As they worked on their drinks, they watched the activity that centered around a mock cockpit set on rails near the back wall. This contraption was infamously known as "the beast." Propelled forward on the rails by - a compressed-air charge, the cockpit ran level for about twenty feet, then down a slight decline, through a set of open French doors, and out to a stagnant pond. The only way to avoid being doused in the water as the cockpit slid to a halt was to adroitly manipulate the one control in the cockpit, a lever that activated a springloaded tailhook that could snag a restraining wire rigged across the tracks just before the decline. Ta catch the wire required split-second timing. Tonight the machine was getting a workout as man after man splashed into the water to the roars of "bolter, bolter, bolter" from the revelers.
Ferdinand Magellan and a man Jake didn't recognize walked over and introduced themselves. The stranger was indeed the new pilot. He looked barely twenty and exuded an innocence that promised to make him the butt of much crude humor.
As they chatted, Jake noticed Cowboy standing beside the group. "Tired of the game?" he asked.
Parker shook his head in disgust. "Too early. Chintzy bastards won't bet enough yet. I'll go back later. I see you met Virgil. " Jake nodded. What could one say about this guy?
"How was Hong Kong?" Cowboy asked. "Okay," said Jake.
"Get laid?" Cowboy demanded.
"Yeah," Lundeen leered as Jake flushed. Jake saw Cole glance from one man to the other. Those eyes were a goddamn X-ray machine, Grafton thought.
Everyone else was watching the most recent rider of the beast being assisted from the device, dripping wet.
"We've got a man for the beast," Cowboy announced in stentorian tones. The crowd parted like the waters of the Red Sea, and Parker grabbed Jake's shoulders and thrust him forward. Jake yelled, "Find someone else. Get this lunatic off me! I don't want to ride the damned thing."
He felt more hands seize him. He was lifted roughly off the floor and carried toward the scum-coated beast. Accepting his fate, Jake allowed himself to be placed in the cockpit and strapped in.
Lundeen and Cowboy fiddled with the control panel. "How do you turn the damn air on, anyway?" Sammy muttered. Perhaps because someone turned a knob the Wrong way, a valve blew and compressed air shot the control handle across the room, shattering a mirror behind the bar. Two men barely ducked the projectile and the bartender, with his back turned, jumped when the glass exploded. The crowd considered all this hilarious.
"You idiots," bellowed a burly fellow with a handlebar mustache. "Get outta the way, Lundeen, before you kill somebody. You too, Tex." Amid another outburst of laughter, Cowboy and Lundeen were shoved aside and replaced by more experienced hands.
Someone passed Jake a drink while he waited for the handle to be reinstalled and a new air bottle hooked up. He was beginning to enjoy this. He leaned back, fished out a cigarette, and propped one foot on the side of the cockpit. "Anytime you fellows get a handle on the situation-" Then he saw Cole, apparently cold and aloof, taking it all in, those blue eyes fixed upon him. He wondered how in God's name was he going to fly with this man every day? He recoiled at the idea of so many hours of enforced togetherness. At that moment, Cole winked at him.
Jake grinned and handed his glass to the nearest spectator. "Are you guys going to take all night?" he asked of the repair party behind him. "We have bandits inbound at ten knots and they're going to blast in through the French doors if you fellows don't shake a leg."
"Who's gonna launch this guy?" Handlebar shouted.
"I am, by God," boomed a voice from the deep South. Bosun Marion Muldowski stepped up. He stood six feet two and transported a substantial pot belly. He had rather narrow shoulders from which massive arms sprouted. Bosun Muldowski was a warrant officer and had worked his way up from the enlisted ranks, "up the hawse pipe," as the expression ran. He had been the catapult maintenance officer on the Shiloh for as long as Grafton had been aboard and regularly took a turn launching aircraft. His commanding presence inspired awe in the officers and instant obedience from the sailors, who regarded him with a mixture of respect and fear. Even the air boss, a commander who headed the department that included all the flight-deck divisions, had been known to slip and call Muldowski "Sir."
Every eye in the room was on the southern Pole as he surveyed Jake Grafton and the beast. "You ready in there, shipmate?" he bellowed.
