She blew it when she glanced over at the general to see if she'd gotten it right. I knew at that point that good old Fred spoke a good deal more English than he'd let on. I turned to him and spoke directly to him.
"You know what happened. So you just explain it to her. And I gotta go with my buddy." The rear doors to the ambulance were now closed, and Gator was out of sight. I was growing increasingly desperate. "C'mon, you'd feel the same way if it were your backseater, wouldn't you?"
General Hue regarded me for a long moment, as though trying to decide whether or not to admit that he spoke English. Finally, without a word, he nodded. He rattled off a short series of commands in Vietnamese, then turned back to me.
"Thank you." The words were harsh and guttural, and barely understandable. It was evidently one of the few phrases he was willing to admit that he knew in English.
I stared back and gaped. None of this was making sense, none of it. I was certain that the general understood a good deal more than he was letting on.
But then again, you're not really in a position to challenge a general's word when you're a prisoner of war. I settled for being handcuffed and placed in the back of the ambulance with Gator.
With a rough squeal of tires, the ambulance took off from the edge of the pier. They lit up the siren, but only for a few minutes, evidently to clear traffic out ahead. I looked back at the pier through the rear window of the ambulance, and saw the general standing there talking to our interpreter.
The hospital looked like any hospital ― smelled funny, lots of white walls, a lot of people doing things that seem either painful, embarrassing, or downright pointless. Nevertheless, they seemed to treat Gator pretty well. I refused to leave the room, so they just ignored me as they wheeled in a portable X-ray machine, took some shots of his arm, then motioned to me to follow as they wheeled him down the hall.
An hour later, Gator had a real fine smile on his face, the result of whatever painkiller they'd pumped into him shortly after we arrived. He also had a nice white cast on his arm, and a neatly tied scarf in place for his sling.
"How you feeling?" I asked quietly. "Listen, you know where we are?"
Gator smiled dreamily. "Hong Kong?"
"No." It was as bad as I thought it might be. Gator was disoriented, and there was no telling what he might say until the drugs wore off. "Gator, listen to me. You punched us out, we were in the drink. The Vietnamese picked us up. Listen, good buddy, they're taking real good care of us so far. But I don't know how long that will last. You need to keep your mouth shut, don't say anything. Not about the ship, not about the aircraft, not about anything. You got that?"
"You're always telling me to shut up," Gator said vaguely. He looked up at me, and his pupils were dilated until they ate up the whole iris. "You never listen to me."
"I will from now on, Gator." I laid my hand on his good one, and held it tight. "You were right this last time, buddy. You were absolutely right and you saved my ass. But you gotta listen to me, Gator ― pay attention now. Don't say anything. We're POWs, you understand?"
Gator nodded. "Don't say anything." His voice trailed off into a sleepy mumble. I sat right next to him in the room as activity teemed in the passageway. Through the open door, I could see more pilots being brought in, all of them Vietnamese. The sounds of a working hospital were almost overwhelming.
For a while, I thought they'd forgotten about us. But no such luck. Finally a big heavy guy, a security fellow of some sort, showed up. "Come." The word was clear and understandable.
I stood up, then motioned to Gator. "He can't walk just yet."
That damn panel truck was back, parked right by the ambulance entrance. It must have followed us back from the pier. I couldn't be certain it was the same one, but it looked like it. It had that faded, oxidized green you get on Army vehicles, streaked with rust on the sides. It looked pretty rickety, but the engine sounded decent.
The guard motioned us to the back of the truck, and I helped Gator in first. Damn, it was so hard not to jar him ― thank God the drugs hadn't worn off yet. He moved like a little schoolkid, sort of clumsy and awkward, with a trusting expression on his face.
I handed him up into the truck, and whispered to him, "Don't forget. Don't say anything." He nodded once dreamily, scooted back into one corner, and seemed to doze off. I turned back to our guard. "Where are we going?"
He motioned at the truck again with his rifle.
I took the hint. As soon as I sat down, he slammed the door shut and I heard the lock turn. He walked around, got into the passenger seat, and talked to the driver for a minute. We pulled away, out of the parking lot, and onto a paved road.
Thirty minutes later, we were deep in the countryside. The road had degenerated to a rutted track, mostly paved but often not. Gator was awake now ― the first teeth-rattling jolt over an enormous pothole had brought him awake with an anguished moan. Now he just sat there, staring out into the air, holding his arm close to him and trying to keep it from jarring. It looked like the drugs were wearing off ― his face was getting tight, and his pupils were contracting.
"How're you doing, Gator?" I raised my voice to be heard over the rattling of our vehicle.
He groaned and turned white as we jolted hard to the right. I knew, whatever he said, he wasn't doing well at all. Not at all.
"I'm okay," he said finally. The words were forced out between clenched teeth. "My arm ― they fixed me?"
Okay, so maybe he wasn't all the way there yet. The last couple of hours must have been a blur for him. I debated rehashing them, then glanced toward the front. There was nothing separating us from the security man and the driver, and I had evidence that the security man knew at least one word of English. "Yeah, they set your arm."
Gator nodded, then looked back up at me. "What happened?"
I shook my head. "Not here, Gator. It's not safe." I pointed to the guys up front. His eyes followed my gesture, and it seemed to make sense to him. He nodded, then said, "Are you okay?"
Jesus, how could the guy even think of it? Here we were, trundling off to God knows where, his arm in a sling and my ass in one, and he asks if I'm okay? I don't know what I ever did to deserve flying with a guy like Gator, but whatever it was, it wasn't enough. He'd been taking care of me for years now, going along with some of the wild-ass schemes I cooked up ― the one over the Arctic came to mind first, where we'd whizzed along blind nearly at ground level to chase down some bad guys living in the ice spears ― and he'd damned near never said a word. Oh sure, he complained from time to time, but he went along with it. And so far, I hadn't done anything serious enough to get us killed.
At least not until now.
If I ever got out of here, I was gonna have to make it up to him somehow. Be more considerate, not roll inverted in a steep dive just for the sheer hell of it when I know it pisses him off. Listen to him occasionally, even laugh at those dumb-ass jokes he likes. Hell, I'd even make his rack every day if it would get us out of this situation.
"I'm fine," I said finally. "As fine as I can be."
Gator nodded. It looked like the medicine had kicked in just a little bit more. His eyes, unfocused and glazed, drifted shut, then jolted back open wide as we hit another bump.
"Where are they taking us? Did they say?"
"They're not the most talkative of fellows," I said.
I'd taken a long hard look at the sky when we walked out of the hospital and headed for the truck, wondering if the air battle was still going on. I hoped not ― it had looked like it was turning in our favor when we departed the pattern, but I couldn't be sure. Still, given enough Tomcats and Hornets, the United States Navy can whip the ass of any fighter air force around. And that included the bad-ass MiGs that were flown by the Vietnamese. Hell, I'd shot down a couple myself in the last Spratly Islands conflict.