Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  The lazy drift of the rising smoke told him there was a gentle wind from the east at ten knots or less. He decided to go direct, to bomb without offsetting to allow for wind-age. He moved his rudder left and right for a final evasive maneuver, then settled the aircraft and began tracking the target, finger poised on the pickle button.

  He was passing through 8,000 feet when it all came together, the sight picture squarely on the intersection of the roads and his gut feeling that he was aiming properly. He held it for a millisecond of final tracking before he pickled and felt a small lurch as the bombs departed. He pulled up ever so slightly for separation from the bombs, then pulled harder, into a nice four-gravity pullout to the north.

  A Wild Weasel pilot called a SAM launch from a site in Hanoi, warning the pilots over the target area.

  Billy was buffeted a couple of times by flak bursts, but set up an erratic jinking motion while he was still recovering from the dive attack. Finally he rolled the aircraft over on its back and scanned the earth below.

  The overpass was covered by too much smoke to tell if his bombs had hit. He looked around and saw first his wingman, then number three, Joe Walker, pulling out and chasing toward him. He looked farther still and saw number four. His flight had made it thus far. A SAM flashed through his view, darting between numbers two and three, then another missile, off to one side at the limit of his peripheral vision. He rolled upright and continued his climb, constantly weaving to foil the enemy gunners.

  He eyed the fighters joining to the north, over the ridge, and jinked toward them, then made a wide S-maneuver to slow enough for his men to close the gap. He was within a couple of miles of the formation when the last flight called they were off the target, and that the overpass had indeed been knocked down.

  The force commander, a newly arrived lieutenant colonel, gruffly admonished the last flight to hurry and join up, that they'd discuss results on the way out.

  Billy came out of afterburner and began to maneuver to the rear of the eight aircraft already in position.

  "Wildcat flight," he called. "Radio check."

  "Two!"

  "Three!"

  "Four!"

  The chorus had been quickly given, indicating everyone was okay.

  "Double-check your weapons switches, Wildcats," Billy called, reminding them, now that the bombs were gone, to set up to fight MiGs.

  "Cut out the chatter, Wildcat lead," the new mission commander snapped over the radio. His call sign was Bear Force leader, but he did not give it.

  "Wildcat three's got an intermittent problem with my ECM pod," called Joe Walker.

  The Wild Weasel flight called a SAM launch at the strike force's five o'clock. Billy scanned back and watched as, one by one, the missiles dropped off their boosters and darted up at them.

  "Keep the SAMs in sight and maneuver at will, Wildcat three," called Billy Bowes. If Joe's ECM pod was faulty, the gomer SAM operators might be able to single him out.

  "Negative. Hold your position," radioed the mission commander in an angry tone. Before takeoff he'd told them to maintain their position within the sixteen-ship formation . . . period.

  The SAMs appeared to track the formation, then zipped by to their right.

  Billy breathed easier.

  They were approaching 12,000 feet, their prebriefed egress altitude, and Wildcat was closing into place.

  They were still vulnerable until the force was joined together.

  Billy narrowed his eyes on the RHAW, the radar warning receiver, and the fuzzy grass spiking out in all directions from its center. Interference from their own jamming. Most of the pilots flew with the RHAW audio off, claiming it was a distraction. Billy kept his turned down, but never off. Even if the jamming noise made it less useful, sometimes he could tell when SAMs were launched. Like now, when a squeal sounded in the earphones of his helmet. A powerful strobe lapped at the left edge of the RHAW scope, and the SAM, ACTIVITY, and LAUNCH lights were on and steady.

  The Wild Weasels had not called this one, but he had faith that it was real.

  "Wildcat lead shows a SAM launch at our nine o'clock," Billy announced, staring out to his left past Joe Walker.

  "Maintain formation integrity," snapped the new force commander. "Let the ECM pods do their work."

  The lieutenant colonel's words were still hanging when Billy saw a SAM, small and incredibly fast, speeding toward them.

  Joe had seen it too, for his left wing dipped and the nose of his Thud had begun to come around left, breaking into the SAM, when the missile's warhead exploded in a huge orange flash.

