by Eric Meyer
“Civilian C-47s, acknowledged,” I replied.
“Very good C-47s, let us make one more pass and then you can go in for the pick up.”
“Acknowledged.”
All six Skyhawks banked hard and swooped down on the North Vietnamese. The air came alive with rockets and cannon fire, the twenty millimetre cannon shells hammering the enemy ground troops to shreds. One by one they delivered their deadly ordnance and swept back up into the sky. I throttled down, dropped flaps and went straight in for a landing, Ritter followed suit and landed exactly parallel to me, showing off his superb flying skill as usual. As I taxied over to the men, Helene ran back to open the door, then they were pouring into the aircraft. Inside of a minute, Goldberg came into the cockpit and started when he saw Helene.
“I didn’t expect to see you aboard, Ma’am,” he said. “Jurgen, we’re all aboard, you can take off right away?”
I didn’t need any further encouragement, I opened the throttles wide and got us into the air. Ritter was right behind us and I felt comfortable to see several Skyhawks fall in around us as escort. Back in the cabin there was uproar, somehow they’d manage to locate some booze and were celebrating. Goldberg came into the cockpit. “Hoffman, I don’t suppose you take a drink when you’re driving?” He grinned.
I shook my head. “No, thank you, Colonel. What are you celebrating, it sounds like a party back there?”
“Jesus Christ, man, we got out, we really hit those commies hard. Did you see those fighter bombers go in?”
“I saw them, yes. I assume your mission was a success, Colonel?”
“Hell no,” he laughed, “it was a total mess up from start to finish. But we got out with only a couple of minor casualties and the air force gave them a damn good pasting. Christ, it’s something to celebrate,” he laughed again and went back into the cabin.
We flew on in silence for almost an hour, then Helene spoke to me. “What are you thinking?”
“I was wondering whether it would be worth us considering buying a Douglas DC-4, it’s a much bigger aircraft, four engines and over eighty seats.”
She stared at me. “You cannot be serious? These people are lunatics. Those soldiers back there are celebrating a failed mission and the total devastation of a North Vietnamese town. Crazy.”
I laughed at that. “Did you not realise that before, Helene? Of course they’re all crazy, war itself is lunacy. But it’s the way things are, I can’t change it or them.”
“They’ll never win a war if they fight it like this, you know. The people on the ground must hate them,” she snapped back.
I shrugged. “I expect they do hate them. But it’s not my problem, I’m not dropping the bombs.”
“So that’s all it is to you, Jurgen, just a way of making money?”
“That’s all this business has ever been, Helene, a business like any other. When I fought here in the Legion I fought hard and honourably. Now I run my business just as honourably. What would you have me do, retire and become a missionary?”
She laughed then. “No, perhaps not. I can’t see you preaching the word of God.”
“Good. And what about the baby, won’t you want him to have a decent home, nice clothes, a good education? Maybe the Sorbonne? We could get an apartment for when we visit.”
She laughed. “You’re so sure it’s going to be a boy?”
I shrugged. “Maybe, I don’t know, I’ll be happy either way.”
“That’s ok then. Paris, the Sorbonne, yes, that would be wonderful. But I don’t know, it’s a terrible way to earn a living.”
“So is being a soldier, at least this pays better. It’s our business, Helene, it’s what we do.”
She went quiet for a while as we droned on. Just before we came into land at Da Nang, she suddenly turned to me. “If we were to stay here for a while longer, Jurgen, what does a Douglas DC-4 cost these days? I hate it all, but we do have to think about the future of our child.”
I grinned. “A lot of money, my darling, but at this rate we’ll be able to afford it. Providing the war goes on for a few years.”
I smiled, French women were both beautiful and very practical and my brave, lovely wife possessed both of these qualities in full. How could any man be as lucky as me, to have a wife like her? We were both survivors, both battered by the forces of war and both able to keep looking forward.
“Oh, the war will go on for some time,” she said. “But you know that sooner or later we’ll have to leave South Vietnam?”
“You mean when the communists take over.”
She nodded. “Exactly.”
*****
Once upon a time our traditional goal in war and can anyone doubt that we are at war? - was victory. Once upon a time we were proud of our strength, our military power. Now we seem ashamed of it. Once upon a time the rest of the world looked to us for leadership. Now they look to us for a quick handout and a fence-straddling international posture.
Barry M. Goldwater
General Harkins looked out of his office window. Jurgen Hoffman and his pretty wife Helene were walking out of the building having just signed a new one year contract with the U.S. military. Jurgen was carrying their new baby, a girl named Celine, apparently after Helene’s grandmother. They were a happy, prosperous looking couple, he reflected, more prosperous now that they had the new contract to make payment on a Douglas DC-4. He looked around as an aide, a major, walked into his office and saluted.
“Sir, the news has come through, Diem is dead, the information minister Tran Tu Oai has declared it was a suicide.”
“And?” Harkins pressed him.
“It was General Duong Van Minh, Sir. Together with the Army Chief of Staff, Tran Van Don. Just as we expected.”
Harkins nodded. That would leave the way clear for someone who would be more acceptable to the Buddhist majority.
