Flight of the Intruder jg-1

by Stephen Coonts

  The warplanes queued up behind each cat with their wings still folded. A large hinged flap known as the jet blast deflector, or JBD, located behind each cat directed the exhaust gases of the launching bird up and away from the flight deck. These deflectors were lowered after each launch to allow the next bird in line to taxi onto the cat.

  A group of maintenancemen swarmed over the plane waiting behind the JBD, performing the final safety inspections. A team of ordnancemen removed the safety pins from the weapons racks. Each man was intent on his job, yet vigilant to avoid being run over by a wheel, sucked up an intake, or rolled down the deck like a bowling ball by the blast furnace exhausts. The deck was so crowded that men transiting the taxiway crawled under a moving machine behind the main mounts and in front of the exhaust pipes.

  Jake felt the engines spooling up and saw the catapult officer twirling his fingers in the ‘full power’ signal, the crewmen scurrying from under his machine, and the bow of the ship slowly rising and falling to the rhythm of the sea. He anticipated the tremendous thrill when the cat would accelerate his plane to flying speed in two and a half seconds.

  Jake howled in exultation as the Intruder swept down the catapult into the clean salt air, a banshee wail on the ICS that caused Virgil Cole to examine him with a critical eye when they were airborne. Jake made a slight turn to the left to clear the bow, then nursed the laden bomber up to 500 feet where it wallowed slightly as the flaps and slats retracted.

  He kept the Intruder at 500 feet-as specified by the visual flight rules (VFR) departure procedure-until the TACAN indicated seven miles from the ship; he soared left and threaded his way upward.

  When they topped the clouds at 10,000 feet, Jake saw two K A-6D tankers and their retinue of Phantoms about five miles away to his rear.

  The tankers were in constant angle-of-bank turn with the fighters lined alongside as they waited their turn at the refueling hoses.

  Leveling off at 13,000 feet, Jake searched the horizon for A-6s. His eye caught two of them, at least twelve miles away. The pilot steepened his turn and, holding the plane level, crossed above the ship toward the others. After he had rendezvoused on the skipper’s right wing Jake glanced back across the holding circle. The last plane of the Intruder foursome was only a mile away and closing.

  That was New Guy, who would be his wingman on this mission.

  Jake settled into the mechanics of formation flying. From now until they pushed over for the dive at the power plant, he would stay glued to the skipper’s wing and New Guy would stay glued to him. If the formation broke apart, Little Augie, now on Camparelli’s left wing, would stay with the leader while Grafton and his wingman would form a pair. That way, if someone bagged it there would at least be witnesses. The skipper led his A-6 division up a thousand feet and slid beside the division, consisting of five A-7s, that would lead the strike. As briefed, the Intruders took a position about two hundred feet aft and two hundred feet to the right of the lead division. Another division A-7s stationed itself in the same position on the left side. All the bombers were aboard, The radio encoder beeped and Jake heard the commander of the air wing, the CAG: “Devil Five Two Three, Hawk One, How much longer on the tanking?

  “About three more minutes.”

  “Okay, I’m going to swing across the ship, then head out on course. The fighters can catch up if they aren’t finished by then.” The CAG had a reputation as a man who never waited for things to happen, which was one reason he had the job he did.

  The formation steadied out in a gentle climb on course for North Vietnam.

  In a few minutes two Phantoms loaded with RockEyes joined the formation from below. Each took up station on the side of the lead division. These were the flak suppressors and would dive first, aiming their ordnance at the guns and missile sites that ringed the power plant. If all went as planned, the three divisions of bombers would be in their dives when the RockEyes exploded on the enemy guns. The key was split-second timing.

  The formation leveled off at 22,000 feet. The cumulus clouds below looked to Jake like the full sails of clipper ships. Brilliant sunshine filled each cockpit and made the off-white and pale gray planes look dazzling white against the deep blue of the sky. To the east the horizon was a straight line dividing heaven and earth, but ahead to the northwest the earth and sky blended together in a grayish-white haze. Clouds over the target. Grafton sighed.

  “Hawk One, Stagecoach Two Oh One. We’ll be on station in about two minutes.”

