It didn’t look good, and Allen paused in his efforts to organize and brief the rescue mission to weigh the difficulties.
The weather forecasters seemed optimistic about the possibility of the cloud cover breaking up in the area at dawn, but that was the only bright spot in a bad situation. In this area of steep limestone karst ridge and deep valleys, it would be relatively easy to pick up the downed airmen if they were high on a ridge. If they were low in the valley, though, the SAR forces might be exposed to heavy antiaircraft fire from guns sited on the high terrain.
The bombardier was seriously injured and the pilot no longer answered his radio. Allen wondered if he had been captured. He had told him to stay put, but of course the guy was probably wandering all over hell’s half acre looking for his buddy. He might have walked into an N V A camp or truck refueling dump near the highway. Maybe he had lost the radio or walked over a cliff.
Allen gave up imagining possible scenarios and dedicated his attention to the details that might help, details of ordnance and call signs and fuel and navigation checkpoints, details that would help handle options as events developed. The one certainly in his mind was to win the battle that was that he would need options to coming.
By five in the morning Allen was airborne. The ten Skyraiders-piston-engined holdovers in the age of jets,– flew north above the clouds; dark rifts had begun to appear in them. Each plane had four twenty millimeter guns in the wings. In addition, each carried two external fuel tanks, one under each wing, and a variety of ordnance that included 2.75-inch rockets, white phosphorus smoke rockets, and four 250-pound bombs equipped with thirty-six- inch extender-fuses, or daisy-cutters.
When they reached the holding fix, a point Allen had chosen and named “Alpha,” eight of the Skyraiders began to orbit at maximum endurance airspeed—the most fuel-efficient airspeed-while Allen and his wingman flew on toward the SAR area. Allen had decided to hold the bulk of his forces in reserve until he knew where the downed crewmen were and the extent of the enemy opposition.
The pink fingers of dawn edged over the eastern horizon. Frank Allen flipped on his master arm switch and checked the sighting dot on his gunsight glass. It was there, just as it should be. The stars retreated as the sky brightened. He checked the authentication questions he would ask the survivors if he could make contact. These personal questions, made up by each man and kept on file at SAR headquarters, helped determine that the respondents were who they said they were. N V A English-speakers had been known to try to lure in rescue aircraft. Or the survivors could be captured and be forced to talk on the radio. Only the correct response, as known by the man who wrote the question, would bring the helicopters in.
“Devil Five Oh Oh, Sandy One on Guard. Are you with us?” The question went out over the emergency frequency four or five times, as it had each hour of the night. There was no answer.
The waiting was harder now. The cloud tops were shot with red fire.
Allen glanced down through the gap in the clouds, wondering what would greet them on their descent.
How had the two airmen on the ground fared during the night? Would there be flak? He drummed his fingers on the canopy rail and whistled a nameless tune. The thunder of a Skyraider engine just above the trees woke Jake Grafton. He lay awake and listened to the receding throb. The darkness of the night had given way to a gray half- light. He fumbled for his radio and found the on-off switch. His first hasty transmission elicited only silence. After a second try, a voice boomed at him, “Devil Five Oh Oh, this is Sandy One. Give me thirty seconds of beeper if able, over. “Roger that.” Jake manipulated the controls with numb fingers.
“Copy your beeper. Come up on two eight two point oh, over.”
“WilcO.” Jake switched to the secondary emergency frequency. He heard, … and that parachute is about fifty yards north of the road.”
Jake pressed the transmit button, his words tumbled Out. “Sandy, this is Devil Five Oh Oh A phantom just went over me a moment ago. Right over me. God I’m sure glad you guys are here.”
A cheerful, confident voice answered. “Good morning, Devil Alpha. We’re glad to be here. Time for authentication questions. What is the finest automobile ever made?”
“A’57 Chevy.”
“And what color is the finest automobile ever made?”
“Blue.”
“Wait.” Jake was breathing so quickly he had to force himself to slow down. “Devil Alpha, we have a parachute in sight about fifty yards north of a road. Are you near it?”
Nothingbut jungle. Miserably, Jake looked about him. Nothing visible, he replied, “I don’t know.”
“Ten seconds of beeper.”
“Well, give me another fifteen seconds and then sit tight and tell me when the plane comes back near you.”
“Roger. Jake listened above the pounding of his heart. The air was filled with the deep rumbles of the big piston engines, throaty and promising of freedom and safety.
The sounds seemed to come from all directions Mounting excitement made him want to get up and run. He waited, his ears straining to Pick Out the One engine that was louder than the rest. He grew more tense as the engine sound increased. Jake craned his head, trying to see through the forest, which rose almost two hundred feet above him. Impossible. He would see no blue sky through that leafy canopy.
“You’re getting closer, he shouted into the mike.
The machine was almost upon him. The engine noise swelled, crested, and washed over him- “Now,” he said. “You just went over my head.” He had not seen the plane.
The engine noise retreated rapidly. “Okay. Not your parachute. seems to be about forty yards or so west of you. Make that forty yards northwest. The chute 200 yards north of a road running east and west and the chute may be visible from the road. Is it your chute?” His mind leaped. “Christ!
It could be my BN’s Jake thought. Devil Bravo. Maybe.” He added the “maybe in memory of the night’s aimless wandering came back “Have you heard from Devil Bravo?”
“Negative.”
Jake was on his feet and checking his compass, which still hung from the cord around his neck.
“Sandy, that may be my bombardier’s chute. I’ going over there and check it out. My chute should be west of here someplace.”
He started hobbling southeast. Dear God, let Tiger be under that chute.
“Jake? Can you think of the name of our mutual friend from Texas?”
Texas? “Cowboy! Who the hell is this? Could it be Frank Allen?
“That’s the man! Now listen, Jake. You’re right beside a road and from the looks of it the gomers had been driving up and down it a good bit. No one’s shot at us yet, but they’re down there and they’re undoubtedly looking for you.”
Thoroughly frightened, Jake put the radio in his left hand and turned down the volume. He drew his revolver with his right.
“Watch your ass, Jake.”
“Okay,” he whispered.
He walked on. Finally he saw it, a sliver of white amid the foliage.
Thank God it wasn’t in the tops of the trees or the gomers would have horned in on it by now and Tiger would be hanging a hundred feet in the air. Jake stood motionless and listened. His heart was pounding and he was gasping for breath in the humid air. He heard leaves rustling but, it seemed, in response to a breeze in the treetops. His knee throbbed, He bent and touched it with the back of his hand, and fresh pain shot through him. Damn! He started to take a step then paused and checked the gun. He had unconsciously thumbed back the hammer. If he tripped, it could go off accidentally. He tucked the radio under his arm and used both thumbs to let the hammer down.
Even with the radio muffled under his arm, Jake could hear the pilots talking to each other. Apparently they had found the other chute. To him, the radio sounded as loud as a brass band. He knew the gomers were somewhere in the jungle around him, stalking him, and before a voice could come over the air like the crashing of cymbals, he turned off the set.
With the radio off and the drone of aircraft engines far away, the forest around Jake seemed ominously still. Spasms of shivering racked his body. He flexed his fingers around the butt of the revolver. As in an animal at bay, every sense was alert. He waited, and then finally took a step forward, toward the slash of white silk clashing
