by Mike Jenne
“Ouch,” noted Carson. “That was too close for comfort. Beans, you okay back there?”
“I’m copacetic,” replied his RIO. “Shaken but not stirred.”
“Reaper, that was mighty close,” reported Badger. “You lost some sheet metal from the underside of your starboard wing. Damage report?”
“We’re fine, Badger,” replied Carson. “Controls are sluggish but responsive.”
“Okay. Everyone, break right in three and come back on heading. Resume Blue Two-Three Egress Route, Angels Eight. Mark.”
Carson did a three-count, tugged the stick to the right, and applied right rudder to smooth out the turn. There was an unsettling wobbly quality to the controls, and the airframe was rattling much more so than before. “Badger, I’m experiencing a slight control problem here.”
Seconds later, he heard a shrill tone in his right ear. He looked at the upper right of his control panel; the Master Caution light was lit. “Master Caution alarm,” he announced.
“Master Caution,” acknowledged Beans from the back seat.
What Carson saw next was definitely not a welcome sight. Looking to the right side of his panel, he checked his tele-light display. The CHK HYD GAGES tele-light was illuminated, a cue for him to focus his attention on hydraulic indicator gauges on his pedestal panel. The needles on the three gauges—PC-1, PC-2 and Utility—were gradually creeping down.
The three hydraulic systems were largely redundant; he could safely fly the plane if one hydraulic system failed, but their emergency procedures dictated that they discontinue the mission and land as soon as possible. The concurrent failure of all three systems was catastrophic; ejection was their only option. Just as disconcerting, noise and vibration had increased exponentially in the past few seconds. Obviously, damaged sheet metal on the underside of the aircraft was being shredded by the slipstream; the clattering din sounded like a chicken house being ripped apart by a tornado.
Looking to his right, he could see that they were flying roughly parallel to the Gulf of Tonkin. The coast was tantalizingly close, so much so that he imagined he could see sparkling waves and smell salt-laced air. The tranquil sea was safety; ejecting over water astronomically increased the odds that they would be rescued in short order.
He spoke over the intercom: “Beans, our hydraulics are bleeding out. I’m going to trim up before we lose them altogether.”
“Are we punching out?” asked Beans excitedly.
With luck, they could make it out to sea, but they were ejecting, whether Carson liked it or not. Lacking adequate hydraulics, putting the aircraft down on the carrier was not a viable option. “Yeah,” he replied, scaling back power to diminish their airspeed. “There’s no possible way we’re going to plant this thing back on the deck, so we’ll get feet wet and eject.”
Carson felt the stick pushing against his palms. He knew that once the F-4N started losing hydraulics, its stabilator had an inherent tendency to depress, pushing the aircraft into a nose-high attitude. If he didn’t quickly attend to the problem, the stick would eventually lock full aft and the aircraft would try to stand on its tail, at least briefly, until it stalled out and fell from the sky. To counter the fault, he fought the stick to push the fighter into a slight dive, with the goal of at least neutralizing the stabilator’s orientation before the hydraulics failed altogether.
He didn’t have to wait long for the hydraulics to give up the ghost. The fighter’s two big General Electric J-79 engines roared right along as if nothing had happened, but the F-4 had effectively become an unguided missile. Provided nothing else failed or they weren’t shot down by a MIG or SAM, they would remain in the air until their fuel was exhausted.
He fought to maintain level flight as he assessed the situation. The fighter’s controls were all but unresponsive; Carson would probably have better luck steering a rail-bound locomotive. He quickly found that by tweaking the thrust of the engines, he could carve very slight turns, but every degree of turn cost them a significant amount of altitude. He determined his location and checked his compass; they were currently about twenty miles northeast from Haiphong, pointed northeast.
Try as he might, he could not force the crippled plane far enough to make it “feet wet.” And that wasn’t the only problem they faced. By his reckoning, at their current airspeed, they had less than four minutes before they encroached into Chinese territory. The Chinese didn’t look favorably on incursions into their airspace, intentional or otherwise, and had established a precedent of shooting down US pilots who had strayed over from North Vietnam. The Chinese shot down two Navy A-6 Intruders in 1967, with one pilot killed and the other held as a prisoner.
