Read Rules of Engagement (1991) Online
Authors: Joe Weber
Rules of Engagement (1991) (9 page)
Brad brushed his close-cropped hair with a thin, fraying towel. "He deserves the recognition. He bagged a gomer . . . and got my dumb ass back to the boat."
Grinning mischievously, Hutton shook his head. "That was one hell of a show you put on. Have you been down to see that pile of shit?"
Stepping into the small berthing compartment, Brad set down his dopp kit. "No, and I really don't care to be reminded, okay? I almost killed Russ twice today."
Hutton sensed that his friend, normally easygoing and even-tempered, was not in the mood for jocularity. "Okay. The old man wants to see Nick, Russ, you, and me in his stateroom at nineteen hundred."
"I'll be there," Brad responded, opening his small closet. "What's for chow?"
Hutton sat down and casually propped his feet on the lower-bunk bed. "Chicken fried steak and smashed potatoes."
Brad glanced at Harry. "Smashed potatoes?"
"Wait til you see 'em."
Austin donned a fresh uniform shirt and slipped on a pair of razor-creased khaki trousers. He turned to the small washbasin, picked up his toothbrush, squeezed toothpaste on the bristles, and looked at Hutton's reflection in the mirror. "Something on your mind?"
"As a matter of fact," Harry said uncomfortably, "I do have something I'd like to mention. Two items, actually." "Shoot," Brad replied, brushing vigorously.
Hutton remained quiet a few moments, contemplating how best to phrase his two topics. "First, the Air Boss didn't want to let you come aboard. He wanted you guys to fly upwind and jump out."
Rinsing his mouth, Brad again glanced at Hutton's image in the mirror. "Well, in retrospect, I would have to agree with him."
Hutton stood, walked over next to Brad, and leaned against the bulkhead. "The CO talked him out of it, because of the sea state. He was afraid both of you would drown before the helo could find you."
Hutton walked to the bunk and stretched out with his hands behind his head. "Bailey told the Air Boss that if there was anyone on the boat who could bring a Fox-4 aboard at a hundred fifty knots, it was you, his marine nutcase."
Brad wiped his mouth. "Nutcase?"
"Look, I'm only repeating what the XO and Carella said during Palmer's ready-room grab-ass."
Brad sat down at his small desk and leaned back. "I believe you had another item on your agenda."
Hutton sat up and put his feet on the deck. "We're friends, right?"
Brad nodded.
"Everyone likes you," Hutton continued, "but face it, you are somewhat of an enigma."
Brad Austin remained silent, showing no outward signs of emotion. For Harry, being serious was unusual and difficult.
"You're a marine fighter jock," Harry said carefully, "in a navy squadron . . . and you're damn good. You and Palmer, one on one, would be a hell of a match."
Austin looked at his watch. "Are you trying to butter me up for a date or something? Throw it on the table."
"Well," Harry began, then hesitated. "I, along with some of the other guys, think you are pressing too hard."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I really do. That remark you made a couple of days ago--in the ready room--when Dirty Ernie said something about feeling helpless the time that they had been surrounded by seven MiGs."
"Go on," Brad prompted, leaning forward.
"You said something to the effect that you felt being surrounded was, in reality, just a better opportunity to bag more MiGs. That remark raised a few eyebrows."
Feeling exasperated, Brad rubbed his sore neck muscles. The violent barricade engagement had whipped his head more severely than any trap he had ever made.
"Harry, let me set the record straight. I am not a warmonger, and I don't get any pleasure out of war, or killing people. I despise wars, and I despise the psychopathic tyrants who perpetrate warfare.
"I enjoy flying, and the Marine Corps spent more than a million dollars to train me to be a fighter pilot. I didn't expect to ever use my special skills, nor did I have a desire to shoot people."
Hutton raised his hands. "Enough. I know you better than anyone else, and you--"
"Wait a minute," Austin interrupted, feeling a need to vent his frustrations. "Hear me out. I had my future planned, about ready to go to graduate school, when our illustrious buffoons in the White House decided to jump into this goddamned mess.