  Joe's bird lurched mightily but continued turning. He was reversing to the right as the other two missiles flashed by. He pulled out half a mile below and to the formation's left.

  "Wildcat three, Wildcat lead. You okay, buddy?" called Billy.

  While there was no response, the Thud was still flying and Billy could see no smoke.

  "Wildcat three . . .," he started again.

  He was interrupted by the mission commander. "This is Bear Force leader. Get into formation, Wildcat three."

  Jesus, thought Billy. Didn't the colonel realize Joe had been hit? "Wildcat three's radio's out, Bear lead," Billy snapped over the radio. "He was hit by the missile."

  Silence answered him. Joe Walker was slowly dropping behind, and Billy thought he saw a slight trail of smoke.

  "Wildcat lead," Billy immediately called, "is descending to join Wildcat three."

  The mission commander keyed his radio and started to say something, but stopped himself midsentence.

  Billy banked and flew out to his left, keeping Joe in sight. He noted that Wildcats two and four joined him. Joe Walker was a good man, and his flight-mates weren't about to desert him.

  Again Billy tried to talk to Wildcat three, but there was no response. Sure as hell, he'd lost his radio.

  When Billy pulled closer, he saw that Joe's bird was beginning to burn. Red flame trailed along the fuselage. It was hard to spot in the bright sunlight, but if you stared, you could see it.

  Joe was leaning forward, concentrating on something inside his cockpit. Finally he looked out, noticed Billy on his right wing, and nodded. He held his fingers up in a zero sign, and Billy wondered if he was trying to signal that he was out of fuel, that he was okay, or that something else was wrong.

  Billy made a fist, thumb extended spoutlike, then motioned as if he were drinking from it. It was the query asking for fuel status.

  Joe nodded and lifted his gloved hand into view. He extended all five fingers and held them crosswise. Five thousand pounds of fuel. No problem there.

  Joe formed the letter E with his hand by cupping it into a C and extending the forefinger to bisect it, which meant that he'd lost electrical power.

  Billy looked up at the larger formation and saw they were continuing outbound at their higher rate of speed. He returned his attention to the problem at hand. The Red River was just ahead, and Billy began to grow hope that Joe might make it that far. If he went down here, on the eastern side of the river, there was little chance for rescue.

  "Bear Force lead," he called to the mission commander. "This is Wildcat lead. Request more fighter escort for Wildcat three down here."

  The response was slow in coming. Finally, "We're four minutes from the Black River, Wildcat. Once we're across, we'll set up an orbit and wait for you."

  Billy doubted Joe had four minutes. The fire was more apparent, with flames streaming brightly from the starboard side of the fuselage. He stared at Joe, who was watching him intently, pointed at him, then back toward his tail. Joe nodded; he knew he had major problems back there.

  "Wildcat lead, four. I see muzzle flashes from the ground a couple of miles ahead."

  "Keep it moving around, Wildcats," said Billy. Following Joe Walker's lead, they'd descended through 9,000 feet and were dropping still.

  A belch of black smoke puffed from Joe Walker's tailpipe, indicating a compressor stall, which meant that
Walker now had problems not only from fire but also with his engine. Joe was still watching him intently, waiting for his signal. The members of the flight had talked about this situation many times. Billy suppressed the urge to tell him to get out now, right now, and to hell with worrying about being rescued.

  He sucked an anxious breath as twice more the engine puffed smoke.

  Four dark flak bursts exploded ahead of them, then two more clusters appeared off to their left. Close, but not close enough, and they were almost out of gun range.

  They crossed the Red River and approached the foothills of the western mountain range. If Joe's bird could make it a little farther, he'd have a chance of rescue.

  When Billy moved his eyes back to Joe's ailing bird, the fire had turned a bright blue and was spreading ever closer to the main fuel cell aft of the cockpit. Walker's Thud now left a thick, oily black trail. Joe had only seconds left before it would blow.

  They crossed over the first tall ridge of green-clad mountains.

