The Lion's Game (52 page)

“Doing fine.” Satherwaite glanced at the desk drawer beneath where his feet were propped up. In the drawer, he knew, was a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He glanced at the wall clock: 4:10 P.M. Somewhere in the world it was past 5:00 P.M.; time for one small drink—except that the charter customer was supposed to be here by 4:00 P.M. Satherwaite said, “Did I tell you I flew down to see Paul a few months ago?”

“Yes, you did—”

“Yeah. You ought to see his setup. Big house, pool, hangar, twin Beech, hot and cold running babes.” He laughed and added, “Shit, when they saw my old Apache coming in, they tried to wave me off.” He laughed.

McCoy took the opportunity to say, “Paul was a little concerned about the Apache.”

“Yeah? Paul’s an old lady, if you want my opinion. How many times did he piss us off wasting time checking everything a hundred times? Guys who are too damned careful get into accidents.” He added, “The Apache passes FAA inspection.”

“Just passing it on, Bill.”

“Yeah.” He kept staring at the drawer, then swung his legs off the desk, sat upright in his swivel chair, leaned forward, and opened the desk drawer. He said to Jim McCoy, “Hey, you really got to get down there and see Paul’s setup.”

In fact, Jim McCoy had been down to Spruce Creek a number of times, but he didn’t want to mention that to Bill Satherwaite, who’d been invited just once, though Satherwaite was only about an hour-and-a-half flight time away. “Yes, I’d like to—”

“Incredible house and stuff. But you should see what he’s working on. Virtual fucking reality. Jesus, we sat there all night drinking, bombing the shit out of everything.” He laughed. “We did the Al Azziziyah run five times. Fucking incredible. By the fifth run, we were so shit-faced we couldn’t even hit the fucking ground.” He broke into peals of laughter.

Jim McCoy laughed, too, but his laughter was forced. McCoy really didn’t want to hear the same story again that he’d heard a half dozen times since Paul had invited Satherwaite down to Spruce Creek for a long weekend. It had been, Paul told him afterward, a
particularly
long weekend. Up until that time, none of the guys had quite understood how much Bill Satherwaite had deteriorated in the past seven years since they’d last gotten together in an informal reunion of the flight crews from the squadron. Now, everyone knew.

Bill Satherwaite caught his breath and said, “Hey, wizo, remember when I waited too long to kick in my afterburners, and Terry almost climbed up my ass?” He laughed again and put the bottle on his desk.

Jim McCoy, sitting in his office at the Cradle of Aviation Museum on Long Island, didn’t reply. He had trouble connecting the Bill Satherwaite he had known with the Bill Satherwaite at the other end of the line. The old Bill Satherwaite was as good a pilot and officer as there was in the Air Force. But ever since his too-early retirement, Bill Satherwaite had been on a steep glide slope toward the ground. Being a Gadhafi-killer had become increasingly more important to him as the years went by. He told his war stories incessantly to anyone who would listen, and now he was even telling them to the guys who flew the mission with him. And every year these stories got a little more dramatic, and every year his role in their little twelve-minute war got a little grander.

Jim McCoy was concerned about Bill Satherwaite’s bragging about the raid. No one was supposed to mention that they’d been part of that mission, and certainly no one was supposed to mention other pilots’ names. McCoy had told Satherwaite numerous times to watch what he said, and Satherwaite had assured him that he’d only used their radio code names or first names when he discussed the raid. McCoy had warned him, “Don’t even say
you
were on that raid, Bill. Stop talking about it.”

To which Bill Satherwaite had always replied, “Hey, I’m proud of what I did. And don’t worry about it. Those stupid ragheads aren’t coming to Moncks Corner, South Carolina, to even the score. Chill out.”

Jim McCoy thought he should mention this again, but what good would it do?

McCoy often wished that his old squadron mate had stayed in the Air Force at least until the Gulf War. Maybe if Bill had participated in the Gulf War, life would somehow have been better for him.

As he spoke into the phone, Bill Satherwaite kept an eye on the clock and an eye on the door. Finally, he spun the top off the bourbon bottle and took a quick slug without missing a beat in his war story. He said, “And fucking Chip—slept all the way there, I wake him up, he tosses four, and goes back to sleep.” He howled with laughter.

McCoy’s patience was wearing thin, and he reminded Satherwaite, “You said he never shut up all the way to Libya.”

“Yeah, never shut his mouth.”

