by Joe Weber
Tipton would explain his condition to the doctor and request immediate hospitalization. Someone else could deal with Operation Achilles while he was undergoing treatment for his ulcer.
Tipton raised his glass and drank half the contents in three quick swallows. He would cover his ass, and no one could question his actions. Especially after the doctors documented his condition.
Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT
Brad examined the wall chart and jotted notes while Allison prepared the detailed mission brief for him. The final instructions for the massive air strike had arrived only minutes before.
Working at a feverish pace, Allison neatly printed call signs and radio frequencies on Brad's kneeboard cards. The weather, both en route and over the targets, looked good and was steadily improving.
Hollis Spencer and Lex Blackwell had walked to the hangar to inspect the MiG and talk with Hank Murray. The project officer wanted to make sure that the MiG was in perfect flying condition before Austin stepped into the cockpit.
Allison had maintained an air of casual friendliness with Brad, but there was an easily recognized aloofness about her. She was cautious in his presence and measured her words when they conversed.
"Can you spare a minute?" Austin finally asked when she paused to light a cigarette.
"Sure."
"What do you think Cap is going to recommend when the director for ops arrives?"
The expression on Allison's face abruptly hardened. "He's under a lot of pressure. I think he'll recommend that we cancel the operation."
Austin started to respond, but held his thoughts when Palmer entered the building.
"Nick," Brad said with a quick smile, "you're just the guy I wanted to see."
Palmer gave him one of his slanted grins. "Don't tell me--you need a loan?"
"Thanks, Allison," Brad said briskly and caught Nick by the arm. "111 be back as soon as I get into my zoom-bag."
She nodded and returned to her work.
"Nick," Austin said as they stepped out of the Quonset but and turned toward their tent, "I've got a favor to ask."
Palmer became suspicious when he noted Brad's sober tone. "Should I brace myself, or open my wallet?"
Brad slowed to a stop and lowered his voice. "I asked Leigh Ann to come over here."
Palmer cocked his head. "To Vientiane?"
"Yes," he replied, casting a glance at the MiG hangar. "I haven't told anyone, and I was--"
"Brad, are you sure you want to do that? We don't know what we're going to be doing from one day to the next."
A tense smile creased Austin's face. "That's my point, and she's on her way here as we speak." Brad thought about the number of days that had passed since he had sent the letter to Leigh Ann. "In fact, she may have already arrived at the Constellation. At any rate, who knows what is going to happen day by day, or if they're going to halt the operation and ship us back to fighter squadrons."
Palmer rolled his eyes, but remained quiet for the moment. "Leigh Ann wanted to come to Vientiane," Austin continued evenly, and she has every right to be here. It's safe in the city, and she'll hav e p lenty of American wives to visit with."
Brad paused when Blackwell and Spencer emerged from the hangar. "Let's go to the tent."
Palmer and Austin exchanged greetings with the two men and entered their open shelter.
"If she's here, or on her way," Brad reached for his Soviet-style flight suit, "and I get knocked down--or can't get back right away--will you make sure that she's okay?"
Nick observed the rigid look on his friend's face and swallowed a sarcastic remark. "You're going to be fine . . . but if something goes wrong, I'll take care of things, so don't worry about it."
"Thanks, Nick," he said while he slipped into his flight suit, then saw Blackwell saunter out of the Quonset hut. Lex gave them a thumbs-down indication.
Brad glanced at Nick, then let his eyes follow Lex. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Beats me." Palmer laughed quietly and then turned serious. "Maybe the mission has been scrubbed."
"Naw, couldn't be." Brad responded uncomfortably. "That would make things too easy."
Blackwell approached them with a grim look on his face.
Palmer nudged Austin. "Your request to fly for the Blue Angels," he said out of the corner of his mouth, "must have been turned down." Brad reached for his holster. "Right."
"Cap is fit to be tied," Lex announced dryly. "From what I could gather--he's still goin' over the message--the Agency's chief bureaucrat what's-in-charge has mysteriously gone medically down in Hawaii.
"Tipton?" Brad inquired while he checked the rounds in his service revolver.
