“Three’s moving around and heading south. I’ve been hit. OK, Carbine—this is Tomahawk three on emergency frequency.” Hard hit as he was, he wanted to be sure the guys down there in the area knew the Migs were waiting for them. “There’s Migs in the area. Three’s hit and heading south— BREAK LEFT!”
Too late. Joe had tried hard to do the best possible job on the wing of his crippled element leader. They had started to take evasive action by diving, accelerating and turning when they first spotted the Migs, but the Mig-21 is most maneuver-able, and it is fast. They were at the altitude where the Mig had it all over them and that is why the Migs waited for them up there. Their only chance, once they had the Migs on their tail, would have been violent maneuvers coupled with the action they did take. They never got to the violent stage and once three had been hit hard, it would have been quite difficult to do anything too violent; he had lost several of the systems that contribute to maximum flight performance in the aircraft. He was lucky even to be flying with the damage he had taken, and Tomahawk three and four both knew it. The Migs played it smart by not presising their obvious advantage and overshooting their prey. They struck once, did pretty well, and hung back to wait for the best time to make their next move. They must have positioned themselves very well. On both the passes the Migs made, neither Tomahawk three nor four saw them until it was too late. Maybe Joe, as Tomahawk four, paid too much attention to his stricken element lead and not enough to clearing the area visually, but again, who is to say? They were outnumbered three to two from the start, and once Tomahawk three got tapped, the odds went up like a skyrocket, since a wounded wingman is far worse than no wingman at all. They were caught, outgunned, and outflown by a bunch of vultures working out of a stupid sanctuary in their own backyard.
“Carbine three—this is Nomad. Do you read?” At least the Spads were still trying. We never did figure out if they had finally heard Leo’s desperate transmission or had just started calling in the blind because they didn’t know where the crew was.
These calls and the trouble calls from Tomahawk flight had fallen on inbound ears and one of the Phantom flights cycling off the tanker was heading to the aid of Tomahawk under full steam. “Tomahawk—this is Cleveland heading inbound. How far out are you?” Before he could get an answer, the air was saturated by a new sound: double beepers again. One was our old nemesis, the other a newer and stronger one from Joe’s gear as he floated earthward with all he and his family had ever hoped or planned for disintegrating in front of his eyes, and the saw-toothed ridges and the huge jungle trees reached up and waited. But the show must go on. More problems for sure, but keep punching.
“Nomad—this is Carbine. Do you have the smoke on the side of the ridge?”
“Cleveland—this is Tomahawk three. I’m headed out, low on fuel and in burner. There’s Twenty-ones in the area.”
The noise was unbearable. “You wanted to take your helmet and mask off and throw them to the floor of the machine.
“Oh, man, not another one!” came from the frontseat of Carbine one.
The Bear said simply, “Ohhhhh.”
“Royal, Royal—this is Tomahawk one. Over.”
“Rog, Royal, I’ve got another man down. I saw the chute.”
“Ohhhh, man.”
“Nomad—this is Carbine one. How are you doing?” But Nomad was not talking or he was not hearing.
“Tomahawk one, Royal wants you.”
Carbine was approaching the time when fuel would again be a problem and the spectacular lack of success they were having with the Spads brought the thought strongly forward that things could rapidly get even worse than they were. “Carbine two, as soon as your center-line tank goes dry, get rid of it.” Normally, we like to hold on to those tanks; without them you are of little value on a rescue mission. However, in this case Carbine reasoned that they were approaching the final stages of this drama, and that they had better get rid of all of the drag they could and stay in the area as long as possible. Nomad had to do the job now, or there would be little use in making plans for a return trip. The ever-increasing slant of the sun’s rays, accentuating the haze hanging over the weird combination of jungle and mountain, reinforced his decision. Time was running out. We had already spent far too much time and now, with success in our grasp, we were blowing the entire deal—and there was nothing we could do about it.
Tomahawk one had stayed in the area past his fuel mini-mums, trying to steer the Nomads around, and he was already hurting, but he had no thoughts of leaving. He knew that his damaged number three was screaming south in burner and should be safe from further Mig annoyance. He was shepherding his lost number four to the ground and, fuel or no fuel, he was determined that at least Joe would touch down without further lead coming his way from other Migs. He circled until Joe touched the trees and immediately established contact.
“Tomahawk four, get out of your chute and turn that beeper off.” If there was one thing we didn’t need, it was more beeper noise. “This is one, turn the beeper off.”
Joe was a cool customer, clean, thin, crew cut, a nice guy, and from the ground came a garbled reply as he struggled out of his chute, shut down the beeper and secured the chute and himself under the giant trees.
“Turn the beeper off, turn the beeper off, turn the beeper off.” „ “Cleveland—Tomahawk three. I think the Migs got four.”
“Tomahawk, Tomahawk, where are you?” provided an excellent example of a useless call that only served to further garbage up the air. If only we all thought before we punched the mike button—but things do get tense.
Trying to outguess the caller, Tomahawk one responded, “Tomahawk one here on emergency—” but he was blocked out by Carbine one still trying to get the initial job done.
“Carbine here, Nomad, see that ground smoke signal up the valley? Is that theirs or yours?” But Nomad would not talk. The jig was close to up and the Spad was right there but obviously was not hacking the program.
Leo came up on the radio. “Nomad, Nomad—this is Carbine three. You are passing directly over the top of me now.” But blind Tom couldn’t hack the course.
“Ooohh—they’re passing right over the top of him and they don’t see him.” Carbine could not believe his eyes and ears. “Tomahawk—this is Carbine. Will you pass to Royal that we are only going to be able to stay here another ten minutes. And Nomad’s working the area and the crew’s talking to them from the ground saying that they are flying right over them, but they can’t see them and they haven’t even started the choppers in yet. We’re running out of time.”
“Roger, we got to clear some of those Migs out of here before we can get our choppers in there. Which flight’s in there now?” The call from Royal showed again that they did not understand the problem.
“Rog, there’s no Migs in the target area. They’re between us and home. You can get the choppers in here—no sweat. Don’t worry about the Migs, we’ll take our chances with them at altitude on the way out. The way is clear for the choppers and you’re about to blow the whole bloody issue. Get them in here.”
Royal countered with “Would you contact Nomad one and tell him to tell the choppers when he wants them to come in? They’re holding ten miles out or ten minutes out, I don’t know which. He’s got the ball.”
“Nomad one—this is Carbine. Will you give the choppers a call when you want them in. They’re about ten out. Nomad one—Carbine. Do you read? Nomad, if you read you are supposed to contact the choppers when you want them to come in. They are standing by, ten away.”