Phantom Leader Part 17

He fixed his eyes on the water below. The 707 was banking and beginning its approach up the Saigon River. He watched the wakes of the river traffic. Then he saw the smoke rising from areas in Saigon, and a heavy pall over Cholon. He could see the VNAF helicopters and A- I s diving and swarming over the tops of buildings. Once over the air base, Court could see the watchtowers and fighting bunkers protecting all of the base except the southern and eastern perimeters that ab.u.t.ted metropolitan Saigon.

"You're in luck, folks," the pilot announced over the PA system. "The tower says it's safe to land. Yesterday we couldn't get in."

Court scanned the area below. Numerous small villages in the opposite direction from Saigon made Tan Son Nhut International Airport awash in a sea of humanity. The base itself was huge and overflowing with workers.

In addition to 230 aircraft belonging to the VNAF, the USAF, and the Army, TSN housed the headquarters of the MACV (Military a.s.sistance Command, Vietnam), 7th Air Force, the South Vietnamese Joint General Staff compound, the headquarters of the VNAF including its induction center, and of course TSN was the hub airport for international and domestic civilian airlines. Some 25,000 military people lived and worked on the base, another 30,000 military and civilians reported in each day from quarters located off-base.

Dispersal of parked aircraft to protect them from mortar and rocket fire was impossible. Further, some aviation fuel tanks and bladders were within fifty feet of the base perimeter. Munitions storage was not much farther off. It was an easy base to attack.

The 707 straightened out and the landing gear came down, then a few degrees of flaps. The pilot made a turn into a steep approach and banged the big ship on the end of the runway.

As they taxied in, Court noted the increased activity. Helicopter gunships were on patrol around the base perimeters, Security Policemen on foot and in vehicles patrolled the flight line, barricades were at the end of each row of revetments. Camouflaged F-100s waddling under the load of bombs moved down taxiways, RF-101 reconnaissance jets vied with them for s.p.a.ce. Tiny O-1 and O-2 FAC propeller planes with both USAF and VNAF markings mixed with C-123s and AC-47 gunships big multiengined propeller aircraft-headed to and from the active runways.

In one revetment Court saw an F-4 with WP, the Udorn tail code, painted on its vertical stabilizer. Court felt his pulse increase. h.e.l.l, I guess I am glad to be back, he admitted to himself. A lot more than I thought.

An hour later he checked into the BOQ, changed into his khaki 1505 uniform, and caught a ride to 7th Air Force Headquarters. Tan Son Nhut was covered with armed men standing grimly behind barriers, and armored personnel carriers (APCs) grinding around corners and along ditches. The linoleum-covered halls of 7th Air Force Headquarters were alive with people scurrying back and forth with papers and briefcases in their hands. They all wore fatigues. Stacked along the hall and in the offices he pa.s.sed were steel helmets sitting on top of olive-drab flak jackets. He found Major General Milton Berzin's office.

"You're who?" the thin captain in fatigues said as he hung up one of the three phones on his desk outside the general's office. He stared at Court through red-rimmed eyes. His fatigues were rumpled, a stubble of beard was on his chin.

"Just a minute." He picked up a ringing phone, identified himself, listened, and said the general was in the commander's office. He hung up and thumbed through a worn stenopad. "Oh yeah, Bannister. Here you are. Christ, it's a madhouse around here." He studied his notes. "Look, Major, the general isn't here, he's in with the big boss. But, ah," he thumbed through his notes again, "you're supposed to give him some decision-I don't know what it is, maybe you do, and, let's see, oh yeah, you're supposed to fly some airplanes or something." He looked past Court, jumped up, and dashed over to a colonel who was rapidly disappearing past the door. "Colonel Mayberry," he called. "Colonel Mayberry. That Udorn pilot is here." He turned to Court.

"Go with Colonel Mayberry," he said and returned to his cluttered desk.

Colonel Tom Mayberry, a.s.sistant to the DO, took Court to his office one door down the hall. He was a stocky man with black hair. Command pilot wings were st.i.tched in white thread over his left pocket, big white colonel's eagles on his collar tips. He had a wide and pleasant face and heavy wrinkles around his eyes.

