Phantom Pilot

By Ed Dunlop

Lt. Lance Wilkins is young, fearless, and bitter toward God. The pilot of a thundering F-4 Phantom with dozens of successful missions over North Vietnam, Lance once told God, “I don’t need you— just leave me alone!” Everything changes when his Phantom is shot down during a routine bombing mission over the Dragon’s Jaw.

Evading the Viet Cong for several weeks, Lance is eventually captured and taken to the “Hanoi Hilton”, an infamous POW prison in the heart of Hanoi. When a leftist anti-war group plans a vicious propaganda attack on his wife, Lance knows that there is only one way to stop it— in person. But to do that, he will have to escape...

Phantom Pilot is the story of a prodigal whose heart is softened by adversity. This book was written as a tribute to the memory of the brave men who gave their lives on the battlefields of Vietnam, and to the brave men who miraculously returned.

Although there is nothing vulgar or dishonorable in the story, some of the prison torture scenes are intense. This book is written for teenage/adult readers. Parents of elementary students should use discretion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ed Dunlop
• Release date: Jun 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476007663

Ed Dunlop

Ed Dunlop has worked in children’s ministries full-time for more than forty years. As an evangelist, he conducts Family Crusades in local churches, presents teacher-training seminars, speaks at junior camps, and conducts visualized drug and alcohol awareness programs in public elementary and junior high schools. His ministry involves ventriloquism, Gospel magic, PowerPoint, and a variety of other visual media. Ed writes fiction for children and resource books for teachers, and currently has thirty-seven titles in print with five publishers. The author grew up in Phoenix, Arizona. and has served churches in California, Arizona, and Tennessee as assistant pastor and Christian Education Director. He and his family entered full-time evangelism in March of 1988. Ed and his wife, Elma, have five grown children and make their home in north Georgia. Ed enjoys canoeing, motorcycling and SCUBA diving. His sons are also certified divers. Ed currently serves as a volunteer diver at the Tennessee Aquarium in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and enjoys feeding the fish, sharks, stingrays and moray eels as groups of school children watch.

Book preview

Chapter One

Launch aircraft!

The flight deck of the USS Kitty Hawk rumbled with noise and anticipation. Two sleek F-4 Phantom fighter-bombers trembled on the catapults as their powerful J-79 jet engines thundered at full military power with dazzling cones of orange-blue flame stabbing from their afterburners in shimmering heat rings. The yellow-shirted catapult officer, hand high in the air, watched the cockpit of the Phantom on the starboard catapult. Receiving a crisp, all-is-ready salute from the pilot, in one dramatic gesture the officer dropped his hand and touched the deck. His nearby assistant punched the red button. With the hiss of steam and the thunder of released power, the speeding catapult hurled the waiting aircraft across the carrier deck and out over the sapphire waters of the Gulf of Tonkin.

Take that, Charley! the catapult officer cried, as if the Viet Cong could somehow hear him. Perfect launch! Beaming proudly, he turned to face the second pilot. A bystander watching him might have gotten the impression that the officer himself had designed the powerful machinery that launched the aircraft so effortlessly. Seconds later, he dropped his hand again and the port catapult hurled a second Phantom into the skies. Another perfect launch. Zero to one hundred-eighty knots in two-and-a- half seconds.

We get kicked next, Jerry!

A third fighter-bomber was already taxiing into position at the first catapult. In the cockpit of this Phantom, twenty-eight year old Lieutenant Lance Wilkins scanned his instruments and licked his lips nervously. He let out his breath with such force that his oxygen mask moved slightly. With more than seventy successful missions over North Vietnam to his credit, Lance was no newcomer to the dangerous world of the combat fighter pilot.

Standing six-foot-two and weighing in at exactly one hundred ninety pounds, Lance considered himself a lean, mean fighting machine. Just last week he had displayed the strength of his perfect physique in the Officers Club while on liberty at Cubi Point by doing a set of thirty-five one-handed pushups without a break. No other pilot had even come close. Although he would gladly have traded his fiery red hair and huge collection of freckles for darker hair and a darker complexion, Lance Wilkins was proud of his impressive build.

An outstanding pilot with an excellent training record, Lance was self-sufficient, with just a touch of the arrogance often found among that elite group of fighting men, the jet pilots. When other members of the Kitty Hawk’s flight wing had problems with fear or the ever-present doubts as to their ability to stay alive in aerial combat, Lance was disdainful. Fear was a thing of the past, an enemy that had been met and vanquished months ago. He considered himself a professional. Alert, yes; cautious, maybe; but afraid, never. The only thing to fear is fear itself, he was fond of saying.