  “Roger that.” Stagecoach 201 was the leader of a section of Phantoms that patrolled twenty to thirty miles ahead of the formation to intercept any enemy fighters. A mile above the bombers, another section of Stagecoach F-4s weaved back and forth, ready- to take on any Migs that eluded the forward section. A pair of fighters from another squadron were also stationed a mile away on each side of the formation.

  The CAG checked in with the E-2 HawkEye and the E A-6B Prowler. These aircraft would remain over the ocean. The Prowler carried a sophisticated package of electronic equipment for jamming the enemy’s radar frequencies.

  This large strike of bombers, flak suppressors, fighter escorts, and support aircraft, known as an Alp Strike, was designed to place the maximum amount of ordnance on a heavily defended target in less than six seconds, saturating the defenses and minimizing the enemy’s ability to concentrate antiaircraft fire on a particular aircraft. Thorough planning and careful coordination among all elements of the group were essential. Good visibility in the target area was also a necessity. Grafton imagined the CAG was pissed bad, cursing to himself right now as he looked at the clouds ahead.

  Jake found he could stay in position with just a sixteenth-of-an-inch movement of the throttles.

  He glanced over to Little Augie’s bird, flying on Camparelli’s left wing. Big waggled a greeting with his index finger, which brought a smile to Jake’s face.

  When the Augies are goofing off, all’s right with the world.

  The radio beeped, and a voice spoke in a disgusted tone: “Hawk One, Mustang One Oh Four. I just had partial hydraulic failure.” Jake’s eye went to the Phantom hanging a hundred feet to the right of the left division.

  As he watched, the nearest A-7 in the left division snuggled up to the Phantom.

  “Mustang, you have hydraulic fluid coming out your belly.” The fluid was colored red to make it readily visible.

  “Mustang, Hawk One. Go on home.”

  “Roger that.” The stream of black smoke from the exhausts decreased to a trickle and the plane sank out of formation. Several thousand feet below, it began a gentle turn and rapidly fell behind as the formation flew on into the afternoon.

  Overhead, a layer of cumulostratus and high cirrus obscured the sky. Below, the cumulus clouds became thicker until only occasional patches of the sea could be glimpsed. The water lost its blue radiancy and looked dark, almost black. Within minutes the jets were flying in a clear lane with solid clouds above and below. The sun was gone, taking with it heat and light and leaving only a gray sameness. This was the backdrop for which the navy gray-and-white paint scheme was intended.

  “Stagecoach Lead, Hawk One. How’s the weather look up there?”

  “Overcast and undercast. A few holes over the beach. We might be able to bomb.”

  “Roger. Jake tightened his chest harness. The CAG was going on regardless. “How’s the system?” the pilot asked his new bombardier.

  “Radar seems okay, but the computer’s a little squirrelly. I’m having trouble controlling the cursors at times……” Cole ran out of steam.

  “Optimist,” Jake said. When Cole didn’t reply, he continued, “Get set for a system delivery. I have a gut feeling we ain’t gonna be able to see this damn place.”

  “I have the target.” Cole tuned the radar. “Well, they weren’t lying. It’s still there. Feet dry in about four minutes.” They became aware of the bass beep of a search radar, an enemy radar, and apparently everyone else heard the faint tone a
t about the same time because the formation tightened up. The beep sounded again every fifteen seconds or so, the operator merely sweeping the sky, but the volume increased as they closed the enemy coast.

  “Black Eagle, Black Eagle, Hawk is feet dry.” Jake started the stop clock. The hands began to sweep, counting the seconds, one by one.

  Now the entire formation began a gradual descent.

  The needle of the vertical speed indicator showed that they were dropping 1500 feet per minute, then 200 The airspeed increased. The search radar tones came more frequently, about every four or five seconds. The operator had narrowed his sweep to a sector scan, “Mustang One Oh Seven, you stay with us.”

  CAG spoke casually, as if he were ordering popcorn at the wardroom movie.

  “Okay.” Another emotionless voice, but the low flak suppressor pilot must have felt a twinge of relief. Instead of zooming out ahead of the formation and making a solo dive on a heavily defended target, he would now go in with the rest of the bombers. The flak would still be there but at least Mustang 107 wouldn’t be hanging it all out by himself.

