by Joe Weber
"So, the truth is known."
"Yes, sir." Brad could hear Harry breathing quickly.
"Look at this," Bailey ordered, thrusting the incriminating photograph into Austin's hands. "Do you recognize your signature?" the CO asked, referring to the name of the carrier on the side of the Phantom.
"I've seen it, sir." Brad handed the picture back without looking at it.
"Goddamnit," Bailey bellowed, "if you had reported what you had done in the debrief and after-action report, we might have had a fighting chance to salvage this screwup. But now, Captain Austin, we are all in deep shit."
Brad swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the bulkhead. The silence hung in the air.
Dan Bailey savagely stubbed out his cigar. "Do either of you know who is on the way to visit our ship?"
"No, sir," Brad replied, clearing his throat.
Bailey scratched his head. "A senior captain from CINCPAC's staff, and a representative from the State Department."
Harry darted a glance at their skipper. Bailey's face was crimson.
"I am most likely," Bailey said more calmly, "going to be relieved as commanding officer of this squadron. But, the two of you are headed for a court-martial. That has already been discussed with the admiral."
"Commander," Brad said without moving his eyes from the bulkhead. "I am the one who is responsible for deviating from the rules. Harry tried to talk me out of going to Phuc Yen. He is not at fault, sir."
"Deviated?" Bailey responded, his voice rising again. "You broke the trust of the United States Navy, the marines, and our commander in chief." Bailey was exasperated. "We may have civilian leaders, including the president of the United States, who may not see the war our way, but you took an oath to obey them, and follow the orders of the officers appointed over you.
"Commander," Brad began as evenly as possible, "I will take whatever punishment I have coming, but Harry is not at fault. He did everything in his power to make me turn back."
Bailey sighed and slowly shook his head. "It's out of my hands at this point. Both of your fates will probably be decided at a court-martial. First, there will be a formal hearing, when they decide on a location. We can't go back and fix everything at this point.
"This whole thing," Bailey continued, looking tired, "has become a global embarrassment. The formal protest and letter of condemnation including the goddamned photograph--have been flashed around the world. Our government is officially denying the allegations, but when you two confess, which you are going to do, there will be egg on a lot of faces."
Bailey paused a moment, trying to quell his growing frustration. "Jesus Christ, Austin, what was going through your mind, if anything?"
For the first time, Brad shot a look at the CO. "Sir, Major Dao shot down Commander Durham and Russ. I was determined to blow that sonuvabitch off the face of the--"
"Stand at ease," Bailey waved his hand, "both of you." Harry and Brad assumed the position of a relaxed parade rest.
Brad focused on Bailey's eyes. "I was initially in shock, sir, which turned to rage. I was consumed by the desire to kill Dao before he shot down another aircraft. I also felt responsible for letting my flight leader down, and I remembered what you had told us."
"What's that?" Bailey asked with a curious look.
"In the ready room, when you mentioned that the admiral wanted Major Dao bagged . . . that it was a priority."
Bailey's shoulders slumped. "Within the rules of engagement, Austin. Do I have to draw a goddamn picture for you?"
"Sir," Brad said emotionally, "Major Dao didn't have any rules-of-engagement restrictions. This entire war has been marked by political meanderings and flawed decisions, and there is going to be a backlash at some point. Sir, I fully understand about my oath, and following orders."
Wetting his dry lips, Brad continued in a pleasant, conversational manner. "Sir, I submit to you that there are times when we have to question the morality of orders that are not sound. This, in my logic, is not morally right--restrictions, stipulated by our civilian leadership, that place us in a corner and needlessly endanger more lives."
Bailey's look was almost a glare.
Brad paused, weighing his options. "Sir, those rules--the restrictions--have caused a lot of lives to be lost unnecessarily. You know that better than anyone. You have to write the letters to their families."
Seeing that he had hit a chord, Brad stopped talking. He knew that the skipper had the same doubts that he felt, but Bailey could not do anything about the situation.
