The senator's housekeeper had relayed Leigh Ann's request, explaining that the lady was the daughter of Dr. Simon Ladasau.
After a suspenseful wait, the phone had rung in Leigh Ann's apartment. She had been ebullient when the senator had invited her to his lodge to discuss the urgent problem.
Slowing to enter the senator's compound, Leigh Ann realized that it had been twelve years since she had last been to the lodge. As her car passed the gate leading to the manicured grounds, it kicked up dried leaves, spinning them slowly back to the earth. Leigh Ann stopped near the double front doors, composed herself, then got out and walked toward the porch. When she was halfway up the steps, Sen. Arlin Kerwin opened one of the massive doors.
"Good to see you, young lady," he greeted in his booming voice. Short and gruff, the statesman was the consummate politician.
"Hello, Senator," Leigh Ann replied tentatively. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I need your assistance."
"Happy to give it," he laughed as Leigh Ann walked into the spacious living room. "It's been what — ten to twelve years since I've seen you? Why, you weren't any taller than this," he said, holding the palm of his hand four feet above the floor. "How are your folks?"
"They're fine," she answered, feeling uneasy. Kerwin's wife had recently passed away. "Dad's slowly retiring, and Mom's as busy as ever."
"Good. Have a seat, honey, and I'll get us some lemonade." He turned to go to the kitchen. "You still like lemonade?"
"Yes, I sure do," Leigh Ann answered, surprised that Kerwin had remembered her fondness for his special concoction. She sat on the overstuffed couch and looked around.
Leigh Ann examined the stone fireplace and thick animal skins arrayed on the highly polished wood floor. A moment later, Kerwin brought their drinks into the room.
"Now, tell me," Kerwin said as he sat in his favorite recliner, "what's bothering you?"
Suddenly unsure of herself, Leigh Ann began slowly, then told Kerwin the entire story. How she had met Brad, and what had happened at Phuc Yen. That he was a conscientious and courageous person who was facing a court-martial for standing up for his country.
Close to tears, Leigh Ann stopped. She felt an overwhelming guilt about turning her back to Brad when he had most needed her.
"Just a minute, honey," Kerwin interrupted, rising from his chair. "Let me get a pad and pen." He gave her an assuring smile. "At my age, I have to write everything down, or I'll forget some of the details."
Leigh Ann placed her lemonade on the coffee table and dabbed her eyes. She was beginning to wonder if she was doing the right thing. What if she caused Brad more trouble?
"Okay," Kerwin said, sitting down, "let's get all the facts, then I'll make some inquiries."
After Leigh Ann had given him the pertinent information,the senator had pledged to look into the matter. He had assured her that he would do everything in his power to right any injustice.
What Kerwin had not disclosed were his own political motives for disagreeing with the restrictions being put on the men fighting the war. He had had an ongoing argument with members of the White House in regard to how the war was being handled.
When Austin and Hutton left the squadron ready room, their assignment was to stop at the dirty-shirt wardroom and get four large bags of ice.
Arriving at the navy bus, they dumped the ice into a canvas seabag containing five cases of beer. A poker game was already underway in the back of the cluttered vehicle. The mood was festive, reminding Brad of fraternity parties he had attended on civilian campuses.
After Dan Bailey and Jack Carella stepped aboard, the youthful Japanese driver adroitly turned the bus around and headed for the main roadway to Kamakura. Every time the driver let up on the gas pedal, the engine backfired, startling pedestrians along the side of the narrow road.
Brad and Harry sat together, joining in the boisterous party. They relaxed and left the air war behind them, concentrating on not spilling their beer when the bus rocked from side to side.
Halfway to Kamakura, Jon O'Meara nudged Hutton from the seat behind Brad and Harry. "You guys want to have a little excitement?"
"No," Harry replied, shaking his head, "you're not going to drive the bus."
O'Meara gripped Harry's shoulder. "Let's climb on the roof," he glanced at Brad, "and get some sun."
Wide-eyed, Harry belly-laughed. "Are you crazy? What if we fall off?"
Brad chuckled, looking forward to see what Dan Bailey and Jocko Carella were doing.
"We're not going to fall off. Just sit on the window, grab the luggage railing, and pull yourself up." O'Meara turned to his RIO. "Right, Mario?"
"Piece of cake."
Brad edged around in his seat. "We've had about all the excitement we need for a while. We're walking on ice so thin, if we sneeze, we'll fall straight through."
"Yeah," Harry said, "the skipper' ll have a heart attack if he finds out you're on top of the bus."
"Okay," O'Meara smiled, checking to see if Bailey was engaged in conversation, "then at least keep us supplied with beer."
"We'll take care of it," Brad replied, reaching for their beers. "Don't bust your asses."
"We've got it under control."
Amid raucous laughter, O'Meara and Russo hoisted themselves on top of the vehicle, then reached down for their beers. Propped against the luggage retainers, Jon and Mario watched the scenery and waved at passing motorists.
Life was good again, the sun was warm, and the beer was cold. They had two days to recapture their youth, be totally irresponsible, and live life to the hilt. Harry and Brad kept Mario and Jon supplied with fresh beers, collecting the empty bottles for the trash container.
Approaching Kamakura, O'Meara and Russo heard their frolicking squadron mates break out in song. The morbid chorus was sung to the tune of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." Mario and Jon sipped their beers and listened.
He rolled out on final and was just a little low. He ignored the wave-off of the frantic LSO.
When he finally added power, he was just a little slow. And he'll never fly home again.
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die.
Son of a gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die. Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die.
And he'll never fly home again.
He should have added power when he pulled back on the stick. He should have flown it like a bird instead of like a brick. Now all that's left of him is just a little oil slick.
And he'll never fly home again.
Brad and Harry joined in the loud singing, which went on for several verses. As the beer flowed, the noise level increased.
Harry punched Brad in the side. "This is certainly an uplifting little tune."
Brad turned and smiled. "Hey, in this business, you don't buy any green bananas."
Harry looked disgusted. "What a cheerful thought."
The bus rolled to a smooth stop as the last chorus was ending. Jon O'Meara looked at the small, pristine hotel, then turned to Mario.
"We'll just toss the skipper a salute."
A second later, the door squeaked open and Dan Baily stepped out. He walked a few feet, then turned to speak to Jack Carella. The first word was barely out of his mouth when he froze in place. "Christ almighty…," he said, looking up at what had caught his eye.
Carella glanced at the roof of the bus. "Jesus."
Standing at attention, Jon and Mario clutched their beer bottles in their left hands, then snapped a salute to Bailey and Carella.
Shaking his head, Bailey ignored the salute and turned to his executive officer. "I need a tall drink."
Dressed in their party suits, the pilots and RIOs were finishing the last of the sushi and tempura. The custom-tailored navy blue flight suits were adorned with embroidered gold wings and the owner's name and rank. An American flag patch was sewn on the top of the left sleeve of each party suit. On the right sleeve, just below the shoulder, a round patch proclaimed that the flier was a member of the Tonkin Gulf Yacht Club.