Stephen Coonts - Jake Grafton 2 - Final Flight

by Final Flight (lit)

  But as the launch approached the United States Jake Grafton's thoughts were no longer on the scenic quality of the morning. The two linesmen lowered the bumpers at the last moment and leaped onto the float below the officer's brow as the launch brushed against it. At the top of the ladder the officer-of-the-deck saluted Jake, who nodded and rushed on by.

  He made his way to his stateroom on the 0-3 level, right beneath the flight deck, and called Farnsworth as he changed into a khaki uniform.

  "Have you been ashore yet?" he asked the yeoman.

  "Not yet, sir. I'm going this afternoon after I get a few more things done." "How about having someone bring the maintenance logbook for that A-6 that crashed up to the CAG office. I want to look at it." "I'll call their duty officer." "Anything sizzling?" "Same old stuff' sir. The HO is having everyone do another muster this morning. Seems three guys, one of them a petty officer, didn't show up this morning. So the HO is making the whole ship muster again." "See you in a few minutes." He wondered what that was all about. Ray Reynolds must be worried about something.

  In the office he automatically reached into the helmet suspended from the overhead. It was empty.

  He accepted a mug of coffee from Farnsworth and stared accusingly at the helmet as he took the first experimental sips. Finally he retreated to his office, the "cave," where he flipped through the incoming messages and letters. The navy had named an officer to replace him, someone he didn't know. The new man would report in four weeks. No hint as to Jake's next assignment.

  Perhaps that was just as well. No doubt it would be some staff or paperwork job somewhere. Better he shouldn't know just now, while Callie was here.

  The maintenance logbook was delivered by a young airman, whom Jake thanked. The book was a loose-leaf binder. On the metal cover in numbers an inch high was the black stencil "503," the side-number of the A-6 Majeska and Reed had taken on Reed's last flight. Below the large number, in smaller stencil, was the aircraft's six-digit bureau number.

  Jake opened the book. On the right side were the "down" gripes for the last ten flights. Each gripe card carried the date of the repair, the name of the man who had performed it, and the corrective action taken.

  On the left side of the book were all the "up" gripes that had not been repaired. A down gripe, by definition, was one so serious that the aircraft could not fly until it was fixed. An up gripe, on the other hand, was a nuisance problem that could wait until the bird was down for another problem or a planned maintenance inspection before it was repaired, or "worked off." Jake read the down gripes first and the particulars of each signoff.

  The problems struck him as routine; the type of complaints that one expected an aircraft to have, especially if it were used hard, as all the A-6's had been these last few months.

  The up gripes constituted quite a stack. The little forms were arranged in order, with the most recent on the top of the pile and the oldest on the bottom. When he had read each one, he went back through and read them all again carefully.

  Finally he closed the book. What was there about that aircraft that caused a crash? There was not a single gripe on the oxygen system. Had Bull Majeska really blacked out? At sea level, where there was plenty of oxygen if his mask were not completely sealed to his face? Or was he lying?

  What revelation could he make that would be so terrible?

  Terrible to whom? To Majeska, of course.

  When Jake found himself chewing on a fingernail, he slammed the book on the desk and shouted for Farnsworth. "Gimme a cigarette." "No." "Goddammit! Please!" "Bust me. Give me a court-martial. No more weeds for you. "If you shaved your legs, Farnsworth, you'd make somebody a good wife." "No cigarettes for you, sailor. But you wanna buy me a drink?" "Go down to the captain's office and find out why we had two musters this morning." "Yes sir." Up on the flight deck Jake wandered along until he found an A-6 unattended by maintenance troops. He lowered the pilot's boarding ladder and thumbed the canopy switch. The canopy opened slowly, the battery driving a small hydraulic pump that whined loudly in protest.

  He climbed the ladder and sat down in the cockpit.

