by Joe Weber
"Yeah," Harry said, "the skipper' ll have a heart attack if he finds out you're on top of the bus."
"Okay," O'Meara smiled, checking to see if Bailey was engaged in conversation, "then at least keep us supplied with beer."
"We'll take care of it," Brad replied, reaching for their beers. "Don't bust your asses."
"We've got it under control."
Amid raucous laughter, O'Meara and Russo hoisted themselves on top of the vehicle, then reached down for their beers. Propped against the luggage retainers, Jon and Mario watched the scenery and waved at passing motorists.
Life was good again, the sun was warm, and the beer was cold. They had two days to recapture their youth, be totally irresponsible, and live life to the hilt. Harry and Brad kept Mario and Jon supplied with fresh beers, collecting the empty bottles for the trash container.
Approaching Kamakura, O'Meara and Russo heard their frolicking squadron mates break out in song. The morbid chorus was sung to the tune of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." Mario and Jon sipped their beers and listened.
He rolled out on final and was just a little low. He ignored the wave-off of the frantic LSO.
When he finally added power, he was just a little slow. And he'll never fly home again.
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die.
Son of a gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die. Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die.
And he'll never fly home again.
He should have added power when he pulled back on the stick. He should have flown it like a bird instead of like a brick. Now all that's left of him is just a little oil slick.
And he'll never fly home again.
Brad and Harry joined in the loud singing, which went on for several verses. As the beer flowed, the noise level increased.
Harry punched Brad in the side. "This is certainly an uplifting little tune."
Brad turned and smiled. "Hey, in this business, you don't buy any green bananas."
Harry looked disgusted. "What a cheerful thought."
The bus rolled to a smooth stop as the last chorus was ending. Jon O'Meara looked at the small, pristine hotel, then turned to Mario.
"We'll just toss the skipper a salute."
A second later, the door squeaked open and Dan Baily stepped out. He walked a few feet, then turned to speak to Jack Carella. The first word was barely out of his mouth when he froze in place. "Christ almighty . . . ," he said, looking up at what had caught his eye.
Carella glanced at the roof of the bus. "Jesus."
Standing at attention, Jon and Mario clutched their beer bottles in their left hands, then snapped a salute to Bailey and Carella.
Shaking his head, Bailey ignored the salute and turned to his executive officer. "I need a tall drink."
Dressed in their party suits, the pilots and RIOs were finishing the last of the sushi and tempura. The custom-tailored navy blue flight suits were adorned with embroidered gold wings and the owner's name and rank. An American flag patch was sewn on the top of the left sleeve of each party suit. On the right sleeve, just below the shoulder, a round patch proclaimed that the flier was a member of the Tonkin Gulf Yacht Club.
The noisy conversation around the dining table came to an abrupt halt when Bailey stood and tapped his glass. "Gentlemen," he said with a straight face, "please rise for a toast."
He waited until everyone filled their sake cups, then raised his cup. "To the United States Navy," he paused, glancing at Brad, "and, God help them, the United States Marine Corps."
The men laughed, darting a look at Austin.
Drinking half of his sake, Brad raised his cup. "To Bull and Russ--to their freedom."
"To Bull and Russ," the group chimed in, downing their warm sake. Following Bailey's lead, the men sat down and continued with their conversations.
Brad had been relieved that no one, including O'Meara and Russo, had asked about the Phuc Yen incident. The CO had obviously instilled the fear of God in the squadron.
This outing, Brad thought, had been designed to serve many purposes. A squadron party was always a great diversion before going to battle. The evening of celebration, away from the officers' club and Yokosuka, also served another purpose. The CO could maintain close surveillance over the group, ensuring that no one conversed about the Phuc Yen and Major Dao rumors. Once the carrier was at sea, the stories would slowly drift into oblivion. "Let the show begin," Dan Bailey ordered.
The flight crews, with the assistance of the four Japanese waitresses, cleared the tables and rearranged the furniture in the combination dining room and bar.
After everyone's drinks had been refilled, the first skit was performed. The funny parody of a day in the life of a squadron CO brought howls of laughter.