"Yeah, the op's heavy," Blackwell replied with a shrug. "Convenient place to drop anchor . . . 'specially if this shit hole is your ultimate destination."
Palmer shook his head in resignation. "I guess we continue to march," he said curtly, "until someone makes a decision about our future."
"Or until we bust up the MiG," Lex solemnly observed.
WATTAY AIRPORT, VIENTIANE
Leigh Ann, tired and frayed by the series of grueling flights, hailed a taxi to the Constellation Hotel. After her luggage had been loaded into the rusting cab, she slid across the backseat and thought about what Brad had suggested in his letter. She would ask the general manager of the hotel to give her some assistance in getting settled in Vientiane.
The happy-go-lucky taxi driver kept up a running commentary in broken English as he made his way through the sparse traffic. His nonsensical rambling was occasionally punctuated by a turn of his head and a smile at Leigh Ann.
She would force a smile in return, then attempt to concentrate on the scenery in the quiet, almost sleepy city. She was astounded by the endless open-air markets and relaxed atmosphere. There seemed to be no sense of urgency. The capital of Laos was certainly not what she had envisioned when she left Memphis for the Orient.
When the taxi stopped in front of the hotel, Leigh Ann felt a rush of excitement. Maybe Brad would be waiting for her. She quickly paid the driver, then grabbed her two suitcases and hurried into the lobby.
Her initial excitement waned after she met Lo Van Phuong and the friendly general manager explained that Mister Austin was not registered in the hotel at the present time.
She thanked him for his kindness and was surprised when he insisted on carrying her luggage to her room. Lo Van Phuong had given her one of the best rooms in the hotel.
Leigh Ann unpacked slowly, then filled the tub with bubble bath she had bought in Hong Kong. She watched as the hot water stirred the scented bubbles into a frothy mound, then undressed and reclined in the warm bath.
Leigh Ann rested her head on the rounded edge of the tub and let her tired body go limp. She closed her eyes and thought about Brad, remembering the first time she had met him. Leigh Ann smiled when she thought about that special morning at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel.
Now, she thought while she brushed the bubbles away from her chin, how am I going to tell him that I'm pregnant?
Brad Austin watched the dense vegetation flash under his left wing, then shifted his eyes to scan the partially repaired instrument panel. He paid close attention to the engine gauges and listened to the steady whine of the turbojet. The fighter was performing flawlessly.
His thoughts momentarily turned to Leigh Ann as he passed his first checkpoint. He hoped that she would not encounter any major problems during her long trip. Maybe Spencer would allow him to catch a ride on the C-123 the next time it returned to Vientiane.
Brad continued to closely monitor his course while he waited to check in with the helicopter. Passing a rugged ridge of limestone karst, Austin noted the time and keyed his radio.
"Sleepy Two Five, Safari."
"Sleepy copies," Jimenez replied hastily.
Brad clicked his microphone twice and wet his dry lips. At his present speed of 340 knots, he would be three miles from the end of the runway at Hoa Lac in ten minutes and forty-fi
ve seconds. He would select afterburner at that point and accelerate to 420 knots, timing his attack to commence exactly seven minutes before the navy and air-force strikes were scheduled to begin.
Checking to ensure that his shoulder straps were properly snugged, Austin ran a critical eye around the cockpit, then armed the cannons. He watched for the next route checkpoint and glanced at his watch when the fighter raced over the tiny village. Eight seconds fast. He gently nudged the throttle back a fraction of an inch.
The minutes ticked by while Austin felt a mounting tension. He reviewed his meticulously drafted plan, running it through his mind again and again. Off Hoa Lac, a slight right turn to pass over the southern edge of Hanoi, a hard left turn to align himself with the runway at Gia Lam, a sweeping left turn to set his pipper on Phuc Yen, then a hard left turn toward the Laotian border.
Turning the volume up on the radios, Brad selected the air-force strike frequency on one and the navy frequency on the other. If he needed to communicate with Mitchell and Jimenez, he would switch the number-one radio to their discrete channel.
