When they had finished with the evals and the officer had tucked the notes into the service records, the chief showed him a request chit. Hardesty wanted four days leave in the Philippines. On the chit was the scrawl: "Visit my wife."
Jake eyed the chief. "I thought he was single?" Styert shrugged. "Guess he isn't anymore." "When did you learn about this?"
"About thirty minutes ago when Hardesty gave me
that thing."
"Well, do you want me to approve this?"
The chief squirmed. "Shit, if he's really married we could catch hell if we don't. Get a letter from his mother or some congressman." From his tone Jake gathered that the chief thought mothers and congressmen were liabilities for sailors, much like an appendix that might go bad at an inopportune time.
"Do you need him for work this time in port?"
Styert shook his head. "I'll call the berthing compartment and have him come down here." He dialed the number.
While they waited, Jake asked, "You think this marriage is for real, Chief? Do you think Hardesty has thought this through?"
"I doubt it. Thinking has always been one of Hardesty's weak areas. He's got a picture of her. She's a looker. He probably met her in some bar or whorehouse. Probably the first piece of ass he's ever had."
When Hardesty came in he stood in front of the desk but certainly not at attention. Jake fought the temptation to stand. He looked the man over before he spoke. The chit was on the edge of the desk beside him. Hardesty was nineteen years old, had been in the navy ten months, had an eleventh-grade education and a bad case of acne, and shaved probably once a week.
"What is this about you being married? I thought you were single."
"I didn't tell nobody about it until I put this chit in. See, I want to take her and go see some of her relatives in Manila."
"When did you get married?"
"Last time in port. About two months ago." Hardesty looked at his shoes. Jake was reminded of those times when as a boy he had been called on to explain his conduct to his father.
"Did you know there is a requirement to get permis
sion from the navy before you marry a foreign national?"
"No sir." Hardesty didn't look up.
"How old is your wife?"
"She's sixteen." Eyes still on the deck.
Jake sighed. "Did you report this to Personnel?"
”No.”
”Why not?"
"Well, I ain't got a copy of the marriage license yet. You can't get anything quick in the Philippines." Except the clap, Jake thought. "And I knew that Personnel would make me come back when I got it, so H ain't bothered to go see them yet."
"Why didn't your wife send you a copy?"
"She knew I'd be coming back in a few months, and I could just get it then."
"What if you had been killed while we were at sea? Your wife wouldn't have gotten a penny of your (31 insurance. There's no official document in American hands that proves you're married to anybody. I assume you also haven't told Disbursing?"
"No, I haven't told anyone."
Chief Styert interrupted. "No, Sir, when you talk to an officer, Hardesty."
The boy raised his eyes. "Sure, Chief."
Jake continued. "Federal law requires that personnel E-4 and below send an allotment to any dependents they have. Did you know that?"
"Yessir. I'm going to get all that straightened out as soon as I can."
"Have you told your folks about your marriage?" "Yessir.
"What did they say?"
"Well, Pop has been dead for a while now and Mom ain't written back yet." He regarded his shoelaces again.
"Do you love her?" As soon as the words were out Grafton regretted them.
"Oh yes, sir." Hardesty's eyes glowed. "Here's her picture." He, pulled a wallet-sized photo from his shirt pocket. She had the long black hair typical of Filipino women, the usual small nose, and the slightly Oriental eyes. She looked regal.
The officer passed the photo back to Hardesty and glanced at the chief, who had his eyes resolutely fixed on the far wall. Love? Jake could almost hear the story being told in the chiefs' mess: "And then he asked, `Do you love her?'" Slightly embarrassed, the pilot returned to the issue at hand.
"I'll sign this chit, Hardesty, but let me tell it to you straight. By marrying without permission you violated a general regulation. The Skipper may decide to take disciplinary action against you."
"Sir, I didn't know nothing about any regulation." The sailor set his jaw and focused on Jake's nametag.
"You're responsible for knowing the regulations, though, and if you disobey them you're subject to discipline. But that's neither here nor there. I expect to see a certified copy of the marriage license when we pull out of port or you're going to be in hot water for failing to support your lawful dependents. You realize that you are legally and morally obligated to support this woman now that you've married her?"
