The Hunters (19 page)

“Where?”

“I don't know—coming back. I wouldn't have believed it. I swear to God,” DeLeo breathed.

“What about Daughters?”

“He got hit.”

“How?”

“I don't know.” He stood up on the seat, bending over to fumble with the parachute buckles. “He went straight in.” His knees were shaking.

“Did you see it?”

DeLeo threw his leg over the side of the ship and stepped down onto the wing. He steadied himself there. A small group of crewmen and some officers were gathering below.

“Yes, I saw him. Anybody within ten miles saw him. He was on fire. You couldn't miss him.”

“Are you sure he didn't get out?”

“No, we would have seen it,” DeLeo said. He slid himself down from the wing and made his way through the thin crowd, ignoring the questioners, toward the revetment where Pell was parked. Cleve walked beside him.

“Who got the MIGs, Bert?”

“Pell.”

Cleve stopped walking abruptly.

“Wait,” he said. “Did you see that, too?”

“I saw one of them hit.”

“How did it happen? I want to know.”

They stood in the middle of the ramp, looking at the pierced steel planking underfoot, and sometimes at each other. DeLeo told it haltingly. They had completed their reconnaissance and were headed south when the MIGs hit them. It was Casey Jones and five others, a complete surprise. Nobody had seen them until they were close in, firing. Nobody had heard any warning. Then, in the break, they were separated.

“All the stories, you know?” DeLeo said. “They're nothing. Not even a beginning. Jesus! No matter what I did. I even gave up, I swear. I sat there waiting. He was behind me the whole time. I almost tore the wings off trying to lose him. It didn't matter. He stayed there. I just can't tell you. The funny thing, he never fired. At least I never saw it. He just stayed in back of me. I don't know how I got away. He could have had me a dozen times. Right from the start, but he never fired. I guess it was his guns. It must have been. All the time Pettibone was screaming to turn tighter. I don't know where the hell he was. I never saw him. A lot of help, that kid. I'd have done better alone. At the end I heard Pell calling to Daughters to bail out and Pettibone asking where everybody was. I finally caught sight of this smoke. Daughters. His ship was on fire, streaming fuel. I saw it hit. Then another one, closer. Christ! I was sure it was Pettibone. It turned out to be one of them.”

There was a crowd around Pell's ship, and in the midst of it, as they drew closer, they could see him gesturing. Somebody asked DeLeo if he had gotten any. He did not answer. He pushed through. Then Pell saw them and began shaking his head apologetically.

“It happened so quick,” Pell said, “he didn't have a chance. Two of them just popped up between us. They started hitting him right away. I got both of them finally, but it was too late.”

“Why didn't you call a break?” DeLeo asked.

“I did.”

“Like hell you did. I didn't hear it.”

“I called him two or three times,” Pell protested.

“You're lying.”

“You couldn't have been looking around much, if two MIGs got in on him like that,” Cleve said.

“We were in a fight. When you're going around with them, there can always be more of them behind you somewhere.”

“Never mind the fundamentals.”

“I'm just trying to explain,” Pell shrugged.

“You were supposed to be clearing him.”

“I was. I called the break as soon as I saw them,” Pell replied, “but he didn't break. What would you have done? I started shooting to get them off his tail.”

“I would have gotten him back,” Cleve said.

“Oh, come off it. I feel bad enough as it is. What good does this do?”

“No good,” Cleve said, “but you're through, Pell. You've gone your own way for the last time. There won't be another. I promise you that.”

Pell was not apparently disturbed. Instead, he seemed almost relieved to hear it. The open concern fell away, and on his face appeared the old, sly confidence.

“You weren't even there,” he said. “How do you know what happened? You were in bed. You're always off somewhere when there's a fight, in Tokyo or someplace.”

“Am I?”

It was as if some capsule had been squeezed open within him and the contents shot into his blood like venom. He stepped unthinkingly forward, unbalanced, but quickly, his hands feeling weightless as he moved. His swing did not hit Pell squarely, but glanced off the side of the neck. A surge of bodies closed in upon them immediately, crowding them so that he could not move his arms, one of which was caught shoulder high. There was shouting and confusion as he was forced back clumsily.

“What in hell is going on here?”

It was Colonel Imil, pushing brusquely through the group. He glanced around and then turned on Cleve.

“All right. What is it? What's the trouble?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” He looked toward Pell. “Haven't you had enough fighting for one day?”

Pell smiled.

“You got two more, I hear,” the colonel said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was lost?”

“Daughters.”

“How did it happen?”

“He just got hit,” Pell began. “I did everything I could . . .”

“Colonel,” Cleve said, his breath making him pause, “I'd like to talk to you alone for a minute.”

“What about?”

“I'd rather tell you alone.”

“What's bothering you, Cleve? Say it out in the open. What are you afraid of?”

The color came to Cleve's face. He could feel his mouth hardening despite himself. The hands of the crowd had released him, and he stood by himself, conscious of the surrounding faces now withdrawn slightly to a respectful distance, but silent and absorbing. He abandoned the search for proper words.

“I want Pell grounded,” he said.

The silence, which had been noticeable, became paramount when the colonel did not immediately reply. It was the silence of the arena.

“What in hell are you talking about?”

“Ground him,” Cleve repeated. “I want to see that he doesn't fly any more.”

“A man with five victories, and you want me to ground him? What's wrong with you? He ought to be a flight commander.”

“Why not give him the group, Colonel?”

“That's enough, Connell.”

“He killed his leader today. If he'd shot him down personally, it wouldn't have been any different. It was his fault that Daughters was killed.”

“It wasn't my fault,” Pell insisted. “He wouldn't break.”

