Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)

by Tom Wilson

  When Ford four was clear, Lucky again moved behind the tanker. He and Lieutenant Bowes would top off their fuel tanks, then Ford flight would break away from the tanker to fly the final 200 miles to the western border of North Vietnam. He began to tingle with anticipation.

  1352 Local—Channel 97 TACAN, Laos

  First Lieutenant Billy Bowes

  "Ford is at the checkpoint," Billy heard Major Anderson call on the radio.

  They'd been flying at 480 knots calibrated airspeed in a loose fingertip formation. Billy was on Anderson's right wing, keeping his mind occupied with flying the aircraft and going over the weapons-release procedures during the half-hour lull between drop-off from the tanker and arrival at the navigation checkpoint.

  Bowes had been told that the TACAN ground station, sited on a flat, barren hilltop deep in the hostile territory two miles below Ford flight, was manned and protected by friendly tribesmen under contract to the CIA. They said its presence was known to the enemy, that periodically it had come under attack by Pathet Lao troops, and that once it had almost been overrun and was saved only after a massive display of air-power support.

  The world below was colored by tawny elephant grass when they'd dropped off the tanker in northern Thailand and proceeded northeast into Laos. Next they'd overflown the purplish-brown hues of the vast Plains des Jars. Now, as they approached the tall, western mountains of North Vietnam, the earth was changing to dark green, the color of the tall teak trees and jungle thickets.

  Just as Billy felt they were crossing into North Vietnam, Anderson made another radio call. "Ford flight, push 'em up. Let's go to button three."

  Anderson sharply increased his airspeed, and Billy kept abreast by adjusting his own throttle forward. With the same hand, Billy switched until the indicator before him showed the number 3, and heard a buzzing as the radio tuned. It was a little touch, having the radio so easy to operate, but one the pilots appreciated.

  "Fords, radio check," called Anderson on the combat frequency.

  Billy was quick with his response, "Two!" then the other two flight members chimed in. "Ford three!" "Four!"

  A glance at the instrument tape showed they had settled at 550 knots airspeed, yet the huge J-75 engine was not yet straining.

  "Let's green 'em up," called Anderson.

  Billy's heart thumped. He set up for EXTERNAL BOMBS and switched on the master-armament switch. A green light told him he was ready to fight.

  After another long moment Anderson called, "Fords, turn on your music."

  Billy was confused, then he remembered. He located the ECM control panel and rotated the wafer knob from STANDBY to TRANSMIT. A green light illuminated, indicating the ECM pod was operating properly. The pod, loaded out on the right wing and powered by a small ram air turbine propeller, generated electronic noise to help confuse enemy radar.

  Billy heard a crackling sound from the radar homing and warning equipment, called RHAW. Its purpose was to alert you when an enemy radar scanned your airplane with its beam. A telelite panel would indicate the type of radar, whether from AAA, SAM, or a MiG, and a strobe on a small CRT would point in the clock-direction of the radar. This was Billy Bowes's first experience with the thing, but he felt that something must be amiss to make it act up like this.

  The crackling sound continued. Bright green strobes sputtered at the center of the CRT scope, and periodically the AAA and SAM lights flickered on.

  Billy had been briefed that all threats should be called over the radio. Why wasn't Anderson calling them out? He paused, unsure of what to do, not wanting to do anything dumb but determined to give warning if there was impending danger. They were over enemy territory, and the RHAW was picking something up.

  More crackling sounds and flashing lights. To hell with it, he told himself.

  "Ford two has a RHAW indication," he broadcast over the radio, since he was unsure whether it was an artillery or SAM radar.

  He was answered by silence.

  The CRT continued to flicker. "Ford lead, two has a RHAW indication," he repeated.

  "Ford two, maintain radio silence unless you see something," replied Anderson.

  "Ford two's got intermittent SAM and AAA lights," Billy called stubbornly, unable to keep his voice from rising. Anderson was ignoring him.

  "Ford four has the same," came an even shriller radio call from the other lieutenant in the flight. Like Bowes, it was also Fred Francis's first time in pack six. They'd known one another at McConnell, where they'd checked out in Thuds. Billy felt vindicated now that Francis had seconded his observation.

  The good feeling didn't last.