Their options were quickly dissipating. Making it out to sea was no longer a viable alternative, so it came down to punching out over North Vietnam, where they could hopefully evade until rescued, or China, where rescue would probably not be forthcoming.
“Badger, we’re punching out,” he declared, pushing the Eject button on his left.
“We’re with you,” avowed Badger. “Good luck, guys.”
“Beans, I’m squared up,” stated Carson, throttling down the engines to further reduce their airspeed. “Ready to eject?”
“Ready,” replied the RIO nervously.
Ensuring that his spine was straight and his legs tucked in, Carson sucked in a deep breath and grunted, “Eject, eject, eject!” The F-4N was equipped with Martin Baker seats that fired in a dual sequence. Beans, the RIO, would eject first; Carson’s seat would spontaneously fire after Beans was away. Carson had punched out twice before, but never from a two-place aircraft.
He yanked down the face curtain handle, which initiated the rapid sequence of events. As the seat’s restraints locked him into position, he thought of the VPAF pilot’s tragic fate. He felt a sharp blast of wind as the canopies jettisoned, and then was surprised by the wash of explosive heat that engulfed him as his RIO’s ejection seat blasted out of the cockpit. He tightly held his position as he felt the violent blast that blew him clear of the aircraft.
The next few seconds were a blur, but the seat and parachute functioned as advertised. The welcome canopy blossomed overhead. Suspended in his harness, with his one-man life raft dangling below him on a tether, he took stock of his surroundings. He was descending into a wooded area that was mostly uninhabited.
He observed a network of footpaths, car-sized outcroppings of limestone, and some partially cut clearings. Orienting himself, he spotted two rivers that converged near the coast; a small town was located at their confluence. Looking over his right shoulder, he briefly glimpsed another parachute and realized it was Beans; the planned delay in the ejection sequence had separated them by about a mile.
Except for the muted roar of jets in the distance, he was amazed with how quiet it was. Back aboard ship, he had listened to other pilots recount their own ejection ordeals, and several related that they were fired at while still in the air. Almost all claimed that they were on the lam, running full tilt with hostile locals hot on their heels, immediately after hitting the ground. As the trees came up, he steeled himself for the race that was sure to ensue.
Locking his feet together and guarding his face, he crashed through a tree, slamming into thick branches on the way down. The crescendo of blows felt like he was being pummeled by a gauntlet of heavyweights.
He crashed into the ground. He swung open his oxygen mask, caught his breath, climbed out of his parachute harness, and took off his helmet. His chute hung overhead, draped over the drooping branches of a low tree. He briefly tried to tug the chute down to conceal it, but realized that it wasn’t coming down. He knew that the chute was like an enormous flag distinctively marking the place that he had come to earth; if he expected to remain a free man, it was imperative that he get far away from it, as quickly as possible.
Bashing his way through the lush vegetation, he made his way downhill for several minutes. Locating a dense stand of shrubs and vines, he stopped briefly to dig ou
t his PRC-90 survival radio and pistol. At Badger’s recommendation, he had purchased a Browning 9mm High-Power automatic at a gun store in Pensacola. While he attended Top Gun in California, Badger had smuggled it aboard the carrier for him. The Browning’s double-stack magazine held thirteen bullets, considerably more firepower than the pipsqueak .38 caliber revolver that was the standard issue sidearm for Naval aviators.
He pulled back the pistol’s slide and quietly jacked a cartridge into the chamber. He flinched as he heard the earsplitting roar of a jet passing immediately overheard, and guessed that his squadron mates were watching over him. He activated the radio, pressed it tightly to his ear, and listened for a moment. Crouching low in the dense undergrowth, he placed his mouth close to the microphone and furtively whispered, “This is Reaper. Anyone up there?”
The reply was immediate: “Reaper, this is Badger. I see your parachute. Are you injured?”
“Badger, I got a little banged up coming through the trees, but otherwise I’m okay.”
