“Oh, Libby,” he gasped, before proceeding to vomit up his lunch, along with a half a gallon of ocean.
Overhead, Mike Phipps, who had been orbiting the crash scene and keeping an eye on his friends and their struggles in the water, was about to head for home before he ran out of fuel. He circled lower, tipped his wings in salute and streaked out of sight. Libby watched the F-16 until it disappeared in a bank of clouds and then turned her attention back to Charlie and attempted to inflate his raft.
“Hold still, Charlie,” she panted, as she fumbled underwater for the pouch. She tugged and nothing happened.
“Damn it.” Her fingers were numb. Libby grasped the pouch and jerked it as hard as she could. Nothing. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”
“What’s wrong, Libby?” Charlie mumbled.
Tears welled up in her eyes, of frustration and fear. One raft would never accommodate two strapping pilots, that was for sure, and it was imperative to get Charlie into the dingy before he started suffering from hypothermia.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she stammered. Her teeth were chattering so hard, her jaw was beginning to ache. “We just have to g-g-get you out of the water before you turn completely bl-blue.”
“What about you?”
“Don’t worry about m-m-me. I’ll manage. It won’t be l-l-long before they pick us up. You know how ef-efficient the J-J-Japanese are,” she added.
Charlie, unaware of their new predicament, closed his eyes.
“Do you still love, what’s his name? Yoshi … , Yoshi … , the pilot? From the Samurai Squadron?” His words were slurred. It sounded, to Libby’s untrained ear, like he was about to pass out. “Do you, Libby?”
“No.”
Libby’s dingy was still attached at the end of the lanyard; she could see it bobbing up and down on top of the swells like a child’s bright yellow inner tube. She reeled it in and endeavored to hold it steady while Charlie scrambled aboard. Every time he got an arm over the side and tried to hoist himself up he slipped.
Libby was no weakling but trying to shove 230 pounds of solid muscle into a raft the size of a bathtub was exhausting and she had to keep stopping to rest between attempts.
“You’ll have to help me, Charlie,” she scolded. But she wasn’t sure he heard. He kept passing in and out of consciousness. Once he opened his eyes, looked directly at her and asked her if she loved him.
“Yes, Charlie, I love you. I’ll love you even more if you’ll just put your leg up over the side. I can get you in, if you can do that much. Please, Charlie,” she begged.
Getting the rest of him into the raft was relatively easy once he contrived to get his leg on board. Libby got underneath his torso and shoved with all her strength until he toppled head first into the dingy. He must have landed on his shoulder, as he let out an agonizing scream when he landed, but there was nothing she could do about that, she had done the best she could. He was safely out of the water.
All that remained was for her to do was cover him with the hood, cling to the handle on the raft. And wait.
“Charlie?” She tried to talk to him. Even if he wasn’t making much sense it was comforting to have a conscious companion alongside her, but when he didn’t respond, she gave up. She was physically and emotionally depleted, too tired to even wonder how Charlie fared, bobbing up and down in the raft, or feel regret at the loss of the airplane, or gratitude at having survived. The extraordinary energy that had sustained her throughout the last hour was gone. Libby’s body felt weak and insensible to everything but the punishing cold as she was dragged through the water, in the wake of the raft. She tried to kick her legs to keep the blood circulating but they felt like they had turned to stone. Her hands were frozen around the handle, a throbbing pain seared the muscles in her arms. Salt water plastered her hair to her scalp and abraded her skin.
“Damn it! Why don’t they come?” She shouted into the wind. It would be dark soon. Charlie might survive a night in the raft but there wasn’t a chance in a million that she would last more than a few hours submerged up to her neck in the ocean. “Please, God, please let them come,” Libby prayed.
The Japanese Navy Rescue Helicopter from Hachinohe arrived shortly after dusk. Above the roar of the wind, Libby could hear the propeller blades beating a loud tattoo as the helicopter strutted 300 feet in the air, in the direction of the crash site. Blinding search lights swept back and forth across the water as the pilot homed his craft in on the signal from the life raft.
