Rules of Engagement (1991)

by Joe Weber

  "Two Zero Three, Da Nang approach."

  Brad winced when a bolt of lightning appeared to hit the starboard wing tip. "We're a navy Fox-4 with damage and emergency fuel."

  "Roger, squawk three two five two and say angels."

  Brad set the transponder code in his IFF and keyed his radio. "Thirty-two fifty-two, two two thousand."

  "Joker Two Zero Three," the controller responded dryly, "I have you in radar contact. Be advised that we have severe thunderstorm activity in all quadrants."

  Feeling his blood chill, Brad glanced at his fuel gauge and steeled himself for the instrument approach. Lunsford, who was swearing a blue streak in the backseat, was preparing for a controlled ejection.

  The approach radar monitor waited for the gravity of the situation to sink in, then keyed his mike again. "Two Zero Three, continue present heading."

  "Copy approach," Brad replied, checking his TACAN readout. The distance-measuring equipment broke lock twice, then registered forty-two nautical miles to Da Nang. Austin had purposely remained high in order to make an idle descent to the runway.

  Swallowing to moisten his dry throat, Brad wrestled the flight controls to keep the bouncing fighter under control. The jarring turbulence increased as they neared the coastline, turning minutes into hours.

  "Joker Two Zero Three, descend to seven thousand and turn left one six zero degrees."

  Brad complied with the instructions, then switched to the., ground-control approach radar operator when the Phantom descended through 14,000 feet. The unflappable GCA controller was a savvy veteran who had helped many pilots in the same predicament.

  "Two Zero Three," the reassuring voice said, "keep it clean. I'll call one mile so you can dirty up."

  Brad would leave his flaps and landing gear up to keep the Phantom aerodynamically clean.

  "Descend to three thousand," the calming voice instructed. "Increase your rate of descent."

  Looking at his altimeter and distance to Da Nang, Brad judged that adding another 500 feet per minute to his descent rate would place him at 3,000 feet two miles from the end of the runway. He increased pressure on the stick, checking the increase in descent rate on his vertical velocity indicator.

  Taking a look at the fuel indicator, Brad felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. The gauge showed 300 pounds of fuel remaining. Oh, God, please let us make it to the runway.

  The rain increased as the Phantom jolted through another powerful storm cell. Passing 5,000 feet, Brad began slowing the steep descent. He was flying faster than he normally would at this point in an instrument letdown, but speed was his only chance to reach the runway.

  "You're three miles from touchdown," the radar controller said in a conversational manner. "You're right in the ballpark."

  Brad shallowed the rate of descent even further, bleeding off airspeed. He heard the GCA operator call two miles as the F-4 settled onto the glide slope.

  "You're up and on glide path," the controller radioed, then added, "come left five degrees . . . a mile and a half."

  Cracking open the speed brakes, Brad glanced at the fuel quantity indicator. It read zero. His palms were sweaty as he fully extended the speed brakes.

  "One mile," the calm voice said, "dirty up."

  Without acknowledging, Brad partially extended his flaps, waited until the airspeed decelerated to 220 knots, then dropped the landing gear and lowered full flaps at 170 knots. The Phantom leveled off for a moment.

  "Going slightly above glide path," the controller said as Austin saw the runway lights through the pouring rain.

  Transitioning to the landing attitude, Brad keyed his mike. "Runway in sight."

  "Roger, take over visually," the controller replied with a hint of pride in his voice, "and have a good afternoon, gentlemen."

  "Thanks," Brad responded as he felt the rain coming through the hole in the canopy. He added power to stabilize his speed at 135 knots, crossed the end of the runway, then pulled the throttles to idle as the main gears touched the rain-soaked ground.

  The tires, inflated to 225 pounds per square inch, hydroplaned a moment before slicing through the pools of water on the runway. The Phantom rapidly decelerated, sending showers of water spraying in every direction.

  "Thank you, God," Lunsford exclaimed. "Austin can take over now."

  Brad rolled out, switched to ground control as he turned off the runway, then added a nudge of power to taxi. The left engine surged, then flamed out, followed twelve seconds later by the right engine.

  Ignoring the steady rain pouring on him, Brad keyed his radio. "Da Nang ground, Navy Two Oh Three has flamed out on the taxiway."

