Top Gun

by T. E. Cruise

  Brody took Greene’s kicks with hardly a grimace, and then took Greene by surprise, landing a powerful sideways kick against Greene’s head guard. The force of Brody’s kick stunned and staggered Greene; he dropped his jõ stick. While Greene was seeing stars, Brody used his momentary advantage to maneuver around behind Greene’s and slap the side of his jõ stick against the backs of Greene’s knees.

  Greene cried out; Brody’s stick had felt like a branding iron. Greene’s knees buckled and he went down into a kneeling position. He hunched his shoulders, waiting for the blow that would finish him, but Brody backed off, giving up his offensive.

  “Is that all you’ve got. Air Force?” Brody asked, breathing lightly. “Have I seen it all?”

  Son of a bitch, Greene thought, humiliated. He grabbed his stick and furiously launched himself up from the mat, whipping his stick sideways to thwack Brody’s ankles, intending to pay Brody back for his throbbing knees.

  Brody hopped into the air so that Greene’s stick sliced empty space. Greene, cursing, rose up from his crouch to swing his stick like a sledgehammer at Brody’s head, but Brody calmly moved his head out of the way, letting Greene’s stick miss him by a fraction of an inch.

  Greene’s momentum put him slightly off balance. Brody jammed his stick between Greene’s legs, tripping him. As Greene stumbled forward, Brody stepped in close and delivered a closed-fist, corkscrew karate thrust to Greene’s solar plexus. Greene’s body armor cushioned the blow, but the force behind Brody’s punch still made Greene feel like he’d been hit by a battering ram. The punch pushed Greene back-ward. He again lost his stick as he windmilled his arms to regain balance. Brody prodded Greene gently in the chest with his stick and Greene fell flat on his ass, the wind knocked out of him.

  Brody stepped back, twirling his jõ stick between his fingers like it was a cane. “Well, Mr. Quitter, you want to quit now?”

  “No way,” Greene muttered, slowly getting to his feet. His battered knees were loudly complaining, his head throbbed, and his buttocks were cramping up. “I’m just getting started,” Greene warned.

  “You look like you want to cry,” Brody said mockingly. “Sure you don’t want to call it quits?”

  Greene tried not to wince as he bent to pick up his stick. “I don’t lose….”

  “We’ll see. Air Force.” Brody performed an elaborate jõjutsu kata exercise. His weapon seemed to break the sound barrier, snapping like a whip as it whirled through the air to come to rest in a present-arms position across Brody’s chest. “Well, son?” Brody’s thick eyebrows arched. “You going to attack? Or is it your strategy to win this match by waiting until I die of old age?”

  Banzai! Greene thought ruefully, moving in against Brody. Brody, grinning savagely, lunged forward, holding his stick as if it were a foil, intending to drive the tip of his jó into Greene’s chest. Greene countered with a gyaku-nigiri reverse hold on his jõ, placing his hands approximately shoulder-width apart along the length of the stick. He held it horizontally, his palms facing the ground. As Brody’s stick lanced toward him, Greene pivoted, so that Brody’s stick barely scraped along his chest. At the same time, Greene stepped into Brody’s attack and quickly thrust upward his own stick, the middle area of the jõ clipping Brody’s jaw.

  Brody’s stick clattered to the mat as his head snapped back and he did a backflip, falling hard against the mat. The air boss lay spread-eagled for a moment, obviously stunned. Greene stepped back, feeling supremely satisfied.

  Brody rose into a sitting position and experimentally moved his jaw. “Nice shot, Air Force,” he said, gingerly holding his chin. “Maybe I should have worn a head guard, after all.”

  “Want to quit, Boss?” Greene asked.

  Brody just laughed. He grabbed his stick and smoothly rose to his feet as if he were a marionette being pulled aloft by strings.

  Oh shit, Greene worried. If he’d hit me the way I just hit him, I’d be on a stretcher on my way to sick bay by now.

  “Let’s spar. Air Force….”

  Greene jabbed his jõ stick at Brody’s face. Brody easily deflected Greene’s thrust, and then, holding his stick by its end, began to twirl it in a blurringly fast figure-eight pattern. Greene, psyched out by the display, stepped back, letting his own stick sag. Brody stepped in, rapping his stick against the padding over Greene’s ribs. Greene fell sideways to the mat.

