The coast was behind him and he was headed out to sea.
The Air Intercept fighter remained illuminated and the tone continued in their ears, although it was back to three notes, a pause, then the three notes again.
"We're on the edge of his scan, but he sees us all right," Flap said.
"Hang on." Throttles forward to the stops, Jake lowered the left wing and pulled hard until he had turned another ninety degrees.
Now he was heading north. He let the nose drop and they slanted down toward the ocean.
Meanwhile Flap was craning his head to see behind.
Jake was looking too, then coming back inside to scan the instruments. Outside again... too many puffy clouds. He saw nothing.
The adrenaline was really pumping now.
"See anything?" he demanded of Flap.
"You'll be the first to hear if I do. I promise." Probably a Phantom, but it could be a MiGo! Out over the ocean, in international waters.
If it shot them down, who would know?
Or care?
Goddamn!
This A-6 was unarmed. Sidewinders could be fitted but Jake had never carried one, not even in training. This was an attack plane, not a fighter.
And there was no gun. For reasons known only to God and Pentagon cost efficiency experts, the Navy had bought the A-6 without any internal guns.
Against an enemy fighter it was defenseless.
The raster beat was tattooing their eardrums. Now they had a two-ring-strength strobe on the small Threat Direction Indicator-TDI. Almost directly aft.
He did another square corner, turning east again, then retarded the throttles to idle to lower the engines" heat signature and kept the plane in a gentle descent to maintain its speed. The enemy plane extended north, then turned, not as sharply.
Now it was at five o'clock behind them.
Jake looked aft. Clouds. Oh, sweet Jesus! Dit-da-de-duh, dit-da-de-duh, dit-da-de-duh... the sound was maddening.
He was running out of sky. Passing eleven hundred feet.
The ocean was down here.
He slammed the throttles full forward. As the engines wound up he pushed the nose over to convert what altitude he had into airspeed. He bottomed out at four hundred feet on the altimeter with 500 knots on the airplane. He pulled, a nice steady four-G pull.
He was climbing vertically, straight up, when he entered the clouds. Concentrating on the gauges, trying to ignore the insane beat of the enemy radar, he kept the stick back but eased out most of the G. Still in the clouds with the nose up ten degrees, he rolled upright and continued to climb.
The sound of the enemy's radar stopped. The MiGo must have sliced off to one side or the other, be making a turn to reacquire him. But which way? He had been concentratso hard on flying the plane that he hadn't had time to mg watch the TDL "Right or left?" he asked Flap.
"I dunno." The clouds were thinning. Lots more sunlight. Then the A-6 popped out on top.
Jake looked left, Flap right.
The pilot saw him first, three or four thousand feet above, turning toward them. An F-4.
"It's a fucking Phantom," he roared over the ICS to Flap.
Flap spun and craned over Jake's shoulder.
Then he flopped back in his seat and held up middle fingers to the world.
Jake raised his visor and swabbed his face.
Now the strobe reappeared on the TDI and the music sounded in his ears.
He reached with his right hand and turned the ECM equipment off.
The plane was climbing nicely. He engaged the autopilot, then turned to watch the F-4. It tracked inbound for several seconds, then turned away while it was still a half mile or so out.
Jake took off his oxygen mask and helmet and used his sleeve to swab the perspiration from his face.
He was wearing his flight gloves, so he used them to wipe his hair. The sweat, made black stains on his gloves and sleeve. Then he took off one glove and used his fingers to clean the stinging, salty solution from his eyes.
"Think he did that on purpose?" Flap demanded when he had his helmet back on and could again hear the ICS.
"How would I know?" One evening as Jake entered the stateroom, his roommate, the financier, glanced at him and groaned. "Not another haircut! For heaven's sake, Jake, why don't you just shave your head and be done with it?" Grafton surveyed his locks in the mirror over the sink.
"What are you quacking about? Looks okay to me." "Is this the third haircut this week?" "Well, I admit, watching these Marines parade off to the barbershop on an hourly basis has had a corrosive effect on my morals.
I feel like a scuz bucket if I don't go along.
What are you caterwauling about? It's my head and it'll all grow out, sooner or later." "You're ruining my image, Grafton. Already they are giving me the evil eye. I feel like a spy in the house of love." "You've been reading AnaTs Nin, haven't you?" "Bartow loaned me an edition in English.
Wow, you ought to read some of that stuff! Ooh la la.
It's broadening my horizons." "What are you working on this evening?" The Real had paper strewn all over his desk, but there wasn't a stock market listing in sight.
McCoy frowned and flipped some of the pages upside down so that Jake couldn't see them. Then he apparently thought better of his actions and sat back in his chair surveying Grafton. The frown faded. In a moment he grinned.
"We're going to cross the line in two days." The line-the equator. The task group was heading southeast, intending to sail around the island of Java and reenter the China Sea through the Sunda Strait. Of necessity the ship would cross the equator twice.
