“I almost joined the Navy,” Flap confided, “but I came to my senses just in time and joined the Corps. It’s a real fighting outfit, the best in the world. The Navy…well, the best that can be said is that you guys try. Most of the time, anyway.”
He talked on as Jake got on the major’s bearing line and eased in some left rudder to lower the nose so he could see the major out the right-side quarter panel. Rendezvousing an A-6 with its side-by-side seating took some finesse when coming in on the lead’s left because the pilot of the joining aircraft could easily lose sight of the lead plane. If he let himself go just a little high, or if he let his plane fall a little behind the bearing line— going sucked, they called it — and attempted to pull back to the bearing, the lead would disappear under the wingman’s nose and he would be closing blindly. This was not good, a situation fraught with hazard for all concerned.
This morning Jake stayed glued to the bearing. If Flap noticed he gave no indication. He was saying, “… the closest I ever came to being in the Navy was the wife of some surface warrior I met at MCRD”—Marine Corps Recruit Depot—“O Club on a Friday night. She rubbed her tits all over my back and I told her she was going to give me zipper rash. She was all hot and randy so I thought, Why not. We went over to her place…”
When he was fifty feet away from the major’s plane Jake lowered the nose and crossed behind and under. He surfaced into parade position on the right side, the outside of the turn. The BN gave him a thumbs-up.
Jake’s BN talked on. “… I just put the ol’ cock to her…”
After a frequency shift that the major’s BN signaled and Jake had to dial in because Flap wasn’t helping at all, they made two more turns in the circle, then started down.
“She had those nipples that are like strawberries, you know what I mean? All puffed up so nice and sweet and red and they’re just made for sucking on? I like them the very best. Can’t understand why God didn’t equip more women with ’em. Only about one broad in ten has ’em. It’s a mystery.”
They were descending through patches of sunlight interspersed with shadow. The occasional golden shafts played on the planes and made the sea below glisten, when Jake could steal a second from holding position on the lead plane and glance down.
His plane handled well. Slick and tight and responsive. He contented himself with moving his plane a few inches forward on the lead, then a few inches back, staying in absolute control. When he felt comfortable he moved in on the bearing line so that the wing tips overlapped. He stopped when he could feel the downdraft off the lead’s wing and the tip was just two feet from his canopy. He held it there for a moment or two to prove to himself that he could still do it, then eased back out to where he belonged.
Flying is the best that life offers, Jake Grafton thought. And carrier flying is the best of the flying. These day traps and cat shots are going to be terrific. He fought back the sense of euphoria that suffused him.
“… as close as I ever came to being in the Navy, I’ll tell you that.”
If Flap would just shut up!
But he won’t. So no sense making a scene.
The two warplanes came up the ship’s wake at eight hundred feet glued together. There were already two other planes in the pattern with their gear and hooks down, two A-7 Corsairs, so the major delayed his break. Then the BN kissed him off and the major dumped his left wing and pulled. Jake watched the lead plane turn away as he counted to himself. At the count of seven he slammed the stick sideways and pulled as he reached for the gear handle with his left hand and slapped it down. Then the flaps.
Turning level, three G’s…gear coming, flaps and slats coming…seven thousand pounds of fuel.
Stable on the downwind he toggled the main dump and let seven hundred pounds squirt out into the atmosphere. He wanted to cross the ramp of the ship with precisely six grand.
Precision. That’s what carrier flying is all about. That’s the challenge. And the thrill.
“… just don’t see why anybody would want to float around in the middle of the ocean on these bird farms. Eight months of this fun. The Navy is full of happy masturbators…”
Hook up for the first pass, a touch-and-go. Let the LSO get his look and learn that I’m not suicidal.
Coming through the ninety, on speed, exactly 118 knots with a three-o’clock angle-of-attack…there’s the meatball on the Fresnel lens. Cross the wake, roll out, coming in to the angled deck, watch the lineup! There’s the burble from the island…power on then off fast. Keep that ball in the center…
The wheels smacked into the deck and the nose came down hard as Jack Grafton shoved the throttles to the stop and closed the wing-tip speed brakes with the throttle-mounted switch. The Intruder shot up the angled deck and ran off into the air. He brought the stick back and got her climbing.
“The amazing thing is that the Navy finds so many of you masturbators to ride these floating aviaries. You wouldn’t think there were this many jack-off artists in the whole world. Not if you just looked at the world casually. I mean, most people like their sex with somebody else, y’know? No doubt a lot of you guys are queer. Gotta be.”
On the downwind Jake lowered the hook and checked that his harness was locked. Normally he flew with it unlocked so that he could lean forward if he wished or wiggle in the ejection seat.
He toggled the seat up a smidgen and adjusted the rheostat that brightened the angle-of-attack indicator.
The interval between Jake and the major was good, and the major trapped on his first pass as Jake was reducing power at the 180-degree position. Down and turning, on speed, looking for the ball crossing the wake, wings level and reducing power, now power on for the burble, watching the lineup and flying that ball…
The Intruder swept across the ramp and slammed into the deck. As the throttles went forward the tailhook caught a wire and dragged the plane to a dead stop.
Then the plane began to roll backward. Jake jabbed the hookup button and added power to taxi out of the gear. The director was giving him the come ahead as Flap said, “The whole concept of having five thousand guys crammed together without women is unnatural. Everybody horny, jacking off in the shower, into their sheets — this boat is a floating semen factory! In nineteen seventy-three! My God, haven’t we humans made any progress in understanding man’s sexual needs in all these years of…”
Queued up waiting for Cat Two, checking the gear and flap settings, the fuel, then following the yellow shirt’s signals as he brought the plane into the shuttle — Jake was doing the things he knew how to do, the things that made the hassles worthwhile.
Throttles up…the salute — and wham, they were off to do it again. This time Jake left the gear and flaps down. He flew straight ahead upwind until the major passed him on the left going downwind.
Jake banked for the crosswind turn. The plane entered a shaft of sunlight and the warmth played on his arms and legs. Inside his oxygen mask Jake grinned broadly.
After four traps Jake was directed to fold his wings and stop near the carrier’s island with the engines running while the plane was refueled, a “hot” turnaround. He opened the canopy and took off his oxygen mask. His face was wet with sweat. He swabbed away the moisture and watched the planes making their approaches.
Flap Le Beau also sat watching, silent at last.
Heavenly silence. Except for the howl of jet engines at full power and the slam of the catapult and an occasional terse radio message. The flight deck of an aircraft carrier was the loudest place on earth, yet oh so pleasant without Flap’s drivel.