by Tom Wilson
"This calls for a drink," Benny told the captains. "Shut down the office and let's go to the club. I'll buy."
"I'll drink," grinned Moods.
As they filed out of the office, the phone rang insistently, but Benny led them away. "To hell with business. One of our guys got out!"
2030 Local—Bachelor Officers' Quarters
Four hours later the phone was also ringing as he opened the door of his BOQ room.
"Benny?" wailed a sad voice.
"How're you doing, Julie?" He felt more than a bit inebriated and tried to clear away some of the fog.
"I've been trying to call you since four-fifteen." A long pause, then she cried, "I need you here."
Benny's mind raced. He thought he could get away, but he was scheduled to present an important briefing the next morning.
"Tomorrow afternoon all right?"
"I guess."
"What's happening?"
"I got a visit from a colonel and a chaplain from Travis field this afternoon. Mal Bear's been declared KIA."
He was silent.
She drew a ragged breath. In the background he heard the baby begin to cry.
Benny said, very softly, "He died last April, Julie, not today."
"I know. It's just . . . I need your shoulder to cry on, Benny."
"I'll be there."
"Next week I'm supposed to go to Travis, where the commander will present Mal's medals to me. Can you be there for that too?"
"Sure."
"I'm sorry I'm being such a baby about things."
"That's bull. I don't want you to change an inch." Had he said that?
"Thank God for you, Benny."
And somehow he knew it was time to press her for something he'd wanted since coming to Vegas. "I think you should move down here so we can be closer."
"We'll talk about it when you get here, okay?" She answered so quickly that he knew she'd been thinking about it.
"I plan to be as convincing as possible," he said boldly.
"Maybe you won't have to be. I gave my notice to the airline yesterday. I'm quitting my job."
"I'm glad."
"I don't want to be away from the baby while she's so young. They offered me office work, but I haven't given them an answer." She was calmer now.
"Have you talked with your mother about the Bear's status yet?" he asked.
"When I couldn't get you at your office, I called her. I told her I was going to ask you to come here so I could cry on your shoulder. She didn't think that was a good idea."
"She'll come around. I'm lovable, remember."
She sniffed, then suddenly giggled. "Are the women still congesting traffic trying to get you to go out?"
He went along. "Now the casinos are complaining because all their showgirls are in the line."
She didn't think that was funny. "They'd damn well better not be!"
He didn't feel guilty. There was no one. There had been the single liaison with the secretary, but he'd not repeated it. He'd stopped kidding himself about what he wanted.
There was no more hesitation in her voice when she suddenly blurted, "You might as well get used to me, Benny Lewis, because I plan to elbow my way to the front of the line,"
He grinned happily. They shared the same dream.
When she finally broke the connection, he realized that the inner voice had not spoken to him for some time now, and he knew it wouldn't return. He was a little different because of it, somehow a little better. They would remain his secret, the inner discussions. If he mentioned them to others, they would think him odd. But it had nothing to do with his mental stability, and there was no reason to speak of it.
I'll take good care of her, were Benny's final words to the voice.
Wednesday, October 18th, 1045 Local—Hoa Lo Prison, Hanoi, North Vietnam
Major Glenn Phillips
Things had been downbeat for Glenn the two weeks following his defiance and the resulting bad beatings. The rat-faced turnkey had baited him unmercifully, and he'd drawn Fishface's wrath the last time he'd been taken in for a periodic indoctrination meeting.
Fishface had wanted him to write a letter home on an official form, telling his parents how well he was being treated and how they should send money to help his guards continue his great standard of living.
He'd quibbled and gotten himself a minor beating, which surprised him because Fishface was the meanest V in the prison.
Then Fishface had brought him back in and said he could redeem himself by volunteering to go to a Hanoi suburb and help repair bomb damage to a school the criminal American terrorists had bombed. He'd said he'd rather not, and wondered why Fishface was being so nice.
They hadn't beaten him badly that time either, but he did spend the next six days in leg-stocks and iron cuffs so he'd see the error of his ways. When the irons were finally removed, he could not stand, and he worried that the circulation had been cut off for so long that he might have gotten gangrene. But his luck held, and the blood finally coursed enough that he could hobble around the cell.
For the last couple of days no one had bothered him with dumb demands, and he thought things might be starting to go better. He wanted to stay out of trouble with the V for a while so his body could heal some more, which was difficult enough with the lousy, starvation rations they gave them.
The rat-faced turnkey came into his cell and peered at him with a mean look, and he bowed as he'd said he would. The turnkey cursed and cuffed him hard because he'd stumbled on his bad leg. Ratface seemed to be gloating about something, and the two guards with him were subservient.
Then they pushed a new prisoner carrying his bedroll and mosquito net into the room, and after Ratface had shoved him around a bit, they abruptly left.
Glenn was overjoyed. He'd had a few roommates before, but they'd all been badly wounded, as if he were a medic or something and could repair them. This guy was skinny, but he looked fit enough. He figured the prison was getting overcrowded, and the V could no longer afford the luxury of keeping them isolated.
The two shook hands and talked like crazy, because aside from their freedom, human contact was the thing the prisoners craved most.
