Rules of Engagement

Chapter 38

The Japanese bartender opened another beer and sat it in front of Harry. Absorbed in his thoughts, Harry ignored the man and casually dabbled with his eggs and corned-beef hash. They had made it. The threat of facing a court-martial had evaporated. For the next two days they were free from the military and the associated confinements. Free to get falling-down drunk and enjoy a good laugh.

Harry glanced at Brad when he returned from the row of pay telephones. "Did you get in touch with her?"

Brad signaled for a beer. "Yes. Her mother answered the phone and gave me Leigh Ann's new phone number."

Harry looked curious. "Her new number?"

"Yes," Brad sighed. "It seems that Leigh Ann and her father had a falling out, and she moved into an apartment."

"Harmony on the home front," Harry grinned. "What's her mother's temperature?"

Brad gave Harry a callous look, then reached for his beer.

"Her mother is very nice, and we get along great." Harry swiveled toward Brad. "Back to Leigh Ann." "She wasn't home, so I'll try later."

Harry smiled, shoving his plate away. "Do you think the romance is still budding?"

Tilting his bottle up, Brad paused. "I don't know. I wish I could talk to her."

"Well," Harry said, "don't force the issue. If it happens, it happens."

Brad smiled, then slowly turned to Harry. "You have the unmitigated gall to advise me on my love life when yours resembles a train wreck?"

"Just trying to help."

Leaning on the bar, Brad turned serious. "I also called Bull's wife, Cordelia."

"Really? How is she?"

"Under the circumstances," Brad replied, lowering his head, "she's doing okay. Cordy is staying with her mother for a while." He cringed inwardly, seeing the faces of Bull and Russ in his mind, and imagining what they were going through. "She's pregnant."

"You're kidding."

"No. Bull told me about…" Brad's voice trailed off as he felt his emotions boil to the surface. "Cordy is a strong woman. She'll make it."

Sensing Brad's moral anguish and regret, Harry finished his beer in two gulps. "Come on, my front-seat chauffeur, and let's get our shit in one bag. We've got a bus to catch."

Leigh Ann turned off the interstate highway and drove north toward a bend in the Tennessee River. She had called Senator Arlin Kerwin's residence near Nashville, only to be informed that he was at his lodge on the river.

The senator's housekeeper had relayed Leigh Ann's request, explaining that the lady was the daughter of Dr. Simon Ladasau.

After a suspenseful wait, the phone had rung in Leigh Ann's apartment. She had been ebullient when the senator had invited her to his lodge to discuss the urgent problem.

Slowing to enter the senator's compound, Leigh Ann realized that it had been twelve years since she had last been to the lodge. As her car passed the gate leading to the manicured grounds, it kicked up dried leaves, spinning them slowly back to the earth. Leigh Ann stopped near the double front doors, composed herself, then got out and walked toward the porch. When she was halfway up the steps, Sen. Arlin Kerwin opened one of the massive doors.

"Good to see you, young lady," he greeted in his booming voice. Short and gruff, the statesman was the consummate politician.

"Hello, Senator," Leigh Ann replied tentatively. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I need your assistance."

"Happy to give it," he laughed as Leigh Ann walked into the spacious living room. "It's been what — ten to twelve years since I've seen you? Why, you weren't any taller than this," he said, holding the palm of his hand four feet above the floor. "How are your folks?"

"They're fine," she answered, feeling uneasy. Kerwin's wife had recently passed away. "Dad's slowly retiring, and Mom's as busy as ever."

"Good. Have a seat, honey, and I'll get us some lemonade." He turned to go to the kitchen. "You still like lemonade?"

"Yes, I sure do," Leigh Ann answered, surprised that Kerwin had remembered her fondness for his special concoction. She sat on the overstuffed couch and looked around.

Leigh Ann examined the stone fireplace and thick animal skins arrayed on the highly polished wood floor. A moment later, Kerwin brought their drinks into the room.

"Now, tell me," Kerwin said as he sat in his favorite recliner, "what's bothering you?"

Suddenly unsure of herself, Leigh Ann began slowly, then told Kerwin the entire story. How she had met Brad, and what had happened at Phuc Yen. That he was a conscientious and courageous person who was facing a court-martial for standing up for his country.

Close to tears, Leigh Ann stopped. She felt an overwhelming guilt about turning her back to Brad when he had most needed her.

"Just a minute, honey," Kerwin interrupted, rising from his chair. "Let me get a pad and pen." He gave her an assuring smile. "At my age, I have to write everything down, or I'll forget some of the details."

Leigh Ann placed her lemonade on the coffee table and dabbed her eyes. She was beginning to wonder if she was doing the right thing. What if she caused Brad more trouble?

