Rules of Engagement (1991)

by Joe Weber

  Brad pondered his answer. "So, that won't make the pseudointelligentsia in the White House very pleased. I broke a rule, and I'll pay the penalty."

  Leigh Ann released his hand and put her arms around him. "Brad, I truly love you, with all my heart, but I'm frightened."

  Brad held her tightly, then gently kissed her. He tasted a salty tear and drew away.

  YOKOSUKA

  Dan Bailey, clad in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, propped his pillow behind his head and began reading the stack of officer fitness reports. His concentration was repeatedly broken by the pounding and banging on the deck below his stateroom. The noises, interrupted by periodic bursts from an air hammer, had been a continual irritation for more than fourteen hours.

  In frustration, Bailey sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bunk. He dropped the fitness reports on the edge of his desk and walked to his small lavatory.

  Bailey splashed cool water on his face and looked into his mirror. The reflection that met him was not the usual upbeat, energetic squadron commander. Bailey studied his red eyes, then the creases in his tanned face, concluding that he had aged ten years since the carrier had departed on the combat cruise.

  Bailey dried his face, then stepped to his desk and sat down in his battered chair. He could not stop thinking about the incident at Phuc Yen. The more he thought about the accusations, the more convinced he became that the series of events could not have been coincidental.

  He sat quietly, staring blankly at the opposite bulkhead. Hutton, who had been allowed to leave early on his jaunt, was due back to the carrier at approximately the same time as Austin. Then, Bailey thought, I'll have the answer.

  "What a bag of shit," he said under his breath.

  It was time for a stiff drink. He reached for his trousers, in preparation for a visit to the officers' club. Dan Bailey hoped the diversion, and a few laughs with his friends, would clear his mind.

  KYOTO

  The atmosphere in the Okutan restaurant was reserved. Harry Hutton gazed at the garden pond from a private tatami room. His attention centered on two young Japanese girls walking across a blanket of moss.

  "What are you eyeballing?" Jon O'Meara asked, counting the handful of yen to pay for his share of the meal.

  "Just taking in the local scenery," Harry answered, catching a glimpse of Mario Russo entering the room.

  Russo dropped a folded newspaper on the low table, then squatted on his thin cushion and folded his legs. "The men's room looks like something from around the turn of the century."

  Harry watched the teenage girls duck through a side gate and walk down a narrow path next to the garden.

  O'Meara looked at the newspaper. "What the hell are you doing with a Japanese paper? You can't even read English."

  "I saw this," Russo answered, unfolding the tattered newspaper to the front page, "and wondered what the headlines say."

  O'Meara and Russo focused their attention on the large photograph of an F-4 Phantom in knife-edge flight. The wing tip looked like it was almost dragging the ground.

  O'Meara gave his RIO a quizzical look and motioned for a nearby waitress. He handed the newspaper to her. "Would you mind telling us what that says?" he asked, pointing to the two bold lines of print.

  She studied the headlines and handed the paper back to O'Meara. "Paper say," she hesitated, struggling with her English, "Hanoi protests American fighter over Phuc Yen."

  Harry snapped around, knocking over his plum wine. His face turned ashen, prompting the surprised waitress to scurry away.

  Wide-eyed, he fixated on the photograph of his fighter-bomber.

  Russo and O'Meara stared at Harry a moment before they both started to speak. "Harry," O'Meara said, darting a look at the Phantom, "what the shit is--"

  "Oh, Jesus," Harry interrupted, oblivious to the cool wine dripping on his slacks. "Sonuvabitch--I knew it, goddamnit!"

  Shocked, O'Meara and Russo looked at each other, then back to Hutton. "Is that you," Russo asked gingerly, "and Austin?"

  Harry looked up and nodded. "Brad stepped over the line when Dao shot down Bull and Russ. I tried to stop him, but he was determined to get Dao--to make up for letting them down."

  "Major Dao," O'Meara leaned closer to Hutton, "shot down Bull and Russ?"

  "Yes, goddamnit," Harry blurted, "and then Brad chased Dao to Phuc Yen, and blew his ass out of the air--killed him right over the runway, then blasted a MiG on the taxiway."

