Rockwood, not the typical executive officer who acted as the CO's hatchet man, placed his hands on his knees and studied Brad. "Okay, I'll grab Jocko and we'll go to my stateroom."
Austin nodded his head. "Yessir."
Rising to his full six feet two, the partially bald Rockwood started up the aisle toward Carella. He had almost reached the operations officer when the cherubic-faced Hutton, holding his hand over the phone receiver, leaped out of his chair.
"The CO and Dirty Ernie — Commander Sheridan — have been released. They're on their way to the ready room."
Applause and cheers filled the long, narrow briefing room. The CO was considered to be one of the good guys, and Ernie Sheridan, the senior RIO in the squadron, was a happy-go-lucky friend to everyone.
Brad felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. The more he thought about the mission, the more convinced he became that his judgment had been faulty.
Lunsford leaned closer to Austin and spoke in a hushed voice. "It wasn't your fault. What the hell do you expect to gain by taking the blame for — "
Lunsford stopped in mid-sentence when Frank Rockwood and Jack Carella started toward them. The XO and the operations officer looked like Mutt and Jeff characters. Rockwood lived up to his nickname in appearance. He was a solid, well-muscled 205 pounds. Big for the average fighter pilot.
A devoted husband and father of three teenage daughters, Rockwood centered his life around his family. Always a gentleman, he was a blend of natural leader, gifted aviator, and superior intellect.
Jack Fierro Carella, a compact and dark-complected man, had curly black hair and piercing dark eyes. His nasal Italian accent had not changed since his boyhood in Philadelphia. The Temple University graduate had been a rough-and-tumble street fighter in his blue-collar neighborhood. He took his squadron job seriously and was considered tough but fair.
Unsmiling, Carella walked up to Brad. "What's on your mind, Mister?"
Brad knew that Carella called him mister out of habit. Junior officers in the navy were addressed by their rank, mister, or sir. Marine officers were addressed by their rank, or sir.
Frank Rockwood spoke before Brad had a chance to open his mouth. "Jocko, let's wait until the CO gets here. He may want to speak with Brad and Russ alone."
"Yes, sir," Carella replied, then turned to face Austin. "Just one question. Can you confirm that the skipper knocked down a MiG?" The room suddenly became quiet again.
"Yes, sir," Brad responded, then fell silent as shouts of joy and loud clapping filled the small space.
The hatch leading to the passageway opened and the yelling, whistling, and clapping intensified as Cdr. Dan Bailey and Dirty Ernie Sheridan stepped into the crowded ready room.
The din of celebration increased as everyone tried to get through the throng to shake hands with the MiG killers. The pilots and RIOs slapped Bailey and Sheridan on their backs, whooping with happiness. The carrier had been conducting air operations from Yankee Station, off the southern coast of North Vietnam, for seventeen days and the Jokers had the first confirmed MiG kill.
Brad stood to the side, unsure of what he should say or do. Lunsford waded into the cluster of men and offered his congratulations to the victorious crew.
Frank Rockwood, seizing an opportunity to say a quiet word to the CO, spoke quickly about Austin's feelings of guilt. Bailey acknowledged his XO, shook more outstretched hands, darted a look at Brad, then made his way toward the marine aviator. He steered Russ Lunsford along with him while Sheridan followed.
Brad, feeling a pang of trepidation, watched the CO approach. Bailey looked jubilant, as did Ernie Sheridan. Lunsford showed no emotion.
The smiling CO stopped between Austin and Lunsford, then grasped the pilot's right wrist and the RIO's left wrist. Like a boxing referee, he raised their arms over his head and addressed the ready room crowd. "These guys also deserve a round of applause. They have a probable on their record, and they did a hell of a job this morning." Everyone cheered again while the CO shook hands with Brad and Russ.
"One other note," Bailey announced loudly. "You're looking at a new flight leader — our token marine and junior section leader, First Lieutenant Austin."
The CO stepped away as various members of the squadron congratulated Austin and Lunsford. The handshakes and slaps on the shoulders expressed genuine feelings of praise.
Bailey waited for the right moment, then stepped close to Brad and Russ. He looked straight into Brad's eyes and spoke quietly. "The XO says you have something on your mind, Lieutenant."
Harry Hutton interrupted before Brad could reply. "Skipper, they got the Spad driver out. Shot up a couple of helos, but he's on his way back to the Intrepid."
The celebration masked Bailey's words as he addressed Austin and Lunsford. "You guys drop your gear in the locker room and join me in my stateroom in fifteen minutes."
"Yes, sir," the two men replied in unison.
Brad and Russ quickly stowed their bulky survival gear, crash helmets, oxygen masks, 38-caliber revolvers, g suits, and kneeboards. They showered in record time, then donned fresh uniforms and reported to Bailey's stateroom. Brad knocked on the door.
"Come in," the CO invited as he opened the safe mounted in the bulkhead at the back of his fold-down desk.
Brad opened the door and entered the room, followed by his RIO. Frank Rockwood and Jack Carella sat on the bunk next to Bailey's desk chair. The cabin was cramped but not as confining as the junior officers' quarters.
"Have a seat," the CO said, motioning to the two gray straight-backed chairs next to the far bulkhead.
Bailey's tanned face was distinguished by pronounced crow's-feet and a dimple in his square chin. He had a salt-and-pepper crew cut and a pronounced southern drawl. He read extensively and could quote with equal ease from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales or the comic strips.
Earning his wings the hard way, Bailey had parlayed a private pilot's license, combined with two years of junior college, into a NAVCAD appointment. As a naval aviation cadet, Dan Bailey had distinguished himself throughout every phase of flight training.
Graduating second in his class, Bailey had proudly accepted his commission and the accompanying gold bars. His fiancee, and former high-school sweetheart, had pinned on his coveted wings of gold.
After the graduation ceremonies, Ens. Dan Bailey and Karla Jane Cooper had married at the base chapel. They had enjoyed a brief honeymoon, marred only by an unexpected mechanical failure in Dan's 1949 Chevrolet. The drive shaft had dropped to the pavement four blocks from the church. For years Dan and Karla, along with their twin sons, had laughed about the incident.
Dan Bailey was revered by all the officers and men of the squadron for his professionalism and leadership qualities. He was respected most for his genuine consideration for every man under his command.
Brad and Russ sat down while Bailey placed a stack of reports in his safe and closed the door. The XO and the operations officer remained quiet.
Bailey turned around, smiling pleasantly. "Care for a cold Dr. Pepper?" Both men, seeing that Rockwood and Carella had a can in their hands, accepted the soft drinks.
"Okay, jarhead," Bailey said, "what's bothering you?"
"Well, sir," Brad began, watching Rockwood and Carella out of the corner of his eye, "I feel like it's my fault that you… that we got nailed. I led us too low over the downed Spad."
Bailey raised a hand. "Wait a minute. Brad, you're one of the best pilots in the squadron. And besides being a natural stick, you have good logic and leadership skills. If you didn't possess those traits, the Marine Corps would not have allowed you to come out here, and I would not have made you a flight leader."
"Yes, sir," Brad responded awkwardly. He was openly embarrassed, especially in the presence of his backseater.