by Tom Wilson
The colonel looked back at his notepad and shook his head. "Damn."
"Something wrong, sir?"
Leska grimaced and looked up at him. "You won't like it, Manny."
"Sir?"
"Doc Rogers spoke with me about you yesterday after the staff meeting."
Manny couldn't remember the flight surgeon being at the staff meeting. But, then, lately he'd been missing a lot of what was going on around him.
"Remember when you punched out of the airplane and hurt your shoulder? It seems a colonel physician from PACAF reviewed the case and decided you've gotta have more tests."
It didn't make sense. He'd been put through a thorough medical examination before Doc Rogers had cleared him to start flying again. "What kind of test, sir?"
"Got me. But Rogers told us to have you report to the clinic at zero-nine-hundred this morning, and it's already past that time. You'd better get over there ASAP."
"My shoulder?" His shoulder felt just fine.
"Go on over there now, Manny. Don't keep the Doc waiting any longer than necessary."
"Yes, sir."
Manny got to his feet and saluted awkwardly, then went out the door. He didn't see Buster Leska grab for his telephone the second he was gone. He didn't hear the words spoken to the flight surgeon or the urgency in the voice.
Manny passed Colonel Trimble and Colonel Armaugh in the outer office, and both men were glaring nastily at one another.
DeVera had to wait out in the small lobby for half an hour before Doc Rogers came out and waved him into his office.
"Bunch of bullshit, you ask me," Rogers huffed as he closed the door.
"What's that, Doc?"
Rogers peered at his face. "Jesus, what the hell's happened to you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You look like shit, Manny."
"I've been tired lately."
The Doc scribbled on a prescription pad. Manny peered but couldn't read his writing. Rogers handed the sheet to him. "Go back to your room, take one pill, and get some rest."
"Sleeping pill?"
"It'll knock you out for a few hours. But don't be late for your plane in the morning."
"What are you talking about, Doc?"
"The surgeon general at PACAF says you've gotta go to the hospital at Hickam so they can run some tests. The people at wing headquarters are typing up your travel orders right now."
"My shoulder's fine," Manny argued.
"It's not just the shoulder. They've got a whole series of tests they want to run. They'll tell you when you get there."
Manny was confused by everything that was going on. He started to argue, then remembered what he'd gone to see Colonel Leska about in the first place and decided he wouldn't mind the delay.
"How long am I gonna be gone, Doc?"
"Oh, I'd say ten days or a couple weeks."
It would be nicer if Penny could go with him, he thought as he took the prescription out to the pharmacy window, but a trip to Hawaii didn't sound half-bad.
Friday, March 1st, 0645 Local—Royal Hawaiian Hotel, Honolulu, Hawaii
Colonel Tom Lyons
The alarm rang with its shrill howl, and Tom groped, then slapped at the off button to silence it. Normally he slept in longer, but this morning was special. At ten o'clock he'd meet with General Roman. It was to be an interesting day. With luck it would be a good one for him and get things back on a proper track.
Roman hadn't called him to his office in a month—not since Tom had returned from his trip to tell what he'd learned about the "fucking cowboys' " stupid plan. Since Margaret had left, and with her the considerable leverage of Senator Lingenfelter, there'd been no reason for the general to meet with a lowly colonel. There'd been no more mention about his being a trusted staff officer, or of his chances for a star when Roman moved to Washington.
But Tom had devised a new plan designed to impress the general, and he'd also gotten onto his busy calendar—a feat which had taken sweet-talking the nymphomaniac bitch secretary who'd given him the dose of gonorrhea and said it had been he who'd given it to her.
Roman had once told him he needed an in with the new Secretary of Defense, whom he'd never met. And that was precisely what he would offer, for Tom Lyons's father had grudgingly agreed to arrange a private meeting between Roman and the incoming SecDef. His father was still angry that he'd fucked up his marriage to Margaret Lingenfelter so thoroughly, but he'd done one last favor for his youngest son.
