Black Star

by Robert Gandt

  “No, sir. It’s just that after we picked up Major Bass after his. . . ah, ejection over the strait, I gathered that you weren’t exactly pleased with his actions.”

  “Pleased? What I said was that I intended to kick his insubordinate ass up between his shoulder blades. Then send him to Leavenworth for ten to twenty.”

  “Yes, sir, and having known Catfish, I understand your feelings. But as you know, he was assigned to me during a. . . very sensitive operation.”

  “I know all about Raven Swoop. I received a top secret briefing.”

  “Then you also know that Catfish distinguished himself in combat. I can attest that without his bravery, the operation would not have succeeded. That’s why I’m recommending him for a posthumous decoration.”

  Maxwell saw Buckner and Boyce exchange a quick glance. Buckner seemed to be enjoying himself. He said, “What’s this world coming to? A Navy commander recommending a medal for an Air Force officer? Have you guys been at sea too long?”

  “General, you said something to the effect that you didn’t want Bass back. I took that to mean Bass’s official record was my responsibility. I intend to see that he gets the honor he deserves.”

  At this Buckner grinned, displaying a row of very large teeth. “What I said, if I remember correctly, was that you guys could keep the dumb bastard until hell freezes over or the war is finished, whichever took longer.”

  Maxwell took a deep breath, trying to suppress his anger. General or not, this Buckner was a jerk. “Well, sir, the war is finished. And since Catfish is no longer with us, I want to set the record straight.”

  “The record is straight. Whether or not he deserves a medal, he also deserves a kick in the ass. He’s a goldbricking, showboating, goof-off who should have been court-martialed.”

  Maxwell had heard enough. Catfish Bass, for all his faults, didn’t deserve badmouthing from some blue suit windbag.

  “General, with all due respect, you’re full of crap.” In the corner of his eye, he saw Boyce’s eyeballs roll. “Major Bass lost his life trying—”

  “Commander, how long have you been away from your carrier?”

  “A week, nearly two.”

  Buckner looked at Boyce, who had resumed his study of a spot on the ceiling. “You haven’t enlightened him about recent events, have you, Red?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What recent events?” asked Maxwell.

  “You’ll see.” The general polished off his martini and rose to his feet. “Follow me.”

  <>

  They followed him through the main hall of the visitors’ quarters, up the stairs to the second floor, down another hall. The general said nothing as he marched down the aisle. His leather heels hammered like drumbeats on the marble floor.

  Maxwell heard a sound wafting from the end of the hall. It sounded like guitar music. Or some variety of stringed instrument played off key. To his ear, it sounded like bungee cords being tortured.

  Buckner stopped at an unmarked door. Without knocking, he marched inside. Maxwell followed—then stopped in his tracks. He stared at the apparition in the bed. His guess had been correct—it was a guitar.

  Played by Catfish Bass.

  Maxwell’s gaze shifted to the figure in the chair next to the bed. He recognized the black hair, the high cheekbones, the slender shape—but it didn’t compute. Nothing computed anymore.

  “Hey, shipmate,” said Bass. “You’re a long way from the boat, aren’t you?”

  Maxwell stared, unable to speak.

  “Hello, Sam,” said Mai-ling. “The general said you’d be surprised.” She handed drinks to the newcomers. “I made mai tais. Catfish loves them.”

  “General,” said Bass, “this is the guy I told you about. Brick Maxwell, coolest Tac-Air jock outside the Air Force. Saved all our butts, even though he couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a pistol.”

  He was wearing a white hospital robe, and an IV unit was parked next to his bed. But he didn’t have the appearance of a man who had been shot in the chest and then incinerated in a horrific helicopter crash. Catfish Bass looked more alive than Maxwell had ever seen him.

  He sipped at the drink, not trusting himself to speak. It was possible, he thought, that he was hallucinating. None of this was making sense. The guy in the bed looked exactly like Catfish Bass. And the black-haired Chinese girl in the tight jeans and T shirt looked just like the girl he’d seen in her stateroom on the Reagan two weeks ago.

