Rules of Engagement (1991) (23 page)

Austin looked at his roommate and picked up the can of cola. "You want the rest of this?"

"You bet," Harry replied, accepting the cold can. Their portable refrigerator was worth its weight in gold.

"I'm going to take a walk," Brad said, reaching for his brown leather flight jacket.

Harry tilted up the can, finishing the last third of the cola, then tossed the can into their metal trash container. "Care for some company?" Harry said as he stood.

"Sure," Brad responded, slipping on his jacket. "Let's go up to the bow."

"I'm following you," Harry replied, reaching for his flight jacket.

They locked their stateroom door and walked through two passageways to the light trap and ladder leading up to the catwalk. They climbed the short stairs and stepped out onto the open grating that hugged the flight deck.

Brad looked down through the framework of the catwalk at the foamy bow wave. He felt the damp spray rushing up through the iron grating.

Harry inhaled the sea breeze, then let it out slowly. "If I close my eyes, and really work at it, I see ourselves on board a cruise ship, lolling away the hours with two sensuous nymphomaniacs."

Brad turned and smiled. "I think I know how you get by from day to day."

"Whatever works," Harry responded with a grin.

They walked forward to the port side of the bow. The sun had just dropped below the horizon when Brad and Harry reached their viewing spot.

Harry leaned on the edge of the railing. "After you left the ready room, Dirty Ernie told me that we're going into Yokosuka as soon as our relief is on station."

Brad turned around and leaned against the railing. His thoughts shifted to Leigh Ann. "When are we scheduled to be relieved?"

"It's up in the air right now. The Bonnie Dick," Harry said, referring to the aircraft carrier Bon Homme Richard, "is supposed to start warm-ups at Dixie Station in about a week or so."

Brad quickly calculated the number of days until the ship would leave the line. "Why are we going to Yokosuka?"

Hutton gave him a bewildered look. "Ernie said they have some kind of equipment in Yoko that they don't have at Subic.. . to work on the prop shafts, or something related to them. From what he said, they've got problems with the reduction gears on two of the shafts."

Brad gripped the rail. "I thought the reason we were yanked back from Hawaii was because they had this tub fixed."

"I don't know shafts from shit," Harry replied, staring at the destroyer escort off the port bow. "All I know is that our bird farm needs some maintenance."

"Yeah," Brad replied, gazing at the rows of aircraft chained to the flight deck, "this baby needs a lot of work, especially the catapults." They watched the horizon grow dark, each lost in his thoughts. After the stars were clearly visible, they decided to grab a quick bite at the gedunk.

Brad and Harry descended to the hangar deck and walked through the throng of men and airplanes to the small store. They both consumed a cheeseburger and a Coke, then carried their strawberry ice-cream cones to the ready room.

Brad and Harry entered the noisy compartment and sat down in the back row of seats. Mario Russo, the squadron popcorn officer, was dispensing brown bags of freshly popped corn. As soon as he was finished with the nightly ritual, Jon O'Meara started the movie.

Nick Palmer kept up a running commentary during the low-budget horror movie, making his comments when there was no dialogue. He had always narrated the love scenes at all ready-room movies, cracking up the entire group at every opportunity.

"Hey, O'Meara," a loud voice called from the front of the compartment, "can't the navy do any better than this horseshit?"

"Pipe down," Ernie Sheridan called out. "Can't you appreciate the intellectual stimulation the rest of us are experiencing?" The loud groans were audible throughout the room.

After a few minutes, Brad drifted back to the Hawaiian Islands. Forgetting the grisly movie, he formulated a plan to meet Leigh Ann after the carrier docked in Yokosuka, Japan.

Handing Harry the remainder of his popcorn, Brad quietly slipped out of the darkened compartment and walked to his stateroom. He took off his uniform and hung it in the small closet next to the washbasin. Donning a pair of gym shorts, Brad opened the desk and placed his stationery on top. He propped Leigh Ann's picture against the bulkhead in front of him and picke
d u
p his pen.

