Hostile Contact

1 400 NM east of Socotra, Indian Ocean. Captain Rafe Rafehausen slammed his S-3B into the break and thought that he'd done it badly, out of practice, the move both too sudden and too harsh, and beside him he heard Lieutenant jg Soleck give a grunt. Rafehausen had an impulse to snarl and overcame it; he was the CAG and he didn't fly enough and the kid was righthe should have done it better. Although, as he knew from the weekly reports, the kid's landing scores were the worst on the boat. "Gear one, two, three, downand lockedflaps, slats outhook isdownread airspeed and fuel, Mister Soleck" The jg muttered the fuel poundage and airspeed, which Rafehausen could have read perfectly well for himself, of course. He supposed he was trying to communicate with the much younger man, who seemed mostly terrified of him. "Not one of the great breaks of all time, Mister Soleck." "Uhno, sirbut good, sirconsidering" Rafehausen lined up dead-on, said "Ball" when he caught the green, and took the LSO's instructions almost unconsciously, now into his groove and operating on long and hard-won experience. He caught the two wire, rolled, lifted the hook, and let a yellow-shirt direct him forward. "Nice landing, sir." Rafehausen smiled. "Little rough, Mister Soleck. Practice makes perfect." He slapped the lieutenant jg on the shoulder. "Weeklies tell me you need some practice yourself." He would have walked away then, but he saw the kid blush and look suddenly stricken, so he put the hand more gently on his shoulder and walked with him over the nonskid that way, shouting over the deck noise, "Don't take it wrong, Soleckwe all get into slumps! Hey, how about you and me do some practice landings together sometime?" He debriefed in the det 424 ready room, which was his for the moment only because he'd borrowed one of their aircraft, and then made his way to the CAG's office. He wished, often, that he was a squadron officer againno stacks of paper, no wrangles with personalities and egos. Now that it was too late, he knew that when you were a squadron pilot, you were having the best that naval air offered; Soleck didn't know how lucky he was. What came laterrank, status, commandwere compensation for not being a young warrior with a multimillion-dollar horse and a whole sky to ride it in. "Another urgent p-comm from Al Craik, Rafe," a lieutenant-commander said as he sat down. "Same old shit 'Request immediate orders,' et cetera, et cetera." "What's the medical officer say?" "No way." "Even in nonflight-crew status?" "Negative. MO says the man 'needs to heal and overcome trauma, period, and don't ask again.' Another month, maybe." Alan Craik was a personal friend, and Rafehausen wished he could help him. Craik had been flown back to the carrier with part of one hand shot off and so much blood gone that the medics thought they'd lose him; now back in the States, he was recovered enough to be itching to return to duty. But not enough to serve. "Send Craik a message over my name: The answer is no, and don't ask again for at least two weeks." Unimak Canyon, Aleutian Archipelago. "Depth is 200 meters and steady." "Steady at 200." The Chinese captain, standing bKent, Gordon is the author of 'Hostile Contact' with ISBN 9780385336284 and ISBN 0385336284.