Leaning close to the plane captain, Brad yelled over the whipping wind and flight-deck noise. "Toby, I need the knockometer."
"Yes, sir," the blond-haired youth replied, then quickly scurried down the side of the fighter. He ran to the catwalk tool bin, grabbed a hammer, and raced back to the Phantom. He climbed the fuselage steps and handed the tool to his pilot.
"Thanks," Brad said, whacking the crank. The lever rotated ninety degrees, freeing the jammed drive gear. He handed the hammer back to the youngster. "The miracles of modern technology."
"Lieutenant," Toby Kendall shouted, bracing himself against the fierce wind, "be careful… and I hope you get one of them MiGs."
The plane captain could only visualize what it was like to be catapulted from an aircraft carrier, fly a sophisticated, high-performance jet fighter into aerial combat, then find the ship and land the complex aircraft on the small, moving deck. The men who helped the flight crews in and out of their cockpits had a deep respect and strong attachment to their pilots and RIOs.
"Thanks, Toby," Brad replied as he placed his helmet on and tightened the chin strap. Their plane captain climbed down the side of the fuselage as the signal to start engines blared across the flight deck.
Brad and Russ lowered their canopies to seal themselves from the jet exhaust fumes of the F-4s in front of them. Four of the Joker Phantoms would provide target combat air patrol while Austin and Palmer would provide barrier combat air patrol for the carrier. A standby F-4 was also manned in the event that one of the strike aircraft malfunctioned prior to being launched.
"You ready?" Austin asked as he initiated the engine start procedure.
Lunsford snapped the loose side of his oxygen mask to his helmet. "All set. If we get lucky, they'll scrub the strike for weather."
Brad ignored the comment. He knew that his RIO, who prayed for mission cancelations, would do a good job when the chips were down.
After he had both engines running, Brad adjusted the three rearview mirrors mounted on the canopy bow over his head. They would allow the pilot to watch where he was going while darting quick glances behind him. Brad's most vulnerable position was directly aft of his fighter — the infamous six o'clock position.
Brad added a small amount of power and taxied out of his tie-down spot. Clear of Nick Palmer's Phantom, Brad lowered and locked his F-4's wing tips and followed the taxi director forward to the starboard-bow catapult. Austin brought the Phantom to a smooth stop behind the catapult blast deflector. He watched the A-4 Skyhawk in front of him go to full power, waggle his controls back and forth, then hurtle down the deck and climb toward the sullen clouds.
Brad rechecked his instruments and armament panel as the blast deflector was lowered. Following the taxi director, Austin moved forward until his nose gear went up and over the catapult shuttle. He immediately stopped while the green-shirted cat crews hooked the bridle harness and holdback bar to his heavily laden fighter.
A deck crewman held up a plastic-covered board indicating the fighter's total takeoff weight. The steam pressure of the catapult launch would be predicated on the gross weight of the Phantom. Brad looked at the board, which indicated 49,000 pounds. He gave the weight checker a thumbs-up and swept the control stick backward, forward, left, and right to see if the flight controls were working properly. The catapult officer checked under the Phantom and gave Brad the two-finger turn-up signal.
Shoving the throttles forward, Brad focused on the engine instruments, then selected afterburner and glanced at the end of the flight deck. "Harness locked?"
"All set," Lunsford replied in a slightly strained voice. "Don't screw up."
Brad placed his left hand on the catapult grip that prevented the throttles from being retarded during the violent launch. He again scanned the engine parameters, feeling the Phantom shudder under full power.
Placing his helmet against the headrest, Brad snapped a salute to the yellow-shirted catapult officer and waited for the powerful kick in the back. The cat stroke would render the pilot immobile during the launch. Four seconds elapsed before the Phantom blasted down the deck, settled precariously close to the water, then entered a climbing right turn.
Snapping the gear up, Brad could hear Lunsford breathing in short gasps through the open intercom system. "You gonna make it, sailor?"
Lunsford slowed his breathing rate. "Yeah. Palmer is off.. good shot."
The Phantoms rendezvoused and joined on the tanker. Brad plugged the basket on his second attempt, filled his tanks to capacity, then backed out and drifted to the left so Palmer could top off his fuel load.
Tuned to the tanker frequency, Brad was surprised to hear the carrier call him on the 243.0 UHF Guard channel. "Joker Two Zero Eight, Checkerboard Strike on guard. Come up button seven."
This is unusual, Austin thought, sensing trouble. Or, he reasoned, the mission might have been canceled due to the rotten weather.
Brad dialed in the strike frequency. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Eight is up."
"Joker, Checkerboard. We've got a delay on the strike… stand by one."
Brad clicked his mike twice, watching Nick Palmer slide out of the basket. The Whale reeled in the refueling hose and banked into a shallow left turn.
Palmer, who had also heard the call from Checkerboard, came up on button seven. "Joker Two."
"Copy," Brad responded seconds before the carrier talker called.
"Joker Two Zero Eight, Strike."
Brad keyed his mike. "Joker, copy."
"Joker," the controller radioed without emotion, "we're holding for a weather check. Your flight is directed to make a reconnaissance sweep over the target area."
"Horseshit," Lunsford said over the intercom.
Looking at the folded map section on his kneeboard, Brad glanced toward the coast. The dark, rain-swollen clouds looked ominous. "Wilco, Checkerboard. We 'llrelay through Red Crown."
"Roger that."
The primary target was the Vu Chua highway and railroad bridge north of Hanoi. The combination support structure was a vital link in the North Vietnamese supply chain. The flight crews were aware that the target had been given a high priority.
Brad checked in with Red Crown, discussed the weather reconnaissance mission, then descended to 100 feet as the coastline appeared. The two F-4s, traveling at 450 knots, went feet dry south of Cam Pho.
Brad guessed the ceiling to be 1,800 to 2,000 feet with five to seven miles of visibility. The strike group could squeeze in, but it would be tight. Continuing toward the bridge, Brad was startled when antiaircraft fire erupted from the hills on both sides of the low-flying fighters.
"Jokers," Brad radioed, "let's light the pipes and get the hell out of here. Come hard starboard, and watch the foothills. They're obscured by clouds."
"Two," Palmer replied, breathing heavily, "is tucked in tight. Pull as hard as you want."
The Phantoms, thundering over the gun emplacements, were hit by several rounds of fire as they rolled into the tight turn. Brad glanced back and forth at his annunciator panel. So far, so good.
"MiGs!" Harry Hutton shouted from the backseat of Joker 2. "They're… I see three of them comin' down the valley — right on our six! Ah… they're seventeens. Three MiG-17s!"
Brad, flying low and bleeding off airspeed in the turn, stole a quick peek. "Shit." He looked out ahead, knowing the MiGs were flying at terminal velocity. There was no escape. They would have to engage the rapidly overtaking MiGs.
"Nick," Brad called, looking back over his shoulder, "they're overrunning us. Idle and boards… NOW!"
Palmer yanked his throttles back to the stops and popped his speed brakes out. "Let's get down on the deck!"