Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2) Page 10

  Barbaric, he thought as he stepped out of the outer office and down the hall. If the sister-fucking dandy of a staff officer wants Thanh killed, he'll have to do it himself!

  Aleks saw the exit doors ahead and stopped cold, wondering what he should do next. He turned several courses of action over in his mind. Perhaps he should find the vehicle and driver and go to the home of the Eurasian girl a departing advisor had passed on to him along with the hovel she maintained near Gia Lam.

  Yes!

  He'd fuck her until the unclean feeling left him, regardless of how the Lithuanian driver complained of the delay. Then he would return to Phuc Yen and speak with the major in charge of the group of pilot advisors there. He would know what to do.

  "Kapitan!" The meticulous serzhant caught up with him as he approached the outer doors, holding a sealed folder out to him.

  Aleks turned.

  "Polkovnik Dimetriev asks that you open this during your return trip. He said that the original of one of the two copies inside is to be added to your official records. He asks that you decide which."

  "What does this contain, serzhant?" Aleks's voice crackled with residual emotion.

  The serzhant shrugged politely, but Aleks sensed that he knew. He nodded to where the Lithuanian driver sat waiting in the shade of a tree. "Have a pleasant trip."

  Aleks did not visit the Eurasian girl.

  Of the two papers, one was a glowing report of his superb performance and unswerving dedication to duty, with a recommendation that he be considered for early promotion to the rank of mayor. The other spoke of his unreliability and mentioned the names of three women he had fucked before leaving his base in Russia, including the insatiable wife of a superior officer. It detailed the times and dates he had forced his will upon each woman, and the things he had demanded that each do for him. The paper concluded that Aleks must be summarily relieved of duty and court-martialed, and suggested his family be investigated for a background of depravity. Both papers were signed by Polkovnik Dimetriev, countersigned by the embassy political officer.

  Even before they'd left Hanoi, Aleksandr Viktor Ivanovic began wondering how he should go about complying with Dimetriev's order.

  2050 Local—Officers' Club Stag Bar, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  First Lieutenant Billy Bowes

  When he had finally signed onto the base and settled into the bachelor officers' quarters, a concrete building that looked like a bunker, and which the guys called the Ponderosa, Billy decided to look up one of the friends his cousin had written about in his letters. He wanted to know more about what had happened when Mal had been shot down. Thus far the information had been sketchy, except for three letters from Mal's squadron mates telling them he was surely dead.

  His cousin had been in the 357th squadron, which the pilots called the clit-lickers. The 357th patch showed a dragon with a long red tongue. The association was inescapable.

  At first Billy decided to go to the 357th squadron building, not far from his own 354th, but then it became too late, so after dinner he went into the Officers' Club stag bar and looked there. Since the bar was crowded, Billy looked for the biggest guy in the bar. He found him sitting alone at one end of the long bar, a drink cupped in a huge paw.

  Billy approached, pushing past a couple of jocks gesturing with their hands, waving them around like airplanes, which was the way fighter people supplemented their verbs.

  "You Tiny Bechler?" he asked.

  The big lieutenant turned and peered. "Hi, Bear," he said. He started to turn back, then stopped and paled. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

  "Billy Bowes. I just signed into the 354th squadron," he said.

  The lieutenant looked closer. He shook his head to clear it. "You look a lot like someone I knew," he mumbled.

  Billy edged in beside him and motioned to the bartender, who wore a plastic name tag with JIMMY etched into it. "Scotch and rocks."

  "No hab rocks," said Jimmy the bartender.

  "Th' fuckin' ice machine's broke again," grumbled the big lieutenant.

  "Just Scotch then," said Billy Bowes to Jimmy.

  "Damn if you don't look like someone I used to know," said the big lieutenant.

  "And the guy I look like is Malcom Stewart?"

  Tiny drew back and looked hard at him. "How'd you know?"

  "He's my cousin." He did not add that Mal's mother was his father's sister, and that they'd both looked a lot like their grandma, right down to big ears that stuck out like handles on a water pitcher.

  "You sure as hell look like him."

  "He wrote about the guys in his squadron. Said you were a friend."

