But now he was, despite the circumstances. He was free. Literally, free as a bird. This was the exact opposite of the claustrophobia of Khe Sanh, the exact opposite of the horror masked as beauty in the Mekong Delta. In the end, Vietnam was the land of angry ghosts. The farther away he got from it, the better he felt.
He reached the rendezvous spot with two minutes to spare. Reducing his speed back down to 400 knots, he went into a wide orbit and waited.
Already, he could feel them coming.
He saw them ninety seconds later. There were twelve of them in all, just glints in the sun, trailing long streams of vapor and ice. He held his flight pattern and watched their approach. They got bigger by the second. Soon he could discern wings from fuselage, fronts from backs. At twenty miles out they looked like silver pencils with long thin wings. He could see the individual engines now, spewing contrails that instantly turned orange in the high sun.
Suddenly the radio was filled with chatter: altitude checks, fuel loads, position confirmations. Finally, someone raised him on the blower.
“Cowboy One, this Calvary One, do you read?”
Hunter keyed his lip mic. “Ten by ten,” he answered.
“Are we still on mission schedule, Cowboy One?”
“Roger, Calvary,” Hunter replied. “On schedule. On time.”
“Affirmative, Cowboy One,” came the reply. “We’ll follow your lead.”
By this time the dozen aircraft were just five miles away. They looked huge, fierce, awesome. They weren’t C-5s—this mission called for something more lethal than that. No, Roy and Ironman had certainly come through. They had secured the one aircraft that had been on this mission before. They had bought the services of twelve mighty B-52 Stratofortresses.
The Second United American Airborne Expeditionary Force had arrived.
Chapter Fifty-one
Da Nang Air Base
JT AND BEN WERE sitting in their F-20s at the far northern end of the Da Nang runway, their engines running up to max power. Close behind them were two C-5s, the Triple X and Football One.
They were waiting.
“They’re late,” JT radioed over to Ben, his voice typically anxious.
“Not yet,” Ben replied. “We’ve still got about a minute point five.”
They sat in silence for another minute or so, watching an isolated rainstorm sweep over the hills off to the west of them.
“OK, they’re late, now.” JT called over exactly ninety seconds later. “Something must have got fucked up.”
Ben just shook his head. “Listen, old buddy, you would think that after all this time, you would learn some patience,” he told his friend. “Just relax. Take deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”
“If I start sucking on this pure O like that, I’ll be high as a kite,” JT replied, his tone a very model of unZenlike exasperation.
“That’s the idea,” Ben replied.
Suddenly their radios started crackling. “Mystery Ranch, this is Cowboy One. Calvary has arrived. Repeat, Calvary has arrived. Over …”
It was the unmistakable voice of Hunter, giving them the unmistakable go-code.
“That’s our wake-up call,” Ben called over to JT. “Let’s go…”
Together the pair of red Tigersharks roared down the runway, lifting off in a burst of pure afterburner power, their wings heavy with smart bombs and Sidewinders. The C-5s Triple X and Football One took off right behind them.
The four airplanes quickly formed up and, as one, turned north.
The waiting was finally over.
The B-52s were picked up on radar about forty miles southeast of Hanoi.
They were first spotted at a SAM base located on the edge of the city, but because it had been attacked earlier in the day by enemy jet fighters, it had no means to launch any of its missiles. All its surviving operators could do was watch the Stratofortresses roar over head at 50,000 feet and radio the news to Hanoi.
This and about a dozen other desperate messages alerted the Minx High Command that a major bombing attack was coming. The High Command was concerned but prepared. Hanoi was covered with SAM sites close in, as well as battalions of AAA units. Most of these units had been recently paid, and were reporting up and operational. Plus, it was three in the afternoon—what enemy would dare a major attack on such a large, well-protected city in broad daylight?