  He would wait no longer.

  Joe was still watching him closely. Billy pointed a forefinger at him. He nodded.

  Billy made a fist, thumb up, then jerked it upward, motioning for him to eject.

  Joe immediately pulled his head back against the ejection-seat headrest.

  Get out! Billy's mind screamed.

  A thruster pushed the canopy up into the airstream, and it was whisked away.

  Get out!

  The fire blossomed, covering the Thud's entire midsection in a flash-explosion. The nose slewed sideward, but as it did so, there was a sparkle of light and a blur.

  Joe's ejection seat?

  The Thud torched, burning fiercely, and began to tumble through the sky, scattering scrap metal and parts in its wake.

  Billy slid into a hard left turn, followed by the others.

  "Wildcat lead, Wildcat two. I think I saw the seat go."

  "Weeep! Weeep! Weeep!" wailed the emergency beeper, which came on when a parachute opened.

  "Wildcat three is down," called Billy, still in his turn and looking back for the chute. He looked harder, then saw it, small in the distance. Joe was floating down a couple of miles to his east. They'd made it ten miles past the Red River, not nearly far enough to make Billy feel good about Joe's chances for rescue. The gomers responded quickly whenever they saw a bird in trouble.

  "I've called for rescue," radioed Bear Force leader, again not giving his call sign.

  Billy worried about having a green mission commander when one of his men was down.

  "Bear Force leader, Wildcat lead here. Suggest you send two flights back to the tanker to refuel while the rest of us wait here to keep the area clear of gomers."

  After a short pause, Bear lead took his suggestion. He ordered two flights to proceed to the KC-135 tankers orbiting over Laos, and said he was on his way to join Wildcat at the rescue scene to take charge.

  The beeper was abruptly shut off, although Joe Walker hadn't yet touched down in his parachute. A thrill ran through Billy. Joe was obviously alive and functioning!

  Billy descended to 5,000 feet, then called on guard frequency. There was no response.

  The chute disappeared into trees.

  Two very long minutes passed with no response from Wildcat three.

  Finally Joe called. His voice was emotional and he was in pain. He was caught in tree branches, so high up he couldn't see the ground through the foliage.

  He also could not move from the waist down.

  0645L—Seventh Air Force Headquarters, Tan Son Nhut AB, South Vietnam

  Colonel Buster Leska

  The driver let him off in front of the headquarters building. Buster passed by two sharp, chrome-helmeted security policemen guarding the approaches to the door, and returned their crisp salutes. Inside he showed his ID at the entry desk.

  "The general arrive yet?" he asked.

  "Which general, sir?"

  "The commander. Lieutenant General Moss."

  "No, sir."

  A staff officer, ten pounds overweight and wearing military-issue black-rimmed eyeglasses with lenses as thick as Coke-bottle bottoms, approached and showed a security badge to the guard. He peered at Buster, then at his name tag.

  "We've been expecting you, sir," he said, smiling. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Gates, the one you've been talking to on the telephone."

  They shook hands.

  "Am I still set up to meet with General Moss this morning?"

  "Yes, sir. His staff car will arrive at the door at oh-seven-hundred, twelve minutes from now. You can set your watch by it. You've probably just got time for a quick cup of coffee before he arrives. I'll show you the way."

  Buster signed for a temporary badge, then followed Gates up to the Seventh Air Force commander's suite.

  Gates waved him toward the door. "I'll meet with you after you're through with the general so we can set up transportation for tomorrow morning."

  "Thanks."

  Gates hurried away.

  A fiftyish secretary with improbable red hair busied about Moss's outer office, which was gaudily decorated with fake foliage and artsy, modern paintings. Her back was turned to him as he entered and set down his briefcase.

  "Hi, Flo," he said.

  She turned, raised an eyebrow, and didn't pause before saying, "You owe me lunch."

  He laughed easily.

