by Joe Weber
When Brad neared Chi Ne, he heard the strike leader call the fighter cover.
"Montana, Rock Crusher Three Oh Three is feet-dry."
"Copy," the F-4 flight leader drawled. "We're orbiting at fifteen thousand."
"Sugarloaf," the Crusader leader called, "is over the Red River at sixteen."
"Roger," the Skyhawk pilot acknowledged, then talked to his flight. "Crushers, arm 'em up."
"Two."
"Three's hot."
"Four."
Craning his neck, Brad searched the cloudy sky for the Phantoms at 15,000 feet. The Target Combat Air Patrol (TARCAP) fighters would be circling in loose combat spread.
Austin armed his cannons and entered the valley west of Nam Dinh. Concentrating on flying low over the river in the valley, Brad listened to the radio calls.
"Rock Crusher, Montana Two Zero Seven has a visual on you." "Copy."
Austin blasted over a group of boats and rocketed out over the foothills. He noticed a smokestack in the distance as he racked the MiG around in a punishing turn.
"Montana and Sugarloaf, Red Crown on Guard. You have MiG activity, Hanoi one seven zero for thirteen miles."
Red Crown was the U. S. early-warning radar stationed aboard a navy cruiser in the Gulf of Tonkin. The MiGs from Phuc Yen and Gia Lam had remained low to avoid radar detection. The North Vietnamese pilots had popped onto the radar screen when they commenced a zooming climb.
"Sugarloaf, switches hot."
"Two."
Brad felt his pulse quicken as he hurtled back up the narrow valley. He was anxious to intercept the MiGs now that Operation Achilles was underway.
"Montana, switch 'em."
"Two's hot."
Flashing over the boats, Brad saw a number of people wave. They think they're getting a private air show.
"Skeeter Four Fifty-three is in," a calm, low voice announced. Skeeter 453 and his wingman were the Crusader pilots assigned to flak suppression. Their job was to pound the air defenses around the target before the bombers commenced their attack.
"Rock Crusher's in hot," the A-4 leader called, rolling into his strike on the supply center.
Raising the nose, Brad flew above the ridge line and looked toward Phu Ly. He saw concentrated streams of red tracers slashing through the sky. A barrage of white, puffy-looking antiaircraft fire saturated the air over the target.
A few moments later, Austin saw a flash, followed by a billowing black cloud. The strike leader sure as hell hit something big.
Brad checked his fuel gauge and lowered the nose, skirting close to the ridge line. His thoughts turned to timing his attack to coincide with the confusion of the initial aerial engagements.
"Two's in."
Brad listened to the attack pilots while he maneuvered through the valley.
"Bandits!" someone called. "We've got MiGs at one o'clock, eight miles, climbing!"
"Patience," Austin said to himself. "You've got to be patient . . . for this to work."
"Montana has a tally! Stroke the burners!"
Inching his throttles forward, Brad rechecked his cannon switches. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger when he got a MiG in his gunsight.
"Paul, take the one on the left!"
Brad recognized the drawl of the Phantom leader.
"I've got him!" a strained voice replied, then added, "I'm overshooting--goin' high!"
Banking toward the aerial engagement, Brad listened to the garbled radio calls. The strike aircraft had completed their attack and were exiting the target area. Large columns of dense smoke were rising into the air over Phu Ly.
"Sugarloaf has a tally! Four at two o'clock!"
"High or low?" the wingman queried.
"Slightly low--breaking into us!"
"Got 'em!"
Brad tweaked the nose up, searching for the other fighters. He swiveled his head from side to side, unsure if he was heading in the right direction.
"I've got a tone," the F-4 wingman shouted.
Feeling a moment of indecisiveness, Brad checked for aircraft behind his MiG. Relieved to see empty sky, he turned his head at the instant an orange-and-black fireball erupted four miles in front of him.
"I got him!" the Phantom pilot exclaimed. "I got him!"
Brad saw the burning remains of the MiG spin crazily toward the foothills. He slapped the stick to the left and started a tight 360-degree turn. Austin did not want to become entangled in the middle of a multiple-aircraft fight. His mission was to seek out and destroy preselected MiGs.
"Sugar Two is hit! I'm disengaging!"
