Rules of Engagement (1991) (16 page)

Brad and Nick banked sharply to the left and lighted their afterburners. The two aircraft quickly accelerated beyond the speed of sound. Brad could see that the two Diamond Phantoms, both holding maximum sustained turn rates, were surrounded by four fighters. Two additional MiG
-
17s were diving at the cornered F-4s.

Austin, with his radar in boresight mode, told Lunsford to go boresight and lock up the lead MiG that was about to open fire on the hapless Phantoms.

"Got him locked," Lunsford shouted. "Shoot! Shoot him!"

"Diamonds," Austin radioed, pulling the throttles back, "Spade Three. Reverse, unload, and go for separation. NOW!"

Feeling the F-4 go through Mach tuck, Austin finessed the stick as the aircraft came back through the sonic barrier. He watched O'Meara and his wingman snap their fighters hard-over and dive for speed. Austin popped the speed brakes, pulled a few degrees of lead on the first MiG fighter, then squeezed off two AIM-7 Sparrow missiles.

The big weapons dropped out of the wells, trailing thick plumes of smoke, and shot toward the Communist aircraft at Mach 3.

The MiG flight leader, unaware that Austin had fired missiles at him, rolled to follow the accelerating Phantoms. The enemy fighter stabilized a split second before it was blown apart in a violent explosion.

You did it!" Lunsford exclaimed, listening to Palmer congratulate them. "You knocked the shit out of him! You got a MiG!"

The blazing fighter detonated again, raining debris across the sky. The cockpit spun crazily until it plunged into the hills below. Incapacitated by the first explosion, the North Vietnamese pilot had been unable to pull his ejection handle.

"Diamonds are reengaging," Jon O'Meara radioed breathlessly as he and his wingman began pulling into a supersonic, gut-wrenching, vertical climb.

Mario Russo, O'Meara's RIO, was on the radio providing a constant update on the MiGs.

Retracting his speed brakes and adding power, Austin watched the remaining five MiGs go into steep dives and turn toward Phuc Yen. "Diamonds, the gomers are running out to Phuc Yen."

"Copy, copy," O'Meara replied. "What's your posit?"

Brad watched Diamond Flight top out and roll wings level. "We're at your twelve o'clock, low."

"Gotcha," O'Meara radioed. "Good kill . . . thanks. We'll form on you to cover Rocky and Ed."

Ed was Lt. (j g) Edgardo Zapata, a nugget RIO who had been with the squadron less than two months. Frank Rockwood had assumed the responsibility of bringing the young officer up to operational qualification as quickly as possible. The fighter squadron, like many other front-line units, had suffered a chronic shortage of aviators and RIOs since the beginning of the deployment.

"Roger, Diamond," Brad responded, glancing around the sky. The MiGs, low to the ground, had distanced themselves from the American fighters. "Come starboard three five zero, and join on our right wing."

Two clicks acknowledged the call.

Suddenly, Frank Rockwood's distinct voice sounded over the radio. He was on the ground and transmitting over his emergency radio.

"Spade One is okay," Rockwood panted, "but I think they shot Ed during the descent."

Bull Durham took command. "Lay low, Rocky. We've got a SAR effort underway."

A minute passed while the four Phantoms led by Brad Austin coasted into loose formation with Bull Durham.

Brad glanced down at the cratered and scorched hillside where Rockwood's Phantom had crashed. He could see a line of soldiers working their way along a trail sixty meters below the burning wreckage.

The North Vietnamese regulars had already reached Ed Zapata's parachute. The RIO 's lifeless body, three feet above the ground, was hanging from the branches of two tall trees.

Zapata, who had fired every round from his .38-caliber revolver, had been shot through the head, chest, and thigh as he descended above the soldiers.

"Spade One," the A-1 Skyraider flight leader radioed, "Lifeguard is inbound with four Spads. We'll be over your position in twelve minutes."

Frank Rockwood watched the soldiers as they examined Ed Zapata's body. "Lifeguard, I've got company just below me. Twenty-five to thirty regulars."

