Nova 3

by Anthology

  “That is why I was chosen. It is my field, I have my degree in English literature, Shakespeare is my specialty. Before I became a pilot of course.”

  “Fly MIGs?” Martin-Luther asked.

  “I did. But transports from China the last few years.”

  “Christ, I need a drink,” Spiro said, pouring a good two inches of bourbon and raising it to his lips. Martin-Luther took him suddenly by the wrist.

  “Don’t get drunk, man. Can’t do nothing with you wiped out.”

  “Listen to him,” Dick said. “Put it down.”

  Spiro looked from one to the other, chewing at the straggling hairs on his lips. “Shit. I got to shave this thing off. I just wanted a little one.”

  “A little one,” Martin-Luther said. “Later. Before we leave.”

  He took the glass and put it on the table. Spiro’s neck was red as he stamped from the room.

  “He’s a good kid,” Dick said. “But got too much imagination. He’ll be all right.”

  “I have no doubt about that. I think you are all all right. I think you are very brave and fine people to do what you are doing. What you are doing is harder to do than to surrender and fight in the army or the navy. I have been asked to tell you officially that the People’s Republic of Vietnam considers you heroes—”

  “I don’t want to be no fuckin’ slope hero,” Martin-Luther burst in. “I want to be an American who wants us out of this goddamn war before we tear ourself and the world in two. I want some of the goddamn megabucks we been spending on bombs spent in the black ghettos so my people can get away from the rats and the dirt and have what every honky bastard has, just some kind of decent life. That’s what I want. And you people can stay over there and do exactly what you want to each other.”

  “I agree completely.” Dao’s voice was just as coldly angry. “We will stay in our country and you will stay in yours. That is just the way I would like it.”

  The tension slowly eased away. Martin-Luther made himself a drink and sipped it, scowling at nothing. Pat finished her sewing on the uniform arid showed Dao a room where he could change. When he returned wearing it they were aware of a difference, as though he were bigger, stronger. “I can put the cap in my pocket, and I will wear my raincoat which will conceal the uniform. But I will need a scarf of some kind around my neck.”

  “My dad has one,” Pat said. “As long as you give it back.”

  An hour later they left in two cars. Spiro drove Dao, his breath still strong with the last small drink that had been poured for him.

  “We’re going to Brown Field. You know where it is?”

  “I have studied the maps you supplied with great care. It is south of San Diego, approximately fourteen miles, perhaps two miles inland from the ocean, the same distance north of the Mexican border.”

  “Right on. There’s a rental place there. They’re holding a four-place plane like you said. I left a deposit. We’re supposed to be going to San Francisco, that’s the flight plan I filed. Everything will be okay.” The last was more a question than a statement and his knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel too hard.

  “Everything will go fine,” Dao said, in what he hoped was a relaxed tone. “Once I have the plane your part will be done. You will not be connected with what happens.”

  “We have plans for that. Dave—I mean Dick—look, forget that name will you please? Dick and I are supposed to be camping in Arizona. We really are, we have the camp site receipts. But we drove back last night, then we’ll leave again as soon as you take off. They’ll never tie us into this.” They turned into a narrow road that wound up through low, sun-scorched hills to the airport. Brown Field, a naval training station during the Second World War, now a little-used civilian field. Past a silent, faded mess hall, rows of sealed barracks a drab setting for the colorful rows of light planes. Spiro parked the car where it could not be seen from the flight line and they walked slowly toward the office with the large RENTALS sign over it. A middle-aged man chewing an unlit cigar looked up from behind the desk when they came in.

  “My name’s Morgan, I phoned about a rental, mailed a deposit . . .”

  “Yeah, right here.” He flipped through the file folders on the desk. “License.”

  Spiro handed it over, attempting to be nonchalant and realizing that his hands were shaking. Dao was silent and calm beside him and it helped a bit. The man at the desk squinted at the license, then wrote in the forms before him. He started to hand the license back—then halted and looked at it closely. Spiro felt as though he were going to die.

