Targets of Opportunity (1993) (2 page)

"Rhino, Casper," the reassuring voice sounded in Brad's earphones. "I'm orbiting over the mouth of the valley."

"Tally," Brad replied, catching sight of the Skyhawk while he switched his armament panel. "I'm in hot."

Brad reefed the F-4 around and thundered up the valley. The rain was intensifying, which obscured his forward visibility.

"Dash Two," Brad warned, pulling the throttles back, "the vis is dropping. I'll call my final speed."

"Copy."

Brad squinted through the rainswept windshield at the gray, foggy haze. "Randy, call my speeds while I try to see where the hell we're going."

"Three-ninety . ." Wyatt tightened his shoulder restraints. "Three-eighty . .

"Thumper," Austin said, concentrating on maintaining visual contact with the ground, "can you mark again?"

"Affirmative."

A pause followed before the gunship pilot again replied. Your target is eleven o'clock for twenty-five to thirty meters. I'm going in as soon as you drop."

"Roger," Brad responded at the same moment he saw the white smoke. "I've got a visual."

"Three-sixty," Wyatt prompted. "I hope we don't take out our own troops."

"Dash Two," Brad radioed, shoving the throttles forward, "three-eighty is a good speed."

"Two is rolling in," Vic Lowenstein, Robinett's RIO, answered for his busy pilot. "Copy three-eighty."

Brad eased the nose down, boring in on the rising smoke. He could see the Huey moving toward the trapped marines. "Get on with it," he muttered to himself.

"Holy Mother of Jesus," Wyatt shouted through clenched teeth. "You're going to take off their heads."

Waiting till the last second, Brad dropped the napalm bombs and snatched the stick into his stomach. "One's off!" He selected afterburner and rocketed through the clouds, rolling upright over the gloomy mass.

Searching for the Skyhawk, Brad listened to the helo pilot, then keyed his cockpit intercom. "That son of a bitch deserves the Medal of Honor."

Wyatt remained quiet while he mentally reviewed the ejection-seat procedures.

"Thumper is taking hits," the gunship pilot shouted over the rattle of machine-gun fire. "They're advancing toward us. Dash Two, lay it down forty meters in front of us, and walk it into the trees!"

"Two has you in sight," Robinett excitedly replied. "Here it comes . . . hang in there."

"Roger," the Huey pilot yelled above the confusion. "We've got the last man coming aboard."

The napalm containers tumbled from the howling Phantom, decimating the center of the enemy patrol. Men ran screaming through the trees, hopelessly attempting to extinguish the flames that had engulfed them.

"Two's off" Robinett reported as his fighter entered the murky clouds.

Brad saw the TAC Skyhawk at the same time he heard the frantic helicopter pilot. The tense voice sent a chill down his spine.

"We're overloaded--can't get off the ground! We need cover while we jettison our weapons and ammo!"

Brad detected the desperation in the pilot's voice. He sounded resigned to facing death.

Austin yanked the throttles to idle, popped the speed brakes open, snapped the fighter to an almost inverted position, and pulled the nose down. "Thumper, Dash One is in."

Randy Wyatt
. G
ripped the sides of the canopy. "We can't dive through the clouds!"

The shrieking Phantom plummeted into the dark clouds while Bra
d t
ugged on the stick to pull out of the steep dive. "We don't have time to go out and enter underneath."

"These sonuvabitches," the gunship pilot yelled, "are fanatical. They're almost on us!"

Dropping out of the leaden undercast, Austin and Wyatt cringed when their fighter's right wingtip skimmed along the sharply rising hills.

"That was close," Wyatt exclaimed while Brad simultaneously slapped the stick to the left, retracted the speed brakes, and shoved the throttles forward.

"Just a few seconds, Thumper," Austin radioed, yanking the Phantom back on course. "I'm going to ripple the whole load."

Brad reset his armament panel, checked his speed at 390 knots, then caught sight of the Huey. The gunship pilot was struggling to head down the valley. The landing skids bounced across the ground while the crew frantically hurled guns and ammunition out of the helicopter.