Jake took his foot down and tightened the shoulder straps. "Let's do it, Bosun."
Muldowski drained his beer, crushed the can with his fist, then tossed it outdoors into the pond. He unbuttoned and removed his shirt. On his T-shirt was emblazoned a legend in flaming red: "World's Finest Cat Officer." Snickers rippled through the crowd.
The big man glowered at several people who had had the temerity to snicker. Silence reigned. "I've pissed more saltwater than you puppies ever sailed over." His face was grim. "You back there," he said to Handlebar. "Are you ready yet?"
Handlebar flung both hands above his head and held them there, the standard signal to the cat officer that the cat was ready to fire. "Satisfactory," the bosun pronounced. "Anytime you care to go we will oblige you," he told Jake. The pilot sat at attention with his hand on the hook lever, watching the bosun from the corner of his eye. "Well?" demanded Muldowski.
"Well?" repeated Jake.
"I don't hear your engine running and I don't see a salute," Muldowski said as though he were talking to a seventeen-year-old boot recruit from Iowa.
Taking the cue, everyone in the place, Jake included, began to roar like a jet engine. The thunder from threescore voices filled the room and rolled through the open doors, across the pond, and out into the night. Jake saluted and immediately put his hand back on the ,hook mechanism. He took a deep breath and chomped down on his cigarette. He tried to watch both the bosun and the safety wire at the same time. The bosun's right hand twirled above his head, then he lunged to his right and his hand came down in a wide arc to touch the floor, the classic launch signal. Grafton tried to look back for the target wire, but it was too late.
Down the track he hurtled. He jerked on the handle but the beast continued to accelerate. He flashed down the incline. Water cascaded over him as the beast slid to a stop.
Jake puffed on his soggy cigarette. He looked back into the barroom. Some of the shouting, laughing men pointed at him with one hand and pounded the bosun on the back with the other.
When the car had been cranked back into battery, the bosun inquired in his flight-deck voice, "How was your flight?"
"Smoother than silk, but the landing was a little rough. Maybe we'd better try it again."
Lundeen leaned in with some whispered advice. "This time watch the wire, not the bosun."
With another mighty warwhoop Grafton swept down the track. And into the pond. As they hauled him back, he announced to the crowd, "That was practice. This time I mean it."
When the hook arrested the beast on the third flight, he almost hit his head on the panel. Applause rattled the windows as a laughing Sammy Lundeen helped him out of the cockpit. Someone thrust another drink at him.
"Which of you shit-hot flyboys is next?" the bosun boomed.
Jake yelled, "Sammy Lundeen."
"Hell, no," said Lundeen without conviction. Eager hands propelled him into the slimy seat. "Now watch the greatest pilot who ever lived catch the wire on the very first try," Sammy chortled. "I was born in a cockpit. I could fly before I could walk."
"Bet that made nursing a lot more fun," someone hooted. "Did you just hover there, like a hummingbird?"
"Watch and weep, swine."
"Have you any money, my boy?" the bosun inquired.
"Fifty bucks, infidel dog, ye of little faith, follower of the false prophet-"
"I'll take ten." "Me, too," was the chorus.
"Thanks, guys," Lundeen announced triumphantly After he grabbed the wire. "It's always a pleasure spending your money." Pocketing his winnings, he and Grafton retreated to the bar w
here Cole was waiting, the- corners of his mouth curving upward a fraction of an inch. The three of them watched Cowboy and five others wrestle the bosun toward the machine.
Jake surveyed the naked drunk on the bar and decided that modesty should be given at least a token nod. He took off his wet socks and put them on the feet of the unconscious Corsair pilot. This accomplished, he turned to Lundeen. "Thanks for taking me to Hong Kong. That was one hell of a good time."
"No sweat."
"Damn, I sure feel good. It's been one fine in-port period. No lie, Sam, I really feel great."
"You're drunk, Jake. You always feel great when you're drunk."
Grafton acknowledged to himself the truth of the statement. He was getting loaded again, and that always felt good.