When the Black River was visible through the fighter's thick windshield, Brad made a last-second course adjustment and waited for the runway at Hoa Lac to come into view.
"Okay, everything looks good," Austin said to himself as he concentrated on skimming the tops of the trees. He spotted the airfield and went to afterburner as he approached the lake adjacent to Hoa Lac Brad watched the runway fill his gun sight. "Hang on . . . and take your time."
Three MiGs were beginning to taxi while seven other fighters waited to follow them to the runway.
Austin allowed the airplane to climb slightly, then placed the pipper below the first of the stationary line of aircraft. He waited until he could see the pilots.
"Now!"
Brad squeezed the firing button and watched two streams of high-explosive shells rip through the parked fighters. One of the airplanes blew apart and was immediately engulfed in billowing black smoke.
A line of tracers tore past Austin's canopy as he released the trigger and banked to the right. He lined up with the southern fringes of Hanoi and shot a glance at the instrument panel. No apparent problems at the moment. He heard the navy strike leader check in with Red Crown.
Antiaircraft fire began filling the sky with shimmering lines of tracers. Brad figured that air-raid alarms must be going off over the entire Hanoi area. He concentrated on his next turn-in point and watched two tall towers flash past his left wing.
Hurtling over a large truck depot, Austin felt a round smash into the fuselage. He was almost at eye level with the crews of the camouflaged gun emplacements. Brad saw a Fansong missile-guidance radar unit at the same instant a half-dozen weapons opened fire from the perimeter of the SAM site. He instinctively ducked when a sparkling row of tracers arced over his head.
"Oh, mother of Jesus," he said, forcing the words out of his throat as he zoomed over the revetted gun positions.
The antiaircraft fire quickly faded as other gunners hesitated to fire at the lone airplane. Even though the gun crews had been warned about a MiG-17 that was purportedly being flown by a Yankee air pirate, most were hesitant to shoot at a MiG that was not presenting a direct threat. The North Vietnamese gunners knew that if they shot down one of their own aces, they would not live to see another sunrise.
Austin was approaching the parallel highway and railroad leading south from Hanoi when he heard the leader of the air force F-105s call his fighter cover.
"Chicago Zero One, Spooky Lead." The hollow voice sounded calm and professional.
"Spooky, Chicago is making a sweep down the ridge."
"Roger."
From his briefing cards, Brad knew that Chicago 01 was the flight leader of the "Triple Nickels" from the 555th Tactical Fighter Squadron. The F-4C Phantoms were trolling for MiGs along Thud Ridge.
Austin snapped the agile fighter on its left wingtip and boresighted the runway at Gia Lam. Leveling the wings, Austin thundered over the rooftops and trees. The low-flying aircraft, at least to the gun crews, appeared to be a definite threat. The element of surprise was gone.
A barrage of tracers suddenly danced around Brad's fighter. The North Vietnamese had done a thorough job of alerting every single gunner about the MiG's description.
Whump!
Brad swore when a flak burst rocked the airplane. He saw a single MiG diving toward the airfield from the opposite end of the runway. Had the enemy pilot spotted him?
Rocketing across the Red River, Austin held his breath and waited to fire. A brilliant flash caused him to wince and glance through the top of the windshield.
He stared in amazement as the oncoming MiG, trailing flames and spinning out of control, plunged into the ground and exploded near the runway. The frightened gunners were firing at everything.
Brad heard the Chicago MIGCAP flight leader call bandits in sight over Phuc Yen.
Austin pressed the firing button as the radio frequency crackled to life. The cannons spewed a seemingly solid line of shells into the MiGs that were staggered for takeoff. He could only imagine the confusion and fear spewing from the radios in the North Vietnamese cockpits. He watched pieces of debris fly off the fighters as he swept low over the field.
A rapid series of bright flashes caught Brad's eye when he passed over the river bridge north of Gia Lam. More bright stars winked at him from the gun emplacements spread along the highway leading to Kep airfield.
Brad cringed when a solid wall of white-orange puffs erupted directly in front of him. There was no way he could avoid the menacing flak trap.
