“Those things are not important,” he said. He didn’t want to talk about Motoko. He felt like he was betraying her as well as Libby by having her dragged into the conversation.
“It’s important to me!”
Kojiro sighed. “Her name is Motoko Hashizume. She is twenty-four years old and lives in Ishiyama with her parents. She is not beautiful and I do not love her.”
“Then why are you going to marry her, Kojiro? When you and I … ” Libby didn’t bother to finish her sentence. She wandered over to the statue of Jizo and stared listlessly at the debris of offerings.
Kojiro followed her, desperate to explain, to make her understand. “In Japan a person is obligated to do what others expect of him. His parents, his teachers, his employers. He is not always free to choose the things he most desires. I know it is hard for you to understand … . If I had not met you I would have accepted my obligations without question, and I would have been content. I don’t want to marry Motoko. But it is what my parents expect. What General Sato expects. A nice Japanese girl from a good family.
“You do not understand our ways, Libby,” he continued, as if he were trying to convince himself, more than her, of the wisdom of his decision. “You would not be happy living in Japan or wish to give up your career. I would be doing you a greater injustice than I have already done, if I made you believe that we had a future together.
“I will marry Motoko and we will get along, even if we do not feel for one another the way you and I … it is the way things are,” he said sharply. “I must accept them.”
“And if you don’t?” It was a rhetorical question. Of course he would. He already had. Kojiro was prepared to give her up and spend the rest of his life with a woman he didn’t love. She had gambled and lost. The culture had defeated her.
“Have you told her about me?” Libby asked.
“I, I could not,” he said, his head bowed in shame. “I would not.”
“I suppose there wouldn’t be much point in destroying her romantic illusions about her handsome fiancé.”
“I can assure you, Libby, she does not have any ‘romantic illusions’ about me. We hardly know one another. Motoko agreed to meet me because she liked my picture. And she agreed to the marriage for the same reasons I did, because our parents wanted it, because it was timely and convenient. Not because she loves me.”
“And just when is this happy event going to take place?”
“In three weeks.”
“So soon?” She said in astonishment.
Libby remembered the way Kojiro had looked when he gave her the pearls, his dark eyes shining with devotion and tenderness. The wedding plans must have been made by then, all the last-minute details ironed out between the families, betrothal gifts exchanged.
“The pearls,” she said. “Are they compensation for the loss of my lover?”
“Libby!” His face blanched white and he knotted his fists in anger.
“You can have them back. I don’t want them. Give them to, to … ” Libby couldn’t even remember her rival’s name. “To your wife.
“I gave you my trust and my love, Kojiro, without any conditions attached. I don’t expect any recompense for your betrayal.”
BE not displeased, but pardon me,
If still my tears o’erflow;
My lover’s gone, and my good name,
Which once I valued so,
I fear must also go.
Sagami
Chapter Ten
Libby was not herself. Everyone in the squadron noticed it. She rarely smiled, went home right after work and holed up every night in her apartment. Alone. Charlie figured it must have something to do with her Japanese boyfriend but he had no intention of making himself miserable over that particular issue again. Libby was a big girl. She could handle her own affairs without good old Charlie butting in.
Colonel Long noticed that Captain Comerford seemed a bit down, but as her flying did not appear to be affected, he left her alone to sort out her problems. Assuming her doldrums had something to do with the major from the Samurai Squadron, he surmised she had taken his advice and broken up with the man. Libby was too intelligent to let an inappropriate relationship jeopardize her career.
In light of how things turned out, Libby was surprised that she had. When she tried to think back objectively about the affair with Kojiro, she was shocked by the things she had done. What was it about him that she had found so attractive? She had dated other good-looking men. Charlie was gorgeous — tall, blonde, blue-eyed. All the girls loved Charlie. She loved Charlie but never in the reckless, compelling way she loved Kojiro Yoshida. The first time he kissed her — under the roof of that roadside shrine — she was lost, her judgment, discretion, common sense obliterated by one mindless, erotic kiss. It was madness.
It wasn’t so easy to be objective about Sapporo when she remembered the weekend in the dreary hotel making love to Kojiro. They were so consumed with one another they lost track of time, sleeping, waking, making love all hours of the day and night, rarely leaving their room or taking the time to eat.
Six months ago, if someone had told her that she would let some man grope her on a crowded subway train, she would have been horrified. But at the time, it had been exciting. Kojiro was so proper and dignified when he was out in public she couldn’t believe he would suggest such a thing, let alone go through with it. They had run from the subway station to the hotel they were both so aroused by the time they reached their destination. She hadn’t even had time to take off her coat when they got to the room.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” she had laughed, she was so impatient and needy. She wanted to feel him thrusting deep inside her, devouring her with his kisses … .
Her body yearned for him still. Her anger and hurt had not translated to her heart. It spoke a different language. It yearned for fulfillment, for love. It didn’t understand why she wept.
But however devastated Libby was by Kojiro’s betrayal, she was confident that she would eventually recover and be a much wiser, if not stronger, person as a result. She had learned a great deal about herself — that she was not as independent or self-sufficient as she had believed. She had discovered vulnerabilities which she had refused to recognize.
