Queued up waiting for Cat Two, checking the gear and flap settings, the fuel, then following the yellow shirt’s signals as he brought the plane into the shuttle—Jake was doing the things he knew how to do, the things that made the hassles worthwhile.
Throttles up…the salute—and wham, they were off to do it again. This time Jake left the gear and flaps down. He flew straight ahead upwind until the major passed him on the left going downwind.
Jake banked for the crosswind turn. The plane entered a shaft of sunlight and the warmth played on his arms and legs. Inside his oxygen mask Jake grinned broadly.
After four traps Jake was directed to fold his wings and stop near the carrier’s island with the engines running while the plane was refueled, a “hot” turnaround. He opened the canopy and took off his oxygen mask. His face was wet with sweat. He swabbed away the moisture and watched the planes making their approaches.
Flap Le Beau also sat watching, silent at last.
Heavenly silence. Except for the howl of jet engines at full power and the slam of the catapult and an occasional terse radio message. The flight deck of an aircraft carrier was the loudest place on earth, yet oh so pleasant without Flap’s drivel.
In a few minutes Jake had 6,500 pounds of fuel and gave the purple-shirted fuel crew the cut sign, a slice of the hand across his throat. Mask on, canopy closed, parking brake off, engage nose-wheel steering and goose the throttles a smidgen to follow the director’s signals. Now into the queue waiting for the cat…
All too soon it was over. Jake had the ten day traps the law required and was once more day qualified as a carrier pilot. He shut the plane down on the porch near Elevator Four and climbed down to the deck still wearing his helmet. After a few words with the plane captain, he descended a ladder to the catwalk, then went down into the first passageway leading into the 0-3 level, the deck under the flight deck.
Flap Le Beau was behind him.
“You did okay out there this morning, Ace,” Flap commented.
“You didn’t.” Jake stopped and faced the bombardier-navigator.
“Say again?”
“I got an eighty-year-old grandmother who could have done a better job in the right seat than you did today.”
“Kiss my chocolate ass, Ace. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“You’re going to get it. You flew with me. I expect a BN to help me fly the plane, to act as a safety observer at all times, to read the checklists.”
“I just wanted to see if you could—”
“I can! While you were sitting there with your thumb up your butt and boring me to tears with the story of your miserable life, you could have been checking out the computer and radar for the debrief. You never even brought the radar out of standby! Don’t ever pull that stunt again.”
Flap put his face just inches from Grafton’s. “I ain’t taking any shit from the Navy, swabbie. We’d better get that straightened out here and now.”
“Le Beau, I don’t know if you’re senior to me or I’m senior to you and I really don’t give a rat’s ass which way it is. But in that cockpit I’m the aircraft commander. You’re going to do a solid, professional job—there ain’t no two ways about it. If you don’t, your career in the grunts is gonna go down the crap-per real damn quick. You won’t be able to catch it with a swan dive.”
Flap opened his mouth to reply, but Jake Grafton snarled, “Don’t push it.” With that he turned and stalked away, leaving Flap Le Beau staring at his back.
When Jake was out of sight Flap grinned. He nodded several times and rubbed his hand through his hair, fluffing his Afro.
“Flap, my man, this one’s gonna do,” he said. “He’s gonna do fine.” And he laughed softly to himself.
Jake was seated in the back of the ready room filling out the maintenance forms on the airplane when the air wing landing signal officer, the LSO, and the A-6 squadron LSO came in. The A-6 guy Jake knew. He was an East Coast Navy pilot who had been shanghaied like Jake to provide the Marines with “experience.” His name was McCoy and by some miracle, he was Jake’s new roommate. If he had a first name Jake didn’t learn it last night, when the LSO came in drunk, proclaimed himself to be the Real McCoy, and collapsed into his bunk facedown.
“Grafton,” the senior air wing LSO said, consulting his notes, “you did okay.” His name was Hugh Skidmore. “Touch-and-go was an OK, then nine OKs and one fair. All three wires. You’re gonna wear out that third wire, fella.”
