Phantom Leader Part 23

Court motioned to Morelli with a closed fist and thumb pointed down.

"Gear down, now," he said, and reached to his instrument panel and placed the landing gear handle down. He felt his gear doors open and the heavy landing gear swing down and lock in place. His swift glance at Morelli showed his gear down. He was bouncing up and down in the increasing turbulence. Past him, Court saw a giant streak of lightning illuminate the black clouds. Court put his windscreen blower on maximum, which supplied air from the engine so hot and fast that if there was no rain, the winds.h.i.+eld would shatter. He hunkered down in front of his gages and slowed the Phantom to the final approach speed for an F-100.

Although the Phantom was bigger and heavier than the F-100, it had a different flap layout and a system that blew hot air over the wing and trailing edge flaps that cut turbulence and drag, It could fly an approach to landing several knots Slower than the F-100. But to safely bring in the F-100, it had to fly faster on the final approach to landing.

"About one seventy-five should do it, Court. That should handle the gusts as well," Dieter said.

"Got it," Court said.

The GCA controller gave more instructions. "Check gear and flaps down, Silver flight. Start normal rate of descent ... now."

"Silver, gear checked, starting down," Court said. Suddenly he was in heavy rain and crus.h.i.+ng vertical winds that one second wanted to fling the two jets up and out and the next minute smash them to the ground.

All he had was a Voice in his ear telling him to fly left or right a few degrees, to increase or decrease his rate of descent a few feet per minute.

The voice belonged to a sergeant sitting in a small darkened room, intently watching an electronic bug crawl down his radar screen toward two converging lines. The sergeant could tell the bug in terse words to fly left or right, increase or decrease descent, and if the bug obeyed promptly and smoothly, the bug would drift down the lines until-out in the real world of rain and slas.h.i.+ng winds--an airplane would flash over the end of the runway. The two planes were one thousand feet above the ground, c.o.c.ked 7 degrees into the wind by the sergeant to hold a ground track leading to the runway. They were descending at 400 feet per minute.

In his c.o.c.kpit Court had a few gages to tell him how high he was, how fast his airplane was traveling in the air ma.s.s, his att.i.tude referenced to a horizon he could not see, what direction he was heading, at what rate he was climbing or descending.

The gages weren't that precise. They had lag due to friction, wobble due to long use, and inexact readings due to minor installation errors.

It was up to the sergeant in the GCA shack to correct for all of those errors. He had to keep feeding corrections to the pilot until he saw the bug on the heading and in the descent pattern his brain told him was correct.

But the sergeant had never had to bring a plane through heavy rain. Rain so heavy, the water was returning his radar signals before they could ping off the airplanes hidden within. Heavy rain that splashed and tumbled on the runway so fast and so hard it created a six-inch river the drainage system could not handle. The two planes were at 400 feet above the ground. Because of the terrible gusts, Court held the airspeed at 180 knots, 207 miles per hour. They were approaching the end of the runway over 300 feet per second while settling toward the earth at six feet every second.

It was tricky, at over 200 miles an hour, as the gusts buffeted and tossed the planes flying barely five feet from each other. There were additional complications. With the gear and flaps down and at the slow landing speeds, the planes were not half as responsive to the control inputs as when flying fast and clean. With everything hanging, they wallowed in exaggerated motions.

"Silver flight," the sergeant said in a calm voice, "I've lost you in the rain. Maintain present heading and rate of descent. If you have not broken out by two hundred thirty seven feet on your altimeter you are cleared for a missed approach."

"Negative missed approach," Morelli said. His voice was as quiet as the sergeant's. "No gas."

The two airplanes descended through 300 feet. Court held what he had.

Even though he had his Tacan on and had been monitoring the whole letdown and approach with the instrument, it could not give him the precision of radar necessary to get him the few final feet to the end of the runway at the proper heading and alt.i.tude.

The jets dropped ever lower through the thick clouds, black and swollen with rain. The changes in wind direction and velocity at the lower alt.i.tudes underneath the thunderstorm were abrupt and substantial. As smooth as Court was on the controls, and as hard as he tried, the big F-4 wallowed and pitched as he continued down the glide scope, "Sorry,"

he shot to Morelli, "Below four-fifty, this thing's a pig."

"Yeah, I noticed," Morelli said, voice tight.

Court had to keep his eyes constantly in the c.o.c.kpit on his instruments.

He noticed the last heading from GCA had been 7 degrees to the right of the runway heading. That would be to counteract the stiff crosswind from the right. He didn't dare raise his eyes to look directly forward out the windscreen until his peripheral vision told him there was something to see. Even minute mistakes at that point could result in catastrophe. Though he had enough fuel to make a missed approach, Jim Morelli did not. Court's altimeter was now unwinding through 250 feet above the ground, the 200. He was below legal landing minimums and, by the book, quite illegal to continue the approach.

