The Flying Eunuchs Part 2: Rescue

I know your life on earth was troubled
And only you could know the pain
You weren't afraid to face the devil
You were no stranger to the rain

Go rest high on that mountain
Son, you work on earth is done
Go to heaven a shoutin'
Love for the Father and Son

Oh, how we cried the day you left us
We gathered round your grave to grieve
I wish I could see the angels faces
When they hear your sweet voice sing

Go rest high on that mountain
Son, you work on earth is done
Go to heaven a shoutin'
Love for the Father and Son

Evidently that beautiful bird wasn't ready to commit suicide just yet. If the landing gear had been down it almost certainly would have struck something. That jet broke all the laws of physics and common sense, but for reasons no one will ever understand the response to Jeff’s abrupt stick handling and wing maneuver was instantaneous. The entire fuselage shuddered violently with the strain, the internal wing struts groaned loudly, but a fraction of a second later it was climbing again at a very oblique angle and an increasing steepness toward vertical as a giant explosion below told the two occupants they had hit their target. But there was still no elation; Steve was just as dead, and the only satisfaction Jeff felt was that he had sent his murderers to Glory with him so he could take it up with them personally. Now it was time for tears, and they came in a flood as his Tomcat rejoined the squadron. His headset was alive with cheers and expressions of congratulations, but he didn't hear them.

As they tightened their formation and flew back to the ship, Jeff’s mind went to Steve’s mom and dad. They had loved their son so much! They had loved Jeff so much! How on earth could he tell them? It was unthinkable to him that some Naval officer they didn’t know should appear on their doorstep and simply hand them a letter. Jeff was determined that he would be the one to tell them, and although he couldn’t do it in person he could do it easily by phone, and he knew he had to! But how? What would he say? Was this the thanks the would get for all their kindnesses to him as he grew up? Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Price. Sorry Steve hasn’t called or written lately, but you see he can’t. He’s dead! Sorry about that.

Jeff couldn’t do it! But he had to! Somehow he would have to find the strength to make that call. Coming from him it might possibly be just a little easier on them than hearing it from some stranger, or reading it on some form letter that was mass produced by the Navy, with names and dates filled in to make it look personal. Or maybe such notices were completely generic, the fact that it was hand delivered the only factor to make it personal. “I’m sorry about Lieutenant Price,” Marty’s voice came over his headset. “I know you guys were really good friends. If there’s anything I can do...”
“Yeah, thanks, Marty,” Jeff managed to reply. “I guess we all knew that could happen when we came over here.” Sure there’s something you can do,” Jeff thought to himself. [Just turn the clock back somehow and I’ll slip Steve a sleeping pill so he’ll sleep through the mission.

“We’re never prepared for this,” Marty went on. “But I don’t want you to be alone tonight, Jeff. So if it seems I’m shadowing you, I am. You’re gonna be ok, but it’ll take a little time. I don’t want to fly with anyone else, Jeff. I just want you to know I’m in line for my own plane, and I might get an offer to replace Steve, but I’m gonna turn it down if I do. I’d rather fly with you.”
“Thanks, Marty,” Steve said as he broke down again. “I appreciate that more than you know.”

As soon as Jeff had landed heavily on the deck of the carrier, half the deck crew was gathered around the plane, whistling and running their hands over the skin. When he dismounted Jeff could understand why. There were small holes everywhere; the ribs could be seen clearly where the concussion of the exploding shells had battered at the craft; there were even burn marks, so near had they been to some of the deadly shelling. A seaman came running over as soon as Jeff was on the deck. "Skipper wants to see you," he said as he saluted, "as soon as you're out of debriefing."

Of all times for the C.O. to accompany us on a mission, he had to choose today! Jeff grumbled to himself. He knew he was in a lot of trouble because they’d been told over and over not to take chances; and what Jeff had done was far beyond the category of taking chances. He had wrecked a fifty million dollar aircraft, risked his own life and the life of a fellow officer.

The debriefing, usually a jovial and happy affair, was very quiet and reserved. They had all seen Steve's plane get hit, and they had all seen the flash as the fuel in the wing caught fire. The two airmen closest to Steve’s plane said they thought they’d seen the whole plane explode, but no one could be sure because of all the smoke. And most depressing for Jeff at that moment, no one had seen Steve or his second seat eject. They all knew without being told that there was a good chance that he'd been wounded or killed when the plane was hit and had gone down with it.

The entire squadron discussed the whole affair in quiet tones, but no one could offer any shred of hope that he'd survived. They would have search planes in the air by now, listening for the tiny transponder that they all carried in their flight suits; but no one really expected to get a signal. Jeff said nothing at all, because there seemed nothing to say. When it was over, in far too short a time to his liking, he stood up mechanically and trudged half the length of the huge ship to Captain Adams' cabin. All of a sudden he was exhausted, and nothing in the world meant anything to him except sleep. He didn't really think about it until days later, but that was the first mission he'd ever returned from when he didn't feel so elated he couldn't sleep for hours no matter how tired he was.

"Lieutenant Jeff Allen reporting as ordered, Sir," he said as he saluted smartly. In the air, Captain Adams was rather informal, although he was still pretty strict; but in his quarters, having summoned one of his men, rigid discipline was the order of the day and the entire squadron knew it.

"Come in, Mr. Allen," the Captain beckoned. "I have the pleasant duty to inform you," he said stiffly, "that you're the first ace in our little group. You took out two enemy aircraft and a triple A missile installation today, all single-handedly. That was one hell of a piece of flying, Jeff!"

