Rules of Engagement (1991) (6 page)

Undaunted, Hutton swallowed the last sip in his glass. "So, I made one mistake this year."

"Oh, yeah," Palmer replied, shaking his head. "We would have had the entire goddamn air force after our asses."

Brad appreciated Palmer's effort to form a closer friendship with him. He seemed to be very genuine. "Nick, why don't you lead out and I'll lead back, until I have more experience?"

"Naw, you go for it. You're a hell of a lot better than you give yourself credit for."

Feeling a tinge of embarrassment, Brad got up and rinsed his glass. "Nick, I'd like to try your negative-g maneuver on our way back tomorrow. I've always been taught that speed--lots of it--is the key to winning, and living to fight again."

"That's basically true," Palmer replied, feeling a closeness to the less experienced Phantom pilot. "But intimidation and unpredictability are the keys to survival. You've got to know your aircraft, and push it to the limits of its capability, and your capability."

Brad sat down, not taking his eyes off the seasoned fighter pilot.

"A lot of people," Palmer continued, "are afraid of the Fox-4. They're afraid to take it to the edge, or over the edge. To get the most out of the Phantom, you need to keep your speed above four hundred thirty knots, and fight below thirty thousand feet.

"If you can get a MiG to jump you at an altitude below fourteen thousand feet, you're in the prime F-4 envelope. The Phantom, as I'm sure you've discovered, turns like a lead sled at higher altitudes."

Austin acknowledged with a smile and a nod.

"What about the MiGs?" Brad asked, intrigued by Palmer's knowledge. "What are their weaknesses and strong points?" Hutton was also interested in the discussion.

"The seventeen is flight-control limited, or so we've heard.

If the gomer pushes it past four hundred thirty knots, he's on the verge of losing control. That's about all I know, except it turns on a dime."

Unusually candid, Palmer appeared to be pleased that Austin was interested in his experience. "I don't know that much about the MiG-19, but the twenty-one is a thirteen-hundred-mile-perhour rocket. The twenty-one pilots basically use slash-and-run tactics."

Palmer thought for a moment. "We'll work at tactics on each flight. The primary thing to remember is that if you place second in this league, you're dead. Nail 'em quick, and get the hell out of Dodge."

"Thanks," Brad offered, having absorbed every detail provided by Palmer's insight. "I'm looking forward to flying with you tomorrow."

"Yeah," Harry grinned, "he's a real treat."

"Hey, Brad," Palmer said, crunching on an ice cube and ignoring Hutton, "our contingent of marines is target practicing on the fantail. I think they're using M-16s. Suppose you could use your influence to get us a little firing time?"

Laughing out loud, Harry could not resist. "Shit, Palmer, you couldn't hit water if you fell out of a boat."

Brad smiled, feeling a bond developing between the two pilots. "Sure. They've got a machine gun too. We can really put on a show with that little hummer."

"Think they would allow us to tow Harry as a target?" "How in the hell," Brad laughed, "did they ever team you two together?"

Harry blew Palmer a kiss. "Just lucky, I guess."

Chapter
5.

Brad and Russ Lunsford walked out of the ready room, down the long passageway, and out onto the catwalk, then mounted the steps to the flight deck. The low, dirty gray clouds threatened rain. Not a good day for flying.

Stepping onto the gritty deck, Brad was mindful of the hazards that surrounded them. Planes and tractor tugs were in constant motion. Men in various colored shirts moved swiftly around the crowded flight deck, dodging jet exhaust, wings, wheels, jet intakes, and tugs. The deck crews stepped nimbly over and around airplane chocks, taut arresting-gear cables, tie-down chains, bombs and rockets, and thick hoses pumping thousands of gallons of the volatile jet fuel into the menacing-looking planes.

Brad remembered the day a sailor, caught in the inferno of a Phantom's jet blast, had been hurled over the side of the flight deck. The aircraft handler had fallen sixty-five feet to the sea. The plane-guard helicopter, flying along the starboard side of the carrier, had managed to rescue the severely injured youth.

