by Tom Wilson
"You need me to come along?" asked the Bear.
"No. I'm just mainly restless." Phillips drained his glass and departed.
Colonel Mack ordered a whiskey and glanced about the crowded bar. He looked at Tiny. "How did you like flying with Phillips today?"
"It was hairy as hell, Colonel," Tiny said happily.
Colonel Mack paid his thirty cents and sipped his bourbon, listening to Tiny.
"We were setting up to make a bomb delivery on a SAM site Glenn found. I haven't seen that much flak in my last ten missions put together. Then two different SAM sites from downtown Hanoi hosed six missiles at us and we got a tour of North Vietnam from about fifty feet above the dirt. Phillips has balls bigger'n the Harlem Globetrotters'."
"You did okay today, Tiny," the Bear said. "You saw that fuckin' MiG before anyone else in the flight, and you were the only one able to stay with us through all the maneuvering while we were going after the site."
Tiny warily accepted one of the Bear's infrequent compliments. "Thanks." One of Tiny's several prejudices was against navigators, and Wild Weasel bears wore navigator wings. He would probably have liked the Bear if he was a pilot.
The Bear turned to Colonel Mack. "You saw the fuckin' flak up there today, Colonel. Intelligence said it was gonna be moderate. They ought to be up there runnin' around North Vietnam with all the guys who got shot down by their fuckin' moderate defenses. Somebody's gotta do something about those turkeys."
Colonel Mack said, "It's always been like that. At least since 1944 it has. Poor target intelligence is an Air Force tradition, Bear."
"Wonder why they call them intelligence," grumbled Tiny, "since they're so damned stupid."
Sam Hall, who had been listening to the conversation, shook his head. Sam thought the best of most people, even intelligence officers. "You guys are bein' hard on 'em. They do their best. I talked to DeWalt . . . you know, the intell lieutenant?"
"He's the dumbest of the bunch," said the Bear.
"He says they get shitty information from Seventh Air Force that they try to straighten out before they brief us. He says the recce photos they get are usually old and out of date. The higher headquarters have to see them before they'll pass 'em down to the operational units. They work three or four hours every night to get ready for the morning mission, then all day when the missions are flying they're either briefing or collecting debriefings from the flights. He says they put in twelve- to twenty-hour days, seven days a week."
They all quietly reflected on Sam's revelations before the Bear disagreed. "You're too easy on 'em, Sam. They've gotta do their job better or we're going to continue to take dumb-ass losses because we aren't prepared."
Colonel Mack shook his head at the Bear's hardheadedness.
The bar was full to overflowing. A group of songsters led by Jimbo Smith and Toki Takahara gathered nearby and sang noisily. Mack, Sam Hall, and Tiny walked over and joined in as they started their next rendition.
"I love my wife, yes I do, I love her troooly," sang the men.
"I love the hole, that she pisses throoogh."
The bar was filled with a silly and incomprehensible feeling of nostalgia.
"I love her tits," they sang.
"And her nut brown aaasshole."
"I'd eat her shit—gobble, gobble—gobble, gobble."
"With a woooden spooon."
The bar was uncommonly quiet at the end of the profane song.
Mike Murphy had started to slide off his stool beside the Bear. He grieved for his friend and for his friend's wife, and at his inability to help. Sam guided him to his feet.
"Time to go to my trailer," said Sam. "I'll drop Mike off at his hootch."
The Bear also got up. "I'll go with you. Help you with Mike."
Jimmy the bartender became alarmed. "Dubble or nuthin," he cried as the Bear started away.
The Bear tossed Jimmy the Honda key. "You can use my bike tonight, Jimmy, but you tell them wives to perfume up, because I'll be by one day soon."
Jimmy adroitly caught the key and grinned.
CHAPTER FOUR
Monday, November 28th—0655 Local, Route Pack Six, North Vietnam
Bear Stewart
Mal Stewart looked out over the familiar valley as he listened to the radio.
"Stingers, we've got SAM activity from south of Yen Bai. Out of range. Nothing exciting yet." Phillips's voice was calm, although they fully expected trouble.
Their four-ship Wild Weasel flight had ventured out over the Red River valley to challenge the defenses and keep them occupied during the rescue. Tiny Bechler flew as number two. Number three was Toki Takahara. Four was Ken Maisey.
