Rules of Engagement (1991) (8 page)

"Nick," Brad radioed, "I need to perform a stability check. Let's descend to five thousand and see what speed I'll need to control this beauty."

"Reducing power now," Palmer replied. "Indicating two-fifty. Do you want to try extending your hook and flaps before we go into the soup?"

Afraid of having an asymmetrical situation, Brad thought about the split-flap possibility. He needed the flaps to reduce his final approach speed. "Sure. Here goes." Austin lowered his arresting hook and selected partial flaps. Everything worked as advertised.

The Phantoms rapidly descended into the rain and clouds and leveled at 5,000 feet. They slowed to 230 knots, then 220 knots, as Palmer radioed the speeds to Austin.

"Okay, Nick," Brad said, grasping the landing-gear handle, "I'm going to drop the gear . . . I hope."

"Wait," Palmer cautioned. "Wait a second. Your machine is really trashed. Let's not place any extra strain on anything at this speed. I recommend we slow to one-eighty and go for it. With the damage you've got, I'd leave the flaps where they are."

Agreeing with the more experienced Phantom pilot, Brad reduced power to match Palmer's F-4. They were flying in solid instrument conditions, blocking out the river of water flowing over their canopies. Relying solely on Nick Palmer to fly instruments, Brad ignored his instrument panel and concentrated on flying formation with his leader.

"Russ," Brad said over the intercom, "if we have to jump out, we've got plenty of time from five thousand."

"I've been ready . . . got everything stowed."

Fighting the insidious onslaught of vertigo, Brad intensified his concentration in an effort to reduce the sensation of dizziness. Spatial disorientation was a constant threat to pilots flying in instrument conditions. He studied Palmer's Phantom and attempted to suppress the fear gnawing at him. He did not want Russ Lunsford to know that his pilot was anything but confident about the outcome of the flight.

"Okay," Palmer radioed, closely monitoring his airspeed indicator. "I'm showing one-eighty. Let 'er go."

Brad said a silent prayer and yanked the landing-gear handle down. He was rewarded by the clunk, clunk of the main gears and the thud under the nose. "I show three down and locked."

"Looks good," Palmer replied. "Let's see what your on speed will be. Coming back on the power."

Reducing power, Brad stayed glued to Palmer's Phantom. The vertigo was dissipating and he darted a glance at his left-engine instruments, back to Palmer's F-4, then back to the fuel-quantity indicator. The powerful turbojet was operating smoothly and, to his relief, he had 2,900 pounds of fuel remaining. Enough for a couple of approaches before the Air Boss would have to rig the barricade.

"One-seventy-five," Palmer soothed. He gently moved his throttles back. "One-seventy . . . one-sixty-five . . . one-sixty .. . one-fifty-five . . . one-fifty . . ."

Brad felt the Phantom shudder, then the wings wobbled as he shoved the left throttle forward.

"Shit!" Lunsford exclaimed as the fighter leveled out. "We're going to be at least fifteen knots fast."

Adjusting the power, Brad spoke to his flight leader. "Nick, I've gotta have one-fifty to touch down."

"Okay, partner," Nick said, peering at his smooth-flying wingman. "I'll keep it on one-fifty-five . . . give you a cushion to the ramp."

Austin and Lunsford knew they would be attempting a single-engine landing almost twenty miles an hour faster than their normal approach speed. Adding to the difficulty was the fact that the angle-of-attack indexer was not working. The sensor had been sheared off in the violent collision with the trees.

Hutton, who had been quiet, watching the drama unfold, spoke to his roommate. "Brad, you can do it. Show the navy how the marines land a flying tree."

"What was it you said," Palmer radioed Austin, "about marine fighter pilots?"

Brad smiled to himself. "When we're out of ammo, we resort to ramming our bogies."

Lunsford nervously keyed his mike. "And you wonder--flying with that kind of mentality--why I'm a basket case."

Palmer and Hutton shared a laugh over their intercom but kept their comments to themselves. They both were concerned about Lunsford's increasing uneasiness.

