Eagle Station Part 17

When they asked me who, I couldn't tell them. I just couldn't.

That did it. They voted me out." He slammed his can down on the table.

"Tell you what I did do before I left. I got next to that a.s.shole Powers and told him I still had the pictures as proof, and though I was leaving I could still nail him for the offense if he kept bugging you guys. He caved in. d.a.m.n near cried. Promised he'd leave you alone."

"Well, I'll be G.o.ddammed," Ken Tanaka said. "I wondered why that weasel never called me around again." He looked at Joe Kelly. "We talked about that a lot, didn't we? Never could figure it out. He seemed almost afraid of us." Kelly nodded.

"So you turned yourself in to the Honor Committee." Kelly shook his head. "You are one rigid guy. You gave away a h.e.l.l of a lot."

"The whole world," Dominguez said and stared out beyond the patio. After a moment he turned to Kelly. "What would you have done?"

Kelly hesitated, then threw back his head and laughed.

Dominguez stiffened, a wave of hurt crossed his face, Joe Kelly reached over and tapped his wrist. "You know what Tanaka and I thought? We thought you had VD and didn't want Barbara to know."

Dominguez grinned. "G.o.d, Kelly, that's rotten." He leaned forward. "Do you think it's too late?"

"For you and her?" Kelly looked at Dominguez with compa.s.sion. "Yeah, ElC, I think it's too late. She's been married for five or six years."

"Who to?" He thought of her worn picture in his wallet.

"Jerome Powers."

It was nearly dark and Roily Grailson was setting up two long tables in a row. "Gather 'round, you nuggets," he yelled.

"I'm going to teach you what real carrier pilots do." He poured beer over the tables.

"s.h.i.+t, Roily, we already know how to do carrier landings," Higgens said and blew a quack at him. Carrier landings was a glorious stunt whereby a pilot had to run directly at a long beer-soaked table, then belly-flop and slide in the beer, to be caught by a rolled-up towel held by two men on each side like a carrier deck's wire. Since he was making like an airplane, the pilot ran with his arms extended, making appropriate jet noises.

"Wait a minute, nuggets," Grailson said. "How many of you have made night carrier landings in bad weather with a damaged aircraft and a damaged carrier?"

The men looked at each other. Night and bad weather?

Damaged? They became attentive and eager.

Grailson spoke to one man, who immediately disappeared on an errand, then he briefed their duties to the two men holding the "wire."

"Okay, Higgens," he called, 11 you're first. Taxi on over here."

Higgens complied, and Grailson blindfolded him with a napkin, positioning him ten feet to one side of the table on what he called downwind. "Right," Grailson said. "I'm your GCA operator and LSO."

Ground Controlled Approach and Landing Signal Officer. "Run like h.e.l.l and I'll tell you which way to turn. When I yell 'cut,' you're in position to land. Trust me and just belly-flop on the table."

As LSO, Grailson had an important job: yelling "cut" too early would belly-flop the nugget on the floor, maybe bas.h.i.+ng his head on the "fantail" of the "s.h.i.+p"; yell "Cut" too late and the nugget would crash the "fantail" into his groin.

While talking, Grailson poured a shot of warm whiskey down the back of Higgens' party suit and lit it with a match. At the same time, a third man with a seltzer bottle appeared by the two "wire" holders.

"Move!" Grailson yelled.

Higgens took off at full throttle and Grailson yelled, "Turn right 90 degrees, another 90-degree tight turn, okay, you're on final, left, a little more left. Slow down ... that's too slow, you're stalling, faster, faster." A fluttering c.o.c.ks...o...b..of cheery flames trailed behind Higgens. The man with the seltzer bottle sprayed the dry portions of the table with lighter fluid and lit it off with a whoosh. When Higgens was five feet from the table edge, Grailson yelled "CUT," and Higgens launched himself in the air. He belly-flopped onto the table, slid through the beer and flames, and was braked to a halt by the "wire."

The "fireman" grabbed the seltzer bottle and shot it all over Higgens'

back, then on the table surface, where the lighter fluid was merrily filling the air with the smell of burnt plastic.

Higgens stood up and whipped the blindfold off. Only slightly rattled about what had happened to him, he bowed.

"Bravo ... s.h.i.+t hot," the crowd yelled.

"Okay, who's next?" Grailson inquired.

