Targets of Opportunity

Chapter THIRTY-FIVE

Brad felt the perspiration on his forehead as he preflighted the venerable fighter that he had come to respect. The mission briefing, with Allison sitting across from him, had been difficult for both of them. He was certain that everyone in attendance was aware of the strained relationship between the two of them.

The aircraft technicians had repainted the airplane in a standard terrain camouflage of black, white, and gray with North Vietnamese national markings on the fuselage and outboard on the wings. They had also repaired a small fuel leak in the left drop tank and tightened the bolts that held the right tank to the wing.

Reaching the tail pipe, Brad inspected the smoke canister and paused. Thoughts of Allison entered his mind. The last thing he had wanted to do was hurt anyone, but he had had to be straightforward with her. Brad hoped that after the flight she would give him a chance to talk with her. At the moment, though, he had to concentrate on the immediate future.

The navy strike force would launch from the carriers at 1600. Accompanied by F-4 Phantom and F-8 Crusader fighter aircraft, the A-6 Intruders and A-4 Skyhawks would strike the Thanh Hoa Bridge and the supporting antiaircraft sites at approximately 1635.

Although Operation Achilles was ancillary to the air-force and navy strike forces, Austin felt confident that he could contribute to the air-war effort in a meaningful way.

Climbing into the cockpit, Brad started the engine and ran through his pretakeoff checklist, then taxied to the runway. He avoided looking at Allison and the other spectators near the Quonset hut, but noticed that Nick and Lex had positioned themselves near the middle of the airstrip.

After a quick radio check with Cap Spencer, Brad made a maximum-performance takeoff and headed for his holding point south of Bai Thuong.

The weather was partly cloudy with good visibility underneath the clouds. The extended forecast had indicated no change in the next twelve hours. When the airborne radio check had been completed, Brad tuned one radio to the strike-group frequency and the other to Sleepy Two Five.

Austin glanced at his watch when he passed his first checkpoint. It was time for Mitchell and Jimenez to lift off the ramp. The rescue helicopter would be over the border between Laos and North Vietnam five minutes before Brad was expected to strafe the MiG base.

Bright sunshine filled the MiG's cockpit, causing the temperature to climb in the cramped space. Brad looked out along the forty-five-degree swept wings and checked both slipper-type drop tanks. They appeared to be secure and showed no signs of fuel leakage.

Austin carefully followed his progress on his operational navigation chart. He had cut the map down to a fraction of its normal size, eliminating everything more than twenty-five nautical miles on either side of his route.

Passing Ban Na Mang, Brad hugged the tops of the rugged mountains and slipped into North Vietnamese airspace. He had another sixty miles to travel before he would be on station south of Bai Thuong.

Brad continued to monitor his speed, time, and fuel as the sun gradually disappeared above the clouds, leaving only faint holes in the overcast. The MiG's pale camouflage would blend perfectly into the grayish clouds.

Waiting for the fighter activity call from the UH-34, Brad tightened his chest harness and seat strap. He decided to arm his cannons early so he would not forget the important step in the heat of battle.

Squinting through the thick, armored-glass windshield, Austin began to distinguish the runway at Bai Thuong from the surrounding terrain.

Brad altered course to the right and again glanced at his watch. When was he going to hear the strip-alert call? The strike group should be nearing the coast-in point. After passing the last mountai n s ummit, Brad eased the throttle forward and kept his rate of descent shallow as he let down toward Bai Thuong. Better to be early than late. "Tidewater One, Rock Crusher. Weather check."

Tidewater was the call sign for the navy F-4 target combat air-patrol fighters. They had previously crossed the shoreline and were in a position to view the target area.

"Crusher," the Phantom flight leader replied, "no problem with weather. We'll be on station in about two minutes."

"Roger," the strike group leader answered, then added, "Crushers will be feet dry in three minutes."

"Copy."

A moment later, the other TARCAP flight came up strike frequency. "Ragtime copies," the F-8 Crusader leader chimed in. "We're on station and anchored at eleven thou."

Brad looked high in the sky north of Bai Thuong. "Come on, Spencer… time's running out." A minute and a half later, he heard the flak suppressor flight leader check in on strike frequency.

