by Joe Weber
Brad winced when tracers flashed over his right wing. Expecting to see an F-8 on his tail, Brad craned his neck in time to see the muzzle flashes from one of two MiG-17s.
Someone at Bai Thuong had radioed his position and description to the fighter pilots who had been patiently waiting for the fraudulent MiG. The enemy pilots, who Brad guessed had fair hair and blue eyes, were obviously from the first string, and certainly spoke fluent Russian.
Brad yanked the stick into his lap and slammed it hard to the left. The nose snapped up and the horizon rotated three quarters of the way through a roll before Brad centered the stick and then pulled with every ounce of strength in his arms.
The MiG flight leader, who was the designated shooter, overshot Brad's aircraft. Austin dove for airspeed and separation, but he could not shake the wingman. The two fighters worked in perfect harmony, with one attacking while the other pilot called the fight and flew high cover. When Brad reversed, the enemy pilots simply switched roles.
Knowing that it was only a matter of seconds before they would shoot him down, Brad frantically searched for the TARCAP F-4s or F-8s. In desperation, he keyed the radio tuned to the navy strike frequency.
"Tidewater, say posit!"
"Five north of Bai Thuong," the Phantom flight leader gasped as he executed a high-g turn. "We've got bogies--engaging bandits coming from the north." The F-4s were busy with MiGs from the airfields at Phuc Yen and Gia Lam.
Brad slipped and skidded the MiG, then snap-rolled the aircraft and popped the nose up and down in a reflexive effort to elude the intense cannon fire. There was no escape from the two expertly flown fighters.
"MiGs airborne over Bai Thuong!" he called, then wrapped his aircraft into an uncoordinated displacement roll. "We need coverMiGs north of Bai Thuong!"
A different voice, which sounded calm and soothing, cut through the garbled radio transmissions. "Ragtime is on the way. Say your call sign and position."
Brad caught a glance of the runway as he shoved the nose down and then violently yanked the stick back. He again rolled the airplane and keyed his mike. "Two north of Bai Thuong," he inhaled sharply, "coming back across the field." He purposely avoided using a call sign.
"Roger that."
Breathing rapidly, Brad pulled the MiG into the vertical before cross-controlling and extending the speed brakes. He yanked the throttle to idle and shoved the stick forward, causing the aircraft to depart from controlled flight.
"Oh, shit . . . Austin blurted as one of the MiGs flashed directly over his canopy. His first priority was to recover control of the fighter before it hit the ground. Brad was violently slammed around the cockpit as the MiG tumbled end-over-end, wallowed in a yaw, then rolled inverted.
Fighting the crushing g forces, Brad slammed the throttle forward and let the nose fall below the horizon. The airspeed rapidly increased and he rolled the MiG upright, searching for his attackers.
He felt a solid jolt followed by a blinding white flash, then experienced a searing pain in his right arm as more tracers slashed past the canopy. Austin also saw what he hoped would be his salvation. Two F-8 Crusaders were turning tightly to engage Brad and his two adversaries. The American fighter pilots obviously had no idea that two MiGs were attacking another Communist fighter.
"Ragtime has a tally! Engaging three seventeens north of Bai Thuong."
Turning to face the F-8s head-on, Brad waited a second before beginning a shallow, nose-low turn. He twisted around in time to see the other two MiGs break off to avoid fighting the supersonic Crusaders.
"Come on, Ragtime," Brad said to himself through clenched teeth, then pulled the nose up. "Jump the bastards . . . so I can get the hell out of here."
limbo," the Ragtime flight leader yelled to his wingman, "I'm taking the one coming up on the right! Stick with me and clear our six." "I'm with you, Skipper!"
Austin swore under his breath when he realized that Ragtime One, the commanding officer of a Crusader fighter squadron, had elected to pounce on his lone MiG.
Deciding to try his last means of escape, Brad turned north and raced toward Hanoi and the sanctity of the MiG bases that were adjacent to the capital city.
The F-8 pilots selected afterburner and knifed through a climbing reversal. Rolling out of the tight turn, the Crusaders accelerated past the speed of sound and quickly caught Austin's slower MiG.
