Flap had ejected through it. Where his seat had been there was just an empty place.
Was Flap alive?
T H E IN T RUD ER S Jake closed the speed brakes and raised the flaps and slats, watched the indicator to make sure they were coming in properly, exterior lights off. Out of the corner of his eye he saw people, a mob, running toward him. He ignored them.
When he had the flaps and slats up, he unlocked the wings, then folded them. The wind was puffing through the top of the broken canopy... rain coming in. He could feel the drops on the few inches of exposed skin on his neck.
Was the plane moving? He didn't think so.
Yet if he opened the canopy he couldn't eject.
The seat was designed to go through the glass-if the canopy was open, the steel bow would be right above the seat and would kill him if he tried to eject. And if this plane slid off the deck he would have to eject or ride it into that black sea.
Now the reaction hit him. He began to shake.
A yellow-shirt was trying to get his attention.
He kept giving Jake the cut sign, the slash across the throat.
But should he open the canopy?
Unable to decide, he chopped the right throttle and sat listening as that engine died.
Someone opened the canopy from outside. Now a sergeant was leaning in. "You can get out now, sir.
Safe your seat." "Have they got it tied down?" "Yes." He had to force himself to move. He safetied the top and bottom ejection handles on the seat and fumbled with the Koch fittings that held him to the seat.
Reached down and fumbled in the darkness with the fittings that attached to his leg restraints. There. He was loose.
He started to get out, then remembered his oxygen mask and helmet leads. He disconnected all that, then tried to stand, He was still shaking too badly. He grabbed a handhold and eased a leg out onto the ladder, all the while trying to ignore the blackness yawning on the right side, and ahead.
Here he was, ten feet above the deck, right against the edge.
He felt like he was going to vomit.
Hands reached up and steadied him as he descended the 'boarding ladder.
With his feet on deck, he looked at the right main wheel.
Maybe a foot from the edge. The nose-wheel was jammed against the deck-edge combing andcomthe nose-tow bar was twisted.
Jake asked the yellow-shirt, "Where's my BN?" The sailor pointed down the deck, toward the fantail. Jake looked. He saw a flash of white, the parachute, draped over the tail of an A-7. So Flap had landed on deck. Didn't go into the ocean.
Now the relief hit him like a hammer. His legs wobbled.
Two people grabbed him.
His mask was dangling from the side of his helmet, and he swept it out of the way just in time to avoid the hot raw vomit coming up his throat.
He started walking aft, toward the island and the parachute draped over that Corsair a hundred fifty yards aft. He shook off two sailors who tried to assist him. "I'm all right, all right, okay." An A-7 came out of the rain and trapped.
There was Flap, walking this way. Now he saw Grafton, spread his arms, kept walking.
The two men met and hugged fiercely.
Lieutenant Colonel Richard Haldane watched the PLAT tape of the cat shot gone awry five or six times as he listened to Jake Grafton and Flap Le Beau recount their experience in the ready room.
They were euphoric--they had spit in the devil's eye and escaped to tell the tale. In the ready room they went through every facet of their adventure for their listeners, who shared their infectious glee.
Isn't life grand? Isn't it great to still be walking and talking and laughing after a trip to the naked edge of life itself?
After a half hour or so, Haldane slipped away to find the maintenance experts. He listened carefully to their explanations, asked some questions, then went to the hangar deck for a personal examination of 523's nose-tow bar.
Apparently the hold-back bolt had failed prematurely, a fraction of a second before the launch valves fully opened, perhaps just as they began to open. The KA-613 at full power had begun to move forward, creating a space-perhaps an inch or two--between the T-fitting of the nose-tow bar and the catapult shuttle. Then the shuttle shot forward as steam slammed into the back of the catapult pistons. At this impact of shuttle and nose-tow bar, the nose-tow bar probably cracked. It held together for perhaps thirty feet of travel down the catapult, then failed completely.
Now free of the twenty-seven-ton weight of the aircraft, the pistons accelerated through the twin catapult barrels like two guided missiles chained together. ate steam drove them through the chronograph brushes five feet short of the water brakes at 207 knots.
With a stupendous crash that was felt the length of the ship, the pistons" spears entered the water brakes, squeezed out all the water and welded themselves into the brakes.
Brakes, spears, and pistons were instantly transformed into one large lump of smoking, twisted, deformed steel. Cat Two was out of action for the rest of the cruise.
Colonel Haldane was less interested in what happened to the catapult than the sequence of events that took place inside 523 after the catapult fired. Careful analysis of the PLAT tape showed that the plane came to a halt just 6.1 seconds later. Total length of the catapult was 260 feet, and it ended twenty feet short of the bow. The plane had used all 280 feet to get stopped. The bombardier ejected 3.8 seconds into that ride.
That Jake Grafton had managed to get the plane halted before it went into the ocean was, Colonel Haldane decided, nothing less than a miracle.
