Rules of Engagement (1991) (2 page)

Brad raised the nose of his Phantom and tracked the lead MiG chasing the Skyhawks. "Come on, lock on. Where's the tone? Gotta have a tone."

Lunsford, turning his head from side to side as he watched for other MiGs, saw the second pair of SAMs fly out of sight toward the Gulf of Tonkin. "Clear of SAMs!"

Recognizing that his closure rate to the first MiG was excessive, Brad pulled his throttles to idle. He heard the missile annunciator tone at the same instant.

"Got it!" Austin exclaimed over the intercom as he fired two Sidewinders. "Go . . . nail his ass."

The first missile shot out in front of the Phantom, completed a barrel-roll maneuver, and flew out of sight toward the horizon. Shoving his throttles into afterburner, Austin swore as the second Sidewinder left the rail. The heat-seeking missile guided straight for the MiG leader, exploding ten feet behind his tail pipe.

The black-orange explosion blew debris from the aft fuselage of the MiG-17, but the aircraft continued to fly as the pilot dove for the deck.

"Got him!" Brad shouted over the radio. He experienced a sudden surge of adrenaline. "Jokers go vertical!"

Bailey squeezed off a Sidewinder, selected afterburner, then pulled hard to bring the F-4's nose straight up. He saw the AIM-9 missile go ballistic, missing the third MiG by a wide margin.

Brad viciously rolled his Phantom, looking for their adversaries. He saw the telltale mist of leaking fuel from the MiG flight leader.

Russ Lunsford also spotted the lead MiG. "Brad, you got him! He's trailing smoke or fluid, but he's still flying that bucket."

Austin quickly glanced at the damaged Communist fighter. The MiG was nose low, accelerating to maximum speed.

"Yeah," Brad replied disgustedly, "running to Phuc Yen, their goddamn sanctuary."

"Joker lead," Dan Bailey calmly radioed, "you got a good hit. They've disengaged--all down in the weeds goin' for broke."

"I have 'em," Brad replied as his F-4 accelerated through 470 knots. He scanned the sky toward the coastline. "Let's get the others . . . the two on the Spads."

"Joker Two."

Listening over the open (hot mike) intercom system, Lunsford could hear his pilot breathing rapidly.

Brad swiveled his head, checking for SAMs and MiGs, then searched for the A-ls and their predators. He saw the MiGs fire missiles at the Skyraiders seconds before the A-4 Skyhawks cleared the beach.

"Seahorse is feet wet. We're winchester." The Skyhawk flight leader had radioed Red Crown, the radar surveillance ship, that his four-plane division was over water and out of ordnance.

Brad, watching the A-1 s jinking all over the sky, saw black smoke belch from the trailing Skyraider. The staggering Spad had narrowly escaped an air-to-air missile before flying through a concentrated burst of 23mm cannon fire from the first MiG.

Nine heavy projectiles had ripped through the Spad's engine cowling, shredding fuel and oil lines.

"Buckshot Four is hit!" the attack pilot radioed. "I'm hitgoin' down! I can't make the beach!"

Brad pulled hard to track the high MiG, released pressure on the stick to unload the g forces, heard the annunciator growl, then fired his third Sidewinder.

"Shit!" Austin swore as the missile left the rail and tumbled underneath the airplane. He instantly punched off his fourth heat seeker.

"Lifeguard One, Lifeguard One, Joker Lead," Brad radioed as the missile made a tentative wiggle, then guided directly to the MiG and exploded off the fighter's right wing. "We need RESCAP--repeat, we need RESCAP! Buckshot Four is down!"

Surprised that his target was still flying, Austin watched both MiGs turn hard into the F-4s. He executed a high yo-yo and flinched when Dan Bailey, in afterburner, flashed by a scant forty feet away.

"Wilco, Joker," the rescue combat air patrol leader replied. "Lifeguard up. We're buster with a Sea King in trail--have you in sight."

"Go with a Sparrow!" Brad said to Lunsford as he whipped the Phantom over and pulled 7 g's. The snug-fitting anti-g suit felt as though it was going to crush his legs and squeeze his abdomen in half. He had to work fast to set up a shot on the second MiG.

