From a sonarman’s point of view, that was the preferred alternative, but the thought of having anything just above them when they didn’t know what was going on ashore made him excruciatingly nervous.
EIGHT
Batman paced furiously along the side of the island, stomping down hard on the flight deck as though to punish it instead of the pilots. There was no way he could damage the nonskid, but oh, Hot Rock and Lobo were in for it. They’d be lucky if they ever saw the inside of a cockpit again, much less flew combat missions from his carrier.
He could hear the calls now, with the team of two inbound on Jefferson. Lobo was in the lead, her Tomcat lined up hard and righteous on the flight path. He felt a moment of appreciation at the lineup, rock steady, on course, on altitude, then pushed the thought away. She might be in the lead in the air, but god knows she’d just failed every definition of good leadership he could think of.
Being an officer meant more than flying a hot aircraft and shooting down MiGs. It meant following orders, fitting your aircraft’s mission into the overall battle picture, making sure that your wingman and the rest of the junior officers were also onboard with the program. And no matter how hot a pilot Lobo was, no matter that she’d earned the respect of every pilot in the Navy, she’d just screwed up big time, just as much as Hot Rock had. Oh, sure, he’d taken the chase on, but it was her flight, her mission. She knew as well as the admiral that it was her responsibility.
Can’t you cut her some slack? After what she’s been through?
He considered that for a moment, tempted. One part of his mind would have given anything to avoid the action he was about to take against the two, and trotting out Lobo’s career would be justification for just about any breaks he wanted to cut her. During a mission in her nugget year, Lobo had been shot down. She’d spent a couple of months in a POW camp, abused, raped and generally tortured beyond anyone’s understanding. That she’d withstood it, then had the sheer guts to recover and get back in a flight status — well, he wasn’t so sure he would have made as good a showing, had he been in her shoes.
It’s an out. Take it.
But no, he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to do his duty. This was why they’d made him an admiral, given him command of a battle group, to make the calls like this one.
And to use your discretion. For a moment, Batman thought he heard the sternly lecturing voice of Tombstone. We’ve pulled our share of shit, shipmate. Find a way out of grounding those two. Because in your gut, you know that’s what you want to do.
Batman sighed, frustrated. Tombstone — or at least the Tombstone he was talking to inside his own head — was right. Lobo and Hot Rock had done what every man and woman on board the carrier had wanted to do, tried to take out a MiG that had attacked an innocent, unarmed civilian aircraft. Yes, it had been too damned close to Hawaii, and yes, it could have gone brutally wrong if they’d sent the MiG spiraling into the hotels and tourist facilities crowded onto the shoreline.
But they hadn’t. Lobo had waited for the shot, held Hot Rock in check, from what he’d been able to tell. They’d maneuvered the MiG out over open ocean and away from the harbor.
She used her good judgment — now you use yours.
“They’re not getting off scot-free, Stony,” Batman said out loud, his voice lost in the cacophony of the flight deck. “I can’t let that happen — you know that.”
I know. Rip ’em each a new asshole, nail them in their fitreps, give them every shitty little job you can think of. But keep them in the air. That’s where they belong.
Lobo’s Tomcat called the ball, indicating that the pilot had a visual on the meatball, the Fresnel lens located on the starboard side of the stern. Batman heard the voice of the LSO, the landing signals officer, chime in on the circuit.
“Tomcat 201, say needles.”
“Needles say on glide path,” Lobo replied.
“Roger, 201, fly needles,” the LSO concurred, indicating that he agreed with her instruments’ assessment of her approach on the carrier.
Lobo didn’t need instruments, Batman thought. She didn’t even need the LSO, not really. Rock steady on approach she held the Tomcat so steady in the air that you could almost believe it wasn’t flying at all, that it was a giant balloon being towed aft of the ship.
But a balloon wouldn’t make that much noise, wouldn’t be howling in toward the deck with low-throated thunder. It wouldn’t be getting larger every second until it looked so large that a civilian would have thought it impossible to fit that much aircraft onto the deck of the carrier.
Tomcat 201 slammed down on the deck with a squeal of tires and a puff of vaporized rubber. The engines howled as Lobo slammed the throttles forward to full military power, insurance against an arresting wire breaking or a kiddy trap when the tailhook appeared to catch and then skipped over the arresting wire. Without full military power, the heavy aircraft would lack sufficient speed to launch again off the forward end of the carrier and would simply dribble off the end of the ship and smash into the ocean. Missing the arresting wire and taking off again was called a bolter.
The tailhook caught the three wire neatly, pitching the nose down hard on the deck of the carrier. The arresting wire spun out against the hydraulic pressure with a harsh keening noise, slowing the Tomcat from landing speed to a dead stop. Lobo kept the Tomcat at full military power until a yellow shirt stepped out in front of her and signaled her to reduce power. No sane pilot reduced power until the technician in charge of that portion of the flight deck felt confident enough about the landing to stand in front of the aircraft himself.
The Tomcat backed down slightly, and at a signal from the yellow shirt, the tailhook lifted up and dropped the arresting wire. Lobo taxied forward confidently, following the flight deck technicians as they directed her aircraft to its spot.
Batman stood motionless, his hands on his hips, as he watched Lobo roll her bird to a gentle stop. Behind him, he could hear the next Tomcat approaching the stern, but his business was with Lobo. His anger rose as he watched the canopy slide back and saw the plane captain mount the boarding ladder to assist Lobo and her RIO in unstrapping their ejection harnesses. The plane captain signaled that the retaining pins had been placed in the ejection seat, rendering it inoperable. Only then did Lobo rise from her cockpit and swing one long leg down over the side of the aircraft, her foot finding the boarding ladder without even looking.
Slam! The deck under Batman’s feet quivered as Hot Rock’s Tomcat made the controlled crash that passed for a carrier landing.
Lobo stopped next to the aircraft and spoke with the plane captain, pointing back toward the right wing control surface. The plane captain nodded. Lobo started to lead him around to the far side of the aircraft when Batman saw the plane captain point in his direction.
Lobo looked over at him. Even from a distance, Batman could see the adrenaline tide surging in her face, the joyous look of a pilot who’s just done what she’s trained to do, done it very well, and then pulled off one hell of a three-wire trap just to top it off. It was a look that went past glee into something divine, invincible and holy.
And it was a look he was about to wipe off her face. For a moment he wondered whether he ought to wait, let her enjoy these few minutes when, orders or no orders, she was a hero.