Eagle Station Part 26

"Surely you're not married?"

"No, just ... taken." He thought about the letter in his room.

She rose to her feet and sauntered over to pick up her dress, then stood hipshot and made a little sound of derision. "Well, you don't leave me much, do you? All that beautiful body simply wasting away. How utterly ridiculous" Embarra.s.sed now, she dressed quickly and left Jim Polter's patio and rambler house without another word. d.a.m.n, she thought. Why had she come on so strong? She wondered how she could arrange to get another chance at Court Bannister.

Court watched her leave, then stripped off his tank top, dropped his Bermudas and made a running dive in the pool and let himself knife into the cool depths. He made several laps of the pool as quietly as he could, trying to tire himself.

After ten minutes he emerged and walked slowly in the Asian darkness to his room. "Taken," he had said, and it was true.

Our love is here to stay, he hummed in tuneless repet.i.tion, as he thought of Sue Boyle, the one girl who had held his attention for more than a week or two. It was, let's see now, over a year since they had been together. Court had met Susan Boyle on his return from his first tour in Vietnam. She had been a sun-brown Manhattan Beach girl with sleek lines who was flying as a stewardess for American Airlines. She had had a leonine mane of hair and liked to laugh. He pictured her tall legginess and shoulder-length blonde hair, her wide smile and deep blue eyes, her magnificent b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

He fumbled on the low light by his bed and pulled her letter from the photo case he carried in his gear.

Got to see you, she wrote. Too lonesome for words. Miss your kisses, your strong arms, your beautiful body, and your ... oh, you know. Got some time off due and thought I'd use one of my hard-earned pa.s.ses to come over your way and make some pa.s.ses of my own. Oh Court, I miss you so much. I know this is kind of hurry-up, but please try to come down to Bangkok and see me. If you can't, maybe I can take the train or an elephant, or however they travel in Thailand, up to Ubon to see you. If I don't get b.u.mped (Pan Am), I should arrive around the 23rd of October.

Love, love, love, desperate to see you. Hope you don't mind the short notice. Your Susan.

He had wired her to meet him at the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok, where he would arrange a suite. No, Babs; Powers would not tempt him tonight.

He held the letter for a long time and thought about his sunny California girl with the long blonde hair and the deep blue eyes, who walked and talked with such special a.s.surance and regal bearing. He studied her picture in the small bra.s.s folding case he carried. She stood poised and sleek on the foredeck of a large sailboat, holding the sheets with one hand and waving with the other, hair streaming in the wind, eyes alive and sparkling, her smile infectious and full. To my very own, was written on it, and the signature, Your Susan.

The last time they'd been together she had put him off when he'd pressed her to marry him. That had been in Singapore.

Had she changed her mind? What if she was here to say she was ready to get married? Now he wasn't certain if he would go through with it.

He knew he could get away from Ubon for a few days. He was the boss of his own outfit and they scheduled themselves as they desired and he was overdue for a break.

He crossed his legs and put his arms behind his head, thought of the song they'd sung when they were together in Singapore, Gibraltar may tumble, the Rockies mayfall. . . , and fell asleep.

"Oh, Wolfgang, you are so strong ... ahh." She enfolded him, her strong legs gripping. "Greta," Wolf said later, as the dawn broke.

"Yes, lover."

"I've been thinking."

"Yes, lover."

"That Swedish K that Perrit carried. The bolt clacks. The NVA and VC hears that in a firefight and knows only Americans use them. Don't you ever carry one. Get a clean AK-47, they won't know who you are."

"Yes, lover."

Jim Polter got everybody out of bed at six in the morning by the simple expedient of frying bacon and eggs and turning Sousa marches up to maximum volume on his Akai stereo. One by one his guests dressed and stepped through the French doors onto the patio.

"The Beech for Ubon takes off at 0730 on the dot," he told them as he poured strong coffee. The brilliant sun promised to scorch the brick once it cleared the palm trees.

Wolf and Greta were quick to thank Jim for his hospitality.

