by Joe Weber
"Already have," Brad replied, easing the Phantom's nose down. He leveled off, checked his TACAN for the position of the carrier, then called the ship. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Three."
"Joker Two Zero Three, Strike. You are cleared for the break." The break was a pass up the starboard side of the carrier, followed by a high-g, knife-edge turn (break) to position the aircraft downwind on the port side of the ship.
"Strike, my RIO is not feeling well. How about a straight in?" A slight pause followed.
"You didn't have to announce that to the whole goddamned world," Lunsford sighed. "I'm going to be laughed out of the ready room."
"Hey," Brad replied, slowing the Phantom. "You're the one who requested no more yankin' and bankin'."
"That's approved," the controller radioed. "Switch to the LSO." "Wilco."
Lunsford swore again, then remained quiet as they rapidly approached the carrier.
Brad chatted with the landing-signal officer, slowed the F-4, extended the flaps, then lowered the landing gear and tail hook. Spotting the lighted landing aid, Brad called the ball and flew a smooth pass to the number three wire.
Following the directions of the flight-deck petty officer, Brad taxied to a spot on the bow where the blue-shirted aircraft handlers chocked the wheels and chained down the Phantom.
A number of deck personnel stared and pointed at the hole in the canopy. Brad shut down the engines and both men raised their canopies. Toby Kendall scrambled up the side of the fuselage as Nick Palmer and Harry Hutton approached the F-4.
Brad could see that both Palmer and Hutton were carrying miscellaneous items, but he could not make out what the objects were.
"Welcome back, Lieutenant," Kendall said, unable to conceal his grin.
"It's good to be back," Brad responded, taking off his helmet. "Believe me."
Kendall helped the two men unstrap, then stepped down one step. "What happened to your canopy, sir?"
"We went through a SAM burst," Brad answered, wondering what Palmer and Hutton were doing next to the forward fuselage. "The one that knocked down Commander Durham's airplane."
"Well," Kendall responded as he grabbed Austin's helmet, "we can use the canopy off of Two Oh Eight."
"Yeah," Brad replied as he lifted himself from his seat, "that's about the only thing I didn't destroy." He still had not been down to see the aircraft he had flown through the trees and into the barricade.
Kendall stepped down to the deck as Austin and Lunsford climbed over the side of the Phantom. A small crowd had gathered, gawking at the splitter plate in front of the left engine intake.
Reaching the flight deck, Brad looked at the focus of everyone's amusement. "Just what I needed," he said to Palmer and Hutton when he saw the patrol boat painted on the side of the Phantom.
Hutton laughed, then handed the stencil and spray can to Kendall. "Think about it, Brad. Four more boats and you'll be an ace."
Lunsford stepped back two paces and framed the boat with his hands. "Why don't you guys paint a tree next to the boat?"
Chapter 12.
Austin and Lunsford left their flight gear in the locker and went to the ready room. Bull Durham and Ernie Sheridan were there to greet the "boat blasters," as Austin and Lunsford had been tagged.
"We owe you one," Durham said, shaking hands with the two junior officers. "I didn't know what the hell you were doing when you rolled in and came screaming toward the boat. Man, I'm tellin' you, we were both amazed when that missile came off and plowed into that mother."
Lunsford shook his head. "So was I."
Sheridan, who was the spark of any party and enjoyed hanging around with the pilots, sat down in one of the high-backed chairs. "Seriously, we sure as hell appreciate what you guys did."
"Well," Brad replied self-consciously, "I just hope you don't have to return the favor."
"No shit," Durham laughed as he sat down on the armrest of one of the briefing chairs. "Have a seat, and we'll bring you up to date." Austin and Lunsford sat and gave him their full attention.
"Did you have any trouble getting into Da Nang?" Sheridan asked.
Lunsford cut off Austin before he could answer. "No, we didn't have any problems. The tree surgeon flew us through the most violent goddamn thunderstorm ever recorded in this hemisphere . . . with a hole in his canopy and no oxygen."
Durham and Sheridan, laughing out loud, were well aware of Lunsford's uneasiness in the air. They, along with everyone else in the squadron, respected the RIO for sticking to it and doing a good job.
