by Joe Weber
For weeks, the topic of conversation in the ready rooms, wardrooms, and staterooms had been the shackles imposed on combat operations. Many senior military commanders had been calling for maximum-effort attacks on the key components of North Vietnam's war-making machine.
"Harry, I can't shut off my mind and just waddle down the path of least resistance. Jesus, we're sitting here, basically throwing dirt clods at tanks.
"We've got the capability," Austin continued, incensed, "to blast the Communist regime into total submission using conventional weapons. We need to destroy their military complexes, electrical power plants, key industrial sites, petroleum storage facilities, transportation systems, bridges, air-defense installations, and--my favorite topic--airfields.
"But no," Brad persisted, "we have the 'McNamara War.' A goddamn piecemeal, half-assed effort that is confined to bombing a rail-repair shop, a power transformer, a couple of unimportant bridges, a small cement plant, and--if we haven't pissed the commies off too much with those devastating attacks--perhaps a truck depot or laundry facility."
"Hey," Harry said in his seldom-used, serious voice. "You need some chow, and I could go for another dessert. Let's go grab a bite, then we'll see the old man."
"All right," Brad replied, trying to suppress his anger at the fact that the aircrews were having to risk their lives on missions of little or no importance.
"Harry, tell me one thing. Am I crazy? Has my logic missed the brilliance of this scheme, or do I not understand the big picture?"
Hutton placed his hand on the doorknob. "Brad, I understand your frustration. I feel it, too, but I've buried my feelings because I don't have any say in what type of missions we will fly."
"I can't bury my anger." The bitter reply was very unusual for the easygoing pilot. "Harry, think about this. We can now attack the MiG base at Kep but not the airfield at Phuc Yen. Right?"
"Right," Hutton replied, still holding the knob.
"So the resident genius in Hanoi moves all the operational MiGs to Phuc Yen, since we notified them that the MiG field was off-limits to our pilots. Absolutely brilliant planning."
Hutton remained quiet, then opened the cabin door. "Come on, shipmate, I'll buy you an after-dinner drink on the promenade deck."
Brad smiled at his close friend. "Seriously, Harry, it's a goddamn crime. We bomb targets into oblivion, then Johnson and McNamara decide that we should stand down for three weeks. During that time, as we all know, the gomers rebuild, resupply, and reload their missile launchers, to blow the shit out of us on the next round."
Seething, Brad tried to remain calm. "Aha, now our brilliant strategists in the White House decide--since Uncle Ho isn't cooperating, as usual--that we'll go back and bomb the same goddamn targets."
Brad clenched his fists. "We're being manipulated, and I don't like it. Harry, when you lose good people for stupid, totally preventable, unjustifiable reasons, I sometimes wonder if the real threat is in Hanoi or Washington."
The two men stepped into the passageway, shut the cabin door, and walked in silence for a few seconds.
"I'll tell you one thing," Hutton said in mock seriousness, "I know for certain."
Brad opened the hatch to the main fore-and-aft passageway under the port side of the flight deck. "What?"
"If President Johnson," Hutton said evenly, "had to fly in your backseat, the war would be over in a matter of minutes."
Chapter 8.
The evening movie was just beginning in the squadron ready room when Brad Austin and Harry Hutton reported to the CO's quarters. Brad adjusted his uniform and knocked.
"Come in," Dan Bailey invited, writing at his desk. His stateroom, although designed to accommodate only one person, was larger than the two-man rooms assigned to the junior officers.
Nick Palmer and Russ Lunsford were seated in two metal chairs against the bulkhead. They reminded Brad of two kids who had been sent to the principal's office.
Bailey motioned to his bunk. "Have a seat." "Congratulations, Nick," Brad said as he and Hutton sat on the neatly made bed. "And thanks for getting us to the fantail." "The MiG," Palmer replied earnestly, "should have been yours. You had him pegged."
Bailey set down his reports, including the operational loss of Austin's Phantom. He removed his reading glasses and turned to Brad.
"The XO is investigating my accident, so Jocko will handle your incident. He will go over the details with you later this evening."
"Yes, sir," Brad responded, seeing the indelibly imprinted picture of the trees rushing at him. He wondered if the sight of death only a split second away would ever fade from his memory.
