this time, asshole. The only way you could make matters worse right now is if
you don’t put this outside the cockpit and fly this damned mission as hot and
tight as you’ve ever flown one. You owe these people that much.”
Sun flashed off the nose of the Tomcat, leaving red specks flickering in
his vision. Bird Dog blinked and waited for his vision to clear before easing
the throttle forward.
Flying–any sort of flying–would have also let him escape his thoughts
for a while to concentrate on the almost-reflexive actions of bonding with the
Tomcat. Sitting on the flight deck, with only Gator and the chatter on the
flight deck circuit for company, it was too hard to escape thinking about the
Chief’s words.
Arrogant, was he? He tried to summon up the anger he’d felt when the
Chief said that, but all he could feel was embarrassment. Shaughnessy had
just saved his life by catching the control surface problem. Bird Dog shifted
uneasily, telling himself that it was the stiff new lumbar support pad that
caused it.
Sure, he’d made some assumptions about his enlisted troops, probably some
that weren’t entirely fair. But hadn’t they taught him that in Aviation
Officer’s Candidate School? That it was up to him to supply leadership and
direction to his troops? That the chiefs would depend on him for guidance,
discipline for the men and women in the branch? Hell, everyone swore an oath
to obey the orders of the officers appointed over them, didn’t they? Didn’t
that include Bird Dog’s orders?
He thought of his drill instructor, the Marine gunny sergeant who’d
shepherded him through those endless months of AOCS. Now there was an
enlisted man who’d never disobey orders, he was certain. Shouldn’t the Chief
be the same way?
Probably not, he admitted. He tried to imagine giving Gunny MacArthur an
order to do anything. But that had been different, some part of his mind
insisted. Gunny was the one who knew how things worked. It was his job to
turn the raw civilians he’d been given into officers.
This was different, though. Bird Dog knew naval aviation now. He’d had
classes on leadership, courses on motivating and leading people, in addition
to his bachelor’s degree in psychology. This was stuff he understood, and he
was right!
Yeah, and I walked right out of ground school and flew a T-34 by myself
too. Sure he had–after countless hours of dual-controls flight with an
instructor, simulator training, and a careful practical walk-through by more
experienced aviators.
Maybe the same principles applied to learning to be a leader. It was
possible–just barely possible–that he’d been wrong.
The heat in the Tomcat’s cockpit seemed more bearable than it had a few
minutes earlier. When he got back, he’d go have a chat with the chief. It
might be time to listen instead of talk for a while.
Bird Dog felt the Tomcat shudder, and steam pressure immediately began
building in the steam piston below the decks. The shuttle holding the
aircraft on the catapult transmitted the vibrations to his bird. A Yellow
Shirt darted forward and out of view under the aircraft. He came out carrying
six red streamers–Bird Dog counted them carefully as the ragged ends whipped
in the wind. They were the safety pins on his weapons, which were now fully
operational.
Another Yellow Shirt held up a white board with grease-penciled numbers
on it, giving the Tomcat’s takeoff weight as it was currently configured. Two
Phoenixes, two Sparrows, and two Sidewinders hung beneath his wings, a full
range of ACM weaponry. Bird Dog begrudged the Phoenixes the space they took
up; he would have preferred to have a full load of the more dependable
Sidewinders.
Bird Dog nodded vigorously at the Yellow Shirt, confirming the launch
weight. The Yellow Shirt held up his thumb, and then snapped his hand up in a
salute, the signal that he was transferring complete responsibility for the
aircraft to Bird Dog. He returned the salute. Somehow, the simple flight
deck ceremony took on more meaning for him now. It was no longer an archaic
ritual that impeded his speedy progress off the deck, but an exchange of