"Heard a lot about you," Mayberry said as they shook hands. "We're up to our a.s.s around here. Hope you're not too hung over from your R-and-R. Gonna fly you right EMIL away. The VC have broken the Tet truce in a big way all over South Vietnam. Cities, villages, camps, bridges, air bases, all under attack. The Army is crying for air in Three and Four Corps and we can't even get an airplane off the runway at Bien Hoa. For the moment VC groundfire has four squadrons padlocked to their revetments up there. We're putting everything in the air we can from here and using everything from Phan Rang and the other air bases up the coast." He offered Court a cigarette. They both lit up from Court's Zippo. Mayberry rubbed the stubble of his beard. "I haven't hit the sack in the last forty-eight hours. Right now VNAF A-Is and helicopter gunships are strafing and bombing within the city of Cholon and the outskirts of Saigon. We don't want to risk USAF or Navy fighters on those close-in attacks. There are hundreds of cameramen and newsmen in Saigon. Once they leave the bars, they act like ambulance chasing accident lawyers. They d.a.m.n near create traffic jams trying to get to the latest fire or explosion. I could just see the . tures of an F-100 or Army Huey gunship rolling in on Pic some building downtown Cholon.

And I already know the caption: 'They Had to Destroy It to Save It."

h.e.l.l of a war when you have to arrange your battles and weaponry in accordance with what will play in Peoria. I wish to Christ these guys were in Hanoi. We'd win the war by noon on their first day up there."

Mayberry took a drag on his cigarette.

"I've got to get off that subject. Gets me too riled up." He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette.

"Okay, Bannister, here's the deal. The pilot of one of your Udorn F-4s delivered some cla.s.sified papers two days ago and is now in the hospital with some mortar fragments in his legs. So is his backseater. We are fresh Out Of Current operational F-4 jocks here, and the general thought of you and your LOCAL area experience in F-100s out of Bien Hoa. Knew you were just a few hours away in Singapore. Told me to chase you down.

We need to get every airplane we've got in the air for the next couple of days." He took a short puff.

"So go on down to the 416th, draw some gear, get ready to fly. We found you a backseater. He's a pilot that was enroute to Udorn via a MAC flight that put in here. They had a delay taking off so we shanghaied him for you. Seems like a sharp kid. He's already at the squadron learning LOCAL area procedures." Mayberry walked him to the door of his small office and back to the captain's desk. "See that Bannister is signed in from leave," he told him. "Notify Colonel Bryce at Udorn where he is and get him some wheels to the 416th."

"Oh G.o.d, it's Bannister, Court, one each," Major Mac Dieter shouted across the operations room of the 416th Tactical Fighter Squadron. He stood by the scheduling board, where all the combat flights were posted.

"We wanted a real fighter pilot, not a two-holer bus driver. What's the Air Force coming to, anyhow?" Dieter, a rail-thin, balding man who wore a size "38 Small" flight suit, threw up his hands in mock despair. He commanded the eighteen-plane F-100 squadron.

"Get off it, Dieter," Court said as he walked up, "I have my own airplane and it's got twice as many engines as yours do."

"Yeah, and twice as many a.s.sholes on board, too." The two men met at the operations counter and grasped each other's shoulders. They had been Section Commanders in A Wing at Squadron Officers School in the early sixties. They had enjoyed great rivalry in the soccer and flickerball games, but Court used to wipe him out spiking in volleyball.

"You're getting uglier by the day, Bannister."

"You should talk, chrome dome."

"I'm not bald. All the rest of you guys are hairy. When G.o.d made heads, he covered up the ones he didn't like." He laughed and motioned to Court. "Good to see you. It's been a few years since we wore the red pants at Maxwell." Only faculty members at SOS wore red pants on the athletic fields.

"Come on back with me, we'll get you rigged up."

