Rolling Thunder

by Mark Berent

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  0715 Hours Local, 24 September 1966

  F-100F En route Da Nang to Phan Rang

  Republic of Vietnam

  The next morning, Court and Barnes were airborne in the F-100F by 0700. Court leveled at 30,000 feet. The sun was well clear of the horizon formed by the South China Sea. Low scud drew gray dashes along the coast line that lay beneath their left wing. The northeast monsoon season would soon be starting.

  "Quite a guy, that Major Bender," Barnes said from the backseat.

  "That he is," Court agreed. They had eaten breakfast with him at five o'clock. He and nine other F-4 crews had a Pack Six counter coming up. There were no big farewells between Court and Bender, or promises of keeping in touch. Fighter pilots know they will see their friends again, someplace on the circuit. They pick up conversations, sometimes after years of absence, as if interrupted just the day before.

  Court wondered if Nancy Lewis would really be at Clark, and what would happen if she was. Their letters had been so insipid. Thirty minutes later he was taxiing in to a revetment at Phan Rang.

  The Wing Weapons Officer met them with a crew van and drove them to the headquarters building of the 35th Tactical Fighter Wing. They met in his office where he had a copy of the Disums and TWXs Court had sent. Several captains and a major, the nucleus of the new Misty FAC program, listened to Court's summation of what he had written.

  "In conclusion," Court said, after he had covered all the points, "I think the program will work. Although you've all flown plenty of missions in Pack One and Laos so you know what the guns are like, it's a whole new world when you get down in the weeds and stay down. You're running so fast the guy in the front seat has his hands full just controlling the airplane and staying out of trouble. He can't be fooling with maps and strike briefs and debriefs. The backseater has to handle all that. Although we only flew ten days up there, I think the gunners have figured out the new fast FAC mission. It seems like more and more of them would come in certain areas, probably where they had some­thing big and important to protect, yet would never fire in other places. Once we get somebody on the roads full time, we will be able to plot the location, frequency, and intensity of the guns and from that work out an attack pattern on them as well as find out what it is they are trying to protect."

  Court lit a cigarette and clanged his lighter shut. He shook his head. "I had no idea there were so many people up there with guns who want a piece of our ass." He took a deep drag and blew out a cloud of smoke. "I think there will be some losses. We were lucky, but I don't see how you can smoke around all day in the weeds without taking more hits than we did."

  "If that's the case," a captain said, "do you think the mission is worth it?"

  "Well, sure I do. We saw much more than the strike birds but we weren't allowed to hit anything. Once you get to know your area, you can shut them down in daylight hours. Maybe even throw a block across the whole Ho Chi Minh Trail." He took a deep drag, and looked thoughtful. “Tell you one big thing, though. You got to have a dedicated tanker for fuel and you got to fly faster than 400 knots on the deck."

  The meeting broke up at noon. Jack Barnes helped Court get the maintenance paperwork squared away, then took him to the FAC school to see Parker. On the way over, he asked Court how long he had known Parker.

  "Less than a year. Just since Bien Hoa. Why?"

  "I heard about the good works he did down there. But he seems unhappy here. He keeps pretty much to himself except when he's drinking, then he loosens up some."

  The wooden building was screened with the usual low corrugated tin roof. Besides American and Vietnamese pilots, Australian, and Thai pilots were also there learning the intricacies of being an airborne forward air controller.

  Toby Parker smiled, shook hands and appeared to be pleased to see Court. He was wearing neatly pressed khakis. Court saw lines on his forehead and bags under his eyes that weren't there when he departed Bien Hoa seven months before.

  "It's all set," Toby said. "The boss gave me the time off. First I've had since I got here."

  In the revetment, Court had Toby explain every­thing he knew about the back seat of an F-100F. Court was happily surprised at his depth of knowledge. He knew about as much as any F-100 jock, including various emergency pro­cedures such as how to perform an air start in case of engine flameout.

  Court let Toby take the controls after they leveled at 37,000 heading toward Clark Air Base via Cow Shark Airway to the Lubang intersection, where they would cut northeast for Clark. The total distance was 682 nautical miles which would take them 1 plus 22 at the ground speed of 505 knots Toby had worked up. "Not bad," Court had said to him, checking his figures before takeoff.

  Toby flew for over an hour without saying a word. At first, Court monitored how well he held his heading and altitude. For the first twenty minutes he was ragged. He would porpoise through his assigned altitude by two and three hundred feet and chase his heading up to ten degrees on either side. Then he settled down. Soon the navigation instruments indicated they were over Lubang.

  "Toby," Court said, "turn left to 026 degrees. We're going to take Track 23 right up to Clark. And if you keep on as well as you are, you can make the penetration and approach. We'll see how you hack instruments."

  Clark weather reported a cloud layer from 25,000 feet down to 3,000 feet. Court was going to let Toby penetrate the weather layers following the headings and altitudes as printed on Letdown Plates for Clark. At the proper time, Court checked in with Clark Approach Control on 261.4.

