He tried not to think about Jelly Dolan and Boomer Bronsky. His office was on the 0–3 deck, immediately beneath the flight deck, so he could hear the sounds of aircraft being moved about his head. He tried to identify each sound.
He had just drifted off to sleep when someone knocked on the door. “Come in.” He threw the washcloth in the sink. He felt better.
Lieutenant Commander William Cohen and Chief Shipman entered and sat in the two empty chairs. Cohen was the air wing aircraft maintenance officer. Shipman worked for him.
“Who went in?” Cohen asked.
“Dolan and Bronsky. They were flying my wing. I didn’t see them eject, and the angel and the destroyer haven’t found them. They passed out in the cockpit and the plane nosed over.”
“Oxygen problem?”
“Probably, but who knows? Maybe the accident investigation will tell us.” Jake removed his feet from his desk and sat upright in his chair. “How well are the squadrons maintaining the planes?” Jake asked this question looking at Cohen.
“Availability is very good. Only three planes down awaiting parts, one F-14 and two A-6s. F-18s are doing fine. That F-18 is one hell of a fine airplane to maintain.” Cohen had started in the navy as an enlisted man and received his commission while a first class petty officer, Jake knew. After twenty-two years in the navy, Will Cohen knew aircraft maintenance better than he knew his children.
“Are the squadrons taking shortcuts to keep the availability up?” Jake found his cigarettes and set fire to one.
“I don’t think so.” Cohen draped one leg over the other and laced his fingers behind his head. “If they are, I haven’t seen it.”
“We’re going to find out,” Jake told them. “Will, I want you to check the maintenance records on every airplane on this ship. Are the squadrons missing or delaying scheduled inspections? Are they really fixing gripes or merely signing them off? Look for repeat gripes signed off as ‘could not find’ or ‘could not duplicate.’ You know what I want.”
“Yessir.”
“Chief, I want you to check their compliance with proper maintenance procedures. Select gripes at random and watch the troops work them off. See if the manuals are up to date and being used. Check to ensure the supervisors are supervising and the quality-control inspectors are inspecting. Check their tool inventory program.”
“Aye aye, sir. Do you have a deadline on this?”
“Make progress reports from time to time. Start with the Red Rippers, then move around at random.”
Cohen flicked a piece of lint from his khaki trousers. “CAG, this is gonna look like we’re trying to close the barn door after the horse has shit and left.”
“I don’t give a fuck how it looks.” Jake put his elbows on the desk. “The troops are tired and morale is low. Shortcuts and sloppy work become acceptable when you’re tired. We’re going to make everyone, from squadron skippers to wrench-turners, absolutely aware that the job has to be done right. We’re going to reemphasize it. We’re going to make sure we don’t drop a plane in the future because of sloppy maintenance.”
“I understand.”
“I want you guys to be visible. I want everyone to know just exactly what you’re up to. Let it be known that I intend to burn anyone who’s slacking off.”
Both men nodded.
“Finish your night’s sleep, then get at it. Chief, before you go back to bed, call the squadron duty officers and tell them I want to see all the skippers here at 0800.”
“Yessir.” The two men rose and left the office, closing the door behind them. Jake retrieved the washcloth from the sink and rearranged his feet on the desk. In moments he was asleep.
Jake sat in one of the molded plastic chairs in the sick bay area. He watched the corpsmen in their hospital pullovers moving at their usual pace, coffee cups in one hand and a medical record or specimen in the other. They came randomly from one of the eight or ten little rooms and strolled the corridor to another. The atmosphere was hushed, unhurried, an oasis of routine and established procedure.
At last the door across from him opened and a sailor came out tucking his shirttail into his bellbottom jeans. Seconds later Lieutenant Commander Bob Hartman stuck his head out and waved at Jake.
The little room had one desk and a raised examination table. “Good afternoon, CAG. Glad you finally paid us a visit down here in the dungeon.”
Jake grunted. Doctor Hartman was assigned to Jake’s staff and liked to while away off-duty hours in the air wing office, yet whenever anyone suggested he look at a sore throat or toe, he told them to come to sick bay. This was his turf.
“Strip to skivvies and socks, please, and take a seat on the table.” As Jake hung his khakis on a convenient hook, the doctor pored over the notes the corpsmen had made when they ran Jake through the routine tests.
At last he left his desk, arranged his stethoscope in his ears, then held it against Jake’s chest. “You failed the eye examination, you know.” The doctor was about thirty-five, had a moderate spare tire, and a world-class set of bushy eyebrows. When he looked at you, all you saw of him were the eyebrows. Then the nose and chin and all the rest came slowly into focus.
“Please cough.” Jake hacked obediently. “Now turn and let me listen to your back.” He thumped vigorously. “You need to quit smoking.”
“I know.”
“How much do you smoke?”
“A pack or so a day.”
“Your lungs sound clear.” Hartman turned to the X rays on a viewing board and studied them. “No problem there,” he said finally and came back to Jake. “Stand up and drop your drawers.” After the usual indignities were over and the doctor had peered into all of Jake’s bodily orifices, he told him to get dressed and resumed his seat at the desk.
“Your eyes are twenty-forty,” the doctor said as he scribbled. “You need glasses.”
“Okay.”
He flipped through the medical file. “You’ve gained ten pounds in the last ten years, but you’re still well within the weight standards. Have you been having any headaches?”
“Occasionally.”
“Probably eyestrain. The glasses will cure that.” Doctor Hartman laid his pencil aside and turned in his chair to face Jake. “But you’ve been having some other vision problems.” Jake said nothing. Hartman cleared his throat and toyed with the papers in the medical file. “Captain, I know this is going to be damn tough for you. It’s tough for me. I’m sorry I have to be the one to tell you this, but your flying days are over.”
“Bullshit.”
“Captain, you flunked the night-vision tests. Glasses won’t cure that. Nothing can. Your eyes are aging and you just don’t see well enough to fly at night.”
“Gimme some pills or shots.”
“I can give you some vitamin A that may help. Over time.” He shrugged. “Everyone’s vision deteriorates as they age, but at different speeds. Yours just happens to have started faster than most people’s. The nicotine you have been poisoning yourself with for twenty years may also be a factor. Sometimes it has an adverse effect on the tissues inside the eye.” He found an envelope on his desk and sketched an eye. “When light stops stimulating the eye, the tissues manufacture a chemical called liquid purple, and this chemical increases the sensitivity of the rods inside the eye. In your case, either the chemical is no longer being manufactured in sufficient quantity or the rods are becoming insensitive….” He droned on, his pencil in motion. Jake thought he looked like a flight instructor sketching lift and drag vectors around an airfoil.
“Listen, Doc, most people don’t command air wings. I do, and I have to fly to do my job.”
“Well, I’ll have to send in a report. My recommendation is that you be grounded, but maybe we can get permission for you to just fly during the day.”