by Joe Weber
Brad saw the second MiG dive toward the airfield at Phuc Yen. He knew it would be impossible to hit the fleeing fighter with a Sparrow. The radar-guided missile would not be able to lock onto the low-flying MiG.
"The other MiG," Lunsford radioed, feeling relief sweeping over him, "is disengaging. He's in the grass going at the speed of heat!"
"Roger that," Bailey replied, studying the sky and ground. He caught a glimpse of the retreating MiG, lowered the Phantom's nose, then saw the stricken A-1 Skyraider gliding to a forced landing.
"Jokers, let's join up," Brad radioed, sensing the visceral effects of the adrenaline rush. "We'll orbit the Spad until Lifeguard arrives."
"Two," Bailey radioed as he extended his speed brakes to slow his closure rate on the lead aircraft.
Austin and Bailey, stealing glances at the crippled Skyraider, continued to search the hazy sky for MiGs. The A-1 pilot had slid his canopy open in preparation for the engine-out landing.
Brad looked back at the Spad. He was startled by the flames flowing down the left side of the aircraft.
"Buckshot Four," Austin radioed frantically. "You're on fire! You've got fire coming down the fuselage--your port side!"
"Copy!" the pilot replied in a tight voice. His propeller was slowly rotating as the engine spewed flames along the blackened fuselage. The aviator cocked the Skyraider into a steep side slip to keep the fire away from the fuselage.
The other three Spad pilots, who had not seen the fire in their search for MiGs, formed a wheel around their squadron mate as he flared to land the burning plane.
The pilot, who had elected to land gear up, floated over the uneven field, then crash-landed in a shower of earth and metal. The A-1 bounced into the air twice, then settled into a long slide.
Austin, flying 1,500 feet above the ground, banked into a gentle left turn and watched the Skyraider plow to a grinding halt.
The pilot, fighting to extricate himself from the smoke-filled cockpit, dove over the right side of the aircraft as flames licked the canopy. He crawled a few feet, then stumbled to his feet and ran sixty yards before kneeling to rest. He looked around, frantic to find some form of concealment. The singed pilot was more than a mile and a half from the Gulf of Tonkin.
Brad, closely monitoring the sky in all quadrants, continued in a circle while the RESCAP flight leader contacted Buckshot 1.
"Ah ... Buckshot Lead, Lifeguard with a full load. I've got a tally. We'll be overhead in two minutes."
"Copy, Lifeguard," the relieved flight leader responded as he watched his downed pilot. "He looks okay . . . moving across this field toward the eastern tree line."
The escaping pilot energized his survival radio and called his flight leader. "Jim, this is Clint. Do you copy?"
The Spad leader keyed his mike. "Roger that, loud and clear. Are you okay?"
The downed pilot stopped and looked up at the A-1 s. "I'm okay. Just a few minor burns. Should I head for the beach, or stay put and wait for the helo?"
The radio remained quiet for a few seconds.
"Clint, head for that tree line east of you and take cover. We'll get the helo in as soon as we can."
"Okay," the pilot replied, running toward the thick vegetation. He heard his Skyraider explode as he reached the row of trees.
Brad checked his internal fuel-quantity indicator, knowing that they had to depart for a tanker soon. The gauge showed 2,600 pounds remaining.
"Joker Two, say fuel."
"Two point three," Bailey replied, deliberately placing Austin in a position to make a decision. The young marine aviator could continue to provide cover for the Spads, at the risk of losing two Phantoms, or depart for the safety of a tanker.
Suddenly, antiaircraft weapons opened fire from the edge of a small village. The 37mm guns were reinforced by a company of North Vietnamese regulars hiding across the road from the dwellings.
Brad could see dozens of AK-47s winking at him from under the trees. The gunfire was intense and concentrated directly in front of the screaming Phantoms.
"We're taking fire!" Sheridan radioed as the bright red tracer rounds flashed over their F-4.
"Joker Two, let's go upstairs," Austin radioed as he shoved his throttles forward and raised the F-4's nose fifteen degrees.
"Two," Bailey replied, then immediately added, "Uh, oh, I'm hit!"
Brad turned his head to see his CO. "Okay, Jokers, we're getting out of here!"
"Brad," Bailey radioed in a terse voice, "look me over." "Wilco."
