Part 23 (1/2)
Court motioned to Morelli with a closed fist and thumb pointed down.
”Gear down, now,” he said, and reached to his instrument panel and placed the landing gear handle down. He felt his gear doors open and the heavy landing gear swing down and lock in place. His swift glance at Morelli showed his gear down. He was bouncing up and down in the increasing turbulence. Past him, Court saw a giant streak of lightning illuminate the black clouds. Court put his windscreen blower on maximum, which supplied air from the engine so hot and fast that if there was no rain, the winds.h.i.+eld would shatter. He hunkered down in front of his gages and slowed the Phantom to the final approach speed for an F-100.
Although the Phantom was bigger and heavier than the F-100, it had a different flap layout and a system that blew hot air over the wing and trailing edge flaps that cut turbulence and drag, It could fly an approach to landing several knots Slower than the F-100. But to safely bring in the F-100, it had to fly faster on the final approach to landing.
”About one seventy-five should do it, Court. That should handle the gusts as well,” Dieter said.
”Got it,” Court said.
The GCA controller gave more instructions. ”Check gear and flaps down, Silver flight. Start normal rate of descent ... now.”
”Silver, gear checked, starting down,” Court said. Suddenly he was in heavy rain and crus.h.i.+ng vertical winds that one second wanted to fling the two jets up and out and the next minute smash them to the ground.
All he had was a Voice in his ear telling him to fly left or right a few degrees, to increase or decrease his rate of descent a few feet per minute.
The voice belonged to a sergeant sitting in a small darkened room, intently watching an electronic bug crawl down his radar screen toward two converging lines. The sergeant could tell the bug in terse words to fly left or right, increase or decrease descent, and if the bug obeyed promptly and smoothly, the bug would drift down the lines until-out in the real world of rain and slas.h.i.+ng winds--an airplane would flash over the end of the runway. The two planes were one thousand feet above the ground, c.o.c.ked 7 degrees into the wind by the sergeant to hold a ground track leading to the runway. They were descending at 400 feet per minute.
In his c.o.c.kpit Court had a few gages to tell him how high he was, how fast his airplane was traveling in the air ma.s.s, his att.i.tude referenced to a horizon he could not see, what direction he was heading, at what rate he was climbing or descending.
The gages weren't that precise. They had lag due to friction, wobble due to long use, and inexact readings due to minor installation errors.
It was up to the sergeant in the GCA shack to correct for all of those errors. He had to keep feeding corrections to the pilot until he saw the bug on the heading and in the descent pattern his brain told him was correct.
But the sergeant had never had to bring a plane through heavy rain. Rain so heavy, the water was returning his radar signals before they could ping off the airplanes hidden within. Heavy rain that splashed and tumbled on the runway so fast and so hard it created a six-inch river the drainage system could not handle. The two planes were at 400 feet above the ground. Because of the terrible gusts, Court held the airspeed at 180 knots, 207 miles per hour. They were approaching the end of the runway over 300 feet per second while settling toward the earth at six feet every second.
It was tricky, at over 200 miles an hour, as the gusts buffeted and tossed the planes flying barely five feet from each other. There were additional complications. With the gear and flaps down and at the slow landing speeds, the planes were not half as responsive to the control inputs as when flying fast and clean. With everything hanging, they wallowed in exaggerated motions.
”Silver flight,” the sergeant said in a calm voice, ”I've lost you in the rain. Maintain present heading and rate of descent. If you have not broken out by two hundred thirty seven feet on your altimeter you are cleared for a missed approach.”
”Negative missed approach,” Morelli said. His voice was as quiet as the sergeant's. ”No gas.”
The two airplanes descended through 300 feet. Court held what he had.
Even though he had his Tacan on and had been monitoring the whole letdown and approach with the instrument, it could not give him the precision of radar necessary to get him the few final feet to the end of the runway at the proper heading and alt.i.tude.
The jets dropped ever lower through the thick clouds, black and swollen with rain. The changes in wind direction and velocity at the lower alt.i.tudes underneath the thunderstorm were abrupt and substantial. As smooth as Court was on the controls, and as hard as he tried, the big F-4 wallowed and pitched as he continued down the glide scope, ”Sorry,”
he shot to Morelli, ”Below four-fifty, this thing's a pig.”
