Punk's War

by Ward Carroll

  The air wing commander’s quarters were only one kneeknocker down from the entrance to Flag Briefing and Analysis, so the two were behind the closed stateroom door in short order. CAG didn’t bother to sit down, nor did he extend the offer to the captain. He simply stood waiting for the abuse he was sure he was about to receive.

  “You mind if I zip into your head and take a whiz?” the captain asked. “The length of that meeting went beyond the endurance of my bladder.”

  CAG gestured toward the bathroom door. “Be my guest.”

  A minute later, the captain re-emerged and took a seat on the couch that lined one wall of the office portion of CAG’s stateroom. CAG remained standing until the captain knitted his brow and said, “Why don’t you sit down? We need to talk and it might take a little while.” CAG stiffly sat in the leather executive chair behind the plain wooden desk.

  The moment CAG was fully seated, the captain popped off of the couch and wandered across the room to an adjacent wall adorned with pictures. “Trout fisherman, huh?”

  “Not really. I went once with my father-in-law as kind of a favor to my wife.”

  The captain’s gaze walked from frame to frame between brief stops on each photo, and he uttered little laughs or hums as he worked his way around the gallery. “How do you think the admiral’s mast went?” he asked from in front of a shot of the air wing commander shaking hands with the current secretary of defense.

  “I don’t know,” CAG said. “It’s terrible to see a good officer’s career ruined.”

  “Do you really think so?” the captain asked as he looked with muted disdain at a picture of CAG standing in front of a Prowler with his helmet cradled under his arm like some aviation pioneer.

  “Of course,” CAG replied.

  “I only ask because you didn’t seem terribly upset during the hearing,” the captain explained, now facing the desk. “In fact, if I remember correctly, when the admiral asked if you had anything to say on behalf of the lieutenant commander, you just shook your head.”

  “I felt everything had already been said.”

  “Everything had not already been said, CAG,” the captain railed. He ran his hands through his hair several times as he continued, flexing his muscular biceps in the process. “That pilot was one of yours. A man who deserved your protection. And you just let the goddam staff pukes chew him up and spit him out.”

  “He was guilty of the charges against him, Captain,” CAG defended. “I can’t help that.”

  “Fuck that,” the captain shot back. “Destruction of government property? What hen house shit. We’re going to bring one of the best pilots in this wing down for that?”

  “It wasn’t my call to make,” CAG replied. “It was the admiral’s decision.”

  “It was the admiral’s decision because you allowed it to be the admiral’s decision,” the captain countered. “He’s never been in this situation before; he doesn’t know the right answer any more than you and I do, but he does know you didn’t seem to give two hoots for the guy and he interpreted that to mean the officer deserved to be punished.”

  “He seemed to listen to you.”

  “The goddam JAG wanted a court martial. I’m not going to just sit there and let things get that out of control, even if the man doesn’t work for me.” The captain caught himself, and he decided he’d better sit down. “Look, Mike,” the captain continued once he reached the couch again, using CAG’s civilian name for dramatic effect, “I know you think the fleet supports the Pentagon, but it’s actually the other way around.” He paused. “Let me ask you a question: Have you ever had a regular conversation with Smoke? Do you know anything about him?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Then how could you possibly ensure that justice was served during the admiral’s mast?”

  “I listened to the squadron commanding officer’s testimony.”

  “Campbell? That self-serving sycophant?” The captain let out a sarcastic guffaw. “What do you know about him?” The air wing commander shrugged. “CAG, you’re not a Tomcat guy. I am. I’ve known that asshole for a lot of years and I’ll tell you quite candidly it scares the shit out of me that he’s made it this far.”

  “He’s the number one skipper in the wing.”

  “Is that your opinion, or did you have a little help with that one?” The captain emitted another quiet laugh. “I’m sure it was guidance given to you by the same cabal that made you a CAG.”