But today was different. Lance heard the clank of metal on metal as the green-shirted catapult technician below his plane fastened the launch bridle into the catapult shuttle, and a cold uneasiness slowly crept over him. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face. Turning his head, he tried to wipe it away by brushing his cheek against his shoulder, but his helmet and oxygen mask were in the way. He sucked in a huge breath and let it out slowly in an effort to calm his nerves and quiet his racing heart. Relax, he told himself sternly. Lieutenant, this is just another mission! An hour and a half from now you’ll be back aboard the Kitty, ready for a Coke and a cheeseburger.

A signal from the catapult officer interrupted his thoughts, informing him that the shuttle was in place and that the launch was ready. He glanced through the left quadrant of his windshield. Commander Taylor’s Phantom was already in position beside him, and the catapult officer stood, hand raised, watching Lance intently. Lance scanned his instruments, took a deep breath, and gave the signal salute.

A catapult launch was something that you never really got accustomed to. The instrument panel would blur momentarily because of the tremendous forces as you were shot like a projectile from a giant gun. A launch was always brutal. You don’t go from a standstill to nearly two hundred knots in less than three seconds and smile while you’re doing it. This is it, Lance said aloud. We are—

The Phantom leaped forward, slamming Lance deep into his seat with a force that seemed to crush his chest. And then, he was airborne. The engines screamed as Lance pulled back on the stick and guided the fighter into a thundering climb above one of the destroyers of the Seventh Fleet. There—another launch behind him. Now if he could only shake the apprehension that gnawed at his gut. A feeling of danger and trepidation accompanied a pilot on each combat mission—he didn’t suppose that any pilot could ever shake that completely—but today’s premonition was brutal, a cold, creeping panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

He shook his head. Cool it, Lance. Get hold of yourself. This is just a routine mission. Fear could paralyze a man, slow his reflexes, dull his ability to act and react. Dangerous stuff for a fighter pilot.

Lance retracted his landing gear and flaps and rechecked his instruments, throttling back out of afterburner as he did. His mind went back to the mission briefing in the strike operations room.

Black Lions, we’ve drawn a peach of a mission, Commander Taylor, the balding strike group leader, had told them, glancing across the eager faces of the fifteen flight-suited pilots and radar intercept officers before him. "We’re teaming up with two flights of A-6 Intruders and A-4 Sky Hawks from the Oriskany and we’re heading for Thanh Hoa."

Dragon’s Jaw? one pilot had asked.

Taylor nodded. Dragon’s Jaw. The United States Navy has bounced more bombs off that cantankerous bridge than we can count, but it’s still standing. And today, we’re trying again.

The Ham Rung Bridge is falling down, Artie sang softly. At twenty-four years of age, Lieutenant Artie Evans was the youngest member of Squadron VF-213, the Black Lions. Small and wiry, with brilliant red hair and a quick wit, he was always the first to speak. The other pilots regarded him as immature because of his constant wisecracks and practical jokes, but their disregard was tempered with a grudging respect. There weren’t yet any aces in the Vietnam War, and Artie Evans was the only man in the Black Lions who had downed an enemy plane. In fact, he had taken two MiGs, a record that rankled the other pilots every time they saw his grinning face.

Taylor smiled at Artie’s enthusiasm. The Ham Rung Bridge, or Dragon’s Jaw, he said, was built by the North Vietnamese, with help from Chinese engineers, between 1957 and 1964. The bridge is five hundred and forty feet long, fifty-six feet wide, and stands fifty feet above the water. The two steel spans rest on a concrete pier in the center of the river and on concrete abutments at either end. He grinned. We’ve bounced enough five-hundred pounders off this structure to blow up half the globe, but it’s still standing. Gentlemen, we’re asking you to change that today. If you can’t do it, we may have to send the North Vietnamese five million dollars and ask them to blow the ornery thing up themselves!

Turning to a huge map on the briefing room wall, he touched a point on the east coast of North Vietnam. "Thanh Hoa is approximately fifteen miles inland. Ho Chi Minh’s railroad crosses the Song Ma River over the Dragon’s Jaw, delivering supplies and equipment to the Viet Cong guerillas so they can terrorize the South Vietnamese. Gentlemen, we must take out this bridge!

