Viper Strike

CHAPTER 7

"You're at attention, Mister!"

Batman gave up any thought of keeping this discussion on a friendly, personal level and held himself ramrod stiff, keeping his eyes focused on a point on the bulkhead behind CAG Marusko's left shoulder. "Yes, sir!"

Marusko examined the Shore Patrol report in his hand and shook his head slowly, as if he couldn't quite believe what he saw written there. "One ornamental hedge. Two rows of flowers. Tire marks across the landscaped lawn. A rock garden, complete with a decorative Buddhist shrine. A goddamned palm tree." CAG looked up, peering over the top of his reading glasses.

"Just how the hell did you manage to park the car in the hotel tennis court?

It was fenced in!"

"Well, it was. Sort of. Sir."

"Rental car."

"Yes, sir. You see, the brakes were kind of bad, and-"

"How much did you have to drink?"

"Gee, I'm not real sure, CAG. We'd stopped at the Oriental first. Then we went to the That Intercontinental. The girls were showing me around, you see."

"Driving under the influence. Property damage. This is serious, Mister.

Damned serious!"

"Yes, sir."

"Next there's this… this complaint from the same hotel. An unidentified man wearing boxer shorts, and two… ah… partly dressed young ladies, ran through the lobby, startling a number of the hotel's guests. That wouldn't be you and your 'friends' again, would it?"

"Uh, probably not, CAG. I mean, I don't remember too much after the-"

"The man in boxer shorts was screaming, 'Viper Squadron, launch when ready!" at the top of his lungs. Ring any bells?"

"No, sir."

"And then the finale. This same man and his female companions removed the rest of their clothes and went swimming in the hotel pool."

"I really wouldn't know anything about that, sir."

"It seems one of the restaurant lounges in this hotel has a large picture window, which looks out into the pool. Underwater. Very atmospheric, I understand.

"I'm sure it is, sir."

"The man proceeded to grapple with one of the women in the water, apparently in an attempt to copulate with her. In front of approximately fifty of the hotel's guests who happened to be in the lounge at the time."

"I'm sure if he'd known they were watching, he wouldn't have done it, sir."

"Responding to a call by the hotel, the Shore Patrol finally found you behind the pool house, apparently hiding from the establishment's security people, stark naked and sopping wet." CAG looked up again. "It doesn't say what became of your skinny-dipping companions."

"Oh, that was their hotel. I imagine they made it back to their room."

"You sorry son of a bitch! In one night you have managed to disgrace your uniform, your squadron-"

"Well, actually, I wasn't wearing the uniform at the time-"

"Damn it, Wayne, don't you play games with me!" He slapped the report down on his desk. "I could have your ass out of here with this! Do you understand me? I could have your wings handed to me on a platter!"

Batman swallowed. This was worse than he possibly could have imagined.

"Yes, sir."

"Now, you have a choice, mister. We can handle this right here, just you and me. Or we can go to the Captain with it. What's it going to be?"

"I'll be glad to… to work it out with you, sir."

"Good." Marusko nodded. "Good! The skipper wouldn't want to be bothered with shit like this. Now for the good news. Somehow you managed to luck out on one part of this sorry story, Wayne. The hotel has agreed not to press charges so long as you pay them ― — " He consulted the report again.

"Right. Two thousand, nine hundred fifty dollars for damage to their landscaping. Apparently they haven't been able to connect you with the swimming pool incident, because that wasn't mentioned in their claim. Or maybe they've decided to start featuring X-rated sex shows for their clientele."

"Three… three thousand dollars, sir?"

CAG picked up another paper. "Add to that an estimated eight hundred dollars for the rent-a-car people. The collision with the palm tree and the tennis court fence didn't do that Datsun's bodywork any good." Marusko removed his glasses. When he spoke again, it was with a low, almost quiet voice, the voice which CAG Marusko used when he was in his most dangerous mood. "So, four grand will settle things with the civilians and you luck out, but by God you still have to settle with me, Wayne. I'm not letting you off the hook that easily! Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, sir. Perfectly, sir." Almost four thousand dollars! As a Navy lieutenant, Batman received $2,596 this month, a figure which included both flight pay and the temporary bonus of hostile fire pay for his service in Korea, but he was still going to have to take out a Credit Union loan to raise that much cash all at once. He'd be paying this one off for quite a while.

