All the time he was screaming for me to eject because he could see the fire. But we were at about six thousand feet at that point and I wanted a little distance from the gomers and I wanted the plane slowed down so I wouldn't get tore up going out. There was so much noise I never heard anything on the radio." Jake remembered his own ejection, at night, over Laos.
Just thinking about it brought back the sweats. He didn't say anything.
Pcomcom "When I got on the ground," Flap continued, "I got out my little radio and started talking. Now I'd checked the battery in that jewel before we took off, but I could barely hear the FAC. I found a place to settle in where I could keep an eye on the chute. Then the rescue turned to shit.
The gomers were squirting flak everywhere and it was late in the afternoon and darkness was coming. What I didn't know until way afterward was that the guy flying the rescue chopper got a case of cold feet and decided his engine wasn't right or something.
Anyway, he never came. It got dark and started raining and I decided I was on my own." "So how'd you feel?" "Well, I felt real bad about Goose. He was a good guy, y'know? Tough getting it like that." "I mean how did you feel?" "Like I had never left Marine recon. At least my jungle rot wasn't itching. That was something. I skinned out of all that survival gear and kept only what I needed and decided to set up an ambush. What I really wanted was a rifle.
All I had was the forty-five. And my knife." "Didn't you think they might catch you?" "No way, man. I knew they wouldn't.
Couldn't. Not unless they shot me or something. I was on the ground for two weeks and had people walk by within six feet of me and they never saw me." "So what did you do?" "Do? Well, I found a guy who had a rifle and took it, and his food. Ball of rice, with a lot of sand mixed in. You sort of have to develop a taste for it." "Uh-huh." "Checked in on the emergency freq about once a day, when the gomers weren't close. Didn't want to overwork the batteries in that radio. But they never heard me. A patrol found me on the fourteenth day. It was a good thing, because my jungle rot was starting to itch by then. You can never really cure that shit, you know." "So how many gomers did you kill?" "A dozen that I know about." "Know about?" "Yeah. I kept busy building booby traps and such. With a little luck the traps got a few more of "em. In a way, it sort of made up for losing Goose. Not really, I guess. But it helped." "Uh-huh." "A fucked-up war, that's what it was. A hell of a mess." "Yeah," Jake said, and checked the fuel and the clock on the instrument panel. "I think we're going to have to turn around." "Okay," Flap Le Beau said. "Boy, it sure is pretty out here today." "There's a decision point for every career officer," Lieutenant Colonel Haldane said, "one day when you wake up and decide that you want to make a contribution. And for pilots, that doesn't mean driving an airplane through the sky every day." He and Jake were sitting in the ready room.
Jake had the duty and sat at the duty desk and Haldane was in his chair just behind it. There was only one other officer in the room, doing paperwork near the mailboxes. Haldane's voice was low so that only Jake could bear it.
"True, some officers merely decide to stay until retirement, and I suppose that's okay.
We need those people too.
But the people we want are those who dedicate themselves to making the service better, to being leaders, people who try to grow personally and professionally every day. Those folks are few and far between but we need them desperately." Jake merely nodded. Haldane had read the latest classified messages and handed the board back to Jake just before he began this monologue.
Apparently Jake's letter of resignation was on his mind, although he hadn't mentioned it.
Haldane went on, almost thinking out loud: "In every war America fought before Vietnam, the people who led the military to victory were never the people in charge when the shooting started. U. S. Grant and William T. Sherman weren9t even in the army when the Civil War started. Phil Sheridan was a captain. Eisenhower and George Patton were colonels at the start of World War II, Halsey and Nimitz were captains. Curious, don't you think?" Before Jake could reply, he continued, "In peacetime the top jobs go to politicians, men who can stroke the civilians and oil the wheels of the bureaucracy. During a war the system works the way it is supposed to-men who can lead other men in combat are pulled to the top and given command. In Vietnam this natural selection process was stymied by the politicians. It was a political war all the way and the last thing they wanted was to relinquish the controls to war fighters. So we lost. And you know something funny? We could afford to lose because we didn't have anything important at stake in the first place.
"Someday America is going to get into a fight it has to win. I don't know when it will come or who the fight will be with. That war may come next year, or twenty years from now, or fifty. Or a hundred.
But it will come. It always has in the past and evolution doesn't seem to be improving the human species anywhere near fast enough.
"The question is, who will be in the military when that war comes? Will the officer corps be full of glorified clerks, efficiency experts and computer operators putting in their time to earn a comfortable retirement? Or will there be some military leaders in that mix, men who can lead other men to victory, men like Grant, Patton, Halsey?" Haldane rose from his chair and adjusted his trousers.
"Interesting question, isn't it, Mr. Grafton?" "Yessir." "The quality of the people in uniform-such a little thing.
And that may make all the difference." Haldane turned and walked out. The officer doing paperwork had already left. Jake pulled out the top drawer of the desk and propped his feet up on it.
That Haldane--a romantic. Blood, thunder, destiny... If he thought that kind of talk cut any ice anymore he was deluding himself. Not in this post-Vietnam era. Not with the draft dodgers who didn't want to go and not with the veterans who weren't so quick.