Palmer talked to the carrier controller who would vector the flight to a position for an instrument approach to a visual landing. The radar operator steered the Phantoms to a point six miles behind the carrier, then turned them inbound to line up with the small flight-deck landing zone. He wanted the pilots tb' have adequate time to stabilize before they started their descent. "Reduce to your final approach speed."

"We're already there," Palmer radioed as the two aircraft flew into a heavy downpour. "Dash Two is damaged and can't slow below one-fifty-five."

The controller sensed a disaster in the making. "Copy. Understand that you're at final approach speed."

Twenty seconds elapsed before the radar operator again contacted the flight. "Approaching glide slope . . . up and on the glide slope. Begin your descent." Palmer eased the power back and followed the controller's calm instructions.

"You're. on the glide path, left of course. Come right five degrees." Palmer made a very slight correction. His instrument scan was automatic from hundreds of hours of practice and five years of experience.

"You're on glide path, on course. The last aircraft has trapped. You have a clear deck."

"Roger, clear deck," Palmer replied, closely monitoring his rate of descent. They were descending through 600 feet in a heavy rain squall.

"On glide slope, on course," the controller advised without inflection.

Brad never took his eyes off Palmer's Phantom. Only seconds to go before they would see the carrier deck. He felt his pulse quicken. God, don't let me fail.

"Phantom ball," Palmer called, omitting his fuel state. He would have to trap on the next pass.

Darting a quick glance toward the carrier, Brad saw the dim meatball, then drifted away from his leader. "Two Oh Eight, ball, one point nine."

Palmer broke away, climbing back into the clouds as the LSO coached Austin. "You're fast and high. Get off the power! Get the power back!"

Brad inched the left throttle back and nudged the stick forward. The ball remained high as he approached the round-down. The Phantom, on the verge of stalling, shuddered as Brad shoved the throttle forward.

"Oh, shheeeit," Lunsford uttered at the moment the F-4 passed over the fantail of the ship.

"Bolter, bolter, bolter!" the LSO said, seeing that the Phantom was going to overshoot the landing zone.

The fighter ballooned over the four arresting-gear wires, went into afterburner on the left engine, touched the deck for a split second, then mushed into the air as Austin fought for control. He could feel the adrenaline shock to his heart. Brad knew that he could not reduce power on the approach because the aircraft would stall and crash.

The crippled fighter struggled for altitude as the LSO called. "Okay, five wire, settle down. You've got the best boarding rate in your squadron."

Determined to stay below the cloud deck, Brad was about to respond when the Air Boss called.

"Joker Two Zero Eight, we're going to barricade you. Two Zero Two, we're shooting a tanker. Anchor overhead at eight thousand and give us a tops report when you break out."

"Two Oh Two, copy," Palmer acknowledged, adding a small amount of power. His low-fuel state was becoming more critical by the second.

Brad leveled off under the ragged overcast. He flew in and out of the scud at 400 feet.

"Two Zero Eight," the Air Boss radioed, "extend downwind. We're rigging the barricade now. Say fuel."

Glancing at the fuel-quantity indicator, Brad could hear Lunsford trying to control his breathing rate.

"Two Zero Eight, one point six."

The radar-controlled approach had consumed more than a thousand pounds of jet fuel.

The LSO conversed with Austin for the next three minutes. H
e s
uggested a flat approach, due to the extra speed. Brad felt more comfortable having the carrier in sight during the entire approach.

Dropping out of heavy rain with a single engine, battle damage
,
overspeed, and low fuel was a carrier pilot's second worst nightmare. The worst would be to find yourself in the same situation at night.

"Two Zero Eight," the Air Boss radioed, "turn inbound. We'll be ready in less than a minute."

"Two Oh Eight, turning inbound."

Lunsford tilted his head back, eyes closed. "Austin, you better get your shit in one bag."

"Ready deck," the Boss radioed from high in Pri-Fly. "Bring it home."

