Bailey turned to Brad and Russ. "I want both of you to report to Doc McCary. We'll get together with Palmer and Hutton later."
"Skipper," Lunsford said, wiping his face with the sleeve of his flight suit, "I don't need to see the flight surgeon. I need to see a shrink."
"You, along with the rest of us," Bailey replied as Nick Palmer's Phantom slammed onto the steel deck and snagged the three wire.
Chapter 7
Brad Austin toweled himself dry and leaned over the wash-basin. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. The three small bottles of medicinal alcohol Doc McCary had given him, along with the seven hours of restless sleep, had not erased the image of the trees rushing up to kill him.
Walking down the passageway to his stateroom, Brad met his roommate, who was returning from dinner.
"You missed the celebration in the ready room," Harry Hutton said. "Palmer is now a legend in his own mind."
Brad brushed his close-cropped hair with a thin, fraying towel. "He deserves the recognition. He bagged a gomer… and got my dumb ass back to the boat."
Grinning mischievously, Hutton shook his head. "That was one hell of a show you put on. Have you been down to see that pile of shit?"
Stepping into the small berthing compartment, Brad set down his dopp kit. "No, and I really don't care to be reminded, okay? I almost killed Russ twice today."
Hutton sensed that his friend, normally easygoing and even-tempered, was not in the mood for jocularity. "Okay. The old man wants to see Nick, Russ, you, and me in his stateroom at nineteen hundred."
"I'll be there," Brad responded, opening his small closet. "What's for chow?"
Hutton sat down and casually propped his feet on the lower-bunk bed. "Chicken fried steak and smashed potatoes."
Brad glanced at Harry. "Smashed potatoes?"
"Wait til you see 'em."
Austin donned a fresh uniform shirt and slipped on a pair of razor-creased khaki trousers. He turned to the small washbasin, picked up his toothbrush, squeezed toothpaste on the bristles, and looked at Hutton's reflection in the mirror. "Something on your mind?"
"As a matter of fact," Harry said uncomfortably, "I do have something I'd like to mention. Two items, actually." "Shoot," Brad replied, brushing vigorously.
Hutton remained quiet a few moments, contemplating how best to phrase his two topics. "First, the Air Boss didn't want to let you come aboard. He wanted you guys to fly upwind and jump out."
Rinsing his mouth, Brad again glanced at Hutton's image in the mirror. "Well, in retrospect, I would have to agree with him."
Hutton stood, walked over next to Brad, and leaned against the bulkhead. "The CO talked him out of it, because of the sea state. He was afraid both of you would drown before the helo could find you."
Hutton walked to the bunk and stretched out with his hands behind his head. "Bailey told the Air Boss that if there was anyone on the boat who could bring a Fox-4 aboard at a hundred fifty knots, it was you, his marine nutcase."
Brad wiped his mouth. "Nutcase?"
"Look, I'm only repeating what the XO and Carella said during Palmer's ready-room grab-ass."
Brad sat down at his small desk and leaned back. "I believe you had another item on your agenda."
Hutton sat up and put his feet on the deck. "We're friends, right?"
Brad nodded.
"Everyone likes you," Hutton continued, "but face it, you are somewhat of an enigma."
Brad Austin remained silent, showing no outward signs of emotion. For Harry, being serious was unusual and difficult.
"You're a marine fighter jock," Harry said carefully, "in a navy squadron… and you're damn good. You and Palmer, one on one, would be a hell of a match."
Austin looked at his watch. "Are you trying to butter me up for a date or something? Throw it on the table."
"Well," Harry began, then hesitated. "I, along with some of the other guys, think you are pressing too hard."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I really do. That remark you made a couple of days ago — in the ready room — when Dirty Ernie said something about feeling helpless the time that they had been surrounded by seven MiGs."
"Go on," Brad prompted, leaning forward.
"You said something to the effect that you felt being surrounded was, in reality, just a better opportunity to bag more MiGs. That remark raised a few eyebrows."
Feeling exasperated, Brad rubbed his sore neck muscles. The violent barricade engagement had whipped his head more severely than any trap he had ever made.
"Harry, let me set the record straight. I am not a warmonger, and I don't get any pleasure out of war, or killing people. I despise wars, and I despise the psychopathic tyrants who perpetrate warfare.
"I enjoy flying, and the Marine Corps spent more than a million dollars to train me to be a fighter pilot. I didn't expect to ever use my special skills, nor did I have a desire to shoot people."
Hutton raised his hands. "Enough. I know you better than anyone else, and you — "
"Wait a minute," Austin interrupted, feeling a need to vent his frustrations. "Hear me out. I had my future planned, about ready to go to graduate school, when our illustrious buffoons in the White House decided to jump into this goddamned mess.
"I packed my trash, like I was ordered to do, and marched my ass over here. Now, after all the training and psyching myself emotionally, we have rules of engagement that had to have been developed by morons. Christ, the North Vietnamese have to be rolling on the ground in Hanoi laughing their asses off at our ineptitude."
"Brad, my man," Hutton said, feeling the same disdain for the combat restrictions, "you can't change the course of this administration, so just take care of number one."
For weeks, the topic of conversation in the ready rooms, wardrooms, and staterooms had been the shackles imposed on combat operations. Many senior military commanders had been calling for maximum-effort attacks on the key components of North Vietnam's war-making machine.
"Harry, I can't shut off my mind and just waddle down the path of least resistance. Jesus, we're sitting here, basically throwing dirt clods at tanks.
"We've got the capability," Austin continued, incensed, "to blast the Communist regime into total submission using conventional weapons. We need to destroy their military complexes, electrical power plants, key industrial sites, petroleum storage facilities, transportation systems, bridges, air-defense installations, and — my favorite topic — airfields.
"But no," Brad persisted, "we have the 'McNamara War.' A goddamn piecemeal, half-assed effort that is confined to bombing a rail-repair shop, a power transformer, a couple of unimportant bridges, a small cement plant, and — if we haven't pissed the commies off too much with those devastating attacks — perhaps a truck depot or laundry facility."
"Hey," Harry said in his seldom-used, serious voice. "You need some chow, and I could go for another dessert. Let's go grab a bite, then we'll see the old man."
"All right," Brad replied, trying to suppress his anger at the fact that the aircrews were having to risk their lives on missions of little or no importance.
"Harry, tell me one thing. Am I crazy? Has my logic missed the brilliance of this scheme, or do I not understand the big picture?"
Hutton placed his hand on the doorknob. "Brad, I understand your frustration. I feel it, too, but I've buried my feelings because I don't have any say in what type of missions we will fly."
"I can't bury my anger." The bitter reply was very unusual for the easygoing pilot. "Harry, think about this. We can now attack the MiG base at Kep but not the airfield at Phuc Yen. Right?"
"Right," Hutton replied, still holding the knob.
"So the resident genius in Hanoi moves all the operational MiGs to Phuc Yen, since we notified them that the MiG field was off-limits to our pilots. Absolutely brilliant planning."