Final Flight

10

Who wrote this piece of shit?”

The three officers on the other side of the desk sagged visibly.

Jake Grafton arranged his brand new glasses on his nose and read from the accident report in front of him. “‘It is believed that a failure in the liquid oxygen system led to the loss of this aircraft. However, due to the loss of the airframe at sea, the precise cause of this accident will never be known.’” Jake looked up. The three faces across the desk were blurred. He took off the glasses. “I won’t sign that.”

None of the three said anything.

“Has the Naval Safety Center got any record of any other F-14 lost this way? Have you torn down a LOX system and tried to identify possible components that might fail? What does the Grumman rep have to say? Maybe the connection from the oxygen container and the aircraft’s system wasn’t hooked up right. What connectors or filters or whatever could have failed and allowed ambient air to dilute a flow of pure oxygen? You guys have got to answer these questions.”

“Yessir.”

“Dolan and Bronsky are dead. I want to know what killed them.”

“A defective oxygen system killed them, CAG.”

Jake picked up the report and waved it at the officer who spoke. “This report doesn’t say that. This report hasn’t got enough facts in it to say that and make it stick. Right now this report is merely a guess.”

“We’re going to need more time, CAG.”

“Write an interim message report and send it to the safety center and everyone on the distribution list. Tell them what you think and what you’re working on and tell them when you hope to get finished. Then get cracking. I want answers. Not bullshit. Not guesses. Real answers.” He closed the report and pushed it back across the desk.

“Sir, the captain’s office says there will be some reporters out here in a few days to interview you about that boat you sank.” Farnsworth was standing at the office door.

Jake looked up from the maintenance report he was reading. “When?”

“About 1400 Wednesday, sir. They should arrive on the noon cargo plane from Naples.”

“Okay.”

“Lieutenant Reed is waiting out here to see you. Oh … and some congressmen are going to arrive on Tuesday. The XO is going to talk to you about it. I think he wants you to host them.”

Farnsworth always saved the worst for last. “Who stimulated that think?”

“YN2 Defenbaugh in the captain’s office.” The captain’s office was the administrative heart of the ship, sucking in paper and pumping it out in quantities that awed Jake. And still the yeomen there found time to tell Farnsworth everything aboard ship worth knowing!

“When should I expect the XO’s call?”

Farnsworth looked at the insulated pipes in the overhead and pursed his lips. “In maybe thirty minutes or so, sir. There’ll be three congressmen and a senator, and the captain’s office is gonna bunk ’em in the VIP quarters. Four squadrons will each furnish one junior officer as an escort. Captain James will meet ’em on the flight deck when the cargo plane arrives, then a trot to the flag spaces to meet the admiral. After that, lunch with the XO. Then I thought you might start them on a tour of the ship with the escort officers. We’ll set up a deal that afternoon down in the mess hall where they can meet their constituents. Politicians always want to shake hands with voters. Finally, dinner with Admiral Parker in the flag mess.”

“That schedule should let them find a ton or two of facts,” Jake agreed. “Firm it up and brief the escorts.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Send Reed in.”

Jake motioned the bombardier-navigator into a chair and leaned back in his own. He pulled out a desk drawer and propped his feet up on it. Wait. Where were Reed’s wings? He rummaged through his top drawer and took out the gold-colored piece of metal. He tossed it on the desk on top of the maintenance report and resettled his feet on the drawer.

Reed stared at the insignia. You could buy one in any navy exchange for about $4.50.

“You wanted to see me?” Jake prompted.

“Uh, yessir. I’ve been thinking and all. About our conversation. Maybe I should stay in the cockpit, at least until I get discharged.”

Jake grunted. He picked up the metal insignia and tossed it across the desk. It landed in front of Reed, inches from the edge. The bombardier palmed it.

“Still going to get out, huh?”

“I’ll have to think about it. Talk to my wife.”

Jake found himself searching his pockets for cigarettes and consciously grasped the arms of his chair to keep his hands still. “You may spend another twenty years in the navy and never get shot at again. It’ll be train, train, train, bore a lot more holes in the sky, kiss your wife good-bye for cruise after cruise.”

“It sounds like you think I should get out.”

“What I’m telling you is that this job isn’t Tom Cruise strutting along with his balls clicking together, ready to zap some commie before breakfast.” The movie Top Gun was going through the ready rooms, for about the fourth or fifth time.

