Rules of Engagement

Chapter 41

"Tallyho!" Carella yelled, reefing his thundering Phantom straight up. "Jokers engaging."

Brad spotted the MiGs as he pulled into the vertical and prepared to jump the five aircraft. Two of the MiG pilots raised their noses and turned into the Phantoms, while the other three continued toward Haiphong.

Brad completed a zero-airspeed reversal, then cringed when he almost collided with the Lonestar flight leader. Gulping oxygen, Austin unloaded the F-4 and hoped the MiGs would overshoot.

The Lonestar Phantoms raced after the three MiGs headed for the strike group. Brad saw one of the F-4s fire a missile at the same moment the two MiGs that he and Carella had engaged opened fire. The North Vietnamese pilots were taking advantage of their tighter turning radius to pull inside of the heavier F-4s.

Brad felt the Phantom stagger as the tracers penetrated the tip of his starboard wing. He pulled so hard that he momentarily grayed out. Harry groaned and shouted obscenities when Brad entered a vertical rolling scissors with the trailing MiG. He had lost sight of his flight leader in the swirling fight.

"Come on, goddamnit!" Harry shouted, gripping the sides of the canopy. "Shoot him! Lock him up!"

"Where's Carella?" Brad asked, straining under the punishing g forces.

Hutton swiveled his head, searching for Carella and Sheridan. "Jocko is low… seven o'clock. No factor."

"Keep an eye on him." Brad pulled the Phantom until it buffeted. "We don't want to midair."

One of the biggest fears was the possibility of hitting a friendly aircraft during a multiplane engagement. After every turn and twist, Brad gained more advantage on the MiG pilot. It was obvious that the Vietnamese pilot was not proficient at using his fighter in a vertical contest.

At fifty degrees nose off, Brad fired a Sidewinder. The missile tried to make the corner, but went ballistic and shot past the MiG. The narrow escape scared the MiG pilot into a hard break. The high-g maneuver caused the airplane to bleed off speed, giving Brad the advantage he needed.

After the MiG reversed, Brad punched off a second missile. The Sidewinder came off the rail, did a snake dance, then tracked straight for the MiG.

"Go! Go!" Harry yelled as the missile plowed into the tail of the fighter.

After the initial impact, the MiG flew out of the explosion and raced toward the ground. The aircraft was missing the upper portion of the vertical stabilizer, but flew away in controlled flight.

"Who makes these goddamn missiles?" Brad asked with tightened jaw muscles. "Mattel?"

Yanking his head from side to side, Brad searched for Carella and the other MiG. He pulled on the stick and entered a barrel roll.

Scanning the sky, Brad momentarily lost his situational awareness. Seeing the MiG and Carella flash past, he selected after-burner and snatched the control stick over into a nose low turn. The g forces slammed his helmet against the canopy.

"You're passing five hundred knots," Harry yelled as the Phantom rocketed toward the ground. "Bring the nose up! Get the nose up!"

Feeling the controls get stiff, Brad glanced at the attitude direction indicator and the altimeter as the F-4 plunged through a thin layer of clouds.

"We're supersonic!" Harry exclaimed in panic. "Pull up! Pull up!"

Brad snapped the throttles to idle, popped the speed brakes open, leveled the wings, and pulled as hard as he dared. "I've got it, Harry." The stressful 10-g maneuver broke two wing panels, bent a flap actuator, and popped seven rivets in the left wing.

Brad watched the altimeter bottom out at 800 feet before the Phantom, traveling faster than the speed of sound, zoomed back to 14,000 feet.

Catching sight of Carella's F-4, Brad retracted the speed brakes, slammed the throttles into afterburner, and keyed his mike. "Joker One, where's the MiG?"

"He's at my twelve," Carella grunted in an agonizing turn, "going for separation."

Brad turned inside Carella's aircraft in an attempt to fire a Sidewinder at the diving MiG. The enemy fighter was too close to the ground for the missile to get a clear tone and lock on.

"Joker Two," Carella shouted, "join up, and let's get back to the Vigilante."

"Roger," Brad heaved.

"Jokers," Red Crown radioed, "we're showing three bandits at your three five zero, fourteen miles. They're headed your direction." "Joker One copies."

Scanning his instruments, Austin was startled to see a warning light illuminated. "Harry, we've got a low-fuel light."

"We can't have," Hutton replied anxiously. "Check the fuel dump switch."

