Part 7 (1/2)

”Yes. What's up?”

”The general's compliments, sir, I'm to drive you to his quarters.” He handed Court a poncho. The staff car was a 1964 Ford Fairlane sedan, painted Air Force blue. Court climbed in back. It was stiff vinyl, steamy, and smelled of mildew. Ten minutes later he was deposited at the entrance to the General Officer's area, which was surrounded by a twelve-foot chain-link fence. USAF senior officers were required to live on base. Army officers could and did live in downtown Saigon, some in sumptuous villas. The rain was streaming down. A guard waved him through, he found Trailer 5, and knocked twice on the narrow door.

Brigadier General Leonard Norman let him in. He was tall, slender, and straight as an Irish walking stick, and had a thatch of reddish-brown hair. He was smiling.

”Welcome, Major Bannister. Come in, come in. I trust you did not get too wet.” Two men in civilian clothes with drinks in their hands were seated in the small living room of the two-room trailer. With a start, Court recognized both of them.

The taller and older of the two was the four-star general in command of 7th Air Force, the other was a public information officer he had known a few years before at Bien Hoa.

Commander, 7th Air Force, was a man who managed to look both quizzical and wry at the same time. He had good reason. He was responsible for 70,000 airmen and pilots and 1,500 airplanes on twenty bases South Vietnam and Thailand. He also had operational control over 400 more airplanes based in the Philippines, Okinawa, and Guam. He was an old-head fighter pilot, competent and very much in command. He was the general who two months earlier had pinned Bannister's second Silver Star and other medals on him.

The second man, Major Angelo Correlli, was Court's age, medium height and weight. He had dark hair to match his dark and brooding eyes, and a handsome pockmarked face.

Not a pilot, he held the unenviable position as one of the PlOs (Public Information Officers) for 7th Air Force under the office symbol DXI.

Commander, 7th, extended his hand. ”Good to see you again, Bannister.

Correlli here says you were stationed together at Bien Hoa.” They shook hands.

”Yes, sir, we were.” Court and Correlli shook.

”What are you drinking?” General Norman said.

”Beer, sir.” He thought about lighting a cigarette and decided against it. Norman handed him a beer and pointed to an open spot on the rattan sofa next to Correlli.

”How are you? Feeling better?” Commander, 7th, asked.

”Yes, sir. Just fine.” Now what in h.e.l.l is this all about? he wondered. Four-star generals didn't call in majors to inquire after their health. If they must know, there are any number of staff members who could procure the information at a twist of a telephone dial.

”I understand you have some convalescence leave coming? What do you intend to do?”

”Off to Singapore for ten days, sir,” Court said, surprised at such intimate questioning and wondering when the boom would fall. This was a strange way to set up an a.s.s-chewing.

”I didn't want the DO, General Berzin, to receive you in his office because for the moment I want what we talk about to be off the record.

And if I had seen you, my exec would have had to log you in along with the topic of our conversation.” Commander, 7th, sighed. ”That's how it goes once you get some horsepower. You're not really your own man anymore.” He smiled and handed Court a packet of photos. ”Take a look at these. You might just find them of interest.”

Court thumbed through the pictures. They were grainy and obviously from a gun camera. Then he recognized them for what they were: single-frame blowups of his dogfight with the MiG-19s last week. MiGs in two photos were circled with red grease pencil. One, at a 30-degree angle off, showed Court's gunsight pipper placed squarely behind the c.o.c.kpit of the MiG he could not shoot at. The numbers 201 0 on the nose of the enemy fighter were circled. The second shot clearly showed 201 0 over Kep Air Base with its gear and flaps down. Hostettler had done a good job breaking out the pertinent photos. Court looked up at the general.

”You're off the hook, Court,” Commander, 7th, said.

”Those MiGs were attacking the strike force, you were there to defend the strike force, so you went in hot pursuit of the attackers. At least,” he said dryly, ”that is how I choose to interpret the battle.

From further interpretation of the photos and from the debrief of your flight members, you have been given credit for two possibles and one probable from that mission. And, in case you are having trouble adding them up, you now have four MiG kills confirmed, three possibles, and two probables. And I know about those Thuds in your flight path on your first missile attack, the kill you gave your wingman. That's a cla.s.sic example of mature judgment, for which we thank you. Sorry it blew your fifth kill. Nonetheless, congratulations.” He stuck his hand out.