  Flo had been Moss's secretary for the past nine years, following him from one assignment to the next since he'd gotten his first wing commander's job at a fighter base in North Carolina. Buster had been a buck captain then. Each time Leska was promoted a notch, she claimed responsibility and demanded he take her to lunch. He held Flo in a bit of awe, for she ran her outer office like a not especially benevolent tyrant. She kept the keys to the gate and decided who should or should not enter. She was very capable, could simultaneously handle several telephone calls and hosts of visitors, and was the only living human known to be able to keep the cantankerous Moss in his place. Flo took no crap from anyone and unabashedly played favorites. Fortunately, Buster was one of those.

  "How is Carolyn?" she asked. She had an elephantine memory when she wanted to exercise it, amnesia when she did not.

  "She's fine. Decided to stay in the Washington area while I'm here. We bought a place in Bethesda."

  "Mmmm."

  "She told me to say hi. You remember our son?"

  "Marcus. No father should give such a name to such a nice-looking boy." She arched an eyebrow. "I suppose it's better than Silvester, though."

  Buster winced. His given names were Silvester and Tomas, and he cringed at the sounds of them. There'd been grade-school fistfights before he'd established that his name was Buster.

  "Mark's not a boy any longer. He's in college. Columbia University. Wants to be a fighter pilot. I couldn't get him into the Academy." He did not say it was because of mediocre grades. "But he wants to try for his commission as soon as he gets his degree."

  She served him coffee laced with one sugar, no cream, as he liked it.

  "Lunch," she repeated, pointedly lifting an eyebrow. "After you've done your business with the general, I want to hear all about how things are going for you and your family." She called Moss "the general" regardless of whom she was speaking to, as if he were the only general of any consequence in the world.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "So you're finally getting command of a wing."

  He smiled.

  "I liked it better when we knew you were safely tucked away in Washington," she fussed. "When I heard you'd volunteered to come over here, I could hardly believe it. The general worked hard to get that Pentagon job for you, Buster."

  Since Buster was one of Flo's favorites, she felt duty bound to complain when he got out of line. She pointed at a bright-hued, cubist nightmare painting. Flo carted the awful art from one assignment to the next and would tolerate no criticism. "Straighten that, would you?"

  He did.

  "Major Phillips
went to Takhli too, you know," Flo said. Glenn Phillips was likely Flo's favorite of the favorites. He was one of the youngest and certainly the best looking of their group—drove around in a flashy Corvette and dazzled the ladies—had feminine hearts pitter-pattering from Scandinavia to Tokyo. When Phillips had been on the Thunderbird demonstration team, he'd once shown up at Nellis Air Force Base squiring a rising movie starlet, and took her to the Caesar's Palace gourmet room for dinner with Flo—whom he'd introduced as his other girlfriend—General Moss, and two other members of Moss's mafia and their wives. While the ladies asked the starlet about life in Hollywood and the men all secretively ogled her, Flo had sat through the meal with a jaundiced eye, ignoring the conversation. Later she pronounced the girl entirely too shallow for Glenn. Flo looked out for her flock before indulging in any frivolities.

  "Yes, ma'am," Buster said.

  "He was shot down, you know."

  "Two more months, and it'll be a year. At least Hanoi's listed Glenn as a prisoner of war. There's a lot of questions on some of the others."

  "The communists released photos of Major Phillips being paraded through the streets of Hanoi," she said. "He looked very pained and emaciated." Her mouth was taut as she stared at the picture he'd straightened and gave a terse nod of approval. "You watch yourself, Buster. Entirely too many men at Takhli are being lost."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  The door opened and Moss strode in, followed closely by a colonel who was briefing him on the fly about the night's activities. Moss glanced at Buster and curtly nodded his greeting, as if he didn't know him, then motioned at his door, still listening to the colonel.

  Buster followed them into Moss's private office, remaining unobtrusive as the colonel finished.

  "Keep me posted," Moss growled, and the colonel turned to leave.

  "Close the door," Moss muttered. The colonel did so.

  Moss stood quietly, eyeing Buster with a neutral look.

  "Good to see you, General." They'd known one another since the early days in Korea, when they'd flown Twin Mustangs, Moss as squadron commander, Buster a lieutenant wingman.