"NEXT? ... You outta your mind? ... Shove it, squid ...

Go p.i.s.s up a rope, anchor-clanker, no more." Clearly, there were no takers. Looking greatly put out, Grailson grabbed a fresh beer. The crowd returned to its food and loud talk.

"Those squids are as nuts as you zoomies," Wolf Lochert said to Court Bannister and Doc Russell. They sat at a table, eating suckling pig with greasy fingers.

"You should talk," Doc Russell said, "you who run around in the woods eating snakes and preparing your knees to keep orthopedic surgeons in clover for life." Doc Russell hoisted his IV bottle of whiskey. "To your knees."

Wolf tipped his cola can in response. "Doc, you fixed me up good, so I guess I can't complain." Wolf had unrolled his beret and put it on jaunty and neat, c.o.c.ked right, SF Vietnam flash to his left.

"A little rest, a little fluid, and you're ready to go pound yourself on the head with hammers again," Doc Russell said.

"All you had was a mild concussion coupled with dehydration bordering on severe. But you had no fracture and no subdural bleeding. All our vital-sign checks on you indicated all was normal. Your leg problem was caused by the blow, just like a boxer who got slugged extra hard. You're in excellent shape.

You fixed yourself up."

"Yah," Wolf said. "I'm still dehydrated. I need another c.o.ke."

He looked around and saw only beer and liquor being dispensed.

"Going to the bar," he said over his shoulder.

"Wait-your hat-take it off," Court yelled after him, but it was too late. Wolf disappeared into the Club.

"HAT ON IN THE BAR. HAT ON IN THE BAR." The cry was caught and echoed throughout the bar as Wolf Lochert entered still wearing his green beret. He ordered a c.o.ke from the grinning Thai bartender.

A burly lieutenant at one end of the bar clanged the big bell and, in case this Army dummy didn't know the rules, chanted out the poem on the plaque above the bell: HE WHO ENTERS COVERED HERE.

BUYS THE BAR A ROUND OF CHEER.

Wolf made a sheepish grin. "Oh, yeah, right." He pulled out a wad of money and started laying bills on the bar. He liked fighter pilots and was happy to buy them a drink. Many times CBU or napalm at the right time had made his life more secure.

"Oh no, dads," said the big lieutenant, who did not put together what it meant for a man in civilian clothes to be wearing a green beret. "You got to chin yourself before you have the privilege of buying us a drink." He pointed to a brand-new chinning bar the lieutenant himself had installed to show off his own substantial muscles. "Right here, dads."

"Aw, shut up, Tony," someone from the crowd shouted.

Ignoring the cry, the lieutenant grabbed the bar and did 20 two-handed chin-ups in rapid succession, watching Wolf all the while.

Wolf stopped putting his money on the bar and walked over to stand under the chinning bar. While holding the lieutenant's eye, he made an effortless leap, caught the bar with his right hand and, gazing directly into the lieutenant's eyes, did 25 right-handed pull-ups, changed in midair, and did 25 left-handed pull-ups. He slowly let himself down to the floor.

Still holding the lieutenant's widened eyes, he jumped back up, grabbed the bar with both hands, wrenched it from its holder, dropped to the floor, bent the bar into a horseshoe, and let it clang at the lieutenant's feet, Cheers and laughter rocked the bar. "s.h.i.+t hot ... terrific ...

don't take that man's money.. ." Wolf got his c.o.ke, left some money on the bar, and went back out to the patio.

"What's all the ruckus?" Court asked.

"Some guy said something funny, I guess," Wolf Lochert said.

Doc Russell studied Court for a moment And snapped his fingers. "Now I know what it is," he said, sudden enlightenment on his face.

"Now you know what?" Court asked.

"I haven't seen you smoke for ... I don't know how long.

You're doing great. You really did quit, just like you said."

"Trying to."

"Congratulations." They resumed drinking. There was a commotion to one side.

Amid appropriate gongs and cries of silence, two ancient Thai men dressed as Siamese warriors of King Mongkut's era were introduced to the crowd. They stood, tall and resplendent, armed with large knives and spears. They were soon surrounded by the Phantom FACs, who thought it only fair the two warriors be treated to some alcoholic beverages to show respect for their fellow comrades-in-arms, regardless of customs, age, or culture.

After a period of uncertainty, the ancient warriors grinned and accepted all drinks. The festivities resumed.

