Rules of Engagement (1991) (3 page)

"Joker Two, say fuel state," Brad said into his sweat-soaked oxygen mask.

"Nine hundred pounds," Bailey replied at the same time that Austin caught a glimpse of the KA-3B commencing the rendezvous turn.

"Tally!" Brad radioed in an excited voice. "I have a tally at eleven o'clock, in a port turn."

Three seconds passed before Bailey saw the tanker. "Joker Two has the Whale. Probe coming out."

Brad extended his refueling nozzle and glanced at Bailey's Phantom. Joker 2 had his probe in the open-and-locked position.

"Joker's cleared to plug," the tanker pilot said. "We have the drogue out, indicating two-fifty. We'll increase the speed after you're aboard."

Austin clicked his mike twice and concentrated on the join-up. The Phantoms had a closure rate on the KA-3B in excess of 160 miles per hour. The fighter pilots would have their hands full trying to slow down in the last few seconds before they rendezvoused.

Brad watched the tanker fill his windshield. The F-4s were less than 400 yards from the Skywarrior. "I'm moving out to the side, Skipper."

"Roger," Bailey replied, pulling his throttles back. "Idle and boards."

Brad clicked his mike, reduced power to idle, and extended his speed brakes. The two Phantoms, although slowing rapidly, were about to fly past the tanker. Brad moved farther to the right and cross-controlled the F-4 to avoid a collision.

"Goddamnit!" Lunsford swore as the fighter yawed sideways. "I'm gonna jump out of this sonuvabitch if you don't get it under control."

"Relax," Brad replied as the tanker's wing tip stabilized twenty feet to the left of the F-4.

"Snowball," Bailey radioed, standing his Phantom on its side, "pick it up to three hundred knots."

"Roger."

Brad watched closely as Bailey stopped cross-controlling and rolled the thirsty fighter level. The CO moved smoothly toward the basket on the end of the fuel hose, then suddenly fell back.

"I've flamed out!" Bailey radioed. "Snowball, toboggan and maintain the speed you have!"

"Wilco," the tanker pilot replied as he lowered the nose. He held the aircraft in a twenty-degree dive and eased the throttles back.

Bailey's General Electric J-79 engines were still windmilling, providing hydraulic power to the flight controls during his chase after the basket.

"Jesus Christ," Lunsford said over the intercom. His breathing was labored. "Come on, boss, get in the basket. Get it . . . nail it.

* * *

Bailey rammed the drogue, knocking it aside twice. Brad called out altitudes as the three aircraft plummeted toward the Gulf of Tonkin. "Five thousand three hundred . . . five . . . four point six . . . four . . . three point five . . . three . . ."

Lunsford watched Ernie Sheridan reach over his helmet for the ejection-seat handle. "Don't pull it," he said to himself. "Don't blow the skipper out of the driver's seat."

Brad released his mike switch when the CO mated with the basket and shoved the drogue forward.

"Fuel flow!" the tanker pilot radioed, sounding as if he was hyperventilating.

Brad looked at his altimeter and keyed his mike again. "Two point four . . . two . . . one point seven--"

"Light off!" Bailey said as Austin and Lunsford saw a ball of red-orange flame shoot out of the right tail pipe of the Phantom.

"I'm pulling out!" the tanker pilot radioed, easing the Skywarrior level at 400 feet above the water.

"I've got . . . the starboard engine on line," Bailey said in gasps. "Let's start a shallow climb . . . get some altitude so I can get an air start on the other engine."

Emotionally drained, Ernie Sheridan lowered his hands and slumped in his seat.

"Roger," the KA-3B pilot responded in a voice one octave higher than normal. "We'll drag you to the boat."

"Joker One," Bailey asked as the three aircraft climbed through 1,700 feet, "how's your gas?"

Brad looked at his fuel indicator and fudged. He did not want to add any additional pressure to his CO. "I'm fat, Skipper. Take your time."

"Fat, my ass," Lunsford said sarcastically over the intercom. "Just out for a Sunday drive . . . no problem."