Brad reduced power until the F-4 trembled, then added a nudge of throttle. His breathing became a series of gasps. Feeling claustrophobic, he ripped his oxygen mask loose and sucked in the refreshing ambient air.

"Phantom ball, one point one," Brad reported as he held the yellow-orange meatball a fraction below the centered position.

"Lookin' good," the LSO said calmly. "Stay with it."

Brad tweaked the power back and forth, nursing the damaged fighter toward the rainswept flight deck. He was twenty-five seconds from the round-down when the Phantom again shuddered.

"Keep it together," Lunsford said through gritted teeth.

Focused on survival, Brad blocked out every sensory input except the spot where he intended to land. Watching the deck rush toward him, he concentrated on his lineup and the meatball. He was committed to land on this pass.

Lunsford sucked oxygen. "Oh, merciful God . . . help us." "Power to idle!" the LSO coached, using body English to work the Phantom down. "Raise your nose!"

Brad waited a second, then slapped the throttle to idle as the round-down flashed under the Phantom. He pulled back on the stick an instant before the fighter crashed into the flight deck, shearing off the nose gear.

A horrendous screech filled the cockpit as the F-4 slammed into the huge nylon-webbed barricade. Both men were savagely thrown forward into their harnesses as the fighter slewed to
a s
udden stop. The nose-gear assembly bounced over the tangled barricade, ricocheted off the angled deck, and splashed into the sea.

"Sonuvabitch!" Lunsford spat, then let out a sigh of relief. His tongue was bleeding from the inadvertent bite during the controlled crash landing.

Brad quickly shut down the left engine and started releasing himself from his restraints and hoses. He was vaguely aware of the frantic action taking place around his demolished airplane.

Two men scrambled up on the canopies and started pulling away the twisted nylon straps. Seconds later, Austin and Lunsford felt the brisk sea air sweeping over them as the canopies were raised.

A half dozen rescue personnel helped the stunned crew out of their destroyed jet fighter. Brad and Russ were led to a hatch in the island superstructure. They were surprised to see the CO standing inside the opening. He had watched the barricade landing from Pri-Fly before rushing down to the flight deck.

"You guys okay?" Dan Bailey asked, clearly awed by the magnitude of the crash landing.

"I've been better," Brad answered, removing his helmet, "but I'm okay . . . physically."

Bailey looked at Lunsford, who had also taken off his helmet. The CO saw the trickle of blood in the corner of the RIO's mouth. "You look like you need to sit down."

"I'm okay, Skipper," Lunsford responded, rubbing his chest where the shoulder harness had bruised him.

The three men turned to look at the remains of Joker 208. The Phantom rested on the remains of its smashed nose cone. Brad noticed that the right main-gear strut had been driven up through the wing. The once sleek, fearsomely aggressive-looking fighter had been reduced to a heap of twisted metal.

The three watched the deck crew place a dolly under the Phantom's nose. Moving swiftly, the aircraft handlers towed the wrecked F-4 to the forward deck-edge elevator, then lowered th
e a
ircraft to the hangar bay. Joker 208 would become the squadron hangar queen, providing useful parts for the flyable aircraft.

Bailey turned to Brad and Russ. "I want both of you to report to Doc McCary. We'll get together with Palmer and Hutton later."

"Skipper," Lunsford said, wiping his face with the sleeve of his flight suit, "I don't need to see the flight surgeon. I need to see a shrink."

"You, along with the rest of us," Bailey replied as Nick Palmer's Phantom slammed onto the steel deck and snagged the three wire.

Chapter
7.

Brad Austin toweled himself dry and leaned over the wash-basin. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. The three small bottles of medicinal alcohol Doc McCary had given him, along with the seven hours of restless sleep, had not erased the image of the trees rushing up to kill him.

Walking down the passageway to his stateroom, Brad met his roommate, who was returning from dinner.

"You missed the celebration in the ready room," Harry Hutton said. "Palmer is now a legend in his own mind."