Rules of Engagement (1991) (22 page)

"I hope so, too," he responded, then hurried to leave a message at the front desk for Palmer and Lunsford.

"Brad, please hold me."

He took her in his arms, suffering the anguish of impending separation. The powers that be were going to tear him away from this beautiful, wonderful woman, and send him back to war. A war filled with senseless death and destruction.

"Darling," Leigh Ann said, misty-eyed, "I want to see you off . . . at the base."

Brad steeled himself and held her closer. "Leigh Ann, I'm not going to have you riding alone in a taxi at three in the morning." "Brad, I'm twenty-two years old."

"Please," he said uncomfortably, "let me have my way on this one. I'm a little overprotective when I care for someone."

Leigh Ann choked back a sob. "Okay, I'll wait for you in the lobby."

Brad escorted her to the lobby, then hurried to the suite. He quickly changed into his uniform, packed his belongings, checked for items left behind, and returned to the front desk.

He was perplexed to find that Leigh Ann was nowhere in sight. Brad settled the room account, threw his overnight bag over his shoulder, and started for the entry.

Leigh Ann rushed into the lobby as Brad reached the entrance. "Brad," she called. "Wait."

He spun around and handed his bag to the bellhop. "I'll need a cab, please."

She stopped in front of Brad, tentatively extending a small hand. "Please accept these from me . . . so you'll have something tangible to remind you of me."

Brad took the small pendant and the wallet-sized photo of Leigh Ann. Her picture, in black and white, was stunning.

"I had to get the picture out of my father's wallet. I'll get him another one when we get home."

"Leigh Ann," Brad stammered, "I don't know what to say."

She stared into his eyes. "Tell me that you will write to me, and that you'll be true to me . . . and that you'll come back safely."

Brad walked her to a spot affording some privacy, then held her tightly. "Leigh Ann, I care deeply about you." They remained quiet, feeling the distress of separation.

"Brad, I need your address," she said as she handed him her home address. "I'll write every day, I promise."

Brad wrote his address on one of his calling cards and gave it to Leigh Ann. He unbuttoned his khaki shirt, removed his gold wings, replaced the snaps over the prongs, then held Leigh Ann.

"Come back to me," she said, wiping away a tear, "safely."

"Count on it," Brad replied, squeezing the gold wings into her small palm. "We belong together . . . forever."

"Oh, Brad, I'm scared."

Brad turned and walked to the taxi, not trusting his voice. His world had been shattered by the reality of leaving Leigh Ann, and the certainty of what he had to face over the skies of North Vietnam.

Chapter
19.

The KC-135 shrieked like a thousand banshees as it thundered down the long runway. The four Pratt & Whitney turbojets strained to propel the fully loaded tanker to takeoff speed. The noise was deafening.

Brad sat in a tip-down troop seat close to the darkened cockpit. He watched the pilots, then turned and looked the length of the long, windowless fuselage. Harry and Nick were already stretched out on the uncomfortable passenger seats.

After what seemed like an eternity, the heavy aircraft lifted smoothly off the pavement with 500 feet of runway to spare. Brad unclenched his sweaty palms, exercising his tense fingers.

The laboring tankers, fueled to maximum capacity, had to depart late at night or early in the morning. The pilots had to take advantage of the cooler temperatures in order to get the maximum thrust from their engines.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Brad opened his breast pocket and gently lifted out the pendant on a gold chain. Even in th
e d
rab lighting, he could distinguish the intricate design around the dove. He held the shiny ornament in his left hand and reached into his pocket again, extracting the picture of Leigh Ann.

Brad stared at her image as if to keep her close even though they would soon be worlds apart--he in his chaotic world of aerial warfare, and Leigh Ann in her more civilized surroundings. They had had so little time together. He hoped that she was peacefully asleep.

Harry Hutton leaned over, studying the photo. "She is absolutely beautiful."

