Rules of Engagement (1991) (37 page)

Chewing the end of his pen, Carella grew more bold. "Skipper, after going over the mission debriefing reports, I think we should at least try to get in touch with Austin. Everything points to him, even Hutton's reluctance to add anything of any significance to the action report."

Bailey studied Carella's piercing dark eyes, noting the intensity in his voice.

"Sir," Carella continued, placing his pen on his desk, "I believe that it is in our best interest to get straight answers from Austin and Hutton, before CAG and the admiral get back."

The CO rubbed his neck. If the accusations turned out to be true, the consequences could be serious. If Austin had indeed shot down a MiG over an off-limits airfield, Dan Bailey could toss his career off the fantail.

"I have a theory," Carella continued cautiously, "that Major Dao bagged Durham and Lunsford, and Austin went after him. Everything we've looked at points to that conclusion, at least in my mind."

Bailey weighed Carella's argument, wishing the matter would evaporate. "Jack, you may be right, but I want to get all the facts--all the information from CINCPAC--on the table before we confront anyone."

"Yes, sir," Carella replied, unsure if he should press the issue. "Skipper, I would suggest that we send Ernie Sheridan out to see if he can locate Hutton. At least, if the story is true, you'll have time to think about the problems we're going to have to face."

Bailey's shoulders sagged as he lowered his head, then raised it slowly. "Jack, I believe that sends the wrong signal. That type of approach would take on the appearance of a witch hunt. We have to trust one another, and wait to see what turns up from the investigation in Hawaii."

Chapter
33.

Brad felt the warm morning sunlight on his face. He blinked several times and turned his head toward Leigh Ann. She was entwined in his arms, her tangled dark hair partially covering her peaceful face. She stirred and nestled closer to him.

Reflecting on their shared ecstasy, Brad brushed her soft hair away from her face, then reached for the telephone on the bedside table.

Leigh Ann opened her eyes and smiled. "Good morning."

He returned her smile. "It is a good morning." Placing his hand on the telephone receiver, Brad kissed her on the forehead. "I thought I would have breakfast sent to our . . . your room."

They both laughed while Leigh Ann slid across the bed and reached for her kimono. "I believe we can dispense with the extra room at this point, if you're brave enough to share a bathroom with me."

"I believe I can handle that."

"Oh, you are a brave marine," she replied with a wink as she slipped on her silk robe.

Brad dialed the phone and looked at his wristwatch. Seven fifteen was a good start for a day of sight-seeing.

After ordering a generous breakfast for two, Brad gathered his clothes, which lay in a small pile beside the bed. He donned his wrinkled trousers and walked into his room. Ten minutes later, he emerged in a hotel robe and stretched out on the bed beside Leigh Ann.

She curled next to him and rested her head on his chest, laughing softly to herself.

"What's so funny?"

"Well, I'm not in the habit of traipsing around the country, meeting strange men in hotel rooms, but I finally did something I wanted to do, for a change."

He smoothed her hair. "You sure did."

She kissed his chest. "Dad would have a conniption." "Your father," Brad chuckled, "would shoot me." Propping herself up on one elbow, Leigh Ann turned to face
Brad. Her smile was sultry. "No question about it. You're
a s
coundrel, but I love you anyway."

"I'm glad to know that," he yawned. "Sorry."

She laughed, then leaned back.

"Do you mind," Brad smiled, "if we watch the 'Today' show?"

"Not at all. I'll turn it on."

When she returned to the bed, Brad pulled her back to him, feeling her warmth. "I wonder how soon room service will be here?"

"Who cares," Leigh Ann sighed as her lips met his.

They propped their pillows against the headboard and turned their attention to the morning news program. Turning to face Leigh Ann, Brad leaned closer to her. He breathed the sweet fragrance of her hair.

Leigh Ann kissed him lightly on the forehead, then paused
,
transfixed by the photograph being shown on the screen. "Isn't that the kind of plane you fly?"

Brad turned his head and froze. There was his Phantom, Joker 205, banked steeply over Phuc Yen. He caught only a few key comments from the broadcaster, the words State Department and investigation among them. He stared at the photograph of his F-4, hearing the words allegedly shot down a MiG while a picture of a crashed airplane flashed on the screen. Two seconds later the dapper newsman switched to a different story, and the airplane wreckage disappeared from the screen.

Brad's mind spun, trying to comprehend the significance of the news report. How much do they know? He could not believe that someone captured it on film. Will anyone else recognize that it was my airplane?

Leigh Ann gripped his wrist. "Brad, what's wrong? Do you know the pilot of that plane?"

He stared in shock at the television. "Ah . . . yes."

Leigh Ann gave him a confused, frightened look. She had been startled by his strained voice.

"Leigh Ann . . ."

"Brad," she responded, reaching for his hand, "what's the matter?"

He shook his head slowly. "Jesus H. Christ . . ."

Leigh Ann felt a sudden pang of fear, frightened by the brittleness in his voice. "Please, Brad . . . I'm scared. What happened? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Yes," he answered in a flat, decisive voice. "I was flying that plane."

"Brad," Leigh Ann said tentatively, "what happened?"

He sighed and looked into her eyes. "I broke a rule--a big one--and destroyed a MiG taxiing at an off-limits military airfield. I also shot down their second-leading ace. I didn't report it, and, as we just saw, someone was taking pictures. It won't take the investigators long to figure out who did it, if they haven't found out already."

Leigh Ann remained silent, her mind racing in an attempt to assimilate all she had heard and seen. She thought about what her father had said, and what she had said to him. How could she face him now, and explain that Brad was not a renegade. Or was he? Leigh Ann stared at the screen, then glanced at Brad.

