Rules of Engagement (1991) (27 page)

The Air Boss gave the order over the flight-deck PA system, then talked to the LSO. Brad could not hear the Air Boss because of the confusion in Pri-Fly, but he heard the reply from the LSO.

"The pilot is hanging over the side! His chute is caught on a stanchion next to the life-raft storage."

Brad watched fourteen flight-deck crew members race toward the fantail. While the fire fighters extinguished the blazing wreckage, the group of sailors by the LSO platform hauled the dazed pilot up by his parachute.

Once they had the bruised pilot on deck, they unhooked his parachute fittings. Then two medics rushed to his side, gently placed him on a stretcher, and hurried to sick bay.

Feeling emotionally drained by the accident, Brad left PriFly and descended to the flight deck. The aircraft handlers had shoved the wreckage over the side, allowing the fire fighters an opportunity to hose down the deck.

Brad heard the tanker's engines go to full power. He watched the Skywarrior hurtle down the port catapult and climb gracefull
y i
nto the sky. The carrier was ready to resume normal flight operations.

Descending to the 03 level directly below the flight deck, Brad went to the squadron ready room. When he walked through the hatch, the crash was being replayed on the pilot's landing-aid television (PLAT).

"Watch this," Lincoln Durham said, staring at the PLAT monitor. "In-flight engagement."

Brad watched the horrendous crash from the vantage point of the in-deck centerline camera, then from the island-mounted camera. The island cameraman had captured the accident squarely in the center of the picture. The view from the upper deck was replayed in slow motion.

"Right there," Ernie Sheridan gestured, "is when he pulled the handle."

Mario Russo whistled. "Quick draw. That son of a bitch was fast on the trigger." The accident was played again at normal speed.

"God almighty," Bull Durham exclaimed. "He came out when the aircraft was about three feet from striking the deck."

Absently watching the fire-fighting efforts after the crash, Brad sat down next to Durham. "Any word on Nick?"

The new operations officer grinned. "Scary said they're going to fly him off tomorrow. He thinks Nick will go to Tripler, or back to the States." Durham gave Brad a thumbs-up. "He's optimistic that Nick will be able to return to flight status in the near future."

"That's good news, for a change," Brad replied, looking at his watch. He had ten minutes until he had to be in sick bay for his flight physical. "What's the scoop on tomorrow?"

Durham reached in the right breast pocket of his flight suit and retrieved a planning form. "Tomorrow's mission has been pushed back a day. We're going to hit some bridges in the middle of the Iron Triangle. I've got you leading the TARCAP, with O'Meara as your wingman."

The Iron Triangle consisted of the area between Hanoi, Haiphong, and Thanh Hoa. The region was heavily defended b
y c
oncentrated antiaircraft batteries, surface-to-air missiles, and numerous MiG fighters.

"That sounds interesting," Brad remarked, seeing Harry Hutton and Russ Lunsford enter the ready room. "What time is the go?"

Durham consulted his list. "You're on the second launch . . . at fourteen hundred. Thought I'd let you sleep in, since you've been on bankers' hours." Durham flashed his gleaming smile.

"Thanks, Bull."

"No sweat," the friendly pilot replied, turning serious. "I'd like for you to train for squadron LSO, since Nick is going to be gone."

Brad had not even thought about the possibility of becoming a landing-signal officer, but the idea appealed to him. He was always anxious to learn new skills.

"Sure," he said, calculating the amount of time and training that would be required before he would be a qualified LSO. "When do I start?"

Lunsford, followed by Hutton, plopped down in two high-backed seats across the aisle. Each held a half-full mug of lukewarm coffee.

"What I'd like to do," Durham said enthusiastically, "is get you hooked up with the Ghostriders' LSO--Tag Elliot. He's a nice guy and he has a lot of experience."

"Tag?" Brad asked, unsure if he had heard the LSO's first name correctly.

"That's right," Durham replied, catching the looks from Hutto
n a
nd Lunsford. "Our jarhead is going to become a squadron LSO." Harry rolled his eyes back. "You're shitting us, Bull." "No," Durham laughed. "You're going to have a marin
e w
aving your pilots aboard."

