Rules of Engagement

Chapter 3

The ready room was noisy and crowded. When Brad and Russ walked through the hatch, immediate. Silence descended. All eyes shifted to the sweat-soaked pilot and his RIO.

Bradley Carlyle Austin wore the insignia patch of his former Marine Corps fighter squadron. It denoted that he was an F-4 Phantom Phlyer. Twinkling hazel eyes highlighted a tanned face and trim physique. Brad was five feet ten and 165 pounds. Known as a gregarious officer with a quick wit, he enjoyed the company of his fellow pilots and RIOs. They, in turn, respected their solitary "jarhead" for his straightforward personality and excellent flying skills.

A graduate of the Naval Academy, Brad Austin had majored in aeronautical engineering. He had also been a member of the swimming team, and competed as a platform diver. Graduating with honors, he had resisted his father's wishes by accepting a commission in the Marine Corps.

His father, Vice Adm. Carlyle Whitney Austin, USN, was a proud Annapolis alumnus who firmly believed in tradition and loyalty. The three-star flag officer had vociferously opposed his son's decision not to pursue a career in the naval service.

Brad's senior year at the academy had been marred by the prolonged quarrel with his father. The more incensed his father had become over his decision, the more determined Brad had become to chart his own course.

The past holiday season, when Brad had worn his marine dress blue uniform home, had been a strain for the entire Austin family. When again pressed by his father, Brad had made it clear that it was his decision, and his decision alone, to pursue a career path of his own choosing.

What he had not disclosed was the fact that he did not want to serve in the same service as his father. Brad had always bristled at the insinuations that his father would ensure a smooth career path. Furthermore, how could he possibly explain to the admiral that he genuinely liked the Marine Corps?

Lieutenant Russ Lunsford, tall and lanky with stooped shoulders and thinning blond hair, was considered one of the better RIOs in the squadron. The twenty-seven-year-old bachelor had an intellectual air about him, underscored by his methodical approach to every facet of his life. Lunsford made a constant effort to keep his personal world, including his impeccably clean stateroom, as neat and predictable as possible. Naturally nervous, he hid his apprehensiveness behind a pretense of hardy self-assurance.

Although Russ Lunsford was competent technically, he had never quite adjusted to the hostile environment of aerial combat. Everyone liked the former college basketball star but knew not to approach him when he became moody. His worst emotional swings generally manifested themselves two to three hours before a combat mission.

It was common knowledge that Russ Lunsford was not overly fond of flying, even with the best pilots in the squadron. The few individuals who knew about Lunsford's past attributed his acute nervousness to the fact that he had washed out of advanced fighter — attack pilot training. Whatever the reason had been, he remained an extremely uneasy crew member.

Lieutenant Jon O'Meara approached Brad as Lunsford closed and secured the hatch. O'Meara was a quintessential Irishman, full of mirth and always boisterously confident. He was two inches shorter than Brad, with short-cropped red hair and dancing blue eyes.

O'Meara's pranks had become legend before the air-group commander had censored him for singing an indecent song in mixed company at the officers' club. The lewd rendition of "Shagging O'Leary's Daughter" had not been well received by the admiral's wife.

O'Meara's look asked the question. "What the hell happened out there?"

Austin dropped his helmet, flight gloves, and kneeboard in one of the high-backed crew chairs. "We got our asses shot off covering a downed Spad driver. How's the skipper and Ernie?"

Lieutenant (junior grade) Harry Hutton, the squadron duty officer, placed his hand over the phone he had just answered. Hutton was at a desk next to Brad. "I'm talking to Scary McCary now." McCary was Dr. Lloyd McCary, the squadron flight surgeon.

O'Meara saw the XO stand. "I'll stop by your pit later. I'd like to hear all the details."

"Well," Brad exhaled softly, "it wasn't pretty." O'Meara nodded knowingly and went back to his flight-planning table.

The executive officer, Cdr. Frank "Rocky" Rockwood, stepped around his chair and walked down the center aisle toward Brad and Russ. He sat down on the arm of a chair next to the two men. "Are you guys okay?"

