shoulders and corrugated stomachs, all cheerful camaraderie.
Several of the men always seemed to find time to chalk a personal message to the North Vietnamese on a bomb or two. Everyone had done that the first month of the cruise, but now the novelty had worn off for most. Their fathers had loaded bombs this way and had written similar messages to the Japanese. One scrawl caught the pilot's eye: "If you can read this you are one lucky gorner.
Jake checked each weapon to see that it was properly installed, then examined the settings on the nose fuses. Each bomb was set to arm after 6.5 seconds of freeflall Today Jake's Intruder carried a dozen 1000-pounders and a 2000-pound belly tank, over twice the payload of a B-17 on its way to Berlin.
"Go get 'em, Mister Grafton," the crewleader told him as he led his gang off to the next plane. Jake went on with his preflight inspection. The sun felt pleasantly warm on his shoulders, and perspiration moistened his T-shirt as he checked tires, brakes, and door latches. Pausing, he closed his eyes and faced the sun, which he could see through his eyelids. The breeze ruffled his hair. He opened his eyes and looked at the towering cumulus in the bright blue sky. Soon....
By the time Jake swung into the cockpit, Virgil Cole was already strapped in and checking his charts and information cards. Maggot, the plane captain, followed Jake up the ladder and leaned in to help him with the harness buckles. "How's your Dad, Maggot?" Jake asked.
"Doing okay now, Mister Grafton. I called back to Texas like you said. I think he's going to be all right. Hey, where're you guys flying to today?"
The pilot reached into the ankle pocket of his G-suit and pulled out his map. Spreading it out, he stabbed with his finger. "Right there."
The plane captain saw green and brown relief for delta and mountains, blue lines for rivers, and dots and circles for cities and hamlets with strange, exotic names. "What's there?"
"A power plant." One that like knew had been bombed at least three times in the last six months. The plane captain asked, "Where's Hanoi?"
Jake opened the chart another fold. "Right here. And we're down here on Yankee Station." He moved his finger to the Gulf of Tonkin.
The enlisted man grinned. "Glad I ain't going with you," he said and disappeared down the ladder.
As usual, the pilot went through the prestart checklist from memory, visually and physically checking the position of every switch and knob within his reach. Jake wiggled into his seat. Aah! he thought. My favorite chair. He closed his eyes and checked the switches again, his fingers closing confidently on each one.
He compared his watch with the five-day clock on the panel. He had three minutes before the air boss would order the engines started. Down on the deck the plane captain and ordnancemen, Jake noticed, now all wore shirts and helmets and, in case the exhaust of a jet engine blew them into the sea below, inflatable life vests. The pilot leaned back and watched the sunlight and shadows weave through the puffs of clouds. "Sure is a great day to be going flying," he told Virgil Cole, who looked up from his computer.
"Yep."
The pilot put on his helmet and waited for the plane captain's start signal. In less than ten minutes they were taxiing toward the number-three cat on the waist, or middle, of the flight deck. Planes launched here went off the angled deck instead of the bow.
As they waited for their turn to launch, Jake watched Warrant Officer Muldowski, who was launching on the waist cats today. The bosun swaggered about the deck like a pirate captain, his belly out and his shoulders back, keeping one eye on Pri-Fly and the light signals mounted there. Once the launch began he was a very busy man, checking the wind speed and setting the steam pressure for each aircraft while monitoring the hook-up of the plane on the other waist cat. He launched each plane individually, first signaling the pilot to wind the aircraft up to full power while he inspected it, then taking the salute and giving the launch signal, a fencer's lunge into the face of the thirty-knot wind. He held the pose, arm outstretched, as the wing of the accelerating machine swept over his head. The wind and hot exhaust blast swirled around him like a gale against a great rock.
The warplanes queued up behind each cat with their wings still folded. A large hinged flap known as the jet blast deflector, or JBD, located behind each cat directed the exhaust gases of the launching bird up and away from the flight deck. These deflectors were lowered after each launch to allow the next bird in line to taxi onto the cat. A group of maintenancemen swarmed over the plane waiting behind the JBD, performing the final safety inspections. A team of ordnancemen removed the safety pins from the weapons racks. Each man was intent on his job, yet vigilant to avoid being run over by a wheel, sucked up an intake, or rolled down the deck like a bowling ball by the blast furnace exhausts. The deck was so crowded that men transiting the taxiway crawled under a moving machine behind the main mounts and in front of the exhaust pipes.
