Top Gun (34 page)

“I don’t fucking believe what I just saw,” Rodriguez murmured.

“Roger that,” said Papa lead from his high-flying Phantom. “But then, I never saw
anything
like that before….”

Greene thought fast, and then drawled, “Why, do you squids mean to tell me you don’t know the old Fan Dance?”

(Three)

Captain’s Stateroom

USS
Sea Bear

“The Fan Dance? Is that what it’s called, son?” Captain Chase muttered dubiously, scratching his chin.

“Yes, sir,” Greene said. “It’s called the Fan Dance, because when you yaw an airplane, the nose arcs from side to side, waving
like a fan.”

It was late Thursday night, several hours after all of the
Sea Bear’s
planes had returned home safely. The pilots and air crews had all been through their debriefings, and news had spread like
wildfire throughout the carrier, to CINCPAC, and to the Oval Office itself concerning Greene’s triple kill.

Now Greene, who was the hero of the hour, was lounging in an armchair upholstered in black leather with brass studs, just
like the one in which the skipper was seated. Greene was sipping a scotch on the rocks in a cut-crystal tumbler. Greene was
thinking it was very good scotch, and he was feeling glad that there was a cabin boy in a white serving jacket standing attentively
nearby, ready to pour Greene some more of it should he so desire.

The skipper’s stateroom was extraordinary by ship’s standards. For one thing, it was actually roomy and luxuriously furnished:
there wasn’t a piece of gray metal office furniture in sight. There was deep blue, wall-to-wall carpeting, plenty of comfy
leather furniture, teak paneling, and lots of brass detailing and green glass lampshades. Wonder of wonders, the stateroom
also had windows—well, they were portholes, actually—but they let in sunshine and fresh air untainted by the pungent odors
of jet fuel and diesel oil.

Greene watched Captain Chase, amused by the skipper’s obvious befuddlement at his “Fan Dance” bullshit. Captain Chase was
a short, stocky, swarthy man in his fifties, who was never without an equally short, fat, usually unlit stogie clenched between
his teeth. Thanks to his jowls, his bulbous nose, and that ever-present cigar, he looked a bit like Edward G. Robinson. Sounded
like him, too.

“Fan Dance… eh?” the skipper repeated to himself.

“Yep. Air Force jet jockies cut their teeth on the maneuver,” Greene said, managing to maintain a straight face.

“Commander?” The skipper turned to regard Gil Brody, who was sitting on the sofa nursing a bourbon. “You ever hear of any
such thing?”

“I’m
sure
Commander Brody has heard of it?” Greene remarked expectantly.

“I believe I have. Skipper….” Brody trailed off.

Captain Chase looked down at some papers on his lap. Brody shot Greene a dirty look. Greene winked back.

Captain Chase looked up, shrugging. “Well, whatever this Fan Dance business is, it sure as hell worked. I wish we could add
those kills to the
Sea Bear’s
official talley stretching back to the Second World War, but, of course, under the circumstances, that won’t be possible.”

“Yes, Skipper, I understand,” Greene said.

It seemed that according to all advance intelligence reports those Chinese planes simply should
not
have been there, and in true military intelligence tradition, the error was being dealt with by pretending that it did not
exist, or rather, that the Q-5s had never existed.

“I suppose it does make sense for the United States to turn a blind eye to what happened concerning those Chinese birds,”
Greene mused. “Especially in the wake of ex-President Nixon’s visit to China…”

Captain Chase chewed philosophically on his stogie. “According to my understanding of the situation, the United States’ diplomatic
strategy is to respond with equal silence to the fact that the Chinese have made no mention of the loss of their airplanes.
The State Department thinks that there was dissent in the highest levels of the Chinese government concerning the question
of lending military support to the Cambodians during this crisis. The Chinese hard-liners evidently initially prevailed, but
State thinks that due in part to those Chinese Air Force planes being lost, the more dovish faction in the Chinese government
has now gained the upper hand.” The skipper shrugged. “I guess the bottom line is that if the Chinese have chosen not to humiliate
themselves by mentioning the clash, neither will the United States.” He looked apologetically at Greene. “I’m afraid that
means no mention of your victory over those three planes will ever be revealed to the public. As far as the world will ever
know, there was no air clash concerning the rescue of the
Mayaguez.”