  The air wing commander rose in protest. “All right, Captain. I think you’ve badgered me quite enough for one day. I’m going to have to ask you—”

  “I’m not badgering you, goddam it,” the captain bellowed. “I’m trying to tell you it’s not too late for you to clue into the fact that you’re fucking up here!” He got off the couch and calmed himself by wandering back over to the wall of photos. “You know, one of my last jobs before I took this ship was to manage the aviation bonus program. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Just what was put out about it in message traffic.”

  “We were offering lieutenants a bonus of nineteen thousand dollars a year for seven years to stay in the Navy past their first commitment. Nineteen thousand dollars!” The captain turned away from the photos and looked over to CAG. “Do you know what percentage of those officers eligible took advantage of that bonus offer?”

  “No.”

  “Twenty percent. We were offering one hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars to guys to keep flying jets for the Navy and only twenty percent of them decided to go for it. Can you think of anything that might explain that?”

  “Not really. One hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

  “They’re not in it for the money,” the captain said. “They want to love it. It’s why they signed up in the first place. And, goddam it, CAG, we can’t sit around and watch a charade like the one that went on today without doing something about it.”

  “So what do you intend to do?”

  “CAG, unfortunately, you and I aren’t friends. You have your mafia; we nuclear power aircraft carrier commanding officers have our mafia—a very powerful bunch, I might add. At the end of the day, we’re all in the same Navy, and eventually the word gets passed.”

  “‘The word gets passed . . . ’ What is that, some kind of a threat?” the air wing commander shot back.

  “No, but this is: You’ve got two more guys coming up for a board as a result of our little problem the other night. You’re going to let me help you resolve that one.”

  “I am? What if I don’t?”

  “Well, then I’ll have to talk to my chief engineer and make sure you never have another hot shower on this ship again.” The captain flashed an evil smile. “Remember that old Beltway saying: ‘Access is power.’” He moved a few steps and opened the door to the stateroom. “This is not about me against you, CAG. This is about doing what’s right. I would hope you’d flag me the same way if I got out of the box.”

  Spud and Smoke arrived on the beach from their traditional first-night-in-port formal dinner, Spud armed with a box of Cuban cigars he’d purchased in town and a bottle of eighteen-year-old scotch he’d smuggled from his stateroom. They were both overdressed for this setting: jackets and ties and stylish long overcoats, but the look gave them an aura of timeless cool, like Cagney or Bogart. They took up positions either side of Punk and sat on the sand with legs crossed Indian-style.

  “You guys look like a couple of tools with those suits,” Trash said as he poked at the fire with a large stick. Spud studied himself with a mock expression of concern and then looked over at Smoke. Smoke reached over to his roommate, adjusted Spud’s tie in a doting manner, and said, “I wouldn’t worry about fashion input from a man who, given the choice, would just as soon walk around nude.”

  “Well, you’re not writhing in pain,” Spud said to Punk. “You must be on the mend.”

  Punk fished into his pocket, pulled out a prescription bottle half filled
with largish, oblong pills, and said, “Better living through chemistry,” with a wry smile.

  Spud grabbed the bottle from his pilot and pretended to read the label in an officious monotone: “Do not take with alcohol.” He handed the pills back and said, “Well, since you’re already mixing your magics, you’d better have a swig of this.” Spud cracked open the scotch and passed it to Punk, giving him the hobo’s honor of first draw.

  The scotch burned pleasantly. Punk felt the sensation reach his septum and scatter up under his rib cage. He caught his breath and passed the bottle back to Spud with a shake of his head and a choked thanks.

  Spud prepped several cigars and passed them around. He’d taken up cigars as a way to quit his pack-a-day cigarette habit, and had become quite the aficionado in the process, ready at any time to edify those nearby about the art of dark smoke.

  Punk only smoked when he had a drink in the other hand, and, as Spud often pointed out, when somebody else was buying the cigars, and he found his most-recent gift to be the perfect complement to the scotch. With the first puff, his equilibrium continued to erode, and he sensed with his waning senses that the night was beginning to have all the elements of the kind salty cruise vets recounted with beery guffaws around the back bars of officers clubs in the states.