  “Stay down,” Brody said.

  “No way.” Greene got up, bringing his stick up over his right shoulder, intending to execute an overhead strike against Brody’s neck. Brody stepped sideways, holding his stick with both hands to execute his own vertical block.

  There was a loud report like that of a pistol shot as Greene’s stick connected with Brody’s. Greene’s stick was deflected; he felt the vibration travel along the stick’s length and thought it was going to shake the fillings out of his teeth.

  Brody, bending his knees but keeping his torso erect, as if he were staddling a very wide horse, lunged to thrust his stick into Greene’s lower belly. Greene felt pain at the impact despite his body armor, and doubled over, clutching at his abdomen. Brody brought his own stick up over his head in a powerful arc that finished with the business end whipping against the back of Greene’s head guard.

  It felt like a cherry bomb had exploded inside Greene’s skull. His vision purpled and sound seemed to recede as he slo-mo nosedived to the mat.

  “Stay down,” Brody said, sounding like he was somewhere very far away.

  Greene groggily pushed himself to his hands and knees.

  “Damnit,” Brody swore, standing over him. “Stay down.”

  Greene didn’t look for his fallen stick; it hurt too much to try and move his head. He gauged the distance and then rolled sideways into Brody. Brody stepped back, but Greene skittered around on his spine to use his legs, scissoring Brody’s knees and twisting Brody off his feet.

  Brody hit the mat hard, losing his stick, but easily kicked his legs free and rose up, to walk away from Greene without looking back at him. “The hell with you, Air Force. You’re beaten, you’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

  “No!” Greene launched himself off the mat as if he’d been strapped into a jet and catapulted off the Sea Bear’s flight deck. He came at Brody from behind, looping his arms around him. Then Brody thrust his elbow into Greene’s solar plexus.

  Greene grunted in pain as his arms went limp, suddenly encompassing nothing but thin air. He had a moment to ponder how it could be that Brody had the ability to inflict such punishment through the body armor Greene was wearing, and then Brody was on the attack, slamming his elbow into Greene’s ribs. Greene, wincing, staggered against Brody, who used his foot to sweep Greene’s legs out from under him the way a broom sweeps litter. Greene hit the mat on his hip and rolled onto his back, rasping for breath as he clutched at his chest and side.

  Brody knelt beside him. “Stay there,” he warned. “Stay down…”

  Greene began to push himself up on his elbows.

  With exquisite gracefulness, Brody rapped Greene’s head guard with the back of his fist. Greene’s head bounced against the mat, his skull rattling inside his head guard like a nut meat inside its shell.

  “Stay down!” Brody got to his feet, watching and waiting. “Stay down,” the Air Boss repeated, more quietly this time, almost as if in supplication.

  Stay down, Greene mused. What a lovely thought. There wasn’t a bone in his body that wasn’t wholeheartedly endorsing the notion.

  Greene, his head hanging like that of a poleaxed steer, slowly rolled onto his side. Then up onto his knees. Then up on one leg. Then up on the other leg. Look at me. Ma, I’m standing.

  Greene balled his hands into fists and tottered forward, dimly aware that he was moving like Frankenstein and that the fucking aircraft carrier could have gotten out of his way. He fully expected Brody to knock him flat yet another time, but Brody didn’t. The air boss just extended his right hand palm forward, straight-arming
Greene to a stop.

  Greene muttered, “Ah, so you’ve had enough, have you?” He was slumped forward against Brody’s arm. If Brody had moved his palm away from Greene’s chest, Greene would have fallen on his face.

  “What is it with you. Air Force?”

  Greene’s head was down. He couldn’t fight and lift his head at the same time, simple as that. He was staring at Brody’s hairy toes as he said, “Told you… I… don’t… lose.…”

  Brody didn’t reply for a moment. Then he said, “Okay. We’ll call it a draw.”

  “Huh?”

  “I can’t beat you. Air Force.” Brody chuckled. “I can kill you, but I can’t beat you.”

  “Let that be a lesson to you.” Greene nodded, sagging at the knees. Brody moved quickly to catch him and hold him up. “I told you I’m no quitter.”

