Stephen Coonts - Jake Grafton 2 - Final Flight

by Final Flight (lit)

  "Do you have to go?" She nodded. "I'm glad we had a chance to get to know each other." "Could we see each other again?" Toad stood.

  "Listen, I.. She reached out and her fingertips grazed his arm. "Good-bye, Robert." Her high heels clicked on the polished floor as she walked away.

  Toad watched her go, then sank back into his chair. She had scarcely touched her drink. His glass was empty. He waved at the barkeeper, and failed to notice the man in his early forties wearing a gray pinstripe suit who set his empty glass on the bar and strolled out, less than a minute behind Judith.

  What had he said that struck her wrong?

  Dejected, he sat contemplating the chair where she had been.

  THE SEPTEMBER HAZE obscured the sky, except for a pale, gauzy blue patch directly overhead. Here and there the tops of fluffy little clouds could be discerned embedded in the insubstantial whiteness. The haze completely obscured the peaks of the two islands that formed the gate to the Bay of Naples, Capri and Ischia.

  Looking toward the coast, one could make out the major features of the Naples estuary, but the coastline north and south merged into this gray-white late-summer mixture of moisture, smoke, and North African dust.

  Toad-Tarkington strolled along the flight deck of the United States and cataloged the day as a partial obscuration, visibility five miles in haze. Then his attention wandered to a more important subject-a woman.

  "Women!" he grumped to himself. Just when your life is flowing along like smooth old wine, a woman shows up.

  Women are like cars, he told himself as he meandered along with his hands in his pockets, automatically weaving around the parked aircraft and their webs of tie-down chains, looking only at the gray steel deck in front of his shoes. There are the old sedans, he decided, dowdy and faded, the Chevys and Fords of the world that putter along and get you there for as long as you want to go, not too fast and not in style, but dependable. Then there are the racy Italianjobs that can rip up to warp three in a heartbeat, wring out your skinny little ass, and leave you broken and bleeding beside the road. And finally, there are the quality machines, the Mercedes of the world, the ones that go fast or slow in elegant style, that last forever, and you are exultantly happy with all of your days.

  Judith Farrell was a Mercedes, he decided.

  His Ms. Farrell was not some cheap crackerjack hot rod for a flashy Saturday night date, but a quality piece of design, engineering, and workmanship. She had character, brains, wit, beauty, and grace. He thought about the way she moved, how her hips swayed slightly but not too much-above her long, shapely legs, how her hair accented the perfect lines of her face, how her breasts rose and fell inside her blouse as she breathed. How her lips moved as she spoke. How she smiled. Just thinking about her was enough to make a man sweat.

  And you dumped all over her, fool! Not just once, not just the first time you met her. Oh no. You did it twice. Providence gave you a second chance and you blew that too. You idiot!

  He descended into the catwalk that surrounded the flight deck and leaned on the rail just above the forward starboard Phalanx mount. Immediately below him a barge lay tied to the side of the ship, but Toad took no notice. He stood with his elbows on the rail and his chin propped on one hand, gazing blankly at the hazy junction of sea and sky, cataloging once again all the charms he now knew Judith Farrell possessed, charms that apparently lay forever beyond his fevered reach.

  The barge was a paint scow. It had been towed into position shortly after dawn by a tug. In its hold were dozens of fifty-five gallon drums of paint, and ropes and scaffolds and long-handled rollers and a gang of a half-dozen or so workmen wearing coveralls that displayed the spills and drips incidental to their trade. The scow itself wore the scars of countless accidents involving paint of every color of the rainbow, though gray seemed predominant.

  On scaffolds suspended against the side of the warship-scaffolds not visible from the catwalk where Toad moped, since the sides of the ship slanted steeply inward from the catwalk to the waterline-pairs of men wielded long-handled rollers and brushes. After months of exposure to salt air and seawater, the hull of the United States resembled that of a Panamanian tramp steamer with a bankrupt owner.

  The workmen quickly applied the new gray paint over the orange-red streaks of rust and what fading gray paint remained. However, on the scaffold near the hangar bay opening for Elevator Two-the second aircraft elevator aft on the starboard side and the one just forward of the ship's island-one of the painters worked slower than his comrades.

  He spent most of his time watching the unloading of a barge moored near Elevator Three, aft of him several hundred feet. That elevator was in a down position.

  The sailors used a crane on the flight deck level to transfer cargo from the barge to the elevator. Wooden crates on pallets were gently deposited on the elevator where sailors derigged the wire bridles.

  Forklifts moved the crates from the elevator platform into the hangar bay. There sailors in blue denims and white hardhats noted on clipboards the stenciled numbers on the crates and directed other forklift operators in their shuttle of the crates to prearranged positions. They worked quickly and efficiently with only occasional shouts from a khaki-clad figure, a chief petty officer.

  The painter on the scaffold worked slowly with his roller and observed the scene from the corner of his eye.

