Phantom Leader Part 2

just to the north of the tude. Ahead of him road, he saw the Lang Tri SF camp. Its concertina wire with the many gun perimeter and crowded construction, made it stand pits, defensive firing positions, and bunkers, out in contrast to the dilapidated French buildings and the rough huts of the Lang Tri village just south of the road- A light rain was falling on the camp.

He concentrated on his airspeed and aligning his plane to land on the road. He tore his right hand free from the wheel for an instant to check that Brackett's harness was locked, then looked straight ahead. He estimated the width of the road to be 15 feet. The main wheels of the O-2 landing gear were 6 feet apart, but the wingspan was 38 feet and would overlap the ditches on each side. The surface of the road looked like hardened mud with deep ox-cart ruts. From previous study Toby knew the crumbled asphalt of the road p and st.u.r.dy was under several layers of red mud made thick by ox and water buffalo excrement. The road had not been maintained since the French had been defeated in 1954.

He held steady pressure as the right wing of the lane wanted to dip, At 500 feet he threw his landing-gear lever down. Hydraulic power from the front engine locked the two mains and the nose gear in place. At 300 feet he eased the flap lever down. The plane immediately tried to roll to the right. He slapped the lever up and rolled the wings level.

He experimented and found he had to hold his airspeed at 95 knots, 20 more than required for an undamaged airplane.

He came down, down, then flared over the road's surface and slowly eased the throttle of the front engine back to idle, He held the plane twelve inches above the road's surface arid, nose high, carefully felt for the ground with the main gear.

When the main wheels touched down, the right main-its tire shredded by groundfire-dug into a rut and collapsed, spinning the O-2 sharply to the right. The right wing dug in and ripped off as the plane continued lurching farther to the right. Thinking of fire, Toby turned the magnetos off and grabbed the underside of the instrument panel to brace himself as the plane bucked and tore across the road and into a ditch.

The propeller bit the ground once, throwing up a clod of dirt before it bent back. Then the left wheel and strut tore off, and Toby and Brackett were flung back and forth as the cras.h.i.+ng plane skidded to a stop, nose down, leaning at a 45-degree angle to the right. The wreckage rested on its torn right wing stub; dirt and debris had been flung into the cabin after the Plexiglas windows had broken - As if in a dream, Toby saw his hand reach up and turn the master electrical He tu switch off. He marveled at the hand. It worked. rned it this way and that, flexed the fingers, made a fist. Then he heard a noise outside the wreck.

Feeling and reality returned. "Hey," Toby yelled. -HeyIn here. Help my friend. He's wounded." He was at such an angle he couldn't see out the windows. A figure appeared, and squatted to look in the cracked and mud-splattered windscreen, Toby tried to unbuckle his harness with hands that started to tremble and shake. The figure in front of the airplane began to pull away the pieces of the broken wind screen. Slowly and carefully, Toby undid his harness and braced himself so as to not fall on Brackett.

Hurry, " he said to the people outside. "Hurry. I don't know if he's still alive." He balanced and kicked out the remaining piece of the front windscreen, Then he went to his hands and knees and crawled out of the wreckage. He looked up.

The plane was surrounded by soldiers wearing the green uniforms and khaki pith helmets of the North Vietnamese Army. They all had their rifles pointed at Toby. One man jerked his rifle in an upward motion.

Still kneeling, Toby raised his hands. The Vietnamese b.u.t.t-stroked Toby across the back with his rifle and yelled something Toby didn't understand. Two men grabbed Toby, emptied his pockets and tore the boots from his feet.

Another man crawled into the wrecked airplane. He called out something in Vietnamese to the leader, who barked one word, Giet. There was a shot, and the man crawled out, clutching Mel Brackett's dog tags. Two soldiers ripped through the skin of the aircraft with bayonets until they found a fuel tank. They stood back and one man fired a round into it. They lit some brush with a match and tossed it into the trickling aviation gasoline. It lit with a roar, singeing the two closest men, who leaped back, causing the others to laugh and yell out words of derision.

Yellow-and-red flames engulfed the smashed airplane, and the blistering heat forced the Vietnamese to back farther away. The plane burned quickly and noisily with loud pops and crackles punctuating the hissing roar. Black smoke created by the oil and rubber and the petroleum billowed hundreds of feet into the air. Toby tried without success to force the picture from his mind of Mel Brackett's body cooking and blackening.

The leader spoke again. The troops gathered their gear and started up a hill. In the rear, two men grabbed Toby.

One tied his elbows together behind his back so tight Toby felt as if his chest would rip in half, the other slung a noose around his neck, jerked it, and started running up a hill after the departing column.