We fly at 0830. Today’s base altitude is twelve thousand feet and we rendezvous at base minus two thousand. We’ll find the tankers at twelve thousand feet, three miles due south of Yankee Station. After refueling, we’ll rendezvous with the flights from the Big O and cross the beach thirty miles south of Thanh Hoa. We’ll climb to twenty thousand feet so that we can trade off that altitude for a little more speed on the run in. The plan is to head inland thirty miles, then circle north and approach the target from the Northwest.

Taylor pointed to a large close-up map of the Thanh Hoa region. This won’t be a milk run, boys. There’s a SAM site here— he touched the map with a bony forefinger to indicate the position of the surface-to-air-missile site, and 57mm flak sites here and here. Two more stabs with the finger showed the location of the antiaircraft guns. There are also 85mm flak sites here, here, and here. Three more stabs at the map. Go in with your eyes open and your fingers on the trigger as if they’re expecting us.

A thrill of excitement tempered with a premonition of danger swept over Lance as he studied the map. The tension in the room seemed to match his own, and there was none of the usual bantering among the pilots. The fear of the unknown was already stalking the strike force.

We should pick up the target less than ten minutes after we cross the beach, Commander Taylor continued. Whoever sights it first, be sure to identify yourself and call its location.

He looked at Lance. Wilkins, you’re my wingman today. As soon as we have the target in sight, you and I will detach as flak suppressors and accelerate ahead of the strike group. Pickle your bombs on the flak sites south of the river— he touched the map again, "and I’ll take out the north sites. Evans, you and Sandquist take out the SAM site. As soon as Wilkins and I pull away, you two roll to the left and drop in on the SAMs. I want you to come in steep and fast, and remember that you only have one chance.

"The rest of the strike force, including the squadrons from the Oriskany, will then pickle their loads directly on the bridge. After you make your run, keep your heads up and cover for any inbound MiGs. When the last man has made his run, immediately pull off and head for the beach. As soon as your feet are wet each section leader will radio me and I’ll check you off to make sure that everyone is back."

After a report from the weather briefer, Taylor had paused and looked around the strike operations room. The emergency word for the day is ‘LBJ’, and you can use it for verification in radio transmissions if you are shot down. Any questions? Let’s drop the Dragon’s Jaw!

The Phantom clawed for altitude. Jerry Pate’s voice filled Lance’s headset, interrupting his thoughts. Good day for a strike, isn’t it?

Lance jumped. He had actually forgotten his GIB, or Guy in Back, the radar intercept officer riding shotgun. He stood the Phantom on its wing as he threw the twenty-ton aircraft into a turn, allowing them both a panoramic view of the Gulf of Tonkin. The three aircraft carriers and thirty support ships of Task Force Seventy-Seven were already several thousand feet below, looking like tiny plastic toys in a wading pool. It’s a beautiful day, Jerry.

The sunshine was brilliant, sparkling and glittering off the waters of the Tonkin Gulf like millions of diamonds against a backdrop of deep blue velvet. The ethereal blue of the Southeastern Asian sky arched overhead, and to the west, where the blues would have met at the horizon, ran the brown and green line that marked the coast of North Vietnam. Tiny cumulous clouds floated lazily across the sky like over-sized puffs of pale cotton candy. Lance eased the nose up in his quest for the ten thousand-foot rendezvous.

What’s Artie doing? Jerry’s voice asked. Lance glanced at the water below. He’s at our ten o’clock, Jerry said, enabling Lance to make a location.

Far below, a single Phantom streaked across the water and executed a tight turn across the bow of the Gidrofon, a one hundred fifty-foot Russian trawler that supposedly was completing hydrographic surveys across the Tonkin Gulf. The Russian was fooling nobody—it was obvious that he had been sent to spy on the Seventh Fleet. As Lance and Jerry watched, the fighter plane far below finished buzzing the Soviet craft and began to climb.

Looked like he was gonna hit him, Lance commented, though at this altitude, anything would look close. How do you know it’s Artie?

Jerry chuckled. Who else? But his goose is cooked if Taylor finds out.

Lance looked back to the Kitty. Two more launches, and the whole strike group is in the air, he told Jerry. As he watched, a tiny speck of a Phantom zipped across the flight deck and shot from the carrier. Lance’s heart leaped into his throat. Explosions of white spray marked the path of the aircraft as the plane bounced across the surface of the gulf like a rock skipping across a millpond. He’s down! Lance screamed. Kicking the left rudder and shoving hard on the stick, he threw the Phantom over on its side and spiraled downward for a closer look.

Commander Taylor’s voice filled his headset. We’ve lost Davis!

