Read Online Final Flight by Stephen Coonts - Free Book Online

Select gripes
at random and watch the troops work them off.
    See if the manuals are up to date and being
used. Check to ensure the supervisors are
supervising and the quality-control inspectors are
inspecting. Check their tool inventory program.”
    “Aye aye, sir. Do you have a deadline on this?”
    “Make progress reports from time to time. Start
with the Red Rippers, then move around at random.
    Cohen flicked a piece of lint from his khaki
trousers. “CAG, this is gonna look like
we’re trying to close the barn door after the horse
has shit and left.”
    “I don’t give a fuck how it looks.”
Jake put his elbows on the desk.
    “The troops are tired and morale is low.
Shortcuts and sloppy work become acceptable when
you’re tired. We’re going to make everyone, from
squadron skippers to wrench-turners,
absolutely aware that the job has to be done right.
We’re going to reemphasize it. We’re going
to make sure we don’t drop a plane in the
future because of sloppy maintenance.”
    “I understand.”
    “I want you guys to be visible. I want
everyone to know just exactly what you’re up to. Let
it be known that I intend to burn anyone who’s
slacking off.”
    Both men nodded.
    “Finish your night’s sleep, then get at it.
Chief, before you go back to bed, call the squadron
duty officers and tell them I want to see all the
skippers here at 0800.”
    “Yes sir.” The two men rose and left the
office, closing the door behind them. Jake
retrieved the washcloth from the sink and
rearranged his feet on the desk. In moments he was
asleep.
    Jake sat in one of the molded plastic chairs in
the sick bay area. He watched the corpsmen in their
hospital pullovers moving at their usual pace,
coffee cups in one hand and a medical record or
specimen in the other. They came randomly from one of the
eight or ten little rooms and strolled the corridor
to another. The atmosphere was hushed, unhurried,
an oasis of routine and established procedure.
    At last the door across from him opened and a sailor
came out tucking his shirttail into his bell
bottom jeans. Seconds later Lieutenant
Commander Bob Hartman stuck his head out and waved
at Jake.
    The little room had one desk and a raised examination
table. “Good afternoon, CAG. Glad you finally paid us
a visit down here in the dungeon.”
    Jake grunted. Doctor Hartman was
assigned to Jake’s staff and liked to while away
off-duty hours in the air wing office, yet whenever
anyone suggested he look at a sore throat or
toe, he told them to come to sick bay. This was his
turf.
    “Strip to skivvies and socks, please,
and take a seat on the table.” As Jake hung his
khakis on a convenient hook, the doctor pored
over the notes the corpsmen had made when they ran
Jake through the routine tests.
    At last he left his desk, arranged his
stethoscope in his ears, then held it against Jake’s
chest. “You failed the eye examination, you know.” The
doctor was about thirty-five, had a moderate
spare tire, and a world-class set of bushy
eyebrows. When he looked at you, all you saw of
him were the eyebrows. Then the nose and chin and all the
rest came slowly into focus.
    “Please cough.” Jake hacked obediently.
“Now turn and let me listen to your back.” He
thumped vigorously. “You need to quit smoking.”
    “I know.”
    “How much do you smoke?”
    “A pack or so a day.”
    “Your lungs sound clear.” Hartman turned to the
X rays on a viewing board and studied them.
“No problem there,” he said finally and came back
to Jake. “Stand up and drop your drawers.” After the
usual indignities were over and the doctor had peered
into all of Jake’s bodily orifices, he told
him to get dressed and resumed his seat at the
desk.
    “Your eyes are twenty-forty,” the doctor said as
he scribbled. — “You need glasses.”
    “ok.”
    He flipped through the medical file. “You’ve
gained ten pounds in the last ten years, but you’re still
well within the weight standards. Have