"Well," said a voice behind them, "this one certainly seems quiet enough." A navy captain in short-sleeve whites observed the nude on the bar. Above his left shirt-pocket, the captain wore four rows of ribbons topped with gold pilot's wings. The uppermost left ribbon was the Silver Star. His close-cropped black hair was shot through with gray, and his cap, with scrambled eggs on the visor, perched precariously on the back of his head. "Is he alive?" the captain asked Sammy in a conversational tone.
"Yessir. Last time we checked, he was."
The captain turned to the small civilian who stood behind him. "I thought you said this man was completely naked?"
"I did and he is. He stood on a table upstairs and stripped down and greatly embarrassed our female staff."
"He has socks on now. He's partially dressed," the captain observed.
"Sir, we can't keep our employees if this kind of behavior goes on. And who's going to pay for all the breakage upstairs? And this mirror?" The club manager gestured toward the glass fragments behind the bar.
"I'm sure you'll have no trouble getting or keeping help. I have over a hundred applications on file for every civilian job on this base, including yours. And I'm sure these officers are willing to stand good for the breakage. Just send me a tally for everything you want replaced and I'll see that it's paid."
"But-"
"Go on upstairs and manage this place. Send me that list tomorrow." The captain smiled at Grafton and Lundeen. "And how is the evening going?"
"Just fine, sir. But if I may make a suggestion? You'd better remove your cap before someone demands that you buy a round."
The captain put a hand to his cap, then withdrew it. "That is the custom, isn't it? Barkeep!" The captain raised his voice. "There is a man in the house with his cover on. Drinks for everyone!" More than sixty men surged toward the bar.
Armed with a drink, the captain scanned the crowd and spotted Bosun Muldowski. "Ski! I thought you retired off my ship four, five years ago?"
"Aye, Captain Harrington, I shore did. But I got tired a sittin' on my ass and listening to the of lady, and
with the war on and all.... Well, here I am!"
The captain surveyed the bosun's wet clothes. "I see you also undertook to give these young gentlemen some lessons."
The bosun looked down at his wet T-shirt in disgust. "That's about the size of it."
The atmosphere in the bar had mellowed. Muldowski fell into a talkative mood, so the men plied him with beer and listened to his stories. He solved all the navy's problems, told Congress where to go, cussed out everyone on earth not wearing navy blue, and gave the men a well-received assessment of most civilians: "Lower than whale shit at the bottom of the sea."
At about two in the morning, four or five guys from one of the A-7 outfits came in and collected their naked shipmate. He was snoring happily before they cranked him up, but once aroused demanded another drink. They gave him ice water, and he gurgled back to life.
Jake walked outside and sat down in the grass some fifty feet away from the building. He could see the Shiloh, illuminated with floodlights, lying at the carrier pier. Even from a mile and a half away, she looked gigantic. Beyond her the black water of the bay extended to the high hills on the western shore, while off to the south lay the entrance to the bay. The breeze blowing in off the sea, laden with the wild smell of salt, felt good. He stretched out on the grass and looked up at the stars.
In two days he would be flying again. More worthless targets with lots of flak and no results. Ile remembered the suspected truck park he and Morgan had bombedwhen was it? A week, ten days ago? All that flak. Although it seemed long ago, he would never forget how the cockpit looked after they opened the canopy. All that blood.
He ran his hands through the grass and felt the damp earth. Then he sat up. Wondering about Callie and the future, he looked at the enormous bulk of the carrier and at the dark sea just beyond the entrance to the bay.
THIRTEEN
The Shiloh was under way at 0800 the next morning as the sun crept over the scalloped rim of the mountains bordering the bay. The tugs helped her from the pier and then, under her own power, she turned and made for the channel to the sea. Two destroyers steamed ahead and four astern. Once into the open ocean the escorts fanned out, taking up their stations around the giant flattop. The task group soon turned to a westerly heading and stood away from the land. Within three hours the highest peaks in the Luzon shore range had sunk into the ocean. Once again the horizon was empty. Small puffy clouds drifted along on the trade wind.
