Nakane-san sighed. “I know. The Japanese sometimes do not make it easy for foreigners. We are friendly and welcoming. Up to a point. But then we withdraw into our own circle, where we feel comfortable. Unthreatened. The Japanese don’t like to take risks,” he said. “Perhaps we are just lazy or afraid. But the world is growing smaller, Captain Comerford, and it is getting much more difficult to avoid one another.”
“Well, it certainly is in Misawa,” Libby agreed.
“Captain Comerford, want to practice your Japanese?” Libby had just left the morning weather briefing when she was intercepted by the Operations Officer Jack — Jacko — Petrowski. Her fellow pilots found her enthusiasm for studying Japanese very amusing and never missed an opportunity to give her a hard time about it.
“Don’t tell me, the Wing Commander’s interpreter has taken ill and he wants me to pinch hit?” She answered dryly.
“Oh, more fun than that. How would you like to fly a training mission this morning with our sister squadron? Colonel Long is giving General Sato a ride in the back seat and I need someone to fly on his wing. You’ll have one of his staff pilots as your passenger.”
“And to what do I owe this honor?” Libby asked as she glanced at the flying schedule posted on the board above the operations desk. She was surprised Major Petrowski hadn’t found a more senior officer for the privilege. He had not gone out of his way to make her feel welcome. In fact, she sometimes worried he was deliberately trying to obstruct her mission qualification by the way he scheduled her flights. She had been at Misawa since June and she still wasn’t combat qualified.
“Major Washington is at sick call and I need a nice, warm body to take his place,” he said with a smirk.
“And you thought of me. How touching.”
“I think about you all the time,” he quipped.
Libby was about to answer back with a witty rejoinder and then thought better of it. She felt uncomfortable around the prickly major and was afraid he would take it the wrong way. It wasn’t the first time he had made a provocative remark to her and she wasn’t sure how she should handle it. She had tried ignoring him, but her silence certainly hadn’t discouraged him. If anything, it seemed to have had the opposite effect. As a new pilot in the squadron, she didn’t want to make any waves by complaining to the commander. The men would close ranks against her, Charlie included, if they thought she was a troublemaker.
But things were not going as smoothly as she’d hoped and she was certain some of the blame rested squarely on the muscular shoulders of Jack Petrowski. He was too short and thickset to be considered conventionally handsome. His black hair grew low on his forehead and he had such a heavy beard by afternoon he looked like he’d forgotten to shave. But his rugged, slightly menacing looks apparently inspired numerous admirers. His reputation as a ladies’ man had reached mythical proportions on the fighter-pilot grapevine.
Libby didn’t really believe Major Petrowski had any serious designs on her. His legendary seductions always took place when he went away on temporary duty stateside or to other bases in the Pacific. He just didn’t want her to get too complacent or get the idea that she could ever “belong,” not to a fighter squadron.
When he was out of earshot of the commander, he made no bones about where he stood on the issue of women pilots. They didn’t belong in the Air Force. Period. He was convinced they caused divisiveness in the squadron, couldn’t handle an airplane as well as a man, and, when the chips were down, lacked the drive and aggression needed in combat.
Libby had no doubt that some of the other men were sympathetic to the major’s view. But they were too cautious to agree with him. Not out loud anyway, in the politically correct climate of the modern Air Force.
“I wouldn’t think of refusing,” she said evenly. The Ops officer penciled in Comerford with a grease pencil on the plexi-glass scheduling board.
“You better get your gear. The Colonel doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
An hour later, Libby found herself in the briefing room at the Samurai Squadron going over plans for the mission with General Sato and his aide Major Yoshida. The two Japanese officers, dressed identically in immaculate orange flight suits, looked distinctly uncomfortable sitting across the table from Captain Comerford. The General, a short, jovial man, kept glancing over at her and nodding his head and smiling, as if he were trying to reassure himself she was capable of flying the mission.
