by Joe Weber
Brad swore to himself, then made a bold decision to help Frank Rockwood.
Lunsford, reading Austin's mind, tapped his intercom. "They're going to be on top of him before then."
Keying his radio, Brad glanced below. "Bull, we've got to keep their heads down."
"Roger," Durham replied, rolling his Phantom into a dive.
"I'm ahead of you. Spades roll in at twenty-second intervals."
The North Vietnamese soldiers knew that the navy and marine F-4s were not equipped with cannons. The only thing the soldiers had to fear were bombs and Zuni rockets, and they could see that the five Phantoms had expended all of their air-to-ground ordnance.
Although the thundering F-4s were intimidating when they screamed low overhead, the riflemen felt safe firing with impunity at the powerful fighters.
"They're closing in on me," Rockwood whispered over his emergency radio. He wiped his sweat-soaked hands on his flight suit, grasped his .38-caliber revolver, and crawled between two trees.
"Hang in there," Durham responded, sweeping across the soldiers at 520 knots in afterburner.
Austin flicked his Phantom over. "Spade One," Brad calmly radioed, "get your head down and hang on."
Frank Rockwood recognized the steady voice of the marine aviator. He ducked his head and peered over the foliage at the advancing North Vietnamese platoon.
The F-4 streaked toward the ground while Austin lined up one group of soldiers in his windscreen. He bottomed out short of his mark and toggled the pylon jettison select switch. The ejector racks and Sidewinder missiles tumbled away from the Phantom's wings, then plowed into the soldiers with devastating accuracy.
"Bull," Austin groaned during the tight, high-g pull-up, "recommend we drop our racks and centerlines on the gomers."
"Spade Lead concurs," Durham responded, watching Palmer pull off the target area, "but keep your speed below four hundred seventy." The centerline tanks would occasionally drop off, then porpoise back into the Phantoms above 470 knots. "Diamonds copy?"
Click, click.
"Brad, Spade One," Rockwood broke in. "You mangled the bastards . . . killed a half dozen at least, but they're spreading out and taking cover."
Durham again rolled in when the fifth Phantom pulled off the target. He raced for the same spot that Austin had attacked.
Durham pickled off his ejector racks and pulled up steeply. The heavy missile rails ripped through the soldiers, killing one man and injuring two others.
"Good drop!" Rockwood said, then turned to watch the group of men advancing from the trail. "You've got their attention, but the ones along the trail are only about eighty meters away."
Brad Austin keyed his mike. "Keep your head down. I'm makin' a run down the trail line."
"Bring it on," Rockwood replied, then added, "they're twenty to thirty meters northeast of the trail, seventy meters east of the last drop."
"Roger," Austin responded, wheeling into his second attack. "Can you move farther up the hill?"
"I can try," Rockwood answered cautiously, looking around the immediate area, "but I'll be exposed for twenty to thirty seconds."
Brad aimed for the spot the X0 had described and punched off his 600-gallon centerline fuel tank. The large receptacle ripped through the scurrying North Vietnamese, injuring three of the soldiers.
"A little short," Rockwood radioed. "They're closing on me . . . about sixty meters away."
Nick Palmer was in his dive. "Grab hold, Dash One. I'm gonna drop 'em a goddamn load."
"Lifeguard," Brad pleaded, "we need cover. Say posit."
"We're two minutes out to the southeast. Hang on."
Rockwood's voice, faint and barely audible, came over the radio. "They're almost on me . . . ten to twelve of them at fifty meters."
"Okay," Bull Durham replied. "Spades and Diamonds, let's roll in in tight trail. Drop all your trash on this pass."
Jon O'Meara and his wingman charged downward while the soldiers fired at the fighters and advanced toward Rockwood. Durham dropped his centerline tank directly on top of two of the soldiers.
"Frank," Durham said, straining under the force of the pull-up, "haul ass up the slope. We'll place the last one between you and the gomers."
"Okay, but they're almost--" Rockwood's whisper stopped when he heard a sound thirty meters to his right. His heart pounded when he met the soldier's eyes. "They're on me . . . they see me!"
