Top Gun

by T. E. Cruise

  Tuesday morning it was reported that the Third Marine Division on Okinawa had been alerted. Over a thousand marines were being flown to Utapao Air Base in Thailand. Later that day, reports came in that the President had ordered armed USAF aircraft from out of Utapao to protect the Navy’s surveillance craft from the Cambodian gunboats, and that the Cambodians had been warned that the use of force by the United States was becoming increasingly likely unless the Mayaguez and its crew were released.

  Clearly, the Mayaguez situation’s status had been upgraded from “incident” to “crisis.”

  (Two)

  “What’s the matter. Air Force?” Gil Brody, the Sea Bear’s air officer sarcastically asked Robbie Greene. Brody was a trim, muscular man in his forties, with thick black eyebrows, dark hair gone silver at the temples, and a salt-and-pepper mustache. On his open-neck shirt collar he wore a naval commander’s oak leaves.

  Brody leaned back in his swivel chair behind his gray metal desk. “You look like a man who’s got his pecker caught in the catapult.”

  It was a little after seven on Tuesday night. The latest on the Mayaguez was that USAF warplanes were on the scene and drawing heavy machine-gun fire from the Cambodian patrol boats. So far no airplanes had been hit. Upon the President’s orders, the Air Force planes had refrained from firing back at the Cambodians.

  At seven o’clock, Greene had been notified that the air boss had a few minutes free in which to see him, and so Greene had come charging into Brody’s office, which was small and windowless, like most everything else on this carrier. A poster taped to the wall behind Brody’s desk showed a snowcapped mountain in Japan. Surrounding the poster were plaques Brody had won in various martial arts tournaments. More awards and trophies for placing in various martial-arts competitions filled several bracket shelves. Brody was known to be a martial-arts fanatic. He’d spent a year studying in Japan, and in his spare time ran classes on board the Sea Bear. Greene, wanting to pursue the martial-arts studies he’d begun at Wright-Patterson AFB, had taken some of Brody’s classes for a while, but then he’d dropped out.

  “Speak up. Air Force!” Brody was demanding. “What’s on your mind?”

  Greene didn’t know how to begin. He’d come in here like gangbusters, his heart pounding and his pulse racing, thinking he was all charged up to make his case. Trouble was, Greene had spent the past sixteen hours rehearsing his piece. Now that he was actually in Brody’s office, he found himself gone stale, with all of his pretty speeches gone out of his head.

  Brody took a pack of Marlboros from out of his shirt pocket and lit one with a banged-up-looking Zippo. “Past day and a half, I’ve been up to my ass with meetings concerning how we might have to put the hurt on the Cambodians,” he muttered.

  Greene nodded. Brody and his people were the supreme traffic cops for all the activity on the carrier’s flight deck. During aircraft launches and recoveries, it was Brody and his gang who occupied Pri-Fly, or Primary Flight Control, a glassed-in balcony just beneath the carrier’s bridge. Everyone—CCATC air controllers, LSO officers and staff, catapult crews, deck supervisors, and aircraft handlers (responsible for maneuvering the airplanes about the crowded deck)—answered to the air boss. From what Greene had been told, even the carrier’s skipper made it a point to quietly occupy himself with steering his boat when the air boss was doing his thing.

  “Finally, I get a little breather from all those meetings,” Brody muttered. “But then, I find out that you got some sort of bone to pick with me.”

  “No way, Boss,” Greene said. Everybody called the air officer “Boss”. Personally, the practice made Greene feel like he was in Cool Hand Luke.

  Greene forced a nervous smile. “Boss, I’ve got no problem. I’m here to make a request.”

  “I’m listening.” Brody was slumped in his swivel chair with his eyes closed and his feet up on his desk. Every now and then, he took a puff off his cigarette and then flicked the ash in the general direction of a scummy-looking Blue Angels coffee mug.

  Brody sure was looking tired and pale, Green thought. But then, the ever-present fluorescent lighting bleached the hell out of everyone’s skin tone. What a joke Greene had played on himself when he’d imagined that his stint on board the Sea Bear would entail lots of salt breezes and sunshine. Coal miners got more fresh air and had better suntans than carrier crews. Living on an aircraft carrier was like inhabiting the subbasement levels of an office building, with only occasional, brief forays to the building’s flat roof: the carrier’s flight deck.

