Rules of Engagement (1991) (5 page)

Brad, feeling a pang of trepidation, watched the CO approach. Bailey looked jubilant, as did Ernie Sheridan. Lunsford showed no emotion.

The smiling CO stopped between Austin and Lunsford, then grasped the pilot's right wrist and the RIO's left wrist. Like a boxing referee, he raised their arms over his head and addressed the ready room crowd. "These guys also deserve a round of applause. They have a probable on their record, and they did a hell of a job this morning." Everyone cheered again while the CO shook hands with Brad and Russ.

"One other note," Bailey announced loudly. "You're looking at a new flight leader--our token marine and junior section leader, First Lieutenant Austin."

The CO stepped away as various members of the squadron congratulated Austin and Lunsford. The handshakes and slaps on the shoulders expressed genuine feelings of praise.

Bailey waited for the right moment, then stepped close to Brad and Russ. He looked straight into Brad's eyes and spoke quietly. "The XO says you have something on your mind, Lieutenant."

Harry Hutton interrupted before Brad could reply. "Skipper, they got the Spad driver out. Shot up a couple of helos, but he's on his way back to the Intrepid."

The celebration masked Bailey's words as he addressed Austin and Lunsford. "You guys drop your gear in the locker room and join me in my stateroom in fifteen minutes."

"Yes, sir," the two men replied in unison.

Brad and Russ quickly stowed their bulky survival gear, crash helmets, oxygen masks, .38-caliber revolvers, g suits, and kneeboards. They showered in record time, then donned fresh uniforms and reported to Bailey's stateroom. Brad knocked on the door.

"Come in," the CO invited as he opened the safe mounted in the bulkhead at the back of his fold-down desk.

Brad opened the door and entered the room, followed by his RIO. Frank Rockwood and Jack Carella sat on the bunk next to Bailey's desk chair. The cabin was cramped but not as confining as the junior officers' quarters.

"Have a seat," the CO said, motioning to the two gray straight-backed chairs next to the far bulkhead.

Bailey's tanned face was distinguished by pronounced crow's-feet and a dimple in his square chin. He had a salt-and-pepper crew cut and a pronounced southern drawl. He read extensively and could quote with equal ease from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales or the comic strips.

Earning his wings the hard way, Bailey had parlayed a private pilot's license, combined with two years of junior college, into a NAVCAD appointment. As a naval aviation cadet, Dan Bailey had distinguished himself throughout every phase of flight training.

Graduating second in his class, Bailey had proudly accepted his commission and the accompanying gold bars. His fiancee, and former high-school sweetheart, had pinned on his coveted wings of gold.

After the graduation ceremonies, Ens. Dan Bailey and Karla Jane Cooper had married at the base chapel. They had enjoyed a brief honeymoon, marred only by an unexpected mechanical failure in Dan's 1949 Chevrolet. The drive shaft had dropped to the pavement four blocks from the church. For years Dan and Karla, along with their twin sons, had laughed about the incident.

Dan Bailey was revered by all the officers and men of the squadron for his professionalism and leadership qualities. He was respected most for his genuine consideration for every man under his command.

Brad and Russ sat down while Bailey placed a stack of reports in his safe and closed the door. The XO and the operations officer remained quiet.

Bailey turned around, smiling pleasantly. "Care for a cold Dr. Pepper?" Both men, seeing that Rockwood and Carella had a can in their hands, accepted the soft drinks.

"Okay, jarhead," Bailey said, "what's bothering you?"

"Well, sir," Brad began, watching Rockwood and Carella out of the corner of his eye, "I feel like it's my fault that you . . . that we got nailed. I led us too low over the downed Spad."

Bailey raised a hand. "Wait a minute. Brad, you're one of the best pilots in the squadron. And besides being a natural stick, you have good logic and leadership skills. If you didn't possess those traits, the Marine Corps would not have allowed you to come out here, and I would not have made you a flight leader."

"Yes, sir," Brad responded awkwardly. He was openly embarrassed, especially in the presence of his backseater.

