He tossed the photos back on the table and examined the route Tiger had marked out. The bombardier planned to coast-in just south of the lighthouse at the entrance of Haiphong harbor, proceed straight to an island in the river on the northern edge of Hanoi, and turn to the attack heading. After bombing, they would move left in a sweeping turn that would let them circumnavigate the city and would spit them out on the southeast side, headed for the ocean and safety. The pilot studied a sectional chart that showed in detail the terrain around the island, tonight's Initial Point, and around the target. Maybe there would be enough light to see the rivers. Like hell!
"Another good navy deal," he said and patted his bombardier on the shoulder. He paused again at the flak chart, then went off to the wardroom for a cup of coffee before the brief.
The Augies had a tanker hop and were in the locker room when Jake and Tiger entered. Little Augie had not exchanged a word with Jake since he had returned from Cubi. Now he spoke. "Where're you headed tonight?"
Grafton told him but didn't bother to look at the diminutive pilot. Little Augie lingered, watching Jake inspect the cartridges for his .357 Magnum and then carefully load it. Jake had returned his issue .38 to supply long ago so he could carry this more powerful weapon.
"If you get bagged tonight, can I have your stereo?"
Jake grinned. Apparently whatever sins Little Augie thought him guilty of were forgiven. "If you can find it," Jake told him. Unlike almost everyone else, he had not bought an expensive Japanese sound system at the Cubi Point Exchange. Little punched him on the shoulder and walked out of the locker room.
Jake put the contents of his pockets, including his wallet, onto the top shelf of the locker. He placed a folded cardcase, which contained a green navy ID card, a Geneva convention card, and a twenty-dollar bill, in one of the big chest pockets of his flight suit. Like most airmen, he carried several thousand dollars worth of small, navy-issue gold wafers in his survival vest in case he had to barter with or bribe local people, but he brought ght nothing else of monetary or personal value. Except the ring. This he had in the left sleeve pocket of the flight suit where he had kept the sand dollar.
Dressed, with helmet bag in hand, he paused before closing his locker. fie examined its contents, as he had done on every mission before. Morbidly, he knew that if he were shot down or killed, Sammy Lundeen would have the job of clearing out these little pieces of his life. Well, he had logged the same number of landings as takeoffs, so far. He felt for the ring, assured himself the pocket was completely zipped, then slammed the locker door and spun the combination lock.
They launched at twilight. Jake took the Intruder to 20,000 feet and cruised leisurely up the Gulf. Spectacular reds and oranges and yellows, afterglow of the setting sun, filtered through the clouds that lay over the mountains in Laos. Deep blues and purples began to vanquish the lingering gold. It: had witnessed many sunsets and sunrises from the sky, but the pageant never failed to move bin, Someday he would share a sunset aloft with Callie.
"The system looks real good," Tiger announced. Jake engaged the autopilot. The steady beep of a search radar was clearly audible now. "Commie sonsuvbitches have found us," Tiger muttered.
A falling star caught Jake's eye. What could he wish for? To survive? To get back to Callie safely? He also wished for more stars, and as the minutes passed his wish was granted.
"I've got an update on the lighthouse." The lighthouse on the Do Son peninsula, which jutted out into the mouth of Haiphong harbor, had not been illuminated for years. "We have six minutes to kill. How about a six-minute turn to the right?" . Jake nudged the stick over, then released it. The autopilot held the Awqbne at the selected angle-of,bank. "You're pretty talkative tonight," he told the bombardier.
"Checklist," Tiger prompted. Together they set the switches on the armament panel, double-checked the ECM panels, and watched the compass and clock hands rotate. As they completed their turn, Tiger checked their position again. The steering on the VDI in front of the pilot swung to the coast-in point. Jake caught Tiger's eye for a second, then turned the autopilot off. When they had descended a thousand feet, Jake turned off the exterior lights, IFF, and TACAN. "Devil Five Oh Oh, strangling parrot."
"Black Eagle copies, Five Double-nuts."
The plane descended toward the sea. The beeps of the enemy radar sounded closer together now. The operator was in a sector search, painting them repeatedly, measuring their course and speed. Jake leveled off at 500 feet and allowed the speed to bleed off to 420 knots. "Three miles to coast-in," Tiger informed him. The enemy radar was back on area sweep. Perhaps their plane had faded in radar return from the sea.
