"Sonuva… bitch!" Lunsford exclaimed, feeling his neck and shoulder muscles tighten. "I must'uv been born under a goddamn curse. What have I done to deserve this shit?"
Adjusting the throttles for maximum fuel conservation, Brad snapped one side of his oxygen mask loose. He studied the thunderstorms blocking their only option. "Russ, better strap in tight. We've got to go straight through those boomers to make Da Nang."
Both men knew they did not have the fuel or oxygen to climb over the raging storms, let alone ascend to the Phantom's optimum cruise altitude of 39,000 feet.
"Have we got enough fuel?" Lunsford asked, snapping his mask loose.
Looking at the fuel-quantity indicator, Brad quickly calculated the distance to Da Nang against time of fuel exhaustion. "It'll be close."
"Goddamnit," Lunsford swore over the intercom. "Why me? Why does all this happen to me?"
Brad spoke slowly. "Hey, why don't you go see Scary Mc-Cary and get some tranquilizers or something? You're driving me crazy."
Lunsford bolted straight up in his seat. "I'm driving you crazy? You gotta be kiddin' me — I'm driving you crazy. I'm flying with a lunatic jarhead who goes through trees and shoots air-to-air missiles at boats." Feeling the onset of hypoxia, Lunsford sucked in a breath of air. "I'm driving you crazy… Jesus."
Brad chuckled to himself, then remained quiet a couple of minutes, hoping Lunsford would calm down. The RIO was still muttering to himself when they flew into the edge of the ominous-looking storm.
"Here we go," Brad announced as the Phantom was swallowed by the angry black clouds. He increased the cockpit lighting to maximum, then peered up at the hole in his canopy. The lashing rain flowed over the opening as if it did not exist.
The F-4 bounced and rocked as Brad fought to keep the fighter level. Lightning flashed, temporarily blinding him, a second before the aircraft was pounded by baseball-sized hail. Brad fixated on the engine instruments, fearful that the intense combination of hail and torrential rain might cause the engines to flame out *"Holy shit!" Lunsford shouted as the Phantom shot upward in a powerful updraft, then slammed downward. "I'm beginning to feel light-headed."
Although their oxygen had been depleted, Brad had remained at 22,000 feet to conserve fuel. "Hang on," he said, glancing at his fuel-quantity indicator. "We'll be starting down in a few minutes." Austin also felt light-headed from the lack of oxygen at their altitude.
Gritting his teeth, Brad worked the stick and rudders to keep the aircraft level. Lightning flashed almost constantly as the Phantom sliced through the heavy rain and pounding hail.
Suddenly, the pitch-black darkness began showing signs of light. The severe turbulence slowly began to dissipate, and the hail ceased to bounce off the fighter. Seconds later, they flew out of the dark storm cell. The crew had an ephemeral moment of calm before they plunged headlong into another intense storm.
Looking on his kneeboard, Brad found the radio frequency for Da Nang approach control. He also noted that their fuel was dangerously low. Brad tuned the radio and rechecked his fuel gauge. It read 1,100 pounds.
"Da Nang approach, Joker Two Oh Three."
"Two Zero Three, Da Nang approach."
Brad winced when a bolt of lightning appeared to hit the starboard wing tip. "We're a navy Fox-4 with damage and emergency fuel."
"Roger, squawk three two five two and say angels."
Brad set the transponder code in his IFF and keyed his radio. "Thirty-two fifty-two, two two thousand."
"Joker Two Zero Three," the controller responded dryly, "I have you in radar contact. Be advised that we have severe thunderstorm activity in all quadrants."
Feeling his blood chill, Brad glanced at his fuel gauge and steeled himself for the instrument approach. Lunsford, who was swearing a blue streak in the backseat, was preparing for a controlled ejection.
The approach radar monitor waited for the gravity of the situation to sink in, then keyed his mike again. "Two Zero Three, continue present heading."
"Copy approach," Brad replied, checking his TACAN readout. The distance-measuring equipment broke lock twice, then registered forty-two nautical miles to Da Nang. Austin had purposely remained high in order to make an idle descent to the runway.
Swallowing to moisten his dry throat, Brad wrestled the flight controls to keep the bouncing fighter under control. The jarring turbulence increased as they neared the coastline, turning minutes into hours.
"Joker Two Zero Three, descend to seven thousand and turn left one six zero degrees."
Brad complied with the instructions, then switched to the., ground-control approach radar operator when the Phantom descended through 14,000 feet. The unflappable GCA controller was a savvy veteran who had helped many pilots in the same predicament.
"Two Zero Three," the reassuring voice said, "keep it clean. I'll call one mile so you can dirty up."
Brad would leave his flaps and landing gear up to keep the Phantom aerodynamically clean.
"Descend to three thousand," the calming voice instructed. "Increase your rate of descent."
Looking at his altimeter and distance to Da Nang, Brad judged that adding another 500 feet per minute to his descent rate would place him at 3,000 feet two miles from the end of the runway. He increased pressure on the stick, checking the increase in descent rate on his vertical velocity indicator.
Taking a look at the fuel indicator, Brad felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. The gauge showed 300 pounds of fuel remaining. Oh, God, please let us make it to the runway.
The rain increased as the Phantom jolted through another powerful storm cell. Passing 5,000 feet, Brad began slowing the steep descent. He was flying faster than he normally would at this point in an instrument letdown, but speed was his only chance to reach the runway.
"You're three miles from touchdown," the radar controller said in a conversational manner. "You're right in the ballpark."
Brad shallowed the rate of descent even further, bleeding off airspeed. He heard the GCA operator call two miles as the F-4 settled onto the glide slope.
"You're up and on glide path," the controller radioed, then added, "come left five degrees… a mile and a half."
Cracking open the speed brakes, Brad glanced at the fuel quantity indicator. It read zero. His palms were sweaty as he fully extended the speed brakes.
"One mile," the calm voice said, "dirty up."
Without acknowledging, Brad partially extended his flaps, waited until the airspeed decelerated to 220 knots, then dropped the landing gear and lowered full flaps at 170 knots. The Phantom leveled off for a moment.
"Going slightly above glide path," the controller said as Austin saw the runway lights through the pouring rain.
Transitioning to the landing attitude, Brad keyed his mike. "Runway in sight."
"Roger, take over visually," the controller replied with a hint of pride in his voice, "and have a good afternoon, gentlemen."
"Thanks," Brad responded as he felt the rain coming through the hole in the canopy. He added power to stabilize his speed at 135 knots, crossed the end of the runway, then pulled the throttles to idle as the main gears touched the rain-soaked ground.
The tires, inflated to 225 pounds per square inch, hydroplaned a moment before slicing through the pools of water on the runway. The Phantom rapidly decelerated, sending showers of water spraying in every direction.
"Thank you, God," Lunsford exclaimed. "Austin can take over now."
Brad rolled out, switched to ground control as he turned off the runway, then added a nudge of power to taxi. The left engine surged, then flamed out, followed twelve seconds later by the right engine.
Ignoring the steady rain pouring on him, Brad keyed his radio. "Da Nang ground, Navy Two Oh Three has flamed out on the taxiway."