Rules of Engagement

Chapter 5

Brad and Russ Lunsford walked out of the ready room, down the long passageway, and out onto the catwalk, then mounted the steps to the flight deck. The low, dirty gray clouds threatened rain. Not a good day for flying.

Stepping onto the gritty deck, Brad was mindful of the hazards that surrounded them. Planes and tractor tugs were in constant motion. Men in various colored shirts moved swiftly around the crowded flight deck, dodging jet exhaust, wings, wheels, jet intakes, and tugs. The deck crews stepped nimbly over and around airplane chocks, taut arresting-gear cables, tie-down chains, bombs and rockets, and thick hoses pumping thousands of gallons of the volatile jet fuel into the menacing-looking planes.

Brad remembered the day a sailor, caught in the inferno of a Phantom's jet blast, had been hurled over the side of the flight deck. The aircraft handler had fallen sixty-five feet to the sea. The plane-guard helicopter, flying along the starboard side of the carrier, had managed to rescue the severely injured youth.

Kneeboards and helmet bags in hand, Russ and Brad leaned into the blustery wind and walked forward to their Phantom, Joker 208. The F-4 sat ready, canopies open, fueled, and armed with two Sparrows and four Sidewinder air-to-air missiles.

Scanning their fighter-bomber, Brad smiled to himself. The Phantom was the meanest-looking airplane he had ever seen. It reminded him of a giant prehistoric bird, one with wing tips angled up and tail fins angled down. The tough-looking monster, packed with two huge General Electric J-79 engines, was a world-class record holder. The F-4 had already set a speed record of more than 1,600 miles per hour. The Phantom could also sustain a combat altitude of 66,000 feet, and zoom climb to 100,000 feet. The amazing airplane could carry a weapons load twice that of a World War Two B-17 bomber.

Brad performed a thorough preflight walk-around while Lunsford climbed into the backseat. The pilot checked the external fuel tank for security, then pushed against the missiles to ensure that they were tightly attached. Brad peered into the engine intakes, checking for anything that might be sucked into the powerful yet delicate engines. He looked carefully for any signs of fuel or hydraulic leaks, and checked for any loose or open panels.

The plane captain was responsible for making sure that the fighter was ready to fly, but Brad had the overall responsibility for the expensive aircraft. He noted that the right main-gear tire was almost smooth and had deep scuff marks on the side. He calculated that the tire was good for one or two more landings before it would blow out. What the hell, Brad thought, the maintenance officer has bigger problems.

Watching Nick Palmer check the security of his Sidewinder missiles, Brad climbed the fuselage steps to his cockpit. He closely inspected his ejection seat, looked down the row of aircraft being manned by other crews, then stepped into the cockpit and settled in his seat. The distinct odor of fuel, oil, and hydraulic fluid swept over him. This would be his environment for the next two hours.

The plane captain, a conscientious Wyoming. teenager who aspired to be a rancher like his father, helped Brad and Russ buckle their parachute attachments and strap themselves to the hard-bottomed ejection seats.

Austin scrutinized the cockpit, carefully checking his instruments and the position of every switch, knob, gauge, lever, button, dial, and circuit breaker. One item out of place could spell disaster for the crew.

Brad firmly grasped the rudder-pedal adjustment lever and tried to turn the crank. He placed both hands on it, but it would not budge. Phantom 208 had a history of rudder-pedal adjustment problems.

Leaning close to the plane captain, Brad yelled over the whipping wind and flight-deck noise. "Toby, I need the knockometer."

"Yes, sir," the blond-haired youth replied, then quickly scurried down the side of the fighter. He ran to the catwalk tool bin, grabbed a hammer, and raced back to the Phantom. He climbed the fuselage steps and handed the tool to his pilot.

"Thanks," Brad said, whacking the crank. The lever rotated ninety degrees, freeing the jammed drive gear. He handed the hammer back to the youngster. "The miracles of modern technology."

"Lieutenant," Toby Kendall shouted, bracing himself against the fierce wind, "be careful… and I hope you get one of them MiGs."

The plane captain could only visualize what it was like to be catapulted from an aircraft carrier, fly a sophisticated, high-performance jet fighter into aerial combat, then find the ship and land the complex aircraft on the small, moving deck. The men who helped the flight crews in and out of their cockpits had a deep respect and strong attachment to their pilots and RIOs.