Jake blinked the perspiration from his eyes and looked ahead for the silver ribbon of sand that divided the land and sea. A mile out, he saw it and the thin, wavering lines of breakers washing ashore. He thought of Callie on the beach.
"Black Eagle, Devil Five Oh Oh is feet dry."
"Roger Five Oh Oh. Feet dry at 1919." Fourteen minutes to the target.
The starlight reflected off the paddies and wide creeks flowing to meet the sea. No flak came up at them yet. The search radar still beeped, about once every twelve seconds, but at 400 feet over the table-flat delta they were invisible in ground return.
From the left the first flak of the night shot out in their direction. Jake concentrated on maintaining altitude and heading.
Tiger called the IP; Jake flipped on the master arm switch and advanced the throttles to the stops as he laid the plane into the turn. Halfway through the heading change a row of guns erupted ahead. The pilot saw the streams of tracer rise and reacted instinctively, rolling the plane almost ninety degrees to squeeze it through an empty space between the tracers. They were almost on the outskirts of Hanoi.
As he entered the gap another gun opened up.
Horrified, Jake momentarily froze as the molten finger of death reached for him. The Intruder shuddered from the blows; then, suddenly, it was through the flak into the dark void beyond. It was all over in less than a heartbeat.
As Jake rolled the wings level, the brilliant red of the left engine fire-warning light filled the cockpit. A look in the rear-view mirror showed no visible fire yet. But the exhaust gas temperature on the sick engine had risen to more than 700 degrees centigrade, and the RPM had dropped by more than ten percent. Jake felt the warplane shimmy through his seat, the floor, the throttles, and the stick. The bird was badly hurt. Quickly he shut off the flow of fuel to the left engine.
The bombardier leaned away from the scope hood and peered at the engine instruments in front of Jake's left knee. "How bad is it?" The fire-warning light reflected off his helmet visor.
"Left engine's gone. Do you have the target?" Tiger put his face back to the scope hood. "Come left ten degrees."
Jake centered the steering. He glanced at the mileage readout between his knees. Eight more miles to go. The attack hot lit up on the VDI, and Jake squeezed the commit trigger. As the plane slowed to only 350 knots the left generator dropped off the line. With only one generator they would have the radar and computer but not the ECM. Jake's earphones were silent, and it wasn't because the gomers had shut down for the night. All the console lights on the bombardier's panels were now dark.
Those lucky fuckers! Smacked us with a cheap shot!
The hydraulic gauges captured Jake's eyes. One of
the two hydraulic systems showed zero pressure. And
only one of the pumps in the other system was still working. Damn. From four pumps to one, just like that.
He looked at the computer steering symbol. Almost centered. The Are-wasning light was so brilliant that he reached to cover it with his hand, but then it went out. The cockpit was dark again.
"Three more miles," Tiger called.
More flak ripped the night. Jake tried to ignore it, to concentrate on flying a perfect run. Something ahead caught his eye.
A blazing streak of pure white fire hurtled toward theta. Quicker than thought Jake pulled b
ack the stick, and the enemy missile tore by. God, too close! Jake tweaked the nose of the Intruder, pointing it straight at the offending missile launcher.
"I've got the radar van," Cole advised.
Jake watched the release marker descend the VDI. He savagely mashed the pickle to back up the computer-derived release signal.
The bombs did not release.
Jake pressed the pickle button again and again. No release.
He cycled the master armament switch, selected a manual release, and punched the pickle button. Nothing.
Heavy flak ahead. "Can you find it again?" he demanded of Cole.
"Yeah."
Jake lowered the left wing and turned south. This time he planned on jettisoning the bomb racks with the emergency release. The Rockeyes would not spread out but would remain in their cases, attached to the racks. There'd be hell to pay when they exploded all together. "We're not whipped yet," he said to Cole. "Better tell 'em we're in trouble."
The bombardier got on the radio as they turned.
