The Intruders jg-6

by Stephen Coonts

In addition to the legal authority with which he was cloaked, the commanding officer was always the most experienced flyer there and the most senior. How he used these assets was the measure of the man, for truly, his responsibility was very great. In addition to the aircraft entrusted to him, he was responsible for about 350 enlisted men and three dozen officers. He was legally and morally responsible for every facet of their lives, from the adequacy of their living quarters to their health, professional development and performance. And he was responsible for the squadron as a military unit in combat, which meant the lives of his men were in his hands.

  The responsibility crushed some men, but most commanding officers flourished under it. This was the professional zenith that they had spent their careers working to attain. By the time they reached it they had served under many commanding officers. The wise ones adopted the best of the leadership styles of their own former skippers and adapted it as necessary to suit their personalities. Leadership could not be learned from a book: it was the most intangible and the most human of the military skills.

  In American naval aviation the best skippers led primarily by example and the force of their personalities — they intentionally kept the mood light as they gave orders, praised, cajoled, hinted, encouraged, scolded, ridiculed, laughed at and commented upon whatever and whomever they wished. The ideal that they seemed to instinctively strive for was a position as first among equals. Consequently AOMs were normally spirited affairs, occasionally raucous, full of good humor and camaraderie, with every speaker working hard to gain his audience’s attention and cope with catcalls and advice — good, bad, indifferent and obscene. In this environment intelligence and good sense could flourish, here experience could be shared and everyone could learn from everyone else, here the bonds necessary to sustain fighting men could be forged.

  This evening Rory Smith’s death hung like a gloomy pall in the air.

  Colonel Haldane spoke first. He told them what he knew of the accident, what Hank Davis had said. Then he got down to it:

  “The war is over and still we have planes crashing and people dying. Hard to figure, isn’t it? This time it wasn’t the bad guys. The gomers didn’t get Rory Smith in three hundred and twenty combat missions, although they tried and they tried damned hard. He had planes shot up so badly on three occasions that he was decorated for getting the planes back. What got him was a VDI that slid out of its tray in the instrument panel and jammed the stick.

  “Did he think about ejecting? I don’t know. I wish he had ejected. I wish to God we still had Rory Smith with us. Maybe he was worried about getting his legs cut off if he pulled the handle. Maybe he didn’t have time to punch. Maybe he thought he could save it. Maybe he didn’t realize how quickly the plane was getting into extremis. Lots of maybes. We’ll never know.”

  He picked up the blue NATOPs manual lying on the podium and held it up. “This book is the Bible. The engineers that built this plane and the test pilots that wrung it out put their hearts and souls into this book — for you. Telling you everything they knew. And the process didn’t stop there — as new things are learned about the plane the book is continually updated. It’s a living document. You should know every word in it. That is the best insurance you can get on this side of hell.

  “But the book doesn’t cover everything. Sooner or later you are going to run into something that isn’t covered in the book. Whether you survive the experience will be determined by your skill, your experience, and your luck.

  “There’s been a lot of mumbling around here the last twenty-four hours about luck. Well, there is no such thing. You can’t feel it, taste it, smell it, touch it, wear it, fuck it, or eat it. It doesn’t exist!

  “This thing we call luck is merely professionalism and attention to detail, it’s your awareness of everything that is going on around you, it’s how well you know and understand your airplane and your own limitations. We make our own luck. Each of us. None of us is Superman. Luck is the sum total of your abilities as an aviator. If you think your luck is running low, you’d better get busy and make some more. Work harder. Pay more attention. Study your NATOPs more. Do better preflights.

  “A wise man once said, ‘Fortune favors the well prepared.’ He was right.

  “Rory Smith is not with us here tonight because he didn’t eject when he should have. Hank Davis is alive because he did.

  “We’re going to miss Rory. But every man here had better resolve to learn something from his death. If we do, he didn’t die for nothing. Think about it.”