"It occurs to me, Mr. Wayne, that a change of scenery would be beneficial for both of us. It will remove you from the temptations of exotic Bangkok…

and it will get you out of my sight. It happens I have an empty slot for a special duty assignment. How does U Feng sound to you?"

Batman's jaw dropped. "U Feng? But that's… oh, shit!"

"You have a problem with that, Mister?" Marusko's voice was whip-crack tight again.

"No, sir. No problem, sir." U Feng! And the worst of it was, he hadn't even made it with Becky or Arlene. His attempt in the pool had been just that… and a dismal failure after all that he'd had to drink. And Becky had promised him another chance tonight.

"It is now 0914 hours. I want you and your RIO in the Ready Room, suited up and ready to go, by 1430 hours this afternoon. I'll have your orders cut by then. Launch is at 1500."

"Yes, sir." There was nothing more to be said.

"Get out of here!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" He fled.

Behind him, Marusko picked up the Shore Patrol report again and began re-reading it. His reserve broke at last, and he collapsed back in his chair, laughing helplessly.

Made It Bayerly crossed his arms and surreptitiously leaned against the bulkhead of the darkened room.

"Air Boss says they're ready to go on Cats One and Three," a third class radarman at one of the consoles said.

"Okay, Paterowski," Senior Chief Hansen said. He looked bored, sitting back in the room's command chair with a mug of coffee in his hand, his headset perched at an angle to uncover one ear. "Tell 'em we're ready to pick up."

"They're going to launch the helo first."

"Makes sense."

Bayerly glanced over at the status board, where a young third class was writing backwards on the transparent plastic. The Sea King's mission was listed as Bangkok, a run to the That Airlines helipad in the city and back.

That would be Tombstone Magruder's helo.

Damn the man, anyway. Bayerly's thought was raw pain and anger. The word had quickly spread throughout the ship that the three civilian visitors to the carrier the day before had been from a high-powered Stateside news program, and that one of them, a real looker of a woman, had asked specially to interview Commander Bigshot Magruder. So now the lucky bastard was on his way to Bangkok.

Bayerly glanced to his left. Several other naval flight officers from various squadrons were there, standing in various attitudes of relaxation or boredom. It was standard practice for NFOs to stand stretches of duty in Air Ops, where they could be asked for advice during a crisis, especially one involving a man in their unit. Since he'd been relieved of flight duty, it was natural that Bayerly put in more than the usual duty time for VF-97. He didn't like it, though. He didn't like it one bit.

The other officers had been all but shunning him since his suspension, almost as if he'd already lost his wings. Even now, McConnell, Rostenkowski, and the others seemed to be avoiding his eyes, and he could imagine their pointed comments behind his back.

The pain burning in Bayerly's gut felt like jealousy, though he knew it wasn't. It was despair for a career slowly but surely closing down. He'd known it, felt it for months. Back during the Wonsan operations three months ago, it hadn't been coincidence which had led CAG to assign the hotshot missions to Tombstone Magruder while posting Bayerly to routine CAP flights over the carrier.

Magruder had downed six MiGs and won the Navy Cross. Bayerly had sat it out on the sidelines. And all because of what had happened over a year ago…

"Helo away," a radarman said. Several television monitors about CATCC showed the gray bulk of the Sea King lift off the mid-deck, hover for a moment, then dip its blunt bow and angle off toward the north. Other monitors showed the view forward. Aft of two of the four catapults, JBD shields rose slowly behind the two Tomcats readying for launch. A deck officer gave the hand signal to bring the engines up to full power.

Bayerly wondered how Batman Wayne felt about being snagged to cover for Magruder. The rumors about his escapade last night had been spreading about the ship as well.