Seconds later, the voice of Lieutenant Mike Jarvis, the only black pilot in the squadron, announced, He’s on the surface! He’s OK! Bob’s OK!

Yes, but we can kiss that three-million-dollar aircraft good-bye.

Lance leveled off at three thousand feet and put the Phantom into a wide, slow circle across Yankee Station. Within moments a helicopter had lifted off from the deck of the Oriskany and swooped across the water toward the downed pilot. Davis will be OK, Commander Taylor said. OK, Lions, proceed to rendezvous at base minus two. Looks like there will be six of us Black Lions instead of eight.

The lower wing of the Phantom came up as Lance leveled out and lifted the nose in a steep climb. What’s our rendezvous, Jerry?

Take a heading of three two zero degrees, Lance. We top out at ten grand to wait for the others.

Roger. Three two zero degrees, angels ten. Lance scanned his instruments. The Phantom climbed eagerly toward the prearranged electronic point in the sky, but the premonition of danger was back. The strike had barely even started, and already they had lost a plane. It was not a good omen.

Lion Two, Lion Five. I’m at your two o’clock, three hundred feet above you.

Roger, Lion Five. I’ve got you. Lion Five was Hambone, also known as Lieutenant John Sandquist. Hambone was a hulking, six-foot-five-inch giant of a man, slow, awkward and clumsy. But squeeze him into the cockpit of an F-4 Phantom and he became one of the most incredible pilots to ever grace the skies, with lightning reflexes and a flawless sense of timing. Lance had been his wingman on numerous missions and always marveled at the way the F-4 responded to Hambone’s touch.

Lion Six, right behind you. That was Gil Bates, the squadron’s textbook ace. Bates could pass any written exam with flying colors, but he was having trouble with his carrier landings. Lance was beginning to suspect that the pressure of combat flying was getting to Bates. It would only be a matter of time before he chickened out and turned in his wings.

Within moments, the six Phantoms were flying in formation at ten thousand feet. Lion One, switching to Strike Frequency, Commander Taylor radioed. Let’s find the tankers. The six aircraft lifted their noses as one and climbed toward twelve thousand feet. In the aft cockpit, Jerry Pate clicked the UHF radio through several bands of static, across snatches of another airborne conversation, and then stabilized on the check-in report of the squadrons from the Oriskany. When they were finished, Taylor checked the Black Lion squadron in. Master Strike, this is Lion One with five escorts at rendezvous. Ready to tank up and join in the fun.

Roger, Lion One. Rendezvous at angels twenty at 0855. See you there!

Roger. Out!

The squadron climbed into the morning sun to find two lumbering KA-3B Heavys waiting for them at twelve thousand feet. Lions One and Two—Commander Taylor and Lance—maneuvered into position below and behind the two tankers.

Aerial refueling was seldom easy. Lance cut his airspeed to match that of the tanker and then slowly crept upwards toward the sixty-foot rubber hose trailing from the belly of the tanker. He pushed a cockpit button to extend the four-foot probe on the right side of his fuselage. Jockeying the Phantom into position, he attempted to stick the probe into the three-foot cone at the end of the tanker’s hose. On days when there was turbulence, it could be like trying to spear an elusive fish. But today, the tanker rumbled along smoothly and Lance was able to make the connection on his first try. Clamps on the cone locked the probe into place with a solid chunk and the refueling went smoothly. The tanker gave him three-quarters of a ton of fuel every sixty seconds.

The tanker released the probe and Lance dropped the Phantom out of position to allow the next plane to refuel. Several minutes later, the Black Lions climbed to twenty thousand feet to rendezvous with the other two squadrons of the strike force.

Lion One, Feet Dry, Commander Taylor signaled as his Phantom crossed the beach and entered North Vietnam airspace. The six fighters of the Black Lion squadron led the strike force, with the other two squadrons holding positions slightly behind and above.

Tiger One, Feet Dry. The A-4 bombers had crossed the line.

Green Bird Three, Feet Dry. And now the A-6 Intruders were in. North Vietnamese airspace, boys. Start jinking. The aircraft in the strike force spread out in a looser formation and made frequent turns in order to keep any gunners from tracking them. Traveling at more than seven nautical miles a minute, Taylor’s Phantom led them due west for another four minutes, then angled north in a wide, sweeping pass that would cross Thanh Hoa from a northwesterly direction.

Commander Taylor cursed. Red bandits behind us at two o’clock!

