Flight of the Intruder jg-1

by Stephen Coonts

  The skipper grinned at the crowd. “We have a medal for you, Mister Parker, for exhibiting perversity in the face of adversity.” From an envelope he took a long ribbon and placed it around Cowboy’s neck. Dangling from the ribbon was a stateroom key. “Wear this if you wear nothing else, my boy.” With a wave of his arm he sent Parker toward his seat.

  When things gradually quieted down, the men in the rear of the room became aware of pounding on the door. They opened it and Big Augie walked in bearing reels of film. “What the hell’s going on in here? I could hear the uproar a hundred feet down the passageway.”

  Everyone tried to answer. Camparelli yelled over the hubbub, “What’s the show tonight, Big?”

  The noise died down. “Uh, Skipper, it’s called Two Lane Blacktop.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Frank Camparelli, who never missed a chance to rag the movie officer.

  Cowboy spoke up. “I’ve seen it, Skipper. It’s not too bad.”

  The commander regarded Cowboy with narrowed eyes. “Any skin?”

  “Some.”

  “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate it?”

  Cowboy gazed at the ceiling and scratched his chin. Finally, he looked at the skipper. “About a twelve. “Asssss!” someone hissed enthusiastically. “Roll it, Movie Officer,” the Old Man directed as he plopped into his chair.

  After the movie, Jake went to the squadron personel office, a ten-by-twelve-foot cubbyhole against the outside skin of the ship.

  He signed out the service records of the two enlisted men in his division who needed evaluations done. He set off for the airframe shop located one deck above the hangar deck, on the opposite side of the ship.

  Chief Eugene Styert was there, as he was eve waking moment except when he was eating, which he did four times a day. “Evening, Mister Grafton.”

  “Hey, Chief.” Jake accepted the indicated chair. Chief Styert had a padded chair with arms, and, except for the desk, there was no other furniture in the compartment. Jake looked the place over. Tools hung everywhere and spare parts jammed a set of shelves opposite the desk. The floor was filthy with grease an hydraulic fluid tracked in from the hangar deck. “How’s everything going?”

  Chief Styert placed his hands on his ample belly an leaned back in the chair. He had worked with and taught junior officers most of his twenty-five years in the navy and knew the routine. He supervised a crew responsible for solving fuselage and structural problems on all of the squadron aircraft, ensured all work was accomplished in accordance with technical directives, an kept his little band firmly on the job.

  Chief Styert was the navy as far as his men were concerned. He was the man to whom they introduced their parents on those rare occasions back in the States when the folks from home visited the ship.

  Like every chief, he reported to a junior officer, a young college grad who might or might not make the navy a career. Chief Styert believed that the young officer was there to learn and not to make his job more difficult. He knew the officer’s visits in the shop were good for the men’s morale, but the less he saw of the young gentleman, the better. Except when he needed an officer to go to bat for the men, of course, and Grafton never hesitated to do that.

  “Everything’s fine,” the chief replied. “Going to clean this place up in the morning, before the men put on their whites for that memorial service.”

  The chief added quickly, “Real sorry about Mister McPherson. Pretty tough, going like that.”

  Jake nodded. He took out his cigarettes, offering one to the chief. After they lit up, Jake gestured to the forms in his lap. “Eval time on the nonrated.

  Jones and Hardesty. Have you done a rough of their evals?”

  The chief rummaged through a drawer and passed two sheets of notebook paper to Grafton, who scanned them. English composition was not one of the chiefs most shining accomplishments. When Jake had finished reading, they discussed the marks each man should get. Both understood the officer would polish the evaluations and put in the numerical grade for the five specified categories, but the numbers on the paper would reflect the chiefs recommendations. If the men ever thought that Chief Styert did not have a firm grip over their destinies, his ability to rule his little fiefdom would be impaired.

  When they had finished with the evals and the officer had tucked the notes into the service records, the chief showed him a request chit. Hardesty wanted four days leave in the Philippines. On the chit was the scrawl: to visit my wife.”

