Rules of Engagement

Chapter 1

Marine 1st Lt. Brad Austin exercised his flight controls to the stops, then saluted the catapult officer and braced his head for the violent launch. He inhaled a deep breath of pure, cool oxygen and held it in his lungs.

The F-4 Phantom's twin turbojets produced an earsplitting roar as the cat officer leaned forward and touched the flight deck, signaling to fire the catapult.

The deck-edge operator, standing in the starboard catwalk of the mammoth ship, pushed the launch button and quickly ducked below the surface of the flight deck to avoid the superheated jet blast.

The fighter-bomber, howling in afterburner, snapped the hold-back bar and hurtled down the deck in a cloud of swirling steam.

Austin's helmet was pinned to the ejection seat headrest as his eyeballs flattened under the 6-g cat shot. His normal body weight of 165 pounds had instantly increased to 990 pounds.

Austin's radar intercept officer, navy Lt. Russell Lunsford, gripped the sides of the rear cockpit and looked at the port catapult track. The ship and the ocean were vague blurs of gray and blue as the Phantom accelerated from zero to 170 miles per hour in two and a half seconds.

Clearing the starboard-bow catapult, Brad popped the landing gear lever up, accelerated straight ahead, then raised the flaps and scanned his engine instruments and master caution light. Everything looked normal. He left the Phantom in afterburner and started a rendezvous turn toward his flight leader, Cdr. Dan Bailey.

Rapidly closing on the squadron commanding officer, Austin inched the throttles out of burner and slid into the standard loose deuce tactical formation on Joker 204. Bailey gave his wingman a quick glance, then gently initiated a steeper climb.

Their mission was to fly target combat air patrol (TARCAP) for a strike group from the carrier USS Intrepid. The Intrepid, carrying a full complement of attack aircraft, had joined their carrier five days earlier.

The four A-4 Skyhawk jets and four single-engine, propeller-driven A-1 Skyraiders were going to attack a large industrial complex at Thai Binh, fifty miles southeast of Hanoi.

Brad Austin, an exchange pilot with the navy fighter squadron concentrated on his flight leader as the two Phantoms climbed in radio silence. Dan Bailey, respected as one of the best fighter pilots in the navy, believed in professionalism and discipline. He used head nods, augmented with hand signals, to communicate until it was absolutely necessary to talk over the radios.

Austin, who was beginning his fourth month with the navy squadron, had volunteered for the assignment to the carrier air wing. He would remain with the fighter squadron for the duration of the cruise.

Russ Lunsford glanced at the lead aircraft and keyed his intercom. "Ah… Brad, I've got a heads-up for you. Word is that the skipper is giving you a look this ride… for section leader. I didn't want to say anything until we were off the boat and settled down."

Brad smiled. "Thanks, Russ. I figured something was up when the boss had me conduct the brief."

The flight leveled at 20,000 feet and contacted the KA-3B tanker. Four minutes later, Joker Flight eased into the stabilized position behind the large twin-engine Skywarrior. Both pilots filled their fuel tanks to capacity, then dropped away from the Whale and headed northwest to Thai Binh.

Austin and Lunsford, feeling the tension mount as they approached the coast-in coordinates, rechecked their armament switches. The two men purposely cinched their restraining straps to the point of being uncomfortable. If the pilot and his RIO had to eject, they could not afford to have any slack in their ejection-seat harnesses.

"You tucked in, Russ?"

Lunsford snugged his shoulder straps one last time. "Any tighter, I'd have gangrene."

Squinting through the early morning haze, the two fighter pilots saw the coast at the same time. They would be over land — feet dry — in three minutes. The crews went through their combat checklist as the shoreline passed under the Phantoms.

"Joker Two," Bailey radioed as the flight crossed the beach, "you've got the lead. You are now Joker One."

Brad had anticipated the command. "Joker One, copy. I have the lead."

The CO drifted off to the right side and slid behind the new flight leader. Bailey had a keen respect for the young marine aviator and often referred to Austin as his brother in green.

"Combat spread," Brad ordered, tweaking the F-4 's nose down five degrees below the horizon.