Ever since Tom had been so indiscreet as to, as his father put it, "foul his own nest," he'd been on the old man's shit list. A man could fuck any number of common women—it was one of the privileges due the privileged—but it should never be indiscreet or come to his wife's attention.
Indiscretion, not fornication, was a mortal sin.
Senator Lingenfelter had been so incensed that the odious disease might have been passed to his daughter that he'd ended the long-standing and mutually beneficial relationship with the senior Lyons. Redemption from his father would be a long time coming unless he made things right.
Tom had sent a continuous flurry of contrite and groveling letters to Margaret. She hadn't responded for a long while, but finally she'd answered. Her note was short and fraught with anger, but at least she'd taken the time to write it. He continued with loving letters and barraged her with flowers, for he now knew that Margaret Lingenfelter was the key to his good life.
If it hadn't been for the damn form being forwarded to his home, he'd still have her. The situation begged for retribution against the incompetents at the Takhli medical clinic, but there was no way to chastise the flight surgeons unless Tom revealed that he'd contracted the disease—and that indiscretion was sure to harm the career of a full colonel on the inspector general's team. The situation was frustrating.
When he'd finished showering and shaving, Tom slipped on a satin dressing robe, padded back to the sitting room, took a seat at the small desk, and opened a folder made of soft Florentine leather—a present from Margaret. Inside he kept notes from his inspection trips, data about certain projects, as well as a few official messages and the list of his contacts at the various bases. It didn't concern him that the folder held classified information that was supposed to be secured in a safe. Such ridiculous rules were for others.
On the pad of gray paper, he outlined suggestions about how to approach establishment of a rapport with the new SecDef. He wanted to be well prepared for the meeting with Roman.
0850L—CINCPACAF Office, Hickam AB, Oahu
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
Pearly entered the outer office and presented himself to the brunette secretary, hefting a stack of vu-graphs and carrying a briefcase in his other hand.
"Oh, yes," she said, flashing a smile. "You have a nine o'clock with the general."
He sat across from her in one of the brown leather chairs there, and looked about.
"You just came in from the combat zone?" the secretary asked.
"I've been here for a couple of days, he replied. Surely she knew that the general had already postponed the briefing three times. Pearly had forwarded a message, labeling the subject as Contingency Operational War Plans, and General Moss had even called ahead to get him onto the schedule. Obviously General Roman hadn't been impressed. Either that or he was making Pearly cool his heels to teach the "fucking cowboys" another lesson.
Pearly had known Roman from his days in Strategic Air Command, and the delay surprised him. While he often lashed out at briefing officers, Bomber Joe Roman had seemed satisfied with Pearly's presentations. He thought it unlikely that he didn't remember him. Roman had a prodigious memory—he could even remember the first names of all of his subordinate's wives.
Pearly glanced up and saw that the secretary was observing him with cool eyes. Her voice was melodic. "Where are you staying, Colonel?"
He gave her a cautious smile. "The BOQ."
"Have you had time to visit the city?"
"S
ome." He'd walked Waikiki Beach, watched the surfers, and bought a couple of pukka shell necklaces and a few knickknacks for Lucy.
The secretary went on with her conversation, as if sincerely interested in his well-being. She asked where he went in the evenings for drinks, recommended a couple of hotel lounges, and told him he needed to take a drive to the windward side if he really wanted to see the island. She hinted that she'd be pleased to accompany him, and Pearly faltered awkwardly.
Lucy would take him apart if she got wind of his spending time with another woman. She might be tiny, but she was extremely perceptive, and had a fierce temper and a possessive attitude. Pearly was not a good liar when she pinned him with her soft, serious eyes. He told the secretary he had to get back to Saigon immediately following the briefing, although that wasn't true. He wouldn't depart until the day after tomorrow.
She looked at some sort of signal on her desk and told him the general was ready for him. Pearly rose, hitched his trousers and smoothed his shirt, then pushed his glasses into position and entered the lion's den.
Roman was staring at papers on his desk, fastidiously avoiding looking up as he motioned him forward with a brusque wave of his hand. Pearly looked about vainly for the vu-graph projector he'd requested in his message.
