Edward Whittaker looked like a younger version of his father, but he had a completely different personality. Where the admiral was a formidable figure, dignified and austere, his son was down-to-earth, warm and friendly. He had earned his place as “just one of the boys.” The other airmen forgave him for being the son of their commander. He 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 were the longest period it has ever been at war. Robert Bellamy had come into it late in 1972, when the Navy was having major problems. Their F-4 squadrons were being destroyed. In spite of the fact that their planes were superior to the Russian MiG’s, the U.S. Navy was losing one F-4 for every two MiG’s 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 maneuvers 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-4’s lost, twenty-four MiG’s 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 Bai. 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.
The sky directly ahead of them looked like the Fourth of July, streaked with white smoke from the light guns below, dark gray bursts from the fifty-five-millimeter shells, black clouds from the hundred-millimeter shells, and colored tracer bullets from heavy machine-gun fire.
“We’re approaching target,” Edward said. His voice through the headphones sounded eerily far away.
“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 MiG’s 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