Termite Hill (Vietnam Air War Book 1)

by Tom Wilson

  "I've got . . . I just saw a SAM launch!" Phillips called the launch over the radio, telling Tiny to prepare for hard maneuvering.

  The Bear switched back to the analysis function. He noted their position in the radar beam to doubly ensure that they were the intended target. "He's shooting at us. We're centered on his radar scope."

  "Both beams?" Phillips asked. The SAM operators had to center them on both azimuth and elevation scopes to accurately measure their position and steer the missiles.

  "Yeah," said the Bear, noting how smoothly the tracking radars kept the Thud centered in their respective beams. "He's pretty good, Glenn. Watch out for him."

  Glenn Phillips

  Phillips eased the stick back, and the Thud's nose came up. "I've got six degrees loft angle. That oughta do it," he mumbled. He had to be canny and quick. He depressed the trigger and felt the rumble of the Shrike missile.

  "Missile away," he called as the Shrike streaked from the pylon.

  "Stinger lead, break!" came Tiny's desperate call.

  Phillips banked hard right.

  An explosion slapped the aircraft, throwing it sideways. Phillips reversed into a harsh left turn.

  "The second SAM's clear," called Tiny. Glenn knew it was, for the missile had passed directly over his cockpit a split second before exploding.

  "You got the third SAM in sight, two?" asked Phillips.

  "It went wild, lead," said Tiny.

  They were breathing hard, adrenaline pumping.

  "Damn, I lost my visual sighting on the SAM site," muttered Phillips on the intercom.

  "Shit!" said the Bear, echoing Glenn's disgust.

  "I'm coming about to look for the Shrike impact," muttered Phillips.

  "We got him!" said the Bear. "The SAM's radar signal dropped off the air. The fuckin' Shrike got him!"

  Phillips quickly got onto the radio. "Stinger two, I don't have a visual on the SAM site. We got a hit with the missile, but I don't see it."

  Colonel Mack's voice came over the radio. Stinger lead, this is Hornet. How's it going out there?"

  "We've hit a SAM site with the Shrike, but I can't see the son of a bitch."

  "Stinger, the rescue's coming along fine. The Sandies have just arrived on the scene, and the Jolly Greens are inbound. Keep their heads down just a bit longer and we'll have Kingfish out of here."

  "Roger, Hornet."

  Glenn, sighting something unusual, grew excited. "Stinger two, set up for bomb delivery."

  "Two," came Tiny's immediate acknowledgment.

  They climbed under full power, perching at 10,000 feet in an attempt to gain a visual sighting of the Shrike missile's impact smoke.

  "See that clump of trees near those paddies in the curve of the river at our two o'clock?"

  "Roger," replied Tiny after a slight pause.

  "Well, I'd bet my maiden ass that's camouflage net and not all trees. I think I see smoke from the Shrike hit, too. Ready?"

  "Two's ready."

  Phillips rolled the big Thud up on its back and lined up on the target. He tucked the stick back into his lap and pulled into the dive. He turned to wings level in a steep dive. "Down the chute!" he said to the Bear.

  "Stinger lead is in on a forty-five degree dive," he called to his wingman.

  Phillips noted swarms of angry bees zipping upward. They were firing 37mm and 14.5mm. Sissy stuff, but it could get your attention. He did not call out the ground fire. The others probably saw it, and if not, nothing could really be done once you were in the middle of a dive-bomb anyway, if you wanted to hit anything. His eardrums popped repeatedly as they hurtled downward. He held his jaw forward to equalize the pressure in his inner ear.

  "You're a bit steep," the Bear noted. "Almost fifty degrees."

  "Compensating," grunted Phillips.

  They pickled at 6,500 feet above the ground, very low for the steep dive angle, but he didn't want wide dispersal of the cluster bombs. Phillips pulled up to jink away from the target. He banked hard left suddenly, trying to sight the target visually.

  "Shit!" cried the Bear. "The site's on the other side of the river."

  Phillips quickly switched his vision and saw netting over there. The bomblets were going off on the near side of the river, sparkling like fireworks . . . useless fireworks! A shower of bullets streamed toward them, as if from a water hose, from the periphery of the real SAM site toward which they had turned in their escape maneuver.

