Top Gun (30 page)

“No way, Boss,” Greene said. Everybody called the air officer “Boss”. Personally, the practice made Greene feel like he was
in
Cool Hand Luke.

Greene forced a nervous smile. “Boss, I’ve got no problem. I’m here to make a request.”

“I’m listening.” Brody was slumped in his swivel chair with his eyes closed and his feet up on his desk. Every now and then,
he took a puff off his cigarette and then flicked the ash in the general direction of a scummy-looking Blue Angels coffee
mug.

Brody sure was looking tired and pale
, Green thought. But then, the ever-present fluorescent lighting bleached the hell out of everyone’s skin tone. What a joke
Greene had played on himself when he’d imagined that his stint on board the
Sea Bear
would entail lots of salt breezes and sunshine. Coal miners got more fresh air and had better suntans than carrier crews.
Living on an aircraft carrier was like inhabiting the subbasement levels of an office building, with only occasional, brief
forays to the building’s flat roof: the carrier’s flight deck.

Greene began, “It’s about this military action concerning the
Mayaguez
—”

“Possible
military action,” Brody corrected, sounding half asleep. “The latest out of CINCPAC is that the Chinese are going to intercede
on our behalf with the Cambodians.” He opened one eye. “Not that you heard that from me. Air Force…”

“I don’t think the Chinese are going to do shit, one way or the other, Boss.”

“Oh, do tell, Mr. Kissinger,” Brody said sarcastically. His eyes again closed.

“Hey, I may not be the secretary of state, but I keep up with current events,” Greene said. “Since the Khmer Rouge took over
in Cambodia last month, those dudes have shown themselves to be pretty mean.”

“Mmm.” Brody’s head was beginning to loll. His cigarette had burned down to its filter. Without seeming to look, Brody expertly
flipped it into the coffee mug.

That was precision bombing for you.
Greene thought. Just then the office’s ventilator came on, clattering like marbles on tin. Greene grimaced at the racket.
The
Sea Bear
dated from World War II. Nothing on board the old boat worked one hundred percent of the time.

“Maybe the Khmer Rouge might like to tweak the imperialist paper tiger’s tail,” Greene suggested. “Especially after the Vietcong
seemed to have gotten away with it.”

“Yeah, maybe…” Brody sounded bored. “But if they do, we got the men and machines to point out the error of their ways.”

“That’s right. Boss.” Greene took a deep breath. “And I want a piece of it when it happens.”

That got his attention.
Greene thought. The air boss had sat bolt upright, his eyes snapping open.

“Are you nuts?” Brody demanded. “What’s wrong with you. Air Force? I can’t let you fly an actual combat mission!”

“Why not? With all due respect, Boss, I’m as good as any of the guys in your A-7 squadrons.”

“Are you?” Brody’s bushy eyebrows arched. “My feeling all along has been that you’ve been stroking it. You’re an experienced
combat pilot. A Vietnam-vet Thud driver who flew bombing runs against heavily defended targets. You could be bringing a lot
more savvy to your training flights in the A-7. But you’re holding back. You’ve got an attitude problem. You think you’re
too
good
to be flying a Mud Mover.”

“I don’t
think
I’m too good. Boss,” Greene muttered. “I
know
I am.”

Brody studied him, looking troubled. “Tell me something, what’s the goal of Indian Giver?”

“I’m here to observe and learn from the Navy,” Greene replied.

“There you go,” Brody said. “Observe and learn: Can you honestly say you’re doing either to the best of your ability?”

Greene frowned. “You’re missing the point. Boss. I got a raw deal when they stuck me on this boat. I was supposed to be in
a fighter squadron. Instead, I end up piloting an A-7, a Mud Mover.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Brody asked.

“It’s got plenty to do with it,” Greene said. “The Air Force and Navy made a deal with me when I joined Indian Giver, and
now they’re reneging.”

“That’s not so,” Brody argued. “The Navy offered to share its aviation combat procedures with the Air Force through you, and
it’s doing that.”

“I came into Indian Giver to learn ACM, not air/ground attack procedures!” Greene protested.

“Any
hard-won combat acumen is worth sharing among the various branches of the services,” Brody said. “It’s
all
valuable knowledge.”

“It’s not valuable knowledge to
me.”

