Rules of Engagement (1991) (12 page)

"Goddamnit," Lunsford swore over the intercom. "Why me? Why does all this happen to me?"

Brad spoke slowly. "Hey, why don't you go see Scary Mc-Cary and get some tranquilizers or something? You're driving me crazy."

Lunsford bolted straight up in his seat. "I'm driving you crazy? You gotta be kiddin' me--I'm driving you crazy. I'm flying with a lunatic jarhead who goes through trees and shoots air-to-air missiles at boats." Feeling the onset of hypoxia, Lunsford sucked in a breath of air. "I'm driving you crazy . . . Jesus."

Brad chuckled to himself, then remained quiet a couple of minutes, hoping Lunsford would calm down. The RIO was stil
l m
uttering to himself when they flew into the edge of the ominous-looking storm.

"Here we go," Brad announced as the Phantom was swallowed by the angry black clouds. He increased the cockpit lighting to maximum, then peered up at the hole in his canopy. The lashing rain flowed over the opening as if it did not exist.

The F-4 bounced and rocked as Brad fought to keep the fighter level. Lightning flashed, temporarily blinding him, a second before the aircraft was pounded by baseball-sized hail. Brad fixated on the engine instruments, fearful that the intense combination of hail and torrential rain might cause the engines to flam
e o
ut *"Holy shit!" Lunsford shouted as the Phantom shot upward in a powerful updraft, then slammed downward. "I'm beginning to feel light-headed."

Although their oxygen had been depleted, Brad had remained at 22,000 feet to conserve fuel. "Hang on," he said, glancing at his fuel-quantity indicator. "We'll be starting down in a few minutes." Austin also felt light-headed from the lack of oxygen at their altitude.

Gritting his teeth, Brad worked the stick and rudders to keep the aircraft level. Lightning flashed almost constantly as the Phantom sliced through the heavy rain and pounding hail.

Suddenly, the pitch-black darkness began showing signs of light. The severe turbulence slowly began to dissipate, and the hail ceased to bounce off the fighter. Seconds later, they flew out of the dark storm cell. The crew had an ephemeral moment of calm before they plunged headlong into another intense storm.

Looking on his kneeboard, Brad found the radio frequency for Da Nang approach control. He also noted that their fuel was dangerously low. Brad tuned the radio and rechecked his fuel gauge. It read 1,100 pounds.

"Da Nang approach, Joker Two Oh Three."

"Two Zero Three, Da Nang approach."

Brad winced when a bolt of lightning appeared to hit the starboard wing tip. "We're a navy Fox-4 with damage and emergency fuel."

"Roger, squawk three two five two and say angels."

Brad set the transponder code in his IFF and keyed his radio. "Thirty-two fifty-two, two two thousand."

"Joker Two Zero Three," the controller responded dryly, "I have you in radar contact. Be advised that we have severe thunderstorm activity in all quadrants."

Feeling his blood chill, Brad glanced at his fuel gauge and steeled himself for the instrument approach. Lunsford, who was swearing a blue streak in the backseat, was preparing for a controlled ejection.

The approach radar monitor waited for the gravity of the situation to sink in, then keyed his mike again. "Two Zero Three, continue present heading."

"Copy approach," Brad replied, checking his TACAN readout. The distance-measuring equipment broke lock twice, then registered forty-two nautical miles to Da Nang. Austin had purposely remained high in order to make an idle descent to the runway.

Swallowing to moisten his dry throat, Brad wrestled the flight controls to keep the bouncing fighter under control. The jarring turbulence increased as they neared the coastline, turning minutes into hours.

"Joker Two Zero Three, descend to seven thousand and turn left one six zero degrees."

Brad complied with the instructions, then switched to the., ground-control approach radar operator when the Phantom descended through 14,000 feet. The unflappable GCA controller wa
s a
savvy veteran who had helped many pilots in the same predicament.

"Two Zero Three," the reassuring voice said, "keep it clean. I'll call one mile so you can dirty up."

