Robinett slowly exhaled. "We're hanging on."
"Thumper One Nine," the Skyhawk pilot said as he crossed the coastline, "Casper is rolling in with two Fox-4s."
"Bring 'em in!" The gunship's vibrating rotor blades made the pilot sound as if he was beating his chest while he talked. "We're taking heavy fire."
The three airplanes dove, screeching low over the hamlets on the east side of Route One.
"Thumper," the Skyhawk pilot radioed as they passed over the highway, "we're entering the valley. Mark the target with Willie Peter."
"Roger," the Huey pilot responded, turning to fire a white phosphorus rocket at the front line of the advancing enemy soldiers.
The streaking projectile impacted twenty meters in front of the nearest machine gun. Smoke rose through the trees while the Vietnamese retreated several meters.
"Drop your ordnance," the gunship pilot said over the beating rotor blades, "at twelve o'clock for thirty meters. We're clear to your right."
"Roger," Brad acknowledged, "twelve at thirty." This is going to be close.
Seconds later, Austin detected a wisp of rising smoke to his right. "I've got a visual… at one o'clock. Dash Two, we'll pull off vertical." "Two," Robinett responded, gulping oxygen.
"Nail 'em," the Skyhawk pilot radioed, pulling straight up into the dark overcast.
Brad let his Phantom drift up to the base of the thick clouds. They would not be able to use their normal bombing approach. He had maintained 450 knots, but there was no way to establish a thirty-degree dive from 600 feet above the ground. Brad and his wingman would have to rely on their pilot's instincts.
"Thumper," Brad said, breathing rapidly, "tell them to get their heads down."
Austin heard the whump-whump from the gunship when the pilot replied. Brad hesitated a moment, calculating his release point. He savagely popped the Phantom's nose down, released the Snakeyes, then snapped the stick back.
"Ohhh… shit," Randy Wyatt groaned under the g load as their F-4 plunged into the low rain clouds. "This is totally insane… I'm telling you.
The Phantom shot out of the clouds at 2,800 feet. Brad pulled the fighter through the top of a loop, let the nose drop below the horizon, then rolled the F-4 right side up and leveled off "Dash Two, I'm on top. You'll be out at two point eight."
"We're clear," Robinett responded, observing the tops of the surrounding mountains protruding through the overcast, "and I've got you at twelve."
"Roger," Brad replied, looking for the Skyhawk. "Thumper, call the hits."
"You're both a little long — 'bout twenty meters, but you got their attention."
Brad swore to himself before keying his radio. "Okay, we're coming in with napalm… one minute apart. Suggest you try to extract them after the first pass."
"Roger that."
"Dash Two copies," Robinett said, selecting his napalm stations. "I'll roll in at sixty seconds."
"Rhino, Casper," the reassuring voice sounded in Brad's earphones. "I'm orbiting over the mouth of the valley."
"Tally," Brad replied, catching sight of the Skyhawk while he switched his armament panel. "I'm in hot."
Brad reefed the F-4 around and thundered up the valley. The rain was intensifying, which obscured his forward visibility.
"Dash Two," Brad warned, pulling the throttles back, "the vis is dropping. I'll call my final speed."
"Copy."
Brad squinted through the rainswept windshield at the gray, foggy haze. "Randy, call my speeds while I try to see where the hell we're going."
"Three-ninety…" Wyatt tightened his shoulder restraints. "Three-eighty…
"Thumper," Austin said, concentrating on maintaining visual contact with the ground, "can you mark again?"
"Affirmative."
A pause followed before the gunship pilot again replied. Your target is eleven o'clock for twenty-five to thirty meters. I'm going in as soon as you drop."
"Roger," Brad responded at the same moment he saw the white smoke. "I've got a visual."
"Three-sixty," Wyatt prompted. "I hope we don't take out our own troops."
"Dash Two," Brad radioed, shoving the throttles forward, "three-eighty is a good speed."
"Two is rolling in," Vic Lowenstein, Robinett's RIO, answered for his busy pilot. "Copy three-eighty."
Brad eased the nose down, boring in on the rising smoke. He could see the Huey moving toward the trapped marines. "Get on with it," he muttered to himself.
"Holy Mother of Jesus," Wyatt shouted through clenched teeth. "You're going to take off their heads."
Waiting till the last second, Brad dropped the napalm bombs and snatched the stick into his stomach. "One's off!" He selected afterburner and rocketed through the clouds, rolling upright over the gloomy mass.
Searching for the Skyhawk, Brad listened to the helo pilot, then keyed his cockpit intercom. "That son of a bitch deserves the Medal of Honor."
Wyatt remained quiet while he mentally reviewed the ejection-seat procedures.
"Thumper is taking hits," the gunship pilot shouted over the rattle of machine-gun fire. "They're advancing toward us. Dash Two, lay it down forty meters in front of us, and walk it into the trees!"
"Two has you in sight," Robinett excitedly replied. "Here it comes… hang in there."
"Roger," the Huey pilot yelled above the confusion. "We've got the last man coming aboard."
The napalm containers tumbled from the howling Phantom, decimating the center of the enemy patrol. Men ran screaming through the trees, hopelessly attempting to extinguish the flames that had engulfed them.
"Two's off" Robinett reported as his fighter entered the murky clouds.
Brad saw the TAC Skyhawk at the same time he heard the frantic helicopter pilot. The tense voice sent a chill down his spine.
"We're overloaded — can't get off the ground! We need cover while we jettison our weapons and ammo!"
Brad detected the desperation in the pilot's voice. He sounded resigned to facing death.
Austin yanked the throttles to idle, popped the speed brakes open, snapped the fighter to an almost inverted position, and pulled the nose down. "Thumper, Dash One is in."
Randy Wyatt. Gripped the sides of the canopy. "We can't dive through the clouds!"
The shrieking Phantom plummeted into the dark clouds while Brad tugged on the stick to pull out of the steep dive. "We don't have time to go out and enter underneath."
"These sonuvabitches," the gunship pilot yelled, "are fanatical. They're almost on us!"
Dropping out of the leaden undercast, Austin and Wyatt cringed when their fighter's right wingtip skimmed along the sharply rising hills.
"That was close," Wyatt exclaimed while Brad simultaneously slapped the stick to the left, retracted the speed brakes, and shoved the throttles forward.
"Just a few seconds, Thumper," Austin radioed, yanking the Phantom back on course. "I'm going to ripple the whole load."
Brad reset his armament panel, checked his speed at 390 knots, then caught sight of the Huey. The gunship pilot was struggling to head down the valley. The landing skids bounced across the ground while the crew frantically hurled guns and ammunition out of the helicopter.
Brad made a slight heading change, then lowered the nose. He had the gunship boresighted. God, be with me.
"Holy shit…" Wyatt moaned over the intercom, "we're gonna hit the ground."
Raising the F-4's nose, Brad pickled his entire load of ordnance. The Snakeyes and napalm hurtled over the top of the helicopter, enveloping the right flank of the enemy soldiers in a pulsing black, orange, and red fireball.
Brad pulled hard on the stick, then felt the Phantom shudder from the impact of gunfire. He instinctively shot a glance at the master caution light. It remained dark. "Stay calm," he told himself.
Concentrating on his primary flight instruments, Austin let out a sigh of relief as they emerged from the clouds. "I think we took some hits."