  Greene began, “It’s about this military action concerning the Mayaguez—”

  “Possible military action,” Brody corrected, sounding half asleep. “The latest out of CINCPAC is that the Chinese are going to intercede on our behalf with the Cambodians.” He opened one eye. “Not that you heard that from me. Air Force…”

  “I don’t think the Chinese are going to do shit, one way or the other, Boss.”

  “Oh, do tell, Mr. Kissinger,” Brody said sarcastically. His eyes again closed.

  “Hey, I may not be the secretary of state, but I keep up with current events,” Greene said. “Since the Khmer Rouge took over in Cambodia last month, those dudes have shown themselves to be pretty mean.”

  “Mmm.” Brody’s head was beginning to loll. His cigarette had burned down to its filter. Without seeming to look, Brody expertly flipped it into the coffee mug.

  That was precision bombing for you. Greene thought. Just then the office’s ventilator came on, clattering like marbles on tin. Greene grimaced at the racket. The Sea Bear dated from World War II. Nothing on board the old boat worked one hundred percent of the time.

  “Maybe the Khmer Rouge might like to tweak the imperialist paper tiger’s tail,” Greene suggested. “Especially after the Vietcong seemed to have gotten away with it.”

  “Yeah, maybe…” Brody sounded bored. “But if they do, we got the men and machines to point out the error of their ways.”

  “That’s right. Boss.” Greene took a deep breath. “And I want a piece of it when it happens.”

  That got his attention. Greene thought. The air boss had sat bolt upright, his eyes snapping open.

  “Are you nuts?” Brody demanded. “What’s wrong with you. Air Force? I can’t let you fly an actual combat mission!”

  “Why not? With all due respect, Boss, I’m as good as any of the guys in your A-7 squadrons.”

  “Are you?” Brody’s bushy eyebrows arched. “My feeling all along has been that you’ve been stroking it. You’re an experienced combat pilot. A Vietnam-vet Thud driver who flew bombing runs against heavily defended targets. You could be bringing a lot more savvy to your training flights in the A-7. But you’re holding back. You’ve got an attitude problem. You think you’re too good to be flying a Mud Mover.”

  “I don’t think I’m too good. Boss,” Greene muttered. “I know I am.”

  Brody studied him, looking troubled. “Tell me something, what’s the goal of Indian Giver?”

  “I’m here to observe and learn from the Navy,” Greene replied.

  “There you go,” Brody said. “Observe and learn: Can you honestly say you’re doing either to the best of your ability?”

  Greene frowned. “You’re missing the point. Boss. I got a raw deal when they stuck me on this boat. I was supposed to be in a fighter squadron. Instead, I end up piloting an A-7, a Mud Mover.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Brody asked.

  “It’s got plenty to do with it,” Greene said. “The Air Force and Navy made a deal with me when I joined Indian Giver, and now they’re reneging.”

  “That’s not so,” Brody argued. “The Navy offered to share its aviation combat procedures with the Air Force through you, and it’s doing that.”

  “I came into Indian Giver to learn ACM, not air/ground attack procedures!” Greene protested.

  “Any hard-won combat acumen is worth sharing among the various branches of the services,�
� Brody said. “It’s all valuable knowledge.”

  “It’s not valuable knowledge to me.”

  Brody’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

  “Flying ground support and attack missions is not what I want to do,” Greene said. “It’s not why I agreed to come into Indian Giver. I came into the program thinking I’d come out on a career path to being an ACM instructor in the Air Force’s hot new fighter-training program, but now that isn’t likely to happen, is it?” Greene waited. “Is it. Boss?” he insisted.

  Brody shrugged. “I can’t answer that.”

  Greene wryly nodded. “Well, then, let me answer it. What’s happened is that I’ve been shunted off into some kind of dead end. I was a good fighter pilot, Boss, but I haven’t flown ACM for months, and you know as well as I do that a fighter jock needs constant practice or else his skills are going to rust.”

