by Ward Carroll
“It turns out he had trouble relating to his teenage son, who was a bright kid, but kind of a nerd and a real military buff. Well, Leak used to try and make points with the boy by telling him secret information: capabilities, numbers . . . the whole shooting match. So this kid was bragging to his friends at a Chess Club meeting about all the stuff he knows, and one of the teachers, a chief’s wife, happened to hear. She knew the information sounded a bit too detailed, so she told the chief about it, and he then told the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Long story short, Leak was yanked out of his training track overnight and forced to retire that same year.”
“So, as far as Skipper Campbell goes . . .”
“Justice will be served before it’s all over,” the XO insisted. “He’ll pull his own Leak Johnson stunt. Maybe he’ll be somebody’s chief of staff and get nailed by a female government service worker for sexual harassment or something. I don’t know. I do know good leaders breed more good leaders, and if the system’s lucky, bad leaders just breed angry junior officers who vow never to be like their bosses once they get in the same positions.”
A car squealed its tires in the parking lot, and they both laughed. “So, what about you?”
The lieutenant raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
“Look, Punk, I’m not going to bullshit you. You’re a good officer, and good officers will always have options. The CNO told me he wants to step up the date for the change of command, so that means I’ll be the skipper sooner than expected. I’ll need good officers to help run the squadron. Spud and Smoke will need good officers in the future.” He patted Punk on the back. “Oh, one more thing. Soup doesn’t have a Distinguished Flying Cross.” The commander smiled as he moved away. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”
Punk was left alone on the deck, and he stared into the night. He caught sight of the lights of an airliner and watched it scribe a predictable path across the star-dotted blackness—headed south, he figured, maybe toward the Virgin Islands or some other exotic destination. He considered life as an airline pilot and thought about what Biff would be getting into. Punk wondered what Jordan’s reaction would be if he called her with the news that he’d dropped his letter of resignation and been hired by a major airline. Would a message of affluence and stability cause her to change her mind? Did he want her to change her mind?
Then the nearby roar of a fighter going into afterburner as it started its takeoff roll grew louder. Punk craned his head around until he caught sight of it. The thunder vibrated through him as the Tomcat passed over the club and pulled into a steep climb. He watched the jet scream upward, seemingly unbounded by gravity, and he knew the pilot under the canopy was looking down with the same feeling of superiority he’d possessed from that vantage point just yesterday. Punk followed the fighter until it disappeared from view.
The sound died off, and Spud appeared through the glass door, well into the celebration of his selection for squadron command. “I heard you were moping around out here,” he called across the deck to his pilot. “Are you coming in?”
“Yeah,” Punk replied. “I guess I am.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Santa Ana, California, Ward Carroll is the eldest son of a career Marine Corps attack pilot. He graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1982 and flew in F-14 Tomcats as a radar intercept officer for fifteen years, serving in five different fighter squadrons and attaining the rank of commander. A freelance writer with credits in magazines as varied as Golf World, Hits, and Proceedings, he also acted as a technical consultant to Hollywood for the films The Hunt for Red October and Flight of the Intruder. He teaches English and ethics at the Naval Academy and is writing his next novel.
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