by Joe Weber
Brad could tell by the tremor in Lunsford's voice that he was still unsettled by the frighteningly close brush with death. He wondered if his own voice had sounded strained over the radio.
Austin closely monitored his hydraulic gauges, fearful that the priceless fluids would leak out of the Phantom before they were safely on the carrier. If the F-4 lost all hydraulic fluid, the primary flight controls would lock, forcing the crew to eject.
"Nick," Brad radioed, "I need to perform a stability check. Let's descend to five thousand and see what speed I'll need to control this beauty."
"Reducing power now," Palmer replied. "Indicating two-fifty. Do you want to try extending your hook and flaps before we go into the soup?"
Afraid of having an asymmetrical situation, Brad thought about the split-flap possibility. He needed the flaps to reduce his final approach speed. "Sure. Here goes." Austin lowered his arresting hook and selected partial flaps. Everything worked as advertised.
The Phantoms rapidly descended into the rain and clouds and leveled at 5,000 feet. They slowed to 230 knots, then 220 knots, as Palmer radioed the speeds to Austin.
"Okay, Nick," Brad said, grasping the landing-gear handle, "I'm going to drop the gear . . . I hope."
"Wait," Palmer cautioned. "Wait a second. Your machine is really trashed. Let's not place any extra strain on anything at this speed. I recommend we slow to one-eighty and go for it. With the damage you've got, I'd leave the flaps where they are."
Agreeing with the more experienced Phantom pilot, Brad reduced power to match Palmer's F-4. They were flying in solid instrument conditions, blocking out the river of water flowing over their canopies. Relying solely on Nick Palmer to fly instruments, Brad ignored his instrument panel and concentrated on flying formation with his leader.
"Russ," Brad said over the intercom, "if we have to jump out, we've got plenty of time from five thousand."
"I've been ready . . . got everything stowed."
Fighting the insidious onslaught of vertigo, Brad intensified his concentration in an effort to reduce the sensation of dizziness. Spatial disorientation was a constant threat to pilots flying in instrument conditions. He studied Palmer's Phantom and attempted to suppress the fear gnawing at him. He did not want Russ Lunsford to know that his pilot was anything but confident about the outcome of the flight.
"Okay," Palmer radioed, closely monitoring his airspeed indicator. "I'm showing one-eighty. Let 'er go."
Brad said a silent prayer and yanked the landing-gear handle down. He was rewarded by the clunk, clunk of the main gears and the thud under the nose. "I show three down and locked."
"Looks good," Palmer replied. "Let's see what your on speed will be. Coming back on the power."
Reducing power, Brad stayed glued to Palmer's Phantom. The vertigo was dissipating and he darted a glance at his left-engine instruments, back to Palmer's F-4, then back to the fuel-quantity indicator. The powerful turbojet was operating smoothly and, to his relief, he had 2,900 pounds of fuel remaining. Enough for a couple of approaches before the Air Boss would have to rig the barricade.
"One-seventy-five," Palmer soothed. He gently moved his throttles back. "One-seventy . . . one-sixty-five . . . one-sixty .. . one-fifty-five . . . one-fifty . . ."
Brad felt the Phantom shudder, then the wings wobbled as he shoved the left throttle forward.
"Shit!" Lunsford exclaimed as the fighter leveled out. "We're going to be at least fifteen knots fast."
Adjusting the power, Brad spoke to his flight leader. "Nick, I've gotta have one-fifty to touch down."
"Okay, partner," Nick said, peering at his smooth-flying wingman. "I'll keep it on one-fifty-five . . . give you a cushion to the ramp."
Austin and Lunsford knew they would be attempting a single-engine landing almost twenty miles an hour faster than their normal approach speed. Adding to the difficulty was the fact that the angle-of-attack indexer was not working. The sensor had been sheared off in the violent collision with the trees.
Hutton, who had been quiet, watching the drama unfold, spoke to his roommate. "Brad, you can do it. Show the navy how the marines land a flying tree."
"What was it you said," Palmer radioed Austin, "about marine fighter pilots?"
Brad smiled to himself. "When we're out of ammo, we resort to ramming our bogies."
