Rules of Engagement (1991)

by Joe Weber

  Brad looked down at the kneeboard strapped to his right thigh. A chart, radio frequencies, and other mission information were clamped to the flat surface. The squadron had been assigned to fly cover for the A-4 Skyhawks and A-1 Skyraiders that were going to bomb the Haiphong rail and highway bridges.

  If the strike was successful, the spans linking the city with the mainland would be destroyed. If not, the afternoon strike would attempt to complete the job.

  Jack Carella, with Ernie Sheridan in the backseat, would be Brad's flight leader. They had the responsibility for rendezvousing with an RA-5C Vigilante, then escorting the sleek photo-reconnaissance aircraft directly over the target after the strike. The reception would definitely not be friendly.

  Brad keyed his intercom. "You got everything cooking back there?"

  "No," Harry answered nervously, "I'm composing a goddamn sonata."

  Brad grinned at the reply, then watched Carella and Sheridan taxi toward the starboard catapult. A few seconds later, the drenched flight-deck director gave Brad the signal to taxi forward.

  "Here we go," Brad announced to Harry as he added a handful of power to get the fighter rolling.

  The Phantom lumbered up the slippery deck to the port-bow catapult. Stopping behind the jet blast deflector, Brad was scanning his instruments when the F-4 on the catapult was fired. He instinctively looked out at the aircraft.

  The heavily laden Phantom squatted and raced down the deck. Brad watched in disbelief as the right afterburner snuffed out halfway through the cat stroke.

  "Uh, oh," Brad said as the F-4 staggered off the bow. The pilot overrotated, causing the nose to rise too high. The Phantom rudder walked across the water, kicking up spray as it yawed to the right.

  "Jettison! Jettison!" the frantic Air Boss radioed to the pilot in an attempt to get him to drop his ordnance. "Eject! Eject! Eject!"

  Brad watched in horror as the RIO ejected at the instant the F-4 hit the water. The explosion caused debris to rain down as the carrier plunged through the floating aircraft parts.

  "Did they get out?" Harry asked, stunned by the sudden tragedy. "Any chutes?"

  "The backseater made it," Brad uttered, sick at the sight of death. "The pilot went in." The ejection seats had been sequenced to fire the RIO first.

  "Was it one of ours?" Harry asked hesitantly.

  Brad added power to taxi onto the catapult. "No, it was from the other squadron."

  Harry turned as far to the right as possible. He could see the plane-guard helicopter settling over the downed crewman.

  While their Phantom was being hooked to the catapult, Brad talked to Harry. "Remember our drill if we have any problems coming off the cat."

  "I've got a grip on the loud handle."

  They had briefed that if Brad gave the command to eject, Harry would initiate the ejection. Brad would have one hand on the control stick and the other on the throttles.

  Carella's F-4 blasted off the starboard catapult and climbed gracefully away.

  Brad felt the cat shuttle take tension on his Phantom. He observed the windswept cat officer talk into his Mickey Mouse headset, then give the turnup signal.

  "Here we go," Brad announced as he shoved the throttles to full power, then into afterburner. He inhaled a deep breath of oxygen, quickly scanned the engine instruments, looked at the cat officer, and saluted.

  The catapult fired, blasting the F-4 down the track and off the bow. The aircraft sank precariously low to the water before it started to climb.

  Breathing rapidly, Brad raised the landing gear and flaps. "Is it okay," he said in an attempt to break the tension, "if I open my eyes now?"

  "You're a smart-ass," Harry grunted as the Phantom entered the low, rain-filled overcast.

  Brad skillfully maintained his position behind the tanker. They were cruising at 14,000 feet between two dark cloud layers. The refueling track had been altered to avoid the severe rainstorms closer to the carrier.

  After sucking the last drop of jet fuel the Phantom could hold, Brad eased the throttles back and popped loose from the refueling basket.

  A small ray of sunlight filtered through the upper cloud deck. Brad glanced at the thin break in the overcast before he guided Joker 207 into position on Carella's right wing.

  They cruised serenely up the coast, rendezvousing with the RA-5C Vigilante close to Haiphong. Carella checked in with the photo pilot, who answered with a simple, "Roger."

  The carrier-borne supersonic reconnaissance aircraft was long and thin, like a dart. Flying in a racetrack pattern, the two Phantoms followed the "Viggie" and waited for the strike to commence.