Lance’s attention jumped to the two o’clock position. Three silvery MiGs were streaking downwards toward the American strike force. Why would three MiGs jump a strike force of twenty-two planes? Artie asked.

We’re each carrying nine thousand pounds of bombs and can’t maneuver like we need to! Taylor shot back. Don’t you think they can see that?

Five more MiGs at ten o’clock!

They’re new MiG-21s! one of the A-6 pilots radioed. They’re all equipped with Atolls!

Lance felt his pulse quicken. The Atoll heat-seeking missile was the nightmare of any combat pilot, a high-tech plane-killer that was designed to home in on the exhaust of a jet aircraft and blow it to smithereens. His heart was pounding fiercely as he followed Taylor in a tight, high-G right turn away from the other aircraft in the strike force.

Chapter Two

The eight Soviet-built MiG-21 fighters came thundering in at speeds in excess of Mach 1.2, firing tracer rounds as they swooped down upon the American strike force. Suddenly the skies above North Vietnam had become a battlefield. Snarling F-4s kicked in their afterburners and with the A-6s clawed for altitude while all eight A-4 bombers dropped into shallow dives to pick up airspeed as they twisted and turned, trying desperately to evade the enemy fighters. Instantly the MiGs were on their tails, looking for an opportunity to shoot their deadly missiles into tailpipes.

Commander Taylor shoved his F-4 over in a fast, looping dive and managed to get behind a MiG. The North Vietnamese pilot threw his plane into an evasive spiral, trying hard to shake the American off his tail. Taylor stayed right with him. He fired a Sidewinder but the missile streaked harmlessly past as the MiG twisted and dodged. Skipper, there’s a bad guy on your tail! Artie screamed.

Lance kicked hard on the right rudder pedal and shoved the stick over as far as it would go, throwing the Phantom into a tight, hard-G turn. Seconds later he found the pursuing MiG in his sights. Without hesitation his finger stroked the trigger at the front of the stick. A Sidewinder leaped from beneath his wing to catch the enemy plane dead center in the exhaust. A thundering explosion shook the sky, and the plane fell toward the earth engulfed in a wreath of flame.

Lance rolled clear and dropped his nose, watching the fiery MiG plummet toward the earth. Bail out! Bail out! he silently willed the enemy pilot. The North Vietnamese were the enemy, to be sure, but if the man’s plane was gone, he was no longer a threat, and Lance wanted to see him live. But no chute appeared before the burning aircraft slammed into the hillside far below, and Lance knew that the pilot had perished. Surprisingly, he felt no elation at taking his first MiG, but rather, an overwhelming sadness.

Artie had seen the action. Lance has his first kill! he radioed. Way to go Wilkins! Lance didn’t answer. Sick at heart, he urged the Phantom into a steep climb for altitude.

A cacophony of sound echoed across the peaceful countryside as the dogfight continued, the Americans determined to shake the MiGs and get on with the task of dropping their bombs on the Dragon’s Jaw, the North Vietnamese pilots equally determined to stop them. The MiGs, designed for maneuverability in combat and unencumbered by heavy bombs, could outmaneuver the Americans; but the American planes were faster. After several minutes of maneuvering, the battle was beginning to look as if it would end in a standoff. Both sides were successful in defending their aircraft, while neither side seemed able to catch an enemy fighter in a vulnerable position for a missile.

I’m hit! I’m hit! Lance recognized the voice immediately as that of Mike Jarvis. I’m losing my hydraulics and have to return to base! Good luck guys—Lion Five is out!

Moments later one of the attacking MiGs began to stream dense black smoke and twisted away in a spiraling dive. His six companions immediately fell away with him, leaving as quickly as they had come. Lance felt a tremendous sense of relief as the enemy aircraft streaked away.

The American strike force regrouped. Lion One here. Is everyone OK?

Looks like we’re all here, Skipper.

Why did they leave so abruptly? Hambone radioed. I was just starting to have some fun.

Maybe one of the NV pilots recognized me and radioed the others, Artie quipped. Beware, beware, Lieutenant Evans is in the air!

"Lion Four, catch Lion Five and escort him back to the Kitty, Taylor ordered. We’ll carry on without you."

Roger, sir, Hambone replied. His afterburner flamed orange and crimson as the Phantom darted off to catch the crippled plane. Moments later, the rest of the strike force heard his GIB asking Jarvis for coordinates.

Wilkins, look me over, Taylor requested, so Lance pulled away and visually scanned the commander’s Phantom for signs of damage or oil leaks.