Kneeboards and helmet bags in hand, Russ and Brad leaned into the blustery wind and walked forward to their Phantom, Joker 208. The F-4 sat ready, canopies open, fueled, and armed with two Sparrows and four Sidewinder air-to-air missiles.

Scanning their fighter-bomber, Brad smiled to himself. The Phantom was the meanest-looking airplane he had ever seen. It reminded him of a giant prehistoric bird, one with wing tips angled up and tail fins angled down. The tough-looking monster, packed with two huge General Electric J-79 engines, was a world-class record holder. The F-4 had already set a speed record of more than 1,600 miles per hour. The Phantom could also sustain a combat altitude of 66,000 feet, and zoom climb to 100,000 feet. The amazing airplane could carry a weapons load twice that of a World War Two B-17 bomber.

Brad performed a thorough preflight walk-around while Lunsford climbed into the backseat. The pilot checked the external fuel tank for security, then pushed against the missiles to ensure that they were tightly attached. Brad peered into the engine intakes, checking for anything that might be sucked into the powerful yet delicate engines. He looked carefully for any signs of fuel or hydraulic leaks, and checked for any loose or open panels.

The plane captain was responsible for making sure that the fighter was ready to fly, but Brad had the overall responsibility for the expensive aircraft. He noted that the right main-gear tire was almost smooth and had deep scuff marks on the side. He calculated that the tire was good for one or two more landings before it would blow out. What the hell, Brad thought, the maintenance officer has bigger problems.

Watching Nick Palmer check the security of his Sidewinder missiles, Brad climbed the fuselage steps to his cockpit. He closely inspected his ejection seat, looked down the row of aircraft being manned by other crews, then stepped into the cockpit and settled in his seat. The distinct odor of fuel, oil, and hydraulic fluid swept over him. This would be his environment for the next two hours.

The plane captain, a conscientious Wyoming. teenager who aspired to be a rancher like his father, helped Brad and Russ buckle their parachute attachments and strap themselves to the hard-bottomed ejection seats.

Austin scrutinized the cockpit, carefully checking his instruments and the position of every switch, knob, gauge, lever, button, dial, and circuit breaker. One item out of place could spell disaster for the crew.

Brad firmly grasped the rudder-pedal adjustment lever and tried to turn the crank. He placed both hands on it, but it would not budge. Phantom 208 had a history of rudder-pedal adjustment problems.

Leaning close to the plane captain, Brad yelled over the whipping wind and flight-deck noise. "Toby, I need the knockometer."

"Yes, sir," the blond-haired youth replied, then quickly scurried down the side of the fighter. He ran to the catwalk tool bin, grabbed a hammer, and raced back to the Phantom. He climbed the fuselage steps and handed the tool to his pilot.

"Thanks," Brad said, whacking the crank. The lever rotated ninety degrees, freeing the jammed drive gear. He handed the hammer back to the youngster. "The miracles of modern technology."

"Lieutenant," Toby Kendall shouted, bracing himself against the fierce wind, "be careful . . . and I hope you get one of them MiGs."

The plane captain could only visualize what it was like to be catapulted from an aircraft carrier, fly a sophisticated, high-performance jet fighter into aerial combat, then find the ship and land the complex aircraft on the small, moving deck. The men who helped the flight crews in and out of their cockpits had a deep respect and strong attachment to their pilots and RIOs.

"Thanks, Toby," Brad replied as he placed his helmet on and tightened the chin strap. Their plane captain climbed down the side of the fuselage as the signal to start engines blared across the flight deck.

Brad and Russ lowered their canopies to seal themselves fro
m t
he jet exhaust fumes of the F-4s in front of them. Four of the Joker Phantoms would provide target combat air patrol while Austin and Palmer would provide barrier combat air patrol for the carrier. A standby F-4 was also manned in the event that one of the strike aircraft malfunctioned prior to being launched.

"You ready?" Austin asked as he initiated the engine start procedure.