"Then," Lunsford continued as Brad rolled back his eyes, "we made an emergency fuel GCA to a miraculous landing. That's when it got ugly."
Durham looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"We flamed out on the taxiway."
"You're kidding," Durham said.
"Fact," Lunsford responded. "The marines must have sent him out here to save their own inventory of airplanes."
The four men laughed, then continued to discuss the events of the past twenty-four hours.
Durham and Sheridan explained about the F-4 crew who had inadvertently shot a Zuni air-to-ground rocket into an idling A-4. The explosion had ignited another Skyhawk and set the aft section of the flight deck on fire. With both A-4s engulfed in a blazing inferno, the pilots had ejected. The two aviators had been rescued from the drink, but one of the pilots had sustained a broken ankle when he hit the catwalk before impacting the water.
The carrier was standing down from air operations for the remainder of the day. An underway replenishment was scheduled to begin at 0930.
A cargo vessel and an ammunition ship were currently positioning themselves alongside the ship. The difficult and time-consuming operation, known as an UNREP, would restock the carrier with food, fuel, machinery parts, and ordnance.
Rumors had been circulating to the effect that major air strikes were in the planning stages. Brad was quite interested to hear that MiG airfields might be included in the attacks. Durham believed that some of the restrictive rules of engagement would be lifted, allowing the carrier crews to hit in-country sanctuaries.
Another item of interest that had filtered through the wardrooms concerned a problem with the carrier's number two shaft. The huge drive shaft that turned a monstrous propeller blade had developed a vibration. The rumors circulating through the ship indicated that the carrier would depart Yankee Station early and proceed to Subic Bay for repairs. Those familiar with such matters estimated the ship would be in port for ten to fourteen days.
"Brad," Sheridan chuckled, "what did you do to your RIO? He looks and smells awful."
Austin laughed. "Yeah, we could use a thorough scrubbing." "After the animal act at the club," Lunsford said, feigning disgust, "we spent the night in a pigsty."
"By the way," Sheridan added, "the CO wants to see everyone in the ready room at eleven hundred."
Brad had shaved and showered in the communal latrine shared by the junior officers in his section of the ship. He had returned to his stateroom and was dressing when Harry Hutton walked into the room. "Did you hear that we may leave the line early?"
Brad grabbed his shoes. "Yes. Bull and Ernie mentioned that there was something wrong--I don't know what--with one of the propeller shafts."
Harry leaned against the bulkhead. "There is definitely something wrong with the shaft. I went down to the engineering spaces, just checking around, and a chief told me we had to return to port. Something about bearings, or whatever."
Smiling, Brad looked at Hutton. "That wouldn't hurt my feelings."
Harry displayed his lascivious grin. "Yeah, a little sack time with the sweethearts of Olongapo. How about that little dolly we met at the Black Rose?"
"If Big Ida is your idea of little," Brad laughed, "you need to see an optometrist."
Harry sat down, pondering the sexual attractions available in the liberty town of Olongapo.
Buffing his highly polished shoes, Brad looked up at the innocent, cherub
ic face. "Harry, let me propose something for our own good."
A quizzical look appeared on Hutton's face. "What, chaplain? You don't mean a tour to historical sites, or something like that?"
"No, Harry," Brad laughed, "nothing even remotely resembling a cultural experience. The last thing I want to do is influence your intellectual and artistic taste."
"Good."
"What I have in mind," Brad continued, "is getting away from this shit for a week or so. Olongapo is a goddamn cesspool full of drunks and whores. A little of that goes a long way as far as I'm concerned."
Harry smiled broadly. "Manila. They've got women there who will reduce you to a whimpering pile of protoplasm. We can get a steam and cream, too."
Looking at his watch, Brad stood. "I'm talking about Hawaii . . . civilization. If we can't get a military hop, then we'll go to Manila and catch an airliner."
Hutton's face lighted. "Yeah, American women for a change."
"Harry," Brad said, reaching for his hat, "I'm talking about first cabin. Oceanfront at the Royal Hawaiian. Room service. Breakfast on the lanai. Afternoons at the Mai Tai Bar . . . the works."