He was a Marine fighter jock, shot down near the DMZ in an A- 4 Skyhawk, and he'd been in jail for one year, three months, and twelve days.
Glenn told him he'd been there for ten months.
They passed news between themselves like schoolkids sharing goodies from lunch boxes. You hear about this, one would say, and the other would listen intently, then he would add something he'd pieced together, and the first guy would listen.
In the marine's last room the guy next door had been from the 354th squadron, and they'd shared news via the tap system. When he told him his name, Glenn remembered him from Takhli.
"The guys from the 354th have had it pretty rough the last few months," said Glenn Phillips.
The marine agreed. "My neighbor went through some bad times. Like when the V beat the hell out of him in front of a high-ranking gomer wearing wings."
"A V pilot?"
"That's what he thought. They kept asking him questions about this guy. . .."
"Lucky Anderson?"
"Yeah. They'd ask all kinds of dumb questions about Anderson. The gomer pilot would sit there and listen and get them to ask more questions and keep on beating until he answered."
The V had been asking their questions about Lucky for a long time now, thought Glenn. He wondered about his friend's safety, and where he might be.
"Then, ten days ago the questions stopped."
"They stopped?" Glenn was surprised.
"You didn't hear? It's been going around the jail."
Benny grinned. "The V have had me preoccupied with other things."
The marine looked at his still-swollen face. "I can tell."
"So they stopped asking about Lucky?"
"From what they told my neighbor later, he thinks this Lucky Anderson got away."
Glenn da
red not move for fear he'd wake up and the dream would change. He'd been praying every day for so long. . . ."He escaped?" Glenn hardly breathed the words.
"That's what everyone thinks, and from the way the V acted, it makes sense."
"He escaped." Glenn's grin widened. Jesus, it felt good even to think that Lucky had gotten away from them.
The marine nodded. "A couple of weeks ago it was Lokee this, Lokee that, but now the V don't even want his name mentioned, and they're acting like they never asked any questions at all. The prison commandant's been replaced, and one of the good turnkey's said that's the reason, for asking all the questions and something else he wouldn't talk about."
Glenn's mind spun with it all.
"You know Fishface?" asked the marine.
A darker look came over Glenn's face. Fishface was their chief tormentor. He was the meanest interrogator of the bunch, his atrocities equaled only by the Cubans.
"Fishface is in deep trouble. The rumor is he killed some new guys by tromping on 'em too hard for information, and the gomer brass are pissed off about losing their bargaining chips, meaning us prisoners. Yesterday they took Fishface off. Marched him out between two guys who looked mean as hell, and he hasn't come back."
A warm and happy feeling came over Glenn Phillips.
That afternoon they met the new prison commandant, but he seemed no better than the one they'd had. The rat-faced turnkey had been promoted to replace Fishface as chief interrogator. To make a proper impression, he started things off by calling in Glenn and another P he disliked and beating the hell out of them because of their poor attitudes.
After they'd returned him to his cell, Glenn couldn't sleep because of the intense pain from Ratface's beating on top of the previous ones he'd gotten. As he lay there, curled into a ball and hurting, he kept his mind occupied by imagining all the wonderful ways that Lucky might be enjoying his freedom.
Later he hallucinated and dreamed that Lucky and Benny and all of his other friends had finally been told to go ahead and do whatever was necessary to win the war.
Finally he became aware that his new roommate was gently shaking his shoulder and wearing a concerned look.
"It won't be long now," Glenn whispered happily to the marine. "They'll be coming for us soon."
1215 Local—Base Operations, Clark Air Base, Philippines
Major Lucky Anderson
The charter TWA flight was to land in twenty minutes, the base-ops sergeant told them. Right on time, he said.
They walked outside, in front of the base-operations building, and looked about at the busy Clark Air Base flight line.
Lucky was wearing a shade 1505 uniform, with shiny new oak leaves and command-pilot wings. The uniform was tailored and sharp looking, ironed in precise, military creases, and his hair was freshly cut and neatly combed. Even his issue sunglasses had been polished and cleaned of every speck of lint. He felt like a teenager on a first date, anticipating Linda's arrival but a little scared he'd screw it up.
He toyed nervously with his crutches as Manny DeVera pointed out a flight of F-4 Phantoms lining up at the end of the runway in preparation for takeoff.
Both of his feet were swathed in bandages, and he'd been told he must stay off them for at least another week. He'd first tried to bribe the flight surgeons at the hospital, then had threatened bodily harm, and finally had pleaded to be allowed to meet her plane. Nothing had worked, so DeVera had sneaked in the new uniform and helped him steal the crutches so he could get out of the place.
He glanced over at Manny. "Do I look okay?" Still thirty pounds underweight, he was worried he might look like a bony scarecrow.
Manny looked him over. "Okay compared with what?"
"Asshole," said Lucky.
Manny laughed. "You never looked so good in your life to me, boss. You really think all this court-martial horseshit is going to stop?"
"If we're not scheduled on the same plane out of here, I'm not going. I leave when you're cleared, Manny. Not before."
"I thought you were going to take your lady to Honolulu?"
"If she's willing to go, I will, and I'll arrange it for you too. A few days on the beach wouldn't do any harm. But I'm not going anywhere until you're cleared."
