"Gooooood evening, Jeffersons!" Master Chief Raymond C. Buckley, Jr., beamed into the camera and delivered his best Pat Sajak imitation from the lectern set up as his number-one prop in the television broadcast he made twice each day to the carrier's crew. The room, called CVIC ― pronounced "civic" ― for Carrier (CV) Information Center, also served as one of Jefferson's television studios. Banks of lights glared at him from three directions as he launched into the familiar patter. "This is the Chief of the Boat, coming' at you with another edition of What's the Gouge…"
The master chief of a modern supercarrier was the one direct link between the enlisted crew and the ship's officers, known by all, respected by all, likely to turn up almost anywhere within Jefferson's two-thousand-plus compartments and passageways with a friendly word or good advice. Captain James Fitzgerald, the ship's Commanding Officer, and Captain Vincent C.
Glover, the ship's Exec, depended on Buckley to know how the crew was feeling, could count on him for an honest assessment of a man up for captain's mast on some minor charge… or for word about unpleasant racial tensions in the engine room. On the other side of the tracks, enlisted men depended on Buckley for the straight word, the "gouge" as it was known, on what was happening in a world where individual crewmen had very little control over their own lives and destinies.
More often than not, the sheer, overwhelming uncertainty of a deployment at sea was the worst part of the cruise. Would there be liberty at the next port? Would families be allowed to visit next time the ship was in Japan?
That was one of the reasons for What's the Gouge. The ship's closed-circuit television programming was one of the best ways there was to keep the crew informed.
"There's been a lot of wild scuttlebutt going around about our next port of call," Buckley said, leaning against the lectern and staring into the camera's eye. "And there have been even wilder stories going around about just what it is we're supposed to do there!"
The red light on the camera winked off as a second camera picked up the scene. A TV monitor to one side faded from an image of Buckley's smiling face to a map of Southeast Asia.
"You all know where we're bound for, of course," Buckley said. "Some of you old hands out there know our next port of call real well. Bangkok!"
He grinned as he heard a distant, low-voiced murmur, almost a rumble which echoed down Jefferson's steel passageways. A few hundred men were cheering and whooping in the TV lounge a deck down and several frames aft…
and that cheer was being repeated throughout the ship. Bangkok had a certain reputation…
"The rumors have been flying though as to whether or not there's going to be liberty in Thailand. The insurrection in the northern part of the country has been getting worse, and in the past few weeks there have been student riots and uprisings in Bangkok itself.
"Well, I'm here to give you the word straight from the Captain. There's going to be liberty. Things are quiet in Bangkok right now. Order has been restored in the streets. The way things are shaping up we're going to be visiting the jewel of Southeast Asia for ten days-" The distant thunder redoubled, and several of the men standing off-camera in the CVIC provided appropriate sound effects by applauding and whistling.
It took several seconds more to restore order in CVIC. Liberty was always a subject of keen interest on board ship, a break in the shipboard routine at sea where day followed day with a mind-numbing sameness. The average sailor in Jefferson's crew was nineteen years old; for him, a taste of the exotic eased the bite of homesickness.
The noise in the room subsided, and Buckley laughed. "I can tell a lot of you already know something about where we're going. If I can get your one-track minds off girls for a moment, though, let me tell you something about the place."
He began giving a travelogue-style presentation about the country, referring occasionally to note cards on the podium in front of him. Buckley had been fascinated by the fact that Thailand, alone of the nations in Southeast Asia, had never been a colony of a European power, that even the name That meant "free." Muang That, "Land of the Free," was fiercely proud of that heritage.
"You all know the capital of the country is Bangkok," he said. "But don't forget that the Thais themselves call it Pra Nakhorn, the 'Heavenly Capital," or better yet Krung Thep, the 'City of Angels."" You guys from Los Angeles ought to appreciate that."
