Brad reached for his iced tea and looked at Russ. "How's the personnel business?"
Listening to Lunsford tell about the revamped personnel files, Brad peppered his meal and began eating. "What's next on your list?"
"Scary told me," Russ answered, putting his dessert spoon down with a triumphant air, "that I am cleared to fly tomorrow."
Brad looked up, concealing his concern. Whatever his faults, Russ Lunsford was a good friend. "How do you feel about flying again?"
Lunsford waited while a steward removed his plates from the table. "At first — yesterday when he told me — I had a few butterflies in my stomach, but I'm looking forward to getting back in the groove."
Harry put down the remains of his sandwich. "We are scheduled to fly wing tomorrow for Bull and Russ."
"Great," Brad replied, turning to Lunsford. "What kind of hop did we draw?"
"A TARCAP," Russ answered, folding his napkin on the table. "We are on the early morning launch, then the Bonnie Dick will relieve us. Tomorrow at this time, we will be steaming for Yokosuka."
Brad immediately thought of Leigh Ann. "Who told you that we're going to Yokosuka tomorrow?"
"The old man," Lunsford answered, serenely folding his hands, "made the announcement about an hour ago."
Unable to contain his grin, Brad ordered dessert from a steward, then resumed the conversation. "Has anyone heard from Nick?"
"Yes," Harry replied. "I had a short note from him yesterday. He wrote it with his left hand, so it took a while to decipher his scratchings. At any rate, he is in sunny San Diego. He said that he is going to be in the hospital — Balboa — for about a month and a half. After that, he is going to be undergoing physical therapy, and whatever else they dream up."
"Then what?" Brad asked, leaning back to allow a steward to remove his dinner plate. He had eaten only a few bites. "Who knows. Scary still thinks Nick will be flying in a couple of months."
Harry waited until Brad's ice cream had been served. "I heard that the A-4 jock — the guy who skipped across the water yesterday — is turning in his wings. Scary said he broke his right leg and three ribs. I guess he is just one huge bruise."
Brad wiped his mouth. "I think you heard wrong. I went through advanced training with the guy — Chargin' Charlie Nickerson. He is one tough son of a bitch, and a hell of a pilot. He'd probably be the last guy to toss his wings on the table."
"Well," Harry shrugged, "that's what I heard from a guy in his squadron."
Brad ate slowly. The cold dessert caused his teeth to ache. "What are you two planning to do in Yoko?"
An enthusiastic grin spread across Harry's face. "I don't know about Russ, but I'm going to engage in my own kind of physical therapy, and it isn't touring shrines and temples."
Lunsford chuckled, appearing to be completely relaxed. "Since you're deserting us, I'm going to have to take charge of Harry."
"Right, Bosco," Hutton responded, turning to Lunsford. "The last time we were in Yoko, you got blown away on hot sake, and I had to drag your drunken carcass back to the hotel."
Brad finished his ice cream. "I still think the best Russ Lunsford story happened in Hong Kong."
Lunsford sighed. "Do we have to hear that again?" "Yeah," Harry laughed, "when he got shit-faced and bought that plaid suit with the three-inch cuffs."
"After he fell out of the ricksha," Brad grinned.
Lunsford flushed. "Could you all talk a little louder, so the whole wardroom can hear?"
"You had to wear sunglasses," Harry continued, "to look at that goddamn suit. Christ, he looked like a California clap doctor."
"I've got an idea," Brad said excitedly. "Why don't you guys ride up to Tokyo with me, to see me off. If I have time before my flight departs, we can amuse ourselves in the Ginza district. How about it?" Brad asked, looking at his watch. He had to be on the LSO platform in fifteen minutes.
"I'm game," Harry replied. "What else have I got to do?" Russ paused a moment. "Count me in, if I can wear my plaid suit."
Tag Elliot stood directly behind Brad, watching the F-4 Phantom rolling into the groove. Elliot's chin was almost touching Brad's left shoulder. The LSO looked much like an umpire standing behind a baseball catcher. Each man held a telephone receiver to his ear. Elliot held the wave-off pickle over his head in his right hand.
Brad intently watched the descending Phantom, concentrating on the visual clues Elliot had taught him. Austin listened to the distinct whine of the F-4's engines as the pilot adjusted his throttles.
Detecting the aircraft going above the glide slope, Brad spoke into his telephone receiver. "Slightly high… ease it down a bit."
The pilot responded in a smooth, well-coordinated effort. He crossed the round-down on speed, on centerline, and caught the number-three arresting wire. A perfect trap.
Focusing on the next Phantom, Brad had a fleeting thought about the A-4 Skyhawk orbiting overhead. The attack jet had a single 250-pound Mark 81 bomb that had failed to release from under the right wing. The Air Boss wanted all the strike aircraft safely on deck before the Skyhawk with live ordnance would be allowed to land.
Watching the Phantom closely, Brad thought the approach looked stabilized. At the last second, the pilot pulled off too much power and caught the number-two wire.
Turning to watch the F-4 run out in the arresting-gear cable, Brad caught a glimpse of three members of the ship's explosive ordnance disposal (EOD) team. The EOD experts were standing at the forward hatch in the island. During the morning launch, they had had to disarm a 250-pound bomb that had broken loose from an A-4 during a catapult launch.
Seven more aircraft landed without a single bolter, clearing the deck for the Skyhawk. Complicating the A-4 pilot's problem was the fact that he also had an asymmetrical situation. The right wing, with the bomb attached, was carrying more weight than the left wing.
Brad and Tag Elliot heard the booming voice of the Air Boss over the flight-deck loudspeakers.
"The hung ordnance is descending downwind."
"Roger, Boss," Elliot replied in his hand-held transmitter, then tapped Brad on the shoulder. "I'll take this one."
Brad nodded and stepped behind the LSO. Searching for the A-4, he spotted it directly abeam of the carrier. Following the aircraft through the turn to final, Brad glanced forward on the flight deck. It was deserted, except for the EOD team.
Turning back to the A-4, Brad watched the Skyhawk and listened to Elliot. As the aircraft approached the ramp, Brad felt his muscles tense. He shot a quick look at the safety net, then discarded the thought of diving in the padded net. If the bomb went off, he would be blown over the side of the carrier.
Flying a steady approach, the A-4 pilot planted the airplane between the number-two and — three wires. The bomb jarred loose, hit the deck, bounced up and hit the underside of the wing, then skittered down the angle deck and dropped into the water.
Waiting for an explosion, Brad held his breath. When the stern of the ship had passed the impact point of the bomb, Brad realized he needed to breathe.
The relieved Skyhawk pilot rolled back, dropped the arresting-gear wire, and shut down the engine. He did not want to move the aircraft until the plane captain had had an opportunity to assess the damage.
Elliot turned to Brad. "With some experience, you're going to have this wired."
"Thanks," Brad replied, stowing their LSO gear. "I appreciate the introduction to your fraternity."
After dinner, Brad strolled forward through the crowded hangar bay, climbed a ladder to the flight deck, and walked the length of the carrier. Arriving at the round-down, Brad watched the phosphorescent wake churned up from the ship's propellers and daydreamed about Leigh Ann. What was she doing right now? Had she told her friends about him? Would she be in San Francisco when he arrived? He hoped she would meet him.