Brad computed the time difference between the Gulf of Tonkin and Memphis, Tennessee. Leigh Ann would most likely be asleep at 4:15 in the morning. She would be having her evening meal when he next launched into combat.
Watching the escort destroyers roll gently from side to side, Brad decided to write Leigh Ann a letter. If she agreed to meet him in San Francisco, she would not receive the letter until after she had returned home. He wanted Leigh Ann to know how he felt about her, regardless of whether or not she could join him in California.
Back in his stateroom, Brad placed a piece of paper on the desktop, then absently tapped his Naval Academy ring on the side of the counter. He picked up his pen, set it down, and gazed at the picture of Leigh Ann.
He wondered if the two of them would enjoy the same activities and share the same basic philosophy of life. She had seemed like a very flexible person who would most likely be equally at ease on a yacht at Cannes or nestled next to a warm fire in a mountain cabin. Lake Tahoe came to mind, then the San Juan Islands between Seattle and Vancouver. He felt certain that Leigh Ann would enjoy the quiet peacefulness that permeated the isolated islands — a pristine environment of forested land surrounded by water as clear and clean as a mountain lake.
Brad smiled inwardly, remembering his first trip to the archipelago. The rustic cabin without a television or telephone. The unspoiled wilderness and the deserted paths through the stately fir trees.
Yes, Brad thought, staring at the beautiful woman in the small frame. A log cabin, a warm fire, a bowl of soup, some French bread, a bottle of good wine, and Leigh Ann.
Reaching again for his pen, Brad stopped when Harry inserted his key in the door. "It's open."
"Thanks," Harry replied as he stepped in and closed the slightly warped door.
"How was the movie?"
"Lousy," Harry responded with a disgusted look. "I don't know what the hell has happened, but some of this crap we've seen three times, and shouldn't have seen the first time."
"Harry," Brad suggested, "why don't you take up a collection and buy some juicy movies in Tokyo?"
"Good idea," Harry beamed. "Some good old-fashioned raunchy flicks."
Harry opened the refrigerator. "Shit, we're outta Cokes."
"No we're not," Brad smiled. "Try my flight-gear locker. Seventeen, twenty-eight, twelve." Harry repeated the numbers to the combination lock and hurried to the equipment room.
Brad filled two glasses with ice cubes. After refilling the small ice tray, he slipped it back in the refrigerator and leaned against the bulkhead.
He carefully studied Harry's latest foldout of the Playmate of the Month. What he viewed did not impress him. The porcelain face reflected a sullen, pouting young girl who did not look too happy.
When Harry returned with two six packs of Coke, they poured their drinks and relaxed. Brad remained at the desk while Harry flopped on his stomach across the lower bunk. Something was on his mind.
"Brad, I haven't flown with you yet, but you seem more cautious… sort of pensive, or something."
Glancing at the picture of Leigh Ann, Brad understood what his new RIO was saying. "You may be right," Brad offered. "We are hanging our asses out for nothing. Think about this goddamn mess. We are caught in a shifting, confused, obvious smoke screen to sustain the minimum appearance of a war." The veins in Austin's neck were beginning to protrude. "It's very simple, at least to me. You fight to win."
Harry propped himself up on his elbows. "Sorry. I didn't mean to set you off again."
"Harry, I'll give it a hundred and ten percent, if we're fighting to win."
Brad paused, calming himself. "This is the last place I want to be, along with every other person on this ship. I'd much rather be sitting on a boat next to Leigh Ann, anchored in a cove enjoying an evening cocktail, than dodging missiles and MiGs in an unwinnable war."
"Okay," Harry replied tentatively. "I was just thinking about what the skipper said yesterday."
"I know," Brad replied, inhaling deeply. "If you lose the fine edge, you're setting yourself up to bust your ass, or words to that effect."
Harry looked at his pilot. "Our asses."
Chapter 27
The carrier vibrated as the four massive screws propelled the ship to flank speed. With only a slight breeze over the flight deck, the carrier had to create the necessary wind to safely launch aircraft.
Brad and Harry finished their before-takeoff checklists, paying special attention to critical items. As a new flying team, they had to smoothly blend their skills to maximize the capabilities of their Phantom.
Taxiing over the number-two catapult shuttle, Brad caught a glimpse of Jon O'Meara's F-4 as it hurtled off the waist catapult. The Phantom settled low over the water, then rotated skyward, blowing spray from the afterburners.
"That guy," Harry said over the intercom, "is going to drop one in the water one of these days."
Brad ignored the remark, concentrating on the catapult officer. When the final safety checker scrambled out from under the F-4, the cat officer gave Austin the two-finger turn-up signal.
Brad slowly advanced the throttles to full power, then into afterburner. He carefully checked the engine RPMs and cycled the flight controls while he glanced at the exhaust gas temperatures. Everything was in the green and stabilized for takeoff.
Bracing his helmet, Brad snapped off a salute and sucked in a lungful of cool oxygen. Five seconds later they were over water.
Brad rotated the nose higher and popped the landing-gear lever up. After the landing gear had retracted, he noticed the right main mount indicated unsafe. Brad pulled the throttles back to keep the airspeed below the maximum gear-extension speed. "Harry, we've got a little problem with the right gear."
Hutton raised his helmet visor. "We're off to an auspicious start."
Brad placed his left hand on the landing-gear control handle. "I'm going to recycle the gear."
He lowered the lever, let the wheels extend to the down-andlocked position, then firmly raised the handle again. Feeling the wheels bang into the wells, Brad cast a cautious look at the gear indicators. Three safe.
"Lookin' good," Brad announced, shoving the throttles to the stops and raising the flaps.
After rendezvousing with Lincoln Durham and Russ Lunsford, the two Phantoms refueled and circled off the North Vietnamese coast north of Thai Binh. They could see the strike group from Bonne Homme Richard. The Skyraiders and A-4 Skyhawks were pulverizing a rail yard and the rolling stock lining the tracks. A-6 Intruders from another carrier had previously demolished the outflowing rail lines, trapping the loaded railroad cars in the crowded switching yard.
Two flights of F-8 Crusaders were flying cover for the Bonne Homme Richard strike force. Brad could see the antiaircraft fire blossom across the hazy sky. Two surface-to-air missiles lifted off, followed by four more SAMs. The sky was saturated with rockets, bullets, and shrapnel.
Both Joker crews heard their strike-group leader check in on the strike frequency. Their target was a strongly defended industrial complex. A secondary target, consisting of a highway bridge and railroad bridge, would be bombed by the second strike group.
Loitering off the coastline, an unarmed reconnaissance aircraft waited to dash in and photograph the damage. Every crew wanted to obliterate their targets on the first pass. No one wanted to return and run the deadly risk twice.
Brad quickly rechecked his cockpit switches and armament panel. What are we doing here? This is crazy… absolutely nuts. Hanging our asses out for what? Experiencing a sudden stab of fear, he listened to the continuous calls from Red Crown.