Flight of the Intruder jg-1

by Stephen Coonts

  “What happened? I thought keelhauling was gonna be too good for me.”

  Camparelli took a swallow. “Needs ice. It seems,” he said, “that your explanation for doing what you did hit pretty close to home. The feeling in the White House is that we haven’t been aggressive enough. In about twenty-four hours the President of the United States will announce a general air offensive against North Vietnam. Nixon’s authorizing the use of B-52s against targets in the North.

  We’re going to use every aerial asset we have, except nuclear weapons, to pound the living shit out of North Vietnam. No civilian targets, of course, but we’re going to hit everything we can find of any military significance ” He shook his head.

  The powers that be have decided that we’d look like real idiots having a public court-martial of a twenty-seven year-old pilot for doing what the President of t United States has just told us all to do.”

  Jake shook his head. So Copeland had merely been taking names and making everyone in sight sweat to make sure the heresy was rooted out.

  The leviathen had felt the pinprick, had lashed with annoyance, but had not crushed him.

  Camparelli continued. “You understand that what you did was wrong. Dead wrong. The only reason you’re being given a second chance is that right now the military has a public relations problem that makes the Mafia’s press look good.

  The left thinks we’re criminals and the right thinks we’re pansies. There’s no point in kicking over a hornet’s nest, which is what a public court-martial would be.” Camparelli shifted uncomfortably in his chair and seemed to grope for words. “War is our profession. I . for one, am fed up with naval theorists and systems analysts who couldn’t fight their way out of a whorehouse.”

  “May I quote you on that, sir?” Jake said with a nervous laugh.

  “You sure as hell may not.” The Old Man took another swallow. “We’re professional military men. From the C N O right on down, we do as we’re told. It can’t be any other way and I wouldn’t want it any other way. But do we have a duty to disobey under some circumstances? Perhaps we do. But where? And when?

  You, Grafton, are not equipped to decide.”

  “I understand.”

  “You are, however, fit to fly. Cowboy’s putting you and Cole on tonight’s flight schedule. You can have the tanker I was scheduled for. And I’ll have me a night in bed.” He raised his voice. “Lundeen, you can come in now.”

  Sammy, slightly abashed, entered.

  Camparelli spoke. “Grafton’s flying tonight.”

  Sammy nodded and the skipper motioned for him to sit down. He passed him a glass from the sink and splashed some whiskey in it, then remarked conversationally, “Someone shit up in the forecastle last night.”

  “Wasn’t me, Skipper,” Sammy hastily assured him.

  Frank Camparelli sipped his drink. “I figured as much. If I thought it was you, Sam, you’d be on your way to the States this very minute wearing your testicles on your collar. But I do think it’d be a good idea if you kept Jake company aboard ship next time we’re in port. Make that the next two times in port.”

  “But I didn’t do it,” Sammy protested, pouring another liberal shot into the skipper’s glass.

  “No, but it was your idea. So you’re in hack anyone asks why, I suggest you tell them that I found liquor in your room. You’re supposed to be a naval officer, Sam, not some screwball frat rat.” He took another drink. “This is pretty good stuff.”

  They sat in silence. After a Moment Camparelli saw the ring in Jake’s hand and reached out for it. He held the diamond to the light, twisting it slowly so he could see it sparkle. Finally he returned it without comment. The Old Man finished his drink about the same time as his cigarette. He stubbed out the butt and rinsed the glass in the sink. He paused before opening the door. “Watch your ass out there, Jake. That girl will want you in one piece.” The door closed with a soft click.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The press in the States called it the Christmas Offensive. Massive B-52 formations thundered over North Vietnam, aiming to bomb the negotiators back to the Paris peace talks. At home in America there were widespread protests and, on some college campuses, riots. In the waning days of ‘72, Jake Grafton read about the bombing and the protests in news magazines and the Chicago Tribune, which, as a serviceman in the war zone, he received free.

  When the bundled paper arrived each week Jake would open them, arrange them in order, and read each one closely.

