slightly as it went to full power. Then the engines came back to idle and faded into the background noise. A minute later another one hit the deck. On the television in the corner the landing planes were depicted in a silent show filmed from a camera high on the island and one buried in the deck, aimed up the glideslope. The picture alternated between the two. The only audio was the very real sound of the planes smashing into the steel over their heads.
Jake massaged his forehead and ran his fingers straight back through what was left of his hair.
“You don’t look very well,” Parker said.
“Hell of a headache.”
“The head quack tells me you’re over a month late getting your annual flight physical.”
“Yeah. He’s been after me.”
“Go get the physical.”
“Yessir.”
“What do you think went wrong with that plane tonight?”
“Don’t know. My guess is a malfunction in the oxygen system, but we may never know. Depends on how much wreckage that destroyer pulls out.”
“They haven’t found much.” Parker jerked his thumb at the phone. “Just a few pieces floating. Most of it went to the bottom.”
“Did they find the bodies?” A postmortem on the bodies might reveal an oxygen malfunction.
“Nope.” Cowboy searched the younger man’s face. “What are you going to do now?” Jake knew he was referring to the leadership problem.
“Remember the last month of the war in Vietnam, after I was shot down? Camparelli hung a helmet in the ready room and said anyone who couldn’t hack the program could throw his wings into it.”
“I remember.”
“I’m going to hang up a helmet.”
“As I recall, no one quit.”
“Yeah. That’s why Camparelli did it. He was smart. I’m going to give the helmet a try, but with my luck I’ll have a dozen crews quit on me.”
Cowboy laughed. “Your luck will hold, Cool Hand. Keep rolling the dice.” He stood up. “I better get back to flag plot.” That space, a part of the combat decision center, depicted the task group’s tactical situation to the admiral on computerized presentations. It was his battle station. “They get nervous if I’m gone too long. Hell, I get nervous if I’m gone over ten minutes.” He paused at the door and turned back toward Jake. “If it’ll make you feel better, I have a ‘Nixon in ’88’ T-shirt I can let you steal.”
“It may come to that.”
Admiral Parker stuck out his hand and Jake pumped it.
When Jake entered the air wing office, Chief Harry Shipman was sitting at his desk.
“Heard we lost one.”
“Yeah. Call Mister Cohen and ask him to come to the office.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Jake walked between the desks and entered his office. For some reason known only to the ship’s architect, he had a sink in his small office. He took three aspirin from a bottle in the desk drawer and washed them down by drinking from the sink tap. Then he soaked a washcloth in cold water, raked the papers away from the middle of the desk, sat in his chair and tilted it as he arranged his legs on the desk. He draped the wet cloth over his forehead and eyes.
He tried not to think about Jelly Dolan and Boomer Bronsky. His office was on the 0–3 deck, immediately beneath the flight deck, so he could hear the sounds of aircraft being moved about his head. He tried to identify each sound.
He had just drifted off to sleep when someone knocked on the door. “Come in.” He threw the washcloth in the sink. He felt better.
Lieutenant Commander William Cohen and Chief Shipman entered and sat in the two empty chairs. Cohen was the air wing aircraft maintenance officer. Shipman worked for him.
“Who went in?” Cohen asked.
“Dolan and Bronsky. They were flying my wing. I didn’t see them eject, and the angel and the destroyer haven’t found them. They passed out in the cockpit and the plane nosed over.”
“Oxygen problem?”
“Probably, but who knows? Maybe the accident investigation will tell us.” Jake removed his feet from his desk and sat upright in his chair. “How well are the squadrons maintaining the planes?” Jake asked this question looking at Cohen.
“Availability is very good. Only three planes down awaiting parts, one F-14 and two A-6s. F-18s are doing fine. That F-18 is one hell of a fine airplane to maintain.” Cohen had started in the navy as an enlisted man and received his commission while a first class petty officer, Jake knew. After twenty-two years in the navy, Will Cohen knew aircraft maintenance better than he knew his children.
“Are the squadrons taking shortcuts to keep the availability up?” Jake found his cigarettes and set fire to one.
“I don’t think so.” Cohen draped one leg over the other and laced his fingers behind his head. “If they are, I haven’t seen it.”
“We’re going to find out,” Jake told them. “Will, I want you to check the maintenance records on every airplane on this ship. Are the squadrons missing or delaying scheduled inspections? Are they really fixing gripes or merely signing them off? Look for repeat gripes signed off as ‘could not find’ or ‘could not duplicate.’ You know what I want.”
“Yessir.”
“Chief, I want you to check their compliance with proper maintenance procedures. Select gripes at random and watch the troops work them off. See if the manuals are up to date and being used. Check to ensure the supervisors are supervising and the quality-control inspectors are inspecting. Check their tool inventory program.”
“Aye aye, sir. Do you have a deadline on this?”
“Make progress reports from time to time. Start with the Red Rippers, then move around at random.”
Cohen flicked a piece of lint from his khaki trousers. “CAG, this is gonna look like we’re trying to close the barn door after the horse has shit and left.”
“I don’t give a fuck how it looks.” Jake put his elbows on the desk. “The troops are tired and morale is low. Shortcuts and sloppy work become acceptable when you’re tired. We’re going to make everyone, from squadron skippers to wrench-turners, absolutely aware that the job has to be done right. We’re going to reemphasize it. We’re going to make sure we don’t drop a plane in the future because of sloppy maintenance.”
“I understand.”
“I want you guys to be visible. I want everyone to know just exactly what you’re up to. Let it be known that I intend to burn anyone who’s slacking off.”
Both men nodded.
“Finish your night’s sleep, then get at it. Chief, before you go back to bed, call the squadron duty officers and tell them I want to see all the skippers here at 0800.”
“Yessir.” The two men rose and left the office, closing the door behind them. Jake retrieved the washcloth from the sink and rearranged his feet on the desk. In moments he was asleep.
Jake sat in one of the molded plastic chairs in the sick bay area. He watched the corpsmen in their hospital pullovers moving at their usual pace, coffee cups in one hand and a medical record or specimen in the other. They came randomly from one of the eight or ten little rooms and strolled the corridor to another. The atmosphere was hushed, unhurried, an oasis of routine and established procedure.
At last the door across from him opened and a sailor came out tucking his shirttail into his bellbottom jeans. Seconds later Lieutenant Commander Bob Hartman stuck his head out and waved at Jake.
The little room had one desk and a raised examination table. “Good afternoon, CAG. Glad you finally paid us a
