Punk's War

by Ward Carroll

  The Cheesequarters’ conventional wisdom gave below average marks to the XO’s shepherding of empirical truth to date. To be fair, the junior officers’ idea of a nominally effective truth shepherd was someone who was willing to prostrate himself on the altar of his career over even the most trivial bitch, and any officer with the vinegar to do that would have long since been labeled by the Machine as a shortsighted loudmouth and never been promoted beyond the rank of lieutenant. In spite of any perceived company man foibles, Beamer commanded professional respect for his backseat savvy and for the fact he had bagged an Iraqi helicopter with a Sparrow missile during Desert Storm.

  “For your own health and well-being, I recommend you not discuss this incident in the skipper’s presence,” Beamer said after the room had calmed back down. He reached for a HUD tape that was on the duty desk and held it up before the squadron. “This tape is off-limits until further notice, by direction of the commanding officer. And it should go without saying that nobody needs to write home about any of this.”

  The XO sat down and the operations officer took the floor. “We’re going to have to rewrite the flight schedule based on the skipper’s guidance. Standby to jump through your asses.” With that, the AOM was officially over.

  The questions they had were not going to get answered in the ready room. Punk looked at Biff and they simultaneously said, “To quarters.”

  THREE

  Before he could make it out of the ready room after the AOM, Biff was tagged by ops to put on his collateral duty hat and rewrite the flight schedule. He sat at the computer in the back of the ready room trying to figure out equitable combinations of available aircrews to meet the new air plan, a plan that now had them flying through the night. He repeatedly mumbled things like, “This won’t work,” and, “We’re going to kill somebody.”

  After fifty-four minutes and eleven “just shut up and write” responses to Biff’s complaints, even Beads realized it was more than varsity time. There was no way to write a flight schedule without violating the squadron’s standard operating procedures for the maximum number of flights—two—per crew in a twenty-four-hour period. VF-104 had eight pilots and six RIOs with more than five hundred hours in the F-14, and those aviators could not fly twenty-two sorties without some of them flying more than twice. The operations officer became so frustrated with the machinations he and Biff were having to go through, with only half the squadron’s line-up at their disposal, that he marched down to the skipper’s stateroom and attempted to question the wisdom of restricting who was eligible to fly.

  “What?” the skipper asked angrily from behind his closed door in response to the knock.

  “Skipper, it’s Beads. I need to talk to you about the rewrite of the flight schedule.”

  The door remained closed. “What about it?”

  “We’re having trouble not flying the experienced guys more than two times to make it work.”

  There was a slight pause, and then the skipper responded, “So . . .”

  “Well, sir, as you know, that’s against our SOP . . . your SOP. I’ll need your waiver.”

  “So?”

  “I just wanted you to know, ah, in case you might be concerned about the length of crew days and whatnot.”

  The door opened slightly and the skipper wedged his face into the crack he’d created. “Are you saying I don’t care about the safety of the aviators in this squadron, ops officer?”

  “Ah, no sir . . . I . . .”

  “Safety is why I’m doing this,” the CO continued. “That and the fact the admiral didn’t seem too impressed by our new RIO’s radar work . . . but that’s just between you and me.”

  Beads nodded. He’d been Soup’s only by-name call to the bureau for assignment to the Arrowslingers as a result of their developed synergy at Topgun. Then–Lieutenant Commander Campbell had been very impressed by then-Lieutenant Beads’ ability to ask complicated, yet easy-to-answer questions during lectures. And Mrs. Beads had also left a lasting impression on Soup by sporting a cleavage-featuring, upper thigh–revealing mini dress at the NAS Miramar Officers Club. One heart-stopping glance and the future skipper knew he had to have the Beads family team in his command, one doing his bidding and the other attending the monthly hot tub parties he’d decided were going to be part of the squadron’s social program. The skipper had always called attention to his efforts on Beads’ behalf, as ill-defined as they were, and the lieutenant commander felt obliged to support his self-appointed mentor.

  “So, I have your permission to fly guys three times? You’re granting an SOP waiver?” Beads asked.