"Yessir. I understand that. I'll get a copy of the license." The lieutenant signed the chit and told Hardesty to take it down to Personnel. Hardesty thanked him and left.
Grafton stood up to leave. "If he thinks he can marry one of these women and get laid every night in port," he told the chief, "then wave a permanent good-bye when we go back to the States, he has another think coming."
The chief shrugged. "He's just a kid," he said.
"What a mess." The officer went up to the ready room to tell the skipper.
"What do you want to do, Jake?" Camparelli asked.
"Captain's Mast?" Routine discipline problems were handled by the commanding officer in periodic formal hearings, which had been known as "Captain's Mast" since the days when the captain dispensed justice before the main mast on a sailing ship.
"No, sir. I'd just as soon forget the discipline end of it, give him his leave, and ensure he does right by her."
"Okay. Hope it all works out. By the way, pull up a chair, Jake." The pilot complied. "I hope you understand about the shenanigans in the ready room this evening?"
"Yessir."
"It was no disrespect for Morgan. But we have to keep morale up or this outfit can't fight." The skipper eyed him. "You do understand?"
"I understand, sir."
"I doubt if most civilians would. But this was Morgan's profession. We have to keep going regardless of who gets bagged. In fact, losing people makes it all the more essential that we let off some steam." He shifted his weight in the chair. "You see, the aircrews are the weapons, not the planes."
Jake nodded.
"Okay. Just wanted to be sure you understood."
Back in his stateroom Jake worked on the evaluations. When he had them finished it was almost 0100. He went up to the forward wardroom on the 0-3 level, right under the flight deck, for a hamburger. Abe Steiger was sitting by himself. "Hey, Jake. Drop anchor." The air intelligence officer had a book opened beside his plate.
"Hi, Spy. How's it going?" The pilot slid into a chair. As he bit into his burger he looked at the book.
"Jake, we got a bomb-damage assessment on that hop you flew yesterday down south with the Skipper." Abe grinned.
"Yeah?" Jake lifted the book and read the title. The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. He had read it in college.
"Yep. Let me tell you, you did one hell of a job on those gorners, baby. You got confirmed forty-seven killed in action."
Jake put down the book. "Forty-seven?" he whispered.
"Yep. Forty-seven KIA." Abe grinned again. "You really plastered them. That's our best single-mission damage assessment this cruise. Probably a Navy Commendation Medal in there for you, Jake. Maybe even an Air Medal."
"Why, you greasy little. Steiger wore a frozen grin. Jake felt his stomach churn. "You shit! What in hell did you tell me something like that for? You think I need to know that?" He was shouting. "Do you know their names? Tell me that! I'll bet you have their names!"
"Well, I just thought you'd want to know-"
"Why the fuck would I
want to know? Now I'm the poor shit who has to live with it. Me. Grafton. You asshole!"
"I didn't mean
"And a fucking medal! You think I give a shit about a fucking medal? What the hell kind of guy do you think I am? Do you think I'm some idiot glory hound?" He was spraying saliva. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Hey Jake, I-"
"A fucking medal to wear on my uniform so every time I put it on I'll remember I killed forty-seven men. Yeah, I need that, you stupid bastard. I need a medal like that. Now why don't you get the hell out of here and run down and write the report up. Go tell Lundeen. He writes up shit like that for Wilson. Go tell him!" He lunged across the table trying to get his hands on Steiger, who jumped up and back so quickly his chair fell over. "Get outta here, Steiger! Go tell him!"
The intelligence officer strode out quickly. Jake glared at the audience he had attracted. They turned their faces, and Jake sat down, breathing hard, and stared at his coffee cup. What does Steiger know about tying? What does Steiger know about killing? Jesus Christ!
EIGHT
In their white uniforms, the men in ranks were incandescent in the morning sunlight. A modest breeze MY the Rags and pennants flying from the mast on the ship's island. Jake Grafton sat behind the podium in the chairs reserved for the officers of the A-6 squadron. He kept his gaze on the ever-changing points of light on the swells of the South China Sea.
