Stephen Coonts - Jake Grafton 6 - Intruders

by Intruders (lit)

  The crazy thing was that the horizon looked the same in every direction. In all directions. Pick a direction, any direction, and that uniform gauzy junction of sea and sky obscured everything that lay beyond. Yet intelligence tells us that direction is critical-life itself is a journey toward something, somewhere.

  Which way?

  Jake Grafton sat silently, looking, wondering.

  Hank Davis was still in a private room in sick bay when Jake dropped by to see him. He looked pale, an impression accentuated by his black-as-coal, pencil-thin mustache.

  "Hey, Hank, when they gonna let you out of here?" "I'm under observation. Whenever they get tired of observing. I dunno." "So how you doing?" Jake settled into the only chair and looked the bombardier over carefully.

  Davis shrugged. "Some days you eat the bear, some days the bear eats you. He got a big bite of my butt yesterday.

  A big bite." "Well, you made it. You pulled the handle while you still had time, so you're alive." "You ejected once, didn't you?" "Yeah," Jake Grafton told him. "Over Laos. Got shot up over Hanoi." "Ever have second thoughts?" "Like what?" "Well, like maybe you were too worried about your own butt and not enough about the other guy's?" "I thought the VDI came out on the shot? Went into Smith's lap?" "Yeah." "Hank! What could you do? The damned thing weighs seventy pounds. Even with your help, Smith couldn't have got it back into its tray. No way. If you'd crawled across to help, you'd both be dead now. It's not like you guys had a half hour to dick with this problem." Davis didn't reply. He looked at a wall, swallowed hard.

  Jake Grafton racked his brains for a way to reach out. I should have told you guys about checking the VDI'S security.

  Although he felt that, he didn't say it.

  Hank related the facts of his ejection in matter-of-fact tones. The chute had not completely opened when he hit the water. So he hit the water way too hard and had trouble getting out of his chute.

  The swimmer from the helicopter had been there in seconds and saved his bacon. Still, he swallowed a lot of seawater and almost drowned.

  "I dunno, Jake. Sometimes life's pretty hard to figure.

  When you look at it close, the only thing that makes a difference is luck. Who lives or who dies is just luck. The dead guy screwed up," everybody says. Of course he screwed up.

  Lady Luck crapped all over him. And if that's true, then everything else is a lie-religion, professionalism, everything.

  We are all just minnows swimming in the sea and luck decides when it's your turn. Then the shark eats you and that's the fucking end of that." "If it's all luck, then these guilt trips don't make much sense, do they?" Jake observed.

  "Right now the accident investigators are down in the avionics shop," Hank Davis told him.

  "They are looking for the simple bastard who didn't get the VDI screwed in right.

  All this shit is gonna- get dumped right on that poor dumb son of a bitch! 'Rory Smith is dead and it's your fault." Makes me want to puke some more." Squadron life revolves around the ready room, ashore or afloat. Since the A-6 squadrons always had the most flight crewmen, they always got the biggest ready room, in most ships Ready Five, but in Columbia, Ready Four.

  The ready room was never big enough. It was filled with comfortable, padded chairs that you could sink into and really relax in, even sleep in, but there weren't enough of them for all the officers.

  In some squadrons when all the officers assembled for a meeting--an AOM--CHAIRS were assigned by strict seniority.

  In other outfits the rule was fast come, first served. How it was done depended on the skipper, who always got a chair up front by the duty desk, the best seat in the house. Lieutenant Colonel Haldane believed that rank had its privileges-at least when not airborne--so seniority reigned here.

  Jake Grafton ended up with a seat four rows back. The nuggets, first lieutenants on their first cruise, stood around the back of the room or sat on metal folding chairs.

  AOM'S were social and business events.

  Squadron business was thrashed out in these meetings, administrative matters dealing with the ship and the demands of the amorphous bureaucracies of the Navy and the Marine Corps were considered, lectures delivered on NATOP'S and flying procedures, the "word" passed, all manner of things.

