by Bob Mayer
The pilot chose the left missile. Since his target was so slow moving, he'd pass by too quickly to keep his tracking radar on it. He got on the radio and ordered his wingman to do the same.
Only one thing to do, Jean Long decided. She banked left, straight toward the onrushing helicopters. By doing this, she reduced both the amount of time they would have to fire and the Blackhawk's silhouette.
2:33 a.m. Local
The pilot of the lead J-7 yelled over his radio, "Fire." Two Atoll missiles leapt forward, one from each aircraft.
The 579 was moving at 70 knots, the two Z-9s at 125 knots. The Blackhawk closed the five-hundred-meter gap between them in three seconds. The Z-9 pilots had not anticipated this maneuver and were able to fire only a quick, poorly aimed burst from their miniguns before the Blackhawk shot past them. The Z-9 pilots stared in amazement at the two men suspended below the aircraft.
The Atolls made up their electronic minds immediately after leaving the wings of the J-7s. They went for the hottest targets available.
"Jesus Christ!" Chong closed his eyes as the two helicopters approached and roared by. He was dangling only ten feet from the edge of the deck. The night sky lit up and the force of the two explosions buffeted his body and the Blackhawk.
2:39 a.m. Local
"Tiger Flight leader. This is Yanji Control. You just shot down two of ours! The intruder is still moving southeast."
The Tiger Flight leader swore. So much for infrared. This was his first time in combat and his first time firing live missiles. He wouldn't make that mistake again. He didn't have a choice now anyway. As the J-7s completed a sweeping turn and started their second run, Tiger Flight leader called his wingman. "Fire your second missile on radar guidance. Launch five kilometers out and slow to just above stall speed to keep your radar tracking."
His wingman acknowledged.
Ehrlich stared over the operator's shoulder at the image of the J-7s closing again on the 579. He didn't know what had just happened, but there were two fewer Chinese helicopters and 579 was still flying. He didn't think the Blackhawk could survive another encounter with the fast movers. "Whatever you're doing, we need it now," he said to the radar operator.
"Just another second, sir." She was furiously working her computer keyboard.
"Now!" Tiger Flight leader ordered.
His wingman's thumb closed on the firing switch in concert with his. Two more Atoll missiles were launched.
2:40 a.m. Local
Chong was pulled into the cargo compartment. Staring out, they could all see the burst of flame and the twin streaks of light, as two missiles came screaming toward them.
The AWACS radar operator punched the "Enter" button on her keyboard. "That should do it."
Mitchell and the rest of the men in the cargo compartment watched mesmerized as the two missiles closed rapidly. Then, suddenly, they both veered off. One flew almost straight up into the night sky. The other turned down and impacted with a roar into the ground. Chong turned to help the others begin pulling in Riley. He noticed, for the first time, that the right side of his uniform was covered with blood.
2:41 a.m. Local
The Tiger Flight leader stared at his tracking screen in confusion. The clear image had dissolved into meaningless clutter.
"Yanji, this is Tiger Flight leader. We're switching to guns. Give us a vector back to the target. All our tracking radars are down. Over."
The flight leader reached over to his console and flipped the arming switch for the 30mm cannons mounted in the wing roots on either side of the plane. The other pilots did the same. Firing fifteen hundred rounds a minute, the cannons would make short work of the intruder.
"Roger, Tiger Flight leader. I'm going to loop you around to the west so you can come at the intruder from the rear. Turn right to heading one eight five zero mils."
Baibang grabbed his other handset. "Wolfpack Three, this is Yanji Control. Over."
The remaining Z-9 came on the net. "This is Wolfpack Three. Over." "Wolfpack Three. Turn on a heading of zero eight zero zero mils. The J-7s are going to do a gun run. I want you to head for where the intruder would cross the border, just in case. Over." "Roger. Heading of zero eight zero zero mils."
