Wingmen (9781310207280) (21 page)

“Yes, sir,”
said Fred seriously.

“So what we’re
going to do, Fred, is pick out some nice fat Jap target—not too big
a target but not a small one, either—and we’re going to sail out
there and blast it to hell and back, and then come on home, and
meanwhile we’ll be fiddling around with ship formations and group
strikes and all that. Should be a right interesting cruise, all
things considered.”

“Then, sir, the
basic mission of this operation will be training.”

“You’re right
on the ball, there, son.” The admiral dropped his arm and squeezed
Fred’s shoulder tightly with one hand. “You know, Fred, we’ve got
to hurry up and get this war over. I don’t want to croak of old age
before it’s over.” He laughed.

“I don’t think
there’s much chance of that, sir,” said Fred.

“I wouldn’t bet
on that, Fred.” The admiral stood up and walked to the porthole. He
looked out and said, “I guess I better be getting up to the bridge.
Be setting the special sea detail in a few minutes.” He turned and
offered his hand to Fred and they shook.

“Thanks again,
sir, and good luck.”

“Good luck to
you, son. You’re the one who’s going to need it.”

Fred smiled at
the friendly, worried old man. Then he went topside and watched the
Hawaiian Islands—the gems of the Pacific—pass by.

Duane picked up
his two hole cards and cupped them carefully in his hands. Holding
them up to his face, he took in the bottom card, the Jack of
hearts, then slowly slid the top card until an edge of it was
visible. It was the Queen of hearts. He quickly closed the cards
and slipped them under his first up card, the eight of hearts,
which lay on the playing surface. His mind was racing, but his eyes
and face told nothing. He had the makings of a flush at least, and
a million-to-one shot on a Queen-high straight flush. He glanced
around the table at the other four players and saw that they were
all pushing in their one-dollar ante. He selected a bill from the
top of his pile and dropped it into the pot, then pulled another
and placed it there, too.

“Up a buck,” he
said.

The game was
being played in a compartment, which someone had referred to as a
workshop, several decks below the water-line. If it was a workshop,
it had no tools, no workbench, and was shaped very oddly. The table
was a piece of sheet aluminum balanced precariously on a bale of
rags. The players sat on an assortment of small crates and stacks
of life jackets. Improvisation had kept the game alive this
long.

Duane watched
each of the four players meet the raise. In particular, he watched
the grizzled boatswainsmate chief with a “Mother” tattoo on his
forearm. He was a shrewd and dangerous player. He seldom bluffed
but was superb when he did. Another card slid to a stop in front of
Duane. It was the eight of spades.

“Eights have
it,” said the dealer, and Duane pushed out three more dollars. The
chief on his left suddenly flipped his cards face down, picked up
his bankroll, and left the compartment without a word. The other
players met the raise.

It’s going to be a good
hand
, thought Duane. Another card arrived: the three of
hearts. Duane felt like shouting for joy.
One more heart, baby
, he thought,
one more
heart.
The chief next to Boats folded, and the three
remaining players paid for the next card and a three-dollar raise
by the lieutenant commander on Duane’s right. He had a pair of
Kings. Boats had a Jack, a seven, and a four. The sixth card was
dealt. Duane got the five of diamonds, the chief another seven.

The lieutenant
commander looked at his hole cards again and folded. “Too rich for
me,” he said.

“Raise ten,”
said Duane, thinking that it was bad poker to bet a potential but
this was most likely the last hand. Anchoring was an hour away, and
already he could smell land. Besides, he wanted like hell to beat
the chief.

“You’re on,”
said the chief. The money rustled into the growing pot. The last
cards came out face down, and Duane bent the edge of his just
enough to see it. It was the seven of hearts. The chief looked
quickly at his, then ignored it.

“Ten,” said
Duane, counting out the bills. There were at least fifty dollars
in, the pot now.

“Good,” said
the chief, “and add about a hundred to that.” The older man pulled
a sheaf of bills from out of his shirt and dropped two fifties.
Duane breathed in heavily and blew the air out. He didn’t want to
go that high. He wanted the money for his savings account. He was
still ahead by about six hundred, and he wanted badly to keep it.
He checked the chief’s cards again, trying to figure the best he
could have. A full house was likely, with all his up cards
different. A flush in clubs was possible also. Outside the
compartment, a loudspeaker growled to life.

“Now go to your
stations all the special sea and anchor detail.”

“Too bad this
has to be the last hand,” said the chief.

For no
particular reason Duane brought the six hundred dollars from his
hip pocket and put a hundred of it on the pot. The chief flipped
his cards and Duane nearly choked.

“Queen-high
flush,” said the chief, “in clubs.” He reached for the pot.

“Queen-high
flush,” said Duane, turning his hole cards over.

“Queen, Jack,
seven,” said the chief.

“Queen, Jack,
eight,” said Duane. He covered the stack of money and pulled it to
his side of the table. The chief stood up heavily, pocketing a
small pile of ones and fives in front of him.

“You play a
good game,” he said. “We’ll have to get together again
sometime.”

“Count on it,”
said Duane. He divided the wad of money up among three of his
pockets and left. When he reached the hangar deck, he blinked in
the bright sunshine, then gaped at the unfamiliar sight of land
slowly passing by on the starboard side. He went aft to the
starboard gallery deck. Trusteau was there.

