mess in Norway brewing there’s no telling what we’re going to be up against next.”
He paused, frowning. “That’s what I need. What I’ve got is a goddamned hero. I don’t like heroes, Mr. Magruder. I like good, solid, competent men who get the job done and don’t feel the need to keep their reputations all shiny and bright. You read me, Commander?”
“Sir … permission to speak freely?”
Stramaglia nodded, a curt, almost angry gesture.
“With all due respect, sir,” Magruder went on. “I didn’t ask for the hero treatment. And I feel it’s unfair of you to judge me before I’ve had a chance to show you how I can perform my duties.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“Yessir,” Magruder replied, feeling like a student again.
“Good. Because you’re absolutely right.” Stramaglia allowed himself a faint smile. “I just wanted you to know exactly where things stand. There are a few old shipmates of yours aboard this boat, as you’ve already discovered, and there are a lot of young hotshots who never met you but plan to be just like you given half a chance. You’re gonna have to work overtime to get past that hero-worship crap if you’re gonna be an effective member of my staff, Understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Magruder said again, relaxing a little. Stramaglia hadn’t changed much, it seemed. He was still blunt, even harsh … but fair enough, in the long run.
“All right, then. I see you having the potential to be a good Deputy CAG, Commander, just as I thought you had potential as an aviator. You didn’t disappoint me the last time … try not to let me down now.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” Tombstone said slowly.
“You damned well better believe you’ll do your best! When I’m through with you, Commander, you’ll know everything there is to know about an air wing. Not just the flashy fighters … everything.” Stramaglia paused. “I’m an old-fashioned kind of officer, and I stick with the old COMNAVAIRLANT policy — air wing commanders fly two types of aircraft off the carrier deck, no more, no less. My deputies follow the same rules. Your file says you’re checked out on most everything we’re carrying, right?”
“Fixed wing, yes, sir,” Tombstone said. “Not helos, though.”
“Good. For now you’re cleared for the S-3 and the A-6. Those are the birds your predecessor was assigned to. You can fly them, or you can go up as an NFO, whatever. But unless I tell you otherwise you concentrate on those two birds and nothing else. Got me?”
Inwardly, Tombstone seethed. He’d flown most of the Navy’s planes at one time or another, but he had always been a Tomcat driver first and foremost. Stramaglia was cutting him off from the part of the job he really loved.
It was like Washington all over again … but with the life he wanted tantalizingly close, hanging just out of reach.
“I understand, sir,” he said carefully, trying to keep his voice neutral.
But Stramaglia wasn’t fooled. “Not pleased, are you, Magruder? Well, you’re not supposed to be. Look, Deputy CAG carries some damned heavy responsibilities. You’re my number two. I expect my deputy to know everything there is to know about running the Air Wing, because if I buy it you’re the one who has to take over. You need to learn what the rest of the Air Wing does. What you don’t need is any more experience in Tomcats, ‘cause you’ve got that down cold already. So you’ll concentrate on what you need to learn. Sub-hunting. Executing bombing runs. You’re going back to school, son, just like the old days at Miramar.”
“Yes, sir,” Magruder acknowledged. He could understand the older man’s point, though it still stung him to be barred from duty with the Tomcat squadrons.
Stramaglia’s watch beeped an alarm. He checked it with a frown. “Admiral Tarrant’s called a briefing this morning for senior battle group officers. That includes the top CAG staff. So let’s get going.” He paused, studying Magruder’s face. “And for God’s sake, stop looking like you’re on Death Row. I don’t bite, son … well, not much, at least.”
Magruder forced a smile and rose from the chair, following Stramaglia out of the office.
CHAPTER 6
The room was known as “Civic,” from the designation CVIC, the Navy acronym for “Carrier Intelligence Center.” It reminded Stramaglia more of a lecture hall than part of an ultra-modern supercarrier. The grays and off-greens of the bulkheads were broken up by framed prints along the side walls showing famous scenes from U.S. naval history, while the wall behind him was dominated by an oil painting of the Jefferson herself. Behind the podium at the far end of the room was a projection screen, and folding metal chairs dominated the center of the room. About half of them were filled this morning with an impressive collection of senior officers from Carrier Battle Group 14, and the officers still milling around were beginning to drift toward their seats.
Stramaglia spotted Lieutenant Commander Arthur Lee, the Air Wing’s Intelligence Officer, coming in by the door nearest the podium. He waved to attract Lee’s attention, and with a nod the younger officer started toward Stramaglia and the other two officers representing the CAG staff sitting with him.
Stramaglia glanced from one to the other. Lieutenant Commander David Owens, with his fresh face and eager manner, looked too young for his rank. His record said he was qualified, but he didn’t have enough experience to suit Stramaglia. With time and seasoning Owens might be all right, but he didn’t inspire much confidence. That had been Stramaglia’s main reason for requesting an immediate replacement after Greene’s death.
The new Deputy CAG, Magruder, certainly had the seasoning Owens lacked. Back in Miramar Stramaglia had marked him out as an officer who might go far. Magruder was thoughtful, not given to the kind of hotdog stunts so many fighter pilots were prone to pull. But he’d also known when to let his instincts take over. His career since Top Gun had gone far beyond Stramaglia’s expectations.
All he had to do now was apply himself as well to his new post as he had to flying and Magruder would be a good candidate for his own air wing command some day … perhaps even a slot as Exec or Captain on a carrier. That was something Joseph Stramaglia knew he’d never see himself.
The thought still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
For eight years he’d taught the best of the best, the top one percent of the Navy’s fighter pilots. It had started as a privilege, an honor bestowed on him for his excellent performance. But each time he’d set out to apply for a new duty station he’d let someone talk him out of it, appealing to pride or duty or vanity to persuade him to put in a little more time as an instructor.
And before he’d realized it eight years were gone, and with them the best chance for a real career. He’d missed out on Desert Storm right off the bat, but the F-14s hadn’t seen much action over Iraq anyway. But he’d still been training others while Matthew Magruder was becoming America’s latest naval hero.
Now it was too late. He’d finally wangled command of an air wing by pulling every string he could think of. But the chances of rising any higher were slim now. The Navy’s program for promoting officers to command slots was getting more and more rigid, and with all the defense cutbacks lately it was getting so there were a dozen or more top candidates for every position. That was especially true with carriers. Fourteen flattops were all there were. Even the chance of commanding a Naval Air Station rated somewhere between slim and none.
Too senior to fly, but without the record to advance any further … Stramaglia knew he’d been letting his own bitterness hamper him in dealing with his subordinates, especially Magruder, but sometimes it just didn’t seem fair.
Lee sat down next to him. “Looks like this is the big one, doesn’t it, sir?” he said. The prospect seemed to excite him. “Did you see the morning news?”
“Yeah,” Stramaglia said shortly. Both of Jefferson’s television stations carried news programs, a mix of shipboard information and world news picked up by satellite.
“I didn’t,” Magruder put in. “What happened?”
