by Tom Wilson
"Anyway," the Bear asked, "how do you get to Manila?"
"It'll take about an hour if you take a Rabbit."
"What the hell's a Rabbit?"
"That's the Filipino answer to Greyhound. The drivers are paid by the mile and by the numbers of passengers they haul. They stuff 'em in like sardines and drive as fast as the diesel engine will let them."
"Jesus."
"You still ought to go. Manila's a nice city. Hell of a lot better than hanging around this place." Benny remembered Manila as an illusion with glittering lights, fine restaurants, and modern hotels. A metropolitan oasis where the wealthy sucked the juices from the countryside.
The Bear got a wily look on his face, like he was trying to set a hook in a fish with a tender mouth. Whenever the Bear tried to be cagy, Benny thought he just became more transparent.
"You like Manila, I take it?"
"Yeah."
The crafty look again. "You want to come with me?"
"I'll tag along if you want the company." Benny had anticipated the question. It would be nice to get some quiet time in away from the base, perhaps even do some sightseeing—and forget about what had happened. He wanted to be ready to fly and fight when they returned to Takhli.
The Bear grinned, as if he'd hooked his fish. "Let's go tonight. They're having the get-together at the Manila Hilton. Parker said there'll be people from the airlines and some embassy employees."
"I thought you were visiting your dusky harem tonight."
"Time for new and greener fields. It's a quarter to six now so if the ride takes an hour, we ought to be there by eight."
"We'd have to get off base and find the right bus." Benny paused. "Look, my buddy stationed here at Thirteenth Air Force said he had an extra car he'd loan me."
The Bear sneered at the food in his tray. "Then let's get your friend's car and get the hell out of here. I saw Marty the nurse a little bit ago and she's starting to roll her eyes around and sweat a lot."
05/2055L—Cam Khe, North Vietnam
Glenn Phillips
Phillips lay on the wooden deck that served as a bunk, curled into the same fetal position he had assumed when he had been cast into the room several nights before. Two nights? Five nights? He'd lost count. A leg-iron was clamped to his left ankle, the chain secured to the wall. It was unnecessary. He could have gone nowhere had he been unfettered and the door left wide open.
Periodically, a guard would come to the door and peer through an eye-level slot, mutter something in nasal Vietnamese tones, and after a few minutes grunt and move on. During each visit Phillips attempted, with great difficulty, to focus his sight and hearing on the guard's presence. He felt an exhilarating sense of achievement each time he was able to do so, for it proved that he was at least partially in control of his mind and senses.
Sensations from his mangled leg were severe, yet they were nothing compared to the way it had been at first, before he'd started dying. It was when the pain had begun to diminish that he realized his body was finally beginning the difficult process of giving up life. He was relieved that the awful pain was about to end. But then another instinct had glimmered in the recesses of his troubled mind, and he found himself struggling to live. That was when he'd started the focusing-of-senses game.
Phillips could remember only fragments of the days that had passed since ejecting from the Thud. He could recall the rescue attempt so rudely interrupted by the flight of MiG-17's, being surrounded by villagers, and sudden, searing pain. He had glimpses of taunting villagers, of being stuffed into the impossibly small cage to endure obscene cruelties, of vague remembrance of twilight consciousness as he bounced and excreted and shrieked in the back of the truck, still caged as they traveled along an endless and primitive cart path.
Much later he noticed the arrival of a new man, a guard he dubbed Fishface because his face resembled that of a carp. He remembered being extracted from the cage by Fishface and finding the energy to scream as a sad-looking Vietnamese medic pulled and tugged at his foot in an effort to reposition the protruding bone into a semblance of normalcy.
The following day, after trucking all night and stopping for the day in yet another tiny village, a teenaged boy had crawled up on the end of the truck bed and wielded a length of bamboo. He concentrated his energies upon the injured leg and elicited squeals of delight from the gathered mob as Glenn weakly howled, rolling about the truck bed in agony. The guards had looked on with little interest before Fishface had finally stopped the fun by wrestling the bamboo stick away and comically threatening to thrash the boy with it.
