Phantom Fighters

Chapter Three: Fog of War

"Snakebites, come onto heading Four Zero Five and continue on to target. Good hunting." Snakebite Four detached from the KC-130 and gave an appreciative waggle of his wings as the massive tanker wheeled around home.
"All right, remember the drill, guys." The four Phantoms split, two going high as an attractive target and the other two staggered behind to clip any MiG's wings.
"I don't like being up here..." Bluebird moaned.
"Don't worry! Flatspin's got our six, and Booster's got his six. We're as safe as we're gonna get."
Surprisingly, the flight met little resistance, chasing away a few MiGs sniffing around.
"Coming up on target. Booster, Deadstick, standby for DA."
"Rodger that."
Crowe gently slid the Phantom into a shallow dive, and rocketed past the target.
"Supply trucks, tents, and a .50 cal. Seems like the place." Crowe bumped up his throttles, quickly outpacing the .50's gunner. "Second pass we'll take it. Flatspin, you still there?"
"On your ass, Cap."
"I'll drop one as a marker, you paste it."
"Copy your last." All traces of humour were gone from Flatspin's voice. Crowe slid his fighter around, and started his run.
"Drop on my mark." Bluebird said from the backseat. "Drop... now!" Crowe mashed the pickle button, and the Phantom jumped up into the air, a whole napalm bomb lighter.
"On target, boss. Nice work." Booster confirmed.
"Starting run!" Flatspin radioed. Crowe turned to watch his wingman's run. The napalm burning cast eerie light onto the wings of the Phantom as it bore down. Crowe saw the two bombs drop off the wings, and Flatspin pulled up and away.
"On target, on target. Not much left for the 'Cong."
"Centre Field, this is Snakebite Flight. Mission accomplished, heading home." Crowe radioed to the AWACs aircraft orbiting over them.
"Copy that, Snakebites. Rear Admiral Elmo Zumwalt send his regards."

The four planes were heading back towards the carrier when Bluebird got a panicked call over the radio.
"-an they hear me? Hello? Hello?" The Texan drawl burst through, punctuated by static and the rattle of gunfire. "Phantoms, can you hear me? This is Sergeant Johnny Blake! We need some bombs out here!" The accent changed the 'here' to a 'heeya'.
"No Gomer can fake that." Bluebird noted. "We hear ya, Blake. Where do you need us?"
"Nine Zero Three, repeat, Nine Zero Three! And move it!"
"Nine Zero... shit, that takes us further into the restricted airspace!"
"If our troops are getting shot up down there, we'd better help." Crowe said before telling the rest of his squadron what he was going to do. Flatspin immediately agreed to cover them.
"We are going to be in a lot of shit, Crowe."
"From the politicians and public, not the soldiers. Do you think I care what some pompous asshole and druggies think about my actions? I'd rather save lives than play kiss-ass." Crowe's voice was rock-hard.
"We've only got the fuel for one run, and then we gotta hightail it home." Bluebird said. "No fucking around this time, ok?"
"Yeah." Crowe's fists were clenched tightly on the stick. The formation of two quickly peeled away, and soon spotted the clearing. Bright spots of muzzle flashes marked the intense fighting.
"Blake, this is your air support. Mark your location." Within seconds a pink flare burst from the canopy of trees. "Ok, where do you want the bomb?"
"The fuckers are dug in everywhere! Just wax the place!" From the crackling of the transmission, it was clear that the soldiers were running out of options. Crowe pulled around and went on his run. The last napalm fell from his wing and struck the side of a house, sending a wall of impassable flame exploding upwards.
"Blake, were we on target? Blake?"

"Blake, do you copy?"
Sergeant Johnny Blake couldn't speak. His soldiers stood still, silent, unable to move while hearing the screams.
"Jesus and Mary. Those fuckers! They fucking put guns in a fucking school!" Blake roared. "I'll fucking kill them all!" His declaration got his troops riled up, and they started shooting any survivors, VC or not.

"Blake? Shit!" Bluebird stared at the devastation below him. "What? Crowe, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"
Crowe couldn't speak, couldn't take his eyes from the carnage. He saw tall figures, and tiny ones, all pillars of flame, running towards the troopers, only to be gunned down.
"What... what did we do?" Crowe whispered as he stared at the devastation.

When it was all over, 58 Vietnamese citizens and 23 Vietcong lay dead. Thirteen Americans were wounded or killed, but only one after the fighting.
In the eerie silence, deafening after the gunfire moments before, Sergeant Johnny Blake placed his rifle between his knees, put the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.