Jake stood silent.
"Answer me, Mister Grafton!"
"No, sir."
"Then I'll explain it so even you can understand. If the officers at the top ever get it into their heads that they have the right to follow their consciences, to do what they think is right instead of what they are told, then the United States is in for a military dictatorship We'll be just another chaotic banana republic."
Jake heard the click of a cigarette lighter. The commander stood again and confronted Jake eyeball to eyeball. His voice was a dry whisper. "You have no right whatsoever to disobey orders. None. You will do as you are told even if it kills you. You will obey even if it costs you your life and your Manortal soul, if you have one. I don't give a flying fuck if your father is the Pope and you have a direct line to God Admighty. This is our country and our navy we're talking about, you fool." Camparelli paced the room, "There are enough weapons in the magazines of this ship to wipe Vietnam or China clean off the face of the earth. What if the captain decided he had the power and foresight to act on his own`"
He paused in front of the still-rigid Grafton. "The backbone of the navy is obedience. America will always need the navy." He turned and took two steps toward the desk. "And she will need the navy to obey. What you've done is wrong. Basic, rock-bottom wrong."
Frank Camparelli sat down heavily. "So you think this piss-ant war in this shit-hole country is worth compromising the US. Navy, huh? You think you can personally whip these commie bastards with an airplane and a few bombs and make good Democrats and Republicans out of them?" The Old Man took a drag on his cigarette. He sighed. "You're a dwmned fool, a fool because you haven't grasped that we have to obey whether or not we all lose our lives or even the goddamned war.
"What's your problem, Grafton? 'We're not aggressive enough in your opinion? Shit! Too bad we can't arrange it so you can ask Ford and Box if we're aggressive enough to suit them."
The silence hung in the air like the smell of a dead animal.
Jake felt his eyes smarting. Cowboy cleared his throat to catch the skipper's attention and glanced at Jake's trembling hands. The skipper looked, then averted his gaze.
"When you walk out that door you will go to Sick Bay and inform Mad Jack I want a complete physical done on you. If he approves, I'm sending you to the beach on the morning cargo plane. You're to take all your flight gear with you. Two new planes are coming in from the States on a Trans-Pac, and I can't spare any fighting crews to go get them. Take that psychopath Cole with you. An investigation will begin in your absence, and you'll be questioned when you return. When the new planes reach Cubi, you'll send a message notifying us of their arrival and we'll send you an overhead time. Then you'll fly one of those planes out to the ship and we'll send a crew in for the other. I want you to report to the duty officer at Cubi when you arrive and each and every morning you are there. Are these orders explicit enough for you?"
Jake nodded.
"Answer me!" The roar was savage.
"Yessir. The orders are explicit enough."
"Then see that you obey, Grafton. See that you obey." Camparelli paused, then continued. "Steiger's confined to quarters without visitors. He's been ordered not to answer the phone. You will make no attempt to see or speak with him. Now get the hell out of my sight before I personally try to find out what you've been using for brains."
Jake left.
The second class petty officer in Sick Bay told him that he should come back during the 0700 Sick Call. Grafton wasn't in the mood. "I want to see the Jungle Quack right fucking now, sailor. Find him." It turned out that the doctor was in his office after all. Apparently he had been on the phone with Camparelli.
Stripped to his skivvies, Jake ignored the proddings and indignities of the routine physical examination. His mind was elsewhere. He saw Morgan and the faces of the men he had known who were now dead. Two had been killed in automobile accidents, but a half dozen or so had died in plane crashes. One had ejected from an FA in the training command when it caught fire and had made the long, long fall when his parachute failed to open. He had known Morgan best, but he had also been good friends with a boy from California who had dawn his 06 into the Nevada desert on a night training mission.
Mad Jack looked at Jake's hands. "Are you fit to fly?" the doctor asked.