  "Ford two and four, unless you've got at least a two-ring strobe and a solid light, ignore it," Anderson called impatiently. "Your receivers are picking up the jamming from your own pods."

  Billy's face flushed hot with embarrassment.

  "THIS IS BIG EYE. BISON IN QUEBEC GOLF THREE. I REPEAT. THIS IS BIG EYE. BISON IN QUEBEC GOLF THREE," came a blasting radio transmission over the emergency frequency. Big Eye was an airborne radar aircraft, and—Billy looked at the card on his kneeboard—"Bison" was the code name for MiGs. He fumbled and opened his map to find out where the hell the Q-G-3 coordinates were.

  "Fords, keep a good lookout for MiGs," radioed Anderson.

  According to Billy Bowes's map the Q-G-3 sector was not far ahead.

  "Cadillac lead has two MiG-21's at our three o'clock. Prepare to engage, Cadillacs."

  He looked again at his kneeboard. "Cadillac" was the Wild Weasel flight, flying a dozen miles out in front of them. Excitement welled within his chest and he felt his heart quicken.

  He moved his gaze about the sky, staring hard, shifting, staring hard again. Concentrating on his area of responsibility, the airspace from dead ahead, around to the left, to their rear. He nudged left rudder and craned about. Nothing behind them. He swept his gaze slowly back toward the forward quadrant.

  "Move it around, Ford two," Anderson barked at him. "Keep jinking."

  Damn. He'd forgotten to keep his aircraft in motion. He banked, first one way and then another, as Lucky Anderson was doing. An old-hand combat pilot had told him to avoid abrupt movements, to make smooth, yet unpredictable adjustments to create tracking problems for enemy gunners.

  Ford flight continued toward the target area. Billy's mind computed. Four minutes since they'd crossed into North Vietnam. Flying at nine nautical miles a minute. He estimated they were ten minutes from the ridge of mountains north of Hanoi.

  He peered at the terrain. Ahead was a wide flatland checkered with multihued rice paddies. A wide, muddy river writhed snakelike through the valley. The Red.

  It was pack six, and just as he'd been briefed, it looked very different from the green mountainous jungles covering pack five. It was the pulsing, vibrant heart of North Vietnam. Fifteen million people, three fourths of the country's population, lived on the tiny farms and in the crowded population centers of that single great valley. All of the country's industry was located there, as were their two primary cities, Hanoi and Haiphong. Except for the single ridge of mountains that ran north of Hanoi, it was mostly flat. So flat that the elevation, from the coast to the western mountains more than one hundred miles inland, was less than fifty feet above sea level.

  "THIS IS BIG EYE. BISON IN ALPHA GOLF FOUR. I REPEAT. THIS IS BIG EYE. BISON IN ALPHA GOLF FOUR." The radar aircraft, again announcing MiGs, broadcasting with their directional antennae, which made the words so loud they hurt your eardrums.

  He lifted his head, saw motion in the distance, and focused on three delta-wing forms. MiG-21's!

  Billy hit the mike button and stuttered, "B'Bogeys at ten o'clock."

  Anderson asked quietly, "Who's got bogeys at ten o'clock?"

  "Ford two has three MiGs in sight at ten o'clock," he announced in an unnaturally high voice. It was hard to restrain himself from pulling up and into the MiGs.

  "High or low, Ford two?" asked Anderson in the maddeningly calm tone.


  "High," he shouted.

  "Take a closer look, two."

  "Lead, I see four of them now. Request permission to . . ." Billy stared harder, saw the bogeys continue serenely, weaving and jinking on a high flight path that paralleled their own. There was something about them. . . .

  "See the smoke trails, Ford two?"

  Billy saw the wisp of black smoke and wanted to hide in a hole. "Roger, sir." His voice was much quieter.

  "MiGs don't smoke like that, Ford two. I've been watching the F-4's for a couple of minutes now. You just see 'em?"

  He paused to swallow. "Yes, sir."

  "Keep up your lookout for MiGs, Fords," said Anderson with a hint of sarcasm.

  "Ford three's got two bogeys at two o'clock, ten degrees high, bout six miles, lead," came Captain Tatro's lazy voice.