”Yeah, I noticed,” Morelli said, voice tight.
Court had to keep his eyes constantly in the c.o.c.kpit on his instruments.
He noticed the last heading from GCA had been 7 degrees to the right of the runway heading. That would be to counteract the stiff crosswind from the right. He didn't dare raise his eyes to look directly forward out the windscreen until his peripheral vision told him there was something to see. Even minute mistakes at that point could result in catastrophe. Though he had enough fuel to make a missed approach, Jim Morelli did not. Court's altimeter was now unwinding through 250 feet above the ground, the 200. He was below legal landing minimums and, by the book, quite illegal to continue the approach.
Then the clouds shredded to wisps, then a flash of green, then a flash of brown, then cloud wisps, then green again directly below. Court risked a quick glance forward. The dim outline of the runway appeared to his left a few degrees.
The silver bouncing rain on the concrete looked like a ca.n.a.l of boiling quicksilver, Court sliced his plane to the left and added power.
”Set it down, NOW, ” he transmitted to Morelli. There wasn't enough room for the two of them to land at the same time. Court's violent maneuver meant that Morelli needed all the runway he could find to straighten out and touch down with some semblance of control. ”I hope to h.e.l.l he can see the runway,” Court said to Dieter as he wrestled his wallowing Phantom away from the ground on the far side of the runway. He retracted the speed brakes as he spoke and pushed the throttles forward.
He started to ease the nose up in a climb. He was aware of black shadows of buildings beneath him as he clawed for alt.i.tude and turned his plane back to the right to parallel the runway heading.
”Silver Three Two missed approach,” he told the GCA controller.
”What's your fuel status, Silver?”
Court checked his gage. ”Not enough for Phan Rang,” he said. ”I've got enough for one more pattern, then I've got to land.” Dieter hadn't said a word from the backseat.
”Silver, maintain present heading and climb to one thousand five hundred. The rainstorm is s.h.i.+fting and I have you on my radar.”
”Did Three One make it okays' Court asked.
”Roger, Silver. He flamed out on the runway and coasted into a turnoff.
Soon as maintenance can find him, they'll tow him in.” Court's pulse returned to non-nal. He flew the rest of the pattern and landed under the precise control of the GCA sergeant.
”So that's how you Phantom flyers gin around,” Dieter said to Court as he and Morelli shared coffee and cigarettes in Dieter's small office.
Dim light through the small window y was still confirmed the rain had let up, yet the morning sk dark and low with overcast.
”All fun and games, Mac,” he said.
”Maybe so up front, but I couldn't see squat from that pit back there.”
”Well, he got me down,” Morelli said. ”But I don't want to go through that again. That sucker hydroplaned and weathervaned and turkeyed all over the d.a.m.n runway. h.e.l.l, I didn't taxi off, I flamed out and slid off. Just lucky that wide turnoff was there.”
Dieter said. ”Beaver ”Look at it this way, gentlemen, Two Two is alive and well and Can Tho is back on the air.
we broke up the attack and the LOCAL friendly ARVN troops moved in. They seem to think we did good works. A guy from Blue Chip called and said they'll probably put us in for the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry.” He turned to Court.
”How about a cigarette?” Court gave him one. ”d.a.m.n,” Dieter said, ”now you've got me hooked.”
The armament lieutenant stood in the open doorway. Dieter waved him in.
The young lieutenant looked mortified.
”Major Bannister, I don't know how to say this, but I need a report of survey on your expenditure of those AIM-7 missiles.”
”Report of survey?” Court echoed. ”That means I might have to pay for them. What is this all about?”
”Sir, they weren't expended in combat, so according to Air Force Reg 67-1, 1 ”Weren't expended in combat? They certainly were.”
”Sir, the armament regs say they are for air-to-air use and you-- Court could see the lieutenant was trapped in the paperwork jungle and didn't know how to get out.
”Didn't you know? I jettisoned the things for safety-offlight purposes.
That's why I didn't bring them back.”
The lieutenant looked relieved. ”Sir, will you sign that off in the logbook?”