Brad would leave his flaps and landing gear up to keep the Phantom aerodynamically clean.

"Descend to three thousand," the calming voice instructed. "Increase your rate of descent."

Looking at his altimeter and distance to Da Nang, Brad judged that adding another 500 feet per minute to his descent rate woul
d p
lace him at 3,000 feet two miles from the end of the runway. He increased pressure on the stick, checking the increase in descent rate on his vertical velocity indicator.

Taking a look at the fuel indicator, Brad felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. The gauge showed 300 pounds of fuel remaining. Oh, God, please let us make it to the runway.

The rain increased as the Phantom jolted through another powerful storm cell. Passing 5,000 feet, Brad began slowing the steep descent. He was flying faster than he normally would at this point in an instrument letdown, but speed was his only chance to reach the runway.

"You're three miles from touchdown," the radar controller said in a conversational manner. "You're right in the ballpark."

Brad shallowed the rate of descent even further, bleeding off airspeed. He heard the GCA operator call two miles as the F-4 settled onto the glide slope.

"You're up and on glide path," the controller radioed, then added, "come left five degrees . . . a mile and a half."

Cracking open the speed brakes, Brad glanced at the fuel quantity indicator. It read zero. His palms were sweaty as he fully extended the speed brakes.

"One mile," the calm voice said, "dirty up."

Without acknowledging, Brad partially extended his flaps, waited until the airspeed decelerated to 220 knots, then dropped the landing gear and lowered full flaps at 170 knots. The Phantom leveled off for a moment.

"Going slightly above glide path," the controller said as Austin saw the runway lights through the pouring rain.

Transitioning to the landing attitude, Brad keyed his mike. "Runway in sight."

"Roger, take over visually," the controller replied with a hin
t o
f pride in his voice, "and have a good afternoon, gentlemen."

"Thanks," Brad responded as he felt the rain coming throug
h t
he hole in the canopy. He added power to stabilize his spee
d a
t 135 knots, crossed the end of the runway, then pulled th
e t
hrottles to idle as the main gears touched the rain-soaked ground.

The tires, inflated to 225 pounds per square inch, hydroplaned a moment before slicing through the pools of water on the runway. The Phantom rapidly decelerated, sending showers of water spraying in every direction.

"Thank you, God," Lunsford exclaimed. "Austin can take over now."

Brad rolled out, switched to ground control as he turned off the runway, then added a nudge of power to taxi. The left engine surged, then flamed out, followed twelve seconds later by the right engine.

Ignoring the steady rain pouring on him, Brad keyed his radio. "Da Nang ground, Navy Two Oh Three has flamed out on the taxiway."

Lunsford, slack-jawed with a wide-eyed expression, sagged in his straps. "Un-goddamn-believable."

Chapter
11.

The muddy jeep came to a stop in front of the Da Nang Officers' Club. Brad and Russ got out, thanked the staff sergeant for the lift from Operations, then studied the air base and surrounding area.

Da Nang, the second-largest airfield in Vietnam, had been located near the ocean. The unspoiled white beaches were right out of a travel brochure.

Soaked by the suffocating heat and humidity, Brad looked to the northeast. The rain had abated, affording him a spectacular view of "Monkey Mountain" protruding from the sea. He paused a moment, following two fighters banking over China Beach.

The air base was teeming with aircraft from all the services. Marine F-4s and A-4 Skyhawks, flying close air support and strike missions, were constantly taking off or landing. Scores of helicopters clattered over on their way to the "Marble Mountain" airfield.

Concertina wire was strung on both sides of the chain-lin
k p
erimeter fence that surrounded the busy air base. People in every conceivable style of dress and uniform scurried about the base in a strange disorderliness.

Turning to Lunsford, Brad pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and noted the name. Master Sergeant Horace Grevers. "Let's go to the package store first. Grevers is a scotch drinker who is going to be mighty surprised before he leaves the GCA shack."

