Rules of Engagement (1991)

by Joe Weber

  Brad, constantly scanning the sky and ground, caught a glimpse of the number three Skyhawk at the instant it was hit by a SAM. The A-4 disintegrated in a brilliant fireball, raining flaming debris on the target. The pilot never had a chance to eject.

  "MiGs!" Ernie Sheridan shouted over the radio. "Four MiG17s at three o'clock low!"

  The camouflaged MiGs, concealed by a thin cloud cover at 3,000 feet, had slipped into the area undetected. Passing 2,000 feet, the enemy fighters had been seen by the radar picket ship.

  "This is Red Crown! We hold bogies climbing over the target. Repeat, we have bogies over the target."

  Durham acknowledged the frantic call and rolled toward the rapidly approaching MiGs. "Jokers engaging! Drop tanks!" The three Phantom pilots simultaneously punched off their centerline fuel tanks.

  Durham shoved the nose down, rolling to the right, and lined up for a head-on pass. The three fighter pilots saw the MiGs' 23mm cannons wink at them as the F-4s slashed through the Communists' formation. The MiG pilots broke in two directions, one section going low, the other two aircraft going high.

  Bull Durham elected to go for the two pilots who had pulled up. "Hard starboard, goin' burner!"

  The high MiGs went into a slow weave as the F-4s shot skyward. Durham, recognizing they were in danger of overshooting the MiGs, pulled his power to idle. "Jokers, go idle!"

  Austin and Palmer had anticipated the call as they rapidly closed on the MiGs. They retarded their throttles and cracked open the speed brakes a few inches. Lunsford and Hutton were twisting their heads left and right, checking their sixes for the other two bogies.

  "I'll take the one on the left!" Durham announced, then fired a heat-seeking Sidewinder. The MiG pilots, seeing the missile ignite, pulled into a diving high-g turn. The Sidewinder, unable to guide during the evasive maneuver, shot over the MiG and accelerated out of sight.

  "The two on the deck," Hutton radioed in gasps, "are raising their noses!"

  "Jokers, Showboat is engaging the low gomers!" The second Phantom target combat air patrol was entering the aerial fray.

  "Roger, roger," Durham panted, violently rolling his Phantom to follow the diving MiGs. "They're running for their sanctuary . . . burners!"

  The MiG-17s, flying close to 430 knots, were heading straight for Phuc Yen. The MiG pilots, diving steeply, had gained the knowledge that the U. S. missiles had a difficult time locking onto targets close to the ground.

  The downside for the MiG pilots was the problem their aircraft had flying at high speeds close to the terrain. Not having hydraulically powered flight controls, the Vietnamese pilots had very little control authority. The faster they flew, the more aerodynamic resistance they encountered. Since the MiG pilots could not perform abrupt maneuvers, they were forced to run for safety once the Americans had the advantage.

  "Cover us, Brad," Durham radioed as he bottomed out 100 feet above the ground. "Nick, take the one on the right."

  Two seconds later, Palmer got a tone and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. "Sonuvabitch!" The Sidewinder remained on the launch rail while Palmer frantically checked his armament switches.

  "Jokers!" the Showboat flight leader called. "You have two MiGs on your six . . . the ones who went low. We can't shoot--they 're directly between us." Showboat Lead was afraid his missiles would hit Joker Flight.

  Flying at 2,000 feet, Brad rolled his fighter, holding it inverted. "Joker Three is rolling in on the trailing gomers."

  Durham heard the insistent growl of the Sidewinder tone. He fired the missile at minimum range, then experienced a chill as red tracers slashed by his canopy. The heat-seeking projectile arced up, then nosed down and flew into the ground.

  Swearing to himself, Durham keyed his radio switch. "Nick, break hard starboard . . . NOW! Nose coming up."

  Brad was closing on the trailing MiGs at 600 knots when the Showboat flight leader and his wingman fired their Sidewinders. Seeing the two smoke trails, Brad yanked his screaming fighter into an 8-g vertical climb. He rolled to keep the enemy in sight, then saw the trailing MiG-17 disintegrate and impact in the middle of a 37mm AAA emplacement. The other MiG pilot raced for the safety of Phuc Yen.

  Keying his mike, Brad spoke icily. "Showboat, Joker Three. I'm on the same team, guy."

  "Sorry, didn't see you."

