Leo hesitated for a minute while he played with the onboard computer. "Last week I went to run down a spark through the forward black box," he said, pausing for a moment, not sure if he should continue. "I went to get the manual to trace the schematic-it wasn't there…you know where we normally keep them. So I ask Shelby if he knew where it was. He said our sister squadron had it, and we'd get it back in a few days. I told him I didn't need the damn thing in a few days, I needed it now. He told me to shut the fuck up and work on something else."
"That's strange," Kurt said.
"Well it's back on our shelves now," Leo said, "and our sister squadron didn't have the damn thing. They've got their own. And, I called…they didn't borrow shit from Shelby."
Kurt fiddled with a few dials. Shelby must have taken the manuals down to a copier. But they were so thick, he could only make a few copies at a time without arousing suspicion. That would have taken a few days. The manuals are only classified Confidential and NATO restricted, but someone wanted them as though they were Top Secret.
Kurt left the hangar bay and returned to the shop to prepare for a stint on the flight deck. He donned his deflated life vest, helmet and goggles, and tool pouch, and proceeded to the catwalk with Leo following closely behind. One of the first things a good flight deck crewman learns about night operations, is to proceed slowly-stand by on the catwalk until his eyes have a chance to adjust to the darkness. Kurt knew this, so he instinctively stood and watched flight ops for about ten minutes before ascending the final metal steps to the dark, hard iron non-skid surface.
On the bow, just ahead of Kurt, an F-14 hit full afterburner, sending a set of flames back to the Jet Blast Deflectors, and then was catapulted forward and up away from the ship as a rocket launching out into space. Kurt kept his mouth shut and covered his nose with his hand to repel some of the nasty exhaust. But he knew his hand was never enough. After each shift, he would blow globs of black from his nostrils.
Kurt had heard once that flight deck work was the second most dangerous job in the world; only coal mining was worse. But he would have gladly been in some West Virginia mine on dark nights like this.
He remembered that when he had first worked the flight deck, he was virtually without communications. He got used to certain hand signals. But sometimes those were ambiguous in tense moments. He was grateful now to have a four-channel head set. He could talk to his shop, flight deck crew members, and pilots on the deck. He could also listen to the Air Boss in the Island Tower and the pilots in the air. Once the pilots were airborne, they switched to a different frequency. He could hear them, but not talk with them.
Kurt was standing by with Leo in case a pilot had a problem with one of his electronic systems. He knew he could troubleshoot most anything on the spot, and fix many things without replacing parts to keep the launch on schedule. Often the problem was just a circuit-breaker that had not been properly actuated by the pilot on preflight.
"Kurt, how many birds we workin'?" Leo asked over his headset.
"We've got one fired up aft, and two airborne," Kurt answered. "The one aft might not go. They think it has a hydraulic problem."
"At least it's not our problem," Leo said.
One of Kurt's A-7s flew low over the deck but didn't land. Its engine roared to keep it airborne at such a slow speed, its landing gear dangling like an eagle's talons.
Kurt switched to the airborne frequency to find out what might be wrong.
"See anything?" came a voice from Kurt's radio. He recognized the voice of a pilot from his squadron.
"It's really too dark to tell if your gear is locked or not," said the LSO, a pilot who stands in the aft, port catwalk and relays safety information to landing pilots.
"Permission to bingo," said the pilot.
A pause of static.
"Bingo to primary," said the Air Traffic Controller.
The primary diversion site for their current operating location was Camp Darby, a U.S. Army post near Pisa, Italy.
Kurt switched frequencies and relayed the information to his shop. The pilot had complained that his landing gear down and locked indicator wasn't lit. If the aircraft tried to land on the carrier and its gear collapsed, it could mean one hell of an accident. The pilot and flight deck crew had a much better chance of escaping injury if the aircraft landed on solid ground. Kurt surmised it was probably just a faulty indicator, but was pleased that the pilot wanted to take the safest route. He had experienced a few flight deck accidents, and they usually involved death.
"That's the Bingo King," Leo said.
"Ah, that's the guy," Kurt said. "The squeamish rookie you told me about." Leo thought he was afraid to land on the carrier, especially at night, because he diverted his aircraft to shore more than any other pilot he'd known. Maybe Leo was right.
The A-7J landed smoothly and taxied to just outside of an old U.S. Army hangar. There were six Blackhawk helicopters outside the hangar on the flight line.
The pilot brought his aircraft to a halt and cut power. He popped the canopy, collected his flight bag, and reached outside to the fuselage to release the steps and ladder. After climbing out and closing the canopy, he descended to the tarmac. Then he opened a large panel on the port side of the A-7, pulled a circuit-breaker on an avionics panel, and removed a large flight bag from between two black boxes. He quickly closed the panel and walked toward the hangar.
The inside of the hangar was dark; only a few red overhead lights attempted to illuminate the large space. The pilot set the bag he had taken from inside the panel and placed it under a work bench next to a 55-gallon drum of dirty rags. He then departed through the opposite side of the hangar and hiked toward Post Billeting for a room.
A man in civilian clothes emerged from the shadows within the hangar and picked up the flight bag. He unzipped the bag and felt inside. Satisfied, he zipped the bag and left the hangar. The man gently placed the bag in the trunk of his Fiat Uno and slowly drove off the Post.
CHAPTER 5
The afternoon sun had made a rare January appearance, but had now passed over the Eifel Hills and was on its way to the Atlantic.
Jake drove his rental green Passat slowly into town, pulled to a stop more than four blocks from the Gasthaus Birkwald, turned off the lights and waited.
The streets were nearly vacant. The street lights had come on, what few there were, but they did little to brighten the small, six-block town. An occasional car would come bolting in from the countryside, quickly decelerate, and turn into a side street, a driveway, or the Gasthaus Birkwald.
Jake had just come from Charlie Johnson's apartment on the western outskirts of Koblenz. His second floor one bedroom sat within easy hearing distance of the junction of Autobahn 61 and 48, two very popular routes. Autobahn 48 runs pretty much north and south, which eventually leads to Trier, Germany's oldest city, before dumping into Luxembourg. Autobahn 61 heads toward Bonn to the North, and ends near Heidelberg in the south, with quick connections to Frankfurt. It would seem strange for Johnson to live such a long distance from the air base.
But driving wasn't measured in distance in Germany. Time was the important factor when there were no speed limits on the outer Autobahns. Jake had found out nothing new at Johnson's place. The Chevrolet he had shipped to Germany wasn't in his garage, and his landlord, who lived on the first floor, said he had not seen him for days. He allowed Jake to walk through his apartment to be sure. There was nothing in there to indicate he wouldn't be returning.