He sighed. There had to be a way to change things… had to be! If he couldn't turn things around, his next posting was going to be to Adak, Alaska… and then it would be retirement as a lieutenant commander, with precious little to show for twelve years of service. Twelve years!

The cat officer on the Cat One monitor dropped to one knee and touched the deck. Tomcat 232 lurched forward in a billowing cloud of steam as the catapult slung it off the Jefferson's bow. Almost simultaneously, Tomcat 203 hurtled off the carrier's waist. Together, the two planes grabbed for altitude, afterburners flaring orange.

Bayerly watched them turn toward the north, still climbing, and his fists clenched in anger.

"I don't know," Tombstone said. "I've never thought much about it, I guess."

He was perched on the edge of a comfortable settee, feeling very much out of place. The room, part of a walnut-paneled, richly furnished suite, had been provided by the hotel as an impromptu studio for Pamela Drake and her film crew. Tombstone had tried to suggest that there were plenty of studio facilities aboard the Jefferson, but she'd replied that the carrier's surroundings were too cold, too formal to come across well on American television.

Pamela was seated on a divan opposite him and slightly to his left, and a low, wooden coffee table had been pulled between them. Griffith stood several feet away, squinting into the eyepiece of his camcorder, while Baughman bent over the dials and wavering needles of his sound equipment across the room.

Several other people in Pamela's film crew hovered in the background, hidden behind the bright, standing lights which bathed him in a hot, white glare.

Tombstone could hear the whir of the camera as he tried to gather his thoughts, and he was painfully conscious of the small microphone dangling against the breast of his dress white shirt.

"Surely you've thought about it, Commander," Pamela said. She had a rich, seductive voice. It would have been sexy, Tombstone thought, if he hadn't been convinced that she was using it to set him up for the kill. "All those press conferences, your name in the headlines back home…"

She'd just asked him what he thought about being a national hero.

"I can't really say that I was a hero," he said. "I certainly wasn't any more of a hero than several thousand other guys who were there."

The subject of the discussion was the Wonsan raid three months before.

He hesitated, finding his thoughts cluttered by memories. He remembered Commander Marty French, killed while trying to land his damaged F/A-18 on the Jefferson's flight deck. And his good friend Coyote Grant, who'd been captured by the North Koreans, escaped, and ended up helping the Marines and a Navy SEAL team accomplish their mission behind enemy lines. And Batman, who had shot down three KorCom fighter-bombers before they could attack the fleet.

But how could he put across everything that he felt in a few words?

"The point is," he continued, "that all of us were just doing our jobs.

That's not very exciting or romantic, I know, but that's the way it was. An American ship and its crew had been captured on the high seas in an act of piracy, and the President sent us in to bring them out. We did."

"You are entirely too modest, Commander." She leaned forward, and Tombstone caught a whiff of perfume as she lightly touched one of the ribbons on the top row of his award display above his left shirt pocket. "Is this the Navy Cross?"

She'd indicated the blue ribbon with its single white stripe. "Yes, it is."

"And that's only the second highest decoration the U.S. Navy can award its people. Why do you think your superiors singled you out of all those thousands?"

He grinned uneasily. "If you figure that out, let me know."

"According to the official report," she said, "you refused to eject from your damaged aircraft because your copilot was wounded and would not have survived if you'd left the plane."

"RIO."

"Pardon?"

"He was my RIO, my Radar Intercept Officer, not my copilot."

"And you don't think you should have gotten a medal for that?"

"I think the guys on the carrier should have won a medal. Let me tell you, it took real guts deciding to let me bring my shot-up Tomcat down on the deck! If I'd crashed and burned, I could have done real damage."

"The report also says you managed the battle above the city of Wonsan and were personally responsible for downing six Korean aircraft."

"Yes."

"Doesn't that make you a hero?"

"I'm proud of the job our boys did. It was a job that had to be done.

I'm not particularly proud of shooting down those other aircraft, no."

As he said the words, Tombstone knew that he was lying. He was immensely proud of his ACM victories. That was the sort of achievement that every Navy pilot strove for, proof that his training and long hours of flying and practice had paid off, proof that he had the ultimate "right stuff" in a one-on-one contest with the enemy.

