Too Old to Die Young

Chapter One

Breathing fire like sky gods, the two flights of four A-4 Skyhawks scudded back to their ship from the top of the menacing cloud bank that hung above the Vietnam coast. In cramped cockpits the eight shape-shifted warriors returned to the calm of the South China Sea after completing a mission to bomb the Ho Chi Minh trail out of existence. Of course, in this case, as in much of life, expectations often exceed reality.

Flying the lead aircraft in the second flight, Naval aviator, Lieutenant Keynan John David Ross wriggled inside his sweaty flight gear, exhaled into his oxygen mask and tried to loosen up after the long flight. Twenty thousand feet below, the aircraft carrier Enterprise swung in an arc beginning a turn into the wind to prepare for the recovery of its flock. Keynan squinted through the golden reflection of the sun playing across the slightly choppy water. He slipped a small silver case from under his kneeboard and flipped it open. A cross decorated the cover of the case reminding him that he would reach heaven someday. The picture of Klara inside reminded him that he was in no hurry to get there. Two-hundred and forty-five missions, he thought, get this baby back on board and let's go home.

Ahead, the first flight of four aircraft, led by the squadron commander, Harry Coleman, began to let down in a slight turn to the right. Keynan gave the speed brake signal to his wingman on his right and then to his section leader on his left. After a pause to insure they had the signal, he gave a positive head nod and deployed the speed brakes to take interval on the flight ahead. Just before beginning the decent to enter the landing pattern he lowered his hook and keyed the mike button, still on squadron common frequency. "Okay, Wrought Iron flight two, this may be the last time we get to show off for the boat, so tighten up and look good. Let's do a fan break for the crew." The answers in succession came, "Two," "Three," "Four."

Three minutes later the four planes in a right echelon formation screamed by the starboard side of the Constellation, slightly lower and slightly faster than the ship's published procedure. The Captain swiveled around in his bridge chair in time to see four A-4's roll simultaneously, each at the precise angle of bank to fan into the correct interval for landing. The Blue Angels would have been proud.

***

If you didn't know where the squadron ready room was you would only need to head toward the noise. "Those five-hundred pounders sure can turn jungle into toothpicks." That was Bradley's Texas twang booming above the other chatter.

Gibson Simpler, the duty officer, phone in his left ear, waved with the pencil in his right. "How much time, Keynan?"

Keynan gave a shake of his head in wonder that the blond crew cut kid could be old enough to be a pilot in the squadron. "Three-point-two, Ensign Gib, that's about all my butt can take. I don't want any more of those long tanker assisted gaggles."

"I hear that. The ship's heading for Cubi Point as soon we recover the fifteen hundred launch."

Commander Coleman looked up from where he sat reading the message board. "Ross, I only have one comment in my debrief for you." He pointed the metal board like a gun sight. "Don't pull that air-show crap when I'm in the air. If I have to explain to CAG why my lieutenant can pull off a more spectacular break than mine again, you’re grounded."

Keynan smiled out of the left side of his mouth, pushed the shock of black sweaty hair back off his forehead, and spoke from the right side, "Right, Skipper. It won't happen again, on this cruise."

"On second thought, I might have to ground you anyway. It would be a shame if you went home with more missions than I have."

"Can't happen, Skipper, I'm not on the flight schedule."

Ensign Simpler began banging on the brass bell attached to the duty officer’s desk. The inscription on the wooden base read Attack Squadron 216, Screaming Falcons. The noise of fifteen men telling fifteen different flight stories began to subside. "Don't forget, AOM at zero eight hundred. Also, I have mail for Collins, Bradley, Scott and Ross."

After he finished stowing his flight gear on a hook in the corner of the ready room, Keynan pushed up against the overhead beam stretching the tension out of his arms and then made his way back to the duty desk. Lieutenant Frank Collins leaned across in front of Keynan to retrieve the brown envelop from Gibson's outstretched arm.

"Damn Frank, when's the last time you sent that flight suit to the laundry?"

"Come on roomy, you don't launder a lucky flight suit when things are working out. Hey, we’re having a little celebration card game in Brad's stateroom. We have a space for you at the table. How about it?"

Keynan reached for the two letters pushed in his direction. "I've got paper work hanging over my head."

"Manana Man, the cruise is over, you'll have three weeks to do that shit on the way back to the States. Besides, we need religious guidance."

***

Keynan looked into the crowded smoke filled stateroom that belonged to Lieutenant Commander Bradley. Frank Collins pointed across the make-shift table. "Hey preacher, come on in. Grab that chair and sit."

Keynan nodded to Frank, seated on the lower bunk; Brad sat in one of the gray desk chairs. Keynan squeezed by Lieutenants Junior Grade Bickham and Patterson sharing opposite ends of a cruise box, to slip into the other desk chair.

The nickel ante, dealer's choice poker game started slow, but began to pick up steam as a contraband bottle of Glenlivit Scotch passed from player to player each time a new hand was dealt.

After being relieved as duty officer Ensign Simpler squeezed into the remaining standing room only space to watch the action. Keynan picked up his cards and tilted them so that Gib could see the six, seven, nine and ten of diamonds. He pulled at the three of clubs, shifting it to the right of his hand, anted up and added a nickel raise to the pot.