  "Roger, Air Force 723, Clark Approach has you loud and clear. Squawk 45 for positive identification. You are cleared for penetration and low approach at Clark Air Base when you arrive over the high cone. Altimeter 29.96. Air Force 723, when you are inbound from your penetration turn, contact GCA on 263.7 for further clearance and landing."

  Court read back the instructions then added that if the weather was clear below 3000, they'd break it off once they had the field in sight, and contact Clark Tower for permission to shoot some landings. Clark Approach rogered the plan.

  Toby began his descent with Court talking him through the actions to take: speed boards out; throttle to 85 percent; hold 240 knots. Toby was fairly steady until they entered the cloud layer at 25,000 feet, then he got rough.

  "Okay, partner, keep your crosscheck going. Don't concentrate on just one instrument. Keep them all in your mind--attitude, heading, airspeed. Watch your rate of descent." In the procedure turn, the bank angle got away from Toby. Court let him go as they tipped from a 30 degree bank to 60 then nearly vertical at 80 degrees before he recovered for him.

  "God, Court, I didn't even see it," Toby said. He gave an exaggerated ‘whew’ when they broke out and had the field in sight. Court called the Tower for him.

  "Clark Tower, Air Force 723, I have the field in sight, cancelling IFR. Request landing instructions for one Fox One Hundred."

  "Air Force 723, Clark. You are cleared on to initial for Runway 24, left hand pattern. Altimeter 29.96, wind is 210 at six. We have a flight of three on short initial. Report the break."

  "Roger, 24, left break, 723."

  Court returned to the intercom. "Okay, Toby. Heading 240, altitude 1500, airspeed 350. That's it. Now we're over the approach end of the runway, give me a nice tight 180 degree turn to the left. Put the boards out. That's it, I'll handle the throttle, gear and flaps for you."

  Toby made a credible left break and rolled out on downwind. "Good, hold 230," Court said. "Gear and flaps coming down. Hold the nose up; trim it up. Reduce speed to 190. Start your base turn...now. Very nice, bring it around; watch your airspeed; keep it turning; roll out."

  "Clark Tower, 723 turning final, gear down, pressure up, touch and go."

  "Roger 723, cleared touch and go. No other traffic. Report downwind."

  Court helped Toby move the stick and rudder pedals around while they shot two touch-and-go practice landings and one full stop. They taxied in behind
a Follow-Me to the Maintenance hanger, then shut down and climbed out. The grinning Toby was dripping wet with perspiration.

  "Good God, man," Court said, "you been taking a bath back there?"

  "Court, it was great. Geez, I LOVED it. Can I fly on the way back?" In spite of the oxygen mask crinkles on his cheeks, Toby looked ten years younger. He babbled all the way into the hanger, while Court turned the airplane over to the Maintenance Officer. When the paperwork was finished, they were told the BOQ was full, but the van would run them over to the Skyliner Motel just outside the main gate. Toby kept up his excited chatter all the way to the Skyliner. Court barely listened as he heard again Nancy Lewis' voice on the Mars connection saying she wanted to see him. He felt his breath catch as he wondered if she had gotten her flight.

  When the picture of a starving soldier crouched in a POW cage tried to enter his mind, he quickly tuned in on Toby's chatter.

  1545 Hours Local, 24 September 1966

  Skyliner Motel, Angeles City

  Outside Main Gate, Clark Air Base

  Republic of the Philippines

  "What about that second landing? You weren't on the controls that much were you? On the penetration, do you put the boards out before you bring the throttle back or after? How do you know when to engage the nose wheel steering on landing?" Court patiently answered all the questions. Toby wound down as the van stopped at the Motel where they were assigned adjoining rooms. They showered and changed into light slacks and sport shirts. Toby wore a piece of jade set in gold on a thick gold chain around his neck. They walked out to the terrace lounge by the pool, and had the waiter bring beer. Toby inexpertly lit a cigarette and coughed at the first inhale.

  Court went over the flight with him. He covered the fundamentals of aerodynamics, engine malfunction procedures, even how to make radio calls. Toby soaked it up and showed by his questions that he had a good understanding. He's really alive again when he talks airplanes, Court mused. He glanced at Toby.

  "Tell me something, Tobes. Are you going to accept that pilot training slot or are you going to get out?"

  Toby looked up. "Why do you ask?"

  "You seem awfully hipped on flying and, face it, you're a natural. Yet you haven't once mentioned going to Randolph or what kind of an airplane you want once you get your pilot wings."

  Toby took a long pull at his beer, and stared off at the darkening sky. His face looked thoughtful.

  "It's this way," he began. "My folks have expected a little more out of me. They've got a few bucks and they figured I'd have my fun in college and then come into the family real estate business. They sort of own a few things, and hoped I'd do some managing. They were pretty surprised when I went into the Air Force Officer Candidate School." He snorted, "Even more surprised when I graduated. They about washed their hands of me when I volunteered for Vietnam. They actually seemed angry." He shook his head, finished off his beer, and waved at the waiter for more.

