Batman was late, having spent several hours debriefing and several more with paperwork. There'd also been his fruitless search for Tombstone. Pulling a succession of bolters was rough, and he wanted to know how the Vipers' skipper was doing.
"Attention on deck!" Tigershark McConnell shouted, grinning broadly, as Batman walked in. "Gentlemen, our day's high-scorer has just arrived!"
A coffee mug bearing Jefferson's name and number was pressed into his hand. "Thanks, Tiger. Frenchie also scored two, you know."
McConnell raised the paper cup he was holding. "Fallen comrades," he toasted. "They were the best." Batman sipped the amber liquid in his mug and nearly choked on the smoky bite of scotch. "That's good," he managed.
"We got different flavors," Army Garrison Murcheson said from the refreshment table. "Scotch, rum, vodka, wine, Michelob, Black Label, Lowenbrau…"
"Not to mention Kool-Aid," Malibu added. "Name your Poison, compadre."
Batman raised his mug. "This'll do… just fine." He was mildly surprised at the ebullient mood. Somehow, Batman had thought that the tone of the gathering would be more subdued after the deaths of Dragon, Snoops, and ― perhaps most shocking of all ― the Deputy CAG. In some ways, the party had the aura of nostalgia, good humor, and fellowship that Batman imagined must characterize an Irish wake, a celebration of good comrades bravely gone, made light by the forced bravado of "the same thing can't possibly happen to me."
If there was anything dampening the gathering's mood, it was the knowledge that someone up the chain of command had "screwed the pooch," aborting the Alpha Strike minutes before it was due to go in. Somewhere along the line there'd been a failure of nerve, and the men of Jefferson's air wing had paid for it that afternoon. Though casualties might well have been higher had Operation Winged Talon gone in, the deaths of French, Ashly, and Whitridge were perceived as the results of the bungling of an uncaring and impersonal bureaucracy. Morale was down, and more than one officer could be heard discussing the mental and moral shortcomings of "those Washington REMFs."
"So, compadre," Malibu said as Batman drained his mug. "You ever corral Tombstone?"
"Negative." Batman shook his head. "I was hoping to find him here."
"Fat chance. Y'know, dude, I think the man's layin' low."
Snake Hoffner became part of the conversation through the sheer press of the crowd. It seemed unlikely that the Me Jo could hold even one more man. "Hey, I heard old Tombstone pulled a couple bolters," he said. "Was it bad?"
Malibu shrugged. "He's been wired since Coyote and Mardi Gras bought it."
Batman studied his empty mug. It was not something he particularly wanted to talk about. Hoffner was young, one of VF-95's nuggets. His dunking in the Sea of Japan that afternoon had done nothing to dampen his youthful exuberance. He hadn't yet learned all the social graces of the aviators' fraternity. Like the fact that you didn't talk about a man who might have lost the stuff that made him part of the brotherhood.
"'Tention on deck!"
This time the alert was for real. Captain Fitzgerald stepped into the room and the men rose, awkwardly attempting to keep drinks and paper plates from spilling as they stood at attention.
"Carry on, gentlemen," he said, smiling broadly. Batman thought he looked… older now, or perhaps it was just the effects of exhaustion. Fitzgerald had rarely been absent from either the bridge or CIC during the past three days, and the beginnings of blue smudges on the pouches beneath his eyes were showing.
"Just wanted to drop in and tell you men 'well done,'" the Captain said, "And to let You all know that Jefferson has been officially credited with eight blue bandit kills today. That's one each for Lieutenants Taggart, Garrison, McConnell, and Grabiak. Two kills for Commander French." He sobered for a moment, then brightened again as he turned and looked Batman in the face. "And two for this hotdog here! If we keep this up, the NKs aren't going to have one goddamned fighter left!"
There was an answering explosion of applause and laughter.
"I know I speak for all of us… and for Admiral Magruder as well, when I say that Commander French and Lieutenants Ashly and Whitridge will be sorely, sorely missed. They were good men, all of them, good aviators and good shipmates. But they gave their lives in the service of their country, and no man can ask for a better epitaph than that." He looked around, noting coffee mugs and paper cups. "Well now, I don't suppose anyone's saved some of that Kool-Aid for me?"
"Comin' right up, Captain." Someone handed him a paper cup. He sipped at it appreciatively, made a sour face, and looked at it.
"Lemonade," he said, sounding disappointed. He looked up at Batman. "You know, Wayne, too much sugar can be bad for you, especially when you have to fly the next day. Screws up your metabolism."
"Yes, sir."
"That goes for all of you. Not too much sugar." Fitzgerald tossed off the rest of the cup. "That's all, men. Have a good evening. Thanks for the… Kool-Aid."
"Good night, Captain."
Batman stared dubiously into his own mug. "What did you give him, Tiger? Lemonade, or…?"
"I'll never tell," Tigershark replied primly.
The laughter and easy conversation picked up again moments after the Captain had gone. Malibu took Batman's mug. "Let me get you a refill. What's your flavor?"
"More of the same," Batman replied. "But with ice this time."
"You think Tombstone'll be okay?" Hoffner asked.
"They don't make 'em any better, Snake," Batman said. "He'll do just fine."
Another junior officer crowded close. Lieutenant j.g. Peter Costello was about the same age as Snake but looked even younger. "Hey, listen, Batman, I wanted to say congratulations on your kills! Real smooth work, y'know?"
Batman smiled. "Thanks, Hitman." Costello's running name, it was said, was derived from the tough Italian street-kid manner he affected at times.
"I saw it, man," Army Garrison said, leaning over Hoffner's shoulder. "Watched his first missile going' in smooth as silk…" He slapped the palm of one hand across the other. "Kapow! Fireball city!"
"No shit?" Costello shook his head. A nugget pilot with VF-97, he'd missed the fight. He looked positively wistful.
Batman wasn't certain what to say. A modest answer didn't seem to be in character somehow, but a cocky reply would have been out of place. Malibu gave him an excuse to turn away by returning with his drink. "Great timing, Malibu. Thanks."
"Hey, Batman?" Costello persisted. "I was wantin' to ask you. What's it feel like, killing a man?"
The question took Batman completely by surprise. He blinked. "What?"
"I was just wondering how it felt, killing a human being like that. You feel different? Anything?"
The words hit Batman like a hammer blow. He'd always considered himself to be a professional, hard and detached. That the question should rock him so badly surprised him as much as the question itself.
"Hey, Batman?" Malibu laid a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"
"Fine. I'm fine." He made himself swallow the rest of his scotch, letting the liquid fire mingle with the fire in his stomach. A new emotion mingled with the others. Shame. He was ashamed of letting the others know how he felt.
Suddenly he had to get away. He handed his mug to Hoffner, the ice cubes tinkling merrily. "Stow this ― I think I'm going to turn in."
He pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the back-slaps and shouted congratulations as he went.
Batman wanted to be alone with thoughts grown suddenly black.
Surf hissed and thundered, the breakers faintly luminescent under the glimmer of lights from the oil refinery on a bluff overlooking the bay to the south. Chief Huerta let the waves carry him toward the beach in a succession of rushes. He held his rucksack in front of his body with his left hand, using it as shield and flotation device. His right hand held a Colt XM 177E2 Commando braced across the top of the rucksack. The SMG, barrel-heavy because of the custom suppressor affixed to the muzzle, tracked in his hand as he watched the blackness of the shore.