Rules of Engagement (1991)

by Joe Weber

  Harry looked over the top of his latest edition of Playboy magazine. "Do I detect a note of hostility?"

  "Harry," Brad replied, yanking open the closet door, "do you see what's happening to us . . . to the morale of the flight crews?"

  Turning in his bunk, Harry set the magazine aside. "At the risk of offending you, there isn't anything we can do, except try to survive."

  Brad placed his uniform on his bunk. "Jesus Christ, what a complete disaster."

  Waiting a few seconds, Hutton propped himself up. "Brad, we've got to ride it out the best we can. We don't have any choice, and you know it."

  Brad gave his roommate a strange look. "Yeah, you're right. We're simply cannon fodder for the incompetent politicians." "Don't get pissed at me."

  Brad drew in a slow breath. "I'm not upset with you, Harry. I'm just frustrated, and so is the skipper. You can see it in his eyes. He knows the administration is full of horseshit, but he has to protect his own future."

  "Brad, that's all we can do, and pray for a future."

  Austin slumped on his chair. "The futility of this mess . . . all the senseless deaths." Brad's eyes narrowed. "Harry, those spineless bastards in the White House are going to burn in hell."

  Taxiing behind Jon O'Meara, Brad stopped thirty feet from the jet blast deflector (JBD). When O'Meara's Phantom reached the starboard catapult track, the hydraulically actuated blast deflector was raised.

  "Are you ready for this act?" Brad asked Lunsford, who was already breathing heavily.

  Keying his intercom, Lunsford looked in Austin's canopy mirrors. "That's a dumb-ass question. Hell no, I'm not ready."

  After the catapult crews scooted from under the howling F-4, O'Meara plugged in the afterburner. The twin fire storm sent a powerful blast of exhaust into the blackened JBD. Part of the forceful thrust slipped over the blast deflector, gently rocking Joker 201.

  Brad rechecked the flap control panel and looked up in time to see O'Meara's Phantom rocket down the catapult. The F-4 cleared the flight deck, settled below the bow, then climbed smoothly away. Clouds of superheated steam swirled back over Austin's Phantom.

  "Well," Brad observed, adding power to taxi up to the catapult, "he didn't blow any spray off the water today."

  Lunsford lowered his helmet visor and tightened the friction knob. "He blows spray off the water--you fly through trees."

  Brad felt the catapult take tension, looked at the catapult officer, waited for the turn-up signal, then smoothly shoved the throttles into afterburner. Checking the engine instruments, Brad popped a snappy salute to the cat officer and braced his head against the ejection-seat headrest.

  The F-4 blasted down the catapult track, smashing the crew back into their seats. As the fighter cleared the bow, Austin's vision returned to normal. He snapped the landing-gear lever up, allowed the Phantom to accelerate, then raised the flaps.

  Brad left the aircraft in afterburner in order to facilitate the running rendezvous. He and O'Meara had decided on a quick join-up, so they could tank and get to the target area a few minutes before the strike aircraft arrived.

  Seeing O'Meara's Phantom at one o'clock, Brad kept the airspeed at 420 knots until he was almost abeam of his wing-man. He chopped the throttles to idle and deployed the speed brakes.

  "Goddamnit," Lunsford exclaimed, watching O'Meara's F-4 slide to the rear of Joker 201. "How about a heads-up when you're going to throw out the anchor."

  "Put me down for another beer," Brad replied, thumbing the speed brakes closed. He added a handful of power to stabilize in front of his wingman.

  Lunsford looked at the tick marks on his dented kneeboard. "You already owe me over a case, you sorry bastard."

  Although O'Meara had launched first, Brad was the flight leader. Joker 212 settled into a loose parade formation on Brad's right wing.

  Slowly increasing speed, Brad gently raised the nose. To this point, he and Jon O'Meara had not exchanged any radio calls. Passing 12,000 feet, Brad heard Lunsford swear and say something indistinguishable.

  "What are you mumbling about?"

  Lunsford looked up at the ejection-seat handles over Brad's crash helmet. "I was just figuring my current life expectancy."

  Brad gave O'Meara the sign to switch to the tanker frequency. "What'd you come up with?"

  "Zilch point shit."

  Austin ignored the complaining from the backseat and concentrated on refueling his F-4. After departing the tanker, the flight headed toward the coast-in point.