The Phantoms were streaking over the white-sand beach as Austin drifted under Bailey's damaged airplane. He could see four holes stitched from aft of the auxiliary air doors forward to the wing roots. Brad stared at the fuel pouring out of the second and third holes. The heavy spray was streaming directly under the jet exhaust.
"Brad," Lunsford said quietly over the intercom, "the skipper is in deep shit."
"Yeah . . . we may be too," the pilot replied, keying his radio transmitter. "Joker Two, you have a fuel leak. Say fuel state."
Bailey scanned his fuel-quantity indicator as Brad eased out to the right of the stricken Phantom.
"Good Lord," the CO radioed, not believing his eyes. "Two point one, and it's going down fast. Let's get to a Whale, ASAP."
"Roger," Brad responded, leveling off to accelerate at their present power setting. "Skipper, whatever you do, don't go into burner."
"Wilco," Bailey replied, watching the fuel quantity drop below 2,100 pounds.
Ernie Sheridan remained quiet, repeating the silent prayer that had always been a source of strength for him. The devout petition, the RIO fervently believed, had guided him through many tight situations.
Brad keyed his mike again. "Switch Red Crown." "Two switching."
Austin changed his radar transponder, known as an IFF (identification friend or foe), to emergency, switched radio frequencies, and pressed the transmit button. "Red Crown, Joker Two Oh Seven, feet wet with an emergency."
There was a short pause, tempting Brad to transmit again, before the ground-control intercept (GCI) radar controller answered the call.
"Copy, Joker Two Zero Seven. Squawk One Four Zero Four and say type of emergency."
Brad inhaled and let his breath out slowly. "My wingman has a severe fuel leak. We need vectors to a tanker. He has eight minutes of fuel remaining."
"Roger that, Two Zero Seven. Stand by."
Brad felt his pulse quicken. The CO did not have time to stand by. He and Ernie Sheridan would be in the water in a matter of minutes if they could not plug into a tanker.
"Joker, we hold you in radar contact. Come starboard to one one zero. The Whale will be at your twelve o'clock, sixty-five miles, angels two four zero. Cleared to switch frequency."
Brad did not acknowledge the radio call in his hurry to contact the KA-3B. "Snowball, Joker Two Oh Seven. My wingman has seven minutes of fuel left. Request you rendezvous with us ASAP."
Austin knew the tanker crews did not like to leave the refueling track and fly north; especially without a fighter escort.
"Copy, Joker Two Oh Seven," the Skywarrior pilot replied as he shoved his throttles forward. "Say angels."
Brad scanned his instruments, noting his fuel and altitude. "We're at your twelve o'clock, sixty miles at eight thousand. We can't afford the fuel to climb."
The radio remained silent a moment.
"We're coming downhill," the KA-3B pilot said in a calm voice as he eased the tanker's nose down. "Be with you in four minutes."
Dan Bailey keyed his radio mike. "Snowball, Joker Two Zero Four. Suggest you bottom out at eight thousand in three minutes and start a one-eighty. We'll come aboard as soon as we have a tally."
"Wilco, Joker."
Brad glanced at his fuel-quantity indicator, then watched the second hand sweep slowly around the eight-day clock. Time seemed to stand still as the two flights raced toward each other. Another minute passed as Austin and Bailey searched the horizon.
&n
bsp; "Joker Two, say fuel state," Brad said into his sweat-soaked oxygen mask.
"Nine hundred pounds," Bailey replied at the same time that Austin caught a glimpse of the KA-3B commencing the rendezvous turn.
"Tally!" Brad radioed in an excited voice. "I have a tally at eleven o'clock, in a port turn."
Three seconds passed before Bailey saw the tanker. "Joker Two has the Whale. Probe coming out."
Brad extended his refueling nozzle and glanced at Bailey's Phantom. Joker 2 had his probe in the open-and-locked position.
"Joker's cleared to plug," the tanker pilot said. "We have the drogue out, indicating two-fifty. We'll increase the speed after you're aboard."
Austin clicked his mike twice and concentrated on the join-up. The Phantoms had a closure rate on the KA-3B in excess of 160 miles per hour. The fighter pilots would have their hands full trying to slow down in the last few seconds before they rendezvoused.