"We've got . . . ," the RIO began, then hesitated when his throat tightened with fear. "I've got to have some separation to get a lock."

Brad yanked the Phantom into a vertical roll, floating inverted over the top of the climb. "Okay, these gomers aren't amateurs."

Austin saw Bailey, nose up and inverted, a split second before the CO fired a Sidewinder. The missile tracked straight to the MiG's tail pipe, exploding in a pulsing, red-orange fireball that blew the aircraft apart in a shower of pieces.

Bailey snapped the big fighter into a gut-wrenching displacement roll. His RIO, Lt. Cdr. Ernie Sheridan, witnessed the front half of the MiG-17 tumble out of the blast. He was amazed to see the nose landing gear extended. The canopy had separated, bu
t t
he pilot remained in the cockpit. Sheridan watched, fascinated, as the MiG spun counterclockwise to the ground.

Brad saw the second MiG dive toward the airfield at Phuc Yen. He knew it would be impossible to hit the fleeing fighter with a Sparrow. The radar-guided missile would not be able to lock onto the low-flying MiG.

"The other MiG," Lunsford radioed, feeling relief sweeping over him, "is disengaging. He's in the grass going at the speed of heat!"

"Roger that," Bailey replied, studying the sky and ground. He caught a glimpse of the retreating MiG, lowered the Phantom's nose, then saw the stricken A-1 Skyraider gliding to a forced landing.

"Jokers, let's join up," Brad radioed, sensing the visceral effects of the adrenaline rush. "We'll orbit the Spad until Lifeguard arrives."

"Two," Bailey radioed as he extended his speed brakes to slow his closure rate on the lead aircraft.

Austin and Bailey, stealing glances at the crippled Skyraider, continued to search the hazy sky for MiGs. The A-1 pilot had slid his canopy open in preparation for the engine-out landing.

Brad looked back at the Spad. He was startled by the flames flowing down the left side of the aircraft.

"Buckshot Four," Austin radioed frantically. "You're on fire! You've got fire coming down the fuselage--your port side!"

"Copy!" the pilot replied in a tight voice. His propeller was slowly rotating as the engine spewed flames along the blackened fuselage. The aviator cocked the Skyraider into a steep side slip to keep the fire away from the fuselage.

The other three Spad pilots, who had not seen the fire in their search for MiGs, formed a wheel around their squadron mate as he flared to land the burning plane.

The pilot, who had elected to land gear up, floated over the uneven field, then crash-landed in a shower of earth and metal. The A-1 bounced into the air twice, then settled into a long slide.

Austin, flying 1,500 feet above the ground, banked into a gentle left turn and watched the Skyraider plow to a grinding halt.

The pilot, fighting to extricate himself from the smoke-filled cockpit, dove over the right side of the aircraft as flames licked the canopy. He crawled a few feet, then stumbled to his feet and ran sixty yards before kneeling to rest. He looked around, frantic to find some form of concealment. The singed pilot was more than a mile and a half from the Gulf of Tonkin.

Brad, closely monitoring the sky in all quadrants, continued in a circle while the RESCAP flight leader contacted Buckshot 1.

"Ah ... Buckshot Lead, Lifeguard with a full load. I've got a tally. We'll be overhead in two minutes."

"Copy, Lifeguard," the relieved flight leader responded as he watched his downed pilot. "He looks okay . . . moving across this field toward the eastern tree line."

The escaping pilot energized his survival radio and called his flight leader. "Jim, this is Clint. Do you copy?"

The Spad leader keyed his mike. "Roger that, loud and clear. Are you okay?"

The downed pilot stopped and looked up at the A-1 s. "I'm okay. Just a few minor burns. Should I head for the beach, or stay put and wait for the helo?"

The radio remained quiet for a few seconds.

"Clint, head for that tree line east of you and take cover. We'll get the helo in as soon as we can."

"Okay," the pilot replied, running toward the thick vegetation. He heard his Skyraider explode as he reached the row of trees.

Brad checked his internal fuel-quantity indicator, knowing that they had to depart for a tanker soon. The gauge showed 2,600 pounds remaining.

"Joker Two, say fuel."