Next, Ernie Sheridan placed a record on the dilapidated squadron record player. When the bump and grind music started, Mario Russo stepped from behind the screen wearing a yellow raincoat and cowboy boots. His awkward attempt to imitate a strip-tease dancer made everyone groan. The room erupted in laughter when he whipped off the raincoat. The sight of him wearing purple underwear, supported by pink suspenders, sent the giggling waitresses scrambling from the smoke-filled room.
"Get the hook!" Dirty Ernie yelled over the whistles and laughter. "Get him off the stage!" Outbursts of laughter and catcalls accompanied the end of the pathetic performance.
After the animal acts were over, Ernie Sheridan cranked up the volume and placed another record on the ancient machine. When "Wild Thing" blasted from the speaker, the serious drinking started.
Brad slipped out of the noisy room and walked through the lobby to the entrance. Stepping outside, he looked up at the moon and thought about Leigh Ann. He reached for his dog tags and pulled out the pendant she had given him in Hawaii. He looked at the tiny ornament in the pale moonlight. Would he live to see her again? Would she care?
The ambulatory helped their shipmates to the waiting bus. A light mist fell from the low overcast as Dan Bailey addressed the men who had not fallen asleep in their seats.
"One thing," he grinned, slipping his sunglasses down to peer over the top. "There will be no riding on the roof of the bus. Got that?"
"Skipper," Dirty Ernie moaned, gesturing toward the inert bodies of O'Meara and Russo, "I don't think you'll have to worry about that."
Harry and Brad managed a weak chuckle. They were bone tired, dehydrated, and had splitting headaches from the quarts of hot sake they had consumed.
The trip back to the carrier was quiet and uneventful. After arriving at the dock, the scraggly looking group boarded the ship and headed for their staterooms.
Brad opened their cabin door and plopped his overnight bag on the desk. Harry closed the door and sagged into the desk chair. "Care for a drink?" Brad asked cheerfully.
Harry gave him a cold look. "Don't ever let me do that again." He studied Brad's face for a moment. "You look like you're bleeding to death through your eyeballs."
"I feel like I am."
WASHINGTON, D. C.
As good as his word, the scrappy chairman of the Armed Services Committee had confronted the administration about the alleged incident at Phuc Yen. He had gone straight to the White House after his plane had landed at Washington National Airport.
Kerwin had threatened to initiate a hearing and call a press conference if the administration did not level with him.
After being rebuffed by the secretary of state, Kerwin had called for a hearing to discuss the rules of engagement, and to resolve the status of marine Capt. Brad Austin.
The secretary of state quickly confronted Kerwin, giving him a stern warning that his inquiry could jeopardize the ongoing peace negotiations. The secretary assured the senator that Captain Austin's record was clean and that the matter had been concluded to everyone's satisfaction.
Sensing a cover-up, Kerwin was more resolved than ever to get to the bottom of the matter. He had been outraged that a heroic fighter pilot who had laid his life on the
line, and who had apparently been responsible for destroying at least three MiGs, was being penalized.
The most disturbing disclosure, Kerwin had told the secretary, was that the American people were being misinformed. The senator had explained that this was not an issue over one pilot's transgression. This was an issue dealing with continued implementation of a flawed war policy.
Kerwin had strongly reiterated his position on openness, and informed the secretary of his intention to convene a hearing at the earliest possible date. Phuc Yen was not to be forgotten.
Chapter 39.
The hazy sun was barely above the horizon when the mammoth flattop cleared the pier. After the tugboats had finished positioning the ship, the carrier got underway. The smaller craft in the bay steered well clear of the behemoth as she gathered speed.
An hour later the carrier cleared Tokyo Bay and rendezvoused with her escort ships. The destroyers spread out and quickly positioned themselves around the carrier. The task force turned southwest for the long journey to Yankee Station in the South China Sea.
The carrier was a beehive of activity as all hands prepared for the high intensity of combat operations. In the hangar bay, men crawled over and under the airplanes, cleaning canopies and conducting preventive maintenance.