2:42 a.m. Local
With Chong's help they had Riley halfway up. Chong could feel no pain or discomfort. Nor could he see any sign of a wound other than his blood-soaked uniform.
Jean knew they were running out of time. The border was five minutes away and the coast was twenty minutes farther. The fast movers were zero for two, but sooner or later they'd get their act together. She didn't have any tricks left. As soon as they got the last guy in, she'd drop down and try to outmaneuver them.
"Maintain one eight five zero mils. Over."
The Tiger Flight leader acknowledged Yanji Control.
"Jam the ground radar in Yanji, too," Ehrlich ordered.
2:43 a.m. Local
They pulled in Riley, and Chong now knew where the blood had come from. "Jesus Christ. Look at him!" Chong grabbed Comsky and pointed. Riley's uniform was completely soaked with blood. As Chong unsnapped the team sergeant from his harness, Comsky immediately began searching for the wound.
It wasn't hard to find. Riley must have been hit just after they were picked up. Two rounds had punched small, neat holes in his lower right stomach. The trajectory of the rounds had carried them through his body and out his upper right back. The exit wounds were a mess of torn flesh and bone. Pulling bandages out of the aircraft's first-aid kit, Comsky worked desperately to stop the flow of blood.
Jean Long had 579 back down in the trees. The two jets flew by just above their stall speed at two hundred knots. She couldn't understand why they appeared to be searching for her visually. Why didn't they just use their radars?
The Tiger Flight leader wanted to slam his instrument panel in frustration. Without his onboard radar, and now without Yanji Control, he was almost blind. Somewhere below, the intruder was running. The border was approaching rapidly. The Tiger Flight leader looked down. If he didn't turn now, he'd cross into North Korean airspace. He keyed his radio. "Break off."
2:43 a.m. Local (China Time Zone)
The radar operator sighed. "Sir, the Chinese jets have broken off." For the first time, Ehrlich felt that the Blackhawk had a chance.
3:48 a.m. Local (Korea-Japan Time Zone)
Lassiter was back in the front seat. Jean Long gratefully relinquished the controls to him. Eighteen to nineteen minutes to the coast. The Chinese jets had broken off at the border.
In the back, Comsky had stopped the flow of blood from Riley's wounds. Comsky leaned over and spoke right in Mitchell's ear to be heard above the turbine engines and blades. "He's not going to make it if we don't get him to a hospital ASAP. One of those rounds, maybe both, went through his right lung. He's lost a lot of blood."
Mitchell looked at Riley. He was lying on his right side; Hoffman was holding bandages over the wounds, and putting pressure on the sucking chest wound to help close it off. Mitchell didn't know what to do. So close. They'd made it too far to lose someone now.
3:58 a.m. Local
Ehrlich anxiously gripped the edges of his chair as he watched the blip representing 579 crawl toward the coast. Not much farther to go. The radar operator turned and looked at him.
"Sir, we've got two North Korean MiG-21s moving in at Mach 1.5 from the southwest. Direct for 579."
"Goddamn!" Ehrlich cursed. The Blackhawk might still stay low enough to avoid the MiGs, but once it hit the coast there'd be no place to hide. The MiGs would have a turkey shoot—Ehrlich had no doubt that the North Koreans would shoot.
He looked over at the female technician who had jammed the radar of the Chinese jets. "Can you jam the MiGs and North Korean ground radar?"
The woman shook her head doubtfully. "I've got to find the frequencies first. The North Koreans are acting smarter than the Chinese. They're using their radar only in bursts."
4:06 a.m. L
ocal
The coast was one minute ahead. Lassiter and Long scanned the night sky.
"There, at four o'clock." Lassiter looked where Long indicated. He could see the running lights of two jets flying along the coast at about three thousand feet. "Once we cross the beach and hit the water, they're going to be on us."
Long shrugged. "You got any better ideas?"
"No."
"Then let's do it."
