Rules of Engagement (1991)

by Joe Weber

  "Hey," Hutton said, rinsing his glass. "Stick around a minute. Our nugget captain has come up with a brilliant idea, and we thought you guys might want to pitch in with us."

  Palmer looked at Austin. "What's up?"

  "Well," Brad replied, sipping the last of his drink, "Harry and I plan to go to Hawaii for a week or ten days . . . as soon as we get to Subic. Thought you two might want to go with us."

  Lunsford and Palmer looked at each other and smiled. "It sounds great," Palmer said, "but do you think the old man will let us go that far away while we're in the middle of a cruise?'"

  "Sure," Brad answered, opening the small, portable refrigerator. He extracted a chilled soda and opened the can. "Care for a Pepsi, anyone?"

  Nick and Russ declined.

  "Rocky told me that we would have to put in regular leave papers, and that the old man would go for it. He said that after we got back--and he encouraged us to go--they'd tear up the papers and chalk it up to basket leave."

  "Shit hot," Lunsford said, enthused by the idea. "I could use some R and R in Hawaii."

  "If we can't hop a military flight," Brad explained, "then we'll run over to Manila and go commercial. I'll arrange a suite at the Royal Hawaiian . . . one that will accommodate all of us."

  "It's only money," Hutton chimed in, grinning. "Brad's going to take care of the details. Besides, he's a rich captain now, so we know where to get a loan."

  "Count us in," Palmer said, undulating in a poor imitation of a hula dancer.

  "I'm glad you don't fly like you dance," Hutton said with a disgusted look.

  Chapter 13.

  Brad Austin closely monitored his engine instruments as the starboard turbojet ignited and steadied at idle. The strike brief had been clear and concise. The eight Phantoms assigned to accompany the A-4 Skyhawk attack aircraft had various loads of bombs and Zuni rockets. The bomber-configured F-4s also carried two Sidewinders and two Sparrow air-to-air missiles.

  Both combat air patrol Phantoms had full loads of four Sparrows and four Sidewinder missiles. Two additional F-4s, one loaded for the bombing mission and the other the spare CAP, were chained to the flight deck near the fantail.

  Four F-8 Crusader fighters from another carrier air group would hit the target first to suppress the ground fire and antiaircraft weapons. They would make a strafing and rocket pass, followed seconds later by the Skyhawks and Phantom fighter-bombers.

  The F-4s carrying 500-pound Mark-82 bombs and 1,000-pound Mark-83 bombs had been tasked with hitting the runway at Kep Air Base, thirty-seven miles northeast of Hanoi. The F-4s and Skyhawks carrying 250-pound Mark-81 bombs would hit the flight line and support buildings.

  Brad taxied forward, the third aircraft in his four-plane flight. Each of the Phantoms in the flight carried twelve 250-pound Mark-81 bombs.

  The first two heavily loaded aircraft taxied onto the port and starboard catapults, went to afterburner, then squatted down and roared off the bow of the carrier.

  Brad gave the weight checker a thumbs-up, then looked at the windblown catapult officer. The yellow-shirted man wearing the Mickey Mouse headset gave Austin the signal to apply full power. Brad advanced the throttles to afterburner, said a silent prayer, rechecked his engine instruments, then saluted the catapult officer.

  After a short pause, Austin and Lunsford were crushed into their seatbacks by the cat shot. As usual, Lunsford swore loudly as the Phantom hurtled off the bow.

  Snapping the landing gear up, Brad looked at the aircraft rendezvousing in the distance. He raised the flaps and climbed another 500 feet before deselecting afterburner. Two and a half minutes after leaving the carrier, Brad joined the F-4s piloted by the executive officer, Frank Rockwood, and Bull Durham. Shortly thereafter, Nick Palmer glided into the number four position.

  The flight rendezvoused with the tankers, topped off their tanks, checked in with the strike leader, then proceeded to their designated coast-in point north of Haiphong harbor. Kep was reported to be heavily defended by both antiaircraft emplacements and SA-2 Guideline surface-to-air missiles.

  The A-4s would approach the air base from over MiG Ridge to the south, hitting the field as the last F-8 Crusader pulled off target. The Phantoms would approach from the northwest, turning at the last second to align with the runway and flight line.

