Buckley continued to talk, explaining that documentaries, travelogues, informational pieces, and VD films would be broadcast over the closed-circuit channel for the next several days, but he was certain that most of the crew were no longer listening. He'd been on the other end of such broadcasts more than once, going all the way back to his days in Nam, and he knew that by now the sailors would be more interested in the stories being told by the old hands who'd been to Bangkok before. Those stories would have less to do with Thailand or its culture than with favorite bars and sexual exploits.
Bangkok's rep as a sin city where anything could be had for a price made it one of the Navy's all-time favorite liberty ports, and nothing he or any DOD instructional film had to say about it would change that one bit.
He glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that he was down to his last few minutes of scheduled broadcast time.
"That brings me to Jefferson's mission in these waters, men. Our ship has been ordered to the Gulf of Thailand to show American support for the present government in Bangkok. The insurrection in the northern part of the country has been getting worse in recent weeks, and there have been rumors, unsubstantiated, of a possible coup ― like the one by the Young Turks in '81 ― by officers who feel the government should be reacting more decisively to the rebel threat.
"As most of you know by now, our operations with That military forces began this morning, when we started flying joint missions with them over northern Thailand. By this time you've heard the rumors that some of our planes tangled with unknown aircraft this afternoon, up near the Burmese border. I can tell you categorically that, while strange planes were intercepted, they were turned back at the border and no shots were fired at or by American aircraft.
"Our intervention in Thailand is intended as a gesture only, a show of support for the Bangkok government.
"So tomorrow, Jeffersons, we will be anchoring at the That naval base at Sattahip. If conditions ashore remain peaceful, liberty should commence for all hands on a rotating basis, beginning at 1700 hours tomorrow evening."
The director signaled with a slashing motion across his throat, and the camera dollied in for a parting close-up. "Well, men, I see my time is up. A reminder that water conservation is in effect, so remember your proper Navy shower technique. This is Master Chief Buckley, signing off for What's the Gouge?"
The battery of lights dimmed and the director stepped past the camera.
"Good show, Master Chief."
"Thanks, Pete. You think anybody was listening?"
The other chief laughed. "They heard 'ten days in Bangkok."" I think the ship gave a little shudder just then. Hey, you ever get a real, honest-to-goodness Patpong massage?"
He grinned. "Many times, Chief. Very relaxing."
"So what do you think, Master Chief? What are the chances for things to stay quiet for the whole ten days?"
Buckley smiled as he unclipped the microphone from around his neck.
Every man aboard was probably wondering the same thing. If the students started throwing rocks again, liberty would be canceled so fast it would make the collective heads of the Jefferson's crew spin. "I don't know, Pete. The word is the That army has things in hand."
He hoped it would stay that way. He wondered about those Chinese fighters. Every man aboard knew that the Burmese didn't have Shenyang J-7s.
So where had they come from? And why? There was no way in hell that anyone could convince him that those planes had been flown by Communist That rebels!
Master Chief Buckley was a naturally optimistic man, but he had a bad feeling about this one. Too much was unknown… including the identity of the enemy.
He just hoped the Jefferson wasn't sailing into something she couldn't handle.
Most of Jefferson's crew had heard Master Chief Buckley's broadcast.
Those who hadn't, quickly heard from their shipmates. Bangkok indisputably was a great liberty port, and throughout the evening every bull session on board had but a single topic. Four off-duty sailors sat at one of the round-topped tables in the crew's lounge. They weren't the only ones in the room. Other small groups were scattered about the area, reading, watching TV, or playing war games. A gentle rumble rose from the deck, more felt than heard. The lounge was located far aft, almost directly above Jefferson's four massive, twenty-two-foot-wide propellers, and the room pulsed with their throbbing strokes. No one noticed, however. The ship's pulse was part of the background, long since accepted and forgotten.
Seaman Apprentice David Howard had enlisted in the Navy in April, three days after his eighteenth birthday. After twelve weeks of boot training at the Recruit Training Center in San Diego and two dreary weeks in a holding company, he'd been given his orders for sea duty and his first ship: the U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson.
He'd been at sea for five months now, less two weeks in Yokosuka. After all that time, he still wasn't certain whether his luck at drawing the Jeff had been good or bad. Most seamen hated carrier duty, where the ship was big enough to get lost in, quarters were as cramped as in a holding barracks ashore, and twelve- and even fourteen-hour workdays were the norm rather than the exception. Howard didn't mind the hard work, and there was an undeniable romance in the air each time one of Jefferson's aircraft was hurled aloft in steam and raw noise. His hardest adjustment was in his social life.
Howard was quiet, even shy, and had never made friends easily. His shipmates seemed a decent enough bunch, if a bit loud and profane, but Howard still hadn't learned how to let down his own inner barriers with them. He found himself drawn to their conversations, though, wanting to belong.
"Aw, shit, man!" Signalman Third Class Charles Bentley leaned back, hands clasped behind his short-cropped blond head. "Ten fuckin' days in bee-you-ti-ful shit-hot Bangkok! Gentlemen, we have got it made!"
"You been there before, Bentley, right?" Radarman Third Fred Paterowski chugged the last of his Coke and crumpled the can. "Tell, man! Tell!"
"Hey, man, it was fuckin' A-numbah-one! That was… lessee, '88, I guess. When I was on the Arkansas."
Howard sipped his Coke, listening. He didn't know how to take Bentley, who seemed bright but who was only a third class after eight years in the service. He'd probably been busted, since most ratings could make second class before their four years' enlistment was up. Howard couldn't help wondering what the guy had done… or did he simply not care?
The lounge was a large room, with paintings drawn from Navy history, with comfortable tables and chairs under fluorescent lights and a wooden lectern at one end. Howard remembered sitting in this room five months before, listening as Captain Fitzgerald stood behind that lectern and talked about responsibility, about making something of their time aboard the Jefferson.
In five months, Howard had done his best to be a good sailor and fit in with the routine… doing what he was told and staying out of trouble. As a seaman in the deck division, he was one of hundreds of enlisted men available for general duties which ran from standing lookout, serving as roving fire and security patrol, participating in FODs and field days, and keeping lines and gear up on the roof shipshape. His previous daily assignment had been a dull but undemanding one: cleaning and stowing the dozens of wire-frame Stokes stretchers which the medical department kept ready along the starboard side of the island on the flight deck. A week ago, though, he'd been transferred to Air Ops, where he stood by as a message runner.