  The sissy stuff was trying to saw them in two!

  "Damn!" yelled the Bear as the aircraft shuddered.

  "We're hit!" Phillips pulled the stick, and the nose of the aircraft moved sluggishly upward. He continued his left turn, back toward the Red River.

  They climbed up past the worst of the small-arms fire. Phillips tried to turn the aircraft to the right, gaining little response.

  The Bear sucked in a breath, loud over the intercom. "Glenn, I can see holes in both wings."

  "Yeah?" He was fighting even for limited control of the bird.

  "There's a piece of metal sticking up through the left wing. Can't see how bad it is."

  "Stinger two, lead is hit. What's your position?" called Phillips over the radio.

  "I'm at your five o'clock, coming up fast, lead," replied Tiny.

  The aircraft lurched.

  Tiny exclaimed, "Lead, you're trailing smoke, and your left pylon just dropped away!"

  "Roger," said Glenn, fighting hard at the controls. "Bear," he cried out, "I don't think I can control it much longer. We're losing it!"

  "Try to stay with it, Glenn," yelled the Bear. "We're still out over the valley."

  Glenn's heart pounded wildly.

  They crossed the Red River, headed for the hills.

  Phillips groaned with his effort. The Thud was trying to enter a constant roll to the right. He held the left aileron and was kicking at the rudder pedals.

  "Stay with it, Glenn!" encouraged the Bear.

  Smoke was curling at Phillips's feet and his legs grew suddenly hot. He heard a crackling sound. "What's that?" he asked.

  The Bear was coughing and gagging over the intercom. He tried to say something before starting to cough again.

  "You okay back there?"

  "Stay with it," the Bear whispered.

  The thick smoke was impairing Glenn's vision. He wondered how far they had progressed past the Red River.

  The Thunderchief bucked and shuddered in a rapid series of compression stalls.

  "You're on fire, lead," called Tiny Bechler in a positive voice.

  Glenn could see the fire in his mirrors. He wondered how the Bear was faring and started to ask.

  "Get out!" Tiny yelled.

  The engine quit and it was suddenly very quiet.

  "Mayday!" called Phillips over the radio. He yelled one last time to the Bear over the intercom. "We're burning and I can't control it! We're gonna have to get out!"

  "See you on the ground!"

  "Take care, buddy!" said Phillips as the Thud began to slew sideways through the air.

  "Get out!" called Tiny Bechler again.

  "Shit!" yelled the Bear before coughing again. The expletive was a common one of aviators forced to bail out.

  Phillips heard the explosion of the Bear's ejection seat. He then rotated his left ejection handle back. The hinges of his canopy released, thrusting up in the windstream. He tried to keep the aircraft upright by nursing the rudder one last time. Depressing the ejection-handle trigger, he immediately blacked out as explosive charges slammed the seat against his buttocks.

  He returned to full consciousness a few seconds later, swinging in the chute, dazed and numb. The wind whispered as he floated earthward. He scanned the sky, but could not find Tiny. He looked down. Ahead he saw the impact of the aircraft in the green jungle. Dark smoke issued through the trees from the crash site.

  He twisted and finally saw, at a considerable distance below, another olive-drab parachute. The Bear. He felt oddly serene, hi
s eyes drawn downward. He peered at his right, lower leg. His foot was pointed inward and something white protruded through his flight suit, the end splintered and sharp. He stared in amazement at the broken bone.

  It's going to hurt like hell in a moment. I'm in shock now, he calmly told himself, but I've got to act quickly before the pain arrives and screws up my thinking.

  He tried to pull a survival radio from his vest. He failed the first time, but pulled off and discarded his flying gloves and was successful on his second attempt. He switched the radio to T/R, the transmit and receive mode.

  "Weeep, weeep, weeep . . ."

  All Phillips could hear on the radio was his activated emergency beacon.

  "Damn."

  He twisted and grasped the right parachute riser in his hand, released a canvas cover, then felt inside to switch off the beeper. He listened again on the radio. The emergency channel was clear.

  "Stinger lead has ejected," he rasped. He remembered the Bear, but could no longer see the other parachute. "Stinger lead Alpha and Bravo have ejected."

