"You don't feel that way any more?"
"Sometimes I do. Sometimes." Jake sipped the tea. It needed sugar. He put down the cup knowing he would not pick it up again
"Tell me more, Jake. What sort of feeling do you have when you're flying? Do you feel exhilaration? Is it like the feeling I get when I ride a roller coaster?"
"Sometimes it's like a roller coaster. But that's not the true feeling of it." As Jake sought the words, Callie's eyes peered at him above her teacup. "Well," said Jake. "It's like when you were a kid and you pretended you were sick so you could stay home from school. The rest of the world is working, at school, in factories, in offices. But there you are, sitting in your cockpit, feeling like you're getting away with something, flying smoothly along enjoying the sky and the clouds and looking down at the earth. You are free and unfettered and feel privileged you can fly." Jake paused. "But on the ground a pilot is like a man waiting for a train. He's restless, anxious to get away. A pilot just bides his time until his plane can take him away again, into the air. He feels like a visitor when he's on the ground."
Callie put down her cup. "I like the way you put that."
Jake had felt his voice growing hoarse as he talked. "I'm awfully thirsty. Why don't we move to the bar?"
They could sit facing each other now, and the chairs were more comfortable than those in the lobby. Callie had ordered a gin and tonic, and Jake was halfway through a bottle of San Miguel beer. There were only a few people in the bar, and the piano was unmanned
"I'm not sure you enjoyed the tea," Callie said.
Jake smiled. "I guess I felt out of place. They don's have many teas where I come from."
"Where are you from?"
"A small town in Virginia, called Ridgeville. It's in southwestern Virginia, not too far from the North Carolina border. Not a hell of a lot happens there." Jake took a swig of beer. "Where're you from, Callie?"
"Chicago. Hyde Park. The neighborhood around the University of Chicago. My father teaches in the business school, and my mother's in the foreign language department."
"Did you go there?"
"Most certainly. It was preordained. I did both my undergraduate and graduate work there-in foreign languages, of course."
"A real family affair," said Jake.
"That was the problem. Both Mom and Dad assurned that I would pursue an academic career. They were pretty upset when I took the foreign service exam, and more upset when I passed it. They pleaded with me to go on for a doctorate, but-as the saying goes. - I wanted to see the world."
"And you wanted to be your own person."
"That was a good part of it, sure."
"You must speak Chinese, then," said Jake. "Uh-huh. I speak Mandarin mostly, and I'm studying Cantonese here."
"I'm impressed."
"Chinese-spoken Chinese, that is--isn't as difficult to learn as many people think. The grammar is easy. Reading it, though, is quite a challenge."
"Can you read it?"
"Only a little. It takes years to develop competency Basically it's sheer memorization."
Jake looked at Callie's glass. "Guess you're not ready for a refill."
"Go ahead. Please don't wait for me."
Jake merely looked up and a young Chinese waiter came immediately to their table. He pointed to the empty beer bottle. "Just mine."
"I'd like to know about your hometown," said Callie. "What do people do there?"
"They farm mostly, grow a lot of vegetables. Those who don't farm sell stuff to those who do."
"Tell me something that captures the flavor of the place."
Jake thought a moment, then said, "The last time I was home on leave, the big news in Ridgeville, VA, was that the movie projector in the Plaza had been broken for two months. The guy who owns the Plaza, who'd been promising everybody for months that he'd buy a new projector, finally admitted that maybe a new projector was too expensive-and the Plaza's the only theatre in town."
"What a tragedy!" said Callie with a laugh.
"Yep. And the other big news was that Sam Chaplain's sixteen-year-old daughter--Sam runs the Ford dealership-had gotten pregnant."
"No!"
"For the second time."
"Really?" said Callie, breaking up. "I bet I know when it happened."
Jake grinned. "You do?"
"Uh-huh. It happened one night soon after the projector broke down at the Plaza."
Jake laughed. "You got it! And you know what? There were about fifteen other women in town who all just happened to be about two months pregnant."