Bailey, intently scanning the sky for MiGs and surface-to-air missiles, answered with two clicks from his microphone. The response was standard for a pilot who was busy or desired to keep radio chatter to a minimum. The veteran fighter pilot, who had a well-deserved reputation for rowdy behavior on the ground, was deadly serious in the arena of aerial combat.

The Phantoms leveled at 15,000 feet and Austin entered a left-hand pattern two miles southwest of the target. After three orbits around the area, the F-4 crews heard the rescue combat air patrol (RESCAP) flight call the strike leader. The four additional A-1 Skyraiders, referred to as Spads by their pilots, were circling low off the coast. Their job was straightforward. They had responsibility for protecting downed aircrews until a helicopter or an amphibious aircraft could rescue the men.

Austin and Lunsford continued the lazy circle as the lead Skyhawk pilot rolled into his bombing run. The morning sky suddenly filled with a barrage of 37mm and 57mm artillery fire, interspersed with hundreds of small-arms rounds tracking the diving aircraft.

Brad looked down to see three surface-to-air missiles rise from an emplacement next to the road leading into the target area. Two more SAMs lifted off from another position before a Skyhawk pilot scored a direct hit on the missile battery. The SAMs exploded, spraying flaming fuel and skittering across the ground in erratic maneuvers. Two of the missiles impacted a fuel storage tank, causing a blinding explosion.

The prop-driven A-1s strafed and bombed gun emplacements surrounding the industrial complex. The A-4 pilots varied their run-ins, dropping all their ordnance in one pass. The small attack jets disappeared in the rising smoke, emerging from the other side in steep, climbing turns.

Austin caught a glimpse of two buildings disintegrating in a series of bright explosions. The violent blasts sent visible shock waves across the ground.

"Russ, it looks like they hit an ammo dump, from the type of explosions down there."

"Yeah," Lunsford replied, snapping photographs as quickly as he could work his camera. "Probably why they have so much artillery around the complex."

The Skyhawks pulled off the target and raced for the shoreline, followed by the slower Spads. Antiaircraft fire arced through the air in dense streams of multicolored tracers. Six more SAMs lifted off and shot skyward. One missile detonated under a Skyhawk, but the aircraft continued toward the coastline.

"MiGs, eleven o'clock low!" Lunsford yelled over the radio as four sets of eyes focused on the position. The Communist fighters were below and slightly to the left of the Phantoms.

"Tally, tally," Brad replied, feeling his pulse pound in his neck. "Jokers, arm 'em up."

"Two," Bailey acknowledged, flipping his missile-arming switches to ON.

The five MiG-17s had launched from Phuc Yen airfield, situated twelve miles north of Hanoi, and had made a low-level, high-speed pass to the northeast of the sprawling city.

The MiG-17, code-named Fresco by NATO, was an aerial hot rod that had tremendous maneuverability. The MiG was smaller than the Phantom and two-thirds less gross weight. Although the MiG-17 was not a supersonic fighter, it could outturn the more powerful F-4. Armed with three 23mm cannons, along with rockets or heat-seeking Atoll missiles, the compact fighter was a formidable aircraft. The MiG-17 was hard to spot in the air, giving it the advantage of surprise. Conversely, the big Phantom emitted dark jet exhaust, which made it easy to see from fifteen to twenty miles away. Selecting afterburner was the only way to eliminate the F-4's telltale smoke.

The MiGs had remained close to the ground as they approached Thai Binh. The North Vietnamese pilots were attempting to foil the U. S. early-warning radar, call sign Red Crown, stationed aboard a navy cruiser in the Gulf of Tonkin. The lower the MiGs flew, the less likely they would be discovered in the usual radar ground clutter.

Brad Austin could see that the MiG pilots, flying almost 430 knots, were rapidly overtaking the strike group. It was his responsibility to protect the attack pilots.

"Let's take it down," Brad radioed as he pushed the throttles forward. "Goin' burner."

"Two."

The F-4s rocketed toward the MiG-17s as Austin radioed the strike leader. "Seahorse Lead, you have bandits at your seven o'clock, closing rapidly."

"Roger that!" the A-4 pilot replied, looking over his left shoulder. "How close… how much time do we have?"