"I'm not a doctor," Jake said. "I just fly the planes. For Uncle Sam...." he added, his voice trailing off. The skipper would have a comment or two about that. Well, Frank Camparelli was right. But so was he. There was a fimit to just how much stupidity in high places men ought to endure. If those elected civilians didn't intend to put on enough pressure to win, then they had no right to waste lives just screwing around. Camparelli makes no apologies for stupidity; he merely accepts it. Maybe the problem is that the admirals and generals never tell the elected officials what fools they are.
"Are you fit to fly?" the doctor asked again.
"Riot do you think? You flew with me a few weeks ago. Was I dangerous? Was all that medical education your parents paid for in jeopardy?"
"You can put your clothes on." Mad Jack began scrawling in the medical record.
"What's your professional opinion, Quack? Are you going to let me drive these flying pigs or aren't you?"
"What do you want?" the doctor asked "Do you want to keep flying?"
Jake pulled on his shoes. "I don't know, Doc." He spoke slowly, trying to concentrate. "I've been flying since I was fifteen. Flying's all I know. If this war goes on I expect I'll die in an airplane." He picked up his wallet and keys from the desk. "The truth of it is, I really don't give a damn."
The doctor looked intently at the pilot. "When we flew to the beach a few weeks ago, you asked me a question that I thought you knew the answer to. You asked, Is life worth the final smashup?' Well, what's your answer? Is it?"
A don't remember saying that." The pilot sat with his elbows on his knees. "I always thought flying was worth the sacrifices," he said at last.
"Life is a hell of a lot more mundane than flying, isn't it? It's a lot more complex. Not much glory. It doesn't have many of those right or wrong, black or white decisions that flying's so full of." Mad Jack droned on, something about good pilots making rotten choices in life, but Jake's attention had wandered to the framed prints that hung on the bulkheads. The prints were of famous moments in naval history: Dewey in Manila Bay; Farragut steaming past the forts at Mobile; the Monitor and the Merrimack at Hampton Roads.
Mad Jack had another picture. It showed a squad of marines pinned on the beach at two Jima, their faces contorted by the strain of combat. There had been no glory there.
TWENTY-ONE
Jack left Tiger Cole at the bar at Cubi Point O Club. Without a carrier in port, the place was dead. Carrying a fresh scotch, he headed for the pay telephone, his pockets weighted down with thirty dollars in quarters. He and Cole had arrived the day before, signed in at the BOQ, and reported to the duty officer-as Carnparelli had instructed them to do. At the bar Cole had said, "You should call."
"It's a lot to ask of her," said Jake.
Cole shook the dice cup and rolled. "Call her." He selected a pair of threes and returned the other dice to the cup. "Wish I had your problem." He rolled again. A third three. "Go on."
Jake felt as though he were feeding quarters into a slot machine, Less than half his scotch remained when he heard Callie's voice amid a hum and intermittent static.
"It's me. Jake."
There was a pause. "Jake! Great to hear your voice! I thought you were at sea. Where are you?"
"Cubi Point in the Philippines. I flew here yesterday afternoon in a cargo plane with another guy, my bombardier."
There was another pause. "Are you on leave?" "Sort of."
"Jake! You've been hurt!"
"No, no. I'm fine. Really, I'm okay. I'm calling from the O Club, and I've got a scotch in my hand."
"If you're drinking scotch, I suppose you must be all right."
"Well, actu
ally, everything's not all right. I got into some trouble."
"Trouble? What kind of trouble?"
He began searching his pockets for cigarettes. "I got into trouble with the navy. I did something wrong, didn't follow orders exactly."
"How serious is it? This trouble you're in."
"Oh, it could be worse. They're not going to shoot me or anything. I'll survive. I'm going back to the ship in maybe three days to deliver a new plane. But I'd sure like to see you before I go."
"I'd like to see you, too. I really would." "Could you come?"
"Huh? You mean fly out to the Philippines? Now?"
"Yeah. I know it's a lot-"
"It'd be very difficult to leave just now. My job It's such short notice. Maybe-"
"Callie, I need to see you." Waiting for her reply, he cradled the receiver between his head and shoulder, and lit a cigarette.
