Rules of Engagement (1991)

by Joe Weber

  "Gear down," Brad informed the controller.

  The pilots and their radar-intercept officers, about to land their jet fighters on board an aircraft carrier, felt their heartbeats accelerating. The task was considered to be one of the most dangerous operations in aviation.

  "Two Zero Seven," the controller said in a laconic voice, "extend downwind and turn in at five miles."

  "Wilco," Brad replied, running through his landing checklist.

  The two Phantoms passed abeam the ship at the same time that the approach controller switched them to the landing-signal officer.

  The LSO, standing on a platform on the port side of the four arresting-gear wires, braced himself against the thirty-two-knot wind. He could see a trail of frothy white jet fuel streaming out of his commanding officer's F-4.

  Lieutenant Nicholas Palmer, newly qualified squadron LSO, keyed his hand-held radio receiver. "Skipper, you're lookin' good. Keep it coming."

  Bailey remained quiet, concentrating on his angle of attack. Navy and Marine Corps carrier pilots did not refer to their airspeed indicators for landing information. They were trained to fly at optimum angle of attack.

  The CO added power, rounding the ninety-degree position from his final lineup. The center angle-of-attack doughnut lighted again, indicating that the F-4 was "on speed."

  Nick Palmer, considered one of the squadron's "hot sticks," watched the approach with a critical eye. He saw the Phantom go slightly low but waited for his CO to catch the mistake. "Call the ball."

  The "meatball," located behind the LSO platform, was a bright yellow-orange light between a horizontal row of green reference lights. The highly visible light provided the aviators with a visual glide slope to the flight deck. If the pilot allowed the ball to rise above the datum lights, he was high. If the ball went low, he was in danger of striking the aft end of the carrier, the flight-deck round-down. If the pilot kept the ball centered all the way to touchdown, he would theoretically snag the third arresting-gear wire.

  Seeing the meatball come into view, Bailey concentrated on lineup and angle of attack. The LSO could see the amber yellow "on speed" light shining brightly from the CO's nose-landinggear door. The angle-of-attack indication that the pilot saw on his glare shield was displayed simultaneously by one of the three lights on his nose-gear door.

  "Phantom ball," Bailey radioed. "Two point one."

  In the squadron ready room, located directly below the flight deck, Bailey's men watched their skipper on closed-circuit television. The pilots and radar-intercept officers, sitting quietly, stared at the screen as the damaged F-4 grew larger. The tension mounted as the crippled aircraft approached the fantail of the carrier.

  High on the flight-deck side of the island superstructure, sailors crowded "vulture's row" to watch the tense drama unfold. They could hear the distinctive high-pitched howls from the jet engines as Bailey jockeyed the throttles to keep the ball centered. The Phantom, racing toward the end of the carrier deck, continued to spew a long stream of jet fuel.

  "Power," Palmer cautioned, leaning backward in the buffeting wind. "Give me a little power."

  Brad Austin, listening to the LSO, decided to start his turn early. He banked the Phantom to the left, twisting his head around to see the carrier. He knew that the CO was about to cross the ramp.

  Palmer watched the F-4 begin to settle. "Power!"

  The Phantom's engines shrieked as it passed over the round-down and slammed into the flight deck. The tail hook caught the number four wire as Bailey, out of habit, went to full power in case the hook missed all four arresting-gear cables.

  "Off the power!" Palmer shouted as he turned to follow the howling fighter. He could see that the F-4 had trapped.

  A nanosecond later, the aft flight deck erupted in a blazing inferno. The Phantom's superheated exhausts and screeching tail hook, showering sparks along the steel deck, had torched off the jet fuel pouring out of the damaged aircraft. The F-4 charged up the flight deck, stopping close to the forward edge of the angle deck.

  "Fire on the flight deck!" the Air Boss yelled over the 5-MC loudspeaker. "Lay down foam!"

  Bailey yanked the throttles to idle cutoff and flipped off the electrical switches as the Phantom was pulled backward by the arresting-gear wire. The pilot stomped on the brakes after the steel cable had fallen from the tail hook.

  Bailey glimpsed the pandemonium on the flight deck as he hit the canopy-open switch. "Get out! Let's go, Ernie!"

  Austin, three miles behind the carrier, stared in shocked disbelief. "Holy shit! The flight deck is on fire. The skipper must have crashed."

