the catapult shuttle. He immediately stopped while the green-shirted cat crews hooked the bridle harness and holdback bar to his heavily laden fighter.
A deck crewman held up a plastic-covered board indicating the fighter's total takeoff weight. The steam pressure of the catapult launch would be predicated on the gross weight of the Phantom. Brad looked at the board, which indicated 49,000
pounds. He gave the weight checker a thumbs-up and swept the control stick backward, forward, left, and right to see if the flight controls were working properly. The catapult officer checked under the Phantom and gave Brad the two-finger turn-up signal.
Shoving the throttles forward, Brad focused on the engine instruments, then selected afterburner and glanced at the end of the flight deck. "Harness locked?"
"All set," Lunsford replied in a slightly strained voice. "Don't screw up."
Brad placed his left hand on the catapult grip that prevented the throttles from being retarded during the violent launch. He again scanned the engine parameters, feeling the Phantom shudder under full power.
Placing his helmet against the headrest, Brad snapped a salute to the yellow-shirted catapult officer and waited for the powerful kick in the back. The cat stroke would render the pilot immobile during the launch. Four seconds elapsed before the Phantom blasted down the deck, settled precariously close to the water, then entered a climbing right turn.
Snapping the gear up, Brad could hear Lunsford breathing in short gasps through the open intercom system. "You gonna make it, sailor?"
Lunsford slowed his breathing rate. "Yeah. Palmer is off .. . good shot."
The Phantoms rendezvoused and joined on the tanker. Brad plugged the basket on his second attempt, filled his tanks to capacity, then backed out and drifted to the left so Palmer could top off his fuel load.
Tuned to the tanker frequency, Brad was surprised to hear the carrier call him on the 243.0 UHF Guard channel. "Joker Two Zero Eight, Checkerboard Strike on guard. Come up button seven."
This is unusual, Austin thought, sensing trouble. Or, he reasoned, the mission might have been canceled due to the rotten weather.
Brad dialed in the strike frequency. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Eight is up."
"Joker, Checkerboard. We've got a delay on the strike . . . stand by one."
Brad clicked his mike twice, watching Nick Palmer slide out of the basket. The Whale reeled in the refueling hose and banked into a shallow left turn.
Palmer, who had also heard the call from Checkerboard, came up on button seven. "Joker Two."
"Copy," Brad responded seconds before the carrier talker called.
"Joker Two Zero Eight, Strike."
Brad keyed his mike. "Joker, copy."
"Joker," the controller radioed without emotion, "we're holding for a weather check. Your flight is directed to make a reconnaissance sweep over the target area."
"Horseshit," Lunsford said over the intercom.
Looking at the folded map section on his kneeboard, Brad glanced toward the coast. The dark, rain-swollen clouds looked ominous. "Wilco, Checkerboard. We 'llrelay through Red Crown."
"Roger that."
The primary target was the Vu Chua highway and railroad bridge north of Hanoi. The combination support structure was a vital link in the North Vietnamese supply chain. The flight crews were aware that the target had been given a high priority.
Brad checked in with Red Crown, discussed the weather reconnaissance mission, then descended to 100 feet as the coastline appeared. The two F-4s, traveling at 450 knots, went feet dry south of Cam Pho.
Brad guessed the ceiling to be 1,800 to 2,000 feet with five to seven miles of visibility. The strike group could squeeze in, but it would be tight. Continuing toward the bridge, Brad was startled when antiaircraft fire erupted from the hills on both sides of the low-flying fighters.
"Jokers," Brad radioed, "let's light the pipes and get the hell out of here. Come hard starboard, and watch the
A deck crewman held up a plastic-covered board indicating the fighter's total takeoff weight. The steam pressure of the catapult launch would be predicated on the gross weight of the Phantom. Brad looked at the board, which indicated 49,000
pounds. He gave the weight checker a thumbs-up and swept the control stick backward, forward, left, and right to see if the flight controls were working properly. The catapult officer checked under the Phantom and gave Brad the two-finger turn-up signal.
Shoving the throttles forward, Brad focused on the engine instruments, then selected afterburner and glanced at the end of the flight deck. "Harness locked?"
"All set," Lunsford replied in a slightly strained voice. "Don't screw up."
Brad placed his left hand on the catapult grip that prevented the throttles from being retarded during the violent launch. He again scanned the engine parameters, feeling the Phantom shudder under full power.
Placing his helmet against the headrest, Brad snapped a salute to the yellow-shirted catapult officer and waited for the powerful kick in the back. The cat stroke would render the pilot immobile during the launch. Four seconds elapsed before the Phantom blasted down the deck, settled precariously close to the water, then entered a climbing right turn.
Snapping the gear up, Brad could hear Lunsford breathing in short gasps through the open intercom system. "You gonna make it, sailor?"
Lunsford slowed his breathing rate. "Yeah. Palmer is off .. . good shot."
The Phantoms rendezvoused and joined on the tanker. Brad plugged the basket on his second attempt, filled his tanks to capacity, then backed out and drifted to the left so Palmer could top off his fuel load.
Tuned to the tanker frequency, Brad was surprised to hear the carrier call him on the 243.0 UHF Guard channel. "Joker Two Zero Eight, Checkerboard Strike on guard. Come up button seven."
This is unusual, Austin thought, sensing trouble. Or, he reasoned, the mission might have been canceled due to the rotten weather.
Brad dialed in the strike frequency. "Checkerboard Strike, Joker Two Oh Eight is up."
"Joker, Checkerboard. We've got a delay on the strike . . . stand by one."
Brad clicked his mike twice, watching Nick Palmer slide out of the basket. The Whale reeled in the refueling hose and banked into a shallow left turn.
Palmer, who had also heard the call from Checkerboard, came up on button seven. "Joker Two."
"Copy," Brad responded seconds before the carrier talker called.
"Joker Two Zero Eight, Strike."
Brad keyed his mike. "Joker, copy."
"Joker," the controller radioed without emotion, "we're holding for a weather check. Your flight is directed to make a reconnaissance sweep over the target area."
"Horseshit," Lunsford said over the intercom.
Looking at the folded map section on his kneeboard, Brad glanced toward the coast. The dark, rain-swollen clouds looked ominous. "Wilco, Checkerboard. We 'llrelay through Red Crown."
"Roger that."
The primary target was the Vu Chua highway and railroad bridge north of Hanoi. The combination support structure was a vital link in the North Vietnamese supply chain. The flight crews were aware that the target had been given a high priority.
Brad checked in with Red Crown, discussed the weather reconnaissance mission, then descended to 100 feet as the coastline appeared. The two F-4s, traveling at 450 knots, went feet dry south of Cam Pho.
Brad guessed the ceiling to be 1,800 to 2,000 feet with five to seven miles of visibility. The strike group could squeeze in, but it would be tight. Continuing toward the bridge, Brad was startled when antiaircraft fire erupted from the hills on both sides of the low-flying fighters.
"Jokers," Brad radioed, "let's light the pipes and get the hell out of here. Come hard starboard, and watch the
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