  Austin and Lunsford went through their usual combat routine. They covered the checklist, snugged their restraint harnesses as tight as they could yank them, then concentrated on getting the mental picture of the mission. Situational awareness was extremely important, and the aircrews had to conjure a vivid image of the positions and activities of the other flights by listening to the radios. Once all the strike aircraft were in sight, the task of sorting out priorities would become easier.

  The Phantoms crossed the beach in loose formation. "Okay, Jokers," Dan Bailey radioed, "check in." "Two."

  "Three."

  "Four."

  "Spade check," Rocky Rockwood ordered. He used a different call sign to avoid confusion between the two Phantom flights. "Two."

  "Three."

  "Four."

  Bailey keyed his mike again. "Jokers and Spades come port three three zero."

  The Phantoms continued on their northwesterly course, passing Kep to the north, then turned west.

  "This is Red Crown on guard. I hold MiG activity coming off Kep and Phuc Yen . . . showing four flights."

  "Joker, copy," Bailey responded, then called Jon O'Meara, the flight leader of the target combat air patrol Phantoms. "Diamonds, we need some MiG protection."

  "Diamonds just stroked the burners," O'Meara answered, feeling the aircraft shudder as the F-4 went supersonic. "We're at your eight o'clock, four miles."

  "Roger," Bailey replied. "Jokers and Spades, we go on stage in one minute. Check switches hot."

  "Joker Two."

  "Three."

  "Four."

  Frank Rockwood keyed his mike. "Spade One hot." "Two."

  "Three."

  "Four."

  Brad could see the four F-8 Crusaders, far below, streaking in from the southeast. "I see the gunfighters . . . the Crusaders,"

  he said to Lunsford. "Goin' at the speed of heat. We should be right on the mark."

  "Yeah," Lunsford responded, watching the F-8s make a turn to their final run-in heading. "Gomerville is going to be shit city in about thirty seconds."

  Brad saw the eight A-4 Skyhawks start their roll in. He could see that the Crusaders were blasting the base in an almost line-abreast pass.

  "Jokers and Spades in hot," Bailey ordered, rolling the Phantom into a steep dive.

  Rockwood offset his four aircraft to the left of Joker Flight. Spade Flight had the responsibility for decimating the flight line and support structures.

  Rechecking his master arm ON, Austin turned his gun sight to bright and looked at his warning lights. All systems appeared normal.

  "MiGs! MiGs!" Frank Rockwood warned as he wheeled into his bombing run. "Four at three o'clock, coming around behind. Diamonds, we need cover."

  "Diamonds are engaged with three bogies," Jon O'Meara groaned under punishing g forces.

  Brad rolled his F-4 to follow Rockwood and Durham, then darted a look at the A-4s. The lead Skyhawk pilot had just released his ordnance and was pulling up and snapping into a tight right turn.

  Moving out one wing length from Durham's F-4, Brad keyed his intercom. "Russ, watch the MiGs that are turning behind us. They're setting up a shot."

  "I've got 'em."

  Austin increased power to maintain his position as the Phantom rushed toward the ground at 510 knots. He watched the last two A-4s fire Zuni rockets into three parked aircraft. Two of the MiG17 fighters blew apart, burning furiously as the Skyhawks clawed for altitude.

  The Phantoms were diving through 6,000 feet when the sky lighted with antiaircraft fire. Four SAMs lifted off from emplacements surrounding the airfield. The Skyhawk pilots were hugging the ground and jinking all over the sky as
they headed for the coastline.

  Watching the altimeter unwind in a thirty-degree dive, Brad made a last-second wind correction, then released his bomb load passing 3,000 feet. Brad and Russ felt the Phantom wobble as the twelve Mark-81 bombs were kicked off the ejector racks.

  The 250-pound explosives walked the length of the flight line, destroying one MiG-17 and damaging two other fighters, along with a lone transport aircraft.

  Brad pulled 5 1/2 g's as he raced for the security of altitude. Lunsford remained quiet, straining to breathe during the punishing maneuver. He was trying to locate the camouflaged MiGs chasing them.

  Three more surface-to-air missiles rocketed aloft as Nick Palmer pulled off the target. "SAMs! Break, Rocky!"

  Rockwood slapped his Phantom into a ninety-degree turn, bending the F-4 around in a grueling 8-g attempt to evade the missiles. Bull Durham followed his flight leader as Brad rolled inverted and pulled toward the ground. Palmer chased Austin in an effort to get below the SAMs. The radio chatter became unintelligible during the evasive maneuvers.

