Phantom Leader Part 18

"Could be," Court said, "we have enough internal fuel to keep up with the F-100s even if they do have drops. I'll let you know when we come back. We may demount the centerline tank and hang some more bombs."

He walked to the ladders for the front and rear c.o.c.kpits.

The maintenance lieutenant handed him the AF Form One booklet, the maintenance record of the airplane. There were no major discrepancies, and he signed for the aircraft. Then he led Connert around to preflight the aircraft, checking its general condition, the hanging and fusing of the weapons, the tires, hydraulic leaks. A big auxiliary power unit stood by to supply electrical power and air under pressure to start the engines. The lieutenant crew chief took their helmets and kneeboards to the c.o.c.kpit and returned with the parachute harness.

Connert spoke up as they were strapping their harnesses on. "I think you'll see that I'm a good pilot." He gave Court a brilliant smile and slapped him on the shoulder.

Court looked at him through narrowed eyes. "Listen, Connert, I'll tell you how great you are after I see you fly.

How much time you got in this airplane?"

"Ah, almost one hundred hours. I was in the F-4 course at George Air Force Base."

"GIB or ACT' Guy In Back or Aircraft Commander?

"Aircraft Commander of course."

Court nodded. "Okay, now pay attention to what I'm saying. If we take a hit and have to get out, I'll try to give you a warning. If the intercom is out, I'll punch the EJECT light on. Don't ask questions, just go. If we do lose comm, but there is no reason to eject, just tap the stick lightly if there is some direction you want me to look, or even dip the wing toward an immediate threat. Only in case of absolute emergency do you take the controls. Before we taxi, do your normal backseat checks, get the INS aligned, and read off the checklist to me.

I'll also expect you to read me the checklist before takeoff and before landing. Any questions?"

"When do I get to fly?" Connert had a bright quizzical look on his face.

"I am a pilot, you know."

"You prove to me you can handle the duties of a backseater first, then we'll talk about when you fly." Connert's cheeky att.i.tude was beginning to wear on Court's nerves, "Let's get going."

The two men mounted the ladders and settled into their c.o.c.kpits. ACs and GIBs in F-4s were attached to their Phantom by four belts, two garters, a high-pressure air hose to inflate their G-suits, an oxygen hose for their mask, and a thick wire connector for the microphone built into the oxygen mask and the headsets built Into the helmet. The crew chief hopped back and forth between each c.o.c.kpit, helping the men find and adjust their straps and hoses. Court picked up his helmet from the front canopy bow and put it on.

"How do you read?" he asked Connert when he had signaled for power and placed the master electrical switches on.

"Loud and clear. Do you want me to start the INS alignment?"

"Of course." Court was surprised. It was automatic for a backseater to start aligning the heading of the Inertial Navigation System from the rear c.o.c.kpit. In fact it couldn't be done from the front seat on this model F-4.

While preflighting, the crew chief wore a headset and large microphone mask to communicate with the pilot. He plugged into the intercom system and asked Court how he read him.

"Loud and clear, chief." Court started the engines, then began the litany of the fifteen Before-Taxi checks he had to make. When he was ready to taxi, he performed his c.o.c.kpit check and noticed neither the radar nor the INS was operating.

"Hey, d.i.c.k, you having trouble getting the radar and INS on line?"

"Yeah. They don't seem to respond."

"Chief," Court said, "put your ladder back and see if you can find the problem."

The crew chief ran up the ladder and bent into the c.o.c.kpit.

In seconds Court's radar screen and INS readouts came on.

"She's okay now, sir," the chief said over the intercom.

"Just a little switch problem was all." Even though the roar of the engines reverberated in the revetment, Court could tell the chief was working hard at making his voice remain neutral.

"Thanks, chief. Ladders away and we'll be off."

He checked in with Silver flight.