He went on to explain how important Thailand was to American interests in the region. Its neighbors on three sides included Laos and Cambodia ― both communist ― and Burma. The Socialist Union of Burma had been under one Marxist military dictatorship or another since 1962. Recent free elections had carried with them the promise for democratic reform, but for the present the military continued to rule that impoverished country.
"Thailand is a member of both SEATD and ASEAN," he said, "and is one of the United States' very few strong, democratic, and pro-Western allies in the region.
"Of course, most of you old hands remember how important Thailand was back during Vietnam. After the war, we turned our bases over to the Thais, packed up our gear, and went back to the World. The political know-it-alls predicted that Thailand would go the way of Cambodia and Laos in a few months.
It didn't. That politics are unique in that everyone in the country loves and respects the King.
"Thailand is a constitutional monarchy." Buckley paused to perch his glasses on his nose and look down at what he had written on an index card before him. "The King's name… I'd better read this to get it right…
The King's name is Bhumibol Adulyadej. He provides a tremendously stabilizing influence that keeps the lid on That politics. During a crisis, by constitutional law, he remains neutral… so even during a coup you have the rebels swearing loyalty to the Crown. The ordinary That people take respect of their monarch very very seriously. No revolutionary would get very far if he didn't revere the King as much as they did.
"Back in 1981, for instance, there was a coup attempt by a group of army officers who called themselves the Young Turks. They were strong, well-armed, and commanded a fair percentage of the country's military forces… but as soon as it became clear that they did not have the King's blessing ― despite his official neutrality ― support for their movement fell apart and they were crushed.
"Under the King, the That government is a weird mix of democracy and military rule. It's based on the English system, with a prime minister and a two-house parliament consisting of the Senate and the National Assembly, but both tend to be dominated by military officers. In Thailand, it works out, military officers can work in the business sector, run banks, own hotels, or serve in government… and still have an active military career. They rule according to the That constitution, so the government cannot fairly be called a junta or a dictatorship. King Bhumibol, incidentally, is also head of the armed forces."
Buckley continued to talk, explaining that documentaries, travelogues, informational pieces, and VD films would be broadcast over the closed-circuit channel for the next several days, but he was certain that most of the crew were no longer listening. He'd been on the other end of such broadcasts more than once, going all the way back to his days in Nam, and he knew that by now the sailors would be more interested in the stories being told by the old hands who'd been to Bangkok before. Those stories would have less to do with Thailand or its culture than with favorite bars and sexual exploits.
Bangkok's rep as a sin city where anything could be had for a price made it one of the Navy's all-time favorite liberty ports, and nothing he or any DOD instructional film had to say about it would change that one bit.
He glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that he was down to his last few minutes of scheduled broadcast time.
"That brings me to Jefferson's mission in these waters, men. Our ship has been ordered to the Gulf of Thailand to show American support for the present government in Bangkok. The insurrection in the northern part of the country has been getting worse in recent weeks, and there have been rumors, unsubstantiated, of a possible coup ― like the one by the Young Turks in '81 ― by officers who feel the government should be reacting more decisively to the rebel threat.
"As most of you know by now, our operations with That military forces began this morning, when we started flying joint missions with them over northern Thailand. By this time you've heard the rumors that some of our planes tangled with unknown aircraft this afternoon, up near the Burmese border. I can tell you categorically that, while strange planes were intercepted, they were turned back at the border and no shots were fired at or by American aircraft.
"Our intervention in Thailand is intended as a gesture only, a show of support for the Bangkok government.
"So tomorrow, Jeffersons, we will be anchoring at the That naval base at Sattahip. If conditions ashore remain peaceful, liberty should commence for all hands on a rotating basis, beginning at 1700 hours tomorrow evening."
The director signaled with a slashing motion across his throat, and the camera dollied in for a parting close-up. "Well, men, I see my time is up. A reminder that water conservation is in effect, so remember your proper Navy shower technique. This is Master Chief Buckley, signing off for What's the Gouge?"
The battery of lights dimmed and the director stepped past the camera.
"Good show, Master Chief."
"Thanks, Pete. You think anybody was listening?"