“We need people with brains and ability to fill these cockpits, but there’s no glamour. None. And you aren’t ever going to be the guy who helps win the big one for our side. If there ever is another major war, the first and last shots are going to be fired by some button-pushers in silos or submarines. Then the world will come to an end. Everyone who isn’t vaporized by the explosions, or who doesn’t die from burns, shattered skulls, or asphyxiation, is going to die slowly of radiation poisoning. And who in his right mind would want to survive? Civilization will be over. The birds and animals will all die, the seas will become sterile as the fallout poisons them … about the only creatures that will survive will be the cockroaches.”

Jake was feeling for cigarettes again. He stared at Reed dolefully. “What the navy has out here on these carriers are jobs for warriors. It’s an ancient and honorable profession, but just about as obsolete today as horse cavalry. The button-pushers who are preventing a nuclear war, and who will wage it if it happens, aren’t warriors.” Jake shrugged. “Maybe they’re professional executioners. Hangmen. Whatever the hell they are, they’re not warriors.”

He settled his new glasses on his nose and flipped a few pages of the maintenance report.

“I understand,” Reed murmured.

“I don’t think you do.” Jake closed the report on a finger and eyed the younger man. “The people in the navy are first-rate. Our enlisted men are the smartest, best educated, best trained on the planet. You’ll never work with better people. The flying is pretty good. The pay is adequate. The family life sucks. Most officers get squeezed out of the service after twenty years or so because they can’t all be captains and admirals. Now that’s the stuff you should be talking over with your wife. But … while you wear that uniform I expect you to fly when you’re scheduled and to give it the best you’ve got. Use every ounce of knowledge and brains and ability you have. You owe that to your country.”

Jake gestured toward the door. “I have work to do.” He spread the report open on the desk and began to read as the lieutenant departed. When the latch clicked shut, the captain leaned back and stared over the top of the glasses at the gray metal door. At length he shook his head slowly, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and picked up the report.

Ali held the door open for Colonel Qazi. Ali wore a chauffeur’s uniform, and after Qazi had passed into the real estate office, he went back to the limousine, took a rag from the trunk, and began to wipe off the few flecks of dust that had accumulated on the car in the ten-minute drive from the agency where he had just rented it.

Inside the real estate office, Qazi stood impassively as the receptionist whispered hurriedly into her telephone, then gave a barely perceptible nod to the office manager when he came rushing out. He was a breathless, corpulent man with only a fringe of hair remaining, one lock of which had been carefully placed so as to run back and forth across his shiny pate. The manager guided him into his office while the receptionist stared after him.

As Qazi sat on the overstuffed sofa and removed his sunglasses, the manager settled behind his desk. The manager saw the visitor staring at his overflowing ashtray, so he whisked it away. He placed it in a bottom drawer of the desk, then crossed his hands and beamed at his visitor.

Qazi wore a white caftan and burnoose. Black whiskers flecked with gray adorned his chin. He looked, he hoped, like a young King Faisal.

“I wish to rent a villa, Signor Livora,” Qazi said in very British English.

“Ah, you know my name.”

“You are highly recommended, sir.”

“You have come to the right place,” Livora beamed. “We have several fine villas to rent, from … how you say? … modest? To quite large. What are your requirements, Signor …?”

“Mister Al-Sabah. The villa is not for me, you understand. I am merely an executive secretary.” He flicked his right hand, on which he had three rings with rather large, conspicuous stones. The real estate man’s shiny, decorated head bobbed knowingly. Ah, yes. He had heard all about those filthy-rich Arab sheiks and all the money they threw around. No doubt he even dreamed of them, sitting here in Naples surrounded by poor Italians and vacationing Europeans and Americans who watched every lira.

Qazi outlined his needs. His master needed ample quarters. Perhaps an estate. Something with grass and gardens. Of course he had his own staff of servants, including a gardener. Something in the country, available for at least three months, beginning next week.

“What are you going to say to these congressmen and reporters?” Vice-Admiral Morton Lewis asked.

Jake fought the impulse to squirm in his chair. Admiral Lewis was the commander of the U.S. Sixth Fleet and had flown out to the carrier with the congressional delegation. He and Jake sat in the flag offices beneath the flight deck. The Public Affairs Officer from Lewis’ staff had earlier provided Jake with a list of probable press questions and suggested, “sterile” answers.

