Phantom Leader Part 6

Doc Russell became serious. "It's Colonel Stan Bryce. I understand he's the wing king around here. He doesn't look pleased. Actually, he is not exactly just outside the door.

He's at the end of the hall in the conference room in deep conversation with Major Somebody-or-other, an Intell officer. The other guys outside the door were your backseater and other members of your flight. I told them to bug off for the O'Club, that you'd be okay, that I'd brief them later.

You sure you feel up to seeing Bryce? I can put it off, you know."

"Doc, I'm just a major. He's a colonel. He can see me anytime he wants. Colonels are eight-hundred-pound gorillas. You say sir to them and salute a lot."

Doc Russell ushered in Colonel Stanley D. Bryce, the Commander of the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing.

Stan the Man, as he liked to be called, was six feet even, with sharp gray eyes, wore his black hair in a crew cut, and had powerful shoulders and a square, pleasant Slavic face.

He was popular, played a vicious game of handball, and flew missions about twice a week, usually leading a flight or an element, but never the entire strike force. He flew only with men of experience.

Two months ago he had stood by Court Bannister's side at a ceremony at Tan Son Nhut when the Commander of 7th Air Force, a four-star general, had pinned a Silver Star, a DFC, and a Purple Heart on Bannister. The medals were for Court's heroism in shooting down a North Vietnamese MiG-21 piloted by a Russian, and his subsequent escape and evasion from North Vietnamese troops in the Steel Tiger area of Laos after being shot down himself on the same flight. On that mission, Bannister's close friend, Flak Apple, had been shot down over North Vietnam and was missing.

Court's backseater that day, Ev Stern, though badly wounded, had saved Court's life. After the bailout, Stern had fallen unconscious in his parachute among enemy troops.

Court Bannister had not been the soul of cooperation for that day of ceremony in November. Whereas Colonel Stan Bryce had been exuberant and thrown his arms around Court and called him Ace (which he had not been), Court had been brooding and morose. He owed his freedom to the Russian fighter pilot-Vladimir Chernov he had said his name was-who had refused to turn him over to the searching enemy troops. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds torture,"

Chernov had said by way of explanation. Then Chernov had gone down, a bullet in his chest fired by the attacking communists who had thought him an American. As yet Court had not told anyone of the loss he felt for the man who had set him free, or what the blue scarf he carried meant to him. The scarf had belonged to Chernov.

In his BOQ room now, Court made a face as he remembered the day after his rescue. He and Bryce had been flown down from Udorn to Tan Son Nhut in a T-39, a small USAF pa.s.senger jet. When the plane had taxied to a halt, Court had looked out and seen a red carpet leading to a four-star general standing at a podium. Civilian and military news cameras were in position. The door of Court's T-39 was opened and the military band struck up a cheerful martial air. All eyes were on the door, but Court Bannister had made up his mind he wasn't getting out of that d.a.m.ned airplane to go through all that hero horses.h.i.+t. His head still hurt from a blow he had received in the jungle, his ribs ached, and his mouth felt full of old socks from a big drunk the night before I celebrating his rescue. So nothing doing on the hero stuff. He was over here to fight, not mess around with the wheels.

Then his bowels had betrayed him. The T-39 he was in was a five-window model, not the seven-window that had a head.

His stomach had rumbled and boiled. The jungle water he had had to drink during his trek without chlorine purifying pills had finally caught up with him. He bolted out of the door, held himself ramrod stiff for the ceremony, dodged the press, whispered something into a line chief's ear, and was whisked away in a maintenance van. It had been a near, near thing. He had found the sergeant later and had given him a case of beer.

After that, Colonel Stan the Man Bryce had not been as solicitous. He had, in fact, become rather cool since Court had never really responded to his friendly overtures. It had been made clear to Bryce that Court Bannister had been foreordained by the USAF to become the first Ace of the Vietnam war. In such a case, not only would the Air Force be a big one-up on the Navy, the USAF would garner a lot of favorable (they hoped) publicity, because Court Bannister was the son of movie star Sam Bannister. Because of that official placing of hands, Bryce had tried to be Court's buddy, not his commander. Court's missing pal, Flak Apple, had also been so foreordained, not because he was the son of anybody famous, but because he was black.

