Rules of Engagement

Chapter 2

The last aircraft on the carrier in the scheduled launch cycle was sitting on the waist catapult when the Air Boss heard about the inbound emergency.

He waited until the A-4 Skyhawk was safely airborne, then ordered an emergency pull forward of all the airplanes on the fantail. The next aircraft-recovery cycle was not scheduled for another twenty-five minutes. Seven airplanes had to be quickly moved from the area behind the arresting-gear wires.

The Air Boss, in Primary Fly (Pri-Fly), the control tower on the carrier, gave commands over the 5-MC loudspeaker system to the flight-deck crew. The men responded in a well-orchestrated, fast-paced effort to clear the landing area.

The blue-shirted aircraft handlers scurried around the deck, moving planes to the bow. Two "hot suit" members of the crash crew donned silvery asbestos garments, topped by see-through fire-retardant helmets.

The plane-guard helicopter landed and was immediately hot-refueled with the engine running. After fresh pilots had strapped in, the Kaman Seasprite "angel" lifted off and flew along the starboard side of the carrier. The rescue swimmer, clad in a full wet suit, sat in the helicopter's open door with his legs hanging down.

Below decks, medical corpsmen were prepared to treat the inbound flight crews. Topside, four seasoned corpsmen waited for the crippled Phantom to appear. Between the quartet of medical experts, they had helped rescue twenty-seven aircrewmen.

The tension was felt throughout the carrier as the flight-deck crew received continuous updates on the position of the F-4s. Every minute was critical for the aircraft handlers.

Brad listened while the second KA-3B checked in on tanker frequency. The Whale, flying at full power, started a tight rendezvous turn and glided into position off Bailey's left wing. The hose and drogue were already reeling out when the tanker stabilized next to the Phantoms.

Russ Lunsford was impressed by the skill of the Skywarrior pilot. "That guy is shit hot."

"Yeah, both of the Whale drivers are good," Brad replied as he wiped the perspiration from under his chin. He keyed his radio transmit button. "Snowballs, let's go approach frequency. We're getting close in."

"Copy."

"Wilco."

"Joker Two."

Brad looked at the CO and switched to approach. He listened to the controller while Bailey deftly unplugged from the tanker and moved over to the second Skywarrior. The CO, trailing a steady stream of jet fuel, coasted into position behind the KA-3B and nimbly plugged the bobbing basket on his first attempt.

"Approach, Joker Two Oh Seven with you at twelve miles." Brad could see the carrier's churning wake.

"Joker Two Zero Seven, approach. The Boss wants Two Zero Four to begin his approach abeam the carrier."

Brad looked at Bailey. The CO gave him a thumbs-up. "Jokers, copy."

The four aircraft, descending slowly to 600 feet, were flying toward the bow of the carrier. They were in a perfect position to land out of the downwind alignment.

"Joker Two," Brad radioed when the TACAN indicated eight miles. "Let's dirty up."

"Roger," Bailey responded as he unplugged from the tanker and dropped back fifty feet. "Thanks, Snowballs. I owe each crew a case of spirits."

"We'll take you up on that. Catch a three wire." The tankers added full power and climbed straight ahead to orbit the carrier.

Brad directed his attention to Bailey, waiting for him to stabilize in formation. "Gear… now."

The CO dropped his landing gear in sequence with his flight leader, then lowered his flaps and arresting-gear hook. Bailey's Phantom, with the exception of the streaming fuel, looked normal to Austin and Lunsford.

"Gear down," Brad informed the controller.

The pilots and their radar-intercept officers, about to land their jet fighters on board an aircraft carrier, felt their heartbeats accelerating. The task was considered to be one of the most dangerous operations in aviation.

"Two Zero Seven," the controller said in a laconic voice, "extend downwind and turn in at five miles."

"Wilco," Brad replied, running through his landing checklist.

The two Phantoms passed abeam the ship at the same time that the approach controller switched them to the landing-signal officer.

The LSO, standing on a platform on the port side of the four arresting-gear wires, braced himself against the thirty-two-knot wind. He could see a trail of frothy white jet fuel streaming out of his commanding officer's F-4.

Lieutenant Nicholas Palmer, newly qualified squadron LSO, keyed his hand-held radio receiver. "Skipper, you're lookin' good. Keep it coming."

Bailey remained quiet, concentrating on his angle of attack. Navy and Marine Corps carrier pilots did not refer to their airspeed indicators for landing information. They were trained to fly at optimum angle of attack.

The CO added power, rounding the ninety-degree position from his final lineup. The center angle-of-attack doughnut lighted again, indicating that the F-4 was "on speed."

Nick Palmer, considered one of the squadron's "hot sticks," watched the approach with a critical eye. He saw the Phantom go slightly low but waited for his CO to catch the mistake. "Call the ball."

The "meatball," located behind the LSO platform, was a bright yellow-orange light between a horizontal row of green reference lights. The highly visible light provided the aviators with a visual glide slope to the flight deck. If the pilot allowed the ball to rise above the datum lights, he was high. If the ball went low, he was in danger of striking the aft end of the carrier, the flight-deck round-down. If the pilot kept the ball centered all the way to touchdown, he would theoretically snag the third arresting-gear wire.