He led Court past the ops counter to a room down the hall that had the sign "Personal Equipment" over the door. Inside, a staff sergeant found Court a flight suit, boots, heavy socks, helmet, gloves, and a kneeboard. All but the helmet were new and stiff. The K-213 green flight suit was baggy and creased with lines from the clear plastic bag in which it had been packed. The staff sergeant produced a brand new G-suit. Court opened the package and worked the zippers a few times to loosen them up. The staff had Court put on the helmet. He produced a new oxygen mask, fitted and tightened it, then plugged the hose and the radio connector into a large test set. He moved the switches and lever supplying oxygen under pressure. Satisfied there were no leaks, he tested the microphone in Court's mask and the headsets in his helmet.

From a refrigerator he took two baby bottles full of frozen water for Court to fit into his harness. After a functioning parachute, water and a survival radio were the two most important items a pilot needed if shot down.

"Okay, Major, if you'll just sign here, you're ready to go."

Court signed AF Form 538, Personal Equipment and Clothing Record.

Dieter took Court to the flight-planning room. It was dominated by a large Ping-Pong-sized table covered by a heavy sheet of clear plastic that overlay a 1:250,000 aeronautical chart of South Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos. Pictures and charts of F-100 weapons and delivery data lined the walls. Two pilots were leaning over the table, plotting flight routes on hand-held c.o.c.kpit maps. Dieter led Court over to a third man, a thin captain whose wings on his name tag showed he was a pilot.

"You know this guy?" Dieter said, "He has some F-4 time."

"Court Bannister," Court said and stuck out his hand.

d.i.c.k Connert." The pilot shook Court's hand and gave him a broad smile.

"I'm very glad to meet you. I just finished the F-4 upgrade course at George. Although I'm a pilot, I guess I don't mind flying in the backseat of the Air Force's leading MiG killer."

Court studied him. His face was youthful and clear of lines or wrinkles. He had sand-colored hair, neatly cut and combed. His flight suit was form-fitted and clean. His black boots were polished to a high gloss. He carried a flight bag with patches from all of the training squadrons at George Air Force Base.

Dieter then introduced them to the two captains, Jim Morelli, the flight lead, and Joe Jensen, his wingman for the flight.

"Since we schedule flights composed of three F-100s for each mission, you will be flying with these two guys," Dieter said. "I think it best always to fly with the same two while you are here, so you all can learn how to adapt to each other's procedures and airspeeds." Court's F-4 was several tons heavier than the F-100, had twice the thrust from its two engines, and could carry nearly three times as much ordnance. Flying dissimilar airplanes in the same patter' would require some adjustments.

"Everything we are doing these days is close air support for American and ARVN troops here in South Vietnam."

The Army of the Republic of Vietnam was referred to by p.r.o.nouncing its acronym, ARVN. "As always, Court, everything is under the control of an airborne forward air controller, the FAC. He uses his FM radio to talk to the ground troops who need help. He establishes their exact location, the position of the enemy, and what kind of ordnance is best for the target. When you check in with your lineup and mission number, he'll give you all the target information, the terrain alt.i.tude, wind direction, altimeter setting, and the heading to a safe bailout area if you get hit and can still control your airplane. He will clear you in on every pa.s.s." Dieter turned to d.i.c.k Connert.

"I don't know if you ever worked with a FAC before, but no pilot drops anything or fires a single round from his cannon without clearance from the FAC on every single pa.s.s. When he clears you, he'll say 'hot' if you're cleared in to drop, or 'dry' if you are not. If you have radio failure, you orbit high and dry until the flight finishes the mission, then joins up on you to take you home." Cormert nodded, an eager smile on his face. "Yes, I know all about that," he said.

Dieter continued.

"The call sign of the FACs here in the Saigon and Bien Hoa area of Three Corps is Copperhead. Those in Four Corps down around Can Tho are Beaver. They'll be flying 0-Is or 0-2s."

The O-1, smaller than the O-2, was a single-engined, highwing two-seater Cessna. The O-2s were replacing the O-1s.

So far over 100 O-1s had been shot down.

