by Joe Weber
Turning to watch the F-4 run out in the arresting-gear cable, Brad caught a glimpse of three members of the ship's explosive ordnance disposal (EOD) team. The EOD experts were standing at the forward hatch in the island. During the morning launch, they had had to disarm a 250-pound bomb that had broken loose from an A-4 during a catapult launch.
Seven more aircraft landed without a single bolter, clearing the deck for the Skyhawk. Complicating the A-4 pilot's problem was the fact that he also had an asymmetrical situation. The right wing, with the bomb attached, was carrying more weight than the left wing.
Brad and Tag Elliot heard the booming voice of the Air Boss over the flight-deck loudspeakers.
"The hung ordnance is descending downwind."
"Roger, Boss," Elliot replied in his hand-held transmitter, then tapped Brad on the shoulder. "I'll take this one."
Brad nodded and stepped behind the LSO. Searching for the A-4, he spotted it directly abeam of the carrier. Following the aircraft through the turn to final, Brad glanced forward on the flight deck. It was deserted, except for the EOD team.
Turning back to the A-4, Brad watched the Skyhawk and listened to Elliot. As the aircraft approached the ramp, Brad felt his muscles tense. He shot a quick look at the safety net, then discarded the thought of diving in the padded net. If the bomb went off, he would be blown over the side of the carrier.
Flying a steady approach, the A-4 pilot planted the airplane between the number-two and -three wires. The bomb jarred loose, hit the deck, bounced up and hit the underside of the wing, then skittered down the angle deck and dropped into the water.
Waiting for an explosion, Brad held his breath. When the stern of the ship had passed the impact point of the bomb, Brad realized he needed to breathe.
The relieved Skyhawk pilot rolled back, dropped the arresting-gear wire, and shut down the engine. He did not want to move the aircraft until the plane captain had had an opportunity to assess the damage.
Elliot turned to Brad. "With some experience, you're going to have this wired."
"Thanks," Brad replied, stowing their LSO gear. "I appreciate the introduction to your fraternity."
After dinner, Brad strolled forward through the crowded hangar bay, climbed a ladder to the flight deck, and walked the length of the carrier. Arriving at the round-down, Brad watched the phosphorescent wake churned up from the ship's propellers and daydreamed about Leigh Ann. What was she doing right now? Had she told her friends about him? Would she be in San Francisco when he arrived? He hoped she would meet him.
Brad computed the time difference between the Gulf of Tonkin and Memphis, Tennessee. Leigh Ann would most likely be asleep at 4:15 in the morning. She would be having her evening meal when he next launched into combat.
Watching the escort destroyers roll gently from side to side, Brad decided to write Leigh Ann a letter. If she agreed to meet him in San Francisco, she would not receive the letter until after she had returned home. He wanted Leigh Ann to know how he felt about her, regardless of whether or not she could join him in California.
Back in his stateroom, Brad placed a piece of paper on the desktop, then absently tapped his Naval Academy ring on the side of the counter. He picked up his pen, set it down, and gazed at the picture of Leigh Ann.
He wondered if the two of them would enjoy the same activities and share the same basic philosophy of life. She had seemed like a very flexible person who would most likely be equally at ease on a yacht at Cannes or nestled next to a warm fire in a mountain cabin. Lake Tahoe came to mind, then the San Juan Islands between Seattle and Vancouver. He felt certain that Leigh Ann would enjoy the quiet peacefulness that permeated the isolated islands--a pristine environment of forested land surrounded by water as clear and clean as a mountain lake.
Brad smiled inwardly, remembering his first trip to the archipelago. The rustic cabin without a television or telephone. The unspoiled wilderness and the deserted paths through the stately fir trees.
Yes, Brad thought, staring at the beautiful woman in the small frame. A log cabin, a warm fire, a bowl of soup, some French bread, a bottle of good wine, and Leigh Ann.
Reaching again for his pen, Brad stopped when Harry inserted his key in the door. "It's open."
"Thanks," Harry replied as he stepped in and closed the slightly warped door.
"How was the movie?"
"Lousy," Harry responded with a disgusted look. "I don't know what the hell has happened, but some of this crap we've seen three times, and shouldn't have seen the first time."
