JК
The Doomsday Conspiracy :: Sheldon Sidney
Страница: 18 из 213He was the best bombardier in the squadron, and he and Robert had become fast friends.
“Where are we heading?” Robert asked.
“For our sins, we’ve drawn Package Six.”
It was the most dangerous mission of all. It meant flying north to Hanoi, Haiphong, and up the Red River delta, where the flak was heaviest. There was a catch-22: they were not permitted to bomb any strategic targets if there were civilians nearby, and the North Vietnamese, not being stupid, immediately placed civilians around all their military installations. There was a lot of grumbling in the allied military, but President Lyndon Johnson, safely back in Washington, was giving the orders.
The twelve years that United States troops fought in Vietnam was the longest period it has ever been at war. Robert Bellamy had come into it late in 1972, when the Navy were having major problems. Their F-4 squadrons were being destroyed. In spite of the fact that their planes were superior to the Russian MiGs, the American Navy were losing one F-4 for every two MiGs shot down. It was an unacceptable ratio.
Robert was summoned to the headquarters of Admiral Ralph Whittaker.
“You sent for me, Admiral?”
“You have the reputation of being a hotshot pilot, Commander. I need your help.”
“Yes, sir?”
“We’re getting murdered by the goddamned enemy. I have had a thorough analysis made. There’s nothing wrong with our planes – it’s the training of the men who are flying them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to pick a group and retrain it in manoeuvres and weapons employment …”
The new group was called Top Gun, and before they were through, the ratio changed from two to one to twelve to one. For every two F-4s lost, twenty-four MiGs were shot down. The assignment had taken eight weeks of intensive training, and Commander Bellamy had finally returned to his ship. Admiral Whittaker was there to greet him. “That was a damned fine job, Commander.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
“Now, let’s get back to work.”
“I’m ready, sir.”
Robert had flown thirty-four bombing missions from the Ranger without incident.
His thirty-fifth mission was Package Six.
They had passed Hanoi and were heading northwest toward Phu Tho and Yen Bay, and the flak was getting increasingly heavy. Edward Whittaker was seated on Robert’s right, staring at the radar screen, listening to the ominous bass tones of enemy search radars sweeping the sky.
“Where are we heading?” Robert asked.
“For our sins, we’ve drawn Package Six.”
It was the most dangerous mission of all. It meant flying north to Hanoi, Haiphong, and up the Red River delta, where the flak was heaviest. There was a catch-22: they were not permitted to bomb any strategic targets if there were civilians nearby, and the North Vietnamese, not being stupid, immediately placed civilians around all their military installations. There was a lot of grumbling in the allied military, but President Lyndon Johnson, safely back in Washington, was giving the orders.
The twelve years that United States troops fought in Vietnam was the longest period it has ever been at war. Robert Bellamy had come into it late in 1972, when the Navy were having major problems. Their F-4 squadrons were being destroyed. In spite of the fact that their planes were superior to the Russian MiGs, the American Navy were losing one F-4 for every two MiGs shot down. It was an unacceptable ratio.
Robert was summoned to the headquarters of Admiral Ralph Whittaker.
“You sent for me, Admiral?”
“You have the reputation of being a hotshot pilot, Commander. I need your help.”
“Yes, sir?”
“We’re getting murdered by the goddamned enemy. I have had a thorough analysis made. There’s nothing wrong with our planes – it’s the training of the men who are flying them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to pick a group and retrain it in manoeuvres and weapons employment …”
The new group was called Top Gun, and before they were through, the ratio changed from two to one to twelve to one. For every two F-4s lost, twenty-four MiGs were shot down. The assignment had taken eight weeks of intensive training, and Commander Bellamy had finally returned to his ship. Admiral Whittaker was there to greet him. “That was a damned fine job, Commander.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
“Now, let’s get back to work.”
“I’m ready, sir.”
Robert had flown thirty-four bombing missions from the Ranger without incident.
His thirty-fifth mission was Package Six.
They had passed Hanoi and were heading northwest toward Phu Tho and Yen Bay, and the flak was getting increasingly heavy. Edward Whittaker was seated on Robert’s right, staring at the radar screen, listening to the ominous bass tones of enemy search radars sweeping the sky.