Wolf Lochert took a swallow of a fresh c.o.ke. "Heard from Parker lately?

How is he?"

USAF Captain Toby Parker had been the man to spot Wolf Lochert's cutoff patrol a few years back near Bien Hoa. His prompt actions had saved their lives. Parker had been awarded the Air Force Cross for his heroism and had been given a pilot training slot. Currently, he flew O-2 FAC aircraft out of a Da Nang squadron with the call sign Covey.

"Toby is just fine. He'll be going to F-4 upgrade soon."

Court took a long pull at his beer. "You going out to Eagle Station?"

he asked Wolf.

"It's my job. I want to see what sort of defense and evacuation plan they have. Want to come along?"

"Sure, if I can get away, which I doubt. Got a lot on my plate these days. What are you doing, putting together a task force?"

"That's exactly what I would like to do, but not for inspections. As a matter of fact, I'd like to put together a unit that, at all times, has components for special operations under a single commander. As it is right now, we can't pull off any Special Forces movement using Air Force people or Air Force equipment without requesting and justifying the request far in advance through Army and Air Force channels. Don't get me wrong, your Air Commandos and TAC Airlift guys are doing a great job.

Same with the USAF Green Hornet helicopter people. But lining them up through the upper echelons is firneconsuming. Not only does it take a long time for approval, but everybody has to add their ideas. We need a way to put a package together overnight or sooner."

"You're looking for a degree of interservice cooperation that we have at the operator level but not at DoD level," Court said.

He had barely finished his sentence when a series of explosions and whistling noises split the air outside the patio. Wolf Lochert hit the deck, clawing for his social weapon from his ankle holster that wasn't there; the Jolly Greens went down yelling "Incoming"; and the fighter pilots stood around asking what in h.e.l.l was happening.

"Somehow I have a hunch this is Chef Hostettler's Act Two," Doc Russell said. He pointed to the back of the patio.

"Check that."

Wolf crawled out from under the table, looking like a man who had just hit his thumb with a hammer. He and Court followed the Doc's gaze to look at Roman candles and pinwheels erupting from a frame set up in the adjoining open field. The two Siamese warriors, walking with the studied ponderousness Of those who have had a bit too much to drink, were moving about with sticks of punk, igniting the fuzes. Skyrockets tore upwards and exploded in sonorous brilliance, cherry bombs tossed by shadowy figures punctuated the air with sharp flashbangs, spinning firewheels sprayed sparks in a widening circle.

All was noise and light.

A series of pops and bangs sounded within the patio, causing Wolf again to reflexively crouch. The partygoers had discovered that hydrogen-filled balloons made marvelous flaming air bursts when ignited with a cigarette or match.

"Nuke Hanoi ... BLAM ... Y-One yield ... POP ...

Gotcha, Red Baron ... BLAM BANG BLAM BANG BLAM ... Hey, I just made Ace ... I'll bet they're full of Hostettler's chili gas ... more, more. .."

As the last balloon burst, the crowd's attention was caught as a husky Tarzan yell split the air and there was a motion of something ma.s.sive and ponderous over their heads. Something very big from high in the evening dark was plummeting their way.

Painted green, and wearing cardboard cutouts of the Jolly Green Giant's pea-vine adornment, Chef Hostettler swooped down on the crowd standing on a giant 5,000-pound lead wrecking ball swinging from the Lorain crane used by the base engineers. At the controls, happily pulling levers and pus.h.i.+ng b.u.t.tons and singing "Anchors Away" at the top of his lungs, was Navy Lieutenant Rolly Grailson.

The Volkswagen-sized lead ball pendulumed ma.s.sively back and forth next to the side of the patio. The Jolly Green Giant stood on it, one arm looped around the wire, waved, "Ho-HoHo-ed," and bellowed the tag line of the "Valley of the Jolly Green Giant" song.

The Phantoms and the Jollys were ecstatic with pleasure over this fine tribute to a great organization. So pleased, in fact, they shook up their beer cans and followed Chef Hostettler with foaming sprays of beer that drenched the night air worse than a Milwaukee tavern when their bowling team won.