  Billy snapped his vision around, searching the sky, saw two specks in the distance. He swung his head back toward lead and . . . Anderson had turned directly toward him! He immediately banked hard left, reefing on the stick to avoid being hit. Then, adjusting his composure and ungritting his clenched teeth, he closed to fly a hundred yards off lead's wing.

  "Keep your airspeed up, Fords," Anderson calmly called, "and prepare to engage. Select left outboard station for a missile shot."

  Billy excitedly reset his weapons-panel switch, wondering if they shouldn't drop their bombs and fuel tanks to prepare for hard maneuvering.

  "Ford lead, this is three," sounded Captain Tatro's southern draw. "The MiGs are turnin' south." Tatro's "south" came out sounding like "sowf." His Mississippi accent was sometimes difficult to interpret.

  "I've got 'em in sight, Ford three," said Anderson, and led Ford flight into a slow turn back to course.

  Billy glanced back at the MiGs and studied them for future reference. He had exceptional eyesight and would not mistake them again.

  He overheard the flak-suppression flight talking about SAMs up ahead, saying something about preparing to "take it down," which he knew was a maneuver to evade surface-to-air missiles. He felt ill prepared and now wished he'd been given the practice missions Lucky Anderson had spoken of.

  Ford lead altered course and Billy easily corrected, vowing not to be thrown out of position again.

  As they crossed the wide, muddy river, groups of white puffs sputtered over a riverbank village a few miles to their right. They did not appear menacing, for the explosions were not close, yet his heart betrayed him and thumped harder. Billy Bowes had seen his first flak.

  "Fords two and four, that's Yen Bai at our four o'clock," explained Lucky Anderson to the two new men. "They shoot like that when we go by. Don't hit much, but they shoot a lot."

  "Ho Chi Minh's got a cathouse set up there," drawled Captain Tatro, the word pronounced "kayut-hayous."

  How the hell could they be cracking jokes? Billy's stomach felt as if something was clawing to get out.

  A squealing, chattering sound broke the solitude. The CRT on his RHAW showed a dancing electronic strobe which extended to the third concentric ring. There was no problem discerning between the real thing and the random noise he'd seen before.

  "SAM activity at one o'clock, Fords," radioed Anderson, still using the calm, conversational tone.

  "Ford three's got a SAM launch indication," called Tatro in a distinctively higher pitch.

  "Prepare to maneuver, Fords," called Major Anderson, and Billy Bowes's heart flooded with adrenaline.

  1411 Local—Route Pack Six, North Vietnam

  Major Lucky Anderson

  Lucky watched distant flurries of dust and smoke as the SAMs blasted off their launch pads, then carefully kept his eyes glued on them as he lowered the nose of his Thud a few degrees and nudged the throttle forward to the stop. They'd fired a group of three missiles, with six seconds between each launch. He estimated the SAMs to be ten to twelve miles distant. He couldn't see the missiles themselves yet, only the fiery plumes of their boosters.

  His Thud was building speed. He didn't know how much, because he didn't dare take his eyes off the SAM plumes to look inside the cockpit. Speed meant maneuvering energy, and more was better than less, so he kept the throttle pressed to the limit.

  The secret now would be to keep their cool, to continue building up their energy until the last split second, when the missiles were too close to react, and then to maneuver hard.

  The missiles were shooting toward them at incredible speeds, the combined closure rates now more than four times the speed of sound. He slowly sucked in a breath of air and waited—waited until he could see the missile clearly—waited until—NOW! He pulled the control stick sharply back, and the Thud skidded and slewed upward. A fuzzy cloud of white formed at the canopy bow, condensation from the muggy air. He maintained the sharp climb, then banked first left, then hard right before rolling the Thud over on its back.

  "Ford lead, I saw all three missiles go by," called Turk Tatro, his voice calm again.

  "Roger, Ford three," Lucky replied, rolling out wings level. He glanced out to his right and was amazed to see Lieutenant Bowes moving back into position. If Bowes could stay in place through that sort of wild-assed maneuvering, Lucky thought, he was one hell of a pilot.

  He adjusted course toward Thud Ridge, the line of mountains north of Hanoi, and the prominent knoll that was to be their turn point, pushing the throttle forward to the stop, then easing off a single notch. They were flying at 630 knots, almost Mach one, and were only a couple miles south of their preplanned course.