Seated at his desk in his stateroom, he thought about Jake Grafton, about what it must have felt like trying to get that airplane stopped as it stampeded toward the bow and the black void beyond. Oh, he had heard Grafton recount the experience, but already, while it was still fresh and immediate, Grafton had automatically donned the de rigueur cloak of humility: "In spite of everything I did wrong, miraculously I survived. I was shot with luck.
All you sinners take note that when the chips are down clean living and prayer pays Off." i Most pilots would have ejected. Haldane thought it through very carefully and came to the conclusion that he would have been one of them. He would have grabbed that alternate ejection handle between his legs and pulled hard.
Yet Grafton hadn't done that, and he had saved the plane.
Luck, Haldane well knew in spite of Grafton's ready room bullshit, had played a very small part.
Should he have ejected? After all, the Navy Department could just order another A-6 from Grumman for $8 million, but it couldn't buy another highly trained, experienced pilot.
It took millions of dollars and years of training to produce one of those; if you wanted one combat experienced, you had to have a war, which was impractical to do on a regular basis since a high percentage of the liberal upper crust frowned upon wars for training purposes.
Yep, Grafton should have punched. Just like Le Beau.
Sitting here in the warmth, safety, and comfort of a welllit stateroom nursing a cup of coffee, any sane person would reach that obvious conclusion.
Hindsight is so wonderful.
And the sane person would be wrong.
Great pilots always find a way to survive. Almost by instinct they manage to choose a course of action--sometimes in blatant violation of the rules-that results in their survival.
The most obvious fact here was probably the most important: Jake Grafton was still alive and uninjured.
Had he ejected... well, who can say how that would have turned out? The seat might have malfunctioned, he might have gone into the ocean and drowned, he might have broken his neck being slammed down upon the flight deck or into the side of an airplane. Le Beau had been very lucky, and he freely admitted it, proclaimed it even, in the ready room afterward: "I'd rather be lucky than good." Grafton was good. He had saved himself and the plane.
Yet there was more. In the ready room afterward he hadn't been the least b
it defensive, had stated why he did what he did clearly and cogently, then listened carefully to torrents of free advice-the what-you-should-have-done variety. He wasn't embarrassed that Flap ejected. He blamed no one and expressed no regrets.
Haldane liked that, had enjoyed watching and listening to a man whose rock-solid self-confidence could not be shaken.
Grafton believed in himself, and the feeling was contagious.
One wondered if there were anything this man couldn't handle.
Now the colonel dug into the bottom drawer of his desk.
In a moment he found what he was looking for. It was a personal letter from the commanding officer of VA-128, Commander Dick Donovan.
Haldane removed the letter from its envelope and read it, carefully, for the fourth or fifth time.
I am sending you the most promising junior officer in the squadron, Lieutenant Jake Grafton. He is one of the two or three best pilots I have met in the Navy. He seems to have an instinct for the proper thing to do in a cockpit, something beyond the level that we can teach.
As an officer, he is typical for his age and rank. Keep your eye on him. He has a temper and isn't afraid of anything on this earth.
That is good and bad, as I am sure you will agree.
I hope time and experience will season him. You may not agree with my assessment, but the more I see of him, the more I am convinced that he is capable of great things, that someday he will be able to handle great responsibilities.
I want him back when your cruise is over.
Colonel Haldane folded the letter and put it back into its envelope. Then he pulled a pad of paper around and got out his pen. He hadn't answered this letter yet, and now seemed like a good time.
Donovan wasn't going to be happy to hear that Grafton was resigning, but there wasn't anything he or Donovan could do about it. That decision was up to Grafton. Still, it was a shame. Donovan was right-Grafton was a rare talent of unusual promise.
When the adrenaline rush had faded and the ready room crowd had calmed down, Jake and Flap went up to the forward--11dirty shirt?-wardroom between the bow cats. Flap had already been to sick bay and had several minor Plexiglas cuts dressed.
"Iodine and Band-Aids," he told Jake with a grin. "I've been hurt worse shaving. Man, talk about luck!" In the serving line each man ordered a slider, a large cheeseburger so greasy that it would slide right down your throat. With a glass of milk and a handful of potato chips, they sat on opposite sides of a long table with a foodstained tablecloth.
"I didn't think you could get it stopped," Flap said between bites.
"You did the right thing," Jake told him, referring to Flap's decision to eject. "If I hadn't managed to get it sliding sideways I would have had to punch too." "Well, we're still alive, in one piece. We did all right." Jake just nodded and drank more milk. The adrenaline had left his stomach feeling queasy, but the milk and slider settled it. He leaned back in his chair and belched. Yep, there's a lot to be said for staying alive.
Down in his stateroom he stood looking around at the ordinary things, the things he saw every day yet didn't pay much attention to. After a glimpse into the abyss, the ordinary looks fresh and new.
