division A-7s stationed itself in the same position on the left side. All the bombers were aboard, The radio encoder beeped and Jake heard the commander of the air wing, the CAG: “Devil Five Two Three, Hawk One, How much longer on the tanking?
“About three more minutes.”
“Okay, I’m going to swing across the ship, then head out on course. The fighters can catch up if they aren’t finished by then.” The CAG had a reputation as a man who never waited for things to happen, which was one reason he had the job he did.
The formation steadied out in a gentle climb on course for North Vietnam.
In a few minutes two Phantoms loaded with RockEyes joined the formation from below. Each took up station on the side of the lead division. These were the flak suppressors and would dive first, aiming their ordnance at the guns and missile sites that ringed the power plant. If all went as planned, the three divisions of bombers would be in their dives when the RockEyes exploded on the enemy guns. The key was split-second timing.
The formation leveled off at 22,000 feet. The cumulus clouds below looked to Jake like the full sails of clipper ships. Brilliant sunshine filled each cockpit and made the off-white and pale gray planes look dazzling white against the deep blue of the sky. To the east the horizon was a straight line dividing heaven and earth, but ahead to the northwest the earth and sky blended together in a grayish-white haze. Clouds over the target. Grafton sighed.
“Hawk One, Stagecoach Two Oh One. We’ll be on station in about two minutes.”
“Roger that.” Stagecoach 201 was the leader of a section of Phantoms that patrolled twenty to thirty miles ahead of the formation to intercept any enemy fighters. A mile above the bombers, another section of Stagecoach F-4s weaved back and forth, ready- to take on any Migs that eluded the forward section. A pair of fighters from another squadron were also stationed a mile away on each side of the formation.
The CAG checked in with the E-2 HawkEye and the E A-6B Prowler. These aircraft would remain over the ocean. The Prowler carried a sophisticated package of electronic equipment for jamming the enemy’s radar frequencies.
This large strike of bombers, flak suppressors, fighter escorts, and support aircraft, known as an Alp Strike, was designed to place the maximum amount of ordnance on a heavily defended target in less than six seconds, saturating the defenses and minimizing the enemy’s ability to concentrate antiaircraft fire on a particular aircraft. Thorough planning and careful coordination among all elements of the group were essential. Good visibility in the target area was also a necessity. Grafton imagined the CAG was pissed bad, cursing to himself right now as he looked at the clouds ahead.
Jake found he could stay in position with just a sixteenth-of-an-inch movement of the throttles.
He glanced over to Little Augie’s bird, flying on Camparelli’s left wing. Big waggled a greeting with his index finger, which brought a smile to Jake’s face.
When the Augies are goofing off, all’s right with the world.
The radio beeped, and a voice spoke in a disgusted tone: “Hawk One, Mustang One Oh Four. I just had partial hydraulic failure.” Jake’s eye went to the Phantom hanging a hundred feet to the right of the left division.
As he watched, the nearest A-7 in the left division snuggled up to the Phantom.
“Mustang, you have hydraulic fluid coming out your belly.” The fluid was colored red to make it readily visible.
“Mustang, Hawk One. Go on home.”
“Roger that.” The stream of black smoke from the exhausts decreased to a trickle and the plane sank out of formation. Several thousand feet below, it began a gentle turn and rapidly fell behind as the formation flew on into the afternoon.
Overhead, a layer of cumulostratus and high cirrus obscured the sky. Below, the cumulus clouds became thicker until only occasional patches of the sea could be glimpsed. The water lost its blue radiancy and looked dark, almost black. Within minutes the jets were flying in a clear lane with solid clouds above and below. The sun was gone, taking with it heat and light and leaving only a gray sameness. This was the backdrop for which the navy gray-and-white paint scheme was intended.
“Stagecoach Lead, Hawk One. How’s the weather look up there?”
“Overcast and undercast. A few holes over the beach. We might be able to bomb.”
“Roger. Jake tightened his chest harness. The CAG was going on regardless. “How’s the system?” the pilot asked his new bombardier.
“Radar seems okay, but the computer’s a little squirrelly. I’m having trouble controlling the cursors at times……” Cole ran out of steam.
“Optimist,” Jake said. When Cole didn’t reply, he continued, “Get set for a system delivery. I have a gut feeling we ain’t gonna be able to see this damn place.”
“I have the target.” Cole tuned the radar. “Well, they weren’t lying. It’s still there. Feet dry in about four minutes.” They became aware of the bass beep of a search radar, an enemy radar, and apparently everyone else heard the faint tone at about the same time because the formation tightened up. The beep sounded again every fifteen seconds or so, the operator merely sweeping the sky, but the volume increased as they closed the enemy coast.
“Black Eagle, Black Eagle, Hawk is feet dry.” Jake started the stop clock. The hands began to sweep, counting the seconds, one by one.
Now the entire formation began a gradual descent.
The needle of the vertical speed indicator showed that they were dropping 1500 feet per minute, then 200 The airspeed increased. The search radar tones came more frequently, about every four or five seconds. The operator had narrowed his sweep to a sector scan, “Mustang One Oh Seven, you stay with us.”
CAG spoke casually, as if he were ordering popcorn at the wardroom movie.
“Okay.” Another emotionless voice, but the low flak suppressor pilot must have felt a twinge of relief. Instead of zooming out ahead of the formation and making a solo dive on a heavily defended target, he would now go in with the rest of the bombers. The flak would still be there but at least Mustang 107 wouldn’t be hanging it all out by himself.
But perhaps it was all academic. As the formation slid through 18,000 feet the clouds below took on a solid look. Was there a hole?
Could they bomb at all?”
“TWELVE miles to push over,” Cole informed him.
Three hundred forty knots indicated. Jake reached over and flipped on the master armament switch. One push on the bomb-release pickle and six tons of high explosive would be on their way.
“SAM, SAM, SA.M.”
“Three o’clock.”
“Two them.”
“Three.”
“Look out, Pete.”
The radio was full of chatter, most of it impossible to comprehend over the wailing of the missile warning. The skipper turned right and Grafton hung on his wing. Jake’s ears were assailed by the high-pitched SAM warning. The red missile light next to the bombsight was flashing.
The strobe on the warning-direction indicator pointed behind the right wing, back toward Haiphong.
“See them?” he asked Cole.
“No.” Cole was looking over his right shoulder. New Guy was still with them but several plane lengths back so Jake had room to maneuver.
“Keep turning, Pete.” The radio again. Who the hell was Pete?
Everything was happening SO fast- “Watch out!”
“Damn!”
From the corner of his eye, Jake glimpsed a missile streaking upward and away from him.
“More SAMs. From the left.”
The skipper reversed his turn so he could turn into the threat. The A-6 on his left wing was gone. Jake slipped down and inside the skipper’s radius of turn so he could stay with him.
Where were the missiles? The warning light on the panel was still flashing and the warble whanged away.