"Thanks, Toby," Brad replied as he placed his helmet on and tightened the chin strap. Their plane captain climbed down the side of the fuselage as the signal to start engines blared across the flight deck.

Brad and Russ lowered their canopies to seal themselves from the jet exhaust fumes of the F-4s in front of them. Four of the Joker Phantoms would provide target combat air patrol while Austin and Palmer would provide barrier combat air patrol for the carrier. A standby F-4 was also manned in the event that one of the strike aircraft malfunctioned prior to being launched.

"You ready?" Austin asked as he initiated the engine start procedure.

Lunsford snapped the loose side of his oxygen mask to his helmet. "All set. If we get lucky, they'll scrub the strike for weather."

Brad ignored the comment. He knew that his RIO, who prayed for mission cancelations, would do a good job when the chips were down.

After he had both engines running, Brad adjusted the three rearview mirrors mounted on the canopy bow over his head. They would allow the pilot to watch where he was going while darting quick glances behind him. Brad's most vulnerable position was directly aft of his fighter — the infamous six o'clock position.

Brad added a small amount of power and taxied out of his tie-down spot. Clear of Nick Palmer's Phantom, Brad lowered and locked his F-4's wing tips and followed the taxi director forward to the starboard-bow catapult. Austin brought the Phantom to a smooth stop behind the catapult blast deflector. He watched the A-4 Skyhawk in front of him go to full power, waggle his controls back and forth, then hurtle down the deck and climb toward the sullen clouds.

Brad rechecked his instruments and armament panel as the blast deflector was lowered. Following the taxi director, Austin moved forward until his nose gear went up and over the catapult shuttle. He immediately stopped while the green-shirted cat crews hooked the bridle harness and holdback bar to his heavily laden fighter.

A deck crewman held up a plastic-covered board indicating the fighter's total takeoff weight. The steam pressure of the catapult launch would be predicated on the gross weight of the Phantom. Brad looked at the board, which indicated 49,000 pounds. He gave the weight checker a thumbs-up and swept the control stick backward, forward, left, and right to see if the flight controls were working properly. The catapult officer checked under the Phantom and gave Brad the two-finger turn-up signal.

Shoving the throttles forward, Brad focused on the engine instruments, then selected afterburner and glanced at the end of the flight deck. "Harness locked?"

"All set," Lunsford replied in a slightly strained voice. "Don't screw up."

Brad placed his left hand on the catapult grip that prevented the throttles from being retarded during the violent launch. He again scanned the engine parameters, feeling the Phantom shudder under full power.

Placing his helmet against the headrest, Brad snapped a salute to the yellow-shirted catapult officer and waited for the powerful kick in the back. The cat stroke would render the pilot immobile during the launch. Four seconds elapsed before the Phantom blasted down the deck, settled precariously close to the water, then entered a climbing right turn.

Snapping the gear up, Brad could hear Lunsford breathing in short gasps through the open intercom system. "You gonna make it, sailor?"

Lunsford slowed his breathing rate. "Yeah. Palmer is off.. good shot."

The Phantoms rendezvoused and joined on the tanker. Brad plugged the basket on his second attempt, filled his tanks to capacity, then backed out and drifted to the left so Palmer could top off his fuel load.

Tuned to the tanker frequency, Brad was surprised to hear the carrier call him on the 243.0 UHF Guard channel. "Joker Two Zero Eight, Checkerboard Strike on guard. Come up button seven."

This is unusual, Austin thought, sensing trouble. Or, he reasoned, the mission might have been canceled due to the rotten weather.

Brad dialed in the strike frequency. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Eight is up."

"Joker, Checkerboard. We've got a delay on the strike… stand by one."

Brad clicked his mike twice, watching Nick Palmer slide out of the basket. The Whale reeled in the refueling hose and banked into a shallow left turn.

Palmer, who had also heard the call from Checkerboard, came up on button seven. "Joker Two."

"Copy," Brad responded seconds before the carrier talker called.

"Joker Two Zero Eight, Strike."

Brad keyed his mike. "Joker, copy."

"Joker," the controller radioed without emotion, "we're holding for a weather check. Your flight is directed to make a reconnaissance sweep over the target area."

"Horseshit," Lunsford said over the intercom.

Looking at the folded map section on his kneeboard, Brad glanced toward the coast. The dark, rain-swollen clouds looked ominous. "Wilco, Checkerboard. We 'llrelay through Red Crown."