"Ah, Skeeter Four Fifty-one is crossing the beach — starting our run-in."

"Roger," the strike leader said in a controlled voice. "I've got you in sight."

Searching for the F-4 Phantoms, Austin was startled when Rudy Jimenez suddenly called on the other radio.

"Top Cat, Sleepy Two Five. Activity."

Brad thumbed his radio switch. "Top Cat — copy."

"Go get 'em."

Banking toward the MiG base, Austin lowered the nose and let the airspeed increase to 410 knots. He. Could feel the airplane tremble as it approached 425 knots.

"SAMs," someone called. "We've got SAMs up!"

"Watch it, Tony!"

"I've got 'em," an emotionless voice answered.

Brad managed a look toward Thanh Hoa before he turned his attention to the MiG runway.

"Well, shit," Austin swore when he saw a MiG-17 lifting off the runway. "I'm going to be late."

The urgent radio calls from the strike group became impossible to understand, forcing Brad to mentally tune out the incessant chatter.

Another North Vietnamese fighter was commencing his takeoff when Austin lined up with the runway. He saw a string of MiGs bunched together for takeoff as he flattened his dive.

"Keep it together," Brad coached himself as he placed the gun sight on' the first of the MiGs. Squeezing the trigger gently, Austin felt his fighter vibrate as a stream of white-hot shells ripped through the line of MiGs.

He let the incandescent tracers walk the length of the field, then made a snap decision. Releasing the trigger, Brad whipped the thundering jet into knife-edge flight and executed a punishing 6-g, 360-degree turn to again align himself with the runway.

"MiGs! We've got MiGs airborne!" a voice shouted. "On the deckcomin' from the north."

"Tidewater has a tally. We're engaging."

Focusing his attention on the airfield, Brad was surprised to see two columns of black smoke rising into the gray sky. Three more fighters had reached the runway, with, two of the aircraft rolling for takeoff. The rest of the MiGs waiting for takeoff were scattered like bowling pins. People were running in every conceivable direction.

"Ragtime has the MiGs. We'll cover you, Tidewater."

"Jump in whenever you want!" the F-4 pilot shot back. "There's plenty for everyone!"

"Brownie," another voice broke through the confusion. "Bandits — check your four o'clock!"

"SAMs! Two more at eleven!"

Brad boresighted the two fighters on the runway in his gun sight and held the trigger down. A bright streak of molten fire tore through one of the fighters, then Brad raised the nose, tracking the MiG that had become airborne.

Everyone on the base who had a weapon fired at Brad's MiG while the others watched his cannon fire rip the lead aircraft to shreds. The MiG slow-rolled to the left, caught a wingtip on the ground, and cartwheeled into a blazing inferno.

"Watch out, Ski!" a high-pitched voice warned. "You've got a MiG coming around to your six."

The other MiG Brad had hit staggered into the air and began a steep, climbing turn, then reversed and dove for the deck. Brad was about to chase the damaged fighter when two dark forms flashed overhead.

Snapping his head up, Brad saw two MiG-17s blast across the end of the airfield. They had to have come from another base, Austin thought while he lowered the nose and raced toward the Laotian border. He heard the flight leader of the Rock Crushers order his charges to head for the beach. It was time for everyone to exit.

Brad winced when tracers flashed over his right wing. Expecting to see an F-8 on his tail, Brad craned his neck in time to see the muzzle flashes from one of two MiG-17s.

Someone at Bai Thuong had radioed his position and description to the fighter pilots who had been patiently waiting for the fraudulent MiG. The enemy pilots, who Brad guessed had fair hair and blue eyes, were obviously from the first string, and certainly spoke fluent Russian.

Brad yanked the stick into his lap and slammed it hard to the left. The nose snapped up and the horizon rotated three quarters of the way through a roll before Brad centered the stick and then pulled with every ounce of strength in his arms.

The MiG flight leader, who was the designated shooter, overshot Brad's aircraft. Austin dove for airspeed and separation, but he could not shake the wingman. The two fighters worked in perfect harmony, with one attacking while the other pilot called the fight and flew high cover. When Brad reversed, the enemy pilots simply switched roles.