4:07 a.m. Local
The North Korean flight leader turned on his tracking radar. The blip representing the intruder appeared on the screen. Noting the location he quickly turned off the radar to prevent possible jamming. He didn't know who or what the intruder was, but his orders were to shoot it down. He looked out his left window and spotted it. An American-made helicopter!
"There's the intruder. Follow me." The flight leader banked his aircraft and started a run in toward the helicopter flitting across the wave tops. His eyes narrowed in anticipation as he placed his thumb over the trigger for his twin-barrel 23mm cannon. Another fifteen seconds and the helicopter would be history.
"Here they come." Lassiter started evasive maneuvers, turning and banking erratically.
The North Korean flight leader looked through his gun sight. The helicopter was bobbing in the cross hairs. Still, between the two of them, they ought to be able to get in some rounds. It would take only a few of the 23mm slugs to destroy the fragile helicopter.
He edged his finger over the trigger. Just another second. Suddenly a screeching tone sounded in his headset and a light on his console flashed red.
"Missile lock-on!" the flight leader screamed. He violently threw his MiG into evasive maneuvers. His wingman followed suit. The leader turned on his radar and stared at it. Where had the lock-on come from? There was nothing on his screen except the helicopter. It couldn't have come from there. The warning meant that an enemy fighter had locked its targeting radar on his aircraft.
The tone went off. He turned his aircraft back toward the helicopter. Suddenly the screeching tone sounded again. As he broke away, the flight leader saw the silhouette of an aircraft shadowing him and his wingman. He'd never seen anything like it before—it looked like something from outer space. The aircraft didn't appear to have a fuselage, just a short, squat flying wing.
Realizing he had to deal with this unknown threat first, the flight leader kicked in his afterburners and gained altitude in an attempt to loop back behind his pursuer. He still had nothing but the helicopter on his screen. As he rolled out, the target lock-on sounded again. Trying to break the lock-on, he caught another glimpse of the strange aircraft following tightly behind. There were two of them now.
The tone fell silent. Realization seeped through the North Korean pilot's brain. If the strange aircraft had wanted to shoot him down, it could have done so by now. Three lock-ons were more than enough. They were giving him a message: Stay away from the helicopter.
Even if he managed to get behind the enemy planes, the lack of a radar image would put him at a severe disadvantage. The pilot was caught between his sense of duty and his sense of self-preservation.
Then he had a new thought. Whatever was shadowing him had never been seen before by a North Korean pilot. He would be the first to report it. Perhaps that would help assuage his superiors. Having rationalized himself out of an untenable situation, the flight leader broke and ran for home, calling for his wingman to follow.
4:08 a.m. Local
"Where the hell did they go?" Jean Long was twisted in her seat, peering to the rear. She couldn't see the MiGs. The sky was clear.
"I don't know. And I don't care." Lassiter wasn't going to argue with their good fortune.
4:10 a.m. Local
Comsky finished checking Riley again. He'd given him a syringe of morphine. The medic reported back to Mitchell. "He's going into shock and is aspirating blood. I think his left lung may have been nicked too. If we don't get him to a hospital with suction soon to clear his lungs, he's going to drown in his own blood."
Mitchell acknowledged the information and keyed his headset. "Jean, Dave was wounded when we were picking him up. He's got a sucking chest wound. Comsky says if we don't get him to a hospital soon, he'll be dead."
"We're a little more than five hours out of Korea. That's the closest possibility. We refueled off the Rathburne coming in, and it's about three hours to the south. We can try that. I'm not even sure we're home free from the North Koreans yet. They can still catch us with their jets. I don't know why those two MiGs broke off, but there may be more on the way."
Lassiter broke in. "I don't think we have to worry about MiGs anymore. Take a look up at 2 o'clock." Long turned and looked where Lassiter was pointing. The moon shone off the wings of two F-16s passing by in escort.
'And therefore the victories won by a master of war
gain him neither reputation for wisdom
nor merit for valour."
