Rules of Engagement

Chapter 9

Brad and Russ sat in their idling Phantom, waiting to taxi forward when the port blast deflector was lowered. Bull Durham, on the starboard catapult, went to full military power, then selected afterburner. Bright orange flames shot out of the twin tail pipes as the deafening roar swept over the flight deck.

Brad watched his flight leader snap a salute to the cat officer. Four seconds later, the F-4 thundered down the catapult, rotated, settled low over the choppy water, then climbed to the departure altitude.

Nick Palmer, ahead of Brad's Phantom, taxied onto the number two catapult while Jon O'Meara and his RIO, Mario Russo, taxied over the starboard-cat shuttle.

The green-shirted deck crewmen quickly hooked O'Meara's F-4 to the number one cat, then scurried out from under the heavily laden fighter.

Palmer went into afterburner and rocketed down the deck in a repeat of Durham's launch. The blast deflector was immediately lowered, allowing Brad to taxi onto the steaming catapult. He moved forward slowly and stopped when the nose wheel dropped over the shuttle.

Feeling tension taken on his fighter, Brad was coming up on the power when O'Meara's F-4 was fired. The Phantom, carrying a 600-gallon centerline fuel tank, erupted in flames when the fuel cell split open from the g force. The torrent of fuel, ignited by the blazing afterburners, swept the length of the cat track.

"Oh, shit!" Brad exclaimed as his fighter came up to full throttle. He was afraid to reduce power in the event that his F-4 was fired intentionally, or accidentally.

O'Meara's F-4, trailing twenty feet of orange flames, hurtled off the deck and climbed unsteadily. O'Meara, hearing a frantic call from the Air Boss, jettisoned the ruptured fuel tank. Brad and Russ watched it tumble harmlessly into the water.

Billowing black smoke engulfed Brad's Phantom as the cat officer rushed up and gave him the catapult-suspend signal. Austin could hear Lunsford swearing in the backseat. Brad pulled his power to idle at the same moment the Air Boss yelled over the radio to shoot Austin's F-4.

"Sonuvabitch!" Brad swore, shoving the throttles forward again. The power was passing ninety-six percent when the Phantom squatted down and blasted the length of the catapult track.

"Stay with me, Lunsford!" Brad ordered as the afterburners lighted with a resounding boom. The F-4 settled low over the water, kicking up spray as Brad popped the gear lever up and tweaked the nose down to take advantage of the cushion of air between the Phantom's wings and the water. Lunsford held his breath and gripped the alternate ejection-seat handle between his thighs.

The compressed layer of air, known as ground effect, would allow the fighter to stay in the air until Brad had enough speed to climb. It was not in the book, but Brad knew it was their only chance to salvage the aircraft.

Slowly, Brad nursed the howling Phantom out of ground effect and started climbing. His left hand, holding the throttles in afterburner, was shaking.

"Goddamnit!" Lunsford shouted, gulping oxygen, "we've gotta be out of our goddamn minds."

Brad let the Phantom accelerate before switching to the carrier Strike frequency. He deselected afterburner, then waited while the controller explained to Durham what had happened during the launch.

O'Meara and Russo were holding overhead to trap after the launch was complete. The Air Boss, afraid that Austin's fighter might catch fire and explode, had fired the F-4 off the catapult. The fuel fire had been extinguished with only minor injuries to the deck crewmen.

"Joker Two Oh Three up," Brad radioed, calming himself while Lunsford, ranting over the intercom, continued to cast disparaging remarks about the Air Boss and his mother.

"Bring it aboard, Brad," Bull Durham acknowledged. "You doin' all right?"

"Roger that," Austin replied as evenly as possible. He was grateful that no one could see his shaking hands. "I have you at one o'clock."

"Copy," Durham said, then added, "you are now Dash Three." Brad clicked his mike twice and spoke to his RIO. "Russ, let's get it together."

"I'm gonna kill that sonuvabitch," Lunsford responded, breathing unevenly. "He fired us before we were ready."

"Calm down, for Christ's sake. He was just doing his job.. and we need to do ours, okay?"

