by Tom Wilson
He turned off at the fourth exit, far down the runway, then rapidly taxied back toward the takeoff end. Finally he slowed, and a three-man ground crew waved him into a small taxi-through hangar, reinforced with sandbags and draped with camouflage netting. Nets were vaulted and strung about the area to hide the hangarettes and the small operations and sleeping dugouts.
Aleks motioned for chocks to be placed, then gratefully shut down the screaming turbojet. He waited in the cockpit a moment longer, until the engine had clattered to a complete stop and the ground crew safetied the rockets. His MiG-21F was equipped with two K-13a heat-seeking rockets, but the 30mm cannons in the wing-roots had been removed to conserve weight. Plans called for the aircraft to be modified to carry twin-barreled 23mm cannon packs beneath the vari-ramp air intake, but at the present the fighters carried only the guided rockets for armament. The aircraft were a mixed bag of D- and F-models, and you were never really certain of the configuration you might draw.
Ridiculous, he thought. Then Aleks stopped himself. Since his trip to Hanoi he'd been grumbling to himself about matters over which he had no control. Things like the ages of the aircraft . . . the awful radar control . . . the varying armament. Yesterday morning he had been pleased with his lot. Then he'd learned just how insignificant and vulnerable he really was, and how despicable he was about to become.
He tried substituting happier thoughts . . . feeling thankful he'd been selected to fly the only kind of combat available to Soviet pilots . . . reminding himself of the superb condition of the aircraft, congratulating the North Vietnamese mechanics and their watchful Russian tutors for that . . . thinking that in a few more days he would return to Phuc Yen, catch a ride to Hanoi, and make the French-Vietnamese girl squeal with pleasure. But then he remembered that it had been sexual dallying that had been responsible for his current great dilemma, and he slipped back into gloom.
Aleks safetied the ejection seat by inserting a long pin into the initiator mechanism, then unstrapped from the parachute, removed and placed his helmet on the right canopy rail, and briskly rubbed his scalp to regain circulation. He carefully kept his hands off the canopy as he crawled out of the cockpit. Small-tail MiG-21's had a single-piece canopy that hinged from the rear and was actually attached to and a part of the ejection-seat assembly. A silly idea, he thought as he crawled over the side and down, using toeholds carved into the fuselage.
No more grumbling and complaining!
Back on firm ground he stretched, feeling good physically but still angry at the world . . . at Polkovnik Feodor Dimetriev and his ridiculous order . . . at himself.
A smiling young man wearing the double star-pips of a leytenant second class hailed him from the mouth of the hangarette. Thanh, the son of air regiment commandant Quon.
Thanh had been second to land and was one of those who'd failed to reset his altimeter until Aleks had reminded him. Enthusiastic, but neither intelligent nor a good pilot, thought Aleks. His flying was stiff and mechanical, his decisions slowly made, and if he did not soon improve, he would find himself in dire trouble. He was certainly not equipped to engage the enemy without proper radar control.
Fuck his sister, and why should Aleks care? Thanh would shortly be a dead hero.
Aleks nodded for the leytenant to wait, then told the ground crew to top off all tanks with jet fuel. He walked to the mouth of the hangarette to examine the draped camouflage net.
"The major has gone to advise Hanoi and Phuc Yen that we have landed and are in place, comrade Captain," Leytenant Thanh called to him. From his first days at Phuc Yen he'd attached himself to Aleks like a stray puppy, and he spoke to him in dutiful tones. "The major orders us to join him in the operations room."
"Very good," Aleks said. He pointed and called to the ground crew to pull the net lower over the entrance to the hangarette, to better hide his aircraft.
