Rules of Engagement (1991)

by Joe Weber

  "Snowball," Brad radioed, tweaking the throttles forward, "Jokers Two Oh Two and Two Oh Seven stabilized--Two left, Seven right."

  "Copy," the lead tanker pilot responded, watching Carella and Durham accelerate out in front of the Skywarriors. "Jokers cleared to plug."

  Brad clicked his radio twice, adding power as the probe entered the basket. He shoved the receptacle forward a few feet and steadied the Phantom.

  "Fuel flow," came the call from the tanker pilot.

  "Looks good here," Brad replied, thinking about the tremendous amount of fuel the F-4 consumed in afterburner. At a normal cruise speed of 575 miles per hour, the Phantom could travel approximately 1,500 miles. Close to sea level, in afterburner, the entire internal fuel load would be exhausted in a matter of minutes.

  "You're unusually quiet this morning," Brad said over the intercom while he watched Nick Palmer smoothly plug the second Whale.

  Russ Lunsford pulled his seat belt and shoulder harnesses as tightly as he could, then keyed his intercom. "That's because I'm praying that I'll still be alive this afternoon."

  Brad did not respond. He had seen this kind of detached behavior from Lunsford many times when they had gone on a mission. Brad knew that if he attempted to ease Lunsford's anxiety, Russ would work himself into a frenzy.

  "Jokers on the Whale," the strike leader radioed, "you about ready to join up?"

  Brad keyed his mike. "Ninety seconds." Monitoring the fuel indicator, Brad waited until his tanks were full. A few seconds later, Palmer reported his tanks full.

  Dropping off the Skywarriors, Brad and Nick added power to catch the strike group. They switched to Red Crown and heard the strike leader giving last-minute instructions. He was leading twelve A-4 Skyhawks. The entire group then switched to strike-flight frequency. As they crossed the coast of North Vietnam, the air-group commander commenced a slow turn to approach the petroleum storage tanks west of the city of Haiphong.

  Below, fourteen A-1 Skyraiders skirted around known gun emplacements, then turned to their run-in heading. At that moment, Brad heard the radio come alive.

  "Bandits!" someone warned. "We've got bandits . . . climbing twenty west!"

  The sky suddenly filled with surface-to-air missiles and concentrated barrages of antiaircraft fire. Four Phantoms from the Jokers' sister squadron, fulfilling the role of flak suppressors, thundered across the target area. They dropped their Rockeye bombs seconds before the A-4s struck the petroleum storage tanks.

  Brad watched in horror as a Skyhawk flew into the ground without any attempt to pull out of the dive. The pilot had been killed by the deadly antiaircraft rounds.

  "Joker One is engaging!" Dan Bailey radioed from the forward fighter group. "Heads up, Jokers. Three MiGs at two o'clock."

  Scanning the horizon, Brad darted a glance at the target area. Billowing clouds of black smoke mushroomed skyward as the A-1 Skyraiders pulverized the remaining fuel dumps.

  "SAMs!" Hutton said over the wild radio chatter. "Comin' up at four o'clock."

  Breaking hard to the right, Brad felt the violent g force shove him down in his seat. He glimpsed the ground, then saw two surface-to-air missiles flash by the side of his Phantom. He instinctively ducked, certain that the SAMs would detonate next to him.

  It was impossible to interpret the ambiguous radio calls. Many of the urgent transmissions were blocked when a number of pilots tried to communicate at the same time.

  Seeing Nick Palmer sliding into a loose trail position on his right wing, Brad reversed to the left and flinched again. Two A-4s snapped over to avoid a midair collision with the Phantoms.

  "Oh . . . God in heaven," Lunsford groaned under the g load, "get us out of here."

  The adrenaline shock had caused both F-4 crews to start sucking oxygen. They frantically searched all quadrants of the sky for aircraft and missiles.

  Brad saw an airplane explode at the same instant he saw three MiG-21s descend out of the clouds. He looked at Palmer, then back to the MiGs. He had not seen a MiG-21 before, but there was no mistaking the silver fighters. Two of the sleek aircraft were carrying external fuel tanks.

  "Tally," someone said. "Break right! Break right!" Total confusion reigned. It was impossible to know whom the break right command was intended for.

  Selecting HEAT, Brad pulled the Phantom into a modified high yo-yo. The gray sky and clouds blended with the ground. He saw Palmer's F-4, in perfect formation, slide out to the left side.