Jake felt the engines spooling up and saw the catapult officer twirling his fingers in the "full power" signal, the crewmen scurr
ying from under his machine, and the bow of the ship slowly rising and falling to the rhythm of the sea. He anticipated the tremendous thrill when the cat would accelerate his plane to flying speed in two and a half seconds.
Jake howled in exultation as the Intruder swept down the catapult into the clean salt air, a banshee wail on the ICS that caused Virgil Cole to examine him with a critical eye when they were airborne. Jake made a slight turn to the left to clear the bow, then nursed the laden bomber up to 500 feet where it wallowed slightly as the flaps and slats retracted.
He kept the Intruder at 500 feet-as specified by the visual flight rules (VFR) departure procedure-until the TACAN indicated seven miles from the ship; then he soared left and threaded his way upward.
When they topped the clouds at 10,000 feet, Jake saw two KOM tankers and their retinue of Phantoms about five miles away to his rear. The tankers were in a constant angle-of-bank turn with the fighters lined up alongside as they waited their turn at the refueling hoses.
Leveling off at 13,000 feet, Jake searched the horizon for A-6s. His eye caught two of them, at least twelve miles away. The pilot steepened his turn and, holding the plane level, crossed above the ship toward them. After he had rendezvoused on the skipper's right wing, Jake glanced back across the holding circle. The last plane of the Intruder foursome was only a mile away and closing. That was New Guy, who would be his wingman on this mission.
Jake settled into the mechanics of formation flying. From now until they pushed over for the dive at the power plant, he would stay glued to the skipper's wing and New Guy would stay glued to him. If the formation broke apart, Little Augie, now on Camparelli's left wing, would stay with the leader while Grafton and his wingman would form a pair. That way, if someone got bagged there would at least be witnesses. The skipper led his A-6 division up a thousand feet and slid in beside the division, consisting of five A-7s, that would lead the strike. As briefed, the Intruders took a position about two hundred feet aft and two hundred feet to the right of the lead division. Another division of A-7s stationed itself in the same position on the left side. All the bombers were aboard.
The radio encoder beeped and Jake heard the commander of the air wing, the CAG: "Devil Five Two Three, Hawk One. How much longer on the tanking?"
"About three more minutes."
"Okay, I'm going to swing across the ship, then head out on course. The fighters can catch up if they aren't finished by then." The CAG had a reputation as a man who never waited for things to happen, which was one reason he had the job he did.
The formation steadied out in a gentle climb on course for North Vietnam. In a few minutes two Phantoms loaded with Rockeyes joined the formation from below. Each took up station on the side of the lead division. These were the flak suppressors and would dive first, aiming their ordnance at the guns and missile sites that ringed the power plant. If all went as planned, the three divisions of bombers would be in their dives when the Rockeyes exploded on the enemy guns. The key was split-second timing.
The formation leveled off at 22,000 feet. The cumulus clouds below looked to Jake like the full sails of clipper ships. Brilliant sunshine filled each cockpit and made the off-white and pale gray planes look dazzling white against the deep blue of the sky. To the east the horizon was a straight line dividing heaven and earth, but ahead to the northwest the earth and sky blended together in a grayish-white haze. Clouds over the target. Grafton sighed.
"Hawk One, Stagecoach Two Oh One. We'll be on station in about two minutes."
"Roger that." Stagecoach 201 was the leader of a section of Phantoms that patrolled twenty to thirty miles ahead of the formation to intercept any enemy fighters. A mile above the bombers, another section of Stagecoach F-4s weaved back and forth, ready to take on any MiGs that eluded the forward section. A pair of fighters from another squadron were also stationed a mile away on each side of the formation.
The CAG checked in with the E-2 Hawkeye and the EA-6B Prowler. These aircraft would remain over the ocean. The Prowler carried a sophisticated package of electronic equipment for jamming the enemy's radar frequencies.
This large strike of bombers, flak suppressors, fighter escorts, and support aircraft, known as an Alpha Strike, was designed to place the maximum amount of ordnance on a heavily defended target in less than sixty seconds, saturating the defenses and minimizing the enemy's ability to concentrate antiaircraft fire on any particular aircraft. Thorough planning and careful coordination among all elements of the group were essential. Good visibility in the target area was also a necessity. Grafton imagined the CAG was probably cursing to himself right now as he looked at the clouds ahead.
Jake found he could stay in position with just a sixteenth-of-an-inch movement of the throttles. He glanced over to Little Augie's bird, flying on Camparelli's left wing. Big waggled a greeting with his index finger, which brought a smile to Jake's face. When the Augies are goofing off, all's right with the world.