“I’m just going to tell it like it was, sir.”

“They’re going to grill you on policy.” With even, regular features, perfect teeth, and a trim stomach he maintained with a forty-five minute ride on a stationary bicycle every morning, the admiral looked every inch the professional sea dog, 1980s edition. His three stars gleamed on each collar. It was no secret that he wanted a fourth star.

“Yessir. But I plan to refer them to Washington for questions about policy.”

“Don’t be evasive. We’ve nothing to hide and we don’t want these people inputting that we do. Don’t reference them anywhere.”

“I understand.”

“The distance the task force maintains from the Lebanese shore, that’s a policy matter. It will be questioned. As the air wing commander and as a professional aviator, your opinion as to the wisdom of the employment of this task group will be asked. There is just no way to avoid the fact that if this task group was two hundred miles away from Lebanon, that boat attack would have been impossible. Or at least highly impractical.”

“Yessir.” Jake grasped the arms of his chair with both hands and kept both feet on the floor. “But isn’t that a matter for Washington to comment upon?”

The admiral rubbed his lips with his forefinger. “I recommend the location of this task group in light of the results Washington expected, and Washington concurred. The reasons for the recommendation don’t concern you.”

“If I’m going to have to give an opinion, I should know your thinking, Admiral.”

The admiral’s forefinger tracked back and forth along his chin. “I think that what you are going to say is this: ‘U.S. Navy ships have an absolute right to navigate freely in international waters, and they will defend themselves against attack in international waters, attack from anyone, any time.’”

“Yessir.” Jake couldn’t object to saying it, since it was true. “But that isn’t going to satisfy the reporters. They’ll want to know why we chose to navigate where we did.”

“And you will repeat your answer,”

“Yessir.” Because if Jake told them to ask Washington, someone there just might say that the ships were where they were because the navy recommended it. Which would put Vice-Admiral Lewis rather firmly on the spot. Of course, the folks in Washington had approved the recommendation — they could have ordered the ships to any location on the map — but Admiral Lewis well knew the games that could be played when Important People did not wish to publicly defend their policies, the very same Important People that he had tried to please — or impress — with his recommendation. There were sure a lot of ins and outs to the admiral business, Jake reflected.

“By the way, you handled that boat attack well.”

“Someone on that boat got trigger-happy. Lady Luck won’t spread her legs like that for us again.”

A look of distaste flickered across the distinguished face above the admiral’s stars. Jake felt grubby. “Is the accident report finished on that F-14 loss?”

“It’s about finished, sir.”

“Hmmm. Pilot error?”

“Probably an oxygen system failure. The crew obviously didn’t recognize it, if that was what it was.”

“Have someone transcribe your press conference. I’ll chop the transcript, then forward it to Washington.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“My PAO has a statement about the boat incident that was just released in Washington. You interface with him.”

“I understand.”

“Don’t contradict anything in the press release.” The admiral’s gaze held him pinned. “And don’t go beyond it except for personal data that these reporters always want, like hometown, names of children, etc. Use the PAO’s prepared answers whenever you can. The less the bad guys intel our operation, the better off we’ll be. Read the press release and strategize your conformity.”

Jake nodded.

The admiral traced a pattern on the desk with a forefinger. “Senator Cavel fancies himself as something of an expert on naval affairs.” He made a steeple with his fingertips. “He’s on the Senate Armed Services Committee and wants to be president.” His top front teeth came to rest on his fingertips. He looked at Jake speculatively.

“I’ve read about Senator Cavel.”

The admiral snorted. “Don’t contradict Cavel unless you have to. He’s an egotistical, self-righteous bastard who would walk five miles without his trousers to even a score. Right now he’s fulminating against the way the administration is using this task group here in the Med. One of his allies who’ll be with him on this trip is a representative from a conservative district in the Deep South. His name is Victor Gilbert. He’s on the House Armed Services Committee. He’s also unhappy about the Middle East, but he votes right on most defense issues. The other two are big-city congressmen looking for ways to chop the military budget. I wouldn’t turn my back on any of them.”

“Yessir.”

“You’re the pilot who just sent a boatload of fanatics to Paradise and you’re the air wing commander, so you’re getting a turn on the hot seat. Don’t forget you may be worth more to them dead than you are alive. That’s all.” Which meant Jake was dismissed.