Twenty miles northwest of them, four flights of single-seat Thuds were approaching the area where Benny Lewis had gone down the previous afternoon.
The mission was a maximum effort to pull Benny Lewis from the ground before the North Vietnamese found him. There had been no JCS target tasking from Washington that morning, so the wing commander had called in debts from various friends at Seventh Air Force headquarters in Saigon; the rescue effort, officially called a Rescue Combat Air Patrol or Res-CAP, had been approved. The Thud pilots knew it could be any one of them down there surrounded by hostiles. The tanker crews sent them off with full tanks and a firm thumbs up. F-4C Phantom crews joined up from Ubon Air Base in eastern Thailand to provide protection from MiG's. Crews of the two EB-66 electronic jamming aircraft had volunteered to fly orbits a dozen miles north of the rescue area, to jam enemy radars that tried to interfere with the rescue.
The sixteen fighters led by Colonel Mack carried light loads for good maneuverability and longer loiter-time. Each Thud carried a 650-gallon fuel tank on centerline, two pods of 2.75, white phosphorous rockets, AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles, and a full can of 20mm ammunition for the Gatling gun.
"No activity," said the Bear in a pleasant tone.
"Too quiet," muttered Glenn. Neither SAMs nor MiG's had yet been noted near the area.
Glenn had called for heavier loads for his Wild Weasel flight. Aside from two Shrike radar-homing missiles, he carried four CBUs, the bomb-shaped cannisters that would pop open after release and spew out hundreds of grenade–like bomblets. The others in Stinger flight carried 500-pound Mark 82 bombs.
Colonel Mack repeatedly called Benny's call sign on the emergency channel as they zigzagged over the area into which he had parachuted.
"Kingfish lead, this is Hornet, do you read me?"
Silence followed his calls.
The Bear didn't know Benny Lewis well, but he liked what he had seen. The man's noteworthy traits were his fast devotion to his family and his loyalty to his fellow fighter jocks. Benny was a steady type who exuded a calming influence upon the other strike pilots. The Bear hoped they could pull the rescue off.
Alone over the Red River valley, the Wild Weasel flight maneuvered and watched for threats to the rescuers.
The Bear looked up from the IR-133, the sensitive receiver that displayed signals from enemy radars. He stared out of the cockpit at their two o'clock, then slowly swept his vision to the right. Tiny Bechler's single-seat Thud turned and jinked a thousand feet away. He continued sweeping his vision rearward until the ejection seat's headrest interfered, then craned his neck to peer at the limit of his vision.
"Kick your right rudder, Glenn." The aircraft yawed, allowing him to scan back to their six o'clock. "We're clear on the right."
Phillips only grunted in response.
The Bear scanned past Toki Takahara's weaving two-ship element. It wasn't that he didn't trust the other members of the flight to do their best in spotting MiG's, it was only that you could not be too wary when you flew over the valley.
"Clear on the left," he said.
"Kingfish, this is Hornet," called Colonel Mack, trying again to raise Benny Lewis on the radio.
Phillips slowly turned his flight southward, careful to remain between the rescue force and the threats in the valley. The Bear
shared his fierce protectiveness, as he, too, was suspicious that the gomers were up to something.
The Bear again worked the IR-133, the heart of his Wild Weasel equipment, noting signals from two Firecan AAA radars; green spikes alternately grew and diminished from the grass at the bottom of the scope. He glanced at the radar homing scope, processing the signals from the radar. "We've got sweeping guns," he said. "Ten and twelve o'clock." He presented his information quickly, accurately, and understandably.
One of the two signals stopped sweeping and remained steady on the scope.
"One gun tracking at ten o'clock," the Bear said. "No threat," he added. The radar's signal was too weak and thus too distant for its 57mm guns to pose a threat.
"Nothing else?" asked Phillips.
"Nothing right now. You want to fire a Shrike at him to keep his respect? We're probably coming within range."
Phillips thought before answering. "Let's wait. There may be something better to shoot at later."
"Weeep, weeep, weeep . . ." An emergency locator beacon sounded.
"We've got an emergency beeper!" called Colonel Mack over the din.