"Yeah," Brad replied, opening his palm to view the pendant. "She is a beautiful person inside, too."

"What's that?" Hutton asked, pointing to the ornament.

"Something Leigh Ann gave me," Brad answered, carefully handing the delicate pendant and chain to Hutton. "That's a dove on the front."

Hutton ran his thumb over the design before turning to Brad. "Are you going to wear this?"

"Damn right I'm going to wear it," Brad replied, acceptin
g t
he ornament back. "I'm going to hook it around my dog tags." "It's crazy," Hutton remarked, leaning against the fuselage. "What's crazy?"

"Brad Austin," Harry said slowly, "carrying a symbol of peace while he blasts fighters out of the skies."

Brad placed the photo and pendant back in his shirt pocket, then turned to Hutton. "Harry, I'll tell you what's crazy." He paused a moment. "No, I'll tell you the solution. This planet needs a new, consolidated rule book."

Harry laughed. "Written by Brad Austin, terror of the skies."

"You're damn right," Brad replied, buttoning his pocket. "If I ran this planet, there wouldn't be any more goddamn wars. You can count on that."

"My boy," Hutton said, giving Brad a strange look, "you've had too many trips to Disneyland."

They both remained quiet for a couple of minutes before Brad turned to his shipmate. "Harry, I'm in love with Leigh Ann." "You mean in lust."

Brad gave Harry a cold look.

Hutton raised his eyebrows. "You're serious."

"Serious as a ramp strike."

"Brad," Hutton counseled, glancing at the sleeping forms of Palmer and Lunsford, "you just met this girl . . . what, less than a day ago?"

"Harry," Brad responded irritably, "I may not be Einstein, but my primitive brain knows when a feeling registers."

"Okay," Harry replied, then watched Brad open his pocket again, extract the pendant, slip his dog tags over his head, then attach the gold memento to his chain.

The afternoon crowd was beginning to gather in the Cubi Point Officers' Club. Brad stood next to a row of phone booths, patiently waiting for the naval-base operator to place his call to Honolulu.

Nick Palmer, Russ Lunsford, and Harry Hutton were at the bar quaffing cold San Miguel beers. The four men had twenty-five minutes before they had to assemble at the carrier on-board delivery (COD) aircraft that would return them to their ship. Their two Phantoms had already been flown to the carrier.

Brad was listening to the clicks and hums emanating from the phone line when the Royal Hawaiian operator suddenly answered. She quickly connected him with the room occupied by Leigh Ann and her parents.

Mrs. Ladasau answered, expressing her regret that Brad had been called back to duty so unexpectedly. She wished him well, then called her daughter to the telephone.

"Hi, Brad!" Leigh Ann sounded excited. "Where are you?"

Covering his left ear, Brad spoke a little louder than normal. "I'm in the Philippines--at a naval air station. We're getting ready to fly out to the ship."

"Brad," she said, hearing the intermittent static in their connection, "I miss you . . . I really do. This just seems unbelievable." "What do your parents think about our relationship?" Leigh Ann laughed softly. "My father thinks it's one of thos
e f
lash-in-the-pan romances."

Brad glanced at the bar. "And your mother?"

"Mother and I were discussing you when you called. She fully understands how we feel, and said that she fell in love with dad the first time she met him."

Seeing Palmer and Lunsford point to the arriving crew bus, Brad nodded. "Leigh Ann, I have to go. Just remember that I love you . . . and I'll be in touch."

"Brad, I miss you," she said above the phone-line interference, "and I wrote a letter--a long one--to you this morning."

"I can't wait," he almost shouted. "Gotta run. Take care of yourself."

"You, too, flyboy. I'll be waiting for you."

"God . . . damn!" Russ Lunsford exclaimed, jolted awake by the solid impact of the carrier landing. The sudden stop threw him sideways toward the front of the aircraft. Also startled awake, Brad, Harry, and Nick were groggy and disoriented.

