Fallen Sniper

Chapter Two

High above the Korean landscape, U.S. Navy pilot Lieutenant Commander Jake Miller had been guiding his Grumman Panther back toward their aircraft carrier in the Sea of Japan when they spotted the enemy bogeys. What had started as a milk run escorting a bomber squadron instantly turned into a deadly fight for survival in the mountain air.

He and his wingman, Lieutenant Jim Walsh, better known as “Guzzle” because of his propensity for sucking down beer bottles when off duty at the officer’s club, had just finished babysitting the bombers on a mission deep into North Korea.

That was as far as they were allowed to strike. The limits imposed upon them were an endless source of frustration. God forbid that they should fly into China and cut off the head of the snake, because that was where all the enemy supplies originated.

Then again, Miller supposed that nobody wanted to start World War III. Hadn’t Albert Einstein, the smartest man alive, said that he didn’t know what weapons World War III would be fought with — but he knew that the next war after that would be fought with sticks and stones. President Harry S. Truman had tried to call the atomic bomb just another artillery weapon, but ol’ “Give ‘Em Hell Harry” couldn’t have been more wrong about that. Even a Navy pilot knew that the stakes had changed.

With their bombing mission completed, the bombers had headed for their base while the fighter escort flown by Miller and Guzzle Walsh trailed behind before returning to their aircraft carrier. Miller glanced over at his wingman and said through the radio, “That was a cakewalk if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Guess I owe you a beer,” Guzzle replied.

Miller laughed. He had bet Guzzle the first round that they wouldn’t so much as see another enemy aircraft on today’s mission. There had been rumors and warnings about the Chinese getting more of their own jets into the fight, but so far, those had been rare as unicorns. “Glad I didn’t have to remind you that you now owed me a beer. You ought to know better than to have taken that bet, anyhow.”

“Yeah, but I thought it would change our luck.”

“All we can do is hope for the best, my friend.”

So far, in all their time in Korea, they had yet to tangle with any enemy fighters. Sure, there had been plenty of missions like this one, or strafing and bombing runs against enemy positions. They had been met with only highly ineffective anti-aircraft fire.

It was true that there were troops on the ground who might not have minded getting through the whole war without a glimpse of the enemy, but he and Guzzle were fighter pilots. They itched to do what they had been trained to do, which was to get into a dogfight with enemy planes. Soon enough, they might be rotating back home without ever mixing it up with the enemy. There would be little chance of air combat once they returned to the United States.

Off his shoulder, Guzzle’s Panther glided along effortlessly as if on a cushion of air. Below, they saw the endless landscape of hills and mountains that comprised much of the Korean peninsula. It almost made him wonder why anyone was fighting over this place.

From the air, Miller had seen the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians back home. The Taebaek Mountain range was somewhere in between, with peaks not as high and sharp as the Rockies, but not at all like gentle Appalachian peaks and valleys.

The Panther was a carrier-based aircraft that in some ways resembled a design out of a Buck Rogers comic book from the 1930s, about as different from a WWII plane as one could imagine. From its narrow wings with fuel pods on the tips to its sleek jet engine, Miller thought that the plane looked very futuristic. He was proud to fly it. Aircraft had certainly come a long way from the days of fighting the Imperial Japanese Navy Air Service in the Pacific.

Looks, however, could be deceiving. There were rumors that a much uglier plane being flown by the Communists was a match for the Panther, and then some. Miller had yet to see a MiG in person, but he had seen pictures as part of his aircraft identification briefings. The MiG looked less like something flown by Buck Rogers and more like a Buster Brown shoebox with swept wings. He would have been more inclined to bet that first beer on the Panther just based on looks, so go figure. But what did he know about aircraft design? He just flew them.

Guzzle’s excited voice suddenly exploded over the headset. “Bogeys! I got bogeys eleven o’clock high!”

Instantly, Miller swiveled his head up and searched the sky. He was astonished to see a formation of planes at a much higher elevation. Surely, those planes had seen them. Miller felt foolish and a sudden frisson of fear. He felt like he’d been caught napping. If those planes had attacked, he and Guzzle would have been caught unawares.