  “You know you got less than three weeks before this thing expires?” the man said.

  “I know.” His voice sounded strange in his own ears; would the other notice? “But I’m just going away for two days. I’ll renew it when I come back.”

  The license was returned, the papers passed across the counter. Cramping the pen in his fingers he forged the signature he had practiced so often.

  “The red Comanche,” the man said. “Third down the line there, tank full, altimeter zeroed for this field. Here’s the keys.”

  Spiro nodded, unable to speak again, and left with Dao close behind him, forcing himself to walk slowly.

  “You get in the pilot’s side,” Dao said. “Pretend to work the controls. I will do everything with the dual controls.”

  They climbed in and Dao tested the controls with slow precision, moving the rudder back and forth and flapping the ailerons up and down while Spiro beat his fist into his palm with silent agony. Dao was priming the engine when there was the quick sound of running feet and a man’s voice calling to them loudly. They sat in numb silence as the man from the office hurried up.

  “Listen, you forgot your copy of the agreement. You don’t want to do that.”

  “No, of course, sorry,” Spiro said, aware that his face was damp with sweat and hoping the other would not notice it. He opened the door and took the paper. The man looked at him and frowned. Then shrugged slightly and turned back to the office.

  Dao did indeed know how to fly. He started the engine, revved it until it was running smoothly, then released the brakes and taxied out to the runway. The tower gave them clearance, then they were rushing down the ancient, patched concrete and into the air.

  “I thought I was going to die,” Spiro shouted above the roar of the engine.

  “It went quite smoothly. What is my heading?”

  “What? Oh, east I guess, follow the roads. It shouldn’t take us long.”

  “Would it not be wise to go north until we are out of sight of this field? Toward San Francisco.”

  “Right, good idea, I’ll tell you when to turn.”

  The ranch was beyond the coastal plain and rolling hills, almost at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains. A handful of blackened buildings and a dusty landing strip with a car parked at the end, three people standing beside it. Dao flew low the length of the strip, then pulled up in a tight turn. It seemed in good repair. Throttling back he headed back into the wind and did a neat three-point landing in the middle of the strip, then taxied to the waiting car and killed the engine.

  “Was it okay, go all right?” Pat asked, white-faced now that planning had become reality.

  “They here, that’s enough to know,” Martin-Luther said abruptly. “We dug the stuff up and got it in the car.”

  They climbed down from the plane and looked in the open rear door of the sedan.

  “Five pounds of black powder each,” Dick said. “Packed into old gallon paint cans. Plaster of Paris on top to fill the cans.”

  “And the fuses?” Dao asked. Dick grinned, but not happily.

  “Well, that was kind of hard to do. The kind they wanted, I mean. So I used regular fuse cord cut for fifteen seconds like they said . . .”

  His voice ran down into silence at the cold anger in Dao’s face, his finger shaking with rage as he pointed at the cans.

  “You mean you did this thing without consulting
us? Did not put on the friction fuses as you were instructed? Jeopardized everything with your stupidity. Do you think I have three arms? I can fly the plane with one hand, yes, while at the same time pulling the ring to actuate a friction fuse. That I can do. But how can I fly, light a match, ignite a fuse, put out the match, pick up the can—”

  He choked into impotent silence and they were silent as well, Dick looking at the ground with his fists clenched. Dao looked into face after face and they did not answer him.

  “The answer is that I cannot. So what do we do? Too much has been done to abandon this project now. I will fly the plane. One of you must come with me to light the fuses.” They were ashamed of themselves even as they found excuses. It was no longer a game. Lieutenant Tran Hung Dao, the professional, listened in angry silence while they talked. He had nothing more to say. But he did notice that Martin-Luther had not joined the others so was not surprised when he spoke now.

  “Bunch of cheap honky copouts.” He spat meaningfully into the dust before their feet. “Been having a good time? Playing at war? Well the war’s come home now and you want no part of it. What about it, Lieutenant, can you set me down someplace after the fun is over?”

