by Tom Wilson
Several men stood about, staring awkwardly.
"Where is the major?" he asked quietly.
"Here, comrade Quon," replied a nearby, fearful voice.
"My son?"
"We placed the body in a box and put it in the hangarette there." He paused. "There is not much."
He pondered for a moment. Then, "Place him aboard the helicopter." His chest ached more deeply. "I shall take him home," he said.
"Yes, comrade Quon."
He questioned the officers and senior mechanics and asked what they'd seen. They explained the horrors of the bombing, the heroism of his son, and then the strafing attack.
Why did he taxi from the shelter? he asked himself. He'd never known his son to be that brave. But then, he'd not really known him.
He spoke with the operations sergeant manning the telephones and radios, who confirmed they'd received no notification from either Phuc Yen or Kien An radars. When the major had tried to contact them on the radio, they'd not been able to get through until it was too late. Repair technicians had explained that the problems had been caused by a series of electrical-power surges.
Quon did not understand such things, but he resolved to tell the communications people to make sure it could not happen again.
He spoke with the Russian, Ivanovic, and the man kept repeating something about blue tails.
Then Quon spoke to a maintenance sergeant, who told him the Russian had cowered in his hangarette and shouted for them not to go out to assist his son. But Quon remembered how highly his son had spoken of the Russian captain with the ready grin, and it was a time to honor his son's memory.
He asked more and found that only the last four attacking American Thunder planes had done the strafing, and that those aircraft had bright-blue paint at the tops of their vertical stabilizers.
When the big Russian helicopter lifted off for Hanoi, Quon huddled inside beside the small box containing his son's remains: slivers of charred bone and teeth, and scorched cloth with unrecognizable fragments of meat. He'd seen other such victims.
He averted his eyes from the others aboard the helicopter, for he could not quench a sudden flood of tears. Oh my son! he wailed inwardly, agony gripping his chest. He felt a last flash of guilt and again replaced it with accusation. The American flight leader had somehow known it was his son. He wondered how, but knew he would never know unless . . .
Two challenges were presented him, at first incoherent and ajumble due to his misery, then increasingly clear. He would do both in memory of his son.
First he must gain control of the radars and correct the command-and-control problem. Second, he must find the man who had led the flight of Thunder planes—the man who had killed his son.
He vowed to deal with Nguyen Wu, the inept colonel who had allowed the operation of the radars to sink into such disarray.
And he vowed to shoot down and capture the American flight leader.
He would bring him here where he'd assassinated his son, and he would kill him . . . here where his son had died.
Both were very personal challenges.
Immediately after transporting his son's remains to Ba Dinh Hall, where a party official spoke of arrangements for a proper eulogy and acclaim, perhaps even a hero's state funeral, Quon set up meetings, first with General Tho and then with General Dung.
That should get things moving on the first matter. The other would take more thought.
1100 Local—354th TFS, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Major Lucky Anderson
Lucky felt that part of the price an Air Force pilot should pay to fly fighters was to stay in good physical condition, and since a pilot's day often involved a lot of paperwork and little free time, he carefully scheduled a daily exercise regime and religiously maintained it. Whenever alone, whether at a desk or in a fighter cockpit, once each hour he would tense the muscles of his back, then his arms, his stomach, and his thighs, each for fifteen seconds, then he would grasp his buttocks and tense and pull. Each morning or evening, as the flying schedule permitted, he spent an hour running and working out. Because of these rituals, he remained in superb physical condition.
That morning he'd started at his trailer with the isometrics, then ran a three-mile course that ended at the base gym, where he immediately did twenty-five sit-ups followed by twenty-five repetitions with 100-pound weights. He'd jogged back to his trailer, showered, and walked to the squadron for the first meeting of the flight commanders with Lieutenant Colonel John Encinos, who'd just arrived at Takhli to take over as their new squadron commander.
