Rules of Engagement

Chapter 23

The wind whipped Brad Austin's collar when he stepped through the hatch leading to Vulture's Row. The narrow deck high on the side of the island superstructure afforded an unrestricted view of the entire flight deck.

Nursing a hangover, complete with a throbbing headache, Brad walked forward to the sheltered area next to the bridge. He leaned against the bulkhead and looked up at the top of the island, breathing in the refreshing sea air as he studied the mast and radar antennas. The tall structure sprouted reflectors, catwalks, booms, cables, crossbeams, and a myriad of ropes.

He looked down the walkway to the glass-walled obstruction known as Pri-Fly. Brad could make out the Air Boss and his assistant, who was talking on two telephones. In another seven minutes, they would be busy with the second multiplane recovery of the day.

Hearing the C-1A Trader's engines go to full power, Brad turned to watch the COD on the starboard catapult. The daily mail and supply-delivery flight was staggered between air-strike launches and recoveries.

The big radial engines, revving at full military power, produced a throaty roar. Brad watched the catapult officer twirl his fingers, then thrust toward the bow like a fencer. The tired-looking aircraft squatted down and raced off the end of the deck.

Stepping back out of the wind, Brad opened his shirt pocket and extracted the first letter Leigh Ann had written to him. Holding the pages tightly Brad slowly reread it. He cherished every word, feeling her presence next to him.

Brad was gazing at the fantail, remembering the delicate fragrance Leigh Ann had worn that night on the beach, when he heard the first group of returning aircraft.

He glanced up the flight deck. The duty combat air patrol Phantom had been towed to the number-one catapult. The pilot and RIO sat in their cockpits, passing the time reading paperbacks. Their wingman was positioned directly behind the F-4.

A KA-3B tanker sat on the port catapult, engines running in preparation to launch and intercept two stragglers who were low on fuel.

Watching the A-4 Skyhawks enter the landing pattern, Brad let his thoughts drift back to Waikiki Beach. He replayed the time he had had with Leigh Ann, absorbing the experience one special event at a time.

Brad looked up when one of the Skyhawks missed the four arresting-gear wires and bolted off the deck. Two things caught his attention. The aircraft appeared to have battle damage, and the pilot was well left of centerline when he went off the angle deck.

Deciding to visit Pri-Fly, Brad carefully folded Leigh Ann's letter and hurried to the ship's control tower. Two other Skyhawks landed before the damaged A-4 turned crosswind. Arriving in the confined space, Brad heard the voice of the A-4 pilot as he rolled in on final. He could also hear the landing-signal officer.

"Skyhawk, ball," the pilot radioed. "One point eight."

Brad could hear the wind howling above the LSO's response. He glanced down at the men leaning into the wind on the LSO platform, then concentrated on the damaged A-4.

"Roger, ball," the LSO said in a conversational tone. "Watch your lineup."

The Skyhawk pilot hesitated a moment, then answered in a tense voice. "I've got a control problem."

Watching the Air Boss pick up his telephone, Brad noticed that the Skyhawk pilot was slipping his aircraft. He was having to cross-control the rudder and ailerons to compensate for structural damage to his primary flight controls. The airplane was cocked over to the left, flying slightly sideways.

"Four fourteen," the Air Boss said calmly, "nice and easy. You've got a steady wind down the deck."

Click, click.

The A-4 pilot approached the round-down in a left wing low attitude. He was struggling to stay on speed and course as he neared the carrier's fantail.

"Lineup," the LSO cautioned. "Watch your lineup!"

The Skyhawk flew through the air turbulence caused by the ship's superstructure. The aircraft rolled to the left as the frantic pilot fought the controls.

"WAVE OFF! WAVE OFF!" the LSO shouted, hitting the bright red wave-off lights. Crossing the edge of the flight deck, the pilot applied full power, raised the nose, and leveled the wings.

Brad watched in horror when the A-4's tail hook caught the number-one wire as the aircraft started to climb. Clawing for altitude, the Skyhawk pulled the arresting-gear cable to the limit, then stopped in midair and crashed to the deck in a thunderous explosion.

Brad's mind had seen the accident in slow motion. Something had shot out of the aircraft at the same time the A-4 hit the steel deck.

"CRASH ON DECK! CRASH ON DECK!" The Air Boss was issuing orders and barking commands to the fire fighters swarming around the aircraft.

Seeing a parachute floating down, Brad realized that the pilot had ejected a fraction of a second before the Skyhawk had slammed into the deck. Brad watched the pilot disappear next to the LSO platform. He was astounded by the next call from the landing-signal officer.

"I need six men at the LSO platform! On the double!"

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 gracefully into 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 by concentrated 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 Hutton and 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 marine waving 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."