"I packed my trash, like I was ordered to do, and marched my ass over here. Now, after all the training and psyching myself emotionally, we have rules of engagement that had to have been developed by morons. Christ, the North Vietnamese have to be rolling on the ground in Hanoi laughing their asses off at our ineptitude."
"Brad, my man," Hutton said, feeling the same disdain for the combat restrictions, "you can't change the course of this administration, so just take care of number one."
For weeks, the topic of conversation in the ready rooms, wardrooms, and staterooms had been the shackles imposed on combat operations. Many senior military commanders had been calling for maximum-effort attacks on the key components of North Vietnam's war-making machine.
"Harry, I can't shut off my mind and just waddle down the path of least resistance. Jesus, we're sitting here, basically throwing dirt clods at tanks.
"We've got the capability," Austin continued, incensed, "to blast the Communist regime into total submission using conventional weapons. We need to destroy their military complexes, electrical power plants, key industrial sites, petroleum storage facilities, transportation systems, bridges, air-defense installations, and--my favorite topic--airfields.
"But no," Brad persisted, "we have the 'McNamara War.' A goddamn piecemeal, half-assed effort that is confined to bombing a rail-repair shop, a power transformer, a couple of unimportant bridges, a small cement plant, and--if we haven't pissed the commies off too much with those devastating attacks--perhaps a truck depot or laundry facility."
"Hey," Harry said in his seldom-used, serious voice. "You need some chow, and I could go for another dessert. Let's go grab a bite, then we'll see the old man."
"All right," Brad replied, trying to suppress his anger at the fact that the aircrews were having to risk their lives on missions of little or no importance.
"Harry, tell me one thing. Am I crazy? Has my logic missed the brilliance of this scheme, or do I not understand the big picture?"
Hutton placed his hand on the doorknob. "Brad, I understand your frustration. I feel it, too, but I've buried my feelings because I don't have any say in what type of missions we will fly."
"I can't bury my anger." The bitter reply was very unusual for the easygoing pilot. "Harry, think about this. We can now attack the MiG base at Kep but not the airfield at Phuc Yen. Right?"
"Right," Hutton replied, still holding the knob.
"So the resident genius in Hanoi moves all the operational MiGs to Phuc Yen, since we notified them that the MiG field was off-limits to our pilots. Absolutely brilliant planning."
Hutton remained quiet, then opened the cabin door. "Come on, shipmate, I'll buy you an after-dinner drink on the promenade deck."
Brad smiled at his close friend. "Seriously, Harry, it's a goddamn crime. We bomb targets into oblivion, then Johnson and McNamara decide that we should stand down for three weeks. During that time, as we all know, the gomers rebuild, resupply, and reload their missile launchers, to blow the shit out of us on the next round."
Seething, Brad tried to remain calm. "Aha, now our brilliant strategists in the White House decide--since Uncle Ho isn't cooperating, as usual--that we'll go back and bomb the same goddamn targets."
Brad clenched his fists. "We're being manipulated, and I don't like it. Harry, when you lose good people for stupid, totall
y p
reventable, unjustifiable reasons, I sometimes wonder if the real threat is in Hanoi or Washington."
The two men stepped into the passageway, shut the cabin door, and walked in silence for a few seconds.
"I'll tell you one thing," Hutton said in mock seriousness, "I know for certain."
Brad opened the hatch to the main fore-and-aft passageway under the port side of the flight deck. "What?"
"If President Johnson," Hutton said evenly, "had to fly in your backseat, the war would be over in a matter of minutes."
Chapter
8.
The evening movie was just beginning in the squadron ready room when Brad Austin and Harry Hutton reported to the CO's quarters. Brad adjusted his uniform and knocked.
"Come in," Dan Bailey invited, writing at his desk. His stateroom, although designed to accommodate only one person, was larger than the two-man rooms assigned to the junior officers.
Nick Palmer and Russ Lunsford were seated in two metal chairs against the bulkhead. They reminded Brad of two kids who had been sent to the principal's office.
