foothills. They're obscured by clouds."
"Two," Palmer replied, breathing heavily, "is tucked in tight. Pull as hard as you want."
The Phantoms, thundering over the gun emplacements, were hit by several rounds of fire as they rolled into the tight turn. Brad glanced back and forth at his annunciator panel. So far, so good.
"MiGs!" Harry Hutton shouted from the backseat of Joker 2. "They're . . . I see three of them comin' down the valley--right on our six! Ah . . . they're seventeens. Three MiG-17s!"
Brad, flying low and bleeding off airspeed in the turn, stole a quick peek. "Shit." He looked out ahead, knowing the MiGs were flying at terminal velocity. There was no escape. They would have to engage the rapidly overtaking MiGs.
"Nick," Brad called, looking back over his shoulder, "they're overrunning us. Idle and boards . . . NOW!"
Palmer yanked his throttles back to the stops and popped his speed brakes out. "Let's get down on the deck!"
"Doin' it," Brad replied, shoving his stick forward. "They're going to overshoot." The MiGs could not slow quickly enough to keep from overtaking the Phantoms in the narrow valley.
Hutton, seeing two of the three MiGs pull up in a climbing turn, radioed his friend. "Brad, you've got one comin' over the top . . . two o'clock high. The other two are running--I've lost them."
Slamming the throttles into afterburner, Brad retracted the speed brakes and reefed the fighter into a tight, climbing turn. He immediately reversed to the left, squarely on the MiG's tail.
The North Vietnamese pilot, painfully aware of his error, dove for the edge of the gently sloping hills. His two wingmen had disappeared in the low overcast.
Palmer pulled up in a sweeping wingover. "You've got him, Joker. Shoot! Shoot!"
Inhaling sharply, Brad and Russ were squashed into their seats under the heavy g load. Their faces sagged as they felt the onset of gray-out.
The MiG pilot banked hard, racing toward the other side of the valley. He was 400 feet above the ground when the Phantom, 2,000 feet behind and closing, flew through the MiG's powerful wingtip-generated vortices. The phenomenon was familiar to all pilots.
The Phantom, straining under the heavy g load, hit the twin horizontal tornadoes, shed the port Sidewinder missiles and ejector rail, then snapped inverted to a nose low attitude.
"Oh!" Brad groaned, shoving the stick forward while desperately pushing on the left rudder. He was upside down, petrified by the trees rushing up to kill him. He was too terrified to utter a sound.
The F-4 twisted in a 7-g rolling pullout, then slammed through a stand of trees in an exploding hail of branches and debris.
"God . . . damn!" Brad shouted as the heavily damaged jet fighter, rolling upright, shot skyward. "Sweet mother of Jesus . . . we're alive." His heart hammered so hard that he suffered chest pains.
Afraid to open his eyes, Russ Lunsford spoke in a low, reverent voice. "If I ever get back on the ground, I promise you God, I'll go to church every Sunday . . . I promise." He gulped a deep breath of oxygen. "Thank you, precious God."
Brad was startled by the master caution light and annunciator-panel lights glowing. The bright red fire-warning light caught his attention. He looked down at the engine tachometers and exhaust gas temperature indicators. The starboard engine was surging from the tremendous amount of debris it had ingested.
Brad could feel the vibration from the straining J-79. The powerful engine was quickly succumbing to the foreign-object damage. He retarded the right throttle to idle, then cutoff. The smoking, overheated turbojet ground to a shuddering halt.
Brad and Russ were looking over their shoulders, trying to locate the MiG-17, when they heard Palmer's excited voice.
"I've got him! Got a tone!"
Austin saw the MiG heading up the valley, scud-running beneath the overcast. Palmer, 100 feet below and 3,000 fee t b ehind the MiG, fired two Sidewinders. Brad watched the first missile
"Two," Palmer replied, breathing heavily, "is tucked in tight. Pull as hard as you want."
The Phantoms, thundering over the gun emplacements, were hit by several rounds of fire as they rolled into the tight turn. Brad glanced back and forth at his annunciator panel. So far, so good.
"MiGs!" Harry Hutton shouted from the backseat of Joker 2. "They're . . . I see three of them comin' down the valley--right on our six! Ah . . . they're seventeens. Three MiG-17s!"
Brad, flying low and bleeding off airspeed in the turn, stole a quick peek. "Shit." He looked out ahead, knowing the MiGs were flying at terminal velocity. There was no escape. They would have to engage the rapidly overtaking MiGs.
"Nick," Brad called, looking back over his shoulder, "they're overrunning us. Idle and boards . . . NOW!"
Palmer yanked his throttles back to the stops and popped his speed brakes out. "Let's get down on the deck!"
"Doin' it," Brad replied, shoving his stick forward. "They're going to overshoot." The MiGs could not slow quickly enough to keep from overtaking the Phantoms in the narrow valley.
Hutton, seeing two of the three MiGs pull up in a climbing turn, radioed his friend. "Brad, you've got one comin' over the top . . . two o'clock high. The other two are running--I've lost them."
Slamming the throttles into afterburner, Brad retracted the speed brakes and reefed the fighter into a tight, climbing turn. He immediately reversed to the left, squarely on the MiG's tail.
The North Vietnamese pilot, painfully aware of his error, dove for the edge of the gently sloping hills. His two wingmen had disappeared in the low overcast.
Palmer pulled up in a sweeping wingover. "You've got him, Joker. Shoot! Shoot!"
Inhaling sharply, Brad and Russ were squashed into their seats under the heavy g load. Their faces sagged as they felt the onset of gray-out.
The MiG pilot banked hard, racing toward the other side of the valley. He was 400 feet above the ground when the Phantom, 2,000 feet behind and closing, flew through the MiG's powerful wingtip-generated vortices. The phenomenon was familiar to all pilots.
The Phantom, straining under the heavy g load, hit the twin horizontal tornadoes, shed the port Sidewinder missiles and ejector rail, then snapped inverted to a nose low attitude.
"Oh!" Brad groaned, shoving the stick forward while desperately pushing on the left rudder. He was upside down, petrified by the trees rushing up to kill him. He was too terrified to utter a sound.
The F-4 twisted in a 7-g rolling pullout, then slammed through a stand of trees in an exploding hail of branches and debris.
"God . . . damn!" Brad shouted as the heavily damaged jet fighter, rolling upright, shot skyward. "Sweet mother of Jesus . . . we're alive." His heart hammered so hard that he suffered chest pains.
Afraid to open his eyes, Russ Lunsford spoke in a low, reverent voice. "If I ever get back on the ground, I promise you God, I'll go to church every Sunday . . . I promise." He gulped a deep breath of oxygen. "Thank you, precious God."
Brad was startled by the master caution light and annunciator-panel lights glowing. The bright red fire-warning light caught his attention. He looked down at the engine tachometers and exhaust gas temperature indicators. The starboard engine was surging from the tremendous amount of debris it had ingested.
Brad could feel the vibration from the straining J-79. The powerful engine was quickly succumbing to the foreign-object damage. He retarded the right throttle to idle, then cutoff. The smoking, overheated turbojet ground to a shuddering halt.
Brad and Russ were looking over their shoulders, trying to locate the MiG-17, when they heard Palmer's excited voice.
"I've got him! Got a tone!"
Austin saw the MiG heading up the valley, scud-running beneath the overcast. Palmer, 100 feet below and 3,000 fee t b ehind the MiG, fired two Sidewinders. Brad watched the first missile
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