The Coffee Cantata

"I had a question, but Dr Portman called a few minutes ago," he said, seriously -- nervously, "and he told the director you'd be coming by. So of course, he asked that I talk with you."

"Of course. How have you been?"

"Busy, I suppose, would be the charitable way to describe my life here. And you? I heard about your illness, but nothing after."

"I've been recuperating, and writing a little, too."

"About time."

"So, you're going to jump all over my case, too?"

"No, I love you too much to do that."

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded her head gently. "I --."

"You found your way to the monastery, I take it?"

"Yes."

"And how was my father?"

She nodded her head, acknowledged the question, but she looked away without answering.

"Ah," he said. "I understand. How is his health?"

"Good."

"Did you tell him...about your father?"

"I did, but I think he already knew. He disappeared after that, was gone for days."

"There's was an impossible song."

"Yes. It was."

"What about you? Do you still sing?"

She smiled, looked at the memory for a moment, then shook her head. "No, that music left too. It became impossible."

"The recital? Bach, wasn't it?"

"Yes, The Coffee Cantata. You remember?"

"I will never forget that night."

"No. I suppose some moments take on a life of their own. Who knows, perhaps they live forever."

Her father had come to watch, and to listen, that night -- Ben Asher, her real father, but so had John -- her real though make-believe brother -- and Tschering had been there too. He remembered that night all too well. Tschering had looked on as -- like atoms fusing in the night -- the universe turned in on itself -- pressure building around the room as the music faded -- until worlds ruptured and screamed away in the night, dying in the last words of her music...

Where John was concerned, Tschering thought, death was always close by.

+++++

"Boomer 5-0-5, feet dry" Ben Asher told the controller in the E-2.

"5-0-5, come right to 3-0-2 degrees."

"3-0-2."

Boomer 5-0-5 was an A-6e, and Ben Asher had just flown over a line of small, jagged islands that dot the coast west of Cam Trung, North Vietnam; it was three in the morning and he was threading Boomer 5-0-5 between violent thunderstorms, looking at developing cells on his radar -- feeling their currents through the stick. Looking at his instruments, feeling his way through the mountains, flying a few hundred feet over unseen mountaintops in the clouds below; Asher was threading Boomer 5-0-5 through the mountain east of Hanoi -- at almost 400 knots. The aircraft was carrying four two thousand pound HE bombs, the most most powerful air-dropped, non-nuclear weapon then in the US Navy's arsenal. His target: an airfield located southwest of the city, an air force facility where two squadrons of new, Soviet built Mig-21s had just been activated. Boomer 2, a flight of four Intruders was part of the opening move in a much larger assault on the north that would start later that morning, and his flight's success was critical to the overall success of the operation.

An E-2B trailed 5-0-5, relaying information about enemy air movements and search radar sites, guiding the Intruders around potential threats on their way to the target, all while searching for the best way to get the aircraft back out to the sea, and to the USS Constellation.

"5-0-5, alpha search picked up, 30 miles at your eight o'clock."

"5-0-5, we're jamming." Asher looked at the threat panel and toggled the pod to active, knowing that would alert operators on the ground that Intruders were in the area now. "What's our time?" he asked his BN, his bombardier/navigator.

"Call it eight minutes."

"5-0-5, come right to 3-1-0 degrees, increase speed to Buster, repeat Buster."

"310, Buster."

"Uh, 5-0-5, looks like a sector patrol of four Mike 1-5s returning to San Bay. I don't think they have you."

"Roger. Lead to flight, lets get down in the weeds," Asher said, moving the four aircraft to the lowest altitude he could. Burning fuel at a prodigious rate so low, he concentrated on the terrain ahead -- through the instruments on his panel...

"5-0-5, the Migs are overhead now, looks like 2500 AGL, heading 2-0-7 degrees."

"Roger." He resisted the impulse to look up, pulled up sharply to clear some power lines then dived back to the ground. "Talk to me, Dale. How far now?"

"Four minutes."

"5-0-5, ground radars active ahead, get ready for SAMs."

"Okay, got it." He coaxed the aircraft over a small hill, and Hanoi lay ahead, enveloped by a huge thunderstorm. The Intruder entered heavy rain, then tiny hail hammered the windshield, the world inside the cockpit now a deafening roar.

"Arming now," his BN shouted. "Sixty seconds."

The threat panel lit up like a Christmas tree.