Court briefly thought of Toby Parker. He had won his Air Force Cross as a nonpilot flying an O-1 from the backseat when his pilot had been killed trying to rescue a Special Forces unit near Loc Ninh. His pilot, Phil Travers, Copperhead 03, had flown from Bien Hoa that day.

Dieter excused himself, saying he had to get back to his SEEL real job as an airplane dispatcher, and turned the briefing over to Jim Morelli.

"Things haven't changed much since you flew Huns up at Bien Hoa, Major Bannister. Still no formation takeoffs. You will be Silver Three Three, the number-three man in Silver flight. Joe and I will make single-ship takeoffs at fifteen second intervals. Since the F-4 accelerates so much faster than the F-100, you'd better use twenty or even more if it looks like you'd run over him. I'll come out of burner and hold three eighty knots indicated airspeed until you and Joe join up. Usually I'd hold three-fifty, but I don't want you waddling around out there."

"You're right on that," Court said. "The F-4 really isn't worth much under four-fifty. At that speed and above, she really handles nicely."

"That's right," Connert said. "I always flew above that speed at George." He flashed a wide smile.

Morelli regarded him steadily for a moment, then continued. "After takeoff I'll have us switch from Saigon Departure Control to Paris Control, the LOCAL radar site that will clear us out of the Saigon area.

He will turn us over to Paddy, the radar site at Can Tho, who will direct us to our FAC." He took a large file card clipped to his kneeboard and pushed it over where Court and d.i.c.k Connert could see it.

"Here's the lineup. We still don't know about your ordnance. The weapons people haven't had that much experience loading F-4s."

He handed blank forms to Court and d.i.c.k Connert to fill out. When they were done, he took them to the map cases and helped them select the appropriate maps for III and IV Corps in South Vietnam.

""You can see" Morelli pointed to an area on the mapwe are going down in the Delta to the Whiskey Romeo grid."

Although the USAF navigated from aeronautical charts using lat.i.tudes and longitudes and distance and bearings from radio sites, on strike missions they used Army maps that were oriented to the UTM, the Universal Transverse Mercator, a system that blocked most of the earth's surface into squares one hundred kilometers on a side. Each square had a two-letter designator. Silver 33 flight was heading southwest of Saigon to the 218-degree radial for twenty-three nautical miles from Channel 41, the Can Tho Tacan station. That point of aerial navigation coincided with WR 5181 UTM coordinates (slanged to cords; kilometers to klicks) near the village of Vi Thanh. The Army UTM maps were read "right up." That meant to find the WR 5181 grid point, start from the bottom left corner of the WR grid, read 5,100 meters to the right and 8,100 meters up. At this point was, if not the target, at least the point to rendezvous with today's FAC, call sign Beaver 24.

"Right here," Morelli said, "Vi Thanh is at the intersection of two ca.n.a.ls and a road. It's all flat delta down there, barely above sea level. The village itself has been under severe attack since the Tet truce was broken. The Intell people tell me two American advisors are with a company of Vietnamese LOCAL defenders who stand between the VC and the village. The terrain is flat, so our weaponry for this mission will be a few Mark Eighty-Two Snakeye high-drag bombs-"

"Good stuff," Connert interrupted.

"Ah, yeah," Morelli said, eyeing him. "Anyway, the Snakes are to open things up, then napalm, CBU, and strafe for close-in work. Of course it depends on the FAC. Whatever he says, whatever order of delivery he wants, that's what we'll do. Usually he wants bombs first, and we like to get 'em off so we can maneuver better for the next deliveries."

Dive-bombing is as complex a maneuver as a fighter pilot can perform. It is part art, part science. Art, in that the pilot must have absolute mastery over both his tradecraft and his aircraft; science, in that the inexorable laws of gravity and aerodynamics rule with constant results.

The art, then, is the variable. The pilot must be able to calculate mentally the exact release point in the air where he mashes down on the red b.u.t.ton-called the pickle b.u.t.ton-on top of his B-8 control stick to release a bomb from an ejector rack under his wing. The rack uses a cartridge the size of a shotgun sh.e.l.l to push the bomb from the plane.

