"Stand at ease," Bailey waved his hand, "both of you." Harry and Brad assumed the position of a relaxed parade rest.
Brad focused on Bailey's eyes. "I was initially in shock, sir, which turned to rage. I was consumed by the desire to kill Dao before he shot down another aircraft. I also felt responsible for letting my flight leader down, and I remembered what you had told us."
"What's that?" Bailey asked with a curious look.
"In the ready room, when you mentioned that the admiral wanted Major Dao bagged… that it was a priority."
Bailey's shoulders slumped. "Within the rules of engagement, Austin. Do I have to draw a goddamn picture for you?"
"Sir," Brad said emotionally, "Major Dao didn't have any rules-of-engagement restrictions. This entire war has been marked by political meanderings and flawed decisions, and there is going to be a backlash at some point. Sir, I fully understand about my oath, and following orders."
Wetting his dry lips, Brad continued in a pleasant, conversational manner. "Sir, I submit to you that there are times when we have to question the morality of orders that are not sound. This, in my logic, is not morally right — restrictions, stipulated by our civilian leadership, that place us in a corner and needlessly endanger more lives."
Bailey's look was almost a glare.
Brad paused, weighing his options. "Sir, those rules — the restrictions — have caused a lot of lives to be lost unnecessarily. You know that better than anyone. You have to write the letters to their families."
Seeing that he had hit a chord, Brad stopped talking. He knew that the skipper had the same doubts that he felt, but Bailey could not do anything about the situation.
"Captain, I am not going to debate with you. My job is to get to the bottom of this fiasco, and inform you and Mister Hutton that you're to report to the flag bridge at zero eight hundred tomorrow morning."
"Yes, sir."
"Until then, you and Hutton are confined to quarters. Your meals will be brought to your stateroom, and you are not to talk with anyone." Bailey's voice rose. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
"Yessir," Brad answered in a respectful tone. "Your orders are perfectly clear."
"Now," Bailey said, emotionally drained, "I have the unpleasant task of facing the admiral, and confirming that one of my crews set off this international incident. He may want to see you now."
"Commander," Brad inhaled deeply, "if I submit my resignation, we can avoid a court-martial."
Harry found his voice. "Sir, I will also submit my resignation."
Bailey examined their faces. "I will talk to the admiral about that possibility." He glanced at the message to be endorsed by the admiral. "Dismissed."
Chapter 35
The music in the passageway was faint. Brad listened to the harmony and thought about Leigh Ann. What was she doing at this very moment? He glanced at his watch, computing the time in Memphis. He closed his eyes and pictured Leigh Ann lying next to him in San Francisco.
His thoughts suddenly shifted to defending his actions over Phuc Yen. Should he retain civilian legal counsel and go public? After all, he had shot down two MiGs, even though he had had to break the rules to down the second aircraft. How would the public react to knowing that a North Vietnamese ace would not shoot down a ninth American fighter?
Who was the enemy? If he played strictly by the rules of engagement, the chances were greater that he would be killed, or endure a long stay in a North Vietnamese prison. If he chose to take the fight to the enemy, he faced the possibility of a lengthy incarceration in a federal prison.
"You awake, Brad?" Harry asked, rolling on his side. "Yes," he replied, sitting up.
Harry leaned over the top of his bunk. "What are we going to do? We're facing a court-martial."
Brad walked to the desk and sat down. "We're going to defend ourselves. The more I think about this crock of shit, the more incensed I become. If they want to play hardball, I'll reciprocate in kind."
"What about your father? He's a vice admiral who obviously has some pull."
Brad looked up with a wry grin. "He'd most likely be the first volunteer for my firing squad. His fourth star just went down the tube."
Harry sat up, crouched under the low overhead. "Do you think they'll let us resign?"
"Probably not. With something this juicy, I'm sure they'll want to make us examples for the rest of the team."
Brad opened the refrigerator and grabbed two soft drinks. "You may get off with a reprimand," he handed Harry a Coke, "but I'll probably get a dishonorable discharge, and a couple of years in Leavenworth."
Harry stared at a spot on the floor. "We really crapped in our mess kits."
"No, Harry. I did."
The silence was shattered when the telephone rang. Brad and Harry looked at each other, unsure if they should answer the phone. The CO had ordered them not to talk to anyone.
"I better answer it," Brad said, reaching for the receiver. "Captain Austin."
"Sir," the hollow voice replied, "you have a call from Vice Admiral Austin."
Brad let his head sag, feeling the tension grip his chest. "I'll connect you, sir."
Looking up at Harry, Brad covered the mouthpiece. "My father."
Harry closed his eyes and spoke in a whisper. "Oh, shit. How did he know we were talking about him?"
The seconds passed slowly.
"Brad, this is your father." The voice sounded controlled and steady.
"Yes, sir," Brad answered, mentally bracing himself for a broadside. "Good morning." It was late morning in Norfolk, Virginia.
Vice Admiral Carlyle Whitney Austin had always been an imposing figure. He was taller than Brad and twenty pounds heavier, with a no-nonsense personality. Carlyle Austin was a traditional, by-the-book naval officer, and a strict disciplinarian. "I have been informed about your incident."
"Yessir, Admiral," Brad replied cautiously.
A slight pause followed. "Son, you can drop the admiral and sir business. I'm your father, so let's keep it that way." Harry caught the surprised look on his friend's face. "Yes, sir — okay, Dad."
"Why don't you tell me precisely what happened, and don't leave anything out."
Brad explained, in detail, exactly what he had done, and why he had broken the rules. He outlined his frustrations and contempt for the restrictions, adding that he felt that the policies of the futile war effort were causing greater casualties than necessary. His father listened without interruption.
"Dad, I believe in our Constitution, and obeying orders. Our system is not the problem, as you well know. But the military and the American people are being shortchanged by their civilian leadership."
Harry looked askance, then frowned.
"I don't know if I have the right to disobey what I consider to be ridiculous orders, but the restrictions that have been forced on us are placing the crews in greater danger, and killing people who are trying to tiptoe through the rules. We're losing some of the best and brightest because of the constraints placed on them."
"Anything else, son?"
Brad's throat tightened. Why was his father being so calm? Was he going to explode at any second?
"Dad," he continued uncomfortably, "I feel that good leaders have to use excellent judgment in making their decisions, or we might as well be drones. I've had some of the best military training and discipline in the world, but I'm not going to march my men lockstep off a cliff because some unqualified bureaucrat orders me to."
"Brad, many people share your sentiments, including a number of my colleagues, but that's neither here nor there. You have always been reasonable, for the most part."
Brad felt the sting, but remained quiet.