Libby, galvanized into action by the sight of the chopper, pried a hand loose from the handle of the raft and began waving frantically. “Charlie! Charlie!” She shouted. “They’ve spotted us!”
Charlie groaned as a cone of light focused down on the dingy. The prop wash roiled the water, rocking the raft. Libby, buffeted by the downdraft, squinted up at the helicopter hovering overhead, through the bright haze. She could see the rotor spinning like a whirligig, the tail light winking on and off and then the figure of a man, short and slight of build, being lowered into the water a few yards away. He swam to the side of the raft, greeted Libby in Japanese, and then signaled the winch operator to lower the harness.
He had a difficult time trying to get a man the size of Charlie into the harness, but eventually, with Libby’s help, they managed to hook the chest strap securely under Charlie’s arms and he was hoisted up in the sling and into the helicopter.
By the time it was Libby’s turn to be plucked out of the water, she could barely move her limbs she was so immobilized by the piercing cold. The diver had to lift her arms, one at a time, slide the strap into place and hook it across her chest. Then he severed the lanyard still connecting her to the raft, shoved her into the sling, and the winch operator started reeling her in and up, toward the trio of tanned faces staring worriedly from the open door of the chopper. The cable, caught in the turbulent backwash from the prop osculated wildly from side to side and began whirling Libby around and around in a dizzying spin. She squeezed her eyes shut willing herself not to cry out in terror. When she opened them, she was dangling in mid-air outside the door. Then an arm reached out, grabbed her by the collar and yanked her into the helicopter.
Approximately four hours after taking off from Misawa Air Base in the F-16, Libby and Charlie returned together in the helicopter. On hand to meet them on the flight line was a reception committee of base VIPs, and hospital personnel waiting to transfer them into an ambulance.
A dazed and injured Captain McKay was hustled immediately into the ambulance, followed by an exhausted Libby. The Wing Commander shook her hand and Colonel Long gave her a warm, heartfelt embrace. “Welcome home, Captain Comerford.”
Major Yoshida was in his office on base when he heard the news that an F-16 had gone down. No details were available at the time, so despite his initial alarm, he continued with his work, after advising one of the clerks to keep him informed of any new developments. He had a difficult time concentrating. It was unlikely that Libby was in the airplane, he assured himself. But just to assuage his anxiety, he suggested to General Sato that he call and try to find out more details. The general told him that he had already been in touch with Colonel Long to offer assistance, but had not been given the identity of the pilots. Names were generally not released until their status and condition could be ascertained and the family informed — especially in the case of a fatality.
By the time Major Yoshida called the squadron, Colonel Long had received word from Major Phipps that both pilots had punched out and were in the water and, after some initial problems, appeared to be okay. So he saw no reason to withhold the information.
“We had two pilots in the airplane. They got out and are, as we speak, being picked up by your people in Hachinohe. Captain Charles McKay was piloting the aircraft and Captain Libby Comerford was in the backseat.”
“Libby?” Major Yoshida exclaimed in
disbelief. There had to be some mistake. Perhaps he had misunderstood the Colonel’s southern drawl.
“Captain Libby Comerford,” Colonel Long repeated. “I’m sure General Sato remembers her. Captain Comerford and I flew with your squadron last summer.”
“I remember,” Kojiro said. And, after a long silence: “Thank you.”
“It was Libby, ah, Captain Comerford,” he told the general after he hung up. “And Charlie McKay.”
General Sato looked a little bewildered by his aide’s reaction. Since when was the major on a first name basis with the American pilots, he wondered. Major Yoshida was always so formal and reserved. He never disclosed his feelings, never gave any hint as to what might be going on in his mind. But news of the accident had visibly upset him. Perhaps it was just wedding nerves, the general mused.
“Ah, the beautiful American captain. Is she okay? What about the other fellow?”