Off to one side, the one-baht bus driven by Captain Donny Higgens drew up next to the crane's control cab. Higgens sat back in the driver's seat, swilled a beer, and watched the Green Giant majestically whoosh back and forth between the patio and the bus. Inside the bus were twenty-two barefoot Thai girls covered only by a light sarong. Each girl carried a thirty-six-inch anchovy and cheese pizza-one for every member of the party. This was to be Hostettler's greatest accomplishment. It would take top honors in any Command and Staff College for planning, coordinating, directing, and controlling. Here was a culinary and entrepreneurial feat requiring great skill, cunning, coordination, and highly selective bribery.

Higgens reclined further in the driver's seat, feet up on the instrument panel, and drank more beer as he awaited the signal to bring the bus close to the patio and open the doors to let the twenty-two merry girls grab their hot pizzas and run into the crowd to dispense their favors.

The pendulum swung once again while Chef Hostettler HoHo-Ho-ed and roared out that the Jolly Green Giant would now provide the second course of the meal and signaled Higgens to move the bus into position as he started on the upside of his swing. At the same time he gave an okay sign to Grailson in the cab of the crane to draw up the pendulum and turn the crane away from the patio. Grailson, tight and grinning with pleasure at his efforts and with the acclaim the Jolly Green Giant was receiving, pulled one lever too many, turned the wrong way, and lowered the pendulum by two feet.

As Higgens brought the baht bus to the side of the patio, the bottom of the giant pendulum neatly peeled back the top of it like a sardine can, causing the panicked exit of twenty-two screaming, nearly naked brown bodies jumping through windows and climbing over each other and mas.h.i.+ng the hot pizzas. The Jolly Green Giant rode the ball to the top of its swing, where it halted briefly next to the roof of the Club before starting its inexorable downswing. Chef Hostettler said, "Oh oh," and stepped smartly onto the roof. The pendulum started down and, with an unstoppable motion gathering speed, it swooshed past the screaming brown and now pizza-colored girls and removed quite precisely two of the supporting pillars of the patio roof. The wood snapped with satisfying cracks and the roof structure groaned and slowly collapsed like an elephant going to its knees with its rump still up in the air, as the end attached to the Club roof creaked and acted like a hinge but did not tear loose. The terrified girls darted like a frightened school of minnows into the only refuge they could find-the front door of the Officer's Club.

"Save the booze," cried some of the pilots. "Save the pork, save the pork," cried others. "Pork who?" asked the bewildered Higgens, who staggered from the wrecked bus just in time to watch the patio roof come down around his ears. He crawled to a corner in the rubble and sat down with his beer and duck call. "Pork who?" Quaaack? "Pork who?" Quaack.

"I think that's 'whom,' old buddy," said Cod Piece Partin, taking a seat on the floor next to him. He hugged a small keg of beer, which he held up to drink directly from the tap.

The two Thai warriors appeared upset with all the confusion, and advanced shoulder-to-shoulder, aggressively holding their weapons in front of themselves to vanquish whatever demons or foes were causing the fracas.

The screaming girls who took refuge in the Officer's Club nearly fell over each other trying to stop as they dashed into the large room full of the American congressmen, their wives, local Thai dignitaries, and the Wing Commander, Colonel Stanley D. Bryce. The girls squealed and turned and pushed back, trying to get out of such august company as fast as they could. Their thin garments were not holding up well. Two big Air Policemen came in the front door of the Club, blocking that exit.

The girls scampered through the rooms of the Club, diving out whatever opening they could find, to the surprised delight of the Phantoms and the Jolly Greens who had gathered their composure and their beers.

Delighted with this new performance, they took seats in and on the wreckage and cheered for each little shrieking and squealing pizza-covered girl-form that leapt from the windows and doors of the Ubon Officer's Club and darted off every which way into the darkness like frightened bunnies.

Faces of bug-eyed congressmen and their wives appeared in the windows, taking in the disappearing rumps of the delectables, several of whose sarongs had torn or, in one or two cases, been ripped off entirely. In scowling disbelief they surveyed the patio wreckage and the cheering pilots. They quickly jerked back as they heard the two warriors utter war cries and saw them draw back their ancient arms and throw their spears in the general direction of the huge crane looming in the dark sky.

More slender bodies hurtled out of the windows, then cries of dismay began from the audience perched on the wreckage.

"Wait ... My gawd ... I don't believe it ... Do you see what I see?"

Sitters stood, standers peered closer. Chef Hostettler stood on the roof, fists to waist like a proper Jolly Green Giant, and stared down in green disbelief. Things were waggling where things shouldn't waggle.