binder. On the metal cover in numbers an inch high was the black stencil “503,” the side-number of the A-6 Majeska and Reed had taken on Reed’s last flight. Below the large number, in smaller stencil, was the aircraft’s six-digit bureau number.
Jake opened the book. On the right side were the “down” gripes for the last ten flights. Each gripe card carried the date of the repair, the name of the man who had performed it, and the corrective action taken. On the left side of the book were all the “up” gripes that had not been repaired. A down gripe, by definition, was one so serious that the aircraft could not fly until it was fixed. An up gripe, on the other hand, was a nuisance problem that could wait until the bird was down for another problem or a planned maintenance inspection before it was repaired, or “worked off.”
Jake read the down gripes first and the particulars of each sign-off. The problems struck him as routine; the type of complaints that one expected an aircraft to have, especially if it were used hard, as all the A-6s had been these last few months.
The up gripes constituted quite a stack. The little forms were arranged in order, with the most recent on the top of the pile and the oldest on the bottom. When he had read each one, he went back through and read them all again carefully.
Finally he closed the book. What was there about that aircraft that caused a crash? There was not a single gripe on the oxygen system. Had Bull Majeska really blacked out? At sea level, where there was plenty of oxygen if his mask were not completely sealed to his face? Or was he lying? What revelation could he make that would be so terrible? Terrible to whom? To Majeska, of course. When Jake found himself chewing on a fingernail, he slammed the book on the desk and shouted for Farnsworth.
“Gimme a cigarette.”
“No.”
“Goddammit! Please!”
“Bust me. Give me a court-martial. No more weeds for you.”
“If you shaved your legs, Farnsworth, you’d make somebody a good wife.”
“No cigarettes for you, sailor. But you wanna buy me a drink?”
“Go down to the captain’s office and find out why we had two musters this morning.”
“Yessir.”
Up on the flight deck Jake wandered along until he found an A-6 unattended by maintenance troops. He lowered the pilot’s boarding ladder and thumbed the canopy switch. The canopy opened slowly, the battery driving a small hydraulic pump that whined loudly in protest. He climbed the ladder and sat down in the cockpit.
He wondered if Reed would still be alive if he hadn’t taken him flying that night. Mad Dog, with the regular, even features and the soft voice. Agh, who can say what might have been or should have been or would have been, if only …? That kind of thinking was for philosophers and politicians. But Reed was dead. The kid that had had enough was now dead.
His eyes went from instrument to instrument. ADI, altimeter, airspeed, radar altimeter, gyro, warning lights … His gaze meandered to the buttons and knobs on the bombardier’s side of the cockpit. He found himself staring at the black hood that shielded the radar and FLIR.
They were looking over a Greek freighter at night. Reed must have had the FLIR on, just as he had done when he and Jake had swooped down on that dynamite boat several weeks ago. And Reed would have had his head glued against the hood. Bull Majeska had been sitting here, flying the plane, close to the water — how high? As they went by the ship Reed would have used the zoom lens on the FLIR in the nose turret to see the detail of the freighter. And Majeska? He would have squeezed the stick trigger and brought the infrared display up on the ADI. And he would have been paying attention to flying the plane. If he got too near the water, the radar altimeter would have given him a warning.
Jake’s left hand went to that instrument and rotated the knob that set the altitude at which the warning beep would sound. He watched the little wedge-shaped bug move around the dial. If the pilot had it set too high, when the warning went off he would ignore it. If he had it set too low, when the warning sounded it would be too late.
Say Majeska was watching the freighter instead of flying. Or say he got distracted by something in the cockpit. The audible warning sounds when the aircraft descends to whatever altitude the bug was set to. And then? What? Majeska rights the plane and breaks the descent? No. Not that. They either hit the water or … Or what? What made Majeska refuse to talk?
Jake smacked his fist on his thigh and got out of the cockpit. He closed the canopy and strode across the deck. Down in the CAG office, he grabbed the maintenance logbook and flipped through the up gripes. There it was. “Contrast control on ADI intermittent. Went dark once. Possible short.” That had been an up gripe. Two flights later, just the night before the crash, a down gripe: “ADI went black. FIX THIS THING.” The sign-off was the same as on the previous gripe: “Could not duplicate.”
He fired up the office copying machine and shot copies of both gripes. He put the copies in the top drawer of his desk.
“What did you find out?” he asked Farnsworth when he returned.
“They just said the XO told them to take another muster. He didn’t say why.”
“Here,” Jake said, handing the maintenance log to the yeoman. “You can take this back, then go get some chow. It’s lunchtime.”
Jake called the XO, Ray Reynolds. “This is Grafton, XO. Just curious, why two musters this morning?”
“One of those guys who didn’t show for muster is a petty officer. Another’s a marine lance corporal I know the corporal. He stands orderly duty for me sometimes. He is one squared-away marine, a damn good kid. Something is wrong.”
“Maybe …”
“Oh, I know. What officer ever knows what a youngster is thinking, what his wife or girlfriend is writing him? But I would have bet a month’s pay on this kid. He’s going to the Naval Academy prep school at the end of this cruise. I even wrote a letter of recommendation for his application.”
“Terrorists, you think?” Jake asked, chewing again on a fingernail.
“People see terrorists in every woodpile. I don’t know what to think.”
“Thanks for filling me in.”
“Sure. How’s Callie?” They exchanged pleasantries for a moment, then broke the connection.
Jake was sitting in the forward wardroom going over paperwork with four of his staff officers when Toad Tarkington brought his lunch in on a tray and sat down with his buddies at another table.
“Okay, Will. You scribble up responses to these messages,” Jake indicated a pile, “and Harry, you do these others.” Will Cohen and Harry March gathered up their respective heaps. “Unless a message is marked urgent, we’ll answer the rest of them after we sail.”
“Yes, sir.”
“After Farnsworth gets the messages typed, I want you to put him on a boat for the beach. He deserves liberty and he won’t go as long as he thinks there’s still something in the in-basket. Kick him off the ship.”
“You got it.”
“Thanks, guys.” The officers picked up their papers and departed. Jake raised his voice, “Mr. Tarkington.”
“Yes, CAG.”
“Come join me for a minute, will you?”
Toad brought his lunch tray with him. When he had resumed work on his hamburger, Jake said, “Remember that female reporter that came aboard in Tangiers? Judith Farrell?”
Toad nodded and mumbled affirmatively as he chewed.
“How would you like to have another go at her?”
Toad’s eyebrows went together and he swallowed hard. “She’s here? In Naples?”
“Yep. Going to have dinner with me and my wife tonight. How about you coming along and seeing if you can get her off my hands.”
“Geez, CAG …”
“Now look, you idiot. I’m not asking you to put the munch on this broad. Just see what you can do to get her