Which gave him a thought. Why hadn’t those planes pressed the advantage? They didn’t seem to be looking for a fight.

“Who are those guys?” he wondered

“They sure as hell ain’t Panthers or Corsairs,” Guzzle replied in his Texas drawl. “Look at the wings. Those have got to be MiGs. I see one, two, three — holy moly, there’s seven of ‘em up there.”

Intent on the planes now, Miller saw that Guzzle was absolutely right about these being MiGs. Their contrails dragged behind them like long fingers stretched across the sky. One thing for sure was that they had chosen to ignore the two Panthers below without engaging them. These planes were intent on going somewhere in a hurry. But where?

“I don’t see any Chinese insignia,” Guzzle said.

Miller looked more closely. “That’s because those are Soviet planes.”

“What are they doing over North Korea?” Guzzle asked.

It was a good question. He supposed that the planes must have been on their way to Vladivostok, where the Soviets had a base on the North Korean border. They seemed to be taking a shortcut through Korean airspace.

He and Guzzle flew along without changing course or reacting in any way. Miller sympathized with how ol’ Brer Rabbit must feel, hoping that Brer Fox didn’t spot him.

The difference was that this rabbit had teeth.

He heard Guzzle’s voice again, the tone of his wingman’s nervous excitement crackling through the airwaves. It was as if the two of them were deer hunting and had just spotted a big buck. “What do you think?”

“They’re in our airspace. Engage and destroy,” Miller said, all doubt disappearing as he decided to engage these Soviet fighters. He felt the excitement of the moment, tempered by the cold precision of his training.

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Guzzle replied. With a decision made, he now sounded more certain of himself.

Miller worked the stick, bringing the Panther in a steep climb, directly toward the planes overhead.

The MiGs responded almost instantly by breaking into two groups, indicating that they had been well aware of the aircraft below and had initially chosen to ignore them. Miller’s response had forced their hand.

Four planes were in the second group. They climbed higher and faster than Miller would have thought possible, directly toward the sun. It seemed apparent that the quartet was intent on continuing the journey to Vladivostok.

However, the trio of remaining MiGs had other plans. The MiGs went into a dive and began to circle around the two Panthers.

“They’re trying to get behind us!” Guzzle shouted.

“Circle back, circle back!”

Miller turned his own aircraft sharply toward the attacking MiGs. With a shock, he saw their guns blazing as bright pinpricks along the wings. They were firing at him. He responded by unleashing a burst from his 20 mm guns.

The two groups swept through one another, no harm done. Miller directed his Panther into a hard left, gritting his teeth at the tremendous G forces. The bold maneuver caught one of the MiGs unawares and as it passed through his gunsights, he let loose with the Panther’s 37 mm cannon. Bright flashes punched holes in the sky as the rounds struck the MiG dead center. Without warning, the enemy fighter erupted into a fireball.

He just had time to fire at another MiG, which began to trail smoke. He punched it again with the cannon and now the MiG broke apart with a shotgun burst of debris that the Panther had no choice but to fly right through. Miller caught a glimpse of the tumbling wings and a chunk of burning fuselage just a few feet from his fragile canopy. He breathed again when he saw open sky ahead.

Miller gave a cowboy whoop of satisfaction. He had just shot down two enemy planes.

“Guzzle, watch my tail.” No response. “Guzzle, come in.”

Anxiously, Miller swiveled his head in all directions, looking for that third MiG. Unless Guzzle had shot it down, the son of a bitch was still up here somewhere, but Miller didn’t see it. He also didn’t see his wingman.

He moved his eyes lower.

Off to his four o’clock he saw a plane on fire, plunging toward the earth.

It wasn’t a MiG. There wasn’t any parachute.

“Oh no, no, no!”

Miller tracked the tumbling, burning Panther, trailing smoke and debris as it fell. Before it could hit the earth, the plane disappeared with a final pop like a bottle rocket exploding.

Guzzle Walsh was gone.

But where the hell was that last MiG?

He got his answer when he spotted the plane rushing at him from below. Having finished off his wingman, the MiG was coming for him.

