by Joe Weber
"Leavenworth," Brad replied automatically. His mind flashed back to what Harry Hutton had said when they chased Major Dao toward Phuc Yen. Was this an omen of things to come? If found out, would he spend time in the federal prison at Leavenworth, Kansas?
"Brad?" Leigh Ann asked, canting her head. "Are you all right?"
"What?" Brad brought his thoughts back to the present. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" Leigh Ann asked with genuine concern in her voice. "You turned pale for a moment."
"Yes, I'm fine," Brad responded, hearing the clanging of another cable car. "We'll continue on to Fisherman's Wharf, or walk for a while, if you like."
Leigh Ann laughed. "Actually, I'm anxious to see Fisherman's Wharf."
Brad and Leigh Ann stopped for a late lunch at a charming restaurant overlooking the bay. Leigh Ann moved her captain's chair closer to Brad. She slid her slender arm under his and clasped his fingers. "Isn't the bay beautiful?"
He looked into her eyes and smiled. "It sure is . . . and so are you."
"Brad," she responded, squeezing his hand, "you're making me blush."
"I'm sorry, but it's true. You are beautiful."
Leigh Ann lowered her head and withdrew her hand, obviously embarrassed. "Could we change the subject? Those people at the next table overheard you . . . and now they are staring."
"Okay," he grinned, "if you insist, but I would rather talk about you."
"I insist," Leigh Ann said in a low but firm voice. Brad chuckled, "I'll abide by your wishes."
They sipped their wine and Leigh Ann became quite serious. "Brad Austin, what are you about?"
The unexpected question startled Brad, but he attempted to keep the conversation light. "What am I about? I'm not sure I understand the question."
"Who are you? What do you believe in? What do you think about the war?" She paused, then spoke quietly. "My Dad thinks the war is unjustified and immoral. We had quite a talk before I left."
Leigh Ann noticed that Brad showed no emotion. She wondered if he had even heard her. Leigh Ann decided not to make an issue of what her father had said just yet. Actually, he had been very outspoken about what he thought of Brad and his activity, and had made his daughter feel uncomfortable about meeting the pilot.
"What do you see in your future?" Leigh Ann asked, leaning forward to attract Brad's attention. "Who is Brad Austin?"
Grinning a bit uncertainly, Brad swallowed a sip of wine and placed his glass on the table. "Wow, it sounds as if you would like an account of my life history from birth to now, with a prediction for the future."
"Seriously," Leigh Ann said, tilting her head in her innocently provocative way. "I sense that Brad Austin doesn't let anyone get too far under the surface."
"Well," Brad furrowed his brow and shifted slightly in his chair, "generally speaking, the more shallow the wound, the less one bleeds."
"Does that mean you are not interested in a relationship that may require a commitment on your part?"
Suddenly uncomfortable, Brad turned slightly to face Leigh Ann. "I suppose it's my nature to be cautious."
Her eyes widened as she smiled. "Flying jet fighters off an aircraft carrier is your idea of cautious?"
Brad suppressed a grin. "I have confidence in what I do on board the carrier, or in aerial combat. If I had a single doubt about my capabilities, then I couldn't do what I do."
He hesitated, unsure if he should fully communicate his feelings. "Leigh Ann, in the air--in a combat engagement--I want the enemy pilot to commit first, so I can see what I have to do to kill . . . to defeat him."
"It really is a hostile environment, isn't it?"
Brad frowned again. "Sure it is. The guys slugging through the jungles and fighting from foxholes are under stress too. They live with it twenty-four hours a day. I, at least, have a hot meal and a clean bed to sleep in."
They both remained quiet a moment, contemplating their feelings about the war.
"Leigh Ann, whether a person is flying fighters or fighting from a foxhole is immaterial in my mind. We have been sent to Vietnam to fight a war. There's only one hitch, however; our government won't let us win."
She looked Brad in the eye. "My Dad says that he believes in saving lives instead of killing people."
Brad shrugged, then swirled his wine slowly. "I agree with your father's philosophy, but there are many factions, backed by huge armies, who do not subscribe to our standards of civilization."