How did they know there were forty-seven men? Why not forty-six, or forty-eight? What did they count to get forty-seven? Noses, tongues, penises? What could be left after four tons of high explosive and shrapnel had ripped and pulverized human bodies and had welded together flesh and earth?
Mden he had been in flight training, Jake had been assigned to an accident-investigation team. Walking in rows through a pasture it Mississippi, they had searched for the pieces of a training plane that had slammed into the ground at more than 400 knots. The engines had dug long furrows, but the rest of the machine had disintegrated and scattered parts over a third of a mile. He had found a little patch of skin, a piece about the size of a quarter, which he had carefully placed in a transparent bag. It had been just a little piece of a man, from somewhere on his body-no telling where-lying there in the grass. A crash would be a good way to die. The two guys in that training plane were gone in less time than it takes for a single sensation to register on the brain. Maybe dying under the bombs had been fast like that. Morgan hadn't been that lucky.
When they came off target, he had made that turn for the coast. Morgan had reset the armament panel and was working on the computer. If only
"Time to go, Jake." Sammy was standing beside him. Everyone was leaving.
Morgan hadn't been lucky at all.
That evening Harvey Wilson called Jake to his stateroom and handed the pilot the evaluations on Jones and Hardesty. "These aren't good enough, Grafton. You must've spent four years trying to pass freshman English. I want them redone before you fly off the ship in the morning."
"Yessir."
"You just don't know how to do paperwork, Grafton. You should talk to your roommate Lundeen. The awards stuff he writes is outstanding. Have him give you some tips." Wilson leaned back in his chair. He had a stateroom to himself but a smaller one than the skipper's. Jake stood by the desk.
Wilson tapped his pencil on the desk. "I was down in CATCC the other night when you 'saved' that F-4." He let the statement hang in the air. After a moment he stopped playing with the pencil and scrutinized the lieutenant. "That little trick of giving Lundeen gas might have backfired on you."
"Yessir."
"These people think you're some kind of hero,
136
Grafton, but I know different. You bend the rules, and one of these days it's going to blow up in your face. You're a fucking hot dog."
Jake just looked at the man. The Rabbit had a way of jutting out his jaw when he was on the offensive. He was living proof of the imperfections in the navy promotion system. Next would come the threat.
"You'd better shape up." Surely he could do better than that. "Another stunt like that and you'll be flying one of these things"-he waved the pencil "full time. Now go work on those evals."
"Yessir." Out in the passageway, Jake added, "Yessir, yessir, three bags full."
Grafton regarded the doctor with an irrepressible smile. The medical man looked slightly ridiculous with his girth encased in forty pounds of flight gear. He looked, Jake thought, like a giant pear or even-and Jake smiled more broadly-an egg with legs. "Okay, Jack, you've flown in these pigs before?" Mad Jack nodded affirmatively. A sheen of perspiration was visible on his forehead, and the pilot decided his passenger looked paler than usual.
"Have you ever had a cat shot? No? Well, you're in for the thrill of the month. This will be about the most exciting thing you've ever done with your clothes on. Just keep your hands in your lap, don't touch a single switch, knob, or anything at all, and do like I tell you." Mad Jack bobbed his head. "The only time you'll have to do anything is if I tell you to eject. The command will be `Eject, Eject, Eject.' Three times."
"And if I say `Huh?' I'll be talking to myself."
"If you say anything after I give you that commano you will be all alone on your first, and probably last, solo in an A-6. And, of course, if I get too busy or forget to tell you and you see me eject, then you'd better hurry right along." More head bobs, nervouss ones, Jake observed with a trace of satisfaction.
"Now, I want to go over how the ejection seat works with you." Jake took the doctor to the blackboard, drew a rough sketch of the seat, and explained the. ejection sequence. Jake knew the doctor had heard it all before, but both he and Mad Jack had been around navy airplanes long enough to know the value of, and not be bored by, repeated instruction.