  Lunsford, slack-jawed with a wide-eyed expression, sagged in his straps. "Un-goddamn-believable."

  Chapter 11.

  The muddy jeep came to a stop in front of the Da Nang Officers' Club. Brad and Russ got out, thanked the staff sergeant for the lift from Operations, then studied the air base and surrounding area.

  Da Nang, the second-largest airfield in Vietnam, had been located near the ocean. The unspoiled white beaches were right out of a travel brochure.

  Soaked by the suffocating heat and humidity, Brad looked to the northeast. The rain had abated, affording him a spectacular view of "Monkey Mountain" protruding from the sea. He paused a moment, following two fighters banking over China Beach.

  The air base was teeming with aircraft from all the services. Marine F-4s and A-4 Skyhawks, flying close air support and strike missions, were constantly taking off or landing. Scores of helicopters clattered over on their way to the "Marble Mountain" airfield.

  Concertina wire was strung on both sides of the chain-link perimeter fence that surrounded the busy air base. People in every conceivable style of dress and uniform scurried about the base in a strange disorderliness.

  Turning to Lunsford, Brad pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and noted the name. Master Sergeant Horace Grevers. "Let's go to the package store first. Grevers is a scotch drinker who is going to be mighty surprised before he leaves the GCA shack."

  Brad had phoned the radar controller who had talked him down. The sergeant was still on duty, but a coworker had told Brad that the veteran controller liked scotch. The grateful pilot was going to send a case of premium spirits to his new friend.

  The two men walked into the small package store, paid for a case of Dewar's, made arrangements to have the scotch delivered to the radar site, then headed for the officers' club and a cold beer.

  Austin had had their Phantom towed to the sprawling ramp where the divert aircraft were parked. The F-4 had been refueled, and a tarp had been secured over the front canopy. Both men had left their flight gear in the cockpits.

  Brad had sent a message to the carrier from Operations, detailing the extent of the damage to Joker 203. The return message directed him to fly back to the carrier the following morning. They had an overhead time of 0745.

  Walking into the air-conditioned club, Brad and Russ saw the sign that read "Leave Guns Here." The rungs were full of handguns, along with one M-16 rifle. Austin and Lunsford had left their .38-caliber revolvers in the Phantom with their other gear.

  The two men sat down at the bar and ordered beers. Lunsford insisted that the beers be ice-cold. A comely young Vietnamese waitress opened the bottles and smiled when she set them down.

  "Thanks," Brad said, drinking half the contents in one gulp. He took another sip, then spread his elbows on the smooth bar. Looking around the club, he waited a few seconds before turning to his RIO. "What's eating you? The war, or my flying?"

  Tipping his bottle up, Lunsford took a long swig and set the bottle back on the bar. He turned to face Brad. "A little of both, I guess. Actually, it isn't you. I wanted to be a pilot, but I washed out in the last phase of training . . . at Kingsville."

  Taken aback, Brad turned to his friend. "Jesus, Russ, I had no idea. I'm sorry."

  "Don't worry about it," Lunsford replied, picking up his beer. "At any rat
e, I thought that being an RIO would be the next best thing."

  Brad sat quietly while Russ took another drink, then continued. "Sitting in the backseat, after having flown jets, is more difficult than I had thought it would be. It drives me crazy, not having any control. Especially when I get the shit scared out of me."

  Nodding in agreement, Brad took a drink.

  "It's like riding in the backseat of a race car," Lunsford continued. "You're going like a bat out of hell, but you don't have any control over the outcome . . . if the wheels come off."

  Lunsford set his empty bottle on the bar. "Anyway, I guess it's cumulative in my case. It has really been getting to me."

  Brad swiveled and leaned against the bar. "Russ, it scares the hell out of me, too. Now that I think about it, I see your point. I'm so busy physically controlling the airplane, I don't have time to think about all the things that might go wrong, or to worry about what the guy in the front seat is going to do."

  They both ordered another beer and leaned on the bar. Brad understood Lunsford's feelings. "Russ, do you want to fly with someone else?"

  The pause hung in the air. "No," Lunsford answered, turning his head to face Brad. "You're goddamn good--one of the best I've ever seen. I have a lot of confidence in you, you asshole, but I just go into hyper mode when the shit hits the fan, or you pull one of your stunts."