  * * *

  The best way to see Hawaii is the way the ancient Polynesians first saw it, the way it was revealed to whalers and missionaries, the way sailors have always seen it.

  The islands first appear on the horizon like clouds, exactly the same as the other clouds. Only as the hours pass and your vessel gets closer does it become apparent that there is something different about these clouds. The first hints of green below the churning clouds imply mass, earth, land, an island, where at first there appeared to be only sea and sky.

  Finally you see for sure — tawny green slopes, soon a surf line, definition and a crest for that ridge, that draw, that promontory.

  Hawaii.

  Jake Grafton stood amid the throng of off-duty sailors on the bow watching the island of Oahu draw closer and closer. She looked emerald green this morning under her cloud-wreath. The hotels and office buildings of Honolulu were quite plain there on the right. Farther right Diamond Head jutted from the sea haze, also wearing a cumulus buildup.

  The sailors pointed out the landmarks to one another and talked excitedly. They were jovial, happy. To see Hawaii for the first time is one of life’s great milestones, like your first kiss.

  Jake had been here before — twice. On each of his first two cruises the ship had stopped in Pearl on its way to Vietnam. As he watched the carrier close the harbor channel, he thought again of those times, and of the men now dead whom he had shared them with. Little fish. Sharks.

  He went below. Down in the stateroom the Real McCoy was poring over a copy of the Wall Street Journal. “Are you rich enough to retire yet?”

  “I’m making an honest dollar, Grafton. Working hard at it and taking big risks. We call the system capitalism.”

  “Yeah. So how’s capitalism treating you?”

  “Think I’m up another grand as of the date of this paper, four days ago. I’ll get something current as soon as I can get off base.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Arabs turned off the oil tap in the Mideast. That will send my domestic oil stocks soaring and melt the profits off my airline stocks. Some up, some down. You know, the crazy thing about investing — there’s really no such thing as bad news. Whether an event is good or bad depends on where you’ve got your money.”

  Jake eyed his roommate without affection. This worm’s eye view of life irritated him. The worms had placed bets on the little fish. Somehow that struck him as inevitable, though it didn’t say much for the worms. Or the little fish.

  “You going ashore?” McCoy asked.

  “Like a shot out of a gun, the instant the gangway stops moving,” Jake Grafton replied. “I have got to get off this tub for a while.”

  “Liberty hounds don’t go very high in this man’s Navy,” McCoy reminded him, in a tone that Jake thought sounded a wee bit prissy.

  “I really don’t care if Haldane uses my fitness report for toilet paper,” was Jake Grafton’s edged retort. And he didn’t care. Not one iota.

  * * *

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Mrs. McKenzie? This is Jake Grafton. Is Callie there?”

  “No, she isn’t, Jake. Where are you?”

  “Hawaii.”

  “She’s at school right now. She should be back around six this evening. Is there a number where she can reach you?”

  “No. I’ll call her. Please tell her I called.”

  “I’ll do that, Jake.”

  The pilot hung up the phone and
put the rest of the quarters from his roll back into his trouser pocket. When he stepped out of the telephone booth, the next sailor in line took his place.

  He trudged away looking neither right nor left, ignoring the sporadic salutes tossed his way. The palm trees and frangipani in bloom didn’t interest him. The tropical breeze caressing his face didn’t distract him. When a jet climbing away from Hickam thundered over, however, the pilot stopped and looked up. He watched the jet until the plane was out of sight and the sound had faded, then walked on.

  About a ship’s length from the carrier pier was a small square of grass complete with picnic table adjacent to the water. After brushing away pigeon droppings, Jake Grafton seated himself on the table and eased his fore-and-aft cap farther back onto his head. The view was across the harbor at the USS Arizona memorial, which he knew was constructed above the sunken battleship’s superstructure. Arizona lay on the mud under that calm sheet of water, her hull blasted, holed, burned and twisted by Japanese bombs and torpedoes. Occasionally boats ferrying tourists to and from the memorial made wakes that disturbed the surface of the water. After the boats’ passage, the disturbance would quickly dissipate. Just the faintest hint of a swell spoiled the mirror smoothness of that placid sheet, protected as it was from the sea’s turbulence by the length and narrowness of the channel. The perfect water reflected sky and drifting cumulus clouds and, arranged around the edge of the harbor, the long gray warships that lay at the piers.