At noon the ship swung into the southwesterly trades and slowed until the relative wind down the angled deck was thirty knots. Then she began to recover aircraft that had been flying from Cubi Point while she had been in port. F-4s, A-7s, an E-2, and an EA-6B Prowler came aboard in order. Only one of the two Intruders that had been ashore appeared over the ship. When word reached the ready room, a hurried conference was held and it was decided that a repair crew would be transported back to Cubi on the daily cargo plane.
"Looks like Corey Ford and the Boxman will enjoy an extra night on the beach," Parker remarked.
"Hope it doesn't kill the boy," said the Old Man, thinking of Box.
Jake Grafton watched the Devils' pilot, New Guy, from the air boss's vantage point in Pri-Fly. This enclosed space, high in the island, protruded out over the flight deck and offered an unimpeded view of the flight deck and of the aircraft in the air near the ship.
After six landings aboard the carrier in daylight, each pilot new to the ship would make three night traps that evening. After this final exam there would be no graduation or diploma. The air wing LSO would debrief each man individually, and unless a negative comment was made to the operations officer of the squadron to which the man belonged, the new pilot's name would appear on the flight schedule. Without fanfare or celebration, the young aviator was now a carrier pilot. He would stand his watches and fly the scheduled missions and, if he were skillful enough and lucky enough, he would live through his tour of duty.
Jake enjoyed his Pri-Fly stints. Throughout a cruise, each of a squadron's junior officers had to take his turn in Pri-Fly, observing not only the new pilots but the experienced ones as well. In the profession of flying, a man was good enough or he wasn't any good at all, and that fact was written in blood. In the crowd of young officers who gathered behind the chairs of the boss and assistant boss, the action was fast and the comments swift. It reminded Grafton of the grandstand crowd at a horserace. All that was needed, Jake thought, was some enterprising soul to offer bets on which wire the next plane would snag. The air boss kept up a running commentary on the performance of the fledglings for the benefit of the squadron observers, and Jake wrote copious notes in his squadron's log book.
Jake watched the new Intruder driver, who caught the target third wire three out of six times with no bolters. He flew the pattern at the proper distance and kept the right interval between himself and other aircraft, although twice the air boss complained that he was late turning from the downwind leg crosswind toward the ship's wake. Grafton scribbled down the remark.
When all the aircraft were back aboard, the Pri-Fly observers and the recently landed crews made their way
to their ready rooms for a debriefing and a written examination. The textbook was NATOPS-Naval Avia
tion Training and Operating Procedures-which came
in a separate volume for each type of aircraft. Jake and Sammy regularly drilled each other on the Intruder's hydraulics, electronics, engines, crew safety and comfort systems, and performance under any possible flight condition. They also practiced using the complex graphs from which fuel consumption, airspeed, maximum G loads, and similar information could be extracted. NATOPS quizzes were heavy on emergency procedures, although any fact from the book was fair game. A classified exam, based on the secret supplement to the NATOPS manual, was given less frequently than the emergency and operating procedure quizzes.
"What if I don't pass?" Little asked loudly.
"If you don't pass, you don't fly," Big Augie answered from across the room.
"But what if I don't want to fly?" Little quavered.
"Then we'll think of something else," four voices sang in unison.
Later that night, Jake looked up Chief Styert to discuss Hardestly and his marriage certificate. "So where is our newlywed?" Jake asked. Chief Styert sent for Hardesty.
While they waited, Jake filled the chief in on some of the administrative items that were discussed at the all-officers meeting. "The Skipper says we're going to be doing a lot of high-priority night work, as well as daytime Alpha strikes. We'll be pushing it this time out, but on our next in-port period we may go to Singapore."
"The men would rather go back to Subic Bay," the chief said. The liquor and women were cheaper and the raunchy night life more to their tastes. Jake sighed. Join the navy and see Po City.
"Yeah, I know that and so does the Captain, but there'll be another carrier in port then, so we'll have to suck it up and go to Singapore." The chief looked glum. Maybe he had a girlfriend in Po City, too.
Hardesty arrived, looking pale. "How did your leave go?" Jake asked.
"Okay." The boy had not shaved in several days and a dozen or so scraggly whiskers had sprouted like weeds amid the pimples on his chin.
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