On the flight deck, the catapult and arresting-gear crews worked tirelessly to prepare their equipment for air operations. Aircraft handlers shuffled airplanes in preparation for the first launch.
Brad walked through the enlisted men's chow hall, noting the activity. The men sat at their tables, calmly eating and talking, while ordnance personnel wheeled bombs through the center of the room.
After negotiating a series of staircases, Brad went to the ready room for the CO's operational brief. Taking a seat next to Jon O'Meara, Brad placed his notepad on his thigh and extracted a ballpoint pen from his pocket. "I see that you survived."
"If I make it through the next twenty-four hours," O'Meara yawned, "I think I'll live."
"Where's Mario?"
"He's hard down, so I told the skipper I would take copious notes and thoroughly brief him."
A group of men, including Harry Hutton, entered the room seconds before Dan Bailey walked in.
Bailey joked with a few men, then approached the podium. His pleasant look disappeared, replaced by a grim scowl. The crowded room became deathly quiet.
"I have just returned from a meeting with CAG," he announced uncomfortably. "We're going to have some tough duty for the foreseeable future."
Brad watched Bailey's gestures, absorbing the gist of his message. How could the air war get any worse?
"The situation is heating up," Bailey continued, looking at the sea of somber faces. "There has been a marked increase in the number of cargo ships entering Haiphong harbor. The shipping activity is going on around the clock. From what intelligence says, at least fifty to sixty percent of the vessels are off-loading huge quantities of SAMs and antiaircraft guns."
Bailey looked into the eyes of his charges. "We are going to make a concerted effort to obliterate certain strategic sites, because the White House wants to get the North Vietnamese to capitulate. If we allow the missile and triple-A emplacements to proliferate, our job is going to get a lot more difficult."
"And deadly," Brad stated in a matter-of-fact voice.
"You're right," Bailey replied, turning his attention to Austin, then back to the group. "I know what you want to ask. Why don't we bomb the cargo ships?"
Brad nodded affirmatively with the majority of the other men. "I share your frustrations," Bailey said, looking around the room, "but they remain off-limits."
Brad indicated that he had a question.
"Yes, Captain."
"Skipper," he began, feeling Bailey's eyes boring into him, "don't take me wrong. I just want to know something."
"Brad," the CO said patiently, "as long as our government guarantees safe passage to foreign vessels, Uncle Ho is going to conduct business with them, and some of the ships will obviously be hauling weapons."
Exasperated, Bailey took a deep breath and blew it out. "It's that simple, Brad."
The ready room remained silent for a few moments before the CO regained his composure. He ached inside, knowing that his men were right and he could not do anything to correct the abysmal situation. His responsibility was to train the crews and prepare them for aerial combat, then send them off the carrier and into battle.
"Okay," Bailey continued, blanking out his feelings of contempt, "here is what we're going to be facing. More missions and more SAMs, flak, and missiles. The heat is going to be turned up on the North Vietnamese, and we're the ones who are going to increase the flames."
He looked at O'Meara and Austin, then scanned the entire room. "We're going to start warm-ups, back-in-the-saddle stuff, and get honed to a razor's edge before we hit Yankee Station." The frown returned. "Any questions, gentlemen?"
No one spoke.
For three days the air wing had flown around the clock. The flight crews had conducted refresher training, along with day and night carrier qualifications. One KA-3B tanker had been damaged when the nose gear collapsed during a hard landing.
General quarters had sounded on two different nights, keeping the crew at the peak of readiness. There was a feeling of esprit de corps throughout the ship.
Fire drills and man-overboard drills had been practiced during flight operations. The ship's captain had been pleased with the results, and had rewarded the crew with a picnic on the flight deck prior to entering the Gulf of Tonkin.
Fourteen hours later, the task force had arrived on station, and the deadly business of war commenced.
Brad entered the cluttered locker room and opened his combination lock. The mood was somber as the crews went through their preflight ritual.
