Another possibility ― maybe he'd meant it in a more general sense. Not west as in due west, running along this line of latitude, but more loosely. In that case, just slightly to the north ― Russia. Or Ukraine. There had been rumors for years that some American POWs had been taken to the Soviet Union, maybe via Thailand or Cambodia. Who was to know which part of the then-strong Soviet Union was actually involved?
Russia probably, I concluded. Russians had always been the brains and leadership behind the Soviet Union, although Ukraine had contributed more than its fair share of superb military men, particularly to the navy.
So my father had gone west. Had gone, and had known he was going. At least far enough in advance to give him time to scratch this message.
There was an odd scuffling at the door, and I turned toward it. One of the soldiers stood there. He was back-lit by the sunshine, just a dark, faceless shape. And wrongly shaped somehow. He stepped into the room, and all at once I could see that he was carrying a body. "Than?" I went immediately to his side and examined the body.
No, it was not Than. Outside in the compound, I could hear Than's voice raised in curses at the other men.
"Sniper?" I asked, looking at the dead man.
The soldier nodded. He motioned with the almost universal forefinger pointed and thumb extended to indicate shooting. Then he pointed at the man on the ground.
I knelt behind the man and felt for a pulse. None ― not that I'd expected to find one with the bloody hole in his midsection.
There was another reason this man was not Than, one that caused me far deeper concern. I'd skimmed over it at first, but now it came back and hit me full force.
The size was my first clue. This man was at least six inches taller than any of the soldiers who had accompanied us out here, although his color was the same. But in him, it was the result of years ― perhaps decades? ― spent under the harsh Vietnamese sun. There was no doubt in my mind as I peeled back one eyelid to examine the dead, staring orbs.
He was Caucasian.
5
Lieutenant Commander "Bird Dog" Robinson
26 September
USS Jefferson
I was working on the popcorn popper when the messenger stopped by to drop off the daily flight schedule. Normally, the next day's schedule is out early in the afternoon, at least during peacetime operations. However, with the world going to shit pretty damn quick, Strike Ops was taking a little bit longer to massage the matrix of aircraft, weapons, and people into a strike package.
Skeeter, that dumb shit, was Squadron Duty Officer. Actually, the popcorn machine didn't need all that much work on it ― the junior officer in the squadron is responsible for its care and well-being ― but I'd caught wind of a little something in the air and was using the popcorn popper as my excuse for hanging out in the ready room looking busy.
The skipper was in the ready room too, and it was a pure sheer delight to watch her chew a piece of Skeeter's ass into small, bloody strips. Commander Flynn ― the Mrs. Admiral Magruder ― is not usually one to rag on you just out of sheer meanness. With that red hair and those green eyes, you'd expect an explosive temper, but she wasn't like that at all. She was one of the first chicks to fly this big bad aircraft, and she'd paid her dues on more combat missions than I had under my belt. Somewhere along the line, she picked up this ice-nasty freezer voice that's a helluva lot worse than the screaming meemies would ever be. In the last month, I'd been on the receiving end of it twice, and didn't like it either time.
But not after the E-2 got shot down. I guess she figured I felt bad enough on my own.
Anyway, the right respectful young Lieutenant Skeeter Harmon was getting a royal, public ass-chewing. That was kind of odd for her too, because she'd usually call you into her stateroom when she was really pissed. But Skeeter had fucked up big time and publicly, so the pound of flesh got extracted the same way.
"See, it's just a buildup of old butter around the whatchamacallit," I said to the ensign who was watching me play with the popcorn machine. "It happens when you don't take good care of it." I shot him a hard glare, and was mildly satisfied with the way he flinched. Of course, the fact that the skipper was having at Skeeter in the background made it all that more effective.
"I cleaned it yesterday," my particular victim muttered surlily.
"Not well enough."