  Brad pulled through the top of his evasive maneuver and searched for Durham and Palmer. He spotted the two Phantoms at the same instant his flight leader called.

  "Joker Three, rejoin and let's cover the strike group." "Joker Three is at your five, closing," Brad replied, searching the sky for other MiGs.

  The three F-4s accelerated to Mach 1.1 as they chased after the departing strike aircraft. The sky erupted with antiaircraft fire as they passed due north of Thanh Hoa. The white bursts looked like a fireworks display.

  "SAMs! SAMs!" Harry Hutton yelled, blocking out Ernie Sheridan's warning call. "We've got SAMs at two and three o'clock!"

  "Hard starboard!" Durham ordered, trying to out-turn the missiles. The SAMs looked like flying telephone poles as they rapidly accelerated.

  Brad was 300 feet behind Durham when the first SAM, turning hard, exploded next to his flight leader's right wing. The F-4 flipped over on its back, then slowly rolled right side up. The second missile exploded above and behind Nick Palmer.

  Momentarily paralyzed, Brad flew into the exploding debris from the first SAM. He and Russ Lunsford felt a vicious jolt, then became disoriented in the fog that had instantaneously filled the cockpit.

  Seeing the master caution light glowing, Brad snapped his tinted helmet visor up. He quickly scanned his annunciator panel, noting that they were not in imminent danger, then searched for Durham and Palmer.

  He was shocked to see Bull Durham's Phantom trailing a sheet of flames. "Joker One, you're on fire!"

  There was no response from the burning fighter.

  Palmer radioed a second later. "Bull, you've got fire--you're trailing fire from your belly!"

  Still no answer from the blazing F-4.

  "He's lost his radio," Lunsford said, noting the strange noise that had invaded their cockpit. He looked around, taking inventory, then stared in awe. "Brad! You've got a chunk of your canopy missing!"

  Tilting his head back, Brad saw the jagged, grapefruit-sized hole at the forward right side of his canopy bow. His eyes darted back to Durham. "Joker One, do you copy?"

  Brad's padded earphones remained quiet a moment before Palmer called.

  "Three, you hanging in?"

  Looking closer at his annunciator panel, Brad analyzed the lighted anomalies. One generator had been knocked off the line and numerous circuit breakers had popped. Austin reset the generator, then pushed in the circuit breakers. "Yeah, Nick, we're okay."

  Durham's aircraft was burning furiously as the three Phantoms passed over the beach. Palmer and Austin closed in on their flight leader. Durham was busy, trying to get as far out to sea as possible. Each second meant a better chance for survival.

  Glancing at Ernie Sheridan, Brad was astounded to see him leaning as far forward as he could wedge himself. The fire had engulfed the fuselage, melting the back of the RIO's canopy. Durham was aware they were on fire.

  "Brad," Palmer radioed, "come up Red Crown."

  "Switchin' Red Crown."

  "Red Crown, Joker Two Oh Seven, emergency!" Palmer radioed, moving a safe distance away from Durham's intensely burning Phantom.

  "Joker, say emergency."

  "Red Crown, our flight leader is on fire," Palmer began, then stopped when the left engine of Durham's F-4 exploded, blowing off the tail.

  Horrified, Brad held his breath while the blazing Phantom tumbled end over end. A half second later, Durham and Sheridan ejected from the wreckage of their fighter.

  Nick Palmer banked steeply to the left to circle his former flight leader. Palmer was now Joker 1, with Brad as Dash 2.

  "Correction, Red Crown. They jumped over the side. We are orbiting ove
r them now."

  "We hold you in radar contact," the controller responded in a reassuring tone, "three miles offshore. We have helos on the way."

  "Copy, Red Crown," Palmer replied, then talked to Austin.

  "Joker Two, say fuel state."

  "Five point one," Brad replied, spotting activity along the shore. He watched Durham and Sheridan splash into the water.

  Both men quickly shed their parachutes and inflated their life rafts.

  Completing another 360-degree turn, Brad was startled to see a North Vietnamese patrol boat leave a small dock. "Joker One, we've got a boat coming toward Bull and Ernie." Another minute passed as the patrol vessel continued toward the downed crew.

  "Red Crown," Palmer radioed. "How far away are the helos? We've got company coming offshore."

  "Stand by."

  Brad talked to Lunsford during the pause. "Russ, I've got an idea. Over this cool water, we might be able to get a Sidewinder to lock onto the heat from that boat's engine."