You’re OK, Skipper. No signs of damage, and your Guy in Back has quit trembling. I’d say you’re ready for action.

Lion squadron, let’s hit it! Taylor radioed. We’re still with the original plan of attack; we’ll just have fewer bombs than we had planned.

Four planes, Lance thought. We’re hitting the Dragon’s Jaw with four planes fewer than we planned. How many more will we lose before this mission is over?

Jerry spoke up. Should be hitting it pretty soon, huh, Lance?

Lance nodded grimly. The cockpit of the Phantom no longer seemed like such a safe haven.

Arm your bombs, an unidentified voice reminded, and Lance reached out and flipped the appropriate switches. The twelve 750-pound bombs hanging from pylons beneath his wings and fuselage were now ready for action. All he had to do now to send them on their way was to touch the pickle button on top of his control stick.

Kick your black boxes in, the same voice reminded, referring to the top-secret electronics that helped the pilots evade surface-to-air missiles. Jerry threw the switch, and an electronic warble sounded in their headsets, indicating the various stages the SAM site was going through as it prepared to fire a missile, tracking a plane with radar and actually preparing to fire. The black box enabled the Americans to interfere electronically and jam the missile site, forcing it to abandon its efficient computer-guided automatic mode and switch to a less accurate manual mode, which required two North Vietnamese technicians to aim the missile manually. This gave the pilots an edge in outmaneuvering the missiles, if they could spot them in time.

This is Tiger Seven—I see the target! called a voice high-pitched with excitement. Three miles out at our eleven o’clock!

Roger, Tiger Seven, visual contact, Taylor’s voice replied. Lion Two, break away and follow me in! Three and Six, take the SAM site! Good luck, strike force! Ready, Wilkins?

Commander Taylor’s Phantom rolled left out of formation and streaked toward the earth in a screaming dive. Lance flipped the aircraft up on one wing and followed him in. The two aircraft angled across an emerald green valley divided by the rushing waters of the Song Ma River. Steep hills carpeted with dense jungle rose on both sides, and at the lower end of the valley glistening ribbons of steel spanned the river, supported by long, gray steel girders. The Dragon’s Jaw.

Lance’s airspeed jumped as the Phantom screamed into the dive. A green blip suddenly appeared on the small radar screen to the right of his instrument panel, and a rattlesnake-warning buzz sounded in his headset. The Phantom was being painted by the Fansong radar system of the flak site. He saw the batteries of antiaircraft guns on both ends of the bridge belch fire, and in an instant the air was filled with deadly white puffs of exploding flak, looking like smudged popcorn through the Plexiglas of the cockpit. Hot red orbs of fire slashed across his flight path and streams of orange 37mm tracers floated up at him and danced in the sky. Fear washed over him, but he refused to acknowledge the emotion and merely shoved it to one side. There was a job to do. Flak or no flak, this strike force was going to drop the Dragon’s Jaw!

The Phantom was now in a steep, forty-five-degree falcon dive. Flak was exploding all around him and he suddenly realized that there were not two but three flak sites on his side of the river! It’s gonna take a pile of luck to take out all three with one pass! he told himself. We’re getting in over our heads here! Without realizing it, he held his breath. Five more seconds and we pickle these babies! he thought grimly.

Lance! Missile! Jerry was nearly screaming.

A Soviet Guideline missile exploded far in front of them in a huge orange fireball, brilliant even in the daytime. The concussion seemed to rock the valley. Lance laughed. That wasn’t ours, Jerry—

But Jerry was still screaming. Missile, Lance, MISSILE!

Thirty-five feet long and looking like a telephone pole trailing orange flame, the missile was heading straight for them! Lance threw the Phantom hard right in a split-second evasive maneuver, and the missile shot past to explode just behind them with an impact that jarred the aircraft. Lance flinched involuntarily.

He was already below the six thousand foot bombing level and still streaking straight for the ground. Responding perfectly to his gentle pressure on the stick, the Phantom rolled to the right. The flak sites filled the reticle of his bombsights and without hesitation his thumb stroked the button, pickling his bombs toward the target. He slammed the stick straight back. The engines screamed as the Phantom climbed and jinked, trying desperately to avoid the deadly barrages of flak. When the altimeter topped eight thousand, Lance rolled the jet over and looked down. One of his flak sites was silent, but the other two were still firing.

The skies seemed filled with snarling, twisting aircraft as the rest of the strike force came pouring into the valley. Several missiles rose to meet them. Flak and even small arms fire peppered the air. "Let’s come in behind