Jake Grafton snorted. He had had his fill of this holy military crap! His turn expired when this boat got back to the States in February. Then somebody else could do it.
And if the United States goes down the slop chute someday because no one wants to fight for it, so be it. No doubt the Americans alive then will get precisely what they deserve, ounce for ounce and measure for measure.
What was that quote about the mills of the gods? They grind slowly?
SINGAPORE LIES AT THE SOUTHERN END OF THE MMAY peninsula, a degree and a half north of the equator. This city is the maritime crossroads of the earth. Ships from Europe by way of Suez and the Red Sea, India, Pakistan, Africa and the Middle East transit the Strait of Malacca and call here before entering the South China Sea. Ships from America, Japan, China, Taiwan, Korea and the Soviet Far East call here on their way west. The city-state is close enough to the Sunda Strait that it makes a natural port call for ships from the Orient bound for South Africa or South America via the Cape of Good Hope.
Although it is one of the world's great seaports, Singapore doesn't have a harbor. The open roadstead is always crammed with ships riding their anchors, except on those rare occasions when a typhoon threatens. There are few piers large enough for an oceangoing vessel, so the majority of the cargo being off- or on-loaded in Singapore travels to and from the ships in lighters. The squadrons of these busy little boats weaving their way through the anchored ships from the four corners of the earth and all the places in between make Singapore unique.
As befits a great seaport, the city is a racial melting pot.
The human stew is composed mostly of Malay, Chinese, That, Hindu, Moslem, and Filipino, with some Japanese added for seasoning, but there are whites there too. British, primarily, because Singapore was one of those outposts of empire upon which the sun never set, but also people from most of the countries of Europe, Australia, New Zealand, and, inevitably, America.
Visitors who have always considered their place, their nation, as the zenith of civilization here receive a shock.
Vibrant, cosmopolitan Singapore is a major vortex, one of those rare places where the major strains of the huma
n experience come crashing together and swirl madly around until something new is created.
To the delight of visiting American sailors, the British still had a military base there, Changing, and shared it with those stout lads from Down Under, the Australians, who naturally came supplied with Down Under lassies. Australian women were the glory of Singapore. These tall, lithe creatures with tanned, muscular legs and striking white teeth that were forever being displayed in dazzling smiles somehow completed the picture, made it whole. You ran into them at Raffles, the old hotel downtown with ceiling fans and rattan chairs and doddery old gentlemen in white suits sipping gin. You ran into them in the lobbies and restaurants of the new western hotels and in the bazaars and emporiums. You saw them strolling the boulevards and haggling with small Chinese women in baggy trousers for sapphires and opals. You saw them everywhere, young, tan, enjoying life, the center of attention wherever they were. It helped that their colorful tropical frocks contrasted so vividly with the drab trousers and white shirts that seemed to be the Singaporean national costume. They were like songbirds surrounded by sparrows.
"If Oantas didn't bring them here, the United Nations should supply them as a gesture of good will to all human kind." Flap Le Beau stated this conclusion positively to Jake Grafton and the Real McCoy as they stood outside Raffles Hotel surveying the human parade on the sidewalk.
"I think I'm in love," the Real McCoy told his companions. "I want one of those for my very own." The three of them had ridden the liberty boat two miles across the anchorage an hour ago. They had walked for an hour, taking it all in and had developed a terrible thirst. Just now they were contemplating going into Raffles to see if their need could be quenched somewhat.
"After forty-five days at sea, everything female looks mighty good to me," Flap Le Beau said, then smiled broadly at an elderly British lady coming out of the hotel. She nodded graciously in reply and seated herself in a waiting taxi.
"Well, gentlemen," Jake Grafton said, and turned to face the white antique structure, "shall we?" "Let's." The temperature inside was at least ten degrees cooler.
The dark interior and the ceiling fans apparently had a lot to do with that, but the very Britishness of the place undoubtedly helped. The heat and humidity could stay outside-it wouldn't dare intrude.
The American aviators went to the bar and ordered-of all things-Singapore slings. The waiter, a Chinese, didn't bat an eye. He nodded and moved on. He had long ago come to terms with the curious taste in liquor that seemed to afflict most Americans.
"You sort of expect to see Humphrey Bogart or Sidney Greenstreet sitting around under a potted palm," the Real commented as he tflted his chair back and crossed his legs.
Jake Grafton sipped his drink in silence.
Forty-five days at sea riding the catapults, night rendezvouses above the clouds, instrument approaches to the ball, mid-rats sliders, ready room high jinks, lying in his bunk while the ship moved ever so gently in the sea as he listened to the creaks and groans... then to be baptized with a total immersion in this. Cultural shock didn't begin to describe it. The sights and sounds and smells of Singapore were sensory overload for a young man from a floating monastery.
He sat now trying to take it all in, to adjust his frame of reference. He had been here once before, on one of his cruises to Vietnam.
