stronger allies. I worry that it makes them stronger enemies.
At any rate, while I was deciding whether to finally retire or to accept another assignment, Uncle Thomas held out the ultimate carrot ? a chance to fly off a carrier through one more cruise. He knew I couldn't refuse the offer. He was right.
I ended up attached to Jefferson as sort of an admiral without portfolio, ostensibly a military liaison officer en route to work with the Vietnamese government in transitioning to an all-volunteer military service. I would end up doing just that, I knew, but along the way I would have the opportunity to develop the contacts and resources that might help me to track down the rumors that were now starting to float about my father.
By March, the argument was OBE ? overtaken by events. Tomboy went on cruise, now the Commanding Officer of VF-95 on board Jefferson, and I went to Vietnam to look for him. My father, I mean. Dad ? the one and only that I'd been hearing about for so many years. Odd, this strong connection I felt to a man I barely even remembered.
Below me the Gulf of Tonkin, just as my father must have seen it so many years ago when he was flying off the USS Saratoga. Dark blue shading to almost white along the coast, and shortly past the unsightly jungle of the city, the real jungle. Green, overwhelmingly so, from the air seeming to impinge on the city as though to reclaim the land man had settled. Aside from the fresh color to it, there were few signs of the war that had raged there for so many years. Land defoliated by Agent Orange, craters gashed in the fertile soil by thousand-pound bombs, all that absorbed back into the ecosystem of this thriving jungle. There was little that man could do to make a permanent mark on this land, not when all the forces of nature were arrayed against him.
'Want to run through the missed-approach procedures again?' a tinny voice in my ear said.
'Do you know something I don't?'
'Not at all, Admiral.' My RIO was pointedly respectful. Far be it for a mere junior lieutenant commander to remind the famous Admiral Magruder of standard in-flight procedures.
Not unless he needed it. I took quiet pride in the fact that she'd mentioned it, performed one of the vital functions of any RIO on board a Tomcat ? keeping the guy up front honest.
'Roger,' I said, letting her know by the tone of my voice that she'd done the right thing. I began reading from the checklist, avoiding the temptation to try to do it from memory. I could, after this many years flying this airframe, but no doubt my ever-vigilant GIB ? guy in back, except that he was a she this time ? would call me on it.
Her responses were quick, professional as she read down her own list. Finally satisfied that we were prepared for final, I heard her snap her checklist shut and the small rasping sounds as she inserted it in the side pocket.
'You volunteer for this mission?' I asked, more out of curiosity than any real need to know. Put her on the spot a bit, maybe, as she'd done me by reminding me of the missed-approach checklist. It was an opportunity many junior officers would welcome, the chance to fly with a senior admiral. A little face time, a good first impression, and some sharp airmanship skills might stick in a powerful admiral's mind, sufficiently so to bless the RIO's career in carrier aviation.
'No, Admiral,' she replied, her voice cool and incurious. 'Skipper asked me to take it. We're in workups right now, and aren't even scheduled to go out for carrier quals for another two months.'
Now that set me back a bit. If she hadn't asked for it, then there was some reason her captain wanted her in this backseat? I thought I knew the answer. 'My wife have anything to do with that?'
A small hesitation, then a slightly warmer tone of voice. 'I wouldn't know anything about that, Admiral. They schedule them, I fly them.'
I nodded, now trying not to laugh. As big as the Navy was, the Tomcat community was a small, elite part of it. The best part, as far as I was concerned. And my wife, as CO of VF-95, now stationed on board USS Jefferson, undoubtedly knew well the skippers of every other squadron around, including the CO of VF-125, my backseater's home turf. A little quiet, off-the-record conversation ? maybe a small discussion over the characteristics she desired in the RIO that flew with her husband ? and bingo. One female lieutenant commander slated for my backseat.
I suspected Lieutenant Commander Kames was probably a damned fine RIO. Smart, almost telepathic with her pilots, and so competent that she didn't need the long-standing partnership that arose in regular pilot-RIO pairs in order to be impressive.
That, and she was probably married. I doubt that was a conscious factor that played into Tomboy's decision, but I'd bet my right nut on it.
And Tomboy also knew for a certainty that I wouldn't ask my RIO about her marital status. No, that would have been entirely inappropriate. If it had been a guy, I probably would have, but in the paranoid atmosphere of political correctness that now permeated every portion of the combat Navy, such a question would be entirely out of line for a female RIO.
I checked in with the area air-control facility on the listed frequency, and two minutes later got a hand-off to ground control. The MiGs on my wings were now glued into position as though connected to my airframe by metal straps. Good formation flying ? like Tomboy, the Vietnamese would have sent only the best. I forgave them their earlier crowding.
I had the runway now, the cold, white strip of concrete stretching through the outskirts of the city. If there'd been any real benefit to the war, it was this ? we'd left them with some damn fine airfields.
Over-confidence is a factor that will kill a Tomcat pilot faster than any mechanical malfunction. Being sure you can catch the three-wire if you just tweak it a bit more, wanting to look good in front of your tower flower and just plain ego. And though a landing aboard the carrier at night in bad weather was far and above the most challenging feat of airmanship one could attempt, making the same approach on a fixed, unmoving airfield posed a different kind of threat ? just as deadly, but far more subtle. Out on the carrier, you knew what the possibilities were, had seen too many of your mates crash and burn, juggernauting down the floating airfield in a ball of flame. Or seen them hit the ramp, coming in too low and ignoring the frantic pleas of the LSO ? Landing Signals Officer ? to pull up, up, up.
Ashore, over-confidence was the real danger. Just because it didn't move didn't mean it wasn't dangerous.
I trimmed the aircraft carefully, quite aware of the fact that I didn't do this every day for a living anymore. I'd just come out of the RAG ? the Replacement Air Group ? after a quick one-month refresher course, requalified on carriers, but that didn't mean I had the reflexes I did when I was twenty-two and just starting to fly this magnificent bird. Experience may win out over reflexes most of the time, but it's better if you have both.
We touched down gently, right where the three-wires would be at the field if it were configured for carrier landing practices. I let her run out a little, slowly applying the speed breaks until our forward speed had decreased to a gentle taxi roll. The landing signals fellow was already out there, fanning the air with slow movements like a bird trying to take off, attracting my attention. I waved, turned the aircraft toward him, and decreased my speed even more.
We followed him in to the VIP ramp, and I slid the Tomcat onto her spot. Kames and I went through our shutdown checklist, and the last noises of the engines faded away as they spooled down.
I popped the canopy, and eased myself over the side of the bird, climbing down the handholds. Kames followed a few seconds behind me. It was a seniority thing ? last in, first out.
A small delegation awaited me on the ground. I returned the salutes politely, and held out my hand to shake hands with the guy who looked like the most senior.
'Welcome to Vietnam, Admiral Magruder.' The English was clear and fluent, only a slight trace of accent tingeing the vowels. I felt my hand tighten around his.
'I appreciate your cooperation,' I said. It had taken me a long time to decide on those words, to figure out how to phrase my gratitude for what the Vietnamese were evidently willing to do.
That is, what they said they were willing to do.
'I am Bien Than, chairman of the Military Affairs Committee. I will be your primary contact during your time in our country for these matters.' He glanced from side to side at the rest of the delegation and the reporters, and his face took on a slightly guarded expression. 'We should talk. Perhaps I can assist you in refining your plans.'
Now, this was curious. What was it that Than evidently wanted to say to me that he didn't want to advertise to the members of the media crowding around us?
'It would be my pleasure.' I started to elaborate on that, but then followed his lead and fell silent.
