Rules of Engagement (1991)

by Joe Weber

  Licking his dry lips, Brad raised his radio. "Joker, they're coming out of the tree line."

  "I'm in," O'Meara replied calmly.

  Brad watched the sleek Phantom flick over on its side and hurtle toward the villagers. Leveling at fifty feet, Jon O'Meara boomed right over the Vietnamese, tapping the afterburners three times.

  The villagers ducked back into the undergrowth as the howling Phantom blasted over them. They emerged again when the F-4 shot skyward. The group spread out and again started up the incline.

  Slipping off his flight gloves, Brad reached into a specially sewn pocket in his survival gear. He extracted a small metal box containing fifty rounds of .38-caliber ammunition. He placed the box between them, then felt Lunsford tap him. He looked up, petrified. "Oh, shit."

  "Okay, Nick," Harry coached, "wings level. We're lined up in the groove."

  "Okay," Palmer whispered, trying to keep his head up.

  Bailey crossed under Palmer, moving off to the left side of the damaged Phantom. He listened to the landing-signal officer, who had trained Palmer to be an LSO, talk his friend down.

  "You're going a little flat. Watch your altitude."

  Locking his shoulder harness, Harry felt a tightness in his stomach. "Have you got the deck?"

  "Blurry" was the only response.

  Bailey added power and turned away, climbing steeply to the orbiting tanker.

  "You're a quarter of a mile," Harry reported, feeling his pulse throb in his neck.

  The LSO held his mike button down. "Line up. You're drifting right."

  "Nick," Harry said, breathing rapidly, "come left just a hair. Get the left wing down." On their present heading, they would hit the island superstructure. Palmer corrected to the left, then let the nose drop too low. They were about to cross the stern of the ship.

  "Get your nose up! Power!" the LSO shouted, preparing to dive into the crash net. "Get the nose up!"

  Palmer hauled back on the stick as the Phantom slammed into the steel deck. Hutton braced himself for the violent barricade engagement.

  The speeding fighter slammed into the nylon webbing, stopping far left of the landing-zone centerline. The left main mount was only two feet from the port catwalk. Nick Palmer brought the throttles to idle, then slumped unconscious against his shoulder harness.

  "Joker," Brad whispered, watching the dogs and villagers inch up the incline, "there's a troop truck two hundred meters from us.

  The Phantom flicked over again, diving steeply at the army vehicle. The soldiers opened fire with every weapon they had available.

  Transfixed, Brad and Russ watched Jon O'Meara punch off his missile ejector racks at point-blank range. The left rack, with one Sidewinder attached, plowed into the cab of thp truck. The direct hit knocked the vehicle sideways into a shallow ditch.

  The stunned soldiers clambered out of the wrecked truck and rushed for cover in the trees. They left their dead officer and his driver in the mutilated cab.

  With renewed caution, the angry villagers stalked the two Americans. They fanned out to the right side of the trapped airmen. One of the men stopped and took aim.

  "Keep your head down," Brad warned.

  A shot rang out, kicking up dirt next to Brad's head. The farmers were shouting at the soldiers, gesturing for them to hurry to their position. They had two war criminals cornered on the hill. Two more shots ricocheted between Austin and Lunsford.

  "Goddamnit," Brad swore, gripping the .38 with both hands. He extended his arms and raised his head, remembering the rifle and pistol instruction at the Officers' Basic School in Quantico.

  Brad fired three quick shots, then carefully aimed at one of the men brandishing an AK-47. He squeezed the revolver twice, sending the villager staggering backward. He waited a couple of seconds, then fired again, missing the fleeing Vietnamese. The man he had shot was crawling toward the trees, but he collapsed on his face after traveling three meters.

  "Reload," Brad ordered tersely, then accepted the other .38 revolver. He grabbed the radio and slid it to his mouth. "Jon, where's Lifeguard?"

  The radio became garbled when Jon O'Meara and the Skyraider pilot attempted to transmit at the same time.

  "This is Lifeguard Lead. We've got a tally on the Fox-4. We're almost there."

  Brad could barely hear the roar of the approaching A-1 s. Glancing to the east, he spotted the descending RESCAP Sky-raiders. Looking back at the tree line, he could see that the soldiers had joined the villagers. They moved forward, crouching at the edge of the trees. A barrage of concentrated fire erupted from the soldiers, forcing Brad and Russ to hug the ground.

