God, be with me.
"Holy shit . . ." Wyatt moaned over the intercom, "we're gonna hit the ground."
Raising the F-4's nose, Brad pickled his entire load of ordnance. The Snakeyes and napalm hurtled over the top of the helicopter, enveloping the right flank of the enemy soldiers in a pulsing black, orange, and red fireball.
Brad pulled hard on the stick, then felt the Phantom shudder from the impact of gunfire. He instinctively shot a glance at the master caution light. It remained dark. "Stay calm," he told himself .
Concentrating on his primary flight instruments, Austin let out a sigh of relief as they emerged from the clouds. "I think we took some hits."
Wyatt nervously keyed his intercom. -Everything is okay back here . . . so far. "
Brad scanned the gray sky. "Dash Two, say posit."
The radio was eerily quiet.
"Casper, Rhino One. Do you copy?"
Brad's earphones remained silent. "Randy, give Casper and Stew a call. "
"Casper Two Seven and Rhino Two," Wyatt radioed, swiveling his head from side to side, "Rhino Dash One. Do you read?"
The absence of sound confirmed that they had lost radio contact.
The rounds that had impacted the Phantom had destroyed their communications link.
"Shit," Brad said, looking for the Skyhawk. "We're nordo. " Nordo was shorthand for no radio.
"I've got the TAC at two o'clock . . . level," Wyatt replied, tuning his radio to the 243.0 guard frequency. "Casper Two Seven, Rhino Lead on guard. Do you read?"
Still no reply.
Brad slowed the fighter and rendezvoused with the Skyhawk. The tactical coordinator had surmised that Rhino One's radio had malfunctioned.
Coasting into formation with the Skyhawk, Brad glanced at the observer in the rear cockpit. He was gesturing for Austin and Wyatt to look down.
Directing his attention below the right wing, Brad was relieved to see the Huey gunship racing from under the low clouds. "Randy, they made it."
"Yeah, they'll be feet-wet in a couple of minutes." Wyatt flexed his fingers to relieve the tension. "That guy won't have to buy any drinks for a long time."
A moment later, Stew Robinett glided into position off Brad's wing. Vic Lowenstein looked Rhino One over, then gave Wyatt a thumbs-up signal.
Pulling his power back, Austin tapped his helmet and pointed to Robinett. Dash Two, who was now the leader, had the responsibility of guiding the flight home.
The Skyhawk pilot waved, then banked and climbed away as the F-4s departed for Da Nang.
The two Phantoms skimmed through the tops of the clouds while Brad prepared for the instrument letdown. He selected the approach plate for the runway that they had departed from. Robinett would fly the approach for both pilots, but Brad had always monitored the instrument procedures when he flew as a wingman.
"All set back there?" Brad asked Wyatt as the lead Phantom started the descent.
"Yeah," Randy replied with a nervous chuckle. "I'm ready for a cold beer."
"That makes two of us." Brad laughed as the fighters entered the gloomy overcast. He raised his helmet visor in order to see better.
When the Phantoms began bouncing around in the rain and turbulence, Brad increased the separation to twenty-five feet. After leveling off for a short period, Stew Robinett turned south and again descended.
"I think," Brad said as he concentrated on keeping his leader in sight, "that our TACAN is out, too. It's frozen." The tactical air navigation system provided distance and azimuth between the aircraft and the airfield.
Wyatt keyed his intercom. "Do you have any idea where the hell we are?"
Brad paused a moment, trying to reestablish his situational awareness. His soiled flight gloves were damp with salty perspiration. "No . . . we may be too low to get a lock on the TACAN. Just relax."
"I'll relax when you get this sonuvabitch on the ground."
Robinett banked to a new heading, then commenced a slow descent. The rain increased and the clouds grew darker as the Phantoms continued their approach. Both aircraft
"Holy shit . . ." Wyatt moaned over the intercom, "we're gonna hit the ground."
Raising the F-4's nose, Brad pickled his entire load of ordnance. The Snakeyes and napalm hurtled over the top of the helicopter, enveloping the right flank of the enemy soldiers in a pulsing black, orange, and red fireball.
Brad pulled hard on the stick, then felt the Phantom shudder from the impact of gunfire. He instinctively shot a glance at the master caution light. It remained dark. "Stay calm," he told himself .
Concentrating on his primary flight instruments, Austin let out a sigh of relief as they emerged from the clouds. "I think we took some hits."
Wyatt nervously keyed his intercom. -Everything is okay back here . . . so far. "
Brad scanned the gray sky. "Dash Two, say posit."
The radio was eerily quiet.
"Casper, Rhino One. Do you copy?"
Brad's earphones remained silent. "Randy, give Casper and Stew a call. "
"Casper Two Seven and Rhino Two," Wyatt radioed, swiveling his head from side to side, "Rhino Dash One. Do you read?"
The absence of sound confirmed that they had lost radio contact.
The rounds that had impacted the Phantom had destroyed their communications link.
"Shit," Brad said, looking for the Skyhawk. "We're nordo. " Nordo was shorthand for no radio.
"I've got the TAC at two o'clock . . . level," Wyatt replied, tuning his radio to the 243.0 guard frequency. "Casper Two Seven, Rhino Lead on guard. Do you read?"
Still no reply.
Brad slowed the fighter and rendezvoused with the Skyhawk. The tactical coordinator had surmised that Rhino One's radio had malfunctioned.
Coasting into formation with the Skyhawk, Brad glanced at the observer in the rear cockpit. He was gesturing for Austin and Wyatt to look down.
Directing his attention below the right wing, Brad was relieved to see the Huey gunship racing from under the low clouds. "Randy, they made it."
"Yeah, they'll be feet-wet in a couple of minutes." Wyatt flexed his fingers to relieve the tension. "That guy won't have to buy any drinks for a long time."
A moment later, Stew Robinett glided into position off Brad's wing. Vic Lowenstein looked Rhino One over, then gave Wyatt a thumbs-up signal.
Pulling his power back, Austin tapped his helmet and pointed to Robinett. Dash Two, who was now the leader, had the responsibility of guiding the flight home.
The Skyhawk pilot waved, then banked and climbed away as the F-4s departed for Da Nang.
The two Phantoms skimmed through the tops of the clouds while Brad prepared for the instrument letdown. He selected the approach plate for the runway that they had departed from. Robinett would fly the approach for both pilots, but Brad had always monitored the instrument procedures when he flew as a wingman.
"All set back there?" Brad asked Wyatt as the lead Phantom started the descent.
"Yeah," Randy replied with a nervous chuckle. "I'm ready for a cold beer."
"That makes two of us." Brad laughed as the fighters entered the gloomy overcast. He raised his helmet visor in order to see better.
When the Phantoms began bouncing around in the rain and turbulence, Brad increased the separation to twenty-five feet. After leveling off for a short period, Stew Robinett turned south and again descended.
"I think," Brad said as he concentrated on keeping his leader in sight, "that our TACAN is out, too. It's frozen." The tactical air navigation system provided distance and azimuth between the aircraft and the airfield.
Wyatt keyed his intercom. "Do you have any idea where the hell we are?"
Brad paused a moment, trying to reestablish his situational awareness. His soiled flight gloves were damp with salty perspiration. "No . . . we may be too low to get a lock on the TACAN. Just relax."
"I'll relax when you get this sonuvabitch on the ground."
Robinett banked to a new heading, then commenced a slow descent. The rain increased and the clouds grew darker as the Phantoms continued their approach. Both aircraft
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