Senator Cavel was fiftyish, graying at the temples. His fluffed, teased hair was coiffed tightly over ears hidden from sight, and when viewed from the front, he looked, Jake thought, like a man of distinction in a whiskey ad. In profile, the hairdo looked like a football helmet two sizes too small. His slightly sagging abdomen and rounded shoulders were expertly encased in a dark-gray wool suit with flecks of red and blue that Jake suspected had set him back the better part of a grand. The senator was tall, about six-three, and had a booming voice that dominated the congressional delegation and the group of officers in the flag lounge. He treated everyone as voters, hail-fellow-well-met, and even shook hands with the admirals’ aides. His handshake had the polish of years of practice. It wasn’t crushing and it wasn’t wimpish, just dry and quick with a hint of firmness.

“Damned nice ship you fellows have here, Admiral. Damned nice. Great to see what all those taxpayers’ dollars bought. Three billion and some change, I seem to recall.”

Parker nodded. “Yessir. She’s …”

But Senator Cavel wasn’t listening. “Just why do these things have to be so damn big? I never did understand that.” He shook his head ruefully, as if he had never seen the engineering and design justifications on Nimitz-class carriers that the navy had spent a year and several million dollars completing, at his insistence. “I get letters from all over, wondering why we can’t build these things cheaper. Are you aware that 95 percent of the American public has never even laid eyes on an aircraft carrier? Lots of letters … Ah, so you’re Grafton?”

He had finally zeroed in on Jake’s name tag. He had apparently ignored the introductions. Jake was shaking hands with a stout, florid congressman, but the senator put his hand on the representative’s shoulder and addressed Jake as if the other man weren’t there. “You’re the air wing commander?”

Jake admitted he was as the senator glanced at the four rows of ribbons on the left breast of his white uniform shirt, under his wings.

“I see you’ve been shot at before, Captain,” he said, then turned back to the admirals.

“Yessir,” Jake Grafton told Cavel’s back. But only by guns and missiles, he added to himself, then tried to pay attention to whatever it was this representative was telling him about sailors from Ohio.

With the pleasantries over, the delegation surrounded the admirals and tossed questions about the use of the task group in the waters off Lebanon. Jake eased toward the door. A glance from Admiral Parker froze him in his tracks.

In addition to the senator, Congressman Victor Gilbert also considered himself a heavyweight. It was quickly evident Gilbert was looking for ammunition to take back to Washington and fire at his colleagues in the never-ending political battle over Mideast policy. It was equally apparent that the admirals had no desire to give aid and comfort to either Gilbert or his opponents. Lewis’ answers didn’t satisfy the vociferous congressman, but the senator said little. Perhaps he’s saving himself, Jake mused.

The tour of the ship began in the waist catapult control cab, known as the waist bubble. A similar control cab was on the bow, situated between the cats. Here on the waist the bubble sat on the catwalk outboard of Cat Four. The cabs were unique to Nimitz-class carriers. This innovation removed the launching officers from the flight deck and placed them in actual control of their giant steam-powered slingshots. The bubbles also provided a terrific place for tourists to view the launch.

Jake led the congressmen into the waist bubble from the O-3 level, the deck just below the flight deck. The catapult officer triggered the hydraulic system which raised the bubble into position for the upcoming launch. Now the top of the armored cab, which consisted of windows of bulletproof glass, extended eighteen inches above the flight deck. The visitors stood packed into the only open area, their eyes exactly at flight deck level. The launching officer sat in a raised chair in the aft end of the cab in front of the control panels for both the Number Three and Number Four catapults.

The cat officer muttered greetings. He was a lieutenant aviator assigned to the ship’s air department for a two-year tour. After he had shaken hands all around, he ignored the visitors and devoted his attention to the yellow- and green-shirted crewmen on deck who were hooking planes to both cats.

Jake explained the launching evolution to the congressmen. The first plane to be launched would be the KA-6D Intruder tanker on Cat Three. The F/A-18 Hornet, a twin-engine, single-seat fighter-bomber sitting on Cat Four, would be shot next while another plane taxied onto Cat Three. Up on the bow a similar bang-bang sequence would be occurring on the two catapults there.