He wasn't worried about being caught on the ground at Kep by enemy bombers. The precautionary launch procedures were explicit. As enemy aircraft approached any border or coast of the northern part of the country, the first alarm was sounded and an announcement made to stand ready. The ground crews would hurry to prepare the aircraft for takeoff as the pilots studied the weather and drank tea. When the enemy force approached within a hundred kilometers, the second alarm was sounded and the loudspeaker would order them to prepare to launch. The pilots would hurry to the hangarettes, excitement mounting, and start engines. A steady siren was next, advising the pilots to taxi and take off. After the aircraft were airborne, the controllers would radio instructions to either position for attack or withdraw toward China. Only a small number of the aircraft at the main bases might be ordered to take off, but at auxiliary bases like Kep all aircraft were launched. A primary purpose of being there was force survival.
That was the way it was planned, the way it had always happened. As worried as Aleks might be about the competence of the controllers, he at least knew they'd be advised when the Americans were on their way.
But the camouflage netting on the hangarettes and buildings kept enemy reconnaissance aircraft from discovering their true numbers and locations, and since Aleks could think of no reason to broadcast the information, he fussed at the ground crew until the net was in place. Finally satisfied, he joined the leytenant, and they began to walk toward the operations dugout.
"We had terrible radar control this morning," said Thanh disgustedly. It had become a favorite complaint of the pilots, especially the younger ones who'd been trained using strict radar control and knew nothing else.
Aleks grunted in response, not wanting to be drawn into the darker mood. He was known for his sunny nature, and the outrage he'd felt for the past twenty-four hours was alien to him.
"My father demanded that the radars be turned over to us." The leytenant spoke often of the legendary Quon, who was their air regiment commandant. "He said the rooster colonel in charge of the radars was shocked that anyone would challenge his authority." Russian pilots called nonflying officers "roosters," and the Vietnamese had picked up the expression.
Aleks said, "The rooster colonel's life does not depend upon a radar controller. Perhaps we should take him flying with us, eh, Thanh? He may strut and crow on the ground, but he'd shit white droppings if they made him fly."
Thanh laughed loudly.
As they approached the molehole burrowed in the mound of sandbags that served as an operations room, Aleks wondered how he could best comply with Dimetriev's order. He also wondered, more casually, if the rooster colonel they spoke of might be the one calling for the leytenant's life. The rumor was that the inept colonel had powerful party connections, and if he was angry at Thanh's father . . .
0945 Local—People's Army HQ, Hanoi
Colonel Nguyen Wu
He'd expanded the modest office he'd acquired from his uncle Xuan Nha to three times its previous size, as he felt was befitting of a man with his responsibilities, and the briefing was held around a large table there.
He listened with half an ear as his intelligence officer advised him of the strength and equipage of his rocket forces. Twenty-one battalions, each with three firing batteries. Each firing battery equipped with a radar, command trailer, and six rocket launchers. There were six defensive areas, at Vinh, Thanh Hoa, Hanoi North, Hanoi South, Haiphong, and Thai Nguyen, but most of the rocket batteries protected Hanoi.
The force had been larger before the air battle at Thai Nguyen. Seven rocket batteries had been destroyed there, a dozen more damaged. Since then three more batteries had been destroyed by enemy bombs, and several others damaged by terror missiles, for the enemy had learned how to find them. Wu and his staff had discussed the problem but could find no solutions except to have the radars stay off the air, and they could not fire their rockets with the tracking and guidance radars off. They'd decided for the radars to remain on for the minimum time possible . . . make a habit of coming on the air abruptly, and quickly firing rockets at the most vulnerable targets, so the
radar-hunters could not find them. And to do that, they needed constant input from the long-range radars.
Despite promises to keep them at a full strength of twenty-five rocket battalions, the Soviets were dragging their heels, and replacement rocket batteries were slow coming. That was of little consequence, for the highly trained crews required to operate them had been killed at Thai Nguyen, and replacement crews would not arrive for another month.
Time was the essential thing Nguyen Wu needed, for only that could heal his rocket forces. In the meanwhile he had to monopolize the long-range radars, regardless of how much the interceptor pilots said they needed them. As the intelligence officer droned, Nguyen Wu could not keep his mind from wandering to the radars at Phuc Yen and Kien An, wondering if he would be able to keep them in the face of the fight being waged by Quon.