.

My Dear Leigh Ann
,
I am back on the carrier, missing you more than I can express in words. I will be anxiously looking forward to your first letter. Seeing our mail plane overhead is the highlight of our day.

Leigh Ann, how would you like to meet me in San Francisco? Rumor has it that we are going to Japan for more extensive work on the ship, so I thought I would fly from Tokyo to San Francisco, if you can arrange to meet me. There are so many things to see and do in the city, and I would give anything to share the experience with you.

I will take care of your airline ticket, and all related expenses, if you can join me in approximately three weeks. I will have to let you know the exact date a little later.

We can stay at the Fairmont Hotel, ride the cable cars to Fisherman's Wharf, dine in Chinatown, and enjoy the sunset from the Fairmont Crown--a cocktail lounge on top of the hotel. Watching the sun settle below the Golden Gate Bridge is an unforgettable sight.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Love
,
Brad

P
. S
. I will not leave a forwarding address this time!

.

He carefully folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope, which he slid into a pocket on his flight jacket. Reclining on his bunk, Brad stared at the picture of the smiling brunette, then got up and began his daily calisthenics.

Chapter
20.

Watching the TACAN, Brad waited until another nautical mile ticked over. He added power, then raised the nose and banked to the left. He continued the wide orbit until Nick Palmer coasted alongside in Joker 207. Harry Hutton waved from the backseat of the F-4.

When they passed over the carrier, Brad turned on course and scanned the sky for their tankers. Climbing through 16,000 feet, he spotted the two KA-3B Skywarriors four miles ahead. They were in loose formation in the standard refueling track.

Extending his fueling probe, he eased back on the twin throttles. The Phantoms flown by Jack Carella and Lincoln Durham had just plugged into the Whales. Brad would time his rendezvous with the tankers to coincide with the departure of the first two F-4s.

Brad and Nick would provide target combat air patrol on the left side of the strike group. Carella and Durham would patrol on the right flank. Fifteen miles in front of the formation, fou
r a
dditional Phantoms crisscrossed the hazy sky on their way to the targets around Haiphong.

"Joker Two Oh Seven," Brad radioed to Palmer, "come up tanker freq."

"Two Oh Seven."

The two F-4s closed to less than 100 yards behind Jocko Carella's aircraft. They held their position fifteen seconds while both squadron mates topped off their tanks. Carella dropped off the lower Whale, followed seconds later by Bull Durham from the other KA-3B.

"Snowball," Brad radioed, tweaking the throttles forward, "Jokers Two Oh Two and Two Oh Seven stabilized--Two left, Seven right."

"Copy," the lead tanker pilot responded, watching Carella and Durham accelerate out in front of the Skywarriors. "Jokers cleared to plug."

Brad clicked his radio twice, adding power as the probe entered the basket. He shoved the receptacle forward a few feet and steadied the Phantom.

"Fuel flow," came the call from the tanker pilot.

"Looks good here," Brad replied, thinking about the tremendous amount of fuel the F-4 consumed in afterburner. At a normal cruise speed of 575 miles per hour, the Phantom could travel approximately 1,500 miles. Close to sea level, in afterburner, the entire internal fuel load would be exhausted in a matter of minutes.

"You're unusually quiet this morning," Brad said over the intercom while he watched Nick Palmer smoothly plug the second Whale.

Russ Lunsford pulled his seat belt and shoulder harnesses as tightly as he could, then keyed his intercom. "That's because I'm praying that I'll still be alive this afternoon."

Brad did not respond. He had seen this kind of detached behavior from Lunsford many times when they had gone on a mission. Brad knew that if he attempted to ease Lunsford's anxiety, Russ would work himself into a frenzy.

"Jokers on the Whale," the strike leader radioed, "you about ready to join up?"

Brad keyed his mike. "Ninety seconds." Monitoring the fuel indicator, Brad waited until his tanks were full. A few seconds later, Palmer reported his tanks full.

