Phantom Leader Part 37

Ready for the big briefing tomorrow?"

"Sure. But I'll bet I can't teach you guys much."

"You can. You're down there in the weeds eyeball to eyeball with the bad guys. You see things we never will."

"Yeah. When you're tied to a tree you see a lot more than you ever wanted."

Court nodded agreement. "That must have been as rough as it comes. But you're looking great now, Tobes. You sure have come a long way since Bien Hoa."

"A lot's happened since then," Toby said. He held up a can of soda from the Night Owl bar. "A long way from Bien Hoa." He glanced at the door.

"Speaking of Bien Hoa, look who's coming in."

Doc Russell, Baby Huey to his friends, marched through the screen door, shaking water from himself like a big, tubby hound-dog. He wore white shorts, a polo shirt, thongs, and was soaked. He waved at the men at the bar and walked over to Court and Toby.

"Like old times," he said.

"Just talking about that," Toby replied.

Doc Russell got two cans of soda from the bar, gave one to Court, and sat across from the two pilots. He and Court had an unspoken agreement not to drink around Toby.

"Last of the big-time drinkers, too. Cheers," Toby said.

The three men took pulls at their sodas. Court lit a cigarette.

"Gonna kill you someday," Toby said.

Court laughed. "If I live long enough."

"You think we're still winning the war, Court?" Doc Russell asked without preamble. At Bien Hoa on his first tour, Court had been easily convinced the Vietnam war was soon to be won.

Court leaned back and made a sardonic grin. "Look, Doc, why don't you ask something easy, like explain the theory of relativity in twenty-five words or less." Court waved his hand as if to brush away a mosquito.

"Next question."

"That was enough." Doc Russell laughed.

Toby looked up from his notes. "Court, I see you have a pilot named Chet Griggs on your roster. Is he a young captain from the Air Training Command?"

"Yeah. You know him?"

"Somewhat. He tried to wash me out of pilot training.

When he couldn't, he prevented me from going into fighters.

That's why I'm driving O-2s around now."

"What happened?" Doc Russell asked.

Toby told them the story of how he had rolled a T-38 through a barrel-roll maneuver while making an instrument letdown with his instructor pilot, Chet Griggs, in the front c.o.c.kpit. Toby didn't smile as he told the story. "I guess I was, how to put-it ... bored, maybe.

Or shining my a.s.s. Or something. I don't know why I did it. Chet put me up for elimination on the grounds of lack of discipline. I deserved it." He had a look of self-disgust.

"Bad judgment, Tobes," Court said, "doing it with your IP on board.

You're lucky you're still in the Air Force.

Seeing as how he couldn't get you flushed out of pilot training, how do you think he's going to react to you here?"

Toby looked at him. "Chet Griggs is a straight-up guy. If his boss says something will or will not happen, he salutes and says 'yes, sir'

and presses on. At Randolph he came to see me with the news in my BOQ room. We had a fight, but it was my fault. I was drunk. He was really nice about the whole thing. I guess he's accepted that I'm still in the Air Force and that I did get my wings. I think everything will be okay between us."

Doc Russell looked around. "Pretty dull for a Friday night."

"For the Night Owls, it's Friday morning," Court said.

"They're all off to work. And I'm off to bed. Big day tomorrow."

"Not like the old days," Doc Russell said. "No more big nights at the O'Club."

"It's a different war up here, Doc. Much different from Bien Hoa. More losses. Down there we drank to party and have fun. Up here it's more .

. ." He searched for a word.

"Survival?" Doc Russell offered. Court didn't answer.

The three men chatted a bit more about the new BX opening, the protesters in the States, and how much it rained in Asia. When the small talk trailed away, Toby said good night and went back to his room.

Doc Russell shook his head. "You pilots. You always make things so complicated."

"Complicated? What are you talking about? Pilots are the most uncomplicated and easygoing guys around. We're just simple line jocks."

"Simple? No career fighter pilot is simple, and you're more complicated than most."

"You sound like Susan."

"Do I now? I'll bet she thinks you're a bit complicated."

Court didn't answer right away, "Perhaps. She pokes around like you do, asking questions why I feel this way or what I think about that."

"What do you tell her?"

"Not much."

Doc Russell went to the bar and brought back two shots of a good scotch.

