Both Thud wings were scheduled into the area, running pretty close together today, and that was OK by me, as it doubled the SAM hunters. It looked like my boys would be less than fully effective with their playmates already on board. “Laredo’s got a weak SAM, one thirty,” sounded good and told me that another flight of the two-seaters was on the job.
While things were not off to a joyous start, we had everyone in good position and I was particularly pleased with the structure within my own lead flight. Don had the element with Bing on his wing and that was a good combination. I had Rod, my old next-door neighbor from Japan, on my wing, and they didn’t come any better than Rod. This was a funny business. Not too long ago Rod and I had been out in the backyard complaining about the noisy Japanese street that ran behind our houses, clogged with the 24-hour rush traffic of Tokyo that screamed and smelled and would about knock you off the government furniture in those little ancient and uncomfortable government shacks. It was quite different at the moment, and the noises and smells that counted now were capable of doing a lot more than knocking you off your chair. They could knock you clean down into that hazy obscured little valley below that told me we were almost halfway down Thud Ridge with no weather break in sight. In addition to behig a superior pilot, Rod has one of those sets of eagle eyes that seem capable of picking up the bogies wherever they may be.
“Kingpin, there’s a flight of four fives back there at five o’clock.” My seeing-eye captain was doing good work for me today.
Then Hot Dog flight started to get in on the action. They were picking up a fair amount of SAM activity, and the leader had decided to dump his now-empty external tanks to allow a bit more freedom of movement, but number two’s tank refused to cooperate. When you have a single bird in a flight carrying the additional drag of a 20-foot-long tank, you have a problem. If he tries to stay up with the rest of the flight as he must do in a danger zone like this, he is at full power all the time and his fuel goes much too fast. If you drag everyone back on the power to give him a break, you compromise the entire flight position and defeat the purpose of tank jettison. It is such a simple matter to punch off a tank, you would think it could never be a problem, but it was. Many of the more agonizing aspects of fighter combat are the direct results of the failure of the simplest systems. It’s hard to figure how we can go to the moon, yet we can’t build a simple, fool-proof system that will allow you to let go of a big blob of a tank when you want to.
“Hot Dog, you know of any other way to get this thing off of here?”
“Say again,” from the leader indicated that he had not yet recognized his problem or was involved in something else.
“Yeah, you know of any smart ideas on how I can get this tank off?”
“Negative.”
“Rog,” and now two was stuck with the problem all by himself.
The lead had a problem of his own, “OK, Hot Dog, we’ve got a valid launch, valid launch, at two. Keep your eyes open.” They were stuck on top of that overcast and they knew there was at least one SAM headed their way from underneath the clouds. The question is two-fold—where will it come poking through the murk, and will you have time to do anything about it when and if you see it? It is a spooky feeling. I supposed that Hot Dog two had at least temporarily forgotten about that hung tank of his, and I just hoped he didn’t have to go through some wild gyration to avoid the unseen SAM that would result in that dizzy tank pulling off and wrapping around the wing, as they had a nasty habit of doing.
“Flamingo has guns at twelve.” Now the array was complete as the big radar-directed guns were probing for us.
“Junetime, Junetime,” blurted out from the big birds surveying the area and told us that they too had seen the launch at Hot Dog. That is about the most useless warning you can get, as all it tells you is that the white telephone poles are flying. About all you could do was assume that they saw the same one Hot Dog was looking for and working against, and go on with your own job.
“Flamingo three has multiple guns.”
“Hot Dog, ease it down, multiple guns, Hot Dog.” Those two flights were really getting in among them. “Hot Dog’s got another SAM, two o’clock.”
We had enough going on now to know that they were ready for us again today, and I figured it was about time to let my troops know what it looked like from the lead seat. “Kingpin lead here. I’m about halfway down the Ridge and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be any good, but we’ll press on a ways.” About the time you make a call like that you can visualize at least twenty guys muttering under their breath, wondering what’s the matter with that idiot up front—of course it looks lousy—can’t he make up his mind?