  “I knew that all the time,” Brody murmured. “I just wanted you to realize it.”

  “I fly combat if we get any, right?” Greene demanded.

  “That’s the deal,” Brody nodded. “If that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what I want,” Greene murmured.

  “Even in a Mud Mover?” Brody asked wryly. “There’s no substantial air resistance expected,” he cautioned. “Intelligence reports the Cambodians have nothing but light training aircraft. And even if there were MiGs or whatever, Mud Movers don’t get any. MiGs are Phantom meat.”

  “I don’t care,” Greene said. “Any kind of action is better than nothing.”

  Brody nodded. “Good answer. Air Force.” He began walking Greene off the mats.

  “Where we going?” Greene asked. His feet were dragging. Brody was mostly carrying him.

  “We’re going to the showers,” Brody said. “You grab yourself a hot one and you’ll feel better. You’ll be a little black and blue, maybe, but none the worse for wear.”

  “Oh, yeah? How about you, Boss?” Greene asked gamely. “How’s your jaw?”

  Brody laughed. “I’ll feel it when I chew for the next couple of days, don’t worry about that, Air Force…. But tell me one thing. How’d you get to be so stubborn?”

  “Runs in the family,” Greene said.

  “Uh-huh…”

  “Boss? Why’d you take it so poorly when I put down flying a Mud-Mover?”

  “I flew an A-7 in Vietnam,” Brody replied. “That’s why I know she can be a damn fine bird if you’re willing to give her half a chance. Why, I could tell you some stories…”

  “Later, Boss.” Greene pleaded. “Right now it hurts too much to listen.”

  (Two)

  USS Sea Bear, the flight deck

  16 May 1975

  Greene spooled up his A-7’s turbofan power plant, rolling forward in order to be hooked up to one of the Sea Bear’s bow catapults. The cats were steam-powered. They looked like three-hundred-foot-long slots in the deck. Greene’s Mud Mover was painted blue on top, with a white underbelly. Her vertical tail carried the red hourglass logo of the Sea Bear’s Black Widow squadron. She was one of a half-dozen A-7s, four A-6 Intruders, and four Phantoms being sent by the carrier to put a serious hurt on Cambodia for not releasing the Mayaguez.

  It was Thursday, and a lot had happened concerning the captured American merchant ship since Greene and Brody had rattled their sticks in the gym. In the early hours of Wednesday morning, while Greene was busy anointing himself with Ben-Gay and listening to the radio, he’d heard that the Air Force’s warplanes had opened up on the Cambodian patrol boats, sinking several of them. Greene realized that his earlier hunch had proved right. There was more at stake here than the fate of the Mayaguez and its crew. President Ford intended to use the situation to clear the air after the disheartening turn of events in Saigon. The United States was going to show the world that it was not a paper tiger, that the country had the will and ability to respond to provocation.

  As Greene’s roaring A-7 rolled into position on the catapult, the jet exhaust-blast deflector rose up out of the flight deck behind his bird. By the nose of the A-7 there knelt a hookup man wearing a green jacket. Like everyone else on deck exposed to the horrific racket of the gathered jets spooling their engines, the hookup man’s ears were protected by a thickly padded radio headset. The hookup man engaged the A-7’s nosewheel strut to the cat shuttle and then signaled the cat crew to tighten the pressure according to the weight of Greene’s bird.

  Wednesday afternoon, the level of preparation had risen on board the Sea Bear once the Skipper had announced that the carrier was within air-strike range of the Cambodian coast. Greene took part in briefings outlining the timing and details of the rescue mission. The Mayaguez was being held off the coast of Tang Island, which was itself approximately sixty miles off the Cambodian mainland. The rescue mission entailed airlifted marine assaults on Tang Island and on the Mayaguez, backed up by U.S. Navy destroyer escorts. The assaults would be further supported by air strikes against Tang Island and by diversionary air strikes against the Cambodian mainland, all of which would be flown from the Sea Bear and by Air Force warplanes from out of Utapao AFB in Thailand. Some of the USAF planes and some of the Sea Bear’s contingent would attack the Kompong Som oil depot, where there was believed to be a large concentration of enemy troops. A trio of the Sea Bear’s A-7s—Greene’s included— would attack the Cambodians’ Tien Air Base, where a number of light aircraft were supposedly located. It would be the Mud Movers’ job, backed up by a duce of Phantoms, to keep the Cambodian Air Force such as it was from taking to the sky to attack the marines.