At the request of the CO, Austin and Lunsford recounted the facts pertaining to the encounter with the trees and the succeeding barricade landing.
Palmer and Hutton remained quiet, enthralled with the story. They had seen the tape of Brad's crash landing, shown over and over in the ready room, and still had trouble believing what they had seen. When the landing sequence had been detailed by Austin and Lunsford, the CO shut his cabin door.
"First," Bailey said, sitting back in his chair, "I want to again add my congratulations to Nick and Harry. However, and there always seems to be a 'however,' we need to chat about a few things."
Austin and Hutton nodded. Palmer and Lunsford felt a sense of uneasiness but remained quiet.
"I've addressed most of the squadron this afternoon, but I wanted to talk to the four of you in private." Bailey saw concern beginning to appear in Lunsford's eyes.
"Nothing major, gentlemen. Just a chat about philosophy and survival in our arena."
Brad relaxed, anxious to be candid with his skipper.
"I want to discuss," Bailey began, "our basic mission, how to accomplish the objectives as safely as possible, and the growing unrest and resentment over the current rules of engagement." Bailey's eyes, moving easily from face to face, detected an involuntary twitch on Brad's face.
"We are here to do our jobs as efficiently and safely as possible. Although Nick scored a kill, we can't afford to trade plane for plane. The squadron has two MiGs, but we've lost, for practical purposes, two F-4s."
Forcing himself to remain quiet, Brad shifted forward.
"We are not in a position," the CO said, "to question policy in regard to targeting, or how the course of battle is to be conducted."
Bailey leaned forward and focused on Austin. "Brad, I sense that a part of your aggressiveness is borne out of frustration. Would that be a fair assessment?"
Brad swallowed. "Sir, may I be candid?"
"That's why we are having this little discussion off the record."
"Skipper," Brad hesitated, "if someone could explain to me why we are being placed in a no-win position, I'd like to hear the reason. It's as if we are being told not to win the war, just keep playing the same game and get more people killed."
Hutton and Lunsford exchanged concerned glances. Austin was stepping over the line.
"Sir," Brad continued, "keeping military targets off-limits is insane, or so it seems to me." Austin sighed. "Yes, my frustration level is very high. We could easily flatten Hanoi and Haiphong, mine the harbors, then put a choke hold across their supply line. The war would be over very quickly.
"I keep hearing," Brad continued, "that our leaders in Washington don't want to upset the major Communist powers--the same people who are providing the weapons that are shooting us down."
The stateroom became deathly quiet. Palmer quietly cleared his throat.
Nodding his head in agreement, Bailey directed his words to both crews. "I have to agree with Lieutenant Austin that we are using only a fraction of our military capabilities."
Bailey picked up his pen and flipped it back and forth between his index and middle fingers. "I empathize with Brad--with everyone who shares the resentment for being placed in jeopardy for little or no gain. The four-star commanding our Pacific forces, along with every military commander in the chain of command, is resentful of the ne
edless deaths."
The CO again leaned back, staring distractedly at the overhead before speaking. "I have two points to make. One, we are not in a position to question the politics involved in these decisions. I happen to agree with Brad that the military strategy being formed in the White House is incompetent--morally reprehensible--but I emphasize that we took an oath, reposing of special trust and confidence, to uphold the orders of our commander in chief.
"We will continue to do our jobs," Bailey hesitated, "and pray that someone intervenes who has the wisdom and fortitude to win . . . or end this debacle."
Hutton glanced at his roommate. Austin appeared to be absorbing the frank conversation with a degree of understanding.
"The second point," Bailey continued, placing his pen down, "ties to the first. We have missions to fly, albeit with questionable targets, but missions just the same."
Inhaling deeply, Bailey gazed at the floor, exhaled, then moved his eyes from man to man. "I expect all of you to continue to be professional leaders, and duty bound. I want you to carry out your duties as safely as possible, and not let personal resentment cloud your logic."
"Yes, sir," Brad and Harry replied.
"Oh, one other item," Bailey said, remembering what he had emphasized to the flight crews in the ready room. "I don't want anyone trolling for MiGs. That is a violation of standing orders, and I will ground anyone who is caught hunting MiGs instead of flying the mission he was assigned."