Exhaling sharply, Lunsford looked at Bull Durham's airplane. "I guaran-goddamn-tee you one thing."

"What's that?" Brad asked absently as he approached the two Phantoms.

"You are never going to pull the power back again unless the cat officer is standing in front of the goddamn airplane."

Brad started to respond, then decided to discuss the incident after his RIO had had an opportunity to calm himself. At the moment, they needed to concentrate on their mission.

The three-ship formation climbed in silence to the KA-3B Skywarriors waiting for them, checked in on the tanker frequency, and then topped off their fuel tanks.

Departing the Whales, Joker Flight checked in with Red Crown and headed toward Thanh Hoa. The target would be an industrial site heavily defended by surface-to-air missiles and antiaircraft batteries. The three F-4s separated into a loose combat spread, with Austin in the middle 1,000 feet behind and 500 feet higher than Jokers 1 and 2.

Durham entered a wide orbit at 16,000 feet and listened to another flight of Phantoms check in with the leader of the strike group.

Ninety seconds later, the lead A-4 pilot commenced his run-in from the southwest of Thanh Hoa. The sky suddenly filled with exploding AAA fire and SAMs. The fourth Skyhawk pulled off the burning target as the flight leader of the second group released his ordnance and snapped into a ninety-degree climbing turn.

Brad, constantly scanning the sky and ground, caught a glimpse of the number three Skyhawk at the instant it was hit by a SAM. The A-4 disintegrated in a brilliant fireball, raining flaming debris on the target. The pilot never had a chance to eject.

"MiGs!" Ernie Sheridan shouted over the radio. "Four MiG17s at three o'clock low!"

The camouflaged MiGs, concealed by a thin cloud cover at 3,000 feet, had slipped into the area undetected. Passing 2,000 feet, the enemy fighters had been seen by the radar picket ship.

"This is Red Crown! We hold bogies climbing over the target. Repeat, we have bogies over the target."

Durham acknowledged the frantic call and rolled toward the rapidly approaching MiGs. "Jokers engaging! Drop tanks!" The three Phantom pilots simultaneously punched off their centerline fuel tanks.

Durham shoved the nose down, rolling to the right, and lined up for a head-on pass. The three fighter pilots saw the MiGs' 23mm cannons wink at them as the F-4s slashed through the Communists' formation. The MiG pilots broke in two directions, one section going low, the other two aircraft going high.

Bull Durham elected to go for the two pilots who had pulled up. "Hard starboard, goin' burner!"

The high MiGs went into a slow weave as the F-4s shot skyward. Durham, recognizing they were in danger of overshooting the MiGs, pulled his power to idle. "Jokers, go idle!"

Austin and Palmer had anticipated the call as they rapidly closed on the MiGs. They retarded their throttles and cracked open the speed brakes a few inches. Lunsford and Hutton were twisting their heads left and right, checking their sixes for the other two bogies.

"I'll take the one on the left!" Durham announced, then fired a heat-seeking Sidewinder. The MiG pilots, seeing the missile ignite, pulled into a diving high-g turn. The Sidewinder, unable to guide during the evasive maneuver, shot over the MiG and accelerated out of sight.

"The two on the deck," Hutton radioed in gasps, "are raising their noses!"

"Jokers, Showboat is engaging the low gomers!" The second Phantom target combat air patrol was entering the aerial fray.

"Roger, roger," Durham panted, violently rolling his Phantom to follow the diving MiGs. "They're running for their sanctuary… burners!"

The MiG-17s, flying close to 430 knots, were heading straight for Phuc Yen. The MiG pilots, diving steeply, had gained the knowledge that the U. S. missiles had a difficult time locking onto targets close to the ground.

The downside for the MiG pilots was the problem their aircraft had flying at high speeds close to the terrain. Not having hydraulically powered flight controls, the Vietnamese pilots had very little control authority. The faster they flew, the more aerodynamic resistance they encountered. Since the MiG pilots could not perform abrupt maneuvers, they were forced to run for safety once the Americans had the advantage.

"Cover us, Brad," Durham radioed as he bottomed out 100 feet above the ground. "Nick, take the one on the right."

