Rules of Engagement

Chapter 21

Brad saw the earth and sky spin a split second before the violent explosion rocketed him out of the cockpit. The windblast almost ripped his oxygen mask loose.

He tumbled through the cloudy sky, then snapped straight out when the main canopy popped open. He swung below his parachute and looked around. Russ Lunsford was slightly below him, seventy to eighty yards away.

Peering around and below, Brad was unnerved to see people staring and pointing up at them. He could see that they were Vietnamese farmers, but some of them were armed with rifles and scythes. He could also hear dogs barking amidst the shouting and clamoring on the ground.

Becoming aware of a screeching sound, Brad twisted his head in time to see his wounded Phantom hit next to the village. The thunderous explosion cartwheeled the F-4 through the village, setting the inhabitants and their dwellings on fire.

The gruesome scene was incomprehensible to the stunned pilot and his RIO. They watched in agony as people screamed in terror when the blazing jet fuel rained down on them.

In desperation, Brad surveyed an area to the east of the village. He steered his parachute toward the slight incline. If he and Lunsford could make it over the tree line, they might have a chance for rescue.

Dropping his survival gear on the cord attached to his parachute rigging, Brad pulled out one of his emergency radios. He had altered his personal equipment to carry two survival radios and a second revolver, complete with an extra clip of ammunition and a box of.38-caliber ammunition. He placed the radio securely in his torso harness and felt for his service revolver.

Watching the approaching trees rise to meet him, Brad heard the howl of an F-4 Phantom. He turned to see Jon O'Meara, who had dispatched his wingman to the carrier, streak low over the farmers who were crossing the field. They were running toward their burning village.

In the last few seconds of his descent, Brad could see that he was not going to clear the wide span of trees. He crossed his right arm under his chin, gripping his left shoulder. He placed his left arm under his crotch and crossed his legs.

Seconds later, Brad plummeted into the tall trees. The impact knocked the wind out of him. Gasping for air, Brad looked down. He estimated that he was twelve feet above the ground.

Recovering his breath, Brad hung suspended from his parachute canopy. His mind reeled from the sudden transition. Only a minute ago he had been in his plane; now he was dangling from a tree. He heard some of the shouting villagers racing toward the trees. He might as well have dropped a bomb on their families.

Harry Hutton could see the carrier in the distance. The strike group, far ahead of the two Phantoms, was recovering in an orderly flow. They had lost three aircraft during the attack, including the skipper of the A-4 Skyhawk squadron.

Weak from his massive loss of blood, Palmer heard Dan Bailey radio the carrier. The Air Boss confirmed that they would be able to take Palmer's damaged Phantom aboard in ten minutes. The barricade was almost in place.

"Okay, Nick," the CO said in a quiet, comforting voice, "let's dirty up. Power back… and I'll call for flaps and gear. You just keep the wings level."

"Copy," Harry Hutton answered for his wounded pilot, then keyed the intercom as Nick pulled the throttles back an inch. "Hang in there — we're going to make it." Palmer remained quiet, barely conscious.

Harry continued to give his pilot small heading changes as the two aircraft flew downwind toward the carrier. Abeam the ship, Dan Bailey radioed for Nick to lower his flaps and landing gear. Palmer would not be using the tail hook for the barricade arrestment.

The Air Boss called when the flight was three miles astern of the carrier. "Joker Two Zero Seven is cleared for a barricade arrestment."

"Roger," Hutton replied, coaching Palmer into a left turn. The gravely wounded pilot let the nose drop too far as he initiated the turn.

"Back pressure," Harry reminded. "Get the nose up."

"Joker Lead," the commander in Pri-Fly radioed, "we're shooting a tanker. Should have you on board in twenty minutes or less."

"Copy," Bailey replied, nervously watching Palmer lose altitude in the turn. "Nick, keep your nose up… doing fine, but get your nose up."

Brad released his Koch fittings, dropping twelve feet to the dense undergrowth. He hit hard, then staggered sideways to regain his balance. He raised the tinted visor on his helmet and looked for Lunsford. "Russ, can you hear me?"

There was no answer.

Hearing the approaching villagers, Brad crashed through the thick foliage toward the incline at the edge of the trees. He saw something move to his left. Dropping to his knees, Brad drew his.38-caliber revolver, then glimpsed Russ Lunsford thrashing through the undergrowth. "Russ, I'm over here!"

Limping, Lunsford stumbled through the foliage, meeting his pilot at the edge of the trees. "They're right on our asses," Lunsford heaved, feeling the deep scratches on his neck and face. His ankle would barely support him.

"Come on," Brad ordered, raising the radio antenna and turning on the power switch. "We gotta make it to the top of that knoll."

Breathing heavily, Lunsford followed Austin up the slight incline. There were several indentations on top of the long hill. Another small field lay on the other side of the pockmarked incline.

