Brad cringed when a solid wall of white-orange puffs erupted directly in front of him. There was no way he could avoid the menacing flak trap.
"Get down!" he exclaimed as he popped the nose down and snapped the stick over. His heart skipped a beat when he saw a number of wide-eyed faces looking straight at him from their windows. Brad snatched the stick back to avoid colliding with the apartment building. He missed the edge of the roof by less than the length of his wingspan.
The erratic NVA gunners, in their desperate attempt to shoot down the elusive MiG, blasted a dozen people on the top floor of the building into oblivion.
Momentarily disoriented, Austin frantically scanned the terrain to the northwest. In the continuing chaos of SAM launches and fierce antiaircraft fire, he had lost sight of Phuc Yen. The sky was ablaze with flak and missile plumes in all quadrants.
"God… don't leave me now."
He maintained a shallow bank to the left and witnessed a bright orange-and-black explosion mushroom high overhead. The trail of smoke leading to the ball of flames meant a surface-to-air missile had found its target.
Brad searched for his last target while he listened to a frantic voice yell for someone to eject. He gave in to curiosity and looked up. He saw a number of MiGs in the vicinity, then froze when he recognized two sections of Phantoms diving toward the enemy fighters.
The runway at Phuc Yen suddenly appeared off to his left. Brad racked the airplane into a tighter turn and focused his concentration on the aircraft that were waiting to get airborne.
Steady. Hold what you've got.
Ahead, on the perimeter of the airfield, a gun battery opened up with a continuous burst of fire. The deadly tracers approached in a flat arc and swept over the canopy. The shells slowly corrected and slammed into the tail of the MiG, blasting a gaping hole in the vertical stabilizer.
Brad felt the stick tremble before he squeezed the trigger. He fired a long burst into the closest fighter and gradually walked the rounds through the remaining aircraft.
The cannon shells ripped through the planes like a buzz saw, tearing off chunks of metal and rupturing fuel cells. In awe, Brad saw a taxiing MiG careen into a drainage ditch and erupt in towering flames.
He released the trigger and made a sharp feint to the right, then yanked the airplane over into a punishing left turn.
Austin could feel a constant vibration in the control stick as the damaged fighter screamed low over a highway. Just stay together a few more minutes.
Two MiGs suddenly appeared from the left, ascending in a shallow, high-speed climb. Brad instinctively tweaked his nose up and fired the last of his ammunition in a sweeping arc. He cursed himself when the tracers went under the two planes.
Both pilots broke hard into Austin, prompting him to reef the fighter around to pass under them nose-to-nose. Seconds later, the two MiGs pulled up in a steep, climbing turn and Brad craned his neck to watch them. What he saw pumped a new surge of adrenaline through his veins. A pair of Phantoms had spotted the MiGs, and two other F-4s had obviously seen Brad's airplane. The second section of fighters were about to engage him in combat.
"Chicago One has a tally — two at eleven o'clock and climbing!" "Three has one on the nose! We're going down to get him!" — Roger — The acknowledgment was garbled and followed by, " 'areful."
Brad decided to use his transmitter while he still had the capability to communicate with the UH-34. He needed to give Mitchell and Jimenez his current location and direction. Turning the radio to th e r escue helicopter's frequency, Austin lowered the nose and dove for the deck. Hugging the ground in a last-ditch effort to escape, Brad ventured a quick look over his shoulders.
Like prehistoric predators stalking their prey, the Phantoms were rapidly closing on the crippled MiG.
Austin twisted his head around to face a wall of fire and flak bursts. He was so low that the gun crews on opposite hills were raking themselves in a cross fire.
"Sleepy Two Five, Safari!"
No answer.
A missile from one of his pursuers streaked over the right wing and detonated in front of the MiG. Brad glanced rearward as the airplane buffeted from the missile concussion.
"Oh, shit!"
He started to toggle the smoke canister when a tremendous explosion rocked the MiG. The right wing dropped and Brad desperately tried to raise it.
"Come on, don't lose it now!"
Austin simultaneously muscled the stick to the left and pulled it back. The flight controls were sluggish, and the wounded fighter trembled under his inputs. Slowly, the wings leveled while he kept the stick pressed to the left and shoved on the rudder to correct the yaw.
Terror gripped Brad as he turned to look behind him. One Phantom had disintegrated in a huge fireball and the other F-4 was executing a vertical reverse. Two men, who had no idea that they were chasing another American, had died instantly in the explosion.
Gulping air, Austin raised the nose a few degrees and then felt the engine surge. The MiG was dying a slow, agonizing death. He had to climb as high as possible as quickly as possible.
"Stay together… just a little longer," he said as he unconsciously clinched the stick grip.
Brad faced the nightmare he had often thought about. He would have to abandon the aircraft in the heart of enemy territory. Could he maintain the guise of being a Soviet instructor pilot until Mitchell and Jimenez located him?
Climbing for altitude, Austin relied on his instincts and ignored everything but his plan for ejecting. He would stay with the airplane as long as the engine was running.
Locating his position on his chart, Brad checked to make certain that his primary radio was tuned to the frequency of the rescue helicopter. Praying that the transmitter would work, he gingerly keyed the mike. "Sleepy Two Five, Safari," Austin said excitedly.
"Safari, Sleepy copies." It was Mitchell's voice.
The turbojet surged, and Brad felt a severe vibration in the airframe. He knew that he was about to lose the struggle.
"Sleepy, I've got an emergency."
Brad's headset was silent for a long moment.
"Say again."
"I'm going to have to eject," Austin shot back as his mind raced to verify his position. "I'm west of Dong Sang — approximately six miles east of the Black River."
"Roger. We're on our way." Mitchell's voice had a definite trace of caution. He and his crew had never penetrated so far into North Vietnam without a backup rescue helicopter. "Give me your position before you jump out."
Brad strained to see as far ahead as possible. "Wilco." He tipped the right wing down and saw a narrow river that flowed into a small lake. Then he spied the point where the Black River joined the Red River. "I'll be over the Black River — seven to eight miles south of where it meets the Red — in about a minute and—"
A muffled explosion jolted the airplane. Austin took a deep breath and banked the MiG into a shallow turn, then cast a wary glance behind him. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the telltale sign of an engine fire. Fed by raw fuel, the conflagration in the turbojet pumped volumes of black smoke into the sky.
"I've got to get out! I'm on fire!"
"Understand," Mitchell said above the beating rotor blades, "that you're on fire and ejecting at this time?"
"Affirmative!"
Brad glanced blankly at the instrument panel and braced himself for the ejection. He closed his eyes and pulled the ejection handle. Nothing happened.
With strength born from a sudden, overpowering fear, he again yanked on the handle, then yanked once more.
Panic momentarily swept over him as he realized that he was trapped in the burning airplane. The seat was not going to fire. He could not simply jettison the canopy and bail out manually. His parachute was not capable of opening without going through the ejection sequence.