  The sailors should be done in an hour or so, he concluded. Already men were attacking the crates in the hangar, breaking them open and distributing packages to a seemingly never-ending line of men who carried the cargo below. They hurried like ants to receive their loads, Colonel Qazi thought. He noticed that the laden porters took orders from another chief with a clipboard before they departed, and they walked away in every direction to hatches around the walls of the two-acre hangar bay. The colonel correctly surmised that the contents of the crates were being carried to many different compartments throughout the ship.

  After a while Cazi's companion, Yasim, finished the section they were working on, so Qazi shouted in Italian until he attracted the attention of the sailor on the catwalk above and outboard of them.

  With much swaying the scaffold was moved until it hung immediately beside the Elevator-Two entrance to the hangar bay. From there Qazi could better observe the layout and activity of the hangar bay.

  Even though it was daytime, the bay was brightly lit from an array of lights on the overhead.

  "So many men," Yasim commented softly.

  "Yes. All trained technicians. Look at the men working on the aircraft. See all the black boxes." The access panels were open on many machines, exposing the myriad of electronic components that filled every cubic inch of the fuselages that did not contain engines or fuel tanks.

  "We do not have this many technicians in our whole country," Yasim said, the envy in his voice discernible.

  The colonel motioned Yasim back to work and dipped his own roller in a paint tray. They had better stay busy or they would surely attract someone's attention.

  "When?" Yasim queried.

  "Tomorrow night, Saturday night," the colonel muttered as a fine spray of paint from his roller misted across his face. "It must be then. The crate comes aboard tomorrow morning and it won't sit there forever.

  These people are too efficient." "How do we know they won't open it?" "We don't." The colonel paused and looked again at the men with the clipboards. They appeared to be comparing the crate numbers against preprinted lists. Computer-generated lists, the colonel surmised. "The numbers on our crate don't match anything on their lists. So they will leave it to last." "But what if they open it?" Yasim persisted.

  "Then they will think there has been a mistake." The real problem, the colonel knew, was where they would put the crate, opened or unopened. He had toyed with the idea of placing a beeper in the crate, but with so many electronic sensors on the ship, he had rejected that option as too risky.

  Selecting an unmonitored frequency would be pure guesswork, if there were any
unmonitored frequencies, which he doubted. He would just have to visually search for the crate when the time came, betting everything that he could find it.

  He had bet his life before, many times, but this was different.

  What was at stake this time was the Arab people's chance at nationhood.

  If this operation succeeded, the emotional and political pull toward one nation for the Arabs would be great enough to overcome the centrifugal tribal, economic, and political forces which had always kept them apart.

  Although the forces of nationalism had fired humanity for two centuries, the Arabs still had only a patchwork quilt of states with every major type of government-dictatorship, monarchy, anarchy, even token democracy-all of which left the vast bulk of Arabs poor and ignorant, saddled by a religion that focused on a dead past and culturally unable to embrace science and technology, which alone gave promise of adequately feeding, clothing, and housing them.

  So they were left in the wasteland with their dictators and demagogues, their passions and their poverty.

  Left in a desert of failed dreams which they were taught to accept because paradise awaited them. In the next life, not this one.

  The Palestinians were a running sore because the system could not expand to take them in. The system could not grant their desire for nationhood because none of the Arabs truly had a nation. So the Palestinians were cast out, as the culturally oppressed in Iran felt they, too, had been cast out.

  Would he find the crate? Inshallah, "if Allah wills it," his people would say.

  I will find it, Qazi told himself. The Arabs have been a long time dying. The crate will be there and I will find it. Because I will it.

  He pulled his cap visor down to protect his eyes and began vigorously applying paint.

  "Is Chaplain Berkowitz around?" Jake Grafton asked the sailor at the desk in the chaplain's office. "CAG, is that you?" Berkowitz's door opened wide and he stood there smiling. "Come in, please." Berkowitz was short and wiry, with a luxuriant head of hair that always looked as if he had missed his last appointment with the barber. He was the senior chaplain aboard-the United States had three-and held the rank of commander.

  "I was aboard last night when the OOD'S messenger found me.

  I was delighted to help out." Berkowitz dropped into one of the visitor's chairs near Jake.

  Jake glanced around. The chaplain had painted his office a light beige and procured carpets from somewhere. A Star of David hung on one wall.

  On the opposite wall was a cross.

  "So how is Bull?" "I can't violate a confidence, of course, but I think he is coming to terms with himself, which is the important thing." Jake nodded. "I was a little worried. You know how it is with guilt. It's an acid that eats away everything." "Chaplain Kerin is talking with him this morning.

  Commander Majeska's a Protestant, and Kerin is about as near to his denomination as we have aboard ship.

  It was a terrible thing about Lieutenant Reed, but Majeska is only a man and he made a very human decision. It's the same decision most of us would have made had we been in his place. I think he sees that. But until he understands that emotionally and comes to term with it. Berkowitz ran out of words.

