by Joe Weber
"Damnit," Brad blurted, then looked at the overhead. "I feel really bad about this."
Harry felt tension in his neck muscles. "They--the CO and XO--have been observing Russ closely the past few days. They have noticed, and so have I, that his hands shake uncontrollably at times."
Brad looked Harry straight in the eyes. "Hell, so do mine at times, especially from the constant adrenaline shocks. There has to be more to this."
Harry paused, thinking about the incident that had triggered the reassignment. "This morning, before you came to the ready room, the skipper and Jocko watched Russ try to drink a cup of coffee."
Brad started to speak but remained quiet while Harry continued.
"That was this morning, before you flew the BARCAP. He wasn't under the influence of an adrenaline charge." "What happened?" Brad asked impatiently.
"Russ sloshed over half the coffee on the deck before he could set the cup down. He scalded both hands."
"Jesus," Brad responded, remembering how quiet and reserved Lunsford had been during the flight that morning. "You know, he was unusually withdrawn today."
Brad analyzed Lunsford's behavior since the previous flight--the encounter with the North Vietnamese ace. "Russ didn't rant and rave, like normal, on the way back to the boat after Jon bagged the MiG."
Harry inhaled. "I think, from what I've heard, that the near midair with the MiG--right down in the dirt--flipped his switch."
Clenching his fists, Brad felt responsible for what had happened to his friend and flying companion. "What are they planning for Russ?"
"Well, from what I understand, the skipper is going to give Russ a collateral job--a project--to keep him busy for a week or so."
"Then what?" Brad asked, feeling a deep concern. "What about the long run?"
Harry shrugged. "I don't know. From what I gathered, they are going to have Russ fly with Bull Durham for a while, then evaluate the situation."
Brad and Harry reflected quietly on Russ Lunsford's future. Being grounded would probably be the kiss of death to his naval career.
Brad placed Leigh Ann's letter in his pocket. "Do we have to get new roommates?"
Harry shook his head. "No. The CO said since I don't have a pilot, then it's you and me, and we can stay put where we are."
Dropping his head, Brad worried about Lunsford. "I better go talk with Russ. I'm the one who is responsible for putting him into shock."
Harry raised his hand slightly. "I'd give it some time. He feels like he has failed you . . . let you down."
"Okay," Brad replied, knowing how he would feel under the same circumstances. "I understand."
Brad opened the refrigerator and pulled out two soft drinks. Handing one to Harry, Brad opened his can and leaned back. "Well, tell me the truth."
"I always do," Harry responded, wiping the corner of his mouth where a sip of Coke had spilled out.
Brad set down his can. "Do you have any qualms about flying with me?"
Harry chuckled, then downed a quick swallow. "Hell, no. You and Palmer--you're the best in the squadron."
Glancing at the bulkhead-mounted aeronautical chart of North Vietnam, Harry grew serious. "You know something, that asshole Carella has turned into a real shitbird since he took over as XO."
"How's that?"
Harry lifted his Coke can and held it a few inches from his mouth. "He inferred that since I don't have a brain, flying with you wouldn't scare me."
"Yeah," Brad replied, "a real prince."
Austin stood on the landing-signal officer's platform while the carrier turned into the wind. The afternoon strike group was inbound for the recovery scheduled at 1545. The rescue helicopter hovered off the starboard side of the stern of the carrier.
Brad looked out at the ship's churning wake, taking in the plane-guard destroyer. The smaller ship split the middle of the wake 5,000 feet behind the carrier.
He shared the platform on the aft port side of the ship with the controlling LSO, Lt. Tag Elliot, another LSO trainee, and two sound-powered telephone talkers. They were all aware of the safety net that would be their escape route if an aircraft appeared about to strike the ramp.
Terrell "Tag" Elliot, who was heralded as one of the best LSOs in the fleet, had warmly welcomed Brad to join his other trainee. Elliot was a quiet, studious man who had an air of melancholy about him. His curly blond hair was normally mussed, and he always had a cup of coffee in his hand. He had even been known to take a thermos bottle of the scalding liquid to the LSO platform.