  "Unbelievable," Russo said under his breath. "Does anyone know about this other than us?"

  "Mario," Harry answered in anguish, "look at the picture, for Christ's sake. The whole world knows about it."

  "Calm down, Harry," O'Meara soothed, nudging Russo. "I'm going over and have that waitress read the article to me, and we'll go from there, okay?" O'Meara squeezed from under the table, grabbed the newspaper, and walked over to the waitress.

  "Where is Austin?" Russo asked in an even voice. He could see that the color was slowly returning to Harry's taut face.

  "I don't know exactly. Some hotel in San Francisco."

  "Well," Russo continued reasonably, "we better try to track him down, and let him know, if he hasn't found out already. We owe it to him."

  Harry exhaled sharply. "How the hell do you expect to find him in the middle: of San Francisco?"

  "Harry, you know Brad. He doesn't stay in flophouses. We just need to call the better hotels."

  With a grim look, O'Meara returned to the table and crouched down on his cushion. "The military and the State Department are denying the allegations, but unidentified sources in the Pentagon have admitted that an investigation is underway. The North Vietnamese called you guys Yankee air pirates, and murderers."

  Russo expelled a sharp breath of air. "Brad is in some deep shit. All they have to do is look at the flight schedule for that date, including the Air Force, and interrogate the pilots and RIOs."

  O'Meara looked skeptical, pointing to the picture. "I don't think so. Look closely at the fuselage. I'm sure they've enlarged the photograph, and that dark slash on the side of the fuselage, as you know, is the name of our carrier."

  Harry sagged and leaned against the wall. "It's all over but the court-martial."

  Russo examined Hutton's eyes. "You weren't flying the airplane. Harry, you didn't have any control over where Brad was going."

  "True," Harry replied, "but I didn't report the incident--the goddamn violation."

  "Listen," O'Meara interjected. "What RIO worth a pig's ass is going to rat on his pilot?"

  Harry looked melancholy. "They aren't going to buy that. We're a team--we're supposed to follow orders."

  Russo darted a look at O'Meara. "Any board of inquiry knows that we wouldn't sell out our pilots, even after all the dumb-shit stunts they pull."

  Managing a faint smile, Harry shoved himself back and awkwardly got to his feet. "I'm going to find Brad, or at least get a message to him."

  Chapter 34.

  YOKOSUKA

  The officers' club had grown quiet after the lunch crowd had returned to their duties. Harry Hutton sat at the bar, nursing a warm beer and looking remorseful. Next to him, Jon O'Meara and Mario Russo passed a dice cup back and forth in a game of Ship, Captain, and Crew.

  The three men had decided to return to the base after several failed attempts to deal with the local telephone operators in Kyoto. One operator had mastered pidgin English but had not been successful in completing the information call to San Francisco.

  After arriving at the club, Harry had located Brad after calling three other prominent hotels. He had been deeply disappointed when his pilot had not answered the call. Leaving a message, Harry had given the hotel operator the number of a pay phone in the officers' club.

  "Come on, Harry," O'Meara invited. "We need some of your money in the game. You need to get your mind off this shit, and lighten up."

  "Lighten up," Harry snorted. "They're going to hang our asses from the yardarm, and I'm supposed t
o lighten up? Jesus, give me a break."

  Russo leaned around O'Meara. "Hey, you can't do anything about the deal at--"

  Harry jumped when the pay phone rang. He leaped off his bar stool and raced for the row of telephones. Yanking up the receiver, Harry turned his back to the room. "Lieutenant Hutton."

  "Harry, Brad. I just got your message. What's the situation?"

  Cupping the telephone, Harry stole a glance at the bar. "I don't know, except that our airplane is splattered on the front page of the goddamn newspapers--front page. We're in so much shit, we're going to need a snorkel."

  "Yeah, I saw our aircraft on television. Have you been questioned yet, or said anything to anyone?"

  Waiting for a senior officer to pass, Harry cleared his throat. "O'Meara and Russo know the whole story. They saw the picture in the paper--we were in Kyoto--and I told them what happened. I haven't been back aboard ship since the story broke, so I don't have a clue as to what the hell is happening, but it ain't good."