"So?" "I'm the only officer shellback in the squadron. Everyone else is a pollywog, including you." A pollywog was a sailor who had never crossed the equator. A shellback was one who had previously crossed and been duly initiated into the Solemn Mysteries of the Ancient Order of Shellbacks. It was easy enough to find out who was and who wasn't. In accordance with naval regulations, all shellbacks had the particulars of their initiation recorded in their service records--ship, date and longitude.
"Too bad you'll miss out on all the fun," Jake said carelessly.
McCoy chuckled. "I ain't gonna miss a thing, shipmate, believe you me. I'm coming to the festivities as Davy Jones.
But if you're willing, I could use a little help." Jake was aghast. "Help from a lowly pollywog?" "We'll have to keep this under our hats. Can't have scandalous things like this whispered around, can we? This would be help on the sly, for the greater glory of King Neptune." He picked up the documents on his desk that he had turned over to keep Jake from seeing and passed them to his roommate.
The next two days passed quickly and pleasantly. Then the great day arrived. There was, of course, no flying scheduled. All morning people-presumably shellbacks-bustled around the ship on mysterious errands, with lots of giggling.
The pollywogs were given strict orders over the ship's loudspeaker system. They were to go to their staterooms or berthing compartments after the noon meal and remain there until summoned into the august presence of Neptunus Rex, Ruler of the Raging Main.
Actually there were over two dozen Neptunes, selected strictly on senority, i.e., the number of times they had crossed the line. Initiation ceremonies would be held simultaneously in ready rooms, berthing areas and mess decks throughout the ship, and each ceremony would be presided over by Neptunus Rex.
In his stateroom, Jake took off his uniform and pulled on a pair of civilian shorts. He donned a T-shirt and slid his feet into shower thongs. Then he settled back to wait for his summons.
wasn't long in coming. The telephone rang. The duty. "Pollywog Grafton, come to the ready room." "Aye aye, sir." Jake took off his watch and dog tags. After he checked to ensure that his stateroom key was in his pocket, he went out and locked the door behind him.
The ready room was rapidly filling with his fellow wogs.
Jake slipped into his regular seat.
Colonel Haldane was loungi
ng in his seat near the duty officer's desk, chatting quietly with the executive officer. Alas, both officers were also wogs and were decked out for the festivities to come in jeans and Marine Corps green T-shirts. Standing everywhere around the bulkheads were officers from the air wing and other squadrons in uniform. Shellbacks. They immediately began to heckle the Marines, and Grafton.
"You're in for it now, wogs... Just you wait until King Neptune arrives... You slimy wogs are in deep and serious..." The public address system crackled to LIFE. Ding ding, ding ding, ding ding, ding ding, ding ding. Ten bells. "Ruler of the Raging Main, arriving." A howl of glee arose from the onlookers, who laughed and pointed at the assembled victims, many of whom were making faces at their tormentors. Now Flap Le Beau stood in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a pillowcase on top of his head, held on with a band. His face was streaked with paint. As the onlookers hooted, he explained that he was an African king, ruler of the ancient kingdom of BoogalaKnowledge and he demanded deferential treatment from this Rex guy.
The shellbacks successfully shouted him down.
Finally he sat, promising that he would renew his demands when the barnacled one arrived. One row behind him, Jake Grafton grinned broadly They didn't have long to wait. The door was flung open and the Real McCoy stalked in. "Attention on deck," he roared. The Marines snapped to attention like they were on parade. When everyone was erect and rigid, McCoy continued, "All had, Neptunus Rex, Ruler of the Ragin' Main." "Ha," the assembled shellbacks shouted lustily.
Here they came, the royal party, led by the air wing commander, the CAG, who was decked out in a bedsheet.
Behind him came Neptunus Rex, wearing a gold crown that looked suspiciously like it had been crafted of cardboard and spray painted. He wore swimming trunks and tennis shoes, but no shirt.
His upper arms each bore a tattoo of a well-endowed, totally naked woman and on his chest was a screaming eagle in flight. A bedsheet cape flowed behind him. In his hand he carried a cardboard trident. As he seated himself on his throne-a chair on a platform so that everyone had a good view-Jake recognized him, as did half the men in the room.
Bosun Muldowski.
The Real McCoy-Davy Jones--took his place at the podium and adjusted the microphone.
He was wearing long underwear, which he and Jake had decorated with a bottle of iodine last night in a vain attempt to paint fish, octopi and other sea creatures. Alas, the outfit just looked like a bloody mess, Jake decided now. McCoy was enjoying himself immensely, and it showed on his face.
Flap Le Beau stood up again in his chair.
"Hey, King! How's it going?" McCoy frowned, CAG frowned, Neptune frowned.
"Sit down, wogl Show some respect in the royal presences "Uh, Davy, you don't seem to understand. I'm King Flap of Boogalala. Being a king my very own self, I shouldn't be here in the company of these slimy pollywogs. I should be up there on a throne beside ol' Neptune discussing the many mind-boggling mysteries of the deep and how he's making out these days with the mermaids." "Well pleaded, King Flap." The onlookers seemed to disagree, and hooted their displeasure.
Davy looked over at Neptune. "What say you, oh mighty windy one?" Neptune scowled fiercely at the upstart Le Beau. "Have you wogs; no respect? The dominions of the land are irrelevant here upon the briny deep, where I am sovereign. I suggest, Davy, that the loud-mouth pretender kiss the royal baby three times." "Wog Le Beau, you heard the royal wish.