"Roger, Three Three," Morelli said. "We were wondering when you'd be up." Court was chagrined to see the two F-100s already out of their revetments and waiting for him by the taxiway like two giant birds of prey with spread wings. He added power, returned the lieutenant's departing salute, and taxied out of the revetment. He followed the two F-100s to the armament area by the edge of the runway. All three pilots placed their hands and arms on their canopy bows to show the armament crews they weren't touching any switches. The lead armorer came to Court's F-4, looked up at him, and shook his head no, and pointed to the backseat.

Court understood.

"You got your hands out of the c.o.c.kpit, Connert?"

"Oh yeah, right away," Cormert said in a startled voice.

The armament man nodded and waved his crew under the wings to check the pylons, to insert the bomb-rack ejection cartridges, and to make the final electrical continuity check, and finally to pull the pins that secured the bombs to the racks and the racks to the pylons. He held the pins aloft and waved Court on his way.

When the three fighters were cleared on the runway, Morelli lined up on the left side the downwind side-of the runway. Jensen lined up in echelon formation on his right wing, Court lined up in echelon to Jensen. That way any crosswind would blow the jet exhaust of the lead plane away from the one behind it. Morelli gave the windup signal by twirling his forefinger next to the canopy on Jensen's side.

Jensen repeated the signal to Court. The two F-100s ran their engines up to 100 percent, performed their checks, then throttled back. Court could not run his engines up to full military power (as 100 percent RPM without afterburner is called) because the tremendous thrust would skid the F-4 along on its locked brakes. When he finished his checks, he signaled he was ready. Morelli released his brakes, kicked in his afterburner, and was off, followed by Jensen fifteen seconds later.

Court saw the slow acceleration of the F-100s and realized he would have to delay thirty seconds or run over Jensen. Without the full bombload on his FA it was lighter and more responsive to the thrust of the engines.

"All set back there?" he asked Connert.

"Yes, sir. Let's get this show on the road."

Court released the brakes, ran the throttles all the way up, then outboard to the afterburner position. In seconds the airplane was at nose-wheel rotation speed, then they were off the ground at 175 knots (200mph) barely 3,500 feet down the 10,000-foot runway. Court saw Silver Lead come out of afterburner and turn right so he and Jensen could cut him off and join up in formation. Court kept his burners in until 420 indicated to use the extra speed to catch up faster, then throttle back and slide into position. A fighter pilot always wants to make the cutoff turn and be in formation on his leader's wing faster than anybody else has ever done. It's an automatic reflex. He doesn't even think about it.

"HEY," Connert shouted from the backseat. "We're too fast. We're gonna hit him." Court felt the throttles pulled back. When he shoved them back into position, he felt the pressure of Connert's hand.

"You're crazy," Court yelled. "Get your G.o.dd.a.m.n hands off the throttle.

Put 'em in your lap and don't touch anything. I'm flying this airplane."

"Well, all right, Major. If that's the way you want it. I was just trying to be helpful."

Court had rammed the throttles up and now was slowly dragging them back as he slid into position on Morelli's right wing. Jensen had taken the left. The three airplanes entered the overcast in a tight Vee formation.

Morelli was smooth and the clouds were not turbulent.

The climb-out was smooth as Court gently fingered the controls to hold position. He thought about Connert. "Who'd you fly with at George?" he asked.

"One of the squadrons," Connert answered in a low voice.

"Which one?"

"What is this? The Inquisition? What difference does it make what squadron I flew with? Don't you think I can fly?"

Something wrong with this guy, Court thought. "Take it easy, d.i.c.k.

We'll talk about it on the ground. Tune in the Can Tho Tacan, will you?"

Court concentrated on flying formation and following Morelli's signals when they climbed through the overcast and leveled at 16,000 feet in clear air. Morelli fishtailed them out into spread formation.

Court checked his Tacan and found it still reading from Channel 38 at Tan Son Nhut. He took command of the set and flipped it to 41 for Can Tho.

"How come you didn't change to the Can Tho frequency?" he asked Connert.

