Rules of Engagement (1991)

by Joe Weber

  Harry sat quiet a moment, thinking about all the illogical things the air wing had been tasked to do. Now it made sense how the missions were formulated. "Jesus H. Christ. That's crazy."

  "Oh, yeah," Brad continued, removing his shirt. "The White House will not accept a partnership with the military, so we're paying the price for having amateurs and politicians run a goddamn war that they are unqualified to direct, and don't have the will to win. They're sitting up in the palace with their blinders on, methodically screwing up this half-assed effort even worse."

  Lunsford folded the paper. "It says that a lot of the brassfour-star types--are becoming very vocal."

  "They damn sure ought to be," Brad snapped. "This goes against everything they've ever been taught. Any military commander worth his salt wants to protect his troops and accomplish the mission. The generals and admirals are as frustrated as we are.

  Brad placed the newspaper back in his desk. "Those geniuses at the White House garden parties have got the military sending out eight planes with half bomb loads instead of four planes with full loads. They want more goddamn sorties, so let's risk four extra pilots and RIOs."

  The veins in Brad's neck were protruding. "I'll volunteer to fly every mission, but why risk extra people in a half-assed effort to placate both the hawks and doves? They're covering their asses, because they don't have a clue what to do next, and we're paying for their gutless indecisiveness."

  Brad looked at Lunsford. "You think I need a psychiatric evaluation? They need to send an entire goddamn bus load of psychiatrists over to the White House."

  Harry braced himself and got up from his corner. He reached for Brad's glass. "Let me fix you a drink."

  Brad looked up. "Thanks." The room remained quiet while Hutton refreshed Brad's drink, then his own.

  "Why don't we," Harry suggested, handing Brad's glass to him, "discuss Leigh Ann."

  Brad nodded his head. "I get the message. Just one thing and I'll shut up. Those people in the White House who thought they would intimidate Ho Chi Minh with a piss-in-the-wind effort miscalculated so badly that they might as well have been looking through a telescope at another planet. Now, they don't know what in hell to do, and more of us are going to get our asses blown off."

  Brad exhaled, feeling the warmth of the alcohol. "If they don't believe enough in this cause to give it one hundred percent, then they should step away and admit that they shit themselves."

  Brad remained quiet, then raised his glass. "A salute to Nick Palmer, another victim of the cranial-rectal inversion in the White House."

  Chapter 23.

  The wind whipped Brad Austin's collar when he stepped through the hatch leading to Vulture's Row. The narrow deck high on the side of the island superstructure afforded an unrestricted view of the entire flight deck.

  Nursing a hangover, complete with a throbbing headache, Brad walked forward to the sheltered area next to the bridge. He leaned against the bulkhead and looked up at the top of the island, breathing in the refreshing sea air as he studied the mast and radar antennas. The tall structure sprouted reflectors, catwalks, booms, cables, crossbeams, and a myriad of ropes.

  He looked down the walkway to the glass-walled obstruction known as Pri-Fly. Brad could make out the Air Boss and his assistant, who was talking on two telephones. In another seven minutes, they would be busy with the second multiplane recovery of the day.

  Hearing the C-1A Trader's engines go to full power, Brad turned to watch the COD on the starboard catapult. The daily mail and supply-delivery flight was staggered between air-strike launches and recoveries.

  The big radial engines, revving at full military power, produced a throaty roar. Brad watched the catapult officer twirl his fingers, then thrust toward the bow like a fencer. The tired-looking aircraft squatted down and raced off the end of the deck.

  Stepping back out of the wind, Brad opened his shirt pocket and extracted the first letter Leigh Ann had written to him. Holding the pages tightly Brad slowly reread it. He cherished every word, feeling her presence next to him.

  The letter ended, I can only imagine how dangerous it is to fly jets from an aircraft carrier. I know you must be very good at what you do, but just remember-someone cares (very much) about whether or not you return from a mission.

  Your gold wings are prominently displayed on my dresser. A picture of the pilot who earned them would be nice. How is that for an overt hint?

  Until tomorrow.

  My love,

  Leigh Ann

  .

  Brad was gazing at the fantail, remembering the delicate fragrance Leigh Ann had worn that night on the beach, when he heard the first group of returning aircraft.

