Then Jake saw the other Intruder. Lundeen and he were canopy to canopy on the opposite sides of an invisible circle, headed in opposite directions. His eyes fixed on his opponent, Jake decreased the angle of the plane's bank and kept the Gs on. The nose of his machine came up, and his airspeed was converted into altitude. As the plane slowed it needed less room to turn, so now Jake increased the angle of bank and the nose tracked around. In seconds he was only ninety degrees off Lundeen's heading but several thousand feet above him in a lopsided loop, one hundred thirtyfive degrees of bank, and coming in on his opponent's stern quarter.
Lundeen was having none of it. He sheered away from Grafton and dived.
Jake relaxed the stick and did a slow roll into a wings-level dive. Only 300 knots. Lundeen had more airspeed and drew steadily away going downward. Both machines accelerated, but Sammy's lead was almost three miles; he was far below and still diving. Then Jake saw the nose of Lundeen's ship come up. He's doing an Immelmann turn, thought Jake, a half loop with a half roll on top. He shallowed his dive, and the two planes flashed past head-on again, Grafton right side up and Lundeen upside down at the top of the loop, flying a little over 200 knots.
Jake pulled the stick back hard. This time he kept his eye on the instruments and applied a steady four-G pull until the nose was pointed up, away from the earth, like a missile.
The airspeed bled off quickly. The lowest reading on the indicator was 50 knots and here was where the needle came to rest. The jet hung motionless in the sky at 30,000 feet, its nose aimed up and the exhaust pipes aimed down at the rain forest. The thrust of the engines held it poised for several heartbeats as the men in the cockpit floated weightlessly. The pilot released the stick and cuffed the doctor lightly on the arm. "Great fun, huh?"
The sensation became one of falling as the bird began a tail slide toward the earth. Then the machine lurched and tumbled over backwards. The weight of the nose and the streamlined shape took effect, and within seconds the gyrations ceased and they were plummeting earthward, gravity and engine thrust acting together to wind the airspeed-indicator needle around the dial, at a dizzying rate.
Jake was busy again. He chopped the engines to idle and opened the wingtip speed brakes while searching for Lundeen.
"Do you see him?" he asked his passenger anxiously, They scanned the sky.
"I see you." It was Lundeen.
Jake swallowed hard and brought his gaze up. There was the bastard, level and coning in head on. As fast m, thought itself he rotated the plane, retracted the speed ;, brakes, added power, and began a pull to go under Lundeen and force the opponent into an overshoot.
It was good to feel the plane respond to the slightest pressure on the controls, good to see the earth and sky tumble and change positions, good to fly free. Occasional scans of the fuel gauge and engine instruments were the only concessions to the machine. The pilots worked their sticks and rudders instinctively, as tQwing and experience had taught them to do. Each focused entirely on the location of the other aircraft and tried to anticipate his opponent's next maneuver. It was as if men and machines were fused: the fuel was blood, the engines muscle, the wings and speed and. soaring flight their spirit. This was flying as the ancients had dreamed of it, when they watched the birds swoop and dart.
The doctor rode in silence, enduring a ride worse than that of any roller coaster. This was a job for a younger man with a cast-iron stomach. Mad Jack managed to remove his oxygen mask, but the little bag he had thoughtfully placed in the lower leg pocket of his G-suit was beyond reach. He ripped off his left glove and vomited into it.
The plane was no longer maneuvering; it was glued to one-G flight as firmly as if it had been welded to a pedestal in a museum display. Mad Jack looked left and met the smiling eyes of Jake Grafton. The pilot winked at him as he told Sammy Lundeen to join up.
Once on the ground at Cubi RAW Naval IQ Station, the planes taxied to the parking mat near the carrier pier. A sailor guided them into their parking places, and another man chocked the wheels.
With the canopy open and the engines sighing into silence, Grafton removed his helmet and let the afternoon breeze cool his soaking-wet hair. The doctor did the same. Jake ran his hand over his hair and used a finger to squeegee the perspiration from his eyebrows. "What do you think, Jack? Is it worth the final crash?"
Before Mad Jack could answer, they were interrupted.