  "Tell Jon to make a pass," Brad said, placing the revolver over the edge of their depression. He rapidly fired all six rounds, then grabbed the other .38.

  Brad heard O'Meara's voice as he fired another six rounds at the advancing soldiers. He grabbed his standby .45-caliber pistol and squeezed the trigger until the gun was empty.

  Lunsford struggled to reload the empty .38s while O'Meara thundered over the line of soldiers and farmers. He was so low, Brad thought he was going to hit the ground. The Vietnamese flattened out on their stomachs.

  The soldiers crept foward, firing in short bursts. If they rushed the Americans, Austin and Lunsford would die quickly. Brad fired another six rounds, then reached for the second .38. Watching the North Vietnamese soldiers prepare to race toward them, Brad and Russ fired wildly over the edge of their concealment. They heard Jon O'Meara and Mario Russo give the Spad drivers the location to hit.

  "Oh, mother of Jesus," Lunsford said, fumbling to reload. His hands were shaking so hard he could not load the rounds in the chambers.

  Brad spotted the A-1 Skyraiders rolling in for their first pass. The four Spads, each carrying four 20mm guns, rocket pods, and two 500-pound bombs, plunged straight at the soldiers.

  "Come on," Brad ordered when the first rockets and gunfire swept over the soldiers, "follow me!"

  Limping, Lunsford felt a sharp pain in his right ankle as he raced after Brad. They ran across an open area to a small irrigation dike and stumbled through the muddy water. Both spread out on the far side, trying to catch their breath. They watched the A-1s pound their former position, then heard the sweet sounds of a navy Seasprite.

  The helicopter hugged the tops of the distant trees as it raced toward them. As the pilot flared to land, a door gunner opened fire at the advancing soldiers.

  Brad and Russ got up and charged for the Seasprite, leaping through the door before the pilot could land. As the helicopter turned and accelerated, Brad caught a glimpse of Jon O'Meara's Phantom climbing away in afterburner. It was a sight that he would never forget.

  A medic helped them to a secure position, then gave Russ and Brad containers of water. Between gasps, they gulped the warm liquid.

  "We made it," Russ shouted over the beating rotor blades. "Sweet Jesus, we made it. Thank you, God." He dropped the plastic water bottle next to his seat and clasped his hands in a silent prayer.

  Brad sat motionless, drained of all energy. He sagged against the fuselage, enjoying the comforting vibrations flowing through the helicopter. He drank another four swallows of water, then closed his eyes and gave thanks that he was still alive.

  The medic, who had seen that they were relatively unscathed, waited until the Seasprite was over water to offer the two men a cigarette. Both declined but shared a third container of water.

  Closing his eyes again, Brad let his mind drift. He desperately wanted to enjoy an icy-cold beer, and go waterskiing.

  Sensing a change in the pitch of the rotor blades, Brad swung around and looked forward through the cockpit. He saw the carrier steaming off the starboard side of the helicopter. He watched the white wake as the pilot slowed, then approached the side of the flight deck.

  Once the Seasprite was stabilized at the same speed as the ship, the pilot eased over the flight deck and gently lowered the helicopter.

  Russ and Brad waited until the bounc
ing, vibrating machine had been chocked and secured to the deck, then moved to the entrance. They thanked the two pilots and medic before jumping out of the door.

  They were both shocked to see Jon O'Meara and Mario Russo waiting for them. The four men hugged each other in an emotional embrace. The bond of the brotherhood was readily apparent to everyone who witnessed the union.

  Chapter 22.

  Brad walked into the quiet, antiseptically clean sick bay. Scary McCary was examining Russ Lunsford's swollen right ankle. Brad sat down in a chair next to McCary's cluttered desk and watched him manipulate Lunsford's foot.

  "You're going to be just fine," the flight surgeon said, writing a paragraph in Lunsford's medical file. "You've got a severe sprain, but it will heal rapidly. I want you to stay off your feet for forty-eight hours, and use the crutches I'm going to get you."

  Lunsford looked at Brad before he spoke. "Doc, if Austin flies, I fly."