Greta had an unmistakable glow that had not been there the night before.

Wolf was his usual bulky, quiet self. Court was not. He drew Polter aside.

"Mat was a setup, Jim."

"No-honestly. She was just checking you out. Little Babs can smell a new c.o.c.k in town from a mile away."

"Good G.o.d, man, she's married! Does her husband know about her?"

"Can't help but know, but does nothing about it. I heard he spends his off-duty time at LuLu's." Lulu's was a well-known brothel, which specialized in French love-making.

"You sure you didn't aim her at me just to see what would happen?"

"No, I swear. Nothing happened?"

"Nothing."

"Historic first. It'll ruin her reputation."

"Pity."

2030 Hours LOCAL, MONDAY 21 OCTOBER 1968 DOLLEY MADISON BOULEVARD.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA.

The telephone rang and Sal answered. It was John Duchane, an old Army Air Corps chum of Whitey's who was now the owner and chief executive officer of the American Transport Company. He and Whitey belonged to a monthly poker group that Whitey rarely had time to attend.

"Heard you were retiring," Duchane said when Whitey got on the line. "d.a.m.n well time, too."

"And good to talk to you, John," Whitey said dryly. "Sony I missed the game last week."

"That's not why I called. Since you will be without a job come fairly soon, I have a proposition for you."

In 1946, with $9,500 in squirrelled-away WWII poker winnings, a persuasive and compelling personality, and a $30,000 line of credit from the Bank of Southern Arizona, Duchane had started his company, ATC, with two surplus C-46 aircraft that he had bought for $8,500 each. By 1960, ATC and its subsidiary companies had a net worth of 4.25 million dollars.

When the Vietnam War got in full swing in 1965, he was already supplying transportation and selling surplus airplanes back to the government.

He would not, however, sell back his beloved twin-engined B-26, Excalibur, upon which he had lavished $210,000 to turn it into a plush, fast, executive aircraft. He had deliberately left the warning placard on the modernized instrument panel that said DO NOT OPEN BOMB-BAY DOORS ABOVE 425 KNOTS. (The bomb-bay doors were now welded shut to hold the flooring of what he called his executive suite.) Duchane had approached Whitey with a job proposition five years earlier, when Whitey's time as a two-star general had been up. Generals were selected for three stars by being uniquely qualified for a specific three-star position. Nothing had existed for Albert G. Whisenand at that time, so he had been due to be involuntarily retired from the United States Air Force. His job had been to screen targets for air strikes emanating from the unwieldy chain of command for Vietnam. Then, in 1966, Lyndon Baines Johnson had picked him to serve as the Special Advisor for Air Support on LBJ's National Security Council.

With LBJ soon to be out of office, John Duchane was sure he could finally hire his old friend.

"Whitey, it's not like before, when I needed you to run ATC while I looked into expansions. Now I really need you to run the whole conglomerate while I run around the world and salvage old war birds. I'm sort of retiring. Those old planes are fun to fly, plus there's a lot of money to be made fixing them up and selling them. Listen, here's my offer: $200,000 per year, a staffed chateau on the Potomac, a limo with chauffeur, and you can fly Excalibur once in a while."

Whitey chuckled. "Make it $300,000, keep the chateau and the limo, let me fly Excalibur as much as I want, and I might be interested."

"Agreed," Duchane said without hesitation. He needed this man.

They set the timeline-early fall-when Whitey should know about his future in the United States Air Force, and hung up.

Whitey returned to the couch and told Sal of the offer.

"A chateau on the Potomac? A chauffeured limousine? Why, my dear, you would make a fine country squire."

Whitey chuckled. "But we wouldn't own either. Further, I'd have to pay taxes on the use of both as if they were straight salary, and the IRS would calculate some astronomical sum that would drain my base pay.

Maybe someday we'll buy our own chateau and limo. In the meantime I like this house and the Olds."

Sal sat forward, her eyes gleaming. "It would be nice for you to have a job where you would be home more. Are you seriously considering taking up John's offer? I do like him, you know."

