tired. If he had managed more than six hours sleep in the last forty-eight it
didn’t show. He had thrown himself into his new job with a single-minded
determination, but the talk in the other offices of the Air Wing hinted that
he would burn himself out if he kept pushing himself at this pace. Looking at
him now, Bannon was forced to agree.
Magruder held up a hand as Bannon came in and said, “Wait a moment.” He
never even looked up from the folder. Bannon waited, hoping his resolve
wouldn’t wilt in the meantime.
Finally Magruder put the folder aside and looked at him. “Oh … Bannon.
Didn’t know it was your shift yet. Did you bring the report from Lieutenant
Lowe?” Lowe was the chief of S-6 Division, responsible for Aviation Supply.
“Uh, no, sir,” Bannon replied. “I’m still on my own time, sir. I …
needed to see you about a personal matter.”
Magruder frowned. “I don’t have a whole lot of time, Bannon,” he said.
“Make it quick.”
“Y-yes, sir.” Bannon hesitated again, reluctant to go on despite
Magruder’s admonition. “Ah … well, sir, the fact is, I’ve been thinking
about what I should do. The way you told me to the other day.”
Magruder looked blank for a moment, then seemed to remember the
conversation that had started on the hangar deck. “If you’d rather not stay
stuck on the staff, I can probably put you in a slot as Assistant LSO for the
Death Dealers. That’ll free up Jeffries to fly. Talk to Owens to take care
of it.” He reached for another folder.
“Uh … that’s not it, sir,” Bannon said.
The commander’s frown deepened. “Look, Bannon, I don’t need this. I’ve
got maintenance men giving me a dozen reasons why they can’t get enough planes
in the air to make this strike work, and about twenty different variable plans
to put together before we get word the Russians are moving. So spit out
whatever it is you want and then get the hell out of here!”
“Yessir!” he responded automatically. There was nothing left now but to
take the final plunge. “Commander, I want you to restore me to flight status.
I want to fly the strike when it goes in.”
Magruder leaned back in his chair and studied him through narrowed eyes.
The scrutiny made Bannon feel uncomfortable, and he had to fight to keep from
fidgeting. “Are you sure, Lieutenant?” The tone suggested that Magruder was
anything but sure of Bannon’s competence.
“Yes, sir,” he said again. “I’ve given it a lot of thought.” It had
kept him awake nights, until he’d finally managed to talk out his problems
with one of Jefferson’s chaplains. Lieutenant Commander Stocker hadn’t said
much, but in the course of the talk Bannon had come to realize that he
couldn’t just give up. Nothing he could do would ever bring Commander Greene
back, but Bannon owed it to Greene, and to himself, to try again. He needed
the chance to prove himself once and for all … or die trying.
Magruder kept studying him for a long moment, and Bannon shifted
uneasily. “I can do the job, Commander,” he said. “I know I can.”
“You sound sure of yourself,” Magruder said quietly. His hand absently
picked one of Stramaglia’s cigars out of the mug. He toyed with it for a
second without even seeming aware of what he was doing. Then he went on.
“But I wonder if you’re that confident on the inside.”
He started to make a glib reply, then hesitated. “No sir,” he admitted
at last. “I’m not. But it’s something I have to do. Please don’t refuse
this, Commander. It’s important.”
There was another long silence. Then Magruder nodded suddenly. “All
right, Bannon,” he said. “Lord knows we need every pilot we can get for this.
Keeping the strike ready to launch is going to be hard on everybody, and the
more spare officers I’ve got on tap the better prepared we’ll be.” He pointed
the cigar straight at Bannon’s chest, a gesture that reminded him of the old
CAG. “Just don’t screw this up, Bannon. If you can’t pull your weight, don’t