I looked at the bafflement on Skeeter's face, followed by grudging, dawning respect. I basked in it for a moment. About time he got his priorities in order.
"You engineered that?" he asked. He pointed at the popcorn machine.
"Come here ― I know you don't think there's anything I can teach you about flying, but there are certain things you don't know about a popcorn machine. Like how to make it spark on demand."
I was just delving into some of the intricacies of popcorn machine performance with Skeeter when the flight plan arrived. I snatched the first copy out of the messenger's hands and scanned over it eagerly.
There was something wrong with it. The neat, long line of aircraft, missions, weapons loads, and aircrew was missing one thing ― my name.
"They screwed up." I held the offending document out to Skeeter and pointed at the line of missions assigned to our squadron. "Big time. Boy, are they going to be embarrassed when they see this."
Skeeter took the flight schedule and studied it carefully for a moment. When he looked back up at me, his face was glum. "I don't think it's a mistake, Bird Dog. We're just not on the flight schedule."
"Well, of course you might not be. You're junior, after all."
Skeeter shook his head. "They took you off, buddy. Remember?"
I snatched it back from him, anger ringing in my ears now. I knew why it was ― there was plenty of ways to ground an aviator without actually grounding him. I didn't think the admiral had really meant I couldn't fly. But somebody figured it was my fault that the E-2 was in the drink and those men were killed, and they were cutting me out of the pack. No chance to explain, no questions other than the routine ― I'm just off the flight schedule.
"They're not gonna get away with this," I said.
"I think they just did."
"Yeah, well I'm not gonna sit still for it."
"What are you gonna do?"
"I'm gonna go see Admiral Wayne ― that's what I'm gonna do." I grabbed at the flight schedule, but Skeeter danced away and held it out of my reach. "C'mon, give it to me."
He dodged down a row of chairs and interposed a tall, high-backed chair between us. "I don't think so. Didn't you hear what the skipper was just on about? Good judgment, chain of command ― all that shit."
I made a grab for the schedule, and faked an end run around the chair. But Skeeter wasn't buying it. "That's only for when you're doing stupid shit, like you were," I said. "Besides, the admiral says he has an open-door policy. And this is big, Skeeter ― a helluva lot bigger than a dirty aircraft."
I had him in the corner now, with just the morning briefing crews in between me and him. I double-faked, and this time he tumbled. I snagged him around the waist, lifted him half off the ground, and pried the flight schedule out of his skinny little fingers.
"Bird Dog, you can't."
"I sure as hell can," I said, pushing away the nagging suspicion that he might be right. "You don't know what they're doing to me, Skeeter ― this is just the first step. Pretty soon, I'll be out of qual periodicity, and then I won't be flying shit during this. We're gonna be flying over Vietnam dropping ordinance on targets and I'm not gonna play? They're fucking out of their minds."
"Where's Gator?" Skeeter said, changing tacks. "At least ask him before you go charging off and doing something stupid."
I snorted. "I don't have to ask any fucking RIO what I can and can't do while I'm on the ground. Or on the ship ― whatever. It's not him they're grounding ― it's me."
"Don't do it, asshole." Skeeter's voice followed me as I slammed out of the ready room and headed down the 03 corridor toward the admiral's cabin.
I knew where the skipper had learned it. It wasn't from PXO or PCO school, or anything like that. After five minutes of standing in front of Admiral Wayne, I knew where she'd got it. That cold, hard tone that could freeze you down to your testicles. She'd learned it from him.
My explanation sputtered out about halfway through, and I gradually realized just how damned stupid it was for me to be standing in front of the guy with the stars griping about the flight schedule. There were only about a million people I should have talked to before.
And if I thought I was in trouble now, just wait till the captain found out.
"What CAG says, goes." The admiral's voice damned near froze my testicles off. "You're out of order, mister."
It was suddenly becoming quite evident to me what a very, very bad idea this had been. If I just walked out right now, pretended that I was drunk, or fell down in a frothing fit on the deck, I might have a chance. Other than that… "Admiral, you've got to let me go."
"I don't."
"But sir, you have to. It's personal with me, Admiral ― don't you understand that? Those bastards shot down my E-2. There's nobody on this bird farm that's got more right to go after 'em than I do."
And just where the hell was all this coming from? I'd been absolutely certain I was about to turn and walk out of the admiral's cabin and report to my own skipper to get my ass chewed for screwing up. Instead, my mouth seemed to be running off ahead of me, off on some strange mission of its own that it hadn't bothered to talk to my brain about.
The admiral was standing now, coming around from behind his desk to go nose-to-nose with me. He wouldn't hit me, would he? And what would I do if he did?
No, he wouldn't. Would he?
"I understand how you feel, son," the admiral said. His voice wasn't a whole lot warmer, but it sure was softer. "I'd feel the same way, in your shoes. It's got to be personal ― otherwise you're not worth anything as a fighter pilot. You think I don't know that?"
"Admiral, I-" I stopped mid-sentence, absolutely horrified and disgusted at the quaver that was in my voice. Damn ― now I had no chance at all. The admiral wasn't gonna ever let me fly again, not when I couldn't even keep my own mouth under control. I should have taken the advice I gave Skeeter ― just shut up and let it wash over you.
"I've lost pigeons before too," the admiral said. Something went funny in his eyes and he looked like he didn't even see me anymore. "More than my share. It happens in combat, Bird Dog. We expect it to happen ― why the hell do you think we send fighters out with them anyway?"
"I was supposed to bring them back," I said, my voice not much louder than his now. "When we get back to the States, I'll have to go see their families. Talk to them. Look at their wives, their kids, and tell them I was the one who didn't bring their guy back, Me."
"Not you." The admiral's hand was on my shoulder now, the fingers digging into the muscle. He started shaking me. I felt something wet slide down my face. "Not you, damn it. It was them ― the Vietnamese. They're the ones who shot that E-2 down, not you. Don't you understand that?"
"I was there. I was supposed to stop them." Fucking-A shit ― I tried to turn away from the admiral, get my hands up to my face and wipe away the goddamn wimp-ass tears. "I only had one thing to do on that mission, Admiral ― to keep me and my Tomcat between them and the E-2. I got in over my head, trying to keep an eye on Skeeter and ― hell, it wasn't his fault. I shut him up early on. Maybe he oughta be lead instead of me."
We stood frozen like that for a minute, the admiral's hands hard on my shoulders, so close he could have reached up and choked the shit out of me if he'd wanted to. Which he probably did. And I wouldn't have blamed him a bit.
"So it's like that, is it?" His hands fell off my shoulders, and I almost staggered at the unexpected freedom. "It's like that." He turned away from me and walked back down to sit behind his desk. His hand went to his flight jacket pocket automatically, and I recognized the gesture ― an ex-smoker searching for a package of butts by reflex. Hey, he might be the admiral, but the no-smoking policy on a ship was damned clear. Not that I'd turn him in.