It was at this point, the Minx High Command made a huge blunder. Once convinced that an attack was indeed coming, the Minx defense officials determined that its target would not be Hanoi, but the large Xa Ha Ho airbase just outside the city limits. This made sense to them as in the past day or so, the enemy aircraft had been attacking airfields and antiaircraft sites. Why would they change tactics now?
The Minx High Command ordered all available antiaircraft units to the area around Xa Ha Ho. If the enemy chose to attack the airbase with heavy bombers, then the Minx would make sure none of those bombers survived.
Xa Ha Ho Airbase
Colonel Nguyen Cao Li was angry.
“This is not the way to do business,” he was telling the officer standing next to his MiG-25. “My men and I cannot simply fly on a promise of payment. We must have cash in advance.”
The other officer, Major Sum Lu Buk, was nearly wetting his pants. It was his job to coordinate for air defense of the huge Xa Ha Ho air base.
“There is no time, Colonel,” he pleaded with Li. “The enemy is approaching—in great force. High Command predicts that this airbase is their target. You and your men must get airborne or all will be lost!”
Li simply shook his head no. His men were sitting in their Foxbats, seventeen of which were lined up on the air base’s main runway. Their engines idled down, their canopies up, they were watching with great interest the dispute between their commander and Buk, who was the base operations officer.
“I am certain,” Colonel Li was telling Buk, “that if you checked with CapCom, they would support my point of view. This is COD—cash on delivery. It’s a time-honored method of doing business. We cannot fly without being paid. It’s as simple as that.”
Buk was beside himself. He was sure he could already hear the low drone of the approaching enemy bombers.
“Colonel, I beg you,” he said, his voice losing strength with every syllable. “There is no time to contact CapCom. No time to argue. Our treasury is closed because of the pending air raid. It is impossible for me to get you payment in advance. Just impossible.”
Li turned and waved his hand once. This was the signal for his men to taxi their airplanes back to their hardened shelters.
“Then, it will be impossible for my men and I to take off,” he told Buk.
Buk was desperate. He reached into his pocket and came up with a handful of gold coins, stamped by the Royal Thai Empire.
“Colonel Li,” Buk said, thrusting the coins into the pilot’s hand. “This is my pay for the past month. Please … take it. Surely it is enough for at least three or four of your men to go aloft.”
Li counted the coins and quickly calculated their worth. Then he laughed. “Major, this is barely enough for one airplane to go aloft for ten minutes.”
Buk looked him straight in the eye. How could so many people get so greedy in such a short amount of time?
“Then do so, Colonel,” Buk told him. “Take the money and go up for ten minutes and at least try to do something to save us.”
Li stared back at him with some disbelief. Then he shrugged and pocketed the money.
“You must reimburse me for any ammunition expended,” he told Buk as he ascended the access ladder and climbed into his Foxbat’s cockpit. “And pay me a bonus for every enemy plane shot down.”
“Done!” Buk yelled up to him as he motioned the ground crew to remove the airplane’s wheel blocks. “Double for multiple kills.”
“Triple!” Li yelled back over the increasing scream of his engines.
Then he closed his canopy and taxied away.
>
Buk watched him move to the end of the runway, the only sounds now were the MiG-25 engines and the air raid sirens wailing above the base.
“I hope you die with that money in your pocket,” Buk said through gritted teeth as the lone Foxbat roared up and away.
Then he ran for the air raid shelter.
“Calvary One, we are seven minutes from target.”
“Roger, Cowboy … confirm seven minutes.”
Hunter unkeyed his lip mic and did a visual check of the aircraft around him. Right behind him and slightly below were the first six B-52s of Calvary One, flying in a loose chevron pattern. Behind them was Frost’s F-20, riding point for the second half-dozen Stratofortresses. Behind them was ZZ Morell’s Triple-X, and Football One, with Crunch at the controls. Bringing up the rear were Ben and JT.