Thrice you shall kiss the royal baby. Now sit and assume a becoming humility or you will again face the awesome wrath of mighty Neptune." Le Beau sat. He screwed up his face and tried to cry. And almost made it. A gale of laughter swept the room.
It was good to be a part of this foolishness, Jake Grafton thought, good to have a hearty laugh with your shipmates, fellow voyagers on this journey through life. He and the Real had worked hard to get some laughs, and they succeeded. Many of the wogs were hailed individually before the royal court and their sins set forth in lurid detail. Major Allen Bartow was confronted with a book labeled YU Vous Plm-t-really, a NATOPS manual with a suitable coverfrom which spilled a dozen Playmate-of-the-Month foldouts. comReading dirty books, slobbering over dirty pictures.
shame, shamel I, intoned Davy Jones, and King Neptune pronounced the sentence: three trips through the tunnel of love.
After about an hour of this nonsense the wogs were led up to the hangar deck, then across it to an aircraft elevator, winch lifted the entire Ready Four pollywogstshellback mob to the flight deck. There the remainder of the initiation ceremonies, and all of Neptune's verdicts, were carried out.
The tunnel of love was a canvas chute filled with garbage from the mess decks. All the wogs crawled through it at least once, the more spectacular sinners several times. At the exit of the tunnel were shellbacks with saltwater hoses to rinse off the garbage, but the wogs were only beginning their odyssey.
Next was the royal baby, the fattest shellback aboard, who sat on a throne without a shirt. His tummy was liberally coated with arresting gear grease. Victims were thrust forward to kiss his belly button. He enthusiastically assisted the unwilling, grabbing ears and smearing handfuls of grease in the supplicants' hair. After kisses from every three or four victims, able assistants regressed his gut from a fifty-fivegallon drum that sat nearby. A messy business from any angle.
A visit to the royal dentist was next on the list. This worthy squirted a dollop of a pepper concoction into his victim's mouths from a plastic ketchup dispenser. Expectoration usually followed immediately.
After a visit to the royal barber-more grease--comandthe royal gymnasium, the wogs ended their journey with a swim across the royal lagoon, a canvas pool six inches deep in water. No, Jake learned as he looked at the victims splashing along, the water was only about one inch deep. It floated on at least five inches of something green, something with a terrible smell.
Shellbacks arranged around the lagoon busily offered opinions about what the noisome stuff might be. The wogs slithered through this mess to the other side, where shellbacks helped them out, wiped them down, and congratulated them heartily. Without hesitation Jake flopped down and squirmed his way through the goo while his squadronmates on the other side-the ones who had beat him overcheered and offered impractical advice.
Jake joined Flap Le Beau on the fantail, where they stood watching the proceedings and comparing experiences as they wiped away the worst of the grease with paper towels.
The ship wasn't moving, Jake noticed. She lay dead in the water on a placid, gently heaving sea. Around her at distances ranging from one to three miles her escorts were similarly still. All the ships were conducting crossing-the-line initiation ceremonies. Painted ships upon a painted ocean, Jake thought.
With a last glance at the sea and the sky and the merry group still cavorting on the flight deck, he headed below for the showers.
"Getting shot down was a real bad scene," Flap Le Beau told Jake. They were on a surface surveillance mission along the southern coast of Java, photographing ships. To their right was the mountainous island with its summits wreathed in clouds, to the left was the endless blue water. They had just descended to 500 feet to snap three or four shots of a small coaster bucking the swells westward and were back at 3,000 feet, cruising at 300 knots. The conversation had drifted to Vietnam.
Perhaps it was inevitable, since both men had been shot down in that war, but neither liked to talk about their experiences, so the subject rarely came up. If it did, it was in an oblique reference. Somehow today, in a cockpit in a tropic sky, the subject seemed safe.
"It was just another mission, another day at the office, and the gomers got the lead right and let us have it. I hadn't even seen flak that morning until we collected a packet.
Goose was killed instantly-one round blew his head clean off, the left engine was hit, the left wing caught fire. All in about the time it takes to snap your fingers." "What were you doing?" "Dive-bombing, near the Laotian border.
> We were the second plane in a two-plane formation, working with a Nail FAC." A FAC was a forward air controller, who flew a small propeller-driven plane.
"We were on our second run. Oh, I know, we shouldn't have been making more than one, but the FAC hadn't seen any slut in the air and everything was cool during our first run. Then whap! They shot us into dog meat going down the chute. I grabbed the stick, pickled the bombs and pulled out, but the left engine was doing weird things and the wing was burning like a blowtorch and Goose was smeared all over everything, including me. Wind howling through the cockpit--all the glass on his side was smashed out. Real bad scene. So I steered it away from the target a little and watched the wing burn and told Goose good-bye, then I boogied." "How long did you wait before you ejected?" "Seemed like an hour or so, but our flight leader told me later it was about a minute.
Stephen Coonts - Jake Grafton 6 - Intruders Page 24