On his last night on the road he had been able to take food: bitter tea, rice, and scraps of dried, chopped fish. They had watched closely and chattered among themselves as he had wandered back into delirium. They had trussed him carelessly then, as if no longer concerned about an escape attempt, placed him in the truck bed with Fishface, and set out once again. Before dawn they had reached the holding camp.
Glenn Phillips heard the guard rattling the door, the muttered words. He peered hard at the door, and thought he could see the guard's face. Was it real, or was it his delirium? He concentrated harder, heard a sound, and saw an accompanying light. That was no delirium! He had seen and heard it! He tried to enunciate a croak of victory, but could not. He was able to groan though, and the sound startled the guard who had heard only silence on earlier rounds. The guard peered closer, and Phillips stared into glittering eyes. Fishface spoke in a rush of Vietnamese, then paused for an answer Glenn was unable to provide. He slipped back into darkness.
05/2100L—Manila, Republic of the Philippines
Liz Richardson
Liz Richardson sometimes related things to her brief and ignominious acting career. She'd started it as the female lead in the semiannual school plays in her last two years at York High School, and both family and friends had agreed she was surely the prettiest girl to ever graduate at Yorktown. She'd ended it in Richmond, where she'd been attending the University of Virginia, when a lean, pipe-puffing, tweed-jacketed, thin-mustached assistant director at the little theater had advised her that she did not possess a glimmer of aptitude for the stage.
The assistant director had impressed her with his devotion to Shakespearean wit and seduced her with a bottle of inexpensive wine before he'd told her. She'd then fled his apartment in such a dramatic flurry of outrage, sorrow, and postvirginal tears that he'd almost changed his mind about her acting potential.
In her third year, she'd dropped out of college to answer a recruiting campaign for airline stewardesses. Such behavior was called headstrong at family gatherings and DAR chapter meetings, but her parents had supported her choice.
Now, more than 9,000 miles from Yorktown, Liz tipsily regarded the group of airline pilots, embassy workers, stewardesses, and hangers-on milling about the party suite. Any good director would complain. Project, he would tell them. Settle down, empathize and project yourselves subtly into your parts. You're overacting.
TWA and Pan American captains stood with practiced poise, discussing all subjects with unchallenged authority, existing on a stratum above the rabble of the world, which included everyone who was not an airline captain. They would be the brilliant doctors, ship captains, firm fathers, and never accept less than leading roles.
Small groups of stewardesses flirted with the captains, laughed at their puns, and hung onto their words, making it obvious they were available. No doubt as to their roles: the other women, whores with hearts of gold, well-scrubbed girls next door, vamps and tramps. The leading ladies were back home keeping house and looking after the captains' kids.
The trusty sidekicks were there. Cocksure first officers who mimicked the captains and talked endlessly about their lesser careers and achievements. About interesting things like how they enjoyed the accuracies of inertial navigational systems over the older Doppler systems. About the flight routes and how close they were to upgrading to captain.
Bureaucratic embassy staffer
s gathered into their own groups. Pipe-smoking, stiff and correct, speaking of the absolute corruption of Asians and offering instant remedies for ancient challenges. They moved in their own hierarchy, driven to ascend their diplomatic career ladders to success. If you called one a pompous ass, he'd tell you the official government position on pomposity and asses.
American and Filipino businessmen pushed through the mob with their stunning Filipina fashion models. The businessmen tried to gain favors from embassy staffers and investments from the airline captains. The Filipinas were given as prizes to whoever showed interest. The businessmen were the slimy bad guys, essential to any stage production.
Liz tired of her game.
She would never again take up with a male member of the human race. If, however, she chose to break the vow, she was resolved never to do so with anyone at all like the insufferable airline captains or the sidekicks standing conspicuously near them. Three months earlier her ex-fiance had been upgraded to captain.