"Well, I didn't think you needed it yet."

"Connert," Court snapped, "when I say I want you to do something, that's an order. An order I want carried out immediately. It is not subject to your interpretation. You understand?"

"Well, sure, Court. I understand."

"That's Major to you, Captain." Court's voice was edged with steel.

Connert didn't answer.

Morelli, Silver 31, first made radio contact with Paddy, the Can Tho radar site; then with Beaver 24, who instructed him to give his lineup.

"Roger, Two Four," Morelli said. "Silver has mission number eleven dash six eight two. We are two Fox One Hundreds and one Fox Four." He unkeyed for a second, as all good radio users did, so as to not tie up the frequency too long in case of an emergency.

"Fox Four?" Beaver Two Four repeated. "What's up?"

"Those Phantom drivers get lost, so we got to drive 'em around. We have Mark Eighty-twos, CBUs, nape, and twenty mike-mike."

"Roger on your lineup. I'm in an Oscar One holding a left-hand orbit at fifteen hundred at the ca.n.a.l intersection just north of Vi Thanh. As soon as you have a tally, I'll mark the target. You copy?" Beaver Two Four's voice was cheerful yet businesslike. As with all FACs, he knew the LOCAL area like the palm of his hand. He flew from a small dirt strip next to an American unit where he received his daily frag orders.

He had a crew chief who handled maintenance, weapons, and radios for him.

"Silver copies."

"Your target today is a company or more of VC troops trying to take the town. A LOCAL ARVN platoon and two American advisors are trapped up against the ca.n.a.l east of town. They are not well dug in. The bad guys are in the treeline running north and south. Copy?"

"Silver copies." The undercast broke up into scattered layers as Morelli approached the rendezvous point. Haze and smoke from burning rice fields covered the ground up to several thousand feet like layers of gauze. The rice farmers burned the harvested stubble in their dry paddies for fertilizer before planting the next crop.

"Target elevation is seventy feet, altimeter is twenty-nine sixty-two, surface winds from the west at ten. Visibilit maybe 'only five miles.

Scattered to broken clouds around ten grand, but you can see that better than I can. So far there has been no groundfire. Best bailout is zero four zero for twenty at Can Tho, You could even put your bird on the runway if you had to, but it's only six thousand feet long.

Copy?"

"Copy. I have you in sight." Morelli pumped the control stick of his F-100, signaling Jensen and Court to drop back into loose trail, where they flew about 500 feet behind each other. This gave them s.p.a.ce to check their switches inside the c.o.c.kpit and the target area outside without having to concentrate on close-formation flying. Once in the bombing pattern, the s.p.a.ce would increase until they were at even intervals flying around the target in the wheel pattern. Court put his Master Arm switch on and moved his armament selector to Bombs Single. On the dial he had the choice of Pairs, Ripple, or Single.

"FAC is in to mark," Beaver Two Four said. His tiny Cessna rolled into a bank and dived earthward. Seconds later Court saw a billowing splash of brilliant white smoke as the phosphorus head of the rocket exploded against the base of a treeline.

"Tally on your smoke," Silver Lead said.

"Two tallies."

"Three tally."

"Okay, guys, hit along the treeline from a hundred meters south of my smoke to a hundred meters north. You can run in from the north or the south, but break east when you come off. We'll start with the bombs."

It was a required procedure for attacking aircraft always to fly parallel to friendly troops and never attack from over them or break away from the target over them. An early release or a hung piece of ordnance falling off could impact on the friendly position. Such an event was called a short round.

"Lead's in, south to north, FAC in sight." Pilots were equally divided whether or not to use simple codes such as Miami to New York for south to north to foil possible radio interception. Some said with a twinkle that they had flunked geography, others said the VC had eyes, they could see where the attackers were coming from. The main reasoning against the code use was that interception of the UHF (Ultra High Frequency) radio the pilots used required receiving equipment too expensive and too sophisticated for everyday use around every hamlet and town, not to mention instant translation from English to Vietnamese and relay to the gunners. In North Vietnam such radio interception effort was real and feasible. Not so in South Vietnam.