The radio beeped, and a voice spoke in a disgusted tone: "Hawk One, Mustang One Oh Four. I just had a
.partial hydraulic failure." Jake's eye went to the Phantom hanging a hundred feet to the right of the lead division. As he watched, the nearest A-7 in the lead division snuggled up to the Phantom.
"Mustang, you have hydraulic fluid coming out of your belly." The fluid was colored red to make it readily visible.
"Mustang, Hawk One. Go on home."
"Roger that." The stream of black smoke from the exhausts decreased to a trickle and the plane sank out of formation. Several thousand feet below, it began a gentle turn and rapidly fell behind as the formation flew on into the afternoon.
Overhead, a layer of cumulostratus and high cirrus obscured the sky. Below, the cumulus clouds became thicker until only occasional patches of the sea could be glimpsed. The water lost its blue radiancy and looked dark, almost black. Within minutes the jets were flying in a clear lane with solid clouds above and below. The sun was gone, taking with it heat and light and leaving only a gray sameness. This was the backdrop for which the navy gray-and-white paint scheme was intended.
"Stagecoach Lead, Hawk One. How's the weather look up there?"
"Overcast and undercast. A few holes over the beach. We might be able to bomb."
"Roger."
Jake tightened his chest harness. The CAG was going on regardless. "How's the system?" the pilot asked his new bombardier.
"Radar seems okay, but the computer's a little squirrelly. I'm having trouble controlling the cursors at times...." Cole ran out of steam.
"Optimist," Jake said. When Cole didn't reply, he continued, "Get set for a system delivery. I have a gut feeling we ain't gonna be able to see this damn place."
"I have the target." Cole tuned the radar. "Well, they weren't lying. It's still there. Feet dry in about four minutes."
They became aware of the bass beep of a search radar, an enemy radar, and apparently everyone else heard the faint tone at about the same time because the formation tightened up. The beep sounded again every fifteen seconds or so, the operator merely sweeping the sky, but the volume increased as they closed the enemy coast.
"Black Eagle, Black Eagle, Hawk is feet dry." Jake started the stop clock. The hands began to sweep, counting the seconds, one by one.
Now the entire formation began a gradual descent. The needle of the vertical speed indicator showed that they were dropping 1500 feet per minute, then 2000. The airspeed increased. The search radar tones came more frequently, about every four or five seconds. The operator had narrowed his sweep to a sector scan.
"Mustang One Oh Seven, you stay with us." The CAG spoke casually, as if he were ordering popcorn at the wardroom movie.
"Okay." Another emotionless voice, but the lone flak suppressor pilot must have felt a twinge of relief. Instead of zooming out ahead of the formation and making a solo dive on a heavily defended target, he would now go in with the rest of the bombers. The flak would still be there but at least Mustang 107 wouldn't be
hanging it all out by himself.
I But perhaps it was all academic. As the formation slid through 18,000 feet the clouds below took on a -solid look. Was there a hole? Could they bomb at all?
"Twelve miles to push over," Cole informed him.
Three hundred forty knots indicated. Jake reached ,over and flipped on the master arm switch. One push on the bomb-release pickle and six tons of high explosive would be on their way.
"SAM, SAM, SAM." "Three o'clock." "Two of them." "Three." "Look out, Pete."
The radio was full of chatter, most of it impossible to comprehend over the wailing of the missile warning. The skipper turned right and Grafton hung on his wing. Jake's ears were assailed by the high-pitched SAM warning. The red missile light next to the bombsight was flashing. The strobe on the warning-direction indicator pointed behind the right wing, back toward Haiphong.
"See them?" he asked Cole.
"No." Cole was looking over his right shoulder. New Guy was still with them but several plane lengths back so Jake had room to maneuver.
"Keep turning, Pete." The radio again. Who the hell was Pete? Everything was happening so fast. "Watch out!" "Damn!"
From the corner of his eye, Jake glimpsed a missile streaking upward and away from him. "More SAMs. From the left."
The skipper reversed his turn so he could turn into the threat. The A-6 on his left wing was gone. Jake slipped down and inside the skipper's radius of turn so he could stay with him.
Where were the missiles? The warning light on the panel was still flashing and the warble whanged away. Jake chanced a quick glance downward. Nothing. Only clouds. What a mess! His peripheral vision picked up dark gray puff balls of exploding flak, probably fired blindly through the clouds.
Too many people were talking too fast on the radio. From out of nowhere a lone A-7 flashed in front of Camparelli going from right to left. The strike had fallen apart.
"You got the target?" Jake asked Virgil Cole.
Flight of the Intruder Page 21