PROLOGUE Laos 1969
“It takes twenty years or more of peace to make a man; it
takes only twenty seconds of war to destroy him.”
Baudouin I, King of Belgium, Address to joint session of
U.S. Congress, 12 May 1959
Nothing that extraordinary really. Those things were
known to happen. After all, there was a war going on.
Nevertheless, when he heard that firsthand account of what
it was like to get blown out of the sky, it managed to
unsettle him. It must have been just two or three days
after he had shifted over to Eighth Tactical. He had walked
into the Rec Room, where a serious card game was supposedly
going on, though all the players had already put their
cards face down on the table, absorbed in the narration of
a highly animated second lieutenant in a leather bomber
jacket who was standing over them.
“With death staring you in the face, you’re suddenly
stunned at your own mortality,” the pilot was saying,
“like, for the first time, you really grasp that it could
all end here and now. And everything that’s in your life, I
mean everything, changes in a fucking flash of a moment…But
the funny thing, and I know you’re gonna say I’m full of
shit, was…well, I could feel it, feel it coming, even
before I got into the cockpit…”
The story ran on, but he had forgotten the rest of the
details the young officer had so vigorously depicted. In
fact, First Lieutenant Andrew Kozeny had intended to forget
the whole damn thing, deeming it best not to even consider
the possibility, to give no thought at all to such a
disagreeable scenario, as this was the best way to rid
himself of doubt and fear, emotions that tended to get in
the way of what a pilot had to do.
Wanting to forget is one thing, but actually forgetting is
another, for the mission briefing at 0400, only a few weeks
later, reminded him of that episode in the Rec Room, and
did indeed present the prospect that something dicey might
happen on the next scheduled sortie. To begin with, the
reconnaissance photos were practically useless. It wasn’t
merely the cloud cover that perpetually veiled the
mountains of northern Laos, since that was something all
the pilots had long been resigned to, but the images were
made even more hopeless by a frantic blur, caused by the
erratic maneuvering of the RF-101 Pathfinder that had taken
the snaps, and which was desper- ately evading a hell of a
lot of unexpected flak at the time. The recon mission had
to be aborted, and the location of the anti-aircraft
artillery couldn’t be adequately resolved solely from the
recollec- tions of the pilot. Therefore, the only logical
recourse they had to protect the bombers, as outlined by
the flight commander, was to use bait to make the enemy
show themselves. The F-105 Wild Weasel, the plane that
Kozeny was assigned to fly, had electronic sensors to
detect the radar that the AA guns used for tracking hostile
aircraft, and thus it was the typical lure to expose the
enemy’s defenses, although a heavily armed one: the bomb
racks under the wings held twelve 750-lb. bombs, as well as
a couple of 2.75-inch rockets, and two CBU-2A cluster
bombs. Kozeny’s part of this mission, along with his
Electronics Warfare Officer and three other F-105 crews,
was to get the bearing and range of the enemy radar, and
knock out the gun emplacements so that the next six flights
of bombers could come in without risk.
This wasn’t the first time Kozeny had flown flak
suppression in a Wild Weasel, although the missions he had
flown over North Vietnam were tempered by better
intelligence and more discernible targets; not such a blind
run as this one. But that wasn’t the only thing stirring
his doubt.
Actually, the thing that was gnawing inside him was a facet
of the mission that had little to do with his own tactical
responsibilities: the bombing targets, if there were really
any to speak of, were poorly defined.
The exercise was part of ‘Operation Rain Dance‘ with the
objective of retaking the Plain of Jars, this particular
mission being a retaliatory strike near Ban Ban. The 7/13
Air Force at Udon was busier than hell, especially the
Tactical Fighter Squadrons with over three hundred sorties
a day. The Intelligence and Operations briefing had told of
a general concentration of troops in the target area, and
the bombers would be flying a free-strike zone, loosely
guided by the Airborne Command and Control plane circling
high above them at 35,000 feet. At other times, release
would be at the discretion of each individual Weapons
Officer. In plain and simple terms, the idea was to
pulverize the area, so that the Special Guerilla Units of
General Vang Pao could come in and clear it on the ground.
The only features that Kozeny could clearly make out on the
recon photos were the huts of a couple of small villages,
and a structure he guessed to be a makeshift temple. But he
knew that even if nothing of worth was visible, the bombers
had to drop their munitions somewhere, and it bothered him
that there was no prede- termined fixed target for unused
ordnance at the end of a sweep. There was no way that a
plane would risk landing with armed weapons—they had to
dump them. “What about civilians?” someone had asked. “No
problem,” was the response, which could be interpreted to
mean that they were the same as the enemy.
This aspect of the mission disturbed him, prodding him
uncom- fortably with a reminder of the letter he had just
received from Cynthia, a letter that couldn’t have come at
a worse moment. Then again, if only he had never decided
upon this second tour, maybe he wouldn’t have lost her.