Hugging the terrain, Brad hoped the pilots would not be able to get their heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles to lock on to his fighter. Seconds later, the lead F-8 fired two bursts from his 20-millimeter cannons.
When the stream of tracers flashed past, Brad toggled the MiG's smoke canister. You're cutting it too damn close. He raised the nose slightly above the horizon, then started a lazy roll while the oily smoke poured from his tail pipe. Austin watched the ground rise to meet him and counted the seconds. Seven . . . eight . . . nine .. .
limbo," the F-8 leader shouted, "I've got a smoker goin' down. See him?"
"I see him," the wingman exclaimed, "but we've got two bandits high at four o'clock!"
"Ragtime is coming around," the exuberant pilot announced. "Are they the same ones who broke off?"
"Ahh ... can't tell."
Austin ignored the radio calls and snap-rolled the diving MiG upright. He bottomed out on the deck and turned toward the Laotian border. Thank you, God.
Climbing to clear the approaching mountains, Brad slowed his breathing and felt his heart pounding in his chest. The smoke subterfuge had worked, but the North Vietnamese were obviously gunning for the impostor. Brad swiveled his head in search of possible attackers and unconsciously shoved on the throttle.
Aware of the numbing pain near his right elbow, Austin cautiously looked down. Blood soaked his forearm, staining his Nomex and calfskin glove. Brad gingerly felt his bicep while he wrestled the MiG on course. His eyes swept the instrument panel, noting the damaged section near the left side of the windshield. Whatever had penetrated the cockpit next to his right arm had impacted under the canopy rail.
To hell with radio silence. He tweaked the volume up on the UH-34's frequency.
"Sleepy Two Five, Top Cat."
After a short pause, Brad was relieved to hear Chase Mitchell's voice.
"Sleepy up."
"Top Cat's been hit," Austin said briskly as he passed low over a village. He tried to calm himself. "Request your position for rendezvous en route."
"We're on course line," Mitchell responded dryly, "turning toward home plate." Course line was the direct route from Alpha-29 to Bai Thuong.
Brad looked at the blood-splattered chart on his kneeboard and glanced at the mountain peak to his left. He was approximately seven miles north of course. "Say altitude."
"Six thousand," Rudy Jimenez answered for Mitchell. "You'll catch us in a few minutes. What's the extent of your damage?"
"I think the airplane is okay . . . for the time being. But I've been hit in the arm."
The disclosure was met with a moment of silence from the helicopter crew. Finally, Jimenez keyed his radio. "Hang in there. We're not far from home."
Austin clicked his mike twice. Settle down, he told himself while he methodically scanned the engine gauges and checked the fuel quantity. Everything appeared normal and fuel was not a factor. For the first time, he noticed specks of blood on the starboard electrical control panel and lower instrument panel.
The minutes dragged on while Brad probed the sky in search of the helicopter. He was about to call the UH-34 when he spotted a slow-moving speck on the horizon.
He steadied the MiG at 5,800 feet and flexed his right hand. The pain was becoming more acute, forcing Brad to concentrate on the task of flying the airplane.
"Sleepy, Top Cat has a tally."
"Roger. Do you want us to look you over, or do you want to go straight in?"
Brad looked out at the wings, noticing a hole in the right inboard wing fence. He could not see any other apparent damage. "I'll go straight in."
> "Copy."
Passing to the right of the helicopter, Brad rocked the wings in a salute and lowered the nose. He felt something wet on his right thigh. A quick glance confirmed that blood was dripping from his wrist.
"Top Cat," Hollis Spencer's voice boomed in Austin's helmet. "We're taking sniper fire from the top of the ridge on the south side of the field. Do you have enough ammo for a strafing run?"
A kaleidoscope of thoughts ran through Brad's mind. This is crazy--goddamn insane. He slowly inhaled, then let his breath out in a rush. "Affirmative."
Brad looked at his armament panel, then swore to himself In his eagerness to escape from the F-8 Crusaders, he had left the cannons armed.
A mile from the threshold of the runway, Brad eased the stick to the left and lined up with the jagged ridge. He leveled at 200 feet above the crest and deftly lowered the nose. A series of muzzle flashes winked at him from the trees as he squeezed the trigger.