  They looked at each other and both laughed, breaking the tension between them.

  "Shit," Lunsford said, "you sank a goddamned patrol boat with an air-to-air missile, flew my ass through one of the worst storms I have ever seen, then landed in a downpour and flamed out. No, I don't want to fly with anyone else. With your kind of luck, you don't need to be good."

  Brad laughed. "What d'ya mean?"

  "God must have an entire committee assigned to keep your dumb ass out of trouble."

  "Well," Brad said, grinning, "they aren't doing a very good job. Look who I have for a backseater."

  Brad Austin awakened, startled from his nightmare. He looked at his watch, trying to focus his bloodshot eyes. It read 0540. He slumped back in the metal bunk bed, thinking about the frightening dream.

  His Phantom had been spinning out of control, inverted, spewing flaming fuel over downtown Hanoi, and the ejection seat would not fire. He had been yanking at the face curtain when he woke. Brad ran his tongue around his stale mouth, tasting the onions in the fried rice that he had eaten at midnight.

  His bladder suddenly reminded him of the number of beers he had consumed. Brad swung his legs over the side of the upper bunk, then jumped down, landing unsteadily on Lunsford's flight boots.

  "Goddamnit," Austin swore as he lost his balance and fell on top of his RIO. "Sorry."

  Lunsford only groaned as Brad regained his footing and headed for the latrine at the end of the Quonset hut.

  Upon returning, Brad attempted to talk Lunsford awake. That effort had no effect on the inebriated RIO. Austin finally aroused Lunsford by pulling him up to a sitting position, then helping him to the latrine. Brad could see that he had to take command of the situation if they were going to make their overhead time at the carrier.

  "Okay, Russ," Brad said, sitting the lethargic man in the single shower, "this is for your own good."

  Lunsford leaned over, slumping against the corner of the stall, while Brad pointed the shower head away and adjusted the temperature of the water. Aiming the stream of lukewarm water a foot above his RIO's head, Brad stepped back.

  "Jesus!" Lunsford spluttered, sitting upright. "You son of a bitch!" He crawled out of the shower and leaned against the side.

  "It was either this," Brad said, turning off the water, "or carry you to the airplane. We gotta be wheels in the well by oh seven hundred."

  "You're a complete asshole, Austin."

  "That may be," Brad said, reaching down to help Lunsford to his feet, "but we've got an overhead time to meet."

  Brad walked his hungover RIO back to his bunk, assisted him in getting his flight boots on, then lifted him back to his feet. "Can you walk?" Brad asked, holding Lunsford by his arm.

  Russ lurched forward two steps. "Yeah, I think so."

  Lunsford wobbled toward the entrance, stopping to kick the bunk bed of the two air-force fighter pilots they had met the night before. "Time to get up, girls. Don't you know there's a war on?"

  Brad Austin taxied the Phantom behind two marine KC-130 Herculeses. The lumbering, four-engine giants were part of a four-plane detachment from VMGR-152 that provided aerial refueling for the strike aircraft.

  Brad had carefully preflighted the Phantom, noting no safety or flight discrepancies. Without oxygen, the crew would fly below 10,000 feet. Brad had found four small holes in Joker 203, one of which had severed the oxygen line. The other three holes, along with the damaged refueling probe, would not pose any risk during the flight to the carrier.

  The only concern had been the hole in the canopy. Brad had inspected the damage, concluding that the canopy would make it to the carrier, since it had survived a pounding hailstorm.

  "You feeling any better?" Brad asked as the tower cleared the tankers to take off.

  "Yeah, a little better," Lunsford answered, almost dozing. "Could we, just this one time, fly straight and level . . . with no g's?"

  Watching the first Hercules commence its takeoff roll, Brad chuckled over the intercom. "Hey, party-time guy, that wouldn't be any fun."

  "I had enough fun last night to last a lifetime."

  Brad watched the second KC-130 start its roll. "Okay, granny, we'll do a little sight-seeing. Our overhead has been changed to zero eight hundred."

  "Eight o'clock?"

  "That's right," Brad answered, taxiing to the hold short line. "We also had a note in Ops thanking us for the hooch." "Hooch?"

