Final Flight

“Where’s the cat officer, chief?”

“The only one we had aboard is dead, killed in that hangardeck fire, and the rest of them are on the beach. I’m all the khaki the catapults have aboard.”

“Who’s going to launch us?”

Kowalski looked around the deck and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I am,” he said sheepishly. “But I’m sober, sir.” The chief nodded at both comments, then added, “He knows more about launching procedure than I do, CAG.”

“Whose bright idea was it to flip that chopper upside down with the JBD?” Jake climbed the ladder into the cockpit. The plane captain followed him up to help him strap in.

“Mine, sir,” Kowalski said, looking up at Jake.

“Didn’t you hear my orders on the 1-MC not to interfere with those people?”

“I didn’t hear any announcement, sir,” Kowalski said.

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“No, sir,” Kowalski said, louder.

“Did you know that there was an armed nuclear weapon sitting on deck over there by the island, and the leader of that bunch had threatened to detonate it if anybody interfered with him?”

Kowalski pressed both hands against the sides of his head.

The plane captain finished strapping Jake in and went down the ladder. “I didn’t hear your answer, Ski.”

“No, sir. I didn’t know that.”

Jake motioned at the catapult captain. “Come up here.” When the man’s face was a foot from his, Jake said, “Do you know enough to launch these planes?”

“I’ve seen the shooters do it lots of times, CAG.”

“You can practice on me first.” Jake grabbed a handful of Kowalski’s filthy T-shirt. “Son, you’re a drunk. We need you sober or not at all. Promise me here and now, if you ever take another drink, you’ll ask for an administrative discharge as an alcoholic.”

Tears filled Kowalski’s eyes. His head bobbed.

“Okay,” said Jake Grafton. “Now give everybody a good shot. Take your time and be sure you know what you’re doing.”

“You can trust me, sir,” Kowalski said and disappeared down the ladder.

28

Jake Grafton eased the throttles forward to full military power and felt the nose of the fighter dip as the thrust of the engines compressed the nose wheel oleo. The Tomcat seemed to crouch, gathering strength as its two engines ripped the night apart.

“You ready back there?” he asked Toad. As usual, Jake’s heart was pounding as he scanned the engine instruments.

“I’m behind you all the way, sir.”

Jake glanced over at the waist catapult bubble as he flipped on the external light master switch. The bubble windows were opaque. He looked straight ahead, down the catapult track at the ink-black void.

The G pushed him back into his seat and the end of the deck hurled toward him faster and faster as the howl of the engines dropped in pitch. The deck edge flashed under the nose and the G subsided, and he released the throttles and slapped the gear handle up as he let the nose climb to its optimum, eight degrees up, attitude. Accelerating nicely … 180 … 190 … 200 knots, still accelerating and climbing, flaps and slats up, little wallow as they come in…. Passing 250 knots, he looked ahead for the lights of the KA-6 Intruder tanker, which had been the first plane off Catapult Four.

Toad was on the radio to Gettysburg: “… airborne, two miles ahead of the ship, passing two thousand and squawking …” Jake eased into a left turn and looked back for the next plane. God, it’s dark out here! There — a mile or so behind. Back on the gauges, still climbing and turning, still accelerating — Jake breathed deeply and tried to relax as his eyes roamed across the panel, taking everything in.

The Tomcat that had launched from Catapult Four was on the inside of the turn, closing. Jake searched the night for the beaconing anticollision lights of other fighters leaving the little island of light that was the carrier. Nothing yet. Kowalski must be taking his time. That’s good; better safe than sorry.

Jake eased back the throttles and leveled at 5,000 feet, still turning. The second fighter was only a hundred yards away, closing nicely. It traversed the distance and slid under Jake and stabilized on his right wing, on the outside of the turn. The tanker was on the opposite side of the ship, so Jake steepened his turn to cross the ship and rendezvous.

“Red Ace Two Zero Six, Volcano, over.” “Volcano” was the radio call sign for the Gettysburg.

“Go ahead, Volcano,” Toad replied.

“Roger. Uh, sir, we have received, uh …” The transmission ceased for a few seconds. “Maybe we should go secure.”

“Roger.”

After he turned on the scrambler, Jake glanced again at the carrier. Still no anticollision lights on deck or in the air. Come on, Ski! He turned his attention again to the little collection of lights in the great black emptiness that was the tanker.

“Red Ace,” the controller aboard Gettysburg said when Toad had checked in again, “we have received a high-priority message from Sixth Fleet and have relayed it to Battlestar.” “Battlestar” was the United States. “Sixth Fleet has directed that there be no planes launched to pursue the intruders unless and until authorized by the president. Battlestar suspended the launch after we relayed this message to them by flashing light. Do you wish to hold overhead until we receive presidential authorization for the mission, or do you wish to recover back aboard Battlestar?”

Jake stole a glance at his fuel gauge as he closed on the tanker on a forty-five-degree line of bearing. The totalizer had begun its relentless march toward zero when he started the engines. Fuel from the tanker would delay the inevitable, but not prevent it. “Any timetable on when you might hear from the president?” Jake asked as he matched his speed to the tanker and passed under it, surfacing on its right side.

“Wait.” The controller aboard the cruiser must be questioning his superiors.

The tanker lights flashed, and Jake flashed his; now he had the lead. He could see the reflective tape on the pilot and bombardier-navigator’s helmets whenever his own red anticollision light swept the plane. That was all. Just the outline of two helmets in the darkened cockpit. The tanker drifted aft so the pilot could look up the leading edge of Jake’s left wing. Jake checked his right wing. The other Tomcat hung there motionless, suspended in this black, formless universe.

“No, sir,” the controller finally said.

“Talk to you in a minute,” Jake replied. He glanced at his heading indicator. Passing 210 degrees. He rolled wings level when the indicator read 180 degrees.

“Toad,” Jake said over the intercom, “use your red flashlight to signal those guys to switch to two three two point six.”

Tarkington did as requested while Jake dialed the radio to that frequency. “Two, you up?” Jake asked.

“Roger.” This was the other fighter.

“Shotgun’s with you.” That was the tanker crew.

“Go secure.”

The response was mike clicks.

With the scrambler engaged, Jake said, “Who’s over there in the turkey?” He slowly nudged the throttles forward and lifted the nose. The needle on the altimeter began to move clockwise.

“Joe Watson and Corky Moran, CAG.” The needle on the vertical speed indicator swung lazily up past five hundred feet a minute, then eight hundred, and stabilized at one thousand. It was reassuring, in a way; he could make these little needles do precisely as he wished with the smallest displacement of stick or throttles. Jake added