“Hot Dog, take it down.”
“How’s it look, Kingpin?” Somebody didn’t get the message, but I didn’t have time to repeat it as the only patch of undercast that looked even hopeful was sliding by underneath me and it just would not open up for me. We were going fast now, just as fast as those little beauties would go with that big ugly rack of bombs jiggling and shaking under the belly. How fast is fast? Whatever the slowest machine in the flight can do at full power. You just keep easing it up until it looks like one of your guys is about to have trouble staying with you, then you back off just a tad.
“Flamingo’s got a launch light.”
“MIGS!”
“Flamingo, break left—NOW!”
The Migs were all over us. They had a perfect setup and had listened to their ground controllers guiding them into attack position under the clouds. Now as we came into the heart of the target area, they cobbed their light maneuverable craft and spit up from our blind bellies. We really needed all the speed we had and they could wrap us up in any turns we made if we let that speed drop off. If we could hold that speed, they could give us fits, but they probably couldn’t hurt us too badly. I have gone thundering down that Ridge with them right in formation with us. They could match speed with us at that altitude, but unless they got a lucky break or unless your tactics or your people were so weak that they put you in an impossible box, they could seldom get enough advantage to attack the way they wanted to. They could hose a missile at you, but if you keep thundering, they couldn’t quite get the edge they wanted. It must have been_frustrating to them, and I had one Mig-21 who got so wrapped up in trying to shoot me down that he made us a flight of five and even stuck in there as I pulled up and rolled in on the bomb run. It was not until the massive ground fire from his compatriots engulfed us that he realized he was in sort of a stupid spot and got out. It seems like every hassle we got wrapped up in pits us against lightweight and highly maneuverable interceptors who always have the ability to outturn us and disengage at will. Perhaps someday we will produce a machine capable of turning with them on even terms. If we ever do, our Mig score should go sky-high. In the meantime, while we insist on building large supersonic flatirons whose pilots must avoid the basic aerial maneuver of trying to outturn the enemy, I would strongly suggest serious thought toward a rearward firing missile as that seems to be where they are most of the time—on our behinds. That would be a real kick, to have one of those little gnats jump you at six o’clock and promptly dispatch him with a missile right in the snoot.
My buddy Geeno had the flight right behind me and the Migs broke through the cloud in just about perfect position on him.
“Magnum, Migs. Drop your tanks, Magnum.”
Time was of the essence to Magnum flight. The Migs were well within air-to-air missile range and they had a perfect angle on him. He had to clean up his aircraft and use everything he had working for him to the utmost. It was also vital that everyone in the flight got their birds cleaned up together and that the mutual support of the four men and machines not be compromised even for an instant.
“Magnum, drop tanks.”
“Kingpin, two Migs at seven—correction—five o’clock.” Bing in the number four position on my far left had spotted the second element as they popped up in almost identical position
on me. Those guys were getting pretty sharp, but why not? After all, they had no shortage of practice and had probably dry-run this attack on any one of the many dry runs we were making into the target area. They just waited for the ideal setup and implemented plan alpha. I couldn’t see them right away and the two different clock calls were a bit confusing as they forced me to try and look backwards on both sides. “That five o’clock for Kingpin?” Before he could answer, I found out for myself. They were indeed at five o’clock and closing nicely on a well-chartered intercept. “OK, let’s get rid of the tanks. Kingpin, tanks.” Now I was the one who had to move in a hurry or lose somebody, but I was not about to get rid of the bombs. Not yet. I had lugged those damn things all the way up there and still had hopes of putting them on something better than the open rice paddies. A quick glance showed my guys to be in good shape and tanks were tumbling earthward, but the Migs were still in excellent position, and I didn’t want anyone loosening up the formation or surrendering that mutual support capability we had.
“Watch it, Kingpin, they’re behind us, right behind us.” Rod flew such a beautiful wing position, I could almost feel him out there.