On Friday afternoon, before driving to SFO for the flight over, she'd opened the window of his fifth-floor condominium and hurled his damned two-carat engagement ring into the parking lot. As she'd driven away, she'd felt perverse satisfaction watching him scramble about on hands and knees among the Porsches and Mercedes, looking for the ring.
Now it was Monday. Still angry and feeling sorry for herself, she strengthened her resolve. She picked a red wine from a tray borne by a white-jacketed Filipino. Normally she drank white wine, but Liz was determined to change a lot of things she normally did.
Two more men entered the suite. She looked them over more boldly than she would have the week before. One was tall, rugged-looking, obviously outgoing. The other was stocky, powerfully built and stoic. They stood together near the bar.
A Pan Am first officer named Jack, who obviously thought of her ex-fiance as a role model, approached her and tried a syrupy line. He was concerned about her, knew she'd been hurt by the breakup with Jeff, wondered if he could be of help. He knew of a quiet little bar a few blocks away that played American jazz. He was also a good listener.
"Cheat on your wife with someone else, Jack," she said, glaring, tossing back her wine in a single gulp.
Jack drew back, then wandered off toward a gathering of Pan Am stews. Silly twit, she thought.
Now the two newcomers were talking with a TWA first officer she'd met. The taller of the two looked a bit on the arrogant side, but he had a whimsical air about him, like he was trying to pull off a joke. Watch out for that one. The other, with the quieter manner, had no-nonsense eyes he pinned on whomever he was speaking to. Too confident to be first officers. Too young to be captains. Not stuffed-shirt enough to be embassy people.
She decided to guess their occupations, a pastime she shared with other stewardesses on the long Pacific runs. She studied them. Very erect, with short, neat haircuts. Military, perhaps Navy. There were two Navy bases nearby, Subic Bay and Cubi Point. She finished the glass of wine, her third of the night, satisfied she had them pegged.
The gregarious one glanced her way, gazing evenly, like he could read her mind. She had the eerie feeling that he could. He gave her a flicker of a smile and turned back to his friends.
Perhaps she should sink to the depths and take up with a military officer. They certainly looked to be in excellent physical condition.
Ridiculous. She sympathized with the growing antiwar movement, joining the ranks of those who wondered why America was fighting in an inconsequential country half a world away. If women ran things it would be different. There wouldn't be any wars. Men are all asses, she decided. Polygamous, pompous, silly asses.
Jeff was all for the war, yet was pleased with his exempt status. She felt he was only pro-war because more captains were needed to cover the added number of Pacific runs, a fact which had allowed him to be upgraded early. He was no better than a military war-lover.
She located a group of sister stewardesses and was starting toward them when the taller man broke away from his group and approached. God, she thought, wondering what she'd let herself in for.
"Hello there," he said with a grin. "You looked deep in thought over here by yourself. Why not come over and be thoughtful with us."
"I'm fine," she said, feeling the wine.
"Yes, I'm very sure you are," he said. His eyes swept boldly over her and his mischievous smile grew. "Why not join us anyway."
"You're military, aren't you?" she blurted.
"I'll be anything you wish."
She thought that was a dumb line, but he did have a magnetism about him. "Navy?"
"I get seasick when I get within fifty feet of a boat."
"Oh," she said in a disappointed tone.
He looked at her empty glass. "Where's the wine?"
"Over there."
"I'm ready for one. What can I get for you?"
She hesitated, then decided to ditch him after he got the drink. "A red wine, please." As he left to fetch wine she looked back at the other one, with the broad shoulders and nice eyes. Her mother would say he had the look of good breeding.
Benny Lewis
Benny was attempting to carry on a discussion with Parker Lindsey, but had not gotten beyond the fabulous salary, the five-bedroom riverside home in St. Louis, a deal concerning two large rental properties, and the damn operations desk that had cheated him out of a thousand dollars the previous month because of a scheduling foul-up. Lindsey was now launching into a discussion of the merits of various aircraft assignments and routes that could reap the most money.
The Bear returned and interrupted, presenting a pretty redhead.