The radios remained quiet while the flight climbed to 8,000 feet. Brad, staring at 1,100 pounds of fuel remaining, was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He glanced at Bailey's Phantom. It was still streaming kerosene at an alarming rate.

"Okay, Snowball," Bailey radioed, "I'm showing three grand. I'm going to back out and try an air start."

"Roger."

Bailey's probe slid out of the basket. "Brad, jump in there and grab a quick drink."

"I'm on it," Austin replied, moving smoothly behind the Whale. "Joker One is plugging."

Brad inched his throttles forward and placed his nozzle in the basket. He shoved the hose forward until the fuel started flowing.

"Fuel flow," the tanker pilot confirmed.

"Concur," Brad responded, then watched the internal fuel-quantity indicator climb. The precious fluid surged into his dry tanks. When the fuel gauge showed 2,200 pounds, Austin backed out of the basket and again moved out to the right. "Thanks for the gas."

"Roger."

Brad caught a glimpse of the CO as he hurtled past the tanker. Bailey was in a high-speed dive, windmilling his left engine in an attempt to relight the J-79. He pulled out 2,000 feet below Austin.

"I've got 'em both on line," Bailey radioed, speaking in a slower, calmer voice. "I'm going to plug again."

Brad watched Bailey climb back to the tanker, then called the carrier. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Seven."

The carrier air-traffic controller answered without hesitation. "Joker Two Zero Seven, Strike. We have been informed of your emergency. We're shooting another tanker. You'll have a ready deck on arrival. Your signal is charlie on arrival."

Austin was relieved. They were cleared to land on arrival. His radio navigation instrument, the TACAN, had locked onto the carrier's homing beacon. They would be over the carrier in eleven minutes. Brad switched back to the tanker frequency.

"Joker Two, we're charlie on arrival. You will land first, and we've got another tanker on the way."

"Copy," Bailey replied as he continued taking on fuel. "You're doing a super job . . . for a jarhead."

Brad's oxygen mask concealed his grin.

Chapter
2.

The last aircraft on the carrier in the scheduled launch cycle was sitting on the waist catapult when the Air Boss heard about the inbound emergency.

He waited until the A-4 Skyhawk was safely airborne, then ordered an emergency pull forward of all the airplanes on the fantail. The next aircraft-recovery cycle was not scheduled for another twenty-five minutes. Seven airplanes had to be quickly moved from the area behind the arresting-gear wires.

The Air Boss, in Primary Fly (Pri-Fly), the control tower on the carrier, gave commands over the 5-MC loudspeaker system to the flight-deck crew. The men responded in a well-orchestrated, fast-paced effort to clear the landing area.

The blue-shirted aircraft handlers scurried around the deck, moving planes to the bow. Two "hot suit" members of the crash crew donned silvery asbestos garments, topped by see-through fire-retardant helmets.

The plane-guard helicopter landed and was immediately hot-refueled with the engine running. After fresh pilots had strapped in, the Kaman Seasprite "angel" lifted off and flew along the starboard side of the carrier. The rescue swimmer, clad in a full wet suit, sat in the helicopter's open door with his legs hanging down.

Below decks, medical corpsmen were prepared to treat the inbound flight crews. Topside, four seasoned corpsmen waited for the crippled Phantom to appear. Between the quartet of medical experts, they had helped rescue twenty-seven aircrewmen.

The tension was felt throughout the carrier as the flight-deck crew received continuous updates on the position of the F-4s. Every minute was critical for the aircraft handlers.

Brad listened while the second KA-3B checked in on tanker frequency. The Whale, flying at full power, started a tight rendezvous turn and glided into position off Bailey's left wing. The hose and drogue were already reeling out when the tanker stabilized next to the Phantoms.

Russ Lunsford was impressed by the skill of the Skywarrior pilot. "That guy is shit hot."

"Yeah, both of the Whale drivers are good," Brad replied as he wiped the perspiration from under his chin. He keyed his radio transmit button. "Snowballs, let's go approach frequency. We're getting close in."

"Copy."

"Wilco."

"Joker Two."

