DCAG Allen listened, nodding his head in understanding and approval. Swoboda continued.
“I’m like, what the fuck, and walk direct to Ready 7. I open the starboard-side door and see Saint up there ripping his people, just having a cow about the airplane with his MMCO. I thought he was having a nervous breakdown. The duty officer asks him for his extra ammo clip, and Saint’s still out of control, screaming. He reaches into his vest, rooting around in there and friggin’ heaves on the clip to free it, and sets off the day end of his flare! Smoke goes everywhere, but his people swing into action. And Saint… he’s just standing there… deer-in-the-headlights. They yell ‘Attention on deck.’ Then, he’s looking at me — with real fear. I mean, his lip was quivering. Darth, I think he’s lost it.”
“The Human Factors Board said it was the stress of combat.”
Swoboda grimaced and shook his head. “Not buying it. He had a strike against Chah Bahar, lots of standoff, low threat. No, he was in over his head going to Yaz Kernoum.”
“Maybe he knew it.”
“Maybe he did.”
“You think he effectively turned back under fire?”
Swoboda paused and looked ahead in thought. After a long silence he lifted his head. “Yeah, I do.”
Allen watched him, but said nothing. Swoboda exhaled deeply.
“You know, as a nugget I had this CO who flew Phantoms in Vietnam. He was a fire-breathing dragon and kicked our ass. He said turning back under fire was unforgivable. I think you have to temper that — especially as a CO. You don’t want to lead guys into a meat grinder and lose half the strike group. But on the other hand, you go. You take the jet and make a call on scene because you have the experience, or at least the seniority, to know what’s acceptable. Saint abdicated that to his subordinate because of fear — of either screwing up the lead or getting shot down. It doesn’t matter. He couldn’t handle it. I mean, he’s an administrative wizard, but he’s hard on his people. When the pressure was on, he went to pieces. I’m sorry, but he’s just not ready for command of that strike-fighter squadron. Maybe he slipped through the cracks to get here, but I’ve gotta make a call here and now.”
“Devil’s advocate,” DCAG said, raising a hand, “but I’ve got to touch on this. Cajun took his division into that meat grinder and paid for it with his life. Not excusing Saint, but couldn’t Cajun have pumped once to troubleshoot the friggin bombs or dropped them in a level delivery using his radar and FLIR? He and the jet would still be here.”
“Sure, on Monday morning that’s a reasonable call, but Cajun made the call then on the first strike of the operation, with one minute to go. And he got the job done — he was committed to it. He stepped into the arena.” Swoboda took a breath and his voice trailed off. “We need more Cajuns.”
“You flew into that shit as the on-scene commander — after they were stirred up down there.”
The CAG nodded. “Cajun would have done the same for any of us.”
The two men sat in silence and stared into space, each pondering the next move that they knew would lead to the “firing” of a senior officer. It was the same agonizing decision they had watched others make during their 20 plus years in the military. CAG broke the silence.
“I’m going to relieve him.”
The Deputy Wing Commander looked up and held his gaze for a moment. “You really sure you want to do that? The board says otherwise. It’s his first day as CO after Cajun’s shootdown. You can make a case that a TACAN is a downing gripe. He developed a plan, and the strike package executed it successfully. They are going to second-guess you in Norfolk. Besides, we’re leaving here and heading home soon.”
“He didn’t develop that plan. Flip Wilson did, and Flip took the lead for him and did an outstanding job. After witnessing Saint’s display, I should be relieved for assigning him the strike lead.”
“You were out of strike leads; he was next in the rotation.”
“Yeah, but for the same reasons you stated, I should have thought it through better — should have assigned it to you.”
DCAG smiled.
Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, CAG made a pyramid with his fingers and brought them to his lips in contemplation. “Can we agree that Saint is a project?”
“No doubt.”
“You’ll be CAG next year. Do you want one of your squadron COs to be a project?”
DCAG looked at his shoes and exhaled, then lifted his eyes. “No,” he said quietly.
Swoboda nodded in agreement.
“Who will you get to take over?” Darth asked. “The Big Unit?”
“Jim Wilson.”
“Flip? He’s too junior.”
“He’s the right choice. Who knows the squadron better? Who has proven himself under fire, time after time? Who has more credibility in the air wing? If anyone, it’s Flip. I’m adamant about that. He’ll take the Ravens home as acting CO, and the Commodore can get a short-term relief in another month or so. Flip will then go on shore duty, and he’ll screen for his own squadron in a few years.”
“I hear rumblings about him resigning.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s still the guy I want.”
“Are you going to talk to the admiral?”
“After the fact… not gonna ask. When in command, command, right?”
They again sat in silence, thinking about the next difficult step.
“How are you going to do it?”
“Not going to humiliate or shame him. I’ll bring him in tonight at 2100. Want you here, too. Let him pack his trash and manifest him on the COD tomorrow. If he wants to address the squadron, fine. In the meantime, we will keep it quiet that he’s leaving so he can do so with as much dignity as he can. Forgive him… but he’s done.”
“Roger,” Allen said. As he rose to leave, he added, “Tough business.”
“Yeah… but there are tougher things. Oh, by the way, call Flip yourself, and have him report here at 2130.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 70
At reveille, Wilson rolled out of the rack after a night of fitful sleep. Saint Patrick had been relieved for cause — and CAG had informed him that he would be the acting CO. He was sworn to secrecy until tonight after the humiliated officer was off the ship.
For months he had hated Saint: hated the dressing downs, the incivility to the troops, the bullshit busywork, the incompetence masquerading as effective leadership. Saint was an anomaly. Nobody liked him, and he had no friends among his peers. Not long after returning from the Yaz Kernoum strike, Wilson had learned about the flare going off in the ready room. How that scene had played out in front of CAG was amazing, even for Saint. Since then, the JOs had treated Saint with thinly veiled contempt—Coward—and Wilson had known it would be just a matter of time before CAG acted.
How had Saint gotten this far? The Navy that had promoted warriors like Cajun, CAG, and the Big Unit had also promoted Saint. How could the system have gotten this one so wrong? Somebody along the way had liked his abilities, but was Cajun — and now CAG — the first to see through him?
Restless, and knowing he would be alone at this early hour, Wilson donned his flight suit and went up to the wardroom for breakfast. He grabbed a tray, poured himself some coffee, and went through the speed line for bacon and eggs, oatmeal and juice. Sitting down at the deserted Raven table, Wilson picked up the ship’s “newspaper” and began reading a wire story about the NCAA Final Four. Someone placed a tray down opposite him. When he looked up from his reading, he jolted back in surprise. Saint, impeccable in his khaki uniform, stood in front of him.