"Okay," Kerwin said, sitting down, "let's get all the facts, then I'll make some inquiries."

After Leigh Ann had given him the pertinent information,the senator had pledged to look into the matter. He had assured her that he would do everything in his power to right any injustice.

What Kerwin had not disclosed were his own political motives for disagreeing with the restrictions being put on the men fighting the war. He had had an ongoing argument with members of the White House in regard to how the war was being handled.

When Austin and Hutton left the squadron ready room, their assignment was to stop at the dirty-shirt wardroom and get four large bags of ice.

Arriving at the navy bus, they dumped the ice into a canvas seabag containing five cases of beer. A poker game was already underway in the back of the cluttered vehicle. The mood was festive, reminding Brad of fraternity parties he had attended on civilian campuses.

After Dan Bailey and Jack Carella stepped aboard, the youthful Japanese driver adroitly turned the bus around and headed for the main roadway to Kamakura. Every time the driver let up on the gas pedal, the engine backfired, startling pedestrians along the side of the narrow road.

Brad and Harry sat together, joining in the boisterous party. They relaxed and left the air war behind them, concentrating on not spilling their beer when the bus rocked from side to side.

Halfway to Kamakura, Jon O'Meara nudged Hutton from the seat behind Brad and Harry. "You guys want to have a little excitement?"

"No," Harry replied, shaking his head, "you're not going to drive the bus."

O'Meara gripped Harry's shoulder. "Let's climb on the roof," he glanced at Brad, "and get some sun."

Wide-eyed, Harry belly-laughed. "Are you crazy? What if we fall off?"

Brad chuckled, looking forward to see what Dan Bailey and Jocko Carella were doing.

"We're not going to fall off. Just sit on the window, grab the luggage railing, and pull yourself up." O'Meara turned to his RIO. "Right, Mario?"

"Piece of cake."

Brad edged around in his seat. "We've had about all the excitement we need for a while. We're walking on ice so thin, if we sneeze, we'll fall straight through."

"Yeah," Harry said, "the skipper' ll have a heart attack if he finds out you're on top of the bus."

"Okay," O'Meara smiled, checking to see if Bailey was engaged in conversation, "then at least keep us supplied with beer."

"We'll take care of it," Brad replied, reaching for their beers. "Don't bust your asses."

"We've got it under control."

Amid raucous laughter, O'Meara and Russo hoisted themselves on top of the vehicle, then reached down for their beers. Propped against the luggage retainers, Jon and Mario watched the scenery and waved at passing motorists.

Life was good again, the sun was warm, and the beer was cold. They had two days to recapture their youth, be totally irresponsible, and live life to the hilt. Harry and Brad kept Mario and Jon supplied with fresh beers, collecting the empty bottles for the trash container.

Approaching Kamakura, O'Meara and Russo heard their frolicking squadron mates break out in song. The morbid chorus was sung to the tune of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." Mario and Jon sipped their beers and listened.

He rolled out on final and was just a little low. He ignored the wave-off of the frantic LSO.

When he finally added power, he was just a little slow. And he'll never fly home again.

Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die.

Son of a gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die. Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die.

And he'll never fly home again.

He should have added power when he pulled back on the stick. He should have flown it like a bird instead of like a brick. Now all that's left of him is just a little oil slick.

And he'll never fly home again.

Brad and Harry joined in the loud singing, which went on for several verses. As the beer flowed, the noise level increased.

Harry punched Brad in the side. "This is certainly an uplifting little tune."

Brad turned and smiled. "Hey, in this business, you don't buy any green bananas."

Harry looked disgusted. "What a cheerful thought."

The bus rolled to a smooth stop as the last chorus was ending. Jon O'Meara looked at the small, pristine hotel, then turned to Mario.

"We'll just toss the skipper a salute."

A second later, the door squeaked open and Dan Baily stepped out. He walked a few feet, then turned to speak to Jack Carella. The first word was barely out of his mouth when he froze in place. "Christ almighty…," he said, looking up at what had caught his eye.

Carella glanced at the roof of the bus. "Jesus."

Standing at attention, Jon and Mario clutched their beer bottles in their left hands, then snapped a salute to Bailey and Carella.

Shaking his head, Bailey ignored the salute and turned to his executive officer. "I need a tall drink."

Dressed in their party suits, the pilots and RIOs were finishing the last of the sushi and tempura. The custom-tailored navy blue flight suits were adorned with embroidered gold wings and the owner's name and rank. An American flag patch was sewn on the top of the left sleeve of each party suit. On the right sleeve, just below the shoulder, a round patch proclaimed that the flier was a member of the Tonkin Gulf Yacht Club.