Bailey motioned to his bunk. "Have a seat." "Congratulations, Nick," Brad said as he and Hutton sat o
n t
he neatly made bed. "And thanks for getting us to the fantail." "The MiG," Palmer replied earnestly, "should have bee
n y
ours. You had him pegged."
Bailey set down his reports, including the operational loss of Austin's Phantom. He removed his reading glasses and turned to Brad.
"The XO is investigating my accident, so Jocko will handle your incident. He will go over the details with you later this evening."
"Yes, sir," Brad responded, seeing the indelibly imprinted picture of the trees rushing at him. He wondered if the sight of death only a split second away would ever fade from his memory.
At the request of the CO, Austin and Lunsford recounted the facts pertaining to the encounter with the trees and the succeeding barricade landing.
Palmer and Hutton remained quiet, enthralled with the story. They had seen the tape of Brad's crash landing, shown over and over in the ready room, and still had trouble believing what they had seen. When the landing sequence had been detailed by Austin and Lunsford, the CO shut his cabin door.
"First," Bailey said, sitting back in his chair, "I want to again add my congratulations to Nick and Harry. However, and there always seems to be a 'however,' we need to chat about a few things."
Austin and Hutton nodded. Palmer and Lunsford felt a sense of uneasiness but remained quiet.
"I've addressed most of the squadron this afternoon, but I wanted to talk to the four of you in private." Bailey saw concern beginning to appear in Lunsford's eyes.
"Nothing major, gentlemen. Just a chat about philosophy and survival in our arena."
Brad relaxed, anxious to be candid with his skipper.
"I want to discuss," Bailey began, "our basic mission, how to accomplish the objectives as safely as possible, and the growing unrest and resentment over the current rules of engagement." Bailey's eyes, moving easily from face to face, detected an involuntary twitch on Brad's face.
"We are here to do our jobs as efficiently and safely as possible. Although Nick scored a kill, we can't afford to trade plane for plane. The squadron has two MiGs, but we've lost, for practical purposes, two F-4s."
Forcing himself to remain quiet, Brad shifted forward.
"We are not in a position," the CO said, "to question policy in regard to targeting, or how the course of battle is to be conducted."
Bailey leaned forward and focused on Austin. "Brad, I sense that a part of your aggressiveness is borne out of frustration. Would that be a fair assessment?"
Brad swallowed. "Sir, may I be candid?"
"That's why we are having this little discussion off the record."
"Skipper," Brad hesitated, "if someone could explain to me why we are being placed in a no-win position, I'd like to hear the reason. It's as if we are being told not to win the war, just keep playing the same game and get more people killed."
Hutton and Lunsford exchanged concerned glances. Austin was stepping over the line.
"Sir," Brad continued, "keeping military targets off-limits is insane, or so it seems to me." Austin sighed. "Yes, my frustration level is very high. We could easily flatten Hanoi and Haiphong, mine the harbors, then put a choke hold across their supply line. The war would be over very quickly.
"I keep hearing," Brad continued, "that our leaders in Washington don't want to upset the major Communist powers--the same people who are providing the weapons that are shooting us down."
The stateroom became deathly quiet. Palmer quietly cleared his throat.
Nodding his head in agreement, Bailey directed his words to both crews. "I have to agree with Lieutenant Austin that we are using only a fraction of our military capabilities."
Bailey picked up his pen and flipped it back and forth between his index and middle fingers. "I empathize with Brad--with everyone who shares the resentment for being placed in jeopardy for little or no gain. The four-star commanding our Pacific forces, along with every military commander in the chain of command, is resentful of the needless deaths."
The CO again leaned back, staring distractedly at the overhead before speaking. "I have two points to make. One, we are no
t i
n a position to question the politics involved in these decisions. I happen to agree with Brad that the military strategy being formed in the White House is incompetent--morally reprehensible--but I emphasize that we took an oath, reposing of special trust and confidence, to uphold the orders of our commander in chief.