The launching officer gave a thumbs-up to the yellow-shirt director on Cat Three. He signaled the pilot to release his brakes and add power. The engines began to roar as the green-shirted hookup man checked the fittings, then tumbled out from under the plane with his thumb in the air. He joined his comrades squatting in the safety area between the catapults. The Intruder pilot saluted the bubble. He was ready to go. He put his helmeted head back into the headrest on his seat, bracing himself for the acceleration of the coming shot.

Jake pointed out the signal light on the ship’s island that the air boss used to initiate the launch. It turned green.

The launching officer glanced down the catapult to ensure it was clear, then back to the Intruder at full power. He lifted the safety tab covering the fire button and pushed it. The Intruder leapt forward, its left wing sweeping over the heads of the men squatting in the safety area, and raced for the edge of the angled deck three hundred feet away. The plane covered the distance in less than three seconds and shot out over the sea, flying.

When the visitors’ gaze came back to the Hornet on Cat Four, it was already at full power. They were looking at this plane almost head-on. The catapult track ran parallel to the edge of the angled deck, so the Hornet’s left main wheel was almost against the deck edge, its left wing extending out over the side of the ship. Upon launch it would pass right in front of the bubble with its wing sweeping over the top. Now the river of hot gases blasting from the plane’s twin exhaust pipes and flowing up over the jet blast deflector shimmered as the blast-furnace heat distorted the light. The fighter appeared stark and crisp against this mirage backdrop.

The cat officer lifted the protective safety cover and pushed the fire button on the Cat Four console. The Hornet seemed to shimmy slightly under the terrific acceleration as it raced toward the bubble. In a heartbeat it went by in a thundering crescendo that shook the control cab.

The congressmen laughed nervously and shouted comments to each other above the background noise. “Impressive,” Senator Cavel told Jake, who grinned and nodded.

But as spectacular as the planes were, the visitors’ attention was soon on the catapult crewmen. One of them crawled under each jet as it taxied onto the cats, lowered the nose-tow bar and installed the hold-back fitting. He waited under the plane until the engines were accelerating to full power before he scanned its belly, checked the fittings one last time, then tumbled out from under. These men reminded Jake of circus roustabouts tending angry elephants.

“That job looks damned dangerous,” one of the congressmen remarked.

“It’s that,” Jake agreed. “It’s dirty and dangerous for not enough pay.” He recognized Kowalski, the Cat Four cat captain, in his filthy yellow shirt and radio headset. Each cat crew had a captain, a ringmaster who ensured each man understood his job and performed it perfectly.

When the launch was over, the congressmen shook hands again with the cat officer and his engineer, who sat at an instrument panel at the forward end of the bubble. Then Jake led them through the hatch and down the short ladder into the O-3 level. The four junior officers who had been volunteered for escort duty were waiting in the passageway, since there hadn’t been room for them in the bubble. The air here was cooler, and calm.

Senator Cavel got down to cases that evening after dinner in the flag mess. The admiral’s chief of staff, operations officer, and aide left after dessert. Vice-Admiral Lewis had flown from the ship that afternoon, telling the congressman he had to get back to Naples. Now just Admiral Parker, Jake, and the four congressmen were sitting around the table. One of the representatives lit a cigar, and Jake greedily inhaled some smoke. It made him slightly dizzy. With a wry grimace, he pushed his chair further away from the table to avoid the fumes.

The senator played with the spoon beside his coffee cup. It was real silver, and under the cup was a real white linen tablecloth. Admirals rated the good stuff.

“How come, Admiral, you people had to sink that boat?”

“It was running without lights and closing the task group in a suspicious manner. It refused to identify itself or change course. It shot at one of our planes.”

“Would you have sunk it if it hadn’t opened fire on Captain Grafton’s plane?”

Cowboy Parker scanned the faces gathered around the table. “Has everyone here got a clearance?”

“Yessir,” Senator Cavel boomed. “We all do. Top Secret. And we’ve read the classified action report. We know Captain Grafton turned on his aircraft’s lights — apparently no one in the eastern Mediterranean is very fond of lights — and pointed his plane directly at that boat. At a very low altitude. Only then did the crew of the boat open fire. Now what we are trying to find out is whether or not his actions caused the captain of that boat to feel he was under attack.” The senator looked at his colleagues. None of them spoke. He resumed, “You do think the men in that boat had the right to defend themselves in international waters, don’t you?”

