Thud Ridge (26 page)

"Auugh—" over the top they went. "Nice toboggan, chief —gad." But even the gyrations failed to block the sharp_ reminder spitting over emergency channel, "Orphan Annie— Mickey Mouse," and the area designator that followed spelled Leo's position.

"Sams," from the frontseater.

"Yeah, and Migs," from the backseater.

"Crap—that's all we need up there now is more of those bastards."

"Carbine," came from control. "Do you have the coordinates for Carbine four?"

"No, I didn't even know he was down, but the best we can give you is within ten miles of three. Control, don't forget Waco is running his fighters based on you getting us lots more tankejs up here. And I'm sure Royal is running his show based on that also."

Carbine got no reply and internal conversation took over. "Oh, crud. That stinking fuel, I think I'll puke," came from the rear seat as the tanks filled and the boomer initiated the disconnect. The fuel in the two systems banged against hy-draulically closed doors and vented directly into the pilot's breathing and living environment. Beautiful piece of engineering.

"This pig. I'm really falling out of the sky."

"You know I saw some flak underneath us on the way in."

"How about holding the stick in this bank for a minute. Don't let the airspeed get any lower or we'll sink clean out of sight."

"I'll try. Damn—airspeed I ain't got. How come you always have to blow your nose when the going gets rough. Good thing you got me back here."

"Crap."

"You know right over Leo himself we are out of range of all Sams according to the book."

"Not by much."

"Better than nothing."

A repeat of the Mig and Sam warnings coincided with the other survivor's full load of fuel and his nasal purge, and Carbine announced, "OK, tanker, we're both full and we are departing."

The tanker answered with "Rog. Good luck. We won't be here when you get back. Wish we could be."

"I'll bet he does."

"Yeah, but I still wouldn't want their job. What would your wife say when someone asks her what her husband does? My husband makes his living passing gas—"

"Gimme back the stick—" The frontseater resumed control of his aircraft and realigned his radio frequencies with "Carbine, let's go back to rescue frequency."

"Tomahawk—this is Carbine on the way back in. Give me a short count so I can home on you." When you need to find another aircraft you can have him activate his radio transmitter while he counts or talks, and an indicator in your own aircraft will point to his general position.

"Rog, this is Tomahawk holding down. I'm at seven thousand feet."

"Royal—this is Carbine. I'm back in the area with the two I've got left and I'm full of fuel."

"Rog, Carbine, hold about twenty miles out of the area and 111 call you when I want you to go in."

The series of transmissions that followed brought the next in a series of shocks for the day. "Royal five, Royal five— Royal two on rescue frequency."

"Go ahead."

"Roger, we've got everybody in position up there and we're waiting for some clearance to go. Is there anything you can do to let us know if we're going to get clearance or not?"

An irritated fighter pilot blurted out "Clearance for what?" —the obvious question as all of us who had heard the transmission blinked in disbelief. The rescue force was not just minutes away from picking our boys out of the paddies. They were orbiting to the south, across the border, while the communicators attempted to explain a situation they could not comprehend to a battle staff and a commander seven hundred miles to the south, and we sat there with all the tools and the know-how to save our guys.

"Roger, Royal two, we're trying to work on that for you now."

"Roger, we have quite a gaggle of fighters up there now and we're having quite a time trying to shuttle them back and forth and the Nomads are all ready to go."

Frustration was universal. "What the hell—who has to get a clearance?" We all realized for the first time that afternoon that all was not going well.

"Let's get the crap with it." We had all the cards we could possibly hold under the circumstances, but things were not going well. We were tied up in our own red tape and each of us could feel that tender something called a comrade getting tougher and tougher to hold onto. Nobody was about to give up and we all talked to ourselves, except the weasels who jollied it up together.

"How in hell did anybody get shot down over a mountain anyway?"

"I don't even know what they were in range of."

"Well, fifty-seven millimeter—"

"I know that—"

"Thirty-seven millimeter—"

"He was really on fire."

"Hmmm?"

"He was really on fire."