  “Excuse me for asking,” said Maxwell. “But why aren’t you dead?”

  “Good question,” said Buckner. He closed the door behind them. “Major, I’ll remind you one more time, this information is classified. Go ahead and tell your tale, and this time leave out the extraneous bullshit.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bass set the guitar aside. “You have to take some of this on hearsay, Brick. As you know, I took a bullet back there at Chouzhou. I was pretty much out of it by the time Colonel Chiu hauled me aboard the Chinook. Just after the chopper lifted off, a mortar round took out one of the aft rotor blades and we did some kind of gyration that trashed the helicopter. The bullet was still in my lung, and I wasn’t doing so good.”

  Maxwell nodded. “I saw it. I was still on the ground.”

  “So was I,” said Mai-ling. She was sitting next to Catfish again, stroking his hand.

  “I don’t know exactly what happened next, but while the Chopper was tearing itself to pieces, Chiu and one of his commandos managed to jump clear, and they dragged me with them. With his tac radio, he was able to call the Chinook that had already left. He came swooping back and snatched us out of there just before the ChiComs overran the LZ.”

  Listening to the story, Maxwell thought again of the taciturn Colonel Chiu, who disliked Americans and then risked his life to save them. He had been wrong about Chiu. He had been wrong about several things.

  “We weren’t out of the woods yet,” Bass went on. “The Chinook that rescued us also took some hits. We barely made it past the coast before things started getting ugly. The sun was just coming up when one of the engines crapped out. The pilot told us we were going to ditch, and I knew then that it just wasn’t my day. The only thing I hate worse than getting shot is getting dumped in the ocean.”

  “Another reason to be in the Air Force,” muttered Buckner.

  “Yes, sir, my thoughts exactly. The damned chopper started losing power and—plop!—there I was in the drink again.”

  Maxwell frowned, listening to the story. Catfish Bass’s life was becoming more and more bizarre.

  “Now this is the really weird part. The chopper pilot must have had contact with his central command, because he was heading for a Taiwanese warship—a destroyer or frigate or whatever you guys call those boats. Before we ever reached the ship—you’re not gonna believe this, Brick—a bomb had already come from absolutely nowhere and hit the ass end of the ship.”

  “What do you mean, from nowhere?”

  “The captain of the ship—a really cool guy named Lei Fu-Sheng—said he had nothing on the radar, no aircraft overhead, no enemy activity. And then, boom, the Kai Yang—that’s the name of the ship—took a hit.”

  Maxwell nodded. “And you knew where the bomb came from?”

  “Sure I knew, and so did Colonel Chiu, but we didn’t say anything. By the way, I heard that you gave that Chinese stealth pilot some serious payback.”

  Maxwell and Mai-ling made eye contact. She gave him an imperceptible nod.

  “Anyway,” Bass went on, “my world was turning into shit city. While the crew of the destroyer was still fighting this fire, we ditched alongside. As you can imagine, the captain was very happy to have a bunch of shot up grunts to add to his problems. But he had his ship’s doctor do emergency surgery on me in their sick bay. He removed the bullet from my chest and got me stabilized. Just in time, they tell me, or I’d have been room temperature.”

  “What happened to the ship?”

  “Dead in the water, a s
itting duck for another bomb or a sub attack. But one of their escort destroyers shows up and takes us all aboard, shoots a couple torpedoes into the Kai Yang to sink her, and off we go again. I woke up in the military hospital here in Taipei.”

  “You’ll meet Colonel Chiu and Commander Lei tomorrow,” said Boyce. “Madame Soong wants to pin medals on all of you. She thinks you guys saved Taiwan.”

  At the mention of Chiu’s name, Maxwell saw Mai-ling’s nose wrinkle. He wondered if Colonel Chiu would be pleased to see the Americans again. Probably not. He’d be even less pleased to see Mai-ling.

  “That’s not the end of it,” said Buckner. “In a few days Maxwell here will be flying back to Washington for a very discreet ceremony in the Pentagon. Someone wants to give him a Navy Cross.”

