by Mike Jenne
“Flying you two is the incentive to keep the Air Force on board,” stated Heydrich. “Scott, you have to understand that there are very senior leaders in the Air Force who think that you and Carson deserve legitimate recognition for what you’ve accomplished, especially for the MOL rescue mission. That’s why Tarbox came up with his scheme to fly it in public view, with you and Carson as the first crew. As I’ve heard, it was fairly easy to sell the Air Force. So the Air Force’s senior leadership is willing to support continuation of the MOL ocean surveillance program, contingent on you and Carson flying the first—or rather, second—mission.”
Thinking about yesterday’s encounter with Tarbox, Ourecky now had a better understanding why the admiral was so unsettled by Carson’s apparent reluctance to return home from Vietnam. Not only did his vaunted MOL program rest in the balance, but if Carson was harmed during his deployment, then Tarbox would certainly be compelled to explain to the Air Force’s senior leaders—who would be far less than amused—why he could have placed their star astronaut at such tremendous risk.
“But if the MOL is so contingent on Carson and me,” asked Ourecky, “then why would Tarbox ever allow Carson to fly overseas?”
“Two reasons,” answered Heydrich. “First, that deal was well underway long before the public MOL mission was even tentatively approved, so it made sense to let Carson finish his training and deploy. Second, Carson wasn’t ever supposed to be in real danger. If you recall back to October, when Carson’s deal was done, Henry Kissinger publicly stated that he believed that peace was at hand in Vietnam. Obviously, Admiral Tarbox never anticipated that the war would go hot again, especially this quickly, but to his credit, he did put some provisions in the plan, just in case.”
“Right,” answered Ourecky. “And like I said before, I’m confident that Drew has skirted those restrictions.”
“He’ll be back in no time. There’s no need for you to worry.”
“I suppose you’re right. I guess I need to focus on getting ready for this mission, since it’s almost a certainty that Drew will want to go back up.”
“Probably, but what do you want, Scott?” asked Heydrich. “Do you really want to go back up?”
Ourecky shook his head. “No. Gunter, what I really want is to get on with my life. I don’t have any desire for publicity. More than that, this Project has stretched my marriage to the breaking point. Bea is a smart lady, so if this MOL mission happens, she’s going to figure out that the Air Force didn’t just arbitrarily pick my name out of a hat to suddenly become an astronaut. I don’t know how she’ll take it, but I doubt that it will be good.”
Dayton, Ohio
1:30 a.m., Friday, December 22, 1972
The exterior of the teardrop-shaped window was smeared with a filmy layer of grime, so Ourecky loosened his shoulder restraints, leaned forward and pressed his face against the glass so he could see more clearly. He was in a forty-five-minute period of orbital night; the only thing he could see outside was a faint blob of light floating against a background of absolute blackness. As his eyes gradually focused, he recognized that the blob was actually a round viewport, even though the rest of the spacecraft was shrouded in darkness. He saw an indistinct face in the center of the viewport; it was a man, apparently staring out at the stars. Even in the poor light, the features looked vaguely familiar; mesmerized by the visage, he struggled to recognize who it might be.
Orbital dawn was fast approaching. As sunlight dispelled the gloom, the vague form before him progressively took shape. What he saw surprised him; he expected to see the derelict Krepost, still spewing debris, but the object wasn’t the Soviet space station, but the MOL. The cylindrical fuselage, emblazoned with big block letters that spelled out “UNITED STATES NAVY,” was unmistakable. As the light improved, the face in the viewport became clearer. Struggling to see through the obscured glass, he squinted, and then finally recognized the face: it was Carson! His expression was despondent, like he was hopelessly lost and looking to the stars to find his way home. Startled, Ourecky yanked his face away from the glass and looked to his left, and realized that he was alone in the Gemini-I.
Gasping, Ourecky shoved the heavy quilt aside and sat up in the bed. His heart beat so hard that it felt like it would thrash out of his chest. He was drenched in sweat and fought for breath.
“What’s wrong, honey?” asked Bea sleepily. Yawning, she slipped her arm around his shoulders. “Bad dream?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Really bad dream.”