  Lunsford remained silent, leaning to his left side to see the carrier through the pilot's windshield.

  Bailey and his RIO, about to jump over the side of the burning Phantom, were hit by a powerful stream of fire-retardant foam. The impact knocked them back into their ejection seats as the two hot-suit rescue personnel slapped metal ladders against the cockpits.

  The thick white foam covered the Phantom, but the conflagration quickly spread underneath the belly of the blazing F-4.

  Bailey and Sheridan stumbled down the side of the burning Phantom, then slipped and fell in the gooey foam. The rescue team, aided by two corpsmen, helped both officers to their feet and whisked them away to the safety of the island.

  Sheridan heard a muffled explosion a second before the Air Boss shouted over the flight-deck loudspeaker.

  "Bring Tilly over!" the commander ordered, concerned about the missiles still attached to the Phantom. "Shove the aircraft overboard!"

  The huge yellow pushmobile lurched forward and lumbered across the flight deck. Tilly, a monstrous combination of crane and bulldozer, plowed into the fiercely burning fighter. The impact collapsed the F-4's landing gear as the aircraft slid sideways, then hung precariously over the catwalk before plunging inverted into the water.

  "Foul deck! Foul deck!" the LSO radioed to Austin. "Take it around, Two Oh Seven."

  "Wilco," Brad responded as he passed over the stern of the ship. "Did they get out?"

  "That's affirm, Joker," Palmer said as he surveyed the damage to the landing area. The fire had been extinguished and the men were rapidly clearing the deck. "I'll be able to take you on the next pass."

  "Copy," Brad replied, then keyed his intercom. "Jesus, that was close."

  Russ Lunsford inhaled a deep breath of pure oxygen and unsnapped one side of his mask. "Yeah. Flying with you guys sure as hell is not boring."

  Turning downwind, Brad rechecked his landing gear--down and locked, flaps extended, and arresting hook down. He continued the approach, turned crosswind, called the ball, crossed the fantail on speed, and engaged the number three arresting-gear cable.

  The F-4 screeched to an abrupt halt, then rolled back five feet. When the wire dropped free, Brad added power and taxied to the starboard-bow catapult. He waited for the aircraft handlers to secure the Phantom to the rolling flight deck, then shut down the engines.

  Austin and Lunsford opened their canopies and breathed in the salty breeze. The fresh air smelled good. They sat in quiet exhaustion as curious deck crewmen pointed to the numerous bullet holes in the F-4 Phantom.

  Slowly removing his crash helmet, Brad watched his plane captain run across the deck toward them.

  Chapter 3.

  The ready room was noisy and crowded. When Brad and Russ walked through the hatch, immediate. Silence descended. All eyes shifted to the sweat-soaked pilot and his RIO.

  Bradley Carlyle Austin wore the insignia patch of his former Marine Corps fighter squadron. It denoted that he was an F-4 Phantom Phlyer. Twinkling hazel eyes highlighted a tanned face and trim physique. Brad was five feet ten and 165 pounds. Known as a gregarious officer with a quick wit, he enjoyed the company of his fellow pilots and RIOs. They, in turn, respected their solitary "jarhead" for his straightforward personality and excellent flying skills.

  A graduate of the Naval Academy, Brad Austin had majored in aeronautical en
gineering. He had also been a member of the swimming team, and competed as a platform diver. Graduating with honors, he had resisted his father's wishes by accepting a commission in the Marine Corps.

  His father, Vice Adm. Carlyle Whitney Austin, USN, was a proud Annapolis alumnus who firmly believed in tradition and loyalty. The three-star flag officer had vociferously opposed his son's decision not to pursue a career in the naval service.

  Brad's senior year at the academy had been marred by the prolonged quarrel with his father. The more incensed his father had become over his decision, the more determined Brad had become to chart his own course.

  The past holiday season, when Brad had worn his marine dress blue uniform home, had been a strain for the entire Austin family. When again pressed by his father, Brad had made it clear that it was his decision, and his decision alone, to pursue a career path of his own choosing.

  What he had not disclosed was the fact that he did not want to serve in the same service as his father. Brad had always bristled at the insinuations that his father would ensure a smooth career path. Furthermore, how could he possibly explain to the admiral that he genuinely liked the Marine Corps?