Brad listened to the frantic call and quelled his instinct to help the F-8 pilot.
"Jim, go for the beach!" the Crusader flight leader barked. "Your six is clear!"
"Copy! Where is he?"
"Diving for the deck. How's your fuel?"
"Okay for now," the wingman paused, "but I'm losing my hydraulics."
"Hang in."
Completing his turn, Brad was startled to see a MiG-17 flash past his right wing. Where the hell did he come from? A second later, Austin caught the blurred image of a Phantom as it sliced over his cockpit. He would recognize the distinctive planform anywhere.
"Oh, shit . ." Brad swore softly, then mumbled to himself, "How did this happen?" He selected afterburner and searched the sky.
"Dash Two," the F-4 leader blurted, "you've got a seventeen on your nose."
Brad looked through the windscreen and spotted the oncoming Phantom. Pulling into the vertical, Brad saw the F-4's nose rise to match the MiG.
"I've got him," the wingman assured his section leader.
Both aircraft shot straight up, gaining thousands of feet while the airspeeds rapidly decayed.
With his head tilted back, Brad looked at the Phantom crew. He watched the pilot, hoping that he would drop the F-4's nose before both aircraft stalled.
The MiG was almost out of kinetic energy when the Phantom pilot, afraid that he might lose control of the fighter, snapped the nose down. Brad rudder-rolled the MiG and pulled into a firing position on the F-4.
"Montana," the Phantom pilot gasped, "I've got a MiG on my six . . . right on my ass!"
Brad watched the F-4 accelerate away in full burner.
"Go for separation," the Phantom leader shouted. "I'm coming around."
Watching the wingman go supersonic, Brad reefed the MiG into a hard nose-low turn. Austin caught sight of the other F-4 at the same time the wingman called.
"Lead," he said in a calmer voice, "I'm reengaging the son of a bitch."
"Negative," drawled the flight leader, "I've got him."
Caught in the deadly vise, Brad dived for the deck. He pressed the airspeed to 430 knots, then shallowed his descent. His only hope was that neither of the Phantom pilots could get their missiles to lock on in the ground clutter.
"Watch the bastard," the wingman cautioned as the lead F-4 closed rapidly on the slower MiG. "He's good."
Heading straight for Hanoi, Brad could feel the perspiration soaking his cheeks. He leveled at 30 feet and screamed over a highway. Brad raised the nose and glanced behind him. The Phantom was overtaking him at an alarming rate.
"I can't get a steady tone," Montana Lead complained, "but when I get close enough, I'm gonna kick off a couple of 'Winders."
Brad frantically craned his neck. The F-4 pilot, flying faster than the speed of sound, was almost on him. Instinctively, Brad simultaneously snapped the throttle to idle, deployed the speed brakes, and cross-controlled the aircraft. The MiG shuddered and rapidly decelerated as Brad continued straight on course.
"What the shit!" the flight leader shouted, finally recognizing the overshoot. He did not want to fly out in front of the MiG.
"I told you he was good," the wingman radioed, pulling up into a high yo-yo.
The flight leader yanked his power back and deployed the speed brakes. "Check my six, while I get this asshole."
Watching the F-4 rapidly close, Brad pulled up i
n a displacement roll.
"Shit," the wingman shouted. "What the fuck is he doing?"
The Phantom leader sucked the speed brakes in and went into afterburner. "I'm going to nail his ass . . . if I have to run over him."
Brad retracted the speed brakes and selected burner while the Phantoms maneuvered for another shot.
Continuing straight ahead, Brad watched the two F-4s join in loose combat spread. They turned in from his eight o'clock position, flying on the deck.
"I'm going to shoot a 'Winder," Montana 207 drawled, "regardless if I get a tone."
Brad counted the seconds, then keyed his mike. "Montana flight, break right! Break right!"
Both Phantoms snapped over into knife-edge flight and turned hard right.
"MiGs! MiGs!" Austin radioed. "Ten south, cutting you off from your five o'clock!"
"Say again, Red Crown," the F-4 leader demanded. There was audible confusion in the request.
"Red Crown," the radar controller declared in an even voice, "did not broadcast a MiG call."
