by Joe Weber
Earning his wings the hard way, Bailey had parlayed a private pilot's license, combined with two years of junior college, into a NAVCAD appointment. As a naval aviation cadet, Dan Bailey had distinguished himself throughout every phase of flight training.
Graduating second in his class, Bailey had proudly accepted his commission and the accompanying gold bars. His fiancee, and former high-school sweetheart, had pinned on his coveted wings of gold.
After the graduation ceremonies, Ens. Dan Bailey and Karla Jane Cooper had married at the base chapel. They had enjoyed a brief honeymoon, marred only by an unexpected mechanical failure in Dan's 1949 Chevrolet. The drive shaft had dropped to the pavement four blocks from the church. For years Dan and Karla, along with their twin sons, had laughed about the incident.
Dan Bailey was revered by all the officers and men of the squadron for his professionalism and leadership qualities. He was respected most for his genuine consideration for every man under his command.
Brad and Russ sat down while Bailey placed a stack of reports in his safe and closed the door. The XO and the operations officer remained quiet.
Bailey turned around, smiling pleasantly. "Care for a cold Dr. Pepper?" Both men, seeing that Rockwood and Carella had a can in their hands, accepted the soft drinks.
"Okay, jarhead," Bailey said, "what's bothering you?"
"Well, sir," Brad began, watching Rockwood and Carella out of the corner of his eye, "I feel like it's my fault that you . . . that we got nailed. I led us too low over the downed Spad."
Bailey raised a hand. "Wait a minute. Brad, you're one of the best pilots in the squadron. And besides being a natural stick, you have good logic and leadership skills. If you didn't possess those traits, the Marine Corps would not have allowed you to come out here, and I would not have made you a flight leader."
"Yes, sir," Brad responded awkwardly. He was openly embarrassed, especially in the presence of his backseater.
Rocky Rockwood swallowed the last of his soft drink and tossed the empty can in the trash. "Hey, Brad, you're doing a super job--got a probable kill, too. The only mistake you've made is joining the wrong service." The friendly barb broke the tension.
"Austin," Carella said in a businesslike tone, "the skipper briefed me on the mission. You didn't do anything he would not have done."
Brad nodded his head.
"One thing to remember," Bailey offered, finishing the remains of his Dr. Pepper. "There is no safe altitude in our type of mission. If you're high, the SAMs and triple-A will come after you. If you duck down in the weeds, the Cong and everyone else with a rifle or rock will use you for target practice. As a section leader, Brad, you have to constantly evaluate your situation and make a judgment call. It's that simple."
"Yes, sir," Brad replied, having forgotten his drink.
"Hey," Rocky said in his usual carefree manner, "we know you marines are trained for close air support, but just cover your ass. You don't have any guns to keep the little bastards' heads down."
Brad managed a chuckle, finally relieved of his anxieties. "Thanks. I appreciate the advice."
"Both of you," the CO said, smiling, "are contributing a lot to the squadron. Enough said . . . so get the hell out of here and go have a drink."
The junior officers' eyes gave away their secret. They, along with every flight-crew member in the squadron, had liquor stashed in their private safes. Although navy regulations prohibited having alcohol on board a ship, the breach of rules was overlooked for those men who flew off the carrier, endured the stress of combat engagements, then had to land on the pitching, rolling deck again.
Bailey grinned at the two men. "Just keep it confined to your staterooms."
"Yessir," they answered, stepping out of the stateroom.
After leaving the CO's quarters, Brad returned to the ready room to check the flight schedule. His friend and roommate, Harry Hutton, was just finishing his stint as the squadron duty officer. Hutton, who still looked like a peach-faced high-school sophomore, was exuberant and full of unrestrained energy. Brad always enjoyed his company.
The majority of the flight crews had gone forward to the dirty-shirt wardroom, leaving the ready room almost deserted. Hutton was leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. His feet were propped up on the desk, and a coffee mug was balanced precariously on his stomach.
"Hey, MiG killer," Hutton said as his marine friend entered. "Letsqueet," a Harry translation of "let us go eat."
"Will you cut the MiG killer shit?" Brad said, unamused. "I got a probable. He was packin' cheeks north the last time I saw him."