Knowing that it was only a matter of seconds before they would shoot him down, Brad frantically searched for the TARCAP F-4s or F-8s. In desperation, he keyed the radio tuned to the navy strike frequency.

"Tidewater, say posit!"

"Five north of Bai Thuong," the Phantom flight leader gasped as he executed a high-g turn. "We've got bogies — engaging bandits coming from the north." The F-4s were busy with MiGs from the airfields at Phuc Yen and Gia Lam.

Brad slipped and skidded the MiG, then snap-rolled the aircraft and popped the nose up and down in a reflexive effort to elude the intense cannon fire. There was no escape from the two expertly flown fighters.

"MiGs airborne over Bai Thuong!" he called, then wrapped his aircraft into an uncoordinated displacement roll. "We need coverMiGs north of Bai Thuong!"

A different voice, which sounded calm and soothing, cut through the garbled radio transmissions. "Ragtime is on the way. Say your call sign and position."

Brad caught a glance of the runway as he shoved the nose down and then violently yanked the stick back. He again rolled the airplane and keyed his mike. "Two north of Bai Thuong," he inhaled sharply, "coming back across the field." He purposely avoided using a call sign.

"Roger that."

Breathing rapidly, Brad pulled the MiG into the vertical before cross-controlling and extending the speed brakes. He yanked the throttle to idle and shoved the stick forward, causing the aircraft to depart from controlled flight.

"Oh, shit… Austin blurted as one of the MiGs flashed directly over his canopy. His first priority was to recover control of the fighter before it hit the ground. Brad was violently slammed around the cockpit as the MiG tumbled end-over-end, wallowed in a yaw, then rolled inverted.

Fighting the crushing g forces, Brad slammed the throttle forward and let the nose fall below the horizon. The airspeed rapidly increased and he rolled the MiG upright, searching for his attackers.

He felt a solid jolt followed by a blinding white flash, then experienced a searing pain in his right arm as more tracers slashed past the canopy. Austin also saw what he hoped would be his salvation. Two F-8 Crusaders were turning tightly to engage Brad and his two adversaries. The American fighter pilots obviously had no idea that two MiGs were attacking another Communist fighter.

"Ragtime has a tally! Engaging three seventeens north of Bai Thuong."

Turning to face the F-8s head-on, Brad waited a second before beginning a shallow, nose-low turn. He twisted around in time to see the other two MiGs break off to avoid fighting the supersonic Crusaders.

"Come on, Ragtime," Brad said to himself through clenched teeth, then pulled the nose up. "Jump the bastards… so I can get the hell out of here."

limbo," the Ragtime flight leader yelled to his wingman, "I'm taking the one coming up on the right! Stick with me and clear our six." "I'm with you, Skipper!"

Austin swore under his breath when he realized that Ragtime One, the commanding officer of a Crusader fighter squadron, had elected to pounce on his lone MiG.

Deciding to try his last means of escape, Brad turned north and raced toward Hanoi and the sanctity of the MiG bases that were adjacent to the capital city.

The F-8 pilots selected afterburner and knifed through a climbing reversal. Rolling out of the tight turn, the Crusaders accelerated past the speed of sound and quickly caught Austin's slower MiG.

Hugging the terrain, Brad hoped the pilots would not be able to get their heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles to lock on to his fighter. Seconds later, the lead F-8 fired two bursts from his 20-millimeter cannons.

When the stream of tracers flashed past, Brad toggled the MiG's smoke canister. You're cutting it too damn close. He raised the nose slightly above the horizon, then started a lazy roll while the oily smoke poured from his tail pipe. Austin watched the ground rise to meet him and counted the seconds. Seven… eight… nine..

limbo," the F-8 leader shouted, "I've got a smoker goin' down. See him?"

"I see him," the wingman exclaimed, "but we've got two bandits high at four o'clock!"

"Ragtime is coming around," the exuberant pilot announced. "Are they the same ones who broke off?"

"Ahh… can't tell."

Austin ignored the radio calls and snap-rolled the diving MiG upright. He bottomed out on the deck and turned toward the Laotian border. Thank you, God.