Out of breath, both men dropped into a large sunken area at the edge of the slope. The depression was not deep enough to conceal them completely, but it did provide some cover. Looking around the area, Brad raised the survival radio to his mouth.

"Joker," Brad panted, "we need cover. We're on top of a long hill separating the tree line and a narrow field."

O'Meara replied immediately, wrapping the Phantom into a tight turn. "I've got ya spotted. Stay put."

Brad glanced at the F-4 and keyed his radio. "We've got armed men coming through the tree line."

"Copy," O'Meara responded, settling into an orbit. "Help is on the way. Hold on."

"We're in deep shit," Lunsford gasped, hearing the yelling farmers. "They're going to kill us."

Brad snapped his head around. "Goddamnit, Lunsford, get your shit together. I'll do the firing, you do the loading. I've got another fifty rounds in my torso harness."

Lunsford nodded his head, then reluctantly handed Brad his revolver. They both heard Jon O'Meara talk to the A-1 Skyraider leader.

"Lifeguard One, Joker Two Hundred."

"Go, Joker," the metallic voice answered over the roar of the big radial engine.

"We're going to need some ordnance real soon," O'Meara said, looking at a truck full of soldiers racing down a narrow trail by the side of the tree line. "We've got troops moving in on our guys."

"Roger that," the detached voice replied, then added, "we've got a Jolly Green and a Seasprite en route." The Jolly Green was an air-force HH-53 helicopter; the Seasprite was an armed Kaman HH-2C rescue helicopter.

Brad saw the first villagers emerge from the trees. Fear had dried the saliva in his mouth. He counted seven men and four youngsters. Barking wildly, two dogs ran out of the dense undergrowth. Every one of the Vietnamese was armed, including the teenage boys. Two of the men held AK-47s; the rest had assorted rifles and handguns.

Licking his dry lips, Brad raised his radio. "Joker, they're coming out of the tree line."

"I'm in," O'Meara replied calmly.

Brad watched the sleek Phantom flick over on its side and hurtle toward the villagers. Leveling at fifty feet, Jon O'Meara boomed right over the Vietnamese, tapping the afterburners three times.

The villagers ducked back into the undergrowth as the howling Phantom blasted over them. They emerged again when the F-4 shot skyward. The group spread out and again started up the incline.

Slipping off his flight gloves, Brad reached into a specially sewn pocket in his survival gear. He extracted a small metal box containing fifty rounds of.38-caliber ammunition. He placed the box between them, then felt Lunsford tap him. He looked up, petrified. "Oh, shit."

"Okay, Nick," Harry coached, "wings level. We're lined up in the groove."

"Okay," Palmer whispered, trying to keep his head up.

Bailey crossed under Palmer, moving off to the left side of the damaged Phantom. He listened to the landing-signal officer, who had trained Palmer to be an LSO, talk his friend down.

"You're going a little flat. Watch your altitude."

Locking his shoulder harness, Harry felt a tightness in his stomach. "Have you got the deck?"

"Blurry" was the only response.

Bailey added power and turned away, climbing steeply to the orbiting tanker.

"You're a quarter of a mile," Harry reported, feeling his pulse throb in his neck.

The LSO held his mike button down. "Line up. You're drifting right."

"Nick," Harry said, breathing rapidly, "come left just a hair. Get the left wing down." On their present heading, they would hit the island superstructure. Palmer corrected to the left, then let the nose drop too low. They were about to cross the stern of the ship.

"Get your nose up! Power!" the LSO shouted, preparing to dive into the crash net. "Get the nose up!"

Palmer hauled back on the stick as the Phantom slammed into the steel deck. Hutton braced himself for the violent barricade engagement.

The speeding fighter slammed into the nylon webbing, stopping far left of the landing-zone centerline. The left main mount was only two feet from the port catwalk. Nick Palmer brought the throttles to idle, then slumped unconscious against his shoulder harness.

"Joker," Brad whispered, watching the dogs and villagers inch up the incline, "there's a troop truck two hundred meters from us.

The Phantom flicked over again, diving steeply at the army vehicle. The soldiers opened fire with every weapon they had available.

Transfixed, Brad and Russ watched Jon O'Meara punch off his missile ejector racks at point-blank range. The left rack, with one Sidewinder attached, plowed into the cab of thp truck. The direct hit knocked the vehicle sideways into a shallow ditch.

The stunned soldiers clambered out of the wrecked truck and rushed for cover in the trees. They left their dead officer and his driver in the mutilated cab.

With renewed caution, the angry villagers stalked the two Americans. They fanned out to the right side of the trapped airmen. One of the men stopped and took aim.

"Keep your head down," Brad warned.