Encinos had served on wing-staff organizations from Yokota Air Base, Japan, to Bitburg Air Base, Germany. He was a too-quiet, too-withdrawn man, who'd made his way to light colonel not by virtue of his accomplishments, but by not making mistakes. He wasn't a bad guy, but neither was he one whose subordinates could warm to or call a "good shit." John Encinos openly favored those whom generals and colonels liked, and disregarded the others.
Three of the five flight commanders knew John Encinos from other places in the Air Force, for the fighter pilot community was not large. Before his arrival the commanders of A, B, C, D, and the Wild Weasel flight of the 354th had gotten together and talked about how it would have to be when Encinos, with his peculiar ways of doing things, came aboard. They'd decided it would work out best if they just continued making the tough decisions as they'd done since they had lost their last squadron commander over Thai Nguyen. So when John Encinos called the meeting, they were ready.
Encinos was slight, nervous, swarthy, and of average height, and could easily be lost in a crowd, because that was precisely what he wanted. He had made lieutenant colonel, which had been his career goal, and now he wanted to coast until he had his two years in grade and was eligible for retirement, which was less than a year away. That was what his fellow officers believed, for he didn't hesitate to tell them. They also knew him as a mediocre pilot who cared little about flying.
At his in-briefing he did nothing to dispel their notions. After shaking the hands of the men he knew and being introduced to the ones he did not, Encinos stumbled through a short, standard speech about how he expected them to give him their best.
"I expect you guys to run your flights," added John Encinos, "and I'll stay out of your hair so long as things are going well."
That much was true, thought Lucky. It was unlikely they would even see him in the squadron very often. He would probably find some full bull colonel on the wing staff and spend his time trying to impress him. B. J. Parker, the wing commander, heartily disliked Encinos, so it would have to be one of the others.
Encinos rambled on some more, then the two flight commanders who didn't know him began asking questions, and each time Encinos would pause thoughtfully and then say he'd get back to them with the answers. Glances between the flight commanders intimated that no one believed he would get back to anyone with anything.
"What's your policy on upgrading the guys to flight-lead status?" the exasperated D-Flight commander finally asked. "I'm facing that right now, and I need an answer."
Encinos furrowed his brow, as if he'd been asked for an alternative to the theory of relativity. He looked about and finally turned to Lucky. "What procedure have you been using, Major Anderson?"
Lucky was glad to give the answer. The D-Flight commander was new at his job and needed guidance.
"I don't upgrade my pilots until they've got twenty missions here, regardless of experience," he said. "I keep a book on 'em and try to write down something about every man's performance each time we fly. He has any problems with anything, I try to get it ironed out before we go up the next time. Then, before I upgrade 'em, I try to give them a couple checkout rides down in the easy packs."
Encinos nodded sagely, as if Lucky had given the correct answer, and turned to the other flight commanders. "You guys keep a book on your guys, too. When you feel they're ready, tell the admin sergeant, and he'll type up the orders."
Having John Encinos for a commander was much like having a parrot around.
After half an hour they broke up the meeting, and Lucky walked with two of the other flight commanders toward their trailers, which were nestled beside the Officers' Club.
"Jesus," chuckled one. "The Bad Injin is more wishy-washy than ever."
"Bad Injin" was Encinos's nickname.
Lucky Anderson knew he'd have no problems with Encinos, because it was known that General Moss and a couple of other fighter generals held him in high regard. Encinos would give him wide berth, for he did not want anything to hurt his chance for on-time retirement.
Which was just fine with Lucky. He held no particular animosity toward the man.
As they approached the club, the other flight commanders went to their trailers. Lucky continued on to find a few of his C-Flight members and have lunch.
Turk, Manny, Liebermann, and Billy Bowes were arriving as he rounded the corner of the club. They traded salutes and greetings, then walked in together.
1205 Local—Officers' Club Dining Room
Turk joked, "I saw you running, Lucky. Keep it up with the exercises, and by damn, you're going to end up musclebound."
Lucky's rigorous exercising made him look like a model for a body-building magazine. At least from the neck down.