"5-0-5, multiple SAM launches," the controller in the E2 said calmly, "at your 10, 2 and 4 o'clock."

"Thirty seconds."

"5-0-5, the Migs are turning, diving now."

"This is getting interesting," Asher sighed. "Uh, Archer, let me know if anyone gets on our six."

"5-0-5, roger. SAMs have not picked you up, repeat, they are not in active. MIGs are breaking off."

"They can't see shit in this weather," his BN said. "Okay, come to fifteen hundred AGL...stand-by one, right two degrees, five seconds -- and -- bombs away!"

Asher felt the load release, but the left wing dipped horribly and he dialed in aileron trim. "I think we've got a hanger," he said, and he pulled up a little more, looked out at the wing, saw one of the huge bombs fluttering in the slipstream. "Shit," he said, "number one pylon didn't release. Pickle it again."

+++++

Just as he heard the air raid sirens, Colonel Vo Nguyen Bao looked up into the storm, saw the four aircraft streak by -- almost within arm's reach, he thought -- and he saw their bombs fall away, arc through the rain towards the revetments on the far side of the field. The Migs were being fueled and fresh air-to-air missiles being placed on their pylons, and he shook in fury when he saw the first bombs slam into the area -- then the first concussive waves hit -- knocking him to the ground. Several more, in rapid succession, hammered him to the concrete and he felt ashamed of himself -- for this failure.

He heard another roar, this time SAMs fired by base defense batteries, and they streaked by -- then he saw flares falling from the trailing enemy aircraft -- before they disappeared in the rain. A flight of Mig 15s screamed-by overhead, after the enemy, he hoped, then he felt another concussive blast -- but this one far to the west -- and he wondered if one of the enemy had been hit, before he turned to assay the damage here.

He drove across the field, found four aircraft destroyed and three severely damaged, two with minor damage and the rest untouched, then he went to the fuel storage bunkers and sighed when he found these unscathed. Reports came in, over one hundred casualties on the ground, including ten pilots dead, and the main runway cratered. It would take a half day to repair, he was told, and he ordered repair teams to muster.

Then a call came in from a civil defense team.

A single bomb had fallen west of the air base, and hit the regional hospital. Initial reports claimed that over 500 were dead, but that number would increase, he was told. He summoned his car and drove through the rain until he was on scene.

The building, a sprawling, three story structure made of concrete and brick, was almost completely gone. Not simply destroyed -- it was gone, like it had been erased from the earth -- and the only reminder of it's existence was a huge, flaming crater perhaps a hundred meters wide and ten deep.

Bao looked at the ruins and shook with molten rage, then an air intercept officer radioed.

"Colonel, one of their aircraft was hit, and it is not turning towards the sea."

Looking at the ruins, he turned to the radio.

+++++

"Talk to me, Dale."

"I can't get power to the instruments, period. Hydraulics are about gone."

"You know, like, where we are, maybe?"

Asher looked out the windshield, swiveling his head, saw the sky turning lead gray aft. "We're still heading west," he said again, and he tried to move the stick again. Nothing...no control at all -- except through the trim tabs -- and the instrument panel was a wreck. Even the stand-by compass had been hit by shrapnel, and now even it dangled uselessly from it's mounting post, knocked from the center of the windshield by the blast.

At least that bomb had dropped, he sighed.

'Let's see,' he said to himself, 'about an hour and twenty minutes since we dropped the load, heading, maybe, due west at a little less than 200 knots.' They had broken out of the clouds a half hour ago and now Boomer 5-0-5 was almost casually puttering through the mountains of North Vietnam, heading for, he assumed, Laos -- and hopefully not into China. He was 'flying' by controlling the aircraft with throttles and trim tabs, so control was minimal, at best. But, he sighed inwardly, they were still in the air, and getting further from Hanoi by the minute -- and that was a good thing. He didn't want to spend the rest of the war in an internment camp, or worse.

He saw another road ahead, maybe headed west, and he saw a few small villages below. He advanced the right throttle, began a creeping turn to the left, then he backed off and tried to settle the wings again. He looked at the hydraulic pressure, watched it fall, knowing as soon as it was gone the game was up.

They'd have to eject.

And then what?

Then he saw a wall of mountains ahead, and his BN looked up when he said "Fuck!" -- a little too loudly.

"Can we get over that?" Dale McMasters asked.