  Jake eyed the chief. “I thought he was single?”

  Styert shrugged. “Guess he isn’t anymore.”

  “When did you learn about this?”

  “About thirty minutes ago when Hardesty gave me that thing.”

  “Well, do you want me to approve this?”

  The chief squirmed. “Shit, if he’s really married we could catch hell if we don’t. Get a letter from his mother or some congressman.” From his tone Jake gathered that the chief thought mothers and congressmen were liabilities for sailors, much like an appendix that might go bad at an inopportune time.

  “Do you need him for work this time in port?” Styert shook his head.

  “I’ll call the berthing compartment and have him come down here.” He dial the number.

  While they waited, Jake asked, “You think that marriage is for real, Chief’? Do you think Hardesty has thought this through?”

  “I doubt it. Thinking has always been one of Hardesty’s weak areas. He’s got a picture of her.

  She’s a looker. He probably met her in some bar or whore house.

  Probably the first piece of ass he’s ever had.” When Hardesty came in he stood in front of the desk but certainly not at attention. Jake fought the temptation to stand. He looked the man over before he spoke. The chit was on the edge of the desk beside him Hardesty was nineteen years old, had been in the navy ten months, had an eleventh-grade education and a bad case of acne, and shaved probably once a week.

  “What is this about you being married? I thought you were single.”

  “I didn’t tell nobody about it until I put in this chit. See, I want to take her and go see some of her relatives in Manila.”

  “When did you get married?”

  “Last time in port. About two months ago.”

  Hardesty looked at his shoes. Jake was reminded of those times when as a boy he had been called on to explain his conduct to his father.

  “Did you know there iSARequirement to get permission from the navy before you marry a foreign national?”

  “No sir.” Hardesty didn’t look up.

  “How old is your wife?”

  “She’s sixteen.” Eyes still on the deck.

  Jake sighed. “Did you report this to Personnel?”

  “No.”

  “Y not?”

  “Well, I ain’t got a copy of the marriage license yet. You can’t get anything quick in the Philippines.”

  Except the clap, Jake thought. “And I knew that Personnel would make me come back when I got it, so I ain’t bothered to go see them yet.”

  “Why didn’t your wife send you a copy?”

  “She knew I’d be coming back in a few months, and I could just get it then.”

  “What if you had been killed while we were at sea? Your wife wouldn’t have gotten a penny of your GI insurance.

  There’s no official document in American hands that proves you’re married to anybody. I assume you also haven’t told Disbursing?”

  “No, I haven’t told anyone.”

  Chief Styert interrupted. “No, Sir, when you talk to an officer, Hardesty.”

  The boy raised his eyes. “Sure, Chief.”

  Jake continued. “Federal law requires that personnel E-4 and below send an allotment to any dependents they have. Did you know that?”

  “Yessir. I’m going to get all that straightened out as soon as I can.”

  “Have you told your folks about your marriage?”

  “Yessir.”


  “What did they say?”

  “Well, Pop has been dead for a while now and Mom ain’t written back yet.”

  He regarded his shoelaces again.

  “Do you love her?” As soon as the words were out Grafton regretted them.

  “Oh yes, sir.” Hardesty’s eyes glowed. “Here’s her picture.” He pulled a wallet-sized photo from his shirt pocket. She had the long black hair typical of Fillipino women, the usual small nose, and the slightly Oriental eyes. She looked regal.

  The officer passed the photo back to Hardesty an glanced at the chief, who had his eyes resolutely fixed on the far wall. Love? Jake could almost hear the story being told in the chiefs’ mess: “And then he asked, ‘D you love her?”‘ Slightly embarrassed, the pilot returned to the issue at hand.

  “I’ll sign this chit, Hardesty, but let me tell it to you straight. By marrying without permission you violated a general regulation. The Skipper may decide to take disciplinary action against you.”

