His latest brush with death had reminded him of what he’d almost lost. He had almost given up flying after Wonsan, but that had been an instinctive reaction to the whole situation he’d been through in Korea. In the long run he hadn’t changed his viewpoint that much. This time it was different. This time, Grant knew, he could finally say for sure that his family meant more to him than anything else. He couldn’t keep playing the daredevil flyer when each time he went up he might never make it home to his wife and daughter.
His hands gripped the rail more tightly. That left him with a tough decision to make right now. Any aviator could turn in his wings any time, just walk away from duty if it got to be too much, if he thought he had lost the edge. There was nothing to stop Willis E. Grant from doing the same right now … nothing except his own sense of duty.
It’s your instincts I need. Your nose for tactics. Magruder had turned to his experience when he needed help. And although Admiral Tarrant had been talking to everyone, his words had hit home too. Each of you has a vital role to play.
Batman Wayne was more than capable of taking over command of the squadron … but Coyote couldn’t just turn his back on his men now. Viper Squadron was down to half its original strength, and they needed every pilot they could muster. He couldn’t leave them in the lurch now, on the eve of their most difficult test. Even if it ended in disaster, he had to go up with the others.
He turned from the rail and headed for the ladder, his mind made up. When he got home — if he got home — he would find out what Julie wanted. He would give up flying, even give up the Navy, if she asked him to. But in the meantime, he couldn’t let his shipmates down.
Lieutenant Roger Bannon raised a hand to knock on the door, then hesitated. He had screwed up his courage to come to see Commander Magruder, but now that he was here he found it hard to go ahead with his plan.
He couldn’t keep postponing this movement. Bannon gritted his teeth and rapped softly on the door.
“Come!” Magruder’s voice called out, sounding distracted.
The commander was sitting at Stramaglia’s old desk, pouring over an open file folder that matched ten more stacked beside his elbow. It was plain that Magruder hadn’t taken any time to clear away his predecessor’s personal effects. A mug on the desk still held a pair of Stramaglia’s notorious cigars, and there was a picture hanging on the bulkhead beside the door of Stramaglia and his teenaged son at an air show Stateside. It was hard to believe Stramaglia was really dead. It looked like Magruder was just keeping his chair warm until CAG turned up again.
But he was dead, and now Magruder was in charge. The commander looked tired. If he had managed more than six hours sleep in the last forty-eight it didn’t show. He had thrown himself into his new job with a single-minded determination, but the talk in the other offices of the Air Wing hinted that he would burn himself out if he kept pushing himself at this pace. Looking at him now, Bannon was forced to agree.
Magruder held up a hand as Bannon came in and said, “Wait a moment.” He never even looked up from the folder. Bannon waited, hoping his resolve wouldn’t wilt in the meantime.
Finally Magruder put the folder aside and looked at him. “Oh … Bannon. Didn’t know it was your shift yet. Did you bring the report from Lieutenant Lowe?” Lowe was the chief of S-6 Division, responsible for Aviation Supply.
“Uh, no, sir,” Bannon replied. “I’m still on my own time, sir. I … needed to see you about a personal matter.”
Magruder frowned. “I don’t have a whole lot of time, Bannon,” he said. “Make it quick.”
“Y-yes, sir.” Bannon hesitated again, reluctant to go on despite Magruder’s admonition. “Ah … well, sir, the fact is, I’ve been thinking about what I should do. The way you told me to the other day.”
Magruder looked blank for a moment, then seemed to remember the conversation that had started on the hangar deck. “If you’d rather not stay stuck on the staff, I can probably put you in a slot as Assistant LSO for the Death Dealers. That’ll free up Jeffries to fly. Talk to Owens to take care of it.” He reached for another folder.
“Uh … that’s not it, sir,” Bannon said.
The commander’s frown deepened. “Look, Bannon, I don’t need this. I’ve got maintenance men giving me a dozen reasons why they can’t get enough planes in the air to make this strike work, and about twenty different variable plans to put together before we get word the Russians are moving. So spit out whatever it is you want and then get the hell out of here!”
“Yessir!” he responded automatically. There was nothing left now but to take the final plunge. “Commander, I want you to restore me to flight status. I want to fly the strike when it goes in.”
Magruder leaned back in his chair and studied him through narrowed eyes. The scrutiny made Bannon feel uncomfortable, and he had to fight to keep from fidgeting. “Are you sure, Lieutenant?” The tone suggested that Magruder was anything but sure of Bannon’s competence.
“Yes, sir,” he said again. “I’ve given it a lot of thought.” It had kept him awake nights, until he’d finally managed to talk out his problems with one of Jefferson’s chaplains. Lieutenant Commander Stocker hadn’t said much, but in the course of the talk Bannon had come to realize that he couldn’t just give up. Nothing he could do would ever bring Commander Greene back, but Bannon owed it to Greene, and to himself, to try again. He needed the chance to prove himself once and for all … or die trying.
Magruder kept studying him for a long moment, and Bannon shifted uneasily. “I can do the job, Commander,” he said. “I know I can.”
“You sound sure of yourself,” Magruder said quietly. His hand absently picked one of Stramaglia’s cigars out of the mug. He toyed with it for a second without even seeming aware of what he was doing. Then he went on. “But I wonder if you’re that confident on the inside.”
He started to make a glib reply, then hesitated. “No sir,” he admitted at last. “I’m not. But it’s something I have to do. Please don’t refuse this, Commander. It’s important.”
There was another long silence. Then Magruder nodded suddenly. “All right, Bannon,” he said. “Lord knows we need every pilot we can get for this. Keeping the strike ready to launch is going to be hard on everybody, and the more spare officers I’ve got on tap the better prepared we’ll be.” He pointed the cigar straight at Bannon’s chest, a gesture that reminded him of the old CAG. “Just don’t screw this up, Bannon. If you can’t pull your weight, don’t drag the rest of your buddies down. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell Owens you’re back on the roster and report to your CO. Dismissed.”
Bannon’s mind was a battlefield of conflicting emotions as he left the office. He knew he had made the right decision, the only decision … but Magruder’s words had reinforced his own doubts and fears. If he lost it up there, would he end up killing another of his shipmates?
Tombstone Magruder leaned back in his chair and looked up at the overhead, rubbing his eyes. He had snatched a few hours’ fitful sleep, but now he was back at his desk grappling with the details of the proposed Alpha Strike.
As a squadron CO he’d faced his share of paperwork, but somehow the magnitude of the burden of running a full air wing had never hit him until he had to do it himself. In the movies, the carrier pilots just climbed into their cockpits and went off to do battle with the enemy. But in real life, there was a lot going on behind the scenes to make that possible. CAG had to work out battle plans with the admiral, with Captain Brandt, and with each individual squadron commander. He had to coordinate activities with the Air Boss and S-6 Division and half a dozen other individuals and groups, and any one of them could throw a monkey wrench into a complex plan. He’d learned that lesson after Maintenance had written up down gripes on two Hornets and thrown his entire carefully prepared launch schedule out the window.