  “I say again, it’s varsity time. We’re at war with Iran, for gawdsakes. If dance school graduates don’t want to attend the dance, then have them come talk to me.”

  “What about manning spares for each event?”

  “We won’t have manned spares, but tell Smoke if we miss a sortie because a jet goes down it’s his ass.”

  Beads sighed and nodded again. He started to walk back toward the ready room until the skipper stopped him.

  “How many times am I flying?” the skipper asked.

  “I dunno, sir. We haven’t finished writing the schedule yet. That’s why I came down here to talk to you.”

  “Don’t schedule me more than once. I’m sure the admiral is going to have some meetings for me to attend or something, and I’ve already flown once today.” His face disappeared into the darkness as he withdrew into his stateroom.

  As Beads moved a few more steps down the passageway, the skipper reappeared and said, “Oh, and one more thing: I need to catch up on some sleep so I’m turning the phone off. Let the duty officer know.”

  “What if the admiral wants to have a meeting?”

  “I doubt he will . . . oh . . . yeah, well, just have Chum come down and knock on my door like you did. And I’ll probably be asleep by the time you finish writing the schedule so go ahead and sign your name in my approval block. I trust you. Just don’t fly me more than once or I’m going to be really pissed.” And then the stateroom door shut for good.

  Biff entered the Cheesequarters with copies of revision one in hand and was confronted with six pairs of outstretched arms before he could make it through the doorway. He wearily handed the sheets to his roommates and braced himself for their reactions.

  The lieutenants quickly reviewed the bidding: eleven hour-and-a-half long events, two planes each, first launch at 1300 and the final recovery the following morning at 0530. The missions were the same for all flights: combat air patrol.

  Punk didn’t have to search too hard for his name. He was on the first event, the fifth event, and the ninth event. His flying day was going to start with his first brief at 1100 and go straight through until his last debrief following his 0230 recovery. Between events he’d barely have time to make it to the next brief.

  He looked up at Biff, who stood ready to fend off his roommates’ verbal blows. Pissing people off was a scheduling officer’s lot in life, and since he’d been the skeds officer for nine months now, he had long ago given up on the idea that he might be able to keep the squadron happy with creativity and equitability.

  “I’m flying three times, twice at night,” Punk said with disbelief. He’d heard the skipper’s proclamation, but it hadn’t hit home until its spawn appeared on paper before him. “And when am I supposed to eat or sleep?”

  “There was no way around it, Punk,” Biff defended. “I’ve only got so many guys with more than five hundred hours. I’ll be on the event after you all three times.”

  “I’m flying three times too,” Fuzzy said. “And the worst part is I’m on Punk’s wing every time.” He looked at Biff. “I’m a flight lead, Biff, not a wingman.”

  “Fuzzy, I didn’t have enough guys to even comply with SOP, not to mention stick with the normal combinations of flight leads and wingmen,” Biff returned. “Gimme a break.”

  Seven of them were there: Punk, Biff, Trash, Scooter, Fuzzy, Weezer, and Mon
k. As they spoke, the desk chairs started moving to the center of the room and forming the circle.

  As the last one positioned his chair and sat down, Monk leaned slightly forward in his seat with eyes closed in silent prayer. “What are you doing?” Trash asked.

  Monk’s eyes shot open. “Nothing,” he replied.

  Trash shook his head. “No, you’re not doing ‘nothing.’ You know damned well what you’re doing.”

  “What am I doing then?” Monk said.

  “You’re trying to take the high ground. I hate when you do that.”

  “I’m sorry, Trash,” Monk said, scratching at the semicircle of jet-black hair that ran around the sides of his head. Although he piously fancied himself a man of strong religious conviction, Monk earned his call sign by the Trappist hairstyle nature had given him, not by his devotion to the Good Book. His embarrassment turned to irritation as he continued. “I like to clear my head before these sorts of discussions with a little reflection. It’s personal. I’m not trying to make a big deal out of it.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Trash said. “We don’t need a chaplain in the Cheesequarters.”