He should have been floating about five feet high after that compliment, but he felt and showed no emotion. "Thank you, sir." was all he could manage.

"I also have the unpleasant duty," the Captain went on, "to inform you that if I ever see you carry on like that again, I'll ground you for the rest of the fucking war! You trashed your airplane today, sailor! It'll be on the mainland in a hangar for two weeks getting put back together, that is IF we can get it to fly that far. God, I don't know what got into you! I have a son, only a year or two younger than you are, and he's still only allowed to drive the fucking family car on special occasions. And if he ever acted in the car the way you acted in that Tomcat today, he'd never get the keys again as long as he lived."
"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry. I know I went a little crazy. It won't happen again."
"You're goddam right it won't happen again. And if it does, you'll be swabbing the flight deck with a toothbrush! That's what I hate about war. We take a snot-nosed boy, slap a uniform on his back and call him a man. And we expect him to act like a man, with all the responsibility of a man. How old are you, Allen?"
"Twenty, sir."
"Jeeez! Twenty! You should still be in school! No wonder you went a little crazy, as you put it."

Jeff was on the verge of tears now, and it showed pretty plainly. "Did this have anything to do with Price getting shot down today?" he asked.
"Yes Sir, I believe it did. When I saw him get hit, and half his wing fly off in a ball of flame, I just had to get the bastards that had shot him, and it didn’t really matter if I died doing it."

"Is this the first time you've seen someone shot down?" the commander asked, a little less sternly.
"No sir, it's the third time."
"How did you react the other two times?"
"Fine, sir, as far as I know. It bothered me, but I got over it and completed the mission."
"Then why this time? What's different?"

Jeff proceeded to show him, rather than tell him, what was different. He could feel the tears start down his cheeks as they practically burned their way. "Oh, I see," the captain said pensively. "I had no idea, Allen."

Jeff was weeping openly now, and he was in his commander's arms. He had stood and faced the young Lieutenant, and he had crumbled into the arms of his Captain and was crying like a baby. "You still don't see," he sobbed. "Sir, you still have no idea."
"Don't have any idea what, Allen? What's the problem?"
"We're lovers, sir. Price and I are lovers. We're gay."

Steve and Jeff had denied to themselves and to each other any hint of anything more than devoted friendship whenever they were in uniform, but there seemed no need to continue the farce now. The captain deserved an explanation for his behavior, and he deserved the truth. He pushed Jeff away from himself now, and held him at arms' length.

"Allen, he said gravely, "do you realize what you're telling me?"
"Yes sir. I'm telling you I shouldn't be here at all."
"You're telling me more than that. You're saying you committed a federal offense to get here."
"No sir, I... we did not."

"Allen, do you remember the questionnaire you signed when you first Signed up?"
"Yes sir, and I remember the question you're referring to. We answered no, and at that time it was the truth. But things changed after that. We didn't plan it or even think about it, it just happened."

Jeff was sobbing out of control again, and Captain Adams seemed to sense he'd had all the emotion he could stand. He wrapped his arms around his young charge again and said softly, "Maybe you'd better tell me all about it, son." Son! He called me son! Jeff thought with a degree of shock. He was hysterical with grief; he was about to be kicked out of the Navy in disgrace; Steve was gone forever. There was a lot said that Jeff didn't hear at all, but he’d heard his commander, the man he admired more than anyone in the world, call him son!

They sat in the small cabin for two hours while Jeff told the captain the whole story. He related his family life and how he'd lost his dad, his mom too in many ways, when he was 12. He told about meeting Steve and how he had always admired him like a god; about university and how Steve and his folks had made it possible, and how the ROTC and Navy had fulfilled their every fantasy, and how at last he felt like more than a piece of shit. Becoming a jet pilot had renewed his faith in himself, and doing it with Steve had been beyond his wildest dreams. He told of the Saturday morning football game and how it had ended up. He told him every detail of the incident, and how they'd repeated the scene from time to time, finally pointing out that out of respect for the uniforms they loved so much, they had never so much as embraced while on duty, or even on Navy property.

By the time Jeff had finished his story he had pulled himself together, at least relatively. The captain said silently for what seemed at least a decade to Jeff while Jeff looked at him expectantly, not knowing what was coming. For the first time he really looked at Captain Adams the man, not the commander of his squad. He was, Jeff supposed, approaching fifty years old. He'd been in Vietnam, and maybe other conflicts Jeff didn't know about. He noticed for the first time what a kind gentle face the man had; at least right now he did as he sat staring into space. Have I shocked him so much he’s speechless? Jeff wondered, or was he just thinking of a way to say gently that Jeff was history on this ship? It didn't really matter to him right now; he was still numb, his every conscious thought still concentrating on that F-14 plunging earthward in flames, with no parachute blossom to show that either of its occupants had at least escaped the fiery death of the cockpit.

"I could have you mustered out," he said so suddenly it made Jeff jump. "In fact I should, after what you've told me." He paused, waiting for a reaction, but Jeff still didn't respond except for a weak “I understand, sir.”

"But I'm not going to,” the captain went on, “and I want you to understand the reasons very clearly. In the first place, you're one hell of a pilot, even if you are only a kid, and we need good pilots. You're fearless, or at least if you have any fear you hide it well; but more than that, you have the touch. An F-14 comes alive in your hands, and that's rare these days. You don’t just fly a Tomcat, you become a part of it! You and Steve are nothing short of fantastic!