  At these soirees all the officers in the squadron got to know each other well. Here one got a close look at the department heads-the "heavies"-watched junior officers in action, here the commanding officer exerted his leadership and molded the flight crews into a military unit.

  In addition to the legal authority with which he was cloaked, the commanding officer was always the most experienced flyer there and the most senior. How he used these assets was the measure of the man, for truly, his responsibility was very great. In addition to the aircraft entrusted to him, he was responsible for about 350 enlisted men and three dozen officers. He was legally and morally responsible for every facet of their lives, from the adequacy of their living quarters to their health, professional development and performance. And he was responsible for the squadron as a military unit in combat, which meant the lives of his men were in his hands.

  The responsibility crushed some men, but most commanding officers flourished under it. This was the professional zenith that they had spent their careers working to attain.

  By the time they reached it they had served under many commanding officers. The wise ones adopted the best of the leadership styles of their own former skippers and adapted it as necessary to suit their personalities.

  Leadership could not be learned from a book: it was the most intangible and the most human of the military skills.

  In American naval aviation the best skippers led primarily by example and the force of their personalities-they intentionally kept the mood light as they gave orders, praised, cajoled, hinted, encouraged, scolded, ridiculed, laughed at and commented upon whatever and whomever they wished.

  The ideal that they seemed to instinctively strive for was a position as first among equals. Consequently AOM'S were normally spirited affairs, occasionally raucous, full of good humor and camaraderie, with every speaker working hard to gain his audience's attention and cope with catcalls and advice-good, bad, indifferent and obscene. In this environment intelligence and good sense could flourish, here experience could be shared and everyone could learn from everyone else, here the bonds necessary to sustain fighting men could be forged.

  This evening Rory Smith's death hung like a gloomy pall in the air.

  Colonel Haldane spoke first. He told them what he knew of the accident, what Hank Davis had said. Then he got down to it: "The war is over and still we have planes crashing and people dying. Hard to figure, isn't it? This time it wasn't the bad guys. The gomers didn't get Rory Smith in three hundred and twenty combat missions, although they tried and they tried damned hard. He had planes shot up so badly on three occasions that he was decorated for getting the planes back. What got him was a VDI that slid out of its tray in the instrument panel and jammed the stick.

  "Did he think about ejecting? I don't know.

  I wish he had ejected. I wish to God we still had Rory Smith with us.

  Maybe he was worried about getting his legs cut off if he pulled the handle. Maybe he didn't have time to punch.

  Maybe he thought he could save it. Maybe he didn't realize how quickly the plane was getting into extremism Lots of maybes. We'll never know." He picked up the blue NATOP'S manual lying on the podium and held it up. "This book is the Bible. The engineers that built this plane and the test pilots that wrung it out put their hearts and souls into this book-for you. Telling you everything they knew.

  And the process didn't stop thereas new things are learned about the plane the book is continitally updated. It's a living document. You should know every word in it. That is the best insurance you can get on this side of hell.

  "But the book doesn't cover everything. Sooner or later you are going to run into something that isn't covered in the book. Whether you sur
vive the experience win be determined by your skill, your experience, and your luck.

  "There's been a lot of mumbling around here the last twenty-four hours about luck. Well, there is no such thing.

  You can't feel it, taste it, smell it, touch it, wear it, fuck it, or eat it. It doesn't exist!

  "This thing we call luck is merely professionalism and attention to detail, it's your awareness of everything that is going on around you, it's how well you know and understand your airplane and your own limitations. We make our own luck. Each of us.

  None of us is Superman. Luck is the sum total of your abilities as an aviator. If you think your luck is running low, you'd better get busy and make some more.

  Work harder. Pay more attention. Study your NATOPS more. Do better preffights.

  "A wise man once said, 'Fortune favors the well prepared." He was right.