“The world won’t know about it, but I’ll never forget it.” Greene smiled. “Anyway, when I attacked them in the first place,
I
did
kind of disobey orders.”

“Kind of.” Brody nodded, looking sour.

Greene hastened to change the subject. “The Chinese have long memories. Maybe this lesson we taught them will make them think
twice about any future attempts on their part to confront the United States.”

Gil Brody interjected, “And maybe in the future they’ll return the favor we did them today of letting them save face in the
international arena.”

“The important thing is that the assault operation to rescue the
Mayaguez
and its crew was a success,” Greene added sincerely.

“I’ll drink to that,” Gil Brody said.

“And to the marines who gave their lives for their country’s honor,” the skipper solemnly added.

The three men raised their glasses.

“Well!” Captain Chase briskly began as he set down his scotch, sticking his stogie back into his mouth. “It’d be nice if you
could teach the
Sea Bear’s
pilots your Fan Dance maneuver.”

“No problem, sir,” Greene started to say.

The skipper overrode him. “But you won’t be with us long enough for that.”

“I won’t?” Greene asked, blinking.

Captain Chase glanced at Brody. “Didn’t you fill him in, Commander?”

Brody smirked at Greene. “Well, Air Force, I guess there’s
something
you don’t know.” Brody explained to Chase: “I thought I’d let you give him his good news, Skipper.”

“What good news?” Greene asked, mystified.

“You’re going to Miramar,” Captain Chase replied. “Top Gun School.”

“I am?” Greene nodded slowly. “You mean as a student?”

Captain Chase laughed. “No, as a guest instructor! The Air Force has proudly agreed to the Navy’s request that you teach the
Fan Dance maneuver to our Top Gun fighter pilots. While you’re there, you’ll study the Navy style of ACM with
our
best jet-fighter jockies.”

Greene looked at Brody. The air boss’s bushy eyebrows arched mischievously. “You can’t fight karma, Air Force.”

“The
Sea Bear
is now headed for Australia,” Captain Chase said. “We’ll airlift you to the mainland when we get a bit closer; say, three
days. From Australia, the Air Force will get you to the West Coast.”

“Captain Greene,” Brody began. “What do you think of the wisdom of the military and of Project Indian Giver now?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Greene murmured. “It’s a dream come true.”

“You don’t have to
say
anything.” The skipper chuckled. “It’s what you’ve
done
that counts, Captain Greene.” He paused, grinning. “Or perhaps I should say
Major
Greene.”

“I’m being promoted?” Greene asked, astounded.

“Oh, Christ!” Brody pretended to complain, rolling his eyes. “Now I
know
the Air Force is going to hell in a hand-basket!”

The skipper said: “The Navy and the Air Force can’t very well decorate you for shooting down airplanes that don’t officially
exist, so the Air Force decided to promote you instead.”

“Congratulations, Air Force,” Brody said, grinning.

“Thanks, Boss,” Greene said shyly. “And thank you, Skipper.”

Captain Chase waved his gratitude aside. “Like I said, son, you earned it. I’m sorry I can’t give you a set of USAF major’s
oak leaves to pin to your collar, but I don’t have any. After all, this
is
the United States Navy.”

Greene waited until he and Brody had been dismissed by Captain Chase and were in the corridor outside the skipper’s stateroom
to say, “You know. Boss. I’m, going to miss flying a Mud Mover.”

“Oh, sure.” Brody laughed sarcastically.

“No, really,” Greene said. “Hell, I’ve got to admit that I’m looking forward to getting back into the driver’s seat of a fighter,
but I’ve learned something on board the
Sea Bear:
It really isn’t the crate that makes the difference, but the guy in the cockpit, or rather, that
guy’s
attitude.” He paused, blushing. “I guess I learned that from you.”

Brody looked thoughtful. “Hirato Soko, the great six-teenth-century Japanese samurai and zen poet, wrote, ‘Life is not about
learning, but remembering what was always inside us, long ago forgotten.’ “ He patted Greene on the shoulder. “Take care of
yourself, Air Force.”