“Good copy. Beans is about two klicks northwest of you, in some pretty rough terrain. Reaper, bad news: Beans broke a leg coming through the trees. Compound fracture. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Got it. I’ll head that way. Badger, what do I have around me?”
“I’ll orient you to the surrounding terrain,” answered Badger. “You’re about six klicks northwest of a ville called Duong Hoa.”
“Duong Hoa. Got it,” replied Carson quietly, committing the name to memory. Once he found a place to hole up temporarily, he would consult his waterproof evasion chart to more completely familiarize himself with the area’s landmarks.
Like a bus driver narrating a rushed tour, Badger continued his concise travelogue: “Duong Hoa’s right on the coast. Right now, you’re between two rivers. The Duong Hoa is about a half-klick to your north. The Song Lai Pan is approximately three klicks to your south.”
Badger continued to orient him: “There’s a hardball road about five klicks to your southwest. It runs southwest to northeast and crosses both rivers. I don’t see any vehicles on it. I think we’ve dropped both bridges. There’s a dirt road a klick to your northwest. It also runs southwest to northeast. I’ve spotted several military vehicles on it, mostly medium trucks. Beans is on the far side of that road.”
“I’ll start moving that way,” replied Carson. He pulled a metal tube of camouflage greasepaint from his survival vest and quickly smeared his face to cover his light skin.
“Negative,” answered Badger. “It’s too hairy over there. We’re watching enemy troops converging on Beans. They’ll be on him before you can make it. SAR is launching in less than five. If you’re secure where you are, I’ll ask them to focus their efforts on Beans. How copy?”
“I copy that SAR will concentrate on Beans,” replied Carson. “That’s a good plan, Badger. I’m fine down here, at least for now. I don’t see or hear any bad guys in my vicinity. I’ll find a place to hole up and wait for SAR. Get Beans out of there.”
“Reaper, if you’re pressed, I advise you to evade toward the south, toward the Gulf. Have your mirror and day-night flare handy.”
“Will do,” said Carson, feeling for the items.
“Reaper, I’m almost bingo fuel. I’m headed out over the water to plug a tanker, and then I’ll come back to you. Someone will hang over you until there’s sufficient air cover so the SAR helicopters can safely work their way in. We won’t leave you and Beans hanging out there.”
The sound of Badger’s engines gradually faded to the south. Carson was surprised at how much the short run had taxed him. His heart thumped and he was soaked with sweat. Perspiration gushed from every pore. Then he realized that he was still wearing his “poopie suit.” Worn under his flight suit, the impermeable anti-exposure coveralls were designed to protect him from hypothermia if he came down in the drink. Obviously, that was no longer an issue. He knew that he had to cover ground, and that if he didn’t come out of the poopie suit, it would overheat and exhaust him in short order.
Although he was leery of a risky wardrobe change at this point, he shed his G-suit “speed jeans,” which were also now superfluous, left his boots on, and pulled his flight suit down to his ankles. He yanked out his saw-backed survival knife and sliced through the poopie suit’s rubberized fabric and the thin thermal underwear worn underneath. He stuffed the discarded garments under some thick vegetation and concealed them with a layer of dead leaves. He examined his bare leg; a souvenir of his descent through the trees, a large purple contusion covered most of the outside of his left thigh. Grimacing, he donned his flight suit and the torso harness that contained his SV-2A survival kit.
Tightly grasping the Browning’s square butt in his right hand, Carson cupped his left hand to his ear and listened intently. Other than the rustle of a winter breeze blowing through the trees, he heard dogs barking in the distance and the muted sounds of trucks in the distance. He didn’t hear gunshots, voices, or irate villagers crashing through the undergrowth. Perhaps all was not lost, if only the SAR guys would get here in time.
21
SIX MEN IN A BOX
Da Nang, Vietnam
12:15 p.m., Sunday, December 24, 1972
“They’re serving turkey and dressing at the American compound tomorrow night,” announced Finn cheerfully. “Turkey and dressing, Nestor. Cranberry sauce, shrimp cocktail, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, pumpkin pie, apple pie, the works.”