  "Rory Smith is not with us here tonight because he didn't eject when he should have. Hank Davis is alive because he did.

  "We're going to miss Rory. But every man here had better resolve to learn something from his death. If we do, he didn't die for nothing. Think about it." The best way to see Hawaii is the way the ancient Polynesians first saw it, the way it was revealed to whalers and missionaries, the way sailors have always seen it.

  The islands first appear on the horizon like clouds, exactly the same as the other clouds.

  Only as the hours pass and your vessel gets closer does it become apparent that there is something different about these clouds. The first hints of green below the churning clouds imply mass, earth, land, an island, where at first there appeared to be only sea and sky.

  Finally you see for sure-tawny green slopes, soon a surf line, definition and a crest for that ridge, that draw, that promontory.

  Hawaii.

  Jake Grafton stood amid the throng of off-duty sailors on the bow watching the island of Oahu draw closer and closer.

  She looked emerald green this morning under her cloud wreath. The hotels and office buildings of Honolulu were quite plain there on the right. Farther right Diamond Head jutted from the sea haze, also wearing a cumulus buildup.

  The sailors pointed out'the landmarks to one another and talked excitedly. They were jovial, happy.

  To see Hawaii for the first time is one of LIFE'S great milestones, like your first kiss.

  Jake had been here before--twice. On each of his first two cruises the ship had stopped in Pearl on its way to Vietnam. As he watched the carrier close the harbor channel , he thought again of those times, and of the men now dead whom he had shared them with.

  Little fish. Sharks.

  He went below. Down in the stateroom the Real McCoy was poring over a copy of the Wall Street Journal. "Are you rich enough to retire yet?" "I'm making an honest dollar, Grafton.

  Working hard at it and taking big risks. We call the system capitalism." "Yeah. So how's capitalism treating you?" "Think I'm up another grand as of the date of this paper, four days ago. I'll get something current as soon as I can get off base." "Uh-huh." coneaArabs turned off the oil tap in the Mideast. That will send my domestic oil stocks soaring and melt the profits off my airline stocks.

  Some up, some down, You know, the crazy thing about investing-there's really no such thing as bad news.

  Whether an event is good or bad depends on where you've got your money." Jake eyed his roommate without affection. This worm'seye view of life irritated him. The worms had placed bets on the little fish. Somehow that struck him as inevitable, though it didn't say much for the worms. Or the little fish.

  "You going ashore?" McCoy asked.

  "Like a shot out of a gun, the instant the gangway stops moving," Jake Grafton replied. "I have got to get off this tub for a while." "Liberty hounds don't go very high in this man's Navy," McCoy reminded him, in a tone that Jake thought sounded a wee bit prissy.

  "I really don't care if Haldane uses my fitness report for toilet paper" was Jake Grafton's edged retort. And he didn't care. Not one iota.

  "Hello." "Hello, Mrs. McKenzie? This is Jake Grafton. Is Callie there?" "No, she isn't, Jake. Where are you?" "Hawaii." "She's at school right now. She should be back around six this evening. Is there a number where she can reach you?" "No. I'll call her. Please tell her I called." "I'll do that, Jake." The pilot hung up the phone and put the rest of the quarters from his roll back into his trouser pocket.

  When he stepped out of the telephone booth, the next sailor in line took his place.

  He trudged away looking neither right nor left, ignoring the sporadic salutes tossed his way.

  The palm trees and frangipani in bloom didn't interest him. The tropical breeze caressing his face didn't distract him. When a jet climbing away from Hickam thundered over, however, the pilot stopped and looked up.

  He watched the jet until the plane was out of sight and the sound had faded, then walked on.

  About a ship's length from the carrier pier was a small square of grass complete with picnic table adjacent to the water. After brushing away pigeon droppings, Jake Grafton seated himself on the table and eased his fore-and-aft cap farther back onto his head. The view was across the harbor at the USS Arizona memorial, which he knew was constructed above the sunken battleship's superstructure.