Roman grunted. "Just hand 'em here and get on with it. I don't need a fucking machine."
"Yes, sir."
"I'm giving you fifteen minutes."
Pearly had asked for half an hour. He blew out a ragged breath, then began to speak, opening by stating the name of the OPlan. "My subject is LINE BACKER JACKPOT."
"JACKPOT?" Roman's eyes came alive at the mention of the word, and Pearly knew they'd been right. The general knew of the plan. After ten minutes Roman stopped him for the first time. "Ten squadrons of B-52's?"
"Yes, sir. We feel that would be the minimum number necessary to do the job."
Roman's eyes narrowed. "Go on," he snapped. He had him go over the target list in depth, but neither indicated he agreed or disagreed as Pearly explained the rationale behind each. When he described projected loss rates, Roman didn't flinch. Pearly remembered that Major "Bomber Joe" Roman had flown twenty-five combat missions over Germany in B-17's, before the advent of P-51's when the Eighth Air Force was in its most vulnerable hour.
When Pearly mentioned the ways they planned to limit collateral damage, the general was especially attentive. He first explained the various aircraft to be used on the sensitive targets near built-up areas, and their relative accuracies. Then he mentioned the Pave Dagger tests and the phenomenal accuracy that had been displayed, and showed BDA photos of the Canales bridge, with its center knocked down by a single bomb.
The general asked for more information on Pave Dagger, and Pearly explained what he knew about the laser designator and the bomb kits with their seekers. Roman asked an odd question about blinding people, and Pearly reiterated what he knew, showed more bomb damage photos, and explained the superb accuracy the smart bombs had shown during the tests.
He finished in a little over half an hour, but then Roman had him start over from the beginning. When Pearly Gates finished the second time, Roman slowly stood and walked to the window overlooking the entrance to Pearl Harbor.
"Sir, I think—" he began.
"Be quiet for a moment, Gates."
"Yes, sir."
A full minute passed before the general spoke. "Why wasn't I briefed on this from the first?"
"I'm not really at liberty to say, General. I don't know."
Roman gave a terse grunt. "Give me your gut feel. Why was I kept in the dark?"
Pearly wondered if the explanation would enrage the general, who had been known to vent his fury on briefing officers in the past. He decided the stakes were too high to lie. "I'd say it was because General McManus knew you were going around him to the SecDef."
"Why the change of heart?"
"General Moss felt you should be included, sir. I think he was uneasy that you didn't know about it, and as your subordinate, he did."
Roman turned and cast a look of surprise. "Moss suggested that I be included?"
"Yes, sir. I saw the message he forwarded to the Chief of Staff."
Roman pursed his hips thoughtfully, then gave a brusque nod. "This your OPlan, Pearly?"
It was the first time the general indicated that he remembered him. "I wrote part of it, sir."
"Send me a copy."
"I've brought one for you, sir." Pearly removed the tome from his briefcase and placed it on the general's desk. "General McManus asks that you safeguard it."
Roman didn't respond.
"I can leave the vu-graphs and photos, too, if you wish."
"Do that."
He placed those on the desk beside the OPlan as Roman took his seat. "I've got a busy morning," he muttered, glancing at his watch in such a way that Pearly knew he was dismissed. As he prepared to leave, Pearly realized that the general had not once indicated whether the OPlan was to his liking. He wondered if he hadn't just made a grand mistake. If Roman decided to, he could likely have the entire project killed.
Colonel Tom Lyons was waiting in the outer office, being thoroughly ignored by the brunette secretary. He gave Pearly a glance, but he seemed preoccupied, and there was no recognition in the look. When Pearly stopped for a moment to straighten the papers remaining in his briefcase, the secretary took a brief call, then spoke to Lyons in an icy tone. "The general says he's too busy to see you just now."
Lyons looked as if he'd just choked on something. He asked for the new date.
"He didn't say."
"Surely you can look at his calendar and find out when he'll be available?"
