Flash Point (18 page)

“Who’s up?” Wink asked.

“XO and Brillo,” Woods replied, naming the crew he had written into the flight schedule last night for the first hop of the day.

They watched as the F-14 lowered its nose to cut across the circle and get to the F-15 before he reached the ship. “He’s doing a low yo-yo,” Wink observed.

“He’s a little low to try that.”

They stood in their flight gear and watched the F-14 approach the F-15. Others on the flight deck were staring. It was rare for them to see an F-14 flying that fast after another airplane so close to the carrier. The sky was completely clear except for the two fighters.

The F-14’s nose continued to drop toward the ocean.

“He must be doing five hundred knots,” Woods remarked, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the steepness of the F-14’s dive.

“At least.”

“He’s going to be in some deep shit if he doesn’t pull up,” Wink said, watching with building terror.

The F-15 was within a mile of the carrier and continuing to increase speed and move lower toward the ocean. The Tomcat’s nose continued down and was now pointed directly at the water a thousand feet above the carrier and right in front of it.

“He doesn’t know where he is!” Woods exclaimed; he and everyone else on the flight deck knew what the Tomcat pilot didn’t.

“Pull up!” Wink screamed.

“Get out! Get out!” Woods joined in, watching helplessly.

Others on the flight deck were yelling futile instructions at the Tomcat.

The F-14 couldn’t hear them. It made the sound of a breaking baseball bat as it plunged straight into the sea at six hundred knots and vanished beneath the surface.

Woods and Wink dashed madly to the bow of the carrier as the Captain tried to stop the
Washington
’s forward momentum.

The F-15 screamed overhead and banked to see the point of impact in the water. The Eagle pilot pulled up and headed back to Italy.

The sea boiled with white foam from air and jet fuel and energy where the Tomcat had just buried itself. Woods could feel the deck of the carrier shuddering as the enormous screws reversed themselves to slow the ninety-five-thousand-ton behemoth to a stop. Woods and Wink searched the water for any sign of life or of hope. All they saw were small pieces of honeycombed airplane parts floating quietly to the surface.

“They bought it,” Wink said.

Woods nodded, fighting back the desire to scream, or throw up, or quit flying. “Let’s go tell the Skipper,” he said. They found the nearest ladder down to the 03 level from the flight deck and worked their way back quickly to the ready room. Word had somehow already spread through the ship. All the sailors in the passageway could tell the officers needed to get by and made a hole allowing them to pass.

They turned into Ready Room Eight. They knew by the long faces that word of what had happened had preceded them.

Woods looked at Bark. “The XO?”

Bark nodded, his face dark with sadness. “I need you to head up the on-scene accident investigation team.”

“Yes, sir,” Woods replied automatically.

“There’s a helo turning on deck. It’ll take you over to the
David Reynolds
. They have a motor whaleboat in the water. They’re waiting for you. Recover what you can. Check for signs of malfunction or fire.”

“Yes, sir,” Woods said.

“Any questions?”

Woods spoke quietly. “There wasn’t any fire, sir. They just flew into the water. I saw it.”

“I know. We’re just going to do this by the numbers. . . . How am I going to tell his wife? Three daughters.”

Woods put his helmet on a chair, then wondered where his knee board was. Still in the plane, he recalled. Then what Bark had just said hit him. He remembered the XO’s daughters. They had come to the last squadron party before their father left on cruise. “How old?”

“Eight, ten, and twelve.”

Woods hated the senselessness of it. “It’s not worth it.” His frustration boiled over. “What are we doing out here, Skipper?”

Bark thought about it. “Brillo. All he wanted was to get married and have a family. Never even got the chance. He didn’t even have a girlfriend.” He forcibly shifted his focus. “Get up to the flight deck.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Woods walked quickly out of the ready room and hurried down the passageway to his stateroom, grabbing his flight jacket. He slipped it on while running toward the island and the waiting helicopter. He reached the office on the flight deck and looked around for the transportation officer.

A First Class Petty Officer approached. “You the one going to the
David Reynolds
, sir?” At Woods’s nod, he handed him a cranial helmet and flotation rest and opened the hatch to the flight deck.

