my dog, none of that matters when you have that many pounds of airframe wrapped around you, enormous firepower on your wings, and a guy in the backseat who's depending on you. It doesn't matter ? it can't. Not if you're going to do your job right.
Like I knew what that was about. As I pulled away from the tanker, some tiny wall broke, and I saw again the bloody black fireball that was all that remained of the E-2. The Tomcat wobbled a bit as though she sensed my guts moving in different directions. Gator cleared his throat, then said, 'You okay, buddy?'
'I'm fine.' The words came out harder than I meant them to, but Jesus ? what did Gator expect? Yeah, he'd seen the same things I had. But it hadn't been his fault. It was mine, completely and solely.
If only I had sent Skeeter off after that third missile. I'd been so certain that I could get it myself.
Too certain? I shoved the thought away, leaving it for another time. One when I wasn't trying to get a bird back on deck.
'Nice plug,' Gator offered. I recognized that for what it was, a little cheerleading from a backseater who thought the guy up front might be shaken up. Two years ago, when we'd first started flying together, it might have worked. It almost did this time too, especially coming from Gator, whose voice I knew as well as any man's on earth.
'Piece of cake, yeah,' I said, trying to simulate the appropriate response so he'd go away and be happy. 'Yeah, I sure can fly those tankers.'
'All you have to do is get us back on deck now, Bird Dog,' Gator said. I could hear the careful note in his voice, the one that treaded around the edges of an argument. No matter how strongly he felt about me ? hell, I wasn't even sure he would ever want to fly with me again, not after today ? he would never bring it up right before a trap. Not when he wanted every bit of my attention focused on the pitching, heaving deck below us, and the thin wires that ran perpendicular to my flight path.
Skeeter and I settled in to the starboard marshal pattern and waited for the call. We were operating on visual now, moving automatically into our next place in the pattern and waiting for our chance to roll out.
Finally, I was up. I went first, leaving Skeeter still in the pattern waiting for his turn.
I started my approach, and at two miles out I was rock-steady on glide path. The LSO voice ? Landing Signals Officer ? was just as soothing and encouraging as Gator's had been. Clearly, he knew what had happened, and he was prepared to talk a shaken aviator back down onto deck as gently as possible.
'Tomcat 201, call the ball.'
Like I could miss it. In this weather, the Fresnel lens was a lock, clear and brilliant on the port side of the carrier's ass.
'Roger, ball,' I acknowledged, and followed with a report of my fuel state and number of people on board. Someday, just for the hell of it, I was gonna say three souls and see if anyone caught it.
I came in smooth, clean, adding a little power just as we came over the end of the ship.
It was one of the best traps I ever made, smooth, clean, and solid on the three-wire. Heck, if I'd had another hundred feet, I wouldn't have needed the damn wire at all.
So maybe that's an overstatement. Even the best carrier aircraft landing is a controlled crash, a violent intersection of aircraft and flight deck that throws you forward in the straps and rattles your teeth. It's not something you want to try with a full bladder. I felt the tailhook catch, and slammed the throttle forward to full military power. Standard procedure, in case the hook skips over the wire ? called a kiddie trap, because the aircraft then looks like a kiddie's toy bouncing down the flight deck ? or in case something else goes wrong.
If you do have a problem, you have enough forward speed and lift to get back off the deck. Then you go round, go back into the marshal, and take another pass at the deck.
I waited for the yellow shirt's sign that it was safe to power down, then throttled back to taxi speed. We backed slightly and I lifted the hook, clearing the wire, then followed the yellow shirt's hand directions into the spot. The nose wheel's steering gear felt a little rough ? I made a mental note to gripe it when I signed the aircraft back in.
Once on the spot, I spooled the engines down and started my pre-shutdown checklist. Gator sang out his portions, and we finished quickly.
Behind me, I could hear the high scream, like a tornado inbound, of the next aircraft coming down over the deck. Skeeter, probably ? he'd been right behind me in pattern and should be next on deck.
I turned slightly and craned my neck to watch the ass end of the carrier. The youngster came in high and fast, almost seeming to ignore the LSO's increasingly frantic insistence that he power back. He caught the one-wire ? but just barely. He was nose-high, and I saw the aircraft's nose slam down with an impact that must have been brutal.
'What the hell's going on with him,' I said, half aloud and half to myself. 'He's not the one who blew it today.'
Gator leaned forward and tapped me gently on the shoulder. 'Later, Bird Dog. Let's get this aircraft shut down first.'
I shoved it away again, the last time I'd have to, and completed the pre-shutdown checklist. A few minutes later, the aircraft went cold and dark.
By the time we were on the tarmac, CAG was at the island door waiting for us. Big surprise, that.
CAG stands for Commander, Air Group. Except he's a captain, not a commander. And it's no longer called an Air Group either. It's an Air Wing. But somehow, the acronym CAW just never caught on. CAG is CAG.
There are three major players on board any aircraft carrier. There's the skipper of the ship, an aviator by trade but one who's on his way up from mere four-striper captain to admiral and has been through all the surface- track training he'll ever need. Then there's the guy that owns all the squadrons on board the carrier ? the CAG. They both work for the admiral in command of the entire battle group.
CAG motioned us inside the island, and as soon as we were off the flight deck, he said, 'The admiral wants to see YOU.'
'I figured.'
'Now.'
'That I also figured.'
We followed CAG down one deck to the Flag spaces, sweaty, stinky aviators in flight suits, still carrying their helmets and wearing their ejection harnesses, trotting the sacred cool corridors of Flag country.
CAG stopped us just outside the admiral's door and turned back to me. 'He's been there, Bird Dog. If anybody understands, the admiral does.'
The walls I'd erected in my mind broke down finally. It washed over me now, the sheer magnitude of the loss. Jesus, I knew those men ? hell, I'd had chow with Dogpatch, the E-2 pilot, just yesterday. Gator grabbed my arm. 'Don't go tits-up on me now.'
I started to say something, tried to tell him I was okay, but it must have been very clear that I wasn't. My vision had faded around the edges, tunneling in like I was taking too many Gs, graying out, with color seeping out of the room. There was a black-and-white picture, bleached of all color ? and of all life.
My knees buckled. Gator and CAG caught me on the way down. It didn't seem to matter ? nothing did. My vision was now blurry as well as colorless, and the overwhelming sensation that the world around me was just mist and fog increased.
'Suck it up,' Gator whispered harshly, glancing around at the people standing at the open hatches and doorways down the passageway. 'Just a few more minutes, Bird Dog. Suck it UP.'
'Let's get him into the mess,' CAG said finally. 'Asshole's gonna pass out on us.'
They dragged me into the Flag Mess, the dining facility just off the admiral's quarters. Somebody pushed me down on the couch, and I felt a hand on the back of my neck, shoving my head between my knees.
'Breathe.' Gator's voice now, giving orders. In that state, if there was any voice I'd obey, it would be Gator's.
I took in a deep shuddering breath, felt my diaphragm flex and resist, then forced it in. With my head down, the fuzzy feeling and grayness started to seep away. I tried to sit up straight.
'Not just yet,' Gator said softly. 'Not yet, buddy.'
Finally, the two of them decided I could be trusted not to be treated like a teenager. They let me sit up, and somebody shoved a glass of water in my hand. If they'd been any kind of shipmates at all, there would have been some bourbon in it. You feeling better?' Gator asked.
