by Tom Wilson
"I hope you are right."
"I am." Xuan felt confident.
Quon stared evenly, then nodded. "I will speak with the generals."
A flush of exuberance washed over Xuan Nha. It was like old times, when they'd listened and heeded his advice.
Then Quon told him about the Mee pilots who'd murdered his son. "I want them, Xuan Nha, especially the flight leader. He knew it was my son's aircraft and ordered the attack."
Xuan Nha doubted the Mee could single out any particular person for death, but Quon insisted they'd done precisely that and would not debate the point. After a thoughtful pause Xuan decided to help Quon in this matter, which required no political danger. Revenge was a powerful emotion that he understood well.
He mused over Quon's description of the blue-tailed American aircraft. "Some of the Thunder planes have squadron markings like that. I have seen various colors on aircraft we shot down from the base called Takhli in Thailand."
"Which ones have the blue?"
Xuan's memory was flawless, but it took a moment to bring up that particular tidbit. "There is the Dragon Squadron. They have the large letters RU in the middle of the vertical stabilizer and yellow paint at the top. The Lancer Squadron is red, I believe, and the letters are . . . RK. And the Pig Squadron? Yes, their color is blue, and the letters are RM. You can verify all this by asking the guards at Hoa Lo Prison. They get such information from prisoners when they interrogate them."
"The Pig Squadron?"
"Their squadron emblem shows an animal that looks like a pig with fangs, so that is what our intelligence people call it. Actually, the Tay raise ferocious-looking dogs that look like that, but our intelligence people have never seen them. Ask the prison interrogators about the Pig Squadron. You can find out many things by speaking with them."
Quon listened intently.
"Perhaps you can even learn the name of the man who led that particular flight of Thunder planes. Was anyone shot down in the attack on Kep?"
"None," Quon said bitterly.
"Then have the interrogators interview the next pilot they get from Takhli. The prison officials are only lieutenants and sergeants and are fearful of anyone with rank. Pass them your request, and they will get the information."
"I will tell them to question the next Mee prisoner who flew a Thunder plane with a blue tail." A bitter expression grew on Quon's face. "And I shall speak with him myself."
When Quon had left him, Xuan continued with his mind games. He willed the outrage over Nguyen Wu and Li Binh to diminish until it simmered in a recess of his mind. There were important duties to accomplish. His time was returning. In the meanwhile he must carefully wend his way through a maze of intrigue. With General Dung involved, perhaps Quon could deal with Nguyen Wu. Xuan Nha would distance himself from such activity, yet remain in a position to prosper from it. Once he'd regained his place within the People's Army, he would continue to be cautious. He had learned that lesson.
0915 Local—Regional Hospital, Travis AFB, California
Captain Benny Lewis
The colonel from the Tactical Fighter Weapons Center at Nellis telephoned him in his hospital room.
"How're you coming along?" asked the man he would be working for.
"I talked with the flight surgeon again, and he says they may fly me to Nellis as early as next Monday."
Benny didn't add that the flight surgeon said he'd be assigned not to work, but to be an in-patient at the Nellis Hospital. He'd be fighting that dragon when he got there, to be changed to out-patient status as quickly as possible so he could come and go freely from the hospital and perhaps be assigned to limited duty.
"That's awfully quick. How's the back?" asked the colonel.
"It's a lot better now," answered Benny. He fibbed a little. It was not really much better. Of course it was hard to tell, when your time was spent flat on your back.
"So you think you'll be ready for limited work in a week or so."
Benny gambled, "It shouldn't be much longer than that, sir."
The colonel paused, as if trying to interpret what he meant. He'd known Benny Lewis before and knew he was both a die-hard optimist and a dedicated workaholic. Finally he said, "We're reorganizing. I'm putting you in charge of one of the new SEA liaison teams."
"Sounds great, Colonel."
"You'll have two guys working for you. One knows you. You remember a young pilot named Moods Diller."
"Sure," said Benny. "He was a lieutenant in our air-to-ground flight at the Fighter Weapons School." The FWS was the graduate school for top Air Force fighter jocks.
Benny remembered Moods Diller as being extremely bright and totally captivated with advanced technologies, convinced that the magic of electronics and computers would change the face of air power. Moods was an unorthodox officer who cared not at all about military niceties, who became so involved with his various schemes that he'd forget the world around him existed. Some of his fellow pilots mistook this for moodiness, for he'd grow silent and not answer their greetings or questions, so they'd tagged him with the nickname. The fact that Moods had an IQ of 175 impressed few of them.