The mission brief and intelligence summarization had been depressing. Haiphong harbor was full of Soviet, Polish, Chinese, and North Vietnamese ships. Some were tied to the piers; others were moored to buoys in the harbor. Hundreds of dock laborers were unloading stockpiles of weapons, including Soviet-made SA-2 Guideline surface-to-air missiles.
The prohibited areas and sanctuaries around Hanoi and Haiphong were ringed with SAM and antiaircraft emplacements. The dams and dikes that had been declared prohibited targets were now stacked with petroleum supplies and lined with missiles and triple-A guns.
Hutton walked to the locker next to Brad and leaned against it. "Why are we doing this?"
"We, as in you and me, or we, as in the Tuesday luncheon group in the White House?"
Looking forlorn, Harry fixed Brad in his gaze.
"Harry," Brad said stoically, "I've got the mystery figured out. Came to me in a supernatural experience."
A slight grin changed Harry's sad look.
"McNamara and his whiz kids own construction companies in the Republic of North Vietnam."
Hutton closed his eyes and chuckled.
"No, think about it. We bomb the dog shit out of dozens of meaningless targets, then stand down for whatever period of time it takes to rebuild them."
Brad's voice rose slightly. "Then, after everything has been remodeled," he lightly poked Harry, "Mac and his stooges telegraph the gomers to get the hell out of the way, because the first team needs some target practice."
Harry stopped smiling. "Brad, are you okay?"
"Do I look okay?"
"I'm serious."
"So am I," Brad replied, checking his newly issued .38-caliber revolver. "I couldn't be happier if I'd just won the Irish Sweepstakes and the Nobel prize."
"Maybe," Harry said cautiously, "you should ground yourself for a few days."
"No, I don't need to ground myself. I need to permanently ground every MiG pilot in North Vietnam, then I'll take a day off."
"You're losing it, my friend."
Brad emptied his pockets and placed their contents on the top shelf of the locker. He removed his academy ring and dropped it in the sleeve pocket of his f
light suit, along with fifty American dollars.
Feeling his dog tags and Leigh Ann's pendant, Brad reached for his g suit. "Are you going with me, or have you decided to sit this one out?"
"Yeah, I'm going," Harry replied, reluctantly opening his locker. "What choice do we have?"
Brad zipped his g suit tight and reached for his custom-made torso harness. The snug-fitting harness would be attached to fittings on the ejection seat.
Inspecting his locker, Brad examined the small red-and-gold box at the back of the shelf, making sure it was intact. Inside the box was a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill for his squadron mates to buy a round of drinks if he did not return from a mission.
Reaching for his helmet, Brad paused, then turned to his RIO.
"Harry, we have to believe in ourselves. We're all we've got." Harry rested his forehead on his locker door and sighed. "I know."
Brad placed a hand on Hutton's shoulder and gently squeezed him. "We're going to make it."
Chapter 40.
The massive flattop turned into the wind in preparation to launch the morning Alpha Strike. Since arriving on Yankee Station, the air wing had been hampered by the unseasonal monsoon conditions. A reconnaissance pilot had raced across the primary and secondary targets, reporting that the weather had lifted enough to strike the bridges.
Brad held the brakes and checked the engine instruments. Everything looked stabilized and normal. Exhaust gas temperatures matched; RPMs and hydraulic pressures were all steady. The F-4 carried a full complement of Sparrow and Sidewinder air-to-air missiles.
Waiting for Jack Carella to taxi in front of his Phantom, Brad looked around the flight deck. The crews, soaked to the skin by the frequent rain squalls, worked feverishly to ensure that the launch went as scheduled. The noise was deafening, forcing the men to communicate via radio headsets or hand signals.
Brad listened to the assistant air boss while the deck hands, leaning into the thirty-two-knot wind, fought to maintain their balance. Their pant legs whipped in the combination of wind and jet exhaust.
Peering through the drizzle on his canopy, Brad watched the carrier Coral Sea as the ship began to launch aircraft. The low overcast and reduced visibility made it difficult to see the airplanes leave the deck, but he could see them hurtle down the catapults.