  The line remained silent a moment before Brad responded. "Listen, Harry. I'm taking the next available flight, so I've got a suggestion."

  "Suggestion?" Harry countered harshly. "You had better have some goddamn solutions."

  "Harry, you're yelling. Calm down."

  "I'm waiting."

  "Get a room at the hotel--the one that's down the block from the Club Alliance, and I'll meet you there as soon as I can." Hutton looked at his wristwatch, counting the remaining hours until he had to return to the carrier. "What are you planning to do?" "I'm going to tell the skipper the truth, and try to keep you out of the firing line. I don't want them to get to you first. Don't go aboard ship until I get back."

  Harry paused, seeing Jon O'Meara walking toward him. "I appreciate that, but I don't think any amount of damage control is going to keep us from getting keelhauled. Hang on a second."

  O'Meara quietly told Harry what he and Russo had just overheard at the bar. Three of the air-wing officers had been discussing the incident.

  Unconsciously gripping the phone more tightly, Harry watched O'Meara head for the lavatory. "Brad, the admiral and CAG were summoned to Hawaii to see CINCPAC, and they're due back tomorrow."

  "I'll be there as soon as I can."

  Harry placed the receiver down without responding. He walked back to his spot at the bar, glanced at Russo, then ordered a double scotch on the rocks.

  SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Watching an airliner taxi to the adjacent gate, Leigh Ann brushed the wetness from her cheeks. Brad was talking to the gate agent, confirming her departure time.

  The airliner moved steadily closer, trailing a shimmering stream of jet exhaust gases. The airplane stopped abruptly and the pilot shut down the whining engines.

  Leigh Ann thought about Brad. Would he ever fly again? What would the military do to him? She choked back a sob when Brad walked to her side.

  "Your flight is on time, and they're about to board. I'll call you as soon as I know something."

  She nodded silently.

  "Leigh Ann, I'm sorry about this."

  "It's almost as if," she hesitated, looking into his eyes, "we aren't meant to be together. Maybe Dad was right in the first place."

  Hearing the boarding announcement for Leigh Ann's flight to Memphis, Brad touched her face. "Don't you have any faith in me?"

  "I don't know what I feel right now." She dabbed a tear. "I have such mixed emotions. First, Tyler humiliated me . . . and now this. Why can't anything turn out right for me?"

  "I'm sorry if I embarrass you," Brad said, swallowing his irritation. "If your feelings are that shallow, it's better that I know now."

  "My feelings aren't shallow." Her voice rose. "Why didn't you explain to me that you were in trouble--serious trouble?"

  "I didn't know I was in trouble. I knew the potential for a court-martial existed, but I found out about it at the same moment you did."

  Leigh Ann reached in her purse for a fresh tissue.

  "Besides," Brad continued, "what does that have to do with our relationship . . . if you truly love me? People who love each other stand side by side through all adversities."

  She glared at him. "I understand that, but how am I going to explain this to my father?"

  "What's he going to do--court-martial you? Why don't you think about me and stop worrying about your father? Make your own decisions."

  Her anger grew. "You have no right to talk to me like that."

  "Leigh Ann," Brad countered, unable to quell his frustration, "I do love you, but you need to step out of the shadow of your father, and develop some independence."

  "Brad, I'm a lot more independent than you or my father give me credit for. I can tell you what I intend to do. I'm going to give some serious thought to our relationship. My heart tells me that I love you, but maybe that isn't in my best interest. I just don't know right now." She turned and strode toward the jetway.

  "Leigh Ann," Brad called after her, "I do love you."

  YOKOSUKA

  Brad dropped his luggage in front of Harry's room and knocked on the door. When the door opened, he examined Harry from head to foot, then looked at his swollen eyes. Brad grimaced, lifted his bags, and walked into the small, cluttered room. "You look like dog meat."

  "Good day to you, too," Hutton replied sarcastically, walking unsteadily to the messy writing table. He poured a liberal amount of scotch into a glass and drank two deep swallows. He cringed and sucked in a breath of air.

  Brad spied a trash can full of beer bottles and take-out food containers. "Harry, what are you doing?"