“But that's not the main reason. You and Price have added a shot in the arm of just about everybody aboard, and we need that. Most of your mates are old enough to be your father, and most of us have kids about your age of our own. I've watched the other guys mothering you and spoiling you; and I've watched you respond with respect and appreciation. I've watched you two totally ignore the fact that one is white and the other black; you've done more for racial integration on this ship than all the legislation in history. And most of all, I've witnessed morale build as they watch over you like you were their own sons. In a way you are, at least temporarily while they're away from their own. You add a spark to this ship just like children add a spark to a home, and we need that, especially now that the casualties and losses are starting. And then there's the third reason, and one I may have a harder time making you understand."

He had Jeff’s full attention now, wondering what it was he wouldn't understand. He knew full well of the special relationship the two young Lieutenants had with the other squadron members. Steve and Jeff had never wanted for anything: enough to eat and drink; replacement of lost or misplaced equipment; spending money when they were broke at canteen time; candy bars and bottles of beer appearing from nowhere in their bunks, to say nothing of all the fatherly advice that only veteran flyers would know; all the things a father does for his son and more. Perhaps that's why they loved the Navy so much: because the Navy had loved them, embraced them, cared for them, and had shown it in so many intangible ways.

"I don't think that you two are gay at all," the captain continued, “at least I see no evidence of it. For God's sake, Allen, think about it! Sure, you fooled around a little more than is normal, but so what? If you were queer, you'd have done a whole lot more than kiss each other and show genuine love before now. What I just heard was a story of two pretty incredible young men, boys really, who have learned about dedication and self sacrifice. You've never had anyone to love in your life, so you put all your affection into the one who returned it.

“Oh, it's a love affair all right, but that doesn't make it homosexual. It's pretty unusual, but it's not perverted. Damn it, man, it's wholesome and good, and something to be proud of! I know I'm certainly proud of you, and not just because you're darned good airmen. When one of you needed help, the other was always there. Always! Whether it was one being beaten up, or needing money, or a surrogate family, the other was always there to fill the gap whatever the cost.

“That doesn't make you gay, that just proves you're a lot more mature than your years. And we already know that, else you wouldn't be flying around the Gulf shooting at Iraqi's. God, I shudder to think of my son flying an F-14. No one in the Middle East would be safe! And the fact that you gave up your emotional demonstrations because the Navy told you it wasn't acceptable, well, that proves to me that they were just that: emotional outbursts. I've spent a lot of time on ships the last thirty years, Jeff, and I know for a fact that you're not the first to do such things; only many times it goes a lot further. And when the ship goes into port, those same men are ashore in a flash, banging the first chick that spreads her legs. Nope, I don't think you're gay at all, or perhaps more accurately you don’t have enough information yet to know for sure. But just the same, I need to get a promise from you, assuming you want to stay aboard."

"Yes, sir, I do."
"Do you know why?"
"No sir, I don't. Except that I like to finish what I've started and I love the Navy. I’ve been told I have a gift, and I believe in using my natural abilities."
“And if we don’t find Steve Price?”
“I still have a job to do here, sir. Perhaps if Steve is really gone, that job just got more important to me.”

"Fine. So I want you to promise me that there'll be no more such activities on this ship, or even thoughts about them. And when we get to port, IF we get to port, you're to go find a girl and have a good time. I mean a REALLY good time. You have been laid before, haven't you?"
"Well, sir, that is..."
"Oh, my God! I've got a virgin ace pilot! And Price?"
"Yes, sir, him too."
“Please don’t tell me you’ve never masturbated,” the astonished captain pleaded.
“Well, sir...” Jeff stammered as his face flushed crimson.
“At least that’s something,” he said with relief. “Have you and Price...”
“No sir! Never!”

It was written all over his face that the captain wasn't sure he should believe what he’d just been told, but being in the Navy, twenty years old and never been laid was definitely not the sort of thing you admit to your commanding officer if it isn't true. On the other hand, both the young pilots were so incredibly handsome it was difficult to conceive of their not having to into some girl’s pants, or some boy’s, each other’s, someone! So he asked again about the promises he wanted.

"The first part's easy, sir,” Jeff replied. “In the first place, as I told you, there hasn't been anything going on on the ship anyway. And besides," he started to cry again, then forced himself to stop and cleared his throat as he choked on the words, "Steve's gone. I have no interest that way in anyone else."

"Don't say that, son. He's not gone till we say he's gone, and we haven't said it yet. You'd be amazed at some of the things I've seen. We’ve got a recon plane in the air already searching for him."

"I saw it, sir! Half his wing came off, the bird was on fire, and there was no parachute. He couldn't possibly..."
"Don't say that, Lieutenant! Steve Price is a good pilot, and more important, he's one of our squadron. It isn't over till it's over."

To be addressed by one's rank in that manner was, Jeff knew, a form of rebuttal. But to him it was like being crowned king. He was so proud of his rank he loved to hear it, wore it like a medal of honor, even when being cut down by a superior! "Yes sir," he answered. He knew there was no point in arguing, just as surely as he knew Steve wasn't coming back.
"Anyway, Price or no Price, do we have a deal?" the captain asked again.
"Yes, sir," Jeff said as he again remembered his place and snapped to attention. He knew the meeting was over, so he saluted and left, saying in his Sunday-best formal tone before he wheeled, "And thank you, sir."
"You're welcome, son." was the kindly reply; then they were again flyer and commander.

