Rules of Engagement

Chapter 8

The evening movie was just beginning in the squadron ready room when Brad Austin and Harry Hutton reported to the CO's quarters. Brad adjusted his uniform and knocked.

"Come in," Dan Bailey invited, writing at his desk. His stateroom, although designed to accommodate only one person, was larger than the two-man rooms assigned to the junior officers.

Nick Palmer and Russ Lunsford were seated in two metal chairs against the bulkhead. They reminded Brad of two kids who had been sent to the principal's office.

Bailey motioned to his bunk. "Have a seat." "Congratulations, Nick," Brad said as he and Hutton sat on the neatly made bed. "And thanks for getting us to the fantail." "The MiG," Palmer replied earnestly, "should have been yours. You had him pegged."

Bailey set down his reports, including the operational loss of Austin's Phantom. He removed his reading glasses and turned to Brad.

"The XO is investigating my accident, so Jocko will handle your incident. He will go over the details with you later this evening."

"Yes, sir," Brad responded, seeing the indelibly imprinted picture of the trees rushing at him. He wondered if the sight of death only a split second away would ever fade from his memory.

At the request of the CO, Austin and Lunsford recounted the facts pertaining to the encounter with the trees and the succeeding barricade landing.

Palmer and Hutton remained quiet, enthralled with the story. They had seen the tape of Brad's crash landing, shown over and over in the ready room, and still had trouble believing what they had seen. When the landing sequence had been detailed by Austin and Lunsford, the CO shut his cabin door.

"First," Bailey said, sitting back in his chair, "I want to again add my congratulations to Nick and Harry. However, and there always seems to be a 'however,' we need to chat about a few things."

Austin and Hutton nodded. Palmer and Lunsford felt a sense of uneasiness but remained quiet.

"I've addressed most of the squadron this afternoon, but I wanted to talk to the four of you in private." Bailey saw concern beginning to appear in Lunsford's eyes.

"Nothing major, gentlemen. Just a chat about philosophy and survival in our arena."

Brad relaxed, anxious to be candid with his skipper.

"I want to discuss," Bailey began, "our basic mission, how to accomplish the objectives as safely as possible, and the growing unrest and resentment over the current rules of engagement." Bailey's eyes, moving easily from face to face, detected an involuntary twitch on Brad's face.

"We are here to do our jobs as efficiently and safely as possible. Although Nick scored a kill, we can't afford to trade plane for plane. The squadron has two MiGs, but we've lost, for practical purposes, two F-4s."

Forcing himself to remain quiet, Brad shifted forward.

"We are not in a position," the CO said, "to question policy in regard to targeting, or how the course of battle is to be conducted."

Bailey leaned forward and focused on Austin. "Brad, I sense that a part of your aggressiveness is borne out of frustration. Would that be a fair assessment?"

Brad swallowed. "Sir, may I be candid?"

"That's why we are having this little discussion off the record."

"Skipper," Brad hesitated, "if someone could explain to me why we are being placed in a no-win position, I'd like to hear the reason. It's as if we are being told not to win the war, just keep playing the same game and get more people killed."

Hutton and Lunsford exchanged concerned glances. Austin was stepping over the line.

"Sir," Brad continued, "keeping military targets off-limits is insane, or so it seems to me." Austin sighed. "Yes, my frustration level is very high. We could easily flatten Hanoi and Haiphong, mine the harbors, then put a choke hold across their supply line. The war would be over very quickly.

"I keep hearing," Brad continued, "that our leaders in Washington don't want to upset the major Communist powers — the same people who are providing the weapons that are shooting us down."

The stateroom became deathly quiet. Palmer quietly cleared his throat.

Nodding his head in agreement, Bailey directed his words to both crews. "I have to agree with Lieutenant Austin that we are using only a fraction of our military capabilities."

Bailey picked up his pen and flipped it back and forth between his index and middle fingers. "I empathize with Brad — with everyone who shares the resentment for being placed in jeopardy for little or no gain. The four-star commanding our Pacific forces, along with every military commander in the chain of command, is resentful of the needless deaths."