6:12 p.m., Friday, December 22, 1972
Wringing his hands, Ourecky sat watching the evening news. None of it was good. Operation Linebacker II, a full court press intended to force the peace process in Vietnam, was in its fifth day, with no end was in sight. The toll was heavy: two B-52’s and two fighter-bombers had been shot down today, with sixteen airmen missing. In total, according to the news, the United States had lost eight B-52s, four fighter-bombers and forty-three airmen.
Despite the Pentagon’s claims to the contrary, the North Vietnamese alleged that bombs were falling on POW camps, wounding American prisoners and civilian hospitals in Hanoi. The North Vietnamese claimed to have shot down thirty-four planes.
The stakes were incredibly high, and everything was in play. Even longstanding allies were being uncooperative. General Alexander Haig, an assistant to Secretary of State Kissinger, had been dispatched to Saigon with an ultimatum from President Nixon to President Thieu, threatening to cut off aid to South Vietnam if Thieu refused to sign the peace treaty the US wanted. The apparent sticking point was that Thieu insisted on a version of the treaty that recognized the sovereignty of South Vietnam.
Ourecky cut off the television as the station cut to a commercial. He walked down the hall to Andy’s bedroom, where he found Bea reading to Andy and Rebecca from a children’s book. She couldn’t bear to watch the news anymore, at least since the raids had started, and left the room as soon as he turned on the TV.
“Hey, we have to talk,” he said quietly.
“I don’t want to hear about it, Scott,” she replied, slowly closing the book. “It makes me sick to even think about it. I don’t want to know what’s going on over there. We need to finish packing the suitcases, head out early tomorrow morning, and leave all of that behind us.”
He helped her to her feet and led her to the living room.
She held his hands close and examined his fingers. “You’ve been chewing your nails,” she observed.
“Yeah,” he replied self-consciously. “I’m really worried about Drew.”
“You think I’m not?” she asked. “It’s just killing me, especially since there’s nothing that we can do about it.”
“I think we can do something. I’ve spent enough time around Drew and probably know him as well as anybody can know him. Right now, as far as he knows, he has nothing to lose, so he’s probably taking a lot more risks than he has to. That’s just the way he is; he has a naturally aggressive nature.”
“Granted. But what could we possibly do to change that?”
“Let him know that he has something to live for.”
“And exactly what would that be? A fancy watch and his new Corvette? A never-ending string of bimbo girlfriends?”
“No. Once, he told me that he was terrified of dying alone. I think he really wants to settle down and start a family, but he just hasn’t been able to. If we told him about Rebecca…”
“No,” countered Bea. “First off, Scott, we’re not absolutely sure that Rebecca is even his daughter.”
“I’m sure that she is,” replied Ourecky. “And I think you know she is, also. If we told him that he had a daughter, then maybe he would be more careful over there.”
“Maybe,” she answered. “Maybe you’re right. When are you two supposed to talk again?”
“Christmas Eve. Drew said that he would call around midnight his time, which would be noon our time.”
She nodded. “Then we have some time to
talk about it, but whatever we do, I want us to be very cautious about how we handle it with Rebecca. Fair enough?”
“Plenty fair,” he answered.
20
LINEBACKER II
Over North Vietnam
9:35 a.m., Sunday, December 24, 1972
“Checkpoint Three. Feet dry,” announced Badger over the radio. “Eyes up for gomers, gents. Reaper, stay tight on me.”
Carson keyed his mike and replied, “Roger, Badger. I’m on you.” Just for an instant, he looked down to his left to observe the sudden transition from blue ocean to green landscape, and grinned. Just two weeks ago, as he arrived at Yankee Station, he had gloomily speculated whether he would even have a single opportunity to fly over Vietnam. Now, just three hours after downing a hearty breakfast aboard ship, he was well into his first mission of the day. According to the flight schedule, he would fly two more missions before the sun went down over the South China Sea.
He still couldn’t believe his good fortune. Initially, it looked as if his cruise would be relatively uneventful, but then the peace train had veered entirely off the tracks. Weary of stalled talks, the President ordered a new round of bombing, dubbed Operation Linebacker II. Combining the powerful resources of the US Seventh Air Force and the Navy’s Task Force 77, the massive aerial onslaught was intended to coerce the recalcitrant North Vietnamese back to the peace table. Although hampered by bad weather, over a hundred American aircraft took to the skies daily to pound targets that were previously off limits.