Elliot held a telephone receiver that connected him to the controller in the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center, the Air Boss in Pri-Fly, and the inbound pilots. In the other hand, he held a pickle switch, which he used to energize the bright red wave-off lights if an approach looked unstable.
The LSO had total responsibility for getting the pilots safely aboard the carrier. He assigned a grade to each approach and landing, then critiqued the pilots in their ready room. His word was law at the ramp, without an appeal process.
A thirty-eight-knot wind whipped the cluster of men, making them continuously shift to maintain their balance. They had to shout to each other in order to be heard.
While they waited for the returning planes, Brad thought about the previous four days. He had had a lengthy, pleasant conversation with Russ Lunsford. Both men had felt comfortable after they had expressed their honest feelings, and reinforced their
mutual respect for each other. Their friendship was not in jeopardy.
Lunsford had enthusiastically attacked the assignment involving revamping and updating the squadron personnel files. He had also expressed a strong desire to return to flight status as quickly as possible.
Doc McCary had initiated a combination of tranquilizers, vigorous workouts, and personal counseling to assist Lunsford in adjusting to his environment.
Scheduled together for the first time, Brad and Harry had gone down on the catapult when a hydraulic leak had been detected under their Phantom. They were not going to be scheduled to fly again until Brad completed his five-day familiarization course with their sister-squadron LSO.
The most stimulation for Brad had been the letter from Leigh Ann. She had been enthusiastic about meeting Brad in San Francisco, but had insisted on paying her own expenses.
After checking with Dan Bailey, who had readily agreed to endorse Austin's leave papers, Brad had talked with an acquaintance on the staff of the task-force commander. The lieutenant commander had confirmed that Bon Homme Richard was about to complete warm-ups, providing the weather cooperated. The carrier was expected to depart Dixie Station in forty-four hours, and relieve Brad's troubled ship shortly thereafter.
Bringing his mind back to the present from more pleasant thoughts, Brad listened to the first pilot call the landing-signal officer.
"Skyhawk, ball, two point eight."
"Roger, ball," Elliot replied calmly. He watched the aircraft with a critical eye, ready to offer verbal encouragement if the pilot needed assistance.
"Green deck!" a talker shouted above the roar of the wind and jet engines. The A-4 Skyhawk continued the approach, seemingly nailed to the glide slope.
Seeing the aircraft settle in close, Tag Elliot spoke to the pilot. "Power--need a little power."
The seasoned aviator made a slight correction before crossing the round-down and thundering into the number-two arresting wire. The A-4 screeched to a wing-rocking halt, then rolled backward as the pilot pulled his throttle to idle. The hook runner yanked the arresting gear loose, allowing the Skyhawk pilot to quickly taxi out of the landing area.
Brad turned and looked forward on the flight deck, checking to see that nothing was protruding over the foul-deck line. He noted that a KA-3B tanker was preparing to launch off the port-bow catapult. The jet blast deflector had been raised and the Skywarrior was being hooked to the catapult shuttle.
Returning his attention to the next aircraft in the landing pattern, Brad listened to the pilot call
the ball.
"Skyhawk, ball, two point nine."
Brad could hear the approaching aircraft. The pilot constantly jockeyed his throttle, causing the engine to spool up and down. The continuous power adjustments were necessary to maintain a perfect descent profile down the glide slope to the arresting wires.
Noticing that the attack jet had started a left-to-right drift, Brad peered at Elliot. The LSO tilted his phone receiver next to his mouth.
"Line up. Back to the left."
The pilot of the Skywarrior tanker went to full power, checking his controls. Brad stole a glance up the deck, then returned his attention to the A-4. The Skyhawk dipped to the left and rolled wings level as it passed over the round-down.
Sensing trouble, Brad watched the attack jet continue to drift to the right. The aircraft slammed into the flight deck far to the right of the centerline, blowing the right tire. The tail hook impacted between the number-three and -four cables, skipping over the last arresting-gear wire. The damaged right landing gear pulled the Skyhawk even farther to the right of centerline.
"Bolter, bolter!" Elliot exclaimed, using body language to will the aircraft airborne. He also felt a sense of impending disaster.