Lunsford snapped the loose side of his oxygen mask to his helmet. "All set. If we get lucky, they'll scrub the strike for weather."

Brad ignored the comment. He knew that his RIO, who prayed for mission cancelations, would do a good job when the chips were down.

After he had both engines running, Brad adjusted the three rearview mirrors mounted on the canopy bow over his head. They would allow the pilot to watch where he was going while darting quick glances behind him. Brad's most vulnerable position was directly aft of his fighter--the infamous six o'clock position.

Brad added a small amount of power and taxied out of his tie-down spot. Clear of Nick Palmer's Phantom, Brad lowered and locked his F-4's wing tips and followed the taxi director forward to the starboard-bow catapult. Austin brought the Phantom to a smooth stop behind the catapult blast deflector. He watched the A-4 Skyhawk in front of him go to full power, waggle his controls back and forth, then hurtle down the deck and climb toward the sullen clouds.

Brad rechecked his instruments and armament panel as the blast deflector was lowered. Following the taxi director, Austin moved forward until his nose gear went up and over the catapult shuttle. He immediately stopped while the green-shirted cat crews hooked the bridle harness and holdback bar to his heavily laden fighter.

A deck crewman held up a plastic-covered board indicating the fighter's total takeoff weight. The steam pressure of the catapult launch would be predicated on the gross weight of the Phantom. Brad looked at the board, which indicated 49,000

pounds. He gave the weight checker a thumbs-up and swept the control stick backward, forward, left, and right to see if the flight controls were working properly. The catapult officer checked under the Phantom and gave Brad the two-finger turn-up signal.

Shoving the throttles forward, Brad focused on the engine instruments, then selected afterburner and glanced at the end of the flight deck. "Harness locked?"

"All set," Lunsford replied in a slightly strained voice. "Don't screw up."

Brad placed his left hand on the catapult grip that prevented the throttles from being retarded during the violent launch. He again scanned the engine parameters, feeling the Phantom shudder under full power.

Placing his helmet against the headrest, Brad snapped a salute to the yellow-shirted catapult officer and waited for the powerful kick in the back. The cat stroke would render the pilot immobile during the launch. Four seconds elapsed before the Phantom blasted down the deck, settled precariously close to the water, then entered a climbing right turn.

Snapping the gear up, Brad could hear Lunsford breathing in short gasps through the open intercom system. "You gonna make it, sailor?"

Lunsford slowed his breathing rate. "Yeah. Palmer is off .. . good shot."

The Phantoms rendezvoused and joined on the tanker. Brad plugged the basket on his second attempt, filled his tanks to capacity, then backed out and drifted to the left so Palmer could top off his fuel load.

Tuned to the tanker frequency, Brad was surprised to hear the carrier call him on the 243.0 UHF Guard channel. "Joker Two Zero Eight, Checkerboard Strike on guard. Come up button seven."

This is unusual, Austin thought, sensing trouble. Or, he reasoned, the mission might have been canceled due to the rotten weather.

Brad dialed in the strike frequency. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Eight is up."

"Joker, Checkerboard. We've got a delay on the strike . . . stand by one."

Brad clicked his mike twice, watching Nick Palmer slide out of the basket. The Whale reeled in the refueling hose and banked into a shallow left turn.

Palmer, who had also heard the call from Checkerboard, came up on button seven. "Joker Two."

"Copy," Brad responded seconds before the carrier talker called.

"Joker Two Zero Eight, Strike."

Brad keyed his mike. "Joker, copy."

"Joker," the controller radioed without emotion, "we're holding for a weather check. Your flight is directed to make a reconnaissance sweep over the target area."

"Horseshit," Lunsford said over the intercom.

Looking at the folded map section on his kneeboard, Brad glanced toward the coast. The dark, rain-swollen clouds looked ominous. "Wilco, Checkerboard. We 'llrelay through Red Crown."

"Roger that."

The primary target was the Vu Chua highway and railroad bridge north of Hanoi. The combination support structure was a vital link in the North Vietnamese supply chain. The flight crews were aware that the target had been given a high priority.