“Yes, Senator, they had that right.” Parker picked his words carefully. “But only if they were under attack or had reason to believe an attack was imminent. We know that boat wasn’t under attack, and the appearance of a low-flying plane with its position lights on is not what I would call an indicator of an imminent, forthcoming attack.”

“We’ll be the judge of that, Admiral.”

“I’m sure,” Parker said. “You people can debate it for weeks. I didn’t have weeks. I’m responsible for a lot of lives and ships out here, Senator. You gentlemen have read the Rules of Engagement we operate under. You know that at some point I have to use my own judgment.”

The representative with the cigar spoke up. This was Victor Gilbert, from a dirt-poor conservative district in the Deep South. He was the same one that found Admiral Lewis a tad too slippery earlier in the day. “Admiral Parker, we don’t want you people to start a war out here.” He pronounced “here” as “hyah.” “I understand that the navy is just obeying orders from the administration. I think the orders are misconceived, not in the national interest, but I’m not the president. However, I am a congressman. My constituents don’t want a war. I can’t make it any plainer, Admiral.”

“Sir,” Parker said. “I agree wholeheartedly with your constituents. I don’t want a war, either. I’m doing everything I can to prevent one from happening. On the other hand, I have to protect these ships.”

“Captain,” the senator said, looking at Jake, “why did you turn on your lights and fly right at that boat?”

Every eye in the place was on Jake Grafton. “I was trying to spook him. If he was hostile, we wanted to know it sooner rather than later. We can’t sit here like bumps—”

Senator Cavel gestured angrily. “In my twenty years in the senate, I’ve found that a man who goes looking for a fight usually finds one. That’s the problem.”

“The men on that boat were looking for the fight,” Jake shot back. “We can’t wait until they pop a cruise missile against a ship before we decide what we’re going to do about it.”

“Admiral, you never answered my question. Would you have sunk that boat if it hadn’t opened fire on Captain Grafton?”

Parker sipped his coffee and took his time before he spoke, “If they had continued on course toward the task group, I would have had the nearest screening ship fire warning shots. Yes, I’d have been forced to the conclusion that attack was imminent if they had ignored the warning shots, and I’d have defended this task group.”

“Do your superiors know what you would have done?” Cavel pressed.

Parker set his cup firmly in its saucer. “My superiors sent me here with written guidelines, called Rules of Engagement. I follow them. If anybody threatens to kill my people or sink my ships, I’ll shoot first. That’s in the ROE.”

“But it all hinges on whether or not there is a threat. You alone determine that, and nobody elected you to anything. If you’re wrong, we may be in a war.”

Parker turned his hand over and inclined his head an inch.

“Pretty goddamn convenient if you ask me, Admiral, that your air wing commander just happened to be flying the plane that needed to zap somebody,” Senator Cavel said. “That doesn’t look so good. You can bet your pension that the pundits in the States are pointing to that as proof positive that you and the administration are up to something sleazy.”

Parker explained that the air wing commander routinely flies missions with his crews. He concluded, “I can’t worry about how this looks on the front pages back in the States on Monday morning. My problems are here and now.”

“It strikes me, Admiral,” Victor Gilbert said, “that you’ve got a damn tough job.” He puffed his cigar three or four times quickly, then took a deep drag and blew the smoke down the table, toward Jake. “You fuck this up and the navy will hang you by the balls. If they don’t, we will.”

A trace of a smile flickered on Parker’s lips. “I think we understand each other, gentlemen.”

After Jake finished answering questions at the press conference in the wardroom, the congressional delegation trooped into the lights of the television cameras. They spoke as a group, then individually. Representative Gilbert, sans cigar, was mouthing a string of one-liners for the evening news shows when Jake joined Farnsworth at the door and opened it as quietly as he could. Farnsworth had operated the tape recorder. In the lounge Farnsworth told Jake, “You did fine, sir.”

“I strategized my conformity,” Jake Grafton muttered.

Farnsworth nodded sagely. “Why couldn’t you have woven my name in there someplace? I always like to see my name in the paper.”

“I want to read that transcript before it goes anywhere.” Two can play this game, Jake thought.

“Should I put in all the ‘uhs’ and ‘ands’ and sentence fragments, or should I clean it up so that it reads like English?”

“Farnsworth …”

“An excellent choice, sir. It’ll be on your desk in two hours.”