The Edge of Honor (36 page)

No Migs were found.

The grueling tempo of the bombing campaign began to take its toll by the third day as the air controllers started to lose their edge and require relief more frequently and the trackers in the Cave began to screw up the correlation of radar video to symbols. The pilots turned querulous as their own fatigue began to poison their physiological effectiveness.

On the morning of the third day, after having done no SARs in the previous thirty hours, Hood scrambled to conduct three. They were all in daylight and all successful. But that afternoon, two outbound A-6 bombers collided in midair twenty miles west of the Red Crown station as they executed a low-altitude join-up for the trip back to the carrier.

Both plunged into the sea before anyone got out, a fact witnessed by a third A-6, which called off the SAR with a chillingly laconic

“Ain’t no point—nobody walked” report. The captain requested permission to take the ship into the area of the crash site anyway for the few remaining hours of daylight, and CTF 77 concurred.

As the ship nosed through the area of the crashes, the bulk of the crew not on watch came topside into the late afternoon light to assist in spotting wreckage and any possible survivors. Hood steamed slowly through the area, encountering widely scattered patches of shimmering jet fuel and streaks of confetti-sized debris but finding nothing of consequence. Brian, who had the evaluator watch, did not bother to call Vince Benedetti, as this was not officially an SAR operation. He kept the duty SAR helo in its designated offshore holding area to be ready for any new SAR, one where there might be better prospects for recovering someone alive. The fate of the men in the two A-6s was a foregone conclusion, as nothing bigger than a dollar bill was sighted in the area.

At sundown, the captain called it off and headed back to his station in the Gulf. Most of the crew drifted back inside, uninterested in the spectacularly glowing sunset unfolding behind them. Brian had to write a message report on the incident, but the controller who had watched it happen could tell him nothing more than “one of ‘em fucked up and ran into the other one; guys’re tired.”

CTF 77 must have agreed with that sentiment, because he suspended the round-the-clock strike ops at 1700 that evening, ordering up the beginning of single-carrier cyclic ops for noon the following day. The break was welcomed in Combat, as many of the augmenting watch standers could get an entire night’s sleep for the first time in three days.

Brian had relieved Austin at 1800 and was scheduled to be relieved by Benedetti at midnight. An hour after Brian had taken the watch, Austin called him from his stateroom.

“The snipes have apparently managed to co ntaminate the boiler feed-water system forward with salt water.

Vince has been down there since noon, so I’ll be relieving you at midnight. Make sure the wake-up people get the word.”

“Can do. Does this mean we’re back on port and starboard?” Austin sighed. “Hopefully not. I’m planning on calling Vince at oh-five-thirty.

But we’ll see.”

“Wonderful.”

Brian groaned as he hung up the phone. He dreaded the thought of going back to a watch and watch schedule.

He looked around Combat. Compared with the past three days, the place seemed deserted and quiet. Garuda was on with him for the first time in the two days of the staggered watch rotations. They had taken over the watch and now concerned themselves with the business of staying awake.

The screen was almost entirely clear, with only the BARCAP idling overhead at forty thousand feet, patrolling their endless sixty-mile racetrack pattern along the coast of North Vietnam. The ship was on the western edge of the Red Crown box, where she had remained for the previous three days to be closer to the SAR helo stations. The only air activity around the carriers to the south was the single tanker launched to refuel the BARCAP. Both of Hood’s helos were on deck for the first time in three days, with maintenance crews poring over them. Hoodoo, the controller who had most recently caught some sleep, had been elected the duty AIC by the rest of the AICs, and RD1 Rpckheart had the surface module. The Cave was quiet; with almost nothing to track, the operators sent ticktacktoe patterns from console to console in order to stay awake. Garuda, who usually spotted new video before any of the kids in the Cave did, let their games slide for the moment.

“Chee-rist, what a breeze, as the parrot said,” declared Brian, stirring a cup of coffee. Garuda nodded.

They were both glad for the respite.

“I’ll bet the bad guys are glad it’s over for a while, too.

The receiving end of that many sorties must have been medium shitty.”

“Noisy, anyway. But they’re Commies; they deserve it. Besides, one a the basketballs said our jungle bunnies had been catchin’ a lot of artillery in the DMZ. Fuckers knocked it off about an hour into the Alfa-strikes.”

