The Doomsday Conspiracy

The sky directly ahead of them looked like the Fourth of July, streaked with white smoke from the light guns below, dark grey bursts from the fifty-five-millimetre shells, black clouds from the hundred-millimetre shells, and coloured tracer bullets from heavy machine-gun fire.

“We’re approaching target,” Edward said. His voice through the headphones sounded eerily faraway.

“Roger.”

The A-6A Intruder was flying at 450 knots, and at that speed, even with the drag and weight of the bomb load, it handled remarkably well, moving too fast for enemies to track it.

Robert reached out and turned on the master armament switch. The dozen 500-pound bombs were now ready to be released. He was headed straight for the target.

A voice on his radio said, “Romeo … you have a bogey at four o’clock high.”

Robert turned to look. A MiG was hurtling toward him, coming out of the sun. Robert banked and sent the plane into a steep dive. The MiG was on his tail. It loosed a missile. Robert checked his instrument panel. The missile was closing in rapidly. A thousand feet away … Six hundred … Four hundred …

“Holy shit!” Edward yelled. “What are we waiting for?”

Robert waited until the last second, then released a stream of metal chaff, and went into a steep climbing turn, leaving the missile to follow the chaff and crash harmlessly into the ground below.

“Thank you, God,” Edward said. “And you, pal.”

Robert continued the climb and swung behind the MiG. The pilot started to take evasive action, but it was too late. Robert loosed a Sidewinder missile and watched it crawl up the tail pipe of the MiG and explode. An instant later the sky was showered with pieces of metal.

A voice came over the intercom. “Nice work, Romeo.”

The plane was over the target now. “Here we go,” Edward said. He pressed the red button that released the bombs and watched them tumble down toward their target. Mission accomplished. Robert headed the plane back toward the carrier.

At that instant, they felt a heavy thud. The swift and graceful bomber suddenly became sluggish.

“We’ve been hit!” Edward called.

Both fire warning lights were flashing red. The plane was moving erratically, out of control.

A voice came over the radio. “Romeo, this is Tiger. Do you want us to cover you?”

Robert made a split-second decision. “No, go on to your targets. I’m going to try to make it back to base.”

The plane had slowed down, and was becoming more difficult to handle.

“Faster,” Edward said nervously, “or we’re going to be late for lunch.”

Robert looked at the altimeter. The needle was dropping rapidly. He activated his radio mike. “Romeo to home base. We’ve taken a hit.”

“Home base to Romeo. How bad is it?”

“I’m not sure. I think I can bring it home.”

“Hold on.” A moment later the voice returned. “Your signal is ‘Charlie on arrival’.”

That meant they were cleared to land on the carrier immediately.

“Roger.”

“Good luck.”

The plane was starting to roll. Robert fought to correct it, trying to gain altitude. “Come on, baby, you can make it.” Robert’s face was tight. They were losing too much altitude. “What’s our ETA?”

Edward looked at his chart. “Seven minutes.”

“I’m going to get you that hot lunch.” Robert was nursing the plane along with all the skill at his command, using the throttle and rudder to try to keep it on a straight course. The altitude was still dropping alarmingly. Finally, ahead of him, Robert saw the sparkling blue waters of the Tonkin Gulf.

“We’re home free, buddy,” Robert said. “Just a few more miles.”

“Terrific. I never doubted …”

And out of nowhere, two MiGs descended on the plane with a thunderous roar. Bullets began thudding against the fuselage.

“Eddie! Bail out!” He turned to look. Edward was slumped against his seat belt, his right side torn open, blood spattering the cockpit.

“No!” It was a scream.

A second later, Robert felt a sudden, agonizing blow to his chest. His flight suit was instantly soaked in blood. The plane started to spiral downward. He felt himself losing consciousness. With his last ounce of strength, he unfastened his seat belt. He turned to take a final look at Edward. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He blacked out and later had no recollection of how he ejected out of the plane and parachuted into the water below. A May Day call had been sent out, and a Sikorsky SH-3A Sea King helicopter from the USS Yorktown was circling, waiting to pick him up. In the distance, the crew could see Chinese junks rapidly closing in for the kill, but they were too late.

When they loaded Robert into the helicopter, a medical corpsman took one look at his torn body and said, “Jesus Christ, he’ll never even make it to the hospital.”

They gave Robert a shot of morphine, wrapped pressure bandages tightly around his chest, and flew him to the 12th Evacuation Hospital at Cu Chi Base.

The “12th Evac” that served Cu Chi, Tay Ninh, and Dau Tieng bases had four hundred beds in a dozen wards, housed in Quonset huts arranged around a U-shaped compound connected by covered walkways. The hospital had two intensive care units, one for surgery cases, the other for burns, and each unit was seriously overcrowded. When Robert was brought in, he left a bright red trail of blood across the hospital floor.

A harried surgeon cut the bandages from Robert’s chest, took one look and said wearily, “He’s not going to make it. Take him in back to cold storage.”