Rules of Engagement (1991)

by Joe Weber

  Concentrating on the low-flying MiG, Brad felt certain that the pilot was being informed that the Phantom was on his tail. Ground-control intercept radar sites dotted the land in every direction. The two aircraft were rapidly approaching the protected air base. Phuc Yen was fourteen miles ahead.

  "Brad, for Christ's sake, break it off!"

  Seeing the MiG pull up a hundred feet, Brad instinctively followed. He hoped to get the Sidewinders to lock on for a split second. Just as suddenly, the MiG dropped down as tall power lines flashed under the F-4.

  "We're here," Brad responded through clenched jaws, "and I'm going to nail that bastard."

  Harry looked at Hanoi as the Phantom streaked over the outskirts of the city. He could see dozens of muzzle flashes from small-arms fire. He knew the entire area was heavily defended by 37mm, 57mm, and 85mm guns and numerous SAM sites.

  "You're in protected airspace," Harry shouted, awed by the amount of ground fire aimed at their F-4. "We're violating the rules of engagement."

  "No," Brad barked, "I'm breaking the rules of engagement!"

  He saw that the MiG pilot was decelerating in preparation to land. Dao was maneuvering toward a left base for a left turn to final approach.

  "Goddamnit, Brad, we're going to end up in Leavenworth . . . or dead. I'm not shitting you."

  Snapping the Phantom into a left ninety-degree bank, Brad hugged the terrain while he paralleled the runway, bleeding off speed. Rolling wings level, he waited until the F-4 was at midfield, then slapped the throttles to idle and banked steeply to the right.

  "Let's get the hell outta here," Harry pleaded, crushed down in his ejection seat. He had never flown this fast so close to the ground. Terrified, Harry braced his hands under the canopy and looked across the airfield. He glimpsed a group of men throwing themselves on the ground, while others were running for cover.

  Three quarters through the punishing turn, Brad shoved the throttles back into afterburner and leveled out a half mile from the end of the runway. He spotted Major Dao turning final at 300 feet above the ground. The MiG's landing gear was extended.

  "Come on, Brad," Harry said, sliding down in his seat, "get us out of here!"

  Crossing the edge of the airfield at thirty feet, Brad lowered the nose even farther and barreled down the runway. Ignoring the tracer rounds passing over his canopy, Brad concentrated on Dao's aircraft. A moment later the MiG-21 pulled up steeply as Brad blasted under the fighter.

  "Ho . . . Christ," Harry uttered in sheer terror.

  Simultaneously yanking the throttles to idle and deploying the speed brakes, Brad hauled the F-4 around in a face-sagging turn. The wing tip was fifteen feet above the ground.

  "Oh . . . God," Harry moaned under the heavy g load. "Get him--bag him . . . and let's get the hell out of here!"

  Brad rolled level after 180 degrees of turn, elated to see the MiG turning and climbing for another approach to the airfield. Brad figured Dao must be out of fuel, or he would have raised the landing gear and attempted to engage the intruding Phantom.

  "I'm pulling for a shot," Brad groaned, turning into his adversary. "Going to nail him."

  Raising the nose, Brad banked the F-4 even farther, heard the Sidewinder tone, then fired a missile. He fired a second Sidewinder at the same moment the first missile blew the tail off the MiG. The second projectile exploded in the mushrooming fireball.

  Slamming the throttles forward, Brad banked steeply. "We got him--he's going in!"

  Brad witnessed the main fuselage of the MiG-21 hit the ground inverted, then explode again. He saw an additional MiG21, but the pilot was departing the area low to the ground. Two MiG-17s taxied at high speed toward the takeoff point of the runway.

  "Let's go, goddamnit!" Harry shouted, bracing himself for more violent maneuvers.

  "Hang in there!" Brad replied, focusing on the two fighters about to take off. "We're on our way."

  Reaching the middle of the base, Brad fired a Sidewinder at the two MiGs and pulled up in a victory roll, then dove for the deck again. His hands were shaking from the adrenaline boost.

  Waiting until the Phantom had accelerated to 630 knots, Brad smoothly pulled the stick back and pointed the nose up fifty degrees. He pressed the stick forward just enough to achieve zero g load. The F-4 shot skyward in a hail of small-arms fire and antiaircraft rounds.