"Do you think," she paused while a waiter passed, "that we should be in Vietnam?"
"Leigh Ann, the concept of protecting our allies from being invaded is rightful, in my opinion. Wouldn't you defend a family member, or friend?"
"Yes, but there is so little support for the war here at home. You've seen the protesters and demonstrations. That's all we see, or read about."
Brad shook his head slowly. "That's because this mess goes on month after month without any definable results. People are frustrated, Leigh Ann. They see the mounting American casualties--the hundreds of body bags on television every night-but they don't see any end to the war. We have the military capability to end the Communist aggression swiftly and decisively, and most people know that."
"Then why don't we?"
"Because," Brad answered, trying to speak calmly, "the Johnson administration doesn't have the courage to do what needs to be done. They've muddled the original goal into an illogical, vacillating war of slow escalation, hamstrung by countless restrictions."
Leigh Ann looked frightened. "Your face is flushed." "Please don't be offended, but I would like to forget the war while we're here."
"Me, too," she smiled, unsettled by Brad's anger. "May we talk about your future? What your plans are?"
Brad chuckled softly. "My future is anyone's guess. I put in a request to fly for the Blue Angels--the navy flight demonstration team. But, since I'm an academy grad who joined the marines, they 'llprobably shitcan--sorry--deep six my request. Who knows?"
"Yes," Leigh Ann laughed in a teasing way, "I can tell that you're definitely a cautious guy."
"My RIO--you met Harry in Hawaii--would certainly disagree with you." Brad thought about their flight to Phuc Yen. He swallowed his anxiety, glancing out the window at a catamaran. "How about a ferryboat ride around the bay, then we'll watch the sunset from the Fairmont Crown?"
"That sounds like fun," Leigh Ann exclaimed. "Will we have time to change for dinner?"
"Sure. Wear your favorite dress, and I'll wear a coat and tie, if I can remember how to tie a tie."
Leigh Ann beamed. "Brad, this is very special for me." She hesitated, wishing she had the nerve to tell him that she was falling helplessly in love with him. "I hope you know that."
Brad looked embarrassed, as if he had read her thoughts. "You are very special to me."
"I mean it, Brad. You have restored my confidence in men, and in myself . . . and I apologize if I grilled you."
"Forget it," Brad chuckled, not wishing to pursue the subject further. "By the way, tomorrow is your day."
"Excuse me?"
"Tomorrow," he smiled and placed his hand over hers, "I thought it would be nice to have you plan our day."
Leigh Ann started to speak, then stopped when Brad shrugged his shoulders in a questioning gesture. "What would you like to see?" he asked, picking up their check. "Where would you like to go?"
Leigh Ann looked a bit bewildered.
"Something wrong?"
"No," she laughed. "I'll give it some thought, and we'll discuss it over dinner."
Chapter 31.
YOKOSUKA, JAPAN
Commander Dan Bailey sat at the wardroom table, listening to three of his junior officers arguing about the lack of national objectives in the Vietnam War. Bailey was concerned about their collective sense of skepticism and their callous, cynical attitude toward the politicians in Washington.
The acting executive officer, Lt. Cdr. Jack Carella, walked briskly into the dining room. Spotting the CO
, Carella walked over to his table.
"Sir," the XO said stiffly, "may I have a word with you?" "Sure. Pull up a chair," Bailey replied, curious about the reason for Carella's serious look.
"Skipper, I need to speak with you in private." In unison, the three junior officers started to slide their chairs back.
"No," Bailey said, placing his napkin on the table. "Finish your meal, gentlemen. The XO and I will move to another table."
"Yessir," the three officers replied in chorus.
Bailey and Carella stepped a few feet away to a vacant table, then asked a steward for fresh cups of coffee. "What's up, Jocko?"
"Sir," Carella began, spreading a message on the tablecloth, "we just received this from Seventh Fleet."
Bailey read that the North Vietnamese had complained to the international press that an American navy F-4 Phantom had destroyed two MiGs at Phuc Yen, an airfield that had been declared a prohibited military target.