His thoughts turned to the other problem, the New York Times correspondent David Halberstam. Four months ago they were having a Fourth of July celebration at the American embassy when David Halberstam became so angry that he refused to shake hands with Harkins. When the host called for a toast to the General, Halberstam shouted ‘Paul D. Harkins should be court martialled and shot!’ It was all bullshit, of course, but that kind of bullshit tended to stick.
It was lucky that he had the ear of President John F Kennedy, at least Kennedy would be there for the long haul, he wasn’t likely to go the way of Diem in this fly-blown country, assassinated by his own people.
Even the Times correspondent, Lee Griggs had the impertinence to compose a sarcastic rhyme about him.
‘We are winning, this I know, General Harkins tells me so.
In the mountains, things are rough,
In the Delta, mighty tough,
But the V.C. will soon go, General Harkins tells me so.’
These damn traitors ought to be shot, he thought to himself. Thank God for the United States.
End
RAIDER BLACK OPS: THE RUSSIA STRIKE
By Eric Meyer
Copyright 2014 by Eric Meyer
Published by Swordworks Books
Foreword
New York City
The anonymous black Ford minivan pulled into the curb. The street was dark, almost silent. A distant clock chimed the hour, three o'clock, a time when most people were asleep in their comfortable beds. Only a few service workers crisscrossed the city on their tired journeys to and from work. Night clubbers stumbled along the sidewalks, making their precarious way home, but they were few. The Ford parked outside a handsome, newly updated brownstone. It was one of a number of similar houses; most occupied by wealthy brokers and lawyers, who flocked to the area after the gentrification of the area made it a desirable place to live.
The man who eased out of the passenger door of the minivan was not a resident. He was dressed in black from head to foot. He had wide shoulders, a slim waist, and a ramrod bearing. He was almost certainly a soldier, or had been one in the not t
oo distant past, and moved silently and gracefully in his black, soft-soled combat boots. His head was hidden beneath a lightweight hunting cap, the earflaps and peak pulled low. He also carried a respirator, slung around his neck. He glanced around, stopped, and listened, cautious and wary. Much like a wild animal, filtering the night sounds and sniffing the wind. His body tensed, and he dropped into the shadows just as a yellow taxicab came around the corner. The beams of its headlamps lit up the street.
Two people got out, a man and a woman, both in their fifties. They paid the driver, and as the cab drove away, they walked to the front door of the house next to the one where he waited. As they drew nearer, the powerful security lamp came on, bathing the whole area in a bright wash of light. The woman noticed the irregular shape outside the house next door.
"James, what is that? I think someone is lying on the ground. Perhaps they're ill or maybe had an accident. I'll go and take a look. They may need help."
"Be careful, dear. It could be a mugger, some kind of a trick."
"Don't be stupid. Someone is hurt. I'm sure he needs help."
"I'd better come with you."
The man in black watched them. It was a complication, but a minor one and easily dealt with. His hand snaked under his black jacket and emerged holding a short automatic pistol. Had the man and woman walking toward him been military trained, they may have recognized a model PSS, Pistolet Sptsialnyj Samozaryadnyj silent pistol, built to use special SP-4 captive piston ammunition. However, they were not military trained. He was a broker, and she spent her days working for a local children's charity. Not that it mattered; the man in black squeezed the trigger twice, and twice more.
The woman and her husband dropped to the sidewalk, their blood already flowing to the concrete. The first shot had been fatal, but the shooter was always careful to double-tap a target. He jumped to his feet, raced to the bodies, and dragged them into the dark patch at the side of the house. Then he stilled, watching and listening for further threats. There were none. After a few seconds, he held up his left hand and made a signal. Immediately, the side door of the minivan opened, and five more men slipped out. They were all dressed in black, and like him, carried a respirator slung loosely around their necks.
One carried a cylinder with the name Kolokol-1 stenciled on the side. The gas was an incapacitating agent, mefentanyl, dissolved in a halothane base, designed to render unconscious anyone inside the target area not equipped with a gas mask. Kolokol-1 was not in use in the West but had gained notoriety in certain anti-terrorist operations, notably in Russia. On some occasions, it caused death to those who inhaled it.
They'd considered the merits and demerits of using the gas during the planning stages of the operation, but the leader had smiled and shrugged. "Death by gas, death by a bullet or a blade, so what? It's what we're paid for." There'd been no argument.
One of the men passed the cylinder over the wall to the first man and vaulted over to land next to him in the narrow strip of garden. The rest followed, and seconds later, all six were crouched at the side of the house beneath a window. One produced a thin metal tool and made a small hole in the glass. The man with the cylinder held it next to the hole and pushed the hose protruding from the nozzle through it.
All six men donned respirators, and he opened a valve. They waited immobile for fifteen minutes. The leader checked his wristwatch several times, and finally made a hand signal to another of his men. He produced an unusual lock-picking device shaped like a pistol. He inserted it in the key way of the front door and pulled the trigger. A few seconds later, there was a quiet click. He pushed the door open, and another man raced past him to reach the sophisticated burglar alarm in the hallway. He used an electronic device to disable the alarm and signaled to the others.