Then the clouds shredded to wisps, then a flash of green, then a flash of brown, then cloud wisps, then green again directly below. Court risked a quick glance forward. The dim outline of the runway appeared to his left a few degrees.

The silver bouncing rain on the concrete looked like a ca.n.a.l of boiling quicksilver, Court sliced his plane to the left and added power.

"Set it down, NOW, " he transmitted to Morelli. There wasn't enough room for the two of them to land at the same time. Court's violent maneuver meant that Morelli needed all the runway he could find to straighten out and touch down with some semblance of control. "I hope to h.e.l.l he can see the runway," Court said to Dieter as he wrestled his wallowing Phantom away from the ground on the far side of the runway. He retracted the speed brakes as he spoke and pushed the throttles forward.

He started to ease the nose up in a climb. He was aware of black shadows of buildings beneath him as he clawed for alt.i.tude and turned his plane back to the right to parallel the runway heading.

"Silver Three Two missed approach," he told the GCA controller.

"What's your fuel status, Silver?"

Court checked his gage. "Not enough for Phan Rang," he said. "I've got enough for one more pattern, then I've got to land." Dieter hadn't said a word from the backseat.

"Silver, maintain present heading and climb to one thousand five hundred. The rainstorm is s.h.i.+fting and I have you on my radar."

"Did Three One make it okays' Court asked.

"Roger, Silver. He flamed out on the runway and coasted into a turnoff.

Soon as maintenance can find him, they'll tow him in." Court's pulse returned to non-nal. He flew the rest of the pattern and landed under the precise control of the GCA sergeant.

"So that's how you Phantom flyers gin around," Dieter said to Court as he and Morelli shared coffee and cigarettes in Dieter's small office.

Dim light through the small window y was still confirmed the rain had let up, yet the morning sk dark and low with overcast.

"All fun and games, Mac," he said.

"Maybe so up front, but I couldn't see squat from that pit back there."

"Well, he got me down," Morelli said. "But I don't want to go through that again. That sucker hydroplaned and weathervaned and turkeyed all over the d.a.m.n runway. h.e.l.l, I didn't taxi off, I flamed out and slid off. Just lucky that wide turnoff was there."

Dieter said. "Beaver "Look at it this way, gentlemen, Two Two is alive and well and Can Tho is back on the air.

we broke up the attack and the LOCAL friendly ARVN troops moved in. They seem to think we did good works. A guy from Blue Chip called and said they'll probably put us in for the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry." He turned to Court.

"How about a cigarette?" Court gave him one. "d.a.m.n," Dieter said, "now you've got me hooked."

The armament lieutenant stood in the open doorway. Dieter waved him in.

The young lieutenant looked mortified.

"Major Bannister, I don't know how to say this, but I need a report of survey on your expenditure of those AIM-7 missiles."

"Report of survey?" Court echoed. "That means I might have to pay for them. What is this all about?"

"Sir, they weren't expended in combat, so according to Air Force Reg 67-1, 1 "Weren't expended in combat? They certainly were."

"Sir, the armament regs say they are for air-to-air use and you-- Court could see the lieutenant was trapped in the paperwork jungle and didn't know how to get out.

"Didn't you know? I jettisoned the things for safety-offlight purposes.

That's why I didn't bring them back."

The lieutenant looked relieved. "Sir, will you sign that off in the logbook?"

"You bet I will. I'll catch it the next time I preflight."

The phone rang. Dieter said his name and listened. "Got it," he said and hung up. "You might be preflighting sooner than you think," he told Court.

"How's that?"

"We've got two more flights for you today, then alert for single-s.h.i.+p Skyspot missions tonight. And, since you need an experienced backseater, I have the dubious honor of being the man to accompany you.

After we fly at noon and fifteen hundred, we must report to the alert trailer by eight tonight." Dieter pursed his lips. "Think you can hack it?"

"Why don't you give me something really tough?" Court said.

1500 HOURS LOCAL, FRIDAY 2 FEBRUARY 1968.

THE ImPERIAL CITY of HUE REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM The hole Jim Polter had made in the kitchen ceiling opened into a dark area containing the trusses and crosspieces of wood that held up the corrugated tin roof. Wolf climbed on the table and helped pull down and break the remaining slats. Large chunks of plaster and a stream of mortar bits crashed to the floor.

"Give me a boost," Wolf said. Polter made a cup with his hands and boosted him into the opening. Wolf rested his elbows at the edges and looked around in the stifling crawl s.p.a.ce. The tin roof rose from the front of the house up to a height of five feet, where it was attached to the back wall of the villa grounds. The air was hot and fetid and it smelled of small furry things that had crawled in and died. He tested the rafters. They would hold, but the plaster between would not.