  "Yeah," Jake said. "Thanks again, Rabbi." "Umph. You aviators. You all think you are supermen. Berkowitz smiled to take the sting out of his words. "Naval aviation is the home of more titanic egos than any other enterprise I've ever encountered. With the possible exception of television evangelists and congressmen." He grinned again as a smile flickered on Jake's face. "Sometimes it's hard for supermen to face their own humanity." "Yeah." Jake started to rise but Berkowitz motioned him back into his chair.

  "I've wondered how you felt since the doctor grounded you." The chaplain leaned forward.

  "So this visit is not unwelcome. Perhaps you could tell me how you're handling it and that would help me when I counsel the other fliers. I see more of them than you might suspect." Jake moved forward in his chair until only three inches of his bottom was on the seat. "I'm not very religious, you know.. The expression on Berkowitz's face forced him to add, "But you guys do great work. We sure do need chaplains-was "As a safety valve? To keep the pressure cooker from exploding? Every man is a pressure cooker, CAG, including you.

  "Call me Jake." "Jake." "Yeah. Well, I'm making it." Berkowitz rose and retrieved several sheets of paper off his desk. "All the men aren't making it, Jake. Five more UA'S this morning." UA'S were unauthorized absentees. "It's curious.

  Normally we don't lose men like this, although maybe the four months we spent at sea is a factor.

  But two of these people are petty officers." He read Jake the ratings: communications technician first and quartermaster third. "Curious." Jake examined the list.

  "One of the nonrated men who disappeared the last time we were In Naples has shown up in San Diego." The chaplain shrugged. "Do we have a problem?" "Thanks for your time. How about keeping an eye on Bull?" Jake shook hands and left, headed for the XO'S office.

  Ray Reynolds was on the phone. "Listen, Lieutenant. These men aren't all drunk up in the Gut. Now I want them found." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and whispered to Jake, "Shore Patrol." There was a permanent Shore Patrol detachment stationed in Naples under a U.s.

  Navy Lieutenant. Reynolds had undoubtedly reached him on the ship-to-shore telephone. "So what if I give you some more men?

  Will you search if I sent you some more men?... How many do you need?" He motioned Jake toward a chair and consulted his watch. "I'll have them come in on the noon boat." Reynolds listened a moment. "I know what your responsibilities are. I'm sending these men with their own officer, and I expect you to cooperate with him. And this evening I'm going to be there to have a little face-to-face with you. You'd better have some good news for me.

  Reynolds hung the phone up with the lieutenant's voice still coming out.

  His voice had not risen once during that conversation.

  He was known as a man who maintained an even strain, a man who never got excited, but you had better listen to what was said and ignore the conversational tone of voice or you weren't going to get the message. Jake wondered if the shore patrol officer had listened carefully enough.

  "Jake, I need another dozen enlisted from the air wing and one more officer to augment the shore patrol. Make him a lieutenant commander so he doesn't have to take any shit from that lieutenant on the beach.

  Everybody in whites. Relieve them every eight hours. Have the officer come see me before he goes ashore." Jake picked up the phone on his desk and called Farnsworth, relaying the order.

  "Something is going on," Reynolds said when Jake hung up. "We're bleeding men like the Confederate army at Petersburg. If we get one more UA, just one, we're securing liberty." Jake pursed his lips for a silent whistle.

  Locking the men up on the ship after four months at sea was a drastic step. "Been to see the captain?" Ray nodded. "Laird James is not happy.

  He's sending a message to everyone in uniform east of the Mississippi. He's going to get on the PA system in a little while and tell the men what's going on." "What is going on?" "Damned if anyone knows." Reynold's massive shoulders moved up and down. "I still think it's the goddamn Arabs, but guesses are three for a quarter. We've got to protect our men.

  "Maybe we oughta go see the local authorities?" "Admiral Parker already choppered off this morning to do just that. He isn't happy, either." Jake stood up. "I'll have all the squadron skippers talk to their men before liberty call goes down. At least they can stick together, look after each other." "Do that." The XO picked up the phone and started dialing.

  Jake headed for the door.

  Colonel Qazi and Yasim were eating lunch with the Italian workmen on the paint scow when Captain James began speaking on the PA system. The bosun's pipe that preceded his remarks echoed through the hangar bay and was perfectly audible to the men on the scow. The workmen stopped talking to listen to the whistle of the pipe, but they ignored th
e captain since most of them didn't speak English. Qazi, though, listened carefully as he chewed pickled olives and sipped a local red wine.

  After lunch he spoke to the painting supervisor, who had one of his men start the engine in the boat moored alongside and take Qazi and Yasim ashore. The workmen would keep their mouths shut, at least for a few days, Can'eaazi knew, because they had been well paid. By one of Pagliacci's men. That fact was probably more important than the money.

  As the boat carried them away from the ship, Qazi looked back.

  She was so huge he felt a moment's unease.

  He could see the tails of the airplanes protruding over the edge of the flight deck and the top of the massive island with its arrays of antennas. In the catwalk on the port side he saw one of the fifty-caliber machine guns. The marine wore a helmet and was waving at them.

  Qazi waved back.