  "I guess I just wanted to do something on my own for a while before settling down. It's not a bad life back there in Virginia, you know. Fauquier County; horses and Cadillacs, long-haired blondes from Sweet Briar and Hood driving their convertibles around to horse shows. Lunch at the Country Club. You know what I mean."

  Court knew what he meant. He had consciously chucked a relatively comfy life as the great Silk Screen Sam Bann­is­ter's son to carve his career out of the Air Force. There were few scions from wealthy families serving as career offi­cers in any military service. State Department…yes. Military…no.

  Court looked closer at Toby and thought he had never seen him quite so introspective.

  "Yeah, I know what you mean. So what are you going to do?"

  Toby looked him in the eye with sudden resoluteness. "I'm going to do what Phil Travers wanted me to do. Stay in and fly."

  They talked and drank beer until long shadows inched over the terrace and the waiters began to light candles on the tables. Toby fought his way through two more cigarettes.

  Court told Toby about the book he was reading, Le Mal Jaune. "I think Lartéguy has his characters represent parts of the French being, and parts of the Vietnamese. One French­man is a tired colonial type, another a young hustler, a third is a liberal. The Vietnamese represent the nationalists, the communists, and those who align with France. But I can't figure out the Vietnamese girl Kieu, who sometimes wants to be called Claire. Maybe by the time I finish, I'll know what both Lartéguy and my friends Lanh and Ut are driving at. It's in French and I'm pretty rusty." He took a lingering drag on his cigarette. Toby looked bored.

  "Do you want to eat here, or over at the O’ Club?" he asked. "The motel has a bus that makes the round trip every thirty minutes. I checked."

  "Let’s go to the Club," Court said. “I hear they have great steaks, and I'm ready."

  They finished their beer and walked through the small lobby to the canvas covered portico outside the main entrance. Bert, the desk man, assured them the bus would be along any minute. They lit cigarettes while they waited in the dark. The stored heat from the driveway surrounded them like steam from a grate. It was barely eight o'clock. Headlights from a Volkswagen bus lit them up as it swung up the curving drive of the motel and stopped in front of the door. They could see it was packed with civilian aircrew and luggage. They stepped back as the passenger door slid open and found themselves staring at Tiffy Berg. Next to her sat Nancy Lewis.

  Thirty minutes later, Court and Toby stood by the bar at the Skyliner pool waiting for the girls to join them. They had switched to Scotch. After the previous beers, Toby could feel his.

  "Hey, Court. That was a great flight today, wasn't it?" He wobbled slightly as he focused his eyes on his watch. "But we've got to eat pretty soon or I'm going to fall over."

  "Then don't drink doubles. Shape up. Besides, didn't you see the way Tiffy looked at you? I think she wants your body." Court grinned.

  "You and Nancy sure stared at each other for a long time. At first I didn't think you were even going to say hello. You both looked pretty serious." He put his drink down. "So you think Tiffy gave me the old come-on." His face looked rumpled. The whites of his blue eyes were tinged with tiny red veins. He screwed his brow into an exaggerated wrinkle of concen­tration. "You don't suppose...no, no." He shook his head. "No, you don't. And I don't suppose either."

  "Toby old pal, you're not making much sense," Court said. He looked up to the top of the steps. "Here they come," he said, "here they come and, God, don't they look great?"

  Both girls wore white linen wrap-around mini-skirts that smoothed down over their hips and ended well short of their knees. Tiffy wore a blue modified polo pullover that tightly clung to her breasts as if stitched to her brassiere. Her brown hair was short and lustrous. Nancy Lewis wore a blouse of Thai silk that couldn't quite hide the fullness of her breasts. Her hair was blonde and long and combed smoothly over her shoulders. Both had bare legs and high heels.

  Court and Toby met the two girls half way and walked them to a table they had reserved for dinner. It was set with white linen, stemmed wine and water glasses, reasonable china, and shiny stainless steel flatware. Placed in the center of the table were a large candle whose flame flickered slightly in the cool breeze and a curved bowl holding a floating chrysanthemum. The waiter, a slender boyish Filipino, took drink orders and passed the menus. Both girls started to talk at once. Tiffy Berg first, then Nancy Lewis.

  "I simply couldn't believe my eyes--"

  "I never thought we'd make it--" They stopped at the same time and laughed. Tiffy turned to Nancy. "Never thought you'd make it? Did you know Court and Toby would be here?"

  Nancy's smile was her answer as Court explained the Mars call.

  "Nancy," he said, before any further conversation could develop, "I want to know about your leg."

  "Like I wrote. I threw the crutch away in a day, and had the stitches out in a week. I was stiff for another week. That's all."

  “Too bad the military d
oesn’t award Purple Hearts to civilians. You certainly earned one.”