"I got a gun at twelve thirty," and it was back to business as usual. The backseater interrupted the weasel's own idle chatter with "Moderate intensity."

The noise was building up to an intense level again, and as the boss in Waco lead, I was having trouble getting my messages across. I had reached a critical fuel state by this time and before I could break my element off and send them scurrying for a tanker I had to yell at the whole tribe again and attempt to keep the unnecessary chatter off the air. I decided to send my element on ahead of me to the tankers and when I dispatched them, they lucked out and got contact with tanker control right off the bat. The last I heard of them for a while, they were getting a steer to one of the tankers pressing northward to accept the thirsty birds. Once they were established outbound and I knew that Carbine was back in the area, I felt free to turn the low cover over to the flight above me and start for fuel myself. As I left the area, I knew that the entire show was not on the road, but I could tell that our portion was in good shape, and I couldn't understand why the other forces were not in there by now.

"Carbine—this is Royal. Will you attempt contact with Nomad one on this channel and then I want you to escort him and Nomad two into the area."

The slow prop jobs had at least been cleared into the area. They would now pick up escort from the Thuds and press in on the deck to try and get a visual sighting on the downed crew and sample the ground resistance. If they found the situation workable, they would call the choppers in, try to get them to the spot and attempt the pickup. But it was all too slow, too cumbersome. There should be a better way and there could be a better way, but we never planned or prepared for it.

Why didn't we have a fast-moving vehicle that could fly reasonably close to us as we entered the area and then respond immediately when needed? Why didn't we have a fast bird with its own armament that could have been on the scene before those guys hit the ground? Why didn't we have a rig that could have been there and could have found them as easily as I found them? Why not a machine that could land and take off vertically from the rice paddy or the road with those two precious creatures on board; or even better, why not a machine to snatch their chutes as they floated down for five minutes with the enemy shooting at them? We can snatch the chute and recover an inanimate capsule that has accomplished its directed mission of research in space, but for two humans who have dedicated their lives since adolescence to the service of their country, two highly talented and educated husbands and fathers, for them all we can do is wait and slowly exercise a primitive system, whose chances of success are marginal from the start.

Why? Because we built this inferior system we now use out of what we had. For rescue aircraft, we took some old junkers that had been rotting in the boneyards in the Arizona sun and pressed them back into service. We tied things together with inadequate communications gear that was years behind the state of the art currently displayed for open purchase in store windows in downtown Tokyo. We wrapped it all up in a cumbersome command system of cross-checks that spelled terror to those who would act with decision on the spot, and we made sure that we had to communicate way up the line to ascertain that it was all right to attempt to save a few lives. Then we charged it all to the guys doing the job. We said we'll make it work by the guts and dedication of the drivers.

A modern system would be expensive, and in truth, it would have had to have been in the mill several years ago to have helped that afternoon. It wouldn't be used too often—so therefore it wouldn't be too cost effective, would it? Cost effective to whom? I know several hundred guys who would give you all the back pay they may get to buy that type of rig, if they ever get out of the Hanoi Hilton in one piece. Every taxpayer we own is paying a pretty penny to try and replace the skilled veterans we have left to suffer alone. We could have built an adequate system in time for that Sunday,- or we could have it right now, but we don't. If we start it now, it will be a few years before we have it perfected, and by then we may not need it. But perhaps we will need it. Perhaps you will need it, or I will need it, or your son or husband will need it. Of course, it's a tough one to sell, but it should have been sold yesterday and it should be sold today, and it is not. You are automatically critical of our antiquated approach as you sit in unfriendly skies and watch talent and young hope dashed forever before your eyes. If you have any feel for the worth of man, it makes you want to vomit. And I almost did vomit, but from the bitter fuel fumes I was sucking in as my bird took on fuel from the tanker, and.as I left the tanker to return to the rescue area I strained rny ears and my mind to keep up with the drama taking place on the valley floor of Route Pack 6.

"Nomad, Nomad—this is Carbine." The call established the first real contact between the rescue elements and the strike force now converted to rescue force.