Lunsford and Hutton groaned in mock agony. Harry looked at his watch. "We better get down to Scary's. It's fifteen hundred, and you know how he is about punctuality." Both RIOs got up and went to the small sink to pour out their coffee.

Brad started to getup, then paused a moment. "How's Cordelia?"

Durham grinned again. "She's doing great, and feels fine. Her obstetrician has her on a strict regimen, and Cordy follows the rules to the letter."

"That's good to hear," Brad replied, rising from his seat. "Tell her hello from me."

"I'll do that this evening."

Brad turned to Hutton and Lunsford. "You boys ready to go down for a Scary finger wave?"

"Can't wait," Lunsford responded, limping toward the door. "I think he's sick."

Chapter
24.

Brad sat in the hot cockpit while his fully armed Phantom was towed to the bow of the ship and positioned on the starboard catapult. The carrier had turned downwind, eliminating the faint breeze that had been sweeping over the flight deck.

Sweltering under the blazing afternoon sun, Brad watched the aircraft handlers unhook the tow tractor and drive away. He carefully placed his helmet on the canopy bow and surveyed the relaxed catapult crews.

Brad and Russ were taking their turn standing the alert-five watch. A second Phantom sat on the port catapult, ready to launch in five minutes if inbound targets were spotted.

Two additional F-4s were airborne, orbiting between North Vietnam and the carrier. If the BARCAP Phantoms encountered MiG fighters or enemy surface vessels, Brad and his wingman would scramble to assist them.

Dark stack smoke drifted from the top of the island and engulfed the open cockpit. The foul-smelling fumes made Brad's eyes water and his nose burn.

Russ sat on the wing, talking to Toby Kendall and cursing the acrid smoke. "Christ," Lunsford said, squinting up at the top of the carrier's superstructure, "we might as well be working in a coal mine."

Turning to look back on the wing, Brad set his paperback on the corner of the instrument glare shield. "Why don't you climb in and suck some cool oxygen?"

"It's too goddamn hot in that pit."

Brad smiled at the plane captain and stared at his RIO. "My, aren't we in a good mood today."

Kendall looked away, embarrassed.

"Oh, yeah, I'm the happiest sonuvabitch in the world. I'm slow roasting out here, and if you don't end up killing me, I'll probably croak from black-lung disease."

Brad reached into the sleeve pocket of his flight suit and slipped out a dollar bill. "Toby, why don't you take a break and go get the three of us an ice-cold Coke. My treat."

One of the ship's snack bars was located under the flight deck, aft of the number-one catapult. Kendall would be only thirty seconds away from their Phantom.

Toby beamed and leaped up to the cockpit. "Yes, sir."

After Kendall had rounded the Phantom's nose, Brad turned to Lunsford. "Russ, how about acting like an officer and a professional in front of the men."

"Launch the CAP!" the bullhorn blared before Lunsford could answer. "Launch the CAP!"

Kendall raced back and leaped up to assist Brad with his shoulder harness while Russ jumped into the backseat. The greenshirted catapult crews hustled around the Phantoms while the pilots started their engines. The carrier was heeled over, turning into the wind and gaining speed. The flight deck had erupted in frenzied activity.

Brad's hands flew around the cockpit, rechecking the multitude of instruments and switches. The catapult officer rushed to the center of the deck as Brad lowered his wing tips and shut his canopy.

"You up to speed?" Brad asked, watching the cat officer for the turn-up signal.

"All set," Lunsford replied, finishing the last items on his checklist.

The yellow-shirted officer pointed at Brad, then raised his arm and shook his fingers, giving Brad the full-power signal. Inching the throttles into afterburner, Brad was shocked to see the cat officer give him the catapult-suspend signal.

"Oh, shit," Lunsford spat, "here we go again."

Brad cautiously retarded the power levers to idle. "What the hell . . . Does anyone have a clue as to what is going on?"

