“Yeah.” Jake stared at the faded brown stains, all that was left of Morgan McPherson. “Is the skipper pissed off.”
“No. He’s smoking his cigar, as usual. That fighter crew’s in the ready room telling everybody what a hero you are. They keep saying something about you saving their butts, but all fighter pukes are crazy and they’ll say anything.”
Jake took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Boy, we’re having fun now,” he said, thinking of Morgan. “What happened on your hop, anyway?”
“We flew right into a flak trap and almost got our asses shot off. Still haven’t figured out why they didn’ get us. Then we had to run the target without the computer.”
“Any luck?”
“Who knows? No secondary explosions. We probably missed that truck park by a mile or two. Some commie’s probably complaining right now to some half-wit reporter that the American warmongers just bombed another church.”
“A truck park?”
“A suspected truck park.”
“Is that worth dying for?”
“There isn’t anything in Indochina worth dying for man, and that’s a fact. But tonight those gomers shot like we were trying to bomb Ho Chi Minh’s tomb. I bet the Kremlin doesn’t have that many guns around it We were real goddamned lucky.” He shook his head “Real lucky. Got three secondaries when I dropped the Rocks on the flak trap, though.” Lundeen showed his teeth. “That made it worth the trip.”
Jake shifted enough to drop the cigarette butt into the bowl. “How come the spare tanker didn’t get airborne?”
“Haven’t you heard? A plane captain got sucked down an intake.”
“Good God! What a way to buy it.”
“He didn’t buy it, amazingly enough.
The chief saw him approach the intake, figured he was going to and made a diving grab. He caught the guy’s legs just as he went in. The plane captain went down the intake headlong to his knees. He’s shook up plenty, though. Lost his helmet and goggles and flashlight into the intake off that engine. There’s $150,000 of the taxpayers’ money down the crapper.”
“Who was the poor sucker?”
“He’s down in sick bay. Maggot.”
“Maggot! poor guy!”
Jake found Maggot in one of the wards in the sick bay suite. Mad Jack was standing beside him. The doctor said. “He’s still in shock.
Don’t stay too long.” Glancing at the stains that marred the pilot’s flight gear, he add “And don’t touch anything down here, either.”
Maggot’s face was white as the pilot leaned forward and spoke loudly “I hear you tried to get out of a little work” the boy’s mouth twitched.
Maggot nodded nervously and licked his lips. “It just sucked me up like I was a leaf or something, I Was walking and then I was going down that intake headfirst Mister Grafton. I thought I was a goner.”
“From what I hear you almost were.”
you Mister Grafton, his eyes were wet. “Damn, The boy’ was unbelievable was scared. it was Clark and the noise could feel myself I couldn’t see anything and I c _ , and I co that compressor. I Knew those being pulled toward ming, ready to chop me into blades were there, tu the ger but I couldn’t see them.”
He gazed at wall a moment and blinked back the tears. “I think I peed my pants. Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t tell. But I know what you mean about being scared. McPherson and I have been scared so many times I lost count.” The reply was a wan smile.
*** The ready room was crowded when Jake opened the door.
The crew of Stagecoach 203 was more than grateful. The pilot pounded Jake on the back and pumped his had repeatedly. He had a dark, well-groomed mustache which was against ship policy. His teeth looked porcelain white. “Just shit hot! I owe you a fifth of your favorite some time in port, believe you me.
“It was nothing you you wouldn’t have done if our positions had been reversed. The fighter pilot, whose name tag proclaimed he was Fighting Joe Brett, released his grip on Jake’s hand.
“We’d like to think that, Grafton. But I mean it about the bottle.” A dozen loud conversations were going at once in the front of the room the while up in the offices Cowboy and the XO were conferring in low voices, getting and scratching missions were a necessary part back to earth. Just then the LSO in his white shirt strode into the group. In his hand was, the green book where he kept a record of every pilot’s approach to the ship.
“Grafton, you set some landing record with a no-grade and one cut pass. That last is the-worst-I’ve seen in many a moon-” The men fell silent. Half of them were looking at a cut grade and half were thinking a no-grade meant the pass was dangerous, almost an accident. No-grade was just above a cut.
The LSO continued. “Now you know as well as I do that with a pitching deck you have to be extra careful. You did a little dive for the deck on your first trap, overcontrolled on your bolter pass, but then on that last approach you really went for it. You could’ve easily torn the wheels off that plane or smashed it on the ramp. Some fine navy night you’re going to cram those main struts right up through the wings.”
Durfee wasn’t taking this lying down. “Hey, asshole, you heard me tell you the bleed air wasn’t working. Jake couldn’t see shit out the windscreen.”
The LSO turned to him. “Did it ever occur to you two geniuses to take a wave off and check the circuit breaker on the downwind leg? Did you check the circuit breaker?” he demanded of Razor.
Razor’s face turned red, and he leaned toward the LSO. “Did you hit the goddamn wave off lights, buttface?”
The LSO ignored the bombardier and focused on the pilot. “You ever come aboard like that again and I’ll see to it you never land another plane on this boat.” He turned and walked toward the front of the room.
Jake felt like a nude in church. He shrugged and looked at the embarrassed men around him. “Hell, I was desperate.”
Joe Brett grasped Jake’s hand again, and the skipper’s voice boomed out, “Jake, you go get some sleep. We have a brief in four hours.” Without another word the pilot turned and headed for his stateroom.
But Commander Camparelli was not finished yet. He motioned with his finger at the LSO, who obediently came over and stood in front of the skipper’s chair. “Listen, mister,” said Camparelli. “You know your job and you call ‘em like you see ‘em. But if you ever again read out one of my pilots like you just did, I’ll have your ass on a plate. Do you understand me?”
“Yessir, but-“
“I decide who flies and who doesn’t in this squadron not you. All I expect from you is your opinion.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get out of here. I’m tired of looking at you. The LSO marched out the door. The skipper looked around the room at the hushed crowd. He settled on the mustachioed fighter pilot and smiled at him. “Have you got a sister?” he asked.
SIX
The two Intruders were alone in the crystal-blue morning. Several miles below, ragged clouds partially obscured the South VietNamese countryside.
Overhead the morning sun blazed with full tropical fury, warming the airmen’s necks and causing bodies encased in olive drab nomex to perspire agreeably.
Jake Grafton was relaxed. He kept his position about 300 feet aft and to the right of the skipper’s plane without conscious effort. Each plane carried sixteen Mark 82 500-pound bombs beneath its wings, plus the usual 2000-pound fuel tank hung on the center-line belly-station. The dark green bombs appeared almost black in the brilliant sunshine, in sharp contrast to the off-white airplanes that looked clean and polished.