"Jokers out of burner," Brad ordered before he answered the frantic Skyhawk pilot. "They're about four miles. Suggest your flight do a hard in-place port turn; put 'em nose on and hose 'em down."

"Copy," Seahorse Lead radioed as he looked back to his three charges. "Seahorses, port one-eighty, NOW!"

Austin and Bailey continued to close on the MiGs while the A-4 pilots completed a knife-edge reversal to face the bogies. Russ Lunsford stowed his camera and hunched down in his seat when a line of reddish white tracers shot past his canopy. The bright rounds, seemingly close enough to touch, tracked over the top of the canopy and disappeared in the gray haze.

"Got a lock, Russ?" Brad asked while he watched the Skyhawks, going in the opposite direction, flash over the top of the withdrawing Spads. He could see that the attack pilots were firing their 20mm cannons in a head-on pass at the MiGs.

"I've got one," Lunsford answered, concentrating on their quarry, "but the A-4s are going right through the middle of my sco — "

"Missiles!" Brad interrupted, seeing two surface-to-air missiles rise in a plume of gray-white smoke. He thumbed the radio button. "Joker SAMs! Three o'clock low, comin' right up the pike."

"Joker Two!"

Brad shoved the nose over, trying to outmaneuver the weapons, but the missiles continued straight toward the Phantoms. Sensing an imminent collision, Brad squinted and prepared for the explosion. The first SAM flashed under the fuselage; the second missile screeched over the canopy without exploding. Shaken by the narrow escape, Brad felt the sweat on his brow.

"Holy shit!" Lunsford swore, breathing in gasps.

The radio frequency was chaotic with calls to break, jink, and dive. The antiaircraft fire seemed to intensify as two more SAMs accelerated toward the Phantoms, missing them by less than fifty yards.

Brad bottomed out near the ground at 630 knots and quickly selected HEAT. He cursed the lack of cannons on the navy and Marine Corps F-4s. Their Phantoms had been equipped to carry four radar-guided Sparrow missiles and four heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles.

Dan Bailey, flying 100 feet above the trees a quarter mile to the right of Austin, had also selected HEAT. He knew that the marine pilot was going to attempt to scatter the MiG formation.

The Communist pilots fired several missiles at point-blank range, narrowly missing the Skyhawks as the A-4s pulled into the vertical. Two MiGs broke away to pursue the A-1 Spads while the other three pilots snapped straight up to engage the A-4s. Heavy antiaircraft fire continued to rain across the sky, spewing flaming death through friend and foe alike.

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, but the 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.

"Joker Two, say fuel state," Brad said into his sweat-soaked oxygen mask.

"Nine hundred pounds," Bailey replied at the same time that Austin caught a glimpse of the KA-3B commencing the rendezvous turn.

"Tally!" Brad radioed in an excited voice. "I have a tally at eleven o'clock, in a port turn."

Three seconds passed before Bailey saw the tanker. "Joker Two has the Whale. Probe coming out."

Brad extended his refueling nozzle and glanced at Bailey's Phantom. Joker 2 had his probe in the open-and-locked position.

"Joker's cleared to plug," the tanker pilot said. "We have the drogue out, indicating two-fifty. We'll increase the speed after you're aboard."

Austin clicked his mike twice and concentrated on the join-up. The Phantoms had a closure rate on the KA-3B in excess of 160 miles per hour. The fighter pilots would have their hands full trying to slow down in the last few seconds before they rendezvoused.

Brad watched the tanker fill his windshield. The F-4s were less than 400 yards from the Skywarrior. "I'm moving out to the side, Skipper."

"Roger," Bailey replied, pulling his throttles back. "Idle and boards."

Brad clicked his mike, reduced power to idle, and extended his speed brakes. The two Phantoms, although slowing rapidly, were about to fly past the tanker. Brad moved farther to the right and cross-controlled the F-4 to avoid a collision.

"Goddamnit!" Lunsford swore as the fighter yawed sideways. "I'm gonna jump out of this sonuvabitch if you don't get it under control."

"Relax," Brad replied as the tanker's wing tip stabilized twenty feet to the left of the F-4.

"Snowball," Bailey radioed, standing his Phantom on its side, "pick it up to three hundred knots."

"Roger."