"You oughta try it, Turk," laughed Manny DeVera. "Then the big guys would quit kicking sand in your face."
"I get my exercise chasing little women," said Turk. "They're a lot quicker than the big, slow ones you guys go after."
Turk Tatro stood only five six and was kidded a lot about his size. He was happily married, and every day he wrote a letter, alternately addressed to his wife and two daughters waiting back in Mississippi. Turk didn't really chase little women or any other kind, for he had his hands and time filled by the three he doted on. His infrequent visits to the whores in Ta Khli were purely for physical relief, but even those had now stopped. Turk had put in for an R and R to Hawaii next month, to take a break from combat and bask in the sun with his wife and daughters, and was abstaining from all contact with the girls downtown—just in case they left him with an undesired memento, like the hardy strain of gonorrhea the guys called "killer clap," which was becoming prevalent in Thailand. His wife would not understand at all.
When Lucky had told him his R and R had been approved, he'd thought Turk was going to grin his ears off Tatro was seriously in love with his family of little women.
They took a table at the side of the dining room, and all waited as Manny DeVera joked with No Hab, the waitress. He looked primly down his nose at the well-worn bond-paper menu. "I'd like sautéed escargot, a lobster tail with freshly drawn butter, and a bottle of your finest 1959 Auslese," Manny told her.
"No hab," she said with a special smile for the handsome pilot.
"How 'bout a hamburger with fries?"
"No hab flies."
"How about beetles?"
"Hab beetles," she joked, and scribbled as if she were taking the order.
"Hamburger and fried rice?" he asked.
"Hab flied lice."
"And a glass of milk?"
"Hab grass of milk!" she announced proudly.
The others then went through the drill of what was and was not available with No Hab. Ordering lunch was a lengthy and often arduous drill at the Takhli O' Club.
As she left, No Hab waggled her butt and glanced back at Manny.
"She likes you," said Lucky with a grin.
"No Hab's got good taste."
"My God, the women here are pretty," said Bob Liebermann with a shake of his head.
"You're just getting horny," observed Manny.
"I agree with Bob," said Billy Bowes, and Turk echoed him.
"I think it's something in the water," Billy said.
Turk turned from staring after No Hab and motioned across the table at Major Lucky. "So how's the Bad Injin these days?"
"Bad as ever," said Lucky.
"Bad Injin?" asked Bob Liebermann. "Who's Bad Injin?"
"Lee-ootenant Colonel John Encinos," said Turk. "Real name was Juan Carlos Encinos-Testaverde, I think. That right, Lucky?"
"Something like that. I remember he was once called Carlos."
Turk grinned. "Then someone told him the gringos got the promotions, so he decided to join 'em. Started carrying a little sissy briefcase everywhere, even when he went down to the squadron to fly. Got his name officially changed to John Anthony and asked everyone to call him John. He'd get howling mad when anyone called him Carlos."
"That's when everyone started calling him Bad Injin," said Lucky.
Turk nodded. "Which really pissed him off, seeing all the work he'd gone to to get his name changed. Then he was sent to Bitburg and went to work for Colonel Alonzo Bautista, who's very proud of his Latino blood, and he almost shit bricks trying to get everyone to call him Carlos again, so he could impress Al Bautista."
Lucky was smiling at the memory. "But by then everyone called him Bad Injin."
Turk continued. "So then he got his name officially changed to John Encinos, which he figured was halfway in between and ought to please everyone."
They were all chuckling. Manny was laughing loudest, because he already knew about the Bad Injin.
Turk looked at the others, drawling out the story in his Confederatese. "Bad Injin Encinos has been a wing staff puke since he was a lieutenant. Always got just the minimum flying time possible to collect his flight pay and squeak through his instrument checks. Spent the rest of his time hiding from responsibility and trying to impress the colonels."
Lucky smiled at the astute description.
"But now," said Turk Tatro with a smirk, "the Bad Injin's our squadron commander, and he's got a real dilemma on his hands. He's spent so much time with his nose up different colonels' asses, telling 'em how the squadron commanders ought to be doing their jobs, they started to believe he could do it better. Poor fellow's got himself promoted too high, and now there's no way to avoid the spotlight."