"Ili, Jake." A khaki-clad figure tossed a can of beer up to the cockpit. The pilot fielded it and handed it to Mad Jack, then caught the next one tossed. The beer was ice cold, an elixir as it raced down Jake's dry throat. The doctor sipped his.
"Welcome to Cubi again, Jake," the beach detachment officer shouted.
"Thanks." The pilot saw Lundeen walking toward him with his helmet bag in hand. "Sam, I want that beer you owe me."
"You can have anything they got, Jake. You're buying."
"Ila! I whipped you so bad I thought you were an F-4 pilot there for a minute."
Lundeen gestured at the heavens. "Have you no honor? God is watching you, Grafton, to see if you Will pay a debt of honor, a wager fairly made and fairly lost. There are two gates up there, you know; one for winners and one for welshers. You'll be going in that back gate while I'm around front with Saint Pete listing my virtues."
"And that," called Marty Greve, "will be a damn short list."
By the time the carrier rounded the headland and entered the channel, all four men were sitting in the officers' club drinking beer. The view from the club, which sat high on a hill overlooking Subic Bay and Olongapo City, was breathtaking. Each man had time to drink another beer before the great ship drifted to a stop a hundred yards from the pier and four tugboats nestled against her.
"Let's go up to the BOQ. We'll take some rooms before the guys on the boat get here," Marty suggested, "and maybe work in a dip in the pool."
"Well, fellows," Mad Jack told the airmen as they stood up, "I'm on duty today so I have to go back aboard." He stuck out his hand to Jake. "Thanks for the flight." The doctor smiled. "I won't forget that ride for a while. Maybe you're right. Living fast might be worth the final crash. Maybe that's the secret you fliers know."
Grafton grinned and shook the offered hand. "See you later, Jack."
NINE
The Filipino steward at the BOO regarded the three airmen with suspicion. "When your ship come in?" he demanded. The BOQ was not to be used by officers whose ships were in port.
"It's classified," Lundeen said with a straight face. "Don't you know there's a war on?" He signed for his room.
The steward folded his arms across his chest. He had no doubt dealt with many navy flight crews, most of whom were inclined to ignore everybody's rules except their own. "You must check out of your room when your ship come in. We have very few rooms."
"You can bank on it," Lundeen told him, then picked up his gear and led the group down the hall. "It's a good thing we got here before the Shiloh crowd swarms around the pool. Then he would have known a boat was in." They agreed to meet in fifteen minutes at the pool.
After showering, Jake ran into his buddies in the hall and they trooped to the pool behind the sprawling, U-shaped building. "Six gin-and-tonics for my friends and me," Jake shouted to the bar girl, then plunged into the water. Sammy and Marty were right behind.
By the time the first group of officers from the ship arrived at the poolside bar, the gin, the cool water, and the hot sun had worked together to soothe the three men.
"How's the water, fellas?" Little Amle asked.
"All used up. Too bad you missed it."
Little dropped his kit bag and set his drink on the table. "Like hell I did," he said and dived in, clothes and all.
"Brilliant," said Marty when Little surfaced. "What're you going to use for dry clothes?"
Little hoisted himself out of the water and took off his shoes to drain. "They're in the bag. I plan ahead." He laughed and lifted his drink.
The Boxman, Bob Wa
lkwitz, walked over carrying a tall glass filled with a rum concoction. He pulled up a chair.
"Going across the bridge tonight, Box?" Sammy inquired.
The Boxman took a drink and flexed his shoulders. "Maybe."
"'Maybe' my ass. It'd take wild horses to hold you back."
"Can I help it if I like women?" Box demanded.
4"Alat's wrong with you guys, anyway? A queer?" He sipped on his Arink and leered at the waitress. "Already I'm in love."
"I thought you were in love with her the first time we pulled into Cubi. Didn't she give you something to remember her by?"
Boxman stared at the swaying figure of the retreating girl. "Naw. It wasn't her. Couldn't be." He shook his head. "Naw. They all remember me."
"Did I hear that right?" Sammy wiggled a finger in his ear.
"Talk about confidence!" Jake said, slightly awed. "What've you got that we don't have?"
146
"Ask Mad Jack the next time you see him," Box said smugly. "He's seen it so often I use him for a reference."
