Hsiao would have foreseen this assault on his position, and he would have planned for it.
'Eagle Leader to all units,' Tombstone snapped. 'The people we're up against are tricky. Watch for snakes.' He was thinking of the vehicle-mounted SAMs Batman had reported seeing at U Feng… SA-6 Gainfuls.
Hsiao had certainly had time to bring in a number of those monsters from Burma or elsewhere. Those tracks Batman had seen suggested Hsiao had run them south along the riverbank and across the border into Thailand. The jungle below was probably crawling with men sporting shoulder-launched anti-air missiles too.
Tombstone eased the stick forward, letting the F-14 descend to eight thousand feet. Jungle-carpeted hills flowed beneath the keel of his aircraft.
Dixie reported that the That formation was still pursuing the fleeing bogies and was now approaching U Feng. He gave the other aircraft of Eagle a quick check, looking left and right. The Vipers of VF-95 numbered ten F-14s, but only six had been assigned to the alpha strike. The others were destroyed or under repair, back on the Jefferson's hangar deck.
'Hey, Tombstone?' Dixie called over the ICS. 'We're picking up some new radar. Have a listen.'
Dixie piped the radar tone to Tombstone's headset. He heard it, a mournful thrum like a plucked cello string. 'Long Track,' he said.' Batman's Gainfuls.'
'Long Track' was NATO's code name for the radar used for early warning and to acquire preliminary target data for the SA-6. Guidance during lock-on and boost was called 'Straight Flush.'
Tombstone opened a new radio channel. 'Snow White, Snow White, this is Eagle Leader. Do you read me, over?'
'Eagle, Snow White. Loud and clear. Go ahead.'
'Snow White, we have a Long Track paint. Time to sing them your song.'
'Copy that, Eagle Leader. You guys prefer blues or the hard stuff?'
'Sing 'em the blues, Snow White.'
'Snow White's jamming, Tombstone,' Dixie said. Somewhere miles to the south, an EA-6B Prowler of VAQ- 143 designated Snow White circled at altitude, transmitting on frequencies designed to jam enemy radar. The jamming would break down at close range, but it would shield the alpha strike from long-ranged attacks and keep the enemy guessing about That and American numbers and intentions.
'Chickenhawk, Chickenhawk, this is Eagle Leader,' Tombstone called.
'Where are you, Smiley?'
'Eagle, Chickenhawk Lead,' Lieutenant Commander John 'Smilin' Jack' Van Dore replied. The former XO of VFA-161 had moved into the skipper's slot after the tragic death of Marty French at Wonsan. 'We're one hundred fifty miles out and catching up.'
'Chickenhawk, Gainfuls are confirmed. You guys are going to be busy.'
'Roger that, Eagle. Warm 'em up a little for us, will you?'
'We'll see what we can do.'
'Tombstone!' Dixie shouted. 'Trapdoor is under fire!'
'Right,' Tombstone snapped. 'What's going down?'
'I'm getting missile indicators.' Dixie paused, reading his scope. 'SAM launch, Tombstone! SAMs!'
And Tombstone knew that Hsiao had sprung his trap.
Lieutenant Colonel Vasti Nithanivituk pulled back on his Falcon's stick and kicked in the afterburner. Green- clad mountains wheeled past his canopy as he stood the nimble aircraft on its tail and boosted for altitude. A veteran of six months in the United States training on F-16s at Nevis AFB, he was proud of his aircraft, fiercely proud of what he could make it do. The Falcon shrieked into the sky, inverting as it twisted out to an Immelmann.
The red warning light for a SAM lock still flashed on his console, next to the glowing computer symbols of his HUD. Upside down now, pressed into his ejection seat by the G-force of his loop, he looked 'up' through the canopy, searching the greenery and valley folds overhead.
There!
He'd seen films at Nevis, but never the real thing. Just as the American pilots always described the thing, the SAM did look like a telephone pole as it rose from the jungle, balanced on a tongue of white flame. 'Trapdoor!
Trapdoor!' he shouted in That. 'Launch! I have a launch! Nam Mae Taeng Valley, sector three!' The missile was accelerating rapidly, arrowing toward him.
Lieutenant Colonel Vasti was the leader of Trapdoor, the That force assigned to secure air superiority over U Feng. He'd flown over twelve hundred hours in modern interceptors and was widely regarded as the best of Thailand's elite fighter pilot corps.
He was scared now. The SAM was less than a mile off now, still accelerating as its radar held its lock on his ship. This was the worst part of evading a SAM launch, as his American instructors had warned him, those long, long seconds when he had to keep his aircraft flying straight and level until the SAM was committed. He kept his eye on the missile, now visible only as a bright pinpoint of light, a flare in the sky rapidly growing brighter.
Now! Vasti stabbed at the chaff button and rolled his aircraft into a hard right turn. The idea was to twist out of the way before the missile could react and change course. Once its solid fuel motor burned out, it would pursue a ballistic trajectory into the ground and explode.
The skin on his face stretched back from his eyes and mouths with the force of his 7-G turn. He kept hitting the chaff dispenser, spewing packets of metallic foil along the Falcon's path in a cloud which would distract the SAM's radar and let him slip away.
Recovering from the break, he chanced a look back over his right shoulder. The enemy missile should…
He had only a second's glimpse of the missile as it arrowed up toward his plane. Twenty feet long and over a foot thick, the Gainful had an eighty-kilogram warhead which could explode on impact or by proximity fuse.
The missile exploded less than five meters from the Falcon, sending jagged chunks of metal tearing through the fighter's thin skin like rocks through tissue. The concussion slammed Vasti's helmeted head against the left side of his canopy. His instrument panel lit up with warning and failure lights. A harsh buzz and a brightly pulsing red light warned of a fire in his starboard engine. Numbly, he struggled to adjust the Falcon's trim.
No good. He was losing it. 'Trapdoor, Trapdoor, this is Trapdoor Leader! I'm hit! I'm hit! Major Kraisri, take command!'
'Eject, Colonel!' He heard Major Kraisri's voice say. 'Eject!'
He was reaching for the ejection handle when his stabilizer tore free with a jolt that felt like a second explosion, and Vasti was slammed into the right side of the cockpit. Stunned, he tried to focus on the view forward through his windscreen, a swirl of green rushing up to meet him.
Spinning wildly, the Falcon slammed into the side of a mountain. The explosion tore a fifty-foot gap in the jungle and sent a fireball uncoiling into the morning sky.
Then the sky seemed to catch fire as more SAMs rose from hiding.
'Victor Four Delta, this is Eagle Leader,' Tombstone radioed. 'From here it looks like Trapdoor is falling apart. Can you confirm the situation, over?'
'Ah, roger, Eagle Leader,' the Hawkeye CIC officer replied. 'Looks to us like they've stepped in a snake's nest.'
It took less than two seconds for Tombstone to arrive at a decision. The revised plan called for all aircraft, That and American, to hold at Point Lima until Victor Four Delta gave them the go-ahead. But Trapdoor had gone in alone, chasing the bogies which had appeared over the captured airfield.
Operation Bright Lightning's whole reason for being was to support the Thais. He couldn't stand back and watch the less experienced That pilots get cut to pieces by whatever it was that Hsiao had waiting for them up there.
'Let's hit it.' He keyed the tactical frequency. 'Eagle Leader to Eagles. Let's give our That friends some help. Lead in.'
'Eagle Two,' Batman echoed. 'We're in.'
One by one the other Eagles called in.