"I have," Brad responded, verifying the readings from the fuel gauges. "We've got fuel in the wings, but it isn't transferring to the fuselage."

Brad toggled switches to no avail. They would soon run out of fuel. He jettisoned their missile racks to reduce the parasitic drag on the wings. With smooth wings, they could stretch their range.

"Harry, the SAMs that exploded under the belly must have caused a valve to stick."

"Or the high-g pull-up," Hutton offered, trying to think of a solution to their problem.

"Maybe," Brad replied as he closed in on his flight leader. "Hang on while I try something."

Harry braced himself a second before Brad snapped the Phantom down. The negative-g maneuver was followed by an instantaneous seven positive g's. The wing fuel remained trapped. Using the rudders, Brad violently yawed the aircraft back and forth. Still no success.

"Joker One," Brad radioed in frustration. "Dash Two has a fuel problem."

"Say again," Carella said over the garbled radio calls. "Joker Two has a fuel-transfer problem. We're going to flameout any time now."

"Stick with me," Carella ordered, "and we'll escort you out over the water after the recon run."

Harry smacked the side of the canopy. "That sonuvabitch! Declare an emergency, and let's get the hell out of here, right now!"

Brad moved out to the left side of the RA-5C Vigilante while Carella positioned himself on the right side.

"Harry," Brad said, removing Leigh Ann's picture from the instrument panel, "we've got to maintain flight integrity, even if we can't do anything." He shoved the photo into his torso harness. "The appearance of two Phantoms may keep the MiGs away from the Viggie."

They both knew that the poststrike photographs were invaluable. Men's lives depended on the damage assessment. If the strike results were deemed unsatisfactory, more crews would have to return to the heavily defended bridges.

"White Lightning," Carella radioed in a strained voice, "Jokers ready when you are."

"Copy," the reconnaissance pilot answered. "We're rolling in now."

Brad could see the billowing clouds of smoke rising over the target area. He also saw the hundreds of puffs of flak filling the airspace over the bridges. Two MiGs shot past, going in the opposite direction. Brad wondered why Red Crown had not warned them about the fighters.

Heading toward Haiphong at an angle, the Vigilante pilot leveled at 3,800 feet. Brad heard the F-4 Lonestar flight leader call feet wet as the photo pilot banked steeply and commenced his run-in at 600 knots.

The clean Vigilante was pulling away from the Phantoms, forcing Carella and Austin to select afterburner. The increased thrust was rapidly draining the last few gallons of jet fuel from Brad's Phantom.

"SAMs!" Ernie Sheridan hollered. "Nine o'clock."

Brad glanced to his left in time to see a missile streak in front of him and explode over the Vigilante. The photo plane disappeared in the flash and cloud of smoke, then reappeared trailing fire.

The reconnaissance pilot turned sharply and darted for the coastline. Carella and Austin banked hard, following the blazing Vigilante.

"How much fuel?" Harry asked at the same instant the right engine flamed out.

"Mayday! Mayday!" Brad transmitted as the left engine quit. "Joker Two Oh Seven has flamed out."

"We'll coordinate RESCAP," Sheridan said, "then call the search-and-rescue station."

Brad lowered the Phantom's nose in an effort to glide as far as their speed and altitude would permit. He calculated their rate of descent against the distance to the shoreline. It would be close.

A flash caught Brad's eye. He looked out in front of his aircraft in time to see two parachutes pop open. The blazing Vigilante rolled inverted and plunged for the sea.

Feeling the thuds from small-arms bullets, Brad and Harry were stunned when a concussion buffeted the powerless Phantom. "Don't do anything, Harry! I'm going to get us as far as I can. Just sit tight. This is our only chance."

Harry braced his back against the ejection seat. "Are we going to make the water?"

"I don't think so, but stay with me." Brad started easing back on the stick as the Phantom descended through 2,000 feet. Brad could feel the flight controls stiffen as the engine turbines wound down. The hydraulic pumps were failing, making control of the airplane more difficult.

Passing 1,000 feet, Brad pulled with brute force, but the nose continued to drop below the horizon. "Hold on! Hold on a few more seconds."

The stricken fighter passed over a small rise a quarter of a mile from the shore. Descending through 500 feet, Brad reached for the ejection handles over his helmet. "Eject! Eject!" Harry blasted out of the Phantom in a thunderclap of wind and debris.

