Lunsford, slack-jawed with a wide-eyed expression, sagged in his straps. "Un-goddamn-believable."
Chapter 11
The muddy jeep came to a stop in front of the Da Nang Officers' Club. Brad and Russ got out, thanked the staff sergeant for the lift from Operations, then studied the air base and surrounding area.
Da Nang, the second-largest airfield in Vietnam, had been located near the ocean. The unspoiled white beaches were right out of a travel brochure.
Soaked by the suffocating heat and humidity, Brad looked to the northeast. The rain had abated, affording him a spectacular view of "Monkey Mountain" protruding from the sea. He paused a moment, following two fighters banking over China Beach.
The air base was teeming with aircraft from all the services. Marine F-4s and A-4 Skyhawks, flying close air support and strike missions, were constantly taking off or landing. Scores of helicopters clattered over on their way to the "Marble Mountain" airfield.
Concertina wire was strung on both sides of the chain-link perimeter fence that surrounded the busy air base. People in every conceivable style of dress and uniform scurried about the base in a strange disorderliness.
Turning to Lunsford, Brad pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and noted the name. Master Sergeant Horace Grevers. "Let's go to the package store first. Grevers is a scotch drinker who is going to be mighty surprised before he leaves the GCA shack."
Brad had phoned the radar controller who had talked him down. The sergeant was still on duty, but a coworker had told Brad that the veteran controller liked scotch. The grateful pilot was going to send a case of premium spirits to his new friend.
The two men walked into the small package store, paid for a case of Dewar's, made arrangements to have the scotch delivered to the radar site, then headed for the officers' club and a cold beer.
Austin had had their Phantom towed to the sprawling ramp where the divert aircraft were parked. The F-4 had been refueled, and a tarp had been secured over the front canopy. Both men had left their flight gear in the cockpits.
Brad had sent a message to the carrier from Operations, detailing the extent of the damage to Joker 203. The return message directed him to fly back to the carrier the following morning. They had an overhead time of 0745.
Walking into the air-conditioned club, Brad and Russ saw the sign that read "Leave Guns Here." The rungs were full of handguns, along with one M-16 rifle. Austin and Lunsford had left their.38-caliber revolvers in the Phantom with their other gear.
The two men sat down at the bar and ordered beers. Lunsford insisted that the beers be ice-cold. A comely young Vietnamese waitress opened the bottles and smiled when she set them down.
"Thanks," Brad said, drinking half the contents in one gulp. He took another sip, then spread his elbows on the smooth bar. Looking around the club, he waited a few seconds before turning to his RIO. "What's eating you? The war, or my flying?"
Tipping his bottle up, Lunsford took a long swig and set the bottle back on the bar. He turned to face Brad. "A little of both, I guess. Actually, it isn't you. I wanted to be a pilot, but I washed out in the last phase of training… at Kingsville."
Taken aback, Brad turned to his friend. "Jesus, Russ, I had no idea. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it," Lunsford replied, picking up his beer. "At any rate, I thought that being an RIO would be the next best thing."
Brad sat quietly while Russ took another drink, then continued. "Sitting in the backseat, after having flown jets, is more difficult than I had thought it would be. It drives me crazy, not having any control. Especially when I get the shit scared out of me."
Nodding in agreement, Brad took a drink.
"It's like riding in the backseat of a race car," Lunsford continued. "You're going like a bat out of hell, but you don't have any control over the outcome… if the wheels come off."
Lunsford set his empty bottle on the bar. "Anyway, I guess it's cumulative in my case. It has really been getting to me."
Brad swiveled and leaned against the bar. "Russ, it scares the hell out of me, too. Now that I think about it, I see your point. I'm so busy physically controlling the airplane, I don't have time to think about all the things that might go wrong, or to worry about what the guy in the front seat is going to do."
They both ordered another beer and leaned on the bar. Brad understood Lunsford's feelings. "Russ, do you want to fly with someone else?"
The pause hung in the air. "No," Lunsford answered, turning his head to face Brad. "You're goddamn good — one of the best I've ever seen. I have a lot of confidence in you, you asshole, but I just go into hyper mode when the shit hits the fan, or you pull one of your stunts."
They looked at each other and both laughed, breaking the tension between them.
"Shit," Lunsford said, "you sank a goddamned patrol boat with an air-to-air missile, flew my ass through one of the worst storms I have ever seen, then landed in a downpour and flamed out. No, I don't want to fly with anyone else. With your kind of luck, you don't need to be good."
Brad laughed. "What d'ya mean?"
"God must have an entire committee assigned to keep your dumb ass out of trouble."
"Well," Brad said, grinning, "they aren't doing a very good job. Look who I have for a backseater."
Brad Austin awakened, startled from his nightmare. He looked at his watch, trying to focus his bloodshot eyes. It read 0540. He slumped back in the metal bunk bed, thinking about the frightening dream.
His Phantom had been spinning out of control, inverted, spewing flaming fuel over downtown Hanoi, and the ejection seat would not fire. He had been yanking at the face curtain when he woke. Brad ran his tongue around his stale mouth, tasting the onions in the fried rice that he had eaten at midnight.
His bladder suddenly reminded him of the number of beers he had consumed. Brad swung his legs over the side of the upper bunk, then jumped down, landing unsteadily on Lunsford's flight boots.
"Goddamnit," Austin swore as he lost his balance and fell on top of his RIO. "Sorry."
Lunsford only groaned as Brad regained his footing and headed for the latrine at the end of the Quonset hut.
Upon returning, Brad attempted to talk Lunsford awake. That effort had no effect on the inebriated RIO. Austin finally aroused Lunsford by pulling him up to a sitting position, then helping him to the latrine. Brad could see that he had to take command of the situation if they were going to make their overhead time at the carrier.
"Okay, Russ," Brad said, sitting the lethargic man in the single shower, "this is for your own good."
Lunsford leaned over, slumping against the corner of the stall, while Brad pointed the shower head away and adjusted the temperature of the water. Aiming the stream of lukewarm water a foot above his RIO's head, Brad stepped back.
"Jesus!" Lunsford spluttered, sitting upright. "You son of a bitch!" He crawled out of the shower and leaned against the side.
"It was either this," Brad said, turning off the water, "or carry you to the airplane. We gotta be wheels in the well by oh seven hundred."
"You're a complete asshole, Austin."
"That may be," Brad said, reaching down to help Lunsford to his feet, "but we've got an overhead time to meet."
Brad walked his hungover RIO back to his bunk, assisted him in getting his flight boots on, then lifted him back to his feet. "Can you walk?" Brad asked, holding Lunsford by his arm.
Russ lurched forward two steps. "Yeah, I think so."
Lunsford wobbled toward the entrance, stopping to kick the bunk bed of the two air-force fighter pilots they had met the night before. "Time to get up, girls. Don't you know there's a war on?"
Brad Austin taxied the Phantom behind two marine KC-130 Herculeses. The lumbering, four-engine giants were part of a four-plane detachment from VMGR-152 that provided aerial refueling for the strike aircraft.