As Boyce listened to Morse go on about SAM site updates, target area weather, he looked at his strike pilots. Some looked better than others. They had been yanked out of a full scale liberty session in Dubai. He knew for a fact that some of them had world class hangovers.
He also knew it wouldn’t do any good to tell the most afflicted to take themselves off the flight schedule. He sure as hell wouldn’t, and neither would they. This was combat, and no self-respecting fighter pilot was going to stay behind if he could help it.
Thank God, he thought, for resilient bodies and young reflexes.
Devo Davis, perhaps the most hungover, sat in his usual place in the second row. He had only the vaguest recollection of how he left the hotel. Someone — Leroi Jones or Undra Cheever or some other JO — must have rolled him out of his room and shepherded him onto the liberty boat.
Devo was on his third cup of gut-burning black coffee. He could tell by the ache in his skull that life was returning to his body. All he wanted was to get through this goddamned mission.
Davis remained in his seat until the ready room had emptied. He was about to leave when Maxwell came up.
“You okay, Devo?”
“Superb. Haven’t felt so fucking terrific since I had scarlet fever. I want to thank you for sticking me on a HARM station.”
“Wasn’t me. The skipper made the assignments.”
“With Spam Parker of all people. A nugget on her first combat sortie. What am I, the designated spear catcher?”
“Want me to try and change it?’
Davis shook his head. “Can’t do that. If I’m gonna take over this squadron someday, I gotta be willing to fly with anybody.” He glanced around to make sure they were alone. “Even aliens.”
“We’ll rendezvous overhead at seventeen thousand,” said Devo in the briefing booth.
“Why?” demanded Spam Parker. “Why don’t we just join up on a tacan radial away from the ship?”
Devo took a deep breath. “Because,” he said patiently, “that’s what the air wing tactical procedures require — an overhead rendezvous. Now, after the rendezvous, we switch —”
“I still think it would be better if we joined on a tacan radial.”
Devo felt his headache worsening. He told himself to stay cool. “Fine, Spam. Nice that you have an opinion. But today we’re gonna do it my way.”
“Why? I mean, it just sounds so… pedantic.”
Devo couldn’t believe this shit. “Here’s a reason,” he said, his voice rising an octave. “I’m the flight leader, you’re the wingman. Here’s another. I’m a commander, you’re a lieutenant. Or try this one: I’m a three-tour strike fighter pilot, you’re a nugget. We’re gonna do it my way. Understand?”
Spam started to protest again, but she caught the look on Devo’s face. She crossed her arms and sat tapping her boot on the deck.
Devo went on with his briefing. After their rendezvous, they would proceed to their battle station, where they would orbit, ready to fire their radar-seeking HARM missiles at any enemy SAM site that was tracking the strike group.
Devo knew their chances of seeing action were almost nil. And he knew too that someone — DeLancey probably — was violating protocol by assigning the executive officer such a minor role in the strike.
But Devo wasn’t arguing about it. Not this time. He still wasn’t back to a hundred percent of his old self, and he had this freaking headache.
Devo had no illusions about his ability. He was an average aviator who, on a good day, could turn in an above average performance. But lately the good days had been far between.
Devo knew that he had lost something. Even though he was the squadron executive officer, the second-in-command, he no longer had credibility with the other officers. They neither feared nor respected him, as junior officers were supposed to do. He could sense it in the way they talked to him — that condescending, too-familiar manner. Devo Davis was no longer a force to be reckoned with.
Well, he’d fix that problem. Today all he wanted was to get through this strike. Fly the mission, shoot the HARMs if necessary, get back aboard the ship.
Plus, keep this mouthy nugget from killing them both.
Devo finished the briefing. “Maintain a combat spread. Stay in position, out where I can see you.”
Spam seemed bored. He couldn’t tell whether she was listening or not. “Any questions?” Devo asked.
She shook her head.
“See you on deck,” said Devo.
Christ, it’s hot. Devo thought he would melt in the cockpit of his F/A-18. The Hornet’s air conditioner was good, but not effective in the hundred-degree heat of the flight deck.
He emptied the water bottle that he had planned to drink en route to his battle station. He was desperate to get off the oven-like flight deck and into the cooler sky.
What he needed was a shot of vodka. His head was pounding like a drum. In fact, he thought, he’d trade his gonads for a bloody Mary right now. Why the hell weren’t they getting this launch off?
The carrier’s nose swung slowly into the wind. The jet blast deflector rose in front of Devo’s jet, and he saw the Hornet on catapult one go into tension. The thunder of its engines shook Devo’s jet. Devo grimaced inside his oxygen mask.
The catapult fired with a bang, flinging the combat-loaded jet into the hazy sky over the Persian Gulf. Devo winced as a searing pain coursed through his head. Even the flow of pure oxygen through his mask wasn’t helping.
The deflector came down. It was Devo’s turn.
Following the yellow-shirt’s directions, he taxied up to the cat track, then lowered the launch bar fixed to the nose gear. Slowly, carefully, he eased forward, felt the clunk as the launch bar engaged the catapult shuttle. Obeying the cat officer’s signals, he released the brakes and throttled up to full power. He wiped out the flight controls, scanned the engine instruments, then looked at the cat officer.
It was Dog Balls, the new shooter the pilots liked to pick on. Be gentle, brother. Dog Balls was peering back at him, waiting for Devo’s salute.
Devo saluted. He tensed for the cat shot.
WHAM! The catapult fired.
The Hornet hurtled down the track. Devo felt himself slammed back against the seat. The pain of his hangover became a white-hot spear somewhere behind his eyes.
The heavy fighter cleared the deck and began to climb. The pain in Devo’s skull receded to a dull throb.
He could see the bomb bursts as the strikers hit their targets in the Basra delta complex. They were in their assigned orbit at 28,000 feet, 30 miles southeast of the target area. The strike seemed to be going as briefed.
Devo scanned his HARM display. He had seen no sign of electronic activity from inside Iraq. No SAM sites, no gun tracking radar. The Iraqis were laying low. They had been through this before. All they had to do was stay hunkered down until the bombs quit falling. Within a couple of months they’d have their sites back up and running. It was part of the game.
Devo was feeling better. The pure oxygen helped, even if he still had that dull throb in his skull. He was thirsty as hell. It helped that things were quiet on the electronic warfare front.
He turned onto the inbound leg, pointing back toward Basra. He saw columns of smoke rising from the three main target areas. There were no new bomb bursts. The last striker called off target.
Devo looked over at his wingman. Spam was out of position. Anyone else he would order to dress it up, and it would be done. With Spam, it would be a goddamn airborne debate. She’d insist she wasn’t really out of position.