He was about to discard when Lieutenant Jenkins, the Schedule's officer pushed the door open against Brad's chair, squeezed his head in and surveyed the room. Looking at Keynan across the table. "We've had an add-on to the schedule. I need you to go on a four plane close air support mission."

Keynan looked at his cards, muttered, "Damn,” and laid them face down. "How soon do I brief?"

"Right now, the Skipper's waiting in the ready room."

Gib placed a hand on Keynan's shoulder. "Let me take it. I need the flight time and I haven't had a hop today."

Keynan turned, weighing the situation. Ensign Gibson had joined two-sixteen early in the cruise and had less flight experience than anyone in the squadron. On the other hand, he worked hard to fit in and was a better stick than some of the more senior pilots that had spent their previous duty tour flying a desk. He thought about the Glenlivit and looked again at his hand. "Have you told the Skipper who he's flying with?"

"No."

"Is it okay then?" Gib asked, starting to push through the crowded room.

"Sure."

An uneasy feeling washed across Keynan as he watched Ensign Simpler slip through the narrow half-open doorway. Even last week he wouldn't have turned down a chance for another mission. Now, he was letting the long mission earlier in the day, and for Christ sakes, a poker game, mess with his decision making.

When he turned over the eight of diamonds that he had drawn, he ran his tongue across the inside of his upper lip to hide the smile that wanted to appear, forgetting for the moment , flying, missions, war and even the letter from Klara in the top pocket of his flight suit. He was about to win the pot of the evening.

***

Two and a half hours later, at the desk in his stateroom, he read the letter from Klara for the third time. She told him what the doctor had said about the baby that was due in six weeks, love and kisses at the bottom. A warm feeling of satisfaction washed over him. He took the silver case from the pocket of his flight suit and looked at the black and white photo he had taken of Klara on the balcony of their honeymoon hotel. The wind blew a strand of her dark brown hair across the playful expression on her face. He smiled, rocked back in the desk chair and thought, it's a good day: he had survived two combat cruises; he was on his way to two years of shore duty as a flight instructor in the replacement squadron; he would be with Klara when the baby was born; and the hundred some odd dollars from the poker pot would go straight into the college fund.

His thoughts were broken by the sudden ringing of the phone on the desk. Placing the receiver to his ear he answered, "Lieutenant Ross."

He recognized Jenkin's voice. "Get to the ready room; we've lost Gib."

***

A stunned silence hung over the ready room. The Skipper sat between the executive officer and the safety officer talking in hushed tones. Keynan looked to the back of the ready room where Lieutenant Junior Grade Scott sat in full flight gear, head down pencil resting on his kneeboard not moving. Scott had been on the three hour bombing mission earlier that day. It hadn't kept him from the add-on mission.

Keynan shuddered as a wave of guilt swept through his body. He dropped into the leather chair next to Scott. "What happened?"

"I don't know, I just pulled off my run when I heard the Skipper tell Gib he was on fire. By the time I pulled back around, Gib's aircraft smashed in a ball of flame into the side of the ridge. The Skippers thinks he was hit by ground fire."

"Damn, where were you?"

"Just west of Quang Tri. We were working with a marine forward air controller. He marked the target area."

"Was there a problem, weather, terrain - what kind of runs?"

Scott shrugged. "Standard stuff. We had two-point seven-five rockets, making thirty degree runs."

"And he was hit in his run?"

"I think so; as I said, I didn't see anything before the fireball."

"I should have been there."

"Huh?"

"I should have been there, dammit. I should have gone on that mission."

"No. I mean, there wasn't anything that could have been done. It just happened."

"Things don't just happen. There are circumstances. I mean mistakes - or uh, fault."

Keynan pushed up from the chair. The ready room seemed out of balance. He felt a weight on his chest, like something was keeping the air out. He stumbled through the hatch into the darkened passage way, lit by a single red light that hung close to the deck. It felt like the ship was rolling. The sea condition couldn't have gotten that bad. He felt sick but he knew he didn't get seasick. He spun the wheel on the hatch that lead to the catwalk directly off the flight deck and stepped out onto the metal grated walkway.

A few brown shirt maintenance workers checked on the aircraft tied down two-hundred feet across the aft end of the flight deck. The slapping of waves, against the side of the hull, broke the otherwise eerily quiet night. The ship had turned away from the faint light of the western sky, beginning the journey toward the Philippine Islands that would be the only stop before striking out across the Pacific to home port.

Keynan leaned against the catwalk rail and spat down into the darkened water below. The wind across the deck slapped the shock of black hair haphazardly across his forehead. Nothing made sense. I should have died, not Gib. The tiny phosphorescent plankton stirred up by the ship illuminated its wake for miles behind the ship. Overhead starlight stretched across a moonless sky, light that emanated from its source years or centuries ago. Where was the ever living God in all of this, at a time like this? Where was the faith that had been drilled into his being through countless hours of Catholic schools, Divinity Studies at Notre Dame University and finally during those three years of Seminary.

Keynan turned, pounded his fist against the side of the deck and emptied his lungs and his thoughts into a long guttural scream.