"Weeep, weeep, weeep . . ." It sounded weak and distant.
"Weeep, weeep." The the beeper was turned off.
"This is Trigger lead." It was the F-4C MiG-CAP leader. "I've got a fix on my radio DF from over in the valley, Hornet. That's not Kingfish."
"Thanks, Trigger," said Colonel Mack. "Keep up your visual lookout, Hornets."
"THIS IS BIG EYE! LONGHORN AT ALPHA GOLF THREE! I REPEAT, THIS IS BIG EYE! LONGHORN AT ALPHA GOLF THREE!" The command-and-control aircraft had seen MiG's near Hanoi on radar and was broadcasting over Guard radio channel with so much power that their eardrums hurt.
"Keep an eye out for bogeys," directed Colonel Mack.
"Hornet, this is Wasp lead," came Sam Hall's voice. "I'm seeing some flashes low on a hillside down there."
A short silence followed, during which the fliers held their collective breaths.
A calm, distant voice sounded over the radio. "Hornet, this is Kingfish." Benny Lewis's voice!
Colonel Mack responded immediately. "We're reading you three-by-five, Kingfish. Weak-but-clear."
"I just flashed my mirror at a flight of Thuds that passed over. I moved west during the night, Hornet. Trying to make your job easier."
"We received the mirror flashes. Be with you in a minute, Kingfish. You got any company down there?"
"There's a road through the valley east of me that had some vehicle activity yesterday, but I haven't seen anything or anyone on this side of the mountain. It's mostly wild jungle here."
"What's your condition, Kingfish?"
"I'm sick and tired of running up and down these hills and ready to get out of here. Otherwise I'm fine."
Colonel Mack began to issue orders on the squadron common frequency. "Hornet three, go to Crown frequency and get the Sandies and choppers on their way. Tell them the area seems safe, and that we've got a hell of a lot of fighter support for 'em here."
"Roger, three's changing to Crown frequency."
"Wasp lead, keep Kingfish in sight."
"I've got a good visual on the area the flashes came from," said Sam Hall.
"I want everyone to keep a close look for any ground troops that might be moving into the area. Anything that moves near that valley is a threat to the Jolly Greens."
"Honeybee flight reads you."
"Skeeter flight, roger."
Colonel Mack returned to the emergency frequency. "Sit tight, Kingfish. We're calling for rescue." His voice sounded quietly pleased.
"Yes, sir," replied Benny, his voice calm. "I've got three flights of Thuds in sight now."
"Still no company down there?"
"No." Then, "Damn!" A long pause. His voice returned a moment later, high with new emotion. "No humans, but I just heard one hell of a roar from some kind of animal. Are there tigers around here?"
"You hear that?" The Bear said to Phillips. "It'd be shitty if Benny got eaten by a fuckin' tiger while he was waiting to be picked up."
Phillips agreed that would be shitty.
The Bear peered hard into the distance past Toki Takahara and his wingman. "We got a bogey at our eleven o'clock, level," he said. "It's still a long way out. Wait, it's turning. I see two of 'em now."
"We got bogeys out over the valley, Stingers," announced Phillips.
"Two."
"Three." Toki's voice was crisp.
"Four."
The Bear frowned. Four's voice contained an element of panic he didn't like. Ken Maisey was a U.S. Naval Academy graduate who let you know it in the first moment of discussion. He was new, but there was something in the voice other than new-guy caution.
"This is Trigger lead, Stinger. Where'd you see the MiG's?" The F-4C Phantom flight leader sounded excited.
Glenn's voice was conversational. "They're a few miles northeast of Yen Bai, heading north in a slow right-hand turn. And . . . I've got a visual on two more bogeys that are just about over Yen Bai now, also heading east."
"Roger. Let's go burner, Triggers. What's your position, Stinger? I don't want to get your flight mixed up with the bad guys."
The Bear growled over the intercom. "I don't trust those F-4 jocks with their fancy fucking missiles."
Glenn chuckled, obviously happy he wouldn't have to worry about both MiG's and SAMs all alone over the valley. He radioed, "We're turning west near the dog pecker, Trigger."
"I got two bogeys in sight, Triggers!" announced the excited F-4 Phantom leader. "Eleven o'clock and very low. Clean 'em up."
