"SAMs!" an A-4 pilot warned.
"Red Crown, Red Crown," Brad radioed, feeling the sudden rush of adrenaline. "Joker Two Oh One." The reply was garbled, but it obviously came from the controller on board the GCI ship.
"We're going to need more fighters!" Brad radioed, then added, "We need the BARCAP, buster! Recommend the carrier launch the duty CAP." Buster was the code name to move out at top speed.
"Those intel morons," Lunsford hissed, referring to the intelligence briefers. "You can expect low MiG activity, my ass."
Leaving the strike group behind, Brad wrapped the Phantom around and flew toward the MiGs south of Hanoi. He wanted to scatter or engage the MiGs as far from the A-4s as possible. The strike aircraft, which were subsonic attack planes, needed time to get offshore safely.
Both Phantom RIOs picked up the MiGs on radar at thirteen miles. Closing to four miles, the pilots saw the trio of fighters crossing from right to left. When they reefed their Phantoms into a tight turn behind the bogies, the three MiG-21 s reversed toward the F-4s.
"They've got us pegged," Brad said over the intercom. "We need to take out their GCIs." The ground-control intercept radars were portable Soviet-made P-35 units. The numerous installations provided the MiG pilots with vectors to the American aircraft.
"Jokers," Brad radioed, "three MiGs on the nose!"
"Got 'em," O'Meara shouted at the same time he fired a Sparrow missile.
Making small corrections, the radar-guided missile tracked straight to the number-three MiG. Brad watched the Sparrow explode beside the fighter, blowing off pieces of the right wing.
"I've got a lock!" Lunsford called as the number-three MiG trailed fire and black smoke, then pitched down and rolled inverted. The pilot ejected as the aircraft entered a puffy cloud.
Brad fired a Sparrow from a distance of 6,000 feet. The MiG flight leader snapped inverted and pulled hard for the deck. His wingman followed a half second later.
Rolling to chase their quarry, Brad swore when the Sparrow lost radar discrimination in the ground return. The errant missile flew over the savvy MiG flight leader, then nosed over and impacted the side of a wooded hill.
Brad keyed the radio. "Jokers, go HEAT! We may get a shot when they run out."
Both Phantom pilots selected their heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles. Brad led the flight down to 100 feet above the terrain. The F-4s were 5,000 feet behind the second MiG when the flight leader reversed toward the Phantoms. The experienced MiG pilot completed his knife-edge turn at 50 feet.
Brad had a sudden, strange feeling. He could hear his Sidewinders buzzing from the radiation heat rising from the ground. The heat-seeking missiles, along with the radar-guided Sparrows, could not lock up a target this low to the ground.
The MiG was completing the tight turn when Brad saw muzzle flashes from the fighter's 30mm cannon. The pilot was firing at Jon O'Meara.
Believing that the two MiG-21s would head directly for a sanctuary airfield, Brad had allowed himself and his wingman to fall into a trap.
"Son of a bitch!" Brad exclaimed to Lunsford. "I've been suckered in."
The MiG pilot had placed the F-4 crews in a position where they could not use their weapons. The MiG fighter pilot had the advantage with his powerful cannon.
"Hang onto my wing!" Brad radioed to Jon O'Meara. The MiG was almost head-on when Brad banked into a deliberate collision course.
Lunsford keyed the intercom. "Let's go for separation!"
Concentrating on the blur of flashes emitting from the MiG's cannon, Brad tweaked the nose down and pressed home his apparent suicidal charge.
"We've been hit!" O'Meara yelled, breaking Brad's concentration.
In full afterburner, the Phantom roared over the MiG, missing the canopy by twenty feet. Brad had sandwiched the aggressive fighter pilot between the F-4 and the ground fifty feet below the MiG.
After flashing over the aircraft, Brad replayed in his mind what he had seen. The MiG pilot had been wearing a brown leather helmet, large goggles, a bulky parachute, and a tan scarf. What caught Brad's attention were two blurs of color. There was no mistaking the red stars on the nose, along with the white line across the tail of the MiG-21.
"That's Major Dao!" Lunsford shouted at the same time that Brad snapped the F-4 into a vertical climb.
"I'm goin' for the beach!" O'Meara radioed, turning hard for the coastline.
"Go!" Brad shouted. "I'll cover you!"
Rolling the Phantom in the vertical, Brad caught sight of the two MiGs. They were off his left wing, drifting behind the F-4. They would be in position to blast the Phantom in a matter of seconds.
"You better get inspired," Lunsford yelled, "or they're going to eat our lunch!"
In desperation, Brad rudder-rolled the Phantom toward his adversaries. He could see muzzle flashes from both MiGs as the nose of his F-4 fell through the horizon. He was committed to go for separation and disengage. Without a wingman to drag off the second MiG, Austin would soon be boxed in.
Brad unloaded the Phantom to zero g and selected full afterburner. "Have you got them?"
Gasping oxygen, Lunsford twisted around to his left. "They're going… turned toward Phuc Yen."
Brad bottomed out 800 feet above the ground, indicating Mach 1.1. He pulled the power back to ninety-seven percent and keyed his radio. "Joker Two Twelve, say posit."
"We're ten miles from the coast," Jon O'Meara replied, then added, "climbing through one one thousand."
Brad raised the nose and scanned the sky. "Jon, what's your status? Can you make the boat?"
"I think so. My starboard engine is surging, but everything else looks good."
Brad checked his fuel-quantity indicator, then thought about the encounter with Major Dao. Joker 201 had almost become the eighth red star on the MiG-21.
Crossing the coastline, Brad soon spotted his wingman ahead and to the right. He slid smoothly into formation on O'Meara's right wing as the Phantoms passed over a group of small islands.
Lost in their thoughts, both crews remained quiet during the return flight to the carrier. They were acutely aware that Austin's tactical blunder had almost cost them their lives.
Chapter 25
Brad and Russ remained in their cockpits while the Phantom was lowered to the hangar bay. Brad had secured the engines after the F-4 had been chained to the deck-edge elevator. The tail of the Phantom extended out over the water.
When the elevator stopped, the aircraft handlers hooked a tow tractor to the nose gear of Joker 201. They quickly unchained the big fighter and pulled the chocks from the main wheels.
Contemplating the almost fatal mistake he had made, Brad felt the aircraft move as the tug driver maneuvered the F-4 off the elevator. The blue shirt stopped the Phantom directly behind Jon O'Meara's airplane.
Toby Kendall scrambled up the side of the fuselage to Brad's cockpit. "Cap'n, we got the word that Lieutenant O'Meara got him a MiG."
Brad smiled weakly. "He sure did, Toby."
The plane captain helped Brad and Russ with their flight gear, then stepped down to the hangar deck. He noticed that one Sparrow had been fired, but Austin and Lunsford were certainly not exuberant. Kendall busied himself postflighting the Phantom while the two officers walked to O'Meara's airplane. Russ Lunsford still favored his right ankle.
Mario Russo and Jon O'Meara, along with three maintenance men, stood on the right wing. They were inspecting the four holes along the engine air duct. There was also a hole in the leading edge of the wing, and two ragged openings in the right stabilator.
"Congratulations," Brad said when they reached the back of the wing. The pilot and his RIO were elated about their first MiG kill.