Jeff missed the next two missions because his plane had been flown to land base in Bahrain for extensive repairs, and its replacement hadn't arrived. He stood on the deck and watched them go, wishing he could have his brother Mike with him. Mike was all he had now and he ached to see him, to tell him how important he was to him, how much he needed him. It’s entirely possible there aren't a dozen sets of brothers in the entire world as dedicated as Jeff and Mike, and it usually felt good, except for times like these when they needed each other but couldn't be together. Jeff pictured him back in the states, going to school happily, flirting with one of his many girl friends, blowing them away on the basketball courts. He would be destroyed, Jeff knew, if he knew Steve was gone. And he would know soon enough; but for now it was better that he couldn't get in touch with him.

The first Steve Price knew that he was in trouble was when his Tomcat shook violently, then veered off course. He tried to correct, but the stick would not respond. There were so many alarms and warning lights in the cockpit he didn’t know which needed his attention first. Out of the corner of his left eye he saw the flare of his wing tank bursting into flames, then felt another violent lurch as a good part of the port wing came off and went spinning away crazily. Suddenly the cockpit was full of smoke and flames. “Eject!” he screamed at his second seat, but Dennis did not respond. He glanced in the tiny mirror above his head, and he knew the man was dead. He had already lost two thousand feet and his descent was increasing rapidly as the entire plane shook violently, so he did what he had been trained to do.

“The best friend a pilot has when he’s in trouble is air,” the trainer had told his students. “Tomcats are fast, high flying airplanes, so your best friends are speed and altitude. Keep it moving and keep it up! You need at least three thousand feet to eject safely, and you need room to maneuver. As long as you have altitude, and speed, you have a chance to pick your landing, ditching, or site of ejection.” So with that lecture in mind, Steve pushed the throttles all the way forward and fought the sluggish controls to get his plane headed east. There was so much smoke both in and out of the cockpit he couldn’t see a thing, not that there was that much to see anyway. He tried to call his buddies but the radio was dead. He knew he’d never make it back to the carrier and couldn’t land anyway with half his port wing gone and the controls not working, so he concentrated on keeping the plane in the air until he could find a safe place to ditch. He could hardly see for all the smoke, so he opened the canopy, which immediately caught the wind and blew off. At least now he had clean air.

Jeff was turning to leave the flight deck, planning to start writing the letter he was going to have to write to Steve's folks, when one of the deck hands yelled "Tomcats coming in!" He hesitated a few minutes longer, and soon two shiny new F-14's were sitting on the deck being admired by all hands. Well, in all honesty they weren’t new, but they had just been completely refitted, had newer, more powerful engines installed and a fresh paint job including Jeff’s squadron insignia, so they sure looked new.

At first Jeff wondered about them. "Two?" he questioned, then he remembered. His plane had gone to Bahrain for repairs and wouldn’t be back on the flight deck any time soon, and Steve's was... was lost. Now he had to leave the flight deck because the tears were threatening again. He knew he'd be the envy of the ship in his gleaming new jet, but it held no satisfaction for Jeff. He would gladly have traded every plane on the fucking ship if he could have Steve step out of one of them just one more time. "If that happened," he said to himself, "I'd never fly again, and neither would Steve." So he went back to his cabin, but he didn't write the letter or even think about the phone call he’d have to make soon. He just lay on his bunk and wept.

It was approaching four days after he'd landed in his crippled bird that Jeff mounted the sleek new one and headed westward with a fresh load of bombs. He felt somewhat like a traitor, abandoning the plane that had got him back safely, but that's not unusual. That's why, in the Second World War, pilots named their aircraft; it was that bond that often got pilots home. And Jeff was assured he hadn't seen the last of her. The run was successful, although he got little joy from it. They met a little resistance from the ground, but there were no enemy planes to contend with. Within a few hours the squadron was heading home, having delivered their load, all their air to air missiles still in their brackets. The other three squad members noticed that Jeff wasn't his usual bright, laughing self in the air, but he had operated efficiently and cooperatively, so they let it go.

As they were in open water over the gulf, Steve's image again appeared in Jeff’s heads up display. "Jeff," the image said as his eyes looked into his friend’s pleadingly, "I'm gettin' awful tired. Help me, Jeff! I don’t know how much longer I can hold on." The exchange so frightened the young pilot he started to veer out of formation.

"Allen! Are you okay?" It was his radio crackling to life that brought him out of his trance-like state.
"I'm fine," Jeff answered. "Sorry about that... I guess my mind was wandering."

As soon as he had touched down and dismounted Jeff ordered the F-14 refueled, and he was knocking on Captain Adams' door, still in his flight suit. It was still five a.m. and he was, of course, still asleep. A very sleepy, older than normal looking captain appeared at the door in his skivvies and ushered the young pilot in. "Allen, what the hell..."

"Sorry to wake you, sir, but it's Steve..."
"Price? What about him?"
"He's alive, sir, and in the water. Requesting permission to do a sweep of the gulf."

"Permission denied, sailor. We've got rescue crews, you know. Besides, it's been four days. If he's in the water, we'd have found him. What the hell makes you think he's in the water anyway? He was hundreds of miles from the Gulf when he was hit."

To Jeff, it was as if he'd done a total role switch with his commander. Two days ago he was telling Jeff not to give up hope; and now that he was indeed more hopeful, the captain was telling him things didn't look good at all.

"He made connection with me, sir. I know he's there," Jeff pleaded desperately.
"Connection? You mean his transponder? But no one else..."
"Not the transponder, sir, he doesn't need one. I told you how he'd appeared when I was in that dive; well, he appeared again when we were returning from the mission."