"Leigh Ann," he said dryly, "I'm going to have to go back, and turn myself in to my commanding officer." He felt her fingernails dig into the palm of his hand. "I'm facing a court-martial, and probably dismissal from the Marine Corps, if not a long prison term at Fort Leavenworth."

Leigh Ann gasped. "Brad, that makes you a criminal, doesn'
t i
t?

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"But you're an officer standing up for your country. You shot down an enemy pilot and destroyed another plane in the middle of a war. You're a hero."

A long silence followed.

"Leigh Ann, my good friends Bull Durham and Russ Lunsford were shot down by the MiG pilot I killed. Bull--that was his wife I called yesterday--and Russ were captured." Brad inhaled sharply. "But the main thing I did was violate the rules of engagement by attacking a MiG at an off-limits airfield.

"I have no excuse," he continued with dry cynicism, "except that my logic tells me that our civilian leadership is protecting their collective asses, while they place us in a position to fight with one hand tied behind us. Now, Bull and Russ are POWs, and I'm going to a court-martial."

"Brad, I don't understand what you mean by rules of engagement. Can you explain what the rules are . . . and what you did that was so bad that they would court-martial you? You were only doing what you were trained to do."

Brad rubbed the bridge of his nose. "The administration in the White House has established guidelines specifying where we can shoot and bomb, and where we can't. The quagmire would amaze you, but suffice it to say that I stepped over the boundary and violated a restriction."

Brad pondered his answer. "So, that won't make the pseudointelligentsia in the White House very pleased. I broke a rule, and I'll pay the penalty."

Leigh Ann released his hand and put her arms around him. "Brad, I truly love you, with all my heart, but I'm frightened."

Brad held her tightly, then gently kissed her. He tasted a salty tear and drew away.

Dan Bailey, clad in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, propped his pillow behind his head and began reading the stack of officer fitness reports. His concentration was repeatedly broken by the pounding and banging on the deck below his stateroom. The noises, interrupted by periodic bursts from an air hammer, had been a continual irritation for more than fourteen hours.

In frustration, Bailey sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bunk. He dropped the fitness reports on the edge of his desk and walked to his small lavatory.

Bailey splashed cool water on his face and looked into his mirror. The reflection that met him was not the usual upbeat, energetic squadron commander. Bailey studied his red eyes, then the creases in his tanned face, concluding that he had aged ten years since the carrier had departed on the combat cruise.

Bailey dried his face, then stepped to his desk and sat down in his battered chair. He could not stop thinking about the incident at Phuc Yen. The more he thought about the accusations, the more convinced he became that the series of events could not have been coincidental.

He sat quietly, staring blankly at the opposite bulkhead. Hutton, who had been allowed to leave early on his jaunt, was due back to the carrier at approximately the same time as Austin. Then, Bailey thought, I'll have the answer.

"What a bag of shit," he said under his breath.

It was time for a stiff drink. He reached for his trousers, i
n p
reparation for a visit to the officers' club. Dan Bailey hoped the diversion, and a few laughs with his friends, would clear his mind.

The atmosphere in the Okutan restaurant was reserved. Harry Hutton gazed at the garden pond from a private tatami room. His attention centered on two young Japanese girls walking across a blanket of moss.

"What are you eyeballing?" Jon O'Meara asked, counting the handful of yen to pay for his share of the meal.

"Just taking in the local scenery," Harry answered, catching a glimpse of Mario Russo entering the room.

Russo dropped a folded newspaper on the low table, then squatted on his thin cushion and folded his legs. "The men's room looks like something from around the turn of the century."

Harry watched the teenage girls duck through a side gate and walk down a narrow path next to the garden.

O'Meara looked at the newspaper. "What the hell are you doing with a Japanese paper? You can't even read English."

"I saw this," Russo answered, unfolding the tattered newspaper to the front page, "and wondered what the headlines say."

O'Meara and Russo focused their attention on the large photograph of an F-4 Phantom in knife-edge flight. The wing tip looked like it was almost dragging the ground.

O'Meara gave his RIO a quizzical look and motioned for a nearby waitress. He handed the newspaper to her. "Would you mind telling us what that says?" he asked, pointing to the two bold lines of print.

She studied the headlines and handed the paper back to O'Meara. "Paper say," she hesitated, struggling with her English, "Hanoi protests American fighter over Phuc Yen."

Harry snapped around, knocking over his plum wine. His fac
e t
urned ashen, prompting the surprised waitress to scurry away.

Wide-eyed, he fixated on the photograph of his fighter-bomber.

Russo and O'Meara stared at Harry a moment before they both started to speak. "Harry," O'Meara said, darting a look at the Phantom, "what the shit is--"

"Oh, Jesus," Harry interrupted, oblivious to the cool wine dripping on his slacks. "Sonuvabitch--I knew it, goddamnit!"

Shocked, O'Meara and Russo looked at each other, then back to Hutton. "Is that you," Russo asked gingerly, "and Austin?"

Harry looked up and nodded. "Brad stepped over the line when Dao shot down Bull and Russ. I tried to stop him, but he was determined to get Dao--to make up for letting them down."

"Major Dao," O'Meara leaned closer to Hutton, "shot down Bull and Russ?"

"Yes, goddamnit," Harry blurted, "and then Brad chased Dao to Phuc Yen, and blew his ass out of the air--killed him right over the runway, then blasted a MiG on the taxiway."

"Unbelievable," Russo said under his breath. "Does anyone know about this other than us?"

"Mario," Harry answered in anguish, "look at the picture, for Christ's sake. The whole world knows about it."

"Calm down, Harry," O'Meara soothed, nudging Russo. "I'm going over and have that waitress read the article to me, and we'll go from there, okay?" O'Meara squeezed from under the table, grabbed the newspaper, and walked over to the waitress.