  Arizona lay on the mud under that calm sheet of water, her hull blasted, holed, burned and twisted by Japanese bombs and torpedoes. Occasionally boats ferrying tourists to and from the memorial made wakes that disturbed the surface of the water. After the boats" passage, the disturbance would quickly dissipate. Just the faintest hint of a swell spoiled the mirror smoothness of that placid sheet, protected as it was from the sea's turbulence by the length and narrowness of the channel. The perfect water reflected sky and drifting cumulus clouds and, arranged around the edge of the harbor, the long gray warships that lay at the piers.

  Jake Grafton smoked cigarettes while he sat look' Ing.

  Time passed slowly and his mind wandered. Occasionally he glanced at his watch. When almost two hours had passed, he walked back toward the telephone booths at the head of the carrier pier and got back into line.

  T HE IN TRUD ER S "Hey, Callie, it's me, Jake." "Well, hello, sailor! It's great to hear your voice." "Pretty nice hearing yours too, lady. So you're back in school?" "Uh-huh. Graduate courses. I'm getting so educated I don't know what I'll do." "I like smart women." "I'll see if I can find one for you. So you're in Pearl Harbor?" "Yep. Hawaii. Got in a while ago.

  Gonna be here a couple days, then maybe Japan or the Philippines or the IO." Realizing that she probably wouldn't recognize the acronym, he added belatedly, comThat's the Indian Ocean. I don't know.

  Admirals somewhere figure it out and I go wherever the ship goes. But enough about me. Talk some so I can listen to your voice." "I got your letter about the in-flight engagement.

  That sounded scary. And dangerous." "It was exciting all right, but we lost a plane yesterday on a day cat shot. An A-6. Went in off the cat. The pilot was killed." "I'm sorry, Jake." "I'm getting real tired of this, Callie.

  I've been here too long. I'm a civilian at heart and I think it's time I pulled the plug.

  I've submitted a letter of resignation." "Oh," she said. After a pause, she added, "When are you getting out?" "Won't be until the cruise is over." "Are you sure about this?" "Yeah." He twisted the telephone cord and wondered what to say.

  She wasn't saying anything on her end, so he plunged ahead.

  "The plane that went in off the cat was the one I had the in-flight engagement in, ol' Five One One. The in-flight smacked the avionics around pretty good, and when they reinstalled the boxes one of the technicians didn't get the VDI properly secured. So the VDI box came out on the cat shot, jammed the stick. The BN punched and told us what happened, but the pilot didn't get out." isi "You're not blaming yourself, are you?" "No." He said that too quickly. "Well, to tell the truth, I am a little bit responsible.

  With better technique I might have avoided the in-flight. That's spill
ed milk. Maybe it was unavoidable. But I was briefing these Marines on carrier ops--everything you need to know to be a carrier pilot in four two-hour sessions, and I forgot to mention that you have to check the security of the VDFI 61 see." I'm you?" "Not really. But aren't these risks a part of carrier aviation?" "Not a part. This is the main course, the heart of it, the very essence. In spite of the very best of intentions, mistakes will be made, things will break.

  War or no war, people get killed doing this stuff.

  I'm getting sick of watching people bet their lives and losing, that's all." "Are YOU Worried about your own safety?" "No more than usual. You have to fret it some or you won't be long on this side of hell." "It seems to me that the dangers would become hard to live with-was "I can handle it. I think. No one's shooting at me. But see, that's the crazy part. The war is over, yet as long as men keep flying off these ships there are going to be casualties." "So what will you do when you get out?" "I don't know, Callie." Seconds passed before she spoke. "Life isn't easy, Jake." "That isn't exactly news. I've done a year or two of hard living my own self." "I thought you liked the challenge." "Are you trying to tell me you want me to stay in?" "No." Her voice solidified. "I am not suggesting that you do anything. I'm not even hinting.