Captain Adams sat on the edge of his bed, still in his shorts, and mulled the thought over in his mind. "What you're telling me," he said, "is that you two have some sort of telepathy or something?"
"I guess I am, sir. I'd never thought of it before, but I guess that's what it is."

Jeff then related other incidents when they were apart but needed each other's help, and the required help was always forthcoming. Captain Adams had seen a lot of action, both in peacetime and wartime, and he'd heard of such things before. "All right," he said finally. "We'll assemble a squad and take off at first light."
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I think a lone plane before light would be better. There's not as much chance of being seen, and Steve will know it's me. If I'm lucky and fly over him, we'll connect again."

Another thoughtful pause. "All right, Jeff. But I want that plane armed to the fuckin' teeth, and I want you to watch for bandits."

Jeff could no longer contain his excitement. He felt for all the world like a teenager asking for the car to go on an important date, and he regarded his commander as the benevolent father who'd just understood and granted his request. For a brief moment he forgot who he was and where they were. He wanted to hug him; he wanted to kiss him, but he hadn't forgotten his place quite that completely. "Thanks, Dad... er... thank you, sir," he blurted out. He figured he was in real trouble for that emotional outburst that had come so naturally, but the look on Captain Adams' face told Jeff he had been moved. "Okay, son," he said, and Jeff caught a hint of emotion in his voice. "And you be careful, 'cause we need you back here."
"Aye aye, sir," he returned smartly as he snapped to attention, saluted and wheeled. As he was leaving the captain swatted his behind the way he would a small boy who'd just been sent to the store for a loaf of bread.

"You taking off again already? Alone?" the curious seaman inquired.
"That's right,” Jeff said as he finished fastening his parachute harness. “Is she fueled and armed?"

He knew it was, but he had to check. "Yes, sir, ready to go,” the seaman answered. Jeff judged the young sailor to be about his own age. “But where you going, and who's goin' with you, sir?" the seaman inquired.
"Special mission, and I'm going alone,” Jeff replied. Without further exchange, he was aboard in minutes and roaring off the deck once more. The feeling of elation was back as the powerful catapult, in harmony with the Tomcat’s roaring engines, practically threw the plane into the air. Jeff flew low and slow, flaps fully extended, the engine roaring loudly to overcome the increased drag of the flaps. Good! he thought. The added noise will wake him up if he happens to be asleep. Then he concentrated on making a telepathic connection. It wasn’t the sort of thing they’d ever been able to turn on and off at will, but he had to try. He formed and image of Steve in his mind and concentrated on the image, saying over and over that he was coming.

The sun was peeking over the horizon and Jeff was about to give up and head back to the carrier. He was cursing at himself for being so stupid. All that telepathy was just so much malarky, and everyone knew it! He had seen Steve get hit, had seen his plane enveloped in flames! He was grabbing at straws; allowing his grief stricken mind to control his better judgment! He had just finished a wide turn, then increased the throttles to climb to a more comfortable altitude when he heard the voice. It was pleasant and cheerful, but it was desperate. "If that's you, Jeff," it said, "where the hell have you been? I'm gettin' tired of holding onto this log."

He scanned the water, but saw nothing. He circled, telling Steve in his mind that he couldn't see him. Again the voice:

"East, Jeff. Go east. I can see you."

Jeff obeyed, lowering to two hundred feet above the water and throttling back until he was close to stall speed, and then he saw the spot. To his horror, it was on the very edge of a gigantic oil slick that the Iraqi’s had released from shore. "I see, you, Steve," he screamed. "I see you. Hold on, buddy, and I'll get a chopper." He got on the radio and called for rescue as he pulled up to a more comfortable altitude. He gave his coordinates and told them to hurry, that he had a lone survivor in the water. He knew that if that oil slick caught fire, Steve would be incinerated and there was nothing anyone could do about it. The nearest chopper was on a destroyer about thirty miles away, so Jeff circled until it appeared. When they'd seen him, he thanked them and headed for the carrier, which was headed to meet him.

Jeff had landed and his plane was stowed when he heard the cry: "Chopper coming in!" That's a familiar call on an aircraft carrier but this one, of course, was special. Jeff was sure he'd communicated with Steve; but still, it sounded so fantastic; it was too good to be true, he knew; yet that communication was so clear! It was even clearer and more real than the radio in his plane. Now he was about to find out for sure, and he had a horrible feeling that he was full of shit, that he had wanted this so bad he had imagined it.

As the big wiener looking machine with two rotors approached, Jeff noticed that it was a Marine rescue helicopter. As he watched it settle gently on the deck, he found he couldn't watch. He turned away to wait below when the hailer called: "Lieutenant Allen, report to the bridge." Not unusual, he had just returned and had not reported to anyone. They obviously wanted to know what he'd done, where he'd been, and if he'd been successful. They knew he’d found someone, but no one knew, not even Jeff, if it was Steve.

Jeff never got to the bridge. As he ascended the ladder, he was met by the ship's Captain himself. "You'd better get over to that chopper," the man said curtly. "There's someone on it asking for you."

Jeff didn't salute, didn't acknowledge his presence or his remarks, but he literally flew down the ladder and over to the chopper just as the door opened and there was Steve! He was on a stretcher, looking for once in his life like supreme hell, and fighting to get off the stretcher.

