Ahead of him, Korrina was trying to make sense of the array of equipment in his position. It was dominated by the big display for the ASG-18 multi-mode radar. Using it, he could designate targets for the big GAR-9 missiles. Nuclear-tipped air-to-air missiles, they would give intercepting fighters something to think about. Then there were GAM-83B air to surface missiles, also nuclear-tipped, for eliminating surface to air missile positions. The nuclear missiles were held in the big belly pod. The upper half held fuel, the lower half, racks for eight primary and four secondary missiles. The primaries were the nuclear missiles of course, the mix of GAR-9 and GAM-83B could be varied as needed. The four secondary missiles were GAR-8 Sidewinders, if they ever needed those, things would be going wrong.
Then, outside the pod were shoulder mountings for ASM-10s, semi-recessed into the fuselage. That was another new system - a missile that homed in on the radar emissions of an enemy search or fire control site. The “Navy had been developing this one and SAC had bought in on the concept. It had been part of a deal; the Navy had got the early B-58s, SAC had got the ASM-10 and some other missile programs the Navy was working on.
“What do you think of this sir?” Murray was holding his sketch pad out with a slightly nervous expression on his face. It was a picture of an obviously Hispanic woman, masses of curled black hair falling over her shoulders, with strongly arched eyebrows and prominent lips. A simple head-and shoulders picture, the face very slightly turned away. An expression of mixed affection and defiance in the eyes. The neckline was a simple white top.
I was going to do the usual Esquire or Playboy cheesecake sir, that's what people mostly ask for. Tell you the truth sir we have stencils for those, it’s like painting by numbers. I started that but it seemed wrong. Marisol is special somehow sir, she deserves better. She's a lady sir, so I did this.”
“It’s beautiful Airman, thank you. Here.” Kozlowski peeled off a twenty from his fold and gave it to Murray. Then, his attention returned to his new cockpit.
Behind him Gibson and Murray grinned at each other. Dumbcluck pilots fell for it every time. By the time they'd finished they would take this one for at least a fifty. As long as he didn't look too closely at the publicity shots of Jane Russell in The Outlaw.......
Ban Rom Phuoc, Thai-Burmese Border
Life, Phong Nguyen thought, could not get much better than this. Sitting in the shade, drinking rice beer and eating some meatball soup. Flirting with the girls too, even though the Thai farm girls were a bit heavier-set than the Vietnamese women he had grown up with. But then, Thai girls and their families hadn't been robbed blind by the French for almost a century. Nor did they have to endure the Japanese who now occupied Vietnam and made the French look like saints.
The families here considered themselves to be poor and, Nguyen supposed, by international standards they were. Back-breakingly-poor. Even so, the villagers Nguyen had left behind in Vietnam could teach them something about poverty. Here, even if food was sometimes short, nobody starved. Here, the Government, such as it was up here, did try to help. Some aid with crops, some advice on fertilizer. But not too much for “Government ends at the Village Gates.” The village ruled itself by way of its local headman. Even the local government, the Tambon, was a far-off thing. It collected the taxes, not too much and when times were really bad it “forgot” about them. When there was a disaster, it helped out, a little. The national government, far away in Bangkok, was even more remote. The villagers here had heard about it but that was all. They didn't care about the government and the government didn't care about them. That was fine for both sides. Benign neglect suited everybody.
But today was a little special, it was a year since Phong Nguyen had been sent to the village and this party was in his honor. Actually the village had decided it wanted to have a party and the anniversary was a convenient excuse. The girls had carefully put aside clean dresses to wear, the men had brewed up some rice beer and the loser in the cockfight the night before was now a primary ingredient in a chicken curry. Nguyen broke wind, winning grins of approval from the men around the beer jugs and refilled his cup. He really had to consider marrying one of the girls and settling down. His plan had always been to go back home when the French and Japanese were driven out but he was settling in here. He'd even been....
There was a stir of interest from the group around him. Two strangers were walking up the long path through the fields, towards the gates. Guarded interest, strangers could mean trouble. It had taken Nguyen six months to live down the title of “The Stranger” and that was with a letter from the King to the headman to help him. The government may be far away and disregarded but the King was loved, revered and unequivocally respected.
Strangers might just be passers though, on their way from there to over-there but they might mean trouble. A couple of years ago there had been trouble with strangers; a couple had come, offering well-paid jobs for the younger girls in “the city”. Now, every so often girls did go and work in “the city” for a year or so and came back with some colorful stories and a lot of money. But the ones that went with the strangers had never been seen again. So strangers needed watching. But hospitality demanded they be welcomed, offered food, shade and drink. In exchange, some news of the outside world? A few good stories to entertain the listeners?
So the strangers were welcomed in, offered some rice beer and soup and seats in the shade. And they started to report the news of the outside world, some as far away as the central provinces and south of the country. Now, there was a legendary place, people down there didn't follow the teachings of the Wise Lord Buddha and didn't even eat pork. The strangers told stories of the riches of Bangkok, how the merchants there bought rice and teak from the peasants for a small proportion of their value and resold them at immense profits. How they had vast houses and kept slaves to satisfy their every desire. How the local Tambons collaborated with them and worked for the rich. How the King was the worst oppressor of them all, sucking the life out of the country to feed his own selfish pleasures. How the Army was used to kill any who opposed the rich. One of the strangers told how his sister had refused to “co-operate” with an Army officer. In revenge the officer had her raped to death then cut off her breasts and hung them from a tree.
But there was hope, the strangers said. A group of patriots were working to oppose the tyranny of the city and the rich. To take the country back for the Asian people who lived with it and throw off the shackles imposed by the evil Europeans and their Triple Alliance. That was the real root of all evil, the strangers said, the Europeans and the Asian traitors who sold their countries out to them. If they were cast out and Asians stood together, then freedom and wealth would be for everybody.
Phong Nguyen listened to the speeches and stories with great interest. A generous two out often, he thought, if these fools had been his in the Old Days. And a really stern session before the self-criticism committee. They'd done everything wrong. They'd talked instead of listening. They'd poured out their propaganda without first learning what issues were really concerning the villagers. Who here cared if the merchants in the city were wealthy? They probably deserved it from accumulating merit in previous lives. And if they abused their good fortune in this life, woe and misfortune would be theirs in their next. And that ridiculous story about the army officer! There wasn't a girl in this or any other village who wouldn't “co-operate” if it meant a chance at catching a rich and influential husband.