by Joe Weber
Nick placed his revolver in his shoulder holster. "What do you really think they--the CIA people--are going to do with the MiGs they acquire?"
"Probably the same thing I suggested," Brad chuckled softly, "but on a larger scale."
"How so?"
Brad bent to tie his boots. "If they can get their hands on a number of MiGs, why not use them to raise hell with the enemy's air force?" Austin continued before Palmer could answer. "Especially if the pilots don't carry identification . . . and the chances of their long-term survival are nil."
"Yeah," Palmer agreed with a wry grin. "The goners--out of desperation at some point--would end up shooting down each other." "Let me tell you something," Brad lowered his voice, "that Allison told me on the flight from Hong Kong."
Palmer's eyes narrowed. "This should be juicy."
"She said that U. S. Air Force pilots are flying T-28s for the CIA on missions over Laos."
Nick looked at him with a degree of skepticism. "You're shitting me?"
"No, I'm not kidding," Brad countered. "Apparently, the CIA can't find enough qualified pilots to support their secret war against the Communists, so they're dipping into the military . . . just like our situation. "
"Unbelievable," Palmer uttered.
"Allison explained," Austin said clearly, "that the pilots' air force records are placed in some type of limbo file while they are on loan to the CIA . . . and they're paid in cash--same as us. If they get shot down, they will be carried as missing in action over Vietnam."
Nick was speechless for a moment. "How in the hell is the CIA keeping their war from the public? And why would she tell you about it?"
"According to Allison," Brad answered with a shrug, "The New York Times has stumbled onto the operation, and the Washington Post is hot on the trail."
Austin reached for his M-16. "I suppose she told me . . . because that's her way of showing me that she trusts me." *
"Well, it's going to get interesting," Nick replied with a straight face, then glanced at his watch. "We better get over to the briefing."
They went to the water cistern and had a long drink before entering the Quonset hut.
Allison greeted them with a faint smile and lighted a cigarette. Brad noticed that her fingers trembled with an unusual clumsiness.
"Gentlemen," Spencer began hastily, "we're going to do the same thing on this trip." He looked at Palmer. "Stay low and see if you can pick off a MiG or two."
Spencer turned his attention to Austin. "Your plan is still being reviewed at Langley, so all we can do is wait and see what they decide."
A radio call prompted Allison to go into the small communications room.
"The air force," Spencer advised, pointing to the chart Allison had prepared, "is going to hit a target right here, halfway between Thai Nguyen and Hanoi."
Brad studied the map. "It looks like they're going after the railroad that parallels the road north of Phuc Yen."
"That may be true," Spencer agreed, "but we don't know the exact target. We know the time of the strike, along with the route the F-105s will follow to the target area." The F-105 Thunderchief, affectionately known as the Thud, was a supersonic fighter-bomber.
"Right down Thud Ridge," Palmer observed as he traced the line of flight north of Yen Bai, then down to the target area. "They're probably coming out of Takhli. "
Spencer gave the chart a fleeting look. "I don't know if they're from Takhli or the Avis Wing at Korat, and it doesn't make any difference."
Both pilots sensed the growing impatience in Spencer. His behavior was definitely changing.
"Nick," Spencer explained, tapping the map with a pen, "you're going to orbit along the west side of the Black River near Song Huan." Palmer examined the terrain.
"Cap," Brad said with a look of concern, "we better have the helicopter stationed farther north if Nick is going over by Thud Ridge."
"I agree." He hesitated, straining to hear Allison as her voice rose. "After talking with Chase and Rudy, I've decided to have them orbit near Chieng Pan."
Allison appeared from behind the partition. "Langley sent the word that we'll have an answer about strafing within twenty-four hours."
GULF OF TONKIN
The carrier was steaming in an elongated pattern around Yankee Station when Lex Blackwell arrived in the COD. He had been i nformed by the copilot that the air-wing commander had the pilots standing by on the hangar deck.
Blackwell went belowdeck and walked forward in the hangar bay. He was greeted enthusiastically and delivered his MiG brief, then answered questions for fifteen minutes.