"Sir," Brad said firmly, "we weren't trolling for MiGs. We'd been sent in to check the weather."
"I'm well aware of that. I reminded the rest of the squadron, and I am simply reminding you."
The silence made Brad uncomfortable.
"Now," Bailey said, standing, "I want all of you to get out of here so I can get some rest. We've got a double strike laid on for tomorrow."
The four junior officers stood when the CO got up from his chair. They respected him as a leader, pilot, and plain old-fashioned good friend.
Opening the door, Bailey turned to his men. "I intend for you to continue flying as a team. You're doing a hell of a job under difficult circumstances."
Brad Austin and Russ Lunsford sat in adjoining seats in the ready room. They had on their flight suits and were taking copious notes about the target combat air patrol they had been assigned. Across the aisle, Lt. Cdr. Lincoln Joshua "Bull" Durham, the TARCAP mission flight leader, sat with his RIO, Ernie Sheridan. Dirty Ernie, the senior and most experienced radar-intercept officer in the squadron, rotated flying with the senior pilots.
Lincoln Durham, a friendly and sensitive giant of a man, had been an All-American tackle at Grambling College. After a brief stint with the Chicago Bears, Bull Durham had opted to join the navy and become a fighter pilot. The black aviator had graduated from flight school in the top ten percent of his class.
Jack Carella reminded the men about safety, then finished the brief and wished the crews good luck.
Brad and Russ followed Durham and Sheridan out of the ready room and down the passageway to the musty-smelling locker room.
Stepping over the hatch combing, Brad turned to his friend, Bull Durham. "How's your wife doing?" Cordelia Durham had returned to George Washington University to complete her master's degree in political science.
"Fine," Durham replied, working his combination lock. "I had a letter from her day before yesterday. Her studies are going well, but she is concerned about the growing number of war protesters. I guess it's really getting ugly."
Brad opened his locker and grabbed his g suit. "Has she had any problems in regard to you being a fighter pilot?"
"I don't think so. Cordy is not the type to say much about the war, or express an opinion." Durham paused. "Besides, she probably wouldn't tell me if she did--wouldn't want to worry me."
Brad slipped on his snug, inflatable g suit. "When is she graduating?"
Durham zipped his g suit around his waist. "The end of next month. I'm going to try to go home for her graduation, and surprise her."
"That would be nice . . . if you can get off this tub." "Right."
"Tell her hello from the jarhead." Brad had met Cordelia Durham in Hong Kong during an extended port call. The quiet, gracious woman had flown over with four other squadron wives.
"I'll do that," Durham replied, sitting down to zip the legs of his g suit. He leaned closer to Brad, almost whispering. "Also got word last week that Cordy is pregnant."
Grinning, Brad stuck out his hand. "Congratulations, Papa San."
"Thanks," Durham laughed, shaking Austin's hand. "We're excited, to say the least."
Chapter 9.
Brad and Russ sat in their idling Phantom, waiting to taxi forward when the port blast deflector was lowered. Bull Durham, on the starboard catapult, went to full military power, then selected afterburner. Bright orange flames shot out of the twin tail pipes as the deafening roar swept over the flight deck.
Brad watched his flight leader snap a salute to the cat officer. Four seconds later, the F-4 thundered down the catapult, rotated, settled low over the choppy water, then climbed to the departure altitude.
Nick Palmer, ahead of Brad's Phantom, taxied onto the number two catapult while Jon O'Meara and his RIO, Mario Russo, taxied over the starboard-cat shuttle.
The green-shirted deck crewmen quickly hooked O'Meara's F-4 to the number one cat, then scurried out from under the heavily laden fighter.
Palmer went into afterburner and rocketed down the deck in a repeat of Durham's launch. The blast deflector was immediately lowered, allowing Brad to taxi onto the steaming catapult. He moved forward slowly and stopped when the nose wheel dropped over the shuttle.
Feeling tension taken on his fighter, Brad was coming up on the power when O'Meara's F-4 was fired. The Phantom, carrying a 600-gallon centerline fuel tank, erupted in flames when the fuel cell split open from the g force. The torrent of fuel, ignited by the blazing afterburners, swept the length of the cat track.