Dropping off the Skywarriors, Brad and Nick added power to catch the strike group. They switched to Red Crown and heard the strike leader giving last-minute instructions. He was leading twelve A-4 Skyhawks. The entire group then switched to strike-flight frequency. As they crossed the coast of North Vietnam, the air-group commander commenced a slow turn to approach the petroleum storage tanks west of the city of Haiphong.

Below, fourteen A-1 Skyraiders skirted around known gun emplacements, then turned to their run-in heading. At that moment, Brad heard the radio come alive.

"Bandits!" someone warned. "We've got bandits . . . climbing twenty west!"

The sky suddenly filled with surface-to-air missiles and concentrated barrages of antiaircraft fire. Four Phantoms from the Jokers' sister squadron, fulfilling the role of flak suppressors, thundered across the target area. They dropped their Rockeye bombs seconds before the A-4s struck the petroleum storage tanks.

Brad watched in horror as a Skyhawk flew into the ground without any attempt to pull out of the dive. The pilot had been killed by the deadly antiaircraft rounds.

"Joker One is engaging!" Dan Bailey radioed from the forward fighter group. "Heads up, Jokers. Three MiGs at two o'clock."

Scanning the horizon, Brad darted a glance at the target area. Billowing clouds of black smoke mushroomed skyward as the A-1 Skyraiders pulverized the remaining fuel dumps.

"SAMs!" Hutton said over the wild radio chatter. "Comin' up at four o'clock."

Breaking hard to the right, Brad felt the violent g force shove him down in his seat. He glimpsed the ground, then saw two surface-to-air missiles flash by the side of his Phantom. H
e i
nstinctively ducked, certain that the SAMs would detonate next to him.

It was impossible to interpret the ambiguous radio calls. Many of the urgent transmissions were blocked when a number of pilots tried to communicate at the same time.

Seeing Nick Palmer sliding into a loose trail position on his right wing, Brad reversed to the left and flinched again. Two A-4s snapped over to avoid a midair collision with the Phantoms.

"Oh . . . God in heaven," Lunsford groaned under the g load, "get us out of here."

The adrenaline shock had caused both F-4 crews to start sucking oxygen. They frantically searched all quadrants of the sky for aircraft and missiles.

Brad saw an airplane explode at the same instant he saw three MiG-21s descend out of the clouds. He looked at Palmer, then back to the MiGs. He had not seen a MiG-21 before, but there was no mistaking the silver fighters. Two of the sleek aircraft were carrying external fuel tanks.

"Tally," someone said. "Break right! Break right!" Total confusion reigned. It was impossible to know whom the break right command was intended for.

Selecting HEAT, Brad pulled the Phantom into a modified high yo-yo. The gray sky and clouds blended with the ground. He saw Palmer's F-4, in perfect formation, slide out to the left side.

Looking back at the three MiGs, Brad was startled by a flash and jolting explosion between the two Phantoms. He quickly scanned the cockpit instruments, noting that the master caution light was glowing.

"We've been hit!" Lunsford shouted, staring at the shattered left wing. Four feet of the wing tip had been blown off by the unseen SAM. "So has Palmer! Palmer's been hit! He's drifting down!"

Brad's aircraft, with the right wing now providing more lift than the shortened left wing, rolled to the left. Lunsford snapped his head from side to side. "Our left wing . . . we've been hit in the left wing!"

"Come on . . . ," Brad coaxed, holding the control stick all the way to the right. He shoved on the right rudder, but the heavily damaged Phantom continued to roll out of control to the left.

"Have you got control?" Lunsford asked, watching a rail yard and power plant appear above the canopy. "Answer me, goddamnit!"

Inverted, Brad pushed the stick forward to hold the nose up, than cautiously moved the stick to the left. "Stay with me, you sonuvabitch . . . I'm working on it."

"Bullshit!" Lunsford swore, noticing a new problem. "Our left engine--we've lost the left engine! I've got circuit breakers out back here."

"Well, put 'em back in."