“They got out of the airplane. Air Rescue is picking them up. Perhaps I should … We should,” he corrected himself, “go and see if, if they’re all right.”
The general glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off. Order some flowers sent to the hospital from the Samurai Squadron and then go home to bed. You look like you’re coming down with the flu. You can’t have that, with your wedding just a week away!”
Kojiro did not go home to bed. After ordering flowers, a modest sized bouquet for Charlie and an extravagant arrangement for Libby, he drove to the Air Force hospital and hung around the waiting room in the ER, hoping for a glimpse of her when she arrived in the ambulance. He advised the sergeant on duty at the desk, in his most officious manner, that he was there on behalf of General Sato. But he was unsuccessful in both his request for information and his attempt to see her.
After a while, he wandered to the main lobby in hopes of overhearing someone discussing the accident, but everyone was going about his business as if it were just another routine day. He inquired as to Libby’s room number, but was informed in no uncertain terms that Captain Comerford could not have any visitors. Perhaps he could speak to one of the doctors? “I have to know if Captain Comerford is all right. General Sato is very concerned about her.”
Finally, because they got tired of being pestered by Kojiro, they summoned one of the flight surgeons who was overseeing her care. “Tell General Sato that the captain is resting comfortably. We gave her something to help her sleep — she was pretty cold and exhausted when we brought her in. She spent a lot of time in the water helping Captain McKay. He has some injuries — nothing too serious. They were both very lucky.”
“Hai.” Kojiro bowed. “Please give Captain Comerford the, the general’s regards. And Captain McKay,” he added, as an afterthought.
“I’ll do that, Major.”
Libby was alive and well — resting comfortably was what the doctor had said. Exhausted and cold, that was all, after having ejected out of a burning airplane and parachuting into the Pacific Ocean. Resting comfortably — no broken bones, or burns, or hypothermia … . He should go home now and try and put her out of his mind. The sooner he stopped thinking about her, the better.
After all, Libby was a fighter pilot; she knew the hazards involved in flying a high-performance airplane. Every time she climbed into the cockpit she was risking her life, gambling that it wouldn’t happen to her. Next week, or the week after, she would get back into an F-16 and gamble that it wouldn’t happen again.
But if something had happened to her … . The thought was so appalling Kojiro felt physically ill. What would he have done? How could he have carried on? He was getting married next week. How could he have possibly gone through with the ceremony, sat through the long, tedious reception, spent a honeymoon in Australia, knowing Libby was lost?
But Libby wasn’t his to lose, Kojiro thought in despair, as much as he loved her. He had lost her for good the day in Osorezan when he told her he was getting married. As far as his future was concerned, Libby might as well be dead. He would never see her again — or if he did, it would be by chance — never talk to her, or hear her laughter, or make love to her … . His body ached for her. Awake, he was tormented with memories of Libby, in the hotel in Sapporo, at the hot springs in the mountains. Asleep, haunted by vivid images of them on the brink of making love. Hurry, hurry, hurry, she whispered to him in his dreams.
How could he endure a lifetime married to someone else? And yet Kojiro could see no way out of his dilemma. Too many people would be hurt and angry if he failed to go through with the marriage. Motoko would be humiliated. He thought of how she had looked sitting on the edge of the bed in the hotel room. She wasn’t as naïve or as innocent as she let on, but she would undoubtedly be a faithful and devoted wife. Kojiro didn’t stop to consider what kind of a husband he would be when he was in love with another woman. It was better not to think about those things, better just to do what everyone expected.
Kojiro was just leaving the hospital when the florist arrived with the flowers he had ordered earlier in the afternoon. When the driver appeared to be having a problem carrying the two bouquets, he offered to give him a hand. Kojiro was instructed to leave the flowers at the front desk, but once he was back inside the building, he kept walking, through the lobby, past the reception desk to the stairs leading to the wards. A few people remarked on the size of the bouquet he was carrying, but no one stopped him or bothered to inquire why he was roaming around the halls, peering anxiously into every room he passed.
