Callie picked it up. "Will pay generous price for the
right mountain, plus a bonus if equipped with stone
tablets. Call Sundays. No agents, please." They laughed together.
Allies eyes were still wet when she asked, "What do you believe in?"
"These days I'm not sure. But I do believe this. I believe in Jake Grafton. I believe if he's tough enough, alert enough, and good enough, he can keep himself in one piece. Maybe."
Callie furrowed her brow. "That sounds pretty macho to me. Chest-thumping stuff."
"I didn't mean it that way."
"You're talking about surviving. I can understand that. But you must have some beliefs about other things."
"What difference does it make what I believe in if I don't survive? I've got to believe in myself. If I don't have confidence in myself, I'm dead. If you're short on confidence and you fly off carriers, you're going to be history pretty quick."
"Haven't you ever lost your confidence?"
"There've been times when it got mighty shaky, but I don't think I've ever lost it. In Intruders, the planes I fly, you get a lot of moral support from the guy sitting next to you in the cockpit, the bombardier."
"This flying you do sounds tough. I guess you can't afford to make mistakes."
"Every pilot makes mistakes. In fact, there's no such thing as a perfect flight. You make a lot of mistakes. Some you correct, and some you can't. You just can't make the mistake that will kill you. That's where the confidence comes in. You have to know you'll never make that fatal slip."
They came down from the Peak on a tram that was not full. The late-afternoon breeze was cool and Callie huddled next to him. They had hardly spoken since boarding the tram.
"A plugged nickel for your thoughts?" said Callie.
"They're worth more than that. I was thinking about you.”
"I'm flattered."
"I have to leave tomorrow morning."
"I know. I've been thinking about it too."
"I sure as hell don't want to leave you. I wish I had more time here."
"I wish you had a lot more time here. But let's not get gloomy. The night is young, and I'm so hungry I could eat half a horse."
"Half a horse?"
"I've never been hungry enough to eat a whole horse."
With a laugh, Jake said, "I'm hungry enough to eat a team. But what I could really go for instead is a good steak."
They took a cab to Jimmy's Kitchen, a Western-style restaurant that Callie said was a favorite with the consulate crowd. They were shown to a table in the corner of the dark, wood-paneled restaurant by a waiter with bushy eyebrows. Jake was amazed at his resemblance to Chou En-Lai, whose picture he had seen in newsmagazines.
"I thought you only drank beer, said Callie, dipping a shrimp into cocktail sauce.
"I like scotch, too." Jake took another swig. He buttered a roll and ate it in three bites. When the waiter brought their salads, Jake ordered another scotch on the rocks.
Callie sipped her gin and tonic. Then she said casually, "I'm still not sure what you believe in besides Jake Grafton."
Jake watched the candlelight flickering in her eyes. When he answered he said, "There's something else I believe in. I believe in keeping the faith with the guys I fly with. You try not to let each other down."
"Does everybody keep the faith, the men you fly with?"
"Yeah, for the most part." Jake put down his drink and examined it. Then he spoke without looking up. "It has to be that way. Especially with your bombardier." Jake raised his head. "You have to depend on him and he has to depend on you. If either of you seriously screws up, you can both die. There has to be the feeling between you of great trust. But it's not anything you talk about. If it's there, you know it. If it's not, you know that, too." Then he spoke with mock seriousness, emphasizing each word with a jab of his finger. "Never fly with a man you don't trust."
"I don't go anywhere with a man I don't trust," Callie countered. She took a bite of salad and chewed meditatively. "So, not everybody keeps the faith."
"Some do a better job of it than others."
"I know you do a good job of it. I can tell."
Jake took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I'd like to think so. But sometimes I'm not sure."
"What do you mean?" she asked with surprise in her voice.
Ile hadn't planned to tell her about Morgan. When he started out he wondered why he was telling her. But in the end he told her everything about his last flight with Morgan, including what the cockpit looked like when it was over. The dreams, though, he didn't tell her about.