The noisy conversation around the dining table came to an abrupt halt when Bailey stood and tapped his glass. "Gentlemen," he said with a straight face, "please rise for a toast."

He waited until everyone filled their sake cups, then raised his cup. "To the United States Navy," he paused, glancing at Brad, "and, God help them, the United States Marine Corps."

The men laughed, darting a look at Austin.

Drinking half of his sake, Brad raised his cup. "To Bull and Russ — to their freedom."

"To Bull and Russ," the group chimed in, downing their warm sake. Following Bailey's lead, the men sat down and continued with their conversations.

Brad had been relieved that no one, including O'Meara and Russo, had asked about the Phuc Yen incident. The CO had obviously instilled the fear of God in the squadron.

This outing, Brad thought, had been designed to serve many purposes. A squadron party was always a great diversion before going to battle. The evening of celebration, away from the officers' club and Yokosuka, also served another purpose. The CO could maintain close surveillance over the group, ensuring that no one conversed about the Phuc Yen and Major Dao rumors. Once the carrier was at sea, the stories would slowly drift into oblivion. "Let the show begin," Dan Bailey ordered.

The flight crews, with the assistance of the four Japanese waitresses, cleared the tables and rearranged the furniture in the combination dining room and bar.

After everyone's drinks had been refilled, the first skit was performed. The funny parody of a day in the life of a squadron CO brought howls of laughter.

Next, Ernie Sheridan placed a record on the dilapidated squadron record player. When the bump and grind music started, Mario Russo stepped from behind the screen wearing a yellow raincoat and cowboy boots. His awkward attempt to imitate a strip-tease dancer made everyone groan. The room erupted in laughter when he whipped off the raincoat. The sight of him wearing purple underwear, supported by pink suspenders, sent the giggling waitresses scrambling from the smoke-filled room.

"Get the hook!" Dirty Ernie yelled over the whistles and laughter. "Get him off the stage!" Outbursts of laughter and catcalls accompanied the end of the pathetic performance.

After the animal acts were over, Ernie Sheridan cranked up the volume and placed another record on the ancient machine. When "Wild Thing" blasted from the speaker, the serious drinking started.

Brad slipped out of the noisy room and walked through the lobby to the entrance. Stepping outside, he looked up at the moon and thought about Leigh Ann. He reached for his dog tags and pulled out the pendant she had given him in Hawaii. He looked at the tiny ornament in the pale moonlight. Would he live to see her again? Would she care?

The ambulatory helped their shipmates to the waiting bus. A light mist fell from the low overcast as Dan Bailey addressed the men who had not fallen asleep in their seats.

"One thing," he grinned, slipping his sunglasses down to peer over the top. "There will be no riding on the roof of the bus. Got that?"

"Skipper," Dirty Ernie moaned, gesturing toward the inert bodies of O'Meara and Russo, "I don't think you'll have to worry about that."

Harry and Brad managed a weak chuckle. They were bone tired, dehydrated, and had splitting headaches from the quarts of hot sake they had consumed.

The trip back to the carrier was quiet and uneventful. After arriving at the dock, the scraggly looking group boarded the ship and headed for their staterooms.

Brad opened their cabin door and plopped his overnight bag on the desk. Harry closed the door and sagged into the desk chair. "Care for a drink?" Brad asked cheerfully.

Harry gave him a cold look. "Don't ever let me do that again." He studied Brad's face for a moment. "You look like you're bleeding to death through your eyeballs."

"I feel like I am."

As good as his word, the scrappy chairman of the Armed Services Committee had confronted the administration about the alleged incident at Phuc Yen. He had gone straight to the White House after his plane had landed at Washington National Airport.

Kerwin had threatened to initiate a hearing and call a press conference if the administration did not level with him.

After being rebuffed by the secretary of state, Kerwin had called for a hearing to discuss the rules of engagement, and to resolve the status of marine Capt. Brad Austin.

The secretary of state quickly confronted Kerwin, giving him a stern warning that his inquiry could jeopardize the ongoing peace negotiations. The secretary assured the senator that Captain Austin's record was clean and that the matter had been concluded to everyone's satisfaction.

Sensing a cover-up, Kerwin was more resolved than ever to get to the bottom of the matter. He had been outraged that a heroic fighter pilot who had laid his life on the line, and who had apparently been responsible for destroying at least three MiGs, was being penalized.

The most disturbing disclosure, Kerwin had told the secretary, was that the American people were being misinformed. The senator had explained that this was not an issue over one pilot's transgression. This was an issue dealing with continued implementation of a flawed war policy.

Kerwin had strongly reiterated his position on openness, and informed the secretary of his intention to convene a hearing at the earliest possible date. Phuc Yen was not to be forgotten.