"Captain, I am not going to debate with you. My job is to get to the bottom of this fiasco, and inform you and Mister Hutton that you're to report to the flag bridge at zero eight hundred tomorrow morning."
"Yes, sir."
"Until then, you and Hutton are confined to quarters. Your meals will be brought to your stateroom, and you are not to talk with anyone." Bailey's voice rose. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
"Yessir," Brad answered in a respectful tone. "Your orders are perfectly clear."
"Now," Bailey said, emotionally drained, "I have the unpleasant task of facing the admiral, and confirming that one of my crews set off this international incident. He may want to see you now."
"Commander," Brad inhaled deeply, "if I submit my resignation, we can avoid a court-martial."
Harry found his voice. "Sir, I will also submit my resignation."
Bailey examined their faces. "I will talk to the admiral about that possibility." He glanced at the message to be endorsed by the admiral. "Dismissed."
Chapter 35.
The music in the passageway was faint. Brad listened to the harmony and thought about Leigh Ann. What was she doing at this very moment? He glanced at his watch, computing the time in Memphis. He closed his eyes and pictured Leigh Ann lying next to him in San Francisco.
His thoughts suddenly shifted to defending his actions over Phuc Yen. Should he retain civilian legal counsel and go public? After all, he had shot down two MiGs, even though he had had to break the rules to down the second aircraft. How would the public react to knowing that a North Vietnamese ace would not shoot down a ninth American fighter?
Who was the enemy? If he played strictly by the rules of engagement, the chances were greater that he would be killed, or endure a long stay in a North Vietnamese prison. If he chose to take the fight to the enemy, he faced the possibility of a lengthy incarceration in a federal prison.
"You awake, Brad?" Harry asked, rolling on his side. "Yes," he replied, sitting up.
Harry leaned over the top of his bunk. "What are we going to do? We're facing a court-martial."
Brad walked to the desk and sat down. "We're going to defend ourselves. The more I think about this crock of shit, the more incensed I become. If they want to play hardball, I'll reciprocate in kind."
"What about your father? He's a vice admiral who obviously has some pull."
Brad looked up with a wry grin. "He'd most likely be the first volunteer for my firing squad. His fourth star just went down the tube."
Harry sat up, crouched under the low overhead. "Do you think they'll let us resign?"
"Probably not. With something this juicy, I'm sure they'll want to make us examples for the rest of the team."
Brad opened the refrigerator and grabbed two soft drinks. "You may get off with a reprimand," he handed Harry a Coke, "but I'll probably get a dishonorable discharge, and a couple of years in Leavenworth."
Harry stared at a spot on the floor. "We really crapped in our mess kits."
"No, Harry. I did."
The silence was shattered when the telephone rang. Brad and Harry looked at each other, unsure if they should answer the phone. The CO had ordered them not to talk to anyone.
"I better answer it," Brad said, reaching for the receiver. "Captain Austin."
"Sir," the hollow voice replied, "you have a call from Vice Admiral Austin."
Brad let his head sag, feeling the tension grip his chest. "I'll conne
ct you, sir."
Looking up at Harry, Brad covered the mouthpiece. "My father."
Harry closed his eyes and spoke in a whisper. "Oh, shit. How did he know we were talking about him?"
The seconds passed slowly.
"Brad, this is your father." The voice sounded controlled and steady.
"Yes, sir," Brad answered, mentally bracing himself for a broadside. "Good morning." It was late morning in Norfolk, Virginia.
Vice Admiral Carlyle Whitney Austin had always been an imposing figure. He was taller than Brad and twenty pounds heavier, with a no-nonsense personality. Carlyle Austin was a traditional, by-the-book naval officer, and a strict disciplinarian. "I have been informed about your incident."
"Yessir, Admiral," Brad replied cautiously.
A slight pause followed. "Son, you can drop the admiral and sir business. I'm your father, so let's keep it that way." Harry caught the surprised look on his friend's face. "Yes, sir--okay, Dad."
"Why don't you tell me precisely what happened, and don't leave anything out."