Instead of twiddling his thumbs back in the wardroom, Carson was in the thick of the fray, flying CAP—Combat Air Patrol—in support of Alpha Strike operations in the Haiphong region. Since the air offensive had kicked off six days ago, he had already flown fourteen combat missions. Tomorrow, he and his fellow aviators would remain aboard ship to celebrate Christmas, and the CAP escort sorties would resume the following day. He reminded himself that he had a five-minute block scheduled for midnight at the MARS shack; he looked forward to talking to Ourecky again, but wished that he could be more forthcoming about his missions over North Vietnam.
For Carson, it would be the MIG-hunting safari of a lifetime, if only the pilots of the Vietnamese People’s Air Force—VPAF—were slightly more cooperative. Of course, the wily Vietnamese certainly had their own agenda, which likely didn’t include lining up in Carson’s sights to be killed.
The circumstances had caused the VPAF to swiftly develop a marked preference for nocturnal hunting. Instead of flying in the daytime, where they were unlikely to achieve dominance in the air, they preferred to rise up after the sun fell, to gang up against the fattest and slowest targets, the B-52s. Besides being big and slow, the bombers operated under some restrictive constraints that rendered them into even easier prey.
In accordance with orders issued from SAC headquarters in Nebraska, the B-52’s flew in three-plane “cell” formations along set routes, executing very predictable post-target turns after dropping their ordnance. The turns were intended to prevent the big planes from running into each other, but the prescribed maneuver made them easy fodder for SAMs fired in salvo. The consequences of the repetitive tactics were costly and themselves predictable; on the third night of the raids, the North Vietnamese destroyed six B-52s after downing three on the first night and severely damaging another on the second night.
When they did emerge during daylight, the VPAF pilots didn’t seem too enthusiastic about engaging Navy aircraft. Consequently, Badger and his men attempted every trick in the catalog to lure the VPAF pilots up for a fight. This morning, it looked like they were in luck. Six MIG-21 “Fishbed” fighters scrambled from Kien An Airbase west of Haiphong, apparently tempted to jump the flight of eight A-4 Skyhawks protected by the Phantoms.
By the time the MIGs had cleared the runway, the A-4s had completed their attack runs and were turning back for the carrier. Watching the MIG-21s climb, Carson was almost giddy in his excitement, but then was chagrined as the less-than-valiant VPAF fighters scattered. Unwilling to risk a confrontation with the Navy Phantoms, the MIG-21s departed for safer airspace.
“Damn it,” swore Carson over the intercom. “I was sure we would grab some of that action.”
“Wait…wait…I’m still tracking one,” replied his RIO confidently. “Two o’clock low.”
Carson looked to the right and spotted a bogie. Apparently one of the stubby-winged MIG-21s had elected to fight instead of hightailing it for home.
“We’re engaging,” announced Badger. “Reaper, stay with me.” In mere seconds, they closed the gap. Badger‘s flight of four F-4s was dispersed in two-plane mutually supportive “Loose Deuce” teams. Flying as Badger’s wingman, Carson appreciated the flexibility of the Loose Deuce tactic; instead of complying with rigid rules about which of the two fighters would engage the enemy, the aircraft in the most advantageous position assumed the lead.
“Reaper, you’re in,” announced Badger over the radio. “Take him.”
“Tally ho,” confirmed Carson enthusiastically, tugging the stick as he maneuvered. “Reaper is engaging.”
Even after his exhaustive training at Top Gun, it was an incredibly close match. Carson realized that his shrewd adversary probably had years of combat experience. Except for the rare instances where they might travel to China or the Soviet Union for advanced training, VPAF pilots typically flew in combat every single day. Moreover, they didn’t have the option of rotating home, as their American opponents did; they were home, and the air war took place in the skies overhead. Consequently, most VPAF pilots flew until they were dead.