After the brief was completed, a thin, long-limbed fighter pilot approached Blackwell and introduced himself
"Lex, I'm Ev Wetherbee," drawled the lieutenant commander. Blackwell instinctively looked at the rectangular insignia on the left side of the pilot's flight suit. Below the gold wings, Lex read: Evert "Ev" Wetherbee
Montana
LCDR USN
"Have you got a minute?" the Phantom pilot inquired with a friendly smile.
"Yes, sir," Blackwell replied politely.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions," Wetherbee declared, "if you don't mind going to my stateroom."
"Sure thing," Lex said with a look of confusion.
The rangy pilot caught Blackwell's expression. "I'll explain when we get to my stateroom."
"Okay," Lex responded, and followed Wetherbee down a ladder and through a maze of passageways to his room.
"Have a seat," the Phantom pilot offered, gesturing toward the bottom bunk.
Blackwell sat down while Wetherbee sat at his desk.
"For the past few weeks," Wetherbee began with a sense of wariness, "we've heard rumors that the CIA--actually, Air America--has an operational MiG."
Lex was caught off guard, but kept from showing any sign of surprise. It was virtually impossible to keep anything secret in naval aviation. The small community had always been tight-knit and open with each other.
"Is that true?" Wetherbee asked bluntly.
Blackwell guarded his answer. "Well," he drawled, "I don't know anything about that. All I know is that the operational and technical information came from a MiG-17 pilot who defected from an Eastern bloc country."
Wetherbee stared at Lex for a moment. "I had an interesting experience a few days ago," he reached for a tape recorder, "that I'd like to share with you. By the way, my call sign is Montana."
Lex nodded reluctantly. What the hell does this guy know, if anything?
"I was about to stuff a Sidewinder up a MiG-17," he punched on the play button, "when my wingman and I heard this."
"Montana flight, break right! Break right! MiGs! MiGs! Ten south, cutting you off!"
Lex attempted to conceal his initial shock at hearing Brad Austin's voice.
"Say again, Red Crown."
"Red Crown did not broadcast a MiG
"This is Montana Lead. Who called MiGs?"
The tape remained silent for a moment before the rest of the recording confirmed that no one had admitted to making the frantic call.
Wetherbee snapped the recorder off and gave Blackwell a cold look. "You seem surprised."
"Well," Lex said innocently, "I am surprised, but I'd have to speculate that the gomers have at least one English-speakin' pilot . . . probably educated in the States."
Wetherbee gave him a dubious look. "Or the CIA is screwing around with a MiG flown by an American pilot."
"I guess that's always a possibility," Lex countered, thinking about a way to contact Hollis Spencer and tell him the truth. They're onto you, and I'm being forced to lie about it. "But I don't work for the CIA, so I wouldn't know the answer to that. My job is to pass along the gouge about the capabilities of the MiG-17."
Ev Wetherbee was unconvinced, and it showed in his suspicious smile and unblinking stare.
Chapter TWENTY-NINE
When Nick Palmer selected afterburner, Brad and Allison plugged their ears while they watc
hed the beginning of the takeoff roll. A blazing stream of white-hot exhaust gases shot from the tail pipe of the MiG as the wheels bounced roughly over the uneven ground.
The fighter's new silver-gray paint blended perfectly with the leaden-gray overcast. The weather forecast had predicted a seventy percent chance of rain by midmorning.
With the cooler temperature of early morning, Brad was confident that Nick would not have any problem getting safely airborne from the 4,700-foot airstrip.
Allison and Brad watched the MiG slowly gain momentum before it rotated and accelerated low to the ground. Seconds later, with the landing gear transitioning to the up and locked position, Palmer executed a steep, climbing turn.
Brad glanced over his shoulder when Chase Mitchell started the noisy Sikorsky. Rudy Jimenez tossed Allison and Brad a friendly salute and slid his side window closed.
Smiling, Austin returned the gesture and followed Allison into the small operations building. He was very much aware of her physical presence. Brad acknowledged to himself that he was becoming more and more attracted to her.