Major Yoshida kept his eyes focused on a cheesecake calendar on the wall behind Libby’s chair. It was all too apparent, from the grim expression on his face, that the major would gladly have canceled the flight rather than fly in the back seat with a woman at the controls; but he didn’t have a choice. He would have brought shame on General Sato and insulted the American colonel if he objected to Captain Comerford.
Libby glanced over her shoulder at the titillating calendar and then back at the major, challenging him to pay closer attention. He was tall by Japanese standards, close to six feet, she guessed because when they were introduced they were exactly the same height. He towered over General Sato, the two of them looked like Mutt and Jeff — one short and stocky, the other long and lean. He had a handsome face, notwithstanding the sour expression, with high, sculpted cheekbones, a narrow aquiline nose and a small well-shaped mouth.
After her encounter with the Ops Officer, Libby was in no mood to pander to the fractious major. He might be the biggest prick in the Japanese Air Self-Defense Force but protocol demanded that she be her most charming. So in spite of his scowl, she smiled indulgently across the table and continued to explain the rules of engagement.
Libby was not making much headway. Instead of making eye contact when she spoke to him, his dark, hooded eyes stared impassively at the wall calendar above her head, as if he were mesmerized by the glossy photograph of the buxom, scantily clad blonde.
Libby cleared her throat to try to get his attention. “Major Yoshida.”
He shifted his eyes nervously from the seductive blonde on the calendar to Libby, back to the calendar.
“You would like to fly the F-16. Yes?” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word in a crisp, clear voice. Despite her aggravation, she smiled encouragingly at the major.
“Hai,” he nodded affirmatively. His command of English appeared to be as limited as the general’s.
“Once we are out of formation, you can have the stick. I will say: ‘You fly the jet’ and raise my hands over my head to signal it is all yours. Got it?”
When he didn’t reply, she repeated the instructions. “You do understand?” She asked. Libby was getting a little worried about having someone in her backseat she could not communicate with. Pilots, military and civilian, worldwide, were supposed to be able to speak English. It was the lingua franca of the aviation community.
“I understand,” he said tersely.
Libby looked a little puzzled. Perhaps the major could speak better English than he let on. But she wasn’t going to take any chances. When he climbed into the jet, he would be her responsibility and she intended to take good care of him — whether he liked it or not.
The briefing completed, the four pilots retreated to the life support room to suit up for the flight. Gathering up their fireproof Nomex gloves, bulky parachute harnesses, survival vests, and helmet bags, they headed out of the squadron. A Japanese photographer was waiting outside to record the event for the base newspaper. They had to line up on the steps for the photograph, a grinning General Sato in the middle, flanked by Colonel Long on one side and Libby and Major Yoshida on the other. The photographer kept motioning to them to move closer together. Libby could feel the major’s warm breath on her neck, his body, rigid with tension aligned slightly behind hers.
The photo op completed, the pilots strode briskly toward the van waiting to deliver them to their respective airplanes. Libby walked alongside Major
Yoshida. She would have liked to ask him a few questions about his flying career or how long he had been stationed at Misawa but the pained expression on his face precluded conversation. His body language made it perfectly clear that he was not only dreading the flight, he was actually afraid!
She was so angry at his blatant chauvinism she had to bite her lip to keep from telling him she had graduated first in her class from gunnery school. He probably wouldn’t have believed her anyway or, like many of his American counterparts, assumed her scores were either an aberration or a gift bestowed on her by officials determined to integrate women into combat squadrons.
Libby paused to adjust the straps on the parachute harness dangling between her legs. When she glanced up, she caught the major watching her out of the corner of his eye. What was it, Charlie had said about Japanese men and their prurient fascination with large breasts and blonde hair? It would serve Major Yoshida right if he lost consciousness during the flight, she thought to herself. A sustained 9 G turn might just do the trick.
When they arrived at the airplane they were both preoccupied with last-minute preparations for the flight. Libby conferred with the crew chief, Sergeant Perez, as they walked around the jet for the pre-flight inspection.