"Nomad here. Go."

"Rog, Nomad. Royal wants me to escort you into the area. What's your position?"

While the prop job started the chore of establishing visual contact with the fighters, the Sam warnings interrupted their transmissions to remind us that we must be on our toes. Better Sam warnings than Mig warnings at this stage of the game. Even though we had plenty of cover for the slower machines, we did not want them interrupted or disturbed as they sought out the downed men. We knew pretty well where the nearest Sam was located and we were not overly concerned with him at that moment.

"Nomad—this is Royal. You have border clearance." Great. The wheels had at least ground out one favorable decision. The prop guys could come up into the area but the choppers hadn't moved yet. They should have been there long ago, but at least the Spads were finally on the way. They were not the only ones entering the area, as the control people had started diverting other strike and cover flights from their normal homeward route, and they were loading up on fuel and coming into the area both to help us with their numbers and to allow us a bit more freedom in shuttling in and out for our fuel. There was no shortage of machinery from the fighter end, but we were powerless to do anything to speed the pickup we all wanted so much. The rescue people were now in full control of the effort.

"Carbine—this is Royal. What's your bingo time?" The control types had committed Carbine to escort on the way in, but knowing the appetite for fuel that a Thud displays at low altitude, they were planning ahead for escort relief.

"Stand by, got to figure one. Ahh, let's see, appears to be about forty-five minutes, Royal." That should be plenty of time to get together and move the Spads up to the area, but it is amazing how hard it can get to spot another aircraft at times. When you throw in a speed difference and a bit of haze and a bit of low altitude, it can get downright difficult, and Carbine and the Nomads were having their problems.

"Carbine—Royal. Did you copy Nomad?"

"Rog, I understand he is about thirty-five miles out, is that Roger?"

As the control and the two flight leaders worked together to effect a join-up, the radio spit out a grim indicator of things to come. "Royal—Oakland, we've got some swept-wings here. Do you have any Phantoms other than Wedge in the area?" It is not difficult to confuse the Migs and the Phantoms and that is a mistake nobody wants to make. "You say Wedge has gone out to refuel?" and everybody perked up a bit more, rechecked the gunsight and the missiles and peered into the haze that was increasing as the sun sank lower and lower. Time, light and visibility were going to be more of a factor than we had at first thought.

"Sam, medium intensity at two o'clock." More company.

"Tomahawk—Royal. Did you copy?" Royal knew that Tomahawk, which had the primary responsibility for the low cover of the downed pilots, was the flight with the lowest full reserve and was thus the flight most vulnerable to any Mig attack.

"Tomahawk, say again."

"Rog, Tomahawk. We have Migs approaching the area."

"Sams up to medium intensity," came from the weasels.

"Royal—this is Carbine. I'm still trailing Nomad. Do you want me to press on?"

"Rog."

"Carbine—this is Nomad. I'm at base plus three."

This call should have told the altitude of the prop machines and it was passed in the accepted manner using a base altitude that changed from day to day, and was supposed to be passed to all pilots at briefing. By using it you could talk in the open about altitudes and still not tip your hand all the way to those listening on the other end of the line. "Whatever thatis," came from the frontseat of Carbine lead.

"Do you have a base altitude?" Perhaps the Bear could earn his pay yet.

"They didn't give us one today." Good deal, one more problem, but not a significant one.

"Royal—Oakland. Royal—this is Oakland."

"Go ahead, Oakland."

"Rog, Royal, you can disregard those Mig warnings. Those are Phantoms in the area." Maybe so, or maybe different people were looking at different aircraft, but the call did not portray the seriousness of the situation.

"Nomad, can you give me a short count?" came from Carbine as he attempted to use his direction-finding gear to get a good visual contact on the Spads, The Spads replied by holding down the mike button and counting forward to 5 and then backward to 1, and while they were doing that they augmented the beeper that was still cluttering up the air and making the radio almost useless. But the steer worked and Carbine came back with "OK, Nomad, we're about your eight o'clock."