  The waiter brought the drinks; wine for the girls, Scotch for the men. Without Toby noticing, Court took his double. Everybody ordered Lumpia then Australian beef. Court and the two girls talked about the weather, shopping at Clark, and how nice the Philippinos were. Tiffy said the Frug and Watusi were the latest dance rage in the States. Nancy indicated the dance floor, "We'll teach it to you guys tonight," she said, looking from Court to Toby.

  "Great," Court said.

  Toby nodded. Nancy looked at him. "The last time we talked was at the Club in Bien Hoa. How have you been, Toby?" she asked.

  "Hey Court," he said, his voice loud, "tell them about that great flight today. Was I great or was I great?"

  "You were great, Tobes, just great."

  "Toby," Tiffy said, placing her hand on his wrist, "there was a big write-up in the newspapers in the States about how you saved some men; about how you won the Air Force Cross and all. I think that was just marvelous. You must be very proud."

  "Oh, I'm proud, all right, boy am I proud. I'm so Goddamn proud, you can't believe it," Toby said with words like bitten off snarls. Then he worked his face into an exaggerated grin, and tilted his chair back. He waved his glass and started to sing. "Off we go, into the wild blue yonder..."

  "All right, Toby, that's enough," Court said.

  "...climbing high, into the sun.."

  "Parker," Court's voice lashed out like a bull whip, "Knock...It...Off."

  Toby rocked his chair forward and slammed his glass down. Tiffy put her hand to her throat. Crew members at other tables glanced over.

  "Come ON, we're having a party. Right?" He grabbed Tiffy's wrist and looked her in the eye. "A party, got it?"

  Court reached over and wrapped his big hand around Toby's wrist. He applied just enough pressure to make Toby let go of Tiffy.

  "Bannister, let go or I'll pop you one."

  "I'll let go if you behave, otherwise I'm going to dump you in the pool." He tilted Toby Parker's arm in the direction of the pool.

  "All right, I get the point. There will be no party. I'll be quiet. Now give me my damn arm back." Court let go. Toby looked at Tiffy. "You wanna dance?"

  "Do you think you can?" Tiffy asked, concern on her face.

  "Sure," Toby said. He stood up and squared his shoulders, suddenly looking boyish again. "Just watch me."

  He held out his hand, and led Tiffy to the dance floor. She looked back at the table and shrugged.

  Court and Nancy Lewis watched them take their place among the scattered couples. They danced slow, and close. The orchestra played easy songs for the dinner crowd.

  "Oh, Court," Nancy said, "I feel so sorry for Toby. He is so unhappy again. I thought after that talk at Bien Hoa he was coming around from the loss of his friend. He told me about the girl, Tui, in Saigon, and about Phil Travers. I thought he was getting over it. What happened?"

  "Tui was one of the sappers that night you got hit. She got cut in half by M-16s right in front of Toby. She had called out to him. It happened right outside our bunker."

  "Oh, no. How terrible. He's so young to be so sad. What can we do for him?"

  "Not much. Try to protect him from himself, I suppose, and hope he'll ride it out."

  The waiter wheeled up a cart and served four platters of sizzling Australian steaks. Court ordered a bottle of wine.

  "Tiffy kind of likes him. Maybe she can help."

  "Maybe," Court said. "How about you? Any news about your husband?" As he chose the word, Court realized he didn't want to bring the man to the table by saying his name.

  Nancy took a sip of her wine. "Yes, I've had some word." She pressed her lips together for a minute. "Tom Myers wrote me a few months ago. He has an agent report that Brad died in a bamboo cage down in the jungle by Ca Mau. He was wrong about the napalm. He passed on the report to the Department of the Army, but they haven't said a word to me yet." She took a deep breath. "Oh Court, I feel so awful. Part of me wants him alive and part of me wants him declared...declared..." She shook her head, her eyes full.

  Court took her hand. He wanted to cradle her in his arms. He lifted his other hand to her chin, and gently tilted her head up. "I think what you feel is absolutely natural. It's hard enough to deal with the death of someone you love, but nearly impossible when they are missing." Damn, Court thought to himself, those words don't mean much. He wanted her and wanted her bad, but couldn't bring himself into the pursuit mode.

  "Maybe Brad is alive," he said, kicking himself for trying to be so righteous but unable to stop. In calling Brad by name and implying he was alive, Court brought him to the table and sat him right down between himself and Nancy. She looked away. He thought he heard her say "He isn't."

  The breeze was warm and scented. The moon hung fat on the horizon. Tiffy and Toby came back to the table holding hands. Toby's face was pleasant and bright.

  "I apologize," he said, "for being such a loudmouth." Nancy and Court told him not to worry about it. He looked at them and grinned. It was the Toby Parker of better days. "This is some girl," he said, holding up Tiffy's hand in his own from under the table. "Some girl."

  They relished their steaks, and savored the wine which was kept flowing throughout the meal, and the big chocolate desserts. When they weren't laughing uproariously at funny flying stories, they were enjoying the dance floor. Nancy and Tiffy got the giggles while telling airline stories, and Court went off on some long tale about falling off a horse into a pile of manure when he was a kid.

