Targets of Opportunity (1993) (39 page)

"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 ge
t t
heir 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 th
e l
eft 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.

Chapter
THIRTY-SIX

From the top of the briefing table, Brad opened his eyes and stared at the dim light bulb dangling from the ceiling. His lower back ached and his right arm was sore. He raised his head a few inches, then let it fall back on the sweat-soaked pillow. What time was it?

Austin brought his left wrist to his chest and waited for his eyes to adjust. Eleven-fifteen. The Quonset but was dark and quiet, so it must be nighttime.

He cautiously glanced at his upper right arm, which was resting on a second pillow. The sleeve of his Soviet-style flight suit had been cut off at the shoulder. He studied the thick gauze bandage that was neatly wrapped around his arm. The loosely woven fabric extended from above his elbow to under his armpit.

Brad closed his eyes and sighed. He felt drowsy from the effects of the morphine, and he let his mind drift back to the mission. The events suddenly rushed back as he replayed the terror in slow motion.

"How are you feeling?" a soft voice said from somewhere off to the side.

His eyes blinked open and he turned his head in the direction of the sound.

"Allison?" Brad uttered, searching through half-closed eyelids. His mouth seemed as dry as a barren desert and his tongue felt swollen.

"Yes," she replied quietly as Hollis Spencer stirred from his nap. "Would you like some water?"

Brad attempted a smile. "Yes . . . thank you."

be right back."

Cap Spencer stretched and walked to Brad's side when Allison went outside to the water cistern. He looked haggard when he sat down in the chair next to Austin.

Spencer placed his hand on Brad's left shoulder. "Things are looking up. Our ace corpsman says you're going to be as good as new in a week or two."