If only…
If only he knew what would be happening on the ground in
the little village that lay in the middle of the target
area, just as the planes would be nearing their specified
coordinates. Old Man Souvanna would be at the market
shopping around for high quality areca nuts, spending
endless amounts of time inspecting them before committing
to purchase. Young Keo, with a bamboo switch in his hand,
would be taking the buffaloes to pasture alongside his
father. Boon-mee would be heading home after fetching
water, the large earthen pot on her head threatening to
topple her frail, diminutive body. And 19-year-old Jita
would be skipping through the fields with thoughts of
romance in her head, ecstatic over the hibiscus flower that
her beau had just given her.
If only…
But it was too late—he was airborne, gazing at the gray,
cloud- filled horizon ahead of him. He looked down below at
a hazy patchwork of forested mountains and bare vertical
cliffs that flaunted an unspoken menace. Kozeny then put
his mind on the mission, alternately glancing out of the
cockpit to key on his flight leader, ahead and to his left,
and then at his Heads Up Display, the HUD, a hologram
beamed into the air to his right reflecting his most
salient meters and gauges. With this projected image, the
pilot averted the need to look down at the actual dials—
looking inside the cockpit could induce vertigo and cause a
fatal collision.
Airspeed 650 knots, altitude 14,000 ft…looking out,
sighting the leader, then glimpsing right at the HUD;
leader, HUD, leader, HUD, all the while intuitively
perceiving and adjusting the proper motions of his
aircraft.
There was an orange haze, eerily beautiful, as the sun came
up in a mist, shooting its rays to the heavens...
“Whoa! Oyster 2, got a beep!” called out his backseater,
Lt. David Lewis, the Electronic Weapons Officer. “Triple A
frequency, bearing zero-one-zero, range 7000!” His voice
betrayed a buoyant excitement. Kozeny as well experienced a
giddy rush of adrenaline, since the both of them had
expected the typical North Vietnamese maneuver of turning
on the artillery radar at the last minute, too late for the
electronic countermeasures of the Weasels to be effective,
and which would have left their asses wide open.
“Jamming pod formation,” cackled the radio. The
leader of Oyster Flight was ordering them to switch on
their jamming pods, and to fly abreast with a staggered
separation, to confuse the enemy radar into reading one
huge blip, rather than four individual targets. “Oyster-1,
going in, engaging afterburners, on the nose twelve miles,
fifteen high…maintain position on Oyster-1…”
Although the flight leader shoulders a greater
responsibility, it was actually harder to fly wing because
one had to maintain position. To Andrew, this part of
flying summoned in him an indescribable sense of balance
and timing, and the high-tech chore- ography that ensued
gave him an unequalled thrill.
At supersonic speed with the afterburner thrust, the
hillsides melted into a greenish blur. Kozeny released the
radar chaff, strips of aluminum that fluttered to the
ground, to further confound the enemy radar. He flipped on
the switches arming his ordnance, and checked his angle-of-
attack indicator. “Reversing right and level, ready to
pickle…”
“HOLY F**K!” Dave screamed.
All around them, the colorful lines of tracer crisscrossed
the sky, dotted by the puffs from exploding shells. The
bursts of smoke were blue in color, telling them they were
57mm, and they were coming from somewhere other than their
original target. The baiters had been baited, drawn in by
one AA battery, while the other with its radar off silently
waited for the kill.
“CHECK YOUR SIX! CHECK YOUR SIX!” Andrew yelled into the
radio, alerting the others to watch their behind. He
followed his lead down the chute, released the Shrike
missile which would at least home in on the radar of the
first AA unit, then banked left and pulled up, but not
before his right wing was hit. “OYSTER 2 WE’RE HIT!”
Andrew rolled right now, banking and yawing, his
pressurized suit nearly suffocating him as it inflated in
response to the high-G maneuvers. If not for the suit, the
acceleration would force blood out of his brain and into
his extremities, causing him to black out….
He was losing altitude, getting too low. Then, machine
guns, Kalashnikovs in automatic mode, unleashed a barrage
of fire that penetrated the aircraft. Kozeny was scared,
even more so when he realized that Dave’s body had just
been riddled apart. Covered with spatters of blood and
flesh from his ex-backseater, Andrew struggled to
control the aircraft, the jet now screaming and whining as
if in great pain, and violently hurtling itself at 1000
miles per hour, one and an half times the speed of sound,
but despite all his efforts he could not bring her up. He
dropped his entire payload to gain altitude but it was not
enough to pull clear of the mountains ahead of him. His
frantic hands manipulated the controls to ascend, while his
mind raced through emergency procedures. The plane
initially shot up into the sky, giving him some hope of
regaining her, but then lurched and rocked, lost airspeed,
and started to nose down.
For Lt. Andrew Kozeny, the journey leading to that flash of
a moment was about to begin.