"Seriously," Leigh Ann said, tilting her head in her innocently provocative way. "I sense that Brad Austin doesn't let anyone get too far under the surface."
"Well," Brad furrowed his brow and shifted slightly in his chair, "generally speaking, the more shallow the wound, the less one bleeds."
"Does that mean you are not interested in a relationship that may require a commitment on your part?"
Suddenly uncomfortable, Brad turned slightly to face Leigh Ann. "I suppose it's my nature to be cautious."
Her eyes widened as she smiled. "Flying jet fighters off an aircraft carrier is your idea of cautious?"
Brad suppressed a grin. "I have confidence in what I do on board the carrier, or in aerial combat. If I had a single doubt about my capabilities, then I couldn't do what I do."
He hesitated, unsure if he should fully communicate his feelings. "Leigh Ann, in the air — in a combat engagement — I want the enemy pilot to commit first, so I can see what I have to do to kill… to defeat him."
"It really is a hostile environment, isn't it?"
Brad frowned again. "Sure it is. The guys slugging through the jungles and fighting from foxholes are under stress too. They live with it twenty-four hours a day. I, at least, have a hot meal and a clean bed to sleep in."
They both remained quiet a moment, contemplating their feelings about the war.
"Leigh Ann, whether a person is flying fighters or fighting from a foxhole is immaterial in my mind. We have been sent to Vietnam to fight a war. There's only one hitch, however; our government won't let us win."
She looked Brad in the eye. "My Dad says that he believes in saving lives instead of killing people."
Brad shrugged, then swirled his wine slowly. "I agree with your father's philosophy, but there are many factions, backed by huge armies, who do not subscribe to our standards of civilization."
"Do you think," she paused while a waiter passed, "that we should be in Vietnam?"
"Leigh Ann, the concept of protecting our allies from being invaded is rightful, in my opinion. Wouldn't you defend a family member, or friend?"
"Yes, but there is so little support for the war here at home. You've seen the protesters and demonstrations. That's all we see, or read about."
Brad shook his head slowly. "That's because this mess goes on month after month without any definable results. People are frustrated, Leigh Ann. They see the mounting American casualties — the hundreds of body bags on television every night-but they don't see any end to the war. We have the military capability to end the Communist aggression swiftly and decisively, and most people know that."
"Then why don't we?"
"Because," Brad answered, trying to speak calmly, "the Johnson administration doesn't have the courage to do what needs to be done. They've muddled the original goal into an illogical, vacillating war of slow escalation, hamstrung by countless restrictions."
Leigh Ann looked frightened. "Your face is flushed." "Please don't be offended, but I would like to forget the war while we're here."
"Me, too," she smiled, unsettled by Brad's anger. "May we talk about your future? What your plans are?"
Brad chuckled softly. "My future is anyone's guess. I put in a request to fly for the Blue Angels — the navy flight demonstration team. But, since I'm an academy grad who joined the marines, they'll probably shitcan — sorry — deep six my request. Who knows?"
"Yes," Leigh Ann laughed in a teasing way, "I can tell that you're definitely a cautious guy."
"My RIO — you met Harry in Hawaii — would certainly disagree with you." Brad thought about their flight to Phuc Yen. He swallowed his anxiety, glancing out the window at a catamaran. "How about a ferryboat ride around the bay, then we'll watch the sunset from the Fairmont Crown?"
"That sounds like fun," Leigh Ann exclaimed. "Will we have time to change for dinner?"
"Sure. Wear your favorite dress, and I'll wear a coat and tie, if I can remember how to tie a tie."
Leigh Ann beamed. "Brad, this is very special for me." She hesitated, wishing she had the nerve to tell him that she was falling helplessly in love with him. "I hope you know that."
Brad looked embarrassed, as if he had read her thoughts. "You are very special to me."
"I mean it, Brad. You have restored my confidence in men, and in myself… and I apologize if I grilled you."
"Forget it," Brad chuckled, not wishing to pursue the subject further. "By the way, tomorrow is your day."
"Excuse me?"
"Tomorrow," he smiled and placed his hand over hers, "I thought it would be nice to have you plan our day."
Leigh Ann started to speak, then stopped when Brad shrugged his shoulders in a questioning gesture. "What would you like to see?" he asked, picking up their check. "Where would you like to go?"
Leigh Ann looked a bit bewildered.
"Something wrong?"
"No," she laughed. "I'll give it some thought, and we'll discuss it over dinner."
Chapter 31
Commander Dan Bailey sat at the wardroom table, listening to three of his junior officers arguing about the lack of national objectives in the Vietnam War. Bailey was concerned about their collective sense of skepticism and their callous, cynical attitude toward the politicians in Washington.
The acting executive officer, Lt. Cdr. Jack Carella, walked briskly into the dining room. Spotting the CO, Carella walked over to his table.
"Sir," the XO said stiffly, "may I have a word with you?" "Sure. Pull up a chair," Bailey replied, curious about the reason for Carella's serious look.
"Skipper, I need to speak with you in private." In unison, the three junior officers started to slide their chairs back.
"No," Bailey said, placing his napkin on the table. "Finish your meal, gentlemen. The XO and I will move to another table."
"Yessir," the three officers replied in chorus.
Bailey and Carella stepped a few feet away to a vacant table, then asked a steward for fresh cups of coffee. "What's up, Jocko?"
"Sir," Carella began, spreading a message on the tablecloth, "we just received this from Seventh Fleet."
Bailey read that the North Vietnamese had complained to the international press that an American navy F-4 Phantom had destroyed two MiGs at Phuc Yen, an airfield that had been declared a prohibited military target.
The message went on to say that the North Vietnamese government had lodged a formal complaint, which had been picked up by national newspapers and three major television networks. Excerpts from the New York Times and the Chicago Tribune had been included in the message.
Most startling to Bailey was the paragraph stating that the North Vietnamese were releasing a photograph of the intruding aircraft. The picture, taken by a foreign correspondent, indicated that the intruding aircraft was from their carrier.
Bailey grimaced. "What the hell are they trying to do?"
Carella talked in a low voice. "I don't know, but I can confirm this. The Pentagon is calling the accusations falsehoods and propaganda… and so is the White House."
Bailey studied Carella for a moment. "Then what's the flap about? What's bothering you?"
"Sir, I talked to a friend of mine at Pearl — he's on CINCPAC's staff."
Bailey arched his eyebrows, impatient for Carella to make his point. "And?"
"He said less than fifteen minutes ago that the aircraft is rumored to be from our squadron."
"What?" Bailey said loudly enough to attract the attention of nearby officers.
"That's what he told me, sir."
Bailey shook his head. "That's bullshit, Jocko. There's some new accusation every week."