"Harry," Brad suggested, "why don't you take up a collection and buy some juicy movies in Tokyo?"
"Good idea," Harry beamed. "Some good old-fashioned raunchy flicks."
Harry opened the refrigerator. "Shit, we're outta Cokes."
"No we're not," Brad smiled. "Try my flight-gear locker. Seventeen, twenty-eight, twelve." Harry repeated the numbers to the combination lock and hurried to the equipment room.
Brad filled two glasses with ice cubes. After refilling the small ice tray, he slipped it back in the refrigerator and leaned against the bulkhead.
He carefully studied Harry's latest foldout of the Playmate of the Month. What he viewed did not impress him. The porcelain face reflected a sullen, pouting young girl who did not look too happy.
When Harry returned with two six packs of Coke, they poured their drinks and relaxed. Brad remained at the desk while Harry flopped on his stomach across the lower bunk. Something was on his mind.
"Brad, I haven't flown with you yet, but you seem more cautious . . . sort of pensive, or something."
Glancing at the picture of Leigh Ann, Brad understood what his new RIO was saying. "You may be right," Brad offered. "We are hanging our asses out for nothing. Think about this goddamn mess. We are caught in a shifting, confused, obvious smoke screen to sustain the minimum appearance of a war." The veins in Austin's neck were beginning to protrude. "It's very simple, at least to me. You fight to win."
Harry propped himself up on his elbows. "Sorry. I didn't mean to set you off again."
"Harry, I'll give it a hundred and ten percent, if we're fighting to win."
Brad paused, calming himself. "This is the last place I want to be, along with every other person on this ship. I'd much rather be sitting on a boat next to Leigh Ann, anchored in a cove enjoying an evening cocktail, than dodging missiles and MiGs in an unwinnable war."
"Okay," Harry replied tentatively. "I was just thinking about what the skipper said yesterday."
"I know," Brad replied, inhaling deeply. "If you lose the fine edge, you're setting yourself up to bust your ass, or words to that effect."
Harry looked at his pilot. "Our asses."
Chapter 27.
The carrier vibrated as the four massive screws propelled the ship to flank speed. With only a slight breeze over the flight deck, the carrier had to create the necessary wind to safely launch aircraft.
Brad and Harry finished their before-takeoff checklists, paying special attention to critical items. As a new flying team, they had to smoothly blend their skills to maximize the capabilities of their Phantom.
Taxiing over the number-two catapult shuttle, Brad caught a glimpse of Jon O'Meara's F-4 as it hurtled off the waist catapult. The Phantom settled low over the water, then rotated skyward, blowing spray from the afterburners.
"That guy," Harry said over the intercom, "is going to drop one in the water one of these days."
Brad ignored the remark, concentrating on the catapult officer. When the final safety checker scrambled out from under the F-4, the cat officer gave Austin the two-finger turn-up signal.
Brad slowly advanced the throttles to full power, then into afterburner. He carefully checked the engine RPMs and cycled the flight controls while he glanced at the exhaust gas temperatures. Everything was in the green and stabilized for takeoff.
Bracing his helmet, Brad snapped off a salute and sucked in a lungful of cool oxygen. Five seconds later they wer
e over water.
Brad rotated the nose higher and popped the landing-gear lever up. After the landing gear had retracted, he noticed the right main mount indicated unsafe. Brad pulled the throttles back to keep the airspeed below the maximum gear-extension speed. "Harry, we've got a little problem with the right gear."
Hutton raised his helmet visor. "We're off to an auspicious start."
Brad placed his left hand on the landing-gear control handle. "I'm going to recycle the gear."
He lowered the lever, let the wheels extend to the down-andlocked position, then firmly raised the handle again. Feeling the wheels bang into the wells, Brad cast a cautious look at the gear indicators. Three safe.
"Lookin' good," Brad announced, shoving the throttles to the stops and raising the flaps.
After rendezvousing with Lincoln Durham and Russ Lunsford, the two Phantoms refueled and circled off the North Vietnamese coast north of Thai Binh. They could see the strike group from Bonne Homme Richard. The Skyraiders and A-4 Skyhawks were pulverizing a rail yard and the rolling stock lining the tracks. A-6 Intruders from another carrier had previously demolished the outflowing rail lines, trapping the loaded railroad cars in the crowded switching yard.