Brad watched the tanker fill his windshield. The F-4s were less than 400 yards from the Skywarrior. "I'm moving out to the side, Skipper."
"Roger," Bailey replied, pulling his throttles back. "Idle and boards."
Brad clicked his mike, reduced power to idle, and extended his speed brakes. The two Phantoms, although slowing rapidly, were about to fly past the tanker. Brad moved farther to the right and cross-controlled the F-4 to avoid a collision.
"Goddamnit!" Lunsford swore as the fighter yawed sideways. "I'm gonna jump out of this sonuvabitch if you don't get it under control."
"Relax," Brad replied as the tanker's wing tip stabilized twenty feet to the left of the F-4.
"Snowball," Bailey radioed, standing his Phantom on its side, "pick it up to three hundred knots."
"Roger."
Brad watched closely as Bailey stopped cross-controlling and rolled the thirsty fighter level. The CO moved smoothly toward the basket on the end of the fuel hose, then suddenly fell back.
"I've flamed out!" Bailey radioed. "Snowball, toboggan and maintain the speed you have!"
"Wilco," the tanker pilot replied as he lowered the nose. He held the aircraft in a twenty-degree dive and eased the throttles back.
Bailey's General Electric J-79 engines were still windmilling, providing hydraulic power to the flight controls during his chase after the basket.
"Jesus Christ," Lunsford said over the intercom. His breathing was labored. "Come on, boss, get in the basket. Get it . . . nail it.
* * *
Bailey rammed the drogue, knocking it aside twice. Brad called out altitudes as the three aircraft plummeted toward the Gulf of Tonkin. "Five thousand three hundred . . . five . . . four point six . . . four . . . three point five . . . three . . ."
Lunsford watched Ernie Sheridan reach over his helmet for the ejection-seat handle. "Don't pull it," he said to himself. "Don't blow the skipper out of the driver's seat."
Brad released his mike switch when the CO mated with the basket and shoved the drogue forward.
"Fuel flow!" the tanker pilot radioed, sounding as if he was hyperventilating.
Brad looked at his altimeter and keyed his mike again. "Two point four . . . two . . . one point seven--"
"Light off!" Bailey said as Austin and Lunsford saw a ball of red-orange flame shoot out of the right tail pipe of the Phantom.
"I'm pulling out!" the tanker pilot radioed, easing the Skywarrior level at 400 feet above the water.
"I've got . . . the starboard engine on line," Bailey said in gasps. "Let's start a shallow climb . . . get some altitude so I can get an air start on the other engine."
Emotionally drained, Ernie Sheridan lowered his hands and slumped in his seat.
"Roger," the KA-3B pilot responded in a voice one octave higher than normal. "We'll drag you to the boat."
"Joker One," Bailey asked as the three aircraft climbed through 1,700 feet, "how's your gas?"
Brad looked at his fuel indicator and fudged. He did not want to add any additional pressure to his CO. "I'm fat, Skipper. Take your time."
"Fat, my ass," Lunsford said sarcastically over the intercom. "Just out for a Sunday drive . . . no problem."
The radios remained quiet while the flight climbed to 8,000 feet. Brad, staring at 1,100 pounds of fuel remaining, was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He glanced at Bailey's Phantom. It was still streaming kerosene at an alarming rate.
"Okay, Snowball," Bailey radioed, "I'm showing three grand. I'm going to back out and try an air start."
"Roger."
Bailey's probe slid out of the basket. "Brad, jump in there and grab a quick drink."
"I'm on it," Austin replied, moving smoothly behind the Whale. "Joker One is plugging."
Brad inched his throttles forward and placed his nozzle in the basket. He shoved the hose forward until the fuel started flowing.
"Fuel flow," the tanker pilot confirmed.
"Concur," Brad responded, then watched the internal fuel-quantity indicator climb. The precious fluid surged into his dry tanks. When the fuel gauge showed 2,200 pounds, Austin backed out of the basket and again moved out to the right. "Thanks for the gas."
"Roger."
Brad caught a glimpse of the CO as he hurtled past the tanker. Bailey was in a high-speed dive, windmilling his left engine in an attempt to relight the J-79. He pulled out 2,000 feet below Austin.
"I've got 'em both on line," Bailey radioed, speaking in a slower, calmer voice. "I'm going to plug again."