  Brad reached forward and smoothed the tape holding Leigh Ann's picture to the instrument panel. He was not going to give up.

  "Will you pay attention, for Christ's sake?"

  Snapping his head up, Brad was startled to see that he was drifting perilously close to Carella's plane. "Sorry, Harry." "Well, stay awake."

  The three aircraft continued to circle in a holding pattern off the coast. Brad studied the Vigilante's sensor pod and the camera openings behind the nosewheel door. He looked at the small window behind the cockpit. Inside the fuselage, the observer-radar operator sat in a dark cocoon, preparing to dash across the Haiphong rail and highway bridges.

  The radio calls began to increase as four Phantoms preceded the strike group over the main target. The F-4s were tasked to keep the area free of MiGs, then cover the strike aircraft out to sea

  Brad could barely see the two sections of fighters as they thundered over the target and pulled up in a climbing turn. The Vigilante pilot, remaining quiet on the radio, turned and flew closer to the target area. Carella and Austin spread out on each side of the reconnaissance plane.

  "Lonestar," the Red Crown controller radioed with urgency, "vector three two zero for numerous bogies." Lonestar was the call sign of the four Phantoms.

  Brad watched the Lonestar F-4s drop their centerline tanks and turn to the heading to intercept the MiGs. He glanced at Carella's aircraft. Ernie Sheridan had his arms up, resting them on the canopy rail. He appeared to be relaxed and unconcerned. Just another routine day at the office.

  Watching the smoke trails disappear behind the four F-4s, Brad knew that the Lonestar flight had stroked their afterburners to accelerate past the speed of sound.

  "Jokers," Carella ordered, "master arm on."

  "Two," Brad responded, checking his armament panel. He keyed his intercom. "Harnesses . ."

  "I'm set." Harry caught sight of the strike group approaching the beach. "Here comes the wrecking crew."

  "Yeah," Brad replied, following the fast-moving, low-flying Skyhawks. "They better close the tollbooth."

  The slower A-1 Skyraiders were approaching from a different direction. The eight Spads would bomb and strafe petroleum storage facilities near Haiphong harbor, then provide air cover for any downed aircraft.

  The sky erupted with streams of tracer rounds and dark smoke from the heavy concentration of flak. Rows of antiaircraft guns pumped thousands of 23mm and 37mm shells at the Skyhawks. A half dozen surface-to-air missiles shot off the launchers next to the bridges. Black and smudgy white patches of smoke surrounded the target area.

  Three flak-suppression Phantoms dived across the menacing gun positions, dropping full loads of cluster bombs on the exposed emplacements.

  Suddenly the radio transmissions became garbled as everyone attempted to talk at once. The Lonestar flight leader had visual contact with the approaching MiGs, and the Skyhawk leader was pulling up for his bombing run.

  Brad watched the A-4 pilot roll into a dive and fly straight through a flak trap. The predetermined airspace was where the North Vietnamese believed the attack planes would have to enter to hit the bridges. Fifty-two gunners concentrated their fire in a deadly barrage of bursting shells. The Skyhawk exploded in an orange-and-black fireball, tumbling through the air trailing a streak of flame.

  "Oh, shit," Brad exclaimed, then saw the pilot
blast out of the fireball. His parachute popped open an instant later, and he descended toward the bridges.

  Shaken by what he had witnessed, Brad keyed the intercom. "They got CAG." The air-group commander, a veteran Skyhawk pilot and former A-4 squadron CO, had been leading the strike group.

  "I saw it," Harry replied solemnly. "Dash Two better alter his run-in or they're going to bag his ass, too."

  The Vigilante pilot steepened his angle of bank, making it easier for Joker Flight to view the target area.

  Austin dropped farther behind the photo aircraft. He did not want to risk a collision while he was watching the bombing and strafing runs. Brad stared in disbelief at the second Skyhawk.

  The pilot pressed the attack on the same run-in line. "He's going right down the same chute . . . they're about to take him out."

  The A-4 pilot flew through the flak barrage, released his bombs, and limped away with smoke pouring from the tail pipe.

  "Come on, Three," Brad said through clenched teeth, "break it off, and set up a different approach."

  As if he had heard Brad's words, the third pilot snapped into a tight turn and lowered his nose to hug the ground. The remaining pilots followed the new leader as he repositioned the flight for an attack from a different direction.