  “Sir, I didn’t know nothing about any regulation. The sailor set his jaw focused on Jake’s nametag “You’re responsible for knowing the regulations, though, and if you disobey them you’re subject to discipline. But that’s neither here nor there. I expect to see a certified copy of the marriage license when we pull out of port or you’re going to be in hot water failing to support your lawful dependents. You realize that you are legally and morally obligated to support this woman now that you’ve married her?”

  “Yessir. I understand that. I’ll get a copy of the license.” The lieutenant signed the chit and told Hardesty to take it down to Personnel.

  Hardesty thanked him and left.

  Grafton stood up to leave. “If he thinks he can marry one of these women and get laid every night in port,” he told the chief, “then wave a permanent good-by when we go back to the States, he has another think coming.”

  The chief shrugged. “He’s just a kid,” he said.

  “What a mess.” The officer went up to the ready room to tell the skipper.

  “What do you want to do, Jake?” Camparelli asked “Captain’s Mast?” Routine discipline problems were handled by the commanding officer in periodic formal hearings, which had been known as “Captain’s Mast” since the days when the captain dispensed justice before the main mast on a sailing ship.

  “No, sir. I’d just as soon forget the discipline end of it, give him his leave, and ensure he does right by her.”

  “Okay. Hope it all works out. By the way, pull up a chair, Jake.” The pilot complied. “I hope you understand about the shenanigans in the ready room this evening?”

  “Yessir.”

  “It was no disrespect for Morgan. But we have to keep morale up or this outfit can’t fight.” The skipper eyed him. “You do understand?”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I doubt if most civilians would. But this was Morgan’s profession. We have to keep going regardless of who gets bagged. In fact, losing people makes it all the more essential that we let off some steam.” He shifted his weight in the chair. “You see, the aircrews are the weapons, not the planes.”

  Jake nodded.

  “Okay. Just wanted to be sure you understood.”

  Back in his stateroom Jake worked on the evaluations. When he had them finished it was almost 0100. He went up to the forward wardroom on the 0-3 level, right under the flight deck, for a hamburger. Abe Steiger was sitting by himself. “Hey, Jake. Drop anchor.” The air intelligence officer had a book opened beside his plate.

  “Hi, Spy. How’s it going?” The Pilot slid into a chair.

  As he bit into his burger he looked at the book.

  “Jake, we got a bomb-damage assessment on that hop you flew yesterday down south with the Skipper.”

  Abe grinned.

  “Yeah?” Jake lifted the book and read the title.

  Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. He had read it in college.

  “Yep- Let me tell you, you did one hell of a job on those gomers, baby. You got confirmed forty-seven killed in action.”

  Jake put down the book. “Forty-seven?” he whispered.

  “Yep. Forty-seven KIA.” Abe grinned again.

  “You really plastered them. That’s our best single-mission damage assessment this cruise. Probably a Navy Commendation Medal in there for you, Jake. Maybe even an Air Medal.”

  “Why, you greasy little asshole!” Steiger wore a broad grin. Jake felt his stomach churn. “You shit, What the hell did you tell me something like that for?

  “You think I need to know that?” He was shouting. “Do you know their names? Tell me that! I’ll bet you have the names!”

  “Well, I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “Why the fuck would I want to know? Now I’m the poor shit who has to live with it.”

  “I didn’t mean-“

  “And a fucking medal! You think I give a shit about a fucking medal? What the hell kind of guy do you think I am? Do you think I’m some idiot glory hound?”

  He was spraying saliva. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “A fucking medal to wear on my uniform so every time I put it on I’ll remember I killed forty-seven men! Yeah, I need that, you stupid bastard. I need a medal like that. Now why don’t you get the hell out of here and run down and write the report up. Go tell Lundeen. He writes up shit like that for Wilson.

  Go to him!” He lunged across the table trying to get his hands on Steiger, who jumped up and back so quickly his chair fell over.

  “Get outta here, Steiger! Go tell him!”

