I shoved it away again, the last time I'd have to, and completed the pre-shutdown checklist. A few minutes later, the aircraft went cold and dark.
By the time we were on the tarmac, CAG was at the island door waiting for us. Big surprise, that.
CAG stands for Commander, Air Group. Except he's a captain, not a commander. And it's no longer called an Air Group either. It's an Air Wing. But somehow, the acronym CAW just never caught on. CAG is CAG.
There are three major players on board any aircraft carrier. There's the skipper of the ship, an aviator by trade but one who's on his way up from mere four-striper captain to admiral and has been through all the surface-track training he'll ever need. Then there's the guy that owns all the squadrons on board the carrier ― the CAG. They both work for the admiral in command of the entire battle group.
CAG motioned us inside the island, and as soon as we were off the flight deck, he said, "The admiral wants to see YOU."
"I figured."
"Now."
"That I also figured."
We followed CAG down one deck to the Flag spaces, sweaty, stinky aviators in flight suits, still carrying their helmets and wearing their ejection harnesses, trotting the sacred cool corridors of Flag country.
CAG stopped us just outside the admiral's door and turned back to me. "He's been there, Bird Dog. If anybody understands, the admiral does."
The walls I'd erected in my mind broke down finally. It washed over me now, the sheer magnitude of the loss. Jesus, I knew those men ― hell, I'd had chow with Dogpatch, the E-2 pilot, just yesterday. Gator grabbed my arm. "Don't go tits-up on me now."
I started to say something, tried to tell him I was okay, but it must have been very clear that I wasn't. My vision had faded around the edges, tunneling in like I was taking too many Gs, graying out, with color seeping out of the room. There was a black-and-white picture, bleached of all color ― and of all life.
My knees buckled. Gator and CAG caught me on the way down. It didn't seem to matter ― nothing did. My vision was now blurry as well as colorless, and the overwhelming sensation that the world around me was just mist and fog increased.
"Suck it up," Gator whispered harshly, glancing around at the people standing at the open hatches and doorways down the passageway. "Just a few more minutes, Bird Dog. Suck it UP."
"Let's get him into the mess," CAG said finally. "Asshole's gonna pass out on us."
They dragged me into the Flag Mess, the dining facility just off the admiral's quarters. Somebody pushed me down on the couch, and I felt a hand on the back of my neck, shoving my head between my knees.
"Breathe." Gator's voice now, giving orders. In that state, if there was any voice I'd obey, it would be Gator's.
I took in a deep shuddering breath, felt my diaphragm flex and resist, then forced it in. With my head down, the fuzzy feeling and grayness started to seep away. I tried to sit up straight.
"Not just yet," Gator said softly. "Not yet, buddy."
Finally, the two of them decided I could be trusted not to be treated like a teenager. They let me sit up, and somebody shoved a glass of water in my hand. If they'd been any kind of shipmates at all, there would have been some bourbon in it. You feeling better?" Gator asked.
"Yes, MOMMY."
Irritation splashed across Gator's face; then he gave a grunt. He turned to CAG. "Back to normal, I'd say."
CAG regarded me for a few minutes, and I saw an odd mixture of compassion and anger in his face. "No, he won't ever be," CAG said. "No man would be." He stood, motioning to Gator. "Let's see if we can get him on his feet."
I waved off their assistance and stood slowly. My vision wavered a bit, then settled down. My gut was letting me breathe, and my knees didn't feel like they were about to buckle anymore. Physically, I was all right.
"You up to talking now?" CAG asked. It wasn't really a question.
I nodded. "Yeah, let's get it over with."
CAG led the way to the admiral's private door to the mess, rapped gently, then stuck his head in. "They're here, Admiral." Gator's hand was clamped around my arm again, just above the elbow. Hell, if he kept touching me like that, we were gonna start going steady. I shook him off.
CAG motioned us in. As I stepped across the hatch and into the admiral's office, I tried to remember one thing. I was a good stick, one of the best. The admiral knew what I could do ― hell, we'd been on three cruises together so far. He'd been in command of the Carrier Battle Group when I'd flown my ass off over the Arctic, and he'd been on board Jefferson from D.C. when everything went to shit in the Spratly Islands. And I knew him ― he was a good guy.
The admiral knew I was a good stick. Even though I'd just killed four aviators.
3
God save me from good sticks. Whether they're male or female, they're never modest. They stalk the passageways of the carriers like grounded gods, arrogant and barely touching the deck. They can do no wrong, every trap is a three-wire, and they never, ever screw the pooch. I know. I was one of them.
It can't last forever, of course. Sooner or later, they come down hard. Sometimes they're the only ones who know it, but you can see it in their faces. It starts with a quiet, reflective couple of days, an unusual look of thoughtfulness on the pilot's face. That fades ― faster than you think. What you get at the end of it is a pilot who thinks, one who lets his mind rule his reflexes instead of the other way, one who knows he or she is mortal. In short, you get a better pilot. One who's likely to come back.
Of the five officers standing in front of me, only two had been through that process. One was Gator, Bird Dog's RIO. The other was CAG. Bird Dog, Skeeter, and Lieutenant Laurel, Skeeter's backseater, were still too young to ever admit that they were mortal. God knows, Bird Dog was long overdue. I'd known it was coming.
But God, not like this. Never like this.
"Sit down." I gestured at the ring of chairs arrayed in front of my seat. "Tell me about it."
A knock on the door interrupted Bird Dog before he could even start. Lab Rat opened the door and stuck his head in. "May I sit in, Admiral?"
I nodded, a little bit annoyed that he'd caught me in a slipup. Or was it? Of course I'd wanted to hear the details first myself ― deserved it, in fact. I was in command of this Carrier Battle Group, and everything that happened and every man and woman under my command were my direct and personal responsibility.
But Lab Rat, my senior Intelligence Officer, was right too. The first retelling of an incident is often the most accurate one, filled with the details that immediately stand out in each pilot's mind. Intelligence Officers such as Commander "Lab Rat" Busby thrived on that stuff, raw, hard data straight from the pilot's lips.
I pointed at the couch. Lab Rat slid into his accustomed space and perched on the worn cushions, his pale blue eyes alive and expectant behind thick spectacles.
"You were saying," I said to Bird Dog, although he hadn't been.
Bird Dog looked pale and shaken, as rocky as I'd ever seen him. He looked like he'd been about to keel over. A good thing ― if he hadn't, he'd be popped tall at attention in front of my desk instead of sitting down. I had to know what had hit him and hit him hard.
"We were just flying escort on the Snoopy," he started, a dazed, almost surreal quality in his voice. "Just a normal flight. Catch up on some formation, that's all."
Bird Dog led me back through the sequence of actions that had led to the downing of Snoopy 631, only occasionally stopping to backtrack or fill in some critical detail. About mid-debrief, his voice took on an eerie singsong sort of tone. I shot a glance at Gator, noticed his eyes were fixed on his pilot, a worried expression on his face.