Dan Bailey rushed into the compartment, followed by Frank Rockwood. After they received a quick brief from the duty officer, both men hurried to Pri-Fly.
Bailey and Rockwood discussed the situation with the Air Boss, then the XO went below deck to the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center. He would listen to the radio conversations between the controller and the pilots. If anything significant happened prior to the time Austin contacted the Air Boss and the landing-signal officer, Rockwood would relay the word to Dan Bailey.
Brad and Russ meticulously went through their pocket checklists, discussing various emergencies they might encounter. Lunsford read the single-engine landing procedure while Brad replayed the drill in his mind. Landing on board an aircraft carrier with one engine secured was not an emergency procedure they actually practiced. A carrier-arrested landing was difficult enough with both engines operating. Landing the critically damaged fighter with an engine secured was something only a test pilot should have to do.
"Joker Two Zero Two, Red Crown."
"Joker Two Oh Two," Palmer replied, feeling the tension draining from his neck.
"You have a priority deck on arrival, and the strike has been canceled. Come port ten degrees. The ship is one one five for one zero five miles."
"Copy that," Palmer replied, then added, "we have a confirmed MiG kill. A MiG-17."
"Congratulations!" the exuberant voice replied. "We'll pass the word along to your ready room."
Brad keyed his mike. "Red Crown, Joker Two Oh Eight. Pass the word that Two Oh Two downed the MiG."
"Will do. Contact Strike out of two two thousand." Palmer replied, "Roger, Red Crown."
The two Phantoms climbed to altitude while Austin and Lunsford prepared for the next phase of their harrowing flight — the single-engine carrier landing.
Nick Palmer, elated over his MiG kill, checked his altimeter. The instrument indicated 21,700 feet. Close enough. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Two with you out of two two thousand."
The response was immediate, as usual. "Roger, Two Zero Two. Drop Two Zero Eight on the ball, and we'll take you on the next pass. We have eight aircraft ahead of you, but we don't expect any delay."
Palmer acknowledged the radio call and leveled at 27,000 feet. He slowly reduced power to remain at 250 knots. His TACAN indicated seventy-two nautical miles to the carrier.
Brad was worried about two items — the weather at the ship and the slow-speed flight characteristics of his battered Phantom.
The nose radome was shattered, exposing the crushed radar antenna and myriad wires. Two of the wing leading-edge slats, one on each side, had been ripped off. Austin could see buckled wing panels and exposed innards in the right wing. He also noticed that the wingtip was deformed.
Keying his radio, Brad called the carrier and asked for the current weather conditions.
"Joker Two Zero Eight, we have intermittent rain squalls with a ragged ceiling three hundred to four hundred feet. The visibility is varying between one half to one and a half miles."
"Copy, Checkerboard," Brad replied, then keyed his intercom switch. "You've been unusually quiet back there. Any problems?"
A pause followed before Russ Lunsford answered. "Yeah, I'm going to have to throw away my skivvies… if we ever get down in one piece."
Brad could tell by the tremor in Lunsford's voice that he was still unsettled by the frighteningly close brush with death. He wondered if his own voice had sounded strained over the radio.
Austin closely monitored his hydraulic gauges, fearful that the priceless fluids would leak out of the Phantom before they were safely on the carrier. If the F-4 lost all hydraulic fluid, the primary flight controls would lock, forcing the crew to eject.
"Nick," Brad radioed, "I need to perform a stability check. Let's descend to five thousand and see what speed I'll need to control this beauty."
"Reducing power now," Palmer replied. "Indicating two-fifty. Do you want to try extending your hook and flaps before we go into the soup?"
Afraid of having an asymmetrical situation, Brad thought about the split-flap possibility. He needed the flaps to reduce his final approach speed. "Sure. Here goes." Austin lowered his arresting hook and selected partial flaps. Everything worked as advertised.
The Phantoms rapidly descended into the rain and clouds and leveled at 5,000 feet. They slowed to 230 knots, then 220 knots, as Palmer radioed the speeds to Austin.
"Okay, Nick," Brad said, grasping the landing-gear handle, "I'm going to drop the gear… I hope."
"Wait," Palmer cautioned. "Wait a second. Your machine is really trashed. Let's not place any extra strain on anything at this speed. I recommend we slow to one-eighty and go for it. With the damage you've got, I'd leave the flaps where they are."
Agreeing with the more experienced Phantom pilot, Brad reduced power to match Palmer's F-4. They were flying in solid instrument conditions, blocking out the river of water flowing over their canopies. Relying solely on Nick Palmer to fly instruments, Brad ignored his instrument panel and concentrated on flying formation with his leader.
"Russ," Brad said over the intercom, "if we have to jump out, we've got plenty of time from five thousand."
"I've been ready… got everything stowed."
Fighting the insidious onslaught of vertigo, Brad intensified his concentration in an effort to reduce the sensation of dizziness. Spatial disorientation was a constant threat to pilots flying in instrument conditions. He studied Palmer's Phantom and attempted to suppress the fear gnawing at him. He did not want Russ Lunsford to know that his pilot was anything but confident about the outcome of the flight.
"Okay," Palmer radioed, closely monitoring his airspeed indicator. "I'm showing one-eighty. Let 'er go."
Brad said a silent prayer and yanked the landing-gear handle down. He was rewarded by the clunk, clunk of the main gears and the thud under the nose. "I show three down and locked."
"Looks good," Palmer replied. "Let's see what your on speed will be. Coming back on the power."
Reducing power, Brad stayed glued to Palmer's Phantom. The vertigo was dissipating and he darted a glance at his left-engine instruments, back to Palmer's F-4, then back to the fuel-quantity indicator. The powerful turbojet was operating smoothly and, to his relief, he had 2,900 pounds of fuel remaining. Enough for a couple of approaches before the Air Boss would have to rig the barricade.
"One-seventy-five," Palmer soothed. He gently moved his throttles back. "One-seventy… one-sixty-five… one-sixty.. one-fifty-five… one-fifty…"
Brad felt the Phantom shudder, then the wings wobbled as he shoved the left throttle forward.
"Shit!" Lunsford exclaimed as the fighter leveled out. "We're going to be at least fifteen knots fast."
Adjusting the power, Brad spoke to his flight leader. "Nick, I've gotta have one-fifty to touch down."
"Okay, partner," Nick said, peering at his smooth-flying wingman. "I'll keep it on one-fifty-five… give you a cushion to the ramp."
Austin and Lunsford knew they would be attempting a single-engine landing almost twenty miles an hour faster than their normal approach speed. Adding to the difficulty was the fact that the angle-of-attack indexer was not working. The sensor had been sheared off in the violent collision with the trees.
Hutton, who had been quiet, watching the drama unfold, spoke to his roommate. "Brad, you can do it. Show the navy how the marines land a flying tree."
"What was it you said," Palmer radioed Austin, "about marine fighter pilots?"
Brad smiled to himself. "When we're out of ammo, we resort to ramming our bogies."
Lunsford nervously keyed his mike. "And you wonder — flying with that kind of mentality — why I'm a basket case."
Palmer and Hutton shared a laugh over their intercom but kept their comments to themselves. They both were concerned about Lunsford's increasing uneasiness.