Brad relaxed his head against the fabric seatback and inhaled deeply, then slowly let out his breath. The face of Frank Rockwood and the corpse of the MiG pilot he had killed had surfaced in the kaleidoscopic nightmare. What had awakened him, at least his last memory of the horrifying dream, had been the sight of the soldiers he had killed. They had been ripped apart and thrown into the air by the devastating impact of his centerline fuel tank.
He looked on both sides of his narrow seat. His three shipmates were sound asleep, snoring at various decibel levels. Lunsford's chin rested on his chest.
Checking his watch, Brad was pleased to see that the big Lockheed transport was scheduled to land at Hickam Air Force Base in less than an hour.
Harry Hutton, whose head had been resting on Brad's right shoulder, stirred awake when the pilot reset his watch. Hutton looked at Brad through swollen eyes. "Are we ever going to get there?"
"Patience," Brad answered, clearing his throat. "Fifty more minutes, according to our ETA."
Hutton yawned, rubbing his eyes. "Well, this sure as hell beats that sky pig we rode to Guam."
Brad rotated his head back and forth to loosen the stiff muscles. "First thing I want when we get on the ground is an ice cold beer."
"Ditto."
Austin and Hutton remained quiet, closing their eyes until the four-engine jet began the descent into Hickam. They roused Palmer and Lunsford when the flaps were lowered. Four minutes later, at 2:15 P. M. local time, the StarLifter's main gear rumbled onto the runway as the nose was gently lowered to the pavement.
When the jet taxied to a halt on the transient aircraft ramp, the foursome grabbed their bags and hurried to an air-force bus with a Honolulu placard on the front.
As soon as all the seats were occupied, the talkative Honolulu native shut the door, shifted into gear, and mashed the throttle.
The trip to downtown Honolulu had been punctuated by stops at the international airport, Hilton Hawaiian Village Hotel, and Fort DeRussy military reservation. Having donned khaki uniforms during the layover in Guam, the men were anxious to change into their civilian attire.
The four flyers stepped off the bus at the large military complex and walked along Kalakaua Avenue to the luxurious Royal Hawaiian Hotel.
The majestic structure, impressive in its fresh coat of coral pink paint, reflected a quiet grace and dignity. The manicured lawn was accentuated by colorful anthuriums, orchids, and red ginger. The scent of the flowers was all-pervasive.
Stopping to take in the elegant "Pink Palace of the Pacific," the four men were impressed by the unique architecture and Spanish-style cupolas. In the legendary lobby, they admired the Moorish ceilings and gleaming crystal chandeliers but ignored for the time being the exclusive shops lining the long hallway.
Quickly signing the guest registration, Brad accepted four keys to their two-bedroom quarters. Their suite overlooked the beach, and they had an unobstructed view of Diamond Head, the famous Waikiki landmark.
The spacious sitting room was flanked by large bedrooms on each side. Each room contained two queen-sized beds with tall headboards and overstuffed pillows. A large bath off the living room was stocked with extra towels and hand-milled soaps, along with four thick-terry cloth robes. A richly padded wet bar and a private lanai completed the opulent suite.
They took time only to shower and change before heading down Kalakaua Avenue to the bustling International Market Place. Hundreds of open-air cart vendors competed with shop owners for the attention of the tourists crowded into the narrow corridors. Children laughed and played while their mothers and grandmothers hawked everything from T-shirts to jewelry.
The foursome casually inspected the array of island goods, stopping at various stands before they retraced their steps. Each selected a colorful aloha shirt from a small shop at the entrance to the bazaar. Laughing at each other, the men walked back to their room and tossed their purchases on the coffee table between the matching pastel pink sofas.
"To the bar," Hutton declared emphatically.
"Lead on," Brad replied, holding the door open.
"Ah, yes," Nick Palmer sighed as a vivacious young cocktail waitress approached their table. "I could grow accustomed to this life-style without any formal training."
Seeing that Harry Hutton was about to deliver one of his infamous lines to the attractive waitress, Brad nudged him on the shin. "Don't even think about it."
Harry gave his roommate a go-to-hell look but remained calm and quiet while the group ordered a round of mai-tais. Feeling the weariness from the prolonged flight, Brad stretched his legs and took a deep breath. He was beginning to relax.
By the time the waitress returned with the tantalizing drinks, Hutton had prepared his approach. He waited until she had set the drinks on the table. "You remind me of a movie star."
The young lady turned and smiled pleasantly. "Why, thank you. I'm sure my husband will be pleased to hear that."
Choking, Palmer blew a mouthful of his cocktail into the sand a foot from their table.
Shaking his head, Brad tipped the waitress. "I apologize. We left his muzzle in the room." The girl smiled knowingly and walked away.
Chagrined, Harry flushed deeply. "You're a bunch of goddamn assholes… every one of you."
Swallowing a big mouthful, Lunsford leaned close to Hutton's red face. "Harry, we can't take any more of your dumb-ass lines."
"Yeah, Harry," Palmer laughed, clearing his throat. "Why don't you just cut to the action, and ask them if they want to go jump in the rack?"
Hutton remained quiet, sipping his drink and ignoring the remarks. He removed the pale purple orchid from his glass and chewed on the stick of sugarcane.
Lunsford had ordered another round of cocktails when Brad noticed a striking young lady enter the lounge. She was accompanied by a well-dressed woman who appeared to be her mother.
Noticing that the table conversation had ceased, Brad became acutely aware that everyone else was looking at the captivating young lady.
Brad averted his eyes but quickly stole another glance, taking in the image of the petite brunette. The silky brown hair was enhanced by sparkling blue eyes and a radiant smile. She had an elegant face with perfectly sculpted features, and delicate hands and feet.
Her white tennis shorts accentuated her smooth, tanned legs. Brad guessed her height and weight to be five feet four inches and 110 pounds. She appeared to be in her early to mid-twenties. He could see that she was not wearing an engagement or a wedding ring.
"Bingo," Hutton laughed, nudging Brad's shoulder while looking at Palmer. "Now we get to see your acts."
Lifting his drink, Palmer chuckled. "Brad, I've got an idea how you can sweep her off her feet. She will be forever indebted to you, believe me."
Palmer glanced at Hutton and laughed. "We'll send Harry over to their table, then you rescue the women, and you'll be a knight in shining armor."
Hutton gave Palmer the middle-finger salute.
Brad looked again and caught the young lady's eye. They exchanged smiling glances.
After finishing their drinks, the older woman signed the check and they left. Brad got up, walked by the vacated table, glanced at the slip of paper, then continued down the hallway to the restrooms. The check had been signed S. W. Ladasau.
Returning to the lounge, Brad saw that the bill had been removed from the table. He returned to his seat, tuning out one of Palmer's flying stories. Still thinking about the stunningly beautiful woman, Brad dreamily watched the surfers and outrigger canoes race along the tops of the sparkling waves.