  Lieutenant Russ Lunsford, tall and lanky with stooped shoulders and thinning blond hair, was considered one of the better RIOs in the squadron. The twenty-seven-year-old bachelor had an intellectual air about him, underscored by his methodical approach to every facet of his life. Lunsford made a constant effort to keep his personal world, including his impeccably clean stateroom, as neat and predictable as possible. Naturally nervous, he hid his apprehensiveness behind a pretense of hardy self-assurance.

  Although Russ Lunsford was competent technically, he had never quite adjusted to the hostile environment of aerial combat. Everyone liked the former college basketball star but knew not to approach him when he became moody. His worst emotional swings generally manifested themselves two to three hours before a combat mission.

  It was common knowledge that Russ Lunsford was not overly fond of flying, even with the best pilots in the squadron. The few individuals who knew about Lunsford's past attributed his acute nervousness to the fact that he had washed out of advanced fighter--attack pilot training. Whatever the reason had been, he remained an extremely uneasy crew member.

  Lieutenant Jon O'Meara approached Brad as Lunsford closed and secured the hatch. O'Meara was a quintessential Irishman, full of mirth and always boisterously confident. He was two inches shorter than Brad, with short-cropped red hair and dancing blue eyes.

  O'Meara's pranks had become legend before the air-group commander had censored him for singing an indecent song in mixed company at the officers' club. The lewd rendition of "Shagging O'Leary's Daughter" had not been well received by the admiral's wife.

  O'Meara's look asked the question. "What the hell happened out there?"

  Austin dropped his helmet, flight gloves, and kneeboard in one of the high-backed crew chairs. "We got our asses shot off covering a downed Spad driver. How's the skipper and Ernie?"

  Lieutenant (junior grade) Harry Hutton, the squadron duty officer, placed his hand over the phone he had just answered. Hutton was at a desk next to Brad. "I'm talking to Scary McCary now." McCary was Dr. Lloyd McCary, the squadron flight surgeon.

  O'Meara saw the XO stand. "I'll stop by your pit later. I'd like to hear all the details."

  "Well," Brad exhaled softly, "it wasn't pretty." O'Meara nodded knowingly and went back to his flight-planning table.

  The executive officer, Cdr. Frank "Rocky" Rockwood, stepped around his chair and walked down the center aisle toward Brad and Russ. He sat down on the arm of a chair next to the two men. "Are you guys okay?"

  Brad unzipped his torso harness. "Yessir, just a little postflight shakes."

  Rockwood pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket and lighted it as Austin and Lunsford unzipped their g suits. "Tell you what . . . why don't you two go get a bite to eat and a cup of coffee. We'll get with Jocko for a debrief when the skipper is released from sick bay." Jocko was Lt. Cdr. Jack Carella, the squadron operations officer.

  Brad folded his g suit over his helmet. "Sir, I really need to talk to you and Commander Carella now. It was my fault that the skipper got hit."

  A hush settled around the back of the compartment. Lunsford glanced at Austin, then busied himself with his flight gear.

  Rockwood, not the typical executive officer who acted as the CO's hatchet man, placed his hands on his knees and studied Brad. "Okay, I'll grab Jocko and we'll go to my stateroom."

  Austin nodded his head. "Yessir."

  Rising to his full six feet two, the partially bald Rockwood started up the aisle toward Carella. He had almost reached the operations officer when the cherubic-faced Hutton, holding his hand over the phone receiver, leaped out of his chair.

  "The CO and Dirty Ernie--Commander Sheridan--have been released. They're on their way to the ready room."

  Applause and cheers filled the long, narrow briefing room. The CO was considered to be one of the good guys, and Ernie Sheridan, the senior RIO in the squadron, was a happy-go-lucky friend to everyone.

  Brad felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. The more he thought about the mission, the more convinced he became that his judgment had been faulty.

  Lunsford leaned closer to Austin and spoke in a hushed voice. "It wasn't your fault. What the hell do you expect to gain by taking the blame for--"

  Lunsford stopped in mid-sentence when Frank Rockwood and Jack Carella started toward them. The XO and the operations officer looked like Mutt and Jeff characters. Rockwood lived up to his nickname in appearance. He was a solid, well-muscled 205 pounds. Big for the average fighter pilot.