  Looking back at the three MiGs, Brad was startled by a flash and jolting explosion between the two Phantoms. He quickly scanned the cockpit instruments, noting that the master caution light was glowing.

  "We've been hit!" Lunsford shouted, staring at the shattered left wing. Four feet of the wing tip had been blown off by the unseen SAM. "So has Palmer! Palmer's been hit! He's drifting down!"

  Brad's aircraft, with the right wing now providing more lift than the shortened left wing, rolled to the left. Lunsford snapped his head from side to side. "Our left wing . . . we've been hit in the left wing!"

  "Come on . . . ," Brad coaxed, holding the control stick all the way to the right. He shoved on the right rudder, but the heavily damaged Phantom continued to roll out of control to the left.

  "Have you got control?" Lunsford asked, watching a rail yard and power plant appear above the canopy. "Answer me, goddamnit!"

  Inverted, Brad pushed the stick forward to hold the nose up, than cautiously moved the stick to the left. "Stay with me, you sonuvabitch . . . I'm working on it."

  "Bullshit!" Lunsford swore, noticing a new problem. "Our left engine--we've lost the left engine! I've got circuit breakers out back here."

  "Well, put 'em back in."

  Lunsford quickly shoved the circuit breakers in and braced himself for an ejection. His mouth was dry and his heart pounded in his chest.

  The Phantom rolled upright, then yawed to the left as Brad fought to control the aircraft. The airspeed was quickly bleeding off, which caused more control problems as the F-4 entered a second roll.

  Brad looked for Palmer's Phantom, but it was nowhere in sight. His own fear was transmitted to the control stick. He tried to relax his viselike grip on the stick as the F-4 again rolled to the inverted position.

  "Goddamnit, Austin," Lunsford shouted when the earth and sky rotated, "get us out over water!"

  Checking the airspeed indicator, Brad saw that he was going to have to use afterburner on the right engine. "What do you think I'm tryin' to do?"

  He entered another corkscrewing maneuver, tapping the afterburner through the inverted position.

  His right leg, fully extended on the rudder pedal, was starting to shake from the continuous strain.

  A MiG slashed by the F-4, prompting a harangue from Lunsford. "We're going the wrong goddamn way! Everyone is clearing the beach."

  Brad muscled the Phantom upright again, watching the decaying airspeed. He could not use afterburner to accelerate the F-4. The thrust caused the aircraft to yaw out of control to the left.

  "We're lucky," Brad labored under the strain, "to be going in any direction." He sensed that he was losing control authority. Any slower, Brad told himself, and the control stick would not hold the nose up during the period of inverted flight.

  "Get on the horn," Brad ordered, wrestling the controls, "and get off a Mayday."

  Lunsford had become disoriented during the wild ride. "Where are we?"

  Brad saw the altimeter drop below 8,000 feet. "We're five to seven miles southwest of Haiphong." He had no sooner finished the statement when he glimpsed two Phantoms settle into a distant formation with them.

  "Austin, where did you learn to fly?" Mario Russo asked from the backseat of Jon O'Meara's Phantom.

  "We're going to have to get out," Brad replied, feeling the F-4 enter a prestall buffet. He saw 6,800 feet on the altimeter. "The nose is going to fall through when we go inverted again."

  "Brad," O'Meara radioed, "we've got a SAR flight on the way. Red
Crown has been notified."

  Watching the horizon tilt, Brad shot a look at the rapidly unwinding altimeter, then keyed his mike. "Thanks. Have you seen Nick and Harry?"

  "Negative," O'Meara answered, searching for Brad's wingman. "Maybe they cleared the beach."

  Inverted and hanging from his restraints, Brad smoothly shoved the control stick all the way forward. "How far out are the SAR--"

  His statement ended when the F-4 suddenly departed and entered a poststall gyration.

  "EJECT! EJECT!"

  Nick Palmer slumped in his seat, feeling the light-headed sensation of being semiconscious. He could hear Harry Hutton talking to him, but his reactions and thinking ability were in slow motion. His dazed mind could not comprehend what had happened to him.

  Taking stock of the situation, Nick looked down at his control stick. He had a hold on the grip, reacting to a primordial instinct for survival.

