The noisy conversation around the dining table came to an abrupt halt when Bailey stood and tapped his glass. "Gentlemen," he said with a straight face, "please rise for a toast."
He waited until everyone filled their sake cups, then raised his cup. "To the United States Navy," he paused, glancing at Brad, "and, God help them, the United States Marine Corps."
The men laughed, darting a look at Austin.
Drinking half of his sake, Brad raised his cup. "To Bull and Russ — to their freedom."
"To Bull and Russ," the group chimed in, downing their warm sake. Following Bailey's lead, the men sat down and continued with their conversations.
Brad had been relieved that no one, including O'Meara and Russo, had asked about the Phuc Yen incident. The CO had obviously instilled the fear of God in the squadron.
This outing, Brad thought, had been designed to serve many purposes. A squadron party was always a great diversion before going to battle. The evening of celebration, away from the officers' club and Yokosuka, also served another purpose. The CO could maintain close surveillance over the group, ensuring that no one conversed about the Phuc Yen and Major Dao rumors. Once the carrier was at sea, the stories would slowly drift into oblivion. "Let the show begin," Dan Bailey ordered.
The flight crews, with the assistance of the four Japanese waitresses, cleared the tables and rearranged the furniture in the combination dining room and bar.
After everyone's drinks had been refilled, the first skit was performed. The funny parody of a day in the life of a squadron CO brought howls of laughter.
Next, Ernie Sheridan placed a record on the dilapidated squadron record player. When the bump and grind music started, Mario Russo stepped from behind the screen wearing a yellow raincoat and cowboy boots. His awkward attempt to imitate a strip-tease dancer made everyone groan. The room erupted in laughter when he whipped off the raincoat. The sight of him wearing purple underwear, supported by pink suspenders, sent the giggling waitresses scrambling from the smoke-filled room.
"Get the hook!" Dirty Ernie yelled over the whistles and laughter. "Get him off the stage!" Outbursts of laughter and catcalls accompanied the end of the pathetic performance.
After the animal acts were over, Ernie Sheridan cranked up the volume and placed another record on the ancient machine. When "Wild Thing" blasted from the speaker, the serious drinking started.
Brad slipped out of the noisy room and walked through the lobby to the entrance. Stepping outside, he looked up at the moon and thought about Leigh Ann. He reached for his dog tags and pulled out the pendant she had given him in Hawaii. He looked at the tiny ornament in the pale moonlight. Would he live to see her again? Would she care?
The ambulatory helped their shipmates to the waiting bus. A light mist fell from the low overcast as Dan Bailey addressed the men who had not fallen asleep in their seats.
"One thing," he grinned, slipping his sunglasses down to peer over the top. "There will be no riding on the roof of the bus. Got that?"
"Skipper," Dirty Ernie moaned, gesturing toward the inert bodies of O'Meara and Russo, "I don't think you'll have to worry about that."
Harry and Brad managed a weak chuckle. They were bone tired, dehydrated, and had splitting headaches from the quarts of hot sake they had consumed.
The trip back to the carrier was quiet and uneventful. After arriving at the dock, the scraggly looking group boarded the ship and headed for their staterooms.
Brad opened their cabin door and plopped his overnight bag on the desk. Harry closed the door and sagged into the desk chair. "Care for a drink?" Brad asked cheerfully.
Harry gave him a cold look. "Don't ever let me do that again." He studied Brad's face for a moment. "You look like you're bleeding to death through your eyeballs."
"I feel like I am."
As good as his word, the scrappy chairman of the Armed Services Committee had confronted the administration about the alleged incident at Phuc Yen. He had gone straight to the White House after his plane had landed at Washington National Airport.
Kerwin had threatened to initiate a hearing and call a press conference if the administration did not level with him.
After being rebuffed by the secretary of state, Kerwin had called for a hearing to discuss the rules of engagement, and to resolve the status of marine Capt. Brad Austin.
The secretary of state quickly confronted Kerwin, giving him a stern warning that his inquiry could jeopardize the ongoing peace negotiations. The secretary assured the senator that Captain Austin's record was clean and that the matter had been concluded to everyone's satisfaction.
Sensing a cover-up, Kerwin was more resolved than ever to get to the bottom of the matter. He had been outraged that a heroic fighter pilot who had laid his life on the line, and who had apparently been responsible for destroying at least three MiGs, was being penalized.
The most disturbing disclosure, Kerwin had told the secretary, was that the American people were being misinformed. The senator had explained that this was not an issue over one pilot's transgression. This was an issue dealing with continued implementation of a flawed war policy.
Kerwin had strongly reiterated his position on openness, and informed the secretary of his intention to convene a hearing at the earliest possible date. Phuc Yen was not to be forgotten.
Chapter 39
The hazy sun was barely above the horizon when the mammoth flattop cleared the pier. After the tugboats had finished positioning the ship, the carrier got underway. The smaller craft in the bay steered well clear of the behemoth as she gathered speed.
An hour later the carrier cleared Tokyo Bay and rendezvoused with her escort ships. The destroyers spread out and quickly positioned themselves around the carrier. The task force turned southwest for the long journey to Yankee Station in the South China Sea.
The carrier was a beehive of activity as all hands prepared for the high intensity of combat operations. In the hangar bay, men crawled over and under the airplanes, cleaning canopies and conducting preventive maintenance.
On the flight deck, the catapult and arresting-gear crews worked tirelessly to prepare their equipment for air operations. Aircraft handlers shuffled airplanes in preparation for the first launch.
Brad walked through the enlisted men's chow hall, noting the activity. The men sat at their tables, calmly eating and talking, while ordnance personnel wheeled bombs through the center of the room.
After negotiating a series of staircases, Brad went to the ready room for the CO's operational brief. Taking a seat next to Jon O'Meara, Brad placed his notepad on his thigh and extracted a ballpoint pen from his pocket. "I see that you survived."
"If I make it through the next twenty-four hours," O'Meara yawned, "I think I'll live."
"Where's Mario?"
"He's hard down, so I told the skipper I would take copious notes and thoroughly brief him."
A group of men, including Harry Hutton, entered the room seconds before Dan Bailey walked in.
Bailey joked with a few men, then approached the podium. His pleasant look disappeared, replaced by a grim scowl. The crowded room became deathly quiet.
"I have just returned from a meeting with CAG," he announced uncomfortably. "We're going to have some tough duty for the foreseeable future."
Brad watched Bailey's gestures, absorbing the gist of his message. How could the air war get any worse?