Staring at the rapidly rising terrain, Brad grasped the primary ejection handle and yanked the face curtain down over his helmet. The blast propelled him clear of the Phantom four seconds before it exploded on the edge of the shore. The ball of flames and metal engulfed the beach and rained across the water.

Brad's parachute opened with a tremendous jolt, snapping him sideways. After three swings, he plowed into the wet, low-lying ground. The vicious impact wrenched his knee and knocked the wind out of him.

Gasping for breath, Brad tore at the Koch fittings in an attempt to release his parachute. After struggling to rid himself of the canopy, Brad ripped off his oxygen mask, then reached for his revolver and got to his knees. He looked up and down the shoreline, spotting Harry running toward him. Hutton had left his life raft with his parachute.

Quickly examining his knee, Brad was relieved to see that it moved freely. Harry dropped to his knees next to Brad. Hutton's nose was bleeding, and he was holding his left arm.

Hearing an F-4 overhead, Brad caught sight of Carella's Phantom circling a mile away. A secondary explosion from Brad's downed fighter shocked him into action. The main core of the burning wreckage was sending an enormous cloud of black smoke into the sky. They had to get away from the crash site before ground troops arrived.

"Come on, Harry," Brad urged, getting to his feet. "We've got to get as far offshore as we can, and fast."

"My arm's broken," Harry replied. His face was ashen and twisted in pain. "I can't swim."

"I'll tow you. Keep your helmet on."

Brad placed his revolver back in its holster and yanked loose his one-man raft. "Let's go." They raced for the water, splashing into the surf at the same moment three rifle rounds kicked up spray next to them.

Brad inflated the raft and Harry lunged over the side, landing on his back. With a surge of adrenaline, Brad grabbed the raft and began sidestroking as hard as he could. Having been a competitive swimmer at the Naval Academy, Brad had conditioned himself to swim long distances.

More shots ripped across the water, narrowly missing the bright yellow raft. Brad swam as hard as he could, straining to distance them from the beach.

"I see the sonuvabitches," Harry groaned in agony. "They're about a hundred yards to the right of the crash."

"Harry," Brad choked from a mouthful of seawater, "can you get some rounds off — keep their heads down?"

"I'll try."

Hutton released his arm, painfully extracted his revolver, then fired six rounds at the three men setting up a mortar. One of the soldiers was firing his rifle at the raft while the other two men were bracing the muzzle-loading mortar. Although he didn't have a prayer of hitting the North Vietnamese, Harry convinced them to drop to a prone position.

"Get on the radio," Brad paused, swallowing more of the salty water, "and see if you can get Jocko, or someone. We need help right now if — "

A geyser of water erupted thirty feet in front of the raft, showering them with spray. Brad altered course and stroked with all of his strength. The mortar crew would soon have them bracketed.

Hutton fumbled with his survival radio while another shell exploded next to them. "Joker," Harry shouted in desperation, "we need cover fire! There's a mortar firing at us north of the crash!"

"Copy," Carella replied. "Say mortar posit."

A third shell hit closer, stunning both of them. "North — a hundred yards north of the wreckage!"

"We're rolling in."

Gulping air, Brad changed direction again and kicked with the last ounce of energy in his body. He flinched when a fourth shell impacted in the position they had occupied only seconds before.

The Phantom plunged toward the mortar crew and fired an unguided Sparrow missile. It wiggled twice before exploding between the burning wreckage and the North Vietnamese soldiers.

Carella pulled up steeply and banked over the downed fliers. "I'm going to try again. Hang in."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Hutton watched the mortar team grab their weapon and scamper toward the marsh behind the burning Phantom. "They've retreated," Harry yelled, ignoring his pain. "They disappeared behind the crash site!"

"Joker copies. We've got help on the way."

Brad stopped swimming and held onto the side of the raft. His lungs heaved in an attempt to resupply oxygen to his exhausted body.

Hearing the Phanton overhead, Brad glanced up at the aircraft. His mind had trouble comprehending that he had been up there only minutes before. Now, he was in the sea, struggling to survive.

"Harry, Joker," Carella radioed. "We've got to tank, then we'll be back."

Hutton shaded his eyes and looked up at the Phantom. He, too, felt strange sitting in a raft while he talked to Carella and Sheridan in their jet. "How long til the helo gets here?"

"The SAR folks," Carella paused to confirm a radio call that Sheridan had made, "are on the way. The Vigilante crew is in the drink, too, so ten to fifteen minutes."