More fire from heavy weapons rippled through the air, but not too close. Jake nursed the plane through the turn, frequently checking the pressure gauge for the lone hydraulic pump. Because the plane's controls were actuated by hydraulic pressure, a violent jerk on the stick could overload the pump and leave the pilot dependent on the electrically driven backup pump, which had a very limited output. The backup pump was working--the BACKUP HYD light was lit on the annunciator panel-but it would only give him enough pressure to operate the stabilator and rudder at reduced effectiveness. The tightrope was fraying.
"What type weapon do you want selected?" Dropping the racks was Jake's only choice. Of the more than fifty preprogrammed options available to tell the computer about the ballistic trajectory of the weapons, none of the options fit the dropping of the entire bomb rack. So Cole had asked the crucial question.
"What do you think?" asked Jake.
"The racks will go down about like a retarded Snake, maybe a little flatter," said Cole. "We'll use that, and I'll type in a correction."
The pilot checked the airspeed indicator. Steady at 325 knots. Very slow, but they would pick up thirty knots or so when they dropped the weapons.
Fireballs tore around them. Something smashed into a wing and the stick wiggled hard in Jake's fist. He shot a glance at the left wing. All okay. But on the right wing fuel was erupting through two holes and being blasted back into the slipstream.
Oh, Jesus! Sweet Jesus, help us get out of this alive.
"I've got the target and we're in attack," Tiger said. The last spurts of the right-wing fuel siphoned away. There was still a ton in the left wing but both wings drained through a common pump, which needed fuel from both wings to be effective. Jake had no choice. He opened the wing dumps and let the unusable fuel pour into the slipstream. They still had nine thousand pounds internal, and if they could make it to the tanker in the Gulf they'd have a chance.
"Two miles." The pilot readied his finger over the emergency jettison button. The release marker was marching down.
"Gimme one second's warning," he reminded Tiger. The circuit had a safety feature that required the button be held at least a second to prevent inadvertent jettisoning.
"Now!"
Jake depressed the button and held it. Whump! He slammed the stick over and turned left hard. The hydraulic pressure and the airspeed sagged, but he had to escape the impact area or they would be caught in the blast. The bombs exploded. A blinding light flashed in the mirrors, and the concussion buffeted, but did not harm, the plane. The Intruder was headed south over the city.
Tiger keyed his radio mike and spoke to the Black Eagle controller, safe and snug in his E-2 over the Gulf. "Five Double-nuts is off target and coming out."
"Roger that. Are you declaring an emergency?"
"Affirmative. We're going to need a tanker as soon as we're feet wet."
Jake selected the main internal tank on the fuel gauge and dodged flak while he waited for the needle tc register the correct amount.
My God! Only five thousand pounds left. The tank must be spewing the stuff out. There won't be enough fuel to make it even to the tanker. We're going to have to eject! But where? Just to make it out of North Vietnam would be tricky.
Tracers rose ahead in shimmering curtains of fire. Now they were over Hanoi, and the flak was in from and on all sides. The black shapes of rooftops and trees stood out clearly in the starlight and the eerie glow of the tracers. Jake descended until he was skimming the rooftops. Hell, just to make it out of Hanoi would be a trick and a half.
At this height, in this light, they were visible to every man, woman, and child with a weapon. He felt the thumps of small-arms bullets penetrating the side of the aircraft. The hounds had the fox nearly at bay.
As he pointed out the fuel indicator to Cole a stream of fire came from the right and headed straight for the windshield. Jake porpoised up and over the stream and both men flinched, a useless reflex. They were lucky. Thumps in the tail only.
"What's your position?" someone asked on the radio.
"Right over Hanoi," Grafton shouted. Illuminated by tracers, the city looked like an open door into hell. Every building seemed to have a coven of antiaircraft guns mounted on it.
"The radio is dead," Tiger said.
More thumps from something hitting the plane. The annunciator panel, normally dark, glowed with yellow lights. Left generator gone, left speed drive out, hydraulic pumps, fuel filter.... Why the fuel filter? Jake didn't have time to think about it. Yellow fireballs wound out at them and something smashed against the wings.
The bird was dying. Jake glanced at Tiger. "You can jump ship now if you want-"
"Keep rolling the dice," Tiger said.
