Jake exhaled slowly. “You sure you really want to go?”
“Yeah, I really want to go, you old maid. Now let’s get the show on the road.”
Jake stood up. “My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
“You can eat on the plane.”
“You’re brimming with sympathy today. You can eat on the damn plane. I’m eating at the club in twenty minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later they were on their way to the club carrying their flight gear-to be sent to the ship-and their overnight bags.
Halfway there Jake dropped his bags on the sidewalk and puked in the grass.
“You’re not going to put food in that stomach, are you?”
“Soup. Got to get something in or I’ll be sick all day.”
“Next time don’t drink so much.”
“You oughtta be a priest.”
“They don’t get enough ass,” Lundeen replied and marched off down the sidewalk.
Once inside the cool darkness of the club, Jake began to feel better. The waitress came for their order, and Lundeen ordered first.
“Eggs Benedict, side order of ham, and a half bottle of champagne.”
Jake’s stomach fluttered. He put on his sunglasses and ordered tomato soup, milk, and plain toast. After the waitress left, he rested his chin on his hands and stared out the window at the harbor. He tried to recall the events of the previous evening but it was all jumble.
Sammy remarked, “I heard all about your little adventure in Po City last night. You might be interested in knowing that that’s one reason you and I are leaving this dump for a few days. Sooner or later someone’s going to shoot off his mouth. It won’t hurt an iota to let that storm blow over while you’re in Hong Kong. When the ship pulls out of port and they need guys to fill the flight schedule, the powers that be will view that little episode in a more forgiving light.” Grafton shrugged, “How’re we getting there?”
“All arranged. Met a guy last night who’s stationed here and belongs to the flying club. About noon he’s flying a Cessna over to Manila where we’ll catch a plane. That’s how I knew we could pull this off. He’ll take us if we pay for the fuel.”
“And how much is that?”
“Ten bucks each.”
“What’re we waiting for?”
Once they had cleared customs in Hong Kong at K Tak Airport and exchanged some money, Lundeen and Grafton hailed a taxi and set off for the peninsula Hotel, a huge old luxury hotel on the Kowloon water front overlooking the harbor. Hong Kong Island was visible across the water, about a mile away. “Why do you want to stay here?” Jake asked.
“Robert L. Scott strafed this hotel in a P-40 during World War II. The Japs were using it as quarters for their high command.”
“Who’s Robert L. Scott?”
“The guy who wrote God Is My Co-pilot.
“And I thought you just liked the view.”
Lundeen had insisted on a room facing the water. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling, and there were two large Victorian beds. The enormous, ornate furniture matched the scale of the room. Once the bellhop had been tipped and left, Jake opened the window. A sea breeze filled the room.
“Do me a favor, Sam.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t mention bombing or the squadron or the war for the next four days. It’s shit. It’s all shit and I’ve had a fucking bellyful.”
“That’ll be easy,” Sammy said. It was not long before they went down to the lobby and headed for the bar.
The next morning Jake stood beside his bed, feeling slightly woozy. He looked at his trembling hands. The screams that had awakened him were still in his ears. He shuffled over to the upholstered chair next to the window and slumped down in the soft cushions.
Pieces of his dream receded beyond the reach of his consciousness as if sinking to the depths of the sea. He did recall that he had been alone in an Intruder and had dived at a target that glittered in the night-a target so significant that by bombing it, he, Jake Grafton, could end the war. What was the target? How could he pull off the attack without a bombardier? He remembered that after pickling his bombs he had felt no Gees tugging at him as he tried to pull up. Instead the Intruder vibrated, then shook wildly, and began to disintegrate amidst a bowling wind that was suddenly overridden the piercing cries of hundreds in mortal agony.
Jake sighed. So, he had screwed it up. He had tried to bomb a target that was, for once, truly important and he had clean missed it, Apparently. Was he supposed to think his bombs had instead destroyed a hospital teeming with people?
He decided that he wouldn’t let the dream lay a guilt trip on him.
To hell with it.
He stood up and stretched. He looked at Lundeen who was sleeping on his back with his mouth wide open, breathing noisily. Jake smiled. Hey, shipmate, he said to himself, you know what I ought to do? For you and Morgan and every other guy who’s hanging his out for nothing? I ought to find a fat target way north and bomb the living shit out of it. One good target. For all of us.
He walked into the bathroom, chuckling at his bravado. But what the hell, he thought. I might actually do it.
He didn’t bother to shave. He found his running shoes, shorts, and T-shirt buried deep in his cloth bag. He dressed in the weak light coming through the window.
He started running as soon as he reached the bottom of the hotel’s back-door steps. It took only a minutes for him to realize how out of shape he was.
His breathing was labored, without rhythm, and his legs wooden. It was not a good day for running; the air was chilly and the fine drizzle would soon soak his cloth. He would take a long hot bath when he got back to the hotel.
On the narrow streets Jake had to dodge and weave to avoid obstacles: bicycles, an occasional automobile pedestrians who looked at him with curiosity, chattering black-haired, shiny-faced children who mostly ignored him, and shopkeepers raising their brightly colored awnings and arranging wares that spilled onto the streets. Jake was surprised there was so much activity shortly after eight in the morning.
He was glad to reach Nathan Road, a four-lane boulevard where the sidewalks were wider. He passed stores selling electronic equipment, cameras, watches, imported perfumes, and clothing; revving buses and honking taxis passed him by. The red-and-white double-decker buses reminded him of London, but the many large unlit neon sign”SONY, WINSTON FILTER CIGARETTES, COCA-COLA-reminded him of Times Square.
After he had run about a mile and a half, a splash of vivid red caught his eye. As he jogged closer he saw a red sweater, worn by a young woman in a straw hat and jeans. She was sitting on a small metal stool beneath a low awning at the entrance to an alley that ran between two apartment buildings.
In her lap was a sketch pad, which he glanced at as he ran behind her. He saw the vague outlines of buildings and the beginnings of some human figures.
He decided that he’d run for ten more minutes, five minutes in the same direction and then he’d circle back and hope to find the woman again. His breathing was rhythmic now, and he ran more on his toes. This would make his calves ache tomorrow. Twenty minutes or so would be a good run. Enough for one day.
When he returned she was still there, sketching under the awning. A crowd of children, ranging in age perhaps from five to eight, played in the alley and on the sidewalk, oblivious to the drizzle. The drawing had progressed markedly. The buildings and storefronts had taken shape and she was working on the children, who seemed to present a challenge because she erase some legs.
Jake stood a moment behind her, then he moved up to her left.
“You’re doing a nice job,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said with an American accent. She looked quickly at Jake, who noticed that her eyes were very