The KA-3B thundered down the forward port catapult as the Skyhawk pilot pushed his throttle to the stops. He frantically shoved on the left-rudder pedal and yanked the control stick into his lap.
As the A-4 rotated, the right wing smashed into the port blast deflector. Debris exploded from the shattered wing as the deperate pilot fought to control his severely damaged aircraft.
Momentarily paralyzed, Brad witnessed the Skyhawk climb a hundred feet before it began a slow roll to the right.
The captain of the ship, anticipating an imminent crash, had already ordered a turn to the left to go behind the crippled A-4. The Skyhawk continued to roll to the right, passing behind and below the KA-3B tanker.
"EJECT! EJECT!" Tag Elliot shouted as the aircraft passed in front of the carrier's bow in a sixty-degree bank to the right. The A-4 was 190 feet above the water, nose level with the horizon. When the angle of bank approached ninety degrees, the Air Boss and the LSO yelled in unison for the pilot to eject.
Brad watched the canopy jettison, followed by the rocket-powered ejection seat. The pilot shot out horizontally, then started to arc toward the water. His parachute was only partially open when he impacted the water with tremendous force.
The aircraft crashed abeam the bow, creating a huge geyser of water. Wreckage ricocheted across the water for more than 200 yards.
Brad felt the ship heel over as the captain turned back into the wind. Elliot instructed the returning pilots to orbit overhead the carrier.
The rescue helicopter was slowing over the downed aviator, and the plane-guard destroyer had maneuvered to the right of the carrier's wake. The support ship was slowing in preparation to lower a boat over the side if the helicopter developed any problems.
As the carrier prepared to continue to recover aircraft, Brad watched the SAR helicopter hover over the A-4 pilot. The rescue swimmer jumped into the water as the carrier passed the helicopter. The injured aviator was apparently not able to don the rescue collar on his own.
"Ready deck!" the talker shouted into the wind.
Brad looked forward to see the last of the Skyhawk's debris being thrown over the side of the carrier. A plane handler kicked a shred of metal off the deck and gave a thumbs-up indication.
Tag Elliot was talking to the Air Boss and the pilots. It was time to continue recovering aircraft, before they all had to tank from the Whale.
Brad heard the approaching Skyhawk pilot call the ball, then glanced at the rescue helicopter. The rotorcraft was falling far behind the carrier, but Brad could see that the A-4 pilot was being hoisted aboard the helicopter. The injured aviator would be back on the carrier deck in a matter of minutes.
Chapter 26.
Stepping into the main wardroom, Brad joined the line at the cafeteria-style counter, then looked for an empty seat in the crowded room.
Spotting Harry Hutton and Russ Lunsford, Brad walked to their table. "Hi, guys."
"Hi," Russ answered, reaching for his milk. Harry nodded, swallowing a bite of tuna-fish sandwich.
Lunsford appeared to be more relaxed than Brad had ever seen him. Russ held his milk with a steady hand, smiling easily and laughing.
Harry raised his sandwich. "You been LSOing this morning, or just sleeping in?"
"No," Brad replied, placing his cloth napkin across his lap. "I've been in the library, studying the history of the landing-signal officer. I get to wave the afternoon gaggle, with Tag coaching me."
Lunsford finished his milk. "Are you going to have to go to the formal LSO school?"
"I don't know what they plan to do. This is just an indoctrination to the art, and, as you know, we're short of aircrews."
Brad reached for his iced tea and looked at Russ. "How's the personnel business?"
Listening to Lunsford tell about the revamped personnel files, Brad peppered his meal and began eating. "What's next on your list?"
"Scary told me," Russ answered, putting his dessert spoon down with a triumphant air, "that I am cleared to fly tomorrow."
Brad looked up, concealing his concern. Whatever his faults, Russ Lunsford was a good friend. "How do you feel about flying again?"
Lunsford waited while a steward removed his plates from the table. "At first--yesterday when he told me--I had a few butterflies in my stomach, but I'm looking forward to getting back in the groove."
Harry put down the remains of his sandwich. "We are scheduled to fly wing tomorrow for Bull and Russ."
"Great," Brad replied, turning to Lunsford. "What kind of hop did we draw?"