  Later, Toby and Tiffy came back from a dance to announce they were going down to the bar in the basement of the Skyliner; they strolled off, arms around each other.

  "Maybe there is a thing going there," Court said.

  Nancy nodded and smiled. "Let’s you and me dance," she said, looking at Court with half-closed eyes.

  They danced apart at first, then closer as the orchestra did a passable job with American prom songs from the Forties and Fifties. Without speaking they swayed though a ten-minute medley. The sax player was particularly eloquent.

  Nancy snuggled closer. "Hold me," she murmured, laying her head on Court's shoulder. Court, at tent pole size again, made no move. Nancy tightened and pulled him close. "Court, oh Court, take me home."

  "Are you sure?" he asked into her hair.

  "Yes. It's all I could think of flying over here."

  "But your letters were so non-committal."

  "You never read the ones I tore up."

  They took what was left of the wine and went to his room. Inside, he tuned the bedside radio, volume low, to some slow music, threw a towel over the lamp, and poured the wine. Before he could pick up the glasses, she slid her arms around him and kissed him. He put his arms around her and was roused beyond measure. They kissed gently at first, feeling each other's lips and face. Then the kisses became harder, harder and longer; then deep and hard and long, feeling and kneading, pulling and clutching and pressing together until Court lifted her up and onto the bed. He lay on her and began to move his hips, felt her respond under him with undulations and surges of her own. They breathed in gasps and moans, smothered each others mouths and faces with their lips and tongues. Their need for each other blazing and throbbing now.

  He started to slide her panties down. She lifted her hips to help and tugged at her skirt. Then she sat up and pulled her blouse over her head, tousling her hair and exposing the brassiere that held breasts far larger and firmer than seemed possible for the blouse to have hidden. She leaned back arms straight out behind her; hair tumbled over one shoulder, eyes half-closed with want and desire, her moist mouth slightly open. Her nipples were erect and large, her breasts and her belly glowed sun-brown then white at the triangle of pubic hair glistening blonde and full and moist. Her long legs were knee-bent over the edge of the bed.

  Court stood and looked down at her.

  "My God, but you are beautiful." His voice was thick an
d hoarse. He undressed quickly. He felt he had never been this gorged and hard in his life. He went to her, and stood in front of her, bent over and gently eased her down. She breathed more calmly now. He knelt and started to guide himself into her. She gasped, and her legs convulsed together. Court began to pull away.

  No," she said, "stay there, I'll be all right." She put her hands on him to hold him in place. Court touched her. She felt dry and closed.

  "Court, it's all right. Please, go ahead."

  "No," he said, and pulled away. "It's not all right. I'm not, shall we say, up to it." He stood and quickly turned away from her to grab his pants, but she saw he was more than up to it.

  "Oh Court, you don't have to pretend it's your fault. I'm so sorry. I really wanted to." She sat forward, still naked. She had no pretense at false modesty and made no coquettish grabs for clothes or bed sheet,

  With difficulty Court pulled his pants on over his nakedness.

  "Do you want me to--"

  "No,” he said, interrupting her. “It's okay, really. Don't worry about it. I'll just go in the bathroom and slit my wrists."

  "I really wanted to make love, or thought I wanted to. I hope you don't think I...am a...a girl who teases."

  "No, I don't think that. Not at all. I know what the problem is." Court lit a cigarette.

  "So do I," she said. "It's too soon. Maybe it will always be too soon." She moved to the side of the bed. "Now that you've got some clothes on, I feel naked." She pulled a sheet around her and leaned back against the headrest.

  Court poured them both a glass of wine, then sat in the lounge chair and propped his feet on the bed. He thought he heard Toby enter his room next door. He studied her profile as they sipped their wine. Mantovani on the radio seemed to soothe her. Court felt disgustedly righteous but terribly frustrated. He took a deep breath.

  "I meant what I said. You are beautiful."

  "But not sexy."

  "Wrong. You are very sexy."

  "But not tonight." She took a sip of her wine.

  "Wrong again. You are always sexy to me; you just don't feel sexy about me."

  "Oh, Court, now you're the one who is wrong. I do feel... sexy about you. It's just that something locked up at the last minute. I don't know if it was my mind or my body, but all of a sudden something clicked off and I just shut down."

  They were silent again as Montovani played on. Court held up the empty wine bottle. "More? I can get some at the desk."

  "No, but I want to ask you something. May I?"

  "Sure, go ahead."

  "I want to spend the night with you. May I?"

  "Sure, go ahead."

  "No, I mean in bed with you, with your arms around me."

  "Sure, go ahead."

  "Dammit," she said, "you're not making things easy for me."

  Court looked at her. She looked tired and helpless and hurt. He pulled his feet off the bed and leaned forward.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "You're right, I'm being an ass."

  She giggled. "Not quite," she said, "not quite."

  It began as the first glow of dawn softly restored form and substance to the room. And to their desire. They were slow and gentle with each other. This time it worked. They joined with gentle magic. They spoke each other's name in hushed and reverent tones. And it worked again, the gentle magic. And again.

