“You aren’t very talkative, are you, Colonel?”
“That wasn’t one of the qualifications for the job.”
“How much are the Russians paying you?”
“You’ll have to ask the State Department that question. Or the Russians.”
“Rumor has it that you get a bonus for every plane you shoot down. Is that true?”
“Ask the Russians. They sign the checks.”
“Isn’t that blood money?”
“If they pay it, I assume the money would be for the plane, not the pilot. A plane doesn’t bleed, does it?”
“What do you hope to accomplish in Russia?”
“Shoot down Japanese planes.”
She made a sign to the cameraman, and the red light on the camera went out. “You are being uncooperative, Colonel.”
“This isn’t the NFL. I’m here only because the State Department said to make myself available. I am available.”
“I asked to shoot these interviews with an F-22 as background. You refused. Why is that?”
“They aren’t my airplanes, ma’am.”
“We asked to talk to the African-American pilot. Which one is he?”
She glanced at her list. “”The African-American.” That is really grotesque. I’ll pretend you didn’t say it.”
“You do have a black pilot, don’t you?”
“Alas, no.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It just happened. I’m politically incorrect. Rip me to shreds.”
“Couldn’t you say something about Russia? Perhaps you had a Russian grandparent…, something about aiding in the fight for freedom, something like that?”
Cassidy looked grim. “You say it,” he told her, then took off his mike and got out of the hot seat. Of course, the person the reporters were most interested in interviewing was Lee Foy, but he was having none of it. He was nowhere to be found. Cassidy asked Preacher Fain where Foy was, and was told, “Toy said something about finding a whorehouse. I’m to say that to this reporter if she asks.”
“Okay.”
Apparently the reporters didn’t know he was an ordained minister, so Christine didn’t ask all those juicy questions that Fain feared she would. Fain tried to play it straight. He was here to help keep peace in the world, doing his duty, fighting for victims of aggression, defending an American ally, et cetera. After fifteen minutes, Preacher looked greatly relieved as he got out of the chair. Most of the pilots gave Christine more of the same, until she got to Clay Lacy. When asked why he was here, he said, “The fighter-pilot ethos has a compelling purity, a rare strain of selflessness and self-sacrifice that too often we lose sight of in modern life. I find it”—he searched for words —“almost religious. Don’t you agree?”
Christine made a noise. Lacy continued. “I want to see how I will face a competent, courageous, dedicated warrior who seeks to kill me. Will I have enough courage? Will I be bold? Will I fight with honor, and die with honor if that is required his These are serious questions that bedevil many people in this perverted age. I’m sure you’ve thought about these things at length. Haven’t you?”
Christine sat staring, her mouth open. Lacy waited politely. “I see,” she finally managed. “I’m delighted that you do,” he told her warmly. “Most of these pilots”—he flipped his hand disdainfully—“are merely flying assassins, out to kill and be paid for it. They have no ideas, no insight, no intellectual life. I am not like them. I explore the inner man.”
When Lacy went over to the colonel after his interview, he asked, still deadly serious, “How did I do, sir?”
“Fine, Lacy. Fine. You are now the unit public affairs officer.”
Aaron Hudek gave a performance that was the equal of Lacy’s, or perhaps even better. When asked why he had volunteered, he told Christine, “This is the only war we have.”
“How do you think you will feel, killing a fellow human being?”
“It’ll be glorious.” Hudek gave Christine a wolfish grin. “I can’t wait. I’ll blow those yellow Jap bastards to kingdom come so goddamn fast they’ll never know what hit ‘em. Just you watch.”
Stunned, Christine recovered quickly. “How do you know that you won’t be the one who falls?”
“Oh, it ain’t gonna be me, lady. I’m too good. I’m the best in the business. The F-22 Raptor is good iron. I can fly that fucking airplane. I’m gonna go through those goddamn Japs like shit through a fan. Can’t stand Japs. I guess it’s personal with me, something about Pearl Harbor and all that damned so-sorry fake politeness — but I won’t let that interfere with what I have to do. I’m going to stay cool and kill those polite little sons of bitches.”
Christine didn’t know what to say. Hudek smiled at the camera, unhooked his vest mike, got up, and walked out, right by Dixie Elitch, who averted her gaze as he passed her. Dixie sat down in the interview chair and smiled sweetly as one of the technicians hooked up her mike. “Ms. Elitch,” Christine began. “Captain Elitch, please. That is my rank in the Russian Air Army. I am very proud of it.”
She managed to say that with just the faintest hint of a Russian accent. Watching from behind the camera, Bob Cassidy covered his face with his hands. “Captain Elitch,” said Christine, smiling brittlely. “All my life I have loved Russian things— furs, vodka, Tolstoy, Tchaikovsky, Chekhov, Pavlov …” Dixie’s recall of things Russian failed her here. She waved airily and motored on: “I am so thrilled to have this opportunity to actually go to Russia, to succor her people in their hour of need, to serve this magnificent yet tragic nation in my own small way, and, just perhaps, make a contribution to the betterment of the downtrodden proletariat. And even — dare I say it? — the bourgeoisie.”
“Are all of you people assholes?” Christine snarled. “Unfortunately, I believe so,” replied Dixie Elitch. She looked straight into the camera and flashed her absolute best “I’m available tonight” smile.
When he went to bed that night, Bob Cassidy found himself thinking of Dixie. This annoyed him. He had ten thousand things on his mind, and now he was thinking about a woman, one who was off-limits to him. Oh, he knew the engraved-in-stone rule of the modern, sexually integrated armed forces: no fucking the troops. And no flirting, sighing, dating, kissing, marrying, or loving — none of that male-female stuff. In the brave new Air Force middle- aged colonels who got to thinking night thoughts about sweet young things were usually gone quickly. The “grab your hat, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out” kind of gone. Bob Cassidy had spent his adult life in uniform, around women now and then, and he had never before gone to bed thinking about one. Except Sweet Sabrina. He’d thought of her every night when she was alive, and many, many nights since she died. He often dreamed of her, dreamed of touching her again, of kissing her just once more, of somehow reaching across the great gulf that separated them. Robbie was sometimes in those dreams too, sitting on Sabrina’s lap, running across a lawn or through the house or laughing while diving into piles of fall leaves. These dreams used to wake him up, drive the sleep from him. He would walk the empty house, so utterly alone. Thinking of anyone but Sabrina seemed disloyal somehow. He tried to conjure up her image to replace the grinning face of Dixie Elitch. He was thinking of Sabrina — or was it Dixie his — when he finally drifted off.
15
Pavel Saratov knew there were a lot of ships anchored off Yokohama, but he didn’t know how many until he was within the anchorage, which extended for miles. Over a hundred, easily, he estimated. He reduced the boat’s speed to six knots. “The big freighter fifteen degrees right of the bow, about two thousand meters. Containers four deep on her deck. She is our first target.” Saratov was wearing the sound-powered headset. He had sent the talker below. The only other person on the bridge was the second officer, who was scanning behind and to both sides for enemy planes or warships. “We have her, sir.”
Down below, they were using the radar. All the skipper had to do was designate a target. He had already given orders that they would shoot one torpedo at a time, at targets he picked. He wanted to do all the damage