  “Actually, you do, but that’s another matter,” Monk retorted.

  “Okay, everybody, Monk’s the room chaplain,” Trash declared. “So, what’s my job?”

  “You’re the minister of social decay,” Punk said. “Look, to get to the business at hand, I’m still confused about what that AOM was for. What the hell happened to the skipper during the alert flight?”

  “If my detective work serves me correctly,” Scooter said, “the skipper launched on the alert because of Iranian air activity, most likely out of Bushehr, and . . .” He paused and his face contorted in frustration as whatever watertight line of facts he thought he had vaporized. “Anyway, something happened and the skipper shot at the guy and missed somehow . . .”

  “Oh, that clears it right up,” Punk said.

  There was a knock at the door and the group hushed, guilty of nothing but feeling conspiratorial all the same.

  Monk was closest, so he cautiously opened it. The knob was barely turned when the Pats pushed in and then quickly slammed the door behind them. They both looked about the room with wide-eyes, breathing heavily under their flight jackets with zippers two-blocked to their throats. One of them reached into his or her flight jacket and produced a videotape.

  “I do this at great risk to my professional standing,” Steven said. “Viewing this tape outside of official channels borders on sedition.”

  “Whatever that means, I’m not even sure that’s still a crime,” Biff said.

  “No, it is,” Punk said. “If found guilty, offenders have to walk the plank.”

  “You can tease us all you want,” Holly said defiantly. “We’re not here as friends.”

  “No, we’re not,” Steven added. “We’re here in search of the truth. We knew we’d get abused coming down here, but this room is the only place we had to turn. So, fire away with your jokes. We don’t care. We have a higher calling.”

  “What’s on that tape,” Punk asked, “behind-the-scenes footage from the National Star Trek Convention?”

  Steven held the tape over his head. “This is the tape!”

  “The tape?” they all asked in unison.

  “The skipper’s tape,” Steven said.

  The room sprang to life. In a flurry the Pats were ushered into chairs while Steven was relieved of the tape and it was inserted into the VCR.

  “Hold it,” Punk said before starting the machine. “Where’s Paul? It wouldn’t be fair to watch it without him here. Also, we need him to narrate for us.”

  “He was moping around the ready room a few minutes ago,” Biff said.

  Punk pointed Scooter toward the phone. “Call the duty officer and have him send Paul back here, ASAP.”

  As the circle and the Pats waited for the star witness, Trash used the pause to get undressed and into, as he put it, “his comfy mode.” He paced the room nude asking, “Has anybody seen a blue beach towel,” either forgetting or ignoring Holly’s presence.

  “Aha, here it is.” As Trash bent over to pick up the towel that had fallen off the back of his chair, his eyes met Holly’s. Holly stood stoically still in response and Trash was left to cease the exercise and simply wrap the towel around his waist.

  Presently, Paul ambled into the Cheesequarters looking like a young man with the weight of the world on his now-slumped shoulders. He’d only been awake for just more than three hours, but it had already been a very long day for the nugget backseater. He caught sight of the circle and felt grossly out of place.

  “Somebody called for me?” Paul asked quietly, avoiding eye contact.

  “Yeah, we need you to tell us what the hell the skipper did,” Trash said brusquely.

  Punk saw that the new RIO was uncomfortable in his own stateroom, a violation of the most basic junior officer right at sea, and he moved across the space and put his arm around Paul’s neck. “Hey, you’re among friends here.” He sat him down and massaged his shoulders in an exaggerated and playful fashion. “Don’t feel bad about what happened. Although I still have no idea what did happen, I’m sure any of us in this room have done much worse.”

  Paul puffed a short laugh and said, “I doubt it. I think I’ve set a new record for time from check-in to skipper’s shit list.” He looked up from staring at his feet and said with poise and conviction, “And I have no idea how I got there.”

  Paul’s change in demeanor gave Punk a slight opening. “Paul, we have a tape here, courtesy of our friendly intelligence officers.” Punk gestured toward Steven and said, “You know Holly here,” and then pointed toward Holly and continued, “and Steve . . .” The Pats just took it and nodded in the interest of the mission of truth. Paul gave them a nod in return.