  "Bear Stewart had his shit together." Tiny pushed his face closer, peering hard and remembering. "You the IP who was stationed at Vance?"

  "Yeah," said Billy.

  Tiny's face brightened. "Bear told me about you. Said you were on your way over." He reflected on something else. "Your father was military, right?"

  "Marines. He was killed at the Chosin Reservoir in Korea."

  "Then your family went home to Oklahoma and ended up living with the Bear and his mother. He told me about that."

  They'd all lived together. Mal and Ma Stewart, and Billy with his mother and three little brothers, in the old farmhouse on the south side of McAlester. The rest of the Bowes clan, including cousins and various aunts and uncles, all resided within a few miles.

  Mal had worked like hell to help take care of them all, even though he'd been just a kid himself. Until he'd enlisted in the Air Force, he'd done everything from picking cotton to working in a slaughterhouse to help fill the table. During that time Mal and David Bowes, another cousin, had pushed Billy to study hard in school, and even worked with Billy's teachers to clear the way for the scholarship to Oke U. Billy owed them both . . . a lot.

  "Mal and I were close,'' was all Billy said.

  "The Bear said that."

  They'd all gone into the military. Mal and he into the Air Force, David and two brothers into the Army, another brother into the Marines. Grandma Bowes said the family had always been like that. Always patriotic and first to defend the clan. She said they came from warrior blood. She was pure Cherokee, whom she called "the People," and was fiercely proud of it.

  Grandma Bowes had thought Mal was one of the best, sort of a throwback to a time when the world had been a nobler place, and she'd been surprised that the North Vietnamese had killed him. It was her old-ways belief that if a man was pure of spirit and strong enough, he would be invincible. She'd said, as if she'd known, that Mal had not died easily.

  Billy downed the Scotch whiskey and shuddered at the raw, burning sensation.

  "Mal's number three," he said.

  Tiny Bechler looked puzzled.

  "I got an uncle who was a regiment sergeant major in the Army. He got screwed up by a mine explosion when he was out visiting the battalions in the field. A fucking booby trap, probably set by some kid. David, he's another cousin stationed over here with the army, wrote me about it. Said they saved one leg, that his dad's in the VA hospital in Oke City learning to get used to living with a plastic leg and no balls."

  "Another drink?" asked Tiny, looking uneasy.

  "Sure," said Billy Bowes. "Anyway, my uncle was number one. Then seven months ago, my little brother was killed by North Vietnamese Army regulars in South Vietnam. He was a door gunner in a chopper." Billy didn't like to think about the way the NVA had killed him. "Then Mal got killed last month. That's three."

  "Maybe you shouldn't be here, Billy. There's programs that don't allow whole families to go into a combat zone."

  "Bullshit. Like my cousin David, he's in Special Forces at Danang . . . like David says, sometimes revenge is sweet."

  "Maybe so," said Tiny Bechler.

  Billy felt drawn to Bechler, probably because of Tiny's friendship with Mal, but there were things best left unsaid, things that were the concern of the family alone. He'd spoken enough and even wished he could withdraw some of hi
s words.

  Tiny Bechler looked at him with an unhappy expression. "I guess you know what happened to Bear Stewart."

  "Some," said Billy. "That's why I looked you up. I was on the way over here when it happened . . . heard about it when I called home from the Phillippines. The official notification said he was MIA, but the letters said there was no way he could've survived."

  "He's dead," said Tiny. "He had a pistol, and there were about thirty gomers with AK-47's, so he didn't have much of a chance. The rescue people were right there and saw it. An A-l Sandy pilot flew down low and said the gomers had him and were chopping him up with machetes. We went in and bombed and strafed the shit out of them."

  Emotion glittered in Billy's eyes.

  As Tiny ordered more drinks from Jimmy, Billy's mind churned. Hatred welled and made a bitter taste in his throat that he tried to wash away with another sip of whiskey.

  "You flown here yet?" asked Tiny Bechler.

  "Two missions so far."

  "Learn as much as you can before you have to go up to pack six."

  "My first mission was to the Hanoi power plant. Our squadron's short of experienced people, so we couldn't get an indoctrination ride first."

