Final Flight

knew that two of the guns would be mounted on each side of the ship during her upcoming port call.

“Afternoon, XO.”

Reynolds nodded at him, then resumed his supervision of the marines. In a few minutes the sergeant announced the gun was ready and sent a private to the bridge for permission to test-fire it.

“Sergeant, let’s see you swivel the gun through its complete field of fire,” Reynolds said.

The sergeant did as requested. “Now depress it fully.”

“The stern quadrant is completely naked,” Reynolds muttered to Jake. “And if they get within a hundred feet of the ship, these guns can’t be depressed enough.” He spoke again to the sergeant: “Okay. What’s the drill on test-firing?”

“Every man who will stand watch on these guns will fire fifty rounds today, sir. We’ll throw some cans from the galley off the bow and shoot at them as they float by.”

“Try not to put any holes in those cans over there,” Reynolds said, and gestured toward the destroyer a mile away on the beam.

“We won’t, sir.”

Reynolds nodded and turned away. As he and Grafton walked aft on the deck, he said, “I’m going to arm the flight deck security watch this time in port, CAG. Going to give them all shotguns. Wish we had more M-16s.” Reynolds threaded his way between two parked Intruders and stopped at the after end of the flight deck. He looked down into the wake, sixty feet below. “I’m putting two marines up here with M-16s. The liberty boats will be coming in to the fantail….” He gestured downward with his thumb. The fantail was the porch-like structure on the stern of the ship, immediately under the flight deck. “And we’ll have a couple of armed marines there to augment the master-at-arms force. What else can you think of?”

“Looks to me like you have it covered. Are you expecting trouble?” Which was a polite way of asking if the XO had seen an intelligence summary that Jake was not privy to or had missed.

“Nope. Just worrying, as usual.” He grinned, holding his upper lip down. “Don’t you do that?”

“All the time,” Jake said truthfully. The two men parted, and Jake walked slowly up the deck, examining the airplanes parked in rows.

He paused beside an F/A-18 Hornet and stared at it. Somehow it didn’t look quite right. It took him half a minute before he realized the plane had only eight tie-down chains holding it to the deck instead of the requisite ten. He continued up the deck, checking each plane for open access doors and properly installed chains and chocks. His eyes roved freely while he thought about Bull Majeska and empty fire bottles and dead bombardiers. When he left the flight deck, he went through Flight Deck Control and told the handler about the Hornet that needed more chains.

Late that night Jake finished the report on the fire bottle affair and went to the bridge to see Laird James. The captain sat in his raised chair on the port wing of the bridge and read the report. Jake stood beside the chair and watched the officer-of-the-deck, the OOD, discuss the intricacies of a formation turn with the junior officer-of- the-deck. Apparently Captain James was listening to that conversation, too, for Jake saw him glance across at the OOD twice as he perused the report. In the center of the bridge stood the helmsman at the ship’s wheel, watching the compass. The navigation table was on the star-board wing of the bridge, and beyond it two lookouts were visible, their binoculars up and sweeping the horizon. The remainder of the bridge watch team were busy with their duties.

“So the chief thought Potocky knew to report empty fire bottles when he weighed them, but he says he didn’t, and the chief never checked up on him.”

“The chief checked some of the bottles, but he didn’t check this one, the empty one. And this was the only empty one.”

“And the division officer never inspected the bottles to see if Potocky and the chief were doing their jobs.”

“That’s right.”

The captain threw the report on top of a stack of paper which rested on the ledge in front of him. “CAG, I think the chief and division officer are derelict in their duties. I want them taken to mast.”

“I think we should leave that decision to Commander Schultz. He’s the commanding officer of VF-11 and that’s his decision.”

“These people hazarded this ship, Captain Grafton.” He pronounced “Captain” as if the rank had been a gift from a mischievous god. “Their negligence put their shipmates lives in jeopardy.” James turned in his chair until he was looking directly at Jake. “I want every officer and man on this ship to know that such conduct will not be tolerated. I want it punished.”

“Skipper, I’m not disputing the seriousness of this. But in my judgment Commander Schultz should have the discretion to handle this matter as he chooses. I’m not going to order him to do anything. Of course, if you want to hold mast …”

Both officers knew that Captain James could merely order the ship’s master-at-arms to sign the report chit, and the accused would, in a week or two, stand at attention in his dress uniform to hear the charges read and Captain James prescribe the punishment. Mast, a nonjudicial proceeding, was really a means for the commanding officer to enforce discipline, and the only guarantee of fairness was what the commanding officer thought was fair. Both officers were acutely aware of the fact that an officer’s or chief’s naval career would be irreparably destroyed if either were awarded punishment at mast. They were also acutely aware that under the Super-CAG concept, James had been passing to Grafton all the report chits on air wing sailors generated by ship’s personnel for him to hold mast on.

“What does Schultz intend to do about this?”

“I haven’t yet discussed that with him.”

“Get him up here.”

Jake used the nearby telephone to call the Red Ripper’s ready room. While they were waiting for Schultz, Captain James said, “I saw you sight-seeing on the flight deck this afternoon, CAG. In the future you might devote your time more profitably to inspecting the material condition of air wing spaces.”

“I’m responsible for those airplanes down there, Captain.”

“And two of those airplanes have been lost this cruise. This ship is not an airplane, Grafton, that we can afford to crash, then write an accident report on.” Laird James picked up a document from a stack on the ledge in front of him and went over it carefully. Jake stood in silence and watched the yellow-shirted aircraft handlers on the flight deck move aircraft.

When Schultz arrived, out of breath because he had apparently run up the ten stories of ladders rather than wait for the elevator, James rested his paperwork on his lap and got straight to the point. “What do you intend to do with Senior Chief Cosgrove and Lieutenant (jg) Slawson for failing to properly supervise Airman Potocky?”

Schultz glanced at Jake. “Captain, Cosgrove has been in the navy twenty-six years. He’s one of my two or three best chiefs. Slawson is a Naval Academy grad on his first cruise. He’s a damn good young fighter pilot. The navy has made a hell of an investment in both of them and we’re getting a hell of a lot in return. I intend to counsel them both, and the rest of my supervisors, and ensure they all know how to be supervisors.”

“You inform them,” the captain said, his voice so soft that Jake found himself leaning forward a trifle to hear, “that there will be zero tolerance for slovenliness, laziness, negligence, incompetence, or gross stupidity that puts this ship at risk. Zero tolerance. None whatsoever. That includes you gentlemen as well, Super-CAG or no. This is my ship.”

Jake Grafton and Harvey Schultz saluted and left the bridge.

13

Do you know i love you, woman?” Jake whispered.

“I’ve often suspected it,” Callie replied, pretending to examine her nails in the moonlight which streamed through the open door to the balcony and fell across the bed. “But you sailors, with your women in every port! A poor girl must stand in line. And it just doesn’t pay to invest much emotion in a ‘here today, gone-tomorrow’ lover.”