But at the same time, Tombstone hated to be reminded that those victories represented six dead men. Never mind that they'd been trying to kill him or his comrades at the time. Those had been men in those MiGs, all of them pilots like him, probably with families, wives, kids…

It was not something to dwell on, and he bitterly wished he knew how to steer this interview in another direction.

Pamela seemed to sense his discomfort, and turned away. "Cut!" she said.

"Okay, people, let's take a break. Save the lights."

"Looked good," Griffith said, lowering the camcorder. "Why'd you quit?"

She stood and stretched with a smooth, sinuous movement of arms and shoulders. "I'm tired. We need to regroup." She turned and smiled at Tombstone, her golden hair swirling just above her shoulders. "You're coming across very well, Matt. Was something bothering you about that last line of questioning?"

He smiled. "it showed, huh?"

"Only to someone who's interviewed as many guilty congressmen as I have."

She sat down again and laid one perfectly manicured hand on his knee. "You're doing splendidly!"

"I was a bit uncomfortable with where things were going," he confessed.

"I really don't like talking about this hero stuff."

She laughed. "Not only handsome, but modest too! How are we going to get you to open up about yourself, Matt?"

He could sense that she was trying to build him up, to put him at ease, and he felt a vague displeasure at the attempt to manipulate his feelings at the same time that he admired the way she was pulling it off.

"Miss Drake, I-"

"Please!" she said. "It's Pamela!"

"Pamela. Can't I convince you that being a hero doesn't really have anything to do with just doing my job?"

"You might convince me, but I doubt that our viewers would understand.

You're an air ace, a Top Gun. You've gone into single combat with the enemy in a silver steed with magic weapons that Buck Rogers would envy. That's the stuff heroes are made of, Matt."

"But I thought you wanted this series of yours to be about how expensive aircraft carriers are!"

She laughed again. "We'll get to that, don't worry!" She turned serious again. "What I really want to do is show the whole story, the men as well as the machines. You can't have one without the other."

"I agree. But you know, us aviator types tend to steal the show. Maybe you should show something about the ordinary guys who make Jefferson run.

Most of them are kids, nineteen… twenty. They work sixteen-hour days, and that's routine. When the pressure's on, I've seen them go all out for forty-eight hours straight. Down in engineering they're working in hundred-ten-degree heat. Up on the flight deck there's not a single man among them who hasn't come close one time or another to getting blasted over the side by jet wash, or sucked into an engine intake, or decapitated by a snapped arrestor cable. You know, the deck of an aircraft carrier may be the most dangerous work place in the world, but those kids do it, day after day.

They're the heroes, not hot-dogs like me."

"Can there really be such a thing as a modest fighter pilot?" Her lips quirked up in a thoughtful smile. "I thought all fighter jocks were supposed to be so arrogant and cocky!"

He grinned. "I guess it helps. Nowadays, though, you're better off if you have the temperament of an engineer."

"Well, I don't think I would have believed it if I hadn't seen one with my own eyes." She looked at her watch. "I'd say we've done enough for today.

Boys? Let's wrap it."

Tombstone studied her profile for a moment. Despite their differences, he felt himself attracted to her. She seemed to feel his eyes on her and turned suddenly, their eyes meeting.

"I tell you what," he said. "It's late and I haven't had dinner yet.

Know someplace in Bangkok where we could have some authentic That food?"

She pursed her lips. "I should warn you, Commander, that I don't get involved with my… subjects."

"That makes you sound like a lab technician. What am I, a rare specimen?"

"Okay, I'll tell you what. There are several restaurants right here in the Dusit Thani. There's the Mayflower… that's Chinese. Or the Shogun for Japanese food. Or the Hamilton for French cuisine. We'll have dinner, but only if it's on my expense account."

"Hey, how could any self-respecting hotdog refuse an offer like that?

Let's go!"

They settled on the Mayflower. The food was good, but Tombstone scarcely noticed it.