  Lonestar Flight had engaged five MiG-17s. The enemy fighter pilots, determined to attack the American bombers over Haiphong, had shot straight through the flight of Phantoms. Brad listened to the Lonestar leader curse and shout orders to the other three pilots.

  Austin searched the sky for the approaching MiGs, then glanced at the bridges. The lead Skyhawk, diving from a different angle, dodged a SAM, salvoed his bombs, and blasted over the target.

  Looking at Carella's Phantom, Brad was tempted to key his radio. They needed to intercept the rapidly approaching MiGs before the fighters reached Haiphong.

  The explosions and bright fishes over and around the bridges caught Austin's attention. One of the spans had collapsed, severing the bridge. A cloud of brown smoke and dust rose as the next Skyhawk pilot dropped his bombs on an adjacent span.

  "Bandits! Bandits! Joker," Red Crown called from the ship lying off the coast. "Five bogies at three three zero, eleven miles. Lonestar is closing on them, but you better set up for an intercept. Come starboard to three--"

  The urgent transmission was cut off by a frantic Mayday call from the second A-4 pilot who had flown through the flak trap. His smoking engine had seized and disintegrated, forcing him to bail out of the crippled Skyhawk. He was going down south of the city of Haiphong, and needed air cover and the RESCAP Skyraiders.

  "White Lightning," Carella radioed to the Vigilante pilot. "Joker One."

  The radio transmissions were chaotic, forcing the quiet reconnaissance pilot to try three times to answer his escort. "Go, Joker."

  "Jokers are going to engage the bogies. Recommend you orbit and wait for us."

  The Vigilante pilot heard most of the message. "Copy, Joker. Lightning will orbit."

  Carella banked steeply, lighted the afterburners, and raced toward their adversaries. "Jokers, punch off centerlines, and go combat spread."

  Brad toggled the jettison switch and kicked off his 600-gallon fuel tank. His radar warning receiver was alive with chatter and groans. "Harry, heads up for SAMs."

  "Shit!" Harry shouted an instant later. "We've got SAMs at two o'clock! Coming up fast!"

  Brad quickly scanned to the right. What he saw made him freeze in terror. Two missiles, trailing plumes of smoke and fire, had them boresighted. They would impact the Phantoms in seconds.

  "Joker One, break right! Jocko, break right!" Brad yelled, snapping the F-4 into a punishing 8-g turn. Carella whipped his Phantom over, pulling close to Brad's aircraft. Hutton was petrified, believing that they were going to have a collision with Joker 1.

  The two SAMs detonated under the belly of Austin's F-4. The force of the twin explosions caused the Phantom to shudder and violently yaw to the left. Feeling his heart pounding, Brad fought the stick and darted a look at the annunciator panel. Thank God! The caution lights remained dark.

  "Nine and ten o'clock, Jokers!" Ernie Sheridan shouted over the radios. "SAMs at nine and ten!"

  Brad saw a streak of blazing fire rip past his canopy. He ducked instinctively, cursing out of fear as the SAM arced out of sight. How many more shots until they nailed him?

  Chapter 41.

  "Tallyho!" Carella yelled, reefing his thundering Phantom straight up. "Jokers engaging."

  Brad spotted the MiGs as he pulled into the vertical and prepared to jump the five aircraft. Two of the MiG pilots raised their noses and turned into the Phantoms, while the other three continued toward Haiphong.

  Brad completed a zero-airspeed reversal, then cringed when he almost collided with the Lonestar flight leader. Gulping oxygen, Austin unloaded the F-4 and hoped the MiGs would overshoot.

  The Lonestar Phantoms raced after the three MiGs headed for the strike group. Brad saw one of the F-4s fire a missile at the same moment the two MiGs that he and Carella had engaged opened fire. The North Vietnamese pilots were taking advantage of their tighter turning radius to pull inside of the heavier F-4s.

  Brad felt the Phantom stagger as the tracers penetrated the tip of his starboard wing. He pulled so hard that he momentarily grayed out. Harry groaned and shouted obscenities when Brad entered a vertical rolling scissors with the trailing MiG. He had lost sight of his flight leader in the swirling fight.

  "Come on, goddamnit!" Harry shouted, gripping the sides of the canopy. "Shoot him! Lock him up!"