"But sir, it won't-"
I straightened up and put my hands on my hips and stared at him. "You telling me how to clean a popcorn machine, mister? Because if you are, I'd like to share one small fact with you. I've got more time cleaning this popcorn machine ― the particular damn machine, which never during my eight months as SLJO, Shitty Little Jobs Officer, ever, ever fucked up in this particular manner. So when I talk to you about popcorn-machine maintenance, you may damn well assume that I know what I'm talking about. Got it?"
"Yes, sir." The surliness was gone, replaced by the bored, long-suffering tone that junior officers master far too early. Hell, I never sounded like that.
I paused for a moment, and let him think I was staring at him while I listened to the skipper run on up the scale. She was on a roll now, and it behooved me to pay attention to my betters. I could learn as much about chewing ass from Tomboy as this ensign could learn from me about cleaning popcorn machines.
"And the next time you are so inclined to refuse to sign a bird out for flight because it is dirty," she continued, reaching minus two hundred Kelvin easy, "please take it upon yourself to come see me. Or the Maintenance Officer. Or the Executive Officer. Any one of us will be able to adequately explain to you alternate methods of resolving the difficulty. Other than threatening to throw the plane captain overboard."
"I wouldn't have done it," I heard Skeeter mutter. I shook my head. At that point, the fastest way out of this for my errant wingman was to shut up and take it. Skipper had him dead to rights, and he ought to have known that.
Not that it wasn't actually kind of funny. The plane captain really had thought Skeeter was going to throw him overboard. Hence the complaint, hence the ass-chewing. I could have told him. But he didn't bother to ask, no more than this young asshole had bothered to ask me about popcorn machines.
"You do not-"
A shower of sparks arced out from the popcorn machine, splattered harmlessly against the deck with an ominous crackling sound. The ensign to my right yelped. The singeing, acrid smell of a short circuit quickly filled the ready room.
The skipper was at my side in an instant. I gestured futilely at the popcorn machine, now sitting quiet and peaceful, and said, "Guess I'd better have the electricians check it out again, huh, Skipper?" I tried for a concerned, diligent look.
It didn't work.
I'm not a MiG, mister," she snapped. She turned back to glare at Skeeter. She seemed like she was about to say something else, then simply settled for a final snarl before storming out of the ready room.
I heard a deep shuddering sigh behind me, and turned around to see my wingman slumping down in the Squadron Duty Officer chair. "Man, don't she have some bite," he said wonderingly.
"Sir, what's wrong with the popcorn machine?" the ensign asked, evidently with his priorities in order. "And what was that about her being a MiG?"
"Nothing. You clean those damn wires better, we wouldn't get the short circuits," I told him. The ensign nodded uncertainly, and a new, grave appreciation for the scope of his duties was evident on his face. He did a quick exit stage left, saying something about hunting down an electrician's mate to look at the power cord.
After he left, I turned back to Skeeter. "You could've even asked me ― I would have told you you were about to be a dumb-ass."
"Like that would have made any difference. You're always telling me that."
Damn if we didn't have a lot of surly junior officers in this squadron. I was getting right put out about it, particularly seeing as I just saved his skinny young ass from permanent damage.
"And what was that crack abo
ut a MiG?" Skeeter continued. "Young dildo head may buy your explanation, but I don't. What did she mean?"
I sighed, and shook my head. "What the captain meant," I said, enunciating carefully for the edification of my wingman, "is that her preference would be that the only thing I shook off your ass was MiGs ― not her."
I looked at the bafflement on Skeeter's face, followed by grudging, dawning respect. I basked in it for a moment. About time he got his priorities in order.
"You engineered that?" he asked. He pointed at the popcorn machine.
"Come here ― I know you don't think there's anything I can teach you about flying, but there are certain things you don't know about a popcorn machine. Like how to make it spark on demand."
I was just delving into some of the intricacies of popcorn machine performance with Skeeter when the flight plan arrived. I snatched the first copy out of the messenger's hands and scanned over it eagerly.
There was something wrong with it. The neat, long line of aircraft, missions, weapons loads, and aircrew was missing one thing ― my name.
"They screwed up." I held the offending document out to Skeeter and pointed at the line of missions assigned to our squadron. "Big time. Boy, are they going to be embarrassed when they see this."
