“When did you last see Colonel Fairly?”
“When he rolled in on the target.”
“Did everything appear normal at that time?”
“What’s normal about taking on a battery of howitzers?”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Locke, I phrased that wrong. Did you see smoke coming from Colonel Fairly’s aircraft or any unusual maneuvers on his part?”
“No.”
“Did you see Colonel Fairly’s aircraft impact the ground?”
“No.”
“Did you see any parachutes in the area?”
“No.”
“Did you see any wreckage?”
“Jesus H. Christ—! I was busy getting the flight together and getting the hell out of Dodge. Like Fairly taught me to do. Those people were hosing the goddamn sky down with missiles and Triple A… ”
The sergeant, all cool and calm, finished the debrief. Waters put his hand on Jack’s shoulder, hoping the pilot understood. Jack shook his head and left. The sergeant handed Waters the report, “I’ll have to send it out immediately, sir. We’ll have to list them MIA. Sorry… ”
Waters only nodded, feeling he had failed Mike Fairly and Johnny Nelson.
That evening, the 379th gathered on the makeshift benches that doubled as an outdoor theater and chapel. They were joined by the other two squadrons and most of the wing. After the chaplain’s opening prayer and a reading from scripture, Doc Landis got up from the front bench and stepped onto the stage. It was a dumpy man who stood before them, his hair in disarray and brown eyes moist.
“I knew Michael Fairly and John Nelson, Mike better than Johnny. At first I told the chaplain here that I didn’t want to speak. But then I thought maybe I should. They certainly deserve a memorial like this service, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m going to ask you to take a hard look at what Mike and Johnny were doing.” The doctor paused, summoning the courage to go on. “They were killed because they were engaged in the business of destruction and killing people.”
Jack started to get up and leave. Thunder’s big hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back onto the bench. “Listen to what the man has to say. He was Fairly’s best friend.”
Doc Landis was looking directly at Jack. “The Mike I knew was a kind and considerate man and Johnny had a rare intelligence and believed in his God. Why should two such men choose to engage in the business of killing? The answer — they were trying to buy time. Time to make some kind of peace before this dirty little war we’re in escalates to a bigger, uncontrollable one. They tell me that Mike and Johnny’s epitaph is MIA. Missing In Action. In time that will be changed to KIA. Killed In Action. I hate those words. But if we here can’t buy the world a little more time to stop this war, I wonder what our epitaphs will be. More to the point, will there be anybody left to write it…?” He stepped down and headed directly for the exit.
“Thanks,” Jack said to Thunder as they walked back to the COIC, where they would see if another frag order had come in for a new mission…
Waters found Jack staring at the mission-briefing boards in the COIC and sat down beside him. “Bull is going to be the new squadron commander, think you can handle that? I’ll reassign you to another squadron if you want.”
Jack shook his head and told him Bull Morgan was a good choice.
“Good. He’ll need your help. See if you can find C.J. I want you and him to get together with Gomez and myself for some serious head-knocking tonight. I want to see if we can knock off a few more Gomers next time around without getting plastered ourselves.”
A blue staff car left the wing headquarters at Stonewood. Brigadier General Shaw sat beside the chaplain as he drove slowly into the base housing area. The mothers that were watching their children play in the warm summer evening halted at the sight of the staff car and shepherded their wards home, relieved to see the staff car pass and not stop in front of their houses. Connie Fairly saw the car park directly in front of her house. She opened the front door, steeling herself.
Cunningham scanned the message and threw it into his out folder. He chewed his cigar to a ragged pulp and spat it into a waste basket. He called his aide. “The press will be looking for a statement about our first loss. Give ’em the standard answer and when they ask if we will stop flying missions or withdraw, tell them that is a decision above our level.” He banged the phone down, shoved another cigar into his mouth.
The President dropped the PDB, the President’s Daily Brief, onto his desk and spun his chair around to face the three windows behind him in the Oval Office. He focused on the pin oak planted in the President’s Park by Dwight Eisenhower. To the left and further back he could see a white oak credited to Herbert Hoover. The office, the park, the trees… they would endure long after he left his place. It made one think about the so-called larger picture…
“It’s developing as expected,” he told Michael Cagliari, his National Security Adviser.
“The press is starting to talk about another Vietnam, sir. They’re going to use us as shark bait.”
The President almost grinned. “I think you mean you, not ‘us.’ Besides, you know the press, ready to go into an instant feeding frenzy at the first scent of a good story.”
“Some senators and congressmen are beginning to circle as well. The conflict in the Gulf is turning into a classic set-piece limited war,” Cagliari said. “It’s got the potential to blow up in our faces.”
“What doesn’t, in this job? Mike, we can’t lose sight of our objectives. I want to stabilize the region, keep the oil flowing our way and block the growth of Soviet influence. If by standing tough we can stop the fighting, which the Soviets exploit, we’ll have made real progress on our long-range objectives.”
“A lot of Congressmen are going to be reelected by beating you over the head on this. The press is going to help them.”
“Screw the press. They want an issue that will dominate the headlines tonight. I got elected to worry about tomorrow. The government is supposed to make policy. The press is supposed to report it. Let’s stop wringing our hands about the reactions to what we do… ”
“Mr. President, you’re confusing me. You started out sounding like Winston Churchill, now you’ve switched to Charles deGaulle.”
The President leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Don’t flatter me. They’re in their own league.”
The worry was back on Cagliari’s face. “Mr. President, remember Nicaragua. There’re some lessons there. The world’s changed. Too many players can move independently of the major powers—”
“Mike, I understand you’re worried we may not be able to control events in the Gulf. So am I. If that happens we’ll just have to take our lumps and withdraw. History tells us democracies don’t like to fight long wars. Right now, though, we have to gut it out. But I did not become President to be remembered for getting us into a major war. We are not in one. We’ve committed an Air Force wing to help the UAC stabilize the situation. That’s all.”
The President walked over to a carved chest, raised the lid and a small bar lifted up. “Let’s have a drink. Your usual?” Without waiting for an answer he poured Mike Cagliari a straight sour mash whiskey over the rocks and scotch for himself. He handed Cagliari the drink and sat down beside him on the couch.