“I know all about Raven Swoop. I received a top secret briefing.”
“Then you also know that Catfish distinguished himself in combat. I can attest that without his bravery, the operation would not have succeeded. That’s why I’m recommending him for a posthumous decoration.”
Maxwell saw Buckner and Boyce exchange a quick glance. Buckner seemed to be enjoying himself. He said, “What’s this world coming to? A Navy commander recommending a medal for an Air Force officer? Have you guys been at sea too long?”
“General, you said something to the effect that you didn’t want Bass back. I took that to mean Bass’s official record was my responsibility. I intend to see that he gets the honor he deserves.”
At this Buckner grinned, displaying a row of very large teeth. “What I said, if I remember correctly, was that you guys could keep the dumb bastard until hell freezes over or the war is finished, whichever took longer.”
Maxwell took a deep breath, trying to suppress his anger. General or not, this Buckner was a jerk. “Well, sir, the war is finished. And since Catfish is no longer with us, I want to set the record straight.”
“The record is straight. Whether or not he deserves a medal, he also deserves a kick in the ass. He’s a goldbricking, showboating, goof-off who should have been court-martialed.”
Maxwell had heard enough. Catfish Bass, for all his faults, didn’t deserve badmouthing from some blue suit windbag.
“General, with all due respect, you’re full of crap.” In the corner of his eye, he saw Boyce’s eyeballs roll. “Major Bass lost his life trying—”
“Commander, how long have you been away from your carrier?”
“A week, nearly two.”
Buckner looked at Boyce, who had resumed his study of a spot on the ceiling. “You haven’t enlightened him about recent events, have you, Red?”
“No, sir.”
“What recent events?” asked Maxwell.
“You’ll see.” The general polished off his martini and rose to his feet. “Follow me.”
They followed him through the main hall of the visitors’ quarters, up the stairs to the second floor, down another hall. The general said nothing as he marched down the aisle. His leather heels hammered like drumbeats on the marble floor.
Maxwell heard a sound wafting from the end of the hall. It sounded like guitar music. Or some variety of stringed instrument played off key. To his ear, it sounded like bungee cords being tortured.
Buckner stopped at an unmarked door. Without knocking, he marched inside. Maxwell followed — then stopped in his tracks. He stared at the apparition in the bed. His guess had been correct — it was a guitar.
Played by Catfish Bass.
Maxwell’s gaze shifted to the figure in the chair next to the bed. He recognized the black hair, the high cheekbones, the slender shape — but it didn’t compute. Nothing computed anymore.
“Hey, shipmate,” said Bass. “You’re a long way from the boat, aren’t you?”
Maxwell stared, unable to speak.
“Hello, Sam,” said Mai-ling. “The general said you’d be surprised.” She handed drinks to the newcomers. “I made mai tais. Catfish loves them.”
“General,” said Bass, “this is the guy I told you about. Brick Maxwell, coolest Tac-Air jock outside the Air Force. Saved all our butts, even though he couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a pistol.”
He was wearing a white hospital robe, and an IV unit was parked next to his bed. But he didn’t have the appearance of a man who had been shot in the chest and then incinerated in a horrific helicopter crash. Catfish Bass looked more alive than Maxwell had ever seen him.
He sipped at the drink, not trusting himself to speak. It was possible, he thought, that he was hallucinating. None of this was making sense. The guy in the bed looked exactly like Catfish Bass. And the black-haired Chinese girl in the tight jeans and T shirt looked just like the girl he’d seen in her stateroom on the Reagan two weeks ago.
“Excuse me for asking,” said Maxwell. “But why aren’t you dead?”
“Good question,” said Buckner. He closed the door behind them. “Major, I’ll remind you one more time, this information is classified. Go ahead and tell your tale, and this time leave out the extraneous bullshit.”
“Yes, sir.” Bass set the guitar aside. “You have to take some of this on hearsay, Brick. As you know, I took a bullet back there at Chouzhou. I was pretty much out of it by the time Colonel Chiu hauled me aboard the Chinook. Just after the chopper lifted off, a mortar round took out one of the aft rotor blades and we did some kind of gyration that trashed the helicopter. The bullet was still in my lung, and I wasn’t doing so good.”
Maxwell nodded. “I saw it. I was still on the ground.”
“So was I,” said Mai-ling. She was sitting next to Catfish again, stroking his hand.
“I don’t know exactly what happened next, but while the Chopper was tearing itself to pieces, Chiu and one of his commandos managed to jump clear, and they dragged me with them. With his tac radio, he was able to call the Chinook that had already left. He came swooping back and snatched us out of there just before the ChiComs overran the LZ.”
Listening to the story, Maxwell thought again of the taciturn Colonel Chiu, who disliked Americans and then risked his life to save them. He had been wrong about Chiu. He had been wrong about several things.
“We weren’t out of the woods yet,” Bass went on. “The Chinook that rescued us also took some hits. We barely made it past the coast before things started getting ugly. The sun was just coming up when one of the engines crapped out. The pilot told us we were going to ditch, and I knew then that it just wasn’t my day. The only thing I hate worse than getting shot is getting dumped in the ocean.”
“Another reason to be in the Air Force,” muttered Buckner.
“Yes, sir, my thoughts exactly. The damned chopper started losing power and—plop! — there I was in the drink again.”
Maxwell frowned, listening to the story. Catfish Bass’s life was becoming more and more bizarre.
“Now this is the really weird part. The chopper pilot must have had contact with his central command, because he was heading for a Taiwanese warship — a destroyer or frigate or whatever you guys call those boats. Before we ever reached the ship — you’re not gonna believe this, Brick — a bomb had already come from absolutely nowhere and hit the ass end of the ship.”
“What do you mean, from nowhere?”
“The captain of the ship — a really cool guy named Lei Fu-Sheng — said he had nothing on the radar, no aircraft overhead, no enemy activity. And then, boom, the Kai Yang—that’s the name of the ship — took a hit.”
Maxwell nodded. “And you knew where the bomb came from?”
“Sure I knew, and so did Colonel Chiu, but we didn’t say anything. By the way, I heard that you gave that Chinese stealth pilot some serious payback.”
Maxwell and Mai-ling made eye contact. She gave him an imperceptible nod.
“Anyway,” Bass went on, “my world was turning into shit city. While the crew of the destroyer was still fighting this fire, we ditched alongside. As you can imagine, the captain was very happy to have a bunch of shot up grunts to add to his problems. But he had his ship’s doctor do emergency surgery on me in their sick bay. He removed the bullet from my chest and got me stabilized. Just in time, they tell me, or I’d have been room temperature.”
“What happened to the ship?”
“Dead in the water, a sitting duck for another bomb or a sub attack. But one of their escort destroyers shows up and takes us all aboard, shoots a couple torpedoes into the Kai Yang to sink her, and off we go again. I woke up in the military hospital here in Taipei.”