"Liz, this is Parker Lindsey, a first officer with TWA, and Captain Benny Lewis, my squadron mate."
Benny half turned. Almost as tall as Benny in her half-heels, she was surely the most striking woman in the room. The Bear's done it again, he thought wryly.
"Gentlemen, meet Liz Richardson. She has consented to put us out of our misery by adding a bit of sunshine to this otherwise mundane and hairy-legged group."
Benny grew nervous; she was staring directly at him. She was exquisite, with delicate features and flawless skin. Her hair shimmered with hues of copper and dark rust, and cascaded halfway down her back. Green eyes, moist and slightly out of focus as if she'd had a few too many wines, regarded him gravely.
"How do you do," he said, feeling awkward under the gaze. She reminded him of someone he knew and couldn't place.
Parker Lindsey interrupted his thoughts. "We've met before, Liz. You're engaged to a Pan Am captain, right? What's his name? Jeff something-or-other?"
"Mud," the redhead replied in a caustic tone.
"Yeah, that's it," mumbled Lindsey uneasily, as if Mudd didn't quite seem correct.
"I'm no longer engaged," Liz said. "I'm forever and ecstatically free." Her eyes returned to Benny.
Liz Richardson
She knew the tall one was trying to chat her up, so in defense she concentrated on the quiet one with the attractive eyes.
"How about you, Captain?" she asked. "Are you married?" She was taken aback by her own forwardness.
He hesitated. "Yes," he finally answered.
"Bullshit," said Mal Stewart.
Liz cocked her head, puzzled.
"I'm still married," he said, looking evenly at Stewart.
Stewart released an exasperated breath. "Whatever you say, Benny."
Liz decided his marriage was in the process of breaking up, and that somehow made her sad.
"So you're not Navy," she said to fill the quiet.
"Air Force," Benny replied.
"God, not a pilot."
"Guilty. I fly fighters."
Unlike the other one, he was not trying to hustle her, and somehow that seemed discouraging. She gave a tiny shake of her head, deciding not to like either of them.
He seemed uneasy under her stare, so she looked away to the taller one. Their eyes met. Was he mocking her? She felt the animal attraction, ting
led and grew moist between her legs at the thought of being with him.
Silly. She was a woman on the rebound from the man she'd intended to marry. Likely if he had been a two-headed dwarf, she'd be equally attracted. Knowledge is strength, she told herself. She'd been well and repeatedly versed that uninhibited sex was a prime evil. After that one wild evening in Richmond with the assistant director, she'd kept herself in full restraint, never again losing control.
It was the wine. She must never again drink red wine. She avoided the tall one and looked again at the safer one introduced as Benny, listening to his pleasant voice.
The obnoxious first officer continued trying to impress Benny Lewis, and the fighter pilot refused to acknowledge her presence. Damn you, pay some attention to me. Half the guys in this room have tried to hustle me and you just act like that bore is making sense and I'm not even here.
The captain in charge of her San Francisco–based crew caught her eye, beckoning at her to join him at a nearby group.
It was time to get away and regain her senses. She lingered for another moment, deciding to make the fighter pilot jealous. Males disliked being deserted for another man for any reason. She tried to catch Benny Lewis's eye. "I'm being summoned," she said. He didn't seem to notice.
It was Mal Stewart who said he would wait, lightly brushing her shoulder with his hand. The electric feeling returned. "Thank God," she muttered as she walked away, but she was still tingling.
The Pan Am captain conspiratorially leaned forward as she approached. "They're putting us on the Tokyo run the day after tomorrow, Liz. That okay with you?"
"Sure." She was in no rush to return to San Francisco.
"You did a superb job on the flight over." He used the father image, patted his crew on their heads like good little people. "I'll buy dinner tomorrow night."
She was busy, she said, glancing back at the group she'd left. Mal Stewart was looking, but she avoided his eyes. Too much animal aura and promise of something she couldn't afford to respond to. The other one elicited an entirely different response.