The Doomsday Conspiracy   ::   Sheldon Sidney

He had led a bomber squadron of A-6A Intruders, and there was very little time away from the pressures of battle. One of the few leaves he had was in Bangkok for a week of R and R, and during that time he never bothered to sleep. The city was a Disneyland designed for the pleasure of the male animal. He had met an exquisite Thai girl his first hour in town, and she had stayed at his side the whole time and taught him a few Thai phrases. He had found the language soft and mellifluous.

Good morning: Arun sawasdi

Where are you from?: Khun ma chak nai?

Where are you going now?: Khun kamrant chain pai?

She taught him other phrases too, but she would not tell him what they meant, and when he said them, she giggled.

When Robert returned to the Ranger, Bangkok seemed like a faraway dream. The war was the reality, and it was a horror. Someone showed him one of the leaflets the marines dropped over Vietnam. It read:

“DEAR CITIZENS:~”

“The US Marines are fighting alongside the Government of Vietnam forces in Due Pho in order to give the Vietnamese people a chance to live a free, happy life, without fear of hunger and suffering. But many Vietnamese have paid with their lives, and their homes have been destroyed because they helped the Vietcong.~”

“The hamlets of Hai Mon, Hai Tan, Sa Binh, Ta Binh, and many others have been destroyed because of this. We will not hesitate to destroy every hamlet that helps the Vietcong, who are powerless to stop the combined might of GVN and its allies. The choice is yours. If you refuse to let the Vietcong use your villages and hamlets as their battlefield, your homes and your lives will be saved.”

We’re saving the poor bastards, all right, Robert thought grimly. And all we’re destroying is their country.

The aircraft carrier Ranger was equipped with all the state-of-the-art technology that could be crammed into it. The ship was home base for sixteen aircraft, forty officers and three hundred and fifty enlisted men. Flight schedules were handed out three or four hours before the first launch of the day.

In the Mission Planning section of the ship’s Intelligence Centre, the latest information and reconnaissance photos were given to the bombardiers, who then planned their flight patterns.

“Jesus, they gave us a beauty this morning,” Edward Whittaker, Robert’s bombardier, said.

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 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.

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.