Final Flight by Stephen Coonts Page B

man’s
face. “What are you going to do now?” Jake knew
he was referring to the leadership problem.
    “Remember the last month of the war in Vietnam,
after I was shot down?
    Camparelli hung a helmet in the ready room
and said anyone who couldn’t hack the program could
throw his wings into it.”
    “I remember.”
    “I’m going to hang up a helmet.”
    “As I recall, no one quit.”
    “Yeah. That’s why Camparelli did it. He was
smart. I’m going to give the helmet a try, but with
my luck I’ll have a dozen crews quit on me.
    Cowboy laughed. “Your luck will hold, Cool
Hand. Keep rolling the dice.” He stood up.
“I better get back to flag plot.” That
space, a part of the combat decision center, depicted
the task group’s tactical situation to the admiral
on computerized presentations. It was his battle
station. “They get nervous if I’m gone too long.
Hell, I get nervous if I’m gone over ten
minutes.” He paused at the door and turned
back toward Jake. “If it’ll make you feel
better, I have a “Nixon in “88′ T-shirt
I can let you steal.”
    “It may come to that.”
    Admiral Parker stuck out his hand and Jake
pumped it.
    - When Jake entered the air wing office,
Chief Harry Shipman was sitting at his desk.
    “Heard we lost one.
    “Yeah. Call Mister Cohen and ask him to come
to the office.”
    “Aye aye, sir.”
    Jake walked between the desks and entered his office.
For some reason known only to the ship’s architect,
he had a sink in his small office.
    He took three aspirin from a bottle in the
desk drawer and washed them down by drinking from the sink
tap. Then he soaked a washcloth in cold water,
raked the papers away from the middle of the desk, sat
in his chair and tilted it as he arranged his legs on
the desk. He draped the wet cloth over his forehead
and eyes.
    He tried not to think about Jelly Dolan and
Boomer Bronsky. His office was on the 0-3
deck, immediately beneath the flight deck, so he could hear
the sounds of aircraft being moved about his head. He
tried to identify each sound.
    He had just drifted off to sleep when someone
knocked on the door.
    “Come in.” He threw the washcloth in the sink.
He felt better.
    Lieutenant Commander William Cohen
and Chief Shipman entered and sat in the two empty
chairs. Cohen was the air wing aircraft maintenance
officer. Shipman worked for him.
    “Who went in?” Cohen asked.
    “Dolan and Bronsky. They were flying my wing.
I didn’t see them eject, and the angel and the
destroyer haven’t found them. They passed out in the
cockpit and the plane nosed over.
    “Oxygen problem?”
    “Probably, but who knows? Maybe the accident
investigation will tell us. “Jake removed his feet
from his desk and sat upright in his chair.
    “How well are the squadrons maintaining the
planes?” Jake asked this question looking at Cohen.
    “Availability is very good. Only three
planes down awaiting parts, one F-14 and two
A-6’s. F-18’s are doing fine. That
F-18 is one hell of a fine airplane
to maintain.” Cohen had started in the navy as an
enlisted man and received his commission while a first
class petty officer, Jake knew. After
twenty-two years in the navy Will Cohen knew
aircraft maintenance better than he knew his children.
    “Are the squadrons taking shortcuts to keep the
availability up?” Jake found his
cigarettes and set fire to one.
    “I don’t think so.” Cohen draped one leg
over the other and laced his fingers behind his head. “If
they are, I haven’t seen it.”
    “We’re going to find out,” Jake told them.
“Will, I want you to check the maintenance records
on every airplane on this ship. Are the squadrons
missing or delaying scheduled inspections? Are they
really fixing gripes or merely signing them off?
Look for repeat gripes signed off as “could not
find” or “could not duplicate.” You know what I
want.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Chief, I want you to check their compliance with
proper maintenance procedures.