Two clicks acknowledged the call.
Suddenly, Frank Rockwood's distinct voice sounded over the radio. He was on the ground and transmitting over his emergency radio.
"Spade One is okay," Rockwood panted, "but I think they shot Ed during the descent."
Bull Durham took command. "Lay low, Rocky. We've got a SAR effort underway."
A minute passed while the four Phantoms led by Brad Austin coasted into loose formation with Bull Durham.
Brad glanced down at the cratered and scorched hillside where Rockwood's Phantom had crashed. He could see a line of soldiers working their way along a trail sixty meters below the burning wreckage.
The North Vietnamese regulars had already reached Ed Zapata's parachute. The RIO 's lifeless body, three feet above the ground, was hanging from the branches of two tall trees.
Zapata, who had fired every round from his.38-caliber revolver, had been shot through the head, chest, and thigh as he descended above the soldiers.
"Spade One," the A-1 Skyraider flight leader radioed, "Lifeguard is inbound with four Spads. We'll be over your position in twelve minutes."
Frank Rockwood watched the soldiers as they examined Ed Zapata's body. "Lifeguard, I've got company just below me. Twenty-five to thirty regulars."
"Copy," the Skyraider pilot replied. "We'll be there as soon as possible."
Austin slid out to a loose-formation position. He cautiously watched the sky while glancing down at Rockwood's conspicuous parachute.
"Spade One," Brad radioed, "can you hide your chute?" "Negative," Rockwood responded. "It's caught over some branches. I tried to pull it down… no luck."
Bull Durham observed the soldiers advancing up the hill in the direction of the downed flight leader. "Rocky, you need to get away from your chute. I think they've spotted it, 'cause they're going straight toward your position."
"Okay," Rockwood replied, crouching close to the ground. "Which way looks the best?"
Durham had to be careful in the event the North Vietnamese had a confiscated American survival radio. If there was an English-speaking member in the enemy patrol, the soldier could spell disaster for Frank Rockwood.
"Okay, Spade," Durham said, analyzing the best course for the XO to follow. "You are on third base, copy?"
"Copy, third base."
Durham banked tighter. "The wreckage — the Phantom — is home plate. Go to second base and burrow in."
"Movin' out," Rockwood responded, then edged along the hillside to a thick stand of trees and undergrowth. He dropped down and crawled into the foliage.
Three minutes passed while the soldiers split into two sections. One group went directly toward the dangling parachute, while the others hurried along the trail below Rockwood. They quickly outflanked the downed aviator, surrounding him on two sides.
"Lifeguard One," Austin radioed as the soldiers moved steadily in the direction of the executive officer. "Say your ETA to Spade One."
"We've got you on the horizon," the pilot replied, adjusting his throttle, mixture, and propeller pitch for maximum power. "We'll be overhead in six minutes."
Brad swore to himself, then made a bold decision to help Frank Rockwood.
Lunsford, reading Austin's mind, tapped his intercom. "They're going to be on top of him before then."
Keying his radio, Brad glanced below. "Bull, we've got to keep their heads down."
"Roger," Durham replied, rolling his Phantom into a dive.
"I'm ahead of you. Spades roll in at twenty-second intervals."
The North Vietnamese soldiers knew that the navy and marine F-4s were not equipped with cannons. The only thing the soldiers had to fear were bombs and Zuni rockets, and they could see that the five Phantoms had expended all of their air-to-ground ordnance.
Although the thundering F-4s were intimidating when they screamed low overhead, the riflemen felt safe firing with impunity at the powerful fighters.
"They're closing in on me," Rockwood whispered over his emergency radio. He wiped his sweat-soaked hands on his flight suit, grasped his.38-caliber revolver, and crawled between two trees.
"Hang in there," Durham responded, sweeping across the soldiers at 520 knots in afterburner.
Austin flicked his Phantom over. "Spade One," Brad calmly radioed, "get your head down and hang on."
Frank Rockwood recognized the steady voice of the marine aviator. He ducked his head and peered over the foliage at the advancing North Vietnamese platoon.
The F-4 streaked toward the ground while Austin lined up one group of soldiers in his windscreen. He bottomed out short of his mark and toggled the pylon jettison select switch. The ejector racks and Sidewinder missiles tumbled away from the Phantom's wings, then plowed into the soldiers with devastating accuracy.
"Bull," Austin groaned during the tight, high-g pull-up, "recommend we drop our racks and centerlines on the gomers."
"Spade Lead concurs," Durham responded, watching Palmer pull off the target area, "but keep your speed below four hundred seventy." The centerline tanks would occasionally drop off, then porpoise back into the Phantoms above 470 knots. "Diamonds copy?"
Click, click.
"Brad, Spade One," Rockwood broke in. "You mangled the bastards… killed a half dozen at least, but they're spreading out and taking cover."
Durham again rolled in when the fifth Phantom pulled off the target. He raced for the same spot that Austin had attacked.
Durham pickled off his ejector racks and pulled up steeply. The heavy missile rails ripped through the soldiers, killing one man and injuring two others.
"Good drop!" Rockwood said, then turned to watch the group of men advancing from the trail. "You've got their attention, but the ones along the trail are only about eighty meters away."
Brad Austin keyed his mike. "Keep your head down. I'm makin' a run down the trail line."
"Bring it on," Rockwood replied, then added, "they're twenty to thirty meters northeast of the trail, seventy meters east of the last drop."
"Roger," Austin responded, wheeling into his second attack. "Can you move farther up the hill?"
"I can try," Rockwood answered cautiously, looking around the immediate area, "but I'll be exposed for twenty to thirty seconds."
Brad aimed for the spot the X0 had described and punched off his 600-gallon centerline fuel tank. The large receptacle ripped through the scurrying North Vietnamese, injuring three of the soldiers.
"A little short," Rockwood radioed. "They're closing on me… about sixty meters away."
Nick Palmer was in his dive. "Grab hold, Dash One. I'm gonna drop 'em a goddamn load."
"Lifeguard," Brad pleaded, "we need cover. Say posit."
"We're two minutes out to the southeast. Hang on."
Rockwood's voice, faint and barely audible, came over the radio. "They're almost on me… ten to twelve of them at fifty meters."
"Okay," Bull Durham replied. "Spades and Diamonds, let's roll in in tight trail. Drop all your trash on this pass."
Jon O'Meara and his wingman charged downward while the soldiers fired at the fighters and advanced toward Rockwood. Durham dropped his centerline tank directly on top of two of the soldiers.
"Frank," Durham said, straining under the force of the pull-up, "haul ass up the slope. We'll place the last one between you and the gomers."
"Okay, but they're almost — " Rockwood's whisper stopped when he heard a sound thirty meters to his right. His heart pounded when he met the soldier's eyes. "They're on me… they see me!"
"Spades!" the Skyraider pilot shouted, "we have your target in sight. Rolling in hot." The prop-driven A-1 s hurtled down toward the point of the debris settling to the ground.
Rockwood dropped to a prone position, aimed his revolver, then fired three rounds at the North Vietnamese soldier. The small man turned to dive for cover at the instant the first round hit him in the jaw.