  The Gulf of Tonkin looked like gray slate as the two Phantoms approached the shoreline. Four additional F-4s would provide barrier combat air patrol for the carrier task force.

  Another group of aircraft from the second carrier was going to simultaneously strike the highway and railroad bridges at Hai Duong. Four F-8 Crusaders would provide target air combat patrol for twelve A-4 Skyhawks.

  The midafternoon weather was unusually clear, with good visibility above and below the puffy white clouds. The pilots and RIOs would have an easier time spotting the surface-to-air missiles and antiaircraft fire.

  Brad listened to Red Crown and the strike leaders. The A-4s reported that they would be feet dry in two minutes. Brad looked down to the left in an attempt to spot the A-4s in his attack group. They were 5,000 feet below the prowling Phantoms.

  "They're at eight o'clock," Lunsford said, tightening his seat belt and shoulder straps.

  "Got 'em," Brad acknowledged as he lowered the F-4 's nose. O'Meara moved out to a combat spread position, then drifted behind Joker 201.

  Glancing at the picture of Leigh Ann, Brad inched the throttles forward and scanned his engine instruments. He had again taped the copy of the original photo under the right fire-overheat warning light.

  Keeping the strike group in sight, Brad leveled at 7,000 feet and 460 knots. He had two AIM-7D Sparrows in the rear missile wells and four AIM-9B Sidewinders, two attached to each inboard wing station.

  Rolling into a left orbit, Brad was startled by the call from the ground-control intercept operator.

  "This is Red Crown. We have MiG activity coming off Kep. Repeat--six to seven MiGs climbing out of Kep. Red Crown clear."

  "Jokers, copy."

  Brad rolled back to the right and pointed the F-4's nose toward the MiG base at Kep. The intelligence briefer had said that there were reported to be five MiG-17s and three MiG-21s at the airfield.

  "This is Red Crown!" the voice said with renewed urgency. "MiG activity at Gia Lam and Phuc Yen . . . going south of Hanoi. Stand by."

  Brad switched his master armament to the ON position and keyed his mike. "Jokers, arm 'em up."

  "Joker Two," O'Meara replied, searching the sky for MiGs and SAMs. Mario Russo cinched his shoulder harnesses tight and checked the radar switches. The strike group was pulling up for their run-in when the GCI coordinator called again.

  "This is Red Crown. Multiple bogies around the Hanoi area," the controller radioed, then paused. "We hold nine aircraft airborne, and intel confirms four waiting to take off from Phuc Yen."

  Agents friendly to the United States maintained a constant surveillance on the North Vietnamese airfields. They sent coded radio messages to reconnaissance aircraft that passed the information to Red Crown.

  Brad caught a glimpse of three surface-to-air missiles leaving their launching pads. A second later, three more missiles lifted off and shot skyward. The SAMs trailed clearly visible smoke as they accelerated toward the strike aircraft. The sky was filled with an incredible amount of antiaircraft fire when the A-4 leader rolled into his dive toward the target.

  Two more SAMs rose from an emplacement next to a bridge. In a matter of ten to twelve seconds, the sky had been saturated with lethal missiles and AAA fire. Hundreds of dark puffs exploded around the Skyhawks.

  "SAMs!" an A-4 pilot warned.

  "Red Crown, Red Crown," Brad radioed, feeling the sudden rush of adrenaline. "Joker Two Oh One." The reply was garbled, but it obviously came from the
controller on board the GCI ship.

  "We're going to need more fighters!" Brad radioed, then added, "We need the BARCAP, buster! Recommend the carrier launch the duty CAP." Buster was the code name to move out at top speed.

  "Those intel morons," Lunsford hissed, referring to the intelligence briefers. "You can expect low MiG activity, my ass."

  Leaving the strike group behind, Brad wrapped the Phantom around and flew toward the MiGs south of Hanoi. He wanted to scatter or engage the MiGs as far from the A-4s as possible. The strike aircraft, which were subsonic attack planes, needed time to get offshore safely.

  Both Phantom RIOs picked up the MiGs on radar at thirteen miles. Closing to four miles, the pilots saw the trio of fighters crossing from right to left. When they reefed their Phantoms into a tight turn behind the bogies, the three MiG-21 s reversed toward the F-4s.

  "They've got us pegged," Brad said over the intercom. "We need to take out their GCIs." The ground-control intercept radars were portable Soviet-made P-35 units. The numerous installations provided the MiG pilots with vectors to the American aircraft.

