Читать книгу Night Trap - Gordon Kent, Gordon Kent - Страница 17

Alan stepped down to the flight deck and wavered, rubber-legged. He made himself cross toward the catwalk as if he felt cool and strong, not wanting anybody to see his weakness. Craw came behind him. Alan had already lost track of Rafe and Narc; when had they got out of the plane? He took his helmet off—the plain helmet of a beginner, without nickname or logo. You had to earn the boastful, joking graphics that aircrew lavished on their helmets. He had no idea what he would use, if he was ever allowed. He could imagine what Rafe would choose for him—a winged asshole?

He was cold, but the fine, stinging spray of rain was a relief, the clean sea air a tonic after the aircraft. Moving at twenty knots, the carrier made a wind that seemed to blow him clean.

He turned, looked past the senior chief at Christine. She was already being moved to an elevator, one wing folded, her tires blown. Irrationally, he felt at that moment an uncomplicated affection for her.

Craw’s hand touched his shoulder. Alan jumped. “I appreciate what you did there, sir. Helping me.”

“I-uh—hey. How’re your hands?”

Craw held up palms shiny with burn ointment. “I got more grease on me than a slider.”

And they both laughed. They laughed because it was funny just then, laughed because they had survived and were alive to see another fireball rise over the Atlantic.

And Craw said, “You goin’ to do all right, sir.”

They grinned at each other across the divide that separates officer from enlisted, despite age, experience, knowledge of life and death.

“We gawt to clear outta here,” the senior chief said. “Aircraft incoming.”

They walked together down the nonskid catwalk toward the ready room, the debrief, the awful meatballs that sailors call “sliders,” supposedly so greasy that one will slide the length of a table with a minimal shove; toward this floating world of maleness, this tangle of stresses, traditions, affections, hidden feelings; walked toward it in a momentary but perfect companionship. At the door to the light lock, they hesitated, and Alan opened the door because he thought Craw’s burned hands wouldn’t let him do it. They exchanged a look, and Craw was gone.

Alan, the shock of the landing fading, realized that he had never felt so content.

And ready to meet his father. Somewhere on board, probably tomorrow.

He stepped through into the darkness of the light lock. The far door was just closing on Craw’s heels, the wedge of light folding to nothing. Alan, blind from the glare of the deck, was aware only of a bulk nearby before he was wrapped in an embrace.

“Welcome aboard, kiddo.”

“Dad.” He returned the embrace, glad of it, glad of the darkness that hid their embarrassment.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“My SDO woke me up. How’d you like the net? Fun, huh?”

They moved into the passage, Alan squinting at the brightness, chattering too fast. “I’ve got to do the debrief. You know, the new guy gets the dumb job? You look great, Dad. Yeah, what a ride—”

“I’ll walk along.”

His father was a commander, CO of an attack squadron of A-6s. He would be hard-pressed for sleep, but he had sacrificed it for these minutes in the dark hours of a morning to be with his son. He could not say so. He could only do it, make his being there stand in for any expression of emotion.

They had last seen each other three weeks before at the O club. That had been different. This, Alan realized, was the first time in an operational environment. It was a little like the moments with Craw—looking across a divide with new eyes, getting something new back. Yet they chatted of trivia. Everything was hidden.

Until, at the debrief door, his father grasped his shoulders. “Proud of you,” he said—and abruptly turned away.

On the flight deck, silence marked the end of the twelve-cycle flight day. The glare was turned off, and only disembodied blue flashlights pierced the dark, darting about as if searching for something—as if, perhaps, they sensed the traitor whose existence was not yet known, like hounds looking for a scent. They moved in silence, only the wind generated by the Roosevelt’s twenty-plus knots sounding where earlier jet engines had shattered the night.

Thirty-six inches below the flight deck, bunkrooms of snoring ensigns finally achieved real sleep, free from jet-blast deflectors and engines screaming for launch, free from the “THWACK-thud” of jets making the trap right over their heads.

Alan tumbled into an empty sack and was instantly asleep. He dreamed old dreams of examinations for which he was unprepared and woke at last still locked in their fear of failure.

In another part of the ship, Petty Officer First Class Sheldon Bonner stripped to his skivvies and lay back on his rack, an envelope in his left hand. It had already been opened, the letter inside already read. Yet, he took the paper out and read it again. He yawned. Dear Dad, it began. Unconsciously, Bonner smiled. He held the letter above him. Dear Dad, How are you doing? Everything here is A-OK, but I get tired of Navy schools. I bet you have an exciting time in the Med.

Bonner read it all through. He got paper and a ballpoint from his locker and lay down again, this time on his side, and began to write. Dear Donnie. Great to get your letter. I am thinking of that time we fished for trout in Idaho, remember, I bet you forgot. We had some great times, you bet. You do what your old man tells you and make the most of that school, your future is secure if you do good there. Now I am serious about this. I want you to make chief, super chief, unlike your old man, you got potential to do anything. Aim for the stars. He wondered if that was too much. No, he meant it. His kid could be anything. Anything!