"Copy," the Skyraider pilot replied. "We'll be there as soon as possible."

Austin slid out to a loose-formation position. He cautiously watched the sky while glancing down at Rockwood's conspicuous parachute.

"Spade One," Brad radioed, "can you hide your chute?" "Negative," Rockwood responded. "It's caught over some branches. I tried to pull it down . . . no luck."

Bull Durham observed the soldiers advancing up the hill in the direction of the downed flight leader. "Rocky, you need t
o g
et away from your chute. I think they've spotted it, 'cause they're going straight toward your position."

"Okay," Rockwood replied, crouching close to the ground. "Which way looks the best?"

Durham had to be careful in the event the North Vietnamese had a confiscated American survival radio. If there was an English-speaking member in the enemy patrol, the soldier could spell disaster for Frank Rockwood.

"Okay, Spade," Durham said, analyzing the best course for the XO to follow. "You are on third base, copy?"

"Copy, third base."

Durham banked tighter. "The wreckage--the Phantom--is home plate. Go to second base and burrow in."

"Movin' out," Rockwood responded, then edged along the hillside to a thick stand of trees and undergrowth. He dropped down and crawled into the foliage.

Three minutes passed while the soldiers split into two sections. One group went directly toward the dangling parachute, while the others hurried along the trail below Rockwood. They quickly outflanked the downed aviator, surrounding him on two sides.

"Lifeguard One," Austin radioed as the soldiers moved steadily in the direction of the executive officer. "Say your ETA to Spade One."

"We've got you on the horizon," the pilot replied, adjusting his throttle, mixture, and propeller pitch for maximum power. "We'll be overhead in six minutes."

Brad swore to himself, then made a bold decision to help Frank Rockwood.

Lunsford, reading Austin's mind, tapped his intercom. "They're going to be on top of him before then."

Keying his radio, Brad glanced below. "Bull, we've got to keep their heads down."

"Roger," Durham replied, rolling his Phantom into a dive.

"I'm ahead of you. Spades roll in at twenty-second intervals."

The North Vietnamese soldiers knew that the navy and marine
F-4s were not equipped with cannons. The only thing the soldier
s h
ad to fear were bombs and Zuni rockets, and they could see that the five Phantoms had expended all of their air-to-ground ordnance.

Although the thundering F-4s were intimidating when they screamed low overhead, the riflemen felt safe firing with impunity at the powerful fighters.

"They're closing in on me," Rockwood whispered over his emergency radio. He wiped his sweat-soaked hands on his flight suit, grasped his .38-caliber revolver, and crawled between two trees.

"Hang in there," Durham responded, sweeping across the soldiers at 520 knots in afterburner.

Austin flicked his Phantom over. "Spade One," Brad calmly radioed, "get your head down and hang on."

Frank Rockwood recognized the steady voice of the marine aviator. He ducked his head and peered over the foliage at the advancing North Vietnamese platoon.

The F-4 streaked toward the ground while Austin lined up one group of soldiers in his windscreen. He bottomed out short of his mark and toggled the pylon jettison select switch. The ejector racks and Sidewinder missiles tumbled away from the Phantom's wings, then plowed into the soldiers with devastating accuracy.

"Bull," Austin groaned during the tight, high-g pull-up, "recommend we drop our racks and centerlines on the gomers."

"Spade Lead concurs," Durham responded, watching Palmer pull off the target area, "but keep your speed below four hundred seventy." The centerline tanks would occasionally drop off, then porpoise back into the Phantoms above 470 knots. "Diamonds copy?"

Click, click.

"Brad, Spade One," Rockwood broke in. "You mangled the bastards . . . killed a half dozen at least, but they're spreading out and taking cover."

Durham again rolled in when the fifth Phantom pulled off the target. He raced for the same spot that Austin had attacked.

Durham pickled off his ejector racks and pulled up steeply. The heavy missile rails ripped through the soldiers, killing one man and injuring two others.

"Good drop!" Rockwood said, then turned to watch the group of men advancing from the trail. "You've got their attention, but the ones along the trail are only about eighty meters away."