McCoy realized that Satherwaite didn’t see any inconsistencies in his stories, so he said, “Okay, buddy, let’s stay in touch.”

“Don’t go yet. I’m waiting for a charter. Guy needs to go to Philly, then overnight and back here. Hey, how’s the job going?”

“Not bad. This is a world-class facility. Not finished yet, but we’ve got a great sampling of aircraft. We’ve got an F-111, and we’ve even got a model of the Spirit of St. Louis. Lindbergh took off from Roosevelt Field just a few miles from here. You have to come up and see it. I’ll put you in the F-111.”

“Yeah? Why’s it a cradle?”

“Cradle of Aviation. Long Island is called the Cradle of Aviation.”

“How about Kitty Hawk?”

“I don’t ask—I’m not rocking the cradle.” He laughed and said, “Fly up one of these days. Go into Long Island MacArthur, and I’ll pick you up.”

“Yeah. One of these days. Hey, how’s Terry doing?”

Jim McCoy wanted to get off the phone, but old comrades-in-arms had to be indulged, though not for too much longer. He replied, “He sends his regards.”

“Bullshit.”

“He did,” McCoy replied, trying to sound sincere. Bill Satherwaite was nobody’s favorite anymore—probably never was—but they had shared the Holy Sacrament of Baptism by Fire, and the Warrior Ethos—or what was left of it in America—demanded that those bonds remain intact until the last man took his last breath.

Everyone in the squadron tried to accommodate Bill Satherwaite—except for Terry Waycliff—and the other guys had given the General a silent pass on that assignment.

Satherwaite said, “Is Terry still sucking Pentagon dick?”

McCoy replied, “Terry is still in the Pentagon. We expect that he’ll retire out of there.”

“Fuck him.”

“I’ll be sure to give him your best.”

Satherwaite laughed. “Yeah. You know what that guy’s problem was? He was a general even back when he was a lieutenant. Know what I mean?”

McCoy replied, “You know, Bill, a lot of people said the same about you. I mean that as a compliment.”

“If that’s a compliment, then I don’t need any insults. Terry had it in for me—always competing with everybody. Broke my balls about me not kicking in the goddamned afterburners—wrote a snitch note about it, blamed me for the stray fucking bomb instead of blaming Wiggins—”

“Hold on, Bill. That’s out of line.”

Bill Satherwaite took another swig of bourbon, suppressed a belch, and said, “Yeah ... okay ... sorry ...”

“That’s okay. Forget it.” McCoy thought about Terry Waycliff and Bill Satherwaite. Bill was not even in the Air Force Reserve, and for that reason he would normally have lost his post commissary privileges and that would have been the ultimate blow for Satherwaite—losing his discount liquor privileges at Charleston Air Base. But Terry Waycliff had pulled some strings—unknown to Bill Satherwaite—and got him a PX card. McCoy said, “We had Bob on the conference call, too.”

Bill Satherwaite squirmed in his chair. Thinking about Bob Callum and his cancer was not something that he did on a voluntary basis—or ever, for that matter. Callum had made colonel, and the last that Satherwaite knew, he was still working as a ground instructor at the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs. He asked McCoy, “He still working?”

“He is. Same place. Give him a call.”

“I will. Tough break.” He thought a moment, then said, “You survive a war, you die of something worse.”

“He may beat it.”

“Yeah. And last but not least, my little shit of a wizo—how’s Chip?”

“Couldn’t reach him,” McCoy replied. “Last letter I sent to him in California got returned with no forwarding address. Phone is disconnected, no info available.”

“Just like Wiggins to forget to keep his paperwork up to date. I really had to work to keep that guy in line. Always had to remind him to do everything.”

“Chip never changes.”

“You can say that again.”

McCoy thought about Chip Wiggins. The last time he’d spoken to him was April 15 of the previous year. Wiggins had taken flying lessons when he left the Air Force and was now a pilot, flying cargo for various small airlines. Everyone liked Chip Wiggins, but he was not good about attention to detail, such as change-of-address cards.

Jim McCoy, Terry Waycliff, and Paul Grey had shared the thought that Wiggins didn’t keep in touch because he was a pilot now, but hadn’t been a pilot back then. Also, he had been in Satherwaite’s crew, and that was probably reason enough to be ambivalent about the past. Jim McCoy said, “I’ll try to track him down. You know, I don’t think Chip even knows about Willie yet.”