Two seconds later, Palmer got a tone and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. "Sonuvabitch!" The Sidewinder remained on the launch rail while Palmer frantically checked his armament switches.

"Jokers!" the Showboat flight leader called. "You have two MiGs on your six… the ones who went low. We can't shoot — they 're directly between us." Showboat Lead was afraid his missiles would hit Joker Flight.

Flying at 2,000 feet, Brad rolled his fighter, holding it inverted. "Joker Three is rolling in on the trailing gomers."

Durham heard the insistent growl of the Sidewinder tone. He fired the missile at minimum range, then experienced a chill as red tracers slashed by his canopy. The heat-seeking projectile arced up, then nosed down and flew into the ground.

Swearing to himself, Durham keyed his radio switch. "Nick, break hard starboard… NOW! Nose coming up."

Brad was closing on the trailing MiGs at 600 knots when the Showboat flight leader and his wingman fired their Sidewinders. Seeing the two smoke trails, Brad yanked his screaming fighter into an 8-g vertical climb. He rolled to keep the enemy in sight, then saw the trailing MiG-17 disintegrate and impact in the middle of a 37mm AAA emplacement. The other MiG pilot raced for the safety of Phuc Yen.

Keying his mike, Brad spoke icily. "Showboat, Joker Three. I'm on the same team, guy."

"Sorry, didn't see you."

Brad pulled through the top of his evasive maneuver and searched for Durham and Palmer. He spotted the two Phantoms at the same instant his flight leader called.

"Joker Three, rejoin and let's cover the strike group." "Joker Three is at your five, closing," Brad replied, searching the sky for other MiGs.

The three F-4s accelerated to Mach 1.1 as they chased after the departing strike aircraft. The sky erupted with antiaircraft fire as they passed due north of Thanh Hoa. The white bursts looked like a fireworks display.

"SAMs! SAMs!" Harry Hutton yelled, blocking out Ernie Sheridan's warning call. "We've got SAMs at two and three o'clock!"

"Hard starboard!" Durham ordered, trying to out-turn the missiles. The SAMs looked like flying telephone poles as they rapidly accelerated.

Brad was 300 feet behind Durham when the first SAM, turning hard, exploded next to his flight leader's right wing. The F-4 flipped over on its back, then slowly rolled right side up. The second missile exploded above and behind Nick Palmer.

Momentarily paralyzed, Brad flew into the exploding debris from the first SAM. He and Russ Lunsford felt a vicious jolt, then became disoriented in the fog that had instantaneously filled the cockpit.

Seeing the master caution light glowing, Brad snapped his tinted helmet visor up. He quickly scanned his annunciator panel, noting that they were not in imminent danger, then searched for Durham and Palmer.

He was shocked to see Bull Durham's Phantom trailing a sheet of flames. "Joker One, you're on fire!"

There was no response from the burning fighter.

Palmer radioed a second later. "Bull, you've got fire — you're trailing fire from your belly!"

Still no answer from the blazing F-4.

"He's lost his radio," Lunsford said, noting the strange noise that had invaded their cockpit. He looked around, taking inventory, then stared in awe. "Brad! You've got a chunk of your canopy missing!"

Tilting his head back, Brad saw the jagged, grapefruit-sized hole at the forward right side of his canopy bow. His eyes darted back to Durham. "Joker One, do you copy?"

Brad's padded earphones remained quiet a moment before Palmer called.

"Three, you hanging in?"

Looking closer at his annunciator panel, Brad analyzed the lighted anomalies. One generator had been knocked off the line and numerous circuit breakers had popped. Austin reset the generator, then pushed in the circuit breakers. "Yeah, Nick, we're okay."

Durham's aircraft was burning furiously as the three Phantoms passed over the beach. Palmer and Austin closed in on their flight leader. Durham was busy, trying to get as far out to sea as possible. Each second meant a better chance for survival.

Glancing at Ernie Sheridan, Brad was astounded to see him leaning as far forward as he could wedge himself. The fire had engulfed the fuselage, melting the back of the RIO's canopy. Durham was aware they were on fire.

"Brad," Palmer radioed, "come up Red Crown."