Aster advanced both throttles, dialed in as much elevator trim as he dared, then dropped flaps and slats. He guessed their climb was around 500 feet per minute, and he knew they wouldn't make it. "See a pass? Any way around this shit?"

"Maybe right, about two o'clock," McMasters said, and he looked, cut back the right throttle and re-trimmed the wing.

"Maybe," Asher grimaced, now willing the aircraft to make the turn.

Then the engines sputtered and spooled down slowly.

"Outta gas, Amigo," he said. "Time to say bye-bye."

"500 AGL. Gonna be a hard landing," Mc Masters said.

"Eject, eject, eject!"

The shattered canopy blew away, and their seats launched into the early morning light, blowing away the remnants of the night.

+++++

"Colonel, radar at Điện Biên Phủ has a possible contact, still heading west at very low speed"

Bao nodded his head. "He is injured, damaged, can not turn. Get a company of ground troops assembled, drive them by to pick me up, let them see what this dog has done. Get three helicopters ready to go at first light. I want to find that aircraft. The American will try to get to Laos, maybe Air America will attempt to pick him up there."

"They can not operate that far north, Colonel."

"Perhaps, but it does not matter. We will get to this animal first."

"Yes, Colonel." The captain turned his little truck and drove back to the air base, and Bao turned and looked at the smoldering ruins, shaking inside now. It would take many hours, he knew, to count the dead, yet he was sure his wife was in that crater. A physician, a surgeon trained in Moscow, she had been called in at midnight, and though she had promised to see him later that morning -- he was sure that world was gone now. Vanished, in an instant. And now he was disappearing too, into a sunless sea of molten hate.

+++++

They gathered their parachutes and buried them under leaves, McMasters jumping back once when a cobra slithered through the undergrowth, then they gathered what supplies they had and took off up the hill.

"Let's find some high ground," McMasters said. "See if we can get a signal."

"There's a big air base at Điện Biên Phủ," Asher said. "My guess is they spotted us on radar, that they'll send troops."

"Okay, so -- what should we do?"

Asher sighed, stopped to rub out a cramp in his thigh -- but his hand came up bloody and wet.

"What the hell?"

"Here," McMasters said, "let me take a look." He felt around, then asked Ben to pull his pants down. "Little laceration, but it's deep. I can bandage it, but keep out of water." He finished a few minutes later, and Asher thought about their best course of action.

"If we can make it to Laos, we might run across some Special Forces types..."

"Yeah, but Charlie is all over this area."

"Yeah, but there are trains running, and the Mekong runs from China all the way south, past Saigon. If we can cross the border we can make our way south. Simple as that."

"Nothing's ever that simple, Ben."

They crawled up a rocky crag and looked around, and McMasters darted back from another snake, this one aggressive. "Goddamn, the fuckers are everywhere," he cried, then he took out his 45 and shot this one, in the head. "Look at the size, would you?"

Asher shook his head, looked around, suddenly seeing snakes everywhere.

"There are tigers out here, too," McMasters added.

"Yeah, well, okay, I see a big city to the north, some air traffic too, so lets assume that's Điện Biên Phủ. That puts the border about twenty miles," he sighed, pointing to the west, "that-away."

"South too, but I think you're right. West is closer. Should we wait until it's dark to move?"

"Fuck, are you kidding? Snakes hunt at night, Amigo. Tigers do, too. All things considered, I think I'd rather be in Bangkok tonight, chasing pussy, maybe, or just getting tanked."

"Is there anything you'd rather do than chase tail?"

McMasters looked around, thought about that one for a minute, then shook his head. "No, not really."

"I didn't think so."

"I do know, when we get out of this fucking hell-hole, I'm moving someplace with no snakes. I mean zip, nada, none..." He had stopped in mid-sentence, and his head was cocked to one side now. "Hear that?"

Asher turned his head, tried to ignore the pain in his thigh, the he heard it too. "Flutterbug," he said. "We're not a mile from where we came down, too."

"Wonder where the bird came down?"

"No telling. No fuel, so no fire. They'll have to fly right over to see it, in this jungle, anyway."

"Which way do you think they'll think we would run?"

"West."

"So? Do we run west?"

"Yup. We'll keep west, use terrain for cover. Looks like this valley runs southwest, so let's keep just under this ridge line, through those trees. Ready?"

"Let's do it."

They walked all day and into the night, stopping to eat once and to sip their water rations when they felt they absolutely had to, then they rigged hammocks and slept in a tree that first night -- and Asher woke with a start at one point when McMasters shot another snake -- on a limb just overhead.