“Well, well,
well,” Duane said, “it sure looks good, don’t it?”

“I was
beginning to forget what it looks like.”

“Shoot,” said
Higgins, “we only been gone two or three weeks.”

“It was a long
time for me,” said Fred.

“Well, you
ain’t seen nothing yet,” said Duane. He didn’t feel like talking to
Trusteau, so he started to walk away. Before he was out of hearing,
though, he heard the ensign say, as if to himself: “No, I don’t
suppose I have.”

Duane left him
standing there alone and went in search of another vantage point
from which to view their entry into port.

Jack Hardigan
sat at the squadron office desk and considered the sudden
proliferation of leave requests that the early end to the training
cruise had brought on. Pulling out a line calendar for the past
year—a diagram of when each member of the squadron had taken
leave—he compared the requests and came up with four who had not
gone in the past six months. All four wanted two weeks of leave,
although he couldn’t imagine what they could do for that length of
time in the Hawaiian Islands. If he went, he would run out of
things to do in about two days. He decided to grant them one week
each—two to begin immediately and the other two in four days. On
all four he wrote tersely: “Approved. Leave your address. Check in
every two days. J.E.H.” The rest of the requests he denied.

In the
passageway he heard the tramping of feet—a team of seamen engaged
in some routine activity necessary to bring the huge ship into
port. The loudspeaker outside his door called for the setting of a
lessened condition of watertight integrity and specified the
uniform for entering port. Already the smell of the islands—that
pleasant mixture of earth and vegetation so noticeable after a
period at sea—was sweeping slowly through the ship. But to Jack, it
wasn’t an engaging aroma. It meant that they were back in port, and
they were there for one reason only.

Jack was aware
of the implications of the air group staying aboard. Normally, they
would have been flown off to Ford Island so that the pilots could
get in additional flight time. If they were kept aboard, it meant
that they would be in port a very short time—perhaps two or three
days—or that space on Ford Island was limited, or a combination of
the two. Limited space on Ford Island could only mean an
unprecedented number of carriers and air groups present in Pearl
Harbor. This he could only surmise to mean impending action.

There was a
noise in the passageway vaguely reminiscent of a drill instructor
on parade. The door was snatched open and Commander Jennings threw
the door open. Instead of coming into the office, he kept one hand
on the doorknob and one foot in the corridor. Jack looked up in
surprise.

“No one in this
squadron goes on leave. No one. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will hold a
general inspection of all your men in one hour. On the hangar deck.
Dress khakis. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No one goes
ashore without my permission. Is that clear?”

“Aye, aye, sir.
Will there be anything else?”

“See me in my
quarters after the inspection.” The door was slammed violently and
CAG was gone.

Jack inhaled
slowly and completely, held it for a moment, then allowed himself
to deflate slowly. This exercise usually helped when Jennings
tossed thunderbolts in his direction. He repeated the exercise, not
really feeling any better. It was beginning to look as if he were
destined to fight on two fronts: the Japanese when the time was
appropriate, and the Air Group Commander when the time was not.

He tore up the
leave requests and threw them into the wastebasket, then went
looking for Duane Higgins.

“You just stick with
me, Trusty,” said Brogan. “I’ll show you a good time.”

Fred sighed and
sipped on a scotch and water, heavy on the water. Despite the late
hour and the fact that this was the fourth Honolulu bar they’d
visited—each one more dingy than the last—Brogan still hadn’t shown
him a good time.

Schuster
emerged from a door marked “Gents” near the end of the dimly
lighted room and came back to the bar. “Nothing better than a good
beer piss,” he said, pulling on a nearly empty bottle.

Fred turned
away and looked around the bar. He couldn’t remember the name of
it. The three pilots were the only customers.

“Another round,
barkeep,” said Brogan, sliding his empty glass across the bar and
almost off the other side. He was clearly drunk, but not nearly as
drunk as he’d been that night a month ago when he had come upon
Fred sitting on the bench; he probably had no recollection of that
conversation at all.

The bartender
put down a dirty white towel and started to fill the order.
He’s the only one
who looks at home in this dump
, thought Fred, feeling very
tired and regretting the lack of stools at the bar. The bartender
brought drinks to him and Brogan and turned back for another bottle
of beer. The saloon-style doors at the other end of the room swung
open to admit a prostitute who looked like she’d just finished with
a hard-to-satisfy customer. She stopped at the end of the bar next
to the door, hefted up a heavy purse, and rummaged in it for a
cigarette.

“Hiya, Trix,”
said the bartender. He drew her half a glass of beer and carried it
down the bar.

“Thanks,
James,” she said. The fatigue in her voice matched her appearance.
She tamped the end of the cigarette on the bar, and cautiously eyed
the three pilots. The cigarette went to her lips but no one moved
to light it.

“Well, James,”
she said, “I guess there aren’t any gentlemen in the house this
evening.” Her hand went back to the purse and came out with a book
of matches. She was about to scratch one, but Brogan beat her to
it. His lighter popped a flame into the air near her face. She was
slightly startled but steadied herself quickly, grabbed Brogan’s
hand, and pulled it up to meet the end of the cigarette. She took a
puff and exhaled the smoke out of the corner of her mouth.