Brad continued toward Hanoi while the confusion persisted.
"This is Montana Lead," the harsh voice fumed. "Who called MiGs?"
The radios remained silent.
"Skeeter, you up?" Montana 207 asked.
"That's affirm," the Crusader pilot said curtly, "but we didn't call MiGs."
"Goddamnit, Red Crown," the Phantom pilot said angrily, "what the hell is going on?"
Gaining separation, Brad began to breathe easier. He climbed a hundred feet and forced himself to be calm.
"Montana, Red Crown did not--repeat--did not broadcast a MiG call." The normally pleasant voice sounded annoyed.
A moment later, the EC-121 Constellation radar-surveillance aircraft over northern Laos called the bewildered F-4 pilot.
"Montana Two Zero Seven, Disco. We've got the transmission on tape."
"Roger that."
Brad was watching the skyline of Hanoi approach when Red Crown again broadcast.
"Montana and Skeeter flights," he began hastily, pausing for another radar sweep, "you've got activity bearing zero two zero, your position . . . coming out of the Hanoi area."
"How many?" the Phantom pilot snapped.
Starting a shallow climb, Brad searched the sky for MiGs. He spotted three MiG-19s four miles east of his location.
The controller waited until he had confirmed the initial radar image. "I show four targets south of Gia Lam, and I'm picking up three returns six miles in-trail."
"Copy," Montana 207 replied, then added, "Red Crown, get the closest BARCAP up our freq."
"Stand by."
Remaining low to avoid detection, Brad turned to parallel the three MiGs Red Crown had detected. A few seconds passed before he heard the barrier combat air-patrol flight leader.
"Montana, Ragtime Two Oh Four with you."
"Ah, Ragtime." He paused. "Tally! I've got a tally at twelve, level!" His wingman spotted the four MiG-17s. "I've got 'em!"
"Ragtime," the Phantom leader said excitedly, "we need you in here."
Brad scanned ahead of the MiG-19s and caught sight of the four MiGs Montana had located.
"Ragtime," Red Crown radioed, "steer three zero zero."
"We're buster three double oh," the F-4 BARCAP leader replied, selecting afterburner. Buster meant expedite.
Easing back on the power, Brad watched the Phantoms engage the four MiG-17s. One section of MiGs broke left, while the other two aircraft began a weave.
"We're going after the ones to our left," the Phantom leader grunted under the heavy g force.
"Montana, Red Crown," the controller said urgently, "you've got bandits closing from your four o'clock, five miles."
"Roger," came the terse reply.
Brad could see that the MiG-19s were going to be in a perfect position to attack the outnumbered Phantoms. He applied full power, accelerated to 390 knots, then raised the nose. This is going to be a cluster fuck.
"Paul," the F-4 leader groaned, "disengage--disengage to the southeast."
"Montana, Red Crown. I show another bandit closing from the northwest! He just popped up!"
Brad knew the controller was referring to his MiG. He was equally sure that the North Vietnamese pilots were being informed of his presence.
Two of the MiG-19s turned toward Brad, recognized the lone MiG-17, then reversed to pursue the hapless Phantoms.
"Montana, Ragtime has a tally!"
Brad heard the desperate pilot click his mike twice.
"Montana, break hard starboard," the BARCAP section leader instructed, "and we'll have 'em bottled up."
"Roger!"
Brad saw the two F-4s snap over at the same time the Ragtime flight leader fired a Sparrow radar-controlled missile. The MiGs scattered in various directions. Their ground controllers had obviously informed them about the Phantoms approaching at supersonic speed.
Snatching the stick into his lap, Brad hauled the MiG around in a gut-wrenching circle. He spotted a lone MiG-17 diving for the ground.
"Ragtime, Montana is down to four point six on fuel. We've gotta hit the tanker."
"Copy. The gomers are running out, so we'll rendezvous on your port side."
"Bring 'em aboard," Montana 207 acknowledged. "Red Crown, give us a steer for the Whale."
The Whale was a carrier-based KA-3B twin-engine refueling aircraft.
"The tanker is one one zero," the controller paused, "for a hundred and fourteen."
"SAMs!" Montana warned. "We've got two SAMs at three o'clock. Take 'em down!"