"Two point three," Bailey replied, deliberately placing Austin in a position to make a decision. The young marine aviator could continue to provide cover for the Spads, at the risk of losing two Phantoms, or depart for the safety of a tanker.

Suddenly, antiaircraft weapons opened fire from the edge of a small village. The 37mm guns were reinforced by a company of North Vietnamese regulars hiding across the road from the dwellings.

Brad could see dozens of AK-47s winking at him from under the trees. The gunfire was intense and concentrated directly in front of the screaming Phantoms.

"We're taking fire!" Sheridan radioed as the bright red tracer rounds flashed over their F-4.

"Joker Two, let's go upstairs," Austin radioed as he shoved his throttles forward and raised the F-4's nose fifteen degrees.

"Two," Bailey replied, then immediately added, "Uh, oh, I'm hit!"

Brad turned his head to see his CO. "Okay, Jokers, we're getting out of here!"

"Brad," Bailey radioed in a terse voice, "look me over." "Wilco."

The Phantoms were streaking over the white-sand beach as Austin drifted under Bailey's damaged airplane. He could see four holes stitched from aft of the auxiliary air doors forward to the wing roots. Brad stared at the fuel pouring out of the second and third holes. The heavy spray was streaming directly under the jet exhaust.

"Brad," Lunsford said quietly over the intercom, "the skipper is in deep shit."

"Yeah . . . we may be too," the pilot replied, keying his radio transmitter. "Joker Two, you have a fuel leak. Say fuel state."

Bailey scanned his fuel-quantity indicator as Brad eased out to the right of the stricken Phantom.

"Good Lord," the CO radioed, not believing his eyes. "Two point one, and it's going down fast. Let's get to a Whale, ASAP."

"Roger," Brad responded, leveling off to accelerate at their present power setting. "Skipper, whatever you do, don't go into burner."

"Wilco," Bailey replied, watching the fuel quantity drop below 2,100 pounds.

Ernie Sheridan remained quiet, repeating the silent prayer that had always been a source of strength for him. The devout petition, the RIO fervently believed, had guided him through many tight situations.

Brad keyed his mike again. "Switch Red Crown." "Two switching."

Austin changed his radar transponder, known as an IFF (identification friend or foe), to emergency, switched radio frequencies, and pressed the transmit button. "Red Crown, Joker Two Oh Seven, feet wet with an emergency."

There was a short pause, tempting Brad to transmit again, before the ground-control intercept (GCI) radar controller answered the call.

"Copy, Joker Two Zero Seven. Squawk One Four Zero Four and say type of emergency."

Brad inhaled and let his breath out slowly. "My wingman has a severe fuel leak. We need vectors to a tanker. He has eight minutes of fuel remaining."

"Roger that, Two Zero Seven. Stand by."

Brad felt his pulse quicken. The CO did not have time to stand by. He and Ernie Sheridan would be in the water in a matter of minutes if they could not plug into a tanker.

"Joker, we hold you in radar contact. Come starboard to one one zero. The Whale will be at your twelve o'clock, sixty-five miles, angels two four zero. Cleared to switch frequency."

Brad did not acknowledge the radio call in his hurry to contact the KA-3B. "Snowball, Joker Two Oh Seven. My wingman has seven minutes of fuel left. Request you rendezvous with us ASAP."

Austin knew the tanker crews did not like to leave the refueling track and fly north; especially without a fighter escort.

"Copy, Joker Two Oh Seven," the Skywarrior pilot replied as he shoved his throttles forward. "Say angels."

Brad scanned his instruments, noting his fuel and altitude. "We're at your twelve o'clock, sixty miles at eight thousand. We can't afford the fuel to climb."

The radio remained silent a moment.

"We're coming downhill," the KA-3B pilot said in a calm voice as he eased the tanker's nose down. "Be with you in four minutes."

Dan Bailey keyed his radio mike. "Snowball, Joker Two Zero Four. Suggest you bottom out at eight thousand in three minutes and start a one-eighty. We'll come aboard as soon as we have a tally."

"Wilco, Joker."

Brad glanced at his fuel-quantity indicator, then watched the second hand sweep slowly around the eight-day clock. Time seemed to stand still as the two flights raced toward each other. Another minute passed as Austin and Bailey searched the horizon.