Brad made a slight heading change, then lowered the nose. He had the gunship boresighted. God, be with me.

"Holy shit . . ." Wyatt moaned over the intercom, "we're gonna hit the ground."

Raising the F-4's nose, Brad pickled his entire load of ordnance. The Snakeyes and napalm hurtled over the top of the helicopter, enveloping the right flank of the enemy soldiers in a pulsing black, orange, and red fireball.

Brad pulled hard on the stick, then felt the Phantom shudder from the impact of gunfire. He instinctively shot a glance at the master caution light. It remained dark. "Stay calm," he told himself .

Concentrating on his primary flight instruments, Austin let out a sigh of relief as they emerged from the clouds. "I think we took some hits."

Wyatt nervously keyed his intercom. -Everything is okay back here . . . so far.
"

Brad scanned the gray sky. "Dash Two, say posit."

The radio was eerily quiet.

"Casper, Rhino One. Do you copy?"

Brad's earphones remained silent. "Randy, give Casper and Stew a call.
"

"Casper Two Seven and Rhino Two," Wyatt radioed, swiveling his head from side to side, "Rhino Dash One. Do you read?"

The absence of sound confirmed that they had lost radio contact.

The rounds that had impacted the Phantom had destroyed their communications link.

"Shit," Brad said, looking for the Skyhawk. "We're nordo. " Nordo was shorthand for no radio.

"I've got the TAC at two o'clock . . . level," Wyatt replied, tuning his radio to the 243.0 guard frequency. "Casper Two Seven, Rhino Lead on guard. Do you read?"

Still no reply.

Brad slowed the fighter and rendezvoused with the Skyhawk. The tactical coordinator had surmised that Rhino One's radio had malfunctioned.

Coasting into formation with the Skyhawk, Brad glanced at the observer in the rear cockpit. He was gesturing for Austin and Wyatt to look down.

Directing his attention below the right wing, Brad was relieved to see the Huey gunship racing from under the low clouds. "Randy, they made it."

"Yeah, they'll be feet-wet in a couple of minutes." Wyatt flexed his fingers to relieve the tension. "That guy won't have to buy any drinks for a long time."

A moment later, Stew Robinett glided into position off Brad's wing. Vic Lowenstein looked Rhino One over, then gave Wyatt a thumbs-up signal.

Pulling his power back, Austin tapped his helmet and pointed to Robinett. Dash Two, who was now the leader, had the responsibility of guiding the flight home.

The Skyhawk pilot waved, then banked and climbed away as the F-4s departed for Da Nang.

The two Phantoms skimmed through the tops of the clouds while Brad prepared for the instrument letdown. He selected the approach plate for the runway that they had departed from. Robinett would fly the approach for both pilots, but Brad had always monitored the instrument procedures when he flew as a wingman.

"All set back there?" Brad asked Wyatt as the lead Phantom started the descent.

"Yeah," Randy replied with a nervous chuckle. "I'm ready for a cold beer."

"That makes two of us." Brad laughed as the fighters entered the gloomy overcast. He raised his helmet visor in order to see better.

When the Phantoms began bouncing around in the rain and turbulence, Brad increased the separation to twenty-five feet. After leveling off for a short period, Stew Robinett turned south and again descended.

"I think," Brad said as he concentrated on keeping his leader in sight, "that our TACAN is out, too. It's frozen." The tactical air navigation system provided distance and azimuth between the aircraft and the airfield.

Wyatt keyed his intercom. "Do you have any idea where the hell we are?"

Brad paused a moment, trying to reestablish his situational awareness. His soiled flight gloves were damp with salty perspiration. "No . . . we may be too low to get a lock on the TACAN. Just relax."

"I'll relax when you get this sonuvabitch on the ground."

Robinett banked to a new heading, then commenced a slow descent. The rain increased and the clouds grew darker as the Phantoms continued their approach. Both aircraft yawed as the turbulence increased.

