This mission was especially attractive as we were to be allowed to provide our own Mig cover flight for a change. On an approach somewhat similar to the sweep of the day before, we were to take one flight without bombs whose only job was to fly like the normal strike aircraft but go get the Migs if they showed. I was forced to take that flight in the face of the wails of my three squadron commanders. My flight call sign for this one was Wabash, and I picked myself three sharp flight leaders from the squadron and put them on my wing. That’s how I wound up with Ken on my wing as Wabash two. We charged around the course despite the fact that the weather forecast was quite dismal. (The weather is seldom what you would call really good, but there was quite a bit of doubt that we would get in that day.) We got down into the Migs’ backyard but they did not rise to the bait. They knew better than we did what the weather was downtown, and figured we were just spinning our wheels and would not be able to get in to our primary target; there was little sense in exposing themselves. They were right. We had to divert about three-quarters of the way down the Ridge and eat another frustration pill.
The rest of the flights had an alternate target and with their bombs all set, they simply went to the other target and got to work. My flight was purposely not assigned to an alternate strike as I had other ideas. As soon as we made the move, I headed for the last spot we had seen Joe. Once in the area, it was no problem to identify the exact position, and I split my Wabash flight again, to cover more area, and set about the job of trying to raise some sign of Tomahawk four. After a few circuits in the area I started to get the action I was looking for. I had been crisscrossing the ridge and the little plateau where I knew he had been on Sunday evening, but I was not sticking solely to that spot as I knew he might have been forced to move even though he could not go very far in that country by himself. I switched to the emergency channel I knew he would be monitoring—if he still had his radio, if the battery was still working and if he still had the freedom to operate the radio as he wished. All three were pretty big ifs by this time but the events of Sunday had left such a bitter taste in all of our mouths that we wanted to exhaust every possibility. As I moved I alternated radio calls with Tomahawk four, Tomahawk four—this is Wabash lead. If you read come up on your beeper,” and the next circuit I would give him, “Joe—this is Wabash lead. If you read me, Joe, come up on emergency channel. Give me a call on emergency, Joe.”
And up came the beeper. Weak to be sure and with nowhere near the piercing tone that it had belted out a couple of days ago, but it was there. It was so weak that I could not home in on it the way I wanted to and thus could not get a really accurate fix, but it was very close to the same area. “Tomahawk four—Wabash. I read your beeper. If you read me shut your beeper off now.” There was always the possibility that Joe, or whoever had his beeper, had not actually read my earlier transmission but had simply turned it on when he realized that the Thuds overhead were looking, not simply passing by. Of course, if the wrong people have the beeper and you sucker in a little too close you are liable to be met with a blast of ground fire. Even though we all knew this and even though we have lost some machines and people to this ruse, when you pick up the scent that could be one of the guys you acknowledge this possibility and press on regardless.
The beeper operator responded perfectly and the pitifully weak beep left the air as directed. Well, we were on the trail of something and the mere thought that there was some remote possibility of pulling this thing out of the dismal sack that it was in was exhilarating. I called my element lead and told him to get back to the tankers as fast as he could, pick up a load of juice and come back to relieve me. While he was gone I continued to work the beeper but could not pin it down to a specific ridge or group of bushes. I would start in on it, get my directional indication and then it would fade, just like a weak radio when you are trying to catch the prime line or note of music on your favorite radio program. I couldn’t hack it alone and I quickly decided it would take another full-scale effort, with the help of the rescue specialists, unless I got a big breakthrough soon. Try as we might, neither Ken nor I could get what we wanted out of the beeper, nor could we get any voice contact.
While we were working our hearts out in a vain attempt to get the specifics I knew so well I would need if I was to persuade my bosses to launch the rescue fleet again, my element was encountering delays on the tanker rendezvous, and this was the first indication that a more exciting afternoon was ahead. I did not want to leave the scene until I had at least the other part of my flight in the area where they could give one more try for something that would be a firmer hat hanger when I tried to sell the case. We played our fuel right down to the minimum and they were not back yet. The time of day indicated that we would not be able to get the show in gear and get back that night, but there was time for the element to work a bit longer. They did not show, as they were hung up on the tanker and I played the fuel to the point that everything would have to work just right on the way back, or Wa-bash one and two were in trouble.
I had in effect bet heavily on the fact that the ground controllers and the tankers would appreciate the seriousness of the situation, and that they would do their job of getting me where I was supposed to be, and get a tanker up to us in time to avert fuel starvation and the resultant loss of machines and maybe people—like me and my wingman.
They should already have been aware of what I was doing, and I had all sorts of gear on board my bird to let them know where I was and that I anticipated an emergency situation, and after all, a nice guy’s future was at stake—but it turned out to be not such a good bet. When I could wait no longer, I called the element and brought them up to speed on my results so far. I told them to get back in as soon as they could and repeat my efforts. If they got nothing better than I did they were to hit the tankers again and head for home where we would recap the situation and make our pitch for another rescue attempt. This accomplished, Ken and I reached for all the altitude we could get and I started screaming for ground control to get me with a tanker, quickly.
As we leveled at maximum altitude, we should have been within voice range of the control people. We called and called but received no answer. I knew we were transmitting OK, as I could hear and talk to other fighters and tankers in the area, but none of us could get the control guys to answer or assist. I turned my internal radio gear to the emergency position which is supposed to knock every ground controller right out of his chair as he sits in his darkened room and surveys the air picture, but to no avail. We desperately needed help and nobody would help. As Ken and I tried not to believe the story our gauges were telling us, we both knew that it was most doubtful that we would be able to get ground control direction to a tanker in time. We didn’t know why they wouldn’t answer, but we knew time was eating fuel and things looked grim as Ken punched the mike button and passed that simple phrase that means more to a fighter pilot than all the fancy emergency calls: “Boss, I’m hurting.”
One of our tanker friends was listening and was trying as hard as we were to rock someone off his seat and get some steers going. He advised us that he was blasting away with both of his big radios on all channels and, like us, could get nothing. We started to try a freelance rendezvous and hookup with him using his internal gear and ours, but it became immediately apparent that we were just too far apart and that there was not enough fuel left to get us together.