Reaching his quarters, Brad tossed down the kit. "The stupid bastards…"
Harry looked over the top of his latest edition of Playboy magazine. "Do I detect a note of hostility?"
"Harry," Brad replied, yanking open the closet door, "do you see what's happening to us… to the morale of the flight crews?"
Turning in his bunk, Harry set the magazine aside. "At the risk of offending you, there isn't anything we can do, except try to survive."
Brad placed his uniform on his bunk. "Jesus Christ, what a complete disaster."
Waiting a few seconds, Hutton propped himself up. "Brad, we've got to ride it out the best we can. We don't have any choice, and you know it."
Brad gave his roommate a strange look. "Yeah, you're right. We're simply cannon fodder for the incompetent politicians." "Don't get pissed at me."
Brad drew in a slow breath. "I'm not upset with you, Harry. I'm just frustrated, and so is the skipper. You can see it in his eyes. He knows the administration is full of horseshit, but he has to protect his own future."
"Brad, that's all we can do, and pray for a future."
Austin slumped on his chair. "The futility of this mess… all the senseless deaths." Brad's eyes narrowed. "Harry, those spineless bastards in the White House are going to burn in hell."
Taxiing behind Jon O'Meara, Brad stopped thirty feet from the jet blast deflector (JBD). When O'Meara's Phantom reached the starboard catapult track, the hydraulically actuated blast deflector was raised.
"Are you ready for this act?" Brad asked Lunsford, who was already breathing heavily.
Keying his intercom, Lunsford looked in Austin's canopy mirrors. "That's a dumb-ass question. Hell no, I'm not ready."
After the catapult crews scooted from under the howling F-4, O'Meara plugged in the afterburner. The twin fire storm sent a powerful blast of exhaust into the blackened JBD. Part of the forceful thrust slipped over the blast deflector, gently rocking Joker 201.
Brad rechecked the flap control panel and looked up in time to see O'Meara's Phantom rocket down the catapult. The F-4 cleared the flight deck, settled below the bow, then climbed smoothly away. Clouds of superheated steam swirled back over Austin's Phantom.
"Well," Brad observed, adding power to taxi up to the catapult, "he didn't blow any spray off the water today."
Lunsford lowered his helmet visor and tightened the friction knob. "He blows spray off the water — you fly through trees."
Brad felt the catapult take tension, looked at the catapult officer, waited for the turn-up signal, then smoothly shoved the throttles into afterburner. Checking the engine instruments, Brad popped a snappy salute to the cat officer and braced his head against the ejection-seat headrest.
The F-4 blasted down the catapult track, smashing the crew back into their seats. As the fighter cleared the bow, Austin's vision returned to normal. He snapped the landing-gear lever up, allowed the Phantom to accelerate, then raised the flaps.
Brad left the aircraft in afterburner in order to facilitate the running rendezvous. He and O'Meara had decided on a quick join-up, so they could tank and get to the target area a few minutes before the strike aircraft arrived.
Seeing O'Meara's Phantom at one o'clock, Brad kept the airspeed at 420 knots until he was almost abeam of his wing-man. He chopped the throttles to idle and deployed the speed brakes.
"Goddamnit," Lunsford exclaimed, watching O'Meara's F-4 slide to the rear of Joker 201. "How about a heads-up when you're going to throw out the anchor."
"Put me down for another beer," Brad replied, thumbing the speed brakes closed. He added a handful of power to stabilize in front of his wingman.
Lunsford looked at the tick marks on his dented kneeboard. "You already owe me over a case, you sorry bastard."
Although O'Meara had launched first, Brad was the flight leader. Joker 212 settled into a loose parade formation on Brad's right wing.
Slowly increasing speed, Brad gently raised the nose. To this point, he and Jon O'Meara had not exchanged any radio calls. Passing 12,000 feet, Brad heard Lunsford swear and say something indistinguishable.
"What are you mumbling about?"
Lunsford looked up at the ejection-seat handles over Brad's crash helmet. "I was just figuring my current life expectancy."
Brad gave O'Meara the sign to switch to the tanker frequency. "What'd you come up with?"
"Zilch point shit."
Austin ignored the complaining from the backseat and concentrated on refueling his F-4. After departing the tanker, the flight headed toward the coast-in point.
The Gulf of Tonkin looked like gray slate as the two Phantoms approached the shoreline. Four additional F-4s would provide barrier combat air patrol for the carrier task force.
Another group of aircraft from the second carrier was going to simultaneously strike the highway and railroad bridges at Hai Duong. Four F-8 Crusaders would provide target air combat patrol for twelve A-4 Skyhawks.
The midafternoon weather was unusually clear, with good visibility above and below the puffy white clouds. The pilots and RIOs would have an easier time spotting the surface-to-air missiles and antiaircraft fire.
Brad listened to Red Crown and the strike leaders. The A-4s reported that they would be feet dry in two minutes. Brad looked down to the left in an attempt to spot the A-4s in his attack group. They were 5,000 feet below the prowling Phantoms.
"They're at eight o'clock," Lunsford said, tightening his seat belt and shoulder straps.
"Got 'em," Brad acknowledged as he lowered the F-4 's nose. O'Meara moved out to a combat spread position, then drifted behind Joker 201.
Glancing at the picture of Leigh Ann, Brad inched the throttles forward and scanned his engine instruments. He had again taped the copy of the original photo under the right fire-overheat warning light.
Keeping the strike group in sight, Brad leveled at 7,000 feet and 460 knots. He had two AIM-7D Sparrows in the rear missile wells and four AIM-9B Sidewinders, two attached to each inboard wing station.
Rolling into a left orbit, Brad was startled by the call from the ground-control intercept operator.
"This is Red Crown. We have MiG activity coming off Kep. Repeat — six to seven MiGs climbing out of Kep. Red Crown clear."
"Jokers, copy."
Brad rolled back to the right and pointed the F-4's nose toward the MiG base at Kep. The intelligence briefer had said that there were reported to be five MiG-17s and three MiG-21s at the airfield.
"This is Red Crown!" the voice said with renewed urgency. "MiG activity at Gia Lam and Phuc Yen… going south of Hanoi. Stand by."
Brad switched his master armament to the ON position and keyed his mike. "Jokers, arm 'em up."
"Joker Two," O'Meara replied, searching the sky for MiGs and SAMs. Mario Russo cinched his shoulder harnesses tight and checked the radar switches. The strike group was pulling up for their run-in when the GCI coordinator called again.
"This is Red Crown. Multiple bogies around the Hanoi area," the controller radioed, then paused. "We hold nine aircraft airborne, and intel confirms four waiting to take off from Phuc Yen."
Agents friendly to the United States maintained a constant surveillance on the North Vietnamese airfields. They sent coded radio messages to reconnaissance aircraft that passed the information to Red Crown.
Brad caught a glimpse of three surface-to-air missiles leaving their launching pads. A second later, three more missiles lifted off and shot skyward. The SAMs trailed clearly visible smoke as they accelerated toward the strike aircraft. The sky was filled with an incredible amount of antiaircraft fire when the A-4 leader rolled into his dive toward the target.
Two more SAMs rose from an emplacement next to a bridge. In a matter of ten to twelve seconds, the sky had been saturated with lethal missiles and AAA fire. Hundreds of dark puffs exploded around the Skyhawks.