Quon's voice was being heard. Just this morning General Dung's office had queried General Luc about the operational impact of moving the radars to VPAAF control.
Nguyen Wu's anger flashed. He could not allow that to happen.
The pilot would not speak so forcefully when Wu's plan bore fruit. Everyone knew how he treasured his only son. Wu felt his smile grow as he anticipated results from the Russians. But when? he wondered. He hoped he would not have to wait long.
He wished Li Binh were there to advise and guide him.
Ugly thoughts began to nag.
Was his plan rash? Was it wise to use the Russians? The gnawing doubts grew. What if the Lao Dong party learned that he'd used a foreigner to kill a Vietnamese hero? And what of his aunt Li Binh? He'd used her position to force the Russian to agree. Should he have first consulted her? He doubted she could be harmed by his actions, but . . .
What would she say if she knew what he'd done?
Who was more powerful, Quon or his aunt?
"Are you warm, comrade Colonel?" the briefing officer asked solicitously, and Nguyen Wu realized he was sweating profusely.
"Continue with your briefing," he snapped.
He must maintain control of the long-range radars, but he now realized his plan was faulty, for there were too many difficult questions. He wished Li Binh were here to help him with it. She was a master at such things.
Wu decided that he must halt the present plan and take an entirely new approach.
The briefer asked something.
"Repeat that question!" he demanded.
"The area commandant at Thai Nguyen asks that we release a number of the mobile rocket batteries for the defense of his critical assets. He says the defenses at Thai Nguyen and Kep are inadequate."
"Lieutenant Colonel Tran Van Ngo had been groomed to take Nguyen Wu's present position. Wu considered him as dangerous competition who would have to be dealt with.
"Tell Tran that I make such decisions, not he."
"He says he is left with only a few guns, comrade Colonel."
"He is fortunate to have those."
The briefer looked surprised.
Nguyen Wu sighed impatiently, as if having to deal with a child's questions. "The next targets for the Yankee pirates will be the bridges on the Hong Song, nothing in his area. General Dung has said that."
"Shall I tell that to Lieutenant Colonel Tran?"
"Tell him nothing."
The briefer stared at him for a quiet moment, then continued his briefing.
Wu's mind returned to worrying about how he should deal with Quon.
1445 Local—Route Pack Three, North Vietnam
Captain Bob Liebermann
He was not only getting the hang of it, Bob Liebermann was having one of the finest times of his life. He loved flying fighters more than anything he'd done since he'd entered the Air Force. His misfortune was that he had excelled academically when he'd attended pilot training seven years earlier, when the Strategic Air Command generals had a hammerlock on the Air Force. The top pilot school graduates had been skimmed off for SAC, and Bob had been sent directly to Castle Air Force Base, near Merced, California, to upgrade into B-52's.
Now Liebermann wheeled and soared with eagles, and felt invincible. He wondered why God had punished him for so long by not allowing him to fly fighters.
This was the first time he felt at ease with the Thud. On his first combat mission, he'd been stiff and ragged with his air refueling. During his second mission, the air refueling had been acceptable, but he'd had trouble with his jinking and staying in position during hard maneuvering. He'd improved little with his third and fourth missions.
Then last night Turk Tatro had come by his room and pulled him away from poring over the dog-eared Dash-One manual, and insisted he go downtown with him. Turk had introduced him to several sleazy bars and clubs in the village of Ta Khli, and they'd drunk at least one whiskey in each of them. By the time they reached the fifth such dive, Liebermann had forgotten about his intensity. They'd gotten thoroughly, knee-walking, dry-puking drunk, and all the while they'd talked about flying and fighting and Turk kept saying the secret was to ease up on the studying and let it happen.
"By damn, it isn't like you're going to build a Thud, you just want to fly the thing," he'd said.