Lunsford nervously keyed his mike. "And you wonder--flying with that kind of mentality--why I'm a basket case."
Palmer and Hutton shared a laugh over their intercom but kept their comments to themselves. They both were concerned about Lunsford's increasing uneasiness.
Palmer talked to the carrier controller who would vector the flight to a position for an instrument approach to a visual landing. The radar operator steered the Phantoms to a point six miles behind the carrier, then turned them inbound to line up with the small flight-deck landing zone. He wanted the pilots tb' have adequate time to stabilize before they started their descent. "Reduce to your final approach speed."
"We're already there," Palmer radioed as the two aircraft flew into a heavy downpour. "Dash Two is damaged and can't slow below one-fifty-five."
The controller sensed a disaster in the making. "Copy. Understand that you're at final approach speed."
Twenty seconds elapsed before the radar operator again contacted the flight. "Approaching glide slope . . . up and on the glide slope. Begin your descent." Palmer eased the power back and followed the controller's calm instructions.
"You're. on the glide path, left of course. Come right five degrees." Palmer made a very slight correction. His instrument scan was automatic from hundreds of hours of practice and five years of experience.
"You're on glide path, on course. The last aircraft has trapped. You have a clear deck."
"Roger, clear deck," Palmer replied, closely monitoring his rate of descent. They were descending through 600 feet in a heavy rain squall.
"On glide slope, on course," the controller advised without inflection.
Brad never took his eyes off Palmer's Phantom. Only seconds to go before they would see the carrier deck. He felt his pulse quicken. God, don't let me fail.
"Phantom ball," Palmer called, omitting his fuel state. He would have to trap on the next pass.
Darting a quick glance toward the carrier, Brad saw the dim meatball, then drifted away from his leader. "Two Oh Eight, ball, one point nine."
Palmer broke away, climbing back into the clouds as the LSO coached Austin. "You're fast and high. Get off the power! Get the power back!"
Brad inched the left throttle back and nudged the stick forward. The ball remained high as he approached the round-down. The Phantom, on the verge of stalling, shuddered as Brad shoved the throttle forward.
"Oh, shheeeit," Lunsford uttered at the moment the F-4 passed over the fantail of the ship.
"Bolter, bolter, bolter!" the LSO said, seeing that the Phantom was going to overshoot the landing zone.
The fighter ballooned over the four arresting-gear wires, went into afterburner on the left engine, touched the deck for a split second, then mushed into the air as Austin fought for control. He could feel the adrenaline shock to his heart. Brad knew that he could not reduce power on the approach because the aircraft would stall and crash.
The crippled fighter struggled for altitude as the LSO called. "Okay, five wire, settle down. You've got the best boarding rate in your squadron."
Determined to stay below the cloud deck, Brad was about to respond when the Air Boss called.
"Joker Two Zero Eight, we're going to barricade you. Two Zero Two, we're shooting a tanker. Anchor overhead at eight thousand and give us a tops report when you break out."
"Two Oh Two, copy," Palmer acknowledged, adding a small amount of power. His low-fuel state was becoming more critical by the second.
Brad leveled off under the ragged overcast. He flew in and out of the scud at 400 feet.
"Two Zero Eight," the Air Boss radioed, "extend downwind. We're riggin
g the barricade now. Say fuel."
Glancing at the fuel-quantity indicator, Brad could hear Lunsford trying to control his breathing rate.
"Two Zero Eight, one point six."
The radar-controlled approach had consumed more than a thousand pounds of jet fuel.
The LSO conversed with Austin for the next three minutes. He suggested a flat approach, due to the extra speed. Brad felt more comfortable having the carrier in sight during the entire approach.
Dropping out of heavy rain with a single engine, battle damage, overspeed, and low fuel was a carrier pilot's second worst nightmare. The worst would be to find yourself in the same situation at night.
"Two Zero Eight," the Air Boss radioed, "turn inbound. We'll be ready in less than a minute."
"Two Oh Eight, turning inbound."
Lunsford tilted his head back, eyes closed. "Austin, you better get your shit in one bag."
"Ready deck," the Boss radioed from high in Pri-Fly. "Bring it home."