"Surely you don't blame yourself?" Callie said. "It doesn't make sense to do that."
"I don't know. Maybe it doesn't make sense. But I feel some responsibility. Like Chiang does for his brother."
"You did what you could do," said Callie. "You can't do more than that. You kept the faith."
Chou En-Lai's double was supervising the flaming production of two chateaubriands when Callie returned from the restroom. A waiter Jake had not seen before
203
whisked away the glass in which he had been rattling his ice. Callie put her bag on the corner of the table. "I hope you're still plenty hungry. They look huge."
"I could scarf them both."
"You just keep your mitts off mine, Jake. I'm starving."
The waiter put a glass of red wine in front of Callie. Looking at Jake's fresh scotch, she said, "Another one?"
Jake shrugged. "I didn't order it."
"Oh.”
With a smile and a flourish, the waiter presented her with a chateaubriand that sizzled in its plate. Callie thanked him in Cantonese. She waited until Jake had been served before cutting her meat.
Callie said, "Fantastic."
His mouth full, Jake nodded enthusiastically. They said little until the steaks were nearly gone.
"You picked a great place," he said.
"I've been thinking," said Callie. "Thinking about you.,
"Not much profit in that."
"I think you're a good man, Jake." She reached across the table and put her hand on his. "I'm glad you told me about Morgan. I'm glad you felt comfortable enough with me to do that."
"It's not a nice story." Jake shoved two french fries around his plate with his fork. "I just wish I was sure what Morgan died for."
Removing her hand, Callie said, "You don't think we ought to be in Vietnam?"
"That's not what I mean," said Jake. "I mean that I worry that Morgan died for nothing because the bastards in Washington won't let us win the war. They're afraid to do the things we need to do to win. We could win the war, you know, if they'd let us."
"Then maybe we shouldn't be in Vietnam at all."
Jake tossed off the last of his scotch. He was uneasy. "It was probably a mistake that we got involved in the first place. Hindsight and all. Especially when you consider that there's hardly any support for the war at home. But that's water over the dam. The fact is, we are there, and I don't think we can just cut and run."
"Are you saying that we should stay there only to save face?"
"No, I'm not saying that, that we should stay for that reason only. Look at it this way. What kind of credibility would the U.S. have, what kind of respect would we have, if we ran from a fight for freedom? Leader of the free world? We'd make a mockery of that." Jake paused and traced a circle with his fingertip on the white linen tablecloth. "And there are other reasons."
"I'd like to hear one that makes sense."
Jake felt his face flush. He tried to speak calmly. "Okay. I'll give you one real good reason. Right now there're over a thousand guys in prison camps in Vietnam-nobody knows for sure how many. Those men are being starved, tortured, humiliated. Our POWs are going through hell while long-haired creeps in the States are burning their draft cards or hiding in graduate schools and trying to convince themselves the war is immoral because they know, deep down, that they don't have the guts to fight." Ja
ke coughed, and went on in a lower voice. "We have to get our POWs out. If we don't they'll rot to death in the prison camps. We've either got to win the war or put enough pressure on the commies to make them return the POWs and account for our MIAs. We've got to keep faith with those guys."
"I understand what you're saying, Jake. I'd like very much to see those men released, too. But hundreds of people are dying in the war every day. Think of the many thousands of lives that would be saved if we could end the war now."
"End the war now? Cut and run? If we abandon the POWs, if we break faith with them, where will we get men to fight the next war?" He picked up his glass and looked into it "All we have is each other."
He put the glass down and met her eyes. "Let's be realistic, Callie. For you, the war might as well be on the far side of the moon."
"Well it isn't," CAllie said softly. "There's something I've been wanting to tell you. Theron, m y brother, was-"
"Your brother? Yeah, your brother thinks the war is wrong, immoral. Right?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. But what I was--"
"Did God whisper in your brother's ear about the joys of living in Canada? Freedom comes a little cheaper there these days. Is he happy, listening to his stereo and smoking pot and feeling very moral? Or is he at Berkeley? Protesting the war between fixes and-"
Callie stood up and grabbed her purse. She leaned over the table and spoke deliberately. "I was about to tell you-before I was interrupted-that my brother lost both his legs in Vietnam. Ile wants desperately to believe that the war is morally right. But he can't. And it's eating him up."
