Five more soldiers, crouching low and moving swiftly through the underbrush, approached their gravely wounded comrade. They had their rifles pointed in the general direction of the American pilot.
Rockwood aimed for their torsos and kept squeezing the trigger until the weapon was empty.
"I'm out of ammo," Rockwood radioed, breathing hard. He heard a series of loud cracks, then felt searing pain when a rifle round tore into his right shoulder.
Pulling the emergency radio to his mouth with his left hand, the wounded aviator activated the transmitter. "It's too late.. they've got me."
The next transmission was garbled, followed by a gasping plea. "I've… been hit again. Blow the tree line… to hell. That's an order."
A slight pause followed before the Skyraider leader keyed his mike. "We can't drop ordnance on one of our own people."
"Goddamnit!" Brad Austin swore loudly over the radio. "Lifeguard, you heard the commander. Vaporize his position."
"Roger," came the quiet reply. "Lifeguards in for a ripple pass. Drop it all on the tree line."
"So long, guys," Rockwood groaned, feeling the impact of another round.
Bull Durham, seething with anger and frustration, looked down at the point where Cdr. Frank Rockwood would lose his life. "Spades and Diamonds, light the burners and get over water ASAP."
"Roger."
Click, click.
Brad shoved the throttles to the stops and glanced at the executive officer's concealment. A moment later the entire area was pulverized by rockets and savage cannon fire.
Feeling the anguish of Rockwood's death, Brad was swept with revulsion. He let the Phantom accelerate well past the speed of sound as he tried to come to grips with the terrible tragedy.
Austin and Lunsford remained quiet as the coastline swept under the supersonic Phantom. There were no words to share the deep, personal pain of losing one of the best of the best.
Chapter 14
The mammoth carrier steamed smoothly through the placid South China Sea. A steady rain fell, reducing visibility to a mile and a half under the 1,800-foot overcast. The damp, oppressive humidity contributed to a general feeling of malaise throughout the ship. The officers and men were anxious to dock at Subic Bay, and enjoy the freedom and pleasures of shore leave.
Standing alone at the aft end of the hangar bay, Brad Austin stared past the fantail at the churning wake. His mind was numbed by a lack of sleep, and by the emotional memorial service for Frank Rockwood.
The chaplain, a monotonous man, had droned about Rockwood's wife and three children for more than fifteen minutes.
Dan Bailey, who had expected to hand the executive officer command of the squadron in less than three months, had finally stood and thanked the bewildered clergyman in mid-sentence.
The CO had immediately launched into a poignant eulogy that had left few dry eyes on the fo'c'sle. Losing Frank Rockwood, the skipper had choked, had been like losing a brother. Bailey had had to stop at that point, then uttered, "Tail winds always, Frank," and walked out drying his eyes.
The officers and men of the squadron had silently followed their commanding officer, each lost in his own thoughts about mortality.
Bailey, who had worked through the night packing his XO's personal belongings, had also finished a difficult letter to Rock-wood's wife. He had decided to send the letter of condolence to his own spouse, Karla, so that she could deliver it in person. The two families, who lived on the same street in base housing, had been close friends for seventeen years.
Brad looked at his watch, noting that it was time to change into his flight suit. Air Operations were scheduled to commence at 1530 for the Cubi Point flyoff. The majority of the air wing would launch for the fifty-minute flight to U. S. Naval Air Station Cubi Point, Philippine Islands. The airfield was adjacent to the sprawling Subic Bay Naval Station fifty miles west of Manila.
Cubi Point operations had been alerted to stand by for the steady stream of incoming carrier aircraft. The base personnel always looked forward to the air show that accompanied an air wing flyoff.
Brad had taken the initiative to talk to the commanding officer in private. The new marine captain had respectfully requested that he not have a congratulatory party under the circumstances. Dan Bailey had reluctantly agreed, feeling that the men needed to have a major blowout to purge the grief that hung over the squadron.
Austin had thanked the CO for respecting his wishes, then had asked permission to be included in the flyoff. Bailey had nodded and told him to see Jack Carella, the operations officer and acting executive officer, about flying Palmer's wing to Cubi Point. Bailey, who had approved the leave request from the two crews, knew that the men were eagerly looking forward to escaping the chaotic environment that surrounded them.
Brad listened to the shrill sound of the bosun's whistle, then tried to concentrate on the captain's daily announcement. Staring blankly at the whirlpools created in the carrier's turbulent wake, Brad was unaware that his roommate had walked up to his side.
"How are you feeling?" Harry Hutton asked, unsmiling. The usual confident grin was absent.
"Okay, I suppose," Austin answered, glancing at his friend. "How'd you know I was here?"
Hutton hinted at a smile. "When you're bothered by something — if it's daylight — you always come to the fantail and stare at the wake."
Brad smiled at Hutton's observation. Many of the pilots and radar-intercept officers occasionally needed quiet time to readjust their minds, especially after losing one of the brotherhood. Today was one of those days for Brad to try and get in touch with his feelings.
"If it's night," Harry continued, looking at the plane-guard destroyer, "you go forward in the port catwalk and watch the phosphorescence splash off the bow wave."
Austin turned sideways and leaned against the bulkhead leading to the hangar bay. "Eight."
"What?" Hutton asked, stepping inside the windswept hatchway. "I've lost eight friends in aircraft accidents since I started flight training at Pensacola."
Both men remained quiet, reflecting on the tragic death of Cdr. Frank Rockwood.
"He was here with us," Brad paused, holding his emotions in check, "twenty-four hours ago. Now, he's lying in a goddamn dirthole… if the sorry bastards were humane enough to bury him."
"Come on," Hutton said gently, grasping Austin by the upper arm. "It's time to go jump in our zoom bags, pack our garbage, and go to the flyoff brief."
"Yeah, it is," Brad replied as he stepped over the hatch combing. "What a rotten day for flying."
"Who cares?" Hutton finally grinned his mischievous grin. "We're on our way to the real world."
The Cubi launch had gone smoothly and was completed in less than thirty-five minutes. One A-4 Skyhawk, leaking a steady stream of hydraulic fluid, had been downed on the catapult. Waiting for their catapult shot, Brad Austin and Russ Lunsford had watched the disappointed attack pilot grab his overnight bag and scramble aboard a KA-3B tanker.
After being catapulted off the carrier, Brad had joined on Nick Palmer's right wing. Harry Hutton had taken pictures of Brad's Phantom as they rendezvoused under the clouds. The two F-4s had climbed rapidly, breaking out of the overcast at 11,000 feet. Palmer continued climbing, leveling the flight at 37,000 feet.
Austin flew a loose parade formation, relaxing and thinking about the misguided war effort, the traumatic death of Frank Rockwood, and the upcoming trip to Hawaii. Still gazing at the horizon, Brad tried to erase the mental image of the North Vietnamese soldiers who had died when his missile ejector racks ripped through them.
The emotion that he experienced was not one of elation or conquest. The visceral sensation Brad felt was that of a Pyrrhic victory. What was the purpose of all the senseless loss of life? What was the big picture? The situation was clearly evident to the military commanders and their charges. They were not being allowed to use their experience, training, and resources to win the war. Slowly shaking his head, Brad considered the obvious absurdity and incongruousness of the war effort. The word ludicrous stuck in his mind.