Things hadn't worked out quite the way Court Bannister, the USAF-and Colonel Stan Bryce had wished. And certainly not for Flak Apple, who was carried on the books as MIA Missing in Action. But the war ground on. If the MiGs weren't up, you couldn't shoot them down. If you shot one down and it wasn't recorded, you didn't shoot one down. (If a tree fell and no one was in audio range ... ) Time was pa.s.sing, and Stan the Man had places to go. If Court Bannister became a liability, then he had to be jettisoned.

Historically, the commander of the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing went on to become a brigadier general-unless he got fired, as Bryce's predecessor had. Stan the Man's mind was never far from that fact. But he could only go so far. And the Air Force could only go so far.

"The Air Force can only go so far, Bannister," Stan Bryce had said as he walked in the hospital room with Major Richard "George" Hostettler, his intelligence officer. Bryce carried a green, brick-sized Motorola HT-20 radio to keep him in touch with the command post. He was not smiling.

"You're in deep kimchi," the colonel continued. "Not only were you flying when you were sick and d.a.m.n near lost an airplane because of it, you violated the Rules of Engagement by attacking the MiG base at Kep."

" Sir, " Bannister had said, "I didn't attack the base, I attacked the MiGs flying around the base. It's not the same thing."

"You're quibbling, Bannister. You are allowed only to attack MiGs that attack you."

Bannister's head throbbed. He felt reckless and out of control. "Yeah, Colonel, just like the SAM sites. We can't hit them until they shoot at us, then it's too late. What the h.e.l.l kind of a war is this, anyway? A h.e.l.l of a lot of guys are gone because of those G.o.dd.a.m.ned ROE."

"You think I like it, Major?" Bryce had flared. "You think I don't know what's going on out there? I fly too, you know. I've seen the s.h.i.+t up there. I've been hit, and I've seen others go down. But that's what we get paid to do. So you listen to me. We are in the military and we do what we are told. You, me, and every other guy that wears a uniform swears to follow the lawful orders of his superiors. And that's just what we do, and that includes you. Maybe there are those in Seventh that want to see you become an Ace.

But I'll tell you, not at the expense of breaking the Rolling Thunder ROE.".

Rolling Thunder was the code name for the bombing and interdiction campaign in North Vietnam that had the twofold purpose of convincing Ho Chi Minh the U.S. was serious and stopping the flow of supplies into South Vietnam.

Rolling Thunder was an on-again, off-again campaign run from the White House. Because it was not sustained, because it was on targets chosen for political, not military reasons, it was not effective. But its cost in pilots and airplanes was criminally tragic.

At the same time, North Vietnam was also the only place the MiGs flew, the only place where a fighter pilot could become an Ace. The skies of North Vietnam were where the action was. Bryce had continued.

"Anybody that breaks the rules gets into big trouble, Ace or no Ace.

There's a big plan and the ROE are a vital part of that big plan. You copy?"

"Big plan, Colonel? You really think there's a big plan?"

Bannister could not keep the sarcasm from his voice. He was going too far and he knew it. But he didn't care. Doc Russell and Major Hostettler stood quietly to one side.

"I sure as h.e.l.l do, Bannister. We may not yet be privy to it, but it exists." His voice did not convey the conviction of his words. "And you are going to have to do some answering to somebody about your actions up North. Read this." He threw a message on the bed. Court picked it up and read it.

TO: CMDR/8TFW/UDORN RTAFB THAI FM: DIRECTOR OPERATIONS/7AF/TAN SON NHUT.

AB RVN INFO: N/A MSG: 240945ZJAN68 QQQQ UNCLa.s.s EFTO SUBJ: MAJ COURTLAND.

EDM BANNISTER, FV3021953.

1. REF OUR TELECON 1645L THIS DATE, BANNISTER.

TO REPORT DO/7AF ASAP.

SIGNED ADMIN OFFICER FOR 7THAF/DO.

"I have a hunch your days of going north to hunt MiGs are over," Bryce had said and left the room.

Hostettler had stayed behind. He had been grinning.

"Tell ya how it is, Court," he had said. "I'm reviewing your gun-camera film . . ."

"Did I get my fifth MiGT' Court Bannister interrupted.