Brad had phoned the radar controller who had talked him down. The sergeant was still on duty, but a coworker had told Brad that the veteran controller liked scotch. The grateful pilot was going to send a case of premium spirits to his new friend.

The two men walked into the small package store, paid for a case of Dewar's, made arrangements to have the scotch delivered to the radar site, then headed for the officers' club and a cold beer.

Austin had had their Phantom towed to the sprawling ramp where the divert aircraft were parked. The F-4 had been refueled, and a tarp had been secured over the front canopy. Both men had left their flight gear in the cockpits.

Brad had sent a message to the carrier from Operations, detailing the extent of the damage to Joker 203. The return message directed him to fly back to the carrier the following morning. They had an overhead time of 0745.

Walking into the air-conditioned club, Brad and Russ saw the sign that read "Leave Guns Here." The rungs were full of handguns, along with one M-16 rifle. Austin and Lunsford had left their .38-caliber revolvers in the Phantom with their other gear.

The two men sat down at the bar and ordered beers. Lunsford insisted that the beers be ice-cold. A comely young Vietnamese waitress opened the bottles and smiled when she set them down.

"Thanks," Brad said, drinking half the contents in one gulp. He took another sip, then spread his elbows on the smooth bar. Looking around the club, he waited a few seconds before turning to his RIO. "What's eating you? The war, or my flying?"

Tipping his bottle up, Lunsford took a long swig and set th
e b
ottle back on the bar. He turned to face Brad. "A little of both, I guess. Actually, it isn't you. I wanted to be a pilot, but I washed out in the last phase of training . . . at Kingsville."

Taken aback, Brad turned to his friend. "Jesus, Russ, I had no idea. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Lunsford replied, picking up his beer. "At any rate, I thought that being an RIO would be the next best thing."

Brad sat quietly while Russ took another drink, then continued. "Sitting in the backseat, after having flown jets, is more difficult than I had thought it would be. It drives me crazy, not having any control. Especially when I get the shit scared out of me."

Nodding in agreement, Brad took a drink.

"It's like riding in the backseat of a race car," Lunsford continued. "You're going like a bat out of hell, but you don't have any control over the outcome . . . if the wheels come off."

Lunsford set his empty bottle on the bar. "Anyway, I guess it's cumulative in my case. It has really been getting to me."

Brad swiveled and leaned against the bar. "Russ, it scares the hell out of me, too. Now that I think about it, I see your point. I'm so busy physically controlling the airplane, I don't have time to think about all the things that might go wrong, or to worry about what the guy in the front seat is going to do."

They both ordered another beer and leaned on the bar. Brad understood Lunsford's feelings. "Russ, do you want to fly with someone else?"

The pause hung in the air. "No," Lunsford answered, turning his head to face Brad. "You're goddamn good--one of the best I've ever seen. I have a lot of confidence in you, you asshole, but I just go into hyper mode when the shit hits the fan, or you pull one of your stunts."

They looked at each other and both laughed, breaking the tension between them.

"Shit," Lunsford said, "you sank a goddamned patrol boat with an air-to-air missile, flew my ass through one of the wors
t s
torms I have ever seen, then landed in a downpour and flamed out. No, I don't want to fly with anyone else. With your kind of luck, you don't need to be good."

Brad laughed. "What d'ya mean?"

"God must have an entire committee assigned to keep your dumb ass out of trouble."

"Well," Brad said, grinning, "they aren't doing a very good job. Look who I have for a backseater."

Brad Austin awakened, startled from his nightmare. He looked at his watch, trying to focus his bloodshot eyes. It read 0540. He slumped back in the metal bunk bed, thinking about the frightening dream.

His Phantom had been spinning out of control, inverted, spewing flaming fuel over downtown Hanoi, and the ejection seat would not fire. He had been yanking at the face curtain when he woke. Brad ran his tongue around his stale mouth, tasting the onions in the fried rice that he had eaten at midnight.