  Later, they fell asleep.

  "I feel awful," Toby said the next day. It was nearly noon. Earlier, he had bought a bathing suit in the motel shop and now he and Tiffy had adjoining wooden lounge chairs, the kind with rollers at the big end, in the shade of the palm trees at the Skyliner pool. Each lay back on a white beach towel, thick and rough with nap. They were glossy with sweat and smelled of coconut oil from Tiffy's suntan lotion. Several empty Bloody Mary glasses were on the low wooden table between them. Toby held another on his chest. He leaned forward and took a swallow.

  "It's not your fault," Tiffy said in a soft voice. She leaned over and stroked Toby's hand.

  "The hell it's not," he said.

  She leaned over him. "Look, you, there's always tonight, you know. This afternoon, for that matter. We'll try again."

  "God almighty," he said in a caustic voice, "how many cherries have you copped from twenty-four year old male virgins before?"

  "Toby Parker, you just stop that kind of talk right now." She took her hand away.

  "How many men have you been to bed with before?"

  "That's none of your business." She sat back with her arms folded.

  "I want to know. Tell me" He propped himself on an elbow to look at her.

  "Not very many."

  "Come on, how many?"

  "What good will it do for you to know?"

  "How many? How old were they? Did any of them do what I did?" He tossed down the last swallow of his Bloody Mary and banged the glass down on the table between them.

  She turned to him, her eyes soft with compassion. "Oh, Toby, you didn't do anything--"

  "You got that right," he interrupted. "I didn't do anything did I? You know what it's called?"

  "Toby, stop it."

  "It's called premature ejaculation. I shot my wad the minute I touched you, before I could even get it in." He shook his head.

  "You were," she chose the word carefully, "anxious. I was in a hurry, too. We'll try it again."

  "You mean that, don't you?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "How about right now?" he said with a smile both apprehen­sive and eager.

  She sat up and looked at him. There were thin beads of sweat on her upper lip. She leaned forward and saw his eyes flick to the cleavage between her breasts. She smiled and her eyes were bright. "Yes," she said, "right now."

  Toby had to wrap a towel around his waist to walk from the pool to his room.

  Under Tiffy's directions, they took their clothes off quietly and without haste. At first, Toby was very hard. "Sit on the bed," she said, "like this." She sat, cross-legged with her hands on her knees. Toby sat across from her in the same style. He had started to go soft. He reached out to touch her breasts. She took his hand away.

  "Not yet. Let’s just look at each other." She held his eyes for a few minutes then looked down at him. He became very soft. His face was flaming.

  "You have never been naked around a woman before, have you?" She put a hand on his knee and looked into his face. He produced a crooked grin.

  "No," he said, and sighed, "I haven't. I guess you think I'm pretty much of a kid."

  "No, I don't think you're pretty much a kid. Pretty yes, kid, no. Now just relax, will you? I want you to look at me, and I want to look at you. In a little while we'll touch each other, slowly and in careful places."

  For over an hour Tiffy guided Toby around her body, first directing his eyes, then his fingers. Soon, she did the same to him. They explored each other slowly, giving little doctor-like ‘humms,’ and ‘well, wells.’ She paced his sensations with slow advances and planned retreats. She lowered his consuming fervor from flame to glow of warm coals of affection; from over-excited craving to steady and controlled ambition to please and be pleased. From instinct imprinted in her body from primordial woman, she knew when it was time. And she was right.

  Court helped him on takeoff, then Toby flew the entire route from climbout to letdown on the return flight to Phan Rang. Except for navigation and airplane performance comments, they spoke little. After three days at the pool and in the rooms of the Skyliner, they felt salty and vaguely uncomfortable in their flight suits. Once settled in, however, both gave little sighs and hums of contentment. The flight was smooth and clear. The engine on the newly overhauled F-100F purred and responded to the slightest touch. Past the coast of Vietnam, Court decided they had the time and the fuel and the weather in the Phan Rang local area to cancel IFR and indulge in some aerobatics. He spent ten minutes indoctri­nating Toby in the delights of effortless rolls and loops and wingovers, then talked him to the point of touchdown on runway
34 at Phan Rang. It was late in the afternoon when they taxied to the revetment.

  1330 Hours Local, 27 September 1966

  Phan Rang Air Base, Republic of Vietnam

  Jack Barnes met the airplane, he looked grim.

  "Ron Bender and his backseater got shot down south of Hanoi," he said. "It was a big raid, the Da Nang guys were capping Thuds. Someone heard him say he was hit and would have to get out, but nobody saw his plane or chutes or heard any beepers. I'm sorry. I knew you guys were close."

  Court turned aside for a second. He shook his head in an unconscious act those in combat perform in one fashion or another to shake off the emotional burden of the loss of someone close. The job at hand, whether hurling 25 tons of steel at the ground or creeping vine-snarled through the wet jungle, required unencumbered attention or one would join his comrade in death or captivity. There would be a later time to purge the mind of all but good memories of the fallen friend.