"No Goddam way are you keeping me horizontal," he was yelling. "I left this tin bucket on my feet, and I'll return the same way." Then he was grinning at Jeff.

"We fished him outta the Gulf, sir," a marine told Jeff. "He spent four nights in the water. He’s dehydrated and half starved, but he'll be all right soon as he gets something to eat and a little sleep." Jeff noticed that they had already started an IV to replenish some of the fluids Steve had lost.
"God, you look awful," Jeff said to his buddy with a grin; no, it was more than a grin. Jeff was as giddy as a school girl and so humbled he could hardly stand. He had believed with all his being that he’d never see Steve’s beautiful face again!
"Sorry I can't say the same for you," Steve answered in a whisper, which was all he was capable of. "You're the most beautiful sight I've seen in a long time."

"That's the most fantastic thing I've ever heard of!" Captain Adams was saying. It was three hours later, Steve was in sick bay complaining like hell because they wouldn't let him out of bed, and the Captain and Jeff were in an informal meeting in the Captain’s cabin. Jeff had not spoken with Steve except for the brief encounter on the flight deck, but Captain Adams had, of course. "I thought I told you," he accused, "to keep that telepathy stuff between us."
"I did, sir," Jeff replied innocently. "I haven't even spoken to Steve, except for a brief moment at the chopper."

It seems that Steve knew that Jeff was now an ace; he knew about the dive which should have resulted in his friend’s demise; he knew about the plane that had had to be replaced it was so badly damaged, and he knew it had been Jeff circling over him, directing the chopper. "Are you sure," the captain was saying, "that you didn't tell him?"
"I'm positive, sir," Jeff said in disbelief. "I only spoke with him for about ten seconds at the chopper, and they haven't allowed me to see him since."

If the two kids in the midst of all those veterans had been special before, they were extra special now. "It seems," Adams remarked, "we have a secret weapon here. But I want it kept a secret." Jeff agreed readily, but he wasn't sure why.

Next morning Steve was transferred to a field hospital in Bahrain; a Canadian field hospital! He hadn't been gone more than two hours when Jeff was again summoned to Adams' cabin. "I want you to take that new F-14 of yours to land base," he ordered, "to meet with Admiral O'Blenis. And take your dress blues."

Jeff wanted to ask why, but that's not the sort of thing one asks when being summoned by top brass. But no matter, Adams told him anyway. "I’m afraid," he explained, "that you’ve had the misfortune of having O'Blenis standing and watching on the tarmac when your trashed plane came in, and he wanted to know what happened to it. I don't know how much trouble you're in, but don't make it worse by lying. Tell him the whole truth, just as it happened, and maybe you'll be all right. Do you want me to go too?"

Jeff said no, that he'd face whatever was coming his way. He did want him to go desperately, but he knew the captain would be more impressed if he faced his own music. Soon a very nervous kid was again blasting off the carrier in his new Tomcat. The deck crew were getting wise to his kid now. They had passed the word that the “kid pilot’s” jet was to be fueled and ready at all times.

"Lieutenant Jeff Allen reporting as ordered, sir," Jeff said snappily to the Admiral behind the desk. He was still in his flight suit, having been told he had no time to change, and the Admiral wouldn't appreciate being kept waiting just so he could change his clothes and look pretty. He had never met an Admiral face to face before, and his age and inexperience had done him in. He was so nervous his voice was cracking, causing the man before him to remark with a smirk, "They told me you were young, but they didn't prepare me for a boy soprano, a kid who doesn't even have hair on his balls yet!"

The comment so disarmed the young flier he did something he never would have dreamed of doing had he given it any thought. He didn't know why he did it; probably he was so nervous he wasn't thinking straight, but he assured the Admiral, with due respect of course, that he had plenty of hair on his balls. After he realized what he had said, he expected a firing squad to come from nowhere and riddle him with bullets; but instead the admiral laughed heartily. The ice was broken, and although Jeff was no less nervous, he knew now that the man was at least human. "Well," he said, "at ease, hairy balls." Jeff relaxed slightly, but still stood rigidly, unable to move. "I said relax, sailor. That means you can breathe again, and even sit down if you like." Jeff obeyed, thanking him.

"I understand," the Admiral began, "that you're given to stunt flying?"
"No, sir, I'm not,” Jeff replied haltingly. “But I guess you could say I believe in pushing my plane to the limit."
"And far beyond, if what I saw in the hangar is any indication. How the hell did you get it home anyway?"
"Home sir? That was the easy part. It was getting out of that dive that I found a little testy."
"I should think so! But you mean you had no trouble landing on the carrier?"
"No, sir, not really. She handled a little rough and sluggish, I hit the deck a little harder than I like to, but it was no problem really."

There was a long pause, and then the admiral said, "I spoke to the man that brought her to the mainland, and he told me it took all the runway we had to get landed, and then he wasn't sure he'd get stopped. He said he could not understand how you ever landed that bird on a carrier deck. How long have you been flying Tomcats, sailor?"

It’s doubtful that the admiral knew it, but his calling Jeff "sailor" was like pinning a medal on his chest; better, in fact.
"Not quite two years since I first went to flight school, sir."
"And before that? Where did you have private lessons, and what plane did you train on?"
"I didn't, sir. The Navy taught me to fly, and I guess I just took to it."
"I guess you did; and your buddy too. I understand that he flew his plane, on fire with half a wing missing, three hundred miles so he could ditch in the water."
"That's right, sir. I haven't spoken to him long enough to get all the details, but as far as I can tell, he just pushed it wide open and made the best of the power and altitude he had. His stick wasn’t working that well, so he controlled direction by varying the throttles on the twin engines."