"I'm tellin' ya, man, them fuckers is everywhere."

"I wonder if they're safe to eat?"

"Tell ya what, slick. Help yourself. Let me know how it works out for ya, ya know?"

Asher laughed, fiddled with the SAR radio, then looked up through the trees at the stars until he felt sleep coming...

He felt something kicking his leg, lifted his head and saw McMasters looking at him.

"Sh-h-h." When his BN pointed at the ground he heard it too. Men talking, working their way along the trail.

'Are we high enough?' he wondered. They'd rigged the hammocks maybe thirty feet off the jungle floor, then cut some branches to break up their lines, and he listened as the patrol came closer and closer, then he heard the men's voices receding down the hill.

Before the sun was up they climbed down the tree and kept heading west, staying high on the ridge line through the morning -- until they came to an overlook.

There was a road in the valley far below, a red sandy gash through the jungle, and they saw four heavy trucks on the road, waiting. After a half hour they watched a few dozen men emerge from the trees and climb in the trucks, then all the trucks drove off.

"Well," Asher said, "I guess that's that."

"No way," McMasters said. "This is a trap. They know we're in this valley, somewhere. Now they make us think they're pulling out, wait for us to make our move, then catch us in a pincer."

"Makes sense."

"They'll be down there," McMasters said, pointing along the ridge, "waiting. We're too easy to pick off there."

"So? What next?"

"Get back up in the trees, wait 'em out. They'll give up and move on in a day or so."

They found two large trees and set up their hammocks as high as they safely could, then they camouflaged the limbs before they snacked, and McMasters fell asleep before the sun set for the day. Asher took out his SAR radio and tried to make contact...

+++++

Early the next morning, Colonel Bao looked over the wreckage from the helicopter, then turned to the captain. "And they went in this direction? To the west?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"Have you notified the Pathet Lao?"

"Yes, Colonel, they have every bit of information we have."

"How many more men do you need?"

"I have been advised we need two more companies on the ground, and perhaps a half dozen additional helicopters are needed to cover the search area."

"What about the Americans?"

"They have noted our efforts. RA-5C have been over the area several times this morning, and an RB-57 is en route from Yakota."

"Damn. Who is the pilot? Do we know yet?"

"No, Colonel, but this level of engagement is not unusual. They do not turn away from downed airmen until they have confirmed information regarding death or capture."

"Perhaps we should put out such information?"

"Colonel?"

"Find some bodies, put them in the wreckage and take photographs. We can put the information out through one of the French wire services."

"Yes, Colonel."

"Now, fly me along this ridge, where they were spotted."

+++++

"There it is again, Dale."

"Okay, I hear it now."

The heavy rotors of an Mi-8 suddenly beat the air as it appeared, then moved down the ridge slowly, crabbed heavily to one side. A lone gunner leaned out the door, scanning the trees and forest floor -- shooting indiscriminately here and there as it moved along.

"Jesus," Asher said, "look at the size of that bastard!"

"You go ahead. I'm going to take a nap now, get caught up on my sleep."

It was a hundred yards away now, higher up the hillside, slipping along the ridge line -- and it passed slowly -- but it passed -- and they remained motionless under their ponchos and camouflage until the helicopter flew down valley and landed on the red sandy road. Dozens of hidden troops came out of the trees, and the four trucks returned, dropping off the troops they'd just picked up.

"Whew. I think it's gonna be a long night," McMaster sighed.

"I've got to take a shit," Asher replied.

"You ever had trouble holding it, now's the time to learn."

"Crap."

"Please don't."

They watched as about six hundred men, many blowing whistles, began moving up the hill towards their tree.

"5-0-5, Red Dog, do you read."

"Go ahead, Red Dog."

"Sit rep."

"About five hundred gomers below us, headed our way. Along the road, moving up."

"Sounds kind of fun. We have some company coming, so keep your head down."

Moments later eight A-6Es came over the ridge-line and dropped close to forty tons of napalm on the assembling NVA companies -- before screaming out over Laos and returning to the Constellation, then a formation of Air Force B-57s carpet bombed the roadway.

"Well, fuck me in the ass!" McMasters shouted -- as he watched fire sweep away the NVA regulars, then they watched the helicopter lift off through the flames and turn to the north, heading for Điện Biên Phủ.

"5-0-5, Jolly Green about five minutes out. Puff smoke when you hear him."