They were waiting for us just inside the island, crowding around the metal hatch that let out onto the flight deck. I pushed past most of them, too exhausted to pay any attention to them. I just wanted to go pee and get something to drink. Then maybe shoot some pool ― yeah, that'd be good. That's what the carrier needed most of all ― a pool table. Make it mandatory, just like the popcorn machines.
I looked up just as this was all starting to make sense to see Admiral Wayne blocking my way down to the ladder. "Hi," I said, aware that it wasn't probably the most appropriate greeting I could manage to the senior officer on board the ship, but still preoccupied with the desire for a pool table.
The admiral looked at me with an odd expression. "Hi yourself, mister. Medical's looking for you. Want to explain to me how you managed to slip out of there? And what you're doing flying when you're not medically cleared for it?"
"Ummm… not exactly, Admiral."
"To which part?" Now the admiral looked truly disgusted. "Oh, never mind. I should know better by now. But if you're not too busy, would it be too much trouble for you and your RIO to get your butts down to CVIC for a debrief?"
"No, sir." I glanced back, and saw Karnes moving toward me. Odd, I'd never realized she was so short.
"We were just heading down there, Admiral," Karnes said smoothly, sliding in between me and the admiral. "Just on our way, sir."
I nodded, trying to look like that had indeed been my intention. I wondered if Karnes played pool.
We slithered down the ladders and passageways to CVIC, Karnes practically dragging me by the scruff of my neck. "And the next time you get some bright idea about skating out of sick bay without permission to go flying with me," she hissed, giving another jerk on my collar, "I'm going to kick that little stud ass of yours up and down about twenty ladders until you come to your senses."
"It seemed like the right thing to do at the time," I offered, aware that it wasn't much of an excuse.
"You don't think. You fly. Thinking is my job," she answered. "Now, just shut up and let me handle the debrief." I waited until the admiral and Lab Rat left the room. "So how's Callie?"
Karnes looked up at me, grime streaking that pretty little face of hers. "Same bitch as always, Bird Dog. What the hell did you ever see in her anyway? The boobs?"
I felt my jaw drop. "But you two were roommates at War College! I thought ― then what was all that flack about me being a stud?"
Karnes shrugged. "Had nothing to do with what Callie said about you, shipmate. Just a personal assessment."
And I'd thought MiGs were hard to read. This woman had them all beat to hell.
"So maybe when we get back to the States ― or the next liberty port," I started, not sure where I was going with the idea, but getting reeled in as surely as a trout on a fly line.
"When we get back, we're going to dinner," she answered immediately. "And more. Think you're up to it? Or did that MiG shoot down something I didn't see?"
"Oh, I'm up to it," I said, fumbling for answers. "But trust me ― that's the only time you're getting in the front seat. The rest of the time we're out here, you're the guy in back. Got it?"
14
Admiral "Tombstone" Magruder
30 September
USS Jefferson
Batman pulled out a cigar from the depths of his desk. Only his Chief of Staff knows that he keeps a collection of Dunhills and Punches for special moments. The small humidor he's been carefully tending as long as I've known him holds one layer of his precious weed. He checks the distilled water in the small humidifying canister every night, right before he racks out. "You want one?" he asked.
"A Punch, I guess." I knew Batman preferred the Dunhills, and I've always had a soft spot for Punches, ever since I found the molded and wormy remains of one in my father's footlocker. I don't normally smoke, but there are occasions that can only truly be celebrated with a good cigar.
Batman tossed me the clipping tool, then waited for me to use it. This was like him also, the punctiliously good manners, even among old friends, as we were.
I guess we had a fair amount to celebrate. The nuclear facility in the jungle was a dark, smoking hole in the ground. At least for now, that danger was past. More likely, just postponed temporarily.
And Batman had his ship back. The ambassadorial contingent had departed earlier that day, hard pressed to find anything further to debate now that we'd resolved the problem with bombs. Peace through superior firepower ― I know Ambassador Wexler's a believer. Than was too, by now.
"They let you smoke in your cabin?" I asked. Even during my days on board Jefferson, smoking had been strictly limited to areas away from everyone else. I'd designated one of the areas on the 0-10 deck, seven flights above my cabin. We had more men quit that cruise than ever ― it just wasn't worth the climb.