  He wondered if Reed would still be alive if he hadn't taken him flying that night. Mad Dog, with the regular, even features and the soft voice. Agh, who can say what might have been or should have been or would have been, if only...? That kind of thinking was for philosophers and politicians. But Reed was dead. The kid that had had enough was now dead.

  His eyes went from instrument to instrument. ALL, altimeter, airspeed, radar altimeter, gyro, warning lights... His gaze meandered to the buttons and knobs on the bombardier's side of the cockpit. He found himself staring at the black hood that shielded the radar and FLIR.

  They were looking over a Greek freighter at night. Reed must have had the FLIR on, just as he had done when he and Jake had swooped down on that dynamite boat several weeks ago. And Reed would have had his head glued against the hood. Bull Majeska had been sitting here, flying the plane, close to the water comhow high? As they went by the ship Reed would have used the zoom lens on the FLIR in the nose turret to see the detail of the freighter. And Majeska? He would have squeezed the stick trigger and brought the infrared display up on the AD!. And he would have been paying attention to flying the plane.

  If he got too near the water, the radar altimeter would have given him a warning.

  Jake's left hand went to that instrument and rotated the knob that set the altitude at which the warning beep would sound. He watched the little wedge-shaped bug move around the dial. If the pilot had it set too high, when the warning went off he would ignore it. If he had it set too low, when the warning sounded it would be too late.

  Say Majeska was watching the freighter instead of flying. Or say he got distracted by something in the cockpit. The audible warning sounds when the aircraft descends to whatever altitude the bug was set to. And then? What? Majeska rights the plane and breaks the descent?

  No. Not that. They either hit the water or Or what? What made Majeska refuse to talk?

  Jake smacked his fist on his thigh and got out of the cockpit. He closed the canopy and strode across the deck. Down in the CAG office, he grabbed the maintenance logbook and flipped through the up gripes.

  There it was. "Contrast control on AD!

  intermittent. Went dark once. Possible short." That had been an up gripe. Two fights later, just the night before the crash, a down gripe: "AD!

  went black. FIX THIS THING." The sign-off was the same as on the previous gripe: "Could not duplicate." He fired up the office copying machine and shot copies of both gripes. He put the copies in the top drawer of his desk.

  "What did you find out?" he asked Farnsworth when he re-turned.

  "They just said the XO told them to take another muster. He didn't say why." "Here," Jake said, handing the maintenance log to the yeoman. "You can take this back, then go get some chow. It's lunchtime." Jake called the XO, Ray Reynolds. "This is Grafton, XO. Just curious, why two musters this morning?

  "One of those guys who didn't show for muster is a petty officer.

  Another's a marine lance corporal. I know the corporal. He stands orderly duty for me sometimes. He is one squared- away marine, a damn good kid. Something is wrong." "Maybe.

  "Oh, I know. What officer ever knows what a youngster is thinking, what his wife or girlfriend is writing him? But I would have bet a month's pay on this kid. He's going to the Naval Academy prep school at the end of this cruise. I even wrote a letter of recommendation for his application." "Terrorists, you think?" Jake asked, chewing again on a finger- nail.

  "People see terrorists in every woodpile. I don't know what to think." "Thanks for filling me in." "Sure. How's Callie?" They exchanged pleasantries for a moment, then broke the connection.

  Jake was sitting in the forward wardroom going over paperwork with four of his staff officers when Toad Tarkington brought his lunch in on a tray and sat down with his buddies at another table.

  "Okay, W. You sc
ribble up responses to these messages, Jake indicated a pile, "and Harry, you do these others." Will Cohen and Harry March gathered up their respective heaps. "Un- less a message is marked urgent, we'll answer the rest of them after we sail." "Yes, sir." "After Farnsworth gets the messages typed, I want you to put him on a boat for the beach. He deserves liberty and he won't go as long as he thinks there's still something in the in-basket. Kick him off the ship." "You got it." "Thanks, guys." The officers picked up their papers and departed. Jake raised his voice, "Mr. Tarkington." "Yes, CAG." "Come join me for a minute, will you?" Toad brought his lunch tray with him. When he had resumed work on his hamburger, Jake said, "Remember that female reporter that came aboard in Tangiers? Judith Farrell?" Toad nodded and mumbled affirmatively as he chewed. "How would you like to have another go at her?" Toad's eyebrows went together and he swallowed hard. "She's here? In Naples?" "Yep. Going to have dinner with me and my wife tonight.