  "Jesus H. Christ," Lunsford said in a resigned voice. "Do you lie awake at night figuring out new ways to get us killed?"

  "Joker, Red Crown. The helos will be overhead in eight to ten minutes."

  Palmer calculated the speed and distance of the fast-moving patrol boat. "We don't have that long."

  Brad looked down and keyed his mike. "Nick, I'm going down after the boat."

  "Are you crazy?" Hutton said before Palmer could reply. "You don't have any guns. They'll blow your ass out of the sky on the first pass."

  "Roger," is all that Palmer said. He understood Brad Austin. They were both highly trained, motivated aerial hunters. When the pilots were confronted with what appeared to be an insurmountable obstacle, the two aviators would improvise to accomplish their objective. They were determined to take care of their brotherhood.

  Austin carefully checked his armament panel and switches, selected HEAT, and rolled the Phantom inverted into a plummeting split-S maneuver. Brad pulled out of the dive at two hundred feet and circled the patrol craft, closing from the stern of the vessel.

  Indicating 460 knots, Brad eased down to fifty feet above the water. Two machine guns opened fire from the patrol boat a second before Brad heard the familiar Sidewinder tone. He squeezed the trigger and watched in fascination as the missile climbed away, tucked down, then leveled out a fraction of a second before it slammed into the boat. The stern of the vessel lifted out of the water as the entire bridge area was blown off the hull.

  "Shit hot!" Palmer shouted. "Fantastic!"

  Brad snatched the stick back, rolling the aircraft inverted to view the devastation below. The patrol boat, now out of control, was heeling to port and rapidly decelerating. Austin rolled upright to check the whereabouts of Palmer's F-4, then rolled inverted again. The heavily damaged patrol boat was almost dead in the water, listing to port.

  "Red Crown," Palmer radioed exuberantly, "my wingman has eliminated our problem."

  "Copy, Joker. We have a tanker at your one one zero for fifty."

  Palmer checked his fuel-quantity indicator. The gauge showed 4,700 pounds. "Joker Two, go gas up, and come back and relieve us.

  "On our way," Brad replied, shoving his throttles forward to full military power. Passing 9,000 feet, Austin and Lunsford heard the rescue-helicopter pilots check in with Red Crown and Palmer.

  Brad continued to monitor the frequency, anxious for the rescue effort to be successful. Three minutes later, Austin heard Nick Palmer tell Red Crown that the marine helicopters were over the downed crew.

  Palmer circled another minute while he watched Durham and Sheridan struggle into their rescue collars, then radioed that Joker 1 was departing for the tanker.

  Chapter 10.

  Brad leveled the Phantom at 22,000 feet and extended his aerial fueling probe. He cast a glance to his right, then froze at the same time Lunsford saw the damaged refueling nozzle. The end of the tube was crushed and the tip was bent outward at an odd angle.

  "Uh, Brad, we're out of the refueling business."

  "I noticed."

  Austin retracted the bent refueling probe, wondering what other damage they might have incurred from the missile explosion. He tilted his head back and inspected the hole in his canopy, then checked the oxygen control panel. The gauge, which indicated fifteen percent full, was showing a steady depletion.

  Brad glanced at all of his instruments, then keyed the intercom. "You ready for some more good news?"

  "Don't tell me anything," Lunsford said, waving his hands from side to side. "I don't want to hear anything bad. Just get our asses back to the boat."

  Brad glanced at the oxygen gauge again. "We are going to be out of oxygen very shortly . . . must have severed a line."

  Lunsford exhaled. "That isn't a problem--we'll be on the boat in a few minutes. Don't bother me with category-three bullshit."

  "Hey," Brad responded, "I just wanted you to know what's going on, so you wouldn't be surprised."

  Brad called the tanker pilot, explained that they could not refuel, then called the carrier. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Three."

  "Joker Two Zero Three, Strike."

  "Two Oh Three is inbound with Two Oh Seven in trail. Two Oh Six went in the water, and the crew has been rescued."

  Brad scanned the horizon while he waited for a reply. The dense black clouds and towering, fluffy white cumulus formations indicated the presence of heavy thunderstorms south of the carrier.