BOOK II: 1975-1979

WIDESPREAD EUROPEAN ACCEPTANCE OF GAT FIGHTER

Belgium Joins With Its Neighbors in Purchasing Stiletto

Aviation Weekly

VIKING ONE LANDS ON MARS

Probe Spacecraft Sends Back Photos From Surface of Red Planet

Philadelphia Post

DEMOCRATS CHOOSE CARTER AND MONDALE

Pres Candidate Stresses the Upcoming Election Will Hinge on Honesty

Norfolk Evening Bulletin

GAT POSTS RECORD EARNINGS

Stock Soars as GAT/Aerospace Lands Space Shuttle Orbiter Contract

California business Weekly

CANARY ISLANDS AIRCRAFT DISASTER KILLS 574

Worst Disaster in Aviation History as Two Jumbo Jets Collide

New York Gazette

PRESIDENT TO TELEVISE SPECIAL ADDRESS TO THE NATION

Carter To Call Energy Crisis “Moral Equivalent of War”

Los Angeles Tribune

GAT/SKYTRAIN ANNOUNCE WORLD BIRD PROJECT

Internationally Built Stiletto Hybrid to Replace Current Crop of Fighters

Washington Star Reporter

NICARAGUA REBELS SEIZE PALACE

Somoza Struggles to Hold on Against Marxist Revolutionaries

Boston Herald

GAT JETLINER CRASHES INTO CROWDS AT PARIS AIR SHOW

GC-600s’ Airliner’s Structural Innovations Faulted

International Investigation into Possible Criminal Activity Promised

Photo Weekly Magazine

GAT STOCK PLUMMETS

Investigators: What Did GAT Execs Know & When Did They Know It?

California Business Weekly

(One)

Gold Aviation and Transport

Burbank, California

18 October, 1977

Don Harrison swiveled around in his leather desk chair and stared out his office windows, pondering his own reflection trapped
in the smoked glass. Harrison was wearing a gray silk suit of elegant European design, and his intricately patterned silk
tie was a “Count somebody or other” original. He looked like a man in control. A tycoon. The image was bolstered by the accoutrements
of power surrounding him. Reflected in the dark glass was Harrison’s marble-topped oak desk. The office’s moss-green wall-to-wall
carpeting, paneled walls, and burgundy leather furniture groupings seemed to stretch into eternity behind him.

Harrison smiled wryly. Sure the overall image was that of a captain of industry, but if you looked a little more closely at
the guy seated behind the desk, you noticed that his wispy, unruly hair was a little long around his ears, and that his gold-rimmed
eyeglasses gave him the look of an aging but still boyish academic don. The smoked glass helped the youthful illusion along
by smoothing out the creases that had formed around Harrison’s eyes and mouth and shading out the silver in his hair.

Harrison rolled his desk chair closer to the windows to look into his own eyes. He purposely narrowed his gaze, trying for
a look of grim determination.

It was no good. He could scowl and glower all he wanted, but his own inner nature underlined by the vague, abstract expression
behind his soft hazel eyes betrayed him.

Harrison’s eyes said that here was the archetype intellectual, a fifty-five-year-old man who even after the years spent in
charge of this sprawling aviation company was still more comfortable in his old ivory tower than in the executive suite. His
eyes proclaimed that here was a creative thinker, a man more in his element chairing an R & D think-tank brainstorming session
than at a board of directors’ meeting.

But that’s what Steve will be all too ready to tell me,
Harrison scolded himself.
No need for me to patronize myself! Anyway, people can change. A bold step like the one I want to take will tell the world
that I’m a man of action just like my partner.

But Harrison’s determination wavered as he further studied his reflection. He brooded,
The problem with being a contemplative man was that you saw both sides of the question and thereby crippled yourself with
indecision.

The eyes, Harrison thought, sighing. The eyes never lied.

As Harrison stared out the windows, the light changed and his reflection vanished, to be replaced by the outside world. Harrison’s
top-floor corner office overlooked the GAT manufacturing complex’s airfields, where the dozens of partially assembled F-66a
Stiletto fighters were scattered like children’s forgotten toys. These modified Stilettos were designated for European export.
Their final assembly would take place at Skytrain’s factories on the Continent and in England. The completed F-66a jet fighters
would then travel to their final destinations: the various NATO European air forces.

Harrison felt supreme satisfaction as he looked down at the grounded armada of fighters. GAT had certainly come a long way
since that dark period back in 1974 when it looked as if the company was about to sink under its own financial missteps and
Tim Campbell’s machinations to sabotage GAT’s campaign to sell the Pont airliner in America.