WW III

Freeman walked over to the wall map. “Al, I’ve got a gut feeling that if we can nail this bunch — if we can catch ‘em with their pants down—” he swung about at Banks “—we’ll not only do a Doolittle — give everybody at home something to yell and whoop about — we might just pull the whole rug from under him.”

“I’m not so sure, General. First we have to get there.”

“That’s why I called you here. I want to see all chopper pilots now.”

“Now, General?” said Banks, looking at his watch — it was just after 3:00 a.m. “They’ll all be sacked out.”

“You get them up and ready. In the dungeon back there. I’m going to tell them about Mountbatten. Came the monsoon, every son of a bitch used to dig in till spring. Including the Nips. Mountbatten turned it around — had our side attacking in the monsoon.”

“But our troops would be in the air, General. Taebek range is over five thousand feet high.”

“ ‘Freeman’s variation,’ we’ll call it,” said Freeman, smiling.

“Sir. Can I speak frankly?”

“Only way, Al. Shoot.”

“General, ordering your men to deliberately fly into a hurricane — well, sir, nobody, and I mean nobody’s, going to like it.”

“What the hell’s the matter with you? I don’t want them to like it. I want them to do it.” He paused. “I know what I’m asking these men. But, Al, if I didn’t think that, God willing, we could do it, I wouldn’t be pressing ahead with it.” Freeman paused for a moment, staring back at the map. “Don’t worry, Al — everyone’s going to volunteer.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that, General.”

“I would,” answered Freeman, turning, grinning and taking Al’s shoulder, steering his aide toward the door. “You go and get all those sky jockeys in that briefing area back there and I’ll show you. By the way,” he asked Al, “you think those young ladies were appeased by my apology for my — er — the language I used? Goddamn,” said the general, shaking his head, “the very thought of using foul language in front of the fair sex fills me—”

“I’m sure they’re not losing sleep over it, General. Tell you the truth, I think they were rather flattered.”

“Think so?”

“From what I’ve heard. Word is, they think you’re ‘cute.’ “

“Cute? I’ll settle for that. At least not everybody hates my guts for this operation.”

“The day is young, General,” said Banks. Freeman grunted. Banks was running his eyes down the list of chopper pilots and cabin numbers on the roster. “If I could suggest, General, it might be as well to remember they’ll be called to this impromptu meeting as well. So with all due respect, sir, I ‘d watch my…”

“I will. Appreciate the advice, Al. I’ll speak to them first— it’ll be clean as a Bible meeting.”

As Al Banks closed the door to the general’s cabin and made his way forward along the seemingly never- ending cream passageway, with aquamarine trim — some psychologist at the Pentagon had said “pastels” increased morale — Banks knew it was going to take a lot more than pastels to get the chopper pilots to go along with the general’s dangerous plan. He made a bet with himself that they’d object loud and clear. The marines, of course, weren’t included in the bet. They would fly into hell if ordered. They thought a “request” was some kind of fatal disease. No, it would definitely be the helo pilots who’d balk — after all, they’d be the ones who would have to navigate and fly through it. Then Freeman would be forced to either order them aloft into the monsoon’s fury or wait till it had passed.

The forty chopper pilots filed in, sleepy-eyed, resentful at being turned out at such an hour.

“ Atten-hun!” called Banks. There was scraping of chairs and Banks saluted as the general, clean-shaven, immaculately trimmed, his general’s star bright on the drab camouflage background of his battle dress uniform, took the podium.

“Be seated,” said the general. It was easy for the audience to do, most of the forty-odd pilots still half- asleep.

“We are going into battle at last!” added Freeman dramatically. It had its intended effect — waking up any of those in danger of nodding off.

“Washington’s given us the green light. As you know, there’s a storm — monsoon — heading our way. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of sitting around on this bucket—” Freeman, seeing the look of alarm sweeping across Al Banks’s face, quickly held up his hand. “No offense to a worthy ship or those who sail aboard her. Fine ship. Now,” said the general, arms akimbo, left hand resting on the holster, a pugnacious set of his chin telling everyone that he was ready, “I hear the calmest place in the world is in the eye of the storm.” He flashed a grin.

“How ‘bout getting out again, General?”

Banks turned his head, frowning reproachfully at the interjection. Had to be a regular army jockey; a marine pilot would never have interrupted an officer like this. But, surprisingly to Banks, Freeman, with his fast-spreading reputation aboard Saipan as a stickler for discipline, didn’t seem to mind the question. The general’s camouflage Kevlar helmet, its wider, much less rounded contour so different from the old steel U.S. helmet, rose slightly as Freeman’s eyes sought out the questioner way in the back.

“You fly out, son. Same way as you go in.”

Many of the pilots were shifting uneasily in their chairs.

“Of course,” continued Freeman, “it will be strictly voluntary. No one will think any worse of you, except me, if you don’t.” Then in a flash of an eye Freeman fixed his gaze on the three women pilots in the front row. “McMurtry — how about you? Game for it?”

“Ah — ah — yes, sir!”

“Outstanding,” answered Freeman. “I’ll fly in with you. Chopper One. Anybody else?” He looked up, smiling, as if getting ready for a picnic, wondering who’d volunteer to bring the hot dogs.

The two other women were putting up their hands, followed by every pilot, including the “driver” of He-26, who was shaking his head even as he was volunteering. “That son of a bitch,” he whispered to his copilot. “Fuck — we’ve got a mad general, a fucking monsoon, and fucking Dopey on the chain gun. What more could you ask for?”

“Hey, buddy — if you can’t take a joke—”

He-26’s pilot nodded.”Yeah, yeah, I shouldn’a joined. I didn’t. I was drafted. This gung ho son of a bitch is gonna get us all killed.”

“You volunteered, my friend,” said a tall Negro pilot to his left, the LPH’s resident slam-dunker at the basket.

“Well,” said He-26, “Whatcha gonna do? Three pussies put up their mitt—’yes, sir, I’ll go and get killed with you.’ “ He-26 turned to the basketball player. “Whatcha gonna do?” he repeated.

“Then,” said the basketball player, all smiles, “he isn’t such a dumb son of a bitch after all.”

“Well — he’s a son of a bitch.”

“That goes with the star,” said Basketball.

“I guess. Jesus, I could do with a Bud.”

Down below in what the marines had dubbed the “dungeon,” the assembly deck, marines were buckling up, getting ready to go after hearing the first news of the pilots’ “volunteering. “ The marines were glad to be on their feet; at least they were doing something. The regular army platoons drafted from Freeman’s infantry support company were grouching, tabbing the three women pilots who had started the “mass hysteria,” as they called it, “Lippy, Hippy, and Titty.” Despite the grumbling, most of them, like the marines, were glad to be heading off shortly from the rolling, vomit-stinking LPH, quite a few of the men having been sickened by the constant yawing and dipping of the ship and by breathing in fuel exhaust as choppers were warmed up, the wind gusting so badly that often fumes were driven back down the stacks.

“Wait until you get airborne,” said one of the marines, clicking on his Kevlar flak vest. “Make this rockin’ and rollin’ down here seems like kids’ stuff.”

“Bullshit!” said one of the regulars, taking his place on the parallel chalk lines, his platoon assembling. “I’ve been in a chopper before. Think I’m green or something?”

“A mite green about the gills, I’d say,” said the marine.

“Bullshit!” the man repeated. “I’ve been airborne before.”

“In a monsoon!” asked the marine, now checking his MIRE freeze-dried, ready-to-