Brad looked at the CO and switched to approach. He listened to the controller while Bailey deftly unplugged from the tanker and moved over to the second Skywarrior. The CO, trailing a steady stream of jet fuel, coasted into position behind the KA-3B and nimbly plugged the bobbing basket on his first attempt.

"Approach, Joker Two Oh Seven with you at twelve miles." Brad could see the carrier's churning wake.

"Joker Two Zero Seven, approach. The Boss wants Two Zero Four to begin his approach abeam the carrier."

Brad looked at Bailey. The CO gave him a thumbs-up. "Jokers, copy."

The four aircraft, descending slowly to 600 feet, were flying toward the bow of the carrier. They were in a perfect position to land out of the downwind alignment.

"Joker Two," Brad radioed when the TACAN indicated eight miles. "Let's dirty up."

"Roger," Bailey responded as he unplugged from the tanker and dropped back fifty feet. "Thanks, Snowballs. I owe each crew a case of spirits."

"We'll take you up on that. Catch a three wire." The tankers added full power and climbed straight ahead to orbit the carrier.

Brad directed his attention to Bailey, waiting for him to stabilize in formation. "Gear . . . now."

The CO dropped his landing gear in sequence with his flight leader, then lowered his flaps and arresting-gear hook. Bailey's Phantom, with the exception of the streaming fuel, looked normal to Austin and Lunsford.

"Gear down," Brad informed the controller.

The pilots and their radar-intercept officers, about to land their jet fighters on board an aircraft carrier, felt their heartbeats accelerating. The task was considered to be one of the most dangerous operations in aviation.

"Two Zero Seven," the controller said in a laconic voice, "extend downwind and turn in at five miles."

"Wilco," Brad replied, running through his landing checklist.

The two Phantoms passed abeam the ship at the same time that the approach controller switched them to the landing-signal officer.

The LSO, standing on a platform on the port side of the four arresting-gear wires, braced himself against the thirty-two-knot wind. He could see a trail of frothy white jet fuel streaming out of his commanding officer's F-4.

Lieutenant Nicholas Palmer, newly qualified squadron LSO, keyed his hand-held radio receiver. "Skipper, you're lookin' good. Keep it coming."

Bailey remained quiet, concentrating on his angle of attack. Navy and Marine Corps carrier pilots did not refer to their airspeed indicators for landing information. They were trained to fly at optimum angle of attack.

The CO added power, rounding the ninety-degree position from his final lineup. The center angle-of-attack doughnut lighted again, indicating that the F-4 was "on speed."

Nick Palmer, considered one of the squadron's "hot sticks," watched the approach with a critical eye. He saw the Phantom go slightly low but waited for his CO to catch the mistake. "Call the ball."

The "meatball," located behind the LSO platform, was a bright yellow-orange light between a horizontal row of green reference lights. The highly visible light provided the aviators with a visual glide slope to the flight deck. If the pilot allowed the ball to rise above the datum lights, he was high. If the ball went low, he was in danger of striking the aft end of the carrier, the flight-deck round-down. If the pilot kept the ball centered all the way to touchdown, he would theoretically snag the third arresting-gear wire.

Seeing the meatball come into view, Bailey concentrated on lineup and angle of attack. The LSO could see the amber yellow "on speed" light shining brightly from the CO's nose-landinggear door. The angle-of-attack indication that the pilot saw on his glare shield was displayed simultaneously by one of the three lights on his nose-gear door.

"Phantom ball," Bailey radioed. "Two point one."

In the squadron ready room, located directly below the flight deck, Bailey's men watched their skipper on closed-circuit television. The pilots and radar-intercept officers, sitting quietly, stared at the screen as the damaged F-4 grew larger. The tension mounted as the crippled aircraft approached the fantail of the carrier.

High on the flight-deck side of the island superstructure, sailors crowded "vulture's row" to watch the tense drama unfold. They could hear the distinctive high-pitched howls from the jet engines as Bailey jockeyed the throttles to keep the ball centered. The Phantom, racing toward the end of the carrier deck, continued to spew a long stream of jet fuel.