Skeeter took the flight schedule and studied it carefully for a moment. When he looked back up at me, his face was glum. "I don't think it's a mistake, Bird Dog. We're just not on the flight schedule."
"Well, of course you might not be. You're junior, after all."
Skeeter shook his head. "They took you off, buddy. Remember?"
I snatched it back from him, anger ringing in my ears now. I knew why it was ― there was plenty of ways to ground an aviator without actually grounding him. I didn't think the admiral had really meant I couldn't fly. But somebody figured it was my fault that the E-2 was in the drink and those men were killed, and they were cutting me out of the pack. No chance to explain, no questions other than the routine ― I'm just off the flight schedule.
"They're not gonna get away with this," I said.
"I think they just did."
"Yeah, well I'm not gonna sit still for it."
"What are you gonna do?"
"I'm gonna go see Admiral Wayne ― that's what I'm gonna do." I grabbed at the flight schedule, but Skeeter danced away and held it out of my reach. "C'mon, give it to me."
He dodged down a row of chairs and interposed a tall, high-backed chair between us. "I don't think so. Didn't you hear what the skipper was just on about? Good judgment, chain of command ― all that shit."
I made a grab for the schedule, and faked an end run around the chair. But Skeeter wasn't buying it. "That's only for when you're doing stupid shit, like you were," I said. "Besides, the admiral says he has an open-door policy. And this is big, Skeeter ― a helluva lot bigger than a dirty aircraft."
I had him in the corner now, with just the morning briefing crews in between me and him. I double-faked, and this time he tumbled. I snagged him around the waist, lifted him half off the ground, and pried the flight schedule out of his skinny little fingers.
"Bird Dog, you can't."
"I sure as hell can," I said, pushing away the nagging suspicion that he might be right. "You don't know what they're doing to me, Skeeter ― this is just the first step. Pretty soon, I'll be out of qual periodicity, and then I won't be flying shit during this. We're gonna be flying over Vietnam dropping ordinance on targets and I'm not gonna play? They're fucking out of their minds."
"Where's Gator?" Skeeter said, changing tacks. "At least ask him before you go charging off and doing something stupid."
I snorted. "I don't have to ask any fucking RIO what I can and can't do while I'm on the ground. Or on the ship ― whatever. It's not him they're grounding ― it's me."
"Don't do it, asshole." Skeeter's voice followed me as I slammed out of the ready room and headed down the 03 corridor toward the admiral's cabin.
I knew where the skipper had learned it. It wasn't from PXO or PCO school, or anything like that. After five minutes of standing in front of Admiral Wayne, I knew where she'd got it. That cold, hard tone that could freeze you down to your testicles. She'd learned it from him.
My explanation sputtered out about halfway through, and I gradually realized just how damned stupid it was for me to be standing in front of the guy with the stars griping about the flight schedule. There were only about a million people I should have talked to before.
And if I thought I was in trouble now, just wait till the captain found out.
"What CAG says, goes." The admiral's voice damned near froze my testicles off. "You're out of order, mister."
It was suddenly becoming quite evident to me what a very, very bad idea this had been. If I just walked out right now, pretended that I was drunk, or fell down in a frothing fit on the deck, I might have a chance. Other than that… "Admiral, you've got to let me go."
"I don't."
"But sir, you have to. It's personal with me, Admiral ― don't you understand that? Those bastards shot down my E-2. There's nobody on this bird farm that's got more right to go after 'em than I do."
And just where the hell was all this coming from? I'd been absolutely certain I was about to turn and walk out of the admiral's cabin and report to my own skipper to get my ass chewed for screwing up. Instead, my mouth seemed to be running off ahead of me, off on some strange mission of its own that it hadn't bothered to talk to my brain about.
The admiral was standing now, coming around from behind his desk to go nose-to-nose with me. He wouldn't hit me, would he? And what would I do if he did?
No, he wouldn't. Would he?