"Okay, already," Harry replied, picking up a rough copy of the new flight schedule. "You're going to get another shot at it tomorrow. The XO told Jocko to schedule you and Nick together for a BARCAP. He said, and I quote, 'The skipper wants the two hot sticks to fly together . . . best chance to bag a MiG.' End quote."
Brad looked at the proposed schedule. "Great, but they've got me leading."
Harry grinned his infectious grin. "Yeah, that'll piss off my man, the egotistical asshole." Hutton was Nick Palmer's RIO.
The two-man flight crews were not allowed to room together. If a crew went down, their respective roommates would have the responsibility to arrange for their personal belongings to be shipped home. There was an additional unwritten rule. It would be the roommate's obligation to send a letter, apart from the commanding officer's, to the closest relative.
"Well," Brad said with a sigh, "this should be interesting . . . having Nick Palmer on my wing."
"Oh, yeah, you can count on it," Harry responded, picking up his pen. "You hungry?"
"No, not really," Brad replied, glancing at the two pilots playing acey-deucey at the back of the room. "The skipper told me to go have a drink."
Hutton's face lit up. "You mean a drink-drink?"
"Yeah," Brad said quietly. "You want to join me?"
Harry displayed his toothy grin. "Is a skeleton's ass skinny?"
Chapter 4.
Brad and Harry were settled back, discussing the morning's MiG engagement, when Nick Palmer knocked on their stateroom door. An inch short of six feet, the athletic-looking Palmer was a movie idol type from his light brown hair to his perfect white teeth. A graduate of Princeton University, Palmer was the oldest son of a wealthy manufacturing mogul.
Nick Palmer and Harry Hutton, both bachelors, had shared living quarters prior to their squadron's deployment to the Gulf of Tonkin. The well-furnished apartment, dubbed the snake ranch, had been the center of many noisy and disorderly parties. A bevy of young, attractive women had made the apartment, along with the swimming pool, their favorite gathering place.
"Mind if I come in?" Palmer asked, stepping into the cluttered stateroom.
"Pull up a chair," Brad replied, feeling a little uneasy. On his second cruise, Nick the Stick Palmer was considered to be the best pilot in the squadron. "Care for a shot of the good stuff?"
"Sure," the LSO responded, accepting a fresh glass from Brad. "I see that we're flying together tomorrow."
Austin poured a liberal amount of vodka into the wardroom iced-tea glass, then added water and a half dozen ice cubes. Harry Hutton had brought a small bucket of the precious frozen liquid from the wardroom.
"The skipper," Hutton said to his pilot, "is the one who scheduled the flight."
Palmer lighted a cigarette and sipped his drink. "Thanks. This hits the spot."
Brad leaned back against his fire-resistant flight suit hanging on the bulkhead. "Have you got any suggestions for a new kid on the block?"
Nick chuckled, shaking his head. "No. It sounds like you're doing okay on your own."
"Yeah, Nicko," Harry chimed in, "the gyrene is a half MiG ahead of us."
Palmer laughed good-naturedly, then leaned into Hutton's face. "Well, wise-ass, why don't you drive tomorrow and I'll sit in the backseat. That should be worth the price of admission."
Brad tilted his chair forward
. "Seriously, Nick, you've got a lot more experience than I have. Any assistance will be greatly appreciated."
"Well," Palmer said, settling back in his chair, "Jocko showed me an interesting maneuver that he believes can bag a gomer eight out of ten times. After he pulled it on me, I believe he's right."
"The negative-g trick," Harry said, now that Nick was letting his little secret out. Palmer, who had wanted to be the first Joker pilot to down a MiG, had sworn Hutton to secrecy. A highly competitive person, Nick did not want anyone else to have. the same advantage.
Palmer ignored Hutton. "What you do is let the MiG driver get on your six, then turn into him just enough so he can pull inside of your radius."
Brad looked perplexed. "Jesus, you're leaving yourself wide open if the guy is halfway good."
"Wait a minute," Palmer said, snuffing out his cigarette. "Patience and timing are the key elements. You've got to have confidence in yourself to pull this off."