Rocky Rockwood swallowed the last of his soft drink and tossed the empty can in the trash. "Hey, Brad, you're doing a super job--got a probable kill, too. The only mistake you've made is joining the wrong service." The friendly barb broke the tension.

"Austin," Carella said in a businesslike tone, "the skipper briefed me on the mission. You didn't do anything he would not have done."

Brad nodded his head.

"One thing to remember," Bailey offered, finishing the remains of his Dr. Pepper. "There is no safe altitude in our type of mission. If you're high, the SAMs and triple-A will come after you. If you duck down in the weeds, the Cong and everyone else with a rifle or rock will use you for target practice. As a section leader, Brad, you have to constantly evaluate your situation and make a judgment call. It's that simple."

"Yes, sir," Brad replied, having forgotten his drink.

"Hey," Rocky said in his usual carefree manner, "we know you marines are trained for close air support, but just cover your ass. You don't have any guns to keep the little bastards' heads down."

Brad managed a chuckle, finally relieved of his anxieties. "Thanks. I appreciate the advice."

"Both of you," the CO said, smiling, "are contributing a lot to the squadron. Enough said . . . so get the hell out of here and go have a drink."

The junior officers' eyes gave away their secret. They, along with every flight-crew member in the squadron, had liquor stashed in their private safes. Although navy regulations prohibited having alcohol on board a ship, the breach of rules was overlooked fo
r t
hose men who flew off the carrier, endured the stress of comba
t e
ngagements, then had to land on the pitching, rolling deck again.

Bailey grinned at the two men. "Just keep it confined to your staterooms."

"Yessir," they answered, stepping out of the stateroom.

After leaving the CO's quarters, Brad returned to the ready room to check the flight schedule. His friend and roommate, Harry Hutton, was just finishing his stint as the squadron duty officer. Hutton, who still looked like a peach-faced high-school sophomore, was exuberant and full of unrestrained energy. Brad always enjoyed his company.

The majority of the flight crews had gone forward to the dirty-shirt wardroom, leaving the ready room almost deserted. Hutton was leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. His feet were propped up on the desk, and a coffee mug was balanced precariously on his stomach.

"Hey, MiG killer," Hutton said as his marine friend entered. "Letsqueet," a Harry translation of "let us go eat."

"Will you cut the MiG killer shit?" Brad said, unamused. "I got a probable. He was packin' cheeks north the last time I saw him."

"Okay, already," Harry replied, picking up a rough copy of the new flight schedule. "You're going to get another shot at it tomorrow. The XO told Jocko to schedule you and Nick together for a BARCAP. He said, and I quote, 'The skipper wants the two hot sticks to fly together . . . best chance to bag a MiG.' End quote."

Brad looked at the proposed schedule. "Great, but they've got me leading."

Harry grinned his infectious grin. "Yeah, that'll piss off my man, the egotistical asshole." Hutton was Nick Palmer's RIO.

The two-man flight crews were not allowed to room together. If a crew went down, their respective roommates would have the responsibility to arrange for their personal belongings to be shipped home. There was an additional unwritten rule. It would be the roommate's obligation to send a letter, apart from the commanding officer's, to the closest relative.

"Well," Brad said with a sigh, "this should be interesting . . . having Nick Palmer on my wing."

"Oh, yeah, you can count on it," Harry responded, picking up his pen. "You hungry?"

"No, not really," Brad replied, glancing at the two pilots playing acey-deucey at the back of the room. "The skipper told me to go have a drink."

Hutton's face lit up. "You mean a drink-drink?"

"Yeah," Brad said quietly. "You want to join me?"

Harry displayed his toothy grin. "Is a skeleton's ass skinny?"

Chapter
4.

Brad and Harry were settled back, discussing the morning's MiG engagement, when Nick Palmer knocked on their stateroom door. An inch short of six feet, the athletic-looking Palmer was a movie idol type from his light brown hair to his perfect white teeth. A graduate of Princeton University, Palmer was the oldest son of a wealthy manufacturing mogul.