Toby fell to his knees, then had to scramble sideways while the two soldiers screamed Di di mau len, di di mau len, He got to his feet by bracing his back against a tree, and stumbled after them. He went down immediately as a sharp rock punctured his left instep. The man holding the rope stopped. The other came back with a rifle and jammed it against Toby's head so hard it ripped the skin on the side of his skull. He snarled something and pulled the trigger.

1030 HOURS LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 24 JANUARY 1968.

F4 PHANTOMS NEAR KEP AIR BASE DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM.

The heavy flak started before they were even in the target area, and the SAMs came up soon after. The first plane tornout of the sky was an F-105. Three miles above the earth, it exploded in a flash of white light. An antiaircraft sh.e.l.l had burst its belly, simultaneously detonating its bombs and fuel.

Seconds later, all that remained was a vast black cloud, from which pieces of airplane rained down. The remaining seven planes dashed toward their target along the railroad north east of Hanoi. Below, SAMs exploded off the ground in huge b.a.l.l.s of dust and rocket smoke to streak toward them. Then MiG warning calls sounded from the Red Crown controller on a Navy radar s.h.i.+p.

"Bandits, Bandits. East of the Bullseye for ten miles."

"Okay, Buick, let's get 'em," USAF Major Court Bannister transmitted as he turned his flight of four F-4D Phantoms toward the MiGs. The Bullseye was code for Hanoi.

North Vietnamese tactics were to attack the strike force from low and behind. Defending F-4s, the MiG Cap (combat air patrol), had to interpose themselves successfully if they were to save the F-105 and F-4 bombers from being shot down.

"Contact, twenty port for nine. About a dozen," Bannister's backseater said over the intercom. He saw twelve blips on his radarscope bearing to the left of their aircraft at nine nautical miles, "Tallyho, Buick, bandits eleven o'clock low. Three, take the ones to the left,"

Bannister ordered as he drove his aircraft toward the enemy fighters.

Buick Three, Captain Tom Partin, s.h.i.+fted himself and his wingman more to the port. Court Bannister leaned forward in his harness, nerve ends tingling. He never took his eyes off the flights of climbing MiGs.

"They're Nineteens," he said to his backseater, Pete Stein.

The MiG- 19 was a smaller, more maneuverable aircraft than the F-4, but not as fast.

"Roger, boss. I got a lock on the number-four bird. Go get him."

"I'll get him," Bannister said in a tight voice. I'll get him, he repeated to himself. He was high scorer in Southeast Asia, with four MiG shootdowns to his credit. Oril one other man-Robin Olds-had as many, and he was back in the States. Bannister also had a possible and a probable to his credit. He fixed the MiG's position on his canopy, took one last look around the sky above and behind his plane to clear himself, noted the position of his wingman, and returned his attention to the MiGs. Court Bannister had positioned his flight to put the glaring sun behind him, and the MiGs had not seen them yet. This would be an easy kill. With it, he would become the first Ace of the Vietnam war.

Bannister re-checked his switches. The big fighter carried eight air-to-air missiles and a 20mm cannon. Because he was approaching the enemy fighters from the front, he had selected the radar missiles rather than the heat-seekers, which needed a hot engine on which to home. He placed his gunsight pipper directly on the number-four MiG-19. The enemy fighter grew larger as they approached at 95 percent of the speed of sound, nearly 700mph- An easy kill. The first Ace. Behind the visor of his helmet, Bannister's eyes had a feverish glint.

An electronic ring in his gunsight showed he was well in range. His finger tightened on the trigger of his stick grip.

"Shoot, boss," Pete Stein said eagerly, "we've got a lockon."

Bannister didn't answer. Not yet, he said to himself, not yet. I want this missile to fly right up his nose. Then it was time to shoot, and still the MiG hadn't seen him. He felt a flush of victory in the split second before he was about to squeeze the trigger.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw two fighters closing from the right. They were F-105s that would pa.s.s between him and the MiGs.

He estimated time and speed, and realized with an angry wrench that he dare not launch the missile. Buick Three and Four were still clear to fire, so was his Number Two, a young captain. He could make a shot.

"Buick Lead aborting the run, Two take the kill," Bannister said rapidly over the radio. Buick Two fired immediately.

He was a great wingman who, besides protecting his lead's tail, kept track of what was going on in front. Two AIM-7 missiles dropped from under his Phantom; their rocket engines ignited one after the other and drew vivid white trails to the MiG. The first missile blew the right wing off, the second streaked into the wreckage and exploded.

At the same time, Buick Three, Tom Partin, fired a missile that tore the tail from another MiG.

The sky exploded with activity. Buick flight pulled up and away to position for a re-attack from above, and the MiGs dove down to form a defensive circle. Court checked his wingman. He was still in position.

"Nice shots, Two, Three," he transmitted, careful to keep the acid of envy from his voice. "Now let's get some more."