Two flights of F-8 Crusaders were flying cover for the Bonne Homme Richard strike force. Brad could see the antiaircraft fire blossom across the hazy sky. Two surface-to-air missiles lifted off, followed by four more SAMs. The sky was saturated with rockets, bullets, and shrapnel.
Both Joker crews heard their strike-group leader check in on the strike frequency. Their target was a strongly defended industrial complex. A secondary target, consisting of a highway bridge and railroad bridge, would be bombed by the second strike group.
Loitering off the coastline, an unarmed reconnaissance aircraft waited to dash in and photograph the damage. Every crew wanted to obliterate their targets on the first pass. No one wanted to return and run the deadly risk twice.
Brad quickly rechecked his cockpit switches and armament panel. What are we doing here? This is crazy . . . absolutely nuts. Hanging our asses out for what? Experiencing a sudden stab of fear, he listened to the continuous calls from Red Crown.
The first strike had attracted a swarm of MiGs. The GCI controller continued to report more MiGs taking off from Kep, Gia Lam, and Phuc Yen.
"Are you cinched in tight, Harry?"
"I'm set."
Brad heard the leader of the four Phantoms from their sister squadron. They were engaging the first group of MiGs en route to the first target area. The F-8 Crusaders would tackle any fighters that eluded the Phantoms.
"Okay," Harry announced, "I've got 'em at three o'clock, going feet dry."
Brad looked to his right and peered at the coastline 8,000 feet below. He could see the strike aircraft race over the beach.
When Bull Durham lowered his F-4's nose, Brad automatically moved out to a combat spread position. He preferred to be three quarters of a mile to the right of his flight leader, stepped up 500 feet. The aerial combat formation provided both crews an opportunity to constantly scan around each other's aircraft.
Descending through 6,000 feet, Lunsford locked up a MiG on his radar. Turning twenty degrees to the right, Durham headed straight for the Communist fighter. Brad stepped down 1,000 feet, crossed under his leader, then moved back into position on the left side of Durham.
"You got anything, Harry?"
There was a slight pause. "Yeah. The shakes."
Brad increased power to stay even with Durham. "Lock him up, Harry. We have to make it count."
"It's intermittent. The box won't lock on."
At four miles from their target, Brad spotted the lead MiG. A second later he saw three more in trail formation. He keyed his radio. "Bull, we have four bogies at one o'clock, crossing right to left."
"Got 'em," Durham replied, firing a Sparrow missile a moment later.
Entranced, Brad watched the missile make slight corrections, then track to the third aircraft in the line-astern formation. The Sparrow detonated under the nose of the MiG-21, blowing the cockpit away from the fuselage. The remains of the fighter plummeted toward the ground, streaming fuel and shedding parts.
"I'm going HEAT," Brad said to Harry at the same instant the MiGs turned hard into the two Phantoms.
Seeing the muzzle flashes from the first MiG's cannon, Brad unconsciously lowered his head a couple of inches. The MiG flight leader had selected Brad as his prey. The opposing aircraft were closing head-on with a closure rate of more than 1,000 miles per hour.
Slightly lower than the Phantoms, the MiGs were climbing toward Brad's F-4. Timing his move, Brad waited until the first MiG was seconds from passing under his fighter, then punched off his centerline tank. The Communist flight leader banked hard to the left, missing the tumbling external fuel tank. His wingman broke right, followed by the third MiG.
"Vertical reverse!" Durham ordered, pulling hard on his stick. "Kick off the tanks." He had not seen the fuel tank fall away from Brad's Phantom.
"Two."
Brad mirrored Durham's maneuver, jamming the throttles into afterburner. Passing forty-five degrees nose up, both pilots banked toward each other.
The MiG flight leader snapped his aircraft into the vertical and turned toward Durham's F-4. The white stripe across the camouflaged tail was easy to recognize.
"That's Major Dao!" Lunsford shouted over the radio.
Brad could hear the edge of panic in his friend's voice. The Phantoms passed nose to nose with thirty feet of separation. Both pilots twisted their necks as far as possible in an effort to see who the MiG flight leader would challenge.
"He's jumping Bull!" Harry said, straining to find the other two MiGs. "He's staying on Bull."