He tried to recall some details of that visit, but the memories were vague, blurred scenes just beyond the limits of complete recall. He had sat here in this room with Morgan McPherson... at which table? He couldn't remember. Morgan's face, laughing, he could see that, but the room... Who else had been there?
Oh, Morg! If you could only be here again.
To sit here and share a few moments of life. We wouldn't waste it like we did then. If only.
So many of those guys were dead. And he had forgotten.
That the moments he had spent with them were fuzzy and blurred seemed a betrayal of what they had been, what they had given. Life goes on, but still.
All that any man can leave behind are the memories that his friends carry. He isn't really gone until they are. But if the living quickly forget, it is as if the dead man never was. 11... we oughta go buy some souvenirs," the Real was saying. "The folks at home would really like..." Jake polished off the last of his drink and stood.
He threw some Singapore dollars on the table, money he had acquired this morning from the money changers aboard ship. "See you guys later." "Where are you going?" He was going back to the ship, but he didn't want to say that. "Oh, I dunno. Gonna just walk. See you later." Outside on the street he stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned toward the wharves. He walked along staring at the sidewalk in front of him, oblivious of the traffic and the sights and the human stream that parted to let him past, then immediately closed in behind him.
The next day Jake stood an eight-hour duty officer watch in the ready room. About two in the afternoon the Real McCoy came breezing in.
"Today's your lucky day, Grafton. You are blessed to have Flap and me for friends. Truly blessed." con'I know," Jake told him dryly.
"We met some Brits. What a bunch they are" How we ever kicked them out of the good ol' U.s. of A. is a mystery I'll never understand." "A military miracle." "These are good guys." "I'm sure." "They've invited us to a party at Changing this evening. A party! And they swore that some Aussie women would be there! Quantas stews. Can you beat that?" Without pausing to let Jake wrestle with that question, he steamed on.
"When do you get off?" "Uh, two hours from now." The Real consulted his watch. "I'll wait.
Flap is taking the next boat in, but I'll wait for you. I've got directions.
We'll grab a cab and toode on over to party hearty. Maybe, just maybe, we'll get a glorious opportunity to lower the white count.
Oooh boy!" McCoy strode up the aisle between the huge, soft chairs, past the silent 16-mm movie projector, and blasted through the door into the passageway.
Jake sat back in his chair and opened the letter from his parents yet again. It had been two weeks since the last mail delivery, via a cargo plane out of Cubi Point, and this was the current crop, delivered this morning--one letter from his mother. She signed it "Mom and Dad," but she wrote every word. Nothing from Callie McKenzie.
Maybe that was for the best. It had been a bell of a romance, but now it was over. She was from one world, he was from a completely different one.
Presumably she was doing her own thing there in Chicago, going to class and dating some long-haired hippie intellectual who liked French novels.
What was it about French novels?
But he desperately wished she had written.
Even a Dear John letter would be preferable to this vast silence, he told himself, wanting to believe it but not quite sure that he did.
Oh well. Like most of the things in his life, this relationship was out of his control. Have a nice life, Callie McKenzie. Have a nice life.
Darkness comes quickly in the tropics. Twilight is an almost instantaneous transition from daylight to darkness.
Jake, Flap and the Real had just arrived at Changing by ta7d and found the outdoor pavilion when the transition occurred. Whoom, and the lanterns in the pavilion were flickering bravely against the mighty darkness.
The Brit and Aussie soldiers had indeed not forgotten their invitation of the afternoon, They led the three Americans around and introduced them, but Flap was the only surefire hit with the ladies.
Soon he had all five of the women gathered around him.
"The Aussies aren't used to black men wearing pants," the Real whispered to Jake. "Those stews will get over the novelty in a while and we'll get a chance to cut a couple out.ea@.
Jake wasn't so sure. The soldiers seemed to be eyeing the crowd around Flap with a faint trace of dismay. Nothing obvious, of course, but Jake thought he could see it.
"Hey, mate. How about a beer?" The Australian who asked held out a couple of cold bottles of Fosters.
"Thanks. Re
al hard duty you guys got here." "Beats the outback. Beats that scummy little war you Yanks gave in the Nam, too. Saigon was a bit of all right but the rest of it wasn't so cheery.
This is mighty sweet after that busman's holiday, I can tell you." "It was the only war we had," the Real explained, then poured beer down his throat. Jake Grafton did the same.
Two beers later Jake Grafton was sitting at a table in the corner listening to Vietnam War stories from a couple of the Aussies when one of the stews came over to join them.
"Mind if I join you chaps?" "Not at all, not at all. Brighten up the party.
How long are you in for this time, Nell?" "Off to Brisbane and Sydney tomorrow. Then back here via Tokyo the following day." Nell winked at Jake. "Girl has to keep herself busy now, doesn't she?" Grafton nodded and grinned. Nell returned it. She was a little above medium height, with fair hair and a dynamite tan. Several gold bracelets encircled each of her wrists and made tiny tinkly noises when she moved her arms.
Stephen Coonts - Jake Grafton 6 - Intruders Page 25
