Jake swallowed. "What do you want to know, sir?"
"I want you to tell me just exactly what you and that maniac Cole did. I want to be the first to hear what you're gonna tell that Pentagon headhunter tomorrow at your hearing. Speak, boy."
"Sir, Cole and I tried to take out the National Assembly building in Hanoi with eight Mark EightThree slick snakes after we hit the power plant at Bac Giang the other night. Apparently we missed."
"Now tell me about the other unauthorized, unfi-agged targets you and Cole in your combined wisdom-which wouldn't fill the head of an antdecided to take out."
"That was it, sir! There was only the one raid. But I wish that we'd blasted that National Assembly into a pile of bricks. We'd have tried harder if we'd known it'd come to this." He knew he was exaggerating. They couldn't have tried harder if the target had been Ho Chi Minh himself.
"What does Lundeen know about this?"
"Not a thing." He could lie for his friends but not for himself.
"Bullshit, Grafton!" Camparelli stood up and put his nose inches from Jake's face. "You're lying."
"Hanging me and Cole'll have to do, Commander."
"How about Cowboy?"
Jake was startled and glanced at Parker, who be trayed no emotion. Jake shook his head. "No, sir. Emphatically no. I talked Cole into the National Assembly job and we enlisted Steiger. Cowboy didn't know a damn thing about it-and neither did anyone else."
"'Job.' You talk about a `job.' Just who the hell did you think you were-a couple of safecrackers or Mafia hit men? Come to think of it, those'll be just about the only careers open to you after this, if you're lucky enough to avoid Leavenworth." Camparelli sat on the edge of his desk. He was silent for a moment. "Why? Why'd you do it?"
Jake examined the skipper's lined face. "You hit it on the head the other night, Skipper. Stupidity. I just wanted to hit them harder than the frag list allowed. I figured if I was going to risk my ass and my bombardier's, I wanted them to know we'd been there."
"Well, you sure fucked up." Camparelli shook his head. "If my career survives this, it'll be a miracle-like a dog laying an egg. I've got too much invested in the navy to want to kiss it all off."
"I'm sorry, Skipper. I know we've blown your trust."
The skipper rubbed the side of his head with the heel of his hand. "Yes, you sure as hell did, Jake." He turned to Parker. "Cowboy, you and I better get some sleep. Grafton isn't flying and neither is New, so somebody has to. First brief at 2200." He looked at his watch. "Six hours from now."
Cowboy stood up. "Jake," the skipper said, "when we're in that hearing tomorrow, I want you to make damn sure you tell the truth. Tell the God's truth and let the chips fall where they will and maybe somehow we'll all be able to live with this."
In the passageway Jake apologized to Cowboy, who momentarily put his arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "Nothing to apologize for. I just wish you'd wasted that building and the entire goddamn National Assembly."
Jake went to his room and locked the door. He thought about pouring a drink but decided against it. A warm can of Coke would do instead.
The untidy room and the pale green walls and the sounds of the ship weighed on him. He wanted Callie McKenzie with him and not just for a night or a weekend. He didn't even have a photograph of her. He dug through the stuff on his desk until he came up with a writing tablet with white, lined paper. Halfway through the first page, he suddenly wanted to buy an engagement ring for her the next time he was in port. If he could get off the ship. Then he remembered he'd seen some rings in the window of the ship's store. Maybe it was still open. Checkbook in hand, he slammed the door behind him.
They sat in the empty wardroom next to the lounge where the hearing was being held. Jake and Tiger were there, as well as Sammy, Cowboy Parker, and Abe Steiger. Commander Camparelli and Rabbit Wilson were already inside. Everyone was wearing freshly starched khakis. Most of the men were smoking cigarettes; no one had anything to say. A marine corporal in dress uniform stood at parade rest near the door.
At last the door opened and a lieutenant in whites stuck his head out. "They're ready for you, Grafton."
Jake levered himself upright and turned toward the door. Sammy caught his eye. "Keep the faith, Jake." The pilot nodded and passed through the door, which the orderly closed behind him.