"Oh, shit!" Brad exclaimed as his fighter came up to full throttle. He was afraid to reduce power in the event that his F-4 was fired intentionally, or accidentally.
O'Meara's F-4, trailing twenty feet of orange flames, hurtled off the deck and climbed unsteadily. O'Meara, hearing a frantic call from the Air Boss, jettisoned the ruptured fuel tank. Brad and Russ watched it tumble harmlessly into the water.
Billowing black smoke engulfed Brad's Phantom as the cat officer rushed up and gave him the catapult-suspend signal. Austin could hear Lunsford swearing in the backseat. Brad pulled his power to idle at the same moment the Air Boss yelled over the radio to shoot Austin's F-4.
"Sonuvabitch!" Brad swore, shoving the throttles forward again. The power was passing ninety-six percent when the Phantom squatted down and blasted the length of the catapult track.
"Stay with me, Lunsford!" Brad ordered as the afterburners lighted with a resounding boom. The F-4 settled low over the water, kicking up spray as Brad popped the gear lever up and tweaked the nose down to take advantage of the cushion of air between the Phantom's wings and the water. Lunsford held his breath and gripped the alternate ejection-seat handle between his thighs.
The compressed layer of air, known as ground effect, would allow the fighter to stay in the air until Brad had enough speed to climb. It was not in the book, but Brad knew it was their only chance to salvage the aircraft.
Slowly, Brad nursed the howling Phantom out of ground effect and started climbing. His left hand, holding the throttles in afterburner, was shaking.
"Goddamnit!" Lunsford shouted, gulping oxygen, "we've gotta be out of our goddamn minds."
Brad let the Phantom accelerate before switching to the carrier Strike frequency. He deselected afterburner, then waited while the controller explained to Durham what had happened during the launch.
O'Meara and Russo were holding overhead to trap after the launch was complete. The Air Boss, afraid that Austin's fighter might catch fire and explode, had fired the F-4 off the
catapult. The fuel fire had been extinguished with only minor injuries to the deck crewmen.
"Joker Two Oh Three up," Brad radioed, calming himself while Lunsford, ranting over the intercom, continued to cast disparaging remarks about the Air Boss and his mother.
"Bring it aboard, Brad," Bull Durham acknowledged. "You doin' all right?"
"Roger that," Austin replied as evenly as possible. He was grateful that no one could see his shaking hands. "I have you at one o'clock."
"Copy," Durham said, then added, "you are now Dash Three." Brad clicked his mike twice and spoke to his RIO. "Russ, let's get it together."
"I'm gonna kill that sonuvabitch," Lunsford responded, breathing unevenly. "He fired us before we were ready."
"Calm down, for Christ's sake. He was just doing his job .. . and we need to do ours, okay?"
Exhaling sharply, Lunsford looked at Bull Durham's airplane. "I guaran-goddamn-tee you one thing."
"What's that?" Brad asked absently as he approached the two Phantoms.
"You are never going to pull the power back again unless the cat officer is standing in front of the goddamn airplane."
Brad started to respond, then decided to discuss the incident after his RIO had had an opportunity to calm himself. At the moment, they needed to concentrate on their mission.
The three-ship formation climbed in silence to the KA-3B Skywarriors waiting for them, checked in on the tanker frequency, and then topped off their fuel tanks.
Departing the Whales, Joker Flight checked in with Red Crown and headed toward Thanh Hoa. The target would be an industrial site heavily defended by surface-to-air missiles and antiaircraft batteries. The three F-4s separated into a loose combat spread, with Austin in the middle 1,000 feet behind and 500 feet higher than Jokers 1 and 2.
Durham entered a wide orbit at 16,000 feet and listened to another flight of Phantoms check in with the leader of the strike group.
Ninety seconds later, the lead A-4 pilot commenced his run-in from the southwest of Thanh Hoa. The sky suddenly filled with exploding AAA fire and SAMs. The fourth Skyhawk pulled off the burning target as the flight leader of the second group released his ordnance and snapped into a ninety-degree climbing turn.