"Sipping stuff," he said, handed one to Court and sat down. "I've known you for a long time as far as air wars go. We're on our second tour together, first Bien Hoa, now Udorn. So I'm confident I can tell you what I think and not have you jump through your grommet. I've put a lot of thought to your being so, ah, moody-broody, and this is what I've come up with. First," he ticked off his finger, "you're p.i.s.sed because you can't fly north and get that fifth MiG. Second, you're p.i.s.sed because you don't think the government is doing a good job running this war. Third, you suspect Colonel Bryce isn't being so buddy-buddy anymore because you're suddenly a detriment to his career, not an a.s.set.

Fourth, one of the reasons you're in the Air Force is to leave behind all that Hollywood notoriety c.r.a.p, and now your half-brother has his face and yours plastered over most of the magazines in the world. Fifth, you brood over a failed marriage that wasn't much of a marriage to begin with, and you brood over not finishing the test-pilot school when in fact you got your test ticket but didn't go on to the aeros.p.a.ce portion." His face softened. "And lastly, you've had some losses. Ev Stern, Flak Apple, maybe even that Russian pilot.

There are others, I know."

Court tossed off his scotch. "Well, s.h.i.t, Doc. You've been doing a lot of homework, or snooping, or something. Let's just say it's true. So where does it all lead?"

"It could lead to you giving up. You think you're the only one in the world carrying a lot of weight--"

"Now wait a minute "

Doc Russell held up his hand. "Hear me out. You're pushing too hard.

You want a perfect war, perfect government, perfect marriage, perfect test-pilot school. Yes, perhaps even a perfect enemy-one who remains a monster, not a human being like that Russian pilot. You saw too many John Wayne movies where everything is in black-and-white simplicity.

Real life ain't that way. You take your wars and your women too seriously, and yes, your government. You got to understand," said Baby Huey, happily married father of three, "life is just a handjob."

Court choked on his scotch. "Whaaat?"

Doc Russell laughed. "Got your attention, did I? Good.

Unwind. Learn how to relax. I doubt you were this way as a lieutenant.

I can point all this out to you, but only you can do anything about it."

With mock severity he peered into Court's face. "Und you vas not like dis as a leutenant, so vy be dis way now, yah?"

Court gave a low laugh. "Okay, Herr Doktor Freud, your points are ...

listened to, if not well-taken."

"You'll put some thought to all this?"

"Sure," Court said. A will." They said good night to each other and turned in.

Court smoked two cigarettes before he fell asleep. fie dreamed he and Susan were on two different boats. Hers was pulling away and his was sinking.

0730 HOURS LOCAL, SAt.u.r.dAY 17 FEBRUARY 1968.

8TH Tactical Fighter Wing Udorn ROYAL Air FORCE BASE KINGDOM OF THAILAND The chosen men filed into the main briefing auditorium and headed toward seats in the front rows. There were fourteen of them: lieutenants, captains, one major; pilots and navigators. The auditorium, first door on the left after the front door to Wing Headquarters, had movie theater seats and a large stage from which briefings were given for big strikes fragged for North Vietnam. Large 4-by-8 plywood pullout boards on rollers with maps, photos, and weather charts pinned to them stood in slots on each side. In the center was a movable speaker's podium with the 8th TFW plaque and motto, ATFACK AND CONQUER.

Court Bannister and his new operations officer, Howie Joseph, stood in the open area between the stage and the seats. They had set up a table with a large metal urn of hot coffee and paper cups.

"Gentlemen, come on down and have some coffee. I want everybody to meet each other." Talking and joking quietly among themselves, the men surrounded the coffee table and handed each other coffee. They wore their green K-213 flight suits with rank and name st.i.tched in black thread.

"Most of you know each other because you're from squadrons here in the Eighth," Court said. "But I want to introduce you to ' some people you may have heard of but never met." He put his hand on Joseph's shoulder.

"This is Howie Joseph. He got a MiG with a Thud on his first tour.

It tasted so good he decided to upgrade into a real fighter, the F-4. We are lucky enough to have him on his second tour as our operations officer."

Court put his hand on Toby Parker's shoulder. "And this bright young man is Toby Parker. He is liaison from the O-2 FAC outfit at Da Nang.

He's an old friend, s.h.i.t hot good pilot, authentic combat hero, and knows the Ho Chi Minh Trail area as well as the chin he shaves every morning."

