Final Flight by Stephen Coonts Page A

bearing on my
decisions.”
    It was Qazi’s turn to clench his teeth and
nod. “Keep me advised of the state of your
preparations.” El Hakim rose and left the
apartment, leaving the door open behind him.
    “HOW MUCH LONGER before we go into port?”
    Jake was still in his flight suit and stared at the
admiral, Cowboy Parker. They were seated in the
admiral’s stateroom on the 0-3 level,
immediately below the flight deck.
    “I don’t know.” As usual, Cowboy’s
angular face registered no emotion.
    In his mid-forties, he had been identified
years earlier as one of the finest young officers in the
navy and had been sent to nuclear-power school after his
tour as commanding officer of an A-6 squadron.
He had served two years as executive officer
of a nuclear-powered carrier, then as commanding officer of a
fleet oiler. When he finished his tour as commanding
officer of the Nimitz, he had been promoted to rear
admiral.
    In spite of that, Jake thought, his ears still stuck
out too much.
    “We can’t keep flying around the clock like this.
We’ve just lost one plane, and if we keep it
up, we’re going to lose more. These men have been working
like slaves.”
    Cowboy sighed. “I know that, Jake.”
    “If we can’t go into port, at least let’s
pull off a couple hundred miles, say down
south of Cyprus where we can get some sea room, and
stand down at five- or ten-minute alert. It’s
keeping airplanes aloft around the clock that’s
wearing these guys down to nothing.”
    “Jake, I don’t have that option. You know that! As
soon as I get that authority, we’ll go down
there.”
    Grafton stood up and began pacing the little
room. “Well, maybe we can drop our nighttime
flights to just the E-2, a tanker, and a couple
fighters. Maybe use the Hornets as fighters
during the day and the Tomcats at night. Keep the
A-6’s in five-minute alert status at
night, armed for bear.”
    “Sit down, Jake.”
    Jake eyed Cowboy. They had served together during
the Vietnam War in an A-6 squadron
aboard the Shilo and had remained good friends
ever since.
    When Cowboy had had his tour commanding an A-6
squadron in the late seventies, Jake had been
his assistant maintenance officer.
    “Sit down. That’s an order.” Jake sat.
    “This is like Vietnam, isn’t it?”
    Jake nodded. “Yep,” he said at last. “Just
another set of damn fools pulling the strings. And
we’re grinding people into hamburger. It’s
frustrating.”
    The telephone rang. Cowboy picked up the
receiver. “Admiral Parker.”
    He listened for a moment or two, grunted
twice, then hung up.
    The two men sat in silence. A plane slammed
into the flight deck above their heads and the room
vibrated slightly as it went to full power.
    Then the engines came back to idle and faded into the
background noise.
    A minute later another one hit the deck. On
the television in the corner the landing planes were
depicted in a silent show filmed from a camera high
on the island and one buried in the deck, aimed up the
glide slope. The picture alternated between the
two. The only audio was the very real sound
of the planes smashing into the steel over their heads.
Jake massaged his forehead and ran his fingers
straight back through what was left of his hair.
    “You don’t look very well,” Parker said.
    “Hell of a headache.”
    “The head quack tells me you’re over a month
late getting your annual flight physical.”
    “Yeah. He’s been after me.”
    “Go get the physical.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “What do you think went wrong with that plane tonight?”
    “Don’t know. My guess is a malfunction in
the oxygen system, but we may never know. Depends
on how much wreckage that destroyer pulls out.”
    “They haven’t found much.” Parker jerked his thumb
at the phone. “Just a few pieces floating. Most
of it went to the bottom.”
    “Did they find the bodies?” A postmortem
on the bodies might reveal an oxygen
malfunction.
    “Nope.” Cowboy searched the younger