  "Yes, that's what it said," Brad answered, checking his flight controls and engine instruments. "Sergeant Grevers extended an invitation to drop in anytime."

  "Yeah," Lunsford replied, settling his helmet on the headrest. "This is the last goddamned hole I would visit."

  Brad keyed his mike. "Da Nang tower, Navy Two Oh Three is ready to roll."

  Three army helicopters clattered over the runway before the tower controller spoke. "Navy Two Zero Three, cleared for takeoff."

  Taxing onto the runway, Austin advanced the throttles to full military power. After rolling 100 feet, Brad selected afterburner and felt the combined kick of 34,000 pounds of thrust.

  The Phantom lifted off smoothly as Brad started a gentle climb. He deselected afterburner and set the power at ninety-two percent.

  "Navy Two Zero Three, contact departure."

  "Wilco, Two Oh Three," Brad replied, setting the departure-control frequency. "Departure, Navy Two Oh Three with you. I have a request."

  "Two Zero Three," the deep, gravelly voice replied, "go ahead."

  "I'd like to stay low," Brad said, leveling the fighter at 1,000

  feet, "and take a look at the coastline before we depart for the boat." "Cleared as requested. Recommend that you remain at least one mile offshore."

  Brad gently walked the throttles back. "Wilco, Navy Two Oh Three."

  The radar controller cleared them off the frequency and Austin set the power for a leisurely cruise at 260 knots. They could see smoke rising from the jungle canopy as marine F-4s and A-4 Skyhawks pounded two enemy locations.

  Passing Vung Chon May, Brad keyed his intercom. "Russ, this area would be a great place to build a resort. I can picture hotels, condos, and golf courses."

  Looking along the scenic shoreline, Lunsford could visualize the possibilities for development. "I don't think we'll ever see it in our lifetime. War is a way of life for these people, and I expect they will continue fighting far into the future."

  Brad gazed at the city of Hue. "You're right, and it's pathetic. Hundreds of thousands of human beings down there blowing the shit out of each other, when they could be building resorts." Brad looked out at the rising pillars of smoke. "We al
l have to be somewhere."

  Lunsford watched a marine Phantom roll in on a target, hurtle toward the ground, drop a load of bombs, and climb for safety. "Homo sapiens--we're the most intelligent species on the planet."

  "Yeah," Brad replied, peering at Quang Tri. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

  Brad turned the Phantom toward the sea and started a climbing turn. Passing 3,000 feet, he spotted a navy destroyer on the horizon. The ship was moving slowly, barely leaving a wake. "Russ, you up for a little air show?"

  "Ah, shit," Lunsford spat. "I knew it. I knew you couldn't go more than a couple of minutes without doing something stupid."

  "Come on," Brad responded, lowering the nose. "Think how boring it must be for the guys stuck out here on these ships. They could use a little excitement."

  Looking around the right side of Austin's helmet, Lunsford could see the destroyer. "What happened to my smooth, no-g flight back to the boat?"

  "You can get a straight and level on an airliner."

  Lunsford looked at Brad's canopy. "Let's not screw around with a hole in the canopy."

  "It made it through the hailstorm," Brad responded, then added, "so I don't believe a tight turn and roll is going to have much effect."

  "Bullshit . . ."

  Brad shoved the throttles forward and leveled the Phantom at 100 feet above the water. He watched the destroyer rapidly fill his windshield. Brad waited until he was abeam the port side, then wrapped the screaming Phantom into a 450-knot circle around the ship.

  Tilting his head back, Lunsford could see the sailors rushing to the starboard side of the destroyer. "They're waving . . . and pouring out on deck."

  Concentrating on holding his altitude, Brad returned to his starting point, snapped the fighter wings level, raised the nose slightly, and executed a flawless four-point roll. The maneuver was immediately followed by a vertical rolling climb in afterburner.

  Lunsford's stomach let him know that it was time for a serious talk with his pilot. "I'm about to toss that goddamn fried rice."

  "Okay, nice and easy."

  Lunsford breathed slowly, looking out at the hazy horizon. "Oh, the roar of the crowd and the smell of greasepaint. Why don't you put in a request for the Blue Angels?"