Final Flight by Stephen Coonts Page A

an oxygen system gripe. The
crew was current on their lowpressure chamber
training and their masks had been inspected recently.
Jelly had five hours sleep in the twenty-four
hours prior to the crash and Boomer had slept for
six. Both men had eaten within six hours of flying,
food from the wardroom that had not affected anyone
else.
    Jake sighed and tossed the report onto the
desk. He eyed Cohen. “Gimme a cigarette.”
    “I thought you were trying to quit.”
    “I am trying, asshole. But you came in here and
fumigated the joint and now I want a fucking
cigarette. So gimme one.”
    Cohen scrutinized the captain carefully. He
decided he was serious and passed one across
the desk. Jake sniffed it, then placed it in his
mouth. “Now a match.”
    “You shouldn’t do this, you know.”
    Jake glared.
    Cohen passed over his lighter. Jake lit up
and exhaled slowly, through his nose. “Keep going
On the inspection. And tell Chief Shipman
to drop in the next time you see him. I want to hear
how he’s doing too.”
    Cohen stood up.”
    “Thanks, W.” Cohen closed the door behind him
on the way out.
    Jake took another drag on the cigarette.
It tasted terrible and made him light-headed, yet
he wanted it. He held it up and stared at the
glowing red tip. I’m addicted to these fucking things,
he told himself slowly. He stubbed it out on the
inside of the gray metal trashcan, only to see
several red coals fall on down toward the
bottom, under the paper. He poured cold coffee
into the can and sloshed it around.
    Farnsworth opened the door, paused, and sniffed.
“You’ve been smoking.”
    “Eat shit and die,” Jake Grafton
snarled.
    The yeoman wasn’t fazed. “Columbus was at
sea continuously for only thirty-four days before he
landed in the West Indies. His whole first voyage,
including a few weeks in the Canary Islands,
only took sixty-two days.”
    “That quick, huh? How long have we been at sea?”
    “One hundred five days.”
    “So that’s out.”
    “Noah might be a better bet. It’s a little
confusing, but it looks like he floated around for a
hundred and fifty days. And lots of ships have
made longer voyages, sir. Maybe ol’ Noah
set the record when he did it, but he wouldn’t even
be close now. I’ll bet I could find someone who
went to sea a bosun third and came home an
admiral.”
    Down in the wastebasket half the cigarette
remained unburned, though it was slightly bent.
Jake pushed it off the paper wad where it rested and
watched it turn brown in the coffee at the bottom
of the can. “Another voyage from yesterday to the day after
tomorrow, he muttered and sat back in his chair.
“Forget it, Farnsworth. It was just an idea.
I’ll ask for the day off anyway.
    “Can you imagine ol’ Noah mucking out
under all those animals for a hundred and fifty days?
And I think I have to shovel shit around here!”
    “How about seeing if you can find me a clean
trashcan,” Jake said, nudging the offending container
with his foot.
    “sure.” “Thanks, Farnsworth.”
    A heavyset sailor wearing a filthy jersey that
had once been yellow stood against the bulkhead
outside the XO’S stateroom, facing the marine
sentry in dress blues. The marine, a
corporal, was at parade rest, his eyes fixed on
infinity. For him the sailor was beneath notice, not
worth the effort to make his eyes focus. On the
sailor’s jersey, just barely visible amid the
grease and gray pall of jet exhaust, were the words
“Cat 4 P.o.”
    “What are you doing down here, Kowalski?”
    “Uh, waiting to see the XO, CAG,” the
sailor said with an embarrassed little grin. He
held his flight deck helmet in both hands and
twisted it nervously.
    Jake nodded and spoke to the marine. “Tell the
XO I need a few minutes of his time.”
    The corporal snapped to attention, then picked
up the telephone receiver on the bulkhead and
waited until the executive officer in his
stateroom answered it. “He’ll be with you in a few
moments, sir,” the corporal said