"Jesus that sounds good."
"Even the prosecutor says it's just a matter of doing the paperwork to get it turned off. The judge is going to visit me at the hospital in the morning and take my statement, and that should do it."
"You want me to kiss your feet now or later?"
"Make it later. Better not get the bandages soggy."
Manny laughed again. Then his expression turned serious. "I talked to Billy Bowes on the phone last night, and he says there's a heavy rumor you're taking over the squadron when you go back. That true?"
The flight of fighters took off from the long runway, on their way to one of the combat bases across the South China Sea. They continued to look on until the Phantoms were safely in the air.
"Yeah," Lucky finally answered. He still felt uneasy about taking on the responsibility, but he'd accepted because B.J.'s offer was in line with the rest of the changes he was making with his life. His records would go before the promotion board in a couple of weeks, and the squadron-commander title would look good. And if things went right with Linda . . .
"You'll be good for the squadron," said DeVera.
"You guys give me enough help and we'll make it work. The way I see it, it's going to be a hell of a challenge for everyone at Takhli while we finish the job up north."
"You'll have our support." Manny meant it.
"I think that's the airplane," said Lucky, looking out at a big bird on final approach.
"Stay cool, boss," advised Manny DeVera, the old pro at handling women. "Don't let her think you're nervous or excited or anything."
Lucky Anderson hardly heard him, for he was already hobbling toward the door, a grin of anticipation on his battered face.
POSTSCRIPT
Saigon, South Vietnam
Peacemaker
O'Neil felt good for the first time in days.
First there'd been the abrupt warning over the telephone that he'd been compromised and that he must leave the base immediately.
When he'd rushed to the apartment, he'd found a note from the API correspondent, telling him to wait in the apartment, for he would be contacted and taken out of harm's way. There was also a copy of the last target list he'd given them. Across the typed target coordinates the word LIES was written in red pen. Interjected in the midst of the text beneath the coordinates, which O'Neil had not read in his zeal to get the pages to his benefactors, was a statement underlined by the same red pen, reading: The penalty for treason is death.
He'd remained in the apartment, scared and wandering about in a daze, going out only to shop for essentials, until he'd received a note warning that he was under surveillance. He'd almost panicked and run. But then, true to their word that they'd protect him, they'd helped him escape from the apartment.
The taxi driver had deposited him in a tiny, filthy room in a Chinese whorehouse not far from the Nghe Canal, where he'd grown even more despondent and miserable, spending long hours thinking awful thoughts and fearing the worst. The American military establishment would find and arrest him. They couldn't allow him to escape, for he knew too many of their secrets. And the VC couldn't afford to have him captured, because he'd met some of them and knew about the Blue Pheasant and several of their other operations.
During his first night of isolation at the whorehouse, listening to loud Chinese voices and squeaking beds, smelling the unpleasant odors of urine, opium, and sperm from the surrounding cubicles, O'Neil had sobbed desperately and felt very sorry about himself and what he'd done.
The next day he'd first thought about turning himself in. He perfected the idea, built upon it until he realized it was the only sensible solution. Tell the OSI how he'd been kidnapped by the Viet Cong. Maybe describe a few of them for authenticity
. The more he'd thought about it, the more he decided that was the best course to take. He'd be protected by the laws of his nation, be innocent until proven guilty. What could they have but suspicions? No one had seen him copying secrets or giving them to anyone. It would be his word against theirs. If they charged him, he'd fight it. Get a good civilian lawyer. The API correspondent would help him find the best; he owed him that. Then O'Neil had another clever thought. If they persevered in their folly, he'd threaten to expose the government's secrets.
He asked for stationery from the silent old woman who brought his food, then wrote a note to the API newsman about some of his thoughts and gave it to her. He addressed the envelope to the correspondent, marking it PRIVATE, and signed the letter with the single word PEACEMAKER. The old woman seemed to know what to do with it, for she grinned and nodded when she took it.
On the third day at the whorehouse, O'Neil received an answer from the correspondent that changed his thinking.
Arrangements had been made. He'd be taken to a freighter tied up to a pier only a dozen blocks from the whorehouse. The ship would proceed down the Kinh Te channel to the open sea, where he'd become a free man. After a couple of port stops to drop off and take on freight, they'd arrive in Montreal, where the correspondent's friends would meet him and help him apply for landed immigrant status. A job awaited him at the API office in Toronto, Ontario.
O'Neil laughed aloud in his joy and immediately forgot about turning himself in. His mind became filled with what he would do when he reached Canada. Even earlier! On the voyage he'd write scathing articles about the American involvement in Southeast Asia. His byline would be Peacemaker, the code name he'd given himself when he'd met the API newsman.
Perhaps he'd even write a book about his experience.
They came in the middle of the night to take him to the ship.
O'Neil followed them out the back way to the waiting taxi. He wanted to see the API newsman a last time before leaving, to thank him and tell him how much he'd like to work with him some time in the future because he had some dynamite ideas about exposes, but he wasn't in the cab. There were just the three businessmen he'd met that time in the Blue Pheasant, wearing the same stupid, friendly expressions.