"Roger that."

The primary target was the Vu Chua highway and railroad bridge north of Hanoi. The combination support structure was a vital link in the North Vietnamese supply chain. The flight crews were aware that the target had been given a high priority.

Brad checked in with Red Crown, discussed the weather reconnaissance mission, then descended to 100 feet as the coastline appeared. The two F-4s, traveling at 450 knots, went feet dry south of Cam Pho.

Brad guessed the ceiling to be 1,800 to 2,000 feet with five to seven miles of visibility. The strike group could squeeze in, but it would be tight. Continuing toward the bridge, Brad was startled when antiaircraft fire erupted from the hills on both sides of the low-flying fighters.

"Jokers," Brad radioed, "let's light the pipes and get the hell out of here. Come hard starboard, and watch the foothills. They're obscured by clouds."

"Two," Palmer replied, breathing heavily, "is tucked in tight. Pull as hard as you want."

The Phantoms, thundering over the gun emplacements, were hit by several rounds of fire as they rolled into the tight turn. Brad glanced back and forth at his annunciator panel. So far, so good.

"MiGs!" Harry Hutton shouted from the backseat of Joker 2. "They're… I see three of them comin' down the valley — right on our six! Ah… they're seventeens. Three MiG-17s!"

Brad, flying low and bleeding off airspeed in the turn, stole a quick peek. "Shit." He looked out ahead, knowing the MiGs were flying at terminal velocity. There was no escape. They would have to engage the rapidly overtaking MiGs.

"Nick," Brad called, looking back over his shoulder, "they're overrunning us. Idle and boards… NOW!"

Palmer yanked his throttles back to the stops and popped his speed brakes out. "Let's get down on the deck!"

"Doin' it," Brad replied, shoving his stick forward. "They're going to overshoot." The MiGs could not slow quickly enough to keep from overtaking the Phantoms in the narrow valley.

Hutton, seeing two of the three MiGs pull up in a climbing turn, radioed his friend. "Brad, you've got one comin' over the top… two o'clock high. The other two are running — I've lost them."

Slamming the throttles into afterburner, Brad retracted the speed brakes and reefed the fighter into a tight, climbing turn. He immediately reversed to the left, squarely on the MiG's tail.

The North Vietnamese pilot, painfully aware of his error, dove for the edge of the gently sloping hills. His two wingmen had disappeared in the low overcast.

Palmer pulled up in a sweeping wingover. "You've got him, Joker. Shoot! Shoot!"

Inhaling sharply, Brad and Russ were squashed into their seats under the heavy g load. Their faces sagged as they felt the onset of gray-out.

The MiG pilot banked hard, racing toward the other side of the valley. He was 400 feet above the ground when the Phantom, 2,000 feet behind and closing, flew through the MiG's powerful wingtip-generated vortices. The phenomenon was familiar to all pilots.

The Phantom, straining under the heavy g load, hit the twin horizontal tornadoes, shed the port Sidewinder missiles and ejector rail, then snapped inverted to a nose low attitude.

"Oh!" Brad groaned, shoving the stick forward while desperately pushing on the left rudder. He was upside down, petrified by the trees rushing up to kill him. He was too terrified to utter a sound.

The F-4 twisted in a 7-g rolling pullout, then slammed through a stand of trees in an exploding hail of branches and debris.

"God… damn!" Brad shouted as the heavily damaged jet fighter, rolling upright, shot skyward. "Sweet mother of Jesus… we're alive." His heart hammered so hard that he suffered chest pains.

Afraid to open his eyes, Russ Lunsford spoke in a low, reverent voice. "If I ever get back on the ground, I promise you God, I'll go to church every Sunday… I promise." He gulped a deep breath of oxygen. "Thank you, precious God."

Brad was startled by the master caution light and annunciator-panel lights glowing. The bright red fire-warning light caught his attention. He looked down at the engine tachometers and exhaust gas temperature indicators. The starboard engine was surging from the tremendous amount of debris it had ingested.

Brad could feel the vibration from the straining J-79. The powerful engine was quickly succumbing to the foreign-object damage. He retarded the right throttle to idle, then cutoff. The smoking, overheated turbojet ground to a shuddering halt.

Brad and Russ were looking over their shoulders, trying to locate the MiG-17, when they heard Palmer's excited voice.

"I've got him! Got a tone!"