They raced inside and spread out. The search was well organized and brief. The object they were looking for was located inside of two minutes in the upstairs main bedroom. Ignoring the two occupants of the king-size bed, who were unconscious or maybe dead, the leader opened the lid of the small, jeweled chest. He used a tiny flashlight to inspect the documents inside, nodded once, and closed the lid. He tucked the chest under his arm and ran back to the head of the stairs, down to the first floor and into the hall, giving a signal to his men as he passed them.
They exited the house, climbed into the minivan, and the driver drove away at a reasonable speed. There was no need to hurry; these men wouldn't want to attract the attention of the police. Besides, they were professionals, every one of them. They pulled off their respirators and remained silent. In fact, since they'd pulled up outside the brownstone, no one had spoken a word. The leader opened the small chest again to make sure he hadn't been mistaken. There was no need for the extra check, but it was the way he worked. Always. He was a professional. Safe and sure, that was his SOP. Check and double-check, it kept them alive. The man opposite him raised his eyebrows, and the leader said one word.
"Da."
* * *
It was late morning when the occupants of the brownstone woke up. The woman looked at her bedside clock and cursed.
"Jesus fucking Christ! It's gone eleven. Why didn't we wake up? My fucking head, it feels like someone's been hitting me with a mallet. What did you do, Edgar?"
The man next to her groaned as he massaged his aching head.
"I feel just the same. It must have been something we ate."
"I guess so." She suddenly thought of her daughter, "What about Abigail! She ate the same food as us. I'll go check on her."
She stumbled out of bed and ran to the child's bedroom in the next room. The young girl was asleep in her bed, but when she put her head close to her, her breathing was regular. After staying with her for a few minutes to be sure, she went downstairs and passed the alarm control box. She stopped and inspected the panel. Something wasn't right.
Strange, I could swear we set it last night.
She almost tripped as a giddy spell hit her while she walked toward the kitchen. Close to the full-length window at the front of the house, she felt a draft of cold air. Yet it was still closed, as she'd left it. She stooped to look for the problem and saw the hole in the glass. Realization hit her in a split second.
We've been burgled!
"Edgar, get down here now. You have to call the cops. We've been burgled. I'll call the office and tell them we'll be late."
We have a state of the art alarm system. Did they switch it off? How could they do that?
She used her cellphone to dial the number of the alarm company, but before they answered, it hit her.
The chest!
She ended the call and raced up the stairs into their bedroom. The closet was closed, and she breathed a sigh of relief. At least they hadn't stolen the chest. She opened the door just to check, and her heart began to thump. The chest was gone. She felt sick and almost fainted. She sat on the bed, contemplating the awful reality of what had hit them. Someone had stolen the most damaging collection of documents in the northern hemisphere.
After a number of specific threats against her family, she'd made arrangements to hand the documents over for safekeeping. Now that would be impossible. As a result, they were in danger, terrible danger. There was also something far more serious than their personal safety. The life or death of an entire nation hung in the balance.
Why didn't I get rid of them sooner? Because I never thought anything like this would happen.
She heard her husband's voice shouting, "I'm calling the police now, Mariyah."
"No! Don't do that."
"Don't do that? Why not? We've been burgled. We have to call the police."
"No. I'm calling my father. He'll know what to do."
"And if he doesn't?" he asked, coming down the staircase.
She felt a lurch of terror in her stomach. "He has to. They'll try to kill us when they find they've gone. And there's something else." He waited, watching her as she struggled to contain her terror, "It could mean war."
&nbs
p; Chapter One
Somewhere off the coast of Newfoundland
Icy seas tossed angry waves at their boat; a continuous pummeling that seemed to be nature's punishment for daring to venture into this hostile ocean. The Grand Banks 42 was well named. She was designed to take the hammering in some of the world's most deadly waters, the seas off the coast of Newfoundland on the North American continental shelf. A massive wave almost forty feet high, crashed down on the deck and tore away a hatch cover. A man ran forward without a lifeline to secure the damage, stepping lightly on the storm-ravaged deck.
He seemed to ignore the foaming fury that plucked at the oilskins protecting him from some of the weather. Halfway along the deck he even stopped, balancing on the balls of his feet while he surveyed the boiling tumult surrounding their vessel. He took out a handheld radio and spoke into the mic.
"Al, I'll have to lash a canvas over the hole. That wave took the hatch cover clean away. It's probably off the coast of Alaska by now."
The handsome black face inside the wheelhouse, unencumbered by waterproofs, wore an expression of concern. Al Miller spoke with an accent that was pure Boston.
"You ought to wear a lifeline, Waite. You took enough risks in the SEALs. You want to live a while longer, enjoy your retirement pay; the storm's getting worse."
"Never worn a lifeline in my life, not in the SEALs, not on a fishing trip. Ain't gonna start now."
The accent was pure Deep South, as different as it was possible to be from the man in the wheelhouse. Waite Sullivan was born south of the Mason-Dixon Line, in an area famous for producing cotton. And rednecks. Brought up a male-dominated world of beer guzzling, truck drivers. Macho men who assumed every woman theirs for the taking, and blacks existed to wait tables or clean pools. He almost went off the rails as a young man until he joined the US Navy, and met Al Miller.