The CO again leaned back, staring distractedly at the overhead before speaking. "I have two points to make. One, we are not in a position to question the politics involved in these decisions. I happen to agree with Brad that the military strategy being formed in the White House is incompetent — morally reprehensible — but I emphasize that we took an oath, reposing of special trust and confidence, to uphold the orders of our commander in chief.

"We will continue to do our jobs," Bailey hesitated, "and pray that someone intervenes who has the wisdom and fortitude to win… or end this debacle."

Hutton glanced at his roommate. Austin appeared to be absorbing the frank conversation with a degree of understanding.

"The second point," Bailey continued, placing his pen down, "ties to the first. We have missions to fly, albeit with questionable targets, but missions just the same."

Inhaling deeply, Bailey gazed at the floor, exhaled, then moved his eyes from man to man. "I expect all of you to continue to be professional leaders, and duty bound. I want you to carry out your duties as safely as possible, and not let personal resentment cloud your logic."

"Yes, sir," Brad and Harry replied.

"Oh, one other item," Bailey said, remembering what he had emphasized to the flight crews in the ready room. "I don't want anyone trolling for MiGs. That is a violation of standing orders, and I will ground anyone who is caught hunting MiGs instead of flying the mission he was assigned."

"Sir," Brad said firmly, "we weren't trolling for MiGs. We'd been sent in to check the weather."

"I'm well aware of that. I reminded the rest of the squadron, and I am simply reminding you."

The silence made Brad uncomfortable.

"Now," Bailey said, standing, "I want all of you to get out of here so I can get some rest. We've got a double strike laid on for tomorrow."

The four junior officers stood when the CO got up from his chair. They respected him as a leader, pilot, and plain old-fashioned good friend.

Opening the door, Bailey turned to his men. "I intend for you to continue flying as a team. You're doing a hell of a job under difficult circumstances."

Brad Austin and Russ Lunsford sat in adjoining seats in the ready room. They had on their flight suits and were taking copious notes about the target combat air patrol they had been assigned. Across the aisle, Lt. Cdr. Lincoln Joshua "Bull" Durham, the TARCAP mission flight leader, sat with his RIO, Ernie Sheridan. Dirty Ernie, the senior and most experienced radar-intercept officer in the squadron, rotated flying with the senior pilots.

Lincoln Durham, a friendly and sensitive giant of a man, had been an All-American tackle at Grambling College. After a brief stint with the Chicago Bears, Bull Durham had opted to join the navy and become a fighter pilot. The black aviator had graduated from flight school in the top ten percent of his class.

Jack Carella reminded the men about safety, then finished the brief and wished the crews good luck.

Brad and Russ followed Durham and Sheridan out of the ready room and down the passageway to the musty-smelling locker room.

Stepping over the hatch combing, Brad turned to his friend, Bull Durham. "How's your wife doing?" Cordelia Durham had returned to George Washington University to complete her master's degree in political science.

"Fine," Durham replied, working his combination lock. "I had a letter from her day before yesterday. Her studies are going well, but she is concerned about the growing number of war protesters. I guess it's really getting ugly."

Brad opened his locker and grabbed his g suit. "Has she had any problems in regard to you being a fighter pilot?"

"I don't think so. Cordy is not the type to say much about the war, or express an opinion." Durham paused. "Besides, she probably wouldn't tell me if she did — wouldn't want to worry me."

Brad slipped on his snug, inflatable g suit. "When is she graduating?"

Durham zipped his g suit around his waist. "The end of next month. I'm going to try to go home for her graduation, and surprise her."

"That would be nice… if you can get off this tub." "Right."

"Tell her hello from the jarhead." Brad had met Cordelia Durham in Hong Kong during an extended port call. The quiet, gracious woman had flown over with four other squadron wives.

"I'll do that," Durham replied, sitting down to zip the legs of his g suit. He leaned closer to Brad, almost whispering. "Also got word last week that Cordy is pregnant."

Grinning, Brad stuck out his hand. "Congratulations, Papa San."

"Thanks," Durham laughed, shaking Austin's hand. "We're excited, to say the least."