Climbing to clear the approaching mountains, Brad slowed his breathing and felt his heart pounding in his chest. The smoke subterfuge had worked, but the North Vietnamese were obviously gunning for the impostor. Brad swiveled his head in search of possible attackers and unconsciously shoved on the throttle.

Aware of the numbing pain near his right elbow, Austin cautiously looked down. Blood soaked his forearm, staining his Nomex and calfskin glove. Brad gingerly felt his bicep while he wrestled the MiG on course. His eyes swept the instrument panel, noting the damaged section near the left side of the windshield. Whatever had penetrated the cockpit next to his right arm had impacted under the canopy rail.

To hell with radio silence. He tweaked the volume up on the UH-34's frequency.

"Sleepy Two Five, Top Cat."

After a short pause, Brad was relieved to hear Chase Mitchell's voice.

"Sleepy up."

"Top Cat's been hit," Austin said briskly as he passed low over a village. He tried to calm himself. "Request your position for rendezvous en route."

"We're on course line," Mitchell responded dryly, "turning toward home plate." Course line was the direct route from Alpha-29 to Bai Thuong.

Brad looked at the blood-splattered chart on his kneeboard and glanced at the mountain peak to his left. He was approximately seven miles north of course. "Say altitude."

"Six thousand," Rudy Jimenez answered for Mitchell. "You'll catch us in a few minutes. What's the extent of your damage?"

"I think the airplane is okay… for the time being. But I've been hit in the arm."

The disclosure was met with a moment of silence from the helicopter crew. Finally, Jimenez keyed his radio. "Hang in there. We're not far from home."

Austin clicked his mike twice. Settle down, he told himself while he methodically scanned the engine gauges and checked the fuel quantity. Everything appeared normal and fuel was not a factor. For the first time, he noticed specks of blood on the starboard electrical control panel and lower instrument panel.

The minutes dragged on while Brad probed the sky in search of the helicopter. He was about to call the UH-34 when he spotted a slow-moving speck on the horizon.

He steadied the MiG at 5,800 feet and flexed his right hand. The pain was becoming more acute, forcing Brad to concentrate on the task of flying the airplane.

"Sleepy, Top Cat has a tally."

"Roger. Do you want us to look you over, or do you want to go straight in?"

Brad looked out at the wings, noticing a hole in the right inboard wing fence. He could not see any other apparent damage. "I'll go straight in."

"Copy."

Passing to the right of the helicopter, Brad rocked the wings in a salute and lowered the nose. He felt something wet on his right thigh. A quick glance confirmed that blood was dripping from his wrist.

"Top Cat," Hollis Spencer's voice boomed in Austin's helmet. "We're taking sniper fire from the top of the ridge on the south side of the field. Do you have enough ammo for a strafing run?"

A kaleidoscope of thoughts ran through Brad's mind. This is crazy — goddamn insane. He slowly inhaled, then let his breath out in a rush. "Affirmative."

Brad looked at his armament panel, then swore to himself In his eagerness to escape from the F-8 Crusaders, he had left the cannons armed.

A mile from the threshold of the runway, Brad eased the stick to the left and lined up with the jagged ridge. He leveled at 200 feet above the crest and deftly lowered the nose. A series of muzzle flashes winked at him from the trees as he squeezed the trigger.

Two streams of tracers converged ahead of the MiG, walking straight through the bright flashes. Brad pulled off to the right and bent the MiG around for a firing run in the opposite direction.

Halfway through the strafing pass, Brad felt the vibration from the cannons stop. The ammunition bin was empty. He reduced the power to idle, then clumsily lowered the flaps and landing gear.

Brad widened his turn to the airfield and rechecked to be sure that his wheels were down and locked. Feeling light-headed, Austin focused on the narrow runway and concentrated on his lineup.

"Stay with it," he muttered as he nudged the throttle to arrest a high sink rate. The MiG impacted in the grass overrun and bounced onto the macadam in a bone-jarring landing.

Austin braked evenly, stopping near the entrance to the taxiway. He opened the canopy and turned onto the short strip, then shut down the engine and slumped in his seat. Oblivious to the approaching men, he tilted his head back and breathed the fresh air.