Austin risked a quick look. He saw the billowing trail of the two surface-to-air missiles, but could not locate the F-4s. One streak of fire continued to accelerate through the hundreds of tracer rounds, while the other flashed brightly into a mushrooming black-and-orange explosion.
Brad cringed. Sweet Jesus.
"Ragtime Two is down!" the flight leader shouted in anguish. "They took a direct hit!"
"Any chutes?" Montana called. "Paul, you guys see any chutes?" "Negative," came the sad reply. "They didn't get out."
With the throttle to the stop, Brad checked his fuel gauge as he gained on the lone MiG-17. He saw another MiG in the distance, but the aircraft was slowly angling away.
Coasting into position on the MiG's starboard wing, Brad was startled to see three red stars painted on the fuselage. The numbers 3014 on the nose of the fighter corresponded with the first set of numbers he had copied. He was astounded by his close proximity to the enemy pilot.
Alerted by a ground radar site, the MiG pilot turned to look at Brad. The North Vietnamese airman raised his goggles and tapped his right earphone.
Austin pointed to his helmet next to his left ear and shook his head no.
With a toothy smile, the Communist pilot cocked his head and nodded his understanding. His new wingman's radio was not functioning properly.
Skirting the edge of a band of cumulus clouds, the North Vietnamese pilot descended rapidly.
Drifting backward, Brad steeled himself and moved swiftly to center the gun sight on the MiG's fuselage and right wing root. How am I going to feel after deliberately shooting this guy in the back? With the gun-sight pipper centered at the trailing edge of the wing, Brad held his breath and squeezed the trigger.
The cannons emitted a stream of molten lead as the shells ripped into the fuselage and tore through the cockpit and canopy. Debris flew off the stricken fighter and flashed past Austin's aircraft.
Brad released the trigger and watched the MiG trail black smoke, nose over and roll inverted, then fly straight into the ground. The explosion and blinding fireball mesmerized him while he yanked the stick over.
Banking steeply, Brad dove and hugged the ground as he raced for the Laotian border.
He switched to the discrete frequency for Alpha-29, resisting the temptation to talk to someone. The more he thought about the cold-blooded killing, the more it twisted his insides. Brad tried to rationalize the act by pe
rsuading himself that the MiG pilot would have killed him under the same circumstances. Besides, many former fighter aces gained many of their kills by approaching from behind and below their adversaries. The victims never knew what hit them.
Thundering along the jagged mountaintops, Brad attempted to concentrate on flying the airplane. He finally faced the reality of his act. He had been trained to kill the enemy in any manner possible, and he had vanquished another MiG. Brad would not receive credit for the kill, but he felt the satisfaction of knowing the North Vietnamese pilot would not be adding a fourth red star to his airplane.
Threading his way through the cumulonimbus buildups, Brad ran through his landing checklist. After establishing his position on the chart, he commenced a shallow descent, then lowered his flaps and landing gear.
The visibility between the towering clouds was becoming a concern as he neared the base. Brad wondered if the UH-34 was still orbiting Muong Lat. Unsure of the location of the helicopter, Brad decided to break radio silence. The last thing he needed was a midair collision with the UH-34.
"Sleepy Two Five, say posit."
A long pause followed, tempting Brad to call again.
"About twenty due east of the field," Rudy Jimenez finally responded.
"Copy," Brad replied with relief "No factor." He needed to talk with Spencer about coordinating his return with that of the helicopter. A simple one-word call, with an acknowledgment from the UH-34 pilots, would suffice.
Two miles from the runway, Austin reduced power and stabilized his approach speed. He remembered what Spencer had said about trying to go around after he committed himself to land. If he overshot the runway, Brad would have to eject before the MiG plowed into the steep mountainside at the far end of the field.
Brad deployed the speed brakes and settled into a low, flat approach to the runway, aiming for the grass overrun. He knew the MiG would float in ground-effect when he flared to land. The cushion of air would carry him to the runway.
Passing through thirty feet, Brad reduced the throttle to idle and gently walked the rudder pedals in an attempt to slow the fighter.
The MiG touched the macadam sixty feet from the end and Brad quickly lowered the nose. He stepped firmly on the brakes.
What the shit is wrong?