  But perhaps it was all academic. As the formation slid through 18,000 feet the clouds below took on a solid look. Was there a hole?

  Could they bomb at all?”

  “TWELVE miles to push over,” Cole informed him.

  Three hundred forty knots indicated. Jake reached over and flipped on the master armament switch. One push on the bomb-release pickle and six tons of high explosive would be on their way.

  “SAM, SAM, SA.M.”

  “Three o’clock.”

  “Two them.”

  “Three.”

  “Look out, Pete.”

  The radio was full of chatter, most of it impossible to comprehend over the wailing of the missile warning. The skipper turned right and Grafton hung on his wing. Jake’s ears were assailed by the high-pitched SAM warning. The red missile light next to the bombsight was flashing.

  The strobe on the warning-direction indicator pointed behind the right wing, back toward Haiphong.

  “See them?” he asked Cole.

  “No.” Cole was looking over his right shoulder. New Guy was still with them but several plane lengths back so Jake had room to maneuver.

  “Keep turning, Pete.” The radio again. Who the hell was Pete?

  Everything was happening SO fast- “Watch out!”

  “Damn!”

  From the corner of his eye, Jake glimpsed a missile streaking upward and away from him.

  “More SAMs. From the left.”

  The skipper reversed his turn so he could turn into the threat. The A-6 on his left wing was gone. Jake slipped down and inside the skipper’s radius of turn so he could stay with him.

  Where were the missiles? The warning light on the panel was still flashing and the warble whanged away. Jake chanced a quick glance downward.

  Nothing. Only clouds. What a mess! His peripheral vision picked up dark gray puff balls of exploding flak, probably fired blindly through the clouds.

  Too many people were talking too fast on the radio. From out of nowhere a lone A-7 flashed in front of Camparelli going from right to left. The strike had fallen apart.

  “You got the target?” Jake asked Virgil Cole.

  “Steering’s good.” The pilot’s eyes went to the visual display indicator.

  Steering was pegged right so he rolled hard right, away from the skipper, and dropped the nose.

  “Attack when you can,” Jake shouted above the radio and ecm noise. He needed computer steering to the weapons-release point, the attack phase, not to the target. Obediently, Cole pushed the button and the attack light came on under the vdi. Grafton checked outside for other planes and glimpsed a string of bombs disappearing into the cloud deck. Someone had dumped his load so he could maneuver better, and five would get you ten that the weapons went armed.

  God only knew where they’d hit.

  When the vdi steering symbol was centered Jake leveled his wings. The Intruder was in a twenty-degree dive. The clouds enveloped them as they rocketed down.

  The steering symbol swung hard left and Grafton slammed the stick over to follow, Cole reported, “Ignore steering. Cursors are ruining- We’re out of attack.”

  Shit! A computer or inertial problem. Over 500 knots. Get out of the good and try again. He leveled the wings and pulled the nose up.

  “And New Guy’s lost us. They exploded out of the clouds at 13,000 feet climbing steeply. The Pilot continued upward until the bomber threatened to run out of airspeed, then flattened the angle but continued to climb. Below airplanes flashed by and every now and then a SAM popped out of the clouds.

  Two hundred fifty knots and climbing.

  “What the hell are you doing up here this slow? Cole demanded. “We’re gonna be assholed by a SAM!”

  “I’m looking for a hole. We came to bomb. Now get the goddamn system running again or we’ll be up here all fucking day.”

  The higher he went, the better his view of the cloud deck below.

  Then he saw it: a hole in the clouds, a narrow jagged tear. He swung toward it, trying to see how far down it reached.

  “The guys on the ground’ll be shooting up that hole hoping some damn fool’ll fly down it,” Cole said At the bottom of the hole was dark green earth An a river. And a railroad track. And a power plant.

  The bomber shuddered on the edge of a stall. Jake inverted the plane, and the earth and the power plant beside the river were above his head. The nose came down and the Power plant was dead ahead, straight down.

  The Intruder leapt forward under the combined pull of gravity and two engines at full power. The controls regained their sensitivity as the volume of air over the wings increased. The target was in his bombsight and growing as they hurtled down. Flak puffs mingled with the gray cloud that lined the tunnel. Cole called the altitude. Something on the ground twinkled like diamondmuzzle flashes.