  Late Wednesday night, the Sea Bear had received its orders to initiate its phase of the rescue operation. Now it was a beautiful Thursday afternoon. The Sea Bear’s planes had been launching for the past hour. Greene’s would be the last to take to the sky.

  Greene looked out through the A-7’s canopy to where the flight-deck director in his yellow jacket was standing with his clenched fists upraised. Now the deck director opened his fists: This was Greene’s signal to release his brakes and bring his throttle up to full military power. Greene also scrutinized his instruments and panel trouble-light indicators and worked his flight controls, so that the white jackets in their checkered helmets could look over his airplane for malfunctions. Meanwhile, the red-jacket-wearing weapons handlers gave his ordnance a final check.

  Greene’s A-7 was loaded for bear. Her ordnance was all the more impressive due to the A-7’s small size: With a wingspan of under thirty-nine feet, the A-7 was hardly larger than the four-seat Cessna GAT company airplane in which Grandpa Herman had used to take Greene for rides when he’d been just a kid.

  The A-7’s 20MM M6I cannon was crammed with one thousand rounds for strafing. Her wing pylons dangled triple clusters of Snakeye bombs, twelve in all, to crater runways and flatten hangars. Her outer-wing pylons carried a brace of rocket pods: six 100MM rockets packed into each launcher. The only weapon system the A-7 was lacking as far as Greene was concerned were Sidewinder air-to-air heat-seekers. The A-7 was equipped with fuselage side rails to carry a pair, but none of the A-7s had been issued any. The Mud Movers’ orders were to take care of the enemy aircraft on the ground. If any gomers got airborne, the A-7s were to let the Phantoms take care of them.

  Greene saluted the cat officer, signaling that he was ready to be launched. He had his engine spooled up to full military power and the bird trimmed for flight with his control stick full back. Greene saw the cat officer give him the final okay signal. Greene braced himself, pressing his helmet against his headrest. It would be only a few more seconds before the signal to fire the cat was relayed to the cat controller below the flight deck. Even now the catapult was reaching full pressure. Greene glimpsed the tendrils of steam rising up around his trembling bird—

  And then he was launched! The heavily loaded, twenty-one-ton A-7 was hurled off the bow of the carrier as if it were a child’s toy airplane. Green’s stomach braided itself around his spine as he was catapulted to 170 miles per hour in less than two seconds. Greene, gri
macing from the stress of the launch, eased forward the stick, bringing down the A-7’s stubby nose to aid his shrieking bird in her quest for the sky.

  Airborne, Greene banked as the carrier rapidly receded in the distance. The A-7 was subsonic, but in her low- or moderate-altitude combat element she could do 560 knots and turn on a dime; specifically, her turning radius was 5,500 feet, which was an attack or fighter jet’s equivalent of a ten-cent piece. As Greene came around over the flattop, he saw the sun glint on the glass windows of the air boss’s station just below the carrier’s bridge. Greene felt the force of Gil Brody’s warrior spirit going along with him for the ride.

  Greene rose to 10,000 feet and took his place off the starboard wing of the flight leader. The three-abreast formation of A-7s then began beelining it for Tien Air Base. Up above, a duo of the ship’s F-4 Phantoms flew protective escort.

  “Wolf lead to Wolf flight,” Lieutenant Ernesto “Taco” Rodriguez radioed, cutting through the random ship-to-air communications that cluttered up the frequency. “Wolf flight check,” Rodriguez demanded, wanting to make sure that everybody’s radio was working properly and that it was tuned to the proper flight frequency.

  “Wolf two—” An ensign by the name of Sweeny sounded off, his A-7 flying off Rodriguez’s port side.

  Greene clicked his own mike, saying, “Wolf three.”

  “Roger, Wolf flight,” Rodriguez said. “Papa lead, you with us?”

  “Roger, Wolf lead,” the lead Phantom driver, a lieutenant named Saunders radioed. “Over target we’ll stay high to make sure you’re not bounced. After you’ve dropped your ordnance, we’ll come down to lay our own eggs.”