"Jesus," said Liebermann, "is he really that bad?" Bob tended to think the best of everyone. Now that he'd made it into fighters, he wanted to believe all fighter pilots and their leaders were great fellows.
"Is he that bad?" reflected Turk Tatro. "Naw, not really. He's worse."
Manny DeVera broke in. "Don't worry, Bob. The Bad Injin's so wishy-washy he won't be any trouble unless you want him to answer a question."
Liebermann looked at them as if they were surely joking.
Turk Tatro peered over at Lieutenant Bowes. "I hear your cousin's been put in for an Air Force Cross."
"I heard the same thing," said Billy.
"They don't just hand those things out," said Lucky. "From everything we heard, Bear Stewart earned it. He was flying with a good friend of mine, fellow named Benny Lewis. Benny wrote me and said the Bear deserved the Cross. Maybe even a Medal of Honor."
"They keep those for guys who can make nice speeches to the VFW," said Turk.
"No one who lives through it should get a Medal of Honor," said Manny DeVera, reflecting the thinking of a lot of military men. "He didn't, so maybe he deserves it."
A side discussion sprang up. The Medal of Honor ranked just higher than the Air Force Cross, but with the Medal, politics became involved. It wasn't often awarded to a hell-raising, hard-drinking fighter jock. If you got a Medal of Honor, it meant you deserved a medal, but it also meant you could be trusted to make a speech to a ladies' tea group without saying "fuck" or letting on how much you enjoyed killing communists. Politics and protocol, not heroism, was the difference between the two medals.
Turk Tatro explained how medals were decided upon at Takhli.
"Let's say you do something great and someone thinks you deserve a Distinguished Flying Cross," said Turk. "Flight lead will write up what happened and give it to Major Lucky, who puts some flowery words on it and turns it in to the squadron awards-and-decorations officer, who is some poor bastard unlucky enough
to be assigned the additional duty. If the awards-and-decs officer's busy or has a hangover, you won't get anything. If he can't interpret Major Lucky's writing or understand his lousy spelling . . ."
Anderson winced dramatically and they laughed.
". . . then either wing headquarters or Seventh Air Force will disapprove it or downgrade the DFC to a Bronze Star. If he adds the right words and the write-up's got lots of adverbs, the staff pukes'll get all misty-eyed and approve it or even upgrade it to a Silver Star. Some well-deserved medals disappear in the bureaucracy. Other times guys get medals because they happened to be along on a mission the brass likes. But by damn, when you see someone get an Air Force Cross, you know he did something special."
"No one alive deserves a Medal of Honor," iterated Manny.
"I wouldn't mind pinning a medal on that," said Turk Tatro, staring at a group coming into the dining room, and Manny DeVera almost suffered whiplash turning his head.
B. J. Parker and Tom Lyons entered, ushering two pretty, yet entirely different females. One was blond and petite, with a tiny waist, rounded breasts that stretched her cotton blouse, and a sexy derriere tightly encased in khaki pants. The men in the room were staring appreciatively, and though it was obvious she knew it, she didn't appear unhappy or embarrassed. Lucky's attention shifted to the other woman, and he inhaled sharply. She was taller, thinner, very striking, and wore a sophisticated, no-nonsense air.
What the hell was she doing here?
She saw him, paused, then waved, and Lucky felt a bubble of excitement build in his chest before he pulled his eyes away.
"The Ice Maiden waved," announced Manny in a hushed voice. Then he realized it was Lucky she'd waved at. He frowned. "You know her, boss?" he asked.
"Yeah," mumbled Lucky, troubled. "At least I used to."
GS-15 Linda Lopes
Linda looked at Paul Anderson, examined the ravaged face, and felt her stomach lurch. Funny how your heart seems to affect your stomach, she thought. Lucky glanced back at her, and their eyes locked for an instant before he looked away again.