"No, nothing conclusive there. Hits, yes, but no flamer.

What I'm telling you is this. I'm trying to break out the big numbers those MiG drivers have painted on the nose of their airplanes. It's just possible the very MiGs you fought with were the ones in the traffic pattern at Kep. Small consolation. don'cha know, but since they are trying to hang an ROE violation on you, it's just possible we might be able to prove you were merely attacking the MiGs that were attacking You. I'll go over the photo negatives in the lab myself.

The angles and the sun cause some problems, but I'll see what I can do."

Court thanked him, and he went out.

Doc Russell nodded. "Well, Court, I see you haven't changed one whit."

Court Bannister had studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "I've changed, Doc," he had said in a quiet voice. "Oh how I've changed."

"How's that?"

"First off, I no longer think Was.h.i.+ngton wants to win this war.

Secondly, I may never fly over North Vietnam again."

Dr. Russell drew up a chair. "What brought all this on?

You don't sound like the eager-beaver Court Bannister I knew back at Bien Hoa."

"I'm not. Isn't the reason obvious? Here I am, trying to do my job and d.a.m.ned;f I'm not in trouble. Trouble so high up it looks like I'm being called upon to bypa.s.s my own wing commander to find out what it is. And I wouldn't be in any trouble if it weren't for some d.a.m.n fool politicians who can't make up their mind what they want us to do over here." He tried to sit up but only made it to rest on his elbows.

Doc Russell pursed his lips. "You're just mad because you might not be the first Ace. There's plenty of war to go around. Besides, many a man would be happy not to fly north again."

"Not if he's a real fighter pilot, he wouldn't." Bannister lay back.

Down deep, down where the thoughts he didn't always want to admit were carefully stored in the back rooms of his mind, he had felt a stirring of relief. He put it away. Court knew fear and knew how to control it, to convert it to alert apprehension that tuned his body and mind to be a more effective fighting man. It almost always worked....

He stared out the window at the rain. Here now, in this BOQ room at Tan Son Nhut, he still felt some measure of relief, but it was completely outweighed by his desire to make Ace. You never found the edge of the envelope until you pushed at it. Or, as Colonel Boots Blesse had written about tactics at the fighter school at Nellis, "No Guts, No Glory."

He turned from the window and pulled a can of beer from a paper bag on the bed. He popped the top, took a deep swallow, then lit a Lucky Strike cigarette.

Court Bannister's BOQ room at Tan Son Nhut was small, ten by twelve, with a bare wooden floor and walls painted a sickly green. It was spa.r.s.ely furnished with a wooden-frame bed, a small night table and lamp, a desk, and a straightback chair An air conditioner mounted on the wall chugged and dripped moisture from its base.

Yesterday he had tried to report as ordered to the Director of Operations as soon as he arrived. When he had presented himself to the DO's outer office, he had been told the DO, Major General Milton Berzin, was busy and would send for him as soon as he could.

This morning, a written invitation for dinner with the Chief of Intelligence for 7th Air Force had been delivered to his BOQ room. Here I am, trying to report to some general for, as implied by Bryce, probable violations of the Rules of Engagement, and I get invited to dinner with some other general. This doesn't happen to majors. He checked his watch. It was time to go.

On the bed was his B-4 bag. Hanging from a hook on the door were his khaki uniform pants. His s.h.i.+rt, the fruity collared 1505 kind, was draped over a chair in front of the desk. Silver senior pilot wings and Army parachute wings were pinned to the left breast. Beneath them were Silver Star, Distinguished Flying Cross, and Purple Heart ribbonseach with an oak leaf cl.u.s.ter denoting two awards, and several other ribbons denoting military service in and out of Vietnam. Under the s.h.i.+rt was a lightweight rib-cage harness issued by the hospital to support his sore ribs.

On the desk were his wallet, Seiko watch, and a packet containing his red pa.s.sport and a first-cla.s.s round-trip ticket between Saigon and Singapore. The red pa.s.sport was issued to military in Vietnam to differentiate them from the civilians with their green pa.s.sports.