"A TARCAP," Russ answered, folding his napkin on the table. "We are on the early morning launch, then the Bonnie Dick will relieve us. Tomorrow at this time, we will be steaming for Yokosuka."
Brad immediately thought of Leigh Ann. "Who told you that we're going to Yokosuka tomorrow?"
"The old man," Lunsford answered, serenely folding his hands, "made the announcement about an hour ago."
Unable to contain his grin, Brad ordered dessert from a steward, then resumed the conversation. "Has anyone heard from Nick?"
"Yes," Harry replied. "I had a short note from him yesterday. He wrote it with his left hand, so it took a while to decipher his scratchings. At any rate, he is in sunny San Diego. He said that he is going to be in the hospital--Balboa--for about a month and a half. After that, he is going to be undergoing physical therapy, and whatever else they dream up."
"Then what?" Brad asked, leaning back to allow a steward to remove his dinner plate. He had eaten only a few bites. "Who knows. Scary still thinks Nick will be flying in a couple of months."
Harry waited until Brad's ice cream had been served. "I heard that the A-4 jock--the guy who skipped across the water yesterday--is turning in his wings. Scary said he broke his right leg and three ribs. I guess he is just one huge bruise."
Brad wiped his mouth. "I think you heard wrong. I went through advanced training with the guy--Chargin' Charlie Nickerson. He is one tough son of a bitch, and a hell of a pilot. He'd probably be the last guy to toss his wings on the table."
"Well," Harry shrugged, "that's what I heard from a guy in his squadron."
Brad ate slowly. The cold dessert caused his teeth to ache. "What are you two planning to do in Yoko?"
An enthusiastic grin spread across Harry's face. "I don't know about Russ, but I'm going to engage in my own kind of physical therapy, and it isn't touring shrines and temples."
Lunsford chuckled, appearing to be completely relaxed. "Since you're deserting us, I'm going to have to take charge of Harry."
"Right, Bosco," Hutton responded, turning to Lunsford. "The last time we were in Yoko, you got blown away on hot sake, and I had to drag your drunken carcass back to the hotel."
Brad finished his ice cream. "I still think the best Russ Luns
ford story happened in Hong Kong."
Lunsford sighed. "Do we have to hear that again?" "Yeah," Harry laughed, "when he got shit-faced and bought that plaid suit with the three-inch cuffs."
"After he fell out of the ricksha," Brad grinned.
Lunsford flushed. "Could you all talk a little louder, so the whole wardroom can hear?"
"You had to wear sunglasses," Harry continued, "to look at that goddamn suit. Christ, he looked like a California clap doctor."
"I've got an idea," Brad said excitedly. "Why don't you guys ride up to Tokyo with me, to see me off. If I have time before my flight departs, we can amuse ourselves in the Ginza district. How about it?" Brad asked, looking at his watch. He had to be on the LSO platform in fifteen minutes.
"I'm game," Harry replied. "What else have I got to do?" Russ paused a moment. "Count me in, if I can wear my plaid suit."
Tag Elliot stood directly behind Brad, watching the F-4 Phantom rolling into the groove. Elliot's chin was almost touching Brad's left shoulder. The LSO looked much like an umpire standing behind a baseball catcher. Each man held a telephone receiver to his ear. Elliot held the wave-off pickle over his head in his right hand.
Brad intently watched the descending Phantom, concentrating on the visual clues Elliot had taught him. Austin listened to the distinct whine of the F-4's engines as the pilot adjusted his throttles.
Detecting the aircraft going above the glide slope, Brad spoke into his telephone receiver. "Slightly high . . . ease it down a bit."
The pilot responded in a smooth, well-coordinated effort. He crossed the round-down on speed, on centerline, and caught the number-three arresting wire. A perfect trap.
Focusing on the next Phantom, Brad had a fleeting thought about the A-4 Skyhawk orbiting overhead. The attack jet had a single 250-pound Mark 81 bomb that had failed to release from under the right wing. The Air Boss wanted all the strike aircraft safely on deck before the Skyhawk with live ordnance would be allowed to land.
Watching the Phantom closely, Brad thought the approach looked stabilized. At the last second, the pilot pulled off too much power and caught the number-two wire.