Two streams of tracers converged ahead of the MiG, walking straight through the bright flashes. Brad pulled off to the right and bent the MiG around for a firing run in the opposite direction.
Halfway through the strafing pass, Brad felt the vibration from the cannons stop. The ammunition bin was empty. He reduced the power to idle, then clumsily lowered the flaps and landing gear.
Brad widened his turn to the airfield and rechecked to be sure that his wheels were down and locked. Feeling light-headed, Austin focused on the narrow runway and concentrated on his lineup.
"Stay with it," he muttered as he nudged the throttle to arrest a high sink rate. The MiG impacted in the grass overrun and bounced onto the macadam in a bone-jarring landing.
Austin braked evenly, stopping near the entrance to the taxiway. He opened the canopy and turned onto the short strip, then shut down the engine and slumped in his seat. Oblivious to the approaching men, he tilted his head back and breathed the fresh air.
Chapter THIRTY-SIX
From the top of the briefing table, Brad opened his eyes and stared at the dim light bulb dangling from the ceiling. His lower back ached and his right arm was sore. He raised his head a few inches, then let it fall back on the sweat-soaked pillow. What time was it?
Austin brought his left wrist to his chest and waited for his eyes to adjust. Eleven-fifteen. The Quonset but was dark and quiet, so it must be nighttime.
He cautiously glanced at his upper right arm, which was resting on a second pillow. The sleeve of his Soviet-style flight suit had been cut off at the shoulder. He studied the thick gauze bandage that was neatly wrapped around his arm. The loosely woven fabric extended from above his elbow to under his armpit.
Brad closed his eyes and sighed. He felt drowsy from the effects of the morphine, and he let his mind drift back to the mission. The events suddenly rushed back as he replayed the terror in slow motion.
"How are you feeling?" a soft voice said from somewhere off to the side.
His eyes blinked open and he turned his head in the direction of the sound.
"Allison?" Brad uttered, searching through half-closed eyelids. His mouth seemed as dry as a barren desert and his tongue felt swollen.
"Yes," she replied quietly as Hollis Spencer stirred from his nap. "Would you like some water?"
Brad attempted a smile. "Yes . . . thank you."
be right back."
Cap Spencer stretched and walked to Brad's side when Allison went outside to the water cistern. He looked haggard when he sat down in the chair next to Austin.
Spencer placed his hand on Brad's left shoulder. "Things are looking up. Our ace corpsman says you're going to be as good as new in a week or two."
Austin gave him a feeble grin. "This is the worst hangover I've ever had." He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision. "How bad is it?"
"You've got a couple of deep cuts," Spencer explained warmly, "and a small hole where the doc removed a piece of metal. He cleaned and sutured your wounds, but we need to medevac you to Vientiane in the morning to have a real doctor check you over."
Before Brad could respond, Allison returned, followed by Lex and Nick. She poured a cupful of water while Palmer and Blackwell stepped next to the table.
"Ah, yes," Nick said with a haughty smirk, "now we have two goldbricks in the outfit."
Brad thanked Allison and thirstily sipped the cool water. He handed the cup back to her and gazed at Spencer.
"Cap, I don't want to go to Vientiane and lie around on my ass." The challenge was underscored by the determined look in Brad's eyes. "I'll be okay in a few days."
Blackwell, who had not wanted to return to Vientiane and be viewed as a shirker, jumped to Austin's defense. "He's right, Cap. Hell, I've seen the clodhopper hurt himself worse fallin' off a bar stool."
Brad smothered a laugh. Lex Blackwell, the garrulous fighter pilot from Texas, would never change.
"Have it your way." Spencer chuckled, then rose from the chair. He clearly understood the guiding principles of a naval aviator. "But you've got to rest and have the dressing changed every morning. That," he said emphatically, "is an order, Brad."
"Yes, sir," Austin replied, and again accepted the cup of water from Allison.
"Yeah," Palmer smiled at Brad, "all of us can rest, since you thoroughly trashed the airplane."
"Okay, everyone out except Allison," Spencer insisted. "We'll get together in the morning."
Nick turned serious and clutched Brad's left arm. "Glad you're okay."
