hear over the hangar deck noise but still somehow tentative and uncertain.
Magruder turned to find himself looking at a young, red-haired lieutenant with
pilot’s wings and an apprehensive look on his freckled face.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” he shouted over the roar of one of the
tractors–a “mule” in flight-deck parlance–hauling an F/A-18 Hornet toward
one of the elevators.
“Sir, CAG told me to talk with you. Said I should see you before …
before I turn in my wings …”
Inwardly, Magruder groaned. What did CAG expect of him, anyway? Once a
pilot decided he’d lost the edge, there wasn’t much point in trying to change
his mind. In fact it could be dangerous. If this youngster had decided that
he wasn’t fit to fly but tried to hide it and stay in the air, he could end up
making mistakes that would kill people. Including himself.
On the other hand, Magruder remembered the times he’d come close himself
to calling it quits. And he’d talked Coyote out of quitting once too. That
had turned out for the best, obviously. Coyote Grant was still on his way up.
“Look, Lieutenant, we can’t talk here!” he yelled. “Come on with me!
We’ll find someplace quieter!”
Someplace quieter turned out to be Tombstone’s quarters. There weren’t
many places even on a boat the size of the Jefferson where privacy was
possible, and if this kid was planning on spilling his guts about his problems
Tombstone didn’t want a lot of witnesses. Whether he turned in his wings or
not, the kid would face a mountain of scorn if he broke the unwritten
aviator’s law that a good flyer never, ever let the pressure make him lose his
cool.
“All right, son,” Magruder said at last as he closed the door. “What’s
your name, first off?”
“Roger Bannon, sir. They call me Banshee.” Bannon hesitated. “I’m with
VA-89.”
Magruder nodded and smiled encouragingly. The wing’s single attack
squadron, the VA-89 “Death Dealers” flew the A-6E Intruders that Magruder was
supposed to be paying special attention to in the days ahead. Perhaps that
was why CAG wanted him to deal with Bannon’s problem, whatever it was. “It’s
a damned good outfit,” he said aloud.
“Yes, sir.” Bannon looked uncomfortable.
“You said you wanted to turn in your wings. Want to tell me about it,
son?” He was surprised at how easily he seemed to fall into the role of the
father figure.
“I-I was the one who crashed the Intruder last week, Mr. Magruder. I
screwed up bad on a landing … missed the wires but didn’t have enough power
to make it a bolter. Skidded … God, I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”
Bannon closed his eyes as if reliving the moment in his mind. “The planes …
the people who died … it was all my fault.”
“You must’ve been doing pretty good to eject from that mess,” Tombstone
said quietly. “Looks like you came through without a scratch.”
A spasm of pain crossed the young face. “I was … everybody says it was
lucky. I wish now I’d never got clear. My chute opened and snagged on
something, so I didn’t even hit the deck.”
Magruder hesitated before probing further. It looked like it wasn’t so
much fear as guilt that was weighing on Bannon’s mind, but he was no expert in
psychology. He wasn’t sure how to handle the kid. This was really a job for
the chaplain. But chaplains didn’t always understand the way another aviator
did. Tombstone felt he had to try, at least, to help Bannon. “there must
have been an inquiry,” he said.
Bannon nodded. “They said … they said it was an accident, that I could
return to flight status when CAG thought I was ready.” He swallowed. “But it
doesn’t seem right …”
“Look, you can’t be impartial judging yourself over something like this.”
Magruder groped for the right words. “You should … you should trust what
CAG and the Captain had to say about the accident. They’ve had a hell of a
lot more experience than you. When you’ve seen more carrier duty you’ll
realize these things happen. Even if you never go into combat you’re running