CARRIER 8: ALPHA STRIKE By: Keith Douglass

“Damn it, I gave her a direct order!” Bird Dog roared. “Are you

listening to me, Chief?”

“I hear you. Sir. So does everyone else on this passageway and two

decks up and down.”

“Then if you hear me so well, how come this stuff’s not getting done?”

Bird Dog lowered his voice slightly. “Your muster report shows that

Shaughnessy scrubbed and waxed the deck in the ready room. Does that deck

look like it’s had a mop near it in the last two weeks?”

Chief stared at a spot somewhere on the wall. “It’s not always a matter

of giving orders, Lieutenant. There’re some things you just can’t demand. We

had some birds down last night, and she thought she could get two of them back

up for launch today. It’s a matter of priorities.”

“These are sailors, damn it! They’re supposed to follow orders, not

decide which ones they’re going to obey!”

Finally, the chief looked at him. Bird Dog was surprised at what he saw

in the older man’s eyes. Anger, outrage, and something more. A certain

weariness, as though the chief had been through this same conversation too

many times before.

“Let me tell you something about sailors, sir. These sailors, in

particular. Your average Blue Shirt is a hell of a lot smarter and more

capable than you’re giving them credit for. You know how much an E-3 gets

paid?”

Bird Dog shook his head. “I have the feeling you’re about to tell me,

though.”

“Somewhere around a grand a month. Plus somewhere to live and all the

chow they can eat. Not a bad deal for an eighteen-year-old, you’d think.

You’re probably thinking you had a lot less than that to live on when you were

that age.”

Bird Dog nodded.

“But take another look at what we expect of them. That same

eighteen-year-old is the last checkpoint between you and disaster. Your plane

captain–think there might be a thousand ways he can keep you from getting

killed? And just how old do you think the kid is that makes sure your

ejection seat works? How about the one that packs your parachute, and

maintains your flight gear? And what about the kid that gives you a final

look-over before you get shot off the front end of the ship? Hell, he’s

probably a lot older–like maybe twenty-two or so. The point is, Lieutenant,

these men and women you call kids are carrying a hell of a lot of

responsibility on their shoulders, far more than you ever did at that age.

They screw up, you’re dead before you leave the flight deck.”

“I know how much they do, Chief. We all do. So what’s your point?”

The chief sighed, looked away, and then pinned Bird Dog to the bulkhead

with a steely look. “The point is, sir, that they damned well deserve to be

treated with a little more respect. And that goes for me as well. We’ve all

of us been doing this job just a little longer than you have. You think going

through AOCS and leadership school makes you better than them? You better

think again, Lieutenant. Because it don’t. It gets you paid more, and gets

you out of a lot of the shitty little work details they do–on top of their

main jobs of keeping you alive–but it don’t make you a damn bit better as a

person. Or as a sailor. And the sooner you realize that, the better you’re

going to do in this canoe club.”

“Captain’s Mast, Chief,” Bird Dog said. “I’m tired of these excuses.

And if you ever falsify another extra duty report, you’d better count on

seeing the old man, too!”

The chief turned and walked to the door. He put his hand on the

doorknob, paused, and turned back to Bird Dog. “One thing you need to

remember, Lieutenant. Sailors don’t follow orders–they obey them. They

follow leaders.”

CHAPTER 22

Wednesday, 3 July

1800 local (Zulu -8)

Operations Center

Hanoi, Vietnam

By the end of the evening brief, cooler air was already starting to seep

into the room through cracks around the windows, finally providing some relief

from the stiflingly humid daytime temperatures. Bien sighed, and thought

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