Brody’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

“Flying ground support and attack missions is not what I want to do,” Greene said. “It’s not why I agreed to come into Indian
Giver. I came into the program thinking I’d come out on a career path to being an ACM instructor in the Air Force’s hot new
fighter-training program, but now that isn’t likely to happen, is it?” Greene waited. “Is it. Boss?” he insisted.

Brody shrugged. “I can’t answer that.”

Greene wryly nodded. “Well, then, let
me
answer it. What’s happened is that I’ve been shunted off into some kind of dead end. I was a good fighter pilot, Boss, but
I haven’t flown ACM for months, and you know as well as I do that a fighter jock needs constant practice or else his skills
are going to rust.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“Boss, I think you also know what’s likely to happen to me when my tour on board the
Sea Bear
finally ends.”

“I guess I do.” Brody nodded wearily. “The Air Force flies A-7s just like the Navy does. What’ll likely happen is that the
Air Force will stick you into one of their own A-7 squadrons,” Brody brightened. “Or maybe make you an A-7 instructor…?”

Green firmly shook his head. “I’d sooner turn in my wings than be a permanent Mud Mover—”

Brody slammed his palm on his desk. “That’s just the attitude on your part that pisses me off about you, Air Force!”

“Huh?” Greene was startled.

“You’re a quitter!” Brody accused. “Things don’t go all your own way, you fold and walk.”

“That’s not true!” Greene protested.

“Bullshit!” Brody scoffed. “The Air Force has invested well over a million bucks training you, but now, just because they
might have different ideas than you on how you might best serve your country, you’re ready to take your ball and go home.”

“Try to see it from my point of view.”

“Why should I?” Brody scowled. “That’s all you do is see things from your point of view!” He paused. “You know, I’ve been
watching you—”

“Then you know how good I am!” Greene countered.

“Yeah, you’re good.” Brody nodded. “But not as good as you think you are. You could be one of the best, if you could get your
fucking ego out of the way.” He paused. “And while we’re at it, why’d you quit taking my karate class?”

What the hell?
Greene thought. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Answer the question, Captain Greene,” Brody ordered.

Greene shrugged. “I guess I just didn’t feel comfortable taking it.”

“Because?”

“Because I was the outsider in your class.” Greene hesitated. “Just like I am elsewhere on this boat.”

“Hmm.” Brody smiled thinly. “So you quit, right? The going got tough, so you got going, right?”

“To hell with this, Boss.” Greene stood up, feeling angry and defensive. “I come here to ask to be allowed to fly a combat
mission, and you keep changing the subject.”

“Sit down!”

“I don’t need this!”

“I said sit down!” Brody barked. “That’s an order!”

Greene sat. He waited as Brody pondered him.

“Refresh my memory,” Brody began, quiet now. “How long did you study karate before coming aboard the
Sea Bear?”

“A year.”

“What rank did you reach?”

“Brown belt.”

“That’s pretty rapid progress,” Brody acknowledged.

Greene couldn’t resist a cocky smile. “What can I say?”

Brody ignored the remark. “What style did you study?”

“Okinawan,” Greene said,
“Uechi-style.”

Brody nodded. “No offense meant to your instructor, but some teachers hand out belts easier than others, and finally, anybody
can wear any colored belt.” He paused. “In your case, were you
really
any good?”

Greene opened his mouth to reply, then shut it, feeling embarrassed.

Brody grinned. “I saw it right there on the tip of your tongue before you swallowed it down. You were going to say you were
the best, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, Boss.” Greene nodded, adding defiantly, “You make it sound silly, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“Bad answer. Air Force,” Brody sighed. “You may have trained your body in the martial arts, but what about your spirit?”

“With all due respect. Boss, I’m not really into that mystical stuff.”

“Now, how did I know that?” Brody shook his head. “You do any work with karate weapons?”

“Some.”

“Okay.” Brody nodded. “I want you to meet me at the gym tonight. Wear workout clothes. You and I are going to do some sparring.”

Greene shook his head. “Why should I?”

“You want you to fly some combat in the unlikely event we get any, right?”

“Yeah,” Greene said warily.

“Okay. Then you do like I say and meet me at the gym at midnight for some sparring. If you can beat me, or just manage to
remain on the mat with me, I’ll let you fly combat. Fair enough?”

Greene asked, “And if I lose?”

“You lose, you forget about flying combat, and you agree to apply yourself wholeheartedly to learning everything there is
to know about flying the A-7. Finally, you agree to give yourself the chance to get into whatever assignment the Air Force
gives you once your stint in Indian Giver is over. Agreed?”