  Jake Grafton smoked cigarettes while he sat looking. Time passed slowly and his mind wandered. Occasionally he glanced at his watch. When almost two hours had passed, he walked back toward the telephone booths at the head of the carrier pier and got back into line.

  * * *

  “Hey, Callie, it’s me, Jake.”

  “Well, hello, sailor! It’s great to hear your voice.”

  “Pretty nice hearing yours too, lady. So you’re back in school?”

  “Uh-huh. Graduate courses. I’m getting so educated I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  “I like smart women.”

  “I’ll see if I can find one for you. So you’re in Pearl Harbor?”

  “Yep. Hawaii. Got in a while ago. Gonna be here a couple days, then maybe Japan or the Philippines or the IO.” Realizing that she probably wouldn’t recognize the acronym, he added belatedly, “That’s the Indian Ocean. I don’t know. Admirals somewhere figure it out and I go wherever the ship goes. But enough about me. Talk some so I can listen to your voice.”

  “I got your letter about the in-flight engagement. That sounded scary. And dangerous.”

  “It was exciting all right, but we lost a plane yesterday on a day cat shot. An A-6. Went in off the cat. The pilot was killed.”

  “I’m sorry, Jake.”

  “I’m getting real tired of this, Callie. I’ve been here too long. I’m a civilian at heart and I think it’s time I pulled the plug. I’ve submitted a letter of resignation.”

  “Oh,” she said. After a pause, she added, “When are you getting out?”

  “Won’t be until the cruise is over.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yeah.”

  He twisted the telephone cord and wondered what to say. She wasn’t saying anything on her end, so he plunged ahead. “The plane that went in off the cat was the one I had the inflight engagement in, ol’ Five One One. The in-flight smacked the avionics around pretty good, and when they reinstalled the boxes one of the technicians didn’t get the VDI properly secured. So the VDI box came out on the cat shot, jammed the stick. The BN punched and told us what happened, but the pilot didn’t get out.”

  “You’re not blaming yourself, are you?”

  “No.” He said that too quickly. “Well, to tell the truth, I am a little bit responsible. With better technique I might have avoided the in-flight. That’s spilled milk. Maybe it was unavoidable. But I was briefing these Marines on carrier ops— everything you need to know to be a carrier pilot in four two-hour sessions, and I forgot to mention that you have to check the security of the VDI.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “Not really. But aren’t these risks a part of carrier aviation?”

  “Not a part. This is the main course, the heart of it, the very essence. In spite of the very best of intentions, mistakes will be made, things will break. War or no war, people get killed doing this stuff. I’m getting sick of watching people bet their lives and losing, that’s all.”

  “Are you worried about your own safety?”

  “No more than usual. You have to fret it some or you won’t be long on this side of hell.”

  “It seems to me that the dangers would become hard to live with—”

  “I can handle it. I think. No one’s shooting at me. But see, that’s the crazy part. The war is over, yet as long as men keep flying off these ships there are going to be casualties.”

  “So what will you do when you get out?”

  “I don’t know, Callie.”

  Seconds passed before she spoke. “Life isn’t easy, Jake.”

  “That isn’t exactly news. I’ve done a year or two of hard living my own self.”

  “I thought you liked the challenge.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you want me to stay in?”

  “No.” Her voice solidified. “I am not suggesting that you do anything. I’m not even hinting. Stay in, get out, whatever, that’s your choice and yours alone. You must live your own life.”

  “Damn, woman! I’m trying.”

  “I know,” she said gently.

  “You know me,” he told her.

  “I’m beginning to.”

  “How are your folks?”