The other chief laughed. "They heard 'ten days in Bangkok."" I think the ship gave a little shudder just then. Hey, you ever get a real, honest-to-goodness Patpong massage?"
He grinned. "Many times, Chief. Very relaxing."
"So what do you think, Master Chief? What are the chances for things to stay quiet for the whole ten days?"
Buckley smiled as he unclipped the microphone from around his neck.
Every man aboard was probably wondering the same thing. If the students started throwing rocks again, liberty would be canceled so fast it would make the collective heads of the Jefferson's crew spin. "I don't know, Pete. The word is the That army has things in hand."
He hoped it would stay that way. He wondered about those Chinese fighters. Every man aboard knew that the Burmese didn't have Shenyang J-7s.
So where had they come from? And why? There was no way in hell that anyone could convince him that those planes had been flown by Communist That rebels!
Master Chief Buckley was a naturally optimistic man, but he had a bad feeling about this one. Too much was unknown… including the identity of the enemy.
He just hoped the Jefferson wasn't sailing into something she couldn't handle.
Most of Jefferson's crew had heard Master Chief Buckley's broadcast.
Those who hadn't, quickly heard from their shipmates. Bangkok indisputably was a great liberty port, and throughout the evening every bull session on board had but a single topic. Four off-duty sailors sat at one of the round-topped tables in the crew's lounge. They weren't the only ones in the room. Other small groups were scattered about the area, reading, watching TV, or playing war games. A gentle rumble rose from the deck, more felt than heard. The lounge was located far aft, almost directly above Jefferson's four massive, twenty-two-foot-wide propellers, and the room pulsed with their throbbing strokes. No one noticed, however. The ship's pulse was part of the background, long since accepted and forgotten.
Seaman Apprentice David Howard had enlisted in the Navy in April, three days after his eighteenth birthday. After twelve weeks of boot training at the Recruit Training Center in San Diego and two dreary weeks in a holding company, he'd been given his orders for sea duty and his first ship: the U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson.
He'd been at sea for five months now, less two weeks in Yokosuka. After all that time, he still wasn't certain whether his luck at drawing the Jeff had been good or bad. Most seamen hated carrier duty, where the ship was big enough to get lost in, quarters were as cramped as in a holding barracks ashore, and twelve- and even fourteen-hour workdays were the norm rather than the exception. Howard didn't mind the hard work, and there was an undeniable romance in the air each time one of Jefferson's aircraft was hurled aloft in steam and raw noise. His hardest adjustment was in his social life.
Howard was quiet, even shy, and had never made friends easily. His shipmates seemed a decent enough bunch, if a bit loud and profane, but Howard still hadn't learned how to let down his own inner barriers with them. He found himself drawn to their conversations, though, wanting to belong.
"Aw, shit, man!" Signalman Third Class Charles Bentley leaned back, hands clasped behind his short-cropped blond head. "Ten fuckin' days in bee-you-ti-ful shit-hot Bangkok! Gentlemen, we have got it made!"
"You been there before, Bentley, right?" Radarman Third Fred Paterowski chugged the last of his Coke and crumpled the can. "Tell, man! Tell!"
"Hey, man, it was fuckin' A-numbah-one! That was… lessee, '88, I guess. When I was on the Arkansas."
Howard sipped his Coke, listening. He didn't know how to take Bentley, who seemed bright but who was only a third class after eight years in the service. He'd probably been busted, since most ratings could make second class before their four years' enlistment was up. Howard couldn't help wondering what the guy had done… or did he simply not care?
The lounge was a large room, with paintings drawn from Navy history, with comfortable tables and chairs under fluorescent lights and a wooden lectern at one end. Howard remembered sitting in this room five months before, listening as Captain Fitzgerald stood behind that lectern and talked about responsibility, about making something of their time aboard the Jefferson.
