and passed the message on. Not every aviator on the carrier was going to get
an immediate look at the JAST birds.
1710 local (Zulu -7)
Flight Deck
Technicians and flight decks personnel crowded around the two aircraft, a
rainbow of colors splashed against the dark, gritty gray of the flight deck
nonskid. Each jersey color denoted the wearer’s role in the complex ballet
that made up flight deck operations: brown for plane captains, red for
ordnance techs, purple for fueling crews, and green for maintenance
technicians. A few yellow shirts worn by the catapult officers and the
aircraft handlers that directed the flow of traffic across the deck were
sprinkled through the crowd. The Brown Shirts crowded close to the aircraft,
taking righteous possession of it now that it was shut down on the deck. At
the perimeter of the crowd, aviators in green flight suits tried to edge their
way closer. But sometimes rank just didn’t count. The enlisted technicians
ignored them, forming an unyielding phalanx of backs that blocked the aviators
from the aircraft.
All but one aviator. The crowd parted to let Rear Admiral Magruder
approach the aircraft. He walked up to it and ran one hand over a side panel,
reflexively checking to see if the panel was dogged down tightly. The smooth
paint gleamed, untarnished by months of sitting on the flight deck exposed to
the elements like the other birds under his command. That would change soon,
he knew. He touched it lightly and felt the odd ripples in the airframe’s
skin.
“Admiral! They look good, don’t they?” How long had it been since he’d
heard that voice, Tombstone thought. It could have been centuries, and he
knew he’d still remember it. He’d heard it too many times, on too many
dangerous patrols–and it’d saved his life more than once. One of the things
an aviator never forgets is the voice of his regular wingman. Tombstone
turned around.
“Captain Wayne,” he said, reaching out to shake Batman’s free hand.
Neither man saluted, since they were uncovered, although a helmet dangled from
Batman’s left hand. “Good to see you again! Was that you that boltered?”
Batman smiled. “Not on your life, Admiral. That was Mouse, there,” he
said, gesturing toward a pilot surrounded by a flock of enlisted technicians.
“Just a youngster out of Pax River. Three cruises under his belt, though, and
a damned fine reputation as a test pilot. I caught the three-wire–think I
got an okay from the VF95 LSO.”
Aircraft landings were graded okay, marginal, or fault. An okay pass was
a clean trap, with the aircraft snagging one of the arresting wires without
major problems on the approach or landing. A Marginal grade indicated some
weaknesses in the landing that could have resulted in a mishap, while a fault
was an evolution entirely below standards with great potential for disaster.
Grading was conducted by the LSOs, or Landing Signals Officers, who were
stationed off to the port side of the flight deck, slightly below on a
catwalk.
“Who else did you bring with you?” Tombstone asked, scanning the crowd
for unfamiliar faces. “We’ll have to wait on the formal introductions, I
guess. Looks like your boys want to show off their new toys.”
“Well, there’s Mouse, of course. He’s a lieutenant commander, lead test
pilot on the program. His RIO is that ugly fucker over by the nose-wheel.
Lieutenant Connally Dershowitz. They call him Bouncer. You can see why.”
“No kidding,” Tombstone replied. The RIO Batman pointed out must be
barely within the height and weight standards for flying Tomcats. “What’s he
run, about two hundred and fifty pounds?”
“About that. He bench presses around four hundred pounds. I wouldn’t
want to piss him off. We’ve got one other pilot-RIO team as well. They flew
out on the COD.”
“Where’s your RIO?”
“I was hoping to talk to you about that. Right after I talked to you, I
found out the dumb bitch broke her leg. I let her have a couple of days of
leave, to catch the last trace of snow out in Aspen, and she pulls this shit.”
“So you’re short a RIO. Damn, Batman, bad enough that I have to provide