He sat in his chair and savored the fit, looked at how the light from his desk lamp cast stark shadows into the corners of the room, listened to the creaks and groans of the ship, examined with new eyes the photos of his folks and Callie that sat on his desk.
He twiddled the dial of the desk safe, then pulled it open.
The ring was there, the engagement ring he had purchased for her last December aboard Shilo. He took it from the safe and held it so the light shown on the small diamond.
Finally he put it back. Without conscious thought, he removed his revolver from a pocket of his flight suit and put that in the safe too, then locked it.
He was going to have to do something about that woman.
But what?
It wasn't like he had her hooked and all he had to do was reel her in. The truth of the matter was that she had him hooked, and she hadn't decided whether or not he was a keeper.
So what is a guy to do? Write and pledge undying love?
Promise to make her happy? Worm your way into her heart with intimate letters revealing your innermost thoughts?
No. What he had to do was speak to her softly, tell her of his dreams... if only he had any dreams to tell.
He felt hollow. Everyone else had a destination in mind: they were going at different speeds to get there, but they were on their way.
It was infuriating. Was there something wrong with him, some defect in him as a person? Was that what Callie saw?
Why couldn't she understand?
He thought about Callie for a while as he listened to the sounds of the ship working in a seaway, then finally reached for a pad and pen. He dated the letter and began: "Dear Mom and Dad..." When he finished the letter he didn't feel sleepy, so he took a hot shower and dressed in fresh, highly starched khakis and locked the door behind him. There weren't many people about. The last recovery was complete. The enlisted troops were headed for their bunks and the die-hard aviators were watching movies. He peered into various ready rooms to see who was still up that he knew. No one he wanted to talk to. He stopped in the arresting gear rooms and watched a first-class and two greenies pulling maintenance on an engine. He stopped by the PLAT office and watched his aborted takeoff several more times, wandered through the catapult spaces, where greenies supervised by petty officers were also working on equipment. In CATCC the graveyard shift had a radar console torn apart.
In the Aviation Intermediate Maintenance avionics shop the night shift was hard at repairing aircraft radars and computers. This space was heavily air-conditioned and the lights burned around the clock. The technicians who worked here never saw the sun, or the world of wind and sea and sky where this equipment performed.
Finally, on a whim, Jake opened the door to the Air Department office. Warrant Officer Muldowski was the only person there. He saw Jake and boomed, "Hey, shipmate.
Come in and drop anchor." Jake helped himself to a cup of coffee and planted his elbows on the table across from the bosun, who had a pile of paper spread before him.
con"You did good up there on that cat." "Thanks." "Kept waiting for you to punch. Thought you had waited too long." "For a second there I did too." They chewed the fat for a while, then when the conversation lagged Jake asked, "Why did you stay in the Navy, Bosun?" The bosun leaned back in his chair and reached for his tobacco pouch. When he had his pipe fired off and drawing well, he said, "Civilians" worlds are too small." con"What do you mean?" "They get a job, live in a neighborhood, shop in the same stores all their lives. They live in a little world of friends, work, family. Those worlds looked too small to me." "That's something to think about." Jake finished his coffee and tossed the Styrofoam cup in a wastebasket.
"Don't you go riding one of those pigs into the water, Mr. Grafton. When you gotta go, you go." "Sure, Bosun." A SOVIET TASK GROUP CAME OVER THE HORIZON ONE SUNDAY M late November. Columbia had no flying scheduled that day, so gawkers packed the flight deck when Jake Grafton came up for a first-hand look. A strong wind from the southwest was ripping the tops off the twelve- to fifteen-foot swells. Spindrift covered the sea, all under a clear blue sky.
Columbia was pitching noticeably. The nearest destroyer was occasionally taking white water over the bow.
Up on deck Jake ran into the Real McCoy. "Where are they?" McCoy pointed. Jake saw six gray warships in close formation, closing the American formation at an angle from the port side, still four or five miles away. The U.s. ships were only making ten knots or so due to the sea state, but the Soviets were doing at least twice that. Even from this distance the rearing and plunging of the Soviet ships was quite obvious. Their bows were rising clear of the water, then plunging deeply as white water cascaded across the main decks and smashed against the gun mounts.
On they came, seemingly aiming straight for Columbia, wh
ich, as usual, was in the middle of the American formation.
Gidrograf, the Soviet Pamir-class AGI that had been shadowing the Americans" for the last month, was trailing along behind the Americans, at least two miles astern. Her speed matched the Americans' and she made no move to oin the oncoming Soviet ships.
"What do you think?" McCoy asked.
"Unless Ivan changes course, he's going to run his ships smack through the middle of our formation." "I think that is exactly what he intends to do," McCoy said after a bit, when the Russians were at least a mile closer.
"Sure looks like it," Jake agreed. The angle-of-bearing hadn't changed noticeably, which was the clue that the ships were on collision courses. He glanced up at Columbia's bridge.
Stephen Coonts - Jake Grafton 6 - Intruders Page 29
