Rules of Engagement

Chapter 31

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."

"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."

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."

"Brad," she said with conviction, "he wants me to be happy, that's all."

Composing his thoughts, Brad glanced at the sultry lagoon, then back to Leigh Ann. "What's the real reason for his animosity toward me? Is my social level not good enough, being the rowdy, drunken military gypsy that I am?"

"Please, Brad, don't be defensive. That doesn't become you." He finished the last of his drink. "What's the reason he doesn't want us to be together?"

"Brad, you're in the military, and you hold quite different views from my father."

"You're right," he replied, signaling for another scotch. "That's my job. I curse, drink, and shoot people for a living."

"That's not my Dad's primary concern. He just cares about my welfare."

Brad exhaled sharply. "What's his primary concern? That I'm an abominable heathen — a warmonger?"

"No," Leigh Ann answered in a quiet voice. "He doesn't want me to fall in love with someone who has a high risk of being killed."

"And," Brad replied icily, "making you a widow before you're twenty-five. Right?"

"That's correct."

"On that point, your father is right. But life is full of risks, and rewards."

"Brad, I am not sure either that I am ready for that risk. Dad is right, and I don't think you have any idea how I feel. You just want what you want." Leigh Ann's lip trembled. "I'm going to my room."

He accepted his fresh drink. "I'll walk you."

"That won't be necessary, thank you."

Brad rose when she reached for her evening bag. "Leigh Ann, contrary to what your father thinks, life is not tied in a neat little package. Sometimes, we have to roll the dice."

"I'll take that under consideration," she said, then turned and walked away. Leigh Ann felt confused and angry. Brad's temper and passion scared her.