"I'm not free to discuss the general's schedule with anyone outside the command section."
Lyons went closer, smiled and whispered something in a smooth voice.
She said she as already meeting someone for lunch. As Pearly left, the secretary eyed him, and her expression changed to a smile. "Give me a call if you need anything at all, Colonel Gates." Her voice was melodious and inviting.
1630L—Mahlon Sweet Airport, Eugene, Oregon
Major Benny Lewis
When the shuttle bus stopped in front of the airport terminal, Benny gingerly hefted his two gray issue bags and started toward the door. He'd stayed with his kids too long and would have to hurry to make the connecting flight to Portland.
"Hey!" The driver yelled at him.
Benny turned.
"You an Air Force pilot?" He'd noticed the stencils on the bags.
"Yeah."
"Keep 'em flying over in Nam. My brother's a dog-face with the Big Red One."
"Will do." Benny entered the small terminal and found the proper line.
He'd spent two days with his kids, three-year-old Laurie and Little Benny, who was five and a half. Not five. If you said he was five years old, he'd point out that he was in kindergarten and was five and a half. The kids were doing well, which was not the doing of his ex-wife, who spent her time with her boyfriend. The previous day they'd left for San Francisco for a vacation of some kind or other.
Bets had spoken to him only once, asking if he and his friends weren't tired of fighting an immoral war. Her boyfriend had slunk around in the background, looking sullen whenever Benny glanced his way.
Bets's wealthy parents doted on their grandchildren as much as they blamed Benny Lewis for screwing up the marriage. If he'd gotten a proper job and settled down, instead of dragging Bets around to godforsaken places around the world and chasing off to war, Bets would have been happy and stayed put. His former father-in-law thought military people were those who couldn't get honest work and chose to live on handouts from taxpayers. He'd told Benny all of that. Enduring the criticism was the price Benny paid for seeing the kids.
Today he'd spent the day with Little Benny and Laurie—had driven them out past Springfield and up the beautiful McKenzie River for a picnic in a forest glen park. When he'd taken them home, gran
dpa had quizzed both children to see if they'd been abused, or if he'd implanted improper thoughts in their minds. Little Benny had gushed how they'd seen a chipmunk and tried to capture it in a box. Grandpa told him chipmunks were a kind of rat, and to stay away from them lest he get some filthy disease. Laurie told how she'd gotten to ride in front, which she didn't normally get to do. Grandma told her the backseat was much safer.
Divorce is shitty, Benny thought as he edged forward in the line at the airline counter. His back seemed to be doing well, even though he'd lifted the kids often during the last two days. Although they'd known that he'd broken his back, no one, not even his ex-wife, had even once asked about it.
He was on his way to Washington, D.C., where he'd visit with the Requirements Office as General Moss had told him to do. There he'd talk about the future of the smart bomb project.
His mind switched, as it often did, to Julie Stewart and their last night before his departure. How he'd looked forward to such an evening with her for months, and then, when it finally happened, how he'd screwed up the entire thing. One night of love . . .
That's bullshit, his inner voice said. You've loved her since the first night you saw her, and just haven't known how to go about getting her.
She and the baby would be in New Jersey now, living with her mother in much better surroundings than the simple apartment he'd found for her in Las Vegas. He knew he should have written. He'd also told her he'd phone when he got back to the States. But he didn't have her mother's address in New Jersey, and if he did, he didn't know if he'd have the guts to place the call.
He'd come to peace with the specter of her dead husband. Bear Stewart had given his approval. His last words on the radio had asked him to take care of his wife and unborn child.
God how he loved her! And he'd lost her because of a single, lousy night followed by doubts and foolish righteousness. Benny would give anything for a chance to start that evening over, but he was unsure how to make that happen. He wasn't a polished lover. When women were attracted, which happened often enough, he'd redden and turn away, or hastily move his mind to something else. Like Bear Stewart had once told him, he might be a great fighter pilot, but he was also an old-fashioned square who could hardly cope with the fact that his wife had left him, and didn't even wish to get revenge.