For a while they were free of the navy and the flight schedule, and a good belly laugh made the world a comfortable place once again.
When Lundeen and Grafton arrived at the Cubi Point Officers' Club that evening, they found Cowboy and a group of friends sitting near the back of the dining room drinking whiskey, chewing steak, and shooting the breeze. Cowboy expounded on the scandal of the hour, the Phantom.
"God help that poor idiot when they catch him. He'll get the first keelhauling in a hundred years. That's after they boil him in oil but before they string him up to the yardarm."
Jake and Sammy gave the waiters their orders and settled back to listen to Cowboy. "They're going about catching him all wrong, I reckon. They'll no doubt stake out likely compartments and have a huge investigation."
"Well, how should they do it then?"
"All it takes to catch this guy is a keen sense of smell and a little knowledge of your fellow man." Cowboy cut a piece of steak and chewed slowly. "Now the fellow we seek is an individualist, a rugged individualist as the UK goes. He does his own thing without much thought as to what the rest of the world thinks. He has a good sense of humor and likes to see other people laugh with lihn."
"That ought to narrow it down to half the officers in the air wing," Sammy said.
"Oh, but there's more. Our boy likes taking chances. He gets a thrill out of running a risk."
"That eliminates a whole bunch of guys I know, Cowboy," Little Augie snickered.
Cowboy ignored the sarcasm and the pun. "Sure a lot of guys get a charge out of danger. Almost everyone does if the danger isn't too great. But the Phantom's a different breed. He loves danger no matter how great. He seeks it out, relishes it. He doesn't need the applause of the crowd, the medals, or the photos in the newspaper. He's addicted."
Jake shook his head. "We're all addicted to danger. We wouldn't keep climbing into those airplanes if we didn't find it exciting."
"Grafton, let's take you as an example. You enjoy flying but you don't take unnecessary chances, and you rarely do things for the pure hell of it. With you there usually has to be a reason." Cowboy jabbed his fork in Lundeen's direction. "Our Phantom is a man who just doesn't give a damn, like Lundeen here. If Sammy Lundeen doesn't find some danger or excitement in what he has to do, then he either doesn't do it or he manufactures some."
"Crap! From an amateur headshrinker," Sammy protested. "I'm a good officer and you know it. I grind out the routine stuff with the best of 'em. Come down to the personnel office sometime and you'll see the service records are in top-notch shape. Everyone gets his paper shuffled in my shop. Why, you could be the Phantom yourself."
Cowboy grinned. "That thought has not yet occurred to the heavies." He glanced around to see who might be listening. "I wonder what will happen if it does?"
The conversation moved on to the one subject that always proved irresistible-flying. They talked flying at every opportunity. A great deal of knowledge was exchanged in these bull sessions. The underlying theme of all of these stories was how to stay alive when everything goes awry. Because it was considered gauche to tell a story which demonstrated one's aerial virtuosity, the narrator survived despite his own inept ness, ignorance, and stupidity when the world turned to shit and the arresting gear cable broke, or the catapult fired with not enough steam to get him to flying speed, or the tie-down chains snapped and he slid over the side into the hungry sea. But some stories were about the time the world turned to shit and a buddy made a mistake and did not live to tell about it. Then the dead man's sins were mercilessly dissected.
After dinner Jake and Sammy went to the bar, ordered refills, and strolled over to watch the singer. She sang American pop songs without an accent, and she had an excellent voice.
Lundeen's eyes roved around. "I wonder where that cute waitress is tonight."
"I've been wondering, too. Guess she has the night off."
"Well, I think I'll go for a little taxi ride and see my schoolteacher friend." He polished off his drink.
"What do you see in that woman, anyway? She must be pushing forty."
"She's here and so am I. See you later."
Jake wandered down to where the Boxman, Razor Durfee, Big Augie, and a man Jake didn't recognize were huddled around a table crowned with empty beer cans. "Pull alongside and drop anchor, shipmate," roared the Boxman. "Jake, I want you to meet Ferdinand Magellan." Walkwitz put his arm around the stranger beside him. The man had a wholesome look, and his horn-rimmed glasses gave him an intellectual air. "Here in the flesh, the greatest BN who ever slipped the surly bonds and fondled God's face."