"Yeah," Harry responded, gleefully rubbing his hands together. "Bikinis as far as you can see. Let's do it!"
Brad, Harry, Nick, and Russ sat in the third row, waiting for the skipper to speak. The executive officer, Frank Rockwood, had just concluded his remarks about the squadron spaces being inspected in two days. He walked to his seat and sat down next to the CO.
Dan Bailey spoke quietly with Rockwood, then stood and stepped behind the podium. "Well, gents, we've got a lot of scuttlebutt going around that I intend to set straight. First, however, I want to say that we came very close to losing a crew yesterday."
Everyone glanced at Bull Durham and Ernie Sheridan. They sat in the front row with Jack Carella.
"Our brother in green did something very extraordinary and saved the day."
Hutton punched Brad in the arm as quiet laughter filtered through the room. Brad gazed at the floor, feeling the looks of the other crew members.
"I don't advocate shooting Sidewinders at patrol boats, but we obviously have to use our ingenuity. Austin used good headwork in a dicey situation. He is to be commended." Brad felt the redness creep up his neck. He raised his eyes, focusing on the CO.
"Now," Bailey continued, "three items. We are returning to Subic Bay day after tomorrow to have our propulsion system worked over."
Murmurs filled the room as the crews exchanged knowing smiles. A port call was second only to going home from a deployment.
"The reason we aren't leaving the line now is because tomorrow we are laying an Alpha Strike on two airfields." Cheers broke out as the CO motioned for the men to quiet down.
"We have received permission to attack the MiG bases at Kep and Kien An. This is not a lifting of restrictions, just a parcel doled out from Washington."
"Sir," Brad said, "what about Phuc Yen and Yen Bai?"
Bailey shook his head. "Still protected airspace. Our squadron has been tasked to supplement the A-4s in bombing the airfields." The CO paused, surveying the arched eyebrows and bewildered looks.
Nick Palmer leaned forward in his seat. "Sir, you mean we're going to be attack pukes?"
"That's right," Bailey smiled. "Some of us are going to be bomber pilots tomorrow."
"Christ almighty," Palmer said to no one in particular. "Some of you people," Bailey emphasized with his index finger, "haven't dropped anything but your pants in a long time." Palmer looked at Bailey. "Skipper, we're fighter pilots." "That may be true technically, but tomorrow, Mister Palmer, you will be a bomber pilot."
Hutton snickered out loud. "Nick the Brick."
The crews, including the CO, laughed at the new nickname. Nick the Stick had been permanently retired.
"Okay," Bailey interjected, "everyone listen up. We are short three aircraft, but tomorrow we are going with a maximum effort. I am going to lead the first division, and Commander Rockwood is leading the second gaggle. Jocko is going as my section leader, and Austin--who happens to have the most recent attack experience--will be Commander Rockwood's section leader.
"We will have a two-plane TARCAP to cover us over the target. The flight leader," Bailey smiled, "is none other than Two-Cow O'Meara."
Lieutenant Jon O'Meara, who was slinking down in his seat, had added another chapter to his reputation when he had inadvertently tossed a bomb completely over a target range. The U. S. Navy had had to buy two cows who were unlucky enough to be grazing at the point of impact.
"Commander Carella will brief you at oh four thirty. We are going with a variety of ordnance, but the particulars haven't been worked out yet."
The CO scanned a note before looking around the room again. "The last item concerns the probable return of Maj. Nguyen Thanh Dao."
Bailey saw the recognition in the eyes of the men. The North Vietnamese fighter pilot, who had sported a distinctive white stripe across the tail of his MiG-17, had been responsible for downing seven American aircraft. After painting the seventh red star on the nose of his MiG, Nguyen Thanh Dao had disappeared from the skies around Hanoi.
"Our intelligence people," Bailey said with a degree of concern, "believe he is back . . . in a MiG-21. Sources on the ground have confirmed that a white stripe has been painted on the tail of a twenty-one with seven red stars on the nose.
"So," the CO continued, glancing at Austin and Palmer, "if anyone sees Major Dao, sing out. The admiral wants him bagged . . . a priority."
