“But I didn’t do it,” Sammy protested, pouring another liberal shot into the skipper’s glass.
“No, but it was your idea. So you’re in hack anyone asks why, I suggest you tell them that I found liquor in your room. You’re supposed to be a naval officer, Sam, not some screwball frat rat.” He took another drink. “This is pretty good stuff.”
They sat in silence. After a Moment Camparelli saw the ring in Jake’s hand and reached out for it. He held the diamond to the light, twisting it slowly so he could see it sparkle. Finally he returned it without comment. The Old Man finished his drink about the same time as his cigarette. He stubbed out the butt and rinsed the glass in the sink. He paused before opening the door. “Watch your ass out there, Jake. That girl will want you in one piece.” The door closed with a soft click.
TWENTY-THREE
The press in the States called it the Christmas Offensive. Massive B-52 formations thundered over North Vietnam, aiming to bomb the negotiators back to the Paris peace talks. At home in America there were widespread protests and, on some college campuses, riots. In the waning days of ‘72, Jake Grafton read about the bombing and the protests in news magazines and the Chicago Tribune, which, as a serviceman in the war zone, he received free.
When the bundled paper arrived each week Jake would open them, arrange them in order, and read each one closely.
To Jake it seemed that America would tear itself apart before the North became reasonable at the bargaining table. While he had no doubt that the communist regime could not endure an all-out, tended aerial assault, he did wonder how long the US government would assert its will in the face of mounting protests.
The question of whose will would break first was unanswerable. To escape futile speculation Jake turned to the advertisements celebrating the bounty of an American Christmas. The Tribune’s editorial might denounce the commercialism of the holiday, but the pilot on the other side of the world reveled in the images of happy people fulfilling their hearts’ desires by buying clothes, cars, perfume, and expensive liquor. Somewhere in the world, as the photographs of beautiful women and men of distinction in front of holiday fireplaces seemed to say, there was warmth and stability.
The night missions of the squadron had changed. RockEyes that cost over five thousand dollars each were loaded sixteen to a plane and dropped on SAM sites minutes before the B-52s came within range. For Jake the change in American policy was a stroke of luck. It had meant that he could continue to fly. Most of the time he flew bombers, but occasionally he and Tiger flew the A-6B to protect the B-52s from enemy missiles. Despite the efforts to foil the enemy missile defenses, Jake and Tiger witnessed the deaths of some of the great planes in the night skies over North Vietnam. The bombers, trailing fire, would veer out of the formation, yellow specks against the black night.
The B-52 pilots would calmly report their disaster on the radio, and then the six-man crew, or those men still alive after the missile strike, would jump and fall the miles through the intense cold of inner space while their plane made its fiery plunge.
Jake had received several letters from Callie since their time together in Cubi, but he was impatient for a reply to his letter telling her of the hearing and its outcome. The evening after Christmas he found a pale yellow envelope in mailbox. He smiled as he waved the letter under his nose and caught the scent of lilacs. To savor the pleasure of reading her letter, he decided to open it back in his stateroom. He turned to leave the ready room when New Guy called to him.
“Expecting good news, Jake? You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”
Grafton let his grin widen. “How’s your life going, New?”
“Oh, pretty good. How about relieving me for a half hour or so while I get a hamburger?”
“Well, okay.” Jake took the chair at the duty officer’s desk that New vacated. “What’s happening?” he asked, wondering if he’d have time to catch some glimpses at Callie’s letter.
“We just launched two bombers on the last cycle of the day, which went at 2230. The go tanker went down on the cat and they shot the spare.”
Jake examined the flight schedule. Rabbit Wilson and Fred Magellon had downed the tanker on the catapult.
“Maintenance Control will call you in just a minute with the side-number of the roundup tanker for the last recovery,” New continued.
“The brief should start in ten minutes or so. Skipper’s in his stateroom.” The roundup tanker would sit on deck manned and ready during the last recovery in case extra fuel was needed aloft.
“Okay. Go eat. I gotcha covered.”
Ferdinand Magellan entered the ready room, picked up the maintenance forms, and came over to the duty officer’s desk. Pulling up a chair, he reached into a bag of Christmas candy New’s wife had sent him an pushed the box toward Jake.
“What happened to your plane?” Jake asked, his mouth full. He checked the flight schedule. “Five twenty- two?”
“XO downed it right on the cat. Said something was wrong with the port engine. He ran it up to full Power about four times while the cat officer went bananas, then he refused to go. So they taxied us off and shot Snake Jones and Dick Clark instead.”
“Where did they have it spotted when you manned up?”
“On cat two. We sat there and stared at the black hole.
“Dark out there?”
“Blacker than a black cat in a coal bin at midnight on a moonless night. Blacker than Hitler’s heart. Blacker than-“
“So how do you like the fleet, Ferd?” Grafton interrupted as Wilson walked in.
“I’m eating this shit with a spoon,” the BN said and completed his paperwork in silence while Jake pored over the flight schedule.
The commander sat in his chair just behind the duty officer’s. “We gotta do better keeping these tankers up,” Wilson remarked. “What other gripes you writing up, Magellon?” Ferd mentioned two minor problems and Rabbit told him, “Well, take them over to Maintenance Control and give them to the Chief. I just motivated him in detail about that engine. So there’s no excuse if they can’t fix it.”
“Yessir.” The bombardier left, taking the forms with him.
The telephone rang. The chief in Maintenance Control told Jake, “We’re still working on the roundup tanker. Call you back in a bit.”
“Okay, Chief.” Jake annotated the flight schedule as the video tape of the last recovery began playing on the television.
“So how’s every little thing with you, Grafton, after the miracle of the hearing?” Wilson asked Jake’s back.
“Fine, sir,” Jake said over his shoulder. .
“You must have an uncle who’s a senator. It’s a damn good thing for you that the decision wasn’t up to me. I know a hot dog when I see one.”
Jake swiveled the chair and looked the commander in the face. “That’s the second time you’ve called me that. I don’t like it.”
“Oh, you don’t, eh? You’re all balls, Grafton, but you don’t have enough brains to load a fly up to max gross weight. That’s a hot dog in my book. What would you call it?”
“At least I’ve got some balls.”
“Just what do you mean by that?” Wilson’s eye narrowed and he flushed slightly.
Jake pursed his lips as he considered just how far he could go. “I’ve heard that some of the men call you Rabbit. Behind your back, of course. I don’t think they’re referring to your breeding habits, Rabbit.”
“You sonuvabitch! I’m a commander! No weenie in railroad tracks makes a crack like that to me.” Wilson’s face was very red as he sprang to his feet. “No goddamn body talks to me like that.” He jutted out his chin. “You