"Spades!" the Skyraider pilot shouted, "we have your target in sight. Rolling in hot." The prop-driven A-1 s hurtled down toward the point of the debris settling to the ground.
Rockwood dropped to a prone position, aimed his revolver, then fired three rounds at the North Vietnamese soldier. The small man turned to dive for cover at the instant the first round hit him in the jaw.
Five more soldiers, crouching low and moving swiftly through the underbrush, approached their gravely wounded comrade. They had their rifles pointed in the general direction of the American pilot.
Rockwood aimed for their torsos and kept squeezing the trigger until the weapon was empty.
"I'm out of ammo," Rockwood radioed, breathing hard. He heard a series of loud cracks, then felt searing pain when a rifle round tore into his right shoulder.
Pulling the emergency radio to his mouth with his left hand, the wounded aviator activated the transmitter. "It's too late .. . they've got me."
The next transmission was garbled, followed by a gasping plea. "I've . . . been hit again. Blow the tree line . . . to hell. That's an order."
A slight pause followed before the Skyraider leader keyed his mike. "We can't drop ordnance on one of our own people."
"Goddamnit!" Brad Austin swore loudly over the radio. "Lifeguard, you heard the commander. Vaporize his position."
"Roger," came the quiet reply. "Lifeguards in for a ripple pass. Drop it all on the tree line."
"So long, guys," Rockwood groaned, feeling the impact of another round.
Bull Durham, seething with anger and frustration, looked down at the point where Cdr. Frank Rockwood would lose his life. "Spades and Diamonds, light the burners and get over water ASAP."
"Roger."
Click, click.
Brad shoved the throttles to the stops and glanced at the executive officer's concealment. A moment later the entire area was pulverized by rockets and savage cannon fire.
Feeling the anguish of Rockwood's death, Brad was swept with revulsion. He let the Phantom accelerate well past the speed of sound as he tried to come to grips with the terrible tragedy.
Austin and Lunsford remained quiet as the coastline swept under the supersonic Phantom. There were no words to share the deep, personal pain of losing one of the best of the best.
Chapter 14.
The mammoth carrier steamed smoothly through the placid South China Sea. A steady rain fell, reducing visibility to a mile and a half under the 1,800-foot overcast. The damp, oppressive humidity contributed to a general feeling of malaise throughout the ship. The officers and men were anxious to dock at Subic Bay, and enjoy the freedom and pleasures of shore leave.
Standing alone at the aft end of the hangar bay, Brad Austin stared past the fantail at the churning wake. His mind was numbed by a lack of sleep, and by the emotional memorial service for Frank Rockwood.
The chaplain, a monotonous man, had droned about Rockwood's wife and three children for more than fifteen minutes.
Dan Bailey, who had expected to hand the executive officer command of the squadron in less than three months, had finally stood and thanked the bewildered clergyman in mid-sentence.
The CO had immediately launched into a poignant eulogy that had left few dry eyes on the fo'c'sle. Losing Frank Rockwood, the skipper had choked, had been like losing a brother. Bailey had had to stop at that point, then uttered, "Tail winds always, Frank," and walked out drying his eyes.
The officers and men of the squadron had silently followed their commanding officer, each lost in his own thoughts about mortalit
y.
Bailey, who had worked through the night packing his XO's personal belongings, had also finished a difficult letter to Rock-wood's wife. He had decided to send the letter of condolence to his own spouse, Karla, so that she could deliver it in person. The two families, who lived on the same street in base housing, had been close friends for seventeen years.
Brad looked at his watch, noting that it was time to change into his flight suit. Air Operations were scheduled to commence at 1530 for the Cubi Point flyoff. The majority of the air wing would launch for the fifty-minute flight to U. S. Naval Air Station Cubi Point, Philippine Islands. The airfield was adjacent to the sprawling Subic Bay Naval Station fifty miles west of Manila.
Cubi Point operations had been alerted to stand by for the steady stream of incoming carrier aircraft. The base personnel always looked forward to the air show that accompanied an air wing flyoff.
Brad had taken the initiative to talk to the commanding officer in private. The new marine captain had respectfully requested that he not have a congratulatory party under the circumstances. Dan Bailey had reluctantly agreed, feeling that the men needed to have a major blowout to purge the grief that hung over the squadron.