Austin saw the MiG heading up the valley, scud-running beneath the overcast. Palmer, 100 feet below and 3,000 feet behind the MiG, fired two Sidewinders. Brad watched the first missile detonate in a brilliant flash to the right of the MiG. The second Sidewinder exploded under the fighter but failed to destroy the aircraft.

Swearing to himself, Palmer fired his last two heat-seeking missiles. His soliloquy continued unchecked as both Sidewinders, two seconds apart, detonated under the belly of the damaged MiG-17.

The blast blew off the tail of the fighter in a blinding flash. The MiG continued to fly momentarily, trailing vapor and smoke, before exploding in an orange-black fireball. The pilot ejected from the tumbling fuselage seconds before the burning MiG hit the ground. His parachute never had time to fully deploy before he slammed into the ground next to the remains of his fighter.

"I got him!" Palmer shouted over the radio. "Good kill!"

Brad pushed his left throttle forward and banked into a shallow turn to expedite the rendezvous with Palmer. "Nick, I've got major problems."

"Yeah," Palmer replied, trying to slow his breathing rate, "I saw you go through the trees."

Hutton keyed his radio. "Brad, we're coming up your port side. Let's get feet wet and back to the boat."

Austin looked at the lights on his annunciator panel and scanned his instruments. The airspeed indicator was inoperative. The PC-1 hydraulic system indicated zero pressure. The PC-2 was fluctuating and the utility system remained steady.

"Nick," Austin said, "take the lead and keep your speed below two-fifty. I've lost an engine and I don't have any airspeed indication. I've got a lot of buffeting and I don't want this baby to come apart."

"Roger," Palmer radioed as he pulled even with Austin's fighter and surveyed the damage. The right engine intake was crumpled and partially collapsed against the fuselage. The wings were dented and deeply scored, with long scrapes near the fuselage. "You need to send a thank-you card to McDonnell-Douglas."

Looking back at his wings, Brad was astounded by the extent of damage his aircraft had sustained. The leading edges of both wings were mangled. Pieces of tree limbs and leaves were embedded in or protruded from both wings. Brad had to bank the aircraft slightly to the right, while adding a touch of left rudder, to maintain coordinated flight.

Palmer crossed under the battered F-4 and stabilized in a loose parade formation. "You guys have the best camouflaged Fox-4 in Southeast Asia."

Scanning the left engine gauges, Brad inched the throttle forward. "Nick, do you see anything that is an immediate threat? Any fluids?"

Palmer scrutinized the crumpled centerline fuel tank. "You've got a lot of damage, and fluid is leaking from a couple of holes. Your centerline tank is smashed beyond recognition. It's sort of canted to the side. I'd just leave well enough alone and not try to jettison it."

"Rog," Brad replied, watching Palmer move into the lead position. "Does it look like fuel or hydraulic fluid?"

"I can't really tell."

"Nick, I'm going to punch off my starboard pylon." "Roger," Palmer replied, turning to watch Austin's right missile rack fall away.

Hutton looked back at the crippled fighter. "Jesus, Brad, it looks like you're flying a shrub."

Still shaking, Lunsford raised his helmet visor and keyed his radio switch. "How about canning the goddamn monologue, and get us back to the boat."

Palmer checked his airspeed at 250 knots, thinking about the MiG-17 he had just shot down. The reality was difficult to comprehend. "Jokers, switch to Red Crown."

"Switchin'."

Palmer waited for the shoreline to pass under him, glanced at his wingman, then called the radar picket ship. "Red Crown, Joker Two Oh Two."

"Joker Two Zero Two, Red Crown."

Turning in the general direction of the carrier, Palmer added power and started a gentle climb. "The weather over the target area is miserable and getting worse. Advise canceling the strike."

"Copy that," the controller replied. "Squawk One Three Three Seven. Do you need a tanker?"

"Stand by one," Palmer answered, looking over his shoulder at Austin. Nick Palmer believed they should get the damaged fighter on the carrier as quickly as possible, unless Austin needed fuel. Palmer would be tight on fuel, but he felt confident that he could fly to the ship without a problem. "Need any gas, Brad?"

"Negative. I've got enough to make the boat."

Palmer steepened the climb and reset his IFF. "Red Crown, we're okay on fuel, but my wingman has had a fender bender and we need a ready deck on arrival."

"Wait one," the controller responded, punching up another frequency. He contacted the carrier, relayed the weather information, and informed them about the inbound emergency.