Part 6 (1/2)
Doc Russell became serious. ”It's Colonel Stan Bryce. I understand he's the wing king around here. He doesn't look pleased. Actually, he is not exactly just outside the door.
He's at the end of the hall in the conference room in deep conversation with Major Somebody-or-other, an Intell officer. The other guys outside the door were your backseater and other members of your flight. I told them to bug off for the O'Club, that you'd be okay, that I'd brief them later.
You sure you feel up to seeing Bryce? I can put it off, you know.”
”Doc, I'm just a major. He's a colonel. He can see me anytime he wants. Colonels are eight-hundred-pound gorillas. You say sir to them and salute a lot.”
Doc Russell ushered in Colonel Stanley D. Bryce, the Commander of the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing.
Stan the Man, as he liked to be called, was six feet even, with sharp gray eyes, wore his black hair in a crew cut, and had powerful shoulders and a square, pleasant Slavic face.
He was popular, played a vicious game of handball, and flew missions about twice a week, usually leading a flight or an element, but never the entire strike force. He flew only with men of experience.
Two months ago he had stood by Court Bannister's side at a ceremony at Tan Son Nhut when the Commander of 7th Air Force, a four-star general, had pinned a Silver Star, a DFC, and a Purple Heart on Bannister. The medals were for Court's heroism in shooting down a North Vietnamese MiG-21 piloted by a Russian, and his subsequent escape and evasion from North Vietnamese troops in the Steel Tiger area of Laos after being shot down himself on the same flight. On that mission, Bannister's close friend, Flak Apple, had been shot down over North Vietnam and was missing.
Court's backseater that day, Ev Stern, though badly wounded, had saved Court's life. After the bailout, Stern had fallen unconscious in his parachute among enemy troops.
Court Bannister had not been the soul of cooperation for that day of ceremony in November. Whereas Colonel Stan Bryce had been exuberant and thrown his arms around Court and called him Ace (which he had not been), Court had been brooding and morose. He owed his freedom to the Russian fighter pilot-Vladimir Chernov he had said his name was-who had refused to turn him over to the searching enemy troops. ”The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds torture,”
Chernov had said by way of explanation. Then Chernov had gone down, a bullet in his chest fired by the attacking communists who had thought him an American. As yet Court had not told anyone of the loss he felt for the man who had set him free, or what the blue scarf he carried meant to him. The scarf had belonged to Chernov.
In his BOQ room now, Court made a face as he remembered the day after his rescue. He and Bryce had been flown down from Udorn to Tan Son Nhut in a T-39, a small USAF pa.s.senger jet. When the plane had taxied to a halt, Court had looked out and seen a red carpet leading to a four-star general standing at a podium. Civilian and military news cameras were in position. The door of Court's T-39 was opened and the military band struck up a cheerful martial air. All eyes were on the door, but Court Bannister had made up his mind he wasn't getting out of that d.a.m.ned airplane to go through all that hero horses.h.i.+t. His head still hurt from a blow he had received in the jungle, his ribs ached, and his mouth felt full of old socks from a big drunk the night before I celebrating his rescue. So nothing doing on the hero stuff. He was over here to fight, not mess around with the wheels.
Then his bowels had betrayed him. The T-39 he was in was a five-window model, not the seven-window that had a head.
His stomach had rumbled and boiled. The jungle water he had had to drink during his trek without chlorine purifying pills had finally caught up with him. He bolted out of the door, held himself ramrod stiff for the ceremony, dodged the press, whispered something into a line chief's ear, and was whisked away in a maintenance van. It had been a near, near thing. He had found the sergeant later and had given him a case of beer.
After that, Colonel Stan the Man Bryce had not been as solicitous. He had, in fact, become rather cool since Court had never really responded to his friendly overtures. It had been made clear to Bryce that Court Bannister had been foreordained by the USAF to become the first Ace of the Vietnam war. In such a case, not only would the Air Force be a big one-up on the Navy, the USAF would garner a lot of favorable (they hoped) publicity, because Court Bannister was the son of movie star Sam Bannister. Because of that official placing of hands, Bryce had tried to be Court's buddy, not his commander. Court's missing pal, Flak Apple, had also been so foreordained, not because he was the son of anybody famous, but because he was black.
Things hadn't worked out quite the way Court Bannister, the USAF-and Colonel Stan Bryce had wished. And certainly not for Flak Apple, who was carried on the books as MIA Missing in Action. But the war ground on. If the MiGs weren't up, you couldn't shoot them down. If you shot one down and it wasn't recorded, you didn't shoot one down. (If a tree fell and no one was in audio range ... ) Time was pa.s.sing, and Stan the Man had places to go. If Court Bannister became a liability, then he had to be jettisoned.
