I’m not in it all by myself!”
“There’s not much we can do about it,” he said. He sounded distant,
defeated.
“Maybe not. At least we could discuss our options.”
“Options,” he repeated. The word was bitter.
“What’s with you, anyway?” she asked, exasperated. “Look, we should be
trying to figure out how to get out of here while we can.”
“Be my guest.” He nodded toward the bamboo door with its padlocked
chain. “It’s not more than a couple hundred miles back to your hotel.”
In this mood, Bayerly was going to be useless. Pamela had a special
talent, though, an ability to draw people out in conversation even when
they didn’t want to talk. She’d used it to good effect for years during
her career as a television interviewer. The key was first to get the
subject comfortable with the interviewer, feeling that she was on his
side, then to get the subject talking about himself. It was simple in
theory, but this seemed to be a rather difficult situation in which to
test it. “How long have you known Tombstone?” she asked.
Bayerly shrugged. “Maybe a year.” He sounded totally disinterested.
“Since I joined the Jefferson.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“That hotdog? No way.”
“Hotdog? I heard him use that word once. What’s it mean?”
He gave a wan smile, and Pamela knew she’d broken through his outer
defenses. “A show-off,” he said. “Someone who’s always pushing the
outside of the envelope … and wants people to know it.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Tombstone I know. He struck me as rather
reserved.” She smiled. “For a fighter pilot, anyway.”
He didn’t reply immediately, and for a moment Pamela thought she’d lost
him again.
“Yeah, Tombstone’s okay, I guess,” he said at last. “Some of the guys
give him a pretty rough time about his uncle and everything, but he
doesn’t flaunt it. Not really.”
“Why do you dislike him so much then?”
Bayerly studied her for a long moment. “Ah … I don’t know.” He
looked away, and appeared to be studying the surrounding forest. “I
know this is going to sound pretty damned cruddy, but I guess a lot of
it is all the attention he was getting after Wonsan.”
“What’s cruddy about that?”
“Oh, you know. It’s like I’m jealous about his Navy Cross. The hero
treatment, and all that.”
“Are you?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “Not really jealous, I guess. Tombstone
was the one who got the shot at flying CAP for our forces ashore at
Wonsan, though. And I was stuck flying CAP over the Jefferson.”
“He got the glory and you didn’t. Is that it?”
“Shit. He didn’t do a thing that any other man in the wing couldn’t
have done.”
“Granted. So what’s the problem?”
Again, he didn’t answer for a long time. “I guess to be honest, the
problem is with me, Miss Drake,” he said. “Not with him.”
“You want to tell me about it?”
He regarded her through narrowed eyes for a long time. He shrugged.
“Why not? But if you’re looking for a story, I don’t think much of
your chances for getting it on the air.”
She rested one hand on his knee. “I’d like to know, Made It. Really.”
“Well.” He looked away, as though unable to meet her eyes. He seemed
to be having difficulty knowing how to begin. “A year ago I was
stationed in Washington, D.C. I’d just finished a tour of sea duty
aboard the America. CO of one of her Tomcat squadrons.” He gave an
ironic smile. “Lady, I was on my way up. A tour as squadron skipper
… and now a hitch at the Pentagon. Know what that means to an
aviator?”
She shook her head.
“It means that the powers that be are grooming him for command. Command!
After a tour in Washington, I’d have a crack at a CAG slot. Then
another tour in D.C. maybe … all leading up to a carrier of my own
some day.”
“Sounds good.”
“It was good. I was on Admiral Fitzroy’s staff. God, that guy’s only
about four jumps down the pyramid from the CNO himself!” He gave a wan