  “Well, they’ve brought us this tape . . . your tape, but I won’t play it without your permission,” Punk said as he moved toward the media center. “We have a lot of questions—important tactical questions—that probably only you can answer.”

  “Whatever. Things couldn’t get much worse as far as this little incident goes, so go for it,” Paul said.

  “You’ve still got your health,” Weezer cracked through his Bostonian bucked teeth.

  “Unfortunately, I think you’re right,” Paul said while managing a reluctant smile.

  “All right,” Punk said, “that’s the sarcasm we like out here in the fleet. You’ll be salty in no time.” He pushed Play and then sat down, scooting his chair across the bunched remnant a bit to see the screen. The rest of the circle temporarily unformed as the video began to roll.

  “Would it be too much to ask Paul for an explanation of the events leading up to where we are now on the tape?” Biff asked. “I mean, without that I still have no understanding of exactly what I’m watching.”

  Paul got out of his chair and stopped the tape. “There’s not a lot to say beyond watching and listening to the tape, really.”

  “Well if there were something to say,” Punk offered, “this is a good place to say it.”

  Paul stood in front of the circle, suddenly feeling like the guest speaker at a business luncheon, and wrestled with where to start. He wanted to launch into an emotional laundry list of grievances against the skipper, but remembered another of his father’s wise sayings: “Candid thoughts spoken are the sign of weak character.” At the same time he wondered if his father had ever worked closely to a Commander Campbell in the nascent phase of his flying career. He might have come up with “get it off your chest; you’ll feel better” instead.

  “First, let me say with all due respect and consideration for my inexperience: the skipper and I have not gelled as a crew yet.”

  “And you never will,” Trash said. “The skipper’s terrible to fly with, and that’s no secret. The senior RIOs have a standing request with ops not to fly with him, and the junior guys treat it as a bad-deal rotating duty. You were just lucky enough to show up at th
e right time.”

  “Trash, that’s not exactly true. Melon flew with him for a year, and he seemed to like it,” Punk said.

  “Melon was a kiss ass who deserves every bit of pain he’s going to get as an admiral’s aide,” Trash replied caustically. “Working sixteen hours a day and weekends is not my idea of shore duty.”

  “They told us during training that flying with the skipper was a good deal,” Paul defended.

  “Does it feel like a good deal now?” Trash asked pedantically back.

  “Well, no,” Paul admitted, “but that’s probably my fault as much as the skipper’s.”

  “Remember what Punk said about you being salty?” Trash said. “Forget it.” He pointed his left index finger at the overhead. “Rule number one for fighter guys: You’re never fucked up, the other guy always is.”

  “While we’re on the subject, does he know the Three Lieutenant Rule?” Fuzzy asked.

  “The Three Lieutenant Rule?”

  “Yes, the Three Lieutenant Rule,” Trash said while gesturing the floor over to Fuzzy.

  “The Three Lieutenant Rule holds that if three lieutenants congregate, the topic of a fourth lieutenant will always come up,” Fuzzy continued. “Two of them will say the fourth lieutenant is a good guy and the third will say he’s an asshole. It’s simple natural law, as true as rain.”

  “As right as rain,” Monk corrected.

  “Hey, you two,” Fuzzy said to Scooter and Weezer. “Don’t you think Monk’s an asshole?”

  “Back to the subject at hand,” Punk said curtly. “Paul, you were explaining how you and the skipper came to find yourselves stealing my alert.”

  “Yeah, anyway, the skipper calls me here at I don’t know what time . . . early . . . and I put on my flight suit and go to the ready room where I meet him. We don’t brief at all and just walk into the PR shop, put our flight gear on, and walk up to the jet to relieve you.”

  “You mean rob us,” Punk said.

  “Okay, fair enough, I guess,” Paul said. “The skipper told me on the way to the jet that he knew we’d launch because of what the intelligence officers had told him.”