  "Where's Carella?" Brad asked, straining under the punishing g forces.

  Hutton swiveled his head, searching for Carella and Sheridan. "Jocko is low . . . seven o'clock. No factor."

  "Keep an eye on him." Brad pulled the Phantom until it buffeted. "We don't want to midair."

  One of the biggest fears was the possibility of hitting a friendly aircraft during a multiplane engagement. After every turn and twist, Brad gained more advantage on the MiG pilot. It was obvious that the Vietnamese pilot was not proficient at using his fighter in a vertical contest.

  At fifty degrees nose off, Brad fired a Sidewinder. The missile tried to make the corner, but went ballistic and shot past the MiG. The narrow escape scared the MiG pilot into a hard break. The high-g maneuver caused the airplane to bleed off speed, giving Brad the advantage he needed.

  After the MiG reversed, Brad punched off a second missile. The Sidewinder came off the rail, did a snake dance, then tracked straight for the MiG.

  "Go! Go!" Harry yelled as the missile plowed into the tail of the fighter.

  After the initial impact, the MiG flew out of the explosion and raced toward the ground. The aircraft was missing the upper portion of the vertical stabilizer, but flew away in controlled flight.

  "Who makes these goddamn missiles?" Brad asked with tightened jaw muscles. "Mattel?"

  Yanking his head from side to side, Brad searched for Carella and the other MiG. He pulled on the stick and entered a barrel roll.

  Scanning the sky, Brad momentarily lost his situational awareness. Seeing the MiG and Carella flash past, he selected after-burner and snatched the control stick over into a nose low turn. The g forces slammed his helmet against the canopy.

  "You're passing five hundred knots," Harry yelled as the Phantom rocketed toward the ground. "Bring the nose up! Get the nose up!"

  Feeling the controls get stiff, Brad glanced at the attitude direction indicator and the altimeter as the F-4 plunged through a thin layer of clouds.

  "We're supersonic!" Harry exclaimed in panic. "Pull up! Pull up!"

  Brad snapped the throttles to idle, popped the speed brakes open, leveled the wings, and pulled as hard as he dared. "I've got it, Harry." The stressful 10-g maneuver broke two wing panels, bent a flap actuator, and popped seven rivets in the left wing.

  Brad watched the altimeter bottom out at 800 feet before the Phantom, traveling faster than
the speed of sound, zoomed back to 14,000 feet.

  Catching sight of Carella's F-4, Brad retracted the speed brakes, slammed the throttles into afterburner, and keyed his mike. "Joker One, where's the MiG?"

  "He's at my twelve," Carella grunted in an agonizing turn, "going for separation."

  Brad turned inside Carella's aircraft in an attempt to fire a Sidewinder at the diving MiG. The enemy fighter was too close to the ground for the missile to get a clear tone and lock on.

  "Joker Two," Carella shouted, "join up, and let's get back to the Vigilante."

  "Roger," Brad heaved.

  "Jokers," Red Crown radioed, "we're showing three bandits at your three five zero, fourteen miles. They're headed your direction." "Joker One copies."

  Scanning his instruments, Austin was startled to see a warning light illuminated. "Harry, we've got a low-fuel light."

  "We can't have," Hutton replied anxiously. "Check the fuel dump switch."

  "I have," Brad responded, verifying the readings from the fuel gauges. "We've got fuel in the wings, but it isn't transferring to the fuselage."

  Brad toggled switches to no avail. They would soon run out of fuel. He jettisoned their missile racks to reduce the parasitic drag on the wings. With smooth wings, they could stretch their range.

  "Harry, the SAMs that exploded under the belly must have caused a valve to stick."

  "Or the high-g pull-up," Hutton offered, trying to think of a solution to their problem.

  "Maybe," Brad replied as he closed in on his flight leader. "Hang on while I try something."

  Harry braced himself a second before Brad snapped the Phantom down. The negative-g maneuver was followed by an instantaneous seven positive g's. The wing fuel remained trapped. Using the rudders, Brad violently yawed the aircraft back and forth. Still no success.

  "Joker One," Brad radioed in frustration. "Dash Two has a fuel problem."

  "Say again," Carella said over the garbled radio calls. "Joker Two has a fuel-transfer problem. We're going to flameout any time now."