"Jesus," Brad said, replaying the tactic in his mind. "That's definitely an unorthodox maneuver, especially using the speed brakes."
"Yep," Palmer responded knowingly, "but it works. Jocko did it to me coming back from a BARCAP, and I took the bait. When I snapped over, the son of a bitch flashed by me in a blur, with a lot of kinetic energy."
Almost giggling, Hutton butted in. "Next thing Ace here knows, Jocko is on our six."
Brad stifled a laugh. He was amazed that Harry still had all of his original teeth.
"Well," Palmer said sarcastically, "since we're airing our laundry now, why don't you tell Brad about how you identified an air force Phantom as a MiG?"
Unable to resist, Brad laughed.
"Tell him," Palmer continued, "about how excited you were to lock on with a Sparrow, until I saved your dumb ass from knocking the poor bastards out of the sky. Great pair of eyes, kid."
Undaunted, Hutton swallowed the last sip in his glass. "So, I made one mistake this year."
"Oh, yeah," Palmer replied, shaking his head. "We would have had the entire goddamn air force after our asses."
Brad appreciated Palmer's effort to form a closer friendship with him. He seemed to be very genuine. "Nick, why don't you lead out and I'll lead back, until I have more experience?"
"Naw, you go for it. You're a hell of a lot better than you give yourself credit for."
Feeling a tinge of embarrassment, Brad got up and rinsed his glass. "Nick, I'd like to try your negative-g maneuver on our way back tomorrow. I've always been taught that speed — lots of it — is the key to winning, and living to fight again."
"That's basically true," Palmer replied, feeling a closeness to the less experienced Phantom pilot. "But intimidation and unpredictability are the keys to survival. You've got to know your aircraft, and push it to the limits of its capability, and your capability."
Brad sat down, not taking his eyes off the seasoned fighter pilot.
"A lot of people," Palmer continued, "are afraid of the Fox-4. They're afraid to take it to the edge, or over the edge. To get the most out of the Phantom, you need to keep your speed above four hundred thirty knots, and fight below thirty thousand feet.
"If you can get a MiG to jump you at an altitude below fourteen thousand feet, you're in the prime F-4 envelope. The Phantom, as I'm sure you've discovered, turns like a lead sled at higher altitudes."
Austin acknowledged with a smile and a nod.
"What about the MiGs?" Brad asked, intrigued by Palmer's knowledge. "What are their weaknesses and strong points?" Hutton was also interested in the discussion.
"The seventeen is flight-control limited, or so we've heard.
If the gomer pushes it past four hundred thirty knots, he's on the verge of losing control. That's about all I know, except it turns on a dime."
Unusually candid, Palmer appeared to be pleased that Austin was interested in his experience. "I don't know that much about the MiG-19, but the twenty-one is a thirteen-hundred-mile-perhour rocket. The twenty-one pilots basically use slash-and-run tactics."
Palmer thought for a moment. "We'll work at tactics on each flight. The primary thing to remember is that if you place second in this league, you're dead. Nail 'em quick, and get the hell out of Dodge."
"Thanks," Brad offered, having absorbed every detail provided by Palmer's insight. "I'm looking forward to flying with you tomorrow."
"Yeah," Harry grinned, "he's a real treat."
"Hey, Brad," Palmer said, crunching on an ice cube and ignoring Hutton, "our contingent of marines is target practicing on the fantail. I think they're using M-16s. Suppose you could use your influence to get us a little firing time?"
Laughing out loud, Harry could not resist. "Shit, Palmer, you couldn't hit water if you fell out of a boat."
Brad smiled, feeling a bond developing between the two pilots. "Sure. They've got a machine gun too. We can really put on a show with that little hummer."
"Think they would allow us to tow Harry as a target?" "How in the hell," Brad laughed, "did they ever team you two together?"
Harry blew Palmer a kiss. "Just lucky, I guess."
Chapter 5
Brad and Russ Lunsford walked out of the ready room, down the long passageway, and out onto the catwalk, then mounted the steps to the flight deck. The low, dirty gray clouds threatened rain. Not a good day for flying.
Stepping onto the gritty deck, Brad was mindful of the hazards that surrounded them. Planes and tractor tugs were in constant motion. Men in various colored shirts moved swiftly around the crowded flight deck, dodging jet exhaust, wings, wheels, jet intakes, and tugs. The deck crews stepped nimbly over and around airplane chocks, taut arresting-gear cables, tie-down chains, bombs and rockets, and thick hoses pumping thousands of gallons of the volatile jet fuel into the menacing-looking planes.
Brad remembered the day a sailor, caught in the inferno of a Phantom's jet blast, had been hurled over the side of the flight deck. The aircraft handler had fallen sixty-five feet to the sea. The plane-guard helicopter, flying along the starboard side of the carrier, had managed to rescue the severely injured youth.
Kneeboards and helmet bags in hand, Russ and Brad leaned into the blustery wind and walked forward to their Phantom, Joker 208. The F-4 sat ready, canopies open, fueled, and armed with two Sparrows and four Sidewinder air-to-air missiles.
Scanning their fighter-bomber, Brad smiled to himself. The Phantom was the meanest-looking airplane he had ever seen. It reminded him of a giant prehistoric bird, one with wing tips angled up and tail fins angled down. The tough-looking monster, packed with two huge General Electric J-79 engines, was a world-class record holder. The F-4 had already set a speed record of more than 1,600 miles per hour. The Phantom could also sustain a combat altitude of 66,000 feet, and zoom climb to 100,000 feet. The amazing airplane could carry a weapons load twice that of a World War Two B-17 bomber.
Brad performed a thorough preflight walk-around while Lunsford climbed into the backseat. The pilot checked the external fuel tank for security, then pushed against the missiles to ensure that they were tightly attached. Brad peered into the engine intakes, checking for anything that might be sucked into the powerful yet delicate engines. He looked carefully for any signs of fuel or hydraulic leaks, and checked for any loose or open panels.
The plane captain was responsible for making sure that the fighter was ready to fly, but Brad had the overall responsibility for the expensive aircraft. He noted that the right main-gear tire was almost smooth and had deep scuff marks on the side. He calculated that the tire was good for one or two more landings before it would blow out. What the hell, Brad thought, the maintenance officer has bigger problems.
Watching Nick Palmer check the security of his Sidewinder missiles, Brad climbed the fuselage steps to his cockpit. He closely inspected his ejection seat, looked down the row of aircraft being manned by other crews, then stepped into the cockpit and settled in his seat. The distinct odor of fuel, oil, and hydraulic fluid swept over him. This would be his environment for the next two hours.
The plane captain, a conscientious Wyoming. teenager who aspired to be a rancher like his father, helped Brad and Russ buckle their parachute attachments and strap themselves to the hard-bottomed ejection seats.
Austin scrutinized the cockpit, carefully checking his instruments and the position of every switch, knob, gauge, lever, button, dial, and circuit breaker. One item out of place could spell disaster for the crew.
Brad firmly grasped the rudder-pedal adjustment lever and tried to turn the crank. He placed both hands on it, but it would not budge. Phantom 208 had a history of rudder-pedal adjustment problems.