  To Jake it seemed that America would tear itself apart before the North became reasonable at the bargaining table. While he had no doubt that the communist regime could not endure an all-out, tended aerial assault, he did wonder how long the US government would assert its will in the face of mounting protests.

  The question of whose will would break first was unanswerable. To escape futile speculation Jake turned to the advertisements celebrating the bounty of an American Christmas. The Tribune’s editorial might denounce the commercialism of the holiday, but the pilot on the other side of the world reveled in the images of happy people fulfilling their hearts’ desires by buying clothes, cars, perfume, and expensive liquor. Somewhere in the world, as the photographs of beautiful women and men of distinction in front of holiday fireplaces seemed to say, there was warmth and stability.

  The night missions of the squadron had changed. RockEyes that cost over five thousand dollars each were loaded sixteen to a plane and dropped on SAM sites minutes before the B-52s came within range. For Jake the change in American policy was a stroke of luck. It had meant that he could continue to fly. Most of the time he flew bombers, but occasionally he and Tiger flew the A-6B to protect the B-52s from enemy missiles. Despite the efforts to foil the enemy missile defenses, Jake and Tiger witnessed the deaths of some of the great planes in the night skies over North Vietnam. The bombers, trailing fire, would veer out of the formation, yellow specks against the black night.

  The B-52 pilots would calmly report their disaster on the radio, and then the six-man crew, or those men still alive after the missile strike, would jump and fall the miles through the intense cold of inner space while their plane made its fiery plunge.

  Jake had received several letters from Callie since their time together in Cubi, but he was impatient for a reply to his letter telling her of the hearing and its outcome. The evening after Christmas he found a pale yellow envelope in mailbox. He smiled as he waved the letter under his nose and caught the scent of lilacs. To savor the pleasure of reading her letter, he decided to open it back in his stateroom. He turned to leave the ready room when New Guy called to him.

  “Expecting good news, Jake? You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

  Grafton let his grin widen. “How’s your life going, New?”

  “Oh, pretty good. How about relieving me for a half hour or so while I get a hamburger?”

  “Well, okay.” Jake took the chair at the duty officer’s desk that New vacated. “What’s happening?” he asked, wondering if he’d have time to catch some glimpses at Callie’s letter.

  “We just launched two bombers on the last cycle of the day, which went at 2230. The go tanker went down on the cat and they shot the spare.”

  Jake examined the flight schedule. Rabbit Wilson and Fred Magellon had downed the tanker on the catapult.

  “Maintenance Control will call you in just a minute with the side-number of the roundup tanker for the last recovery,” New continued.

  “The brief should start in ten minutes or so. Skipper’s in his stateroom.” The roundup tanker would sit on deck manned and ready during the last recovery in case extra fuel was needed aloft.

  “Okay. Go eat. I gotcha covered.”

  Ferdinand Magellan entered the ready room, picked up the maintenance forms, and came over to the duty officer’s desk. Pulling up a chair, he reached into a bag of Christmas candy New’s wife had sent him an pushed the box toward Jake.

  “What happened to your plane?” Ja
ke asked, his mouth full. He checked the flight schedule. “Five twenty-two?”

  “XO downed it right on the cat. Said something was wrong with the port engine. He ran it up to full Power about four times while the cat officer went bananas, then he refused to go. So they taxied us off and shot Snake Jones and Dick Clark instead.”

  “Where did they have it spotted when you manned up?”

  “On cat two. We sat there and stared at the black hole.

  “Dark out there?”

  “Blacker than a black cat in a coal bin at midnight on a moonless night. Blacker than Hitler’s heart. Blacker than-“

  “So how do you like the fleet, Ferd?” Grafton interrupted as Wilson walked in.

  “I’m eating this shit with a spoon,” the BN said and completed his paperwork in silence while Jake pored over the flight schedule.

  The commander sat in his chair just behind the duty officer’s. “We gotta do better keeping these tankers up,” Wilson remarked. “What other gripes you writing up, Magellon?” Ferd mentioned two minor problems and Rabbit told him, “Well, take them over to Maintenance Control and give them to the Chief. I just motivated him in detail about that engine. So there’s no excuse if they can’t fix it.”