  The intelligence officer strode out quickly. Jake glared at the audience he had attracted. They turned their faces, and Jake sat down, breathing hard, and stared at his coffee cup. What does Steiger know about flying? What does Steiger know about killing? Jesus Christ!

  EIGHT

  In their white uniforms, the men in ranks were in a crescent in the morning sunlight. A modest breeze ruffled the flags and pennants flying from the mast on the ship’s island. Jake Grafton sat behind the podium in the chairs reserved for the officers of the A-6 squadron. He kept his gaze on the ever-changing points of light on the swells of the South China Sea.

  How did they know there were forty-seven men? Why not forty-six, or forty-eight? What did they count to get forty-seven? Noses, tongues, penises? What could be left after four tons of high explosive shrapnel had ripped and pulverized human bodies and had welded together flesh and earth?

  When he had been in flight training, Jake had been assigned to an accident-investigation team. Walking in rows through a pasture in Mississippi, they had searched for the pieces of a training plane that had slammed into the ground at more than 400 knots.

  The engines had dug long furrows, but the rest of the machine had disintegrated and scattered parts over a third of a mile. He had found a little patch of skin, a piece about the size of a quarter, which he had carefully placed in a transparent bag. It had been just a little piece of a man, from somewhere on his body-no telling where-lying there in the grass. A crash would be a good way to die. The two guys in that training plane were gone in less time than it takes for a single sensation to register on the brain. Maybe dying under the bombs had been fast like that. Morgan hadn’t been that lucky.

  When they came off target, he had made that turn for the coast. Morgan had reset the armament panel and was working on the computer. If only…

  “Time to go, Jake.” Sammy was standing beside him.

  Everyone was leaving.

  Morgan hadn’t been lucky at all.

  That evening Harvey Wilson called Jake to his stateroom and handed the pilot the evaluations on Jones and Hardesty. “These aren’t good enough, Grafton. You must’ve spent four years trying to pass freshman English. I want them redone before you fly off the ship in the morning.”

  “Yessir.”

  “You just don’t know how to do paperwork, Grafton. You should talk to your roommate Lundeen. The awards stuff he writes is ou
tstanding. Have him give you some tips.” Wilson leaned back in his chair. He had a stateroom to himself but a smaller one than the skipper’s. Jake stood by the desk.

  Wilson tapped his pencil on the desk. “I was down in C A T C C the other night when you ’saved’ that F-4.” He let the statement hang in the air. After a moment he stopped playing with the pencil and scrutinized the lieutenant.

  “That little trick of giving Lundeen gas might have backfired on you.”

  “Yessir.”

  “These people think you’re some kind of hero, Grafton, but I know different. You bend the rules, and one of these days it’s going to blow up in your face. You’re a fucking hot dog.”

  Jake just looked at the man. The Rabbit had a way of jutting out his jaw when he was on the offensive.

  He was living proof of the imperfections in the navy promotion system. Next would come the threat.

  “You’d better shape up.” Surely he could do better than that. “Another stunt like that and you’ll be flying one of these things”-he waved the pencil full time. Now go work on those evals.”

  “Yessir.” Out in the passageway, Jake added, sir, yessir, three bags full.

  Grafton regarded the doctor with an irrepressible grin. The medical man looked slightly ridiculous with his girth encased in forty pounds of flight gear.

  He looked, Jake thought, like a giant pear or even-a Jake smiled more broadly-an egg with legs. “Ok Jack, you’ve flown in these pigs before?” Mad Jack nodded reflectively. A sheen of perspiration was visible on his forehead, and the pilot decided his passenger looked paler than usual.

  “Have you ever had a cat shot? No? Well, you’re in for the thrill of the month. This will be about the most exciting thing you’ve ever done with your clothes on. Just keep your hands in your lap, don’t touch a single switch, knob, or anything at all, and do like I tell you.” Mad Jack bobbed his head. “The only time you’ll have to do anything is if I tell you to eject. The command will be ‘Eject, Eject, Eject.” Three times.”

  “And if I say ‘Huh?” I’ll be talking to myself.”