Using figures from a chart, the pilot dials in a set number of mils to depress his gunsight below his flight path. Then he must position himself at a point two miles above the earth (if EEL_ the groundfire is minimal) and roll in on a heading, dive angle, and engine power setting such that he will arrive at the alt.i.tude of the invisible release point at exactly the correct angle and airspeed with the pipper of his gunsight centered on the target. Too fast, too high, or too steep and the bomb will hit long. Too slow, too low, too shallo)v and it will hit short, Further, if the pilot does not compensate for wind drift as well as hold his airplane aerodynamically stable with no skid or slip, the bomb will impact off to one side.

The release alt.i.tude must be high enough for the bomb to arm-dud bombs provide the Viet Cong with free, air-delivered explosives-yet not so high that accuracy is affected.

But release should not be so low the pilot will be hit by his own fragments or be exposed to heavy groundfire for a long time. The antiaircraft threat in South Vietnam was not nearly as lethal as in North Vietnam. Thus pilots in the south could release much lower.

However, because bomb fragments travel at 1,300 feet per second, the pilot must release several thousand feet in the air. Added to that release alt.i.tude must be the alt.i.tude consumed in the 4- or 5-G pullout.

Since a high release alt.i.tude reduced accuracy, a mechanical compromise had been invented to create drag. Attached to some 5001b Mark-82 bombs were the Mk 1 5 r.e.t.a.r.ding devices that were big steel umbrellas fixed to the rear of the bomb that opened up after release to slow the bomb. This device gave the pilot the option to release the bomb at a lower alt.i.tude and a shallower dive angle than a "slick" low-drag bomb. Accuracy improved dramatically. With a delivery speed of 450 knots (515 mph), a dive angle of 15 degrees, and a release alt.i.tude of 500 feet, the pilot could put the bomb through the front door of an enemy bunker. The same bomb, dropped from 5,000 feet in a 45-degree dive without the high-drag device, could easily miss by 30 or 40 feet.

Today, Silver flight was using slick Mk-82 bombs with the M904 fuze that could be set to detonate the bomb on contact or up to several seconds delay, allowing it to penetrate earth or concrete bunkers or bridges.

Their fuzes were set on contact.

The napalm Silver flight carried consisted of 750-gallon tanks holding a jellied gasoline that splashed and burned in the direction of flight at several thousands of degrees Fahrenheit. Since there were no fragments or arming requirements (they were armed as soon as they left the airplane) napalm could be released as low as the pilot felt prudent Normally, pilots dropped napalm from 100 feet alt.i.tude in straight and level flight, or shallow dives indicating 450 knots.

Their CBU (cl.u.s.ter bomb units) were bomb-shaped tanks that held several tubes open to the rear. Packed into the tubes were hundreds of softball-sized bomblets that dribbled out of the tubes, opened little winglike vanes, and floated down like so many tiny, softball-sized helicopters. They contained either explosive or white phosphorus.

Pilots dispensed CBU from straight and level flight, indicating 450 at exactly 300 feet AGL (above ground level). Too high and they would drift away from the target, too low and they would not arm.

Each F-100carried four 20mmcannons that could fire 200 rounds each.

F-41)s, like the one for Court from Udorn, did not have a built-in gun (the E-model in production would have one). The USAF had designed a Gatling-style gun that could fire 6,000 rounds per minute to be slung underneath the F-4. The F-4 a.s.signed to Court did not have one, nor were any on the base. The 20mm cannons could be fired at any range; ball ammunition didn't need to arm, and high explosive or incendiary rounds armed within a few feet of leaving the barrel.

All these weapons were designed for use against enemy troops in the open or under thin shelter. The accuracy of the F-100 pilots flying close air support was legendary. "FAC, TAC, and napalm," the Special Forces men would say while making the sign of the cross. However, except for the bombs dropped slick with a delayed fuze, all these weapons were useless if the enemy was under triple or even double canopy jungle. The napalm would splash in the trees, the CBU would detonate up in the treetops, and the branches and trunks would absorb the cannon sh.e.l.ls.

