Bailey and his RIO, about to jump over the side of the burning Phantom, were hit by a powerful stream of fire-retardant foam. The impact knocked them back into their ejection seats as the two hot-suit rescue personnel slapped metal ladders against the cockpits.
The thick white foam covered the Phantom, but the conflagration quickly spread underneath the belly of the blazing F-4.
Bailey and Sheridan stumbled down the side of the burning Phantom, then slipped and fell in the gooey foam. The rescue team, aided by two corpsmen, helped both officers to their feet and whisked them away to the safety of the island.
Sheridan heard a muffled explosion a second before the Air Boss shouted over the flight-deck loudspeaker.
"Bring Tilly over!" the commander ordered, concerned about the missiles still attached to the Phantom. "Shove the aircraft overboard!"
The huge yellow pushmobile lurched forward and lumbered across the flight deck. Tilly, a monstrous combination of crane and bulldozer, plowed into the fiercely burning fighter. The impact collapsed the F-4's landing gear as the aircraft slid sideways, then hung precariously over the catwalk before plunging inverted into the water.
"Foul deck! Foul deck!" the LSO radioed to Austin. "Take it around, Two Oh Seven."
"Wilco," Brad responded as he passed over the stern of the ship. "Did they get out?"
"That's affirm, Joker," Palmer said as he surveyed the damage to the landing area. The fire had been extinguished and the men were rapidly clearing the deck. "I'll be able to take you on the next pass."
"Copy," Brad replied, then keyed his intercom. "Jesus, that was close."
Russ Lunsford inhaled a deep breath of pure oxygen and unsnapped one side of his mask. "Yeah. Flying with you guys sure as hell is not boring."
Turning downwind, Brad rechecked his landing gear — down and locked, flaps extended, and arresting hook down. He continued the approach, turned crosswind, called the ball, crossed the fantail on speed, and engaged the number three arresting-gear cable.
The F-4 screeched to an abrupt halt, then rolled back five feet. When the wire dropped free, Brad added power and taxied to the starboard-bow catapult. He waited for the aircraft handlers to secure the Phantom to the rolling flight deck, then shut down the engines.
Austin and Lunsford opened their canopies and breathed in the salty breeze. The fresh air smelled good. They sat in quiet exhaustion as curious deck crewmen pointed to the numerous bullet holes in the F-4 Phantom.
Slowly removing his crash helmet, Brad watched his plane captain run across the deck toward them.
Chapter 3
The ready room was noisy and crowded. When Brad and Russ walked through the hatch, immediate. Silence descended. All eyes shifted to the sweat-soaked pilot and his RIO.
Bradley Carlyle Austin wore the insignia patch of his former Marine Corps fighter squadron. It denoted that he was an F-4 Phantom Phlyer. Twinkling hazel eyes highlighted a tanned face and trim physique. Brad was five feet ten and 165 pounds. Known as a gregarious officer with a quick wit, he enjoyed the company of his fellow pilots and RIOs. They, in turn, respected their solitary "jarhead" for his straightforward personality and excellent flying skills.
A graduate of the Naval Academy, Brad Austin had majored in aeronautical engineering. He had also been a member of the swimming team, and competed as a platform diver. Graduating with honors, he had resisted his father's wishes by accepting a commission in the Marine Corps.
His father, Vice Adm. Carlyle Whitney Austin, USN, was a proud Annapolis alumnus who firmly believed in tradition and loyalty. The three-star flag officer had vociferously opposed his son's decision not to pursue a career in the naval service.
Brad's senior year at the academy had been marred by the prolonged quarrel with his father. The more incensed his father had become over his decision, the more determined Brad had become to chart his own course.
The past holiday season, when Brad had worn his marine dress blue uniform home, had been a strain for the entire Austin family. When again pressed by his father, Brad had made it clear that it was his decision, and his decision alone, to pursue a career path of his own choosing.
What he had not disclosed was the fact that he did not want to serve in the same service as his father. Brad had always bristled at the insinuations that his father would ensure a smooth career path. Furthermore, how could he possibly explain to the admiral that he genuinely liked the Marine Corps?
Lieutenant Russ Lunsford, tall and lanky with stooped shoulders and thinning blond hair, was considered one of the better RIOs in the squadron. The twenty-seven-year-old bachelor had an intellectual air about him, underscored by his methodical approach to every facet of his life. Lunsford made a constant effort to keep his personal world, including his impeccably clean stateroom, as neat and predictable as possible. Naturally nervous, he hid his apprehensiveness behind a pretense of hardy self-assurance.
Although Russ Lunsford was competent technically, he had never quite adjusted to the hostile environment of aerial combat. Everyone liked the former college basketball star but knew not to approach him when he became moody. His worst emotional swings generally manifested themselves two to three hours before a combat mission.
It was common knowledge that Russ Lunsford was not overly fond of flying, even with the best pilots in the squadron. The few individuals who knew about Lunsford's past attributed his acute nervousness to the fact that he had washed out of advanced fighter — attack pilot training. Whatever the reason had been, he remained an extremely uneasy crew member.
Lieutenant Jon O'Meara approached Brad as Lunsford closed and secured the hatch. O'Meara was a quintessential Irishman, full of mirth and always boisterously confident. He was two inches shorter than Brad, with short-cropped red hair and dancing blue eyes.
O'Meara's pranks had become legend before the air-group commander had censored him for singing an indecent song in mixed company at the officers' club. The lewd rendition of "Shagging O'Leary's Daughter" had not been well received by the admiral's wife.
O'Meara's look asked the question. "What the hell happened out there?"
Austin dropped his helmet, flight gloves, and kneeboard in one of the high-backed crew chairs. "We got our asses shot off covering a downed Spad driver. How's the skipper and Ernie?"
Lieutenant (junior grade) Harry Hutton, the squadron duty officer, placed his hand over the phone he had just answered. Hutton was at a desk next to Brad. "I'm talking to Scary McCary now." McCary was Dr. Lloyd McCary, the squadron flight surgeon.
O'Meara saw the XO stand. "I'll stop by your pit later. I'd like to hear all the details."
"Well," Brad exhaled softly, "it wasn't pretty." O'Meara nodded knowingly and went back to his flight-planning table.
The executive officer, Cdr. Frank "Rocky" Rockwood, stepped around his chair and walked down the center aisle toward Brad and Russ. He sat down on the arm of a chair next to the two men. "Are you guys okay?"
Brad unzipped his torso harness. "Yessir, just a little postflight shakes."
Rockwood pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket and lighted it as Austin and Lunsford unzipped their g suits. "Tell you what… why don't you two go get a bite to eat and a cup of coffee. We'll get with Jocko for a debrief when the skipper is released from sick bay." Jocko was Lt. Cdr. Jack Carella, the squadron operations officer.
Brad folded his g suit over his helmet. "Sir, I really need to talk to you and Commander Carella now. It was my fault that the skipper got hit."
A hush settled around the back of the compartment. Lunsford glanced at Austin, then busied himself with his flight gear.