  A devoted husband and father of three teenage daughters, Rockwood centered his life around his family. Always a gentleman, he was a blend of natural leader, gifted aviator, and superior intellect.

  Jack Fierro Carella, a compact and dark-complected man, had curly black hair and piercing dark eyes. His nasal Italian accent had not changed since his boyhood in Philadelphia. The Temple University graduate had been a rough-and-tumble street fighter in his blue-collar neighborhood. He took his squadron job seriously and was considered tough but fair.

  Unsmiling, Carella walked up to Brad. "What's on your mind, Mister?"

  Brad knew that Carella called him mister out of habit. Junior officers in the navy were addressed by their rank, mister, or sir. Marine officers were addressed by their rank, or sir.

  Frank Rockwood spoke before Brad had a chance to open his mouth. "Jocko, let's wait until the CO gets here. He may want to speak with Brad and Russ alone."

  "Yes, sir," Carella replied, then turned to face Austin. "Just one question. Can you confirm that the skipper knocked down a MiG?" The room suddenly became quiet again.

  "Yes, sir," Brad responded, then fell silent as shouts of joy and loud clapping filled the small space.

  The hatch leading to the passageway opened and the yelling, whistling, and clapping intensified as Cdr. Dan Bailey and Dirty Ernie Sheridan stepped into the crowded ready room.

  The din of celebration increased as everyone tried to get through the throng to shake hands with the MiG killers. The pilots and RIOs slapped Bailey and Sheridan on their backs, whooping with happiness. The carrier had been conducting air operations from Yankee Station, off the southern coast of North Vietnam, for seventeen days and the Jokers had the first confirmed MiG kill .

  Brad stood to the side, unsure of what he should say or do. Lunsford waded into the cluster of men and offered his congratulations to the victorious crew.

  Frank Rockwood, seizing an opportunity to say a quiet word to the CO, spoke quickly about Austin's feelings of guilt. Bailey acknowledged his XO, shook more outstretched hands, darted a look at Brad, then made his way toward the marine aviator. He steered Russ Lunsford along with him while Sheridan followed.

  Brad, feeling a pang of trepidation, watched the CO approach. Bailey looked jubilant, as did Ernie Sherida
n. Lunsford showed no emotion.

  The smiling CO stopped between Austin and Lunsford, then grasped the pilot's right wrist and the RIO's left wrist. Like a boxing referee, he raised their arms over his head and addressed the ready room crowd. "These guys also deserve a round of applause. They have a probable on their record, and they did a hell of a job this morning." Everyone cheered again while the CO shook hands with Brad and Russ.

  "One other note," Bailey announced loudly. "You're looking at a new flight leader--our token marine and junior section leader, First Lieutenant Austin."

  The CO stepped away as various members of the squadron congratulated Austin and Lunsford. The handshakes and slaps on the shoulders expressed genuine feelings of praise.

  Bailey waited for the right moment, then stepped close to Brad and Russ. He looked straight into Brad's eyes and spoke quietly. "The XO says you have something on your mind, Lieutenant."

  Harry Hutton interrupted before Brad could reply. "Skipper, they got the Spad driver out. Shot up a couple of helos, but he's on his way back to the Intrepid."

  The celebration masked Bailey's words as he addressed Austin and Lunsford. "You guys drop your gear in the locker room and join me in my stateroom in fifteen minutes."

  "Yes, sir," the two men replied in unison.

  Brad and Russ quickly stowed their bulky survival gear, crash helmets, oxygen masks, .38-caliber revolvers, g suits, and kneeboards. They showered in record time, then donned fresh uniforms and reported to Bailey's stateroom. Brad knocked on the door.

  "Come in," the CO invited as he opened the safe mounted in the bulkhead at the back of his fold-down desk.

  Brad opened the door and entered the room, followed by his RIO. Frank Rockwood and Jack Carella sat on the bunk next to Bailey's desk chair. The cabin was cramped but not as confining as the junior officers' quarters.

  "Have a seat," the CO said, motioning to the two gray straight-backed chairs next to the far bulkhead.

  Bailey's tanned face was distinguished by pronounced crow's-feet and a dimple in his square chin. He had a salt-and-pepper crew cut and a pronounced southern drawl. He read extensively and could quote with equal ease from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales or the comic strips.