  “Yeah, I know that.”

  “Boss, I think you also know what’s likely to happen to me when my tour on board the Sea Bear finally ends.”

  “I guess I do.” Brody nodded wearily. “The Air Force flies A-7s just like the Navy does. What’ll likely happen is that the Air Force will stick you into one of their own A-7 squadrons,” Brody brightened. “Or maybe make you an A-7 instructor…?”

  Green firmly shook his head. “I’d sooner turn in my wings than be a permanent Mud Mover—”

  Brody slammed his palm on his desk. “That’s just the attitude on your part that pisses me off about you, Air Force!”

  “Huh?” Greene was startled.

  “You’re a quitter!” Brody accused. “Things don’t go all your own way, you fold and walk.”

  “That’s not true!” Greene protested.

  “Bullshit!” Brody scoffed. “The Air Force has invested well over a million bucks training you, but now, just because they might have different ideas than you on how you might best serve your country, you’re ready to take your ball and go home.”

  “Try to see it from my point of view.”

  “Why should I?” Brody scowled. “That’s all you do is see things from your point of view!” He paused. “You know, I’ve been watching you—”

  “Then you know how good I am!” Greene countered.

  “Yeah, you’re good.” Brody nodded. “But not as good as you think you are. You could be one of the best, if you could get your fucking ego out of the way.” He paused. “And while we’re at it, why’d you quit taking my karate class?”

  What the hell? Greene thought. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Answer the question, Captain Greene,” Brody ordered.

  Greene shrugged. “I guess I just didn’t feel comfortable taking it.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I was the outsider in your class.” Greene hesitated. “Just like I am elsewhere on this boat.”

  “Hmm.” Brody smiled thinly. “So you quit, right? The going got tough, so you got going, right?”

  “To hell with this, Boss.” Greene stood up, feeling angry and defensive. “I come here to ask to be allowed to fly a combat mission, and you keep changing the subject.”

  “Sit down!”

  “I don’t need this!”

  “I said sit down!” Brody barked. “That’s an order!”

  Greene sat. He waited as Brody pondered him.

  “Refresh my memory,” Brody began, quiet now. “How long did you study karate before coming aboard the Sea Bear?”

  “A year.”

  “What rank did you reach?”

  “Brown belt.”

  “That’s pretty rapid progress,” Brody acknowledged.

  Greene couldn’t resist a cocky smile. “What can I say?”

  Brody ignored the remark. “What style did you study?”

  “Okinawan,” Greene said, “Uechi-style.”

  Brody nodded. “No offense meant to your instructor, but some teachers hand out belts easier than others, and finally, anybody can wear any colored belt.” He paused. “In your case, were you really any good?”

  Greene opened his mouth to reply, then shut it, feeling embarrassed.

  Brody grinned. “I saw it right there on the tip of your tongue before you swallowed it down. You were going to say you were the best, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, Boss.” Greene nodded, adding defiantly, “You make it sound silly, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

  “Bad answer. Air Force,” Brody sighed. “You may have trained your body in the martial arts, but what about your spirit?”

  “With all due respect. Boss, I’m not really into that mystical stuff.”

  “Now, how did I know that?” Brody shook his head. “You do any work with karate weapons?”

  “Some.”

  “Okay.” Brody nodded. “I want you to meet me at the gym tonight. Wear workout clothes. You and I are going to do some sparring.”

  Greene shook his head. “Why should I?”

  “You want you to fly some combat in the unlikely event we get any, right?”

  “Yeah,” Greene said warily.

  “Okay. Then you do like I say and meet me at the gym at midnight for some sparring. If you can beat me, or just manage to remain on the mat with me, I’ll let you fly combat. Fair enough?”

  Greene asked, “And if I lose?”

  “You lose, you forget about flying combat, and you agree to apply yourself wholeheartedly to learning everything there is to know about flying the A-7. Finally, you agree to give yourself the chance to get into whatever assignment the Air Force gives you once your stint in Indian Giver is over. Agreed?”