”You are the leading MiG killer in the whole of Southeast Asia.” They shook.

”But there is a kicker,” the general continued. ”Unfortunately there will be no fifth MiG for you. No more Rolling Thunder missions, no more flying north into the Route rider any circ.u.mstances.” That meant Package system u g his fifth MiG were nonexistent, Court's chances of gettin cases, North Vietnamese because beyond one or two rare MiGs never flew over Laos, the DMZ, or South Vietnam, only North Vietnam.

There was silence in the trailer. Court's lips involuntarily compressed. One does not ask a superior officer why he chooses to put a certain order into effect. One does hope, however, the superior explains a controversial order, or an hards.h.i.+p, or-in Court's case-great unorder that causes happiness and bitter disappointment. He was destined to remain the Ivory Ace, Court thought. And Commander, 7th, had chosen not to divulge his reasoning for why he could not go north.

h.e.l.l, this just proves I'm better off out of the service, he reasoned.

Leonard Norman refilled the drinks.

”Now for the next subject,” Commander, 7th, said. He motioned to Correlli. ”While not painful, it isn't exactly one of great joy.”

Correlli opened a briefcase he had at his feet. He extracted copies of the tabloids that were sensationalizing the two sons of Sam Bannister.

They were much the same as Court had in his room.

Commander, 7th, cleared his throat. ”This is the off-there cord part of our little chat,” he said.

”Do you know where your brother-excuse me, halfbrother-is right now?”

Brigadier General Leonard Nor man asked.

”Here in Saigon, I believe, sir. I had seen some of his articles datelined Saigon. He usually stays at the Caravel Hotel.”

”He has a room there,” Norman said, ”but he hasn't occupied it for several weeks now. We are, if not concerned, at least curious as to his whereabouts, and we know where he is.”

Court looked up. ”Can you be legally tailing him, sir?”

”No,” Norman said. ”We in the military cannot. But the FBI can-and are, or were. He gave them the slip here, then surfaced in San Francisco. Based on that big article he wrote last fall about his interview with the VC colonel, and his broad hints in that article about a big drive or VC push coming, we are naturally curious about what he knows. We have many indicators something is about to pop. As to where he is in San Francisco, he's running with some leftwing politicos.”

Court took a long haul from his beer. He leaned back an shook his head.

Shawn had been a problem since childhood ”You know more about his activities than I do,” he said' ”Did you know about this?” Brigadier General Leonard Norman asked. He handed Court a page from a copy of the Nhan Dan, a newspaper from Hanoi. With it was a translation of an article with Shawn's byline. The article gave detailed information about F-4 bomb loads and takeoffs from Udorn, along with a diatribe on how the Western giant was attacking a defenseless people who wanted merely to uni their country against foreign imperialists, it had been ten two months before, when Shawn had been at Udorn.

”Yes, I did,” Court said, anger tightening his lips, ”Shawn used it in his defense when the OSI picked him up. It's not illegal, is it?”

”No, actually it is not,” Leonard said. ”In the last war, though, we would call it giving aid and comfort to the enemy.” He sighed. ”But then, this isn't a war, and there is no press censors.h.i.+p.”

”About these tabloids,” Correlli said, indicating the papers. ”I've been getting a big ration of s.h.i.+t from SAFOI in the Pentagon.”

Commander, 7th, rolled his eyes. Junior officers weren't supposed to say ”s.h.i.+t” around senior officers. But Correlli was, well, Correlli.

SAFOI was the office of information of the Secretary of the Air Force.

Correlli continued. ”I hate to ask this of you, but for the record, have you given any interviews or are you going to give any interviews?

SAFOI really wants to know. Supposedly everything has to be cleared through them, in addition to a PIO officer being present at any interview.”

”Interviews about Shawn or about the MiGs?” Court asked.

Correlli grinned. ”About Shawn. SAFOI thinks an interview with a reputable publication about your MiG kills would be just fine.”

Court frowned. ”I haven't given any interviews and I'm not going to give any interviews ... on anything, Shawn, MiGs, my dad. Nothing. In fact I'm thinking of resigning my commission.”

Commander, 7th, nodded, unperturbed. ”Leonard,” he said, ”better break out some scotch.” Brigadier General Leonard Norman did as requested and poured scotch all around, except for Court, who took another beer.