A shot rang out, kicking up dirt next to Brad's head. The farmers were shouting at the soldiers, gesturing for them to hurry to their position. They had two war criminals cornered on the hill. Two more shots ricocheted between Austin and Lunsford.

"Goddamnit," Brad swore, gripping the.38 with both hands. He extended his arms and raised his head, remembering the rifle and pistol instruction at the Officers' Basic School in Quantico.

Brad fired three quick shots, then carefully aimed at one of the men brandishing an AK-47. He squeezed the revolver twice, sending the villager staggering backward. He waited a couple of seconds, then fired again, missing the fleeing Vietnamese. The man he had shot was crawling toward the trees, but he collapsed on his face after traveling three meters.

"Reload," Brad ordered tersely, then accepted the other.38 revolver. He grabbed the radio and slid it to his mouth. "Jon, where's Lifeguard?"

The radio became garbled when Jon O'Meara and the Skyraider pilot attempted to transmit at the same time.

"This is Lifeguard Lead. We've got a tally on the Fox-4. We're almost there."

Brad could barely hear the roar of the approaching A-1 s. Glancing to the east, he spotted the descending RESCAP Sky-raiders. Looking back at the tree line, he could see that the soldiers had joined the villagers. They moved forward, crouching at the edge of the trees. A barrage of concentrated fire erupted from the soldiers, forcing Brad and Russ to hug the ground.

"Tell Jon to make a pass," Brad said, placing the revolver over the edge of their depression. He rapidly fired all six rounds, then grabbed the other.38.

Brad heard O'Meara's voice as he fired another six rounds at the advancing soldiers. He grabbed his standby.45-caliber pistol and squeezed the trigger until the gun was empty.

Lunsford struggled to reload the empty.38s while O'Meara thundered over the line of soldiers and farmers. He was so low, Brad thought he was going to hit the ground. The Vietnamese flattened out on their stomachs.

The soldiers crept foward, firing in short bursts. If they rushed the Americans, Austin and Lunsford would die quickly. Brad fired another six rounds, then reached for the second.38. Watching the North Vietnamese soldiers prepare to race toward them, Brad and Russ fired wildly over the edge of their concealment. They heard Jon O'Meara and Mario Russo give the Spad drivers the location to hit.

"Oh, mother of Jesus," Lunsford said, fumbling to reload. His hands were shaking so hard he could not load the rounds in the chambers.

Brad spotted the A-1 Skyraiders rolling in for their first pass. The four Spads, each carrying four 20mm guns, rocket pods, and two 500-pound bombs, plunged straight at the soldiers.

"Come on," Brad ordered when the first rockets and gunfire swept over the soldiers, "follow me!"

Limping, Lunsford felt a sharp pain in his right ankle as he raced after Brad. They ran across an open area to a small irrigation dike and stumbled through the muddy water. Both spread out on the far side, trying to catch their breath. They watched the A-1s pound their former position, then heard the sweet sounds of a navy Seasprite.

The helicopter hugged the tops of the distant trees as it raced toward them. As the pilot flared to land, a door gunner opened fire at the advancing soldiers.

Brad and Russ got up and charged for the Seasprite, leaping through the door before the pilot could land. As the helicopter turned and accelerated, Brad caught a glimpse of Jon O'Meara's Phantom climbing away in afterburner. It was a sight that he would never forget.

A medic helped them to a secure position, then gave Russ and Brad containers of water. Between gasps, they gulped the warm liquid.

"We made it," Russ shouted over the beating rotor blades. "Sweet Jesus, we made it. Thank you, God." He dropped the plastic water bottle next to his seat and clasped his hands in a silent prayer.

Brad sat motionless, drained of all energy. He sagged against the fuselage, enjoying the comforting vibrations flowing through the helicopter. He drank another four swallows of water, then closed his eyes and gave thanks that he was still alive.

The medic, who had seen that they were relatively unscathed, waited until the Seasprite was over water to offer the two men a cigarette. Both declined but shared a third container of water.

Closing his eyes again, Brad let his mind drift. He desperately wanted to enjoy an icy-cold beer, and go waterskiing.

Sensing a change in the pitch of the rotor blades, Brad swung around and looked forward through the cockpit. He saw the carrier steaming off the starboard side of the helicopter. He watched the white wake as the pilot slowed, then approached the side of the flight deck.

Once the Seasprite was stabilized at the same speed as the ship, the pilot eased over the flight deck and gently lowered the helicopter.

Russ and Brad waited until the bouncing, vibrating machine had been chocked and secured to the deck, then moved to the entrance. They thanked the two pilots and medic before jumping out of the door.

They were both shocked to see Jon O'Meara and Mario Russo waiting for them. The four men hugged each other in an emotional embrace. The bond of the brotherhood was readily apparent to everyone who witnessed the union.