  “Yessir.” The bombardier left, taking the forms with him.

  The telephone rang. The chief in Maintenance Control told Jake, “We’re still working on the roundup tanker. Call you back in a bit.”

  “Okay, Chief.” Jake annotated the flight schedule as the video tape of the last recovery began playing on the television.

  “So how’s every little thing with you, Grafton, after the miracle of the hearing?” Wilson asked Jake’s back.

  “Fine, sir,” Jake said over his shoulder. .

  “You must have an uncle who’s a senator. It’s a damn good thing for you that the decision wasn’t up to me. I know a hot dog when I see one.”

  Jake swiveled the chair and looked the commander in the face. “That’s the second time you’ve called me that. I don’t like it.”

  “Oh, you don’t, eh? You’re all balls, Grafton, but you don’t have enough brains to load a fly up to max gross weight. That’s a hot dog in my book. What would you call it?”

  “At least I’ve got some balls.”

  “Just what do you mean by that?” Wilson’s eye narrowed and he flushed slightly.

  Jake pursed his lips as he considered just how far he could go. “I’ve heard that some of the men call you Rabbit. Behind your back, of course. I don’t think they’re referring to your breeding habits, Rabbit.”

  “You sonuvabitch! I’m a commander! No weenie in railroad tracks makes a crack like that to me.” Wilson’s face was very red as he sprang to his feet. “No goddamn body talks to me like that.” He jutted out his chin. “You think you’re so shit hot. I’m sick to death of all-balls assholes like you.”

  The telephone rang. Jake reached for it without taking his eyes off the man standing over him with his fists clenched. “Lieutenant Grafton.” He was having trouble with his voice.

  “This is Joe Wagner. Where’s the Skipper?”

  “In his stateroom.”

  “I just completed a full power turn-up of Five Two Two. There’s nothing wrong with that airplane’s engines. Put it on the schedule as the roundup tanker.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Jake hung up and looked at the commander. “By the way, twenty-two is up again.”

  “What?” Wilson said in disbelief. “Shit! I just downed that plane. Who was that on the phone?”

  “Joe Wagner,” said Jake calmly. “He says it’s okay.”

  “We’ll see about that. I’ll take care of you later.” As Wilson strode quickly out of the room, he mumbled, “Goddamned hot dog.”

  Jake sat at the desk and breathed deeply. Overhead, on the television monitor, landing after landing flickered silently across the screen. The recently landed air crews began filtering into the ready room. New returned from the wardroom just as the phone rang again.

  “Ready four, Lieutenant Grafton, sir.”

  “Is the XO there?” It was Camparelli.

  “No, sir. I think he may be over in Maintenance Control looking for Joe Wagner.”

  “Joe’s down here in my room. Send someone to find Commander Wilson and ask him to come down. I want to see him.” The skipper hung up.”

  “New, go find the XO. He s Probably over in Maintenance Control raising hell.” Jake tried in vain to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “Tell him the Skipper wants to see him in his stateroom.”

  When New Guy returned, Jake left for his room. Now, at last, he could read Callie’s letter. He no sooner had settled down at his desk with her letter in his hand than the phone rang.

  “Wanna hear a hot one?” Sammy chortled. “Rabbit Wilson’s not flying anymore. He’s off flight status.

  “How off is ‘off?”

  “Off like in no more. Like in cut off, chopped off, whacked off. We’re talking amputation.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “The word is he got cold feet once too often.”

  Jake cleared his throat. “Pretty tough for him,” he managed.

  “Breaks my fucking heart,” Sammy snorted and hung up.

  The pilot put the telephone back on its, cradle and laughed aloud.

  He laughed until tears came to his eyes.