“Magnum four, Mig Twenty-one about six thousand out.” Magnum four was in trouble. We were right over the target now and there was no hope of attacking it. It was solid. I needed to get out of there, and I needed to do it without letting those Migs on my tail get enough turning advantage to do us in.
“OK, move it around, Kingpins, keep it moving.” I had enough of a head of steam that I could afford to wiggle even if I couldn’t afford to turn. No sense in making yourself a steady target. “This is Kingpin. The target’s no good. I’m. starting a one eighty turn to the right. Keep your eyes open and let’s see if we can work these guys back up the Ridge.” That might be tricky, but we had to turn, as straight ahead there was nothing but Hanoi and more of the same problems we were already facing.
I was working my Migs pretty well and they had not closed on me quite as well as they had on Magnum. His were in so close that he could not turn until he managed to get some spacing on them or they would have cut him off in the turn and gained the ideal position to shoot him down. As I worked around in my turn, he flew straight through and passed to the south of me.
“Let’s push it up, Magnum. He’s closing.” As the Mig closed inside that 6,000-foot range, he was really getting in there and Geeno would be needing some help pretty soon. By flying past me and on to the south, he had actually put me behind his pursuers and if I could just dump these little tormentors on my tail, I would be in a good spot to move in and assist Geeno.
“Roger, Magnum here. Light the burner.”
“Kingpin, you coming out?”
“Rog, Kingpin is coming out now. The target stinks and we’ve got lots of company up here.”
“Which way you breaking, Kingpin?”
“To the right.”
As my own transmission faded from the headset, I knew that .Bob, who had the flight bringing up the rear, had found himself a piece of that action and also that he had his usual favorite, seeing-eye lieutenant, Baby Huey, on his wing. “Where’s he at, Huey?”
Bob and I had played football together back at West Point some twenty-four years ago. Funny how you always recognize certain voices. That football had been fun, good clean fun. But this was fun in a way also, real dirty fun, with your life or your buddy’s life as the price for losing.
Geeno was going to have to make a move pretty soon, and it sounded like he was about ready. “Kingpin, you turn left?”
“Kingpin’s turning RIGHT.”
“Roger, Magnum’s turning left with two Mig Twenty-ones—ah—” Sometimes it gets a bit difficult to talk while you are trying to look out of the back of your head, and you could hear Geeno straining to see what his antagonists were up to.
I had worked my attackers about halfway around the turn and had my plan pretty well formulated on how I was going to support Magnum, but I wanted to be sure I knew what he was up to, since we could ill afford crossed signals at this point. “Say again, Magnum.”
“Rog, Magnum’s turning left and I’ve got Migs straight and level with me.”
“You’re clear, Bass four.” That was one of those irritating little calls that always seem to clutter up the air at the wrong time. I had no idea who Bass four was except that I knew he was not one of mine, and while I was glad that he was clear of whatever he was concerned about, I wished that his radio would quit.
Geeno had started to work back to his left while I continued my turn to bring me around on his tail and thus on the tail of those tailgating him.
“OK, Kingpins, he’s moving past our nine o’clock.”
Bing still had the best angle on our Migs from his perch on the far left and announced, “OK, Kingpin, they’re still at four o’clock level, but they’re starting to break away.” They either realized that they were gaining nothing on us while we worked them back toward the outbound course we were looking for, or they had frustrated themselves on fuel, or most probably, they assumed that I was trying to move to a spot where I could close in on Magnum. Perhaps they felt they could double up on Magnum since he was in the worst shape and, by strength of numbers, do him in. They slowly slid further right and when I figured I had them beat, I moved toward Magnum. That pair would never recover a position to bother me now. They started off strong, but they just couldn’t hack the course and for the first and only time that day, things started going right for a few minutes, except you suddenly couldn’t hear yourself think. The flights had separated so far that they had become a series of units operating separately and everybody had something important to say, so important that they all cut each other out and nobody could say anything.