"What faith?" Abe Steiger asked. Sammy just looked at him.
The presiding officer's long-sleeved khaki shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, barely contained his bulging torso. Silver eagles shone on each collar and a set of gold wings gleamed on his chest. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms bristling with black hair. The stubble on his head was less luxuriant.
"Mister Grafton." He spoke from behind a long table. "Please take a seat. I'm Captain Fairleigh Copeland. I invited you in to hear Doctor Catton testify about the results of the physical examination he recently gave you. Physicals are supposed to be held in confidence. Since this is an official inquiry I can hear it and enter it into the record without your consent. But I wanted to ask you if these other gentlemen can hear what the doctor has to say."
Jake had never before heard Mad Jack the Jungle Quack referred to by his surname. His eyes swept the room. The commanding officer of the Shiloh, Captain Boma, was there, dressed in his customary white uniform even though every other officer on the ship wore wash khakis. The task force commander's chief of staff, a captain, sat beside him. The other chairs contained the CAG, the air operations officer, Commander Camparelli, Rabbit Wilson, and a couple of younger officers Jake didn't know. He assumed the lightweights had come from. Washington to help Captain Copeland slay the infidels. "That's fine with me, sir," he told Copeland.
"Okay, Doctor. What did you find when you examined Lieutenant Grafton?"
"I examined Lieutenant Grafton in the early morning hours of 7 December." Mad Jack consulted his notes. "He's a physically sound Caucasian male, age twenty-seven, with 20-15 vision in both eyes and excellent hearing. Ms heart rate and blood pressure are at the low end of normal limits. The only physical abnormality is an incipient case of hemorrhoids. As you gentlemen are well aware, this is an occupational disease in jet pilots and is aggravated by extreme G-loadings. Other than that, he's in perfect physical health."
Mad Jack folded his notes and laid them on his lap. "I should mention one other thing. Lieutenant Grafton had palsied hands when I examined him. This is usually associated with the aged or those with nervous disorders. In his case, I believe the palsy can be attributed to the constant, heavy stress this officer has been under for an extended period. I've seen the same disorder in marines after lengthy patrols in hostile territory when the tension was unrelenting. Palsy may be one of the ways the body reacts to continuous adrenal stimulation. But in view of his otherwise healthy state, Lieutenant Grafton's hand tremors have no medical significance other than demonstrating that he needs a break from the stress."
Jake cast a quick look at his hands, which trembled only a little. "Anything else?" Copeland prompted.
"No, sir."
"How about his mental state?"
"I'm not a psychiatrist, Captain, but I'd say that on the morning I examined him his emotional state was about what one would expect in an individual under high stress. For what it's worth, I suspect that Lieutenant Grafton is not the only aviator or naval flight officer on this ship who exhibits symptoms of stress."
"What about his judgment?"
"I'm not trained to assess that. You gentlemen are as qualified to form an opinion about that as I am."
"Thank you, Doctor. I would appreciate it if you would put your evaluation in writing and give it to one of my assistants."
Captain Copeland glanced at the others in the room, then instructed an aide to admit the men waiting outside. Copeland doodled on a legal pad while they all found seats.
"Gentlemen, this is an informal investigation or dered by the commander-in-chief of the Pacific Fleet. It's to be conducted in accordance with the
Manual of the Judge Advocate General. I'm Captain Copeland and I've had conversations with almost everyone in this room during the last forty-eight hours. Some people I've visited with several time& I'll make a report of my Endings to CINCPAC, who will act on them as he sees fit. One of his options, I'd like to point out, is to convene general courts-martial." His eyes traveled from face to face.
"My assistant here" - he gestured with his left thumb - has in his briefcase blank permanent change-ofstation orders already signed by the chief of naval personnel. All I have to do is fill in the names. These orders are to places like Adak, Waska, Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, the Canal Zone, and several other garden spots. If anyone here fails to cooperate fully with my investigation, he'll be gone from this ship this afternoon and can count on rotting in one of those vacation spas while awaiting his court-martial or the proxceesmsinng of his resignation. I can tell you for a fact that it'll take three or four years to process a resignation. I hope I'm making myself understood."