Jake swung into a hard right turn and spoke into the dead radio. "Devil Five Oh Oh's turning west. We're going to Laos."
He concentrated on keeping the nose up and flying just above the buildings. The gunners could see the plane in this light, so he needed to be as low as possible to make their aiming more difficult. On the chance that the transmissions might be heard, the bombardier continued to report their intentions over the radio.
Ahead, to the left, a gunner opened up with a long continuous burst. The tracers came in a flat arc. Jake pulled up slightly and the shells streaked underneath. But the gunner corrected. The pilot retarded the single throttle momentarily and the plane decelerated, causing the stream of tracers to pass ahead of them. Jake shoved the throttle back to the stops and dived as low as he dared. The tracers seemed to correct in slow motion. "You'll burn the fucking barrel up," he screamed at the enemy gunner. Ahead loomed a building taller than its neighbors. The plane banked around the right side and the shells slammed into the building.
Flashes. White flashes off to the right. Jake narrowed his eyes in that direction. Trip-hammer flashes, a dozen a second, marched across the city.
"B-52 raid," Tiger whispered in awe.
The city lay naked in the pulsating light of the bombs. The Intruder, rocked by concussion Waves, hung suspended in the popping-light universe of flashing bombs and white-hot fireballs. For almost a minute the unseen B-52s scourged the city. The A-6 shot into the darkness over the rice paddies. In the rear-view mirror, Jake saw fires burning and the streaks of flak still rising.
"Sweet Jesus," Tiger Cole said.
"We're gonna make it, man," Jake said, his voice cracking.
The fuel gauge showed four thousand pounds. Occasional flashes of burp guns lit the night-pinpricks after what they'd been through. Grafton floated the plane up to almost 500 feet on the radar altimeter. The barometric altimeter was frozen.
"Come right five degrees," Tiger said. "The computer quit a while back but the radar still works. We're coming into the mouth of a valley, and I'll steer us up it."
The land was rising. Jake nudged the plane up to hold at 500 feet above the ground. The darkness outside the plane was complete. They flew on, Tiger ordering minor headin
g changes.
The left fire-warning light came on again. It was distractingly bright, so Jake smashed it with his flashlight. He watched the fuel indicator. Thirty-two hundred pounds. They topped the crest of the valley and continued to climb. In a moment they went beyond the maximum altitude of the radar altimeter, and it stopped working, as it was designed to do.
"Swing left ten and hold that course."
Tiger turned the radio transmitter to Guard, an emergency frequency that was always monitored. These calls went out over a separate transmitter, so maybe they were being heard by someone even though the crew's earphones remained silent. Jake's eyes were itching. He loosened his oxygen mask and sniffed the cockpit air. Something burning. He turned off the air-conditioning switch. The smell hung in the cockpit. He replaced his mask and cinched it tight.
Jake could actually see the needle on the fuel indicator dropping. Where was that fuel going? It had to be spraying into the left engine bay through the holes smashed by the flak shells. If it ignites, we'll be strumming harps with Corey Ford and the Boxman. Those engine burner cans and the tailpipe have to be still hot enough to ignite that fuel. He rechecked the engine/fuel master switch to ensure that no electrical power was reaching the burner-can igniters. The switch was off, but he didn't remember toggling it, although if he hadn't they probably would be dead by now.
Twenty-three hundred pounds on the dial. Almost three hundred pounds a minute was disappearing, partly into the right engine and partly into the air. Jake calculated that was eighteen thousand pounds an hour. They had eight more minutes, maybe another fifty miles.
Every mile they traveled increased their chances of being rescued instead of captured. The Air Force SAR teams could pick them up in Laos, but North Vietnam was too heavily defended for a helicopter to survive.
Come on, baby! Don't fail us now.
Eighteen hundred pounds left. His gut was tied in a knot and he had trouble thinking about their dilemma. "Have you ever jumped before?" he asked Tiger Cole.
"Yep, and I broke my leg."
The terror of every combat pilot had finally become real for them. They would have to eject into enemy territory and survive on their wits and what little equipment they carried in their survival vests. Failure to be rescued meant death or imprisonment in a tiny cell. Capture itself was a living death.
Flight of the Intruder Page 33