"Switchin' Red Crown."

"Red Crown, Joker Two Oh Seven, emergency!" Palmer radioed, moving a safe distance away from Durham's intensely burning Phantom.

"Joker, say emergency."

"Red Crown, our flight leader is on fire," Palmer began, then stopped when the left engine of Durham's F-4 exploded, blowing off the tail.

Horrified, Brad held his breath while the blazing Phantom tumbled end over end. A half second later, Durham and Sheridan ejected from the wreckage of their fighter.

Nick Palmer banked steeply to the left to circle his former flight leader. Palmer was now Joker 1, with Brad as Dash 2.

"Correction, Red Crown. They jumped over the side. We are orbiting over them now."

"We hold you in radar contact," the controller responded in a reassuring tone, "three miles offshore. We have helos on the way."

"Copy, Red Crown," Palmer replied, then talked to Austin.

"Joker Two, say fuel state."

"Five point one," Brad replied, spotting activity along the shore. He watched Durham and Sheridan splash into the water.

Both men quickly shed their parachutes and inflated their life rafts.

Completing another 360-degree turn, Brad was startled to see a North Vietnamese patrol boat leave a small dock. "Joker One, we've got a boat coming toward Bull and Ernie." Another minute passed as the patrol vessel continued toward the downed crew.

"Red Crown," Palmer radioed. "How far away are the helos? We've got company coming offshore."

"Stand by."

Brad talked to Lunsford during the pause. "Russ, I've got an idea. Over this cool water, we might be able to get a Sidewinder to lock onto the heat from that boat's engine."

"Jesus H. Christ," Lunsford said in a resigned voice. "Do you lie awake at night figuring out new ways to get us killed?"

"Joker, Red Crown. The helos will be overhead in eight to ten minutes."

Palmer calculated the speed and distance of the fast-moving patrol boat. "We don't have that long."

Brad looked down and keyed his mike. "Nick, I'm going down after the boat."

"Are you crazy?" Hutton said before Palmer could reply. "You don't have any guns. They'll blow your ass out of the sky on the first pass."

"Roger," is all that Palmer said. He understood Brad Austin. They were both highly trained, motivated aerial hunters. When the pilots were confronted with what appeared to be an insurmountable obstacle, the two aviators would improvise to accomplish their objective. They were determined to take care of their brotherhood.

Austin carefully checked his armament panel and switches, selected HEAT, and rolled the Phantom inverted into a plummeting split-S maneuver. Brad pulled out of the dive at two hundred feet and circled the patrol craft, closing from the stern of the vessel.

Indicating 460 knots, Brad eased down to fifty feet above the water. Two machine guns opened fire from the patrol boat a second before Brad heard the familiar Sidewinder tone. He squeezed the trigger and watched in fascination as the missile climbed away, tucked down, then leveled out a fraction of a second before it slammed into the boat. The stern of the vessel lifted out of the water as the entire bridge area was blown off the hull.

"Shit hot!" Palmer shouted. "Fantastic!"

Brad snatched the stick back, rolling the aircraft inverted to view the devastation below. The patrol boat, now out of control, was heeling to port and rapidly decelerating. Austin rolled upright to check the whereabouts of Palmer's F-4, then rolled inverted again. The heavily damaged patrol boat was almost dead in the water, listing to port.

"Red Crown," Palmer radioed exuberantly, "my wingman has eliminated our problem."

"Copy, Joker. We have a tanker at your one one zero for fifty."

Palmer checked his fuel-quantity indicator. The gauge showed 4,700 pounds. "Joker Two, go gas up, and come back and relieve us.

"On our way," Brad replied, shoving his throttles forward to full military power. Passing 9,000 feet, Austin and Lunsford heard the rescue-helicopter pilots check in with Red Crown and Palmer.

Brad continued to monitor the frequency, anxious for the rescue effort to be successful. Three minutes later, Austin heard Nick Palmer tell Red Crown that the marine helicopters were over the downed crew.

Palmer circled another minute while he watched Durham and Sheridan struggle into their rescue collars, then radioed that Joker 1 was departing for the tanker.