Stephen Coonts - Combat

“Now, if there’s opposition — either SAMs or Triple A — Psycho and I will try to strafe, time permitting. I’ll tell you what I’m doing. If we do this right, it’ll be the only radio call of the whole mission, because we want to stay zip-lip from startup to attack.” He scanned the audience, emphasizing his words with his tone.

“When I roll in, I’ll start popping flares whether there’s any shooting or not. Ozzie and I in the A-4Fs both have enough flares in our pods to cover this short an attack.

“Mr. Wei, Mr. Hu.” The two Chinese sat attentively upright in their seats. “You can help your front-seaters by keeping your heads moving the whole time. Let them know if you see anything unusual. When the attack starts, your video cameras need to stay on the target as long as possible. It may be the best damage assessment we get for a while.”

“Except for Eyewitness News,” Ozzie ventured.

Wei raised his hand from the second row. “Yes, sir,” Zack responded.

“Mr. Delight, perhaps you should describe the return to port.”

“I was just coming to that. As soon as we’re back aboard, all ATA personnel will jump in both helos and we’ll be flown to a vacant lot near Tustin. Two or three cars will be waiting there, and we’ll return to El Toro. From that point on, we don’t know nothin’.” He looked around the room again, noting each flier’s face. The Chinese were impassive, whether from temperament or familial trait he could not guess. Robbins was completely relaxed, a professional “waver” waiting to do his job. Ozzie fidgeted slightly; Delight attributed it to excess energy. As for Liz Vespa — well, she was smiling.

Terry Peters stepped into the ready room, unexpected and unannounced. Liz Vespa saw him first. Partly from impulse, partly from abiding respect, she reverted to naval custom. “Captain on deck! Atten-hut!”

Almost in unison the green-clad aviators shot to their feet. Wei and Hu, untutored in such things, followed the example.

Peters felt a warm rush inside him — something close to love. “Thank you, gent … ah, lady and gentlemen. Please be seated.”

Striding to the front of the room, he collected his thoughts. A short speech is a good speech , he told himself. He exhaled, wet his lips, and began speaking. “I just wanted to say how proud I am of you guys — all of you. When we started this project, I had no more of an idea how it would turn out than anyone else. Now that it’s about to end, and considering what’s at stake, well …” He blinked away something and shook his head. “ … I wouldn’t be anywhere else on earth today, or with any other people.”

“Neither would we, pard.” Delight’s eyes were beginning to mist over, too.

“Damn straight,” added Robbins.

“Well,” Peters concluded, “I’d better get back to the bridge. But first I want to wish good hunting to everyone here.” He trooped the line, warmly shaking the hands of his friends and colleagues, squeezing Liz in a bear hug, and solemnly greeting Wei and Hu. Then he stepped back three paces, standing erect. “This isn’t regulation the way we were brought up, but this ship is in our navy, isn’t it?” Peters brought his heels together and whipped his right hand to the brim of his ball cap in a slicing arc that might have left a vacuum in its wake. His aviators returned the gesture for the first time in their lives, as it was contrary to U.S. Navy practice when uncovered. Then he was gone.

Eric Thaler began zipping his torso harness and survival vest while Robbins and Hu helped Wei with the unfamiliar garments. Ostrewski caught Vespa’s attention and motioned to the far corner in the back of the compartment.

“How do you feel, Liz?”

She arched her eyebrows. Now he thinks I’m going to wimp out! “I’m fine, Ozzie. Just fine. Why?”

He glanced away from her and saw Delight’s head turned toward them. Equally quickly, Delight averted his gaze. Like Ward Bond in The Searchers watching John Wayne and his sister-in-law, Ostrewski thought.

“Well, it’s just that this is the only combat mission we’ll ever fly together …” His reticence finally melted in a rush as he heard himself say, “Ah, hell, Liz.” He wrapped his arms around her, awkwardly pulling their bodies together despite the bulky flight gear. Her arms encircled his neck, compressing the collar of his flotation device.

“Michael …”

They kissed one another with a tender aggressiveness that trod the neutral zone between the foundation of friendship and the dawning of desire. It lasted an eternal four seconds.

“Now hear this! Pilots, man your planes.”

The squawk box on the bulkhead repeated the ritual command, focusing aviators’ attention and shattering peaceful thoughts.

Ostrewski pulled back, locking eyes with Vespa. “I love Maria, Liz. I’m going to spend my life with her. But I needed to do that, especially today.”

She patted the front of his vest. “So did I, Michael.”

He managed a laugh. “Okay — been there, done that.”

“Good,” she added. “Now, let’s sink us a ship.”

The pilots emerged from the base of the island and strode onto the flight deck. Wearing helmets with visors lowered, they were unidentifiable to anyone who did not know them well.

As the aircrew approached the yellow boarding ladders on four Skyhawks, each of the fliers paused to look at the thousand-pound bombs beneath each wing. Delight touched a kiss to one of his; Vespa ran a loving hand along the ablative surface of hers. Plane captains and ordnancemen scrambled with last-minute checks as catapult crews stood by.

Lowering himself into the blue-and-white A-4F now called Papa One, Delight glanced up at the bridge. He saw Terry Peters’s face in one of the windows and perceived a smart wave. Delight tossed a nonregulation salute to the former deep-draft skipper who had missed his chance to drive a flat-roofed bird farm. Twisting slightly to his right, Zack saw the diamond-design Foxtrot flag snapping from its halyard, indicating flight operations under way. Higher up the mast, appearing in stark contrast to the striped banner he was accustomed to seeing, flew the jolly roger. The leering white skull with crossed leg bones on the black field sent an electric thrill through his body. Below it, expressing no less heartfelt a sentiment, was the light blue ensign of the Tailhook Association.

Zack Delight clasped his hands over his head in a gesture of undiluted rapture. At fifty-nine years of age, he knew that he would never again feel as good as this day and this hour. He felt gleefully giddy as his mind defaulted to the frontier tales of his Southwest youth. Ya-ta hay! he exulted. It is a good day to die!

The beeper sounded on Peters’s cell phone, pulling him back from the disappearing A-4s that had been the focus of his existence. He pulled the handset from the Velcro pouch on his belt, hit the button, and said, “Peters.”

“Terry, thank God!” Jane was almost breathless.

“Honey, what is it?”

“Terry, I don’t know how, but the Chinese here know what you’re doing! They’ve roped off their hangar and they’re rounding up people and holding them inside.” She paused to inhale. “There’s been some shooting, and I saw two bodies on the ground. I think they were security guards.”

Peters slid off the captain’s chair. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m okay. So’s Carol and everyone else I’ve seen.”

“Jane, where are you?” He waited three seconds. “Jane!”