Historically, the commander of the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing went on to become a brigadier general-unless he got fired, as Bryce's predecessor had. Stan the Man's mind was never far from that fact. But he could only go so far. And the Air Force could only go so far.
”The Air Force can only go so far, Bannister,” Stan Bryce had said as he walked in the hospital room with Major Richard ”George” Hostettler, his intelligence officer. Bryce carried a green, brick-sized Motorola HT-20 radio to keep him in touch with the command post. He was not smiling.
”You're in deep kimchi,” the colonel continued. ”Not only were you flying when you were sick and d.a.m.n near lost an airplane because of it, you violated the Rules of Engagement by attacking the MiG base at Kep.”
” Sir, ” Bannister had said, ”I didn't attack the base, I attacked the MiGs flying around the base. It's not the same thing.”
”You're quibbling, Bannister. You are allowed only to attack MiGs that attack you.”
Bannister's head throbbed. He felt reckless and out of control. ”Yeah, Colonel, just like the SAM sites. We can't hit them until they shoot at us, then it's too late. What the h.e.l.l kind of a war is this, anyway? A h.e.l.l of a lot of guys are gone because of those G.o.dd.a.m.ned ROE.”
”You think I like it, Major?” Bryce had flared. ”You think I don't know what's going on out there? I fly too, you know. I've seen the s.h.i.+t up there. I've been hit, and I've seen others go down. But that's what we get paid to do. So you listen to me. We are in the military and we do what we are told. You, me, and every other guy that wears a uniform swears to follow the lawful orders of his superiors. And that's just what we do, and that includes you. Maybe there are those in Seventh that want to see you become an Ace.
But I'll tell you, not at the expense of breaking the Rolling Thunder ROE.”.
Rolling Thunder was the code name for the bombing and interdiction campaign in North Vietnam that had the twofold purpose of convincing Ho Chi Minh the U.S. was serious and stopping the flow of supplies into South Vietnam.
Rolling Thunder was an on-again, off-again campaign run from the White House. Because it was not sustained, because it was on targets chosen for political, not military reasons, it was not effective. But its cost in pilots and airplanes was criminally tragic.
At the same time, North Vietnam was also the only place the MiGs flew, the only place where a fighter pilot could become an Ace. The skies of North Vietnam were where the action was. Bryce had continued.
”Anybody that breaks the rules gets into big trouble, Ace or no Ace.
There's a big plan and the ROE are a vital part of that big plan. You copy?”
”Big plan, Colonel? You really think there's a big plan?”
Bannister could not keep the sarcasm from his voice. He was going too far and he knew it. But he didn't care. Doc Russell and Major Hostettler stood quietly to one side.
”I sure as h.e.l.l do, Bannister. We may not yet be privy to it, but it exists.” His voice did not convey the conviction of his words. ”And you are going to have to do some answering to somebody about your actions up North. Read this.” He threw a message on the bed. Court picked it up and read it.
TO: CMDR/8TFW/UDORN RTAFB THAI FM: DIRECTOR OPERATIONS/7AF/TAN SON NHUT.
AB RVN INFO: N/A MSG: 240945ZJAN68 QQQQ UNCLa.s.s EFTO SUBJ: MAJ COURTLAND.
EDM BANNISTER, FV3021953.
1. REF OUR TELECON 1645L THIS DATE, BANNISTER.
TO REPORT DO/7AF ASAP.
SIGNED ADMIN OFFICER FOR 7THAF/DO.
”I have a hunch your days of going north to hunt MiGs are over,” Bryce had said and left the room.
Hostettler had stayed behind. He had been grinning.
”Tell ya how it is, Court,” he had said. ”I'm reviewing your gun-camera film . . .”
”Did I get my fifth MiGT' Court Bannister interrupted.
”No, nothing conclusive there. Hits, yes, but no flamer.
What I'm telling you is this. I'm trying to break out the big numbers those MiG drivers have painted on the nose of their airplanes. It's just possible the very MiGs you fought with were the ones in the traffic pattern at Kep. Small consolation. don'cha know, but since they are trying to hang an ROE violation on you, it's just possible we might be able to prove you were merely attacking the MiGs that were attacking You. I'll go over the photo negatives in the lab myself.
The angles and the sun cause some problems, but I'll see what I can do.”
Court thanked him, and he went out.
Doc Russell nodded. ”Well, Court, I see you haven't changed one whit.”
Court Bannister had studied him for a moment, then shook his head. ”I've changed, Doc,” he had said in a quiet voice. ”Oh how I've changed.”
”How's that?”
”First off, I no longer think Was.h.i.+ngton wants to win this war.
Secondly, I may never fly over North Vietnam again.”