Whitey sat back. "Yes, if things go the way I suspect, I would seriously consider taking the position." His eyes sparkled. "Mainly because I want to fly Excalibur."

1530 Hours LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 23 OCTOBER 1968 ORIENTAL HOTEL.

BANGKOK, KiNGDOM OF THAILAND The white Mercedes limousine pulled up at the wide entrance of the old colonial hotel. A doorman clad in ancient Siamese warrior costume opened the door with a flourish and smiled as Court Bannister stepped out.

"Welcome, sir. May I help you with your baggage?" Court indicated the trunk that the uniformed driver had already opened.

The doorman went back and inspected with dismay the battered USAF B-4 bag Court used to carry what few civilian clothes he had. It wasn't what the doon-nan had expected from the plush-carpeted trunk of a new Mercedes firno. He noted with puzzlement that the Thai driver was remarkably obsequious to this tall farang, who must have paid much money in advance.

He looked a bit rough, but he couldn't be an American military man. They didn't make enough money to stay at the Oriental.

Maybe he was an oil worker from the Mideast come to Bangkok to throw his money around during a few weeks' vacation.

Probably not. Those men usually stayed down around Patpong and hung around the dark noisy bars where all the naked girls danced. This big blond man might just be someone important after all. Maybe he actually owned a construction company.

The doorman was one of five men paid handsomely to greet the arriving guests in their best manner, but they made even more money from tips the farangs so lavishly pa.s.sed out. He prided himself on being a good judge of character-who would tip well and who would not. This man would not.

Therefore, he was surprised when the manager himself and the gracious lady from Public Relations greeted the farang with great deference and told him his friend was already in residence and waiting for him. The doorman turned the B-4 bag over to an elegantly dressed bellhop and resumed his post in front of the wide doors.

The manager personally escorted Court up the elevator to a suite on the top floor. The manager cited the cable he had received from Terry Holt of Bannister Enterprises in Hollywood, detailing Court's desires for a two-room suite with a view of the Chao Phya River and said he hoped the suite would suffice. A $10,000 wire transfer had been sent by Holt to ensure compliance. The bellhop followed, toting the battered bag.

Each room had its own terrace with trees and lounge tables and chairs that overlooked the bustling Chao Phya River. Longnosed river taxis and fat boat-buses vied with barges piled high with goods as they plowed up and down the wide, sun-sparkling river, making it a broad street of aquatic commerce.

But Court paid no attention to the view. He had eyes only for Susan Boyle, in the middle of the suite, waiting for him.

When they were alone, she threw her arms around him and they kissed and nuzzled and she murmured into his neck, "Oh Court, I can't believe we're finally together." His hands were firm and flat around her waist, and he pressed her close and hugged her.

She smelled of girl and an elusive cologne.

They stood in the middle of her room. She skipped over to the door to the patio and drew the curtains and shed clothes on the way back. "Come on, oh come on, I've dreamed of this for so long. I just can't wait."

He stripped and followed her to the bed. She tore the bedclothing off and pulled him down on her and wrapped her arms around him for a long kiss. She had set in low music on the room radio in antic.i.p.ation of his arrival.

When they finished making love, he fell asleep in her arms.

She lay awake for long moments before falling into fitful sleep.

That evening they had drinks at the hotel bar and dinner on the candlelit wooden tables at Nick's Number One. They ate slowly and savored each bite. She stroked his hand.

"You're so quiet all of a sudden," she said.

"Memories. Some good ones and some bad." He had just had a momentary thought of the F-4 that had fallen in the night at Eagle Station. Then his face darkened and his eyes went frosty as he remembered another man who was close to him and was now in the living h.e.l.l of a POW camp.

"Here's to Flak Apple," he said and held up his water gla.s.s.

Algernon A. "Flak" Apple and Court had formed a friendship back at Edwards Air Force Base in California when Court had been a student in the test pilot school and Flak an instructor.

Later they had flown against MiGs together from Ubon. They had been on the same mission when Flak had been blasted out of the air. Court had taken Flak's loss personally, thinking perhaps he could have done something to have prevented it.