Brad watched closely as Bailey stopped cross-controlling and rolled the thirsty fighter level. The CO moved smoothly toward the basket on the end of the fuel hose, then suddenly fell back.

"I've flamed out!" Bailey radioed. "Snowball, toboggan and maintain the speed you have!"

"Wilco," the tanker pilot replied as he lowered the nose. He held the aircraft in a twenty-degree dive and eased the throttles back.

Bailey's General Electric J-79 engines were still windmilling, providing hydraulic power to the flight controls during his chase after the basket.

"Jesus Christ," Lunsford said over the intercom. His breathing was labored. "Come on, boss, get in the basket. Get it… nail it.

Bailey rammed the drogue, knocking it aside twice. Brad called out altitudes as the three aircraft plummeted toward the Gulf of Tonkin. "Five thousand three hundred… five… four point six… four… three point five… three…"

Lunsford watched Ernie Sheridan reach over his helmet for the ejection-seat handle. "Don't pull it," he said to himself. "Don't blow the skipper out of the driver's seat."

Brad released his mike switch when the CO mated with the basket and shoved the drogue forward.

"Fuel flow!" the tanker pilot radioed, sounding as if he was hyperventilating.

Brad looked at his altimeter and keyed his mike again. "Two point four… two… one point seven — "

"Light off!" Bailey said as Austin and Lunsford saw a ball of red-orange flame shoot out of the right tail pipe of the Phantom.

"I'm pulling out!" the tanker pilot radioed, easing the Skywarrior level at 400 feet above the water.

"I've got… the starboard engine on line," Bailey said in gasps. "Let's start a shallow climb… get some altitude so I can get an air start on the other engine."

Emotionally drained, Ernie Sheridan lowered his hands and slumped in his seat.

"Roger," the KA-3B pilot responded in a voice one octave higher than normal. "We'll drag you to the boat."

"Joker One," Bailey asked as the three aircraft climbed through 1,700 feet, "how's your gas?"

Brad looked at his fuel indicator and fudged. He did not want to add any additional pressure to his CO. "I'm fat, Skipper. Take your time."

"Fat, my ass," Lunsford said sarcastically over the intercom. "Just out for a Sunday drive… no problem."

The radios remained quiet while the flight climbed to 8,000 feet. Brad, staring at 1,100 pounds of fuel remaining, was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He glanced at Bailey's Phantom. It was still streaming kerosene at an alarming rate.

"Okay, Snowball," Bailey radioed, "I'm showing three grand. I'm going to back out and try an air start."

"Roger."

Bailey's probe slid out of the basket. "Brad, jump in there and grab a quick drink."

"I'm on it," Austin replied, moving smoothly behind the Whale. "Joker One is plugging."

Brad inched his throttles forward and placed his nozzle in the basket. He shoved the hose forward until the fuel started flowing.

"Fuel flow," the tanker pilot confirmed.

"Concur," Brad responded, then watched the internal fuel-quantity indicator climb. The precious fluid surged into his dry tanks. When the fuel gauge showed 2,200 pounds, Austin backed out of the basket and again moved out to the right. "Thanks for the gas."

"Roger."

Brad caught a glimpse of the CO as he hurtled past the tanker. Bailey was in a high-speed dive, windmilling his left engine in an attempt to relight the J-79. He pulled out 2,000 feet below Austin.

"I've got 'em both on line," Bailey radioed, speaking in a slower, calmer voice. "I'm going to plug again."

Brad watched Bailey climb back to the tanker, then called the carrier. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Seven."

The carrier air-traffic controller answered without hesitation. "Joker Two Zero Seven, Strike. We have been informed of your emergency. We're shooting another tanker. You'll have a ready deck on arrival. Your signal is charlie on arrival."

Austin was relieved. They were cleared to land on arrival. His radio navigation instrument, the TACAN, had locked onto the carrier's homing beacon. They would be over the carrier in eleven minutes. Brad switched back to the tanker frequency.

"Joker Two, we're charlie on arrival. You will land first, and we've got another tanker on the way."

"Copy," Bailey replied as he continued taking on fuel. "You're doing a super job… for a jarhead."

Brad's oxygen mask concealed his grin.