  The SAM shrapnel had penetrated the F-4 inches below the canopy rail. The high explosive had ripped into Palmer's right arm, shoulder, and chest. He could move his arm, but he was bleeding profusely from his gaping chest wound. Miraculously, his oxygen mask and hose had survived the blinding explosion.

  "Nick," Harry soothed, "how are you doing?"

  Palmer inhaled, then felt an excruciating pain. He ventured a few words. "Not so good. If I pass out, command eject us."

  "Hang in there," Harry said, working the radios. "We're over the gulf, so you're doin' great."

  "Yeah," Palmer gasped, trying to focus on the instrument panel. "Where's the boat?"

  Harry looked out at Dan Bailey's Phantom. The CO was in the process of having the Air Boss erect the massive nylon barricade. "Straight ahead, eighty-three miles. The old man is escorting us in."

  Palmer moved his eyes without moving his head. "I don't . . . see him."

  "He's off our right wing," Hutton answered, prepared for an ejection, "in loose deuce."

  The cockpit remained eerily quiet as the Phantoms cruised at 18,000 feet. The CO, fearing Palmer might have oxygen problems, did not want to climb any higher.

  "Harry," Palmer gasped, staring at the altitude indicator, "we can't land. I can't focus my eyes."

  Hutton inhaled and spoke reassuringly. "We're going into the barricade--piece of cake."

  "Great," Palmer replied, then looked down again. He was sitting in a pool of blood. "I don't know, Harry."

  "Come on, for Christ's sake," Hutton cajoled loudly. "You're a goddamned fighter pilot--a tail hooker. You can do anything."

  Palmer instinctively flew the damaged Phantom straight and level at 240 knots. He blinked several times in a futile attempt to clear his vision. "You'll have to talk me down. I can't focus."

  Harry closed his eyes a second, asking God for divine guidance, then opened them. "Shit, Palmer, I could give you a fifty-cent piece, then talk you out of a dollar's worth of change."

  Chapter 21.

  Brad saw the earth and sky spin a split second before the violent explosion rocketed him out of the cockpit. The windblast almost ripped his oxygen mask loose.

  He tumbled through the cloudy sky, then snapped straight out when the main canopy popped open. He swung below his parachute and looked around. Russ Lunsford was slightly below him, seventy to eighty yards away.

  Peering around and below, Brad was unnerved to see people staring and pointing up at them. He could see that they were Vietnamese farmers, but some of them were armed with rifles and scythes. He could also hear dogs barking amidst the shouting and clamoring on the ground.

  Becoming aware of a screeching sound, Brad twisted his head in time to see his wounded Phantom hit next to the village. The thunderous explosion cartwheeled the F-4 through the village, setting the inhabitants and their dwellings on fire.

  The gruesome scene was incomprehensible to the stunned pilot and his RIO. They watched in agony as people screamed in terror when the blazing jet fuel rained down on them.

  In desperation, Brad surveyed an area to the east of the village. He steered his parachute toward the slight incline. If he and Lunsford could make it over the tree line, they might have a chance for rescue.

  Dropping his survival gear on the cord attached to his parachute rigging, Brad pulled out one of his emergency radios. He had altered his personal equipment to carry two survival radios and a second revolver, complete with an extra clip of ammunition and a box of .38-caliber ammunition. He placed the radio securely in his torso harness and felt for his service revolver.

  Watching the approaching trees rise to meet him, Brad heard the howl of an F-4 Phantom. He turned to see Jon O'Meara, who had dispatched his wingman to the carrier, streak low over the farmers who were crossing the field. They were running toward their burning village.

  In the last few seconds of his descent, Brad could see that he was not going to clear the wide span of trees. He crossed his right arm under his chin, gripping his left shoulder. He placed his left arm under his crotch and crossed his legs.

  Seconds later, Brad plummeted into the tall trees. The impact knocked the wind out of him. Gasping for air, Brad looked down. He estimated that he was twelve feet above the ground.

  Recovering his breath, Brad hung suspended from his parachute canopy. His mind reeled from the sudden transition. Only a minute ago he had been in his plane; now he was dangling from a tree. He heard some of the shouting villagers racing toward the trees. He might as well have dropped a bomb on their families.

  Harry Hutton could see the carrier in the distance. The strike group, far ahead of the two Phantoms, was recovering in an orderly flow. They had lost three aircraft during the attack, including the skipper of the A-4 Skyhawk squadron.