Libby lived in a man’s world, worked alongside them, flew with them, competed against them. The greatest lesson falling in love with Kojiro had taught her was that she was not one of them.
“Captain Comerford, you’re just the person I’m looking for.” Major Petrowski, on duty behind the operations desk, looked up and smiled when Libby walked into the squadron after lunch. Despite the tenuous accord the two officers had reached, he still managed to make the most innocuous statement sound either menacing or patronizing.
“What have I done now, sir?” Libby asked, expecting to be taken to task for some minor omission.
“Ah, it’s not what you’ve done; it’s what you’ve failed to do.” He glanced at the computer print-out in front of him. “You need one more GCA this half-year. The two-seater is on the schedule and Charlie is taking it out to practice some air-to-air with Mike Phipps. You can ride in the ‘pit’ and get your instrument approach on the way back. Unless you have something more pressing on your agenda,” he added. “A hair appointment or … ”
“It was canceled,” she retorted. “Put me down on the schedule. It beats hanging around here.”
The F-16 was a single-seat fighter. But every squadron had a few two-seat models for training and instrument checks and they were rotated on the flying schedule, along with the other aircraft. Although fighter pilots preferred to fly alone, they rarely passed up any opportunity to fly, even if it meant riding in the backseat. Spending the afternoon in air-to-air combat — pitting their skill and experience against one another in mock dog-fights twenty thousand feet above the earth — was what bei
ng a fighter pilot was all about. Libby could hardly wait.
Air-to-air combat required, not only quick reactions and keen eyesight, but tremendous strength and physical endurance. For during the sixty-or-so-odd minutes the pilots were airborne, they were constantly turning, or climbing, or diving at supersonic speeds. The G force on their bodies would have been intolerable if it wasn’t for the G-suit squeezing their abdomen and legs, forcing the blood back up to their brains so they wouldn’t pass out. Above four G’s, extra pressure from the oxygen mask forced air into the lungs, which had to be neutralized by inflating the positive pressure vest. Their bodies felt like they were in a vise. Their muscles ached; their arms were lead weights. They grunted, and sweated like weightlifters. Speech was distorted, and they loved every second of it.
Flying with Charlie was an added bonus. He would be leaving Misawa soon and Libby wanted the chance to make up for the misery she had caused him the past few months. There was no reason why they couldn’t still be friends, she thought. Their love of the Air Force and flying was what had sustained their friendship all these years. There was no need for it to end because she had fallen in love with someone else. And there was always the possibility, once her wounds had healed, that the genuine affection and regard she felt for Charlie would grow into something more. He was always predicting it would. Maybe he was right.
After spending an hour briefing the mission with the “bandit” Lieutenant Phipps, the three pilots donned their flying gear in the life-support room and were driven out to the aircraft. During the winter months — from November to June — they were required to wear, in addition to the usual layers of G-suit and vests and parachute harness, what was popularly known as the ‘poopy-suit,’ an air-tight, long-sleeved, ankle-length rubber garment, under their flight suits. It was extra insurance in the event one had to bail-out in freezing temperatures. The Pacific Ocean pounding the rugged coastline of northern Japan was not as hospitable as the balmy waters washing the beaches in Okinawa.
The two F-16s were aligned, at the end of the runway, for take-off. Mike Phipps looked over at Charlie and Libby and gave them the thumbs-up sign as the two airplanes started to accelerate. In less than twenty seconds they were in the air, heading east in a sweeping turn, out over the Pacific Ocean. The visibility was good, winds from the east, moderate. They could see a few stray clouds, gray smudges on an otherwise brilliant blue canvas that faded imperceptibly into the color of the sea. In the water, a palette of iridescent blue and green, small fishing boats bobbed up and down on tranquil swells.
“You’ll miss this scenery,” Libby said into the microphone. “Flying in the desert can be deadly dull.”
“I’ll miss more than the scenery,” Charlie quipped.
“Think of all the distractions. Las Vegas at your doorstep. Showgirls … ”
“Not a one of them could hold a candle to you.”
“Maybe I’ve missed my calling,” Libby laughed.
“Naw. You’re too good of a pilot.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that there might be more to life than flying?”
“Like what?”
The two jets were cruising to 20,000 feet where they would practice a few warm-up maneuvers to acclimate their bodies to the powerful G forces. “Like what, Libby?”
“I’m thinking … ”
“I can only think of one other thing that can compare to what we’re doing right now,” Charlie said cheerfully. He did not take it personally when Libby didn’t answer; they had reached altitude and he pulled back on the stick and began a 90-degree roll. The G-suits automatically inflated, and they started straining to keep the blood from pooling in their legs.
After pulling out of the turn, the airplanes leveled off before beginning a grueling 180-degree turn. The G force pinned the pilots in their seats, pushed the air out of their lungs and made their arms feel as heavy as logs.
When they had successfully completed the final maneuver, the pilots took opposing positions, two miles apart, and began the mission in earnest.
