Brad waited until the howling Phantom was closer. "You're right. The left wing has taken a hit."
Paralyzed, they watched the stricken fighter-bomber cross the runway threshold and touch down in a puff of tire smoke. A fraction of a second later, the left main landing gear sheared off, causing the drop tank to separate from the wing.
"Oh, shit," Austin exclaimed as the air base crash equipment started chasing the Phantom.
The fuel tank burst into yellow-orange flames before it slid off the runway, tumbling end over end.
The heavily damaged F-4 continued to slide as the left wing ground along the pavement. Slowly, the aircraft slewed around and stopped sideways next to the edge of the runway. A small fire erupted under the fuselage, then flashed into billowing black-and-orange flames.
Motionless, Brad stared at the conflagration, then yelled in futility. "Get some foam on 'em, for Christ's sake."
Austin and Wyatt were stunned when the ejection seats fired. Brad watched Perkins and Chitwood arc through the air, separate from their seats, then drift to a landing next to a fire truck.
think," Brad paused to take a deep breath, "they'll be debriefing over a couple of stiff drinks."
The recent rain had left the air heavy with humidity. Dark clouds surrounded the base, carrying the threat of another torrential downpour. The rumbling sound of thunder rolled across the flight line.
Fuel and ordnance handlers, along with maintenance and support personnel, continued their duties in defiance of the miserable weather.
Four of the squadron's F-4s, assigned to barrier combat air patrol for the ships at Yankee Station, continued to cycle back and forth in around-the-clock operations. The rest of the Phantoms, with the exception of the Hot Pad aircraft, were tasked with interdiction and close air support missions.
Brad sat alone in the mess hall, tuning out the ever-present sound of jet engines and helicopter rotors. He reached for his wallet and carefully removed a picture of Leigh Ann Ladasau. Brad studied the blackand-white photograph, thinking about the first time he had seen her. Vacationing in Hawaii, he had been mesmerized by the petite brunette with the sparkling blue eyes and radiant smile.
Closing his eyes, Brad remembered her pleasant laughter and beautifully sculptured face. They had shared one night of passion in San Francisco, and Brad would never forget it. He reread Leigh Ann's latest letter, savoring every word, especially the part where she wrote that she dearly missed him and could not wait to see him again.
"Hey, guy," Randy Wyatt said as he placed his tray down across from Brad. "We've been rescheduled for the nineteen-hundred launch."
"Good," Brad replied, folding the letter. "I'll have time to drop my girl a note."
Wyatt reached for the black-and-white photograph. "No doubt about it… for sure. "
Brad gave Randy a wry grin. "What?"
Handing the picture back, Wyatt shook his head. "She is definitely a knockout."
Randy tasted a bite of the ham and beans, chewed slowly and thoughtfully, then plopped his fork on the tray. A look of contempt crossed his ruddy face. "I wouldn't feed this shit to the Cong."
"Yeah, I agree." Brad chuckled. "The navy spoiled me while I was aboard the carrier."
Wyatt's response was cut off when he noticed their commanding officer entering the mess hall.
Lieutenant Colonel Bud Parnell was an enigma to most everyone. Short and barrel-chested, Parnell, nicknamed "The Bulldog," was a tenacious and cocky fighter pilot from the old school. But Parnell was also kind and considerate. Shifting from one phase of his personality to the other, he never allowed anyone to know the whole of the real man behind the facade.
Parnell walked straight to Brad's side, taking the seat next to him. "Austin," the CO said as he unfolded a message form, "do you know anything about this directive?"
Brad accepted the piece of paper, scanned the contents, then reread the message slowly. The instructions, from the commanding general of the air wing, ordered Brad to report to Marine Colonel Charles Thornton, U. S. Military Liaison Office, Bangkok, Thailand. He was to report no later than 1600 hours, two days hence.
Confused, Brad handed Parnell the message. "Sir, this is a total surprise to me. I don't have any idea," he paused while Wyatt hastily excused himself and left the table, "what this is about… "
"Well," Parnell scratched his earlobe, "I don't either. I made a couple of inquiries, and no one seems to know diddly-shit… including the general's aide."
Brad started to reply, then decided to remain quiet when he saw the crimson streak creep up Parnell's neck.
"What's strange," the CO said with a hint of anger, "is that this isn't temporary duty. You are checking out of the squadron, lock, stock, and personnel record."
Parnell jammed the message in the breast pocket of his damp utilities. "We're short of pilots and RIOs, so some staff puke decides to take an experienced aviator and turn him into a paper pusher."
Brad's mind raced, trying to think of a reason for the unexpected orders. He had only recently suppressed his fears that his breach of the rules of engagement over Phuc Yen would not return to haunt him.
"You can stand down from any further duties," Parnell said as he rose. "You better get to humpin', if you plan to get out of here today." "Yes, sir," Brad replied, rising out of respect. "I'm sorry, Skipper." "Hell," Parnell spat, "it isn't your fault. Stop by and see me," the CO somberly continued, "last thing before you leave."
A warning bell sounded in Brad's mind. "Yes, sir."
Lieutenant Colonel Bud Parnell's dusty hootch was indistinguishable from the quarters of his pilots and radar-intercept officers. One side of the CO's temporary shelter had been severely damaged during a midnight mortar and rocket attack.
Brad dropped his two custom-made canvas bags by the entrance and smartly rapped on the screen door. In the Marine Corps, Austin had learned as a newly minted second lieutenant, one did not tap lightly on a door. Marines were expected boldly to announce their arrival.
"Come in, Brad," Parnell greeted while the squadron safety officer excused himself and left the hootch.
"Sit down," Parnell gestured toward a worn folding chair. "I know you've got to hurry to catch the trash hauler, so I'll just take a minute."
Don't bullshit me, Skipper. You'll take as long as you want.
Parnell propped his boots on his wooden footlocker and clasped his hands behind his head. "Brad, do you think your sudden departure has anything to do with the rumors I've heard about Phuc Yen… and the purported cover-up?"
I knew this was coming.
The CO was referring to an incident that Austin had initiated while he had been an exchange pilot on an aircraft carrier. Variations of the story had traveled throughout the naval aviation community, expanding with each telling. The yarn had the earmark of a classic aviation anecdote.
"Sir," Brad cautiously answered, "as I said before, I honestly don't know."
Parnell leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, then gave Austin a thin smile. "Out of curiosity, what really happened at Phuc Yen?"
You're going to nail me to the wall, aren't you…?
"Skipper," Brad squirmed, "I've been ordered not to say anything about Phuc Yen."
Phuc Yen, at the time of Austin's breach of the rules of engagement, had been an off-limits MiG airfield twelve miles north of Hanoi. The base had become a sanctuary for Communist fighter pilots who happened to be getting the worst end of an aerial engagement. At the first sign of trouble, the MiG pilots would race for the protection of Phuc Yen.
"Well, let me tell you what I've heard," Parnell shifted his feet, "and if my info is in the ballpark, you can nod your head as you go out the door."
Come on, Skipper, give me a break.