  “I see no reason why not. If you will show me where.”

  “I’ll just do that.” He jerked his thumb at the plane. “C’mon you ofay bastards, load up for the man.”

  Little more was said as they stowed the cans in the two rear seats. Pat had three disposable cigarette lighters in her purse and she gave them to Martin-Luther. “Good luck,” she said.

  “We’ll need it, kid. Now split, whitey, because the inferior races are now going to carry the ball.”

  Dao took off the raincoat and scarf and handed them to Pat, then pulled on his uniform cap. The engine started easily and they taxied to the end of the strip and turned around. Before they took off the car was already bouncing back down the rutted road and Martin-Luther snorted with contempt. “What’s the plan?” he asked as they became airborne.

  “Ream Field first. Come in from the sea, very low, make a pass. Turn, make a second pass and back to sea again.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s the beginning.”

  The plane climbed to five thousand feet and hummed back toward the Pacific Ocean, just inside the border. Dao examined Ream Field with great interest as they passed just south of it. The Helicopter Capital of the World, a major training base. Copters lifted and landed, stood in long neat rows. Then they were over the water and starting a long turn, dropping lower. The waves were sharp and clear just below them as they headed back toward shore. Dao rammed the throttle as far forward as it would go and the engine roared loudly in their ears.

  “Get ready!” he shouted. Martin-Luther, his lap full of cans, flicked the lighter on and off and smiled crookedly. “I sure am,” he said.

  The beach appeared suddenly ahead with the low dunes behind it. The plane zoomed up over them and there was the airfield just beyond.

  “Windows open—ready—light the first when I say now and keep lighting them. Pass them to me. Now!”

  The light plane rushed at the row of parked helicopters and Dao felt the wire handle slapped hard into his palm. He heaved the can up and out of the window and was ready for another one. Two more went after the first before they reached the buildings beyond. He waved his hand at Martin-Luther who snuffed out the fuse he had just lit.

  “Lemme drop one this time?” he shouted.

  “Yes. But no casualties if they can be avoided. Materiel, machines and trucks, they are our targets.”

  The light plane screamed up and around in a gut-wrenching turn, then they were headed back in the direction they had come. The scene had changed drastically in the few seconds since they passed. Smoke was billowing up from the row of copters, men were running; the airfield a beehive disturbed. Faces stared up at them, then the sailors and marines dived for cover as the plane appeared again.

  “That’s mine!” Martin-Luther shouted as he lit the fuses again. Passing two of the homemade bombs to Dao he lit another and dropped it in the direction of a parked gasoline truck. It must have hit right on it because the black explosion was followed instantly by a billowing column of flame. He shouted wordlessly with excitement and banged his fist against the window edge. “What now?” he asked as they hedgehopped the beach and were back over the sea. “Anything following us?”

  “A ’copter I think—no, it’s just turning. They don’t know what happened, just don’t know what hit them.”

  “I hope that is true. The element of surprise is all we have. North Island is our next target.”

  “You got to be kidding! They got fighter planes there, guns, Christ, flattops with AA batteries, cruisers . . .”

  “All with their weapons unloaded I am sure. We will find out soon.”

  “I give you that, Tran, you got guts. Take on a whole goddam big navy base.”

  “The bigger the statement we make, the better it will be heard. A single pass there will suffice—”

  “I’ll buy that, baby!”

  “Then we will go straight on, very low, to the Naval Air Station at Miramar, north of San Diego. It is no more than two minutes flying time. A single pass there, and then I land and surrender. I am in uniform, a prisoner of war, I will be treated just as we treat your fliers that bomb our country. As I said, a statement. But what about you?”

  “Me, Miramar is perfect. Look, they got runways a couple of miles long, they end way out in the shrub. Go to the end, go off into the dirt when you turn, throw up a big cloud of dust. I’ll hail out in the dust, lie quiet, get away while they’re grabbing you. I can do it.”