"How would I get there?"
"You fly to Manila. I can meet you there and bring you back to Cubi."
"Why not stay in Manila?"
"Can't. I've got to report to the duty officer here every morning."
"It's really serious, isn't it?"
Jake took a breath before answering. "Yes. It's pretty serious."
"Hold on. I'll see if there's anything I can work out right now. You can hold, can't you?"
"Sure."
After a few minutes he was told to add more quarters. He fed the slot as quickly as he could. One coin slipped from his hand, hit the counter, and fell to the floor. He didn't bother to pick it up. Finally she came back on.
”Jake?"
"Right here."
”I can't come until the day after tomorrow."
"That's okay."
”I can catch a flight arriving in Manila at one-fifteen Saturday. That doesn't give us much time together. Do you still want me to come?"
"You bet. I really want to see you." "Okay. I'll be on Cathay Pacific flight 923."
"Got it. Hey, I can't wait to see you-and thanks." After promising Callie that he'd relax and take good care of himself, Jake made another phone call, then returned to the bar and came up behind Cole. "She's coming, shipmate!" Cole acknowledged this with a hint of a smile. Jake went on, "This guy I know in the flying club here will fly me to Manila to meet her."
Jake picked up the dice and put them in the cup.
After a shake he turned it over on the counter.
Five aces.
They looked at each other, then stared at the sign behind the bar: "Five naturals buys the party, five aces
buys the bar."
Cole made a show of surveying the empty room.
"Barkeep," Tiger called. "Give me a double of the most expensive stuff you have back there. And pour yourself one, too." His blue eyes met Jake's and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Without a doubt, Grafton, you're the luckiest man I've ever met."
Jake stood with his arm around Callie while Harold made a thorough preflight inspection of the four-seat Cessna 172. Harold's caution impressed Jake. Most pilots who had completed the first half of a flight would check nothing more than the fuel and oil before taking off again the same day. Even so, Jake knew that he would not be at ease with Harold at the controls. He was not comfortable in an airplane unless he was flying it.
"I hope this flight is better than my last one," said Callie. She had complained about the turbulence on her flight from Hong Kong soon after Jake had kissed her at the customs exit and given her a long hug.
"It was pretty smooth at four thousand feet coming over here," Jake said.
Callie squeezed Jake's hand and said, "I don't want to hassle you, but when we're on the plane maybe you could tell me about the trouble you're in."
Jake smiled. "These prop planes are pretty noisy. You have to shout to be heard. I thought that when we land at Cubi, we'd check into a hotel and then, if you'd like, we could go to the beach. I know one that's sugar white and very quiet. I found it one day when I was flying. It'd be a good place to talk."
Callie grinned. "Sounds like a good plan to me."
The air was bumpy in the climb, but when the plane passed through 3700 feet, the ride suddenly became smooth. Harold's seat was higher than those in the rear, where Jake and Callie sat, and the angle of the climb made it appear even higher. To Jake it seemed as though Harold sat on a throne. His bald pate shone in the afternoon sun. It saddened Jake to think that after one more flight in the Intruder, he would never again have control of his destiny in the air.
When they were flying downwind to the runway at Cubi Point, Jake estimated from the direction and snape of the windsock that Harold would be fighting about a fifteen-knot crosswind from the left on final approach tough for a Cessna to handle. As soon as Harold turned from left base to final he pushed on the right rudder to align the nose of the plane with the runway. Jake watched Harold put the Cessna in a slip by holding right rudder and dipping the left wing. Now the airplane could track straight down the final approach course in spite of the s crosswind. Jake heard a c as the Cessna touched down on the left wheel, and then a softer chirp as the right wheel eased down and the plane settled on the runway. Jake said loudly. "Good job! You caught the three wire!"
He and Callie took a cab to the Subic main gate They walked across the bridge to the nearby hotel Earlier, he had paid the clerk a premium price for the best room available.
