“We’ll see who makes Admiral,” Woods said defensively.
“You can have it. I’m going to make my fortune as a screenwriter after this gig.”
“Right,” Woods said, rolling his eyes. His mind was still dwelling on his sentence of death, his grounding. “Did you hear what the Skipper said to me?” he asked.
Big sat up in his chair. “I think everybody on the ship heard the last part, but I heard the whole thing, being nosy and all.”
Woods looked at Big’s face, trying to read him. “Was I out of line?” he asked, finally.
“Way.”
“Why?”
“You said things you shouldn’t have said. You challenged him, the ship, the entire political system. You could have said all that to me, but not to him, not here, not like that.”
“Don’t you agree?” asked Woods. “Don’t you think we should do something about Vialli and not just sit around?”
“Absolutely. I’d like nothing better. But there are the right ways to approach things and the wrong ways. Going to see the Admiral was stupid. Did you really figure that because some Lieutenant comes barging in the Admiral’s going to say, ‘Okay, you got me. Let’s launch an attack?’ he asked, raising his hands in exasperation. “Without authorization?”
“I thought I’d get him to think about it. Maybe pass something up the chain of command.”
Big waved his hand in dismissal. He put his large feet on the deck. “You’re amazing. You’re one of the coolest customers I’ve ever seen in the air. You never get rattled. The tougher the situation, the calmer you get, like you feed on the pressure. But down here, on terra firma, or aqua firma if I may mix my metaphors, you go loony. You attack the Admiral in front of his whole staff, put him on the spot without going to the Skipper, making him look like puppy ca-ca in front of the world, then when the Skipper reads you out about it, you challenge him!”
“I’m just thinking of Boomer,” Woods said.
“Boomer’s dead, Trey. You’ve got to start dealing with reality again soon or you’ll end up like him. You’re going to lose your concentration in the middle of a strafing run or something and prang yourself.”
Woods sighed. “I just can’t let him down. I’m going to get that Sheikh guy. One way or another…”
“You’re not letting him down. He couldn’t ask for any more.”
“I don’t know, Big.” The speaker box behind him that was tied to the radio frequency used by pilots when landing aboard the carrier crackled to life as the Landing Signal Officer transmitted to the F-14 on final. “Power!” he said with authority. “Power!”
Woods and Big both quickly looked at the small black and white television in the corner behind Woods. It was the PLAT, the Pilot Landing Assistance Television. The camera was in the middle of the flight deck and directly below it. The lens pointed out through a very small, almost imperceptible window in the middle of the flight deck and looked up at the approaching planes. The crosshairs represented the glide slope. It was the view from the camera with the crosshairs that Woods and Big saw when they looked at the F-14 in its final approach to the flight deck. It was well below the center of the crosshairs. “Power!” the LSO yelled, his voice augmented by the sound of the approaching jet in his microphone. “Wave off! Wave off!” the LSO screamed as the F-14 went to full power trying to stop its rate of descent, finally leveling off at the same attitude, the same angle of attack, and flying twenty feet over the arresting gear.
“Geez, nice pass. Who the hell was that?” Big said.
“XO,” Woods said, shaking his head.
“204, say your state,” the Air Boss transmitted.
“3.9,” replied Lieutenant Junior Grade Bill Parks, the XO’s RIO, whom everyone called Brillo because of his wavy, kinky hair.
“Great,” Big said. “What’s Bingo today?” The fuel level at which the ship sent you to the nearest airfield instead of coming aboard the carrier.
“3.5,” Woods replied.
“Where’s the Bingo field?”
“Crete.”
“One more pass, then it’s tank or consequences,” Big said.
“They’re tanking him now,” Woods said, listening to the radio chatter.
“How’d the XO get so low on gas on his first pass?” Big asked.
“I don’t know. That’s a question he was undoubtedly hoping to avoid. Probably trying to show some junior officer the intricacies of air combat. Something he doesn’t know much about.”
“Not everyone can be a Topgun instructor like you, big shot.”
“Spare me,” Woods said. His face clouded again. “I still think I’m letting Vialli down if I just let this go. If I let American politics take its course and do nothing, like we always do…”
“I don’t know that it’s fair to say we do nothing. I mean when President Carter faced the hostage crisis in Iran he waited with great intensity nigh on four hundred days. He wrung his hands effectively, and overall did an admirable job of worrying and sweating. How can you say we did nothing? And then at the end, he launched that fiasco in the desert and tried to control it from the White House. Why, never a prettier bit of ‘doing something’ have I ever seen. And Clinton, Carter’s modern protégé in the looking tough and doing nothing department, specialized in mechanical strikes by Tomahawks and invisible stealth jet bombers. Wouldn’t want to actually risk a human being. Of course what would you expect from someone who fought like hell to stay out of the evil military. Now as to George Bush—”
“We should do something like Entebbe, like the Israelis did.”
Big shook his head and scratched his scalp. “I hate to break it to you, Trey, but there aren’t any hostages here. They did all the killing they wanted to. And as to retaliation, you can rest assured the Israelis will do plenty of that. Probably already have.”
“It doesn’t count. It’s not from us. The world will still think they can kill Americans and it won’t matter. We won’t do anything about it.”
“I think you need to think about something else for a while. If you ever hope to fly again and get unchained from this desk, you’d better start acting normal.”
“You still like living in your stateroom?” Woods asked.
“What kind of a question is that? Am I being evicted? Is the landlord from the second deck going to come and lock me out for failing to pay my mess bill on time?”
“No, I was just wondering—”
“Victory 204, Tomcat ball, 4.8,” Brillo transmitted.
“XO’s on the ball again,” Big said, looking over Woods’s shoulder.
Woods turned around to watch the television image. The XO was in the middle of the screen and holding the crosshairs steady as he descended toward the deck. Woods and Big could see the horizontal tails moving quickly to correct for minor changes in pitch and roll. The black smoke was barely perceptible on either side of the dangling tailhook as the XO changed power to maintain his perfect rate of descent and accommodate for minor changes in wind direction and strength. He crossed the ramp and held his exact attitude and power setting until the Tomcat slammed into the deck at a five hundred feet per minute rate of descent and the tailhook grabbed the number-two wire. The nose of the plane pressed into the deck and the XO went to full power as he felt his wheels touch the flight deck. The Tomcat rolled down the deck and strained against the arresting wire until it was clear that the wire had won the tug-of-war. The XO reduced power and the hook came loose from the wire. He taxied away from the landing area to the bow of the carrier as he swept the fighter’s wings behind him.
“Decent pass,” Big said.