Bob had stumbled back into the room late, waking up and pissing off Manny DeVera. Then he'd had trouble trying to get his socks off and had hopped around, banging into things and giggling. He'd fallen asleep at two A.M. At five A.M. Manny had delighted in waking him up and telling him, oh yeah, you're supposed to get down to the squadron ops desk and help Major Lucky with the weekly schedule. Bob had watched forlornly, cross-eyed tired and with a pounding headache, as Manny had gone back to sleep.
At the squadron he'd drunk a quart of coffee and worked with Major Lucky on the schedule, and listened to the same advice.
Loosen up, Lucky had told him.
So this afternoon he was trying what they said and was discovering they were right. He'd let things come more naturally, beginning with takeoff, and he figured it was that, maybe along with the hangover and not giving much of a shit, that made all the difference.
It felt glorious. After takeoff he'd slid into position on Major Lucky's wing just as a member of the Thunderbird aerial demonstration team might do and had stuck there like glue. His air refueling had gone so smoothly that he wondered how he possibly could have had trouble those other times. It was as if he could tell when he'd moved a couple of inches out of position.
Today's mission was to pack two. Officially they were fragged to locate and bomb "targets of opportunity" on specified "lines of communications," meaning trucks or vessels on the coastal highway, the Ho Chi Minh Trail, or the Ca River. Unofficially, Lucky was taking them for a look at the terrain and landmarks, at the city of Vinh at the northern edge of the pack, and at the defenses of pack two, which were concentrated around Vinh.
The gomer commander at Vinh was supposed to be one of the best. He had only one or two SAM sites and a dozen AAA batteries, but he'd shot down a large number of fighters.
All of that had been given during the flight briefing, and the members of Tinker flight had listened carefully.
Major Lucky was Tinker lead, with Liebermann on his wing. Tinker three was Captain Manny DeVera, and his wingman was Lieutenant Billy Bowes. They flew in a spread fingertip formation, watching out and looking where Major Lucky told them to, memorizing what everything looked like.
Get to know the terrain like a baby knows its mama's left tit, Tatro had advised.
Lucky had told them he'd had to finagle to get another training sortie for C-Flight, and not to waste it.
"I've got a feeling," he'd told Liebermann as they'd worked on the squadron schedule that morning, "we're about to get some hairy ones, so let's take all the easy ones we can get."
"Think it looks harmless down there, Tinker flight?" radioed Lucky Anderson.
They all looked at the barren fields below, pocked with bomb craters, and out at the mouth of the Ca River. The city of Vinh was clearly visible across the water.
"Reason we're keeping ou
r Mach up and jinking like this, and looking out for threats even though it seems peaceful, is that eleven Thuds from our wing and a hell of a lot of other friendlies of all description have been shot down here," called Lucky in a dry voice.
A chattering sound erupted and a strobe appeared on the RHAW system.
After a few seconds Manny DeVera called, "Tinker three has a two-ring triple-A radar at nine o'clock."
"Good call, Tinker three," radioed Lucky. "That's a Firecan radar on the other side of Vinh. He directs fire for fifty-seven- and eight-five-millimeter artillery. Watch your asses when you're anywhere close to a Firecan."
They were flying near Vinh alone, with no Wild Weasel flight to keep the defenses busy, so Lucky had told them they would not dawdle in the area. He'd also briefed them that he felt the area commander would pull some kind of trick to get his quota, for it had been a week since he'd bagged his last aircraft. They wouldn't chance bombing near Vinh unless they found a good target, and thus far they had not.
Major Lucky led them out over the water for a couple of minutes, the AAA radar steadily tracking them; then he made a lazy turn back toward the shore . . . directly toward the city of Vinh. He throttled back, a fat and lazy target, and they followed.
Another rattle, this one sounding like a rattlesnake, with an accompanying flickering strobe and a SAM light.
They waited longer yet, felt increasingly vulnerable, and then the ACTIVITY light illuminated, meaning the battery was about to launch surface-to-air missiles.