  He glanced up the flight deck. The duty combat air patrol Phantom had been towed to the number-one catapult. The pilot and RIO sat in their cockpits, passing the time reading paperbacks. Their wingman was positioned directly behind the F-4.

  A KA-3B tanker sat on the port catapult, engines running in preparation to launch and intercept two stragglers who were low on fuel.

  Watching the A-4 Skyhawks enter the landing pattern, Brad let his thoughts drift back to Waikiki Beach. He replayed the time he had had with Leigh Ann, absorbing the experience one special event at a time.

  Brad looked up when one of the Skyhawks missed the four arresting-gear wires and bolted off the deck. Two things caught his attention. The aircraft appeared to have battle damage, and the pilot was well left of centerline when he went off the angle deck.

  Deciding to visit Pri-Fly, Brad carefully folded Leigh Ann's letter and hurried to the ship's control tower. Two other Skyhawks landed before the damaged A-4 turned crosswind. Arriving in the confined space, Brad heard the voice of the A-4 pilot as he rolled in on final. He could also hear the landing-signal officer.

  "Skyhawk, ball," the pilot radioed. "One point eight."

  Brad could hear the wind howling above the LSO's response. He glanced down at the men leaning into the wind on the LSO platform, then concentrated on the damaged A-4.

  "Roger, ball," the LSO said in a conversational tone. "Watch your lineup."

  The Skyhawk pilot hesitated a moment, then answered in a tense voice. "I've got a control problem."

  Watching the Air Boss pick up his telephone, Brad noticed that the Skyhawk pilot was slipping his aircraft. He was having to cross-control the rudder and ailerons to compensate for structural damage to his primary flight controls. The airplane was cocked over to the left, flying slightly sideways.

  "Four fourteen," the Air Boss said calmly, "nice and easy. You've got a steady wind down the deck."

  Click, click.

  The A-4 pilot approached the round-down in a left wing low attitude. He was struggling to stay on speed and course as he neared the carrier's fantail.

  "Lineup," the LSO cautioned. "Watch your lineup!"

  The Skyhawk flew through the air turbulence caused by the ship's superstructure. The aircraft rolled to the left as the frantic pilot fought the controls.

  "WAVE OFF! WAVE OFF!" the LSO shouted, hitting the bright red wave-off lights. Crossing the edge of the flight deck, the pilot applied full power, raised the nose, and leveled the wings.

  Brad watched in horror when the A-4's tail hook caught the number-one wire as the aircraft started to climb. Clawing for altitude, the Skyhawk pulled the arresting-gear cable to the limit, then stopped in midair and crashed to the deck in a thunderous explosion.

  Brad's mind had seen the accident in slow motion. Something had shot out of the aircraft at the same time the A-4 hit the steel deck.

  "CRASH ON DECK! CRASH ON DECK!" The Air Boss was issuing orders and barking commands to the fire fighters swarming around the aircraft.

  Seeing a parachute floating down, Brad realized that the pilot had ejected a fraction of a second before the Skyhawk had slammed into the deck. Brad watched the pilot disappear next to the LSO platform. He was astounded by the next call from the landing-signal officer.

  "I need six
men at the LSO platform! On the double!"

  The Air Boss gave the order over the flight-deck PA system, then talked to the LSO. Brad could not hear the Air Boss because of the confusion in Pri-Fly, but he heard the reply from the LSO.

  "The pilot is hanging over the side! His chute is caught on a stanchion next to the life-raft storage."

  Brad watched fourteen flight-deck crew members race toward the fantail. While the fire fighters extinguished the blazing wreckage, the group of sailors by the LSO platform hauled the dazed pilot up by his parachute.

  Once they had the bruised pilot on deck, they unhooked his parachute fittings. Then two medics rushed to his side, gently placed him on a stretcher, and hurried to sick bay.

  Feeling emotionally drained by the accident, Brad left PriFly and descended to the flight deck. The aircraft handlers had shoved the wreckage over the side, allowing the fire fighters an opportunity to hose down the deck.

  Brad heard the tanker's engines go to full power. He watched the Skywarrior hurtle down the port catapult and climb gracefully into the sky. The carrier was ready to resume normal flight operations.