Not if he could help it.

Miller felt enraged and bent on revenge, but he tamped down those emotions, knowing that they wouldn’t do him any good if he hoped not just to survive, but to win. He had to fight with his head.

He pulled hard on the controls, forcing the Panther into a hard left and rolling at the same time. It was a maneuver that he had practiced countless times, and all that practice paid off now as the plane responded by dropping like a stone, upside down.

Taken by surprise just as it was prepared to pounce, the MiG found itself in Miller’s gunsights as he opened up with all three cannons, raining hellfire upon the enemy aircraft. The MiG responded by bursting into flame. Miller whooped.

“That’s for Guzzle, you son of a bitch.”

His sense of victory was short-lived. Something glinting high above caught his eye. There wasn’t supposed to be anything up there. He had shot down all three enemy planes, right?

His heart hammering in his chest, he realized that the remaining four MiGs had not flown away. They had simply been biding their time. They came at him down, directly out of the sun.

His Panther didn’t have a chance as cannon fire flayed the air. All at once, his aircraft was suddenly full of holes. On his instrument panel, gauges spun like roulette wheels. An alarm beeped insistently. Yeah, what do you want me to do about it?

The controls that had been so light to the touch a moment ago, almost an extension of himself, now felt as heavy as if he was trying to fly a barn through the sky.

Smoke appeared. Then fire. There wasn’t any hope of getting this baby back to the carrier in one piece.

The Panther was going down. Incredulously, Miller realized that he had just been shot down.

He felt a strange sense of calm. If the aircraft exploded or if the MiGs returned and hit him with another burst of fire, he’d be dead instantly. But there was a chance, just a chance, that he might get out of this alive. Survival would take every ounce of skill that he possessed.

His training took over once again. He likely had just a few seconds to act. He reached for the eject switch.

Tiny explosive charges sent the canopy hurtling away, even as flames swept over him. An instant later, he felt himself ejected from the burning aircraft. His parachute blossomed above.

The enemy fighters swept past, one of them having the audacity to waggle its wings at him. But they didn’t open fire. The MiGs raced away, bound for their destination, but with three fewer aircraft.

Miller watched his burning aircraft disintegrate. He felt relieved that he wasn’t on it. He felt a strange sense of calm, even dangling beneath a parachute.

He looked below, seeing that the hills were coming up fast. Up in the plane, he had felt so disengaged from them, like he was looking down at a map or diorama. Now, individual trees began to take shape. As the Navy sailors liked to say, this shit was about to get real.

Hitting those trees was going to hurt. Those branches promised to pummel his body like a bitter old lady beating a rug. Desperately, he looked around for something resembling a clearing. But all he saw was trees.

Finally, he glimpsed what looked like a stone wall and a clearing and steered the chute in that direction. This parachute sure as hell didn’t respond like a fighter jet. He tugged again at the stays, guiding out into the open.

He hit hard, rolling as he had been trained to do, but he still felt his ankle twist. No time to think about that now. He kept rolling.

When he came to a stop, he sat up. Thankfully, he had come down in a clearing — more like a gap in the trees, really — next to a tall stone wall that was covered in vines and vegetation. The damn thing looked ancient. If he’d smacked into that, he would have ended up with worse than a twisted ankle.

Miller gathered up his chute and shoved it out of sight, under some bushes.

He looked around, trying to figure out where he was. He knew that they had been flying over North Korea, just north of the 38th Parallel. It stood to reason that he had come down in enemy territory.

One thing for sure — he had a long walk ahead of him.

Miller tensed. He thought that he had seen something move among the trees at the edge of the clearing. His hand drifted toward the service weapon at his belt, but he didn’t unbuckle the holster yet.

Worst case, it was a Chinese patrol. No point trying to shoot it out with enemy troops.

Best case, he had startled some kind of forest animal.

He saw the movement again.

Then several figures materialized from the brush. They wore old, mismatched clothes, like maybe they were farmers. But what really got Miller’s attention was that one of the men was holding a rifle.

He’d never get to his pistol in time.

Slowly, Miller raised his hands into the air.