"I think we should drink to the Plaza." Callie lifted her glass. "May it quickly get a new projector."
Their glasses clinked.
"But be honest, Jake. Do you like Ridgeville?"
"Actually I do. I grew up there, went to high school there. I liked working on Dad's farm, and I like the hunting and fishing, which I did a lot of. Maybe everybody knows too much about everybody else, and you have the feeling of living in a goldfish bowl, but the people are friendly and ready to help you if you've got a problem. Sure, we've got our bad apples, but most people are okay. I've got a few friends there who I've known all my life and I feel they'll be my friends, and I'll be theirs, until I die."
She asked about his friends and he told her about the impromptu beer and skinny-dipping party at Caldwell Lake following a church-sponsored picnic; he told her about the time he lost his brakes in his '57 Chevy on Hodam Mountain when he and his buddies were returning from a hunting trip and how he wiped out a historic marker; and he told her some other stories that made her laugh. She laughed easily. When she asked again about his flying he told her how he had learned to fly, not in the navy, but in a Cessna 140 at a grass strip on the edge of town. He'd taken his first lesson at fifteen and had gotten his private pilot's license on his seventeenth birthday, the first day that he could legally take his flight exam. The next day his father agreed to go flying with him, to be Jake's first passenger.
"Were you nervous?"
"I was excited, confident. Eager to show off." "What about your dad?"
"Well, he was pretty nervous at first. Kept asking me about the instruments and controls and whether I'd checked everything. But after a while he realized I Knew what I was doing, and he enjoyed the rest of the flight."
"Was he proud of you?"
"I guess he was. I know I was."
"That's quite an accomplishment, getting your pilot's license on your seventeenth birthday."
"It's not unusual, others have done it." "I think you're just being modest."
Jake gestured to the waiter for another round of drinks. He noticed the bar was busier, and he heard crisply enunciated British voices.
"I'm going to be in great shape for tonight," said Callie. Jake looked at her quizzically. "A CODEL - a congressional delegation - arrived yesterday. The CG -sorry, the consul general-is having a reception for them tonight at his place. I don't think he'd appreciate it if I passed out on the carpet."
"Do you want to go?" said Jake. He had a sinking feeling.
"I'm not terribly excited about going." "Why don't you bag it, then?'
"I should be there. It's part of my job." "How's that?"
"One of my collateral duties is that I'm the CODEL-control officer and-"
"Why aren't you out controlling them now?". "They wanted to go shopping, so I have some time off. Theoretically, they're here to look at what differences Nixon's trip has made in Chinese attitudes toward America. We always have a difficult time figuring out how to handle CODELs."
"Handle 'em roughly. Without mercy. Just the way the voters handle them." He enjoyed her laughter. "Maybe take them on sightseeing tours."
"You're right I'm sure we'll roll out the red carpet, but that red carpet is going to lead straight out of the consulate."
"Smart. Keep 'em busy and out of your hair. Probably all they want is to shop anyway."
"That's part of it, no doubt. But there's political hay to be made, too.
If relations with China open up, they'll want to take some of the credit."
The bastards, Jake thought, staring into his glass. They go on junkets while good men die going after targets that aren't worth a pint of piss.
Callie said, "A penny for your thoughts?"
Jake looked up and met her eyes. "A plugged nickel would be more appropriate."
"Is something wrong?"
He didn't want to get into it. "No," he said finally. "What about your other work at the consulate? Your work involving visas? How do you like it?"
"There's a lot of paperwork, a lot of drudgery. But there're things about it I like, too. I work in the nonimmigrant visa office and enjoy talking to the young people who want to study in the U.S. Often these people are recent refugees from Red China who unfor. tunately cannot prove that they'll return to Hong Kong when they finish their education. And that's a requirement for a student visa. These refugees give a picture of the mainland you can't get elsewhere. Some of the stories they tell about how they escaped are awesome."
