ramp."
Austin and Lunsford knew they would be attempting a single-engine landing almost twenty miles an hour faster than their normal approach speed. Adding to the difficulty was the fact that the angle-of-attack indexer was not working. The sensor had been sheared off in the violent collision with the trees.
Hutton, who had been quiet, watching the drama unfold, spoke to his roommate. "Brad, you can do it. Show the navy how the marines land a flying tree."
"What was it you said," Palmer radioed Austin, "about marine fighter pilots?"
Brad smiled to himself. "When we're out of ammo, we resort to ramming our bogies."
Lunsford nervously keyed his mike. "And you wonder--flying with that kind of mentality--why I'm a basket case."
Palmer and Hutton shared a laugh over their intercom but kept their comments to themselves. They both were concerned about Lunsford's increasing uneasiness.
Palmer talked to the carrier controller who would vector the flight to a position for an instrument approach to a visual landing. The radar operator steered the Phantoms to a point six miles behind the carrier, then turned them inbound to line up with the small flight-deck landing zone. He wanted the pilots tb' have adequate time to stabilize before they started their descent. "Reduce to your final approach speed."
"We're already there," Palmer radioed as the two aircraft flew into a heavy downpour. "Dash Two is damaged and can't slow below one-fifty-five."
The controller sensed a disaster in the making. "Copy. Understand that you're at final approach speed."
Twenty seconds elapsed before the radar operator again contacted the flight. "Approaching glide slope . . . up and on the glide slope. Begin your descent." Palmer eased the power back and followed the controller's calm instructions.
"You're. on the glide path, left of course. Come right five degrees." Palmer made a very slight correction. His instrument scan was automatic from hundreds of hours of practice and five years of experience.
"You're on glide path, on course. The last aircraft has trapped. You have a clear deck."
"Roger, clear deck," Palmer replied, closely monitoring his rate of descent. They were descending through 600 feet in a heavy rain squall.
"On glide slope, on course," the controller advised without inflection.
Brad never took his eyes off Palmer's Phantom. Only seconds to go before they would see the carrier deck. He felt his pulse quicken. God, don't let me fail.
"Phantom ball," Palmer called, omitting his fuel state. He would have to trap on the next pass.
Darting a quick glance toward the carrier, Brad saw the dim meatball, then drifted away from his leader. "Two Oh Eight, ball, one point nine."
Palmer broke away, climbing back into the clouds as the LSO coached Austin. "You're fast and high. Get off the power! Get the power back!"
Brad inched the left throttle back and nudged the stick forward. The ball remained high as he approached the round-down. The Phantom, on the verge of stalling, shuddered as Brad shoved the throttle forward.
"Oh, shheeeit," Lunsford uttered at the moment the F-4 passed over the fantail of the ship.
"Bolter, bolter, bolter!" the LSO said, seeing that the Phantom was going to overshoot the landing zone.
The fighter ballooned over the four arresting-gear wires, went into afterburner on the left engine, touched the deck for a split second, then mushed into the air as Austin fought for control. He could feel the adrenaline shock to his heart. Brad knew that he could not reduce power on the approach because the aircraft would stall and crash.
The crippled fighter struggled for altitude as the LSO called. "Okay, five wire, settle down. You've got the best boarding rate in your squadron."
Determined to stay below the cloud deck, Brad was about to respond when the Air Boss called.
"Joker Two Zero Eight, we're going to barricade you. Two Zero Two, we're shooting a tanker. Anchor overhead at eight thousand and give us a tops report
Austin and Lunsford knew they would be attempting a single-engine landing almost twenty miles an hour faster than their normal approach speed. Adding to the difficulty was the fact that the angle-of-attack indexer was not working. The sensor had been sheared off in the violent collision with the trees.
Hutton, who had been quiet, watching the drama unfold, spoke to his roommate. "Brad, you can do it. Show the navy how the marines land a flying tree."
"What was it you said," Palmer radioed Austin, "about marine fighter pilots?"
Brad smiled to himself. "When we're out of ammo, we resort to ramming our bogies."
Lunsford nervously keyed his mike. "And you wonder--flying with that kind of mentality--why I'm a basket case."
Palmer and Hutton shared a laugh over their intercom but kept their comments to themselves. They both were concerned about Lunsford's increasing uneasiness.
Palmer talked to the carrier controller who would vector the flight to a position for an instrument approach to a visual landing. The radar operator steered the Phantoms to a point six miles behind the carrier, then turned them inbound to line up with the small flight-deck landing zone. He wanted the pilots tb' have adequate time to stabilize before they started their descent. "Reduce to your final approach speed."
"We're already there," Palmer radioed as the two aircraft flew into a heavy downpour. "Dash Two is damaged and can't slow below one-fifty-five."
The controller sensed a disaster in the making. "Copy. Understand that you're at final approach speed."
Twenty seconds elapsed before the radar operator again contacted the flight. "Approaching glide slope . . . up and on the glide slope. Begin your descent." Palmer eased the power back and followed the controller's calm instructions.
"You're. on the glide path, left of course. Come right five degrees." Palmer made a very slight correction. His instrument scan was automatic from hundreds of hours of practice and five years of experience.
"You're on glide path, on course. The last aircraft has trapped. You have a clear deck."
"Roger, clear deck," Palmer replied, closely monitoring his rate of descent. They were descending through 600 feet in a heavy rain squall.
"On glide slope, on course," the controller advised without inflection.
Brad never took his eyes off Palmer's Phantom. Only seconds to go before they would see the carrier deck. He felt his pulse quicken. God, don't let me fail.
"Phantom ball," Palmer called, omitting his fuel state. He would have to trap on the next pass.
Darting a quick glance toward the carrier, Brad saw the dim meatball, then drifted away from his leader. "Two Oh Eight, ball, one point nine."
Palmer broke away, climbing back into the clouds as the LSO coached Austin. "You're fast and high. Get off the power! Get the power back!"
Brad inched the left throttle back and nudged the stick forward. The ball remained high as he approached the round-down. The Phantom, on the verge of stalling, shuddered as Brad shoved the throttle forward.
"Oh, shheeeit," Lunsford uttered at the moment the F-4 passed over the fantail of the ship.
"Bolter, bolter, bolter!" the LSO said, seeing that the Phantom was going to overshoot the landing zone.
The fighter ballooned over the four arresting-gear wires, went into afterburner on the left engine, touched the deck for a split second, then mushed into the air as Austin fought for control. He could feel the adrenaline shock to his heart. Brad knew that he could not reduce power on the approach because the aircraft would stall and crash.
The crippled fighter struggled for altitude as the LSO called. "Okay, five wire, settle down. You've got the best boarding rate in your squadron."
Determined to stay below the cloud deck, Brad was about to respond when the Air Boss called.
"Joker Two Zero Eight, we're going to barricade you. Two Zero Two, we're shooting a tanker. Anchor overhead at eight thousand and give us a tops report
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