Brad reduced power until the F-4 trembled, then added a nudge of throttle. His breathing became a series of gasps. Feeling claustrophobic, he ripped his oxygen mask loose and sucked in the refreshing ambient air.
"Phantom ball, one point one," Brad reported as he held the yellow-orange meatball a fraction below the centered position.
"Lookin' good," the LSO said calmly. "Stay with it."
Brad tweaked the power back and forth, nursing the damaged fighter toward the rainswept flight deck. He was twenty-five seconds from the round-down when the Phantom again shuddered.
"Keep it together," Lunsford said through gritted teeth.
Focused on survival, Brad blocked out every sensory input except the spot where he intended to land. Watching the deck rush toward him, he concentrated on his lineup and the meatball. He was committed to land on this pass.
Lunsford sucked oxygen. "Oh, merciful God . . . help us." "Power to idle!" the LSO coached, using body English to work the Phantom down. "Raise your nose!"
Brad waited a second, then slapped the throttle to idle as the round-down flashed under the Phantom. He pulled back on the stick an instant before the fighter crashed into the flight deck, shearing off the nose gear.
A horrendous screech filled the cockpit as the F-4 slammed into the huge nylon-webbed barricade. Both men were savagely thrown forward into their harnesses as the fighter slewed to a sudden stop. The nose-gear assembly bounced over the tangled barricade, ricocheted off the angled deck, and splashed into the sea.
"Sonuvabitch!" Lunsford spat, then let out a sigh of relief. His tongue was bleeding from the inadvertent bite during the controlled crash landing.
Brad quickly shut down the left engine and started releasing himself from his restraints and hoses. He was vaguely aware of the frantic action taking place around his demolished airplane.
Two men scrambled up on the canopies and started pulling away the twisted nylon straps. Seconds later, Austin and Lunsford felt the brisk sea air sweeping over them as the canopies were raised.
A half dozen rescue personnel helped the stunned crew out of their destroyed jet fighter. Brad and Russ were led to a hatch in the island superstructure. They were surprised to see the CO standing inside the opening. He had watched the barricade landing from Pri-Fly before rushing down to the flight deck.
"You guys okay?" Dan Bailey asked, clearly awed by the magnitude of the crash landing.
"I've been better," Brad answered, removing his helmet, "but I'm okay . . . physically."
Bailey looked at Lunsford, who had also taken off his helmet. The CO saw the trickle of blood in the corner of the RIO's mouth. "You look like you need to sit down."
"I'm okay, Skipper," Lunsford responded, rubbing his chest where the shoulder harness had bruised him.
The three men turned to look at the remains of Joker 208. The Phantom rested on the remains of its smashed nose cone. Brad noticed that the right main-gear strut had been driven up through the wing. The once sleek, fearsomely aggressive-looking fighter had been reduced to a heap of twisted metal.
The three watched the deck crew place a dolly under the Phantom's nose. Moving swiftly, the aircraft handlers towed the wrecked F-4 to the forward deck-edge elevator, then lowered the aircraft to the hangar bay. Joker 208 would become the squadron hangar queen, providing useful parts for the flyable aircraft.
Bailey turned to Brad and Russ. "I want both of you to report to Doc McCary. We'll get together with Palmer and Hutton later."
"Skipper," Lunsford said, wiping his face with the sleeve of his flight suit, "I don't need to see the flight surgeon. I need to see a shrink."
"You, along with the rest of us," Bailey replied as Nick Palmer's Phantom slammed onto the steel deck and snagged the three wire.
Chapter 7.
Brad Austin toweled himself dry and leaned over the wash-basin. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. The three small bottles of medicinal alcohol Doc McCary had given him, along with the seven hours of restless sleep, had not erased the image of the trees rushing up to kill him.
Walking down the passageway to his stateroom, Brad met his roommate, who was returning from dinner.
"You missed the celebration in the ready room," Harry Hutton said. "Palmer is now a legend in his own mind."
Brad brushed his close-cropped hair with a thin, fraying towel. "He deserves the recognition. He bagged a gomer . . . and got my dumb ass back to the boat."