  Descending to the 03 level directly below the flight deck, Brad went to the squadron ready room. When he walked through the hatch, the crash was being replayed on the pilot's landing-aid television (PLAT).

  "Watch this," Lincoln Durham said, staring at the PLAT monitor. "In-flight engagement."

  Brad watched the horrendous crash from the vantage point of the in-deck centerline camera, then from the island-mounted camera. The island cameraman had captured the accident squarely in the center of the picture. The view from the upper deck was replayed in slow motion.

  "Right there," Ernie Sheridan gestured, "is when he pulled the handle."

  Mario Russo whistled. "Quick draw. That son of a bitch was fast on the trigger." The accident was played again at normal speed.

  "God almighty," Bull Durham exclaimed. "He came out when the aircraft was about three feet from striking the deck."

  Absently watching the fire-fighting efforts after the crash, Brad sat down next to Durham. "Any word on Nick?"

  The new operations officer grinned. "Scary said they're going to fly him off tomorrow. He thinks Nick will go to Tripler, or back to the States." Durham gave Brad a thumbs-up. "He's optimistic that Nick will be able to return to flight status in the near future."

  "That's good news, for a change," Brad replied, looking at his watch. He had ten minutes until he had to be in sick bay for his flight physical. "What's the scoop on tomorrow?"

  Durham reached in the right breast pocket of his flight suit and retrieved a planning form. "Tomorrow's mission has been pushed back a day. We're going to hit some bridges in the middle of the Iron Triangle. I've got you leading the TARCAP, with O'Meara as your wingman."

  The Iron Triangle consisted of the area between Hanoi, Haiphong, and Thanh Hoa. The region was heavily defended by concentrated antiaircraft batteries, surface-to-air missiles, and numerous MiG fighters.

  "That sounds interesting," Brad remarked, seeing Harry Hutton and Russ Lunsford enter the ready room. "What time is the go?"

  Durham consulted his list. "You're on the second launch . . . at fourteen hundred. Thought I'd let you sleep in, since you've been on bankers' hours." Durham flashed his gleaming smile.

  "Thanks, Bull."

  "No sweat," the friendly pilot replied, turning serious. "I'd like for you to train for squadron LSO, since Nick is going to be gone."

  Brad had not even thought about the possibility of becoming a landing-signal officer, but the idea appealed to him. He was always anxious to learn new skills.

  "Sure," he said, calculating the amount of time and training that would be required before he would be a qualified LSO. "When do I start?"

  Lunsford, followed by Hutton, plopped down in two high-backed seats across the aisle. Each held a half-full mug of lukewarm coffee.

  "What I'd like to do," Durham said enthusiastically, "is get you hooked up with the Ghostriders' LSO--Tag Elliot. He's a nice guy and he has a lot of experience."

  "Tag?" Brad asked, unsure if he had heard the LSO's first name correctly.

  "That's right," Durham replied, catching the looks from Hutton and Lunsford. "Our jarhead is going to become a squadron LSO." Harry rolled his eyes back. "You're shitting us, Bull." "No," Durham laughed. "You're going to have a marine waving your pilots aboard."

  Lunsford and Hutton groaned in mock agony. Harry looked at his watch. "We better get down to Scary's. It's fifteen hundred, and you know how he is about punctuality." Both RIOs got up and went to the small sink to pour out their coffee.

  Brad started to getup, then paused a moment. "How's Cordelia?"

  Durham grinned again. "She's doing great, and feels fine. Her obstetrician has her on a strict regimen, and Cordy follows the rules to the letter."

  "That's good to hear," Brad replied, rising from his seat. "Tell her hello from me."

  "I'll do that this evening."

  Brad turned to Hutton and Lunsford. "You boys ready to go down for a Scary finger wave?"

  "Can't wait," Lunsford responded, limping toward the door. "I think he's sick."

  Chapter 24.

  Brad sat in the hot cockpit while his fully armed Phantom was towed to the bow of the ship and positioned on the starboard catapult. The carrier had turned downwind, eliminating the faint breeze that had been sweeping over the flight deck.

  Sweltering under the blazing afternoon sun, Brad watched the aircraft handlers unhook the tow tractor and drive away. He carefully placed his helmet on the canopy bow and surveyed the relaxed catapult crews.