Seeing the meatball come into view, Bailey concentrated on lineup and angle of attack. The LSO could see the amber yellow "on speed" light shining brightly from the CO's nose-landinggear door. The angle-of-attack indication that the pilot saw on his glare shield was displayed simultaneously by one of the three lights on his nose-gear door.

"Phantom ball," Bailey radioed. "Two point one."

In the squadron ready room, located directly below the flight deck, Bailey's men watched their skipper on closed-circuit television. The pilots and radar-intercept officers, sitting quietly, stared at the screen as the damaged F-4 grew larger. The tension mounted as the crippled aircraft approached the fantail of the carrier.

High on the flight-deck side of the island superstructure, sailors crowded "vulture's row" to watch the tense drama unfold. They could hear the distinctive high-pitched howls from the jet engines as Bailey jockeyed the throttles to keep the ball centered. The Phantom, racing toward the end of the carrier deck, continued to spew a long stream of jet fuel.

"Power," Palmer cautioned, leaning backward in the buffeting wind. "Give me a little power."

Brad Austin, listening to the LSO, decided to start his turn early. He banked the Phantom to the left, twisting his head around to see the carrier. He knew that the CO was about to cross the ramp.

Palmer watched the F-4 begin to settle. "Power!"

The Phantom's engines shrieked as it passed over the round-down and slammed into the flight deck. The tail hook caught the number four wire as Bailey, out of habit, went to full power in case the hook missed all four arresting-gear cables.

"Off the power!" Palmer shouted as he turned to follow the howling fighter. He could see that the F-4 had trapped.

A nanosecond later, the aft flight deck erupted in a blazing inferno. The Phantom's superheated exhausts and screeching tail hook, showering sparks along the steel deck, had torched off the jet fuel pouring out of the damaged aircraft. The F-4 charged up the flight deck, stopping close to the forward edge of the angle deck.

"Fire on the flight deck!" the Air Boss yelled over the 5-MC loudspeaker. "Lay down foam!"

Bailey yanked the throttles to idle cutoff and flipped off the electrical switches as the Phantom was pulled backward by the arresting-gear wire. The pilot stomped on the brakes after the steel cable had fallen from the tail hook.

Bailey glimpsed the pandemonium on the flight deck as he hit the canopy-open switch. "Get out! Let's go, Ernie!"

Austin, three miles behind the carrier, stared in shocked disbelief. "Holy shit! The flight deck is on fire. The skipper must have crashed."

Lunsford remained silent, leaning to his left side to see the carrier through the pilot's windshield.

Bailey and his RIO, about to jump over the side of the burning Phantom, were hit by a powerful stream of fire-retardant foam. The impact knocked them back into their ejection seats as the two hot-suit rescue personnel slapped metal ladders against the cockpits.

The thick white foam covered the Phantom, but the conflagration quickly spread underneath the belly of the blazing F-4.

Bailey and Sheridan stumbled down the side of the burning Phantom, then slipped and fell in the gooey foam. The rescue team, aided by two corpsmen, helped both officers to their feet and whisked them away to the safety of the island.

Sheridan heard a muffled explosion a second before the Air Boss shouted over the flight-deck loudspeaker.

"Bring Tilly over!" the commander ordered, concerned about the missiles still attached to the Phantom. "Shove the aircraft overboard!"

The huge yellow pushmobile lurched forward and lumbered across the flight deck. Tilly, a monstrous combination of crane and bulldozer, plowed into the fiercely burning fighter. The impact collapsed the F-4's landing gear as the aircraft slid sideways, then hung precariously over the catwalk before plunging inverted into the water.

"Foul deck! Foul deck!" the LSO radioed to Austin. "Take it around, Two Oh Seven."

"Wilco," Brad responded as he passed over the stern of the ship. "Did they get out?"

"That's affirm, Joker," Palmer said as he surveyed the damage to the landing area. The fire had been extinguished and the men were rapidly clearing the deck. "I'll be able to take you on the next pass."

"Copy," Brad replied, then keyed his intercom. "Jesus, that was close."

Russ Lunsford inhaled a deep breath of pure oxygen and unsnapped one side of his mask. "Yeah. Flying with you guys sure as hell is not boring."

Turning downwind, Brad rechecked his landing gear — down and locked, flaps extended, and arresting hook down. He continued the approach, turned crosswind, called the ball, crossed the fantail on speed, and engaged the number three arresting-gear cable.

The F-4 screeched to an abrupt halt, then rolled back five feet. When the wire dropped free, Brad added power and taxied to the starboard-bow catapult. He waited for the aircraft handlers to secure the Phantom to the rolling flight deck, then shut down the engines.

Austin and Lunsford opened their canopies and breathed in the salty breeze. The fresh air smelled good. They sat in quiet exhaustion as curious deck crewmen pointed to the numerous bullet holes in the F-4 Phantom.

Slowly removing his crash helmet, Brad watched his plane captain run across the deck toward them.