The Art of War

NINETEEN

Bird Dog pushed open the swinging double doors to Medical. Immediately inside was a receptionist at a desk. Beyond that was a row of hospital beds with the blue curtains separating them pulled back. Off to the left was another set of swinging doors that led to the surgical suite and intensive care.

“Can I help you, sir?” the corpsman asked.

“The two aviators that were brought in — how are they?”

“Hold on — I’ll get the doctor to come out and talk to you, sir.” The corpsman picked up the phone and spoke softly for a moment.

A few moments later, Dr. Bernie Green came out of the surgical suite. Bird Dog felt relieved. At least he knew Bernie, and could count on him for the straight scoop.

The rangy Texas native looked like he would be more at home riding a mustang across open fields than in a hospital ward. But Bernie had grown up on the Gulf Coast of Texas, and had a deep and abiding love for the sea. He had attended the Naval Academy, followed by medical school, and Jefferson was his second tour of duty. Bird Dog had been trying to find a way to get Bernie up in a Tomcat with him, since Bernie wanted to qualify as a flight surgeon after this tour. The two had become good friends over several lunches in the dirty shirt mess.

“Hey, Bernie. How are Fastball and Rat?”

“Holding their own. Fastball is better off than Rat — he thought he had a broken leg, but it turned out to be a cramp.” Bernie chuckled slightly “Pilots. You’re all wimps.”

“And Rat?”

Bernie’s face took on a more serious expression. “The X rays don’t show it, but I think she must have hit her head pretty hard when she punched out. I’m guessing a mild concussion, or maybe just shock. She’ll be okay in a day or so. You want to see them?”

That was what Bird Dog had been hoping for. “Yeah. That way I can give the admiral a firsthand report.”

Bernie led the way back into the intensive care unit. It consisted of six beds, all under the close observation of three corpsman. The array of medical monitoring equipment was slightly daunting. Bird Dog turned to Bernie. “I thought you said they were okay?”

“Just a precaution for the first twenty-four hours. Fastball will probably be cleared to return to flight status tomorrow. Rat probably the day after.”

Fastball was in the bed nearest to the door. He struggled up into a sitting position. “Hey. How are you?”

Bird Dog crossed to stand next to him. “The question is, how are you?”

Fastball slumped back down the bed. “Not bad. Considering.”

“Yeah. Considering. You know they’re going to take the cost of that Tomcat out of your paycheck, right? A hundred bucks a payday for the next million years.”

“Yeah, well, make Rat pay for it.”

Bird Dog studied him for moment. Fastball looked pale, his face drained. A bruise was starting to bloom on one cheekbone, and Bird Dog figured he’d probably have a black eye as well. A few cuts, scrapes, probably from the impact of the ocean, but nothing serious. “Doc said you’ll probably be back in a flight status right away.”

“Yeah, I hope so.” He cast a worried glanced down at the other end of the room. “What about Rat — they’re not telling me much.”

“Concussion, they think. She should be fine.” Although Bernie hadn’t sounded all that sure, Bird Dog figured that reassuring was the way to go. “Good stick, by the way. That’s a hard one to recover from.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly recover.” Fastball shifted slightly on the bed. “Man, I feel like I’ve been beat up.”

“All the same — any ejection you live through is a good one.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Bird Dog held the squadron record for most ejections over a career. He shouldn’t have been proud of it, but secretly he was. For some reason, Gator wasn’t particularly thrilled about that either.

A good stick — it was the ultimate compliment to any pilot. It meant that the pilot had the overall skills and instincts to recover from virtually any casualty. It wasn’t an accolade awarded lightly, and usually bore no elaboration. Good stick — that said it all.

“I’m going to head down and see Rat,” Bird Dog said. “You need anything, tell them to give me a call.”

“See if she’s still speaking to me, will you?”

Bird Dog nodded.

Rat’s bed was located just ten steps away, secluded in a corner. A corpsman stood by her side, taking her vital signs. He looked up as Bird Dog approached. “She’s still pretty groggy, sir. Keep it short, please.” It wasn’t exactly a request — more like an order — but Bird Dog let it slide.

Rat’s eyes were partially closed, and she looked like hell. But Bernie had said she would be okay. He leaned over the bed and spoke softly. “Rat? How ya doing, kid?”

Rat’s eyes focused on him and she looked more alert. “I feel like shit,” she said, her voice alert. “What the hell happened?”

“You lost an engine on final. Fastball punched you out.” Bernie had said it might take a while to regain her memory, if she ever did.

Rat stirred, then let out a groan. “I hope to hell that asshole feels as bad as I do.”

“He does,” Bird Dog lied. Maybe not physically, but Bird Dog was quite sure that Fastball wasn’t pretending to feel bad about the whole thing. Sure, there was nothing he could do about the flame-out or the engine fire, but that would not prevent him from feeling responsible. Every time a RIO climbed into the backseat with a pilot, he or she placed their life and trust in the pilot. It wasn’t often spoken about, but every pilot that Bird Dog knew took it seriously. Even if the RIO were senior, the pilots looked on them as younger brothers or sisters, someone you had to watch out for and keep out of trouble. If a RIO got hurt in flight, it wasn’t the RIO’s fault — it was the pilot’s.

“They said you’ll be fine,” Bird Dog said, and cast around for something else to say. He wasn’t very comfortable being around injured people. No pilot was. It reminded them too much of their own mortality. That something like that could happen to them, too.

Rat murmured something that he couldn’t make out. He bent closer. “Say again?”

Rat’s eyes opened wide, and for just a moment she was fully alert. “I told him not to do it — I did. But you know how he can be, don’t you?”

“Sure, yeah. Told him not to do what?”

“I told him not to try it. The engine was overheating while we were inbound. Intermittent but… god, I’m tired.”

“So he knew he was having trouble?”

“Yeah. And when we lost it, he thought he could get it back. He was going to roll out, restart — but I punched us out. I put us in command eject and punched us out.”

“You weren’t in command eject all the time?”

Rat yawned and her jaws creaked. “Naw. He won’t let me. He doesn’t trust me, Bird Dog. He doesn’t.”

Bird Dog turned to stare back down the line of beds at Fastball. The pilot appeared to be dozing off. He took Rat’s hand, and said, “I’ll take care of it.” Then he laid her hand gently on her stomach and went back to Fastball’s bed. He leaned over, his mouth just inches from the other pilots ear.

“You asshole — why’d you pull something like that?”

“Huh?”

“Rat told me. Jesus, Fastball, you fucking idiot. I’m going to see you fry for this one if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Hey!” Fastball struggled to a sitting position, and said, “Hey, I was the pilot. It was my call. What I did was—”

Bird Dog cut him off. “What you did was almost get yourself and your RIO killed. You were having problems, and you didn’t tell anyone. Climb, call, confess, comply — that ring a bell? What the hell were you thinking, Fastball?”

“I didn’t want to punch out.”

Bird Dog make a dismissive gesture. “Nobody wants to. You do it when you have to. And when you’re a freaking nugget, you leave the switch in command eject. Nobody’s going to want to fly with you now, Fastball. You might as well transition to Hornets, because I don’t know a RIO in the Tomcat community who would ever get in an aircraft with you again.”

A corpsman walked over to them, his stern expression at odds with his relatively junior rank. He took in the situation instantly, and turned to Bird Dog. “Sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He laid one hand on Bird Dog’s arm.

Bird Dog shook him off. “Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving. But you haven’t heard the end of this, Fastball. Not by a long shot.” Bird Dog stormed out of sick bay and headed for the CAG’s office.