A few minutes later, the chopper touched down in a flat, treeless field.
The pilot powered down, then took off his flight helmet and turned around. “Another perfect landing for the Seawolves. Ladies, please note it in your diaries.”
Ethel laughed. “Frankie, meet Slim. Smile, but don’t believe a word he says. He thinks he’s James Bond. That’s what happens when a guy can fly jets and choppers. He thinks he’s a god.”
Slim was tall and lanky, with broad shoulders. A bushy mustache and ragged beard somehow enhanced the pretty-boy face underneath, giving him a rakish look. He immediately put on a battered cowboy hat to go with his camo T-shirt and short swim trunks.
“James Bond wishes he was me,” Slim said, touching up his non-regulation mustache. He was a good-looking man. Beyond good-looking, actually, and he knew it. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said to Frankie, who couldn’t help smiling at his southern charm.
“And Slim wishes he was me,” said the copilot, a thin, sinewy guy with red hair and a scraggly mustache. He grinned at Frankie and the other women, showing off a set of crooked teeth. “Call me Coyote,” he said, and let out a wolf howl to go along with his introduction.
He helped the ladies out of the chopper and held on to Frankie’s hand a moment longer than was necessary. She felt him staring at her as he said, in a slow Texas drawl, “Ladies, welcome to Seawolves’ summer camp.”
It was so ridiculous, so back-home, that Frankie couldn’t help laughing.
In front of them, a wide brown river arced lazily past, lapping against a reedy, marshy shore. The skyscape of Saigon rose in the distance, across the opposite shore. A banged-up speedboat hugged the bank, empty but for a man with a machine gun, sitting in the back, eyeing every movement on land and water and in the air.
The land between the helicopter and the river had been turned into Beach Party Central. A banner that read WE WILL MISS YOU, ETHEL, was strung between two bamboo poles. Beneath it, a stocky man in a Rolling Stones T-shirt stood at a barbecue, grilling burgers. A portable generator powered a stereo and “Purple Haze” blared through the speakers, loud enough to drown out the distant whine of the war.
At least thirty people were here—nurses from the Thirty-Sixth and Long Binh and Vung Tau, medics and doctors and corpsmen. Frankie recognized several Dust Off pilots, as well as several Seawolves, and more than a few of the Donut Dollies from the Thirty-Sixth. They all stopped what they were doing at Ethel’s arrival and turned to face the nurse and began clapping and whooping.
“Speech, speech!” someone cried out.
Ethel grinned. “Nurses don’t give speeches,” she said. “We party!”
A roar of approval rose through the crowd. The music changed to “Good Lovin’” and several people started dancing.
Ethel looked up at Slim. “Cool flying, cowboy.”
He put an arm around her, drew her close. Frankie knew that Slim and Ethel had developed a solid friendship over here; they’d bonded over their shared love of southern barbecue and western dancing and horses.
“My boys will miss you,” Slim said.
“I’m one of many, Slim. Barb and Frankie put me to shame.”
He kissed her cheek. “Glad you’re leaving this shithole, pissed you’re leaving us behind.”
“Ha. Like you Seawolves didn’t claw all over each other to join the unit. You’d rather be here than on that farm you grew up on.”
“Some days,” he said.
“Yeah,” Ethel said. “Ain’t that the God’s truth. Best of times, worst of times.”
“If you two get any more philosophical or mushy, I’m gonna puke right on your boots,” Barb said. “We didn’t haul our asses here to watch you feel things. We’re here to say bon voyage to the best damn nurse at the Thirty-Sixth. So, where’s the booze?”
Coyote ducked over to a pyramid of coolers and opened the top one, pulling out four cold beers and bringing them back.
Frankie snapped the cap and took a hesitant sip. Almost before she’d swallowed, Ethel grabbed her hand and said, “Come on, California girl,” and dragged her across the party and onto the speedboat moored at the river bank. How in the hell had they come up with a speedboat?
A tall man with a shaggy mustache and a Rainier Beer T-shirt stood at the wheel. He tipped his ratty straw cowboy hat at her. “Howdy, ma’am.”
Coyote jumped on board, gave another howl, and put an arm around Frankie. “What d’ya say, Frankie McGrath? You game?”