"Cancel the launch," a voice said over the radio. "Repeat, cancel the launch. Remain in condition one."

"This is pure bullshit," Lunsford hissed. "They scare the bejesus out of me, then cank the goddamn launch while we're comin' up on the power."

Brad chopped the throttles and smiled to himself. "The boss probably saw you sunning on the wing, and decided to teach you a lesson." The crews were supposed to remain in their cockpits for the duration of their alert-five duty.

Lunsford popped his oxygen mask loose. "He's a horse's ass, and so are you . . . Captain Professional."

Raising the canopy, Brad spied the paperback he had borrowed from his roommate. "Why don't you borrow one of Harry's crotch novels? The time goes by a lot faster."

Removing his helmet, Brad missed Lunsford's scathing response.

Brad turned the shower faucets, adjusting the temperature of the water, then stepped under the fine spray and soaked his skin. Adhering to the navy policy of conserving fresh water, Brad turned the faucets off and lathered his body. After shampooing his hair, he turned the water on and quickly rinsed off the suds.

Toweling himself dry, Brad thought about his narrow escape from death. Why am I doing this? Where are we headed with this miserable war?

He wrapped his towel around him and picked up his shaving kit, then started toward his stateroom. The more he thought about the rules of engagement and the protected military targets, the more angry he became.

Reaching his quarters, Brad tossed down the kit. "The stupid bastards . . ."

Harry looked over the top of his latest edition of Playboy magazine. "Do I detect a note of hostility?"

"Harry," Brad replied, yanking open the closet door, "do you see what's happening to us . . . to the morale of the flight crews?"

Turning in his bunk, Harry set the magazine aside. "At the risk of offending you, there isn't anything we can do, except try to survive."

Brad placed his uniform on his bunk. "Jesus Christ, what a complete disaster."

Waiting a few seconds, Hutton propped himself up. "Brad, we've got to ride it out the best we can. We don't have any choice, and you know it."

Brad gave his roommate a strange look. "Yeah, you're right. We're simply cannon fodder for the incompetent politicians." "Don't get pissed at me."

Brad drew in a slow breath. "I'm not upset with you, Harry. I'm just frustrated, and so is the skipper. You can see it in his eyes. He knows the administration is full of horseshit, but he has to protect his own future."

"Brad, that's all we can do, and pray for a future."

Austin slumped on his chair. "The futility of this mess . . . all the senseless deaths." Brad's eyes narrowed. "Harry, those spineless bastards in the White House are going to burn in hell."

Taxiing behind Jon O'Meara, Brad stopped thirty feet from the jet blast deflector (JBD). When O'Meara's Phantom reached the starboard catapult track, the hydraulically actuated blast deflector was raised.

"Are you ready for this act?" Brad asked Lunsford, who was already breathing heavily.

Keying his intercom, Lunsford looked in Austin's canopy mirrors. "That's a dumb-ass question. Hell no, I'm not ready."

After the catapult crews scooted from under the howling F-4, O'Meara plugged in the afterburner. The twin fire storm sent a powerful blast of exhaust into the blackened JBD. Part of the forceful thrust slipped over the blast deflector, gently rocking Joker 201.

Brad rechecked the flap control panel and looked up in time to see O'Meara's Phantom rocket down the catapult. The F-4 cleared the flight deck, settled below the bow, then climbed smoothly away. Clouds of superheated steam swirled back over Austin's Phantom.

"Well," Brad observed, adding power to taxi up to the catapult, "he didn't blow any spray off the water today."

Lunsford lowered his helmet visor and tightened the friction knob. "He blows spray off the water--you fly through trees."

Brad felt the catapult take tension, looked at the catapult officer, waited for the turn-up signal, then smoothly shoved the throttles into afterburner. Checking the engine instruments, Brad popped a snappy salute to the cat officer and braced his head against the ejection-seat headrest.

The F-4 blasted down the catapult track, smashing the crew back into their seats. As the fighter cleared the bow, Austin's vision returned to normal. He snapped the landing-gear lever up, allowed the Phantom to accelerate, then raised the flaps.