  "Jokers," Brad radioed, "three MiGs on the nose!"

  "Got 'em," O'Meara shouted at the same time he fired a Sparrow missile.

  Making small corrections, the radar-guided missile tracked straight to the number-three MiG. Brad watched the Sparrow explode beside the fighter, blowing off pieces of the right wing.

  "I've got a lock!" Lunsford called as the number-three MiG trailed fire and black smoke, then pitched down and rolled inverted. The pilot ejected as the aircraft entered a puffy cloud.

  Brad fired a Sparrow from a distance of 6,000 feet. The MiG flight leader snapped inverted and pulled hard for the deck. His wingman followed a half second later.

  Rolling to chase their quarry, Brad swore when the Sparrow lost radar discrimination in the ground return. The errant missile flew over the savvy MiG flight leader, then nosed over and impacted the side of a wooded hill.

  Brad keyed the radio. "Jokers, go HEAT! We may get a shot when they run out."

  Both Phantom pilots selected their heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles. Brad led the flight down to 100 feet above the terrain. The F-4s were 5,000 feet behind the second MiG when the flight leader reversed toward the Phantoms. The experienced MiG pilot completed his knife-edge turn at 50 feet.

  Brad had a sudden, strange feeling. He could hear his Sidewinders buzzing from the radiation heat rising from the ground. The heat-seeking missiles, along with the radar-guided Sparrows, could not lock up a target this low to the ground.

  The MiG was completing the tight turn when Brad saw muzzle flashes from the fighter's 30mm cannon. The pilot was firing at Jon O'Meara.

  Believing that the two MiG-21s would head directly for a sanctuary airfield, Brad had allowed himself and his wingman to fall into a trap.

  "Son of a bitch!" Brad exclaimed to Lunsford. "I've been suckered in."

  The MiG pilot had placed the F-4 crews in a position where they could not use their weapons. The MiG fighter pilot had the advantage with his powerful cannon.

  "Hang onto my wing!" Brad radioed to Jon O'Meara. The MiG was almost head-on when Brad banked into a deliberate collision course.

  Lunsford keyed the intercom. "Let's go for separation!"

  Concentrating on the blur of flashes emitting from the MiG's cannon, Brad tweaked the nose down and pressed home his apparent suicidal charge.

  "We've been hit!" O'Meara yelled, breaking Brad's concentration.

  In full afterburner, the Phantom roared over the MiG, missing the canopy by twenty feet. Brad had sandwiched the aggressive fighter pilot between the F-4 and the ground fifty feet below the MiG.

  After flashing over the aircraft, Brad replayed in his mind what he had seen. The MiG pilot had been wearing a brown leather helmet, large goggles, a bulky parachute, and a tan scarf. What caught Brad's attention were two blurs of color. There was no mistaking the red stars on the nose, along with the white line across the tail of the MiG-21.

  "That's Major Dao!" Lunsford shouted at the same time that Brad snapped the F-4 into a vertical climb.

  "I'm goin' for the beach!" O'Meara radioed, turning hard for the coastline.

  "Go!" Brad shouted. "I'll cover you!"

  Rolling the Phantom in the vertical, Brad caught sight of the two MiGs. They were off his left wing, drifting behind the F-4. They would be in position to blast the Phantom in a matter of seconds.

  "You better get inspired," Lunsford yelled, "or they're going to eat our lunch!"

  In desperation, Brad rudder-rolled the Phantom toward his adversaries. He could see muzzle flashes from both MiGs as the nose of his F-4 fell through the horizon. He was committed to go for separation and disengage. Without a wingman to drag off the second MiG, Austin would soon be boxed in.

  Brad unloaded the Phantom to zero g and selected full afterburner. "Have you got them?"

  Gasping oxygen, Lunsford twisted around to his left. "They're going . . . turned toward Phuc Yen."

  Brad bottomed out 800 feet above the ground, indicating Mach 1.1. He pulled the power back to ninety-seven percent and keyed his radio. "Joker Two Twelve, say posit."

  "We're ten miles from the coast," Jon O'Meara replied, then added, "climbing through one one thousand."

  Brad raised the nose and scanned the sky. "Jon, what's your status? Can you make the boat?"

  "I think so. My starboard engine is surging, but everything else looks good."