Sitting in the communications room, Hollis Spencer waited for Palmer to check in on the strike frequency being used by the air force. The Warning Star reconnaissance aircraft would continue to suppl y t he information about the MiG activity at the airfields, but Spencer had decided to ignore the side numbers of the aircraft. At the appropriate time, he hoped, the word would be passed to the CIA observers to stop including the numbers and concentrate on catching the first signs of a fighter scramble.
"Buckboard is up," Palmer reported in a flat, expressionless voice, "and everything looks good."
Spencer adjusted the volume on the auxiliary speaker. "Read you loud and clear, Buckboard."
Nick clicked his mike twice.
"I hope this goes well," Allison commented to no one in particular before she lighted a cigarette.
Brad waited until the clattering UH-34 lifted off and accelerated down the runway.
"Nick's one of the best," Brad assured her, and then quietly sat down. In Austin's mind, he was in the cockpit of the MiG, flying the mission.
"Sleepy Two Five," Jimenez radioed.
"Alpha Two Niner copies you loud and clear," Spencer tersely acknowledged.
Sliding a chart next to him, Brad drew a mental course line from Alpha-29 to Song Huan. Computing the speed of the MiG and the time that had elapsed since takeoff, Brad followed the MiG across the face of the map. Don't get bagged, Nick.
Palmer leveled the fighter low over the lush green rain forest and adjusted the elevator trim tab. The low overcast was solid, but the visibility beneath the rain-swollen clouds was reasonable. He compared a prominent mountain peak with the chart on his kneeboard. Exactly on course for his holding point near Song Huan.
Checking the cockpit gauges and indicators, Palmer wondered if the weather would cause the strike to be canceled.
Passing northeast of Chieng Pan, Nick heard Rudy Jimenez in the helicopter.
"Buckboard, activity," the copilot relayed for Hollis Spencer. The whomp-whomp-whomp sound of the whirling rotor blades made his voice quiver.
"Buckboard copy," Palmer calmly replied even as he experienced a rush of adrenaline.
Regardless of the weather, the air force was forging ahead. The MiG pilots had been alerted when the sixteen F-105s, flying at 22,000 feet, had passed close to Yen Bai and turned toward Thud Ridge. The fighter-bombers from Korat Air Base, Thailand, would parallel the 5,000-foot-high mountains that led to the Red River Valley.
When Nick approached his orbiting point, the murky overcast forced him to alter course to the north. A few minutes later he passed over the karst west of Song Huan. The eroded limestone sinkholes and caverns provided a sharp contrast to the luxuriant tropical forests.
Palmer finally found a break in the clouds along the ridge line. He whipped the MiG around in a left 270-degree turn and slipped between the overcast and the ridge.
He looked across the expanse of surrounding countryside and decided to move closer to the target area. When the action started, he could not afford to be too far away. Palmer knew that it was in his best interest to hit and run.
"Lance broke out at twelve hundred feet," the flight leader of the first four Thunderchiefs reported to the following flight. "We've got a r agged ceiling around eleven hundred to twelve hundred feet." "Buick has a copy," the metallic voice responded.
Nick pushed the throttle forward and headed directly toward the airfield at Phuc Yen. He wanted to take advantage of the disorder the first strike would cause.
Passing over the Red River between Viet Tri and Dong Sang, Nick heard the radio chatter erupt in confusion.
"Lance is rolling in."
"SAMs!"
Dense puffs of antiaircraft fire filled the sky.
"Multiple launches!"
"Watch it--one o'clock!"
"Take it dow--" was interrupted when another F-105 pilot attempted to talk at the same time. Surface-to-air missiles were being launched from several locations.
"SAMs at two and nine!"
"Watch out!"
A series of garbled radio transmissions heightened the confusion.
Palmer stared at the target area through the MiG's armored-glass windscreen. The sky below the overcast was ablaze with tracer rounds. He knew that many of the gunners were chained to their guns, which motivated them to achieve a high degree of marksmanship. Nick ha d n ever seen such concentrated firepower. The horizon seemed , to be illuminated by flashes of lightning.
"MiGs! Three o'clock, coming up!"
"SAM, SAM. Two o'clock!"