  28/0745L—People's Army HQ, Hanoi, DRV

  Xuan Nha

  Lt Col Xuan Nha was left in charge at the command center, as Colonel Trung was off inspecting damage done during the Yen Vien air attack. The atmosphere in the large, poorly ventilated basement room was electric with tension, as always during an air attack. The plotters and battle staff waited impatiently for more word about the American rescue mission in progress some 200 kilometers northwest of Hanoi.

  Xuan was not overly optimistic. His boldest battalion, Tiger, reported that they had not had time to set up either battery in the area. They were languishing under hastily contrived camouflage nets on different sections of railroad north of Yen Bai. Success or failure lay with the command battery of Cobra battalion, commanded by Maj Nham Do, and in the dozen interceptors launched to nip at the edges of the rescue force.

  Nham Do was new, too cautious and careful, too prone to precisely follow the complex Soviet doctrine for Xuan's liking. Xuan had radioed him as the fighters were still ingressing, to say that today he expected results. Xuan had hinted that he needed a commander at a remote listening post near the border, hoping to spur Maj Nham Do to his own philosophy of attack, attack, attack.

  The Americans had come early. He had still been in his office when Lt Quang Hanh had advised that the listening stations were reporting their passage. Other reports arrived. About thirty fighters, a medium-scale effort, flew on a track north of their usual ingress route, in a line directly toward the Fan Si Pan and the downed American pilot. Xuan Nha had hurried down to the command center, made his radio call to Major Do, then sat back to see if his game of using the American pilot as bait would pay off.

  The last word from Cobra had been that two Thunder planes Nham Do thought were radar-hunters had turned directly toward them, as if to attack. He was preparing to fire rockets at them.

  Xuan's face was impassive, showing a mask of serenity, but his mind was churning with possibilities.

  A radar-hunter aircraft! Cobra must succeed, so they could study the wreckage and question the pilot.

  Major Nguy raised his head from one of the field telephones on his desk. "Colonel Nha, two American rescue helicopters are reported passing south of Than Uyen."

  Xuan digested the news. The rescue effort was succeeding. They were probably picking up the pilot even now. He cursed inwardly, wondering if he had erred by not allowing them to capture the pilot.

  There were too many American fighters to attempt to get MiG interceptors through to the helicopters, which flew well below the altitude coverage of the rocket sites. He grew impatient for news from Cobra.

  Lieutenant Hanh hurried up once more, excited with his message. "The radar-hunter fired a missile, hitting Cobra one. This time their missile did much damage."

  "Go on."

  "The explosion ruined the antenna van and fragments went through the command van. One of the radar operators was killed."

  Xuan felt hot with anger.

  "Major Do reports that one Thunder plane was hit by the artillery he'd deployed about the site. It was obviously crippled as it turned back toward the mountains to the west."

  "That's all?"

  "Major Do sends his deepest regrets about the damage to Cobra one. He is very upset, sir."

  "He should be." Xuan Nha walked to the map table and motioned for Quang Hanh to follow.

  The baby-faced lieutenant laid a finger on Cobra one's location, tracing a route directly westward toward the mountains south of the rescue effort. "The American fighter was last seen here trailing smoke and fire. It was definitely burning, sir. Major Do reports that it surely cannot remain airborne."

  "He would say that, wouldn't he?"

  Major Nguy joined them at the table. "Observers at Yen Bai have reported that a Thunder plane in trouble passed five kilometers north of their location."

  Xuan Nha flickered a smile before springing into action. "Major Wu, please join us," he snapped. Then to Quang Hanh: "Get Colonel Thao Phong on the telephone line. I wish to speak directly with him."

  Major Wu joined them, his cadaverous face strained.

  "I am placing you in charge of the effort to capture the pilot of an aircraft believed to have just crashed a few kilometers east of Yen Bai," said Xuan. "It is imperative that we capture him. Use whatever resources are necessary. I must question this pilot."

  Although Xuan was the husband of his aunt, Major Wu normally tried to avoid difficult tasks for the fruits of failure were often unpleasant. Xuan knew that, yet he also felt that Wu might be able to use his party influence to cut through any red tape necessary to capture the pilot.