"Holy shit," Hutton blurted, rubbing his eyes. "I believe we just arrived."

Lunsford turned to the youngster who served as the COD crew member. "Jesus Christ, do you think it might be a good idea to wake people before a crash landing on a carrier?"

"Yes, sir," the third-class petty officer mumbled. "I forgot. I'm sorry."

After the C-lA Trader was chocked and the engines were shut down, the men climbed out and entered the carrier through the forward hatch in the superstructure. They went below deck to their staterooms, deposited their gear, stopped at the head, then walked to the squadron ready room.

Entering the briefing room, the late arrivals were greeted with catcalls and good-natured banter. Dan Bailey motioned for them to come to the front of the narrow compartment. "Sorry, gents, but we need every warm body we've got."

The four sat down, while the CO told them what he had explained earlier to the squadron. In less than forty-eight hours they would be working with the carrier Intrepid in a combined operation to increase the pressure on North Vietnam. The rule
s o
f engagement would remain the same, but the intensity of bombing would be expanded.

After Bailey pointed out the primary target areas, Brad had a question. "Skipper, why are we hitting the same worthless targets we bombed before, with a larger amount of ordnance?"

Bailey raised one hand. "Look, I know what you're saying, and I agree. We should pick out strategic targets and annihilate them, no question.

"However, referencing the discussion we had previously, the White House calls the shots. It's that simple . . . and not open for deliberation."

Brad strained to maintain his composure. His exposition of guiding principles found the meaningless and irrational bombings absurd. The message from Washington was clear. The civilian leadership, demonstrating no will to win in their policy of slow escalation, would drag the war on for an indeterminate period. The politicians, who were scrambling to cover their careers, could care less about the individuals they had sent to do battle.

"They believe," Bailey continued with a hint of disgust, "that a policy of gradualism . . . an intensified show of force will pressure Hanoi into capitulating."

"Sir," Brad said as silence filled the ready room, "with respect, we aren't going to make a dent in North Vietnam, or in the thinking of Ho Chi Minh, until we saturate bomb them around the clock with every airplane in the inventory--air force, navy, and marine."

"No question, Captain Austin," Bailey said, tight-lipped, "but the subject is not open for discussion."

"Yes, sir," Brad responded in a temperate voice. "I understand."

Inside, he was suffering agonies over the insanity of seeing more pilots and RIOs die in halfhearted strike efforts. That knowledge, along with the incomprehensible rules of aerial engagement, caused an enormous rift in his loyalties.

Bailey made a few more general remarks to the crew members, then left for the wardroom. Four of the junior officers resumed their acey-deucey games, while others followed the CO to th
e e
vening meal. Afterward, everyone would gather in the ready room for hot popcorn and the evening movie.

Brad walked out of the compartment and down to the air-conditioned passageway leading to his stateroom. He opened a soft drink, sat down at the desk, and listened to the sounds of the ship.

The ever-present creaks and groans of the massive hull were occasionally interrupted by bells ringing, whistles blowing, and announcements over the internal 1-MC loudspeakers. Letting his mind wander from the war to Leigh Ann, Brad tuned out all of the sounds in the carrier.

He started to write a letter to Leigh Ann, then dismissed the idea when he thought about his frustrations. He did not want his feelings about the war to come out on paper, especially not to Leigh Ann. She would probably agree with her father. The United States should not be bombing anyone.

Opening his shirt pocket, Brad pulled out Leigh Ann's picture. Looking at her smiling face helped erase the thoughts of the lunacy of the war. He placed the picture on the desk, vowing to have the ship's photo shop duplicate it. That way, Brad reasoned, he could keep one picture in his room and carry the other in the cockpit.

Harry Hutton walked in a minute later, happy as ever. "You hungry?"

"No, not really," Brad replied, setting down the cola can. "I don't have much of an appetite this evening."

Harry sat down on the bed and studied his friend. "Brad, this shit bag we're in is really getting to you."