White shapes tumbled through Stinger flight. It took a few seconds before the Bear realized they were fuel tanks from the high-flying Phantoms.
"Hot damn!" came Tiny Bechler's radio call. "That was close."
Phillips sounded angry on the radio. "Trigger, you dropped your tanks through our flight!"
Trigger shouted gibberish as they chased eastward toward the MiG's. They changed radio channels and went off the Res-CAP frequency.
"I've got another tracking gun radar," said the Bear, eyes switching back and forth between receivers as he manipulated them. "Eight o'clock." He looked about the sky again for MiG's and saw one. "I've got a bogey at our three o'clock, closing, couple miles out."
Glenn must have also seen it, for he was banking hard into it. "MiG-17 at three o'clock, Stingers!"
The MiG pilot obviously saw them turning, for he dove toward the ground.
"Keep an eye out, Stingers," Phillips admonished, banking left now.
The flight members should have seen the MiG before it got that close. The Bear decided to razz their asses at debriefing.
"Stinger lead, this is four. My afterburner won't light."
"Bullshit," muttered the Bear. "I expected something like that from Maisey."
"I can't see in his cockpit, Bear. Maybe he does have a problem." Phillips switched to radio. "Roger, four. Anything else wrong?"
Four's voice came out quaking. "I'm not sure. My fuel flow is awfully high. I'm burning between seven and eight thousand pounds an hour."
"Roger," Phillips said, noncommittal.
"How the fuck's he know his burner's not working? We didn't go into burner. Maisey's problem's with his back," said the Bear. "His yellow streak's acting up."
"Maybe," Glenn said.
"Dammit, we need the second element."
"If his bird's acting up, he won't be much good to us anyway," Glenn said. "Stinger three, escort four back home," he radioed.
"Ah, roger," came Toki's disgusted voice. The Bear watched the two Thuds turn west toward the green mountains. They were soon out of sight.
"How's your airplane, two?" asked Phillips.
Tiny Bechler replied promptly, "Everything's in the green, Stinger lead."
"Keep a good lookout, two. It's a MiG day."
Some days the SAMs and triple-A were all you would encounter. Other days, MiG's seemed to be everywhere
. And some days there were both.
The Bear watched a SAM site's radar signal grow on the IR-133 scope. He tuned a cueing bar onto the signal to select it, then switched to another mode for analysis. He fine-tuned the inch-wide signal, fed in more attenuation, and measured its strength. The manipulations took a total of three seconds.
"We've got a tracking Fansong at five o'clock," he said, glancing out the window for visual reference. "Probably somewhere near that big U in the Red River."
The Bear selected, then transferred the SAM signal onto the small cathode-ray tube in Phillips's front cockpit. "This guy's a threat, Glenn."
Glenn banked the aircraft to put the strobe from the site at two o'clock on his attack scope. SAMs were easiest to dodge when they came from the right or left forward quadrants.
The Bear eyed the U in the river where he thought the site was located. Flat farmland stretched in all directions.
"Think we ought to engage him?" Phillips asked. The Bear liked that about Phillips. He knew it was not only his ass he was betting, and that it would be highly dangerous to attack a SAM site out over the valley with no terrain to dodge in and out of.
"He's close, maybe close enough to get a shot at the Res-CAP aircraft, Glenn."
"Yeah?" Phillips sucked in a breath, noisy on the intercom. "Well, let's have a go at him."
"Roger."
Phillips turned the Thud to line up for a Shrike missile shot, at the same time becoming a fat target for the SAM operator.
"He's looking at us now," said the Bear, constantly analyzing the signal on his scopes. As he'd anticipated, the radar's pulse rate doubled and the power level jumped. "He's in high PRF, preparing to shoot."
"Let's see if he's got balls," said Phillips, continuing to turn toward the site.
"Come right a couple more degrees," directed the Bear. He had switched to the homing mode and was watching two steering bars on the scope, which were more accurate than Phillips's display. "A cunt-hair more. Yeah! He's at twelve o'clock, centered!"
"I'm tracking him with the Shrike needles," said Glenn. "Five degrees of depression angle. We're getting close."
The ACTIVITY button had illuminated and squeal in the Bear's headset. "He switched on his missile-tracking beam," he said.