  McCary sat back in his chair and wearily removed his glasses. "I'm grounding both of you for a while."

  Brad and Russ registered their surprise. "Why?" they said in unison.

  McCary handed each of them a government-issue fountain pen. "Both of you sign your full names on the back of this lab report . . . right here."

  Brad set down his pen. "I get the point, but we--"

  "No," McCary said, again handing him the black pen. "Sign your name."

  Lunsford wrote his name on the report and slid the paper to Austin. Brad attempted to neatly sign his name. His hand trembled uncontrollably.

  McCary pulled out Brad's medical file and placed it next to Lunsford's file. "Compare your signatures when you first reported to the squadron with that scrawl you call writing."

  Brad and Russ looked at the comparisons. The graphic difference was evident to both of them.

  "Lunsford," McCary said, placing his glasses on, "deals with the tension--and it is cumulative--by getting it out of his system. He yells and swears to relieve the anxiety and fear."

  McCary paused, tapping a pen against the edge of his desk. He looked at Brad, focusing on his eyes. "You, on the other hand, keep stuffing it down. The fear, the tension, the killing, your hostility toward the rules of engagement. All of it is shoved down, creating a tremendous amount of internal pressure."

  Brad looked perplexed. "Doc, that is the nature of this business. We are not horticulturists."

  McCary smiled and turned to their medical files. "Both of you are grounded because of stress. I will let you know when I feel you're ready to fly again." He opened his lower drawer and removed several small bottles of bourbon. "I want the two of you to go to your room and get drunk, cuss me . . . whatever you want to do. I'll see both of you in three days--Friday--at fifteen hundred."

  "Yes, sir," Brad replied, accepting his fate. "May we see Nick?"

  "Sure," McCary replied, then turned in his chair and motioned to a corpsman. The third class petty officer stepped inside the office. "Rinehart, get a pair of crutches for Lieutenant Lunsford."

  "Yessir."

  McCary turned back to Austin and Lunsford. "Kick Hutton's ass out when you leave. Palmer is heavily sedated and needs to rest, so you have five minutes."

  Brad and Russ stood when the corpsman reappeared with the metal crutches.

  McCary pulled back the green curtain separating his office from the ward. "He's in the room at the end of the compartment."

  Lunsford hobbled along after Austin as they made their way between the rows of beds. When they reached Palmer's compartment, Brad quietly knocked on the side of the entrance, then pulled the curtain to the side.

  Harry Hutton was sitting on a chair next to Palmer's bed. A freckle-faced corpsman was adjusting a bottle connected to an intravenous tube in the pilot's left arm.

  Brad and Russ stepped inside and closed the curtain. They both noticed that Harry looked pale and drawn. Brad looked at Nick Palmer. The injured aviator opened his eyes, acknowledging their presence. They remained quiet until the corpsman left the room.

  Moving next to his wingman, Brad gently grasped Palmer's left wrist. "Partner, you just about took the last ride on that one."

  Palmer smiled weakly, speaking in a pained whisper. "I never . . . saw it coming."

  "We didn't either," Lunsford said, leaning against the bulkhead. "Someone may have called it, but we sure as hell never heard anything during all the confusion."

  Palmer looked up at Brad. "Harry said that you guys had to jump out."

  "Yeah, I lost it," Brad replied, releasing Palmer's wrist. "McCary says that you are going to be as good as new when they get finished."

  Palmer gave a slight nod. He started to speak, but fell silent when his eyelids drooped closed.

  Harry stood quietly. "They're flying him to Japan as soon as he stabilizes."

  Brad looked at Palmer. His chest and right arm were swathed in bandages. His complexion was pale and chalky, with a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

  "Let's let him rest," Brad suggested, stepping out of the small compartment. "Harry, you don't look well."

  The normally effervescent RIO waited for Russ Lunsford, then pulled the curtain closed. "I'll be okay. Scary grounded me, so--as Chief Flaven says--I'm gonna get plumb blowed slick."

  "We're grounded, too," Brad replied as they made their way between the rows of impeccably clean beds. "How about if I get some ice and food from the wardroom, and we'll camp in our pit?"

  "Good idea," Hutton responded, stepping out of sick bay.