  At 900, Jake kicked the bombs loose and pulled out of the tunnel and into the clouds. Four Gees. He didn’t feel the effect of the Gees.

  Five thousand feet in the clouds. They were coming out of the dive, 540 knots. He felt the buffetting through the seat as they pushed at the sonic shock wave that prevented any increase in airspeed. He relaxed the Gees and let the plane continue down as his instincts and the bowling missile warning urged him to get free of the clouds so that he could see again.

  Jake leveled at 2000 feet in rain and foggy gray tendrils that reached down toward the water-covered paddies. The missile warnings had ceased and the excited voices of other pilots filled his ears. He started a shallow turn to the southeast and looked around for other airplanes. He was alone.

  Below he saw muzzle flashes and people running along the paddy dikes, but the sea was ahead and they were going home. “Goddamn,” he shouted at Virgil Cole. “We made it.” He pounded Cole on the arm with his right hand and pumped the stick back and forth with his left.

  Heavy-caliber guns flashed, probably out of the Haiphong area, but he rolled and jinked the airplane with the ease of a horse switching its tail.

  They were invulnerable.

  Safely out to sea, Jake and Cole released one side of their oxygen masks and let them dangle from their helmets. Grafton grinned at Cole and the bombardier did his miserable best to grin back. “Call Red Crown, ” Jake suggested, “and tell them to expect a low pass. ” The bombardier dialed the radio and made the call.

  The pilot retarded the throttles and deployed the speed brakes when the radar picket destroyer appeared on the sea ahead. As they slowed through 250 knots, dropped the gear and flaps. He stabilized at 150 and the machine dropped toward the water. The destroyer was rolling and heaving in the heavy sea, taking spray over the bow. He went down the starboard side at 50 feet Cole waved to the T-shirted sailors looking out of the open hatches.

  He cleaned up the plane-raised the gear and flaps and climbed. Above the clouds they found the sun.

  Jake Grafton took a long last
drag on his cigarette and used the stub to light a new one from a crumple pack in his G-suit pocket. He leaned back in his chair adjusted his torso harness straps so they did not impinge upon his testicles, and listened to the men gathered in the Intelligence Debriefing room.

  “What a zoo.” The CAG was lighting a cigar. “The strike just went ape shit when those SN4s came squirting out.”

  An A-7 pilot looked up from the debriefing sheet he was filling out. “The weather was so lousy we wouldn’t have had any way to bomb accurately even if the gooks hadn’t fired a round.”

  The CAG shook his head. He looked tired. He would have to talk to the admiral in a few minutes. “We’ gonna have to get our shit in one sock or we’ll never make the target, good weather or not. All those bombs … all that gas and sweat. Wasted. And one plane stuck on the hangar deck for three or four weeks with battle damage.” He looked over at the intelligence officers in their pressed khaki uniforms. “Did anyone hit the goddamn target?”

  Abe Steiger answered. “Yessir. Grafton, over there, dropped visually and one of the other A-6s made a system drop.”

  The CAG swiveled around to Jake. “Hit anything?”

  “Don’t know, sir. I didn’t have a chance to look back. I was hauling it out of there. The cloud on the pullout had made sightseeing impossible.

  The CAG turned to the senior intelligence officer, a lieutenant commander. “I want to see those Vigilante pictures as soon as they’re developed. I’ll be on the flag bridge. Call me.” The RA-sC Vigilante photoreconnaissance plane had flown over the target at low altitude minutes after the scheduled drop time.

  The head spy nodded and the CAG walked out puffing on his cigar, not caring a damn who saw him smoking in the passageways.

  Grafton and Cole picked up their helmet bags. In the passageway they met New Guy on his way to debrief. New Guy said he had lost Grafton in the pullout from the aborted system run and had attempted a system delivery himself, only to be thwarted by radar failure. Jake murmured sympathetically. New Guy didn’t seem much the worse for wear after his first combat mission. “In the future, really try and stay with the leader,” Jake advised. “A wingman has to stick like stink on shit.”