Jake was astonished. OKs were perfect passes, and he thought he had five or six good ones, but nine? To cover his astonishment and pleasure, he said gruffly, “A fair? You gave me a fair? What pass was that?”
Skidmore examined his book again, then snapped it shut. “Seventh one. While you were turning through the ninety the captain put the helm over chasing the wind and you went low. You were a little lined up left, too.” He shrugged, then grinned. “Try a bit harder next time, huh?”
Skidmore went off to debrief the major but McCoy lingered. “Geez, Real, you guys sure are tough graders.”
“Better get your act together, Roomie.”
“What did you do to rate a tour with the Marines? Piss in a punch bowl?”
“Something like that,” the Real McCoy said distractedly, then wandered off.
After lunch Jake went to his stateroom to unpack. He had gotten the bulk of his gear on hangars or folded when McCoy came in, tossed his Mickey Mouse ears on his desk, and collapsed onto his bunk.
“I threw a civilian through a plate glass window,” Jake told the LSO. “Just what did you do?”
McCoy sighed and opened his eyes. He focused on Grafton. “I suppose you’ll tell this all over the boat.”
“Try me.”
“Well, I made too much money. I got to talking about it with the guys. Then I had the Admin guys draft up a letter of resignation. Before I could get it submitted the skipper called me in. He said a rich bastard like me could just count his money out on the big gray boat.”
“Too much money? I never heard of such a thing. Did you loot the coffee mess?”
“Naw. Nothing like that.” McCoy sat up. He rubbed his face. “Naw. I just got to playing the market.”
“What market?”
“The market.” When he saw the expression on Jake’s face, he exclaimed, “Jesus H. Christ! The stock market.”
“I never knew anybody who owned stock.”
“Oh, for the love of…” McCoy stretched out and sighed.
“Well, how much money did you make, anyway?”
“You’re going to tell every greasy asshole on this ship, Grafton. It’s written all over your simple face.”
“No, I won’t. Honest. How much?”
McCoy regarded his new roommate dolefully. Finally he said, “Well, I managed to save about sixteen thousand in the last five years, and I’ve parlayed that into a hundred twenty-two thousand three hundred and thirty-nine dollars. As of the close of business in New York yesterday, anyway. No way of knowing what the market did today, of course.”
“Of course,” Jake agreed, suitably impressed. He whistled as he thought about $122,000, then said, “Say, I got a couple grand saved up. Maybe you could help me invest it.”
“That’s what got me shipped out here with these jarheads! All the guys in the ready room wanted investment advice. Everybody was reading the Wall Street Journal and talking about interest rates and P/E ratios and how many cars Chrysler was gonna sell. The skipper blew a gasket.”
McCoy shook his head sadly. “Ah well, it’s all water under the keel. Can’t do nothing about it now, I guess.” He looked again at Jake. “Tell me about this guy you threw through the window.”
When they had exhausted that subject, Jake wanted to know about the officers in the squadron.
“Typical Marines” was the Real’s verdict, spoken with an air of resigned authority since he had been with this crowd for three whole weeks. “Seems like three months. This is going to be the longest tour o
f my life.”
“So how many are combat vets?”
“Everyone in the squadron, except for the three or four nuggets, did at least one tour in ‘Nam. Maybe half of them did two or more. And six or eight of them did tours as platoon leaders in Vietnam before they went to flight school. Your BN, Le Beau? He was in Marine Recon.”
Grafton was stunned. Le Beau? The San Diego cocksman? “You’re pulling my leg.”
“I shit you not. Recon. Running around behind enemy lines eating snake meat, doing ambushes and assassinations. Yeah. That’s Le Beau, all right. He’s a legend in the Corps. Got more chest cabbage than Audie Murphy. He ain’t playing with a full deck.”
Jake Grafton’s face grew dark as he recalled Flap’s rambling cockpit monologue. And that aura of bumbling incompetence that he exuded all morning!