Brian shook his head. “But the little bastards always seem to manage to come back. It reminds me of clapping my hands over my head to get rid of a cloud of gnats—a moment of silence and then there they are again. I think maybe’s there’s just too many of ‘em.”

Garuda snorted. “Problem is, we’re smackin’ the shit outta the doggies in the weeds, but the gutless bastards back in Washington won’t let us do anything about all them Russian ships full of new tanks, new trucks, ad new SAMs, all parked up in Haiphong Harbor. We go get that shit, they won’t any of ‘em come back so quick.”

“BARCAP are off-station for happy hour,” announced Hoodoo.

“SWIC, aye,” intoned Garuda, lighting up in an indignant cloud of blue smoke while Brian stood behind him, staring down at the scope, focusing on the familiar amber hook of the coastline near Vinh airfield to the west. The two symbols that represented the BARCAP drifted to the southeast, headed for their rendezvous with the airborne tanker. Brian studied the eerily clear picture of the North Vietnamese coastal mountains being produced by the digital air-search radar. If the atmospheric conditions were just right, the big SPS-48 radar would give as good a surface picture as the SPS-10. After a moment of silence, he saw what appeared to be a tiny piece of the land echo move. He blinked his eyes for a moment and waited for the 48 radar’s sweep to come back around the scope. He saw it again.

“Hey, is that moving?” he asked Garuda, touching the screen with his right index finger. Garuda stopped in midinhale and positioned the cursor on the speck of video. The next sweep came around and the video had moved to the right, out from under the cursor, heading north along the coast. Hoodoo, overhearing Brian’s question, had expanded his scope picture to focus into the land smear. He saw it about the same time Garuda confirmed the motion and slapped an unknown track symbol on it.

“Where those BARCAP?” asked Garuda.

“They off-station. Like I jes reported. They right at minimum combat package.”

“What the hell, we can move the tanker. See if we can get ‘em back; let’s see if we can bag this guy.”

“This a Mig?” asked Brian, already knowing the answer. A couple of the guys near the doorway of the Cave straightened up at the sound of the word Mig.

“It ain’t one of ours, that’s for damn sure. Good eye on seem’ that sumbitch. Hoodoo, take it in special track so you’re ready for engagement.”

“I roger that,” Hoodoo replied. “But them BARCAP, they aren’t gonna be no good. They below minimum package; cain’t engage nobody, Mr. SWIC. You know the rules.”

“Yeah. Shit. And this guy is ten miles, naw, fifteen outta range for our missiles. Shit, I hate this, just watching these bastards. They know, they fuckin’ know when the BARCAP go off-station! Shit!”

“Maybe someday we ought to fuck around,” Brian said. “You know, tank the BARCAP before they assume station, then let ‘em wander off when it’s about the right time. Mig comes up, jump his ass.”

“Damn right. We should do just that.”

“Evaluator, D and T, Alfa Whiskey wants us to confirm the unknown track in the system.”

Garuda responded. “Tell ‘em we have video and a good skin paint, but the BARCAP are famished. And you guys in the Cave, get hot, down the games, and start looking at your fucking scopes. The evaluator shouldn’t be the first guy to see a fucking Mig.”

“D and T, aye.”

Brian and Garuda stared down at the scope in frustration.

The unknown was making a steady course up the north coast. The data readouts said he was at fifteen thousand feet, heading 340, speed 350, composition unknown.

Hoodoo bent over his scope, tracking the unknown with all the concentration of a spider on its web.

“You call the Old Man?” asked Garuda, adjusting his cursor.

“Christ, no, I forgot.” Brian was reaching for the captain’s phone when an emergency late-detect alert came buzzing in from the Cave onto the SWIC’s scope.

“Son of a bitch, lookit that!” Garuda exclaimed, rising halfway out of his chair.

To the southwest, at a range of about seventy miles and with speed leaders pointing in their direction, were three distinct pieces of video. In the time it took Brian to digest the fact that something bad was happening, the NTDS computers automatically slapped late-detect symbols on the new video, classifying them as unknowns.

Garuda just about simultaneously changed the unknowns to hostiles and sent an engagement order to FCSC.

Suddenly, consoles were buzzing all over Combat. The sound of the missile-director amplidynes spinning up one deck above Combat filled the forward end of Combat, and then the rumbling began as the Spook 55s snapped around to pierce the night with the acquisition beams.