“You're a liar. You never told him to.”

The colonel suddenly jerked his head up and looked around at the rows of open faces. He wheeled toward them.

“All right,” he shouted, scattering them with motions of his hands, “go on about your business, all of you. Clear out of here.”

They began to filter away. He stood watching until they were gone. Then he turned to DeLeo and Pell.

“Get to debriefing. They're waiting for your report.”

“I have a right to hear what he says,” Pell announced.

“Don't worry about that,” the colonel ordered. “Just get going.”

Pell saluted, and then, belatedly, DeLeo. When they were some distance off, and only he, Cleve, and Moncavage were left standing by the wing of Pell's ship, the colonel whirled to confront Cleve with unexpected ferocity.

“What are you trying to do, Connell? Wreck the group?”

“No, sir. I'm trying to uphold it.”

“With crazy accusations in front of every son of a bitch and his brother?”

“I was told to speak in front of them,” Cleve said flatly.

“First of all,” the colonel continued with a rush, not listening, “you weren't even on the mission—why, I don't know. I only know that there's nothing unusual about it. You never seem to be on the missions that get into fights. That's the first thing. Secondly, for some reason, you and that Italian, whatever his name is, have got it in for Pell, but if it weren't for him, and nobody else, your flight would be on its ass. Nobody else in it is doing a thing except him. I hate to lose a pilot and a plane, probably more than anybody else around here, but I don't jump to conclusions. I'll find out what went on; and if I think there was anything that requires action on my part, I'll take it. I don't have to be told by some captain how to run my wing or who to ground.”

“How long have you known me, Colonel?”

“I don't care if I've known you for fifty years.”

“Just listen to me for a minute.”

“No! That's what you can't seem to understand. You listen to me. I don't listen to you.”

“On whatever reputation . . .” Cleve began.

“At ease! Are you too stupid to understand that?”

Cleve did not reply. He was looking at a stranger, complete and hostile. Whatever the mutual past had given them was suddenly gone. It was a sickening feeling to realize that, like having the very ground taken from beneath his feet. He did not remember later whether anything more had been said, but only that he had been left standing alone beside Pell's airplane, the fury slowly subsiding and leaving him stranded more and more on the outcropping of complete loneliness and desolation. He did not know what to do. He could not even think clearly about it. In the middle of the ramp he was left by himself. He would have given anything to be gone, years away. It would be a long time, though, before he was finished here and could begin putting it behind him. He had days ahead that seemed like mountain ranges.

Pell faced the colonels in the debriefing room. He was earnest and attentive. He looked directly at them when he answered their questions. It didn't take long. After about ten minutes he was finished explaining, and they all left to drive up to the club. It was closed at that hour, but Moncavage located the club officer and borrowed the keys.

They walked in together. It was empty and cool, like a kitchen at midnight. They sat down at the bar. Moncavage found the right key for the liquor cabinet and withdrew a bottle.

“There're some glasses right in back of you,” Imil said. Moncavage
placed three out. Imil picked the cork from the bottle and poured them about one quarter full.

“You probably need this,” he said to Pell, “and it won't hurt me.”

Moncavage was trying to find some water to mix with his drink.

“A big day. Here's to you, Doctor,” Imil said, lifting his glass. He and Pell drank, swallowing hurriedly.

“Phew,” Imil breathed. He set his teeth against each other. “Still a little early in the morning.”

Pell laughed and wiped his mouth.

“I must be getting old,” Imil said. “How about you, Monk?” Moncavage was just taking a sip from his glass.

“It isn't orange juice,” he said.

“Drink it.”

They sat around, drinking slowly. The sun came through the windows, making squares of brilliance on the rough wood flooring. Other than that, the room was dim. The walls were indistinct in shadow. Pell could feel the liquor moving through him. He hadn't eaten any breakfast. Imil took the bottle and poured him another one, taking a little himself.

“Two MIGs in one mission,” he said. “That's something.”

“I got a couple on one mission, myself,” Moncavage said.

“You did, didn't you?” Imil agreed. “Well, you ought to form a club.”

Pell grinned.

“That's the way to do it, though,” Imil went on. “Christ, it's all most of us can manage just to get one. You boys that deal in pairs. I don't know.”

He inspected his glass closely.

“I'll tell you something, though,” he said to Pell. “As long as you live, no matter what happens, you'll never forget this.”

“No, sir.”

“The day you made ace.”

Pell emptied his glass to that. He could feel a general looseness coming on.

“Colonel,” he began sturdily.

“What?”

“You're right. I'll never forget it.”

“Hell, no.”

“What about you?”

“Forget my fifth kill?”

“Yeah,” Pell nodded, almost as if a difficult point had been resolved.

“The first time or the second? Ah, it doesn't make any difference. I remember both of them. Especially that first, though. How old are you, Doctor?”

“Twenty-five.” Pell spread the fingers of one hand out slowly on the bar as if consulting them.

“Twenty-five.”

Pell nodded.

“Do you know how old I was when I got my fifth?” Imil asked.

“No.”

“Twenty-two.”

“Just a kid,” Pell said, smiling.

Imil laughed. When drinking, he seemed bigger than ever. He licked his lips.

“I remember it like yesterday. England. Now there was a war—right, Monk?”

“I was in Italy.”

“Tough.” He drained his glass and watched as Pell tried to fill them all evenly again. “I remember when I came down that day. What a feeling! The whole world wasn't big enough for me. You know what I mean.”

“Right,” Pell agreed impulsively.

“I had this girl. Know what she said?”

“No.”

“‘Be a bloody ace tonight, that's all.'” He held his fist and forearm up and laughed.