Morelli rolled his F-100 into a 45-degree dive from 12,000 feet. Court followed Jensen, who rolled in as Morelli was pulling off. The idea was to try to have one set of guns on the target at all times to pinpoint and take out a gunner who suddenly decided to shoot. Good gunners liked to shoot as the attacker pulled off so that neither the pilot going away nor the pilot rolling in could see the muzzle flashes.

"Three's in, FAC in sight." Court started to roll in as Jensen pulled off a mile and a half below him.

"Roger, Three, you're cleared. Put your bombs just beyond Lead and Two's."

"I'll pickle at fifty-five," Court said on the intercom to Connert. He concentrated on lining up his aircraft and his gunsight on the treeline.

Unlike the single-seat F-100, F-4 pilots had a backseater to read off alt.i.tude, airspeed, and dive angle as they positioned their aircraft toward the target.

Court had given Connert his release alt.i.tude so that he would know what to expect as he read off the figures.

With a practiced eye, Court plunged his aircraft down the chute at exactly 45 degrees. His airspeed built such that he knew he would have 450 at one mile above the ground. From force of habit from his single-engine days, he glanced quickly into the c.o.c.kpit from time to time to cross-check his speed, alt.i.tude, and angle. He became aware that Connert's altimeter calls were 500 feet too early. At 6,000 he called 55, which, if Court had not been looking, would have caused an early release, making the bomb fall short of Court's aim point.

"Watch your alt.i.tude calls," he growled at Cormert.

As he flashed through 55, Court pressed the red bomb release b.u.t.ton on his stick twice, releasing a bomb from each inboard rack. Had he selected Ripple, all six would have dropped, alternating from side to side. One did that in highthreat areas where multiple pa.s.ses were sure death.

He grunted against the G-force as he pulled up and rapidly turned left, then right to the east, in an automatic jink reflex. Neither Morelli nor Jensen had jinked, he noted. Too complacent, maybe. Then he realized that with a full load and without the afterburner on, the F-100 just didn't have the thrust to make twisting pullouts. Using the afterburner would burn too much fuel. Court had had to make his pattern wider and slower than normal to accommodate the F-100 pilots who, with less thrust, couldn't blast their way around as easily as the big Phantom.

He was cleared for his next pa.s.s and rolled in. Again Connert called the alt.i.tudes 500 feet before they were actually reached.

"You're calling out the alt.i.tudes too soon," Court said on the intercom.

"I thought you wanted it that way. For me to lead your alt.i.tudes, I mean."

"No, I don't want you to lead the alt.i.tudes. I want to know exactly when I pa.s.s through them, not before, certainly not after." Court bit his words off. There were usually some adjustments to be made when flying with a new GIB, but this man would vex the Sphinx, he fumed.

On the next pa.s.s Court dodged a cloud and rolled in late and not quite at 45 degrees. He knew he would release 500 feet lower at 5,000 feet to make up for the shallow angle.

"Silver Three Three in, FAC in sight," he called.

"Roger, Three Three, you're cleared. Put your bombs fifty meters after those of Number Two." Court acknowledged.

As he flashed down the chute, Court didn't hear Connert make any alt.i.tude or airspeed calls. This guy is one weird fellow, he thought.

But I'd better let him know what I am doing. Regardless of problems, a good frontseater always kept his backseater informed.

"I'll be releasing at five thousand," he said. Connert didn't reply. At 6,000 feet Court had things under control and was ready to press the pickle b.u.t.ton at 5,000. At 5,500 he was startled to hear the chung of an ejector cartridge and feel the release of one bomb. With a start he realized that Connert had hit the red release b.u.t.ton on top of his stick in the backseat. That bomb would be short. He felt back pressure on the stick to pull out.