having to deal with the issue of Callie.
Finally, he noticed one small improvement he could make on the plan,
one that just might lift his spirits a bit. He moused over to the
relevant cell and added an additional flight of aircraft, one he knew
that the squadron was not capable of providing on short notice they
simply didn’t have enough pilots. With a little cooperation from
Gator, he just might be able to pull it off. Now if only the Ops ACOS
didn’t read the details too carefully. . . .
Staff work was demanding, but it was usually finished by the time the
aircraft went into the air. No point in not taking the extra manpower
into account when planning for strikes, particularly since there were
aircraft that would be sitting empty on the deck otherwise. He smiled,
wondering how Gator was going to be feeling about that.
1649 Local (+5 GMT) VF-95 Ready Room “No way.” Gator’s voice was cold
and adamant. “I’m not climbing into a cockpit with you right now, not
after that bitch just jilted you.”
“She’s not a bitch,” Bird Dog said, defending Callie unwillingly. In
truth, he himself thought that she might be.
There was no other explanation for her complete lack of taste in
dumping him in favor of a submariner.
Despite Bird Dog’s intentions of keeping his pain to himself. Gator
had wormed the story out of him in less than five minutes flat. After
hearing it, and noting the anguish in Bird Dog’s voice. Gator had
flatly refused to fly with him again.
“I’m not unsafe in the air you know I’m not.”
“Even on the best days, you have an interesting interpretation of the
standard rules of flight,” Gator said caustically.
“But now, with your heart down around your asshole, I’d be crazy to get
in the cockpit with you. Plumb crazy.”
Bird Dog tried again. “Look at it this way. Gator. Who’s got more
experience in combat than us? You and me, remember? The Spratlys?
The Aleutians? Now that was a helluva ride, wasn’t it? And if I can
bring you back safely from that, flying twenty feet above ice with no
radar and limited visibility, I can get you back from a normal,
ordinary strike during daylight hours on a big island, don’t you
think?”
Gator shook his head. “You ain’t been flying much, buddy.”
“That’s the problemGator, come on. I need to get back in the cockpit,
and I don’t want to miss out on this one. That bitch dumped me-there’s
gotta be something more to life than that. Please?” With all the
bravado dropped and his soul exposed bare for Gator to see, there was
something terribly appealing about the young aviator. Despite his best
intentions. Gator felt himself giving in.
“We’ll get caught,” the RIO said.
“No we won’t. All pilots look alike in helmets and flight suits, and
the squadron doesn’t know the admiral grounded me. Even Tomboy doesn’t
have a clue.”
“Bird Dog, of all the idiotic schemes you’ve gotten me into, this is”
“Please?” There was quiet dignity and plaintiveness in Bird Dog’s
voice.
Gator sighed. “I’m an idiot. Okay, count me in.”
Bird Dog smiled.
Tuesday, 02 July 0200 Local (+5 GMT) USS Jefferson “That’s it, then.”
Tombstone Magruder scrawled his initials in the upper-right-hand corner
of the message, releasing it for transmission. He leaned back in his
chair, tossed the pencil on the table, and looked impassively at the
men surrounding him. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll take the heat for it.
You people are just following orders.”
The SEAL OIC-officer in Charge shook his head.
“That plan’s got my name all over it. Admiral. With all due respect,
I wouldn’t mind getting hung for that one little bit.”
“You may get your chance,” Tombstone snapped. He glanced at the
standard Navy-issue black clock up on the bulkhead. “And sooner than
you want.”
“Admiral, at the risk of sounding like an optimist,” Batman broke in,
“this is a damned fine operational plan.
It’s classic. We get our people out, take ownership of the airspace,
then proceed inward to strike our objectives.
They’ll be studying this one at the War College.”