Clipped to the packet was a note confirming a reservation for two suites at the Raffles Hotel for ten days. Next to the packet was a small bra.s.s folding photograph holder with a picture of a tall blonde woman poised on a large sailboat. She grasped the forward lines with one hand and waved with the other, golden hair streaming in the wind. Her eyes were alive and sparkling, her smile infectious and full. To my very own, was written on it, and the signature, Your Susan.

Court picked up the picture and stared into Susan Boyle's eyes. He had been writing and calling her for several months.

Her return letters had been warm and humorous. She sent him pictures of herself on the beach, and in the chair of her living room, and by her car. She sent pictures of the people at Donkin's, and showed how they had put a huge picture of him and his airplane, the F-4 he had called Donkin's Wallbanger, on the wall. Always her smile was warm, and her mouth wide and generous and inviting. Her eyes were clear and looked straight into his. She was beginning to fill a void, and become a greater warmth in his life than any other woman before. Even his former wife, Charmaine, for all her happy, bubbly ways, had not filled him as full, or made him as content and happy. Maybe now, he said, maybe now.

He put the picture down and tapped the bundle of letters from her. Maybe it was time. Maybe he was in love. Just maybe it was time to quit the Air Force and settle down. All of a sudden, a quiet life with her seemed reasonable and desirable, maybe necessary.

Next to the travel packet was a series of cablegrams from international magazines requesting interviews. The magazines ranged from the lurid Gossip International, called by its acronym GI, to one with serious aviation articles, Aviation Week. In between were the weeklies, with U.S. News & World Report being the most balanced. The egregious GI magazine had been after him for weeks to respond to a headline they had run a month before proclaiming in two-inch-high letters: SAM'S SONS: ONE KILLS VC, ONE SPIES FOR VC.

AvWeek had just picked up on the Ivory Ace t.i.tle and wanted to interview him about his four MiG kills. Even the Stars and Stripes and the Air Force Magazine wanted to talk to him. He had not responded to any of them.

A subheadline on one story repeated the ditty that had followed his father, Sam Bannister, around since before World War Two, when his international s.e.xual exploits had been legion.

Silk Screen Sam, the ladies'man.

If he can't get in, no one can Court tightened up. Until his half-brother Shawn had been taken into custody by the OSI last fall, he had been leading a quiet life as a fighter pilot in the USAF, rising to fame quite on his own.

Centered on the cover of another magazine was an old movie photo of Sam Bannister, flanking him were current photos of his two sons, Courtland and Shawn. Sam was sword-fighting on the deck of a pirate s.h.i.+p in a 1939 movie.

Court was in pilot's gear, Shawn was shown wearing a safari suit in a photo taken in Vietnam. The caption was big and clear: SILK SCREEN SAM'S SONS: ONE AN ACE, ONE A spy. The feature story inside profiled all three men.

In the late 1930s, at the age of twenty-five, Sam had been a world idol.

Just before World War Two he had fallen deeply in love with and married Monique D'Avignon de Monts&gur of France, who had given birth to Courtland.

Sam had been devastated when Monique had died when Court was two years old. During the war, wild and lonely, Sam Bannister had been a B-17 gunner with the 8th Air Force. After the war, the de Montsgurs had helped raise Court, schooling him in France during his early years. It was during that time that Sam had married Mary McDougal, who had become Shawn's mother. Sam had picked up his acting career, made several highly successful adventure movies, and invested his money in movies for TV and in California and Nevada desert real estate. Except for Mary McDougal, it had all worked out. Sam had divorced her. He now lived in the penthouse over his hotel, the Silver Screen, in Las Vegas.

A picture inside the magazine of Court showed him as a teenager in cowboy garb in one of the few movies in which he had worked as an extra.

The magazine writer described at length his combat career, first as an F-100 pilot flying from Bien Hoa Air Base in South Vietnam, then as an F-4 pilot at Udorn.

The inside picture of Shawn Bannister showed him in Las Vegas with a dazzling smile and a show girl on each arm.

The article chronicled his rise as a correspondent in Vietnam for the liberal California Sun. Several articles he had written had made him famous in the antiwar crowd. The first to gain him national notoriety had detailed how his brother, Court, had shot up a civilian bus with his F-100, then napalmed the pa.s.sengers. That the story had not been true seemed to have made no difference to Shawn or the readers of the Sun.

