As a young airman, Shaughnessy had been responsible for maintaining her aircraft, coordinating with the more sophisticated technicians as required, and helping pilots preflight and board their aircraft. When it wasn’t in the air, it belonged to her. On one occasion, her sharp eyes caught a problem with the control surfaces of a Tomcat that was about to launch. Her quick thinking and disobedience to orders had saved an aircrew’s lives. In recognition, Admiral Tombstone Magruder, then the battle group commander, had done everything in his power to see that she was admitted to the Naval Academy.
Now, almost six years later, she was back where she started. But this time as a pilot in VF-95, not as a plane captain. A young nugget, admittedly, but a pilot nonetheless.
And a lousy passenger.
The Greyhound gyrated through the air like a roller coaster as it fought the mass of roiling air in the carrier’s wake. At the slower approach speeds used by the COD, the aircraft fought every burble of air. Up, down, sideways, it seemed as though the pilot had absolutely no control over the aircraft.
Shaughnessy tried not to think about the mishaps she’d seen as a plane captain. Instead, she thought of the one she’d prevented, the one good move that had gotten her her appointment to the Naval Academy. The pilot whose life she’d saved had later finagled his way around the rules and taken her up for her first-ever ride in the bird she was responsible for. He’d flown aerobatics, let her fiddle with the radar, and then finally brought her back on deck in what she now realized had been an exceptionally smooth landing.
Lieutenant Robinson, he’d been back then, although she was sure he’d been promoted since then. Bird Dog, the other officers had called him. She’d heard he was still on board the Jeff, and she was looking forward to seeing him again. How weird would it be to call him by his call sign? Or, God forbid, would he expect her to use his first name? Could she even do that?
She shook her head, determined to quit being stupid. She wasn’t enlisted anymore. She was an officer — hell, she’d even been promoted once — and a pilot in her own right. She’d have to get over this inferiority complex.
With a sickening screech, the aircraft slammed down on the deck, caught the three wire with its tail hook, and jolted to a halt. There was a moment of wild relief among the passengers, a thankfulness that they’d somehow made it through the landing alive. Yet, as Shaughnessy knew, it was no more than a routine landing, one executed dozens of times every day on board this very aircraft carrier.
The crew captain was standing in the aisle of the Greyhound now, and making an announcement over the intercom, ordering them to remain in their seats until they arrived at their spot, the area of the deck that would be the parking spot. Shaughnessy felt the COD lurch backward, felt the thud against the undercarriage as the tail hook withdrew, and a slight surge of power as the COD headed for its spot. Outside, in front of the COD, would be somebody very much like who she had been, a plane captain. It was night, so the plane captain would be using lighted wands to direct them toward their spot on the deck. Once they came to a full halt, the passengers would be allowed to disembark.
Finally, the Greyhound lurched to a halt. After a few moments, the tail ramp dropped down, and cool night air flooded the compartment. Shaughnessy unstrapped herself and reached under her seat for her briefcase. Her large duffel bag was in the baggage compartment, but her briefcase contained her orders, her financial records, and a change of underwear — just in case.
Shaughnessy followed the herd of passengers straggling out across the flight deck and into the ship. “VF-95?” The petty officer standing behind the counter checked her orders, then passed them back to her. “You know how to find it, ma’am?”
“Yes, I do, thanks.” Ma’am. Never thought I’d hear that on board the Jefferson, did I?
“Need any help with that duffel bag, ma’am?” He eyed her doubtfully, comparing the mass and probable weight of the duffel bag with her figure.
“Nope,” she said cheerfully, hoisting the duffel bag easily. “I pack it, I can carry it.” All her hours in the gym building muscle mass paid off as she saw a new respect in his eyes, but that wasn’t the reason she’d sweated away half her free time.
Although the Tomcat flew by guided wire and contained multiple redundant hydraulic systems, there was no telling when you might have to manhandle the aircraft all by your lonesome. Guys, even average guys, usually had no problem with it. But if you were small, nicknamed Elf, and generally a physical lightweight, you had to do what she had done: haunt the gym, pumping larger and larger loads, knowing that you would never reach the numbers that some of the guys did, but determined to be able to bench press enough to be safe in your aircraft.
Shaughnessy moved easily down two ladders, expertly maneuvering the bulk of the duffel bag behind her, to reach the 03 level. The 03 passageway housed most of the squadron ready rooms, including that of VF-95. The captains, XOs, and operations officers of the squadrons also had their staterooms on this level, as did the admiral and his staff.
She made her way forward along the port passageway to the VF-95 ready room. The passageway smelled of popcorn. Every squadron had its own popcorn machine, and, as with everything else an aviator did, the competition to produce the best possible on-board popcorn was a continual source of contention among the squadrons.
She stared at the door for moment, almost overwhelmed by her emotions. VF-95—her squadron. And now she was back. For a moment, it felt entirely too audacious to be entering here with her duffel bag, as though she were pretending to be something she was not. In one part of her mind, she was still the young, scared plane captain who worked on the flight deck.
Nonsense. You’re a pilot. And, by God, you’re just as good as any of them. She shoved the door open and stepped in.
She stood at the back of a large room filled with comfortable high-back chairs. They were covered in brown leatherette and numbered about forty. Forward, to the left, there was a small desk with a telephone where the squadron duty officer stood his watch.
The compartment was about a third filled, the scent of the popcorn almost overwhelming. Aviators, most clad in flight suits, were engaging in horseplay and ragging on each other. A junior officer at the back of the compartment was fiddling with a VCR. He looked up as the door opened and was the first to spot her. A broad smile spread across his face.
“All right!” He stood and made a beeline for her. “Ensign Shaughnessy — sorry, it’s j.g. now I see — not that that makes any difference — you’re just in time.”
“For what? To see the movie?”
He shook his head, his pleasure unmistakable. “Junior officer in the squadron is responsible for the movies. Until now, that was me.” He handed her a VCR tape. “And now it’s you. Any questions, call me. I’ll be in my stateroom.” Shaughnessy stared down, bewildered, at the tape in her hand. What, was she supposed to run the movie now? Before she’d even checked in?
“By God, it is you!” a voice from the front of the room said cheerfully. “I saw the name on the orders and damned near wet my pants.” The owner of the voice, a tall man with a powerful build and a huge grin on his face strode toward her. “Airman Shaughnessy — welcome back.” She stared at his hands that clasped hers and pumped repeatedly. “Hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? Save any more pilots recently?”
“Not — not recently, sir,” she stammered, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer force of his presence. She didn’t remember Bird Dog Robinson as being quite so tall, and quite so… well… such a hunk. Maybe it was because, as an enlisted technician, she had known that the rules against fraternization prevented him from ever being a possibility. But, now, now that she was an officer… well, she shoved that thought out of her mind, and looked up into his broad, smiling face. “It’s nice to be back, sir.”