  "Who's your flight commander in the 354th?"

  "A major called Lucky Anderson."

  Tiny nodded. "He's as good as they come. Listen to him and stay aggressive." He poked a big finger at Billy's chest. "That's good advice."

  "Thanks." Billy appreciated it.

  The drinks arrived and Tiny paid for them, then nodded toward two colonels who had entered the stag bar and were standing near the door. "The shorter of the full bulls there is B. J. Parker, the wing commander. A fucking glory hound, but he's okay. He flies his share of tough ones and treats his men well."

  Billy sipped more raw Scotch.

  "I don't know the other guy. He's new."

  As the colonels approached the bar, the wing commander motioned to a very attentive bartender. The wingco was in charge of all American military forces on the base.

  "Give us a drink, Jimmy," he said. "A martini and . . . a manhattan, right, Tom?"

  The second colonel nodded. He was tall and tanned, blond hair meticulously lacquered into place.

  "How you doing, Tiny?" asked Colonel B. J. Parker.

  "Just fine, Colonel," Tiny said pleasantly.

  "Meet Tom Lyons, freshest cannon fodder among our crop of colonels," joked Parker. "He's taking over the command post, and I'll keep him busy with special projects until we come up with something more suitable for his talents. Tom, this is Lieutenant Tiny Bechler, one of our fine young Air Force Academy graduates."

  As Lyons hesitantly proffered his hand, frowning as if the lieutenant's might be contaminated, the fighter jock behind Tiny Bechler jostled Tiny hard enough that his drink sloshed onto the sleeve of Lyons's flight suit.

  "Sorry," mumbled Tiny, but Lyons's look was furious.

  B. J. Parker was talking animatedly to a nearby major, and Lyons turned stiffly away from the lieutenants to join him. Then Jimmy came around the bar to personally bring the colonels their drinks, and they wandered away through the crowd, smiling benignly, like benevolent gods come to visit the mortals.

  "That new colonel's bad news," said Billy Bowes, staring after them.

  "Prima-donna asshole," snorted Tiny Bechler in agreement.

  Captain Manny DeVera came in and beelined for the bar. Billy introduced him to Tiny.

  Manny said he'd been to the on-base Thai market. He showed off his new go-to-hell hat, an Aussie-style bush hat with a cord that held both sides of the brim up and in place. He'd already pinned captain's bars onto its front.

  "Some of the guys mark their missions on the band," said Tiny. He showed his own, with dozens of black marks. About half were twice as long as the rest. "Those are pack six missions, and I remember every damn one."

  Manny showed a single line on his own hatband. He grinned at his handiwork, then saw the two colonels. His smile faded. "Shit, is that Lyons?"

  Tiny nodded. "That's what Colonel Parker called him."

  "And he's a full bull now? Double damn."

  Lyons had turned back toward them, his gaze upon Manny. His eyes smoldered briefly; then he pursed his lips thoughtfully before looking back at Parker.

  "Trouble with a capital T," moaned Manny. "He has regard for only one man, and that's the guy he loves—himself."

  "You know him?" asked Billy.

  "Wish I didn't."

  "That bad?"

  "He was in a flight of F-100's, getting his checkout at the Wheelus gunnery ranges. A buddy of mine was leading the flight. This asshole, he was a major then, fucked up when they were joining back in formation to depart the range. He overshot and ran right into lead."

  "Jesus," muttered Tiny.

  "Both of them went down, but my buddy was too low before he ejected, and he was still in the seat when he hit the ground. I was range officer and saw the whole thing. Jumped in my pickup and drove out to where they landed. My buddy was dead, of course, and when I picked up Lyons, he started babbling how sorry he was. Then all of a sudden his tune began to change and he started making excuses. By the time the chopper landed to take him back to Whelus, he was saying he'd had a problem with his airplane."

  "Damn."

  "That night I was in the Wheelus Officers' Club when he comes in and corners me. He said my buddy ran into him, instead of the other way around, and he wanted me to back him up. I got pissed off, but he was a major and I was a lieutenant, so I just told him to fuck off and went to my BOQ room."

  "Didn't the accident board nail him?" asked Tiny.