Another long pause, then more questions: "You're an ROTC student, is that right?"
"Yes sir."
"And nineteen years old?"
"Twenty, sir."
"A student in good standing?"
"Yes sir."
"Then what the hell are you doing over here being shot at by men old enough to be your father?"

"I volunteered, sir. Steve... er... Lieutenant Price and I wanted to do our part because the U.S. and the Navy have been good to us, and we saw this as a chance to repay some of the good."
"By trashing our planes?" (With a friendly grin)
"Not exactly, sir. I also trashed two Iraqi planes and a triple-A installation."
"Yes, so I understand. But that dive of yours! You know you asked far more of that bird than it was designed to give."
"Yes sir, and I realize now that it was stupid. But in the plane's defense, she performed beautifully. I love that Tomcat, sir."
"Well, why don't you tell me about it, in detail? I want to know exactly what you did, and how the bird performed, in as much detail as you can remember."

Jeff began by explaining how he'd just sort of lost his head with rage, and as a result he wasn't sure how much detail he could remember; but when he started describing the incident, he found he could remember every detail, every instrument reading, every shudder and reaction the airframe gave as it plummeted toward the ground. By way of explanation he described the friendship Steve and he had always had, so that when Jeff thought his best friend had just been killed, he just went ballistic. The admiral listened intently, interrupting once so that a recorder could be brought in and set up. When Jeff had finished his account of the incident, the admiral sat silently for several minutes.

"And then," he said presently, "you went back and found Lieutenant Price when the rescue squads failed?"
"Yes sir, but please don’t blame them. They were just looking in the wrong place."
"But you knew exactly where to look?"
"Not at first, sir. But I kinda knew Steve was in the water somewhere, not in the desert where everyone thought he was."
"Lieutenant, is there something about your relationship you're not telling me?"

Jeff’s defenses, which had started to come down, were back up in full force. He figured the admiral was talking about what he'd told Captain Adams, but Adams had sworn them both to secrecy about that, and had even begun to convince him that there was a good chance the two young Lieutenants were wrong anyway. "I'm not sure what you mean, sir," Jeff said defensively, hoping to avoid the question.

"I think you know exactly what I mean. First, you fly into a rage when your friend's been hit; then you pull out of a dive that no one should have been able to recover from after being told to do so by your buddy; then four days later when the search crews are about to give up, you suddenly decide your dead friend's not dead after all, and you fly directly to where he is, over three hundred miles from where he was shot down. I think," he said with his eyes glued to Jeff’s, "that you two are a whole lot closer than just friends."

Jeff still thought his admiral was accusing him and Steve of being lovers, but still he avoided the issue. "If you mean, we're related in some way," he replied, "no sir, we're not. We've been very good friends since we were six, but we're definitely not related. Sometimes I wish we were, but we're not."
"I don't mean that kind of close, and I think you know it. I mean, I think you communicated somehow."
"Oh, that!"
"What do you mean, oh that?"
"We call it our connection, sir. Whenever one of us needs to say something to the other really badly, we seem to be able to get a message through somehow. I don't understand it, didn't even believe it till this happened, but it's happened before."

Jeff was so relieved that the good admiral was talking about something other than what he'd thought, he spilled the whole story. Like Captain Adams, O'Blenis had seen a lot of action and a lot of inter-actions; so the concept was not alien to him. "I've heard of this sort of thing," he mused, "but I've never witnessed it first-hand. Please tell me more."

Like he’d done with his commander, Jeff told him of similar incidents when he and Steve always seemed to be in sync; he told of how Steve had known all about his crazy dive and the two bandit planes he'd shot down, before anyone had a chance to tell him. And the most incredible part of all, how Steve and he had carried on a conversation of sorts while he was in the F-14 at two thousand feet, while Steve was half drowned in the Persian Gulf. "I don't understand it," he repeated, "but it seems to be there, and the weirdest part of all is, we don't have any control over it. It seems to come and go, and it usually comes when we need it."

He explained that he and Steve had played a fair bit of poker on the ship, and their "connection" hadn't helped them a bit in that endeavor. "And it's a good thing too," the Admiral commented with a grin, "or you might have gotten yourself lynched!"

"But you still haven't told me," he said to change the subject, "what you're doing here in the first place. Or for that matter, how you got into ROTC at all. Why the hell didn't you just stay in school where it's safe?"

Jeff was talking much more easily now, again attaching himself to this relative stranger as he'd done with Adams. "We love to fly," he answered, "and we're good at it. So when the reserves started being called up, we thought it only right that we pay back some of the investment the Navy had put into us, and have a lot of fun in the process." The admiral seemed to want more, and Jeff was feeling easier by the minute, so he continued. "And besides, sir, this is the first thing I've ever done in my life that I thought I was good enough to really make a difference. I guess it's selfish of me, but I had to come, sir. We begged to come. We're single and have no families, so it just made sense to us that maybe there are two flyers somewhere that stayed with their families because we came over here."
"So in a way, you and the Navy are filling each other's needs."
"Yes, sir, I guess that's true."

There was another long pause while the Admiral searched the young pilot with his eyes. Then he took out a piece of paper and started scribbling. "I'm going to have you reassigned," he announced. "Ever think you'd like to be a test pilot?"