Callie had been holding her drink in her hands. Now she put it down and leaned toward Jake. "Let me tell you about a boy I interviewed last week. A nice looking boy, named Wang Chiang. Eighteen years old, small for his age but strong. He escaped six weeks ago by swimming across Deep Bay to the New Territories_ He and his-"
"How far did he have to swim?" "About seven miles."
Jake whistled. "That took a lot of stamina. And guts."
"A lot of guts," said Callie. "Chiang, which is his given name, and his older brother-by a year, I thinkhid in the hills of China for days, waiting for the conditions to be right to swim the bay. They wanted a dark night so they couldn't be easily spotted and not much wind so they wouldn't have to fight the waves. On a night when the weather was overcast and drizzlylike today, I imagine-they slipped into the bay. They didn't take the shortest route, about three miles, because it's heavily patrolled. Partway across, Chiang's brother began to tire, then he got severe cramps-"
”Oh no."
"Yes. Chiang told his brother to float, to rest, hoping that the cramps would go away. But the cramps stayed bad. The brother swallowed water and coughed a lot. Chiang tried to hold him up, but eventually they both went under. Chiang couldn't see anything-the water was black-and his lungs were about to burst. His brother was clutching at him. He had to fight loose of his grasp."
"Jesus!" said Jake. "I don't know how he managed to swim the rest of the way after that." Jake could envision the terror in the darkness as the boy fought the panicky clutches of his drowning brother. He remembered that Morgan had also clutched at his arm. "At least Chiang's brother knew what he died for."
"I guess he did know. Mainly he wanted a better way of life. And the family had prepared both the boys. Their father had told each son to go on if the other ran into serious trouble. Chiang's family was very practical. They knew the risks. At least they didn't encounter any sharks." She leaned across and touched the back of his hand. "Are you okay?"
Jake took a deep breath. "Oh, yeah. But Chiang didn't really follow his father's instructions-which I can understand. I'm not sure I would've either. Although I see that it would be much harder now on Chiang if his father hadn't given him those instructions. Does the family know what happened?"
"Uh-huh, they know. There are ways of communicating across the border."
He looked around the bar, at the tables, the British gentlemen in expensive suits tossing back their pints, the Chinese bartender washing glasses, the mirror reflecting and enlarging the room. He thought of struggling to stay afloat at night in a running sea, waiting for the sharks. "Can you get Chiang to the States?"
"I'll do my best, Jake," She sipped the last of her drink and sighed. "Well, I've enjoyed talking to you."
"You have to go?" Jake said.
"Alas, I need to get home and change for the shindig tonight."
"I'd like to see you home."
"Thanks, but there's no need to go through all that. It'd mean two ferry rides for you."
"No problem. Riding boats is one of the things they pay me for."
"No, it's really too much trouble."
"I want to see you again."
Callie looked down at the table. "I have a clear day tomorrow."
"So do I."
She raised her eyes. "Why don't you walk with me to the Star Ferry? We can talk on the way."
The rain had stopped. Callie and lake passed by Rolls and Mercedes sedans parked in the curved driveway of the hotel. Although the harbor was only a short, distance away, Jake could not see it, so thick was the fog.
Callie ran her hand through her hair. "Ugh! This weather. And I won't have much time to do anything with my hair.",
As they crossed the street three teenaged boys came toward them. Their black hair was slicked down and they wore open-collared, long-sleeved shirts in bright, solid colors. They talked loudly and one tried to bump into Callie, who adroitly sidestepped him. "Teddy boys," she said to Jake. "Hong Kong's version of juvenile delinquents.."
They edged onto the sidewalk, which was packed with people. Callie and Jake, joining the crowd, had to slow their pace. High-pitched, sing-song voices beat against his ears. Jake felt clammy, and his stomach tightened. "So many people," he said. "There are five thousand men on my ship and it's never this crowded. How do you stand it?"
Callie laughed. "Did I say I could stand it? It's like living in a closet with five million people. Stay with me; it's not much farther." Passers-by jostled him, sometimes roughly.