In characteristic fighter-pilot style, Palmer raised his hands to demonstrate the maneuver. "When the gomer pulls inside of you, you push the stick forward, staying in the same angle of bank. When you see the MiG disappear from sight below your canopy, you snatch 8 g's back into the turn and roll over the top in the opposite direction from your original turn. Most of the time your bandit will be confused when you disappear under his nose without rolling your aircraft."
"I think," Brad said, hanging onto every word, "I see the picture. When the MiG snap rolls to follow your push maneuver, you're coming back through his line of flight too fast for him to follow."
Palmer smiled, raising his glass. "Exactly. Before he can react, you've popped your boards and rolled up and over him. You're now in a position to take advantage, or disengage if you have any doubt about the outcome."
"Jesus," Brad said, replaying the tactic in his mind. "That's definitely an unorthodox maneuver, especially using the speed brakes."
"Yep," Palmer responded knowingly, "but it works. Jocko did it to me coming back from a BARCAP, and I took the bait. When I snapped over, the son of a bitch flashed by me in a blur, with a lot of kinetic energy."
Almost giggling, Hutton butted in. "Next thing Ace here knows, Jocko is on our six."
Brad stifled a laugh. He was amazed that Harry still had all of his original teeth.
"Well," Palmer said sarcastically, "since we're airing our laundry now, why don't you tell Brad about how you identified an air force Phantom as a MiG?"
Unable to resist, Brad laughed.
"Tell him," Palmer continued, "about how excited you were to lock on with a Sparrow, until I saved your dumb ass from knocking the poor bastards out of the sky. Great pair of eyes, kid."
Undaunted, Hutton swallowed the last sip in his glass. "So, I made one mistake this year."
"Oh, yeah," Palmer replied, shaking his head. "We would have had the entire goddamn air force after our asses."
Brad appreciated Palmer's effort to form a closer friendship with him. He seemed to be very genuine. "Nick, why don't you lead out and I'll lead back, until I have more experience?"
"Naw, you go for it. You're a hell of a lot better than you give yourself credit for."
Feeling a tinge of embarrassment, Brad got up and rinsed his glass. "Nick, I'd like to try your negative-g maneuver on our way back tomorrow. I've always been taught that speed--lots of it--is the key to winning, and living to fight again."
"That's basically true," Palmer replied, feeling a closeness to the less experienced Phantom pilot. "But intimidation and unpredictability are the keys to survival. You've got to know your aircraft, and push it to the limits of its capability, and your capability."
Brad sat down, not taking his eyes off the seasoned fighter pilot.
"A lot of people," Palmer continued, "are afraid of the Fox-4. They're afraid to take it to the edge, or over the edge. To get the most out of the Phantom, you need to keep your speed above four hundred thirty knots, and fight below thirty thousand feet.
"If you can get a MiG to jump you at an altitude below fourteen thousand feet, you're in the prime F-4 envelope. The Phantom, as I'm sure you've discovered, turns like a lead sled at higher altitudes."
Austin acknowledged with a smile and a nod.
"What about the MiGs?" Brad asked, intrigued by Palmer's knowledge. "What are their weaknesses and strong points?" Hutton was also interested in the discussion.
"The seventeen is flight-control limited, or so we've heard.
If the gomer pushes it past four hundred thirty knots, he's on the verge of losing control. That's about all I know, except it turns on a dime."
Unusually candid, Palmer appeared to be pleased that Austin was interested in his experience. "I don't know that much about the MiG-19, but the twenty-one is a thirteen-hundred-mile-perhour rocket. The twenty-one pilots basically use slash-and-run tactics."
Palmer thought for a moment. "We'll work at tactics on each flight. The primary thing to remember is that if you place second in this league, you're dead. Nail 'em quick, and get the hell out of Dodge."
"Thanks," Brad offered, having absorbed every detail provided by Palmer's insight. "I'm looking forward to flying with you tomorrow."
"Yeah," Harry grinned, "he's a real treat."
"Hey, Brad," Palmer said, crunching on an ice cube and ignoring Hutton, "our contingent of marines is target practicing on the fantail. I think they're using M-16s. Suppose you could use your influence to get us a little firing time?"
Laughing out loud, Harry could not resist. "Shit, Palmer, you couldn't hit water if you fell out of a boat."