"Thanks."
When the pilots left and Spencer returned to his cubicle, Allison sat down next to Brad. There was a pronounced awkwardness until she initiated the conversation.
"Nurse van Ingen," she said offhandedly, "at your service."
Tension hung in the air while Brad tried to assess her mood. Still dulled from the anesthetic, Brad was having a difficult time formulating a reasonable response.
"Allison, I really appreciate your consideration," he said somewhat indistinctly, "but I'll be okay as soon as my head clears."
She nodded somberly and crossed her arms. "Nick brought your cot in, if you feel like moving to it."
"That's okay," he replied, and raised his left hand to plump the pillow under his head. "I'll just stay here for a while . . . until the grogginess wears off. "
"Suit yourself," she countered, and rose from the chair. After a few steps, Allison paused and turned, then walked back to his side.
"Brad," she began in a hushed voice, and gently gripped his left hand, "I apologize for what I said to you."
He rolled his head to look at her gloomy face. She blinked back the tears that filled her eyes.
"You don't need to apologize. I deserved it."
"Brad," her voice shook from pain and frustration, "I will always love you."
He had never felt such deep moral anguish in his life. He squeezed her hand. "Allison, I--"
"Please," she said emotionally, and pulled her hand away, "don't make it more difficult than it is."
Allison silently accepted for the first time that all the promise of their future would never be.
CIA HEADQUARTERS
Dennis Tipton stared blankly through the smudged windshield of his car as he turned into the basement parking garage. His stomach felt as if he were on a pitching and rolling fishing schooner in a North Atlantic storm. The deputy director of the CIA had been unusually agitated when he called to rouse Tipton out of bed.
He parked in his designated spot and quickly walked to the entrance. The early-morning dampness made him shiver as he greeted the security guard.
When Tipton reached the top floor of the building, he hurried to Drexel McCormick's office. He slowed when he saw the open door. McCormick, who was loudly berating someone on the telephone, abruptly hung up when he spotted the director for operations.
"Dennis, have a seat."
Tipton nodded silently while he unbuttoned his topcoat and slipped into one of the chairs facing McCormick's desk. He could feel his neck muscles
stiffen while he mentally prepared himself for one of McCormick's verbal onslaughts.
"The President called The Man on the carpet a few hours ago," he growled, and furrowed his brow. "Our MiG was almost shot down and the pilot was wounded."
Dennis Tipton looked confused. "This is the first that I've heard about it. "
"That's because Cap Spencer didn't tell us about it, goddamnit!" McCormick was beet-red.
Tipton cast his eyes down and remained silent. He knew from experience that it was not in his best interest to say anything until his boss had vented his initial anger.
"Damnit, the White House had the information before we knew anything about it," McCormick snorted. "Do you know what that makes us look like?"
"Yes, sir." Tipton inwardly cringed, wishing that he had never placed his stamp of approval on the operation.
"It makes us look like a bunch of half-witted, knuckle-dragging amateurs," the deputy director bellowed. "The Man didn't like that," he snarled in a harsh whisper, "and he knocked fire from my ass!"
"What's the current situation?" Tipton ventured, concealing his growing contempt for McCormick.
"The situation is this," he said while he lighted a cigar. "The White House wants us to get a handle on this Chinese fire drill, or get the hell out and make everything vanish."
The red-faced deputy director, for the first time Dennis Tipton could remember, looked genuinely scared. The White House was rolling the dice, trying to get an edge in the air war while they maintained an appearance of unwavering integrity.
Tipton was aware of the devastating Communist attack on Alpha-29, but the news of the narrow escape of the wounded pilot was a major blow. He decided to change the subject slightly. "Have we got the damage assessment--what the pilot destroyed, if anything?"
McCormick squinted and chewed on his cigar. "Reconnaissance photographs have confirmed that five enemy fighter planes have either been destroyed or damaged at Bai Thuong, but we came close to losing the MiG . . . and that goddamned Spencer didn't even inform us!"
Tipton was afraid that the North Vietnamese were setting up an ambush for the lone MiG, and was deeply concerned that the pilot might be captured alive and tortured to the point of making a confession.