  “Cubans,” Spud said proudly through a cloud of thick smoke. “They’re legal here.” He held the cigar in front of his face and studied it. “Just look at how tight that ash is. Total quality.” He returned the fat cylinder of tobacco between his lips and continued to speak with a movie gangster’s annunciation. “Now why are these illegal in the states? Goddam politics, that’s why. We cut off our national nose to spite our face.”

  “Man, that’s deep,” Smoke said with a hoist of his beer can.

  “Yes, I know much, including a good cigar, and a good cigar is worth dying for,” Spud said. He held the cigar at arm’s length as he fashioned a tribute: “God bless Cuba. This flavor transcends politics. If you can’t believe in this kind of hand-wrapped masterpiece, then what can you believe in?”

  Spud wheeled around and faced the crowd around the bonfire, and screamed, “Viva Cuba!” to which only the Bahraini fishermen responded with ignorant but polite smiles and waves.

  Eventually, the fire collapsed into the sand and began to crackle down to a mere flicker of its former conflagration, and as the blaze died off, so did the crowd. The chiefs announced they were headed back to one of the hotels to close down the disco, and much to the disappointment of the officers, they took the flight attendants with them. Soon only the Cheesequarters residents and Smoke and Spud were left on the beach, all seated comfortably around what remained of the fire.

  “So what happened?” Punk asked Smoke at the point the silence among the gathering had become tiresome.

  “The chiefs took the girls,” Smoke replied.

  “I noticed, but that’s not what I’m asking about,” Punk said. “What happened today at your little get-together?”

  Smoke chuckled and then sat silently for a few moments contemplating the day’s events before answering. “It was your standard admiral’s mast, I guess.”

  “What’s standard?” Punk asked. “I’ve never been to admiral’s mast.”

  “Not yet,” Spud added. “I believe we’re next on the docket.”

  “We’re going to admiral’s mast?” Punk returned.

  “Maybe,” Spud said.

  “I don’t think there’s any ‘maybe’ about it,” Smoke said. “If I heard the innuendos during my session correctly, you guys will be getting an audience very soon.”

  “Why?” Punk asked with disbelief. “I understand we have to go through the standard squadron-level evaluation board just because we crashed an airplane. But why would the admiral want to take us to mast?”

  “You can’t be that naive, Punk,” Biff said. “You know damn well why.”

  “No, I don’t,” Punk shot back defiantly. “Maybe I’m the last guy in the Navy who clings to the concept of justice.”

  “I’m afraid you cling to a different concept than justice,” Biff said as he shook the dregs from his oversized can of beer into the sand.

  “Back to the original question,” Trash said. “Smoke, what happened at mast?”

  “Well, my brothers, I won’t bore you with the details,” Smoke said. “Let me just say a punitive letter is better than no mail at all.”

  “A punitive letter?” Punk repeated. “That’s a career ender, isn’t it?”

  “So I hear,” Smoke replied with a long draw on his cigar.

  “Unbelievable,” Biff said. “They should give you a medal for ripping that phone out of the wall.”

  “Damn right,” Spud said, leaning behind Punk to smack Smoke on the shoulder.

  “So didn’t anybody stick up for you at mast?” Punk asked.

  Smoke considered the question while carving figures in the sand with his index finger. “Well, actually, the air ops officer wrote a nice statement. He put in some things about my actions saving lives and such, but unfortunately, any clout he once had has been severely reduced by the fact he’s been fired from the air ops job for his lack of quality assurance on the divert.”

  “And he was your only ally in there?” Punk asked.

  “No,” Smoke said. “The captain of the ship was a big help. In fact, he kept me out of a court-martial.”

  A chorus came back with “court-martial?”

  “Yeah,” Smoke said. “The battle watch captain had convinced the admiral’s JAG that my actions constituted a court-martial offense. The two of them had the charge sheet written up and everything. The boy captain convinced the admiral they were overreacting.” He stopped speaking and gazed deeply into the fire.

  “What about the skipper and CAG?” Punk asked. Smoke’s deadpan expression in response told them what they already knew to be the answer.