  “I sincerely hope that you do. Now get ready, there is the base ahead.”

  Buildings, hangars rose before them, the gray forms of looming warships beyond. There seemed to have been no warning. Dao reached for the first bomb and waggled the wings in a sudden turn.

  “There, F-4 fighter bombers, the kind that have ravaged my country.”

  The bombs sent up black columns of smoke and hurtling chunks of metal. One after another fell; then they were past the flight line and turning toward the harbor beyond. The aircraft carrier was dead ahead, the island rising up like a tall building, faces peering at them from it. As they zoomed close they had an instant glimpse of a marine on the bridge with his automatic clutched in both hands, pointing at them, firing. It was the only sign of resistance they were aware of. Then the can was dropping toward the deck, bouncing and falling over the side to explode harmlessly in the water. “Stay low, follow the freeway,” Martin-Luther called out.

  Dao started to answer him—then grabbed at the controls as the engine spluttered and died.

  “What is it?” Martin-Luther screeched in the sudden silence.

  “Don’t know. Something hit the engine. All the oil is gone.”

  “A bullet? They shot us?”

  “Maybe. Piece of metal. Where can I land?”

  “Nothing here, all roads and houses. In the water?”

  “No! I might be drowned, not be found. They must understand who did this and why. Lindbergh Field the other side of the harbor. I think we can make it.” He touched the controls delicately to lengthen their glide.

  “What about me?”

  “I’m sorry. You will have to come with me. Perhaps you can get out of the plane.”

  Martin-Luther cursed wordlessly, slamming his fist against the seat as they came in low, their landing gear just above the tuna boats at the dock, over the street and clearing the fence about the field, setting down neatly at the end of the runway, still going too fast for Martin-Luther to jump free.

  A low service truck darted out of the terminal ahead, pulling into the runway before them, braking to a stop, the driver diving out the far side and running.

  Dao stood on the brakes so the plane skidded and slewed, crashing sideways into the truck. They were dazed, pained and numb with the impact, the bombs rolling about their feet. Befo
re they could recover, react, the doors of the terminal burst open and passengers, mechanics, airline personnel, pilots, stewardesses, everyone ran toward the wrecked plane.

  “They know,” Martin-Luther said. “The radio, they heard.”

  “We will surrender, just as your pilots do. They bomb our hospitals and schools, three-quarters of my home town,

  Nam Dinh, has been destroyed. Thousands killed. Yet we only imprison your pilots.”

  Martin-Luther did not answer, could not, just stared at the screaming mob with wide eyes, unable to move, filled with a sudden presentiment of what was happening.

  “Lock your door!” he shouted suddenly. “Jam it shut, don’t open it, wait until the cops come, the military, we gotta hold on.”

  Lieutenant Tran Hung Dao now understood as well, looking at the screaming mouths, the clawed hands, the upraised tools. He clutched at the door handle as a wrench crashed into the window by his face.

  “Prisoners of war! I am in uniform. For ten years you have done this to my country. Five billion dollars in bombs a year. Killed, maimed, women, children . . .”

  The door was pulled from his clutch and fingers tore at him.

  “Policeman! There, you, help me . . .” The policeman’s fist hit him square on the face, destroying one eye.

  Many hands pulled him from the plane, tore open the other door and wrenched a screaming Martin-Luther to the ground.

  Fists, heels, shoes, ground and tore the life from them, battering them into blindness, maiming them before they killed them, tearing the clothes from their bodies to get at the softer flesh beneath.

  The Marines, from the Marine Corps Depot beside the field, had to climb a high fence, so by the time they arrived there was little left. But they did stamp at the bloodied remains with their hard boots.

  The crime these two had committed was unforgivable. They goddamn well got what they deserved.

  ENDORSEMENT,

  PERSONAL

  By DEAN McLAUGHLIN

  Despite great evidence to the contrary, scientists are human beings.