"Jesus Christ!" Wyatt swore as he darted looks out of both sides of the cockpit.

"What?" Brad asked, feeling a constriction in his chest.

"We're almost in the trees!" Wyatt snapped his head to the other side of the canopy, then glanced at the altimeter. "We're letting down over a mountain. We gotta climb!" .

"Oh!" Brad cried out, yanking the stick back at the instant a bright flash blinded him. His heart pounded as he slammed the throttles into afterburner and waited for the impact.

Wyatt's voice reflected panic. "What happened? Where's--"

"They went in--hit something!" Brad was fighting his own overpowering fear. "Keep broadcasting on guard. We're nordo and declaring an emergency.''

"What are you going to do?"

The Phantom shot out of the clouds while Brad rapidly considered their choices. He pulled the throttles back to conserve fuel, then headed for the coastline. "If we can find Casper, he can lead us down."

Feeling a surge of adrenaline, Wyatt searched for any aircraft. "What if we can't? We're almost out of fuel . . . and we can't fly back north."

"Then we'll drop down and follow the coast--see if we can locate the runway."

"I can't believe it," Wyatt said anxiously. "Are you sure they hit something?"

"Positive. They exploded right in front of us." Brad's pulse was racing. "They midaired, or hit the ground."

Wyatt remained quiet a moment, then spoke in a hesitant voice. "Maybe we should think about jumping out."

Brad scanned the empty sky. "Goddamnit, we aren't getting out while we still have gas."

They remained silent while Brad descended to 200 feet above the water. Slowing the F-4 to 180 knots, he hugged the shoreline under the thick clouds and stared at the coastline. If they did locate the runway, Brad planned to land in the opposite direction from their takeoff. He could not risk a dual flameout while he maneuvered to the other end of the airfield.

Brad checked his fuel quantity and thought about a controlled ejection. Minutes seemed to turn into hours as the Phantom gulped fuel and the rain increased.

"Randy," Brad ordered in a calm voice, "keep talking on guard. Someone may hear-- There it is!"

"You see the runway?"

"No," Brad shot back, "but there's Hai Van . . . and that little island off the tip."

"Hon Son Tra?"

"Yes," Brad answered while he pointed at the islet. "Right below us. See it?"

"I've got it!"

Banking steeply over the small island, Brad lowered the landing gear and flaps. "That's it. We just need to turn south--be lined up for a straight in."

"I hope," Wyatt replied, straining to see the base, "that they're painting us on radar."

"We're probably too low."

Slowing to approach speed as they crossed the bay, Austin went through his landing checklist and looked at the gear indicators. Satisfied, he glanced out at the runway. Brad was startled to see two F-4s accelerating toward them. The dull-gray fighters were almost obscure against the rain clouds.

Snapping into a tight turn, Brad shoved the throttles forward as the two Phantoms roared past. He could feel his heart pound.

"Get this thing on the ground," Wyatt uttered in shock.

Brad continued in a complete circle, yanking the power back as he rolled on final. Stabilizing at 130 knots, he touched down in a spray of water, popped his drag chute, then rolled to the end of the runway.

After entering the dearming area, Austin noticed a vehicle racing toward their Phantom. The unannounced landing would certainly cause a major flap.

Brad also noticed that his hands were shaking.

Chapter
TWO

Hollis Spencer, CIA agent, tugged his utility cap over his forehead as the navy helicopter flared over the darkened hangar. He checked his watch when the wheels touched the moonlit ramp, then grasped his briefcase and jumped to the pavement. The Southern Air Transport C-130 Hercules, operating under government contract, was expected to land in twelve minutes.

Spencer, a former naval aviator, lowered his head and held a firm hand on his cap. He quickly walked away from the beating rotor blades as the pilot added power to begin his return trip to Miramar Naval Air Station.

Hollis Spencer, known as "Cap" to his colleagues in the Agency, had been selected as the project officer for Operation Achilles. The months of delicate negotiations and in-depth logistical planning were over. The United States Navy was about to add a unique asset to its airplane inventory.