But the story that had guaranteed his international fame had been his report of an interview with Viet Cong Colonel Tung in a tunnel complex under Cholon, a section of Saigon. The article had stated in depth why the American imperialists could not win their war of aggression against the peaceloving people of Vietnam.

The main story in the magazine explained how Shawn had been apprehended by the USAF Office of Special Investigation in a bar in the village of Udorn Ratchithani, soliciting information from airmen a.s.signed to the fighter base. In his defense he had produced copies of his articles in the North Vietnamese newspaper Nhan Dan and said he was a newsman on a.s.signment, legitimately collecting material. He had pointed to articles in Aviation Week and Flight International detailing similar stories. Shawn Bannister had then been released by an embarra.s.sed USAF.

It had not been good, that day in Udorn, when Court had accompanied Shawn after his release from the base. His half-brother had railed about fascist police, violations of his civil rights, and his responsibility as a journalist to get at the truth regardless of the cost. Court had had the distinct impression Shawn wanted to remain in custody so he could gather more scathing material for attacks on the U.S. military in general and the United States Air Force in particular.

Court had taken his half-brother to Shawn's shabby room that overlooked the runways of the military air base. Two Thai policemen had been waiting. As polite and smooth as arm mola.s.ses, they had made it quite clear that Meester Sha-hahn Banneestah was no longer welcome in the Kingdom of Thailand. If he would just clear the room, they would escort him to the train for Bangkok, where he would be met and escorted to the Don Muang International Airport. They did not care where he went, just so it was outside the borders of the Kingdom of Thailand. Sputtering and fuming, Shawn had collected his suitcase and clothes. His confiscated cameras, tape recorder, and radio had been returned at the air base. In the room had been a slender Thai girl with wary eyes.

Shawn had called her Souky. Souky had said nothing, not even as Shawn walked out. Court had had the impression she was there merely as an observer. Shawn's final words to Court had been, "Dad's going to hear about this, you military piece of s.h.i.+t."

Court thought about his dad, who was now a few positions away from the wealthiest Americans list in Forbes. Sam had set up trust funds for the two boys to guarantee them at least, under current earnings, five thousand a month for life.

Court continually plowed his proceeds into a portfolio his father's investor managed for him. Outside of an occasional splurge, he lived on his Air Force salary of $1,256 per month, before taxes.

It had been tough, getting established, making his own way in the Air Force, fighting both disdain and sycophancy because of his background, but he had succeeded. Now divorced, his mind hadn't been diverted in combat by concerns for wife and children, and the self-preservation feelings that came in combat when you were in rib-aching love, feelings that can distract and kill.

He stared at the rain. But it was different now. Not that his career was going sour, it surely wasn't. But something was very wrong, and he felt maybe it was in the way the war was being fought. If I'm not allowed to fight, and if my own country doesn't want to win the very war they put us troops into, well ... why should I lay my a.s.s on the line?

He took a pull on his beer. Why should I lay my a.s.s on the line? Why?

He picked up his watch. He was due to be at Trailer 5 in the General Officer's area in forty-five minutes for dinner with Brigadier General Leonard Norman. He barely knew the man, but the dinner invitation from the general who ran the Intelligence Directorate was tantamount to an order.

And he followed orders.

He drained the beer, stripped, wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbed his dop kit, and padded down the hall to the communal toilets and showers. He showered carefully, favoring his ribs, toweled down, and returned to the room.

The rain was heavier, and alternately drummed and tore at the window as gusts whirled around the corner of the BOQ.

From his B-4 bag on the bed, he withdrew a pair of light slacks and a blue singlet. He slipped the pants on and picked up the rib protector.

He fingered it for a moment, then threw it in the corner. He finished dressing and left the room. Loud rock music sounded from behind closed doors as he walked down the hallway. He smelled cooking odors from forbidden hot plates. At the end, before the narrow wooden stairs, the doors of two rooms across from each other were open.

A party in progress spilled into the hallway. "I'm a Believer" by the Monkees echoed down the drab halls. He excused himself as he pa.s.sed by, turned down a friendly Mai-Tai, and descended the steps to the door by the street. An airman in a glistening poncho was just entering. He stood and stared at Court for a moment.

"Sir, are you Major Bannister?"