"Doin' it," Brad replied, shoving his stick forward. "They're going to overshoot." The MiGs could not slow quickly enough to keep from overtaking the Phantoms in the narrow valley.
Hutton, seeing two of the three MiGs pull up in a climbing turn, radioed his friend. "Brad, you've got one comin' over the top… two o'clock high. The other two are running — I've lost them."
Slamming the throttles into afterburner, Brad retracted the speed brakes and reefed the fighter into a tight, climbing turn. He immediately reversed to the left, squarely on the MiG's tail.
The North Vietnamese pilot, painfully aware of his error, dove for the edge of the gently sloping hills. His two wingmen had disappeared in the low overcast.
Palmer pulled up in a sweeping wingover. "You've got him, Joker. Shoot! Shoot!"
Inhaling sharply, Brad and Russ were squashed into their seats under the heavy g load. Their faces sagged as they felt the onset of gray-out.
The MiG pilot banked hard, racing toward the other side of the valley. He was 400 feet above the ground when the Phantom, 2,000 feet behind and closing, flew through the MiG's powerful wingtip-generated vortices. The phenomenon was familiar to all pilots.
The Phantom, straining under the heavy g load, hit the twin horizontal tornadoes, shed the port Sidewinder missiles and ejector rail, then snapped inverted to a nose low attitude.
"Oh!" Brad groaned, shoving the stick forward while desperately pushing on the left rudder. He was upside down, petrified by the trees rushing up to kill him. He was too terrified to utter a sound.
The F-4 twisted in a 7-g rolling pullout, then slammed through a stand of trees in an exploding hail of branches and debris.
"God… damn!" Brad shouted as the heavily damaged jet fighter, rolling upright, shot skyward. "Sweet mother of Jesus… we're alive." His heart hammered so hard that he suffered chest pains.
Afraid to open his eyes, Russ Lunsford spoke in a low, reverent voice. "If I ever get back on the ground, I promise you God, I'll go to church every Sunday… I promise." He gulped a deep breath of oxygen. "Thank you, precious God."
Brad was startled by the master caution light and annunciator-panel lights glowing. The bright red fire-warning light caught his attention. He looked down at the engine tachometers and exhaust gas temperature indicators. The starboard engine was surging from the tremendous amount of debris it had ingested.
Brad could feel the vibration from the straining J-79. The powerful engine was quickly succumbing to the foreign-object damage. He retarded the right throttle to idle, then cutoff. The smoking, overheated turbojet ground to a shuddering halt.
Brad and Russ were looking over their shoulders, trying to locate the MiG-17, when they heard Palmer's excited voice.
"I've got him! Got a tone!"
Austin saw the MiG heading up the valley, scud-running beneath the overcast. Palmer, 100 feet below and 3,000 feet behind the MiG, fired two Sidewinders. Brad watched the first missile detonate in a brilliant flash to the right of the MiG. The second Sidewinder exploded under the fighter but failed to destroy the aircraft.
Swearing to himself, Palmer fired his last two heat-seeking missiles. His soliloquy continued unchecked as both Sidewinders, two seconds apart, detonated under the belly of the damaged MiG-17.
The blast blew off the tail of the fighter in a blinding flash. The MiG continued to fly momentarily, trailing vapor and smoke, before exploding in an orange-black fireball. The pilot ejected from the tumbling fuselage seconds before the burning MiG hit the ground. His parachute never had time to fully deploy before he slammed into the ground next to the remains of his fighter.
"I got him!" Palmer shouted over the radio. "Good kill!"
Brad pushed his left throttle forward and banked into a shallow turn to expedite the rendezvous with Palmer. "Nick, I've got major problems."
"Yeah," Palmer replied, trying to slow his breathing rate, "I saw you go through the trees."
Hutton keyed his radio. "Brad, we're coming up your port side. Let's get feet wet and back to the boat."
Austin looked at the lights on his annunciator panel and scanned his instruments. The airspeed indicator was inoperative. The PC-1 hydraulic system indicated zero pressure. The PC-2 was fluctuating and the utility system remained steady.
"Nick," Austin said, "take the lead and keep your speed below two-fifty. I've lost an engine and I don't have any airspeed indication. I've got a lot of buffeting and I don't want this baby to come apart."
"Roger," Palmer radioed as he pulled even with Austin's fighter and surveyed the damage. The right engine intake was crumpled and partially collapsed against the fuselage. The wings were dented and deeply scored, with long scrapes near the fuselage. "You need to send a thank-you card to McDonnell-Douglas."
Looking back at his wings, Brad was astounded by the extent of damage his aircraft had sustained. The leading edges of both wings were mangled. Pieces of tree limbs and leaves were embedded in or protruded from both wings. Brad had to bank the aircraft slightly to the right, while adding a touch of left rudder, to maintain coordinated flight.
Palmer crossed under the battered F-4 and stabilized in a loose parade formation. "You guys have the best camouflaged Fox-4 in Southeast Asia."
Scanning the left engine gauges, Brad inched the throttle forward. "Nick, do you see anything that is an immediate threat? Any fluids?"
Palmer scrutinized the crumpled centerline fuel tank. "You've got a lot of damage, and fluid is leaking from a couple of holes. Your centerline tank is smashed beyond recognition. It's sort of canted to the side. I'd just leave well enough alone and not try to jettison it."
"Rog," Brad replied, watching Palmer move into the lead position. "Does it look like fuel or hydraulic fluid?"
"I can't really tell."
"Nick, I'm going to punch off my starboard pylon." "Roger," Palmer replied, turning to watch Austin's right missile rack fall away.
Hutton looked back at the crippled fighter. "Jesus, Brad, it looks like you're flying a shrub."
Still shaking, Lunsford raised his helmet visor and keyed his radio switch. "How about canning the goddamn monologue, and get us back to the boat."
Palmer checked his airspeed at 250 knots, thinking about the MiG-17 he had just shot down. The reality was difficult to comprehend. "Jokers, switch to Red Crown."
"Switchin'."
Palmer waited for the shoreline to pass under him, glanced at his wingman, then called the radar picket ship. "Red Crown, Joker Two Oh Two."
"Joker Two Zero Two, Red Crown."
Turning in the general direction of the carrier, Palmer added power and started a gentle climb. "The weather over the target area is miserable and getting worse. Advise canceling the strike."
"Copy that," the controller replied. "Squawk One Three Three Seven. Do you need a tanker?"
"Stand by one," Palmer answered, looking over his shoulder at Austin. Nick Palmer believed they should get the damaged fighter on the carrier as quickly as possible, unless Austin needed fuel. Palmer would be tight on fuel, but he felt confident that he could fly to the ship without a problem. "Need any gas, Brad?"
"Negative. I've got enough to make the boat."
Palmer steepened the climb and reset his IFF. "Red Crown, we're okay on fuel, but my wingman has had a fender bender and we need a ready deck on arrival."
"Wait one," the controller responded, punching up another frequency. He contacted the carrier, relayed the weather information, and informed them about the inbound emergency.
Chapter 6
The dimly lighted ready room had become crowded since the message about Brad Austin's plight had been received. The mood was somber, with the usual noisy banter replaced by a quiet uneasiness.