The nonstop radio chatter was almost impossible to decipher. Many calls were blocked when a number of pilots attempted to talk at the same time.
"We've got four MiGs at our eight," a high-pitched voice warned. "They're comin' around to our six!"
"Two's hit!"
"Say again!"
Transfixed, Palmer selected afterburner as the MiG blasted over a series of villages and small rice paddies. He could see the workers stop and stare as the fighter swept low over them.
"Who's hit?"
"Carl!" the flight leader barked.
The last pilot, tail-end Charlie, in the first wave of Thuds called clear of the target.
"Lance Zero Four is off the target," the pilot reported briskly. "Buick is one minute out," the leader of the second four-plane flight replied excitedly.
"Carl, you're on fire!" someone radioed. "Get out of it. Eject before it blows!"
"Negative!" came the agitated reply. "I'm gonna stay with it as long as I can."
"SAM launch, seven o'clock!" another voice chimed in. "Get down--coming hard right!"
"Look out, Duane!"
Nick's eyes darted in every direction, constantly searching for a threat. The sky was solidly peppered with flak.
"See 'em?" a distraught voice shouted.
"No!" someone growled. "Call it again!"
"Duane went in!"
"He get out?"
"Negative--exploded and went straight in!"
Palmer saw a billowing black cloud of smoke rising. He knew it marked the impact point of the Thunderchief.
Detecting a dark blur and a bright light to his right, Palmer scanned the sky. He spotted an F-105 thundering over the Red River. The Thud was trailing a yellow-white sheet of flame from midfuselage to thirty feet behind the tail pipe. Must be Carl.
Nick tuned out the chaotic radio calls while he searched for MiGs. A moment later, he saw two Thunderchiefs approaching head-on.
"We've got a MiG at twelve," one of the pilots shouted over the radio.
"Shit," Palmer exclaimed when he saw the left side of one of the Thunderchiefs twinkle. He cringed when the tracer shells from the Vulcan cannon flashed past, followed by the supersonic fighter-bombers.
"Buick is rolling in."
Palmer noticed a trace of fear in the pilot's voice.
A second later, another barrage of surface-
to-air missiles and dense cannon fire filled the sky over the target.
"SAM on the nose!" warned the Buick flight leader. "Watch it--right up the pike."
"MiGs! We've got four crossing right to left!"
The radio calls again became unintelligible.
Palmer spotted two MiG-17s in a hard turn. They were closing on an F-105 that had just pulled off the target. Nick turned to track the MiGs, then froze when three MiG-17s descended out of the clouds in front of him.
Nick snatched the stick into his lap in an effort to pass behind the MiGs and reverse into them.
Without warning, the starboard wingman pushed over and dove toward his sanctuary at Phuc Yen.
Palmer snapped the fighter over and closed to firing range on the remaining MiGs. He was about to squeeze the trigger when the two MiGs broke hard right.
Out of the corner of his eye, Nick caught sight of the Thunderchief that had attacked the MiGs. The F-105 pilot fired a burst of shells at the tight-turning aircraft, then reversed toward Palmer.
Nick turned into the Thud and dove under the fighter-bomber. He settled into a trailing position on the fleeing MiGs and frantically searched for the F-105. The aircraft had vanished for the moment.
Palmer steadied the pipper on the wingman and squeezed the trigger. The MiG's cannons vibrated as a streak of fire shot forward to the trailing aircraft. The shells ripped through the wing and fuselage. The MiG immediately began streaming fuel and smoke as the stunned pilot pushed the nose down.
Nick pressed his stick forward and squeezed the trigger again. Shards of metal flew off the damaged MiG as the flight leader came to the realization that a MiG was pumping cannon shells into his wingman.
Palmer hesitated, then again squeezed the trigger. The game is over. We might as well start strafing airfields and supply ships.
Flames erupted from under the belly of the fighter at the moment the flight leader began an evasive maneuver to distance himself from the rogue MiG. Palmer pursued the flaming aircraft until the pilot ejected.
Nick savagely snatched the stick back to miss the pilot and searched for the other MiG. He has to be under me.