Bailey studied the faces looking at him. The eyes of his audience reflected pure determination to destroy the North Vietnamese pilot. Nguyen Thanh Dao had killed five crew members from the seven American aircraft he had shot down. The goal of every crew in the ready room was to kill the fighter ace.
"That's all I have for now, so get some rest."
The men stood to attention as Bailey stepped away from the podium. He walked over to Austin and paused. "Brad, I'd like to see you in my stateroom."
"Yes, sir," Austin replied, turning to follow the CO.
The two men chatted amiably as they proceeded to Bailey's quarters below the hangar deck. The CO unlocked his door, turned on the light, and stepped inside.
"Is there something wrong, Skipper?" Brad asked, following Bailey into the cabin. The CO motioned for Austin to have a seat. "I don't know," Bailey replied, opening his safe. "Is there?" Brad was forming an answer when the CO extracted a small box from his safe and handed it to the marine.
"Open it," the CO said, leaning back.
Brad removed the top of the rectangular container, then stared at the pair of shiny silver captain's bars. "Congratulations, Captain Austin," Bailey said, extending his hand.
"I don't know what to say," Brad replied as he shook hands with his CO. "I wasn't anticipating making captain so soon."
Dan Bailey smiled. "You were deep-selected, so that's a feather in your cap. Actually, you're not supposed to pin them on for another two and a half weeks, but I figured--at the rate you're going through airplanes--you might as well put them on now."
"Thanks, Skipper," Brad said as he replaced the lid on the small container.
"We'll plan a wetting-down party," Bailey chuckled, "when we get to Subic."
"Great," Brad replied, placing the box in his shirt pocket. "Thanks again, sir."
"You earned it."
Austin opened the door and excused himself. He was elated by the fact that he had been promoted early. This would mean a salary increase, but more important, he understood the significance the early promotion would have on his longer term career.
As he approached his stateroom, Brad could hear raucous laughter, followed by a scurrilous remark from Harry Hutton. The ongoing junior-officers-only poker game was once again in progress.
Austin opened his door to the sound of poker chips being tossed on Hutton's wood footlocker. The small room was crowded. Besides Harry, there were Nick Palmer, Russ Lunsford, Jon O'Meara
, Mario Russo, and Ernie Sheridan. Dirty Ernie, being a lieutenant commander, had been given a waiver based on the unanimous acceptance by the members of the at-sea poker club.
"Just in time," Hutton chuckled as he shuffled the cards with a flourish. "Throw your wallet on the table and grab a drink."
"What did the old man want?" Russ Lunsford asked while Hutton dealt a new hand of five card stud.
"I thought I was in some kind of trouble," Brad answered, tossing a five-dollar bill on the battered footlocker. "Instead, the skipper gave me a raise."
"What are you talking about?" Hutton questioned as he counted out five dollars in miscellaneous chips.
"I got promoted."
"Bullshit," Lunsford replied. "What did he want?"
Brad unbuttoned the flap on his pocket and handed the small box to his RIO. "Open it."
The noisy game came to a halt as all eyes took in the container. Lunsford gently lifted the top off and set the box on the footlocker.
Hutton picked up one of the silver rank insignias. "I'll be a son of a bitch. I knew the marines were screwed, but this is unbelievable . . . making you a captain."
Everyone congratulated Austin as Hutton closed the box and handed it back to the new captain. Harry got up and fixed Brad a tall scotch and water. "Here you go, your Lordship."
"Jesus," Austin replied, sitting down at the corner of the battered footlocker, "it's a bit early in the day to be hitting the sauce, isn't it?"
"Naw," Nick Palmer responded, tossing in his well-worn cards. "Dirty Ernie authorized it . . . and he's a heavy."
"Yeah," Ernie Sheridan added. "We have to turn in early for an oh-dark-thirty wake up, so we'll just pretend it's the five o'clock cocktail hour."
"Ante up," Harry reminded the group while he again shuffled the cards. The poker club had appointed Harry permanent dealer for the duration of the deployment.
The game continued another three hours before Sheridan, O'Meara, and Russo left. Each man was five dollars poorer than he had been at the beginning of the poker game.
Palmer and Lunsford helped clean the cluttered stateroom, then started to leave.