Spooning up a clump of rice with heavily spiced chicken, Glades shook his head. They had been subsisting exclusively on local cuisine since they had arrived. A day’s supply of the chow was packed in insulated “Mermite” containers at one of the Vietnamese mess halls on the base and delivered every morning.
Glades was a firm believer that the food Americans ate caused them to exude different scents than their Vietnamese enemies. He suspected that more than one recon team had been compromised by their distinctive American odors. Along with other preparations for the mission, they were literally altering their body chemistry to blend in. Their rucksacks and field gear, already packed for the mission, contained only “indig” rations—mostly dried rice, shrimp and fish—specially stocked by the clandestine logistics office—“CISO”—of MACV-SOG. Besides the stringent menu, Glades placed other restrictions on them as well: no beer, liquor, candy, chewing tobacco or cigarettes.
“Nestor, you didn’t hear me?” said Finn, glowering at being ignored. “Turkey and dressing. Just this once? C’mon, man, we’ve been eating this Vietnamese slop for weeks. I’m sick of it. Can’t you give us a break for one day? Hell, it’s Christmas! Surely our guy won’t be flying on Christmas. Man, have a heart and let us wolf down some American chow for a change.”
Their three Vietnamese SMS soldiers squatted on their haunches in a corner, chattering in their native tongue as they eagerly dined on boiled fish and rice. They might as well have been beamed up into the Buddhist equivalent of Heaven. Finn groaned as one squirted nouc man sauce on his food. The pungent liquid was distilled from fermented fish. Since the entire team lived together and partook of most of their meals here, the team house reeked of nouc man.
Henson sat cross-legged on the floor with the SMS soldiers, sharing their meal as they taught him bits and pieces of their language. Glades was thrilled to have the black PJ on the team; not only was Henson an exceptionally proficient medic, but he had also established an excellent rapport with their SMS counterparts.
There was a tap at the door. Coleman and Major Lahn entered, bearing two rubber-coated waterproof bags and a thick sheaf of maps and aerial photographs. Coleman wore a garish Hawaiian shirt over a ridiculous-looking pair of plaid Bermuda shorts. Lahn was customarily attired in his snugly tailored tiger-striped camouflage uniform, replete with brightly colored patches that loudly declared his various qualifications and affiliations.
“I hate to interrupt your Christmas Eve,” announced Coleman, handing the two waterproof bags to Glades. “But we
may finally have a task for your team. We’ve just received word that your guy is on the ground. His Navy F-4 Phantom was on a MIGCAP near Haiphong. It was apparently knocked down by a SAM missile. The Navy has planes overhead and they’ve been talking to the pilot and the back-seater. The back-seater was severely injured after he ejected.”
“So is our guy the pilot or the back-seater?” asked Henson, setting down a bowl of rice and standing up.
“Honestly, we don’t know,” replied Coleman. He opened a pair of dossiers and examined the pertinent information. “The pilot is named Scott and the Radar Intercept Officer’s handle is Leesma. Sound familiar?”
“No,” replied Glades. “Not that it matters. We’ll grab whoever they tell us to grab.”
Coleman smiled. “That’s a good attitude to have, Nestor.”
“So we’re launching?” asked Finn.
“Maybe, but not likely,” replied Coleman. “A Navy SAR package is on the scene right now, making a play for Leesma. They’re building up a heavy air cover over him. He had a flock of bad guys swarming in his proximity, but the Navy has pushed them away, at least for now. Once they have a good curtain hung, their helicopters should be able to break in there and extricate them quickly. The Navy is confident that their SAR guys will snag Leesma in short order, if they don’t already have him.”
“And the pilot?” asked Finn, sipping water from a metal canteen. “Scott?”
“Since he’s not injured and in a better position, he’s gone to ground temporarily,” explained Coleman. He gestured at one of the maps. “He’s in this box here, bounded to the north and south by these two rivers, and to the east and west by these roads. Since Leesma is the immediate priority, Scott will remain under cover until SAR sends the next bus. That probably won’t take long, either. The Navy has another package making ready, and the Air Force is launching one of their SAR packages as well.