“Follow me, sir,” he said.

Woods walked quickly after the man, heading for the SH-60, which was on the aft-most helo spot. Its rotors were turning.

The
Washington
was dead in the water, trying to stay as close to the accident scene as it could, hoping to find at least one of the crew alive. But everyone knew they were dead. The Tomcat had plunged into the ocean like a lawn dart less than a mile in front of the carrier. Everyone on the flight deck had seen it.

The sea and sky were still bright blue. There were no clouds or whitecaps in sight. The helicopter’s turning blades and screaming jet engines were the only noises on the deck.

Woods stepped through the cargo door of the helicopter and grabbed the arm of the crew chief, who hauled him in effortlessly pointed to a forward-facing seat and instructing him to secure himself by the straps. The helicopter lifted off into a low hover, steadied itself, and flew off toward the west at two hundred feet.

The flight to the destroyer took less than ten minutes. Woods saw the small flight deck on the fantail of the ship and wondered if the pilot was going to set down or just dump him out somehow. He watched as they slid sideways until they were directly over the flight deck of the ship, the helicopter inching down carefully until it was hovering three feet above the flight deck. The crew chief motioned Woods to the hatch and held his arm across the opening while he watched the deck. A cord from his helmet was plugged into the bulkhead of the helicopter so he could talk to the pilots on the Internal Communication System and listen to the radio talk. He waited, pointed for Woods to sit down on the deck of the plane, and then jump down to the ship.

Woods sat and jumped the three feet to the deck, where he was immediately met by two of the ship’s crew. He followed them forward as the deafening helicopter lifted away from the destroyer.

He climbed the ladder to the next deck, looking around for any signs of the wreckage on the water. It was finally quiet, the SH-60 heading back toward the carrier. A commander approached Woods and extended his hand.

“Good morning, Lieutenant. I’m Commander Bill LaGrou, the Commanding Officer. Welcome aboard the
David Reynolds
.” He was accompanied by another Commander, and two Lieutenants. “This is Gary Carlton, my XO.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Woods said, evaluating him. His ball cap, with the name of his ship on it and gold braid on the bill, was pulled down almost to his eyebrows. Shorter than Woods, he had to turn his head up substantially to look into Woods’s eyes. His hair was completely gray, almost white, and his belly strained against the web belt holding up his khaki trousers. His brown eyes searched Woods’s face.

“I don’t want you to waste any time. You’ve got to get to the accident scene right away,” LaGrou said, pulling his eyes away from Woods to look toward the port side of the ship. “The motor whaleboat is ready to go. I’m not really sure what you need, but I’ve got a good coxswain, our corpsman, and three boatswains to go with you. If you want anything else, let me know.”

“Yes, sir, sure will. Is there a radio? Some way to contact you?”

“Oh, yeah, we’ll make sure you take the handheld. They told me you’re supposed to bring any major wreckage you can recover back to the ship, so we can carry it to Sicily where some accident types are going to look at it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if you find anything from the pilots, the corpsman has a body bag—”

“Okay. Fine.”

LaGrou hesitated. “We were supposed to drive to the point of entry, which is right” — LaGrou looked around — “over there,” he said pointing to a spot aft of the ship and a few hundred yards off the port side, “and stay there. When we got here we saw some debris. We held our position but the currents and waves have moved the wreckage away from here, probably a mile or so by now. It’s probably over there,” he said, pointing past the bow on the port side. He lowered his voice. “Those guys from your squadron?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Inexperienced?”

“No, sir. Our XO and a very good, although young, RIO.”

LaGrou looked shocked, then scanned the sky. “What could have happened on a beautiful day like today?”

“That’s what we’re going to try to find out. I’d better get at it.”

LaGrou nodded and scratched his pale face. “They just flew into the water, going straight down. They must have been going five hundred knots.” He looked at Woods again.

“Yes, sir, I saw it.”

“Well. Then you know how fast they were going. What would you estimate?”

“Probably about that. Maybe six hundred.”

LaGrou shook his head. “I guess when it’s your time, it’s your time.”

Woods looked into LaGrou’s face. “What do you mean?”