Brad smiled, feeling a bond developing between the two pilots. "Sure. They've got a machine gun too. We can really put on a show with that little hummer."
"Think they would allow us to tow Harry as a target?" "How in the hell," Brad laughed, "did they ever team you two together?"
Harry blew Palmer a kiss. "Just lucky, I guess."
Chapter 5.
Brad and Russ Lunsford walked out of the ready room, down the long passageway, and out onto the catwalk, then mounted the steps to the flight deck. The low, dirty gray clouds threatened rain. Not a good day for flying.
Stepping onto the gritty deck, Brad was mindful of the hazards that surrounded them. Planes and tractor tugs were in constant motion. Men in various colored shirts moved swiftly around the crowded flight deck, dodging jet exhaust, wings, wheels, jet intakes, and tugs. The deck crews stepped nimbly over and around airplane chocks, taut arresting-gear cables, tie-down chains, bombs and rockets, and thick hoses pumping thousands of gallons of the volatile jet fuel into the menacing-looking planes.
Brad remembered the day a sailor, caught in the inferno of a Phantom's jet blast, had been hurled over the side of the flight deck. The aircraft handler had fallen sixty-five feet to the sea. The plane-guard helicopter, flying along the starboard side of the carrier, had managed to rescue the severely injured youth.
Kneeboards and helmet bags in hand, Russ and Brad leaned into the blustery wind and walked forward to their Phantom, Joker 208. The F-4 sat ready, canopies open, fueled, and armed with two Sparrows and four Sidewinder air-to-air missiles.
Scanning their fighter-bomber, Brad smiled to himself. The Phantom was the meanest-looking airplane he had ever seen. It reminded him of a giant prehistoric bird, one with wing tips angled up and tail fins angled down. The tough-looking monster, packed with two huge General Electric J-79 engines, was a world-class record holder. The F-4 had already set a speed record of more than 1,600 miles per hour. The Phantom could also sustain a combat altitude of 66,000 feet, and zoom climb to 100,000 feet. The amazing airplane could carry a weapons load twice that of a World War Two B-17 bomber.
Brad performed a thorough preflight walk-around while Lunsford climbed into the backseat. The pilot checked the external fuel tank for security, then pushed against the missiles to ensure that they were tightly attached. Brad peered into the engine intakes, checking for anything that might be sucked into
the powerful yet delicate engines. He looked carefully for any signs of fuel or hydraulic leaks, and checked for any loose or open panels.
The plane captain was responsible for making sure that the fighter was ready to fly, but Brad had the overall responsibility for the expensive aircraft. He noted that the right main-gear tire was almost smooth and had deep scuff marks on the side. He calculated that the tire was good for one or two more landings before it would blow out. What the hell, Brad thought, the maintenance officer has bigger problems.
Watching Nick Palmer check the security of his Sidewinder missiles, Brad climbed the fuselage steps to his cockpit. He closely inspected his ejection seat, looked down the row of aircraft being manned by other crews, then stepped into the cockpit and settled in his seat. The distinct odor of fuel, oil, and hydraulic fluid swept over him. This would be his environment for the next two hours.
The plane captain, a conscientious Wyoming. teenager who aspired to be a rancher like his father, helped Brad and Russ buckle their parachute attachments and strap themselves to the hard-bottomed ejection seats.
Austin scrutinized the cockpit, carefully checking his instruments and the position of every switch, knob, gauge, lever, button, dial, and circuit breaker. One item out of place could spell disaster for the crew.
Brad firmly grasped the rudder-pedal adjustment lever and tried to turn the crank. He placed both hands on it, but it would not budge. Phantom 208 had a history of rudder-pedal adjustment problems.
Leaning close to the plane captain, Brad yelled over the whipping wind and flight-deck noise. "Toby, I need the knockometer."
"Yes, sir," the blond-haired youth replied, then quickly scurried down the side of the fighter. He ran to the catwalk tool bin, grabbed a hammer, and raced back to the Phantom. He climbed the fuselage steps and handed the tool to his pilot.
"Thanks," Brad said, whacking the crank. The lever rotated ninety degrees, freeing the jammed drive gear. He handed the hammer back to the youngster. "The miracles of modern technology."