Seeing the look, McCoy continued, “God only knows why the Marines made him a BN. He went back to Vietnam in A-6s. Punched out twice, the first time on final to DaNang. Walked through the main gate carrying his parachute and seat pan. The second time, though, was something else. His pilot got his head blown off and Le Beau ejected somewhere near the Laotian border. Maybe in Laos or Cambodia—I don’t know. Anyway, nobody heard anything. Just nothing, although they looked and looked hard. Then seventeen days or so later a patrol stumbled onto him out in the jungle in the middle of nowhere. He was running around buck naked, covered with mud and leaves, carrying nothing but a knife. Was busy ambushing the gomers and gutting them. They brought him back with a whole collection of gomer weapons that he had stashed.”
From the look on Grafton’s face, McCoy could see that he was not a happy man.
“That ain’t the amazing part, Jake,” the Real McCoy continued. “The amazing part is that Le Beau didn’t want to get rescued. Two guys have told me this, so I’m assuming that there’s something to it. He didn’t want to come back because he was having too much fun. The grunts on that patrol almost had to tie him up.”
“Why me, Lord?”
“His last pilot didn’t cut the mustard,” McCoy continued, “not to Le Beau’s way of thinking. Was having his troubles getting aboard. Oh, he wasn’t dangerous, but he was rough, couldn’t seem to get a feel for the plane in the groove at night. He might have come around, then again he might not have. He didn’t get the chance. Le Beau went to the skipper and the skipper went to CAG and before you could whisper ‘Semper Fi’ the guy was transferred.”
“Le Beau did that?”
“Whatever it takes to make it in the Corps, that dick-head has it. He just got selected for promotion to major. Everyone treats him with deference and respect. Makes my stomach turn. Wait till you see these tough old gunnies—they talk to him like they were disciples talking to Jesus. If he lives he’s going to be the commandant someday, mark my words.”
“Strangers in a strange land,” Jake murmured, referring to himself and McCoy.
“Something like that,” the Real agreed. He pulled off his steel-toed flight boots and tossed them carelessly on the floor. “This tour is going to be an adventure,” he added sourly.
“Uh-huh.”
“We’ve got an all-officers meeting in the ready room in about an hour. I’m going to get fourteen winks. Wake me up, huh?”
“Okay.”
McCoy turned over in his bunk and was soon breathing deeply.
Jake snapped off the overhead light, leaving only his desk lamp lit, the little ten-watt glow worm. He tilted his chair back against McCoy’s steel foot locker and put his feet up on his desk.
Thinking about Le Beau, he snorted once, but his thoughts soon drifted on to Callie. The gentle motion of the ship had a tranquilizing effect. After a few moments his head tilted forward and sleep overcame him.
The skipper of the squadron was Lieutenant Colonel Richard Haldane. He was a short, barrel-chested, ramrod-straight man with close-cropped black hair that showed flecks of gray. In this closed community of military professionals his bearing and his demeanor marked him as an officer entitled to respect. He took Jake aside after the all-officers meeting—boring administrative details in a crowded, stuffy room filled with strangers— and asked him to sit in the chair beside him.
Haldane had Jake’s service record on his lap. “We didn’t get much of a chance to talk last night, Mr. Grafton, but welcome aboard. We’re glad to have someone with your carrier experience.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’re going to assign you to the Operations Department. I think your experience will be the most help to us there.”
“Yessir.”
“During this transit to Hawaii, I want you to put together a series of lectures from CV NATOPS.” CV NATOPS was the bible on carrier operations. The acronym stood for fixed-wing carrier naval air training and operation procedures. “We’ve been through it several times while working up for this deployment,” Colonel Haldane continued, “but I’d like for you to lead us through the book again in detail. I want you to share with us everything you know about A-6 carrier operations. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Richard Haldane nodded his head a millimeter. Even sitting down he exuded a command presence. Jake sat a little straighter in his chair.
“I see from your record that you have plenty of combat experience, but it’s experience of the same type that most of the officers in this room have had—bombing targets ashore.”