LaGrou immediately saw that his words had carried more meaning than he had intended. “Oh, nothing, really. Just a figure of speech,” he said, shrugging. “If we’re scheduled to check out today, or tomorrow, there’s not much we can do about it.”

“I think if these guys had been paying attention, they wouldn’t have bought it.”

LaGrou squinted at Woods. “I’m sure you’re right. . . . Let me know if you need anything, Lieutenant,” he said again.

“Will do, sir.” A First Class Boatswain’s Mate indicated that Woods was to follow him. “This way, sir. We’re ready to go.” He hurried down a ladder and then another, finally descending the Jacob’s ladder on the side of the destroyer to the motor whaleboat. Woods was right behind him.

“Good morning, sir,” said the coxswain standing in the rear of the boat. “You ready?”

“Yep. I’m Lieutenant Woods,” he said. “Let’s get underway, and we can talk about what we’re going to do as we head out there.”

“Roger that,” said the coxswain, increasing power on the diesel motor as one of the boatswain’s mates cast off from the destroyer. Half the ship’s company was on deck looking on curiously.

Woods sat back against the side of the boat, air moving across his face as they worked away from the ship. “Where’s the wreckage?” Woods asked.

“Out about 310, sir,” the Coxswain replied, pushing the tiller slightly away from him. “I don’t see it right now, but I’m sure we will soon.”

Woods couldn’t think of what else to say. He knew he had to move quickly and speak with authority as if he knew what he was doing to give them confidence in him; but in reality, he had no idea how to proceed. He had never had any training in accident investigations. He hadn’t even been briefed on what he was to look for other than signs of fire — charred bits of airplane, he guessed. He concluded this was simply one of those times when someone had to do something or everyone would feel more helpless than they already did. That instinct to “do something” seemed to dominate the thinking after someone has died. Sometimes knowing why or how something happened made the fact less painful, especially if blame could be placed on some mechanical defect or malfunction. Then you wouldn’t have to believe your shipmate screwed up. Whatever the reason, he had to do something to make this effort worthwhile.

“There it is, sir!” one of the boatswain’s mates in the bow cried out, leaning forward like a harpoonist. He pointed toward the starboard side and the coxswain steered in that direction. Woods stood up carefully and looked where the boatswain was pointing. Squinting, he covered his eyes to get a better look. He saw two dark shapes jutting out of the water, floating. Instinctively, he put his hand out to get the coxswain to slow down. The boat slowed to a crawl as they entered the area where the remains of the F-14 were. They approached the two shapes cautiously, not knowing what they were looking at or whether more might be floating under water, unseen. The coxswain turned toward the two shapes and slowed even more, to two knots. They were within one hundred yards before Woods recognized the shapes as the twin tails of the Tomcat, floating perfectly upright in the sea like shark’s fins. The air and water moved quietly around the tails, touching them ever so slightly.

The coxswain inched the boat forward until he was right next to the black monsters. The boatswain in the bow grabbed the rudder of the starboard tail and pulled the boat to it. Woods moved forward and stared.

Small pieces of honeycombed metal — all sizes and shapes — floated around the tails. Woods was surprised by how intact the tails were, the white skull and crossbones staring back at them defiantly from the middle of each tail. He peered into the blue water underneath the tails for more of the airplane, but the way they were bobbing meant there wasn’t much attached below the surface.

There was something odd about the top of the left tail where the red anticollision light should have been. Woods walked aft in the boat and examined the light, holding his hand over his eyes to block the sun and squinting slightly to focus. “What in the world . . .” Woods said out loud.

The corpsman stood up next to him and looked where Woods’s eyes were focused. He stared for a few seconds, then said, “It’s a scalp.”

Woods lowered his hand, fighting the nausea in his stomach. “What?”

“It’s a scalp, sir. Sure as hell,” the corpsman said.

Woods raised his eyes and examined the light once more. It was Brillo’s scalp, all right, sitting on the anticollision light just as if it were sitting on Brillo’s head. He recognized the uncontrollable wiry brown hair. The horrific image was searing itself into his brain and he turned his eyes away. “How could his
scalp
be on the tail?” he asked.