  "I'm celebrating my good fortune," he slurred before smothering a belch. "One goddamn flight with you and I'm headed for a court-martial, with my career flushed down the shitter."

  Placing his baggage on the rumpled bed, Brad studied his friend's face. "We don't have time for games, Harry. Put the drink down, and get dressed."

  "Aye, aye, Captain," Hutton responded, clumsily sitting down in the chair by the table. "Let me tell you something."

  The silence was a palpable presence in the small room. "Go on. I'm waiting."

  Harry placed his glass on the table. "Mario came by a few minutes ago to inform me that CAG and the admiral have returned from Hawaii. Everyone but us has been questioned by CAG and the admiral."

  Brad's strained patience was wearing thin. "And?"

  "Mario said that he and Jon claimed that they didn't know anything about an incident at Phuc Yen. He said our names were not mentioned, and that he and Jon kept their mouths shut. However, from what they have gleaned, Bailey has narrowed it down to us."

  Brad sagged and sat down on the bed.

  "I have to go back to the boat in a few hours," Harry continued, feeling suddenly nauseated, "and there's a standing order for me on the forward bow."

  "Harry," Brad said with alarm, "you better go to the head."

  Hutton pushed himself up and started for the bathroom. "I'm supposed to report . . . directly to the skipper," he managed before dropping to his knees in front of the toilet bowl.

  ***

  After a long shower, Harry had dressed and taken three aspirins. With Brad's assistance, he had walked two miles in the fresh air before returning to the dingy hotel and checking out. They had taken a taxicab to the carrier pier an hour before Harry was due to report. They walked up the gangplank and requested permission to board the ship.

  "Permission granted," the junior officer replied, adding, "Mister Hutton is to report immediately to his commanding officer."

  "I'll do that," Harry responded, turning to enter the hangar bay. He noticed that the officer of the deck had picked up a phone receiver. He was certain that his arrival was being announced to Dan Bailey.

  Brad and Harry went to their stateroom and changed into fresh uniforms. They were about to leave their cabin when the telephone rang. Harry answered the phone.

  "Goddamnit, Hutton," Dan Bailey snarled, "when I say immediately, I mean it
. And bring Austin with you." The duty officer had informed Bailey that Captain Austin had arrived with Lieutenant (jg) Hutton.

  "Yessir, I'm-" Harry stopped, hearing the line go dead. "That was the skipper," he said quietly, "and he is pissed off to the max. He knows that you're on board."

  "Let's go," Brad responded, centering his gleaming belt buckle. "Try to be calm, and let me do the talking."

  "Yeah, you're a helluva sea lawyer."

  Dan Bailey leaned back in his chair and read the hastily drafted message. He changed two sentences and propped a foot on the open lower drawer of his desk. He could not complete the secret message to CINCPAC until he had talked to Austin and Hutton.

  The admiral had sent word, prior to departing Pearl Harbor, that he wanted every crew member who had participated in the air strike in question to be standing by on his arrival.

  After interrogating the aircrews and listening to the tapes of the aircraft radio conversations, the admiral and the air-group commander had been convinced that Brad Austin was the only person who might have flown over Phuc Yen. Seven minutes of radio silence from Joker 205 had made them suspicious.

  That information, combined with the fact that no other aircrew had seen Brad's Phantom during that period of time, had convinced CAG that Austin had indeed shot down Major Dao over Phuc Yen. The possibility of an unauthorized attack on the taxiing MiG worried them most.

  From the time that Hutton had radioed the north search-andrescue coordinator, to the point when the RIO had again called the SAR station, was an unknown void.

  Bailey glanced at the message. I'll soon have the answer, he thought, hearing steps outside his stateroom. "Enter," he barked when Brad rapped on the door.

  Followed by Harry, Brad entered to find the CO smoking a cigar and tapping his fingers on the desk. Bailey's face reflected open hostility. Brad closed the door and stood at attention beside Hutton.

  "How many MiGs have you shot down, Captain Austin?"

  "Two, Commander," he replied without hesitation, eyes fixed on the bulkhead over Bailey's desk, "plus one on the ground at Phuc Yen."