Callie turned to leave just as the waiter arrived with two cups of coffee. Jake said, "You're not going to leave? Just like that?"
"Oh yes I am. Just-like-that."
Jake stood up. "I didn't know, I .
"You can be very cruel, Jake Grafton." She put out her hand to stop him. "I'd like to leave alone."
The waiter stood holding his tray. He wore a puzzled expression. Callie walked around him and out of the restaurant'.
Jake sat down and lifted his coffee, which sloshed out of the cup. For a long time he stared at the full cup on the other side of the table. Then he paid the bill and left.
It was dark outside. He took a cab to the consulate, where he looked across the street and saw a crowd at the tramway station. He looked up to the right and saw the outline of Victoria Peak, dotted with lights. Remembering where Callie's apartment building was in relation to the consulate, he walked up Garden Road. His emotions swirled like autumn leaves caught in a windstorm.
He found the building, finally, and explored the empty hallways, looking at nametags on each door. The sound of his footsteps echoed down the uncarpeted halls. He climbed to the third floor. On a tattered, buff-colored tag below the peephole of the door was her hand-lettered name: "C. McKenzie." He knocked, and she opened the door. She was wearing a pale yellow silk robe. Her eyes were puffy.
Jake spoke. "I'm very sorry about Theron. And I'm sorry about what I said."
He watched Callie's tight-lipped expression soften, "Thanks," she said. "Now I know the way I felt was right."
She drew him inside and closed the door.
TWELVE
They were having a riot at the Cubi Point Officers' Club. At least that's what it looked like to Jake and Sammy when they opened the door. AA wave of noise immediately broke over them. The rock 'n' roll band made up only part of the assault. Much of the din came from men's voices raised in singing and shouting as the aircrews indulged in one last glorious binge. The ship was scheduled to sail at eight the next morning.
One of the squadron's pilots, Snake Jones, was drinking near the door. "How was Hong Kong, guys?"
"Great," Lundeen replied. "I'm going to live there during my next incarnation."
"You'll have to speak up. I can't hear a goddamn word."
Lundeen hollered, "Great."
"Too bad you had to come back," Snake said. "By the way, you'll have to fetch your own drinks. The waitresses were grossed out over an hour ago."
"What happened?"
"Some A-7 jockey stood on the table and took off all his clothes. Then he passed out. His buddies carried him down to the Tailhook Room. He's laid out down there on the bar."
The two newcomers shouldered through the crush around the bar. "Happy Hour prices, boys," the bartender said and collected a dime from each of them.
"What luck!" Lundeen said to Jake. "You can get skunk-drunk for four bits."
Jake clinked his beer glass against Sammy's and drank deeply. He replaced his glass on the bar and, while waiting for a refill, peered around the smoke. filled room. At the far wall the fighter crews were carolling obscene songs and throwing their empty glasses into the fireplace. Fighting valiantly to hold his own in the decibel ratings, the lead singer was belting out a tune from a platform in the middle of the vast room. Between the band and the bar, dice players were running Klondike games at four tables.
The roommates made their way to the tables. Jake estimated that only a hundred dollars or so was in play at each table, but the night was young. He knew that when the evening had worn on and empty glasses had accumulated, as much as six or seven hundred would be riding on a single roll, and that just before the club closed-when checks were suddenly acceptable-some men would lose a month's pay. The same sports sat at the tables night after night, but the high rollers showed up only the night before the ship sailed. Then the real money was on the line.
Cowboy Parker presided over one table, fronted by a hefty pile of twenties. He nodded at Jake and Sammy, said something Jake couldn't catch above the uproar, then refocused his attention on the game. Jake recalled that Cowboy once told him he had furnished a house from his winnings on his first WestPac cruise.
