Brad looked at Palmer. His chest and right arm were swathed in bandages. His complexion was pale and chalky, with a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.
"Let's let him rest," Brad suggested, stepping out of the small compartment. "Harry, you don't look well."
The normally effervescent RIO waited for Russ Lunsford, then pulled the curtain closed. "I'll be okay. Scary grounded me, so — as Chief Flaven says — I'm gonna get plumb blowed slick."
"We're grounded, too," Brad replied as they made their way between the rows of impeccably clean beds. "How about if I get some ice and food from the wardroom, and we'll camp in our pit?"
"Good idea," Hutton responded, stepping out of sick bay.
Lunsford swore when he stumbled over a hatch combing. "They made this difficult enough. Now I have to negotiate these sonuvabitchin' knee knockers on crutches."
The three men made their way up to the hangar deck, then weaved through the parked planes to the ladder leading to their staterooms. The berthing compartments for some of the air-wing officers were midship, below the flight deck.
Climbing the steep ladder, Lunsford had to forego the crutches and hop one rung at a time to the next level. Brad carried the crutches and followed his RIO up the ladder. He gazed out across the huge hangar bay. Men were working in every available space. Bombs, rockets, fuel tanks, wheels, engines, and various other supplies were stacked everywhere. The maintenance crews were swarming over the array of aircraft, fixing mechanical problems and patching recent battle scars.
When the trio reached the next deck, Brad handed Russ his metal crutches. Lunsford turned to go to his stateroom. "I'll grab my good-time kit and meet you at your room."
"No," Brad said, looking at Hutton. "Harry can get your booze while I go to the wardroom. You need to get off your feet and relax."
"Thanks," Lunsford replied as he entered the passageway leading to the junior officers' quarters.
Stretched out on the lower bunk, Russ Lunsford accepted his second drink from Brad. Harry had made his nest on the deck. After folding two blankets together, he had placed his pillow against the bulkhead and pulled his footlocker next to him.
Fixing his second drink, Brad was about to ask Hutton a question when they heard a knock on the door.
"Shit," Lunsford exclaimed, propping himself up.
Brad opened the door to find Dan Bailey and Jack Carella looking at him.
"Gents," the CO said from the passageway, "we're not going to interrupt you for long. Doc McCary told us that he has grounded the three of you, and I don't question his decisions. You've been through a hell of a lot, and we think he is right."
Jocko Carella appeared to be more intense than usual. He played his new roll as the executive officer perfectly. "That's the good news. The bad news is that we expect all of you to have up chits Friday afternoon, and be ready to man up the next morning."
"Sir," Brad responded, thoroughly miffed at the implication that they were goldbricking, "we didn't ask to be grounded, and I'd be happy to go blast the bastards to oblivion right now."
"Calm down," Bailey said in a pleasant tone. "That's why you need some time-out — let off the steam. You're spring-loaded to the kill mode."
"We should be, sir," Brad responded, regretting his words as soon as he had uttered them. This mess was not the CO's fault. "I apologize, Skipper."
Bailey placed his hand on Brad's shoulder. "No apology needed, okay?" The CO met Brad's eyes. "Get as drunk as you want. We don't want to see you until the Saturday morning brief."
"Yes, sir," Brad replied, feeling some of the tension dissipate. "That is our first priority."
Bailey chuckled and pulled the door shut.
"Holy Christ," Lunsford said, lying down again. "You better take it easy, or the old man is going to have you down for a psychiatric evaluation."
Brad opened his desk drawer and pulled out a Wall Street Journal. "Let me show you something, Doctor Lunsford."
Placing the newspaper faceup on Lunsford's lap, Brad sat down. "I've highlighted the significant parts, so you don't have to wade through all of it."
Harry Hutton gave Brad a quizzical look, then remained quiet while Lunsford skimmed through the article. Harry's curiosity was aroused when Lunsford called the president a son of a bitch. Harry tossed down his vodka in two quick gulps. "What the hell are you reading?"
"Tell him," Brad said, propping his feet on the end of the bunk. "The Journal has a reputation for getting their facts straight."
Lunsford cleared his throat. "It says that the final decisions on aerial targets in Vietnam — including the targets to be authorized, the ordnance to be dropped, the number of sorties allowed, and, most disturbingly, the tactics to be employed — are made once a week at a luncheon in the goddamn White House."
Harry digested the information, unsure of its significance in relation to them.
"Tell him the part," Brad said evenly, "that is driving me to the brink of insanity."
Lunsford glanced again at the fourth underlined paragraph. "The luncheons are attended by the president, the secretary of defense, the secretary of state, the presidential assistant, and the press secretary."
"What's more important," Brad interjected, reaching for an ice cube, "is the fact that no military personnel are present, not even the chairman of the Joint Chiefs."
Harry sat quiet a moment, thinking about all the illogical things the air wing had been tasked to do. Now it made sense how the missions were formulated. "Jesus H. Christ. That's crazy."
"Oh, yeah," Brad continued, removing his shirt. "The White House will not accept a partnership with the military, so we're paying the price for having amateurs and politicians run a goddamn war that they are unqualified to direct, and don't have the will to win. They're sitting up in the palace with their blinders on, methodically screwing up this half-assed effort even worse."
Lunsford folded the paper. "It says that a lot of the brassfour-star types — are becoming very vocal."
"They damn sure ought to be," Brad snapped. "This goes against everything they've ever been taught. Any military commander worth his salt wants to protect his troops and accomplish the mission. The generals and admirals are as frustrated as we are.
Brad placed the newspaper back in his desk. "Those geniuses at the White House garden parties have got the military sending out eight planes with half bomb loads instead of four planes with full loads. They want more goddamn sorties, so let's risk four extra pilots and RIOs."
The veins in Brad's neck were protruding. "I'll volunteer to fly every mission, but why risk extra people in a half-assed effort to placate both the hawks and doves? They're covering their asses, because they don't have a clue what to do next, and we're paying for their gutless indecisiveness."
Brad looked at Lunsford. "You think I need a psychiatric evaluation? They need to send an entire goddamn bus load of psychiatrists over to the White House."
Harry braced himself and got up from his corner. He reached for Brad's glass. "Let me fix you a drink."
Brad looked up. "Thanks." The room remained quiet while Hutton refreshed Brad's drink, then his own.
"Why don't we," Harry suggested, handing Brad's glass to him, "discuss Leigh Ann."
Brad nodded his head. "I get the message. Just one thing and I'll shut up. Those people in the White House who thought they would intimidate Ho Chi Minh with a piss-in-the-wind effort miscalculated so badly that they might as well have been looking through a telescope at another planet. Now, they don't know what in hell to do, and more of us are going to get our asses blown off."
Brad exhaled, feeling the warmth of the alcohol. "If they don't believe enough in this cause to give it one hundred percent, then they should step away and admit that they shit themselves."