Callie surveyed the room. The dark green paint was peeling. Water stains blotched the ceiling and wall. The faucet dripped in the chipped porcelain sink. "I feel like I'm in the Hide-A-Wee Hotel for a sordid affair."
Saying nothing, Jake went over to try to stop the teak. His hand froze on the faucet handle-a waterto- :ed black roach, about an inch long, lay upside down on the drain, with one bent antenna stuck to the bottom of the rust-stained sink. Jake stepped quickly into the bathroom and tore off a bundle of toilet paper. When he came out, Callie was staring at a picture of a black and white cow that stared back at her with a lugubrious expression. It stood in a field of very green grass. "This print looks like it was cut from a dairy ad."
"American export art."
He stood in front of the sink, half-hiding it from Callie. Reaching into the bowl, he scooped up the roach in the toilet paper, taking care not to squeeze too tightly. Callie's voice came from behind.
"Whit's that in your hand?"
341
"It's, uh, nothing much-"
"What is it? A bug of some sort? Is that what it is?"
"Yeah."
"What kind?"
"It's a black bug."
"It's a what?"
Jake sighed. "It's a cockroach."
Callie sat gingerly on the side of one of the two single beds, causing its springs to make boinging noises. Jake reached for the closed toilet lid and hesitated; he decided to flush the toilet first.
"How big was that roach, anyway?" Callie called
from the other room.
The toilet groaned and rattled as it filled up. "I didn't measure it."
"It's a big one. I know it."
He lifted the lid, plopped in the wad of tissue paper, and flushed again.
"My God, it's bigger than I thought. Hasn't it gone down yet?"
"Callie. Relax. I didn't try flushing it down the first time."
"Then why did you flush the toilet?"
"Just checking it out, that's all. It really seems to be working great."
The toilet gave out a screech just before it stopped M ing up. Jake watched it long enough to know it wouldn't overflow, then he went and sat down next to Callie. She was on the edge of her bed with her head in her hands. Jake was relieved to see that she was tearless. "I know this place is the pits." He put his arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry."
She looked at him. "Does the bathroom have a shower or a bath?"
"No. But there's a shower down the hall."
"I have a brilliant idea. Why don't we go to the Hilton instead? Or the Holiday Inn? That'd be fine,
too."
"I think we're stuck. There aren't any decent places around here."
"Well, check the beds for crawling things. I want to be sure I'm not the next meal for something. If the beds pass inspection, I guess I'll survive. Will you?"
"Sure. As long as I have you."
The jeepney was orange and white, and frilly tassels jiggled from its canvas top. With Callie and Jake in back, it left Po City behind and headed out on a macadam road that was mined with potholes. The young Filipino driver seemed to delight in hitting the holes at full speed and ignored Jake's pleas to slow down. His passengers were knocked about and, at times, propelled straight up into the air.
Callie asked, "How much longer?"
"Twenty or thirty minutes."
"I don't think I can last that long."
"Hang tough."
"If I were pregnant, I'd lose the baby after this ride." The driver honked his tinny horn at some chickens in the road.
They got out of the jeepney on the outskirts of a small fishing village. Jake persuaded the driver to wait for them by tearing a twenty-dollar bill and giving him half. Then they trudged more than two hundred yards to the beach.
Holding hands, Callie and Jake strolled barefoot on the clean white sand where it was soft and damp from dissipating waves. Jake liked it when the fizzing water of a wave swirled around his ankles and, as it receded, washed between his toes and sucked at the sand beneath his soles. Jake and Callie were alone on the beach.
Callie said, "That sunset is gorgeous."
"You should see one at thirty thousand feet."
"I'd like to. It must be spectacular."
"It is. I hope I see another one from the air."
Callie was wearing Jake's Jersey City Athletic Club T-shirt; on her it looked like a nightie. Jake was bare-chested and he had rolled up his jeans. They had walked a distance on the damp sand and now they headed back toward the blanket they had taken from the hotel closet, the dark blue blanket that Jake suspected was navy-issue.
Callie asked, "What can happen to you?"
Flight of the Intruder Page 29