"Yeah, yeah," Two said, in an excited and panting voice.

"More, more," transmitted Three.

Court cleared the sky. There was no flak or SAMs firing now, because they were in the area where the MiGs flew. Yet he saw no other MiGs except for those in the defensive circle turning below. The MiGs were level and circling at 5,000 feet, one behind the other, in a Lufbery maneuver, each protecting the other's tail. They could wait until the American air-planes became low on fuel and had to leave the area, then they would break out and land safely.

In the distance Court could see black-and-white smoke from the marshaling yard on the northeast railroad that the F- 105 Thuds had hit.

The last of the big fighters were leaving at tremendous speed out over the Tonkin Gulf. Radio chatter had died out. Bannister estimated his flight had about four more minutes of fuel to use for fighting before the low man would call Bingo. He looked down at the tempting circle of MiG fighters.

"Lead's in," Court transmitted as calmly as if he were rolling in on a stateside gunnery range. "Going IR," he told Pete Stein as he selected a tail shot at one of the MiGs that was slightly out of position. Low puffy clouds were forming to one side of their circle.

Court dove down from 10,000 feet. As he lined up on the MiG, another from across the circle pulled his plane up toward him and shot off several rounds of 30mm cherry b.a.l.l.s. At the same time, Court heard the tone in his headset indicating one of his AIM-9 infrared missiles had a tentative lock on something. Court hoped it was the MiG, but shooting downward could be deceptive with IR. The ground played tricks with the heat-seeking head.

Time was running out. When one of the cherry b.a.l.l.s banged into an outer panel of his left wing, he knew he had to shoot and get out of there. He fired one IR missile, and another, then fired two radar missiles like giant bullets with radar interlocks out, and zoomed for alt.i.tude, his wingman following. He grunted under the G-load, and his ribs hurt.

The radar missiles were fired manually before the fire control system had completed its computations.

"We took a hit, Major," Pete Stein said in a tense voice.

Court checked the tip of the slablike wing, and then his c.o.c.kpit gages.

"Nothing serious," he said. His blood was pounding now. He looked back at the MiG to see his missile explode a few feet behind its tail.

Immediately, a tongue of flame erupted from the tailpipe. His other two missiles, without radar to guide them, streaked harmlessly through the formation.

"Hot s.h.i.+t," Court yelled into the microphone in his mask, "I got him.

Watch him go in, Two." Unless the gun camera recorded it, there had to be a second s.h.i.+p to confirm a shootdown before 7th Air Force would award credit. Gun cameras could record a gun kill because the plane was so close and pointed at the enemy while the sh.e.l.ls impacted.

But the camera rarely caught a missile kill because the nose of the killer airplane wasn't always pointed at the one killed at the time of missile impact.

"Watch him go in," Court said again, his voice taut with excitement.

This was it. Not only Ace, but the first, the very first Ace in SEA.

Court had to take his eyes away for a moment to maneuver his airplane back up to alt.i.tude, away from the probing cherry b.a.l.l.s that were coming now from two of the other MiGs. Their defensive circle was working very well. Somebody always had their guns trained on an attacker. He checked his fuel. Two minutes remaining. He rolled left and looked down at the circle. One MiG was missing, but there was no fireball on the ground.

"Where did he go in, Two?" Court asked.

"Couldn't tell, Lead."

"WHAT?".

"Ah, lost him when we climbed out. He went into a cloud or something.

My GIB didn't see him either." There was ine anguish in the pilot's voice. GIB was pilot slang for genu guy in back."

"Pete, did you see anything?" Court asked his backseater.

"No, Major. I was on the scope and the gages. Didn't see a thing."

"Jesus H. Christ," Court blurted. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds all blind?

I got him. You mean to say no one saw him go down?"

"Hey, Major," Pete Stein said from the backseat, "you want to try again?

I'm game."

Court forced his voice to be calm. "You are one s.h.i.+t hot guy, Stein.

But jumping into that circle jerk down there is out of the question.

We'll just keep turning like we are now and in another ninety degrees we'll be headed home." Yeah, right, Court thought to himself. What a calm and reasonable thing to do. I WANT TO ATTACK ... but I can't. Got my flight to think about, got my backseater to think about.

Court was still steaming at the two missed opportunities.

The MiG he had just hit would be his third probable or possible, but not a positive. To attack the MiG Lufbery again would be too reckless and he knew it.

"Buick Four, Bingo," Buick Four transmitted, announcing he had only the minimum fuel necessary to get to a tanker for aerial refueling. The number-four man in a flight of four, like the tip of a whip, always had to travel the farthest to stay in position, causing him to run out of fuel first. Generally, Two was next, followed by Three.

"Roger, Four. Three, close it up. We're outbound." Double s.h.i.+t d.a.m.n f.u.c.k, he said under his breath.