Grinning mischievously, Hutton shook his head. "That was one hell of a show you put on. Have you been down to see that pile of shit?"
Stepping into the small berthing compartment, Brad set down his dopp kit. "No, and I really don't care to be reminded, okay? I almost killed Russ twice today."
Hutton sensed that his friend, normally easygoing and even-tempered, was not in the mood for jocularity. "Okay. The old man wants to see Nick, Russ, you, and me in his stateroom at nineteen hundred."
"I'll be there," Brad responded, opening his small closet. "What's for chow?"
Hutton sat down and casually propped his feet on the lower-bunk bed. "Chicken fried steak and smashed potatoes."
Brad glanced at Harry. "Smashed potatoes?"
"Wait til you see 'em."
Austin donned a fresh uniform shirt and slipped on a pair of razor-creased khaki trousers. He turned to the small washbasin, picked up his toothbrush, squeezed toothpaste on the bristles, and looked at Hutton's reflection in the mirror. "Something on your mind?"
"As a matter of fact," Harry said uncomfortably, "I do have something I'd like to mention. Two items, actually." "Shoot," Brad replied, brushing vigorously.
Hutton remained quiet a few moments, contemplating how best to phrase his two topics. "First, the Air Boss didn't want to let you come aboard. He wanted you guys to fly upwind and jump out."
Rinsing his mouth, Brad again glanced at Hutton's image in the mirror. "Well, in retrospect, I would have to agree with him."
Hutton stood, walked over next to Brad, and leaned against the bulkhead. "The CO talked him out of it, because of the sea state. He was afraid both of you would drown before the helo could find you."
Hutton walked to the bunk and stretched out with his hands behind his head. "Bailey told the Air Boss that if there was anyone on the boat who could bring a Fox-4 aboard at a hundred fifty knots, it was you, his marine nutcase."
Brad wiped his mouth. "Nutcase?"
"Look, I'm only repeating what the XO and Carella said during Palmer's ready-room grab-ass."
Brad sat down at his small desk and leaned back. "I believe you had another item on your agenda."
Hutton sat up and put his feet on the deck. "We're friends, right?"
Brad nodded.
"Everyone likes you," Hutton continued, "but face it, you are somewhat of an enigma."
Brad Austin remained silent, showing no outward signs of emotion. For Harry, being serious was unusual and difficult.
"You're a marine fighter jock," Harry said carefully, "in a navy sq
uadron . . . and you're damn good. You and Palmer, one on one, would be a hell of a match."
Austin looked at his watch. "Are you trying to butter me up for a date or something? Throw it on the table."
"Well," Harry began, then hesitated. "I, along with some of the other guys, think you are pressing too hard."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I really do. That remark you made a couple of days ago--in the ready room--when Dirty Ernie said something about feeling helpless the time that they had been surrounded by seven MiGs."
"Go on," Brad prompted, leaning forward.
"You said something to the effect that you felt being surrounded was, in reality, just a better opportunity to bag more MiGs. That remark raised a few eyebrows."
Feeling exasperated, Brad rubbed his sore neck muscles. The violent barricade engagement had whipped his head more severely than any trap he had ever made.
"Harry, let me set the record straight. I am not a warmonger, and I don't get any pleasure out of war, or killing people. I despise wars, and I despise the psychopathic tyrants who perpetrate warfare.
"I enjoy flying, and the Marine Corps spent more than a million dollars to train me to be a fighter pilot. I didn't expect to ever use my special skills, nor did I have a desire to shoot people."
Hutton raised his hands. "Enough. I know you better than anyone else, and you--"
"Wait a minute," Austin interrupted, feeling a need to vent his frustrations. "Hear me out. I had my future planned, about ready to go to graduate school, when our illustrious buffoons in the White House decided to jump into this goddamned mess.
"I packed my trash, like I was ordered to do, and marched my ass over here. Now, after all the training and psyching myself emotionally, we have rules of engagement that had to have been developed by morons. Christ, the North Vietnamese have to be rolling on the ground in Hanoi laughing their asses off at our ineptitude."
"Brad, my man," Hutton said, feeling the same disdain for the combat restrictions, "you can't change the course of this administration, so just take care of number one."