  Brad checked his fuel-quantity indicator, then thought about the encounter with Major Dao. Joker 201 had almost become the eighth red star on the MiG-21.

  Crossing the coastline, Brad soon spotted his wingman ahead and to the right. He slid smoothly into formation on O'Meara's right wing as the Phantoms passed over a group of small islands.

  Lost in their thoughts, both crews remained quiet during the return flight to the carrier. They were acutely aware that Austin's tactical blunder had almost cost them their lives.

  Chapter 25.

  Brad and Russ remained in their cockpits while the Phantom was lowered to the hangar bay. Brad had secured the engines after the F-4 had been chained to the deck-edge elevator. The tail of the Phantom extended out over the water.

  When the elevator stopped, the aircraft handlers hooked a tow tractor to the nose gear of Joker 201. They quickly unchained the big fighter and pulled the chocks from the main wheels.

  Contemplating the almost fatal mistake he had made, Brad felt the aircraft move as the tug driver maneuvered the F-4 off the elevator. The blue shirt stopped the Phantom directly behind Jon O'Meara's airplane.

  Toby Kendall scrambled up the side of the fuselage to Brad's cockpit. "Cap'n, we got the word that Lieutenant O'Meara got him a MiG."

  Brad smiled weakly. "He sure did, Toby."

  The plane captain helped Brad and Russ with their flight gear, then stepped down to the hangar deck. He noticed that one Sparrow had been fired, but Austin and Lunsford were certainly not exuberant. Kendall busied himself postflighting the Phantom while the two officers walked to O'Meara's airplane. Russ Lunsford still favored his right ankle.

  Mario Russo and Jon O'Meara, along with three maintenance men, stood on the right wing. They were inspecting the four holes along the engine air duct. There was also a hole in the leading edge of the wing, and two ragged openings in the right stabilator.

  "Congratulations," Brad said when they reached the back of the wing. The pilot and his RIO were elated about their first MiG kill.

  "Thanks," O'Meara replied, dropping to one knee next to Brad and Russ. "Looks like we took a couple of rounds through the engine."

  Brad placed his helmet on the top of the wing. "I really apologize for setting us up for target practice."

  "I would have done the same thing," O'Meara said as Mario Russo kneeled beside him. "Nine out of ten times those little goat holers cut and run. Shit, I was shocked when that son of a bitch cranked into us."

  "Yeah," Russo said, shaking
his head. "Those guys were not your average MiG drivers."

  Brad leaned against the flap. "You're right. The leader was Major Dao."

  O'Meara's eyes registered his surprise. "No shit?"

  "None other," Lunsford responded as he shoved up his sleeves. "We about got our asses waxed."

  "Well," O'Meara said to Brad with a grin, "you damn sure scared the shit out of him. I honestly thought you were going to hit him."

  "I'll bet," Russo laughed, "that the little bastard fodded his wears."

  Brad managed a small grin, then noticed a group of squadron officers and men coming to congratulate the MiG killers.

  ***

  Relaxing on his bunk, Brad read the latest letter he had received from Leigh Ann. He hadn't heard from her since he had extended the invitation to join him in San Francisco. Brad worried that Leigh Ann's parents might be unhappy at the idea of his inviting their daughter to meet him in a faraway city.

  He was reading the second page when Harry Hutton opened the door and entered the cramped cubicle. After shutting the door, he sat down with a troubled expression on his face.

  Brad glanced up at his roommate. "What's the matter?"

  "You've got a new backseater," Harry answered with a crease of a smile.

  Perplexed, Brad frowned and absently folded Leigh Ann's letter. "I've got a new RIO?"

  "That's right, partner."

  "Who?"

  "You're looking at him."

  Breaking into a grin, Brad was uncertain if Hutton was pulling his leg. "Harry, if you're jake legging me around, I don't think it's--"

  "I'm not kidding you," Harry said in a convincing voice. "The skipper is going to talk to you later. I told him that you were asleep, which you were."

  Sitting up, Brad mulled over a number of questions. Had Russ Lunsford thrown in the towel? Why the change? "What the hell is going on?"

  "Well," Harry said with a concerned look on his face, "the old man and Jocko apparently believe that Russ is about to go off the deep end."

  "What gives them that idea?" Brad asked, confused by the unexpected change. "Is it because of me?"

  Harry looked pained. "I don't know the full story. I wasn't privy to their conversation."