Brad watched Bailey climb back to the tanker, then called the carrier. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Seven."
The carrier air-traffic controller answered without hesitation. "Joker Two Zero Seven, Strike. We have been informed of your emergency. We're shooting another tanker. You'll have a ready deck on arrival. Your signal is charlie on arrival."
Austin was relieved. They were cleared to land on arrival. His radio navigation instrument, the TACAN, had locked onto the carrier's homing beacon. They would be over the carrier in eleven minutes. Brad switched back to the tanker frequency.
"Joker Two, we're charlie on arrival. You will land first, and we've got another tanker on the way."
"Copy," Bailey replied as he continued taking on fuel. "You're doing a super job . . . for a jarhead."
Brad's oxygen mask concealed his grin.
Chapter 2.
The last aircraft on the carrier in the scheduled launch cycle was sitting on the waist catapult when the Air Boss heard about the inbound emergency.
He waited until the A-4 Skyhawk was safely airborne, then ordered an emergency pull forward of all the airplanes on the fantail. The next aircraft-recovery cycle was not scheduled for another twenty-five minutes. Seven airplanes had to be quickly moved from the area behind the arresting-gear wires.
The Air Boss, in Primary Fly (Pri-Fly), the control tower on the carrier, gave commands over the 5-MC loudspeaker system to the flight-deck crew. The men responded in a well-orchestrated, fast-paced effort to clear the landing area.
The blue-shirted aircraft handlers scurried around the deck, moving planes to the bow. Two "hot suit" members of the crash crew donned silvery asbestos garments, topped by see-through fire-retardant helmets.
The plane-guard helicopter landed and was immediately hot-refueled with the engine running. After fresh pilots had strapped in, the Kaman Seasprite "angel" lifted off and flew along the starboard side of the carrier. The rescue swimmer, clad in a full wet suit, sat in the helicopter's open door with his legs hanging down.
Below decks, medical corpsmen were prepared to treat the inbound flight crews. Topside, four seasoned corpsmen waited for the crippled Phantom to appear. Between the quartet of medical experts, they had helped rescue twenty-seven aircrewmen.
The tension was felt throughout the carrier as the flight-deck crew received continuous updates on the position of the F-4s. Every minute was critical for the aircraft handlers.
Brad listened while the second KA-3B checked in on tanker frequency. The Whale, flying at full power, sta
rted a tight rendezvous turn and glided into position off Bailey's left wing. The hose and drogue were already reeling out when the tanker stabilized next to the Phantoms.
Russ Lunsford was impressed by the skill of the Skywarrior pilot. "That guy is shit hot."
"Yeah, both of the Whale drivers are good," Brad replied as he wiped the perspiration from under his chin. He keyed his radio transmit button. "Snowballs, let's go approach frequency. We're getting close in."
"Copy."
"Wilco."
"Joker Two."
Brad looked at the CO and switched to approach. He listened to the controller while Bailey deftly unplugged from the tanker and moved over to the second Skywarrior. The CO, trailing a steady stream of jet fuel, coasted into position behind the KA-3B and nimbly plugged the bobbing basket on his first attempt.
"Approach, Joker Two Oh Seven with you at twelve miles." Brad could see the carrier's churning wake.
"Joker Two Zero Seven, approach. The Boss wants Two Zero Four to begin his approach abeam the carrier."
Brad looked at Bailey. The CO gave him a thumbs-up. "Jokers, copy."
The four aircraft, descending slowly to 600 feet, were flying toward the bow of the carrier. They were in a perfect position to land out of the downwind alignment.
"Joker Two," Brad radioed when the TACAN indicated eight miles. "Let's dirty up."
"Roger," Bailey responded as he unplugged from the tanker and dropped back fifty feet. "Thanks, Snowballs. I owe each crew a case of spirits."
"We'll take you up on that. Catch a three wire." The tankers added full power and climbed straight ahead to orbit the carrier.
Brad directed his attention to Bailey, waiting for him to stabilize in formation. "Gear . . . now."
The CO dropped his landing gear in sequence with his flight leader, then lowered his flaps and arresting-gear hook. Bailey's Phantom, with the exception of the streaming fuel, looked normal to Austin and Lunsford.