  Diving through 1,500 feet, Brad whipped the Phantom right side up and slammed the throttles into afterburner. He yanked his head from side to side in an attempt to locate his flight leader.

  The sky was full of twisting, turning aircraft when Austin saw Rockwood and Durham trying to escape from the four MiG-17s. Brad turned into the engagement and raised the Phantom's nose.

  "Let's get out of here--take it down!" Austin heard over the radio as he and Palmer closed on the MiGs. He next heard the voice of Dan Bailey order Joker Flight to join up and head for the beach.

  "Spade Four," Austin radioed Palmer as he selected HEAT on his armament panel, "let's drag 'em off."

  Palmer clicked his mike twice.

  A SAM flashed by Austin's left wing as he banked inside the four MiGs. The last aircraft in the North Vietnamese formation, seeing the rapidly closing Phantoms, broke away and dove for the deck. The pilot headed straight for the security of Phuc Yen.

  The MiG flight leader and his two remaining wingmen opened fire with their 23mm cannons at the same instant that Austin heard his Sidewinder annunciator growl.

  Brad, who could not shoot with two F-4s in the missile zone, watched in horror as the red tracer rounds slashed by Durham's aircraft and impacted Frank Rockwood's Phantom. The stricken F-4, spewing a white vapor trail, continued to fly straight and level for a few seconds, then burst into bright orange flames.

  "Frank!" Durham shouted, casting a glance at the diving MiGs. "You're on fire! Get out!"

  "Negative," Rockwood replied as he turned the flaming Phantom toward the coast. "Where are the MiGs?"

  Durham rolled his F-4 and glimpsed the MiGs unloading and disengaging. "Running out to Phuc Yen."

  "Spades," Rockwood said in a tight voice, "get out of here and form up over the water."

  Sliding into a loose formation on Bull Durham, Austin checked the area for MiGs and SAMs. He heard Jon O'Meara, five miles to the south, announce that Diamond Flight was engaging two new adversaries. The radio calls were clipped and frantic.

  Keying his mike, Brad was about to suggest that he and Palmer go to the aid of O'Meara and his wingman. Before Austin could speak, Rockwood's Phantom was enveloped in a brilliant ball of fire. A nanosecond later, the F-4 blew apart in a powerful blast that severed the tail and part of the wings from the fuselage.

  The remains of the Phantom yawed to the right and went into an inverted flat spin, streaming flaming jet fuel as it fell toward the earth.

  "Get out, Frank!" Durham shouted while he pulled up in a high wingover. "Get out!"

  Austin and Palmer pulled up to follow Durham. They watched the spinning fighter rotate through three complete turns, then saw a parachute pop open. The first parachute was followed by the opening of Rockwood's chute seconds before the F-4 plunged into a wooded hillside.

  Bull Durham called the search-and-rescue coordinator at the north SAR station, giving him the exact location of the downed crewmen. The coordinator quickly radioed the information to the on-scene SAR commander orbiting over the gulf in his A-1 Skyraider.

  "Spade Lead," Austin radioed during a sudden pause, "Spade Three and Four need to help Diamond Flight."

  "Roger," Durham shot back, then briefed the SAR personnel about the terrain below him.

  Brad and Nick banked sharply to the left and lighted their afterburners. The two aircraft quickly accelerated beyond the speed of sound. Brad could see that the two Diamond Phantoms, both holding maximum sustained turn rates, were surrounded by four fighters. Two additional MiG-17s were diving at the cornered F-4s.

  Austin, with his radar in boresight mode, told Lunsford to go boresight and lock up the lead MiG that was about to open fire on the hapless Phantoms.

  "Got him locked," Lunsford shouted. "Shoot! Shoot him!"

  "Diamonds," Austin radioed, pulling the throttles back, "Spade Three. Reverse, unload, and go for separation. NOW!"

  Feeling the F-4 go through Mach tuck, Austin finessed the stick as the aircraft came back through the sonic barrier. He watched O'Meara and his wingman snap their fighters hard-over and dive for speed. Austin popped the speed brakes, pulled a few degrees of lead on the first MiG fighter, then squeezed off two AIM-7 Sparrow missiles.

  The big weapons dropped out of the wells, trailing thick plumes of smoke, and shot toward the Communist aircraft at Mach 3.

  The MiG flight leader, unaware that Austin had fired missiles at him, rolled to follow the accelerating Phantoms. The enemy fighter stabilized a split second before it was blown apart in a violent explosion.