  Greene thought about it. It was awfully tempting. Brody was a second dan black belt, and highly proficient in all the martial arts, but he was also over ten years older than Greene. And Greene had trained hard back at Wright-Patterson. He’d had a good teacher, despite what Brody had intimated.

  And Brody smoked, Greene reminded himself, watching as the air boss lit up another Marlboro. And speaking of lighting up, lately the air boss had been burning the candle at both ends. Poor old Brody was looking exhausted….

  I can take him, Greene decided. He says I’m cocky and conceited, but he’s the one… Hell, the least I should be able to do is hold my own, and that’s all it would take to win a combat slot.

  “You’ve got yourself a sparring partner, Boss.”

  CHAPTER 12

  (One)

  USS Sea Bear

  14 May, 1975

  Greene, wearing sneakers, a T-shirt, and sweat pants, arrived at the gym at precisely 2400 hours to find Brody waiting for him. The gym was a large space filled with athletic equipment on Deck l, one level below the main hangar deck where the aircraft were housed. The carrier’s steel structure transmitted noise easily, and the hangar deck was busy twenty-four hours a day, so in the midnight quiet Greene could hear coming from above the gym the whine and clang of the hangar’s hydraulic elevators, the shouts and laughter of the aircraft maintenance crews, and the rumble of the tractors that towed the airplanes.

  “Right on time,” Brody welcomed Greene. The air boss was reclining on a weight bench, about to do presses. Brody was barefoot, dressed in karate pants and a gray sweatshirt that had “AIR BOSS” stenciled across the front. The sweat-shirt’s sleeves had been cut off, revealing Brody’s ropey arms. “You ready to get your ass kicked into the wild blue yonder. Air Force?”

  “We’ll see who kicks whose ass,” Greene said, but he was not feeling all that cocky as he watched Brody easily knock off a set of twelve bench presses. He’s lifting about two hundred, Greene estimated. Suddenly, Brody did not look so old, and those coffin nails he puffed on hadn’t seemed to do much to cramp his style.

  “What will it be?” Brody asked, getting up from the weight bench and sauntering over to the corner of the gym devoted to martial-arts practice. The floor here was carpeted with thick canvas-covered mats. The walls were lined with racks of body armor and racks of various practice versions of karate weapons. “You
want to spar empty-handed, or use weapons?”

  “Let’s use jõ sticks,” Greene said, walking over to the rack of forty-inch-long, polished hardwood sticks, each of them an inch and a half in diameter. Greene had done a lot of studying of jõjutsu—the art of stick fighting—and guessed that he’d have a better chance against Brody, who was a second dan black belt in karate, with something in his hands.

  “Jõ sticks it is,” Brody said. “You put on some body armor.”

  Greene went over to the racks and began strapping on chest and rib protection. He saw Brody watching him. “You’re not wearing any?” Greene asked.

  Brody shook his head as he went over to select a jó stick from the rack.

  “Your funeral,” Greene muttered. He donned a padded red leather head guard and selected a jó stick. He kicked off his sneakers and then joined Brody on the mats.

  All right, Greene thought as he and Brody faced off. He may be a second dan black belt, but you’re a fighter pilot. You’ve got a chance here. This takes the same elements vital to combat flying: kime and mushin. Kime was the martial-arts term for the focusing of all mental and physical energies on the job at hand. Mushin alluded to that state of relaxed no-mindedness that allowed for instinctive action in response to a threat.

  “Okay. Air Force,” Brody said cheerfully. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  The two men began circling on the mats. As Brody drew back his stick, Greene pivoted to face him. Brody swung his stick up over his shoulder and then brought it down, slicing in like a Sabre jet toward Greene’s head. Greene countered with a horizontal block, gripping the jõ stick with both hands and pushing up against Brody’s stick with everything he had, stopping Brody’s swipe from knocking his head off his shoulders, but just barely. Brody threw his weight into breaking down Greene’s defensive block, and Greene’s knees began to buckle. Greene shifted into a karate cat’s-foot stance, putting all of his weight on his rear leg. He danced away from Brody, taking the opportunity to deliver a series of snap kicks to the air boss’s unprotected belly. They were solid kicks, and landed squarely on target, but Greene felt like his bare toes were striking thinly padded steel.