  "Joker Two Zero Three," the controller said with a different pitch in his voice, "is directed to hit the tanker and marshal one five miles, angels one six on the three six zero." The instructions told Brad to enter a holding pattern fifteen nautical miles from the carrier at 16,000 feet. He would be due north of the ship.

  "Checkerboard, Two Oh Three has damage. We are unable to tank, and I can't hold very long."

  "Copy. Stand by."

  While he waited for instructions, Brad studied the lightning flashes in the distance. The black clouds appeared to illuminate from within.

  "Two Zero Three," the controller said over the unusual background noise, "be advised that we have a fouled deck. Your signal is bingo to Da Nang."

  Brad stared at his fuel-quantity indicator. He might make Da Nang Air Base if he flew directly to the airfield. The only problem, Brad told himself, was that he would have to fly through the menacing-looking thunderstorms to reach Da Nang. There had to be another option.

  "Checkerboard, I'm not sure we can make Da Nang. Do you have an estimate as to when the deck will be open?"

  "Negative," the controller responded over the background noise. "A Zuni rocket ignited and hit two aircraft. We have a major fire on the flight deck. My guess would be forty-five minutes to an hour--possibly longer--before we can recover aircraft again."

  "Copy," Brad replied as he sucked the last of the oxygen supply. "Two Oh Three is bingo Da Nang."

  "Sonuva . . . bitch!" Lunsford exclaimed, feeling his neck and shoulder muscles tighten. "I must'uv been born under a goddamn curse. What have I done to deserve this shit?"

  Adjusting the throttles for maximum fuel conservation, Brad snapped one side of his oxygen mask loose. He studied the thunderstorms blocking their only option. "Russ, better strap in tight. We've got to go straight through those boomers to make Da Nang."

  Both men knew they did not have the fuel or oxygen to climb over the raging storms, let alone ascend to the Phantom's optimum cruise altitude of 39,000 feet.

  "Have we got enough fuel?" Lunsford asked, snapping his mask loose.

  Looking at the fuel-quantity indicator, Brad quickly calculated the distance to Da Nang against time of fuel exhaustion. "It'll be close."

  "Goddamnit," Lunsford swore over the intercom. "Why me? Why does all this happen to me?"

  Brad spoke slowly. "Hey, why don't you go see Scary Mc-Cary and get some tranquilizers or something? You're driving me crazy."

  Lunsford bolted straight up in his seat. "I'm driving you crazy? You
gotta be kiddin' me--I'm driving you crazy. I'm flying with a lunatic jarhead who goes through trees and shoots air-to-air missiles at boats." Feeling the onset of hypoxia, Lunsford sucked in a breath of air. "I'm driving you crazy . . . Jesus."

  Brad chuckled to himself, then remained quiet a couple of minutes, hoping Lunsford would calm down. The RIO was still muttering to himself when they flew into the edge of the ominous-looking storm.

  "Here we go," Brad announced as the Phantom was swallowed by the angry black clouds. He increased the cockpit lighting to maximum, then peered up at the hole in his canopy. The lashing rain flowed over the opening as if it did not exist.

  The F-4 bounced and rocked as Brad fought to keep the fighter level. Lightning flashed, temporarily blinding him, a second before the aircraft was pounded by baseball-sized hail. Brad fixated on the engine instruments, fearful that the intense combination of hail and torrential rain might cause the engines to flame out *"Holy shit!" Lunsford shouted as the Phantom shot upward in a powerful updraft, then slammed downward. "I'm beginning to feel light-headed."

  Although their oxygen had been depleted, Brad had remained at 22,000 feet to conserve fuel. "Hang on," he said, glancing at his fuel-quantity indicator. "We'll be starting down in a few minutes." Austin also felt light-headed from the lack of oxygen at their altitude.

  Gritting his teeth, Brad worked the stick and rudders to keep the aircraft level. Lightning flashed almost constantly as the Phantom sliced through the heavy rain and pounding hail.

  Suddenly, the pitch-black darkness began showing signs of light. The severe turbulence slowly began to dissipate, and the hail ceased to bounce off the fighter. Seconds later, they flew out of the dark storm cell. The crew had an ephemeral moment of calm before they plunged headlong into another intense storm.

  Looking on his kneeboard, Brad found the radio frequency for Da Nang approach control. He also noted that their fuel was dangerously low. Brad tuned the radio and rechecked his fuel gauge. It read 1,100 pounds.

  "Da Nang approach, Joker Two Oh Three."