"They'd be disappointed if I didn't. After what we went through today." Batman clipped the end of his Dunhill, lit it, and puffed thoughtfully to get it going. Finally, he let out a deep, self-satisfied sigh. "That'll do it."
We were silent for a few moments, enjoying the cigars made slightly even more pleasurable by the fact that they were forbidden. Like sneaking into the bathroom to smoke as a high school kid, I guess. "That was something," I said. "I wouldn't have believed it."
Batman nodded. He knew I meant the J-TARPS systems. It was my first exposure to an operational test, and it gave me an eerie feeling to be flying missions slung below a Tomcat. "Takes some getting used to, though," he said. "Knowing when to jump in, knowing when to shut up. You try to micromanage them in the air, you'll get their balls shot off for them."
"I figured that out. Saw your hand itching a couple of times to pick up the mike, though."
"That it was. But I stayed out of it ― at least until the very end. When I thought Bird Dog was going to send that kid home again, I almost choked." Batman scowled as he remembered it. We'd both listened in as Bird Dog had tried to order the persistent Skeeter back to the boat, and finally changed his mind.
"Hell of a pilot," I said.
"Which one?"
"Both of them, I guess. What're you going to do to keep them in line from now on? I think they're going to be a little hard to live with for a while."
Batman snorted. "Tell me something I don't know. Bird Dog's been a pain in the ass since Cuba."
"Good stick, though."
"I'll give him that. But that's not always enough ― you know that."
I did indeed. There is a quality that sets apart the finest aviators from the pack, an almost uncanny ability to meld with their aircraft, to run the time-distance-weapon problems in their head without any other decision-making tools. Bird Dog had it, and so did Skeeter.
But it wasn't enough. We fight as teams in this Navy, and not only in combat pairs. It was all a team, from the cruiser that provided long-range air-combat support to the helos that fished pilots out of the drink. It's not enough to be a solo star ― you must be a team player as well.
"I think Bird Dog's catching on," I said finally. "Takes some of us longer than others."
Batman laughed. "I wondered if you noticed that. Every time that guy gets himself in the middle of trouble, it reminds me of you."
"If you were a shade darker, you could be Skeeter's father too," I pointed out, not unreasonably. There was something about the way Skeeter performed, the sheer persistence and superb flying abilities, that reminded me of having Batman on my wing.
Batman looked startled, then slightly pleased. "Like I said ― the kid's a good stick. Still young, though."
I tapped the ash off my cigar. From the Flag Mess on the other side of the bulkhead, I could hear some officer complain about the smell. A few other voices spoke up and hushed him. I gathered smelling the cigar smoke was the final, unspoken proof that the wardroom relied on as a sign that all was well.
"You didn't find him." Batman's voice was oddly gentle.
"I got close. But there wasn't enough time."
"You coming back?"
I thought for a moment, then shook my head. "Whatever was in that last camp vanished in the fire. If there was anything there to start with."
"So the trail ends here," Batman said. He fiddled with his cigar for a moment. "Doesn't it?"
I smiled a bit. He always could read my mind. "Not entirely. Aside from the issue of my father, there are other questions to answer. The big ones, like what are we going to do about China and Vietnam? And the smaller ones, equally as puzzling. Who was the man that we killed in the jungle ― the white guy? A mercenary? Or something else? And Than ― what kind of game is he playing? No, there aren't any dead ends here ― just more questions."
Batman sighed. "I'd hoped this would be the end of it. The final answer. For you, at least."
"Oh, but there are answers. Just not in Vietnam. Not the final ones anyway."
A look of deep concern passed over Batman's face. He leaned forward, planted both elbows on his desk, and pointed the cigar at me. "You're not serious."
I nodded. "I'm very serious. It won't be right away, I suspect. I'm slated to take over Seventh Fleet next month. There's no time, and they're just now starting to declassify some of the records I need."
"What records? Surely with your clearance you can get into anything in D.C. that you need, right?"
I took another long draw on the cigar. "Not in D.C. In Russia."
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Chain of Command c-12 Page 27