"Thanks," O'Meara replied, dropping to one knee next to Brad and Russ. "Looks like we took a couple of rounds through the engine."
Brad placed his helmet on the top of the wing. "I really apologize for setting us up for target practice."
"I would have done the same thing," O'Meara said as Mario Russo kneeled beside him. "Nine out of ten times those little goat holers cut and run. Shit, I was shocked when that son of a bitch cranked into us."
"Yeah," Russo said, shaking his head. "Those guys were not your average MiG drivers."
Brad leaned against the flap. "You're right. The leader was Major Dao."
O'Meara's eyes registered his surprise. "No shit?"
"None other," Lunsford responded as he shoved up his sleeves. "We about got our asses waxed."
"Well," O'Meara said to Brad with a grin, "you damn sure scared the shit out of him. I honestly thought you were going to hit him."
"I'll bet," Russo laughed, "that the little bastard fodded his wears."
Brad managed a small grin, then noticed a group of squadron officers and men coming to congratulate the MiG killers.
Relaxing on his bunk, Brad read the latest letter he had received from Leigh Ann. He hadn't heard from her since he had extended the invitation to join him in San Francisco. Brad worried that Leigh Ann's parents might be unhappy at the idea of his inviting their daughter to meet him in a faraway city.
He was reading the second page when Harry Hutton opened the door and entered the cramped cubicle. After shutting the door, he sat down with a troubled expression on his face.
Brad glanced up at his roommate. "What's the matter?"
"You've got a new backseater," Harry answered with a crease of a smile.
Perplexed, Brad frowned and absently folded Leigh Ann's letter. "I've got a new RIO?"
"That's right, partner."
"Who?"
"You're looking at him."
Breaking into a grin, Brad was uncertain if Hutton was pulling his leg. "Harry, if you're jake legging me around, I don't think it's — "
"I'm not kidding you," Harry said in a convincing voice. "The skipper is going to talk to you later. I told him that you were asleep, which you were."
Sitting up, Brad mulled over a number of questions. Had Russ Lunsford thrown in the towel? Why the change? "What the hell is going on?"
"Well," Harry said with a concerned look on his face, "the old man and Jocko apparently believe that Russ is about to go off the deep end."
"What gives them that idea?" Brad asked, confused by the unexpected change. "Is it because of me?"
Harry looked pained. "I don't know the full story. I wasn't privy to their conversation."
"Damnit," Brad blurted, then looked at the overhead. "I feel really bad about this."
Harry felt tension in his neck muscles. "They — the CO and XO — have been observing Russ closely the past few days. They have noticed, and so have I, that his hands shake uncontrollably at times."
Brad looked Harry straight in the eyes. "Hell, so do mine at times, especially from the constant adrenaline shocks. There has to be more to this."
Harry paused, thinking about the incident that had triggered the reassignment. "This morning, before you came to the ready room, the skipper and Jocko watched Russ try to drink a cup of coffee."
Brad started to speak but remained quiet while Harry continued.
"That was this morning, before you flew the BARCAP. He wasn't under the influence of an adrenaline charge." "What happened?" Brad asked impatiently.
"Russ sloshed over half the coffee on the deck before he could set the cup down. He scalded both hands."
"Jesus," Brad responded, remembering how quiet and reserved Lunsford had been during the flight that morning. "You know, he was unusually withdrawn today."
Brad analyzed Lunsford's behavior since the previous flight — the encounter with the North Vietnamese ace. "Russ didn't rant and rave, like normal, on the way back to the boat after Jon bagged the MiG."
Harry inhaled. "I think, from what I've heard, that the near midair with the MiG — right down in the dirt — flipped his switch."
Clenching his fists, Brad felt responsible for what had happened to his friend and flying companion. "What are they planning for Russ?"
"Well, from what I understand, the skipper is going to give Russ a collateral job — a project — to keep him busy for a week or so."
"Then what?" Brad asked, feeling a deep concern. "What about the long run?"
Harry shrugged. "I don't know. From what I gathered, they are going to have Russ fly with Bull Durham for a while, then evaluate the situation."
Brad and Harry reflected quietly on Russ Lunsford's future. Being grounded would probably be the kiss of death to his naval career.
Brad placed Leigh Ann's letter in his pocket. "Do we have to get new roommates?"
Harry shook his head. "No. The CO said since I don't have a pilot, then it's you and me, and we can stay put where we are."
Dropping his head, Brad worried about Lunsford. "I better go talk with Russ. I'm the one who is responsible for putting him into shock."
Harry raised his hand slightly. "I'd give it some time. He feels like he has failed you… let you down."
"Okay," Brad replied, knowing how he would feel under the same circumstances. "I understand."
Brad opened the refrigerator and pulled out two soft drinks. Handing one to Harry, Brad opened his can and leaned back. "Well, tell me the truth."
"I always do," Harry responded, wiping the corner of his mouth where a sip of Coke had spilled out.
Brad set down his can. "Do you have any qualms about flying with me?"
Harry chuckled, then downed a quick swallow. "Hell, no. You and Palmer — you're the best in the squadron."
Glancing at the bulkhead-mounted aeronautical chart of North Vietnam, Harry grew serious. "You know something, that asshole Carella has turned into a real shitbird since he took over as XO."
"How's that?"
Harry lifted his Coke can and held it a few inches from his mouth. "He inferred that since I don't have a brain, flying with you wouldn't scare me."
"Yeah," Brad replied, "a real prince."
Austin stood on the landing-signal officer's platform while the carrier turned into the wind. The afternoon strike group was inbound for the recovery scheduled at 1545. The rescue helicopter hovered off the starboard side of the stern of the carrier.
Brad looked out at the ship's churning wake, taking in the plane-guard destroyer. The smaller ship split the middle of the wake 5,000 feet behind the carrier.
He shared the platform on the aft port side of the ship with the controlling LSO, Lt. Tag Elliot, another LSO trainee, and two sound-powered telephone talkers. They were all aware of the safety net that would be their escape route if an aircraft appeared about to strike the ramp.
Terrell "Tag" Elliot, who was heralded as one of the best LSOs in the fleet, had warmly welcomed Brad to join his other trainee. Elliot was a quiet, studious man who had an air of melancholy about him. His curly blond hair was normally mussed, and he always had a cup of coffee in his hand. He had even been known to take a thermos bottle of the scalding liquid to the LSO platform.
Elliot held a telephone receiver that connected him to the controller in the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center, the Air Boss in Pri-Fly, and the inbound pilots. In the other hand, he held a pickle switch, which he used to energize the bright red wave-off lights if an approach looked unstable.
The LSO had total responsibility for getting the pilots safely aboard the carrier. He assigned a grade to each approach and landing, then critiqued the pilots in their ready room. His word was law at the ramp, without an appeal process.
A thirty-eight-knot wind whipped the cluster of men, making them continuously shift to maintain their balance. They had to shout to each other in order to be heard.