"I understand how you feel, son," the admiral said. His voice wasn't a whole lot warmer, but it sure was softer. "I'd feel the same way, in your shoes. It's got to be personal ― otherwise you're not worth anything as a fighter pilot. You think I don't know that?"
"Admiral, I-" I stopped mid-sentence, absolutely horrified and disgusted at the quaver that was in my voice. Damn ― now I had no chance at all. The admiral wasn't gonna ever let me fly again, not when I couldn't even keep my own mouth under control. I should have taken the advice I gave Skeeter ― just shut up and let it wash over you.
"I've lost pigeons before too," the admiral said. Something went funny in his eyes and he looked like he didn't even see me anymore. "More than my share. It happens in combat, Bird Dog. We expect it to happen ― why the hell do you think we send fighters out with them anyway?"
"I was supposed to bring them back," I said, my voice not much louder than his now. "When we get back to the States, I'll have to go see their families. Talk to them. Look at their wives, their kids, and tell them I was the one who didn't bring their guy back, Me."
"Not you." The admiral's hand was on my shoulder now, the fingers digging into the muscle. He started shaking me. I felt something wet slide down my face. "Not you, damn it. It was them ― the Vietnamese. They're the ones who shot that E-2 down, not you. Don't you understand that?"
"I was there. I was supposed to stop them." Fucking-A shit ― I tried to turn away from the admiral, get my hands up to my face and wipe away the goddamn wimp-ass tears. "I only had one thing to do on that mission, Admiral ― to keep me and my Tomcat between them and the E-2. I got in over my head, trying to keep an eye on Skeeter and ― hell, it wasn't his fault. I shut him up early on. Maybe he oughta be lead instead of me."
We stood frozen like that for a minute, the admiral's hands hard on my shoulders, so close he could have reached up and choked the shit out of me if he'd wanted to. Which he probably did. And I wouldn't have blamed him a bit.
"So it's like that, is it?" His hands fell off my shoulders, and I almost staggered at the unexpected freedom. "It's like that." He turned away from me and walked back down to sit behind his desk. His hand went to his flight jacket pocket automatically, and I recognized the gesture ― an ex-smoker searching for a package of butts by reflex. Hey, he might be the ad
miral, but the no-smoking policy on a ship was damned clear. Not that I'd turn him in.
I took a deep breath that rattled around inside me before it settled into my lungs. The admiral tossed me a box of tissues, and I took one without commenting. About time ― why couldn't that have happened ten minutes earlier?
"Back in the saddle then." The admiral's voice had a note of finality to it.
I looked up startled.
"I've seen this before ― you don't know what's happening, but you're about to lose it over this. The only way I know to cure it is to put you back out there, let you fly right on the pointy end of the spear and kick some Vietnamese ass. It won't bring the E-2 crew back, but maybe it'll help you live with it." He looked up at me now, his eyes cold and distant. "And that's what you have to learn, you know. To live with it. Otherwise, you'll clutch up every time you try to get back on the carrier at night, make a difficult tanking flog in bad weather, anything that requires you to be right, absolutely and one-hundred-percent right, or you kill people."
He was going to let me go. I don't know why it took so long to sink in, but finally it did. The relief that coursed through me was almost overwhelming, running up my spine and floating around every muscle in my face. I started to grin, then realized what he really meant.
It was time to set things right, time to get vengeance. I either did it right this time, or I was washed up forever as a fighter pilot.
Deep in my heart, I knew he was right. I had to get back out there ― and now ― or forget about ever flying another combat mission.
"Thank you, Admiral." Not elegant, but it was all I could manage.
He nodded, as if he was distracted by something else. "Go see your skipper. She's going to have a few words for you, I imagine."
If I didn't know better, I could have sworn he was looking amused. Me, I already had the cold sweats, thinking about what Commander Flynn was gonna do to me when she found out about this little stunt.
"Tomboy's a good skipper ― she'll understand why I'm doing this." Damn admiral was reading my mind, I was convinced. His next words proved it.
Chain of Command c-12 Page 7