Nick Palmer and Harry Hutton, both bachelors, had shared living quarters prior to their squadron's deployment to the Gulf of Tonkin. The well-furnished apartment, dubbed the snake ranch, had been the center of many noisy and disorderly parties. A bevy of young, attractive women had made the apartment, along with the swimming pool, their favorite gathering place.

"Mind if I come in?" Palmer asked, stepping into the cluttered stateroom.

"Pull up a chair," Brad replied, feeling a little uneasy. On his second cruise, Nick the Stick Palmer was considered to be the best pilot in the squadron. "Care for a shot of the good stuff?"

"Sure," the LSO responded, accepting a fresh glass from Brad. "I see that we're flying together tomorrow."

Austin poured a liberal amount of vodka into the wardroom iced-tea glass, then added water and a half dozen ice cubes. Harry Hutton had brought a small bucket of the precious frozen liquid from the wardroom.

"The skipper," Hutton said to his pilot, "is the one who scheduled the flight."

Palmer lighted a cigarette and sipped his drink. "Thanks. This hits the spot."

Brad leaned back against his fire-resistant flight suit hanging on the bulkhead. "Have you got any suggestions for a new kid on the block?"

Nick chuckled, shaking his head. "No. It sounds like you're doing okay on your own."

"Yeah, Nicko," Harry chimed in, "the gyrene is a half MiG ahead of us."

Palmer laughed good-naturedly, then leaned into Hutton's face. "Well, wise-ass, why don't you drive tomorrow and I'll sit in the backseat. That should be worth the price of admission."

Brad tilted his chair forward. "Seriously, Nick, you've got a lot more experience than I have. Any assistance will be greatly appreciated."

"Well," Palmer said, settling back in his chair, "Jocko showed me an interesting maneuver that he believes can bag a gomer eight out of ten times. After he pulled it on me, I believe he's right."

"The negative-g trick," Harry said, now that Nick was letting his little secret out. Palmer, who had wanted to be the first Joker pilot to down a MiG, had sworn Hutton to secrecy. A highly competitive person, Nick did not want anyone else to have. the same advantage.

Palmer ignored Hutton. "What you do is let the MiG driver get on your six, then turn into him just enough so he can pull inside of your radius."

Brad looked perplexed. "Jesus, you're leaving yourself wid
e o
pen if the guy is halfway good."

"Wait a minute," Palmer said, snuffing out his cigarette. "Patience and timing are the key elements. You've got to have confidence in yourself to pull this off."

In characteristic fighter-pilot style, Palmer raised his hands to demonstrate the maneuver. "When the gomer pulls inside of you, you push the stick forward, staying in the same angle of bank. When you see the MiG disappear from sight below your canopy, you snatch 8 g's back into the turn and roll over the top in the opposite direction from your original turn. Most of the time your bandit will be confused when you disappear under his nose without rolling your aircraft."

"I think," Brad said, hanging onto every word, "I see the picture. When the MiG snap rolls to follow your push maneuver, you're coming back through his line of flight too fast for him to follow."

Palmer smiled, raising his glass. "Exactly. Before he can react, you've popped your boards and rolled up and over him. You're now in a position to take advantage, or disengage if you have any doubt about the outcome."

"Jesus," Brad said, replaying the tactic in his mind. "That's definitely an unorthodox maneuver, especially using the speed brakes."

"Yep," Palmer responded knowingly, "but it works. Jocko did it to me coming back from a BARCAP, and I took the bait. When I snapped over, the son of a bitch flashed by me in a blur, with a lot of kinetic energy."

Almost giggling, Hutton butted in. "Next thing Ace here knows, Jocko is on our six."

Brad stifled a laugh. He was amazed that Harry still had all of his original teeth.

"Well," Palmer said sarcastically, "since we're airing our laundry now, why don't you tell Brad about how you identified an air force Phantom as a MiG?"

Unable to resist, Brad laughed.

"Tell him," Palmer continued, "about how excited you wer
e t
o lock on with a Sparrow, until I saved your dumb ass from knocking the poor bastards out of the sky. Great pair of eyes, kid."