you’ve got that down cold already. So you’ll concentrate on what you need to
learn. Sub-hunting. Executing bombing runs. You’re going back to school,
son, just like the old days at Miramar.”
“Yes, sir,” Magruder acknowledged. He could understand the older man’s
point, though it still stung him to be barred from duty with the Tomcat
squadrons.
Stramaglia’s watch beeped an alarm. He checked it with a frown.
“Admiral Tarrant’s called a briefing this morning for senior battle group
officers. That includes the top CAG staff. So let’s get going.” He paused,
studying Magruder’s face. “And for God’s sake, stop looking like you’re on
Death Row. I don’t bite, son … well, not much, at least.”
Magruder forced a smile and rose from the chair, following Stramaglia out
of the office.
CHAPTER 6
Tuesday, 10 June, 1997
1055 hours Zulu (0855 hours Zone)
cvic, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
The North Atlantic
The room was known as “Civic,” from the designation CVIC, the Navy
acronym for “Carrier Intelligence Center.” It reminded Stramaglia more of a
lecture hall than part of an ultra-modern supercarrier. The grays and
off-greens of the bulkheads were broken up by framed prints along the side
walls showing famous scenes from U.S. naval history, while the wall behind him
was dominated by an oil painting of the Jefferson herself. Behind the podium
at the far end of the room was a projection screen, and folding metal chairs
dominated the center of the room. About half of them were filled this morning
with an impressive collection of senior officers from Carrier Battle Group 14,
and the officers still milling around were beginning to drift toward their
seats.
Stramaglia spotted Lieutenant Commander Arthur Lee, the Air Wing’s
Intelligence Officer, coming in by the door nearest the podium. He waved to
attract Lee’s attention, and with a nod the younger officer started toward
Stramaglia and the other two officers representing the CAG staff sitting with
him.
Stramaglia glanced from one to the other. Lieutenant Commander David
Owens, with his fresh face and eager manner, looked too young for his rank.
His record said he was qualified, but he didn’t have enough experience to suit
Stramaglia. With time and seasoning Owens might be all right, but he didn’t
inspire much confidence. That had been Stramaglia’s main reason for
requesting an immediate replacement after Greene’s death.
The new Deputy CAG, Magruder, certainly had the seasoning Owens lacked.
Back in Miramar Stramaglia had marked him out as an officer who might go far.
Magruder was thoughtful, not given to the kind of hotdog stunts so many
fighter pilots were prone to pull. But he’d also known when to let his
instincts take over. His career since Top Gun had gone far beyond
Stramaglia’s expectations.
All he had to do now was apply himself as well to his new post as he had
to flying and Magruder would be a good candidate for his own air wing command
some day … perhaps even a slot as Exec or Captain on a carrier. That was
something Joseph Stramaglia knew he’d never see himself.
The thought still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
For eight years he’d taught the best of the best, the top one percent of
the Navy’s fighter pilots. It had started as a privilege, an honor bestowed
on him for his excellent performance. But each time he’d set out to apply for
a new duty station he’d let someone talk him out of it, appealing to pride or
duty or vanity to persuade him to put in a little more time as an instructor.
And before he’d realized it eight years were gone, and with them the best
chance for a real career. He’d missed out on Desert Storm right off the bat,
but the F-14s hadn’t seen much action over Iraq anyway. But he’d still been
training others while Matthew Magruder was becoming America’s latest naval
hero.
Now it was too late. He’d finally wangled command of an air wing by
pulling every string he could think of. But the chances of rising any higher
were slim now. The Navy’s program for promoting officers to command slots was
getting more and more rigid, and with all the defense cutbacks lately it was