How many times had he stepped over the exhausted plane captains lining the passageways? Cursed as he tripped over a sound-powered telephone cord stretched across the linoleum to an outlet, the earphones still clamped firmly to the plane captain’s head? Had he ever even stopped to think that the flight deck crews had no mandated crew rest requirements between flights, or that too few of his fellow officers ever gave a thought to the countless bone-tired enlisted people it took to get the elite aircrews off the deck?
“Bird Dog! They gonna start charging us rent, man,” his RIO said into the ICS.
Bird Dog was suddenly aware of the waving green lights in front of him. The Yellow Shirt was motioning frantically for him to move forward, to clear the way for the next aircraft.
Was he safe to fly? Bird Dog hesitated, and then slowly eased the throttle forward. He held the image of Alvarez’s face before him for a moment, then forced it back into the compartment of his mind that held everything not associated with the immediate mission.
Suddenly, a figure darted across the flight deck toward the catapult. Lights flashed red as the air boss called a foul deck. Bird Dog craned his neck to try to see what poor fool had just incurred the wrath of the tower.
For the third time in the last hour, he choked on Shaughnessy’s name. What in the hell was she doing now! She’d already formally certified the Tomcat as safe for flight and turned over responsibility to the Yellow Shirt and the pilot.
The young airman was pointing at the left side of his Tomcat and making jerking motions with her hands. The Yellow Shirt shook his head no. The airman put both hands on her hips and leaned forward, standing close and screaming in the senior petty officer’s ear to be heard over the noise. The Yellow Shirt shrugged, then nodded. Bird dog saw his lips move as he spoke with someone on the flight deck circuit. Finally, he looked back up at Bird Dog and shook his head from side to side.
Enraged, Bird Dog began demanding answers. “Your aircraft is down,” the Handler replied. “You might have a control surface problem — we want to get it checked out. You need to move back off the cat.”
“Damn it, this aircraft is fine!” Bird Dog yelled. “It feels fine! Don’t you think I’d know if I had a control surface problem? Look!” He cycled the stick again.
“Off the cat, mister,” the Air Boss snapped. “You want to argue, you come up here and see me!”
Bird Dog swore and backed the Tomcat off the catapult. He taxied back to the spot and shut down. He jammed the canopy back and vaulted out of the aircraft, ignoring the steps and welcoming the hard shock of hitting the deck.
“What the hell are you doing!” he swore at the plane captain. “This your idea of revenge? You just bought your ass another trip to Captain’s Mast!”
Airman Shaughnessy ignored him. From the handler’s shack, Chief Franklin came over at a trot and interposed himself between the pilot and the plane captain. Bird Dog tried to get around him, but the chief grabbed Bird Dog’s shoulder and slammed him up against a buffer, shouting, “Hold still, you arrogant son of a bitch!”
Bird Dog watched Shaughnessy pop one panel open, then another. She hauled herself up to the fuselage, and the upper portion of her torso disappeared into the airframe, leaving only her legs sticking out. For the briefest second, Bird Dog remembered how Alvarez had looked as he disappeared into the sucking maw of the jet engine. He shuddered, part of his anger dissipated by the horrendous memory.
Gator stood by the half-visible airman, talking to her as she rummaged around in the guts of the hydraulics system, electrical lines, and avionics that controlled the Tomcat. Finally, even over the shriek of the flight deck noise, Bird Dog heard her exclaim, “Got it!” Her butt wiggled as she backed herself out of the airframe. Gator caught her waist and helped her lower herself gently down to the deck.
Her eyes shining with triumph, Shaughnessy held up her prize. Clutched in her left hand was a wrench. “It was jammed up next to the actuator, Chief!” she said excitedly. “When I saw 205 cycling on the cat, something looked funny to me. You know how it is, you get familiar with how your birds look. Just as the surface dropped, I thought I saw a little hitch. Kind of a bobble, just like a second or two when it wasn’t traveling smoothly.”
The chief nodded. “Couldn’t have caught it in your preflight, though. And if that bird had launched with it, there’s a damned good chance those control surfaces wouldn’t have responded when the lieutenant tried to level out after his climb. He would have been stuck at full flaps — rolled over on his back, and come right back down onto the flight deck!”
And, sir,” he added, meeting Bird Dog’s eyes with open challenge on his face, “you probably wouldn’t have gotten out.”
Bird Dog turned pale as the full implication of Shaughnessy’s find sunk in. “I didn’t know,” he said finally.
Gator put one hand on the airman’s shoulder. “That was damned fine work, and one of the sharpest problem catches I’ve ever seen. Thanks. You made a big difference today.”
Shaughnessy nodded, her eyes suddenly bright. “It’s my bird most of the time, sir,” she said to the RIO, carefully avoiding looking at the pilot. “It’s only yours when it’s in the air.”
“True enough. Would you please preflight this turkey again so we can get back onto the cat?” Gator asked.
“Sure thing, sir. It’s your bird in five minutes.” She darted off to get another MAF.
“And you,” Gator said, turning to Bird Dog, “really screwed the pooch this time, asshole. The only way you could make matters worse right now is if you don’t put this outside the cockpit and fly this damned mission as hot and tight as you’ve ever flown one. You owe these people that much.”
Sun flashed off the nose of the Tomcat, leaving red specks flickering in his vision. Bird Dog blinked and waited for his vision to clear before easing the throttle forward.
Flying — any sort of flying — would have also let him escape his thoughts for a while to concentrate on the almost-reflexive actions of bonding with the Tomcat. Sitting on the flight deck, with only Gator and the chatter on the flight deck circuit for company, it was too hard to escape thinking about the Chief’s words.
Arrogant, was he? He tried to summon up the anger he’d felt when the Chief said that, but all he could feel was embarrassment. Shaughnessy had just saved his life by catching the control surface problem. Bird Dog shifted uneasily, telling himself that it was the stiff new lumbar support pad that caused it.
Sure, he’d made some assumptions about his enlisted troops, probably some that weren’t entirely fair. But hadn’t they taught him that in Aviation Officer’s Candidate School? That it was up to him to supply leadership and direction to his troops? That the chiefs would depend on him for guidance, discipline for the men and women in the branch? Hell, everyone swore an oath to obey the orders of the officers appointed over them, didn’t they? Didn’t that include Bird Dog’s orders?
He thought of his drill instructor, the Marine gunny sergeant who’d shepherded him through those endless months of AOCS. Now there was an enlisted man who’d never disobey orders, he was certain. Shouldn’t the Chief be the same way?
Probably not, he admitted. He tried to imagine giving Gunny MacArthur an order to do anything. But that had been different, some part of his mind insisted. Gunny was the one who knew how things worked. It was his job to turn the raw civilians he’d been given into officers.
This was different, though. Bird Dog knew naval aviation now. He’d had classes on leadership, courses on motivating and leading people, in addition to his bachelor’s degree in psychology. This was stuff he understood, and he was right!