  Court joined Toby and Barnes in the jeep. They drove over to the FAC School. "Oh yeah," Barnes said as they walked into his office, "there's a TWX for you." Court lit a Lucky and read it.

  It was from DOCB. Court was to report to Major Ted Frederick, Weapons Officer of the 355th Tactical Fighter Wing located at Tahkli Royal Thai Air Force Base, Thailand, for further observations and experience pertinent to Commando Sabre. The 355th flew the sturdy F-105 fighter on daily raids over North Vietnam. He finished up the paperwork, and met Toby at the club for a fried rice and beer dinner at which time he told him about going to Tahkli.

  "I hear it's pretty rough over there," Toby said.

  Court shrugged. "I'm like everybody else," he said, "it won't happen to me." But inside he wasn't at all sure. The next day the T-39 Scatback courier plane dropped him off at Tahkli.

  1630 Hours Local, 28 September 1966

  355th Tactical Fighter Wing

  Tahkli Royal Thai Air Force Base

  Kingdom of Thailand

  Court had never met Ted Frederick before, but what he had heard about the pilot was legendary. Frederick had gained his reputation as an F-105 Fighter Weapons School instructor. There were two camps; those who loved him and those who thought him a flaming asshole who had nothing good to say about practically everything and everybody. Those who loved him thought he had a dry, sardonic wit that went over the heads of his detractors. Nevertheless, the two camps had one thing in common, they agreed he had a rare command of the F-105, and knew the tactics to use it as a weapon better than any other Thud driver in the air since Jim Kasler got shot down.

  "Somebody up there must like him," Court's escort, a former ATC pilot, told him at the Tahkli O’ Club bar. The escort, a captain, had picked Court up from the T-39 in front of Base Ops and gotten him a bunk in the squadron hooch. From there, they had gone to the 354th Squadron where Court was rigged with the gear necessary to fly in the back seat of an F-105F. The captain told Court that Frederick was on a late afternoon strike, and would meet them at the O’ Club following debriefing. "Yep, somebody must like him," he repeated.

  "Why do you say that?" Court asked.

  "He just came out on the below the zone promotion list to lieutenant colonel. That's fast burner stuff."

  "It is," Court agreed. He hadn't decided which camp the captain was in, not that it made much difference. Court glanced around the noisy and crowded bar. A loud hullabaloo at the main entrance caught his attention. A young captain, flanked by friends, swaggered in and rang a bell hanging over the bar to announce he had just completed his 100th mission over North Vietnam. The pilot was flushed and already a little tight. As was the ritual for such an occasion, his commanders and fellow pilots had met his F-105 when he landed. They had rolled out a red carpet for him to step on when he climbed down the ladder from his cockpit. Champagne was uncorked; smoke bombs set off; the knight victorious feted. That the enemy was as yet undefeated was unimportant; the victory celebration this day was for surviving one hundred missions.

  One hundred times the young captain had flown his 26-ton steed across Thailand and Laos into North Vietnam to duel dragons whose fiery breaths claimed at least one victim a day. This Knight, as all others before and after him, belonged to the fraternity that called their beloved F-105 the Thud. They were known as Thud drivers. Designed by Republic Aviation to be a nuclear bomber, the Thud had tran­sistors, diodes, and, horror of horrors for a fighter, it had an internal bomb bay. The bomb bay now carried extra fuel. Tons of bombs were strapped and hung on the wings and under the belly along with more fuel tanks. It was rumored Republic would have made the Thud out of concrete except steel was heavier. The massive F-105 had become the main strike plane against North Vietnam because of the huge load it could carry, the amount of damage it could absorb and still fly, and the terrifically high speed at which it could enter and leave the target area. The young captain and his friends took over a corner of the barroom from where they sang and drank and argued the merits of beer over Salty Dogs, and Thuds over Phantoms.

  The sun was down by the time Ted Frederick walked into the club accompanied by two other pilots, all in flight suits. Frederick was easy to spot. He walked in front of the other two as if he were leading a flight into enemy territory. He had thick black hair, still sweat-glued to his skull. His jaw was square and ridged with what could be muscle lines or jowls. His broad shoulders pivoted forward with each step causing his arms, sharply bent at the elbow, to rock back and forth in front of his waist. His swinging hands curled naturally into partial fists in a way that reminded Court of Jimmy Cagney getting ready to belt someone.

  Ted Frederick spotted the captain standing with Court, peeled off with a wave to his wingmen, and came over to them. He stopped a foot away. He was three inches shorter than Court, but broader. His brow jutted out over deep set black eyes. He didn't wait for intro­ductions.

  "So you're the movie actor here to fly around with the big boys, eh," Frederick said in surprisingly rich and mellow tones, considering his accent was pure Maine.

  "Wrong, Major. I'm a fighter pilot here to learn about Thud operations."

  "FIGHTAH pilot, you call the Hun a FIGHTAH?" Frederick said.