He drew a breath. "I assume you all wish to talk to me, so I'm going to skip the legal nuunbunjumbo about your right to consult a lawyer and remain silent. You should all consider yourselves under oath. By God, each of you will tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Is that clear?"
Mad silence. Copeland then asked, "Clear, Mister Grafton.”
"Perfectly clear, sir."
"Are you ready to answer my questions?" "Yes, sir."
"Have you ever attacked an unfragged target?" Jake said, "Yessir, I have."
"When and what was it?"
"About a week ago Lieutenant Cole and I hit the fragged target, saved eight bombs, and then took a shot at the National Assembly building in Hanoi. That's it."
"Just one mission?"
"Yessir. Just that one."
"You're damn sure about that?" Copeland's mouth puckered into an O, then relaxed.
"Yessir."
"Lieutenant, I certainly hope that you realize that now is the time to come to Jesus. You're in a helluva lot of trouble, and if you don't come clean you're going to have every captain in the U.S. Navy fighting to be the president of your court-martial. When this hearing's over, there'd better be no surprises, no revelations that crop up-something that slipped your mind." He leaned forward and slammed his fist down. "I want the whole damned story here and now-teeth, hair, asshole, and all." The senior officers at the other table sat flagpole straight.
"You are getting the whole story, sir. There was only one mission."
"Is that right, Mister Cole?"
"He said there was only one mission," Cole answered.
Copeland's arm shot out and he leveled his finger at Tiger. "Mister Cole, you're just one answer away from becoming the naval McM in Nepal. Now I'm going to ask you one more time. Is Lieutenant Grafton's testimony correct?"
"Yes, sir, it is."
"You and he bombed one unauthorized target?"
"Yes, sir."
The captain's attention returned to Jake. "Did you report this strike at the intelligence debriefings?"
"No, sir."
"Did you report it on your after-action report?"
"No, sir."
"Did you tell anyone you were going to bomb as unauthorized target?"
"Mister Steiger, sir."
"No one else knew what the hell you were doing?" "Just Cole, Steiger, and me."
"How about you, Cole? Have you shared the tale of your adventures with anyone?"
"No, sir. I haven't. I'm naturally blabby, but I sat on this one." That sally drew a frigid stare from Copeland as Cowboy Parker had a coughing fit and Camparelli turned red. Jake Grafton worried his lower lip and glanced at Sammy, who remained expressionless. Copeland finally subjected Cole to closer scrutiny as if to goad the lieutenant into trifling with him further, but Cole, impassive, said nothing else.
Copeland sipped a glass of water, then turned his attention to his legal pad and wrote. some notes. Like most interrogators, he had apparently learned long ago that silence was a very effective weapon. Jake imagined, as he felt the tension grow in the silent room, that Copeland used it often on thieves, dope peddlers, embezzlers, fraudulent defense contractors--and the professionally doomed. At last Copeland broke the silence, asking Grafton, "And just how did you identify and target this blow for freedom?"
The pilot knew that the ice was thin and cracking. "We used charts. And photos we borrowed from the Intelligence Center."
"Classified aerial reconnaissance photographs?" "Yes, sir."
"You removed them from the Intelligence Center i violation of the security regulations?"
"Yes, sir." Pilots often took them on daylight missions to help identify the target, but there was no sense bearding the lion.
"With Mister Steiger's help?"
"Yes, sir. We needed his assistance. What we really wanted to attack in Hanoi was Communist Party Headquarters, but we couldn't identify it. Even with his help."
"Is that right, Mister Steiger?"
Behind his thick glasses Abe looked even more wide-eyed than usual.
"I didn't hear your answer, Mister Steiger."
"I helped Grafton and Cole plan their raid on Hanoi."
"Thank you, Mister Steiger. I understand this matter came to light when Commander Camparelli examined the order-of-battle charts and the intelligence reports and found, much to his surprise, that they didn't show the SAM sites that shot at Grafton. You helped plan this raid, so why didn't you fake those reports?"