  Harry held his breath until the Phantom had zoomed past 15,000 feet. "Do you know how much shit we're in? You blew one of the MiGs apart . . . on the ground. That's unauthorized."

  "Can it, Harry."

  Brad tuned his radio to the tanker frequency and keyed his mike. "Snowball, Joker Two Oh Five."

  "Joker, Snowball."

  The afterburners had sucked the fuel level down to a critical state. Brad stared at the fuel-quantity indicator.

  "Snowball, we're going to be feet wet in eight minutes with seven hundred pounds left. I need a big favor." The pilots of the unarmed KA-3B tankers did not care to venture too close to the coastline.

  "We're on our way," the Skywarrior pilot radioed. "Go max conserve when you cross the beach."

  "Wilco," Brad acknowledged, flinching at the unexpected SAM that slashed past the right wing. Puffs of antiaircraft fire filled the sky around the F-4.

  "Harry," Brad said, trying to slow his breathing, "hook up with SAR while I work the tanker. If we can get enough fuel, we can help cover Bull and Russ."

  Hutton's thoughts had converged on his immediate survival. "Haven't we pressed it far enough?"

  "Goddamnit, Harry," Brad spat. "We aren't going to leave them down there--you saw two good chutes."

  Harry checked in with the north search-and-rescue station, then monitored the SAR frequency. The news that he received sickened his stomach. He debated whether or not to tell his pilot until they had refueled.

  Brad leveled at 23,000 feet and pulled back the power. Harry worked the radar, finally locking onto the Whale. The tanker pilot bent the KA-3B around like a fighter plane, positioning himself directly in front of the thirsty Phantom. Brad was down to 500 pounds of fuel.

  Closing on the Skywarrior, Brad extended his fuel probe and flew the tip smoothly into the basket. His hands were still trembling, but he had dampened out his control inputs to fly with a high degree of finesse.

  Breathing a collective sigh of relief, Brad and Harry relaxed while the F-4's fuel tanks were partially replenished.

  "Brad," Harry said with unusual emotion in his voice, "there's no need to take on any extra fuel."

  "What do you mean?"

  Harry had difficulty speaking. "Bull and Russ were captured almost immediately after they hit the ground."

  Brad's mouth quivered. "Who confirmed that?"

  "Bull did . . . over his emergency radio. It was only seconds before they were captured by a gun crew."

  Chapter 28.

  Listening to the ship creak and groan, Brad Austin sat at his desk resting his forehead in the palms of his hands. His eyes were closed, sealing off the reminders of his environment. Why did it happen? Could he have done anything more to have prevented the MiG pilot from shooting down Bull and Russ?

  Brad opened his eyes and focused on the stationery in front of him. He had made four attempts to draft a letter to Cordelia Durham, but had discarded each attempt.

  How could he tell her that as Lincoln Durham's wingman, he had allowed her husband to be shot down? What could he say to a woman who was pregnant, and might not ever see her husband again?

  Brad drifted back to the debriefing. He and Harry had confirmed that Bull and Russ had a MiG to their credit. They had also explained that the North Vietnamese had shot down one of their own aircraft with a SAM. The glee that that information normally would have brought was nullified by the tragic loss of Bull and Russ.

  Brad and Harry had not mentioned that Maj. Nguyen Thanh Dao had downed Bull and Russ. They also had not reported that the North Vietnamese ace would never shoot down another airplane.

  Harry had b
een extremely nervous during the debriefing, deferring to Brad to supply the pertinent information about the engagements. Both men had answered every question truthfully. No one had asked if they had penetrated protected airspace and blasted an ace out of the air over Phuc Yen.

  Brad picked up his pen and began to write.

  Dear Cordelia, I trust that you have been notified that Lincoln has become a prisoner of war. I was flying as his wingman at the time of the incident, and I can confirm that my RIO and I saw two parachutes. The search-and-rescue personnel have confirmed that Lincoln talked to them after he and his RIO were on the ground.

  Even though I realize that words of comfort cannot dispel your grief, we have to be thankful that Lincoln landed alive. As you well know, your husband is a strong, courageous man of tremendous determination. I have every confidence that Lincoln will return to you.

  If there is anything I can do--anything--please let me know. Please allow me to be responsible to you and your child until you and Lincoln are reunited.

