He was climbing vertically, straight up, when he entered the clouds. Concentrating on the gauges, trying to ignore the insane beat of the enemy radar, he kept the stick back but eased out most of the G. Still in the clouds with the nose up ten degrees, he rolled upright and continued to climb.
The sound of the enemy’s radar stopped. The MiG must have sliced off to one side or the other, be making a turn to reacquire him. But which way? He had been concentrating so hard on flying the plane that he hadn’t had time to watch the TDI.
“Right or left?” he asked Flap.
“I dunno.”
The clouds were thinning. Lots more sunlight. Then the A-6 popped out on top.
Jake looked left, Flap right.
The pilot saw him first, three or four thousand feet above, turning toward them. An F-4.
“It’s a fucking Phantom,” he roared over the ICS to Flap.
Flap spun and craned over Jake’s shoulder. Then he flopped back in his seat and held up middle fingers to the world.
Jake raised his visor and swabbed his face. Now the strobe reappeared on the TDI and the music sounded in his ears. He reached with his right hand and turned the ECM equipment off.
The plane was climbing nicely. He engaged the autopilot, then turned to watch the F-4. It tracked inbound for several seconds, then turned away while it was still a half mile or so out.
Jake took off his oxygen mask and helmet and used his sleeve to swab the perspiration from his face. He was wearing his flight gloves, so he used them to wipe his hair. The sweat made black stains on his gloves and sleeve. Then he took off one glove and used his fingers to clean the stinging, salty solution from his eyes.
“Think he did that on purpose?” Flap demanded when he had his helmet back on and could again hear the ICS.
“How would I know?”
One evening as Jake entered the stateroom, his roommate, the financier, glanced at him and groaned. “Not another haircut! For heaven’s sake, Jake, why don’t you just shave your head and be done with it?”
Grafton surveyed his locks in the mirror over the sink. “What are you quacking about? Looks okay to me.”
“Is this the third haircut this week?”
“Well, I admit, watching these Marines parade off to the barbershop on an hourly basis has had a corrosive effect on my morals. I feel like a scuz bucket if I don’t go along. What are you caterwauling about? It’s my head and it’ll all grow out, sooner or later.”
“You’re ruining my image, Grafton. Already they are giving me the evil eye. I feel like a spy in the house of love.”
“You’ve been reading Anaïs Nin, haven’t you?”
“Bartow loaned me an edition in English. Wow, you ought to read some of that stuff! Ooh la la. It’s broadening my horizons.”
“What are you working on this evening?” The Real had paper strewn all over his desk, but there wasn’t a stock market listing in sight.
McCoy frowned and flipped some of the pages upside down so that Jake couldn’t see them. Then he apparently thought better of his actions and sat back in his chair surveying Grafton. The frown faded. In a moment he grinned. “We’re going to cross the line in two days.”
The line — the equator. The task group was heading southeast, intending to sail around the island of Java and reenter the China Sea through the Sunda Strait. Of necessity the ship would cross the equator twice.
“So?”
“I’m the only officer shellback in the squadron. Everyone else is a pollywog, including you.”
A pollywog was a sailor who had never crossed the equator. A shellback was one who had previously crossed and been duly initiated into the Solemn Mysteries of the Ancient Order of Shellbacks. It was easy enough to find out who was and who wasn’t. In accordance with naval regulations, all shellbacks had the particulars of their initiation recorded in their service records — ship, date and longitude.
“Too bad you’ll miss out on all the fun,” Jake said carelessly.
McCoy chuckled. “I ain’t gonna miss a thing, shipmate, believe you me. I’m coming to the festivities, as Davy Jones. But if you’re willing, I could use a little help.”
Jake was aghast. “Help from a lowly pollywog?”
“We’ll have to keep this under our hats. Can’t have scandalous things like this whispered around, can we? This would be help on the sly, for the greater glory of King Neptune.” He picked up the documents on his desk that he had turned over to keep Jake from seeing and passed them to his roommate.
The next two days passed quickly and pleasantly. Then the great day arrived. There was, of course, no flying scheduled. All morning people — presumably shellbacks — bustled around the ship on mysterious errands, with lots of giggling.
The pollywogs were given strict orders over the ship’s loudspeaker system. They were to go to their staterooms or berthing compartments after the noon meal and remain there until summoned into the august presence of Neptunus Rex, Ruler of the Raging Main. Actually there were over two dozen Neptunes, selected strictly on senority, i.e., the number of times they had crossed the line. Initiation ceremonies would be held simultaneously in ready rooms, berthing areas and mess decks throughout the ship, and each ceremony would be presided over by Neptunus Rex.
In his stateroom, Jake took off his uniform and pulled on a pair of civilian shorts. He donned a T-shirt and slid his feet into shower thongs. Then he settled back to wait for his summons.
It wasn’t long in coming. The telephone rang. The duty officer. “Pollywog Grafton, come to the ready room.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Jake took off his watch and dog tags. After he checked to ensure that his stateroom key was in his pocket, he went out and locked the door behind him.
The ready room was rapidly filling with his fellow wogs. Jake slipped into his regular seat. Colonel Haldane was lounging in his seat near the duty officer’s desk, chatting quietly with the executive officer. Alas, both officers were also wogs and were decked out for the festivities to come in jeans and Marine Corps green T-shirts. Standing everywhere around the bulkheads were officers from the air wing and other squadrons in uniform. Shellbacks. They immediately began to heckle the Marines, and Grafton.
“You’re in for it now, wogs…Just you wait until King Neptune arrives…You slimy wogs are in deep and serious…”
The public address system crackled to life. Ding ding, ding ding, ding ding, ding ding, ding ding. Ten bells. “Ruler of the Raging Main, arriving.”
A howl of glee arose from the onlookers, who laughed and pointed at the assembled victims, many of whom were making faces at their tormentors. Now Flap Le Beau stood in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a pillowcase on top of his head, held on with a band. His face was streaked with paint. As the onlookers hooted, he explained that he was an African king, ruler of the ancient kingdom of Boogalala, and he demanded deferential treatment from this Rex guy.
The shellbacks successfully shouted him down. Finally he sat, promising that he would renew his demands when the barnacled one arrived. One row behind him, Jake Grafton grinned broadly.
They didn’t have long to wait. The door was flung open and the Real McCoy stalked in. “Attention on deck,” he roared. The Marines snapped to attention like they were on parade. When everyone was erect and rigid, McCoy continued, “All hail, Nep-tunus Rex, Ruler of the Ragin’ Main.”
“Hail,” the assembled shellbacks shouted lustily.
Here they came, the royal party, led by the air wing commander, the CAG, who was decked out in a bedsheet. Behind him came Neptunus Rex, wearing a gold crown that looked suspiciously like it had been crafted of cardboard and spray painted. He wore swimming trunks and tennis shoes, but no shirt. His upper arms each bore a tattoo of a well-endowed, totally naked woman and on his chest was a screaming eagle in flight. A bedsheet cape flowed behind him. In his hand he carried a cardboard trident. As he seated himself on his throne — a chair on a platform so that everyone had a good view — Jake recognized him, as did half the men in the room. Bosun Muldowski.