Austin knew the tanker crews did not like to leave the refueling track and fly north; especially without a fighter escort.
"Copy, Joker Two Oh Seven," the Skywarrior pilot replied as he shoved his throttles forward. "Say angels."
Brad scanned his instruments, noting his fuel and altitude. "We're at your twelve o'clock, sixty miles at eight thousand. We can't afford the fuel to climb."
The radio remained silent a moment.
"We're coming downhill," the KA-3B pilot said in a calm voice as he eased the tanker's nose down. "Be with you in four minutes."
Dan Bailey keyed his radio mike. "Snowball, Joker Two Zero Four. Suggest you bottom out at eight thousand in three minutes and start a one-eighty. We'll come aboard as soon as we have a tally."
"Wilco, Joker."
Brad glanced at his fuel-quantity indicator, then watched the second hand sweep slowly around the eight-day clock. Time seemed to stand still as the two flights raced toward each other. Another minute passed as Austin and Bailey searched the horizon.
"Joker Two, say fuel state," Brad said into his sweat-soaked oxygen mask.
"Nine hundred pounds," Bailey replied at the same time that Austin caught a glimpse of the KA-3B commencing the rendezvous turn.
"Tally!" Brad radioed in an excited voice. "I have a tally at eleven o'clock, in a port turn."
Three seconds passed before Bailey saw the tanker. "Joker Two has the Whale. Probe coming out."
Brad extended his refueling nozzle and glanced at Bailey's Phantom. Joker 2 had his probe in the open-and-locked position.
"Joker's cleared to plug," the tanker pilot said. "We have the drogue out, indicating two-fifty. We'll increase the speed after you're aboard."
Austin clicked his mike twice and concentrated on the join-up. The Phantoms had a closure rate on the KA-3B in excess of 160 miles per hour. The fighter pilots would have their hands full trying to slow down in the last few seconds before they rendezvoused.
Brad watched the tanker fill his windshield. The F-4s were less than 400 yards from the Skywarrior. "I'm moving out to the side, Skipper."
"Roger," Bailey replied, pulling his throttles back. "Idle and boards."
Brad clicked his mike, reduced power to idle, and extended his speed brakes. The two Phantoms, although slowing rapidly, were about to fly past the tanker. Brad moved farther to the right and cross-controlled the F-4 to avoid a collision.
"Goddamnit!" Lunsford swore as the fighter yawed sideways. "I'm gonna jump out of this sonuvabitch if you don't get it under control."
"Relax," Brad replied as the tanker's wing tip stabilized twenty feet to the left of the F-4.
"Snowball," Bailey radioed, standing his Phantom on its side, "pick it up to three hundred knots."
"Roger."
Brad watched closely as Bailey stopped cross-controlling and rolled the thirsty fighter level. The CO moved smoothly toward the basket on the end of the fuel hose, then suddenly fell back.
"I've flamed out!" Bailey radioed. "Snowball, toboggan and maintain the speed you have!"
"Wilco," the tanker pilot replied as he lowered the nose. He held the aircraft in a twenty-degree dive and eased the throttles back.
Bailey's General Electric J-79 engines were still windmilling, providing hydraulic power to the flight controls during his chase after the basket.
"Jesus Christ," Lunsford said over the intercom. His breathing was labored. "Come on, boss, get in the basket. Get it… nail it.
Bailey rammed the drogue, knocking it aside twice. Brad called out altitudes as the three aircraft plummeted toward the Gulf of Tonkin. "Five thousand three hundred… five… four point six… four… three point five… three…"
Lunsford watched Ernie Sheridan reach over his helmet for the ejection-seat handle. "Don't pull it," he said to himself. "Don't blow the skipper out of the driver's seat."
Brad released his mike switch when the CO mated with the basket and shoved the drogue forward.
"Fuel flow!" the tanker pilot radioed, sounding as if he was hyperventilating.
Brad looked at his altimeter and keyed his mike again. "Two point four… two… one point seven — "
"Light off!" Bailey said as Austin and Lunsford saw a ball of red-orange flame shoot out of the right tail pipe of the Phantom.
"I'm pulling out!" the tanker pilot radioed, easing the Skywarrior level at 400 feet above the water.
"I've got… the starboard engine on line," Bailey said in gasps. "Let's start a shallow climb… get some altitude so I can get an air start on the other engine."
Emotionally drained, Ernie Sheridan lowered his hands and slumped in his seat.
"Roger," the KA-3B pilot responded in a voice one octave higher than normal. "We'll drag you to the boat."
"Joker One," Bailey asked as the three aircraft climbed through 1,700 feet, "how's your gas?"
Brad looked at his fuel indicator and fudged. He did not want to add any additional pressure to his CO. "I'm fat, Skipper. Take your time."
"Fat, my ass," Lunsford said sarcastically over the intercom. "Just out for a Sunday drive… no problem."
The radios remained quiet while the flight climbed to 8,000 feet. Brad, staring at 1,100 pounds of fuel remaining, was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He glanced at Bailey's Phantom. It was still streaming kerosene at an alarming rate.
"Okay, Snowball," Bailey radioed, "I'm showing three grand. I'm going to back out and try an air start."
"Roger."
Bailey's probe slid out of the basket. "Brad, jump in there and grab a quick drink."
"I'm on it," Austin replied, moving smoothly behind the Whale. "Joker One is plugging."
Brad inched his throttles forward and placed his nozzle in the basket. He shoved the hose forward until the fuel started flowing.
"Fuel flow," the tanker pilot confirmed.
"Concur," Brad responded, then watched the internal fuel-quantity indicator climb. The precious fluid surged into his dry tanks. When the fuel gauge showed 2,200 pounds, Austin backed out of the basket and again moved out to the right. "Thanks for the gas."
"Roger."
Brad caught a glimpse of the CO as he hurtled past the tanker. Bailey was in a high-speed dive, windmilling his left engine in an attempt to relight the J-79. He pulled out 2,000 feet below Austin.
"I've got 'em both on line," Bailey radioed, speaking in a slower, calmer voice. "I'm going to plug again."
Brad watched Bailey climb back to the tanker, then called the carrier. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Seven."
The carrier air-traffic controller answered without hesitation. "Joker Two Zero Seven, Strike. We have been informed of your emergency. We're shooting another tanker. You'll have a ready deck on arrival. Your signal is charlie on arrival."
Austin was relieved. They were cleared to land on arrival. His radio navigation instrument, the TACAN, had locked onto the carrier's homing beacon. They would be over the carrier in eleven minutes. Brad switched back to the tanker frequency.
"Joker Two, we're charlie on arrival. You will land first, and we've got another tanker on the way."
"Copy," Bailey replied as he continued taking on fuel. "You're doing a super job… for a jarhead."
Brad's oxygen mask concealed his grin.
Chapter 2
The last aircraft on the carrier in the scheduled launch cycle was sitting on the waist catapult when the Air Boss heard about the inbound emergency.
He waited until the A-4 Skyhawk was safely airborne, then ordered an emergency pull forward of all the airplanes on the fantail. The next aircraft-recovery cycle was not scheduled for another twenty-five minutes. Seven airplanes had to be quickly moved from the area behind the arresting-gear wires.
The Air Boss, in Primary Fly (Pri-Fly), the control tower on the carrier, gave commands over the 5-MC loudspeaker system to the flight-deck crew. The men responded in a well-orchestrated, fast-paced effort to clear the landing area.