They were all flying at 42,000 feet, about 32 miles from the center of Hanoi. Hunter had to admit the small air armada looked impressive. The earlier path-clearing operations had been highly successful. Since turning into North Vietnamese airspace, they hadn’t encountered a single MiG or any AA fire, or heard so much as a SAM warning tone.
Hunter could only pray the rest of the mission would go as smoothly.
He was certain the Minx knew they were coming—but at this point, it really didn’t matter. He knew the Minx were undoubtedly preparing to defend every major target in the city—every one, he guessed, but the one he was intending to hit.
“Cowboy One—this Calvary One … I read six minutes to target … clock for ECM activation.”
“Roger Calvary,” Hunter replied. “Engage in ECM now.”
Hunter flipped a series of switches to the left of his instrument panel, activating his array of electronic-countermeasure devices. He knew the pilots of the B-52s were doing the same. They were sure to see some SAMs the closer they got to the city, but the radio/radar jamming devices inside his XL and the big Strats would reduce the problem significantly.
“Five minutes to target …”
Hunter checked his own weapons load. He was carrying four 1000-pound GP bombs, a pair of 750-pounders, plus a complement of six Sidewinders. As always, his quad-pack of M-61 cannons was full of ammo.
Behind him he knew each B-52 bombardier was checking his own weapons load. Each of the Strats was carrying an awesome payload of seventy 1000-pound HE bombs. Combined with his bomb load, as well as the push-off bombs in Triple-X and Football One, they were about to drop more than 500 tons of ordnance on Hanoi.
“Four minutes …”
Hunter couldn’t help but think of the men so many years before who had done almost the exact same mission as they were attempting now. Linebacker One. Linebacker Two. Rolling Thunder One. Rolling Thunder Two. Mission names were all that remained now. Gone were the successes and failures of these missions. Gone were the screwy politicians on both sides which had made them necessary.
Gone were the men who had given their lives in carrying them out….
And now here they were again. Approaching the same target, with some of the same planes, carrying some of the same type bombs, and trying like hell to avoid the same type of SAM and AA fire. Sometimes Hunter thought he was trapped in some kind of strange science fiction world or bad paperback novel, where everything just keeps repeating itself. Good versus evil—over and over again they battle. But no matter how many times the good guys win, the bad guys always come back to haunt them. Why? What did it mean? Were all their efforts in vain?
Hunter didn’t know. These were questions for the ages.
“Three minutes to target …”
He banked slightly and gazed at the city coming up below. He was certain it looked just this way to American pilots years before, blocks upon blocks of uninspired buildings, crossed by dull roads and railway lines, strung with power lines and telephone wires, and dotted with military installations, thatched houses—and SAM sites.
“Two minutes …”
Hunter activated his threat warning radar and soon was looking at a ghostly image of Xa Ha Ho airbase just outside the city. Oddly, he could still see the heat signatures of nearly a squadron of MiGs, yet he was sure they hadn’t taken off. Not all of them anyway. Why would the Minx warm up eighteen airplanes and then not launch them? He hadn’t the foggiest idea, but then again, there were few rational explanations for much of what the Minx did.
“One minute to target,” he heard himself say into his lip mic. “Let’s go through pre-bomb run checklist.”
As he heard a call and reply of each of the airplanes’ commanders checking with their crews, he kept his eye on the read-out from Xa Ho Ha. He knew they were expecting the bombers to go there—the place was obviously hunkered down, just waiting for an attack. Because there were few military barracks inside the city itself, and even fewer communications centers, he didn’t blame the airbase commanders for assuming they were the target of the impending B-52 strike.
But they were wrong.
“Thirty seconds,” Hunter called out, looking behind him and seeing the Stratofortresses tighten their formations. “SAM activity to the south. ECMs on high. Flares out. Chaff dispensers on high …”
Just as the words left his mouth he could see a trio of SA-2 SAMs rising up towards them from his left. The ancient weapon looked just as many American pilots had described it before: like a telephone pole with fire coming out the back.
“Hold positions …” he told the others.