  "The pilot has probably ejected from his aircraft somewhere in this area." Xuan pointed to the rugged area between Yen Bai and Nghia Lo.

  "It may be difficult with all the American fighters in the area," said Major Wu, his voice low. "Perhaps Major Nguy is more suited to this task, comrade Colonel."

  Xuan Nha hid his impatience. "Major Nguy is busy with reports. Somehow we will deal with the American fighters. Concentrate on getting ground forces into the area."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Immediately!"

  Major Wu hurried to find an unused radio phone so he could muster the ground forces.

  Xuan Nha remembered something else and pointed a finger at Major Nguy. "Get in touch with the Russian, Major Gregarian. Tell him to stay at Yen Bai and not to move the new P-50 radar until we have completed the capture effort. Too many American aircraft will be roaming about up there."

  "Yes, comrade Colonel."

  Quang Hanh was holding a telephone toward Xuan.

  "Do we have a listening post at Nghia Lo, Lieutenant?"

  "Yes, comrade Colonel. I will check to see if they have sighted the burning aircraft."

  Xuan Nha liked Quang Nha's initiative and quick mind. "Pass your findings to Major Wu."

  Xuan took the telephone; his tone changed. "I took pity upon your sister and let her look upon my elephant's trunk," Xuan told Lt Col Thao Phong, air battalion commander at Phuc Yen.

  "Your mother was most appreciative when I let her into my pilots' barracks last night," replied Thao Phong.

  "Are your pilots ready to fly?" asked Xuan Nha. "I may have targets for them."

  "There are too many American pirates flying, Xuan Nha. Both Phantoms and Thunder planes. I lost an airplane and a good pilot to a Phantom less than half an hour ago."

  "They cannot fly forever without refueling," Xuan said. "I intend to watch very closely with my radars and listening posts and tell you precisely the moment the majority start to leave."

  "Go on," Thao Phong said, his interest piqued.

  28/0825L—North of Nghia Lo, North Vietnam

  Bear Stewart

  The fire had burned its way into the Bear's oxygen system. As he squeezed the ejection handle, he sucked in a lungful of hot, bitter smoke and began to choke. Then the explosive charge blasted him out of the
aircraft and pure oxygen was forced into his lungs from the high-pressure green bottle attached to the seat. The little green bottle saved his life.

  He clawed the oxygen mask catches loose from his helmet, but before he could gulp in a breath of fresh air he threw up black soot, mucus, and chunks of food through his nostrils and mouth. Then, through eyes awash with tears from the raucous coughing, he saw a small village below. Reacting instinctively, he located two red-marked lanyards on the rear risers and tugged hard. The canopy was reconfigured, with the air funneled out the back like a sport parachute. He was able to steer around the village a couple of miles farther toward the northwest.

  He saw Phillips's chute, higher and southwest of him, dropping toward a large open field. The Bear steered around to land closer to the pilot, but cautiously so, for he was circling back in the direction of the village.

  He looked at the horizon. The earth was verdant, with teak forests and lush jungle broken with patches of tall elephant grass. To the northwest were green mountains. Southward were rugged formations called karsts—series of honeycombed, sandstone cliffs. Behind him was the river and the heavily populated valley. Westward was freedom.

  He choked again and more vomit gushed. His chest constricted with sharp pain as he panted. Closer to the ground now, he tried to pick an acceptable landing area, for he didn't wish to get tangled up in a 200-foot teak tree. He became so convulsed with coughing that he almost blacked out. Good fortune prevailed and he tumbled to earth in a small clearing. The camouflaged parachute settled in a heap over him.

  He clawed his way free, pausing for another fit of coughing. He crammed his face into the nylon fabric of the parachute to muffle the sound. The spasms ended abruptly. He sat there on the ground, wondering if it was safe to pull the nylon from his face. After a few seconds he realized he must, for he couldn't simply sit and wait for the gomers to arrive. He sucked air into his lungs in a cautious, painful gulp.

  Glenn Phillips

  Phillips looked at the ground and saw he had little time. He pulled down on the left parachute riser, sluggishly steering away from tall trees toward an open field of grass. He prepared for a PLF, which would allow a fall in the opposite direction from the broken leg.