  “Well, Don Kilgus got a MiG-17 last April with a Hun. So now, just what would you call it, Major?" Court could feel his blood pressure rising as his pulse quickened.

  "What would I call it? I'll tell you what I would call it." Frederick stood back and rolled his shoulders as if warming up for a boxing match. "I'd call it a shovel nosed, flat bellied, corner slicing, ground loving hoorah. That's what I'd call it."

  Court gave a sharp laugh. "Ground loving whore, don't you mean?"

  "That's what I said. It's a hoorah, a ground loving hoorah. You making fun of me?" Frederick stepped back and rolled his shoulders again. He looked at Court and squinted.

  "Movie fighter pilot, come here, over to the table. You and me, we're gonna arm wrestle for a beer." He looked at Court with a curled lip. "Or don't you want to? Guess you heard I was champ around here."

  Court had heard no such thing, but decided what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound.

  "Yeah, Champ, I've heard all about you. Let's go."

  A sizeable crowd gathered around the two as they took their places across from each other.

  "No wrapping your legs around the table or holding it with your free hand, you heeyah?" Frederick said as they seated themselves. "And keep your butt on the chair. Once we get our grip, Charley heeyah," he indicated one of the pilots he had walked in with, "will give the go signal."

  He held his right arm and hand up, palm left, and looked from under lowered brows at Court "You still want in, movie pilot? You can pussy out anytime."

  Court felt so ginned up to whip this arrogant Frederick that he was ready to bite through a crow bar. He didn't trust himself to speak. "Go. Let’s go," he said through clenched teeth. He put up his arm and slapped his hand over that of Frederick, who looked relaxed and confident.

  The pilots, clustered around dri
nking from beer mugs and cans, made a lot of catcalls and comments about who could take whom.

  When Charley said "Go," Court channeled all the adrenalin and dislike throughout his body into his arm. He simultaneously squeezed Frederick's hand as hard as he could and put all his arm muscle into meeting Frederick's return force. It was almost no contest. There was some initial resistance, hardly felt, when Court slammed Frederick's hand so hard on the table the stocky pilot tumbled sideways off his chair. He got up immediately.

  "Huh, you were lucky. I wasn't ready," he said. He sat down and put his arm up again. Charley gave the "Go" signal and Court put Frederick down quicker than before. Frederick got up fast.

  "Again," he said. The same thing happened.

  "Again," Frederick said. Court deliberately didn't put in enough pressure to tumble Frederick off his chair. They seesawed a bit, then Court eased Frederick's hand down on his knuckles.

  Six more times Frederick demanded a rematch, and six times Court eased his hand to the table. His arm began to quiver and buzz from the strain. He found it harder to keep up the steady pressure than from putting out the explosive power that ended a match with Frederick on the floor.

  "Again," Frederick said.

  "No," Court replied.

  "What's the matter? You giving up?" Frederick demanded. His face was white, and his jaw was clenched, whether in pain or determination, Court couldn't tell. He decided it was both.

  "No, Champ," Court said, "I'm not giving up," and put Frederick down, faster than before.

  "Again," Frederick rasped. He was panting heavily, not like a runner, but like a man carrying a heavy load. "Again," he said, and put up his arm.

  "Come off it, Ted," some of the crowd members said. Others shook their heads and walked away.

  Court suddenly realized this man was going to sit there all night and into the next day or until he dropped dead, calling for another match. He put him down two more times, then didn't bring his arm up at Frederick's challenge.

  "That's enough, Major," he said. He was panting also, and his arm ached.

  "You quit?" Frederick asked in a voice torn by rasping gasps for breath.

  "No, I don't quit. I just don't want to do this anymore and you aren't going to win."

  "Again," Frederick rasped, "I might get lucky." His lips drew back in a grimace, more of pain than humor, Court thought.

  "Once more," he said, "and that's it."

  They raised arms, Frederick looking strangely bright as if in anticipation. Court put him down with a quick, hard rap, and stood up. "That's enough," he said.

  "You mean you quit," Frederick said, looking up at him.

  Court sat back down, oddly reluctant to talk down to this man who sat, back erect and straight, kneading an arm that Court knew throbbed and ached. His own felt on fire. Court looked him in the eye.

  "Major Frederick," he said, "I quit. Let's get that beer. I'll buy."

  "HAH," Frederick boomed, and stood up. "I knew it. You're a quittah. Never could stand a quittah." He started to walk away. His face looked almost peaceful. He hesitated, then turned back to sweep an appraising glance over Court Bannister. "You know, you're pretty big. Bigger and strongah than you look. But I knew I'd get you." He shook his craggy head in disgust. "If there's anything I can't stand, it's a quittah."

  Court slowly got to his feet. "How about that beer, Major?"

  "Don't drink," Frederick said. He fixed Court with squinted eyes that were dark with an inner fury. "You better not either. You got to meet me tomorrow at three o'clock down at Wing for a briefing."

  "In the afternoon?" Court asked.

  "No, Bannister, in the morning. You're going downtown with me."