Brad shoved the unpleasant thoughts aside, thinking instead about enjoying a relaxing breakfast while he overlooked Waikiki Beach. A breakfast accompanied by hot tea and a morning paper.
Thirty-three minutes after takeoff, the F-4s flew out of the tropical weather system and dropped to 500 feet over the azure sea. Both crews flew in total silence until Harry Hutton came up on the radio.
"Jokers, come up two thirty point nothing."
The radio frequency 230.0 was not being used by other military pilots or air-traffic controllers at the particular moment.
"Two," Brad replied, glancing at the small plastic pineapple adorning Hutton's helmet. Just like a little kid going on vacation, Brad smiled to himself.
"When we get to Honolulu," Harry said with glee in his voice, "let's all get aloha shirts."
A pause followed. Lunsford pressed his mike. "Not all alike… we've got to have a little individuality."
"That's what I mean," Hutton explained. "Each of us will get a different colored shirt. We'll just be civilian tourists. The indulged and idle rich."
The discussion continued while the Phantoms thundered over three fishing vessels as the fighters approached the coast. Brad watched the shoreline of Zambales Province rapidly approach. The warm, pristine waters and lush green forest showcased the deserted snow white beach.
Palmer had the flight switch to Cubi Point approach control, then climbed to 2,000 feet as the shoreline passed under his Phantom.
Checking in with the approach controller, Palmer was given radar vectors to follow a flight of four A-4 Skyhawks. He scanned the afternoon sky, spotting the four attack jets screaming toward the runway. They were preparing to break from a tight echelon formation.
Rule one in naval aviation dictated that pilots had to look good over the air station. Formations had to be close and perfectly spaced. Every pitch-out break had to be performed with Blue Angel precision, especially if the flight was arriving at an airforce facility.
Palmer and Austin switched to the control tower as the flight circled over the luxuriant tropical forest. Both F-4 crews watched the Skyhawks flash over the runway and snap into knife-edge flight at three-second intervals. The four planes were nailed on altitude and spaced evenly.
"I give 'em a seven point five," Hutton said unabashedly over the radio. "Not bad for attack pukes."
Brad Austin slowly shook his head in embarrassment.
"Well, Norvel," the A-4 flight leader radioed, "if you're driving one of the clear air converters, how about a few pointers on arrival techniques."
The J-79 engines in the Phantoms produced two dark trails of jet exhaust. Going into afterburner was the only way to alleviate the highly visible gases.
Palmer thought about ignoring the challenge, but his ego talked him out of it. He pushed the throttles forward and keyed his mike. "Joker, welded wing."
"Copy," Brad replied, wishing that he and Palmer had practiced the maneuver that they had discussed at length.
"Oh, shit," Lunsford said over the intercom as Austin increased power. "We're going to get our asses in deep kimchi.. doing your dumb-shit stunts."
Brad tucked in close to Palmer's right wing, causing Lunsford to twinge and look down in his lap. "You're both crazy… goddamned idiots."
"Numbers for the break," Palmer said to the tower controller as he eased the Phantom's nose down. His indicated airspeed read 450 knots.
"Joker Two Zero Five cleared for the break," the tower chief replied calmly.
"Roger," Palmer acknowledged, flying as smoothly as his skills permitted.
The two F-4s, locked in tight formation, thundered across the end of the runway as the third Skyhawk was landing. Brad's left wing tip was three feet below the right wing of his flight leader, with three feet of overlap.
Palmer leveled at 400 feet for a moment, then smoothly pulled back on the stick and rolled the Phantom until the left wing tip pointed straight at the ground.
Brad Austin pulled up with his flight leader, then slid directly under Palmer's Phantom. He was working hard to remain eight feet under the belly of his leader's F-4. The two planes rolled wings level at 1,200 feet above the ground on the downwind leg of the landing pattern.
Austin looked up at the bottom of Nick Palmer's aircraft, concentrating on not moving an inch out of position. He inspected the rivets and UHF communications antenna, along with the hydraulic, oil, and grease stains.
Brad popped his flaps down at the same instant as the flight leader, then lowered his landing-gear lever when Palmer's main gear dropped out of the wheel wells on each side of his canopy.
Lunsford had his eyes closed, forcing his mind to think about Waikiki Beach. "Is it over?"
"Almost."
"Well," the A-4 flight leader radioed, taxiing to the flight line, "that's certainly a new one."
Hutton, having never experienced the delicate maneuver, chuckled when he keyed his radio mike. "Not bad for a couple of Fox-4 weenies."
The last A-4 was clearing the runway when Austin cracked his speed brakes to gain separation from Palmer.
Lunsford let out his breath. "Both of you morons should be in straitjackets."
Palmer touched down in a puff of white smoke, followed seven seconds later by his wingman. The Phantoms cleared the runway, called ground control, and taxied to the ramp near the carrier pier.
Opening their canopies, the four men were hit by the sweltering heat and humidity. They wiped their faces as the two F-4s came to a halt and chocks were placed around the main wheels.
After shutting down the engines, both crews hurried to secure their aircraft while Brad cadged a ride in the FOLLOW ME cart to Base Operations. He wanted to see if any flights were scheduled to Hawaii.
Nineteen more air-wing aircraft landed, causing the noise level on the parking apron to become unbearable.
Hauling four garment bags, Palmer, Hutton, and Lunsford started walking in the direction of Base Operations. A minute later, the trio was surprised to see Brad returning so soon. The little cart had not even come to a stop when Austin jumped out and thanked the sailor.
"They've got a flight, but we've got to move fast." "What's the deal?" Hutton asked, handing Austin his canvas clothes bag.
"They've got a C-130 departing for Guam in ten to fifteen minutes," Brad answered, slinging the hang-up bag over his shoulder. He motioned down the ramp to three of the big Hercules transports. Sailors were busy placing containers on board the nearest airplane. "They're loading now."
"Guam?" Palmer inquired, slipping on his nonregulation Ray-Ban sunglasses.
"Yeah," Brad responded as he started toward the operations building. "They don't have anything on the board for Hawaii, but he said there are dozens of flights out of Guam for Hawaii. They operate around the clock."
"What about our leave papers?" Lunsford broke in. "We have to get them signed, and let them know where we're going to be staying."
Austin turned slightly. "The ops officer said he could sign them. Relax for a change."
Hutton started trotting toward the crowded operations building. "Let's get it on!"
Chapter 15
Awakened by the sheer panic of his nightmare, Brad Austin felt the dampness of perspiration on the back of his neck. He looked around the Spartan interior of the capacious air-force C-141 StarLifter, relieved that no one had noticed his startled awakening. Only three of the forty-one military passengers were awake. Two men in civilian clothes were using their briefcases for lap-top desks. They had been working tirelessly on their project from the moment the transport had lifted off the runway at Guam.