“Photos of that Greek freighter, the
Jake examined them. There were no visible weapons, but the deck cargo was covered with a tarpaulin. “What do the Air Intelligence guys say about this?”
“They say there are no visible weapons.”
“Send off a message. Somebody should check that ship out when it docks.”
“Beirut isn’t New York. The port authorities aren’t going to be falling over each other trying to help us.”
“I know that. And I know that half the people in Lebanon are probably on the CIA payroll or would like to be. Send the message.”
“You think maybe the
“I don’t know what to think. Maybe they nailed him with a hand-held missile or a machine gun mounted on a rail. Maybe a wing fell off, catastrophic failure. It’s happened before. Maybe the plane just blew up. I don’t have the foggiest. Bull says he blacked out and came to in the water. One thing is sure, the captain of that freighter didn’t want to give us a real close look in the daytime. It’s almost as if he started to look for survivors, then realized if he found any we’d come aboard to get them, so he sailed away.”
“A real nice guy.”
“There’s a lot of them here in the Med. Majeska says he had a flare going and the freighter left anyway. They should have seen him. There wasn’t that much of a sea running and visibility was good. Go talk to the strike ops guys. And see what the admiral thinks of all this.”
“I’m on my way.”
As the officer departed, Farnsworth came to the door. “Admiral Parker wants to see you, at your convenience.”
“What about?” Farnsworth had probably been talking to the yeoman in the admiral’s office. The yeomen usually knew more about what was going on than the officers did.
“That little shindig you have planned tonight in the wardroom.”
Jake had forgotten. After every at-sea period he liked to get all the aviators together in the wardroom. The LSOs gave out certificates to the crew with the best boarding average and the catapult officers put on a little skit about the worst mistake they had witnessed on the flight deck. Tonight Admiral Parker was supposed to present centurion patches to the crews that had logged a hundred landings aboard this ship. And he had asked Cowboy to participate in a skit. He had also forgotten about the skit.
“That will have to wait. Since the skipper of the A-6 squadron had the crash, I think I’ll probably have to convene the accident board.” Normally the commanding officer of the squadron that had the crash convened the board.
Farnsworth held up his hand. He stepped out the door and returned with a large, black binder, which he laid on Jake’s desk. Farnsworth opened the binder to the accident instruction. Between the pages was a draft of the appointing order for Jake’s approval.
Jake looked it over. It was complete, except for the names of the officers who would do the investigation. Jake gave Farnsworth the names. “Type them in. You know, someday you and I are going to have to trade jobs for a day or two. I want to see if I know as much about running an air wing as you do.”
“Thanks anyway, sir. But I just type.”
“Any ideas on the A-6 crash?” Cowboy Parker asked. He was seated in his raised easy chair on the left side of the flag bridge. From this vantage point, he could see the activity on the flight deck without rising from the chair. A stack of paperwork lay on the window ledge in front of him.
Jake told him what Majeska had said. “I think he’s probably lying,” Jake concluded. “We’ve checked these lox systems from here to Sunday and they’re perfect. Jelly Dolan may have had the oxygen system in his Tomcat go out on him, but I don’t think Bull did. The probability of that happening twice without defective shipboard oxygen equipment is astronomical.”
“And you’re damn sure the shipboard equipment is okay?”
“Positive.”
“Did you tell Majeska you think he’s lying?”
“Yes, sir. I did.”
“And he stuck to his story.” Cowboy Parker cocked his head and scratched it. “So if he lets it lay like this, he’ll get hammered in the accident report. And he knows you’ll rip him on his fitness report. He might even be relieved of his command. He’s finished in the navy.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Yet for him that’s preferable to telling the truth.”
Jake held both hands out. “If he’s lying.”
“What the hell could he have done in that cockpit?”
“It’s probably something he didn’t do.”
“But what?”
Jake shrugged helplessly.
“If you know he’s lying, why don’t you relieve him now?”
“I don’t know anything. I have a hunch he probably is. He even hinted he was. But you don’t can a guy on hints or hunches.”
“We have a missing bombardier. What’s his name? Reed? He’s undoubtedly dead. I expect some answers. We aren’t going to flush this down the John and go on our merry way.” Cowboy Parker’s face was devoid of emotion. “If you can’t get the truth out of Majeska, you send him up here to me.”
“Give me some time, Admiral.”
Cowboy turned his face toward the deck below. Sailors in blue and yellow jerseys were busy moving aircraft. The snorting of the flight deck tractors was inaudible this high in the island.
“Has the
“Some skin panels. A piece of the radome. Half a flap.”
“What do you want me to do in this skit of yours tonight?”
“Let’s cancel the skit. I’m fresh out of chuckles. Just plan on presenting those centurion patches. Maybe make a few remarks.”
Cowboy picked up a document from the stack on the ledge. “See you there.”
“Yessir.” Jake saluted.
Jake stopped in a berthing compartment on the O-3 level, aft of the arresting gear machinery spaces. The passageway went right through the compartment, which berthed over eighty men. In one small area where two passageways met, the sailors in their underwear sat on folding chairs around a metal cruise box, playing cards. Jake leaned against a bunk support and watched the game. Several of the men acknowledged his presence with a nod, then ignored him. This was their territory and he was a senior officer, an outsider.
The air was musty, laden with the tang of sweaty bodies and dirty clothes. Air circulation in here was impeded by the curtains that isolated the various bunks. The place resembled an old railroad Pullman car. In the last few years the upper echelons of the navy had devoted much thought to improving habit-ability in sailors’ berthing compartments and getting rid of these curtains, yet the curtains remained. A curtain on his bunk was all the privacy a sailor had. Only in his bunk could a man write a letter or read a magazine without someone looking over his shoulder.
Soft music came from one of the top bunks. A male voice sang slowly, clearly,
