port.
"Red Crown," Palmer radioed exuberantly, "my wingman has eliminated our problem."
"Copy, Joker. We have a tanker at your one one zero for fifty."
Palmer checked his fuel-quantity indicator. The gauge showed 4,700 pounds. "Joker Two, go gas up, and come back and relieve us .
"On our way," Brad replied, shoving his throttles forward to full military power. Passing 9,000 feet, Austin and Lunsford heard the rescue-helicopter pilots check in with Red Crown and Palmer.
Brad continued to monitor the frequency, anxious for the rescue effort to be successful. Three minutes later, Austin heard Nick Palmer tell Red Crown that the marine helicopters were over the downed crew.
Palmer circled another minute while he watched Durham and Sheridan struggle into their rescue collars, then radioed that Joker 1 was departing for the tanker.
Chapter 10.
Brad leveled the Phantom at 22,000 feet and extended his aerial fueling probe. He cast a glance to his right, then froze at the same time Lunsford saw the damaged refueling nozzle. The end of the tube was crushed and the tip was bent outward at an odd angle.
"Uh, Brad, we're out of the refueling business."
"I noticed."
Austin retracted the bent refueling probe, wondering what other damage they might have incurred from the missile explosion. He tilted his head back and inspected the hole in his canopy, then checked the oxygen control panel. The gauge, which indicated fifteen percent full, was showing a steady depletion.
Brad glanced at all of his instruments, then keyed the intercom. "You ready for some more good news?"
"Don't tell me anything," Lunsford said, waving his hands from side to side. "I don't want to hear anything bad. Just get our asses back to the boat."
Brad glanced at the oxygen gauge again. "We are going to be out of oxygen very shortly . . . must have severed a line."
Lunsford exhaled. "That isn't a problem--we'll be on the boat in a few minutes. Don't bother me with category-three bullshit."
"Hey," Brad responded, "I just wanted you to know what's going on, so you wouldn't be surprised."
Brad called the tanker pilot, explained that they could not refuel, then called the carrier. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Three."
"Joker Two Zero Three, Strike."
"Two Oh Three is inbound with Two Oh Seven in trail. Two Oh Six went in the water, and the crew has been rescued."
Brad scanned the horizon while he waited for a reply. The dense black clouds and towering, fluffy white cumulus formations indicated the presence of heavy thunderstorms south of the carrier.
"Joker Two Zero Three," the controller said with a different pitch in his voice, "is directed to hit the tanker and marshal one five miles, angels one six on the three six zero." The instructions told Brad to enter a holding pattern fifteen nautical miles from the carrier at 16,000 feet. He would be due north of the ship.
"Checkerboard, Two Oh Three has damage. We are unable to tank, and I can't hold very long."
"Copy. Stand by."
While he waited for instructions, Brad studied the lightning flashes in the distance. The black clouds appeared to illuminate from within.
"Two Zero Three," the controller said over the unusual background noise, "be advised that we have a fouled deck. Your signal is bingo to Da Nang."
Brad stared at his fuel-quantity indicator. He might make Da Nang Air Base if he flew directly to the airfield. The only problem, Brad told himself, was that he would have to fly through the menacing-looking thunderstorms to reach Da Nang. There had to be another option.
"Checkerboard, I'm not sure we can make Da Nang. Do you have an estimate as to when the deck will be open?"
"Negative," the controller responded over the background noise. "A Zuni rocket ignited and hit two aircraft. We have a major fire on the flight deck. My guess would be forty-five minutes to an hour--possibly longer--before we can recover aircraft again."
"Copy," Brad replied as he sucked the last of the oxygen supply.
"Red Crown," Palmer radioed exuberantly, "my wingman has eliminated our problem."
"Copy, Joker. We have a tanker at your one one zero for fifty."
Palmer checked his fuel-quantity indicator. The gauge showed 4,700 pounds. "Joker Two, go gas up, and come back and relieve us .
"On our way," Brad replied, shoving his throttles forward to full military power. Passing 9,000 feet, Austin and Lunsford heard the rescue-helicopter pilots check in with Red Crown and Palmer.
Brad continued to monitor the frequency, anxious for the rescue effort to be successful. Three minutes later, Austin heard Nick Palmer tell Red Crown that the marine helicopters were over the downed crew.
Palmer circled another minute while he watched Durham and Sheridan struggle into their rescue collars, then radioed that Joker 1 was departing for the tanker.
Chapter 10.
Brad leveled the Phantom at 22,000 feet and extended his aerial fueling probe. He cast a glance to his right, then froze at the same time Lunsford saw the damaged refueling nozzle. The end of the tube was crushed and the tip was bent outward at an odd angle.
"Uh, Brad, we're out of the refueling business."
"I noticed."
Austin retracted the bent refueling probe, wondering what other damage they might have incurred from the missile explosion. He tilted his head back and inspected the hole in his canopy, then checked the oxygen control panel. The gauge, which indicated fifteen percent full, was showing a steady depletion.
Brad glanced at all of his instruments, then keyed the intercom. "You ready for some more good news?"
"Don't tell me anything," Lunsford said, waving his hands from side to side. "I don't want to hear anything bad. Just get our asses back to the boat."
Brad glanced at the oxygen gauge again. "We are going to be out of oxygen very shortly . . . must have severed a line."
Lunsford exhaled. "That isn't a problem--we'll be on the boat in a few minutes. Don't bother me with category-three bullshit."
"Hey," Brad responded, "I just wanted you to know what's going on, so you wouldn't be surprised."
Brad called the tanker pilot, explained that they could not refuel, then called the carrier. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Three."
"Joker Two Zero Three, Strike."
"Two Oh Three is inbound with Two Oh Seven in trail. Two Oh Six went in the water, and the crew has been rescued."
Brad scanned the horizon while he waited for a reply. The dense black clouds and towering, fluffy white cumulus formations indicated the presence of heavy thunderstorms south of the carrier.
"Joker Two Zero Three," the controller said with a different pitch in his voice, "is directed to hit the tanker and marshal one five miles, angels one six on the three six zero." The instructions told Brad to enter a holding pattern fifteen nautical miles from the carrier at 16,000 feet. He would be due north of the ship.
"Checkerboard, Two Oh Three has damage. We are unable to tank, and I can't hold very long."
"Copy. Stand by."
While he waited for instructions, Brad studied the lightning flashes in the distance. The black clouds appeared to illuminate from within.
"Two Zero Three," the controller said over the unusual background noise, "be advised that we have a fouled deck. Your signal is bingo to Da Nang."
Brad stared at his fuel-quantity indicator. He might make Da Nang Air Base if he flew directly to the airfield. The only problem, Brad told himself, was that he would have to fly through the menacing-looking thunderstorms to reach Da Nang. There had to be another option.
"Checkerboard, I'm not sure we can make Da Nang. Do you have an estimate as to when the deck will be open?"
"Negative," the controller responded over the background noise. "A Zuni rocket ignited and hit two aircraft. We have a major fire on the flight deck. My guess would be forty-five minutes to an hour--possibly longer--before we can recover aircraft again."
"Copy," Brad replied as he sucked the last of the oxygen supply.
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