There were fewer people as they neared the terminal landing, but directly ahead was a dense crowd that Jake assumed was waiting to board the ferry. He caught glimpses of the harbor. Callie stopped. "Look," she said. "See that building? That's the Ocean Terminal where the passenger liners dock and disgorge crazed shoppers." Jake said nothing and they went on.
She told him as they walked about the excellent shops, the many fine things for sale in Hong Kong, and the restaurants~-Maxine's Boulevard was her favorite.
She talked about the Star House Arcade, next door to the terminal, where there were other interesting places to shop, including a store devoted entirely to Seiko watches. If he wanted a good watch, that was the place to buy it. She chattered on, and Jake thought she sounded like a tour guide.
"Callie," he said, interrupting her. "Cool it. I'm not some idiot congressman." Callie stopped and looked up at him, astonishment spreading across her face. He put his hands on her shoulders. "I didn't come to Hong Kong to shop. I came to get away from the goddamn war. Now all I want is to be with you." He cupped her head in his hands; his palms pressed lightly against her ears, his fingers entwined in her springy hair. He brought his lips to hers. So soft, he thought. So gentle. He felt her arms encircle his waist; he put his arms around her, drawing her closer. She smelled fresh and springlike--of lilacs. She broke off the kiss and said, "That was a surprise."
Because of the crowd it took five minutes for Jake and Callie to get near a turnstile for the ferry. They decided on their plans for the next day while two ferries filled up and left. Jake escorted her to the turnstile and she went through. Turning back toward him, she called out, "See you tomorrow!" When she smiled broadly and waved, a pleasant warmth suffused him, like the first swallow of a mellow scotch. He watched the green and white ferry slide into the fog.
By the time Jake got back to the hotel it was dark. His stomach felt queasy again. He was glad to enter the lobby and leave the hordes and the humidity behind. When he got to his room he was disappointed that Sammy wasn't there, but not surprised. He had wanted to tell him about Callie.
After a long shower he changed into fresh clothes. Feeling better, he went down to the Swiss restaurant in the hotel, the Chesa, and had a steak and a beer. I t settled his stomach. He returned to his room and, lighting up his second cigarette of the day with hands that shook slightly, watched television before going to bed.
At first he thought about Callie, replaying as best he c
ould what, they had said to each other and what they had done. Then he recalled those crowds of Asian, faces, those voices. They had pressed their flesh against his. Their babble had assaulted his ears. It was as though they wanted him to know they were real.
What you try to do, Jake thought, is to keep it fuzzy in your mind that you kill real people. You pickle the bombs and you don't see them fall and you don't hear the explosions. You see only silent puffs of smoke sometimes and how could they kill anyone? It's not real. You begin to think that maybe Orientals don't: breathe, don't eat, don't shit, can't feel pain, don't cry out. You begin to think they're not real. You try to keep it fuzzy in your brain where the truth of it all resides because you know that you don't want tokill-God, you don't want to kill. But yet you do kill, maybe as many as fifty at a time. You have bombs and there are no fair fights and you know it's wrong. You live with shame. It would be different if you knew that if you didn't kill a man he would kill you, like gunfighters facing off 'or fighter aircraft dueling in the sky. Sometimes you get to attack those who try to kill you with flak and missiles and if you kill them you can handle it. But you have bombs. Mostly you kill those who aren't trying to kill you. It's the children you've maybe killed that give you the worst dreams of all because you can see what your bombs do to their small bodies and you can hear their screams. But you don't really know if you've killed children-maybe you haven't. You can tell yourself you haven't unless you learn that you've screwed up and your bombs have hit a hospital or a school. So you try hard to keep your mind fuzzy about all this, about the truth, about what the truth might be. And you want to rip the balls off any grinning bastard who tells you how many, precisely, you've killed.
ELEVEN
Sammy threw open the curtain and dazzling sunlight burst into the room.
"C'mon, Grafton. Get your arse moving. It's gonna be a great day."
Yawning, Jake said, "Arse?"
Flight of the Intruder Page 16