Brad explained, in detail, exactly what he had done, and why he had broken the rules. He outlined his frustrations and contempt for the restrictions, adding that he felt that the policies of the futile war effort were causing greater casualties than necessary. His father listened without interruption.
"Dad, I believe in our Constitution, and obeying orders. Our system is not the problem, as you well know. But the military and the American people are being shortchanged by their civilian leadership."
Harry looked askance, then frowned.
"I don't know if I have the right to disobey what I consider to be ridiculous orders, but the restrictions that have been forced on us are placing the crews in greater danger, and killing people who are trying to tiptoe through the rules. We're losing some of the best and brightest because of the constraints placed on them."
"Anything else, son?"
Brad's throat tightened. Why was his father being so calm? Was he going to explode at any second?
"Dad," he continued uncomfortably, "I feel that good leaders have to use excellent judgment in making their decisions, or we might as well be drones. I've had some of the best military training and discipline in the world, but I'm not going to march my men lockstep off a cliff because some unqualified bureaucrat orders me to."
"Brad, many people share your sentiments, including a number of my colleagues, but that's neither here nor there. You have always been reasonable, for the most part."
Brad felt the sting, but remained quiet.
"There isn't anything I can do on your behalf. If I attempt to use my influence to intercede in any way, it would make things even more difficult for you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand, and I wouldn't ask you to intervene. It's my problem, and I'll pay the consequences." Taking a deep breath, Brad steeled himself. "Dad, I'm sorry I've besmirched our name, and your career."
"Brad, you haven't tarnished our name, and don't worry about my career. I will be retiring two months from tomorrow."
Brad glanced at Harry before speaking. "Is your retirement because of me?"
"No, not at all. My papers went in six weeks ago, and I'm looking forward to sailing on the Chesapeake."
Feeling relief sweep over him, Brad smiled. "Congratulations, Dad. I hope we can go sailing together, if I can get myself out of this trouble."
"Son, you did what you had to do. Don't apologize for your actions. Stand up for them."
"Yes, sir," Brad replied, reverting to his military bearing. "I sincerely appreciate your call, and the words of advice."
"Well," the admiral paused, "you're my son, and you're not a loose cannon. Stubborn and determined," he chuckled softly, "but not a loose cannon."
Startled by the unexpected trace of humor, Brad laughed nervously. He felt closer to his father than he had felt in years.
"Thanks, Dad. I'll keep you posted, and I'll call mother as soon as I have an opportunity."
"You do that. Get some rest."
"I'll try," Brad responded, noting the time. "Good-bye." He set the receiver down slowly and looked at Harry. "He took it calmly, and told me to stand up for my actions."
Brad and Harry climbed the steep series of ladders leading to the flag bridge. The last level of the gleaming staircase had white handholds with an engraved brass plaque mounted over the top of the stairwell. The highly polished plaque announced to the two visitors that they had arrived at the admiral's bridge. The marine corporal guarding the entrance snapped to attention.
"Captain Austin," Brad announced, "and Lieutenant Hutton, reporting to the admiral as requested." The young man in the spotless dress uniform opened the door and backed away.
Stepping through the entrance, Brad saw the admiral. Both Harry and Brad braced at attention. The commander of the task force was conferring with one of his staff members.
Brad had met Rear Adm. Warren Keuseman when the admiral had toured the air-group ready rooms. An engaging individual, Keuseman had a swarthy, rugged appearance. He had a faint scar on his right temple, accentuated by a shock of snow white hair. His freshly laundered khakis had been specially tailored for his fit, trim physique. His uniform sported shiny gold wings and gleaming silver stars.
Keuseman finished his conversation, signed a form, and turned to greet Brad and Harry. "At ease, gentlemen." The voice was pleasant, but there was no mistaking the somber look on Keuseman's face. The pale gray eyes briefly examined the pilot and his radar-intercept officer.
Brad and Harry, in unison, spread their feet and clasped their hands behind them.
"I'm going to be very frank with you." Keuseman paused to let the impact of his words register.