That was an honor and Jeff knew it, but it didn't feel like an honor just now. His emotions flooded over him like a blanket, and he wanted to cry. An ace fighter pilot in the presence of one of the top brass, and Jeff was on the verge of tears! The Admiral looked at him incredulously. "I'm sorry, sir," Jeff mumbled. "I know I'm being unmilitary and unprofessional, but please, sir, they need Steve and me on that carrier, and we need them. And it's not just our flying they need. They need US!"
"We're running a war here, not a kindergarten, sailor. And if I say you're going back to the States, then that's where you're going."

Jeff knew he had annoyed the man, but he didn't care now. He was running on adrenaline, just as he’d done in that dive, and that had turned out all right. This scene was no less scary to Jeff, but he had been convinced his place was here, in the seat of a Tomcat. "Sir, with all due respect, that's exactly my point. I'll admit I get pretty emotional, but it has nothing to do with my age. I'm a very good pilot and so is Lieutenant Price, and I think you'll find our mates will back us up. We carry our weight and more in some cases, and I've learned my lesson. I know I shouldn't have taken that chance and it won't happen again. When I'm in that jet, I'm not a twenty year old kid, I'm a pilot. Sir."

Another of the now familiar pauses. "How does Lieutenant Price feel about it?"
"I guess you should ask him, sir, but I'm pretty sure he'll tell you the same thing."
Even after having been shot down and spending four days in the water?”
“Yes sir. As I said, I don’t want to speak for him, but I will be surprised if he wants to go home before this thing is done.”

"You're a kid, Lieutenant! A kid who has no business doing a man's job. We have no right to ask it of you."
"No sir, I'm not. I had to grow up eight years ago when my dad died; longer ago really. Yes, I lean on the other men for emotional support, but they lean on me too. They just hide it better, that's all. And what about all the 18-year-old foot soldiers? No one makes any apology to them. A lot of them die on the ground, so I fail to see the difference. This is what we were born to do, sir! This is our calling!"
"Something tells me I still don't know the whole story."

Jeff admitted that he was right, and then he told him everything, in explicit details. He told him what he and Steve had believed and why, and that Adams had convinced him it wasn't true, that they had just got caught up their devotion, and that they'd come out of it all right if they'd just give themselves a chance. He told him that he loved Steve incredibly, but Adams had convinced him that it wasn't something to be ashamed of, but something to be proud of. "But," the Admiral asked, "what does your family think of you being over here so young, and your education being put on hold?"
"My parents aren’t really an issue," Jeff said. "My mom and I kinda drifted apart after my dad died, and last I heard she had a new boy friend and is planning on getting married, and I can live with that. My brother is at home and can hardly wait till he's old enough to join up too; in the meantime he's still in school and I'm supporting him; Steve's parents aren't too thrilled with us being shot at, but they respect our reasons and our decisions. Steve’s parents are awesome people, sir, just like Steve is."
"And what do you think of killing people, maybe being killed yourself?"
"I guess that's the advantage of being thirty thousand feet up: we don't see the death, so we don't have to deal with it directly. And as far as my being killed, that's the chance I take and I'm willing. It kinda comes with the territory. I had a lot of trouble dealing with Steve when I thought he was dead, but I got through it. We all know the risks, sir."
"So you'd rather stay on the carrier?"
"Yes, sir! More than anything, sir."

It was over three hours when Steve finally emerged from the small office, totally and completely drained. He had been given three days leave, after which Steve and he were to rejoin the carrier if they still wanted to. And if not, they were to go back to the States where they would go back to school, Navy school, where they'd be trained as test pilots. Jeff made a bee-line for the field hospital and Steve."I heard you were in town," Steve said brightly when Jeff walked in. "Too bad you can't take time to visit a comrade when you drop by." Steve was up now and getting dressed. He still looked rather weak, but he'd already been given a clean bill of health, except that Jeff immediately noticed the plastic tube coming down the leg of his boxers and into a plastic bag filled with a yellow liquid. "They wanted to give me a week or two liberty," he announced, "but I said no, that I was already behind in my duties. So we settled for three days. Wanna go to Africa for a party?"

“If you’re so damned healthy, what are you doing with a catheter?” Steve demanded, ignoring the offer to go off on liberty.
“That’s nothing,” Steve shrugged. “I was in that oil so long it kinda burned into the skin and fried my groin pretty well. It hurt like holy fuckin’ fury to pee for a few days, so they put the catheter in to give it time to heal.”
“And that’s all?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t believe you,” Jeff accused. The connection between the two had never been stronger. He knew there was something Steve wasn’t telling him.

Steve sighed and laid back on his bed. He had his shirt and boxers on, but he had to wait for someone to come in to take the catheter out before he could finish getting dressed. “It’s nothin’ to worry about,” he said evasively.
“What, Steve? You know I’m not gonna let it go, so you might as well tell me. What’s goin’ on?”

“It’s my balls,” Steve said with another sigh. “My balls and my dick. They got fried pretty good bein’ in that oil so long. The doctor thinks I got a good dose of oil in the crotch of my pants, so it just sat there all that time and fried away at my stuff. The doctor just doesn’t know if they’re gonna recover or not.”
“Your... your balls?”
“Yeah, they’re pretty messed up. Everything down there is. I’d show you but they’re all bandaged.”
“So when will you know? I mean, how long before you know if they’re gonna be all right?”
“A week or two, doc says.”
“And if they’re not? What happens if they don’t get better?”
“Doc says they’ll have to come off.”
“Jesus! What then?”
“Then I’ll be a eunuch I guess.”

To be continued...