"Hey, Court," Pete Stein yelled from the backseat, forgetting military protocol. "Look down there, ten o'clock low."

Down on the left was Kep, a North Vietnamese MiG base.

They could see several silver MiGs flying low and slow in the landing pattern. The Rules of Engagement said a pilot could not attack a MiG base, only the MiGs from that base that flew up to attack him. Hundreds of American airmen Navy, Air Force, and Marines-had died or been captured because of that crippling "don't strike until you've been struck" restriction.

If I were flying a single-seater, I'd roll in and attack in a heartbeat, Court Bannister said to himself. But with a second man on board, a pilot couldn't always do what he wanted. Court squinted at the airfield as it blurred for an instant. His head felt full now, and his eyes burned. He blinked and popped his eyes, trying to clear them. His ribs throbbed with a dull pain.

"We've got the fuel. Let's get one," Pete Stein said on the intercom, as if he had read Bannister's thoughts.

Bannister quickly made up his mind. "Okay, we'll do it.

Going guns," he told Stein in happy answer. "Tom," he transmitted to Buick Three, "take the lead, make one orbit, if we're not back up, take the flight home." Court rolled his Phantom up and over and pulled it down to dive in on the airfield even as he transmitted.

From his position at 12,000 feet, Court unloaded the G forces and let the twenty-five-ton fighter build up airspeed to avoid using the afterburner until climb-out. He needed to save all the fuel he could.

When he eased the nose up out of the dive at 4,000 feet, he was nearly supersonic.

The concrete runway at Kep airfield was dead ahead.

Clouds formed a gray and towering backdrop. A half dozen MiG-19s were in the landing pattern or approaching the pattern. Court and Pete were head-on to two of them flying on downwind, gear and flaps hanging.

Then the groundfire began. Muzzle flashes erupted, making the base look like a firefly nest. Puffs of black-and-white 23mm and 37mm sh.e.l.ls began filling the sky in front of the Phantom. In between were cherry and green tracers from the 14,5mm and 12.7mm barrels. Court quickly switched from guns to his last remaining missile, an AIM-9 infrared.

Without waiting for a lock-on tone, he hosed it off in the general direction of the MiG base, then switched back to guns. He was breathing very fast now.

"Just to keep their heads down," he told Pete to keep him informed. On a gun attack, all the GIB could do was make sure the radar and fire control system was automatically feeding range information into the frontseater's gunsight, look around for enemy fighters, check the gages, and keep track of where they were, both from home base and from the target. He had to do all that while making sure his pilot's alt.i.tude, airspeed, and att.i.tude were proper for the conditions.

Court sighted on the lead s.h.i.+p on the downwind and headed toward him.

Their combined closing speed was over 1,000 miles per hour. He couldn't hold his heading for too long or he would pa.s.s over the center of the base. Scores of AAA puffs suddenly dotted the sky in front of him. He had to shoot now. At the moment, he was out of range, but in split seconds would be in range. He squeezed and held the trigger. The M61 Gatling gun, electrically firing 20mm sh.e.l.ls at 6,000 rounds per minute, held 1,200 rounds. Court had 12 seconds of trigger time.

He came into range, held the pipper steady, and placed a stream of cannon sh.e.l.ls on the first airplane, which frantically wallowed and ducked to one side, then he changed heading a few degrees and opened fire on the second MiG, which caught fire immediately.

"Hey, they've stopped shooting," Stein yelled as they neared the base.

There were no more basketball puffs or tracers in the air.

"They don't want to hit their own birds. We're safe as long as we're in the pattern," Court said. He banked to the right and pulled directly over the base, hosing now at two other MiGs that were bringing their gear and flaps up, furiously trying to escape across the runway. Court chased them, still shooting. He saw several flashes and sparkles when his sh.e.l.ls impacted, then his gun wound down. He was out of ammunition.

"We gotta get outta this place," he sang nasally to Pete Stein. He knew he finally had his fifth MiG, maybe-hot s.h.i.+t-a sixth, a seventh, who knows. The second ring of gunners outside the perimeter opened up as he exited the Kep base confines. He slammed the throttles outboard and, burners roaring, pulled up and away from Kep, turning and twisting in mighty jinks to spoil their aim, slamming him and Pete Stein around in their c.o.c.kpits, humming a tuneless victory song.

"Head outbound, Buick Three," he transmitted. "I'll catch up. And you backseaters watch for the splashes." He risked a glance over his shoulder down at the base, searching for the red flames and greasy black smoke marking a crashed jet fighter. There were none. In minutes he drew parallel to the flight and regained the lead. Over the water, he steered them south toward the KC- 1 35 tankers that would give them enough fuel to fly home to Udorn, their base in northeast Thailand.