The message went on to say that the North Vietnamese government had lodged a formal complaint, which had been picked up by national newspapers and three major television networks. Excerpts from the New York Times and the Chicago Tribune had been included in the message.
Most startling to Bailey was the paragraph stating that the North Vietnamese were releasing a photograph of the intruding aircraft. The picture, taken by a foreign correspondent, indicated that the intruding aircraft was from their carrier.
Bailey grimaced. "What the hell are they trying to do?"
Carella talked in a low voice. "I don't know, but I can confirm this. The Pentagon is calling the accusations falsehoods and propaganda . . . and so is the White House."
Bailey studied Carella for a moment. "Then what's the flap about? What's bothering you?"
"Sir, I talked to a friend of mine at Pearl--he's on CINCPAC's staff."
Bailey arched his eyebrows, impatient for Carella to make his point. "And?"
"He said less than fifteen minutes ago that the aircraft is rumored to be from our squadron."
"What?" Bailey said loudly enough to attract the attention of nearby officers.
"That's what he told me, sir."
Bailey shook his head. "That's bullshit, Jocko. There's some new accusation every week."
"Sir, I'm not so sure about this . . . complaint."
"What do you mean?" Bailey asked, his mind quickly jumping to the possible ramifications if the story were true.
"The incident, as reported by the foreign correspondent, happened the morning we launched our last strike, just before we sailed for Yokosuka."
Picking up his coffee, Bailey paused. "Jocko, we don't need to borrow trouble."
"I'm just telling you what I heard, sir."
Bailey took a swig of the hot liquid, then placed the cup in his saucer. "I appreciate that, Jack. Let's just see what develops."
"Yes, sir," Carella replied, glancing around. "My friend said that the word is that Major Nguyen Thanh Dao was killed during the incident."
Dan Bailey entered the nearly empty ready room and spoke to Mario Russo, the squadron duty officer. "Where is Commander Carella?"
Russo detected an unusual intensity in the CO's voice. "He's in his stateroom, sir, doing paperwork."
"Have him report to the ready room."
"Yes, sir," Russo replied as he lifted the phone receiver.
Two first-tour pilots glanced at the CO, then quietly resumed their dice game. They instinctively knew that something was wrong.
Bailey walked to the coffee maker, then decided that he had had enough caffeine for the day. His nerves were already frayed by the conversation that he and the air-group commander had just concluded.
Sitting down in one of the high-backed briefing chairs, Bailey replayed the last strike mission in his mind. After less than a minute, he got up and walked back to Mario Russo's desk.
"Have mission planning bring me all the intel and debriefs for the last strike we flew, when we lost Bull and Russ."
Russo looked puzzled. "The classified info, too?"
"Everything." Bailey looked exasperated. "I need it as soon as they can get it here."
"Yes, sir."
Jocko Carella hurried through the door, then slowed as the CO approached him. "Jack, let's step out in the passageway." Carella sensed trouble. "What's up, Skipper?"
The two stepped through the hatch, and dogged it tight. "I just came from CAG's stateroom," Bailey said in a tight voice. "We've got big trouble, according to him."
"The Phuc Yen deal?"
Bailey waited while two sailors excused themselves and walked past the two officers. He looked both ways down the long passageway, making sure that no one was approaching them.
"CAG and the admiral have been summoned to Pearl, to see CINCPAC."
"Oh, shit," Carella replied, letting his breath out slowly. "What does he think?"
"The only thing . . ." Bailey paused, seeing the mission-planning yeoman approaching the ready room.
"I'll take that," the CO said, extending his arm.
"Yessir," the petty officer replied, handing Bailey the package of classified strike information. The youngster quickly retraced his steps down the narrow corridor.
"CAG said the admiral is really pissed. Apparently, as you mentioned, they have a photograph of an F-4 flying over Phuc Yen."
"Uh, oh," Carella said, looking at the package of documents. "One of ours--our squadron?"
"He doesn't know," Bailey said disgustedly, "but the photo interpreters--the experts--are saying that the picture appears to be real. They said that the photo does not look contrived, according to what the admiral told CAG."