A few months later a confused and highly exploitive radio broadcast from an expatriate American living in Cuba had said that Major Apple was alive and in good shape, and although a war criminal of the worst type, he was being treated humanely by the Democratic Republic of Vietnam.

That was the first anybody knew Flak was still alive.

They drank the water. If Flak and the other POWs couldn't have booze, then it was only fair to toast them with water.

Court shook his head. "Memories. Oh G.o.d. I need some new ones." He brightened. "And you're just the young lady to help me build some."

They touched their wine gla.s.ses and drank deeply. "Let's press on," he said.

"Remember when we first met?" Susan asked.

"How can I forget? It was on the American Airlines MAC contract flight from Saigon to Los Angeles. You sat on my armrest. You smelled so good, I thought I'd attack you right there."

"I wish you would have."

"Oh yeah." Court laughed. "You couldn't even remember my name. You gave me that big line about simply adoring my movies."

"I did not," she said and flipped a piece of pineapple at him.

"Yes, you did. Then you said we'd meet at Donkin's for a beer sometime.

We did, and here we are."

"Yes," she said, "here we are." She looked at him with troubled eyes that she quickly cleared up. She put her hand on top of his. "Come on, fighter pilot," she said softly, "let's get on with it."

They roamed Bangkok in a rented Tuk-Tuk, an open-air three-wheeler with a two-stroke engine that made a nasal tuktuk sound. Their driver knew all the spots where Americans went for their nightlife. They danced first at the Cat's Eye, then the An An room, to the best bra.s.s bands and popular American and British singers the Philippines could imitate. They sweated and laughed as they danced the Monkey and the Frug and the Swim.

She taught him the Mashed Potato and they inhaled all the tall gin drinks they could order. In the Tuk-Tuk, they sang verses of "Our Love Is Here to Stay" to each other as the driver careened over sidewalks and curbs to avoid the dense traffic roaming the street at two in the morning.

Exhausted and tight at three, they ate Chinese food at the open-air stalls near the hotel. They clowned with the awkward chopsticks and drank quarts of Singha beer. Toward the end of the meal he presented her with a tiny gold Risis horse that stood stately, head c.o.c.ked and alert, into a breeze that fanned his golden mane. They called it Stately Horse. He had bought it earlier that evening from a vendor when she had been in the ladies' room at one of the clubs. Their Chinese waiter admired the exquisite horse. He liked the two happy Americans and joked with them and showed them how the right hand over the left was a Chinese sign for h.e.l.lo, but slapping the palm over a cupped hand was a vile insult.

Finally, just before dawn, they left the bar at the hotel, where they had been sipping plain iced tea both to cool down and sober up.

Arm in arm, they walked out as the Thai bartender gratefully shut the bar and pocketed the hundred dollars' worth of baht thefarang had bribed him with to stay open. They strolled off, crooning about how the Rockies may crumble but their love was here to stay.

The next day was spent doing more touristing. The day after that, their last, was declared as health day. They ate well and exercised and swam lap after lap in the pool. They went to the Siam Intercontinental and played volleyball behind the west wing with some airline people and three Thud drivers down from Korat. He stood back and watched her walk across the lawn when they were through. Her stride was long and st.u.r.dy.

She wore white shorts, no jewelry, and a vivid blue blouse that accentuated her striking blue eyes. In the early evening they lay together on the bed in his room, her head on his chest as the sun went down. The next day she had a late flight out, three in the afternoon; he had to catch the five P.M. C-130 courier to Ubon.

He deliberately hadn't talked of marriage as he had in Singapore. At that time he had had dreams of resigning from the Air Force, marrying Susan, and settling down. Not only had she seemed against the whole idea, but when he had been recalled to fight in the Tet Offensive, he could hardly wait to get back in the c.o.c.kpit and resume combat. But that was then and this was now. He needed this girl the rest of his life. This was the one. All the rest were just practice: learning what was real inside himself and what was not. It was now time to talk, he judged.