“Single-plane day and night raids, some section stuff, and Alpha strikes, sir, plus a whole hell of a lot of tanker flights.”
“Unfortunately our combat experience won’t do us much good if we go to war with the Soviets, who are our most likely opponent.”
This remark caught Jake by surprise. He tried to keep his face deadpan as Haldane continued: “Our part in a war with the Russians will probably involve a fleet action, our ships against their ships. Mr. Grafton, how would you attack a Soviet guided-missile frigate?”
Jake opened his mouth, then closed it again. He scratched his head. “I don’t know, sir,” he said at last. The truth was he had never once even thought about it. The Vietnam War was in full swing when he was going through flight training, when he transitioned into A-6s, and during his three years in a fleet squadron. The targets were all onshore.
“Any ideas?”
Jake bit his lip. He was the naval officer and he was being asked a question about naval air warfare that in truth he should know something about. But he didn’t. He decided to admit it. “Sir, I think the answer to that question would depend on a careful analysis of a Soviet frigate’s missile and flak envelope, and to be frank, I have never done that or seen the results of anybody else’s look. I suspect the Air Intelligence guys have that stuff under lock and key.”
“So what weapons does a Soviet frigate carry?”
Jake squirmed. “Colonel, I don’t know.”
Haldane nodded once, slowly, and looked away. “I would like for you to study this matter, Mr. Grafton. When you think you have an answer to the question, come see me.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“That’s all. Good luck tonight.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jake rose and walked away, mortified. Well, hell, the stuff he had spent his career attacking was all mud-based. Of course he should know about ships, but . . .
What Haldane must think—a naval officer who doesn’t know diddly-squat about naval warfare!
Congratulations, Jake. You just got your tour with the Marines off to a great start.
5
There was still a little splotch of light in the western sky and a clearly discernible horizon when Jake Grafton taxied toward the catapult that evening. This first shot would be a “pinky,” without severe sweat. He needed six landings to attain his night qualification, which meant after this twilight shot there would be five more…in stygian darkness. A pinky first one was just dandy with him.
He carefully scanned the evening sky. The cloud cover was almost total, with the only holes toward the we
st, and low, maybe seven or eight thousand feet. Wind still out of the northwest, but stiffer than this morning. That was good. Tonight the ship could steam slower into the wind and yet still have the optimum thirty knots of wind over the deck. Since every mile upwind took her farther from the coast and the airfields ashore, the fewer of those miles the better.
Car quals are always goat-ropes, Jake thought, something going wrong sooner or later, so there is at least a fifty-fifty chance I’ll have to divert ashore once tonight. And if my luck is in, maybe spend the night in the Alameda BOQ, call Callie…
No matter how long you’ve been ashore, after a half hour back aboard one of these gray tubs you’re tired, hungry and horny. No way to cure the horniness, but a night ashore in a real bed would work wonders on the other syndromes, with real food and a long, hot shower and Callie’s voice on the phone—
His reverie was interrupted by Flap Le Beau’s voice on the intercom system, the ICS. “Don’t do nothin’ cute tonight, huh? My internal table ain’t so stable when we’re out here flyin’ through black goo.”
“You and Muhammed Ali. How about laying off the monologue. When I want comedy I watch TV.”
“Golden silence to practice your pilot gig. You got it. Just fly like an angel flitting toward paradise.”
“You do the radio frequency changes and I’ll do the transmissions, okay?”
“Fine.”
“Takeoff checklist,” Jake said, and Flap began reading off the items. Jake checked each item and gave the appropriate response.
And soon they were taxiing toward the cat. Automatically Jake leaned forward and tugged hard on the VDI, the televisionlike display in the center of the instrument panel that functioned as the primary attitude reference. It was tight, just as it should be.
“Flashlight on the backup gyro, please,” Jake said to Flap, who already had it in his hand. If both generators dropped off the line, the little gyro would continue to provide good attitude information for about thirty seconds, long enough for Jake to deploy the ram-air turbine, called the RAT, an emergency wind-driven generator.
The Intruders Page 6