A Japanese maintenance man eventually came to Kojiro’s rescue and directed him through a set of double doors to the suites reserved for VIPs. Charlie was in the first room he came to. Through the partially opened door, he could see two doctors conferring by the bedside. They were talking about the accident and how Charlie wouldn’t have made it if it hadn’t been for Captain Comerford. “She had the presence of mind and the physical strength to pull it off,” one of the doctor’s remarked. “Quite frankly, I wouldn’t have thought as a woman she had it in her.”
“Don’t let the CO hear you make a remark like that.”
The second door was closed. Kojiro hesitated. There was no point in trying to see Libby again. If she were awake, she would be furious at him for intruding on her privacy. If she were asleep he would feel like a voyeur. What had possessed him to sneak around the American hospital trying to find her room? He should have left the flowers at the front desk and walked out of the hospital. It was finished. Over. Ended. Next week at this time he would be in Sydney with Motoko.
He turned the knob and opened the door, just wide enough so he could peer inside without being seen. The room was dark except for a night light that glowed on a panel above the bed. Libby was asleep — resting comfortably — in hospital parlance. It didn’t look like the Libby he knew, stretched out under the flannel blankets. She liked to sleep curled up on her side, with her hands tucked under her cheek. Her complexion was waxen, her hair as pale and lusterless as the starched pillowcase, her lips, white and bloodless.
Kojiro pushed the door open a little wider and went in. It was a pleasant room, more tastefully decorated than the ones on the other end of the corridor. He set the bouquet in a prominent place on the bedside table. The fragrance from the flowers reminded him of the perfume Libby wore. He closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet, heady scent.
When he opened them, Libby’s eyes were open and she was smiling up at him. “Kojiro,” she said. For a moment, he thought she was actually awake, had recognized him, and was pleased he had come. Caught off-guard, his heart started pounding in excitement, but before he could think of something to explain his presence, she had drifted back to sleep.
“Oh, Libby … ” His hand was shaking as he reached out to stroke her cheek. It was so smooth and soft. He traced his finger across her brow, through her hair, winding the short silky strands around his finger. Then he adjusted the bla
nkets, drawing them up under her chin, tucking them gently around her shoulders before turning abruptly and hurrying out of the room.
One of the nurses happened to spot him just as he was leaving. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing? Captain Comerford’s room is off-limits,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.
Kojiro shook his head as if he had no idea what she was talking about. Playing ignorant was easier than trying to explain why he had been in Libby’s hospital room.
“Well?” He pointed to the bouquet. The flowers seemed to appease her and she stepped aside to let him pass. “Next time, leave them at the front desk,” she said crossly.
When Libby awoke the next morning, the first thing she saw was the enormous bouquet of flowers. She was sure they hadn’t been in the room the night before — the size of the arrangement would have been hard to overlook — but on the other hand, the events of the previous evening were a bit of a blur.
She remembered the accident clearly enough — every agonizing moment from the loud bang that had precipitated the crash, ejecting out of the aircraft, the terrifying descent into the water, her heroic efforts to find Charlie and free him from the tangled parachute, the deafening roar of the helicopter hovering overhead, but once she got to the hospital things became a little vague. The flight surgeons insisted on keeping her overnight for evaluation and prescribed a sedative so she would be well rested for the intensive interviews that would get underway after breakfast by members of the accident board.
As much as Libby deplored taking medication, she was glad she had, for it had prevented her from dwelling on the accident, and induced a calm, restful sleep. She had done everything by the book, and come through the ordeal successfully. When it was happening, she had been too busy to be afraid, there were so many emergency procedures to attend to. But once she had the leisure to relive the experience, she was gripped by an unreasonable fear. What if she had been trapped in the burning airplane? What if Charlie’s parachute had drifted out of reach? Or she hadn’t had the strength to swim to him, or get him into the raft? She kept hearing the clangorous retort from the engine, felt the doomed airplane struggling like a wounded animal.
Heart to Heart Page 87