Abe blinked behind his glasses. "I couldn't do that. I knew where the missile sites were that had fired on Lieutenant Grafton. They were already in the system as known sites. I couldn't bring myself to put fake sites into the system."
"Did you tell Grafton that you weren't going to falsify the data?"
"No, sir. I didn't discuss it with him. I didn't have to. Lieutenant Grafton is a damn fine officer, regardless of what he's done wrong, and I knew he'd rather risk being discovered than report false data."
"What would be the danger in listing nonexistent SAM sites?"
"Bombardiers plan their routes to avoid the worst of the ground defenses. I couldn't take the chance that someone might fly near a real site in order to avoid a fake one."
Copeland grunted. "That's the only time you used good judgment in this escapade." He sifted through some notes. To Jake's ears the rustling of papers in the otherwise silent room sounded as loud as rifle shots.
"Well, Mister Grafton. You have an attentive audience here. Perhaps you could take this opportunity to explain why you felt a one-plane war was the way to go."
"Was that really a question, sir?"
"Uh-huh." Copeland gazed at the far bulkhead.
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
Copland fixed his eyes an the pilot. "Come, come, Mister Grafton. We're all sitting here with bated breath anxiously awaiting your explanation. Why would a seemingly sane pilot and bombardier get wild hairs up their asses and violate every goddamned targeting regulation the navy has? Not to mention several dozen security breaches and false official statements. C'mon. Shed some light on this mystery."
Jake took a deep breath. "I can only speak for myself. I got tired of risking my ass and my bombardier's, plus a valuable airplane, night after night, bombing targets that were absolutely worthless: suspected truck stops, suspected troop bivouacs, sampan repair yards that had been bombed ten times before, road intersections--you get the idea." He took another deep breath. "I don't know who picks the targets, but I'll bet a year's pay that they don't fly through the flak and risk their precious asses bombing them."
He looked around at the other faces in the room. "My first bombardier, Morgan McPherson, and about fifty thousand other Americans are dead. Not all these men died actually fighting. Some (Red on flight decks, launching planes. But they were all engaged in one effort. So, what did they all die for? Does anybody know? I don't, but I do know this: McPherson didn't get killed hitting a worthwhile target. He died bombi
ng a bunch of trees. I only wish he and I had been swinging with our best punch against a target that made sense when he caught that bullet."
He leaned forward. "I guess this sane pilot questioned the sanity of those officers and politicians who think that the way to fight a war is to tie one hand behind the fighter's back. Commander Camparelli pointed out to me the other night that Ammerica's armed forces are her sole defense against enemies much more powerful than that bunch of conamunist crackpots in Hanoi W ever be. And America needs her military to obey. America also needs warriors. Yet our military leadership doesn't insist on military objectives that make sense. The lives of our fighting men are being wasted every day. Either we end this war or we right like we mean it. If we pussy-foot around much longer, America may not have an army or navy to defend hen we won't be able to recruit good people to serve, and we won't be able to get Congress to buy us the weapons to fight with.
"So, Captain, you can tell all those admirals in Washington that lieutenant Nobody is perfectly willing to obey orders," he nodded at Camparelli. "But I for one hope those gentlemen with stars remember that a naval officer's job is to sail in harm's way, not to work the cocktail-party circuit. Or we won't have a navy worthy of the name for them to lead."
Jake lowered his voice. "Captain, you asked. My opinion is mine alone. I don't speak for anyone but myself. I disobeyed orders and I regret it. Nothing I've said excuses my conduct. I'm ready to accept whatever punishment the navy feels appropriate."
"Is there anything more you want to say?" Copeland asked.
Jake thought a moment. "No, sir."
"AD right, lieutenant. You're dismissed."
Jake was sitting on his bunk when Sammy came in. "He kicked us junior folk out soon after you left," Sammy told him and plopped into his desk chair. "You know, I don't think I've ever been as scared in my life as I was at that hearing."
"Yeah," Grafton agreed. "Man, I really screwed up. But I said what I've wanted to say for a long time. Now all I have to do is plead guilty at the court-martial." He reached into his pocket. "Look at this," he said, holding out the ring.
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