Squinting through the thick, armored-glass windshield, Austin began to distinguish the runway at Bai Thuong from the surrounding terrain.
Brad altered course to the right and again glanced at his watch. When was he going to hear the strip-alert call? The strike group should be nearing the coast-in point. After passing the last mountai n s ummit, Brad eased the throttle forward and kept his rate of descent shallow as he let down toward Bai Thuong. Better to be early than late. "Tidewater One, Rock Crusher. Weather check."
Tidewater was the call sign for the navy F-4 target combat air-patrol fighters. They had previously crossed the shoreline and were in a position to view the target area.
"Crusher," the Phantom flight leader replied, "no problem with weather. We'll be on station in about two minutes."
"Roger," the strike group leader answered, then added, "Crushers will be feet dry in three minutes."
"Copy."
A moment later, the other TARCAP flight came up strike frequency. "Ragtime copies," the F-8 Crusader leader chimed in. "We're on station and anchored at eleven thou."
Brad looked high in the sky north of Bai Thuong. "Come on, Spencer… time's running out." A minute and a half later, he heard the flak suppressor flight leader check in on strike frequency.
"Ah, Skeeter Four Fifty-one is crossing the beach — starting our run-in."
"Roger," the strike leader said in a controlled voice. "I've got you in sight."
Searching for the F-4 Phantoms, Austin was startled when Rudy Jimenez suddenly called on the other radio.
"Top Cat, Sleepy Two Five. Activity."
Brad thumbed his radio switch. "Top Cat — copy."
"Go get 'em."
Banking toward the MiG base, Austin lowered the nose and let the airspeed increase to 410 knots. He. Could feel the airplane tremble as it approached 425 knots.
"SAMs," someone called. "We've got SAMs up!"
"Watch it, Tony!"
"I've got 'em," an emotionless voice answered.
Brad managed a look toward Thanh Hoa before he turned his attention to the MiG runway.
"Well, shit," Austin swore when he saw a MiG-17 lifting off the runway. "I'm going to be late."
The urgent radio calls from the strike group became impossible to understand, forcing Brad to mentally tune out the incessant chatter.
Another North Vietnamese fighter was commencing his takeoff when Austin lined up with the runway. He saw a string of MiGs bunched together for takeoff as he flattened his dive.
"Keep it together," Brad coached himself as he placed the gun sight on' the first of the MiGs. Squeezing the trigger gently, Austin felt his fighter vibrate as a stream of white-hot shells ripped through the line of MiGs.
He let the incandescent tracers walk the length of the field, then made a snap decision. Releasing the trigger, Brad whipped the thundering jet into knife-edge flight and executed a punishing 6-g, 360-degree turn to again align himself with the runway.
"MiGs! We've got MiGs airborne!" a voice shouted. "On the deckcomin' from the north."
"Tidewater has a tally. We're engaging."
Focusing his attention on the airfield, Brad was surprised to see two columns of black smoke rising into the gray sky. Three more fighters had reached the runway, with, two of the aircraft rolling for takeoff. The rest of the MiGs waiting for takeoff were scattered like bowling pins. People were running in every conceivable direction.
"Ragtime has the MiGs. We'll cover you, Tidewater."
"Jump in whenever you want!" the F-4 pilot shot back. "There's plenty for everyone!"
"Brownie," another voice broke through the confusion. "Bandits — check your four o'clock!"
"SAMs! Two more at eleven!"
Brad boresighted the two fighters on the runway in his gun sight and held the trigger down. A bright streak of molten fire tore through one of the fighters, then Brad raised the nose, tracking the MiG that had become airborne.
Everyone on the base who had a weapon fired at Brad's MiG while the others watched his cannon fire rip the lead aircraft to shreds. The MiG slow-rolled to the left, caught a wingtip on the ground, and cartwheeled into a blazing inferno.
"Watch out, Ski!" a high-pitched voice warned. "You've got a MiG coming around to your six."
The other MiG Brad had hit staggered into the air and began a steep, climbing turn, then reversed and dove for the deck. Brad was about to chase the damaged fighter when two dark forms flashed overhead.
Snapping his head up, Brad saw two MiG-17s blast across the end of the airfield. They had to have come from another base, Austin thought while he lowered the nose and raced toward the Laotian border. He heard the flight leader of the Rock Crushers order his charges to head for the beach. It was time for everyone to exit.
Brad winced when tracers flashed over his right wing. Expecting to see an F-8 on his tail, Brad craned his neck in time to see the muzzle flashes from one of two MiG-17s.
Someone at Bai Thuong had radioed his position and description to the fighter pilots who had been patiently waiting for the fraudulent MiG. The enemy pilots, who Brad guessed had fair hair and blue eyes, were obviously from the first string, and certainly spoke fluent Russian.
Brad yanked the stick into his lap and slammed it hard to the left. The nose snapped up and the horizon rotated three quarters of the way through a roll before Brad centered the stick and then pulled with every ounce of strength in his arms.
The MiG flight leader, who was the designated shooter, overshot Brad's aircraft. Austin dove for airspeed and separation, but he could not shake the wingman. The two fighters worked in perfect harmony, with one attacking while the other pilot called the fight and flew high cover. When Brad reversed, the enemy pilots simply switched roles.
Knowing that it was only a matter of seconds before they would shoot him down, Brad frantically searched for the TARCAP F-4s or F-8s. In desperation, he keyed the radio tuned to the navy strike frequency.
"Tidewater, say posit!"
"Five north of Bai Thuong," the Phantom flight leader gasped as he executed a high-g turn. "We've got bogies — engaging bandits coming from the north." The F-4s were busy with MiGs from the airfields at Phuc Yen and Gia Lam.
Brad slipped and skidded the MiG, then snap-rolled the aircraft and popped the nose up and down in a reflexive effort to elude the intense cannon fire. There was no escape from the two expertly flown fighters.
"MiGs airborne over Bai Thuong!" he called, then wrapped his aircraft into an uncoordinated displacement roll. "We need coverMiGs north of Bai Thuong!"
A different voice, which sounded calm and soothing, cut through the garbled radio transmissions. "Ragtime is on the way. Say your call sign and position."
Brad caught a glance of the runway as he shoved the nose down and then violently yanked the stick back. He again rolled the airplane and keyed his mike. "Two north of Bai Thuong," he inhaled sharply, "coming back across the field." He purposely avoided using a call sign.
"Roger that."
Breathing rapidly, Brad pulled the MiG into the vertical before cross-controlling and extending the speed brakes. He yanked the throttle to idle and shoved the stick forward, causing the aircraft to depart from controlled flight.
"Oh, shit… Austin blurted as one of the MiGs flashed directly over his canopy. His first priority was to recover control of the fighter before it hit the ground. Brad was violently slammed around the cockpit as the MiG tumbled end-over-end, wallowed in a yaw, then rolled inverted.
Fighting the crushing g forces, Brad slammed the throttle forward and let the nose fall below the horizon. The airspeed rapidly increased and he rolled the MiG upright, searching for his attackers.
He felt a solid jolt followed by a blinding white flash, then experienced a searing pain in his right arm as more tracers slashed past the canopy. Austin also saw what he hoped would be his salvation. Two F-8 Crusaders were turning tightly to engage Brad and his two adversaries. The American fighter pilots obviously had no idea that two MiGs were attacking another Communist fighter.