  Manny DeVera gave a sad shake of his head. "I was about to go before the board and tell 'em what I saw, when he called me up and tried to convince me I hadn't seen what I had. Said I must've looked away or something, and that I'd better, by God, change my story. I kept my cool, just told him that I wouldn't lie."

  "So it was your word against his?" asked Billy.

  "Let me tell you something about Colonel Thomas F. Lyons over there. His daddy dabbles in politics. He was Ike's Secretary of the Interior for a year, but he quit when he decided he wanted to be ambassador to Italy, because they have a humungus place over on the Italian Riviera. His ma's family owns things, like a small county in Colorado and a couple of big ones in West Texas. They've got two town houses in New York, which they use only every couple of years when one of the family's in town."

  Billy Bowes shook his head incredulously and wondered why the hell Lyons would choose a military career.

  Manny answered his unspoken question. "I know of several guys who come from big money who are sent to the military. Most Air Force officers are from middle-class families. Then there's a few poor kids like me who get in because we're such superb pilots. . . ."

  Tiny and Billy both grinned.

  "But then there's a few ungodly rich bastards like Lyons who are here because it's a good place for their families to shuck 'em off to so they won't fuck up the family fortune."

  Tiny stared at the colonels. "So they sent Lyons here to fuck up the Air Force?"

  "Most of 'em don't give a shit about anything but themselves. They expect special treatment from the time they get to flight school, and unfortunately, sometimes they get it." Manny nodded at Lyons. "That guy can't fly worth a damn, but somebody let him through, and now he's a fucking full colonel."

  "Why do the generals let it happen?" asked Tiny. Billy could tell that Tiny was caught up by Manny DeVera's spell. Manny was so outgoing and such an all-American fighter jock, it would be difficult not to like him immediately.

  "Some senior officers like being around people with money. Makes them feel important to rub elbows with them, I guess. I know of a few more like Lyons. Most of 'em made colonel, and a couple are generals. A few have talent and deserve it. But there're others like Lyons there who haven't got the morals of a snake."

  "So what happened when the accident board found out he'd fucked
up?" asked Tiny, eyeing Tom Lyons as he accompanied Colonel Parker to the door.

  "The board listened to me, took my written statement, asked a few more questions, then blamed it all on poor flight management. Said my buddy fucked up."

  "I'll be a bastard," said Tiny.

  "I only saw Lyons one time after that. He'd made lieutenant colonel and was about to leave for the States. He looked at me like I was scum, like you just saw. Told the major I worked for that we didn't need people like me in the Air Force."

  They watched the colonels leave the bar.

  "I hear there's a round-eye in the area," said Manny, changing the subject. He looked around inquisitively, as if he were trying to get the feel and layout of the Takhli stag bar, and acting like he was only casually interested in the female. His reputation preceded him; Billy had already heard he was a horny bastard.

  "We've got two ladies on base," grinned Tiny Bechler, "both staying in the guest trailers. One's from Bangkok. Some kind of high-ranking USAID official. Colonel Mack, he's our squadron commander, thinks she's really some kind of spook. The other one's from the Peace Corps camp over near Nakhon Sawan." Nakhon Sawan was a city fifty miles northwest of Ta Khli Village.

  "She's here trying to talk B.J. out of supplies for their camp," said Tiny.

  "You guys ready for a drink?" asked Manny, happy with the news about the round-eyes. Billy said he'd had enough, but Tiny said sure, he'd take one. Manny ordered the drinks, then swung his attention back to Tiny. "How about the other one? The one from Bangkok?"

  "The guys call her the Ice Maiden, because she's cool and collected. No one knows what she's here for, but it's nice having her on base. Except for a couple of USO shows and a wife who visited once," said Tiny, "this is the first time we've had round-eyes on base."

  "What do they look like?" asked Manny, keeping his innocent look. "Heifers?"

  "Nope. The Peace Corps dolly's a real fox. Sort of a honey blond . . . maybe twenty-one or -two. Short and well stacked, and all her lumps are in the right places. The other one's older, maybe thirty, and she's got dark hair and the calm, cool look about her. Sorta tall and slender and on the quiet side, but she's sure no dog."