  Brad and Russ were taking their turn standing the alert-five watch. A second Phantom sat on the port catapult, ready to launch in five minutes if inbound targets were spotted.

  Two additional F-4s were airborne, orbiting between North Vietnam and the carrier. If the BARCAP Phantoms encountered MiG fighters or enemy surface vessels, Brad and his wingman would scramble to assist them.

  Dark stack smoke drifted from the top of the island and engulfed the open cockpit. The foul-smelling fumes made Brad's eyes water and his nose burn.

  Russ sat on the wing, talking to Toby Kendall and cursing the acrid smoke. "Christ," Lunsford said, squinting up at the top of the carrier's superstructure, "we might as well be working in a coal mine."

  Turning to look back on the wing, Brad set his paperback on the corner of the instrument glare shield. "Why don't you climb in and suck some cool oxygen?"

  "It's too goddamn hot in that pit."

  Brad smiled at the plane captain and stared at his RIO. "My, aren't we in a good mood today."

  Kendall looked away, embarrassed.

  "Oh, yeah, I'm the happiest sonuvabitch in the world. I'm slow roasting out here, and if you don't end up killing me, I'll probably croak from black-lung disease."

  Brad reached into the sleeve pocket of his flight suit and slipped out a dollar bill. "Toby, why don't you take a break and go get the three of us an ice-cold Coke. My treat."

  One of the ship's snack bars was located under the flight deck, aft of the number-one catapult. Kendall would be only thirty seconds away from their Phantom.

  Toby beamed and leaped up to the cockpit. "Yes, sir."

  After Kendall had rounded the Phantom's nose, Brad turned to Lunsford. "Russ, how about acting like an officer and a professional in front of the men."

  "Launch the CAP!" the bullhorn blared before Lunsford could answer. "Launch the CAP!"

  Kendall raced back and leaped up to assist Brad with his shoulder harness while Russ jumped into the backseat. The greenshirted catapult crews hustled around the Phantoms while the pilots started their engines. The carrier was heeled over, turning into the wind and gaining speed. The flight deck had erupted in frenzied activity.

  Brad's hands flew around the cockpit, rechecking the multitude of instruments and switches. The catapult officer rushed to the center of the deck as Brad lowered his wing tips
and shut his canopy.

  "You up to speed?" Brad asked, watching the cat officer for the turn-up signal.

  "All set," Lunsford replied, finishing the last items on his checklist.

  The yellow-shirted officer pointed at Brad, then raised his arm and shook his fingers, giving Brad the full-power signal. Inching the throttles into afterburner, Brad was shocked to see the cat officer give him the catapult-suspend signal.

  "Oh, shit," Lunsford spat, "here we go again."

  Brad cautiously retarded the power levers to idle. "What the hell . . . Does anyone have a clue as to what is going on?"

  "Cancel the launch," a voice said over the radio. "Repeat, cancel the launch. Remain in condition one."

  "This is pure bullshit," Lunsford hissed. "They scare the bejesus out of me, then cank the goddamn launch while we're comin' up on the power."

  Brad chopped the throttles and smiled to himself. "The boss probably saw you sunning on the wing, and decided to teach you a lesson." The crews were supposed to remain in their cockpits for the duration of their alert-five duty.

  Lunsford popped his oxygen mask loose. "He's a horse's ass, and so are you . . . Captain Professional."

  Raising the canopy, Brad spied the paperback he had borrowed from his roommate. "Why don't you borrow one of Harry's crotch novels? The time goes by a lot faster."

  Removing his helmet, Brad missed Lunsford's scathing response.

  Brad turned the shower faucets, adjusting the temperature of the water, then stepped under the fine spray and soaked his skin. Adhering to the navy policy of conserving fresh water, Brad turned the faucets off and lathered his body. After shampooing his hair, he turned the water on and quickly rinsed off the suds.

  Toweling himself dry, Brad thought about his narrow escape from death. Why am I doing this? Where are we headed with this miserable war?

  He wrapped his towel around him and picked up his shaving kit, then started toward his stateroom. The more he thought about the rules of engagement and the protected military targets, the more angry he became.

  Reaching his quarters, Brad tossed down the kit. "The stupid bastards . . ."