Toby grinned and ducked his head, his face flaming. He still had a hard time admitting to himself that the deeds he performed so automatically were worthy of military recognition. Never in his life before joining the Air Force had he been recognized for much, other than partying and casually skating by serious subjects.

"I think most of you know Tom Partin," Court continued. "He's been in the military since Christ was a corporal." Partin was a silver-haired taciturn Texan whose face was as leathery and worn as an old saddle. He nodded at those he knew, shook hands with those he didn't.

"And over here we have our resident swabbie, Lieutenant Roily Grailson.

As you can tell by his flight suit," Court continued, "the Navy does things different. Not as many zippers, and it is brown to go with his brown shoes, I suppose. Roily is here with us from the mighty USS America, CV 66, where he had been flying F-4JS with VF-33, the Tarsiers." Most of the men had met Grailson the night before at the Officer's Club. Grailson grinned and shook hands.

"Next we have a man who outranks all of us, Major Carlos Bretone."

Bretone came forward. He was a husky man of medium height, with a thick chest, thick cheekbones set high, and Mediterranean-dark coloring. He wore thick gla.s.ses. "Carlos has more fighter time than all of us put together. He's a navigator up from F-89s and F-101s. He's spent more time running aircraft intercepts from the backseat than we pilots have total time up front. Carlos will probably be the first navigator in the Air Force to command a fighter squadron. He just finished flying ninety missions with the 497th Night Owls." Bretone nodded at the crowd.

A quiet man, he wasn't given to small talk. Even though he outranked Court by a few months, he was a.s.signed to him and subject to his orders-and efficiency reports. It was not uncommon for a navigator to be rated by a pilot of lesser rank. It was an anomaly as yet unsolved by the USAF. The Navy, on the other hand, did place Naval Flight Officers in command positions of flying units. An NFO Was not a pilot but a radar intercept officer or bombardier-navigator.

Court turned and waved his hand in a circle. "Duckcall Donny Higgens, Pete Stein, Rail, Mitch.e.l.l, Griggs, Docks, you all know each other." He vaulted to the stage. "If you gentlemen will take your seats, I'll get on with the briefing."

As they sat down, Court saw each man pull out a notebook and pencil.

"Good. I never trust a man who doesn't take notes."

He pulled out the first board. Pinned to it was a 1:250,000 aerial navigation chart depicting western Thailand, all of Laos and Cambodia, and North and South Vietnam. The cities of Hanoi, Saigon, Phnom Penh, Vientiane, and Bangkok were highlighted. The dozens of USAF air bases suitable for recovery in South Vietnam and Thailand were circled and named.

There were three arrows pointing into Hanoi. "These are the supply lines running into North Vietnam," Court said.

He traced the line from the east, from the Gulf of Tonkin.

"This one is from the harbors of Haiphong, Hon Gai, and Cam Pha. These two, from the northeast and the northwest, are railroads from China. Red Chinese supplies exclusively come down the northeast rails, Russian and Chinese flow down the northwest line. Ships from both Russia and China plus from Sweden, Britain, and other countries including our own unload supplies in these harbors."

The men groaned and booed. They had flown many missions up north and had only occasionally been targeted by the White House against these vital supply routes. They had never been allowed to completely cut the rail lines and keep them cut, or place antishipping mines in the harbors. They couldn't even attack SAM sites and MiG bases under construction. It was worth a court-martial to attack a ship in the harbor--even if it shot at a plane.

"What do you mean," one of the younger backseaters asked, "about ships of our own in the harbor? How the h.e.l.l can we be attacking gook materials from the air while Americans are supplying them from the sea?"

"The boats I refer to are from various American antimilitary groups such as the American Friends Service Committee and the Quakers. They ship medical supplies to the communists."

"And that stuff winds up on the Trail," the young man said.

"That's right," Court replied.

"And we lose pilots trying to destroy it."

"That's right."

"Geez. My mother never warned me there'd be wars like this."

Court continued his briefing. "From Hanoi the supplies go straight south along the rail and road lines, then on to Route 12 to the west into the Annamite Mountains, where they split the flow into Laos through the three pa.s.ses. Most of you have flown the Trail, but this is the first mosaic we have put together that shows the whole route structure.