  Lunsford swore when he stumbled over a hatch combing. "They made this difficult enough. Now I have to negotiate these sonuvabitchin' knee knockers on crutches."

  The three men made their way up to the hangar deck, then weaved through the parked planes to the ladder leading to their staterooms. The berthing compartments for some of the air-wing officers were midship, below the flight deck.

  Climbing the steep ladder, Lunsford had to forego the crutches and hop one rung at a time to the next level. Brad carried the crutches and followed his RIO up the ladder. He gazed out across the huge hangar bay. Men were working in every available space. Bombs, rockets, fuel tanks, wheels, engines, and various other supplies were stacked everywhere. The maintenance crews were swarming over the array of aircraft, fixing mechanical problems and patching recent battle scars.

  When the trio reached the next deck, Brad handed Russ his metal crutches. Lunsford turned to go to his stateroom. "I'll grab my good-time kit and meet you at your room."

  "No," Brad said, looking at Hutton. "Harry can get your booze while I go to the wardroom. You need to get off your feet and relax."

  "Thanks," Lunsford replied as he entered the passageway leading to the junior officers' quarters.

  Stretched out on the lower bunk, Russ Lunsford accepted his second drink from Brad. Harry had made his nest on the deck. After folding two blankets together, he had placed his pillow against the bulkhead and pulled his footlocker next to him.

  Fixing his second drink, Brad was about to ask Hutton a question when they heard a knock on the door.

  "Shit," Lunsford exclaimed, propping himself up.

  Brad opened the door to find Dan Bailey and Jack Carella looking at him.

  "Gents," the CO said from the passageway, "we're not going to interrupt you for long. Doc McCary told us that he has grounded the three of you, and I don't question his decisions. You've been through a hell of a lot, and we think he is right."

  Jocko Carella appeared to be more intense than usual. He played his new roll as the executive officer perfectly. "That's the good news. The bad news is that we expect all of you to have up chits Friday afternoon, and be ready to man up the next morning."

  "Sir," Brad responded, thoroughly miffed at the implication that they were goldbricking, "we didn't ask to be grounded, and I'd be happy to go blast the bastards to oblivion right now."

  "Calm down," Bailey said in a pleasant tone. "That's why you need some time-out--let off the steam. You're spring-loaded to th
e kill mode."

  "We should be, sir," Brad responded, regretting his words as soon as he had uttered them. This mess was not the CO's fault. "I apologize, Skipper."

  Bailey placed his hand on Brad's shoulder. "No apology needed, okay?" The CO met Brad's eyes. "Get as drunk as you want. We don't want to see you until the Saturday morning brief."

  "Yes, sir," Brad replied, feeling some of the tension dissipate. "That is our first priority."

  Bailey chuckled and pulled the door shut.

  "Holy Christ," Lunsford said, lying down again. "You better take it easy, or the old man is going to have you down for a psychiatric evaluation."

  Brad opened his desk drawer and pulled out a Wall Street Journal. "Let me show you something, Doctor Lunsford."

  Placing the newspaper faceup on Lunsford's lap, Brad sat down. "I've highlighted the significant parts, so you don't have to wade through all of it."

  Harry Hutton gave Brad a quizzical look, then remained quiet while Lunsford skimmed through the article. Harry's curiosity was aroused when Lunsford called the president a son of a bitch. Harry tossed down his vodka in two quick gulps. "What the hell are you reading?"

  "Tell him," Brad said, propping his feet on the end of the bunk. "The Journal has a reputation for getting their facts straight."

  Lunsford cleared his throat. "It says that the final decisions on aerial targets in Vietnam--including the targets to be authorized, the ordnance to be dropped, the number of sorties allowed, and, most disturbingly, the tactics to be employed--are made once a week at a luncheon in the goddamn White House."

  Harry digested the information, unsure of its significance in relation to them.

  "Tell him the part," Brad said evenly, "that is driving me to the brink of insanity."

  Lunsford glanced again at the fourth underlined paragraph. "The luncheons are attended by the president, the secretary of defense, the secretary of state, the presidential assistant, and the press secretary."

  "What's more important," Brad interjected, reaching for an ice cube, "is the fact that no military personnel are present, not even the chairman of the Joint Chiefs."