Carson didn’t anticipate a long fight. Designed as an interceptor, the MIG-21 was smaller, lighter, faster and more agile than his F-4N. Despite these advantages, it lacked endurance as a consequence of its limited fuel capacity. But even though he was aware that the clock was on his side, Carson struggled to keep up. The tenacious VPAF pilot obviously wasn’t throwing in the towel without a pitched brawl. Instead of a churning fur ball sprawling across the perfect skies, the duel was more like a knife fight in cramped quarters.
Carson knew he was much too close to engage with one of his AIM-7E Sparrow missiles; since his F-4N lacked an internal cannon and wasn’t fitted with an external gun pod, he would have to rely on his short-range AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles. For several minutes, they were trapped in a stalemate; neither man could gain the advantage long enough to trigger a snap shot to close the deal.
Finally, after several minutes of gut-churning maneuvers, twisting and turning across the sky, the VPAF pilot made a significant error. He was about a quarter-second late in nosing over, which allowed Carson to momentarily seize the advantage.
Carson aggressively slid in close at the opportune moment, framed the delta-winged MIG in his heads-up pipper, and heard the distinctive lock-up tone growling in his earphones. “Reaper, Fox Two…Fox Two,” he blurted, toggling the thumb switch to launch an Sidewinder. The heat-seeking missile surged off its rail, flew cleanly up the MIG’s tailpipe and detonated.
Carson snap-rolled right to dodge a flurry of debris spewing from the rapidly disintegrating MIG. Morbidly curious, he whipped into a tight left-hand bank and looked over his shoulder to watch the bandit’s demise. He was almost relieved as he saw the pilot eject. Tucking the F-4 into a descending spiral, he continued to watch the falling pilot.
“Splash One,” noted Badger. “Bravo Zulu, Reaper. Good kill.”
Carson’s exuberance was swiftly supplanted by sheer horror. Just as it appeared that the VPAF pilot would escape death, his circumstances began to unravel. The ejection seat appeared to function as it was supposed to, but for some reason, the pilot didn’t cleanly separate from the seat pan as his parachute automatically opened. As best as Carson could tell, something—perhaps a foot restraint or something as simple as a snarled bootlace—refused to break free, so the pilot tumbled madly through the air, still physically attached to his seat.
As he fell, squirming and thrashin
g in a frantic attempt to extricate his trapped foot, the parachute continued to deploy. The streaming chute furled tightly around the whirling seat, entangling the pilot like a spider’s spinneret wrapping up a fly. Ignited by residual heat from the ejection seat’s rocket motor, the chute caught fire. Engulfed in a molten cocoon of burning nylon, the hapless pilot plummeted to earth, trailed by a plume of orange flames and black smoke.
“Reaper, break contact and follow me,” ordered Badger.
Carson rolled out of the spiral, climbed, and slipped into formation with Badger and the others. He had mixed emotions about the shoot down; it was the third time in his life he had witnessed a death as the result of a deliberate act, except this time it was by his own hand.
“SAM launch,” stated one of the other pilots. “SAMs in the air! I have visual. One o’clock, looks like about five miles. I see three coming up.”
Carson heard a warbling sound in his earphones. It was a warning tone indicating that enemy radar was tracking their aircraft. The NVA air defense crews had apparently determined that the Americans focused their SEAD—Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses—and electronic warfare countermeasures to protect the ingress phase of any major operation.
The NVA gunners knew that they assumed a huge risk when they lit up the big radars associated with the SAMs; they had learned to be patient, wait until the specialized anti-SAM electronic warfare aircraft like the EA-6B Prowlers had already returned to the carriers, and then ambush the fighters and attack aircraft on their way back to the safety of the sea.
Another pilot calmly chimed in, “Make that four.”
“Jink Three-Zero on four-count,” ordered Badger, like a quarterback calling a play. “Four…Three…Two…One…Break.”
To evade the SAMs, the four F-4Ns broke left in unison and changed altitude. Intent on downing some American planes, the NVA SAM batteries continued to fire. Carson’s aircraft shuddered as an enormous missile came up fast and detonated a few hundred feet underneath his right wing. Despite the force of the explosion, he maintained control as he assessed the aircraft’s performance. The controls lagged slightly but were still functional. The aircraft had picked up a considerable vibration; Carson suspected that they sustained at least some airframe damage.