Then, he deftly angled the Cranked Arrow thirty degrees to the left while still maintaining course, an aerial maneuver that could only be accomplished by the XL’s unique shape and canard wings. He waited for the SAMs to close within 400 feet of the B-52s and then he squeezed off three precise bursts from his quad-pack cannons.
With incredible precision, his three streams of tracer rounds met the SAMs head-on. The trio of missiles blew up like three enormous firecrackers, sending three quick shock waves rumbling through the surrounding airspace. When the smoke cleared, the SAMs were gone.
“Hold positions…” Hunter repeated, pulling the XL’s nose back to center. “We’re out twenty seconds…”
Another pair of SA-2s were launched at them from the middle of the city, but these were instantly fooled by the small storm of metallic chaff and flares exuding out of the bottom of each B-52. Confused and overheated, the SAMs began corkscrewing and quickly plunged back to earth.
“Fifteen seconds … hold steady,” Hunter told them. The air was now filling with the bright orange streaks of AA fire. But most of it was either way off target—due to the combined-effort ECM affecting the radar-controlled guns—or too shallow to affect the group way up at 32,000 feet.
“Ten seconds now …”
They were right above the center of the city, nowhere near the airbase, or the weapons repair shops, the communications building, or the Minx High Command headquarters.
“Five seconds to target …”
More SAMs were coming up through the thin clouds, but they were flying erratically and of no consequence. The skies below were simply filled with streaks of AA fire, reminiscent of bombing Baghdad, but just like then, nearly all of it was falling back to earth, not nearly as high as to affect the bomber force.
“Three seconds …” Hunter called out. As the group leader he was doing dozens of calculations in his head per nanosecond, concentrating on the target below and basically eyeballing it.
“OK … two … one … Bombs away!”
He pulled his own weapons release lever and felt the corresponding jolt as the two and half tons of bombs dropped from his wings. Cranking around, he could see the enormous stream of bombs falling from the Strats. Behind them, the pair of enormous, 35,000-pound Big Boy bombs came tumbling out of Triple-X and Football One.
He followed the bomb fall all the way down through the thin clouds to the center of the city below. They all seemed to hit at once, the pair of Big Boys providing the exclamation point to the massive carpet bombing. Almost immediately one huge sheet of flame
arose from the target, the shock wave hitting the bomber force a few seconds later.
Though they would run a photo-recon for bomb damage evaluation later on, Hunter already knew the target had been totally destroyed. It would have been hard not to be. For the target was not a military installation per se, not an airfield, or barracks or communications center. Rather it was the one place whose destruction would most seriously disrupt the Viet Minx expansionist plans, and probably harken their demise.
What the American bombers had left in smoke and flame and ruins was the Central Bank of Hanoi.
“Group left and clear!” Hunter yelled into his microphone.
As one, the combined bomber-fighter force banked hard left and turned for home.
All except JT.
Hunter knew something was wrong as soon as he saw his friend’s Tigershark dive down towards Hanoi.
The front of the sleek F-20 was alight with smoke and fire, and following JT’s tracers it was easy to see that he was strafing an AA gun atop of one of the dreary government buildings.
The gun post immediately exploded in a flash of fire and metal and bodies. JT immediately pulled up and typically did a low-altitude victory roll. Then he put the F-20 on its tail and booted his afterburner to rejoin the bomber group.
And that’s when something went terribly wrong.
Hunter felt before he saw it. A glint of silver and black, streaking out of smoke and clouds, its cannons ablaze with gunfire. It was a Foxbat—and it was obvious that its pilot had been laying low waiting for the bombers to drop their ordnance and looking for something to pounce on. A distracted JT, showing off, was the perfect target.
The Foxbat’s cannonfire raked the F-20 front to back, severing its left wing and igniting its fuel tank. The Tigershark immediately went into a spin, flames and smoke pouring out its perforated fuselage.
Ghost War Page 37