He envisioned the four of them climbing from the tabletop through the hole, across boards laid on the rafters to where the tin met the top of the wall. There he would pry up a corner, check in the direction of the villa, then see about getting everyone over the wall and enroute to the Black Panthers' compound. He climbed back down.

Greta Sturm's gray eyes blazed at him. She was covered with mortar dust. Wolf could see where she had tried to get her head under the sink and around the post to gnaw at the bandanna. It hadn't worked.

"Go to the bedrooms," he told Polter. "Get the boards from the beds.

Lay them across the rafters." He picked up the PRC-25. A want to see who I can talk to. See if we can patch into the Panthers." Polter nodded and went out.

Wolf switched to the emergency frequency of 60.75 on the PRC-25.

"Anybody read Wolf on sixty seventy-five, give me a call." He waited and repeated the call three more times.

There was no answer. He turned the frequency-control k.n.o.bs down to their lowest point, 25 megacycles, and started clicking them up the band. He was listening for radio traffic.

At 42.4 he heard faint voices but couldn't even tell what language they spoke. Higher up, he heard Vietnamese, but it was so rapid and faint that all he made out was some numbers. He couldn't tell if it was a friendly or enemy voice. At 51.10 he heard an American voice loud and clear.

". . . don't care what your problem is. Keep that track in line or I'll put a round through you afore Charlie does."

Wolf broke in, "American unit on Fox Mike, this is Wolf, how do you read?" After a short silence Wolf repeated the call and got an answer.

"Lookee here, you Wolf, what you doing on our net? Who you? What you want?" The thin voice was right from the Appalachian mountains.

"This is Wolf. Our helicopter got shot down and we've got some problems."

"You got problems," the thin voice snorted. "I'm suppose to move these h'yer - . ." He paused. "Never mind. How do I know you are who you say you are?" he asked in a voice suddenly grown wary.

Wolf took a deep breath. "Because, you simple cracker b.a.s.t.a.r.d, if you don't do what I tell you, I'll come over there and rip your gizzard out through your nose."

"Whooee, you show talk rough. I guess you ain't no Charlie."

"Put your six on," Wolf demanded. "Six" was the term used for the commander of an Army unit.

"I cain't. What you want? We got man's work to do here, an, yur hoggin' the freq."

"Put your NCO on," Wolf said.

"I am the NCO, friend."

Wolf had a thought. "Are you out of Papa Bravo?" Papa Bravo was LOCAL slang for Phu Bai, where a Marine unit was stationed.

"Maybe, jus' maybe."

"I need some freqs to contact the LOCAL friendlies, you copy?"

"Maybe. What's your location?"

"We're in the gook Disneyland north of the big smelly, you copy?" Wolf hoped the man would connect the big smelly with the Perfume River.

"Ha-yeah, I copy that one good. Stand by." After a pause the thin voice came back up. "Okay, friend. All I know is, ah, fifty-one sixty-five and fifty-three eighty-five.

But I'll tell you somethin'. You gotta knock two bits off one, and four bits off t'other. Now git ofrn my freq."

Wolf made a grim smile. The cracker was shrewd. Just in case they were being monitored by he VC or the NVA, he had told him to drop 25 numbers from the first frequency and 50 from the other. He dialed in 51.40.

"Chao, ong, " he said in Vietnamese. "Here is an American unit calling the Hac Bao. Answer, please. " He tried for several more minutes with no response. Polter came through with an armload of slats from the beds. He gave them to Wolf, then climbed up into the rafters. Wolf handed the boards up to him, then tried the PRC on 53.35.

"Chao, ong, " he said. "Ilere is an American unit calling the Hac Bao.

Answer, please. " A very clear voice came over the handset.

"American unit, this is Panther. Who are you and what do you want?" The voice was of a young man who spoke clear and only slightly accented English.

"Panther, this is Wolf. I am near your location and require a.s.sistance.

Do you copy, over?"

"Wolf, this is Panther. Roger, I have a good copy. Please to authenticate Golf Kilo."

"Panther, Wolf is unable. We are from a crashed helicopter." He pulled out the maps from the parachute bag, made some rapid calculations, and told Panther the azimuth and range to where they were.

"Wolf, this is Panther. Stand by." After a few moments the voice spoke again.

" Wolf, this is Panther. We have seen the helicopter. What can we do for you? Over.

Rizzo's M60 suddenly started booming from the front room. The hammering sound blowing back in the tiny marble house was deafening. Cartridge smoke filled the kitchen.

Greta Sturm kicked and pulled, a look between fear and anger on her face.

"Stand by, Panther," Wolf said into the handset. "We've got problems."