“Well, Major Yoshida, do you have any last-minute questions about emergency procedures, radio frequencies? Or are you all set to go?”
He forced a smile. “I am,” he hesitated, “all set to go.” He watched as Libby hoisted herself up the ladder, swung a long leg over the side of the airplane and climbed into the cockpit.
Once Major Yoshida was strapped in the back seat, he looked more relaxed. Libby watched him in her mirror as he went through the ritual of familiarizing himself with the new instruments. There was nothing like a cramped cockpit to make a fighter pilot feel right at home, she thought. Apparently his indignation at having to fly with a woman was not quite as acute once her female identity was masked by the helmet and oxygen mask.
The checklist completed, Libby started the engine. Moving the throttle slowly out of idle, she released the parking brake, and started taxiing behind Colonel Long’s airplane to the end of the runway, where she aligned her jet for a formation take-off at a forty-five degree angle behind the lead airplane. At a hand signal from Colonel Long, she started running up the engine and when he nodded his head, released the brakes and advanced the throttle to afterburner. Thirteen seconds later, the two airplanes were accelerating down the runway at 150 knots.
The two pilots were slammed back in their seats as Libby pulled back on the stick and the F-16 climbed smoothly and silently, straight up into the sky. When they reached altitude, Colonel Long fish-tailed his airplane to indicate they were to move to combat-spread formation and transfer to radar ground control for the practice intercepts.
Libby raised both hands over her head and instructed Major Yoshida “to fly the jet.” He acknowledged the order by responding in fighter-pilot parlance: “I have the jet.”
Once Libby determined that Major Yoshida was capable of flying the aircraft with as much savvy as she handled it herself, she began to relax and enjoy the scenery. The 360 degrees of unobstructed view out the one-piece canopy was spectacular and she swiveled from side to side trying to take it all in. No matter how many times she flew over the same route, she never failed to marvel at the natural beauty of the landscape, at the ebb and flow of light reflected on the water, or the infinite shades of color painting the sky, the shape of the clouds, the mosaic of rice fields.
The morning fog had dissipated, giving the pilots an unobstructed view of Mt. Hakkoda and Mutsu Bay and, further to the west, the distinctive peak of the dormant volcano Mt. Iwaki, rising majestically above the Tsugaru plain and the city of Hirosaki.
“Japan is a very beautiful country,” Libby said into the microphone. “After a year in the desert, it’s a real pleasure to fly over such enchanting scenery.”
“Thank you,” Major Yoshida answered briskly. The major wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Some back-seaters never shut up; they babbled into the microphone the entire flight.
Libby scanned the sky trying to spot the colonel’s aircraft. “Sir, don’t forget what I mentioned about the radar. It’s a little tricky when you’re not used to it. You have to use your thumb to raise the antennae and it’s a bit awkward … ”
“No problem,” Major Yoshida interrupted.
Libby bristled at his tone of voice. Even filtered through the earphones the condescension was unmistakable. He didn’t like some woman telling him what do. But she didn’t have time to take offense for she had spotted the colonel’s airplane, a silver dart almost directly above them, diving down for the ‘kill.’
“One o’clock! One o’clock!” Libby shouted into the radio. Major Yoshida responded aggressively by turning hard right to try to disengage the other jet, dumping his nose and lighting the afterburner. The evasive action came too late.
“Fox Two Kill. Knock it off,” came the laconic voice from radar control.
“Knock it off,” acknowledged the major grimly.
“Having problems with the radar?” Libby queried. She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice but she was annoyed at having been trounced so ignominiously by the colonel and exasperated by the obstinate man in the back seat. She could hear him breathing hard through the earphones, muttering under his breath in Japanese.
“I, I forgot to raise the antenna.”