Austin had thanked the CO for respecting his wishes, then had asked permission to be included in the flyoff. Bailey had nodded and told him to see Jack Carella, the operations officer and acting executive officer, about flying Palmer's wing to Cubi Point. Bailey, who had approved the leave request from the two crews, knew that the men were eagerly looking forward to escaping the chaotic environment that surrounded them.
Brad listened to the shrill sound of the bosun's whistle, then tried to concentrate on the captain's daily announcement. Staring blankly at the whirlpools created in the carrier's turbulent wake, Brad was unaware that his roommate had walked up to his side.
"How are you feeling?" Harry Hutton asked, unsmiling. The usual confident grin was absent.
"Okay, I suppose," Austin answered, glancing at his friend. "How'd you know I was here?"
Hutton hinted at a smile. "When you're bothered by something--if it's daylight--you always come to the fantail and stare at the wake."
Brad smiled at Hutton's observation. Many of the pilots and radar-intercept officers occasionally needed quiet time to readjust their minds, especially after losing one of the brotherhood. Today was one of those days for Brad to try and get in touch with his feelings.
"If it's night," Harry continued, looking at the plane-guard destroyer, "you go forward in the port catwalk and watch the phosphorescence splash off the bow wave."
Austin turned sideways and leaned against the bulkhead leading to the hangar bay. "Eight."
"What?" Hutton asked, stepping inside the windswept hatchway. "I've lost eight friends in aircraft accidents since I started flight training at Pensacola."
Both men remained quiet, reflecting on the tragic death of Cdr. Frank Rockwood.
"He was here with us," Brad paused, holding his emotions in check, "twenty-four hours ago. Now, he's lying in a goddamn dirthole . . . if the sorry bastards were humane enough to bury him."
"Come on," Hutton said gently, grasping Austin by the upper arm. "It's time to go jump in our zoom bags, pack our garbage, and go to the flyoff brief."
"Yeah, it is," Brad replied as he stepped over the hatch combing. "What a rotten day for flying."
"Who cares?" Hutton finally grinned his mischievous grin. "We're on our way to the real world."
The Cubi launch had gone smoothly and was completed in less than thirty-five minutes. One A-4 Skyhawk, leaking a steady stream of hydraulic fluid, had been downed on the catapult. Waiting for their catapult shot, Brad Austin and Russ Lunsford had watched the disappointed attack pilot grab his overnight bag and scramble aboard a KA-3B tanker.
After being catapulted off the carrier, Brad had joined on Nick Palmer's right wing. Harry Hutton had taken pictures of Brad's Phantom as they rendezvoused under the clouds. The two F-4s had climbed rapidly, breaking out of the overcast at 11,000 feet. Palmer continued climbing, leveling the flight at 37,000 feet.
Austin flew a loose parade formation, relaxing and thinking about the misguided war effort, the traumatic death of Frank Rockwood, and the upcoming trip to Hawaii. Still gazing at the horizon, Brad tried to erase the mental image of the North Vietnamese soldiers who had died when his missile ejector racks ripped through them.
The emotion that he experienced was not one of elation or conquest. The visceral sensation Brad felt was that of a Pyrrhic victory. What was the purpose of all the senseless loss of life? What was the big picture? The situation was clearly evident to the military commanders and their charges. They were not being allowed to use their experience, training, and resources to win the war. Slowly shaking his head, Brad considered the obvious absurdity and incongruousness of the war effort. The word ludicrous stuck in his mind.
Brad shoved the unpleasant thoughts aside, thinking instead about enjoying a relaxing breakfast while he overlooked Waikiki Beach. A breakfast accompanied by hot tea and a morning paper.
Thirty-three minutes after takeoff, the F-4s flew out of the tropical weather system and dropped to 500 feet over the azure sea. Both crews flew in total silence until Harry Hutton came up on the radio.
"Jokers, come up two thirty point nothing."
The radio frequency 230.0 was not being used by other military pilots or air-traffic controllers at the particular moment.