Satherwaite took another drink of bourbon, glanced at the clock, then at the door. Regarding the late Colonel Hambrecht, he said, “Chip liked Willie. He should be told.”

“Right. I’ll do my best.” McCoy didn’t know what else to say, knowing that Bill Satherwaite wouldn’t put a stamp on an envelope to keep the group in contact, and that the work of maintaining everyone’s whereabouts had mostly been his and Terry’s.

In fact, ever since he’d gotten the job as Director of the Long Island Cradle of Aviation Museum, Jim McCoy had become the unofficial corresponding secretary of their little unofficial group. The guys found it convenient to use him as a rallying point—he had the office assets to keep in touch by telephone, mail, e-mail, and fax. Terry Waycliff was sort of their President, but his Pentagon job made him unavailable most of the time, and Jim McCoy never called him unless it was important. Soon, they’d all be old men and have plenty of time to stay in touch if they wanted to.

McCoy said to Satherwaite, “Did you say you have a charter?”

“Yeah. Guy’s late.”

“Bill, have you been drinking?”

“Are you crazy? Before a flight? I’m a pro, for God’s sake.”

“Okay ...” McCoy thought that Bill was lying about drinking, so he hoped that Bill Satherwaite was also lying about having a customer. He took a moment to reflect on the old squadron—Steve Cox, killed in the Gulf; Willie Hambrecht, murdered in England; Terry Waycliff, completing a brilliant military career; Paul Grey, a successful civilian; Bob Callum, sick with cancer in Colorado; Chip Wiggins, missing in action, but presumed well; Bill Satherwaite, a ghost of his former self; and finally, himself, Jim McCoy, museum director—good job, bad pay. Out of eight men, two were dead, one was dying of cancer, one was dying of life, one was missing, and three were okay for the moment. He said to Bill Satherwaite in a soft tone of voice, “We should all fly out to see Bob. We shouldn’t delay. I’ll put it together. You’ve got to be there, Bill. Okay?”

Bill Satherwaite remained quiet for a few seconds, then said, “Okay. Can do. Can do.”

“Take it easy, buddy.”

“Yeah ... you, too.” Satherwaite put the phone down and rubbed his eyes, which were moist. He took another drink, then put the bottle in his overnight bag.

Bill Satherwaite stood and looked around his shabby office. On the far wall was a state of South Carolina flag and a Confederate flag that a lot of people found offensive, which was why he kept it there. The whole country had gone to hell, he thought, politically correct faggots were in charge, and even though Bill Satherwaite was from Indiana, he liked the South—except for the heat and the humidity—he liked their attitudes, and he liked his Confederate flag. “Fuck ’em.”

On the side wall was a large aeronautical plotting chart, and beside the chart was an old poster, faded and wrinkled from the humidity. It was a photograph of Moammar Gadhafi with a big bull’s-eye drawn around his head. Satherwaite picked up a dart from his cluttered desk and flung it at the poster. The dart hit the middle of Gadhafi’s forehead, and Satherwaite yelled, “Yeah! Fuck you!”

Bill Satherwaite went to the window of his small office and looked out into the bright sunshine. “Nice day for flying.” Out on the runway, one of his two aircraft, the Cherokee 140 trainer, was just lifting off, and in the afternoon heat and turbulence, the small airplane’s wings wobbled as the student pilot strained to gain altitude.

He watched the Cherokee disappear as it continued its wobbly climb. He was glad he didn’t have to be in the cockpit with this kid, who had no balls, no feel for aviation, and too much money. Back when he was an Air Force student pilot, they just axed out the dead wood. Now, he had to cater to them. And this kid would never see a minute of combat—he wanted to fly to impress his main hump. The country was going down the toilet, fast.

To make the day worse, his customer was some stupid foreigner, probably an illegal alien running drugs up to the hopheads in Philly, and the bastard was late. At least the guy wouldn’t say anything if he smelled the bourbon. He’d probably think it was an American soft drink. He laughed.

He walked back to his desk and checked out a note he’d made.
Alessandro Fanini
. Sounded like a spic or a greaseball. “Yeah, a wop. That’s not so bad. Better than some Pedro from south of the border.”

“Good afternoon.”

Satherwaite spun around and saw a tall man wearing dark sunglasses standing at the open door. The man said, “Alessandro Fanini. I apologize for my lateness.”

Satherwaite wondered if the guy had heard him. He glanced at the wall clock and said, “Only half an hour. No problem.”