"Joker One," Brad shouted into his damp mask, "break hard port--go for separation!"
Durham unloaded the g forces and accelerated away from the MiG-21. Approaching the speed of sound, the American flight leader reversed to reengage the MiGs.
Catching sight of the two MiGs closing from eight o'clock, Brad pulled hard into a displacement roll. His conversation with Nick Palmer, in regard to aerial combat maneuvers, flashed through his mind. He righted the F-4 and started a turn to the right, allowing the MiGs to turn inside his Phantom.
"Do you see Dao?" Brad asked over the intercom. For the first time in his combat tour, Austin was beginning to taste fear and desperation. "Have you got him?"
Harry thrashed from side to side, frantic to locate the MiG ace. "No! He's got to be on our six--below us . . . I think."
Brad waited until the MiGs were inside his radius of turn before he unloaded the Phantoms In the same profile, the American fighter floated away from the MiG pilots. They instinctively snap rolled their aircraft to follow the F-4.
Brad gritted his teeth and yanked on the stick, pulling an instant 7 g's as he executed a barrel roll to the left. The MiGs flashed by under him, allowing Brad a narrow window of escape.
He shoved the nose down and caught sight of Major Dao tracking him from above and behind. The MiG pilot fired a missile that shot over the Phantom, disappearing in the morning haze.
"Joker Two," Durham yelled, "go vertical!"
"Two," Brad groaned under the g forces he exerted on the fighter. He could barely breathe, sensing the onslaught of gray-out. His g suit felt as though it would explode if he pulled any harder. Harry appeared to be a lifeless rag doll in the rear cockpit.
When Brad's F-4 rocketed straight up in afterburner, the MiG ace turned his attention to Durham. The other two MiGs had maneuvered to gain the advantage on the American flight leader, causing Bull and Russ to concentrate on escaping from them.
When Brad reversed, he spotted the MiG leader setting up a shot at Durham. Hearing a momentary buzzing in his earphones, Brad punched off a Sidewinder. The angle off was too wide for the missile to track properly. It flew out of sight a second before two surface-to-air missiles blasted through the aerial combatants.
"Bull,"
Brad shouted, "reverse hard left!" Watching Durham's F-4 snap into knife-edge flight, Brad was startled when a third SAM exploded in front of the two MiG wingmen. One aircraft cartwheeled out of the sky in a blazing fireball. The other MiG pilot dove for the deck and raced toward Phuc Yen.
Seconds away from locking a Sidewinder on Major Dao, Brad was appalled to see a missile come off the MiG-21. The Atoll flew straight to Durham's Phantom, detonating over the right wing. The launch and explosion happened so fast that Brad did not have time to key his radio.
Durham's F-4 snap rolled three times, then tucked nose down and blew apart in a blinding flash.
"Oh . . . God," Brad said, tasting bile at the back of his throat. Stunned, he snatched the Phantom around while he searched for the MiG flight leader.
"They got out," Harry shouted. "Two chutes . . . I've got two good chutes!"
Without his two wingmen, Maj. Nguyen Dao did not want to go one on one with the superior Phantom. He lowered his nose and dove toward his base.
Spotting the MiG ace diving away, Brad pushed the stick forward and slammed the throttles into afterburner. "Call SAR. Get 'em the coordinates." A mile behind the fleeing MiG-21, Brad saw a vapor flash when the Communist fighter went supersonic.
Harry got the message to search and rescue, then keyed his intercom. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm going to get that sonuvabitch."
"Like shit you are," Harry said warily. "He's headed for Phuc Yen, and we aren't supposed to attack it."
"The rules," Brad replied, breathing rapidly, "as I understand them, say we can go over Phuc Yen as long as we are engaged in battle. We just can't hit anything on the ground."
Leveling at 200 feet and indicating Mach 1.15, Brad was not gaining on the wily MiG pilot. The two fighters were headed straight toward Phuc Yen, blasting the countryside with twin sonic booms.
"Goddamnit," Harry shouted, "we're almost out of fuel!"
Brad darted a glance at the Phantom's fuel-quantity indicator. "We've got twenty-nine hundred left. Call and have a tanker meet us offshore."
Harry gulped oxygen. "We're too low. We have to have some altitude to transmit that far."