clapped, then the screen went blank.
“That Steiger has the filthiest mind on this whole ship,” Razor announced to no one in particular. It was common knowledge that Steiger rarely received entries to his contest but made up most of them himself.
“No, he doesn’t,” Jake replied. “He’s just trying to stay sane.” He knew time hung heavy for Steiger a day he didn’t receive a letter from his wife, which was most days. That was one college romance the war was going to break up sooner or later.
“He’s not having much luck at it,” Razor said. “BY the way, you look terrible. Are you feeling okay?” he asked as he stroked his lip hair and regarded Grafton obliquely, perhaps checking, Jake thought, for telltale traces of impending nervous collapse “Fit as a goddamn fiddle,” the pilot replied disgustedly and left his seat to check his mailbox, a small shelf with his name on it among the many similar shelves in a converted bookcase under the television. There was a letter from his parents and one from Linda, his girl.
He tried to remember when she had last written; in the past three months her literary output had dropped dramatically. He tucked her letter into the cigarette pocket on the left sleeve of his flight suit, having decided to save the letter and read it in the air. On a tanker flight, staying awake was sometimes the challenge of the evening.
One of the chiefs from Maintenance Control brought in the maintenance logs on the assigned planes and left them on the desk in the rear of the ready room. Jake picked out his book. He read each discrepancy, or “gripe,” that had been written for the last ten flights. Serious problems that affected the safety of the plane were “down gripes” and had to be repaired before the machine could be flown again. Less serious problems, or “up gripes,” would be repaired as the opportunity presented itself. A plane with many more problems could be a real headache. Since the squadron had only six tankers and each of the serviceable ones flew at least three times a day, there was always a thick stack of up gripes. He looked them over carefully, signed for the plane, and placed the metal-bound volume back in the stack. After replenishing his coffee cup, Jake settled into a chair in a quiet corner and read his parents letter.
In the front of the room the two strike crews carefully went over their planned missions and emergency procedures.
One by one the airmen drifted out, stopping at the head, then going on to the locker room where each man stored his flight gear: G-suit, torso harness, survival vest with attached inflatable life preserver, and flying bag for helmet, oxygen mask, kneeboard, and South east Asia aeronautical pubs. Many pilots and BNs wore pistol holsters also.
When Jake reached the locker room most of the other crewmen were there.
He opened his locker an took out the G-suit. It was covered with dried blood, so was the survival vest. He had forgotten about the blood.
He stared. The stains were dark brown, rusty, not at all like the rich, red, coppery-smelling fluid that flowed from Morgan McPherson’s neck. He dropped the gear and walked to the head where he vomited the roll and beef he had just eaten.
When his stomach was under control, he returned to the locker room. Sammy Lundeen was scraping the G- suit with his survival knife. “You can turn this stuff in after this hop and get some new gear from the parachute rigger,” he said.
Razor saw Jake’s ashen face. “Are you ready to fly?” he asked, his tone indicating his doubts.
“Yeah,” said the pilot, taking the G-suit from Lundeen and zipping it around his legs.
“You may think you are, but it’ll be my ass in that plane, too, you know.”
“Listen, shithead,” Lundeen snarled. “If you don have the guts to fly tonight, why don’t you just say so?
At this, Cowboy came around the end of the aisle and watched Jake pull on his torso harness, a body suit without arms or legs to which the parachute fittings an lap fittings attached. He caught Jake’s eye.
“Are you ready to fly?” Jake nodded. “Then you fly,” Cowboy pronounced with an edge of finality and turned away.
“Just like that?” Razor Durfee asked Cowboy’s back as he jerked at one end of his mustache. “Just like that you want me to risk my life with Cool Hand?” He switched to the other tip of his lip muff. “Maybe he ought to go see Mad Jack.”
Cowboy paused and regarded the bombardier coldly. “He flies and so do you, Durfee. Now shut up and get dressed.”
“You aren’t the skipper. This is my ass we’re talking about! What gives you the right to tell me I have to fly with him?” Cowboy ignored him and walked back to his locker.
Big Augie chuckled. “Because you’re a junior grade lieutenant and he’s a lieutenant commander, Razor. And he’s the Ops officer. Or didn’t they cover these fine points of military etiquette at Canoe U?”
“If you’re referring to the Naval Academy, you ROTC puke-” Razor was pointing with his finger.
“Look, guys,” Little interjected, “Razor’s showing us how many flowers to send to his folks if he buys the farm tonight.”
Big chimed in. “If your dick were as sharp as your tongue, Razor, you’d have to get a serial number tattooed on it and keep it in your safe.”
Cowboy’s Texas drawl silenced them. “Cut the crap, gentlemen, and get yourselves up to the flight deck. Now!”
Razor slammed his locker and spun the combination lock. He paused at the door. “If I have to go for a swim tonight, Parker, I’m gonna personally jam one of these size-twelve boots up your ass clear to my knee. And I don’t give a flying fuck if you make admiral in the meantime.” He gave the Augies the finger, then slammed the door behind him.
“That would cure your hemorrhoids, Cowboy,” Big Augie snickered.
“Then Cowboy will be a perfect asshole,” Little told his BN.
“Ah, the camaraderie of fighting men. Warms the spirit.
The Augies closed their lockers and followed Razor toward the flight deck, still exchanging quips. On his way out Parker winked at Jake and gave him a thumbs up. Jake weaved his pistol belt through the holes in his torso harness to prevent it from coming off in a ejection, then he donned his survival vest.
This bulky garment contained fifteen pounds of survival gear an an inflatable life vest. He carefully checked the lanyards on the CO2 cartridges.
Lundeen took his time dressing, and when he an Jake were the only ones still in the room he pause beside the pilot, his helmet bag in his hand. “You be careful out there tonight, okay? Don’t let the bastards wear you down.
Sammy grind He slugged Jake on the arm and smiled. “Just be careful and keep the faith.”
“Sure, Sammy. Sure.”
Jake Grafton stepped out of the island onto the flight deck. Red light illuminated the planes and the swarm of men working in the rain. The wind drove the rain an angle and whipped the red safety flags hanging from the bomb racks.
He found his airplane, 522, sitting just two feet short of the port bow catapult shuttle. He would only have to ease the plane forward the short distance and the shuttle would engage the tow bar on the aircraft’ nose-wheel assembly. Razor was already in the cockpit. Jake did a walk-around preflight check with his flash light set for white light because in red light any red hydraulic fluid leaking from the plane would be almost invisible. He paid careful attention to the refueling package on the underside of the fuselage, about fifteen feet forward of the tail. This feature distinguished the KA-6D tanker from the bomber version of the A-6. The tanker was a fuselage designed to carry fuel aloft and lacked the two radars, computer, and inertial navigation system of the bomber. In place of bombs tied to 20 racks, the external store stations each carry 500-pound drop tank, five of them in all, which gave the plane, with its internal tanks, a total fuel capacity of 26,000 pounds, or 13 tons. It was a load.
Satisfied, Jake mounted the ladder on the left side of the cockpit and checked the ejection seat. When he had all five safety pins removed and stored, he sat down. The plane captain, a nineteen-year-old from Oklahoma known as Maggot, stood at the top of the ladder and leaned in to help Jake strap himself to the seat.
If anyone asked, Maggot would tell him he owned this aircraft. He was responsible for its pre- and postflight servicing, its routine inspections, and its movement from place to place aboard the ship. Devil 522 was his baby, and as a morale booster the squadron had painted his rank-airman-and name in black letters on the fuselage: Andy E. Shutts, PC.