The de-briefing was every bit as uncomfortable as the briefing had been. The four pilots sat at the same table drawing pictures of the intercept, discussing tactics and viewing videotapes of their encounter on a TV monitor. They watched black-and-white images of the lead airplane diving from 50,000 feet and swooping in, like a bird of prey, for the kill. Major Yoshida sat grim-faced as the picture flickered over and over again on the screen, mortified at having made such a stupid mistake.
In the spirit of diplomacy, Libby tactfully assumed blame for the error — for not being more thorough with her instructions. But that gesture did not mollify the major in the slightest. If anything, it appeared to increase his rancor. His face flushed an angry red and he looked like he’d like to strangle her.
But when the van arrived to return the two Americans to their squadron on the other side of the airfield, Major Yoshida followed Libby to the door.
“Excuse me, Captain … ” Libby stopped short and swung around in surprise at finding the Japanese pilot so close on her heels. She thought she had seen the last of the scornful major.
Major Yoshida glanced down at the name tag on the breast of her flight suit as if he had to confirm her identity before speaking. He cleared his throat and began again. “I, I wish to thank you, for the ride. It was an ambition of mine, to fly the F-16,” he added.
Libby smiled politely. “It was my pleasure.”
“I am sorry about the antenna,” he blurted out in a gruff voice.
“Me too,” she laughed. “I would have loved to have aced Colonel Long.”
He bowed stiffly, then straightened up and thrust out his hand. His skin felt moist and feverish.
“Perhaps we’ll have another opportunity to fly together,” she said. “General Sato is very keen.”
“I would like that.” Libby wasn’t sure she believed him but she appreciated the effort it cost him to apologize. She withdrew her hand, wiped it discreetly on her pants leg, and proceeded out the door to the waiting van. Before climbing aboard, she turned and waved to Major Yoshida and called in Japanese: “Jamatta, Major.” See you again.
The stunned pilot, too embarrassed to acknowledge her in front of General Sato, turned sharply and retreated down the hall.
General Sato’s ride in the F-16 had been in the works for several weeks. Colonel Long had issued the invitation. General Sato had accepted. And then all the details had to be worked out by their respective squadron
s — the date, the time, the nature of the mission.
The first ride had to be aborted because of the weather. Sea fog, as dense as smoke, had swept in off the Pacific and settled over Misawa. The runway was closed, flying canceled for the afternoon. A second date had to be scheduled.
Major Yoshida, who, as the general’s aide, was responsible for making all the arrangements with the Americans, had been looking forward to flying in the F-16. The Mitsubishi F-1 was a respectable fighter, but the F-16 … It was already fixed in the firmament of legendary airplanes and he couldn’t wait to climb in the cockpit and get his hand on the stick.
And then the Americans had spoiled everything by sending Captain Comerford over with the colonel. Major Yoshida still hadn’t recovered completely from the shock of seeing her walk into the squadron, smiling, loose-limbed, her parachute harness slung effortlessly over her shoulder. The insensitivity of the Americans was appalling. If the major hadn’t known Colonel Long personally, he would have thought he’d brought Libby along as a publicity stunt or to try and raise their consciences.
He cringed when he thought of the photograph. The short, stocky general next to the tall, enchanting blonde. Even in the loose-fitting flight suit, her physical dimensions were unmistakable — from the width of her shoulders to the size of her feet. Her boots were bigger than his.
The hair on the nape of her neck had been shaved like a man’s. He could see the gold stubble when he posed beside her for the photograph.
General Sato was too polite to expose his chagrin but Major Yoshida had not been as successful. But then the general didn’t have to fly with her. He was, frankly, afraid to fly with a female pilot.
His fear was unwarranted. Captain Comerford had handled the airplane as competently as any male, as much as it pained Major Yoshida to admit it. But her sex was still a distraction and he was convinced he would not have fouled up the radar and made such a mortifying error if a man had been in the front seat. He hadn’t been paying close attention when she instructed him on the use of the radar. It was difficult taking a female fighter pilot seriously.
Heart to Heart Page 73