"Court," Morelli said, "you're an old head around here.

You remember the wheel?"

"Sure. You want us to fly a circle around the target area and roll in in sequence from random headings." The wheel was more safe than a box pattern because in the box the base and final leg of the run was always the same, making it easy for gunners to zero in on the diving planes.

"You got it. That's what we'll use." Morelli tapped the map. "The weather is reported at fifteen thousand overcast and six miles visibility in the target area and forecast to remain that way. Locally, we've got twenty-five hundred overcast with occasional thunder b.u.mpers.

If it looks bad landing back here, normally we go to Bien Hoa, but the bad guys still are too close to the runway. So plan for Phan Rang. It's zero eight zero degrees for one forty-five nautical." Court jotted the information down and noticed Connert did not.

They went to the pilots' locker room, suited up, and walked out into the overcast day to the flightline van.

Morelli and Jensen both wore parachutes on their backs because the ejection seat in the F-100 did not have a built-in parachute like the F-4. On board the blue van that carried them to their airplanes, Morelli briefed Court on the airplane signals for the flight members to keep the radio chatter down. When the flight leader fishtailed, the flight would spread out; nose bobbing up and down meant slide back into the trail position one behind the other; wing rock meant close it up; a sharp dip of the wing one way or the other meant for the flight to echelon on that side. Then he covered the hand signals used for radio-out procedures. Finally Morelli gave Court the radio frequencies he wanted to use, starting with the squadron check-in channel.

Court and d.i.c.k Connert got out of the van in front of the Udorn F-4. In the distance they heard the crump of artillery.

Their Phantom was parked in an Armco revetment made of earth-filled corrugated steel bins 12 feet high and 5.5 feet wide. The revetments stood side by side in rows, each containing two F-100s or one larger aircraft such as a C- 1 30 or C-47.

A weapons and a maintenance officer, both lieutenants, came up to Court and saluted. The maintenance officer was the first to speak.

"Normally, a transient alert airman would handle your aircraft, sir, to get it cranked up so you can fly home to Udorn. But since you're going to be flying combat out of here, I'll handle it myself. I used to be an F-4 crew chief at George before I went to OCS." He grinned shyly. "And I'm really proud to be crewing your aircraft, sir. Sorry we didn't have time to paint a cowboy hat on the tail. Maybe this will do." He pointed to a chalked outline of a cowboy hat on the nose.

Court was both touched and embarra.s.sed. The F-4 with which he had shot down his MiGs had had a cowboy hat painted on each side of its nose.

"Thanks," he said.

"We did the best we could, sir," the weapons man spoke up. He pointed at the airplane. "We got you your bombs and napalm, but we couldn't get a compatibility check with the CBUs. Something in the wiring to the pylons. We're kind of new to these Phantoms. Had to get all our books out to figure what went where."

Court looked at the F-4. It had a 600-gallon drop tank under the fuselage in the centerline position, three Snakeyes on each inboard pylon, and one napalm can on each outboard pylon.

"We don't have the right Mers and Ters to hang any more bombs, sir.

Sorry 'bout that," the weapons officer said. Mers and Ters were multiple and triple ejection racks that could increase the bombload of the F-4 up to sixteen Mk82 5001b bombs; 8,000 pounds of bombs.

Court looked at the AIM-7 radar-guided air-to-air missiles in each of the four missile wells in the fuselage.

"Didn't know whether to download the missiles or not, sir," the weapons officer said.

Connert spoke up before Court could answer. "Yeah, take them off. We don't need missiles down here in South Vietnam."

"Hold one," Court said, trying not to frown at Connert in front of the others. "Leave them on. Bad enough not having a gun, I'd feel naked without a missile. Besides, you never know where we might get diverted." Although he certainly didn't expect to see MiGs in the south of South Vietnam, he wanted the twelve-foot Sparrow missiles left in their bays. In these hectic days anything could happen.

He turned to the maintenance man. "Is the fuel tank full?"

"Yes, sir."