Brad unzipped his torso harness. "Yessir, just a little postflight shakes."

Rockwood pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket and lighted it as Austin and Lunsford unzipped their g suits. "Tell you what… why don't you two go get a bite to eat and a cup of coffee. We'll get with Jocko for a debrief when the skipper is released from sick bay." Jocko was Lt. Cdr. Jack Carella, the squadron operations officer.

Brad folded his g suit over his helmet. "Sir, I really need to talk to you and Commander Carella now. It was my fault that the skipper got hit."

A hush settled around the back of the compartment. Lunsford glanced at Austin, then busied himself with his flight gear.

Rockwood, not the typical executive officer who acted as the CO's hatchet man, placed his hands on his knees and studied Brad. "Okay, I'll grab Jocko and we'll go to my stateroom."

Austin nodded his head. "Yessir."

Rising to his full six feet two, the partially bald Rockwood started up the aisle toward Carella. He had almost reached the operations officer when the cherubic-faced Hutton, holding his hand over the phone receiver, leaped out of his chair.

"The CO and Dirty Ernie — Commander Sheridan — have been released. They're on their way to the ready room."

Applause and cheers filled the long, narrow briefing room. The CO was considered to be one of the good guys, and Ernie Sheridan, the senior RIO in the squadron, was a happy-go-lucky friend to everyone.

Brad felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. The more he thought about the mission, the more convinced he became that his judgment had been faulty.

Lunsford leaned closer to Austin and spoke in a hushed voice. "It wasn't your fault. What the hell do you expect to gain by taking the blame for — "

Lunsford stopped in mid-sentence when Frank Rockwood and Jack Carella started toward them. The XO and the operations officer looked like Mutt and Jeff characters. Rockwood lived up to his nickname in appearance. He was a solid, well-muscled 205 pounds. Big for the average fighter pilot.

A devoted husband and father of three teenage daughters, Rockwood centered his life around his family. Always a gentleman, he was a blend of natural leader, gifted aviator, and superior intellect.

Jack Fierro Carella, a compact and dark-complected man, had curly black hair and piercing dark eyes. His nasal Italian accent had not changed since his boyhood in Philadelphia. The Temple University graduate had been a rough-and-tumble street fighter in his blue-collar neighborhood. He took his squadron job seriously and was considered tough but fair.

Unsmiling, Carella walked up to Brad. "What's on your mind, Mister?"

Brad knew that Carella called him mister out of habit. Junior officers in the navy were addressed by their rank, mister, or sir. Marine officers were addressed by their rank, or sir.

Frank Rockwood spoke before Brad had a chance to open his mouth. "Jocko, let's wait until the CO gets here. He may want to speak with Brad and Russ alone."

"Yes, sir," Carella replied, then turned to face Austin. "Just one question. Can you confirm that the skipper knocked down a MiG?" The room suddenly became quiet again.

"Yes, sir," Brad responded, then fell silent as shouts of joy and loud clapping filled the small space.

The hatch leading to the passageway opened and the yelling, whistling, and clapping intensified as Cdr. Dan Bailey and Dirty Ernie Sheridan stepped into the crowded ready room.

The din of celebration increased as everyone tried to get through the throng to shake hands with the MiG killers. The pilots and RIOs slapped Bailey and Sheridan on their backs, whooping with happiness. The carrier had been conducting air operations from Yankee Station, off the southern coast of North Vietnam, for seventeen days and the Jokers had the first confirmed MiG kill.

Brad stood to the side, unsure of what he should say or do. Lunsford waded into the cluster of men and offered his congratulations to the victorious crew.

Frank Rockwood, seizing an opportunity to say a quiet word to the CO, spoke quickly about Austin's feelings of guilt. Bailey acknowledged his XO, shook more outstretched hands, darted a look at Brad, then made his way toward the marine aviator. He steered Russ Lunsford along with him while Sheridan followed.

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 for those men who flew off the carrier, endured the stress of combat engagements, 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?"