altitude and distance an observer had sense of the speed and violence involved in launching. The birds moved slowly toward the deck edge, left behind, then skimmed across the surface of the sea like low-flying gulls.
He searched the sky and found the other machines, small and difficult to see, that were moving in small circles but not at his altitude. Below on the flight deck, the landing area was emptying as the catapults shot the planes aloft. He located the Phantoms that were lowest in the holding pattern. They were descending, as were the A-7 Corsairs below him.
Jake let the nose drift down and followed them.
The flight of four Phantoms in fingertip formation swung wide and gave themselves a two-mile straightaway as they flew up the ship’s wake at 800 feet. The fighter on the leader’s left wing slid down and under the remainder of the formation and took the number-four position in a right echelon. Over the ship the leader peeled away from the formation and made a hard turn to the downwind leg as he slowed to landing speed. This maneuver was known as the “break.” Each of the other planes peeled off at eight-second intervals. As he came abeam of the ship’s fantail, the fighter lead began his turn onto final approach. Had he judged it correctly? Would the ship have a ready deck when he rolled out of the turn onto the ball? Not a word had yet come over the radio: daylight recoveries in good weather were “zip-lip.” As Jake watched, the familiar Phantom shape flew up the wake and stopped on the deck. The second fighter was turning on final. The A-7s, all four in echelon, were approaching the ship for their break.
Jake swung wider and led Ford down. He was absorbed in watching the planes ahead and judging the intervals. A plane should cross the ramp every thirty seconds; any more, seconds would be time wasted, fewer seconds would mean a wave-off because the previous plane had not yet cleared the landing area. How well you flew around the ship, where everybody could watch you, formed the keystone of a carrier pilot’s reputation.
The two Intruders flew up the wake at 800 feet with their hooks down.
Corey Ford was welded onto Grafton’s right wing. Jake was watching the last A-7 on the downwind leg. Not yet — almost Now!” In the right seat, Big Augie splayed the fingers of one hand open in Ford’s direction, the “kiss- off.” Jake slammed the stick over and rolled into a sixty-degree bank as chopped the throttles to idle and extended the speed brakes. Four Gees. The altimeter needle was glued to feet. Slowing through 250 knots, he tapped the gear and flap handles down and relaxed the Gees. He let the plane Slow to landing speed as the gear and flaps extended.
On the downwind leg, Jake and Big Augie chanted the liturgy of the landing checklist. The interval between them and the A-7 ahead looked good. On speed 118 knots. The indexer on the glare shield matched the airspeed indicator. Jake’s eyes took it all in. He turn off the abeam position… still on speed . .
turning . - descending nicely… ninety-degrees off final altitude okay. Crossing the wake he saw the ball on final. and centered ball … watch that line. coming down, looking good … on speed with the ball centered , -. crossing the ramp smash! They were thrown forward against their ham straps. Jake opened the canopy as they taxied, and they salty seawind swept through the cockpit.
SEVEN
Grafton slept until almost five P.m when Lundeen shook him awake.
“Time to go eat or you’ll be awful hungry tonight, pal.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Curry.”
“Forget it. I’ll eat popcorn at the movie. Go ‘way and let me sleep.”
“If you don’t get up now, you’ll never sleep tonight “
“Are we headed for the Philippines?”
“Yep. Headed for five glorious days and lusty nights in the sweetest spot this side of Tijuana.”
Jake turned on the bunk light and sat up in bed. “I made a big decision, Sammy. I’m going to quit the navy.
“What’re you going to do when you’re out?” Lundeen asked.
“Just what every other history major does when he hits the big, wide world: sell used cars or insurance.”
“Life’s a bitch and then you die,” Lundeen pronounced in his best man-of-the-world voice. “You need to turn your mind to something important, like getting laid this time in port.”
“Sure. All I need’s a good dose of the clap.”
He picked up his soap, shampoo, and towel and headed for the shower.
Son of a bitch, Jake muttered to himself as the water massaged his body.
Flying’s like a goddamn drug. I’ve centered my life around it, and when the euphoria is gone, reality is completely grim. Here I stand, feet firmly planted on the shower floor, and the only truth is that Morgan is dead and the targets are crap. Maybe some Soviet spy leaves a list of useless places on a Pentagon desk every night and the military puts it on the wires the next day.
It’s a wonder we haven’t been ordered to attack the Haiphong garbage dump.
Someone pounded on the side of the shower stall.
“Take a navy shower in there, fella.”
Jake turned off the water and lathered himself all over. He turned the shower on again and rinsed. He was drying himself when Cowboy Parker strolled in, clad only in a towel.
“Jake, if that fighter pilot lets you pay for a single drink while we’re in port, he doesn’t have a hair on his ass.”
“Old bald ass. He said he’d buy me a bottle.”
“One lousy bottle. Does he think attack pilots live on milk?” Cowboy stepped into a shower stall and turned on the water. “One lousy bottle,” he shouted. “Fighter pukes are such tightwads. Imagine him thinking his ass is only worth one bottle of cheap whiskey? By God, he should be buying bottles for the entire squadron.”
Cowboy kept talking and the water kept running. As Jake went by, he pounded on the side of the stall. “Save some water for everyone else, Cowboy.”
“Water? Why, you young twerp! I was taking navy showers when you were still in junior high school. Hell, when I was a kid down in Texas, every morning I used to take a cake of soap and go out and roll in the grass while the dew was still on. That’s a Texas shower.” The water continued to run. “I didn’t even see rain until I was ten years old. I thought a creek was nothing but a dry ditch where rattlesnakes lived.” He continued the monologue. Jake paused at a washbasin, then turn the cold water tap wide open. A scream and a cloud of steam emanated from the stall. Jake scooted out the door as a bar of soap flew through the air in his direction.
Lundeen was sitting at his desk when Jake return to their stateroom. “I just singed Cowboy’s backside in the shower.”
“He’ll get you for that. Sometime when you least expect it.” Sammy continued to flip through a magazine.
“Got any idea who I’ll get as a BN?”
“Nope. Don’t think any of the crews in the squadron want to shift around.
Cowboy and the Skipper would make that decision. Maybe you’ll get this new bombardier who’s going to meet us in Cubi. I saw the message about him just an hour ago.”
“What’s it say? Anything about his experience?”
“Uh-uh. Actually there are two bombardiers and a pilot. The pilot and one bombardier are coming from VA- 128, and one BN is coming from VA-42.” Attack Squadron 128 was the A-6 replacement squadron based at NAS Whitbey Island with the responsibility of training all the A-6 crewmen bound for squadrons attached to Pacific Fleet carriers. Attack Squadron performed the same function on the East Coast.
“I hope I don’t get a nugget.” A nugget was a new man on his first tour of duty.
“How come?”
Jake hung his towel behind the door and sat on his bunk. “Because I need a BN who’s got it all in one sock.”
“These BNS are all good. They’re pros.”