  With respect and warm regards, Brad

  .

  Addressing the envelope, Brad also included his parents' address and phone number. He added a postscript to the letter, explaining that his mother would always have his current address.

  He placed his pen on the desk and proceeded to his next task. What should he say to the parents of Russ Lunsford? They knew that their son had been Brad Austin's radar-intercept officer. How could he explain why Russ was incarcerated by the North Vietnamese while Brad was safely on board the carrier?

  Brad was sealing the envelope to Cordelia Durham when Harry entered their stateroom and sat down. He looked somber and tired, with bags under his eyes.

  Placing the letter down, Brad turned to his roommate. "Talk to me, Harry. Get it off your chest."

  Hutton stared at the deck before facing Brad. "I've got a bad feeling about this deal."

  "How so?" Brad asked, noting his friend's nervousness. He was concerned that everyone had noticed Harry's strange behavior.

  Harry looked up. "We shouldn't have lied to them."

  "Let me set the record straight," Brad said, leaning forward. "We did not lie to anyone. There is a distinct difference between a lie--an untrue remark made deliberately--and an omission."

  Harry paused a moment, examining the sensitive issue. "Omission? How about just saying that we neglected to tell the whole story?"

  "That would be good," Brad replied testily, thinking about Bull and Russ. "Oh, by the way, we overlooked a couple of minor points."

  Hutton exhaled sharply. "It was wrong, and you know it was, for Christ's sake."

  Absently squeezing his knees, Brad met Harry's eyes. "You're absolutely right, Harry. I admit both mistakes--violating the rules of engagement and not saying anything about what I did at Phuc Yen. It's a very humbling experience, and I'm damn sure not proud of what I did.

  "However, I want to discuss your word--neglect. Neglect is when people in the White House allow our enemies to have protected airspace, and American pilots are free game anywhere, at any time."

  Harry managed a slight smile. "I know what you're saying, and I agree with your frustration--all our frustrations--but I feel uncomfortable."

  Brad looked at the pouting Playmate of the Month, then glanced at the calendar mounted on the bulkhead. "I'll bet Bull and Russ are a lot more uncomfortable than you are tonight."

  A reddish tinge turned Hutton's face dark. "I didn't mean that we--

  "Harry, do whatever your conscience tells you to do, okay? According to the rules of engagement, which place us in great jeopardy, I was wrong." The two men remained quiet a moment, fully realizing the possible consequences of Brad's actions.

  "If you want me to march in with you an 'fess up," Brad continued calmly, "I'll do it."

  Harry shook his head. "No, I don't want to do that. It would destroy your career, and probably mine."

  Brad inhaled deeply, then let his breath out slowly. "Harry, that is the least of my concerns. Think about Rocky, Ed, Nick, Bull, and Russ--all the people busting their asses in this obvious no-win boondoggle. Think about this goddamn travesty, and my career doesn't warrant consideration."

  Hutton lowered his head and closed his eyes, then opened them and raised his head. "Jesus Christ, what a crock of shit . . . this whole goddamn mess."

  "Harry, it's your choice. I'm the one who points the flying machine, so you didn't have much choice."

  Jaw set, Brad faced his friend. "Well, you do have a choice now, and don't make your decision based on loyalty to me or my career aspirations."

  Hutton's shoulders slumped. "Do we have any more booze around here?"

  "Yes," Brad answered, glancing at the safe. "But I don't think it's a good idea to have liquor on our breath if we're going to see the skipper."

  Harry sat up in his chair. "No. We'd only be digging our own graves. Let's forget about it, and think about the day after tomorrow." The carrier was scheduled to dock in Yokosuka in thirty-seven hours.

  Brad stared blankly at the deck. "We avenged Bull and Russ, and Major Dao won't be adding any more stars to his airplane.

  If that's wrong, I was wrong."

  ***

  Standing on the signal bridge, Brad watched the shoreline pass as the carrier steamed through the wide entrance to Tokyo Bay. The gray overcast, blended with the dark, leaden sea, made the morning seem like late afternoon.

  Unable to sleep soundly, Brad had showered and shaved at 4 A. M., finished the difficult letter to Russ Lunsford's parents, then had a light breakfast in the main wardroom.

