Rules of Engagement (1991) (17 page)

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 office
r c
ommand of the squadron in less than three months, had finall
y s
tood and thanked the bewildered clergyman in mid-sentence.

The CO had immediately launched into a poignant eulog
y t
hat had left few dry eyes on the fo'c'sle. Losing Frank Rockwood
,
the skipper had choked, had been like losing a brother. Baile
y h
ad 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 mortality.

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, the
n t
ried to concentrate on the captain's daily announcement. Starin
g b
lankly 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 your 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 eigh
t f
eet 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."

Palmer touched down in a puff of white smoke, followed seven seconds later by his wingman. The Phantoms cleared the runway, called ground control, and taxied to the ramp near the carrier pier.

Opening their canopies, the four men were hit by the sweltering heat and humidity. They wiped their faces as the two F-4s came to a halt and chocks were placed around the main wheels.

After shutting down the engines, both crews hurried to secure their aircraft while Brad cadged a ride in the FOLLOW ME cart to Base Operations. He wanted to see if any flights were scheduled to Hawaii.

Nineteen more air-wing aircraft landed, causing the noise level on the parking apron to become unbearable.

Hauling four garment bags, Palmer, Hutton, and Lunsford started walking in the direction of Base Operations. A minute later, the trio was surprised to see Brad returning so soon. The little cart had not even come to a stop when Austin jumped out and thanked the sailor.

"They've got a flight, but we've got to move fast." "What's the deal?" Hutton asked, handing Austin his canvas clothes bag.

"They've got a C-130 departing for Guam in ten to fifteen minutes," Brad answered, slinging the hang-up bag over his shoulder. He motioned down the ramp to three of the big Hercules transports. Sailors were busy placing containers on board the nearest airplane. "They're loading now."

"Guam?" Palmer inquired, slipping on his nonregulation Ray-Ban sunglasses.

"Yeah," Brad responded as he started toward the operations building. "They don't have anything on the board for Hawaii, but he said there are dozens of flights out of Guam for Hawaii. They operate around the clock."

"What about our leave papers?" Lunsford broke in. "We have to get them signed, and let them know where we're going to be staying."