  You did it!" Lunsford exclaimed, listening to Palmer congratulate them. "You knocked the shit out of him! You got a MiG!"

  The blazing fighter detonated again, raining debris across the sky. The cockpit spun crazily until it plunged into the hills below. Incapacitated by the first explosion, the North Vietnamese pilot had been unable to pull his ejection handle.

  "Diamonds are reengaging," Jon O'Meara radioed breathlessly as he and his wingman began pulling into a supersonic, gut-wrenching, vertical climb.

  Mario Russo, O'Meara's RIO, was on the radio providing a constant update on the MiGs.

  Retracting his speed brakes and adding power, Austin watched the remaining five MiGs go into steep dives and turn toward Phuc Yen. "Diamonds, the gomers are running out to Phuc Yen."

  "Copy, copy," O'Meara replied. "What's your posit?"

  Brad watched Diamond Flight top out and roll wings level. "We're at your twelve o'clock, low."

  "Gotcha," O'Meara radioed. "Good kill . . . thanks. We'll form on you to cover Rocky and Ed."

  Ed was Lt. (j g) Edgardo Zapata, a nugget RIO who had been with the squadron less than two months. Frank Rockwood had assumed the responsibility of bringing the young officer up to operational qualification as quickly as possible. The fighter squadron, like many other front-line units, had suffered a chronic shortage of aviators and RIOs since the beginning of the deployment.

  "Roger, Diamond," Brad responded, glancing around the sky. The MiGs, low to the ground, had distanced themselves from the American fighters. "Come starboard three five zero, and join on our right wing."

  Two clicks acknowledged the call.

  Suddenly, Frank Rockwood's distinct voice sounded over the radio. He was on the ground and transmitting over his emergency radio.

  "Spade One is okay," Rockwood panted, "but I think they shot Ed during the descent."

  Bull Durham took command. "Lay low, Rocky. We've got a SAR effort underway."

  A minute passed while the four Phantoms led by Brad Austin coasted into loose formation with Bull Durham.

  Brad glanced down at the cratered and scorched hillside where Rockwood's Phantom had crashed. He could see a line of soldiers working their way along a trail sixty meters below the burning wreckage.

  The North Vietnamese regulars had already reached Ed Zapata's parachute. The RIO 's lifeless body, three feet above the ground, was hanging
from the branches of two tall trees.

  Zapata, who had fired every round from his .38-caliber revolver, had been shot through the head, chest, and thigh as he descended above the soldiers.

  "Spade One," the A-1 Skyraider flight leader radioed, "Lifeguard is inbound with four Spads. We'll be over your position in twelve minutes."

  Frank Rockwood watched the soldiers as they examined Ed Zapata's body. "Lifeguard, I've got company just below me. Twenty-five to thirty regulars."

  "Copy," the Skyraider pilot replied. "We'll be there as soon as possible."

  Austin slid out to a loose-formation position. He cautiously watched the sky while glancing down at Rockwood's conspicuous parachute.

  "Spade One," Brad radioed, "can you hide your chute?" "Negative," Rockwood responded. "It's caught over some branches. I tried to pull it down . . . no luck."

  Bull Durham observed the soldiers advancing up the hill in the direction of the downed flight leader. "Rocky, you need to get away from your chute. I think they've spotted it, 'cause they're going straight toward your position."

  "Okay," Rockwood replied, crouching close to the ground. "Which way looks the best?"

  Durham had to be careful in the event the North Vietnamese had a confiscated American survival radio. If there was an English-speaking member in the enemy patrol, the soldier could spell disaster for Frank Rockwood.

  "Okay, Spade," Durham said, analyzing the best course for the XO to follow. "You are on third base, copy?"

  "Copy, third base."

  Durham banked tighter. "The wreckage--the Phantom--is home plate. Go to second base and burrow in."

  "Movin' out," Rockwood responded, then edged along the hillside to a thick stand of trees and undergrowth. He dropped down and crawled into the foliage.

  Three minutes passed while the soldiers split into two sections. One group went directly toward the dangling parachute, while the others hurried along the trail below Rockwood. They quickly outflanked the downed aviator, surrounding him on two sides.

  "Lifeguard One," Austin radioed as the soldiers moved steadily in the direction of the executive officer. "Say your ETA to Spade One."

  "We've got you on the horizon," the pilot replied, adjusting his throttle, mixture, and propeller pitch for maximum power. "We'll be overhead in six minutes."