unusually quiet back there. Any problems?"
A pause followed before Russ Lunsford answered. "Yeah, I'm going to have to throw away my skivvies . . . if we ever get down in one piece."
Brad could tell by the tremor in Lunsford's voice that he was still unsettled by the frighteningly close brush with death. He wondered if his own voice had sounded strained over the radio.
Austin closely monitored his hydraulic gauges, fearful that the priceless fluids would leak out of the Phantom before they were safely on the carrier. If the F-4 lost all hydraulic fluid, the primary flight controls would lock, forcing the crew to eject.
"Nick," Brad radioed, "I need to perform a stability check. Let's descend to five thousand and see what speed I'll need to control this beauty."
"Reducing power now," Palmer replied. "Indicating two-fifty. Do you want to try extending your hook and flaps before we go into the soup?"
Afraid of having an asymmetrical situation, Brad thought about the split-flap possibility. He needed the flaps to reduce his final approach speed. "Sure. Here goes." Austin lowered his arresting hook and selected partial flaps. Everything worked as advertised.
The Phantoms rapidly descended into the rain and clouds and leveled at 5,000 feet. They slowed to 230 knots, then 220 knots, as Palmer radioed the speeds to Austin.
"Okay, Nick," Brad said, grasping the landing-gear handle, "I'm going to drop the gear . . . I hope."
"Wait," Palmer cautioned. "Wait a second. Your machine is really trashed. Let's not place any extra strain on anything at this speed. I recommend we slow to one-eighty and go for it. With the damage you've got, I'd leave the flaps where they are."
Agreeing with the more experienced Phantom pilot, Brad reduced power to match Palmer's F-4. They were flying in solid instrument conditions, blocking out the river of water flowing over their canopies. Relying solely on Nick Palmer to fly instruments, Brad ignored his instrument panel and concentrated on flying formation with his leader.
"Russ," Brad said over the intercom, "if we have to jump out, we've got plenty of time from five thousand."
"I've been ready . . . got everything stowed."
Fighting the insidious onslaught of vertigo, Brad intensified his concentration in an effort to reduce the sensation of dizziness. Spatial disorientation was a constant threat to pilots flying in instrument conditions. He studied Palmer's Phantom and attempted to suppress the fear gnawing at him. He did not want Russ Lunsford to know that his pilot was anything but confident about the outcome of the flight.
"Okay," Palmer radioed, closely monitoring his airspeed indicator. "I'm showing one-eighty. Let 'er go."
Brad said a silent prayer and yanked the landing-gear handle down. He was rewarded by the clunk, clunk of the main gears and the thud under the nose. "I show three down and locked."
"Looks good," Palmer replied. "Let's see what your on speed will be. Coming back on the power."
Reducing power, Brad stayed glued to Palmer's Phantom. The vertigo was dissipating and he darted a glance at his left-engine instruments, back to Palmer's F-4, then back to the fuel-quantity indicator. The powerful turbojet was operating smoothly and, to his relief, he had 2,900 pounds of fuel remaining. Enough for a couple of approaches before the Air Boss would have to rig the barricade.
"One-seventy-five," Palmer soothed. He gently moved his throttles back. "One-seventy . . . one-sixty-five . . . one-sixty .. . one-fifty-five . . . one-fifty . . ."
Brad felt the Phantom shudder, then the wings wobbled as he shoved the left throttle forward.
"Shit!" Lunsford exclaimed as the fighter leveled out. "We're going to be at least fifteen knots fast."
Adjusting the power, Brad spoke to his flight leader. "Nick, I've gotta have one-fifty to touch down."
"Okay, partner," Nick said, peering at his smooth-flying wingman. "I'll keep it on one-fifty-five . . . give you a cushion to the
A pause followed before Russ Lunsford answered. "Yeah, I'm going to have to throw away my skivvies . . . if we ever get down in one piece."
Brad could tell by the tremor in Lunsford's voice that he was still unsettled by the frighteningly close brush with death. He wondered if his own voice had sounded strained over the radio.
Austin closely monitored his hydraulic gauges, fearful that the priceless fluids would leak out of the Phantom before they were safely on the carrier. If the F-4 lost all hydraulic fluid, the primary flight controls would lock, forcing the crew to eject.
"Nick," Brad radioed, "I need to perform a stability check. Let's descend to five thousand and see what speed I'll need to control this beauty."
"Reducing power now," Palmer replied. "Indicating two-fifty. Do you want to try extending your hook and flaps before we go into the soup?"
Afraid of having an asymmetrical situation, Brad thought about the split-flap possibility. He needed the flaps to reduce his final approach speed. "Sure. Here goes." Austin lowered his arresting hook and selected partial flaps. Everything worked as advertised.
The Phantoms rapidly descended into the rain and clouds and leveled at 5,000 feet. They slowed to 230 knots, then 220 knots, as Palmer radioed the speeds to Austin.
"Okay, Nick," Brad said, grasping the landing-gear handle, "I'm going to drop the gear . . . I hope."
"Wait," Palmer cautioned. "Wait a second. Your machine is really trashed. Let's not place any extra strain on anything at this speed. I recommend we slow to one-eighty and go for it. With the damage you've got, I'd leave the flaps where they are."
Agreeing with the more experienced Phantom pilot, Brad reduced power to match Palmer's F-4. They were flying in solid instrument conditions, blocking out the river of water flowing over their canopies. Relying solely on Nick Palmer to fly instruments, Brad ignored his instrument panel and concentrated on flying formation with his leader.
"Russ," Brad said over the intercom, "if we have to jump out, we've got plenty of time from five thousand."
"I've been ready . . . got everything stowed."
Fighting the insidious onslaught of vertigo, Brad intensified his concentration in an effort to reduce the sensation of dizziness. Spatial disorientation was a constant threat to pilots flying in instrument conditions. He studied Palmer's Phantom and attempted to suppress the fear gnawing at him. He did not want Russ Lunsford to know that his pilot was anything but confident about the outcome of the flight.
"Okay," Palmer radioed, closely monitoring his airspeed indicator. "I'm showing one-eighty. Let 'er go."
Brad said a silent prayer and yanked the landing-gear handle down. He was rewarded by the clunk, clunk of the main gears and the thud under the nose. "I show three down and locked."
"Looks good," Palmer replied. "Let's see what your on speed will be. Coming back on the power."
Reducing power, Brad stayed glued to Palmer's Phantom. The vertigo was dissipating and he darted a glance at his left-engine instruments, back to Palmer's F-4, then back to the fuel-quantity indicator. The powerful turbojet was operating smoothly and, to his relief, he had 2,900 pounds of fuel remaining. Enough for a couple of approaches before the Air Boss would have to rig the barricade.
"One-seventy-five," Palmer soothed. He gently moved his throttles back. "One-seventy . . . one-sixty-five . . . one-sixty .. . one-fifty-five . . . one-fifty . . ."
Brad felt the Phantom shudder, then the wings wobbled as he shoved the left throttle forward.
"Shit!" Lunsford exclaimed as the fighter leveled out. "We're going to be at least fifteen knots fast."
Adjusting the power, Brad spoke to his flight leader. "Nick, I've gotta have one-fifty to touch down."
"Okay, partner," Nick said, peering at his smooth-flying wingman. "I'll keep it on one-fifty-five . . . give you a cushion to the
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