  Finally, he unfolded the pages of Callie’s letter. She had enclosed a photograph, which he held under the light. She stood on Victoria Peak, with the mountains of the New Territories forming a blurry backdrop. It was just a photo of an attractive woman in a simple summer dress the color of wheat-an unremarkable picture really-but to Jake every detail of it held deep interest. He looked at her lips, which were curved up in a smile, and remembered how she looked just before he had last kissed her.

  He shook his head. He slipped the photo behind the pages and began reading.

  “Dear Jake,” she wrote, “I’m very happy to hear that everything has turned out well. That sand dollar I gave you in Cubi for luck must be pretty potent magic!”

  She congratulated him on his return to flight status, and he was pleased she understood. A few sentences later, he read, “I know how important flying is to you and I was afraid that if you were unable to fly again, you would feel as though a large part of you, perhaps the vital part, had died.”

  He thought about that there in the sanctuary of his stateroom, about flying being vital to him. As a boy, he had found in flying a freedom and heady excitement that life had otherwise lacked. But how did he feel about it now, when flying meant waiting to outmaneuver SAMs or turning on a knife-edge to slice through a curtain of tracers? He realized that only when the SAMs and tracers were reaching for him, only when he was naked and running flat out, did he feel fully alive He had become addicted to the adrenaline high taunting death.

  He examined Callie’s picture again, then read on.

  “I have looked all my life for a man who doesn’t wear a mask, for a man who truly is what he appears to be, someone who knows what he is about and engages in no pretenses. I think I’ve found him.” He finished the letter and folded it into the envelope. He propped up the photo on his desk. He remembered the sand dollar in the left sleeve pocket of his flight suit and found it still intact, which was fortunate as it was so delicate. After wrapping it in toilet paper, he placed it in the envelope with the letter. Then he put the envelope in his desk safe.

  Removing the ring from its blue box, he held the diamond under the lamp. Points of colored light played against the wall. Maybe it’s not so crazy after all, he thought. He put the engagement ring in the flight suit pocket where the sand dollar had been and zipped it closed.

  On December 28 Jake and Tiger learned they were scheduled for their fifth SAM-suppression mission; this time the target was on the northern edge of Hanoi.

  “Maybe our best route is to go all the way around the city,” Tiger suggested.

  Jake examined the wall chart. Concentratio
ns of flak and SAMs were shown by color-coded pinheads. Hanoi was a pin cushion. Well, he and Cole had been there before. He came back to the table where Tiger had laid out his charts.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. Then he asked, “When will the big mothers be along?”

  “The B-52s roll in about ten minutes after our drop time of 1933.”

  Jake inspected the aerial photos of the SAM site, which Steiger had collected. They revealed the classic tactical deployment of the S A 2 surface-to-air missile system: six missiles on their trailer launchers were arranged in a circle around a semitrailer with a radar antenna. The launchers sat in indentations gouged in the earth, so that if a missile was destroyed or blew up on the launcher, the blast would be deflected away from the other missiles and the semitrailer with the electronic control equipment. Off to one side Jake could make out two parked tractors. He had seen photos of hundreds of sites that looked just like this. He checked the date; the photos were more than eighteen months old.

  There was a blur in the upper-right corner. He knew it was a gun shooting at the Vigilante that had taken the picture.

  He tossed the photos back on the table and examined the route Tiger had marked out. The bombardier planned to coast-in just south of the lighthouse at the entrance of Haiphong harbor, proceed straight to an island in the river on the northern edge of Hanoi, and turn to the attack heading.

  After bombing, they would move left in a sweeping turn that would let them circumnavigate the city and would spit them out on the southeast side, headed for the ocean and safety.

  The pilot studied a sectional chart that showed in detail the terrain around the island, tonight’s Initial Point, around the target. Maybe there would be enough time to see the rivers. Like hell!

  “Another good navy deal,” he said and patted the bombardier on the shoulder.

  He paused again at the flak chart, then went off to the wardroom for a cup of coffee before the brief.

  The Augies had a tanker hop and were in the locker room when Jake and Tiger entered. Little Augie had not exchanged a word with Jake since he had return from Cubi. Now he spoke. “Where’re you headed tonight?”