"Two," Brad replied, glancing at the small plastic pineapple adorning Hutton's helmet. Just like a little kid going on vacation, Brad smiled to himself.
"When we get to Honolulu," Harry said with glee in his voice, "let's all get aloha shirts."
A pause followed. Lunsford pressed his mike. "Not all alike . . . we've got to have a little individuality."
"That's what I mean," Hutton explained. "Each of us will get a different colored shirt. We'll just be civilian tourists. The indulged and idle rich."
The discussion continued while the Phantoms thundered over three fishing vessels as the fighters approached the coast. Brad watched the shoreline of Zambales Province rapidly approach. The warm, pristine waters and lush green forest showcased the deserted snow white beach.
Palmer had the flight switch to Cubi Point approach control, then climbed to 2,000 feet as the shoreline passed under his Phantom.
Checking in with the approach controller, Palmer was given radar vectors to follow a flight of four A-4 Skyhawks. He scanned the afternoon sky, spotting the four attack jets screaming toward the runway. They were preparing to break from a tight echelon formation.
Rule one in naval aviation dictated that pilots had to look good over the air station. Formations had to be close and perfectly spaced. Every pitch-out break had to be performed with Blue Angel precision, especially if the flight was arriving at an airforce facility.
Palmer and Austin switched to the control tower as the flight circled over the luxuriant tropical forest. Both F-4 crews watched the Skyhawks flash over the runway and snap into knife-edge flight at three-second intervals. The four planes were nailed on altitude and spaced evenly.
"I give 'em a seven point five," Hutton said unabashedly over the radio. "Not bad for attack pukes."
Brad Austin slowly shook his head in embarrassment.
"Well, Norvel," the A-4 flight leader radioed, "if you're driving one of the clear air converters, how about a few pointers on arrival techniques."
The J-79 engines in the Phantoms produced two dark trails of jet exhaust. Going into afterburner was the only way to alleviate the highly visible gases.
Palmer thought about ignoring the challenge, but his ego talked him out of it. He pushed the throttles forward and keyed his mike. "Joker, welded wing."
"Copy," Brad replied, wishing that he and Palmer had practiced the maneuver that they had discussed at length.
"Oh, shit," Lunsford said over the intercom as Austin increased power. "We're going to get our asses in deep kimchi .. . doing y
our dumb-shit stunts."
Brad tucked in close to Palmer's right wing, causing Lunsford to twinge and look down in his lap. "You're both crazy . . . goddamned idiots."
"Numbers for the break," Palmer said to the tower controller as he eased the Phantom's nose down. His indicated airspeed read 450 knots.
"Joker Two Zero Five cleared for the break," the tower chief replied calmly.
"Roger," Palmer acknowledged, flying as smoothly as his skills permitted.
The two F-4s, locked in tight formation, thundered across the end of the runway as the third Skyhawk was landing. Brad's left wing tip was three feet below the right wing of his flight leader, with three feet of overlap.
Palmer leveled at 400 feet for a moment, then smoothly pulled back on the stick and rolled the Phantom until the left wing tip pointed straight at the ground.
Brad Austin pulled up with his flight leader, then slid directly under Palmer's Phantom. He was working hard to remain eight feet under the belly of his leader's F-4. The two planes rolled wings level at 1,200 feet above the ground on the downwind leg of the landing pattern.
Austin looked up at the bottom of Nick Palmer's aircraft, concentrating on not moving an inch out of position. He inspected the rivets and UHF communications antenna, along with the hydraulic, oil, and grease stains.
Brad popped his flaps down at the same instant as the flight leader, then lowered his landing-gear lever when Palmer's main gear dropped out of the wheel wells on each side of his canopy.
Lunsford had his eyes closed, forcing his mind to think about Waikiki Beach. "Is it over?"
"Almost."
"Well," the A-4 flight leader radioed, taxiing to the flight line, "that's certainly a new one."
Hutton, having never experienced the delicate maneuver, chuckled when he keyed his radio mike. "Not bad for a couple of Fox-4 weenies."
The last A-4 was clearing the runway when Austin cracked his speed brakes to gain separation from Palmer.
Lunsford let out his breath. "Both of you morons should be in straitjackets."