"Get down!" he exclaimed as he popped the nose down and snapped the stick over. His heart skipped a beat when he saw a number of wide-eyed faces looking straight at him from their windows. Brad snatched the stick back to avoid colliding with the apartment building. He missed the edge of the roof by less than the length of his wingspan.
The erratic NVA gunners, in their desperate attempt to shoot down the elusive MiG, blasted a dozen people on the top floor of the building into oblivion.
Momentarily disoriented, Austin frantically scanned the terrain to the northwest. In the continuing chaos of SAM launches and fierce antiaircraft fire, he had lost sight of Phuc Yen. The sky was ablaze with flak and missile plumes in all quadrants.
"God . . . don't leave me now."
He maintained a shallow bank to the left and witnessed a bright orange-and-black explosion mushroom high overhead. The trail of smoke leading to the ball of flames meant a surface-to-air missile had found its target.
Brad searched for his last target while he listened to a frantic voice yell for someone to eject. He gave in to curiosity and looked up. He saw a number of MiGs in the vicinity, then froze when he recognized two sections of Phantoms diving toward the enemy fighters.
The runway at Phuc Yen suddenly appeared off to his left. Brad racked the airplane into a tighter turn and focused his concentration on the aircraft that were waiting to get airborne.
Steady. Hold what you've got.
Ahead, on the perimeter of the airfield, a gun battery opened up with a continuous burst of fire. The deadly tracers approached in a flat arc and swept over the canopy. The shells slowly corrected and slammed into the tail of the MiG, blasting a gaping hole in the vertical stabilizer.
Brad felt the stick tremble before he squeezed the trigger. He fired a long burst into the closest fighter and gradually walked the rounds through the remaining aircraft.
The cannon shells ripped through the planes like a buzz saw, tearing off chunks of metal and rupturing fuel cells. In awe, Brad saw a taxiing MiG careen into a drainage ditch and erupt in towering flames.
He released the trigger and made a sharp feint to the right, then yanked the airplane over into a punishing left turn.
Austin could feel a constant vibration in the control stick as the damaged fighter screamed low over a highway. Just stay together a few more minutes.
Two MiGs suddenly a
ppeared from the left, ascending in a shallow, high-speed climb. Brad instinctively tweaked his nose up and fired the last of his ammunition in a sweeping arc. He cursed himself when the tracers went under the two planes.
Both pilots broke hard into Austin, prompting him to reef the fighter around to pass under them nose-to-nose. Seconds later, the two MiGs pulled up in a steep, climbing turn and Brad craned his neck to watch them. What he saw pumped a new surge of adrenaline through his veins. A pair of Phantoms had spotted the MiGs, and two other F-4s had obviously seen Brad's airplane. The second section of fighters were about to engage him in combat.
"Chicago One has a tally--two at eleven o'clock and climbing!" "Three has one on the nose! We're going down to get him!" -Roger-- The acknowledgment was garbled and followed by, " 'areful."
Brad decided to use his transmitter while he still had the capability to communicate with the UH-34. He needed to give Mitchell and Jimenez his current location and direction. Turning the radio to th e r escue helicopter's frequency, Austin lowered the nose and dove for the deck. Hugging the ground in a last-ditch effort to escape, Brad ventured a quick look over his shoulders.
Like prehistoric predators stalking their prey, the Phantoms were rapidly closing on the crippled MiG.
Austin twisted his head around to face a wall of fire and flak bursts. He was so low that the gun crews on opposite hills were raking themselves in a cross fire.
"Sleepy Two Five, Safari!"
No answer.
A missile from one of his pursuers streaked over the right wing and detonated in front of the MiG. Brad glanced rearward as the airplane buffeted from the missile concussion.
"Oh, shit!"
He started to toggle the smoke canister when a tremendous explosion rocked the MiG. The right wing dropped and Brad desperately tried to raise it.
"Come on, don't lose it now!"
Austin simultaneously muscled the stick to the left and pulled it back. The flight controls were sluggish, and the wounded fighter trembled under his inputs. Slowly, the wings leveled while he kept the stick pressed to the left and shoved on the rudder to correct the yaw.