“Fight’s on!” Charlie yelled into the radio, as he began a steep dive. His intention was to evade detection and then pop up and surprise the “bandit” from behind by delivering a practice missile up the tail pipe and theoretically blowing Phipps out of the sky. But Mike spotted Charlie’s airplane before he got a chance to lock radar and took evasive action by lighting his afterburner for a swift getaway.
With Charlie in hot pursuit, the two pilots spent the next five minutes skillfully eluding one another until a stand-off was acknowledged and Charlie advised his adversary to: “Knock it off.”
The second engagement was more intense, competition keener, as the men tested their expertise and daring against one another. In air-to-air combat, if a back-seater was present, his/her primary job was to keep a sharp eye out for the ‘bandit’ and forewarn the pilot by calling out the coordinates of the other airplane.
Libby, harnessed down in her seat, was immobilized by nine Gs of deadening force, as Charlie did an inverted roll. For a split second, all she could see was the Pacific Ocean 5,000 feet below, and then nothing but blue sky, as Charlie nudged the stick and the F-16 soared straight up to 20,000 feet.
The G-suit compressed her abdomen and legs like a clamp, the positive pressure vest inflated, she strained and grunted to off-set the debilitating effects of pulling nine Gs, all the while swiveling her head from side to side in a concerted effort to locate the ‘bandit.’ Underneath the rubber “poopy” suit, her body was slippery with sweat and her throat burned from the pure oxygen pumping through the mask.
“Six o’clock, six o’clock,” Libby panted into the microphone. Her lips felt numb and formless, disfigured into an ugly grimace.
Mike was homing in at supersonic speed for the kill, closing the distance that separated the two aircraft, when Charlie popped out the speed brakes and jammed the nose skyward and, as the bandit streaked past, neatly rolled out onto Phipps’ tail. Seconds later a ‘Fox Two: Missile kill’ was recorded on the Heads-up display in the cockpit.
“Well done,” Libby exclaimed from the backseat.
“Haven’t I always said we make a good team?” Charlie’s voice crackled through the earphones.
“Would the two of you stop congratulating each other and take your position.” Major Phipps had eased his airplane alongside Charlie’s and was addressing them over the radio. “We’ve got fuel for another engagement. Scooter may have the biggest head in the squadron but he doesn’t have a monopoly on brains. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve that they forgot to teach you zoomies at the Academy.”
“Well by all means, don’t keep us in suspense,” Libby parried. And with that, the two F-16s separated two miles apart and began the next engagement at 6,000 feet.
Charlie had just dumped the nose over and lit the afterburner when there was a deafening bang. The electric jet suddenly slowed. The master caution light on the instrument panel started blinking like a Christmas tree, followed immediately by the yellow warning light, and then the ominous red fire light.
Charlie turned the airplane in the direction of land, and in a terse voice, advised Mike Phipps to “knock it off” and standby, while he and Libby evaluated the situation.
Part of their intensive training as fighter pilots was to enable them to cope with just such an emergency and they both reacted according to the procedures spelled out in the flight manual. Libby promptly took the checklist out of a side pocket and began reading the engine-fire checklist out loud to Charlie while he pulled back on the throttle to try and restart the engine. But the airplane was losing thrust and slowing down and Libby could see wisps of black smoke wafting out of the air conditioning ducts. An acrid, caustic odor was filling the cockpit.
“Go on 100 percent oxygen,” she said calmly. But her tone of voice belied her alarm and her heart was pounding as the loud
banging continued — sharp retorts like gunfire or backfire from a motorcycle.
“The damn engine’s stuck at idle,” Charlie muttered into the microphone. “There’s no throttle response.” And then: “Christ, Libby, this is a helluva thing to happen.”
“Yeah,” she answered. The element of disbelief that had sustained the two of them thus far was quickly eroding, as one option after another had to be abandoned. They were gliding at 210 knots toward the shore, but it was unlikely they would make it over land before they had to eject. Smoke was getting thicker in the cockpit and it was becoming more obvious with each passing second that the airplane was in its death throes and would end up in a watery grave and take Libby and Charlie along with it, if they didn’t get out soon.
“Eject! Get out! Now! You’re on fire!” The impetus to eject immediately was shouted over the radio by Major Phipps, who was flying alongside Charlie’s aircraft and monitoring the situation.
There was no second-guessing that definitive injunction. Libby yanked instinctively on the yellow handle between her legs and set the sequence in motion. The canopy popped off, and she was propelled by the rocket under her seat and catapulted 150 feet into the air above the burning aircraft. Exactly one second later Charlie followed on a trajectory equidistant from the airplane and in the opposite direction from Libby. Their ejection seats fell away and the orange and white striped parachutes opened automatically.
Libby, her head reeling from the explosive exit, reached up and grabbed the rope lanyards to pop the back four lines of the parachute and steer away from the burning jet. Then she discarded her oxygen mask.
When Libby was at the Air Force Academy, she made a couple of jumps on a dare from another cadet. Parachute jumping was a popular pastime among the more adventurous students and she was eager to prove she had the steady nerves and courage to voluntarily leap out of an airplane. She didn’t like it then, when she had a designated field in which to land, and she liked it even less now. The icy water of the Pacific Ocean was not the most optimum landing site.
The Unquiet Heart Page 15