“The best way to fix it is to shove it over the side.”
The noise of an aircraft drew their attention. Willard recognized the distinct rising turboprop sound of the transport even before he saw the venerable C-130 Hercules appear near the end of the runway. It amazed him the Navy kept flying the aircraft in every type of weather while at least the Air Force restricted it to the Air National Guard. He’d be on that proverbial rocking chair with a lap blanket spread across his legs, watching the days go by, and these aircraft and the B-52s would still be flying. The Navy and Air Force were going to fly the C-130s until they wouldn’t fly any more; then they’d probably strip the wings off and use them as tractor-trailers. Someday, the Department of Defense was going to have to realize that even aircraft age.
The C-130 flew over the edge of the runway. It seemed to float down onto the runway, and the friction of the wheels when they touched the deck sent a brief wave of bluish smoke behind the aircraft. The flaps came up, the propeller blades rotated slightly, and the aircraft quickly came to taxiing speed.
“Well, looks as if our spare part is here!” Grossman shouted.
“How do you know it’s on the afternoon run?” Snaggles Cole asked. Snaggles was the junior airman of the ground crew. A native of Chicago, he spoke as if the slow pace of words was in unison with his speed of thought.
Everyone smiled except Willard. Cole was a good man, but in the old Air Force — back before his time — Cole would have been a twenty-year airman. The man had been in the Air Force nearly four years, and had managed to make it all the way to E-3 before catching up with his expertise. The Air Force would allow him to reenlist one more time, but if Cole failed promotion, then it would be out on the street for the man. Too bad. Snaggles really loved the Air Force. Too bad he also had a crush on Parker.
A light blue pickup truck appeared to the left of the C-130. Up until a week ago, the only light blue pickup truck had had “Air Force” painted on the side and was parked a few feet from him. The Navy liked the idea and had shipped in a pickup truck for their use. The Navy did not like the light blue color that appeared when it was backed off the C-130. The Navy was trying to get another pickup painted Navy gray. He smiled at the irony of how much the two services were influencing each other during this deployment. Knowing the Navy, they were probably keeping a secret score somewhere. He also smiled knowing the Navy was stuck with the Air Force-blue pickup, and with their supply department much like the Air Force’s, it would be a long time before they received approval for a second pickup.
The aircraft fell in behind the pickup and followed it off the runway to the apron. Willard turned and watched it.
“I said, how do you know our spare part is on it?” Cole asked again, shielding his eyes as he looked up at Grossman.
“RFID.”
“RFID?”
“Yeah,” Parker said, slapping Cole upside the arm. “You heard da man! RFID.”
“What the f—”
“Eh!” Parker drew her hand back.
“—hell is RFID?” Cole finished, lifting his shoulder and raising his hand in defense.
Parker laughed and dropped her hand. “You dumb shit.”
“RFID stands for Radio Frequency Identification. Kind of like those bar codes at supermarkets, except these bar codes react to radio frequencies,” Grossman said. He squatted, then slid to the edge, dropping his legs over the side as he sat down on the platform. “I’m not sure exactly how it works, but instead of supply manifests, the supply weenies zap a load of supplies, and everything in it blabs back what they are and where they’re supposed to be.”
“So, you got one of those?” Snaggles asked.
“One of what?”
“One of those zappers?”
“Snaggles, is your brother an only child?” Grossman asked, shaking his head.
“Lou,” Willard said. “Get someone over there and get our spare part.”
“Snaggles!” Thomas shouted. “Go do your thing and get that chopper assembly before it gets lost in the Navy supply chain.”
Cole gave a mock salute and took off. The last two times when the part was sent, Snaggles had met the aircraft, cut open the box, lifted the part, and brought it back. Later, Willard had straightened it out with the Navy Master Chief Storekeeper, who had to account for the six-digit-priced piece. There’d be griping and complaining, but the E-9s of the Navy ran it much like the chief master sergeants ran the Air Force. Difference was, the Navy recognized their E-9s by putting two stars on their collars, which came in handy on nonNavy bases.
“Okay, Lou,” Willard said. “Did you finish the preflight check on 213 and 233?”
Thomas looked at his watch. “I did, Chief. We did it yesterday and we did it again this morning. Showtime is in an hour with a 1400-hour launch. Both aircraft are fully armed and fully fueled.”
Andrew bent over and turned sideways slightly to step out the small door onto the metal steps leading down from the body of the C-130. Why didn’t they let passengers disembark off the ramp like the flight crew? The ramp was lowered. Everyone could have stood up as they walked off. He tripped on the lower rung, and would have fallen if a set of hands had not grabbed him.
“You okay there, buddy?”
The petty officer third class holding him was lean, his hands revealing a sinewy strength to them not readily apparent in the sailor’s appearance. Andrew was proud of being able to recognize the rank by the emblem on the left shoulder. A month ago, this life as a sailor would have been confusing, but Steve had taught him what he needed to get by as a third-class petty officer.
“Excuse me,” the woman behind Andrew said. The two sailors eased to the side, but not before watching the tall-drink-of-water lady swish by.
“Thanks,” Andrew said, pulling away. He brushed the creases in his dungaree bell-bottom trousers.
The hands let go. “Just trying to help, buddy.”
The two continued to watch the woman. The pants suit clung to her body. Both men knew a ten-hour flight in a C-130 would make everything cling.
“Wow,” Taleb said softly.
Her red hair increased in intensity as she moved from under the shade of the wing into the bright noon sunshine of the Pacific. Two men met her. One was huge, with a waistline that cascaded over his belt, hiding the top of the pants beneath the folds. The other civilian was tall, slender, with the high and tight haircut of a military person.
“Nice eyeball orgy,” Taleb said.
Andrew dropped his stare and glared at the man. The sailor who had stopped him from falling had a dark complexion. Short brown hair matched the man’s dark brown eyes. Part Negroid, Andrew told himself. One of God’s children to be led. He forced a smile as someone bumped into him, sending a surge of anger through him.
One of the flight crew shouted at him, “Move it, sailor, you’re blocking the exit. Let the others out.”
“Come on. What’s your name?” the sailor asked.
“Al… Al Jolson,” Andrew replied as the sailor touched him and motioned him toward the rear of the aircraft.
“Al Jolson! Wow! You must get a lot of joshing about being Jolson.”
Andrew’s forehead wrinkled. “Not too much.”
“Here, follow me. They’ll off-load the luggage at the rear and we can grab your seabag. You know where you’re going?” Andrew shook his head. As soon as he stepped out from beneath the shadow of the wing, the heat of the Pacific sun burned down upon their bare heads. He reached in his rear pocket and pulled out his ball cap. “But I’m wearing the same insignia you are.”
“Yeah, we’re boatswain mates, but most likely you’re going to be with Master Chief Jacobs.… Hey! Don’t put on the hat.”