Brad felt a pang of trepidation. What the hell was going to ultimately happen to them? Harry cleared his throat, as he habitually did when he was nervous.
Keuseman walked to his cabin door. "Let's step inside." Brad and Harry followed the admiral into his quarters. Brad was awed by the furnishings. The cabin was richly decorated with cherry-wood furniture and fine accessories. Two large original oil paintings of vintage aircraft carriers hung from the gleaming bulkheads.
"This meeting," Keuseman said, gesturing to a luxurious couch, "is informal, and off the record."
Harry and Brad sat down, stealing a quick, questioning glance at each other. Keuseman pulled his overstuffed chair from behind his desk and took a seat. The admiral remained quiet, letting the silence underscore the gravity of the situation.
"You two are in serious trouble."
"Admiral, excuse me sir, but Lieutenant Hutton is not at fault, sir. I take full responsibility for my actions. He aggressively attempted to talk me out of violating the rules. My knocking down the MiG--Major Dao--was the entire focus of my life at that moment. Nothing else mattered."
Keuseman folded his arms across his chest. "Captain, I am aware of that. Your commanding officer and I had a long conversation after you talked with him. He believes that both of you are fine young officers who stepped over the line in the heat of battle. The main concern is hitting a ground target at an off-limits airfield."
Keuseman picked up the folders containing their military files. "Your records speak for themselves." He studied the pages in Brad's folder, glancing at the pilot, then returning to the service record. "I've known your father a long time, and I respect him very much."
Brad remained quiet.
"Frankly, I am elated that you shot down Dao, but we are caught in the spotlight of a State Department flap because of the unauthorized attack on a restricted airfield. I received word early yesterday morning that the under secretary of the navy has ordered an informal investigation. A representative of the State Department will be in attendance, so it doesn't look good at the moment."
Bolstering his courage, Brad raised his hand slightly. "Admiral, if I resign my commission, can we avoid the hearing, and possible court-martial?"
Unhurried, Keuseman placed the service records on his de
sk. "I mentioned that avenue to CINCPAC when he chewed me out early this morning. That is not an option."
Examining the admiral, Brad was amazed that he was so calm after having been reprimanded by the commander in chief of the Pacific Fleet.
"All of us," Keuseman continued, "have broken or bent the rules at times, including me. Hell, any fighter pilot worth his salt has gone over the line in combat. However, this incident has gotten the attention of the international press."
Dead silence filled the cabin.
"Personally, I'm proud that we have warriors like yourselves, and I'm extremely pleased that you dispatched Dao. He alone is responsible for downing eight of our aircraft, and I'm happy that you two made sure that he will never get a ninth one."
Keuseman paused, shifting his gaze to Austin. "The fact that you fired a missile at a MiG on the ground is a different story."
Brad cast a look at his RIO. Harry looked straight ahead.
"I told you I was going to be frank, and I am. After discussing this matter with your skipper, I advised CINCPAC that we could have a real public-relations problem." Keuseman observed the reactions on the officers' faces.
Brad drew a breath. "I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."
A thin smile creased Keuseman's mouth. "Well, with public sentiment being what it is at the present time--not in our favor--it isn't going to be well received in many circles to ground a distinguished aviator who has shot down two MiGs and destroyed a third. The military has a public-relations problem because the media is reporting that we are killing innocent civilians. There won't be any doubt in anyone's mind that Dao was not a civilian.
He was flying a fighter plane and shot down your flight leader."
Squeezing his fists tight, Brad felt a small ray of hope.
"CINCPAC doesn't buy it, though. He believes that we have to take steps to ensure that no one breaks the rules of engagement again."
Harry and Brad remained quiet, attempting to contain their fears. If the four-star admiral wanted them nailed to the cross, which he apparently did, they stood little chance of avoiding a court-martial.
"I also explained," Keuseman said, shifting his gaze from Brad to Harry, then back to Brad, "that our growing problem with aircrew morale is going to be exacerbated if we court-martial two MiG killers."