Brad snapped the throttles to idle, popped the speed brakes open, leveled the wings, and pulled as hard as he dared. "I've got it, Harry." The stressful 10-g maneuver broke two wing panels, bent a flap actuator, and popped seven rivets in the left wing.
Brad watched the altimeter bottom out at 800 feet before the Phantom, traveling faster than the speed of sound, zoomed back to 14,000 feet.
Catching sight of Carella's F-4, Brad retracted the speed brakes, slammed the throttles into afterburner, and keyed his mike. "Joker One, where's the MiG?"
"He's at my twelve," Carella grunted in an agonizing turn, "going for separation."
Brad turned inside Carella's aircraft in an attempt to fire a Sidewinder at the diving MiG. The enemy fighter was too close to the ground for the missile to get a clear tone and lock on.
"Joker Two," Carella shouted, "join up, and let's get back to the Vigilante."
"Roger," Brad heaved.
"Jokers," Red Crown radioed, "we're showing three bandits at your three five zero, fourteen miles. They're headed your direction." "Joker One copies."
Scanning his instruments, Austin was startled to see a warning light illuminated. "Harry, we've got a low-fuel light."
"We can't have," Hutton replied anxiously. "Check the fuel dump switch."
"I have," Brad responded, verifying the readings from the fuel gauges. "We've got fuel in the wings, but it isn't transferring to the fuselage."
Brad toggled switches to no avail. They would soon run out of fuel. He jettisoned their missile racks to reduce the parasitic drag on the wings. With smooth wings, they could stretch their range.
"Harry, the SAMs that exploded under the belly must have caused a valve to stick."
"Or the high-g pull-up," Hutton offered, trying to think of a solution to their problem.
"Maybe," Brad replied as he closed in on his flight leader. "Hang on while I try something."
Harry braced himself a second before Brad snapped the Phantom down. The negative-g maneuver was followed by an instantaneous seven positive g's. The wing fuel remained trapped. Using the rudders, Brad violently yawed the aircraft back and forth. Still no success.
"Joker One," Brad radioed in frustration. "Dash Two has a fuel problem."
"Say again," Carella said over the garbled radio calls. "Joker Two has a fuel-transfer problem. We're going to flameout any time now."
"Stick with me," Carella ordered, "and we'll escort you out over the water after the recon run."
Harry smacked the side of the canopy. "That sonuvabitch! Declare an emergency, and let's get the hell out of here, right now!"
Brad moved out to the left side of the RA-5C Vigilante while Carella positioned himself on the right side.
"Harry," Brad said, removing Leigh Ann's picture from the instrument panel, "we've got to maintain flight integrity, even if we can't do anything." He shoved the photo into his torso harness. "The appearance of two Phantoms may keep the MiGs away from the Viggie."
They both knew that the poststrike photographs were invaluable. Men's lives depended on the damage assessment. If the strike results were deemed unsatisfactory, more crews would have to return to the heavily defended bridges.
"White Lightning," Carella radioed in a strained voice, "Jokers ready when you are."
"Copy," the reconnaissance pilot answered. "We're rolling in now."
Brad could see the billowing clouds of smoke rising over the target area. He also saw the hundreds of puffs of flak filling the airspace over the bridges. Two MiGs shot past, going in the opposite direction. Brad wondered why Red Crown had not warned them about the fighters.
Heading toward Haiphong at an angle, the Vigilante pilot leveled at 3,800 feet. Brad heard the F-4 Lonestar flight leader call feet wet as the photo pilot banked steeply and commenced his run-in at 600 knots.
The clean Vigilante was pulling away from the Phantoms, forcing Carella and Austin to select afterburner. The increased thrust was rapidly draining the last few gallons of jet fuel from Brad's Phantom.
"SAMs!" Ernie Sheridan hollered. "Nine o'clock."
Brad glanced to his left in time to see a missile streak in front of him and explode over the Vigilante. The photo plane disappeared in the flash and cloud of smoke, then reappeared trailing fire.
The reconnaissance pilot turned sharply and darted for the coastline. Carella and Austin banked hard, following the blazing Vigilante.
"How much fuel?" Harry asked at the same instant the right engine flamed out.
"Mayday! Mayday!" Brad transmitted as the left engine quit. "Joker Two Oh Seven has flamed out."
"We'll coordinate RESCAP," Sheridan said, "then call the search-and-rescue station."
Brad lowered the Phantom's nose in an effort to glide as far as their speed and altitude would permit. He calculated their rate of descent against the distance to the shoreline. It would be close.
A flash caught Brad's eye. He looked out in front of his aircraft in time to see two parachutes pop open. The blazing Vigilante rolled inverted and plunged for the sea.
Feeling the thuds from small-arms bullets, Brad and Harry were stunned when a concussion buffeted the powerless Phantom. "Don't do anything, Harry! I'm going to get us as far as I can. Just sit tight. This is our only chance."
Harry braced his back against the ejection seat. "Are we going to make the water?"
"I don't think so, but stay with me." Brad started easing back on the stick as the Phantom descended through 2,000 feet. Brad could feel the flight controls stiffen as the engine turbines wound down. The hydraulic pumps were failing, making control of the airplane more difficult.
Passing 1,000 feet, Brad pulled with brute force, but the nose continued to drop below the horizon. "Hold on! Hold on a few more seconds."
The stricken fighter passed over a small rise a quarter of a mile from the shore. Descending through 500 feet, Brad reached for the ejection handles over his helmet. "Eject! Eject!" Harry blasted out of the Phantom in a thunderclap of wind and debris.
Staring at the rapidly rising terrain, Brad grasped the primary ejection handle and yanked the face curtain down over his helmet. The blast propelled him clear of the Phantom four seconds before it exploded on the edge of the shore. The ball of flames and metal engulfed the beach and rained across the water.
Brad's parachute opened with a tremendous jolt, snapping him sideways. After three swings, he plowed into the wet, low-lying ground. The vicious impact wrenched his knee and knocked the wind out of him.
Gasping for breath, Brad tore at the Koch fittings in an attempt to release his parachute. After struggling to rid himself of the canopy, Brad ripped off his oxygen mask, then reached for his revolver and got to his knees. He looked up and down the shoreline, spotting Harry running toward him. Hutton had left his life raft with his parachute.
Quickly examining his knee, Brad was relieved to see that it moved freely. Harry dropped to his knees next to Brad. Hutton's nose was bleeding, and he was holding his left arm.
Hearing an F-4 overhead, Brad caught sight of Carella's Phantom circling a mile away. A secondary explosion from Brad's downed fighter shocked him into action. The main core of the burning wreckage was sending an enormous cloud of black smoke into the sky. They had to get away from the crash site before ground troops arrived.
"Come on, Harry," Brad urged, getting to his feet. "We've got to get as far offshore as we can, and fast."
"My arm's broken," Harry replied. His face was ashen and twisted in pain. "I can't swim."
"I'll tow you. Keep your helmet on."
Brad placed his revolver back in its holster and yanked loose his one-man raft. "Let's go." They raced for the water, splashing into the surf at the same moment three rifle rounds kicked up spray next to them.