Carella let out a low whistle. "Any ideas, Skipper, who it might have been?"
Bailey considered the question carefully, rejecting a hasty judgment. From early childhood to fighter-squadron commander, he had been schooled to approach decisions with a pragmatic eye. "Let's take this info to my stateroom and replay every event during the strike. Maybe we can reconstruct what happened . . . see if anything out of the ordinary did take place."
FAIRMONT HOTEL
"My steak was absolutely delicious," Leigh Ann stated, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. "What an unusual charcoal flavor. I've never tasted it before."
Brad finished the last bite of his twice-baked potato, and reached for his wine glass. "They use Hawaiian kiawe wood for all their grilled entrees."
Leigh Ann smiled. "It really makes a difference."
Leigh Ann looked spectacular in a pastel blue dress with a trimly tailored, waist-length jacket accentuated by a short strand of lustrous pearls. Her earrings matched her elegant necklace perfectly.
He noticed the candlelight flickering in her sparkling eyes. Brad was obviously entranced by this woman sitting across from him. He felt a sudden, irresistible impulse to be alone with her.
"Would you care for dessert?"
She hesitated a moment, neatly folding her napkin. "No thank you, but please don't let me stop you."
Brad motioned for their waiter. "Actually, what I'd like to have is an after-dinner drink with you."
"That," Leigh Ann grinned while Brad thanked the waiter and signed the bill, "sounds like an excellent idea."
He reached for her hand. "Let's go to my room and have our drinks delivered."
Leigh Ann grew cautious. "Brad, I have to ask you a question, and I trust that you will be honest."
He released her hand and smiled. "Are you implying that I haven't been honest?"
"Brad, I'm serious."
"I can see that. What's the question?"
Leigh Ann folded her hands together, anticipating the worst. "Did you invite me here for the sole purpose of taking me to bed?"
Brad tried to hide his shock with characteristic humor. "Well, that wasn't the sole reason."
He immediately saw that his answer had not been well received. Tears glistened in Leigh Ann's eyes as she struggled to maintain her composure. "Leigh Ann, I'm sorry. I was only kidding."
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The silence gnawed at Brad's conscience. "Look, I apologize, but allow me to express what I think, and how I feel."
She remained quiet, staring at her napkin.
"You and your father obviously had quite a conversation before you left. Did he convince you that that was my primary goal--to get his daughter in bed?"
Leigh Ann looked up. "We had a terrible argument," her mouth quivered, "and he forbade me to . . . to meet you here."
Brad glanced at the nearby couples. "Do you mind," he asked, feeling a rising anger, "if we go into the bar and find a quiet corner?"
Leigh Ann nodded yes and rose before Brad could reach her chair.
Brad sipped his scotch and soda, oblivious to the simulated tropical rainstorm pelting the lagoon in the bar.
"Leigh Ann, I can't do anything about your broken engagement, and your father has apparently categorized me as a . . . as being unsuitable for his daughter."
She inhaled deeply and let her breath out slowly. "My Dad is concerned about me. He loves me, and he doesn't want to see me get hurt again."
Exasperated, Brad ordered another scotch. "What do you think, Leigh Ann? At some point in your life, you're going to have to make your own decisions. Your father isn't going--"
"I made a decision, and defied my father to see you. I also reminded him that he was the one who introduced me to the medical student who cheated on me during our engagement."
"Okay," he replied in a low voice. "What exactly does your father have against me?"
Leigh Ann sipped her drink before answering. "In his mind, you're the image of the wild, unstable, carousing playboy. A girl in every port, and so on. He just doesn't want me to become involved, then get hurt again."
Brad sat back in awe. "With respect to your father, we can't all be sedate and reserved doctors who go to the country club on Saturday night and play golf every Wednesday."
Her temper flared. "I will not listen to you run down my father."
"Time out," Brad said evenly. "I'm not running down your father. What I said is a fact. We can't all be just like your father. Some of us have to stand in harm's way, in order to protect his freedoms and life-style."