Sun Tzu: The Art of War
22
Eighth Army Headquarters, Yongsan, Seoul, Korea Saturday, 10 June, 1915 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 4:15 a.m. Local
General Parker was emotionally exhausted. Listening in to Ehrlich on the AWACS for the past half hour had been nerve-racking. Against all odds, things appeared to have worked out. 579 was clear of the coast. Wildcard had scared off the MiGs. The F-16s were now on station escorting the helicopter back. Parker keyed his mike. "Colonel Ehrlich. What's the status of Wildcard?"
"I've got it located just off the coast, sir, in case the MiGs decide to give it another try. I know we've got the F-16s on station now, but I don't want to let anybody close to that helicopter. Wildcard worked better than we expected. Apparently even the tracking radar on the Korean MiGs couldn't pick it up. I'll keep Wildcard there for another twenty minutes and then send them home."
Parker was relieved. The first operational mission flown by the Stealth fighter had proven a success. The two Stealth fighters had been stationed in northern Japan the last three months conducting classified training flights near Russian airspace, testing the aircraft's capabilities against the radar array on the Soviets' east coast. The performance during this crisis had proven the plane's capabilities and worth. Of course, it had also disclosed the aircraft's operational existence to the North Koreans, but Parker felt that was a price worth paying. The Stealth fighter's existence would have come out in the next few months anyway.
Parker keyed the mike again. "Do you have any communications with the helicopter?"
"We haven't tried yet, sir. It doesn't have secure capability."
"Can you talk to it if you need to?"
"Yes, sir. We can broadcast on the guard net, and that will override whatever frequency they're on now."
"Get them on the radio and then patch me in," Parker ordered.
"Yes, sir. Wait one."
Parker heard Ehrlich make the call.
"Army helicopter 579. Army helicopter 579. This is Tango Station. Over."
There was a long pause, then a woman's voice came over the air. "Umm . . . Tango Station, this is 579. Over."
"579, this is Tango Station on an unsecure link. We're the people who have been looking after you the past half hour. We also control your escort. I have someone in your chain of command who wants to talk to you. Over."
"Roger, we're standing by. Over."
Ehrlich keyed in Parker. "Go ahead, sir. Your transmissions will be relayed through us to 579. Just key your mike when you're ready to talk to them. Let me know when you want me to shut them out. Over."
Parker keyed his mike. "579, this is . . ." he hesitated and looked at Major Thomas. "What's our call sign?"
"Papa Sierra Twelve, sir."
Parker thumbed the mike. "579, this is Papa Sierra Twelve. What is the status of the personnel you picked up? Over."
"Papa Sierra Twelve, this is 579. We've got four wounded, one critically. The medic says that if we don't soon get him to a hospital equipped with suction he won't make it. The others are all
stable. Over."
Parker paused and looked at Thomas and Hossey. "Any ideas?"
Thomas shook his head. "There's nothing closer than here as far as hospitals go."
"They could land on the Rathburne again," Hossey suggested.
Parker contacted 579 again. "This is Papa Sierra Twelve. The only place we have that is closer than coming here is the same place you refueled. Over."
"This is 579. We understand. Heading for that location now. Could you check to see if that location has the facilities to handle our patient? Over."
USSRathburne, Sea of Japan Saturday, 10 June, 1920 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 4:20 a.m. Local
Commander Lemester couldn't believe it. "Say again. Over."
The speaker on the bridge crackled. "I say again. Reverse course and assume a heading of three-five-four degrees at maximum speed. You have an inbound helicopter with wounded on board. Over."
Lemester rubbed his forehead. He had a hell of a headache. The caller had identified himself with the classified call sign of the commander of the U.S. Eighth Army in Korea. Lemester wasn't sure if the commander of Eighth Army could order him around, not being in the direct chain of command of the Rathburne. On the other hand, that fellow was a four-star general. What the hell, Lemester decided. They were getting pretty good at picking up mysterious helicopters. One more wouldn't make much difference.