  “Fine,” she said. They talked for several more minutes, then said good-bye.

  The vast bulk of the ship loomed high over the bank of telephone booths. Jake glanced up at the ship, at the tails of the planes sticking over the edge of the flight deck, then lowered his gaze, stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked away.

  * * *

  The problem was that he had never been able to separate the flying from the rest of it — the killing, bombing, dying. Maybe it couldn’t be separated. The My Lai massacre, Lieutenant William Calley, napalm on villages, burning children, American pilots nailed to trees and skinned alive, Viet Cong soldiers tortured for information while Americans watched, North Vietnamese soldiers given airborne interrogations — talk or we’ll throw you from the helicopter without a parachute: all of this was tied up with the flying in a Gordian knot that Solomon couldn’t unravel.

  He thought he had cut the knot — well, Commander Campa-relli and the Navy had cut it for him — last winter in Vietnam. He had picked an unauthorized target, the North Vietnamese capitol building in Hanoi, attacked and almost got it, then faced some very unhappy senior officers across a long green table. They knew what their duty was: obey orders from the elected government. What they couldn’t fathom was how he, Lieutenant Jake Jackass from Possum Hollow, had lost sight of it.

  We’re all in this together. We must keep the faith. Wasn’t that what you and your friends were always telling one another when the shit got thick and the blood started flowing?

  We do what we must and die when we must for each other.

  The faith was easier to understand then, easier to keep. Now the war was over. Although some people want to keep fighting it, by God, it’s over.

  Now the Navy was peacetime cruises, six- to eight-month voyages to nowhere, excruciating separations from loved ones, marriages going on the rocks under the strain, kids growing up with a father who’s never there; it’s getting scared out of your wits when Lady Luck kisses your ass good-bye; it’s seeing people squashed into shark food; it’s knowing — knowing all the time, every minute of every day — that you may be next. The life can be smashed out of you so quick that you’ll inhale in this world and exhale in hell.

  Lieutenant Jake Grafton, farmer’s son and history major, wa
s going to get on with his life. Do something safe, something sane. Something with tangible rewards. Something that allowed him to find a good woman, raise a family, be a father to his children. He would bequeath this flying life to dedicated halfwits like Flap Le Beau.

  Yet he would miss the flying.

  This afternoon as Jake Grafton walked along the boulevard that led into downtown Honolulu, huge, benign cumulus clouds were etched against the deep blue sky, seemingly fixed. He would like to fly right now — to strap on an airplane and leave behind the problems of the ground.

  We are, he well knew, creatures of the earth. Its minerals compose our bodies and provide our nourishment. Our cells contain seawater, legacies of ancestors who lived in the oceans. Yet on the surface man evolved, here where there are other animals to kill and eat, edible plants, trees with nuts and fruits, streams and lakes teeming with life. Our bodies function best at the temperature ranges, atmospheric pressures and oxygen levels that have prevailed on the earth’s surface throughout most of the age of mammals. We need the protection from the sun’s radiation that the atmosphere provides. Our senses of smell and hearing use the atmosphere as the transmitting medium. The earth’s gravity provides a reference point for our sense of balance and the resistance our muscles and circulatory systems need to function properly. The challenges of surviving on the dry surface provided the evolutionary stimulus to develop our brains.

  Without the earth, we would not be the creatures we are. And yet we want to leave it, to soar through the atmosphere, to voyage through interplanetary space, to explore other worlds. And to someday leave the solar system and journey to another star. All this while we are still trapped by our physical and psychological limitations here on the surface of the mother planet.

  Sometimes the contradictions inherent in our situation hit him hard. Last fall, while he was hunting targets in North Vietnam as he dodged the flak and SAMs, Americans again walked on the moon. Less than seventy years after the Wright brothers left the surface in powered flight, man stood on the moon and looked back at the home planet glistening amid the infinite black nothingness. They looked while war, hunger, pestilence and man’s inhumanity to man continued unabated, continued as it had since the dawn of human history.