  “Me?” Maxwell said. “What about Catfish? Why doesn’t he get—”

  “You’ve been out of the loop,” said Buckner. “It seems that someone in the Navy—” he shot Boyce a look “—has already made an end run and convinced my boss that the Navy shouldn’t have the only hero in this caper. I had no choice except to put Bass in for an Air Force Cross. It was either that or court martial him.”

  “Good choice, General,” offered Bass.

  “Don’t be too smug,” said Buckner. “It’s a symbolic medal only. No photos, no public record, nothing in your file. The medals and the citations that go with them will be sealed for fifty years. You get to wear them in your next lifetime.”

  “Beats Leavenworth,” said Bass.

  Mai-ling nodded her agreement while she stroked Bass’s hand.

  Watching the two, Maxwell had the distinct feeling that he was still missing part of the story. There was something more. Had to be.

  “Another mai tai, General?” said Mai-ling, smiling sweetly.

  “Why not?” Buckner allowed her to refill his glass, then he raised it. “A toast, ladies and gentlemen. Out of this dangerous episode, our Major Bass has not only covered himself with glory, he has acquired something more significant than a medal.”

  “A sucking chest wound?” said Boyce.

  “That was nothing. Something much more significant.”

  Maxwell nodded. Here it comes, he thought. There was more.

  Boyce asked the question. “What is it that he has acquired, General?”

  “What do you think? A gorgeous girl friend.”

  “More than a girl friend, General,” said Bass. “A lot more than that.”

  Mai-ling was smiling. Maxwell thought he even detected a blush on her high, regal cheeks.

  Bass turned to Maxwell. “Remember when she said she hated those smartass Air Force ROTC guys?” He squeezed Mai-ling’s hand. “Guess what? She got over that.”

  <>

  Boyce walked Maxwell to his room.

  “Your dress blues are in the closet,” he said. “And I brought you this.” He handed Maxwell a packet of letters bound with a rubber band. “Your mail from the ship. It came while you were goofing off in Nevada.”

  He watched while Maxwell unwrapped the packet. “The one you’re looking for is on top.”

  Maxwell opened the letter. He recognized the handwriting.

  Washington, D.C., 29 September

  My dear Sam,

  Still nothing further from you—no email, no letter— which can mean only one thing. You’ve made a decision about our relationship. It also means that I was wrong about you. I thought you loved me. Somehow I thought that you would understand my dilemma and wait for me.

  I didn’t want to believe that Sam Maxwell would just walk away. You are a fighter pilot. I thought I was worth fighting for.

  As always,

  Claire

  Boyce waited until Maxwell finished. “Judging by your face, it must be a Dear John.”

  “No. I got that a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Too bad. Did she meet someone else?”

  “Yeah. Her husband.”

  Boyce looked at him. “Baghdad Ben? I thought that Iraqi-sympathizing asshole was dead.”

  “Not dead enough. He’s back, and it turns out he was CIA, and now Claire thinks that maybe he wasn’t such an asshole.”

  Boyce gnawed on his cigar for a moment. “Look, it’s none of my business, but what does she say in Dear John Part Two ? That it’s really over?”

  Maxwell considered telling him he was right, it was none of his business. But he knew Boyce. He wouldn’t leave it alone until he’d gotten the story. “She said that I was a fighter pilot and. . . that she thought she was worth fighting for.”

  “Yeah?” Boyce removed the cigar and gave him a hard stare. “So what seems to be the problem?”

  CHAPTER 28 — RED ROSES

  Washington, D.C.

  1445, Wednesday, 1 October

  It was mid-afternoon and the traffic in downtown Washington was already gridlocked at the intersections. Horns blared, and pedestrians scuttled between rows of stopped automobiles.

  He knew he should have telephoned, but something prevented him. If what they had to say was finished in only a few minutes, he wanted it to be face to face, not over the phone.

  Half a block before G Street, he spotted what he was looking for. Ten minutes later, carrying a dozen red roses with their stems held upward, he strode into the Media One Building lobby. He took the elevator to the eighteenth floor, then entered the front office of Mutual Studios.