Grafton went over the intercom system. "Your ICS mike switch is the toe pedal by your right foot. Just stay silent if you hear me talking on the radio. I'll have itr switches set up so that I can hear any radio transmission coming in even if you're talking. Feel free to ask questions, talk, tell jokes, lie, whatever. I want you to enjoy the hop." Jake smiled. He really meant it.
As they left the ready room, Jake put the evals he had polished in Wilson's mailbox. The sonuvabitch could read them when he got out of bed.
Lundeen's plane was ahead and to the left of Jake's as, ten minutes after launching, they approached the coast of Luzon. Low green mountains rose out of the cobalt sea, and early-morning shadows played across the white-sand beach.
The two planes dropped to 200 feet and turned northward, about five hundred yards out to sea, parallel to the surf. Occasionally they saw a fishing boat, but mostly the airmen looked at an empty sea separated from unbroken tropical forest by a filament of beach that ran from horizon to horizon. Here and there a fisherman's shack broke the lonely sweep of beach.
Jake Grafton felt refreshed. It was good to be flying again with nothing to worry about, to be sightseeing and sporting along. The cockpit was as comfortable as a living-room armchair.
"How about that cat shot, huh?" Jake asked. The doctor, who was still on hot mike, was breathing hard. "Next tine be sure to give a war whoop as you go down the cat. That seems to magnify the sensation."
The doctor chuckled, and his breathing slowed toward normal.
Up ahead, Lundeen dipped lower and lower. A lone hut was visible far ahead. The warplanes dropped to about 50 feet. Crossing the surf, they thundered down the sand toward the structure. They passed over the shack at 300 knots. As they pulled up into a steep climb, Lundeen shouted "Yahoo" over the radio and did a victory roll. Jake came alongside Sammy's right wing. Lundeen waved and Marty Greve flashed him the finger in salute.
They turned east, inland, and threaded their way up a valley at 500 feet. Jake dropped astern, assuming the tailchase position, about one hundred fifty feet aft and just above the leader. After a few sharp turns, they crossed the ridgeline, shooting through a narrow gap where the clouds almost rubbed the mount
ain rock. The uplands fell away quickly to forests and occasional fields. Every so often, a winding road or village punctuated the landscape.
Sammy's voice boomed in Jake's ears. "Let's go up and tangle." Without waiting for a reply, he angled up and came on with the power. Soon they were climbing through a great hall c f clouds illuminated by sunlight. Riding their winged steeds, they soared effortlessly through Valhalla toward the open sky.
They passed the cloud tops at 12,000 feet. A few thunderheads were building and would reach great heights by early afternoon, but now there was plenty of room to play. Leveling at 23,000 feet, Lundeen waved and turned thirty degrees to the left. Grafton returned the wave and veered thirty degrees right. Jake concentrated on Lundeen's rapidly receding plane. How quickly the vastness of the sky swallows up the tiny machines that bear men aloft. "Better tighten your harness and lock the shoulder restraint," he advised the doctor, who did as suggested.
"Damn pilots," was the radio comment Grafton and the doctor heard from Marty Greve.
"Turning in," Jake broadcast.
"Turning in, Mother," he heard his roommate chuckle. "I'm going to wax your ass."
The aircraft approached each other head on. Jake had the throttles wide open and his ship accelerated nicely. This was the fair way to start a dogfight, a head-on pass so that neither pilot had the advantage. Jake glanced about. The sky was empty. Jake's eyes flicked over the gauges, and he noted automatically the information displayed there. The oncoming jet grew, larger.
"Loser buys."
They came together at a combined speed of well over a thousand miles per hour. Lundeen went past Jake's left side, his wingtip a scant fifty feet away. Grafton yanked the stick back and to the left.
The G forces tore at his body but he scarcely noticed. He was craning his head over his left shoulder, trying to see which way Lundeen had turned. For several seconds he couldn't locate his opponent. He rolled the ship into ninety degrees of bank and pulled harder on the stick. "Six Gs," Mad Jack groaned. At least he knew where the G-meter was.
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