  The gathering sat in uncomfortable silence for a time as each officer worked the situation through his military mind. After a few minutes, Punk looked at Smoke and Spud on either side of him and broke the quiet with, “Why did you guys stay in the Navy?” Both of the lieutenant commanders shrugged, but neither answered. “Smoke,” Punk prodded, “why did you stay in?”

  The more-senior pilot stroked his mustache and thought about the question. “I’ve been in the Navy fourteen years,” he started, but then stopped suddenly to reshape his presentation. “I went to school at Embry-Riddle for one reason: I wanted to be an airline pilot. I’ll never forget the time I walked into Orlando International Airport for the first flight of my life. I was nine, traveling by myself, and going to see my grandparents in St. Louis. My parents left me with one of the stewardesses and she took me through the boarding gate and onto the plane, got me all strapped in, and made sure I was comfortable. I was pretty nervous, as any young kid who’d never flown before would be, and I’m sure it showed on my face. After we got airborne, the co-pilot came back and asked me if I wanted to see the cockpit.” Smoke spread his hands dreamily in front of him. “I walked through that door and into another world—my world. The jet was an old 727 so it had panels and gauges everywhere. There was that cool hum of electricity and the whoosh of air in the place. I shook hands with the flight engineer and the pilot, and then the pilot asked me if I wanted to hear what the controllers sounded like on the radio. He turned on the speaker and let me listen while he explained what was going on.

  “And then they moved me forward, right against the throttle quadrant, so I could see out the front, and the pilot pointed out a few landmarks and—something that I thought was exceptionally cool—other airplanes flying around the skies with us. I stayed up there until we started the final approach.”

  “So what happened to your dream of flying with the airlines?” Biff asked.

  “Money happened,” Smoke said. “Or didn’t happen, to be exact. I saw how expensive the private route was going to be as I worked through high school to get my pilot’s license. At Embry-Riddle, my f
avorite instructor schooled me on the advantages of military aviation as a stepping-stone toward the airlines. It may not have been the quickest way, but it seemed more dignified. So, that’s how I showed up for Aviation Officer Candidate School in Pensacola.”

  “What was the commitment back then?” Punk asked.

  “Five years after winging,” Smoke said. “So, all told, I could’ve been back on the streets after seven years. I had 1,500 flight hours and the airlines were definitely hiring.”

  “So, I’ll ask again,” Biff said satirically, “what . . . happened . . . to . . . flying . . . with . . . the . . . airlines?”

  “Well, my original five-year commitment ended during my first shore tour while I was out in Miramar flying with the West Coast Tomcat training squadron as an instructor. My first fleet flight-lead was a guy named Bam Bam Bergeron, and he’d gotten out as soon as he could and was hired right away by one of the major airlines. He’d been a big influence on me, so I made it a point to keep in touch with him. I arranged to meet with him to discuss the airline life in detail while I was home one Thanksgiving. We met in the same Orlando Airport I’d stepped into as a nine-year-old.” Smoke shook his plastic cup in Spud’s direction. Spud took the hint and filled it to a polite level with scotch.

  “Bam Bam took me into this executive lounge,” Smoke continued. “The place was huge, very opulent. And we’re sitting there with our designer coffees and he’s telling me about how he only works half the month and how he plays golf wherever he goes and how he’s moved up to A-scale with his salary . . . and I didn’t hear a word of it.”

  “Why not?” Biff asked with disbelief. “That stuff sounds pretty good.”

  “His hat,” Smoke responded. “In spite of all he was saying, all I could see was that his hat didn’t fit right. He was sitting in the lounge in his cheesy airline outfit with this stupid bus driver’s cap perched on the top of his used-car-salesman hairdo. He looked like a cartoon character. And the sad part was he wasn’t trying to be funny; he was trying to impress me. I called the Bureau of Naval Personnel that following Monday and got orders to my second squadron sea tour.” Smoke sat still and considered that crossroads for a short time. Even in light of the day’s proceedings, the memory brought a placid smile to his angular face.