  Weak from his massive loss of blood, Palmer heard Dan Bailey radio the carrier. The Air Boss confirmed that they would be able to take Palmer's damaged Phantom aboard in ten minutes. The barricade was almost in place.

  "Okay, Nick," the CO said in a quiet, comforting voice, "let's dirty up. Power back . . . and I'll call for flaps and gear. You just keep the wings level."

  "Copy," Harry Hutton answered for his wounded pilot, then keyed the intercom as Nick pulled the throttles back an inch. "Hang in there--we're going to make it." Palmer remained quiet, barely conscious.

  Harry continued to give his pilot small heading changes as the two aircraft flew downwind toward the carrier. Abeam the ship, Dan Bailey radioed for Nick to lower his flaps and landing gear. Palmer would not be using the tail hook for the barricade arrestment.

  The Air Boss called when the flight was three miles astern of the carrier. "Joker Two Zero Seven is cleared for a barricade arrestment."

  "Roger," Hutton replied, coaching Palmer into a left turn. The gravely wounded pilot let the nose drop too far as he initiated the turn.

  "Back pressure," Harry reminded. "Get the nose up."

  "Joker Lead," the commander in Pri-Fly radioed, "we're shooting a tanker. Should have you on board in twenty minutes or less."

  "Copy," Bailey replied, nervously watching Palmer lose altitude in the turn. "Nick, keep your nose up . . . doing fine, but get your nose up."

  Brad released his Koch fittings, dropping twelve feet to the dense undergrowth. He hit hard, then staggered sideways to regain his balance. He raised the tinted visor on his helmet and looked for Lunsford. "Russ, can you hear me?"

  There was no answer.

  Hearing the approaching villagers, Brad crashed through the thick foliage toward the incline at the edge of the trees. He saw something move to his left. Dropping to his knees, Brad drew his .38-caliber revolver, then glimpsed Russ Lunsford thrashing through the undergrowth. "Russ, I'm over here!"

  Limping, Lunsford stumbled through the foliage, meeting his pilot at the edge of the trees. "They're right on our asses," Lunsford heaved, feeling the deep scratches on his neck and face. His ankle would barely support him.

  "Come on," Brad ordered, raising the radio antenna and turning on the power switch. "We gotta make it to the top of that knol
l."

  Breathing heavily, Lunsford followed Austin up the slight incline. There were several indentations on top of the long hill. Another small field lay on the other side of the pockmarked incline.

  Out of breath, both men dropped into a large sunken area at the edge of the slope. The depression was not deep enough to conceal them completely, but it did provide some cover. Looking around the area, Brad raised the survival radio to his mouth.

  "Joker," Brad panted, "we need cover. We're on top of a long hill separating the tree line and a narrow field."

  O'Meara replied immediately, wrapping the Phantom into a tight turn. "I've got ya spotted. Stay put."

  Brad glanced at the F-4 and keyed his radio. "We've got armed men coming through the tree line."

  "Copy," O'Meara responded, settling into an orbit. "Help is on the way. Hold on."

  "We're in deep shit," Lunsford gasped, hearing the yelling farmers. "They're going to kill us."

  Brad snapped his head around. "Goddamnit, Lunsford, get your shit together. I'll do the firing, you do the loading. I've got another fifty rounds in my torso harness."

  Lunsford nodded his head, then reluctantly handed Brad his revolver. They both heard Jon O'Meara talk to the A-1 Skyraider leader.

  "Lifeguard One, Joker Two Hundred."

  "Go, Joker," the metallic voice answered over the roar of the big radial engine.

  "We're going to need some ordnance real soon," O'Meara said, looking at a truck full of soldiers racing down a narrow trail by the side of the tree line. "We've got troops moving in on our guys."

  "Roger that," the detached voice replied, then added, "we've got a Jolly Green and a Seasprite en route." The Jolly Green was an air-force HH-53 helicopter; the Seasprite was an armed Kaman HH-2C rescue helicopter.

  Brad saw the first villagers emerge from the trees. Fear had dried the saliva in his mouth. He counted seven men and four youngsters. Barking wildly, two dogs ran out of the dense undergrowth. Every one of the Vietnamese was armed, including the teenage boys. Two of the men held AK-47s; the rest had assorted rifles and handguns.