  How about you coming along and seeing if you can get her off my hands." "Geez, CA...." "Now look, you idiot. I'm not asking you to put the munch on this broad. Just see what you can do to get her away from me. You did a real nice job of that in Tangiers and... since you're a sporting lad, I thought you might be willing to try again.

  "She didn't think a whole lot of my act, CAG. When I need something hard to pound my head against, I can always go down to my room and bop the bulkhead." "Hey, my wife tells me she's a very nice lady. Now personally I find that hard to believe, but it might be true. Maybe she was just playing the role for us yokels in uniform. You know, hard-boiled political reporter looking for dirt." "Or playing a role for your wife." "Toad, are you going to respond affirmatively to this request for assistance from a senior officer?" "Uh, yessir, I am, since you put it that way. "You're a good man, Toad.

  There's just not much demand for good men these days. Wear a suit and tie. Meet you at seven in the lobby of the Vittorio Emanuele. That's a hotel.

  Ask a cabbie where it is." "You're picking up the check tonight, aren't you, sir?" "Eat a couple hamburgers before you show up.

  That's an order." "Has Majeska said anything yet?" Admiral Parker asked. "No, he hasn't." "The idiot," Parker muttered, more to himself than Jake. He rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. "He can't stay in command of that squadron." "He knows that. But the alternative, for him, seems worse.

  Jake sipped his coffee.

  "Do you have any ideas what happened out there?" "I've got a theory. But that's all it is.

  No hard evidence. In fact, no evidence at all." Jake passed Cowboy the copies of the gripes from the lost plane's maintenance logbook.

  The admiral read each of them twice.

  He looked at Jake quizzically.

  "I think the AD! blacked out on him and he got distracted. Or he had the infrared display on the AD! and the changing aspect angles disoriented him. In any event, he quit flying the airplane, just for a few seconds. Maybe he had the radar altimeter warning set too low. Or too high. Then he realized he was going into the water." Jake shrugged. "I think he panicked and ejected." "Leaving his BN sitting there?" "That's the only thing that would explain his refusal to talk. He'd rather kiss his career good-bye than confess he panicked and punched out without warning his BN. I think he now believes he left Reed there in the cockpit to "Maybe there wasn't enough time to tell Reed. Maybe if he had, they would have both died when the plane hit the water." "Maybe. But if Bull thought that now, he'd probably be talking." Parker tugged at an earlobe and read the gripes again, then passed them back to Jake. "I think you should relieve him of his command and notify Washington.

  Write a message requesting that he be ordered to remain aboard until the accident investigation is completed." "I already have, sir." Jake passed a draft of the message to the admiral, who read it carefully.

  "Have you told Majeska yet?" "Not yet." "Do it. If you're wrong, maybe he'll set us straight." "What if I'm wrong and he's really telling the truth? Perhaps he really doesn't remember." "Then you've just made a command decision on the best information available and mistakenly cut a good man's throat. You'll have to live with it and so will he." Jake nodded and placed the message on his lap.

  He folded the gripe copies and put them in a shirt pocket.

  The two men sat in silence. Finally Admiral Parker said, "How's Callie?" "Fine." Jake chewed on his lower lip.

  "Listen, Jake. Majeska has given you no choice with this. You must relieve him." "I know." Jake's features contorted and he threw the message on the floor. "God damn his fucking ass! God damn him to fucking hell! That kid Reed was going to quit flying since he was getting out of the navy in six months. And I talked him into staying in the cockpit. Damn near ordered him to." He swore some more. "And then that fucker Majeska kills the kid and isn't man enough to face up to it. And now I have to can his ass." He ran out of steam. "Damn it all," he said softly.