"Jake Grafton." He shook the new man's hand.
"Fred Mogollon."
"Like I said, Ferdinand Magellan," hooted the Boxman. "He's one of our new guys. Checked in this evening when the ship tied up. Doesn't know horseshit from peanut butter."
"Where're you from, Fred?" asked Jake as he dragged a chair around.
"St. Louis. Well, the suburbs of St. Louis."
Jake said, "I guess the Boxman and these other guys are getting you checked out on the liberty around here."
"Sort of. I've been here two days waiting for the ship and did some looking around."
"Don't worry, Jake," said the Boxman. "We're going to take care of young Ferdinand. We're going to see that this impressionable innocent gets indoctrinated in the best A-6 tradition, `in the highest traditions of the naval service,' if I may steal a phrase. In fact, we're about ready to head across the bridge." He waved at the waitress. "One last round, dearest."
Big Augie turned to Jake. "Ferdinand is curious about what it's like to fly in combat, and what type of a fellow his new pilot might be. He's a bit worried he might end up with you."
"No, I'm not." Ferdinand spoke up quickly, obviously wishing he had never brought up the subject.
Jake grinned. "You'll just have to find the answers to those questions for yourself."
"Don't lie to the kid, Jake. Tell it like it is."
"I'll lay it on the line for you," volunteered Durfee.
"If you make it through the first flight without crapping
in your drawers, you're going to do okay." "Amen."
"Of course, you probably won't make it through with clean underwear, but there's always hope."
"Let's hit the beach," said the Boxman, standing up. "Let's cross the bridge."
"Finish your beer," he was told.
"Forget the beer. I'm ready. Let's cross the bridge." "Who's going to take care of the Boxman?" Jake
wanted to know. Someone usually had to stick with him to get him back to the ship if his enthusiasms clouded his judgment, as occasionally happened.
"That's gonna be Ferdinand's chore tonight."
"Nobody has to take care of me. I can watch out for myself." Box picked up his beer can and drained it. "You coming, Jake?"
"I thought I'd hang around here for a bit."
"Better come, Ja
ke. There's bound to be one honey in Po City that you can fall in love with."
"Well . . ." Jake was not ready for the fleshpots but Ferdinand looked like a lamb going to slaughter. "Okay, I'll go for a while."
"You're a real guy, Cool Hand."
"Thanks, Box. I needed that."
The five of them commandeered a taxi in front of the club. As they crammed into the Japanese-built car, the Boxman gave the driver his orders: "Main gate and don't spare either of the horses." The little machine lurched off, emitting a cloud of blue exhaust.
The walk across the bridge connecting the naval base and Olongapo City always sobered Jake. Children sat in boats amid the filth of the canal and called for sailors to throw them coins. Jake looked over the rail. The stench from one of the world's largest open sewers knocked him back. "Hey Joe. Throw me a quarter." A boy about ten stood precariously in the bow of a boat holding a fishnet in his hands. A girl, probably his sister, sat amidships with oars, sculling occasionally to hold the craft in place. Jake shook his head.
"Throw me a dime, Joe. Come on, Joe. Just a lousy dime."
"Sorry, kid." Near the boat a bloated pig floated in the brown, scummy water.
"You cheap bastard, Joe. Throw me a nickel and show me you not cheap bastard." Jake found a quarter and tossed it toward the boy, who fielded it expertly in his net. "Thanks, Joe. Hope you don't catch the clap. The kid's white teeth flashed in his brown face.
"I hope you get rich, kid, and become president of a bank:"
The Boxman grabbed his arm. "Ain't you ever seen Shit Crick before?"
"Yeah, but
"The American Club is where it's at. And where it's at is where we want to be." The five men picked their way along the street, avoiding the clusters of sailors and the Hey-Joe kids begging money or selling glass necklaces. They dodged mud and water thrown up by passing jeepneys, ancient Willys jeeps with canvas tops. Filipino soldiers wearing cartridge belts and carrying shotguns or submachine guns sauntered along the street. In the doorway of every bar, a bouncer, armed extravagantly, stood sentinel.
Flight of the Intruder Page 13