  “Whom did you wish to see, sir?” asked the receptionist, a prim, middle-aged woman with round glasses.

  “Miss Phillips. Claire Phillips.”

  She looked him over, noting the Navy uniform, the motorcycle helmet under his arm. Then her gaze fixed on the roses. “Who may I say is here?”

  “Sam Maxwell.”

  Her face broke into a smile. “Commander Sam Maxwell? The one we’ve heard so much about?”

  He nodded.

  “Is Claire expecting you, Commander?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm.” She peered into her computer monitor. “She’s supposed to be doing an interview down at the Mall this afternoon. Shooting at—” she poked at the keyboard. “Let’s see. . . four-fifteen to four-twenty five. Traffic is terrible right now, but if you have a fast way to get there, you might catch her before she’s finished.”

  “I have a fast way.” He turned to leave. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “Excuse me, Commander, but are those roses for Claire?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You want a tip from a lady? Just give her one. Trust me, it works.”

  <>

  He dropped the Harley into first gear and drove the bike up on the sidewalk. The staccato bark of the twin pipes cleared the pedestrians out of his way. Dodging a pair of roller-bladers, he veered onto the grass and motored over to where the crowd was gathered.

  Ahead he could see the equipment vans and the people clustered around the cameras. On the ground were coils of cable and boxes and audio equipment. A man had a large dolly-rigged camera trained on the tall woman standing inside the ring of spectators.

  She had just finished interviewing someone. He looked like a beltway type—a congressman or some administration official in a gray suit. He was walking away from the set. Behind them the Washington monument rose like a monolith against the pale blue sky.

  Maxwell recognized her outfit. It was her standard choice for outdoor shoots—silk scarf, sleeveless blouse, long skirt rustling around her legs. Her chestnut hair ruffled in the breeze that blew in from the Potomac.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  She was speaking to the camera when she spotted him. She continued talking, but her eyes kept darting to the apparition coming toward her—a red Harley-Davidson ridden by a man in a Navy dress blue uniform. The deep-throated, blatting exhaust sound was feeding into the audio.

  Heads in the crowd turned. Maxwell heard a voice boom into his ear. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t ride that thing in here.”

  The voice belonged to
a cop. He was a heavy-set, African-American man with a mass of wiry gray hair jutting from beneath his uniform cap.

  Maxwell stopped the bike. “I’m here to see Claire Phillips.” He held up the single rose. “And to give her this.”

  “Yeah, right. Get outta here or I’ll have you and the noisy damn bike hauled away to the station.”

  Still watching the commotion off the set, Claire finished her remarks for the camera. She removed the clip-on microphone and walked over to the cop.

  “Miss Phillips, this guy says he’s here to see you. Do you know him?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  He turned to Maxwell. “That’s it, pal. You’re outta here.”

  “She’s saying that because she’s in love with me.”

  The cop’s eyes narrowed. He looked Maxwell over, taking in the uniform, the three gold stripes on the sleeves, the rows of campaign ribbons. He turned to Claire. “This guy thinks you’re in love with him. That true?”

  “Not any more. He’s an idiot.”

  The cop nodded and turned to Maxwell. “Sounds like you blew it, buddy.”

  “Yes, I know. I came to apologize.”

  “Ah.” He turned to Claire. “Does it help if he apologizes, ma’am?”

  “No. Why didn’t he answer my mail?”

  He looked at Maxwell. “You got an answer for that?”

  “I was away on an assignment.”

  Claire said, “What kind of assignment?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  The cop said, “Ma’am, this might be a misunderstanding. Maybe you oughta give the guy another chance.”

  “Why? So he can tell me to have a happy life again?”

  “He probably needs a little help. Some guys aren’t real good at expressing feelings, you know.”

  “Probably why they call him ‘Brick.’”

  The cop shook his head. He said to Maxwell, “Sounds like you messed up big time, buddy. You better think of something good to say.”

  “How about if I tell her I love her?”

  “Yeah, that might work.” He took the single rose from Maxwell and handed it to Claire. “He says he loves you, ma’am.”