They spotted Razor Durfee and, Abe Steiger with several other men at a table away from the band, below the bar, and cut a path through the human thicket to join them.
"Meet your new bombardier, Jake," Razor said. The uniformed man beside Razor stood up and stuck out his hand. He was a couple of inches taller than Jake, with wide shoulders and sunbleached hair. Cold, penetrating blue eyes looked out from a suntanned face. Under, his wings he wore three rows of ribbons. The upper left one was the Distinguished Flying Cross with two gold stars.%
"Virgil Cole." Jake's right hand was gripped in a firrmm handshake. Sammy shook hands, too, then drifted off. Jake sat down to get acquainted. Cole settled back, apparently content to let Razor do the talking.
Throughout the recitation of his resume, Cole only sipped his beer. "And after two combat cruises, he was an instructor bombardier at VA-42. Now he's joined our posse," Razor concluded,
"He's been in the navy eight years," Steiger pitche& in.
Razor leaned over to Jake and whispered in his ear. "Cole ain't a big talker." Grafton had formed that impression already. "And he ain't a big smiler, either."
Jake directed several questions at Cole, asking him where he had grown up and where he had attended college. In reply Jake received, "Winslow, Arizona," and "Phoenix..",
Jake lapsed into silence while the hubbub swirledd around him. As Razor introduced Cole to various people, Jake observed him carefully.
The hard blue eyes searched each new face. The corners of his mouth remained turned up in a smile of sorts, but the smile never developed. Only the eyes moved in the mask that was Cole's face. He projected an aura of amused superiority.
The new man's reluctance to engage in conversation soon caused the talk to turn in other directions. No one. mentioned the alligator pond incident so Jake assumed with relief that it had blown over, as Lundeen had predicted. The group discussed the two other new members of the squadron, a pilot and a bombardier, both just graduated from VA-128. The two had been flying every day and were now ready, Jake overheard, to requalify with six day and three night traps tomorrow when the ship was at sea. The pilot had carrier qualified in A-6s just a month before, but as Jake knew, he would have to do it
again on the Shiloh to satisfy Camparelli and the CAG.
Lundeen had returned to the fold in time to ask, "Where are these guys?" Told they were in the Tailhook Bar, he motioned to Jake, who stood up.
"Come on, Cole," Jake said. "Let's go downstairs." The bombardier followed the two pilots down the hall to the side door. As they crossed the lawn toward a low cinderblock structure, the annex of the club, Jake asked Cole what he liked to be called.
"Virgil's fine. Or Cole. Doesn't matter." It was the most he had said since Jake met him.
The Tailhook Bar had originally been the basement for a larger building that had either never been built or had been torn down. But that was some time before the memory of the men who congregated there now, and none of them bothered to ask. It was in the Tailhook Bar that the serious rowdies and drinkers hung out. Patrons could buy a hot sandwich from a short-order grill and all the liquor they wanted for a dime a drink during Happy Hour, and a quarter thereafter. No women were allowed.
The place was packed when Jake, Sammy, and Cole entered. Every man there looked as though he had forsaken sobriety hours ago. Sea stories-anecdotes on nautical or aviation themes with presumably some basis in fact-were being recounted in loud voices to listeners less than a foot away. Sure enough, as Snake had told them, a naked, unconscious man lay face down on the bar. Between the cheeks of his buttocks someone had placed a maraschino cherry.
"How come he's on his stomach?" Grafton asked.
"Christ, Jake." Little Augie came up. "Where've you been all your life? Everyone knows you always put a drunk face down so he won't drown if he pukes. Weren't you ever in the Boy Scouts?"
"Makes sense," Jake replied and took a glass from, Little Augie, who had two, and gulped down half its contents. Then he handed it back.. '
"That was my specimen for Mad Jack,_ Grafton. If you want any more, just let me know."
"Thanks."
Lundeen leaned across the nude and yanked the, bartender's sleeve. "Scotch on the.e rocks . . ." He glanced at Grafton and Cole. "Three of them."
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