Greene thought about it. It was awfully tempting. Brody was a second dan black belt, and highly proficient in all the martial
arts, but he was also over ten years older than Greene. And Greene had trained hard back at Wright-Patterson. He’d had a good
teacher, despite what Brody had intimated.

And Brody smoked, Greene reminded himself, watching as the air boss lit up another Marlboro. And speaking of lighting up,
lately the air boss had been burning the candle at both ends. Poor old Brody was looking exhausted….

I can take him, Greene decided. He says I’m cocky and conceited, but he’s the one… Hell, the least I should be able to do
is hold my own, and that’s all it would take to win a combat slot.

“You’ve got yourself a sparring partner, Boss.”

(One)

USS
Sea Bear

14 May, 1975

Greene, wearing sneakers, a T-shirt, and sweat pants, arrived at the gym at precisely 2400 hours to find Brody waiting for
him. The gym was a large space filled with athletic equipment on Deck l, one level below the main hangar deck where the aircraft
were housed. The carrier’s steel structure transmitted noise easily, and the hangar deck was busy twenty-four hours a day,
so in the midnight quiet Greene could hear coming from above the gym the whine and clang of the hangar’s hydraulic elevators,
the shouts and laughter of the aircraft maintenance crews, and the rumble of the tractors that towed the airplanes.

“Right on time,” Brody welcomed Greene. The air boss was reclining on a weight bench, about to do presses. Brody was barefoot,
dressed in karate pants and a gray sweatshirt that had “AIR BOSS” stenciled across the front. The sweat-shirt’s sleeves had
been cut off, revealing Brody’s ropey arms. “You ready to get your ass kicked into the wild blue yonder. Air Force?”

“We’ll see who kicks whose ass,” Greene said, but he was not feeling all that cocky as he watched Brody easily knock off a
set of twelve bench presses.
He’s lifting about two hundred,
Greene estimated. Suddenly, Brody did not look so old, and those coffin nails he puffed on hadn’t seemed to do much to cramp
his style.

“What will it be?” Brody asked, getting up from the weight bench and sauntering over to the corner of the gym devoted to martial-arts
practice. The floor here was carpeted with thick canvas-covered mats. The walls were lined with racks of body armor and racks
of various practice versions of karate weapons. “You want to spar empty-handed, or use weapons?”

“Let’s use
jõ
sticks,” Greene said, walking over to the rack of forty-inch-long, polished hardwood sticks, each of them an inch and a half
in diameter. Greene had done a lot of studying of
jõjutsu
—the art of stick fighting—and guessed that he’d have a better chance against Brody, who was a second dan black belt in karate,
with something in his hands.

“Jõ
sticks it is,” Brody said. “You put on some body armor.”

Greene went over to the racks and began strapping on chest and rib protection. He saw Brody watching him. “You’re not wearing
any?” Greene asked.

Brody shook his head as he went over to select
a jó
stick from the rack.

“Your funeral,” Greene muttered. He donned a padded red leather head guard and selected
a jó
stick. He kicked off his sneakers and then joined Brody on the mats.

All right,
Greene thought as he and Brody faced off.
He may be a second dan black belt, but you’re a fighter pilot. You’ve got a chance here. This takes the same elements vital
to combat flying: kime and mushin. Kime
was the martial-arts term for the focusing of all mental and physical energies on the job at hand.
Mushin
alluded to that state of relaxed no-mindedness that allowed for instinctive action in response to a threat.

“Okay. Air Force,” Brody said cheerfully. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The two men began circling on the mats. As Brody drew back his stick, Greene pivoted to face him. Brody swung his stick up
over his shoulder and then brought it down, slicing in like a Sabre jet toward Greene’s head. Greene countered with a horizontal
block, gripping the
jõ
stick with both hands and pushing up against Brody’s stick with everything he had, stopping Brody’s swipe from knocking his
head off his shoulders, but just barely. Brody threw his weight into breaking down Greene’s defensive block, and Greene’s
knees began to buckle. Greene shifted into a karate cat’s-foot stance, putting all of his weight on his rear leg. He danced
away from Brody, taking the opportunity to deliver a series of snap kicks to the air boss’s unprotected belly. They were solid
kicks, and landed squarely on target, but Greene felt like his bare toes were striking thinly padded steel.