  Admiral Parker examined a picture on the bulkhead, then studied his fingernails. "What does Callie think about your quitting smoking?" Jake picked up the message and folded it carefully. He crossed his legs. "She says it's about time." Parker grunted. "Bring her out to the ship some evening and we'll have dinner together." "Sure. Which evening? Can't do it tonight." "Day after tomorrow?" "Okay." "Tell her I said hello." "Sure, Cowboy." Jake got up to leave.

  "Sure. She'll be looking forward to seeing you again." "Farnsworth, why the hell are you still here?" "Uh, I had a few things still to do, CAG.

  "Jake knew he would not go ashore until his boss did. He dropped into the chair beside the yeoman's desk.

  "Call the A-6 ready room and ask if Commander Majeska is aboard. If he is, ask them to pass along that I would like to see him here in the CAG office as soon as possible." Farnsworth had typed the message in Jake's hand, so he knew what this was all about. He dialed the phone and spoke to the A-6 squadron duty officer as Jake stood and stared at the helmet hanging upside down from the ceiling.

  "He was in the ready room. He'll be right up.

  Jake laid the message on Farnsworth's desk and signed it. "When Majeska gets here, send him into my office. Then I want you to walk out of here with that message, lock the door behind you, and take the message to the communications center for transmission. Then you are to change clothes and go ashore. That is a direct order." Jake stood up.

  "Yes sir." Jake tilted the helmet on the coathanger, just in case. Nothing. He gave it a little punch with his fist, then went into his office and closed the door behind him.

  When Majeska arrived, Jake motioned to a chair. "Sit down." The A-6 skipper looked exhausted, the creases in his face now deep grooves.

  "I'm relieving you of your command, Bull." Majeska nodded and studied his hands.

  "Look me in the face, Goddammit!" Majeska's gaze came up. His lower lip quivered. Jake took the copies of the gripes from his pocket and unfolded them. He passed them across the desk.

  Majeska read them slowly, unbelievingly, one after the other. When he finished with one sheet, he placed it under the other, and so read them again and again and again. It was as if there were six or eight sheets of paper, not just two. Finally he said, "You knew.

  that speech the other night to the air wing.. you knew all along." Jake held out his hand for the copies.

  Majeska's chin sank to his chest.

  "It was an accident, Bull. You didn't mean to kill him." "There just wasn't any time. We were going down so fast, the water was right there..." I had to get out.

  There was no time to think... no time.

  "You GOT SOME SUN this afternoon," Jake observed listlessly as Callie straightened his tie.

  He was wearing a dark civilian suit.

  "You look..." He kissed her forehead.

  She cocked her head. "Do you really want to go to dinner this evening?

  You don't seem to be in the mood." "I don't get to take you out very often. If we didn't go, I'd kick myself when I was at sea for missing this opportunity." She searched his face. Satisfied, she said lig
htly, "You be nice to Judith this evening." "Hey, you know me. I'm charm personified.

  By the way, I asked one of the young bachelors from the ship to join us for dinner." Jake glanced at his watch. "He should be in the lobby now.

  Callie eyed him obliquely in the mirror as she checked her lipstick. "I thought you found Judith abrasive when you met her in Tangiers." "Well, she was probably under a lot of pressure. You said she is very nice. And this kid I invited is a great guy. Maybe they'll like each other." "Abrasive?" "All business. She wanted me to comment on things I'm not qualified to comment on and she wasn't taking no for an answer. It was like she was out to write a nasty article about prison camps and had stopped by our stalag for some material." "She has to do her job." Callie collected her purse and stepped into the hallway. "What's the bachelor's name?" "Toad Tarkington." Jake turned off the lights and checked that the door would lock behind them.