trying to break Tombstone’s aim.
Puffs of smoke appeared on the tail section, and bits and pieces of
metal began falling away. Tombstone kept the trigger depressed, firing
round after round after high-velocity round into the stricken aircraft.
The MiG fell.
0755 hours, 21 January
MiG 612, south of U Feng
Colonel Wu knew the aircraft was lost when he pulled back on the stick
and felt no response in the controls at all. The ground was twisting
crazily as his MiG began tumbling, and still the American’s cannon
shells were crashing into the plane, shredding hull metal and control
surfaces and electronic circuitry. His control console was lit with a
dozen systems-failure lights, and the fire warning light was on.
“Dragon, Dragon,” he called over the radio. “This is Dragon Leader.
Break off the attack. Regroup, then make for Fuhsingchen. Repeat, make
for Fuhsingchen.”
It was useless to continue. Half of his unit was destroyed or would
never fly again, and the Americans were on their guard. By ordering his
people to break off, perhaps some would survive. Perhaps General Hsiao
would be able to reorganize the unit back in the People’s Republic.
He felt a savage bitterness at the failure of Hsiao’s plan. It was the
American carrier planes that had broken the operation. The coup, he
thought, might yet succeed.
But it would fail or succeed without the help of his Dragons.
The American had stopped firing, whether because he was out of ammo or
because he’d lost a workable firing angle, Wu couldn’t tell. His
surviving pilots began acknowledging his last transmission as his MiG
fell toward the ground, now some eight thousand feet below. It was time
to abandon the aircraft.
He hit the canopy release, bracing himself for the blast of wind which
buffeted him full force as soon as the cockpit was open. Then he
grabbed the ejection handle and pulled.
The ejection seat’s rockets fired, rocketing him clear of the aircraft.
It was unfortunate for Colonel Wu that the canopy had not separated
completely from the aircraft, a defect in the original Soviet design
which had never been corrected by the Chinese engineers who’d reworked
the J-7.
Wu’s body slammed into the cockpit at two hundred miles per hour. His
chute opened and lowered him gently to the floor of the Taeng Valley,
but he was dead long before he hit the ground.
0755 hours, 21 January
Tomcat 201, over U Feng
Tombstone watched the stricken MiG fall into the jungle and wondered who
he’d just been facing. That guy had not been That, had certainly not
been Burmese. Chinese?
“He’s gone, Tombstone,” Dixie said. “And it looks like the other
bandits are breaking off.”
Tombstone didn’t answer. At Wonsan he’d led his men into combat,
knowing who the enemy was, knowing that they fought to save American
hostages held by the North Koreans. But this … this was different.
He found that, like millions of military men before him, he wasn’t
entirely sure what he was fighting for … or why.
“Tombstone? We’re bingo fuel. We’ve gotta get this bitch to a
Texaco.”
“Right, Dix. Whistle ’em up and let’s get a drink.”
There would be time for analysis later.
0800 hours, 21 January
U Feng
Once the remaining Q-5s turned away from the That LZ, the rest of the
battle was anticlimax. The RTAF Hueys and the Marine helos on loan to
the That airmobile forces lifted from the jungle clearing at almost the
same moment that the American Hornets were hitting SAM sites at U Feng
and along the Taeng River Valley. Ten surviving RTAF planes regrouped
at Chiang Mai as the last of the enemy aircraft vanished across the
border, and control of Thailand’s skies returned to the Thais.
Within moments, the A-6F Intruders of VA-84, the Blue Rangers, call sign
Thunderbird, roared out of the south, scattering antipersonnel bomblets.
On the airstrip and among the barracks at U Feng, Burmese soldiers, That
rebels, and drug lord militiamen died by the tens … by the hundreds,
cut down by shrapnel like wheat before a scythe. Orange flames leaped
into the sky, and a pall of smoke hung above U Feng like a shroud.