  Propping one foot on the lower brace, Brad leaned on the upper railing and gazed at the various ships maneuvering in the bay. He had been preoccupied with the fate of Bull and Russ. Were they being humiliated and tortured? Were they being subjected to brutal interrogations? His guilt was oppressive, hanging like a weight around his neck.

  His emotions ran the gamut from deep depression over the well-being of Bull and Russ, to jubilation about his impending vacation with Leigh Ann. Forcing himself to erase the horrors of war from his mind, Brad concentrated on remembering every detail about her.

  Harry had decided to remain on board the carrier. He, along with the majority of the squadron flight-crew members, were low in spirits. The deaths of Frank Rockwood and Ed Zapata, followed by the loss of Nick Palmer, and the capture of another crew, had demoralized the pilots and RIOs.

  Brad remained on the signal bridge while the mammoth ship was edged next to the pier. After the carrier had been gently docked, Brad went below to his stateroom to get his luggage, which he had packed the previous evening. Entering the cramped stateroom, Brad was surprised to see Harry sitting morosely at the desk.

  "Hey, shipmate," Brad said cheerfully, "how about lunch and a beer at the club before I head for Tokyo?"

  Harry turned without replying. Brad had never seen him so glum.

  "Come on," Brad cajoled, tapping his friend on the shoulder. "I'm buying."

  Harry displayed the hint of a smile. "Okay. I could use a beer."

  He stretched his arms back, yawning. "You still want me to go to Tokyo with you?"

  Brad glanced at the packed overnight bag at the foot of Harry's locker. "Hell, yes. Who else is going to take care of me, and attract all the women for us?"

  "Right," Harry replied, grinning his mischievous grin. "You need a keeper."

  Brad and Harry sat at a dining table in the Yokosuka Officers' Club. The bar was full of ships' company and air-wing officers. The noise level was increasing in proportion to the rounds of drinks being consumed. The afternoon and evening promised to be a rowdy, no-holds-barred party full of sea stories and "almost killed" flying stories. The aviators referred to the tales as A-Kays. If a true story had an unbelievable air about it, the pilot or RIO would precede the anecdote with the word TINS-this is no shit.

  After calling Japan Airlines, Brad had attempted to contact Leigh Ann. Her mother had answered, cool and polite as always. I
t was after 9 P. M. in Memphis. Mrs. Ladasau had explained that she expected her daughter home at any minute. She had not mentioned Leigh Ann's invitation to join him in San Francisco.

  Brad had told her that he would call again, if it was not too late, at ten o'clock. She assured him that that would be fine.

  Harry set down his empty mug and wiped off his mouth. "So, when does your flight leave?"

  Brad unfolded his hastily written notes. "They have a flight at six in the evening, so I figured we could make that one."

  Frowning, Harry looked toward the noisy bar, then back to Brad. "Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? I thought you were leaving tomorrow."

  Brad checked the time. "Harry, if there was an early morning flight, I'd stay over in Tokyo. There are only two flights a day--at three forty and six in the evening." Brad smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "Counting the travel time, I'm only going to have a few days with Leigh Ann."

  Harry frowned again and signaled for another beer.

  "Why don't you get a nice hotel room in the Ginza district?" Brad suggested, sliding his chair back. "I know you can provide your own entertainment in one of the hostess bars." Harry chuckled as Brad walked toward the telephones.

  Brad picked up the receiver and worked his way from the local operator to an international operator. After two attempts to secure an open line, the phone rang in the elegant home in Memphis, Tennessee.

  "Ladasau residence," Leigh Ann answered after the first ring. "Hi, Leigh Ann. This is Brad."

  "I've been waiting by the phone. How are you, and where are you?"

  Brad looked at his watch again. "I'm fine. Harry, the guy you met in Hawaii, and I just finished lunch. We're in Yokosuka, Japan, where the ship is docked. Are you going to join me in San Francisco?"

  Leigh Ann laughed softly. "My luggage has been packed for three days."

  "Any problem with your parents?"

  She paused, wondering if Brad was reading her thoughts. "Well, mother thinks it's fine--she likes you."

  "What about your father?"

  "We can talk about it later. I'm so excited about seeing you."

  "Great," Brad replied, feeling his pulse quicken. "I'll be arriving in San Francisco late Tuesday morning--West Coast time. I hope you can catch a flight out in the morning."