“What’s the range?” asked Brian.

“Sixty and inbound. Those sonsofbitches. I can’t believe they’re doing this shit! Hey, Mr. Holcomb—you ever call the Old Man?”

“Fuck me, no, I didn’t.” As he reached for the phone again, he asked Garuda, “Shouldn’t we be going to GQ?”

“Negatory—doctrine says we defend from Condition Three. But I’m gonna shoot these suckers soon as either one a those systems gets a track.”

“SWIC, D and T, Alfa Whiskey—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know—tell ‘em affirmative, we have skin paint, three bogies, late detect, taking with birds!”

Rockheart in surface heard the take order and grabbed the bitch box’s switch to alert the bridge to clear the forecastle. Brian buzzed the captain’s cabin, but no one answered. Shit. It was movie time. He’d be in the wardroom.

He fumbled for the wardroom switch and held it down. As he heard someone pick up the phone, the word blared out on the 1MC.

“ALL HANDS, CLEAR THE FO’C’SLE FOR MISSILE LAUNCH. I SAY AGAIN, ALL HANDS STAND CLEAR OF THE FO’C’SLE FOR MISSILE LAUNCH!”

“SWIC, FCSC. System One tracking! System Two tracking. Loading the launcher and energizing CWI!”

Brian felt like a bystander in the middle of a bad traffic accident as the missile fire-control system stepped through its countdown. Three targets, two directors. Not enough time to get them all, not nearly enough.

“Range is fifty miles, inbound!”

“Wardroom. XO. What the hell’s going on up there?”

Brian could hear the grinding noise overhead as the directors went into their tracking mode.

“SWIC, FCSC. CWI to radiate. Launch countdown initiated.”

“SWIC, D and T! That other gomer’s turned inbound.

The track to the north, now bearing three-three-five, range seventy-two, and inbound! We have a raid!”

Garuda punched out another engage order to the missile systems and promptly received a system-busy alert back. Brian thought fast. Two directors against four targets.

They were in trouble.

“Uh, XO, we have, uh, we have three bogies inbound from the southwest, range now just under fifty miles, preparing to take with birds. And there’s another guy— this guy’s to the north; he’s still out at seventy miles; he’s turned inbound. Should I sound GQ?”

Instead of an answer, Brian heard the sound of the phone being dropped on the table in the wardroom two decks below. Now what the fuck do I do?

he thought.

“SWIC, D and T, bogies turning, bogies turning. Range holding at forty-five miles.”

“Fuckers!” yelled Garuda, spitting his cigarette butt onto his chair.

“SWIC, AIC—I’ve got the BARCAP coming back.

These fuckers stay feet-wet, maybe we can nail one.”

Garuda reluctantly punched out a break-engage order on the southern bogies. FCSC promptly redesignated to the northern bogey, which was still inbound. The exec came bursting through the door to Combat just as one of the missile directors rumbled ninety degrees to the right on its barbette, hunting the new target with its acquisition beam. The three blips of video to the southwest merged into one and began accelerating into the interior of North Vietnam just as the BARCAP disengaged from the tanker.

“What the hell’s going on up here?” shouted the exec.

Austin came into Combat right behind him, buttoning his shirt.

“SWIC, D and T, north bogey is turning outbound. I say again, outbound.

All bogeys outbound at this time.”

“SWIC, FCSC. The geometry is cold. Breaking engagement.”

“Brian, god damn it, what’s going on? Brian?”

Brian didn’t know where to begin. It had all happened so fast. He looked at the exec. All he could manage was an

“Uh, sir—”

Thirty minutes later, Brian sat in the captain’s cabin with the exec, Austin, the captain, and Garuda Barry.

The captain looked as if he had been awakened from a winter’s hibernation. His silver hair was tousled and his eyes were not quite focused. He was wearing a bathrobe over his Skivvies. Brian noticed for the first time how thin and bony the captain’s knees and legs were.

The exec, on the other hand, was visibly angry. Brian realized that the captain apparently was going to sit in his chair and let the exec handle the debrief. Brian still held his partially crumpled coffee cup as he explained what had happened, how they had become fixated on the one target as it floated up the coast, well out of range, and how the other three had popped onto the screens from the southwest, closing at high speed.

“Garuda locked ‘em up, or at least two out of three, right away, as soon as we could get the directors on the air.”