In five months, Howard had done his best to be a good sailor and fit in with the routine… doing what he was told and staying out of trouble. As a seaman in the deck division, he was one of hundreds of enlisted men available for general duties which ran from standing lookout, serving as roving fire and security patrol, participating in FODs and field days, and keeping lines and gear up on the roof shipshape. His previous daily assignment had been a dull but undemanding one: cleaning and stowing the dozens of wire-frame Stokes stretchers which the medical department kept ready along the starboard side of the island on the flight deck. A week ago, though, he'd been transferred to Air Ops, where he stood by as a message runner.
"Runner," in this day of radio and satellite communications, meant that he fetched coffee for officers and chiefs, but he enjoyed being in what he thought of as the carrier's heart, a huge room where earnest ratings bent over radar screens in semi-darkness, murmuring into radio headsets as they talked with aircraft hundreds of miles away. It gave him a feeling of importance to be there, even if he didn't know exactly what was going on. He'd met Paterowski in Ops, and was finding himself drawn into the radarman's circle of friends.
"I hear Bangkok's plenty hot," Seaman Ernesto Rodriguez said. He also worked in Ops, where he was striking for Radarman. He shook his head, and his teeth flashed brilliantly against his dark face. "Ai-ai-ai!"
"Shit, man," Bentley said, grinning. He was in his favorite element now, telling tales of past exploits. "These ain't your average T-town putas, Ernie! In Bangkok, you can get anything, and I mean anything! I remember me and a coupla buddies going to this place in Patpong. That's Bangkok's Sin Central, kiddies. Aw, shit!" He rolled the word, savoring it. "You shoulda seen this place! Red curtains, glass beads. They had this specialty, see, where six girls take you into this room, see? And they all strip down, you know, an' then they strip you down and lay you out on this table. And, I swear to God, they gather around and start licking you, all over… toes, fingers, everywhere!"
The circle exploded in a chorus of hoots, groans, and table-pounding.
Paterowski held his white hat in his lap and vigorously pumped his fist underneath, pretending to masturbate.
"An' after about a year of this, one of the girls climbs up and kind of lowers herself down on top of you, see, real nice and easy? And while the rest of them keep with the licking and sucking she…"
Howard looked away, feeling his face burn with embarrassment…
embarrassed all the more by the fact that he was embarrassed. He had seen exactly one liberty port during Jefferson's deployment ― Yokosuka, "Yokuska" as the others insisted on calling it ― for the two weeks the carrier had anchored there after Wonsan. During that time, he'd managed two trips into Tokyo.
He'd seen the Imperial Palace from the jogging path outside the private grounds, the Outer Garden with its giant fountain, and a hodgepodge collection of shrines, government buildings, and department stores that were now completely jumbled in his mind. He'd not been sure that he'd seen Tokyo at all, and the stories traded by his shipmates when they'd left port increased his doubts.
"How 'bout it, Howie?"
"Huh?" Howard blinked, feeling foolish. "Sorry. What'd you say?"
"Reveille, son!" Paterowski said. "Wake up! Your betters are trying to instruct you in the finer points of life here, but you ain't tuned in!"
"You know what Howie needs?" Rodriguez said. "We oughta treat him to a night in the Patpong!"
"Yeah, man! He can dip his dong in the ol' Patpong!"
"Whatcha say, cherry?" Bentley demanded. "Wanna lose your cherry?"
"I… I don't know, guys. I mean, I'll have to think about-"
"Hey, why think, man, when you could be getting' your clock cleaned?"
Rodriguez laughed. "Holy shit, man! Bang-fuckin'-cock! What a break!"
Howard felt a small, secret thrill. It would be okay, wouldn't it? If the other guys made him go along? He didn't want them to think he didn't like them or anything, or that he thought he was better than them.
He didn't know if he was looking forward to liberty in Bangkok or not.
He was already feeling both embarrassed and guilty… but this might be the chance to find out what there was to feel guilty about. A kind of initiation into the mysterious inner circle of the Experienced Sailor. Bangkok might be the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Just so long as Charlene, his girlfriend back home in Colorado, never found out.