“Flamingo—” Was Flamingo still down on the deck dodging SAMs?
“Clean ’em up—” Who in hell clean what up?
“OK, you’re clear, Nick—” I wondered if Nick was in the same flight as Bass four.
I had turned Kingpin, and Geeno had turned Magnum so that I was now directly behind him. I could see the entire show as his wingman called, “OK, Magnum, we’ve got a Mig Twenty-one at five o’clock now.” The Mig slid back, out of Magnum’s field of view, and the wingman wrongly assumed that the Mig had faded off to the right as had the two that were on me.
“Roger, you’re clear—”
I couldn’t wait for him to finish, as the Mig had only momentarily moved back to the side. He must have been getting low on fuel and decided to give it one more college try and go home, or he moved back to change some switch setting, because he pulled directly astern of Magnum and sprinted to a perfect spot high and to the rear between Magnum lead and Magnum two. They couldn’t see him and he was in an ideal spot for a double kill.
“Negative, Magnum, negative. He’s still on you, Magnum—six o’clock. Six o’clock, Magnum, a little high. He’s sliding around on you.”
Magnum two slid to the side a bit and dipped his wing enough to catch the awesome sight of a Soviet interceptor boresighting himself and his leader for a heat-seeking missile launch. “OK, Magnum two’s bombs coming off now, watch it.”
“Flamingo’s got a SAM on the southeast edge of the Ridge.” Man, I was glad that good old Flamingo was soaking up all those SAMs.
While Magnum lead and two unloaded their bombs and pulled for their lives, one of my original pursuers got in on the act.
“OK, Magnum, Mig at three o’clock.” As I watched, yet another unwanted visitor slid in on Magnum’s right side. I decided the bombs had to go. We had already used so much fuel that we would have little time, if any, to look for a good target once we managed to haul our fannies out of there. We had covered a fair amount of sky at 600 knots and, lo and behold, there was a slight break in the clouds and, wonder of wonders, one of the forbidden sanctuaries sprawled beneath us. This one came off the protected Hst some time later, but I claim the first load of bombs into the middle of that baby doll.
“Kingpin, let
’s get rid of these bombs and go help them. Kingpins, bomb now.”
You could almost feel the Thuds leap with joy as the cumbersome iron blivets left. We stroked the burners and waded into the tail cone of the leeches clinging to Magnum and the frame of reference changed. Now we were lighter and faster than we had been and we were closing from their six o’clock. It was probably none too soon, as you could hear the strain within Magnum flight.
“Where’s he at, three—er—four—er—three, Magnum.”
It’s a tough way to make a living.
“Rog, one behind and another at three o’clock.” But now we were closing from the rear and Geeno had his flight lined up on the heading he wanted back to the north.
“Hot Dog two, hit the burner.”
“OK, Magnum, let’s take it back out the Ridge.” I hoped Geeno wouldn’t get overconfident now, and I wanted him to know he was not home-free yet. “You still got ’em, Magnum.” He saw that he still had them on him, and he knew his element could no longer hold their bombs.
“Clean ’em off. Clean ’em off. Heads up, Magnum.” The bombs fell and we charged in from the rear, but not without duress.
“OK, we got flak from the Ridge, keep it moving, Kingpins.” That was about all the Migs needed to convince them that their afternoon was ruined. They had bombs falling in their faces, they had a flight closing on their tail, and the crunchies from the ground were shooting at the entire gaggle, now knowing, and probably not caring, who was who. So the Migs disengaged. Just like that. They plugged in their burners, racked their sleek charges up on a wing, and were gone as rapidly as they had appeared.
“Cactus, Mig up ahead going left to right.”
“Where’s he at now?”
“Cactus lead, Cactus three can’t get rid of the right tank.” Beautiful system. I was sure Cactus was hoping that his Mig would keep going from left to right.
“OK, Kingpins, back to the left. Let’s move up the Ridge.”
Thud Ridge Page 8