  Cadillac, the Wild Weasel flight, called from the opposite side of Thud Ridge that the target weather was CAVU, clear and visibility unlimited. That was partly good, for they'd have no trouble seeing the target, partly bad because the gunners would be able to see them as well.

  A flight behind them announced they'd spotted MiGs. Lucky looked about and again caught his wingman flying straight and level, as if he were flying an airway in the States. "Ford two, keep it moving around," he chastised.

  Bowes immediately resumed his random maneuvering. He'll be a good combat jock, thought Lucky. He had reservations about Lieutenant Francis, who was only now joining up with Captain Tatro after the defensive maneuvering.

  They approached Thud Ridge at equal altitude with the knoll, skimming over the trees on its left side. Lucky turned hard right and descended. He flew southward toward the target, dropping and rising, using the contours of the ridge as a shield from defenses, the remainder of the flight trailing out behind him. The tactic was called terrain masking, for while they were flying this close to the mountains, they would remain hidden in the ground clutter on the gomer radar scopes.

  The flak-suppression flight, thirty seconds in front of them, announced they were popping up for weapons delivery.

  Lucky looked ahead and saw the sprawling city of Hanoi. Dark 57, 85, and 100mm flak bursts formed in dense groups of fours and sixes over the Red River, wide and pocked with islets here, where it meandered through the northernmost part of the city. As Ford flight passed the last green hillock of the ridge, Lucky Anderson pushed the throttle outboard into the afterburner detent and pulled back on the control stick, then felt the kick in the ass as the burner lit.

  "Ford lead is in the pop-up," he announced, then added for the benefit of the two new lieutenants: "I'll offset to the west of the target, over the river. Two, follow me in, but not down the same chute. We'll recover on the east side of the ridge."

  He was climbing fast, jinking sharply to his left, then to his right, as he passed through 10,000 feet and approached the perch. He saw the dancing sparkles of cluster-bomblet units going off at his eleven o'clock, where the flak-suppression flight had dropped on the guns.

  He rolled the Thud over on its back and hung in the straps, carefully searching the earth below, letting his eyes drift up the north side of the riverbank, then settle on white smoke issuing from two stacks. The thermal-power plant? He studied the shape and convinced himself it was the same structure he'd studied in ph
otos before takeoff.

  Smoke from the power plant's stacks was blowing gently to the east, toward him. Ten knots of wind?

  "Ford lead's in the dive," he announced, again for the benefit of the green lieutenants. When they were more experienced, it would all be done silently.

  He heard the rattling sounds of a SAM tracking radar over his RHAW system.

  "Ford two has a SAM light," called Lieutenant Bowes. A good call, for this time the kid was right.

  "Ignore it, Ford two. The missiles won't be able to keep up with our maneuver."

  Lucky tucked the stick back into his lap and nudged it against his leg. He rolled out wings level, in a steep forty-five-degree dive in the direction of the target area, pulling his throttle halfway back, settling the pipper short of the target, adjusting slightly for the wind. As he continued diving, the pipper crept upward toward the target. He was flying straight and predictably, now in the most hazardous period of a dive-bomb combat mission. If he jinked now, the bombs would be thrown off target. Time to grit his teeth and press on.

  Black and ominous flak bursts walked about the sky, searching for him. The RHAW squealed and chattered. He ignored it all, maintaining the steady sight-picture, waiting as the pipper slowly crawled toward the power plant. Pipper on target. He waited for a split second longer, a final compensation for the wind, then pickled. The bombs departed, his bird jolting with the relief, and he immediately banked hard one way and then the other as the flak bursts tracked closer. He'd begun his pullout lower and faster than normal.

  Breathing hard now. The controls mushing as the Thud was buffeted by flak bursts. BOOM—BOOM. So close, he could hear the muffled noises over the screaming turbojet. Climbing out slowly, still going fast, he rolled up on his left wing and flew an arc, staring back at the target. The power plant was lost in towering columns of gray smoke and rusty-brown dirt. His bombs and his wingman's had done that. More explosions, then more, as the rest of Ford flight's bombs found the target. A furious white vent of steam spat out of the carnage as a boiler was split.