Brad Austin keyed his mike. "Keep your head down. I'm makin' a run down the trail line."

"Bring it on," Rockwood replied, then added, "they're twenty to thirty meters northeast of the trail, seventy meters east of the last drop."

"Roger," Austin responded, wheeling into his second attack. "Can you move farther up the hill?"

"I can try," Rockwood answered cautiously, looking around the immediate area, "but I'll be exposed for twenty to thirty seconds."

Brad aimed for the spot the X0 had described and punched off his 600-gallon centerline fuel tank. The large receptacle ripped through the scurrying North Vietnamese, injuring three of the soldiers.

"A little short," Rockwood radioed. "They're closing on me . . . about sixty meters away."

Nick Palmer was in his dive. "Grab hold, Dash One. I'm gonna drop 'em a goddamn load."

"Lifeguard," Brad pleaded, "we need cover. Say posit."

"We're two minutes out to the southeast. Hang on."

Rockwood's voice, faint and barely audible, came over the radio. "They're almost on me . . . ten to twelve of them at fifty meters."

"Okay," Bull Durham replied. "Spades and Diamonds, let's roll in in tight trail. Drop all your trash on this pass."

Jon O'Meara and his wingman charged downward while the soldiers fired at the fighters and advanced toward Rockwood. Durham dropped his centerline tank directly on top of two of the soldiers.

"Frank," Durham said, straining under the force of the pull-up, "haul ass up the slope. We'll place the last one between you and the gomers."

"Okay, but they're almost--" Rockwood's whisper stopped when he heard a sound thirty meters to his right. His heart pounded when he met the soldier's eyes. "They're on me . . . they see me!"

"Spades!" the Skyraider pilot shouted, "we have your target in sight. Rolling in hot." The prop-driven A
-
1 s hurtled down toward the point of the debris settling to the ground.

Rockwood dropped to a prone position, aimed his revolver, then fired three rounds at the North Vietnamese soldier. The small man turned to dive for cover at the instant the first round hit him in the jaw.

Five more soldiers, crouching low and moving swiftly through the underbrush, approached their gravely wounded comrade. They had their rifles pointed in the general direction of the American pilot.

Rockwood aimed for their torsos and kept squeezing the trigger until the weapon was empty.

"I'm out of ammo," Rockwood radioed, breathing hard. He heard a series of loud cracks, then felt searing pain when a rifle round tore into his right shoulder.

Pulling the emergency radio to his mouth with his left hand, the wounded aviator activated the transmitter. "It's too late .. . they've got me."

The next transmission was garbled, followed by a gasping plea. "I've . . . been hit again. Blow the tree line . . . to hell. That's an order."

A slight pause followed before the Skyraider leader keyed his mike. "We can't drop ordnance on one of our own people."

"Goddamnit!" Brad Austin swore loudly over the radio. "Lifeguard, you heard the commander. Vaporize his position."

"Roger," came the quiet reply. "Lifeguards in for a ripple pass. Drop it all on the tree line."

"So long, guys," Rockwood groaned, feeling the impact of another round.

Bull Durham, seething with anger and frustration, looked down at the point where Cdr. Frank Rockwood would lose his life. "Spades and Diamonds, light the burners and get over water ASAP."

"Roger."

Click, click.

Brad shoved the throttles to the stops and glanced at the executive officer's concealment. A moment later the entire area was pulverized by rockets and savage cannon fire.

Feeling the anguish of Rockwood's death, Brad was swept with revulsion. He let the Phantom accelerate well past the speed of sound as he tried to come to grips with the terrible tragedy.

Austin and Lunsford remained quiet as the coastline swept under the supersonic Phantom. There were no words to share the deep, personal pain of losing one of the best of the best.

Chapter
14.

The mammoth carrier steamed smoothly through the placid South China Sea. A steady rain fell, reducing visibility to a mile and a half under the 1,800-foot overcast. The damp, oppressive humidity contributed to a general feeling of malaise throughout the ship. The officers and men were anxious to dock at Subic Bay, and enjoy the freedom and pleasures of shore leave.