"Moods is a captain now," said the colonel. "He's flying an F-4 to Travis this morning so he can talk with some engineers there in the bay area. I asked him to stop by and tell you about your new team and what you'll be doing. I think you'll find the work interesting."
Benny felt elated. Not only did the job sound promising, he'd shortly be meeting with a friend who could talk knowledgeably about flying airplanes. The hospital staff was an okay group, but he missed his own kind.
"I'm looking forward to seeing him, sir."
"Another thing. Have you had a chance to look at the promotion list?"
"No, sir." Benny didn't yet have the required minimum time for promotion to major, so he hadn't been overly interested. In two years, when his turn came, he thought he'd have a fair crack at making it.
The colonel tried to tell him he was on the list.
"I . . . uh . . . think that's a mistake sir. I don't have the time-in-grade yet."
"You're on the below-the-zone list, and you'll pin on the oak leaves sometime in June or July. Congratulations."
Benny was stunned. He was well regarded in the fighter community, but he hadn't expected this. Two years below the zone? The majority of the one-year below-the-zoners were bomber pilots. Less than 2 percent of eligible captains made major two years below the zone, and most of those were headquarters pukes. Were things changing?
But the colonel was not finished. "You also have some medals waiting for you. They'll be properly presented when you get here."
"They already gave me my Purple Heart, Colonel." A local congressman had walked through with the hospital commander, doling Purple Hearts out of a box and giving a silly spiel about it being a pity they'd had to go to Vietnam to fight somebody else's war.
"How about two Silver Star medals?" asked the colonel.
"Two Silver Stars?" Jesus! He didn't even know anyone with two Silver Stars.
"And three Distinguished Flying Crosses . . . so far. Every couple of days personnel calls up to tell us you got another medal approved, so there'll probably be more. Right now the total is two Silver Stars, three DFCs, eight Air medals, and a Bronze Star for your work as a flight commander. When you get here, the general will be laying on a parade to honor you and a couple other guys who just got back from SEA."
Although he was more excited about the medals than was modest, Benny would rather have had eyeteeth pulled than endure a military parade.
He had an immediate excuse. "I don't think the flight surgeons are going to allow me to stand at attention for that long," he tried.
"Then we'll strap you to the flagpole and raise your hand when it's time to salute. The two-star here wants a parade," said the colonel.
"Yes, sir." His head spun from all the revelations.
They talked a while longer before Benny hung up and lay there, mind whirring as the
rawboned nurse he called Lady Dracula angrily disconnected the telephone extension.
"If you think you're going to be returning to work in the next couple of weeks, you're wrong," she chided.
"You were listening?"
"Just to your end," she said. "I keep trying to tell you your back injury is serious, but still I don't think you understand."
"I'm improving fast."
She shook her head and gave him a knowing look. "Not as fast as you're telling the flight surgeons. By the way, you've got a visitor."
He smiled. "Mrs. Stewart?"
Julie Stewart visited every day she had off.
"Nope. She said she was flying today, remember? This time it's a Captain Diller." Then, totally out of her bitchy role, she lowered her voice and casually asked, "Is he single?"
"He was when I saw him last." He could not visualize Moods Diller as a married man.
She left and a few minutes later returned with Moods, with his long, serious face and nervous air. The nurse had obviously prebriefed him, for he very carefully kept his distance.
"Good t'see you," he said. Moods Diller spoke in unique, choppy machine-gun bursts, as if his mind were racing ahead of his ability to express himself. He also shortened words and eliminated those he considered unnecessary to convey his meaning.
The nurse lingered, smiling serenely as she busied around the room with minor chores usually left to hospital techs. Moods didn't notice. Benny did, for there was something very different about her, something that transformed her plainness.
Benny grinned up at his old cohort. "I hear we're going to be working together."
Moods made a lopsided grin. "Together as captain and major can get. . . . Dammit, Benny . . . just when I thought I was catchin' up, you get promoted."
"I just heard about it myself."
"Congratulations."
"Thanks."
Moods paid the slender nurse no attention as she flitted about the room. Finally she reached in front of him and accidentally brushed against him.
"Excuse me." Nice smile.
"Sure." Moods finally took notice.
Lady Dracula regarded Benny, but the inhaled breath and expanded chest were for his visitor. "If you need anything at all, just push the buzzer," she said in a melodic tone he hadn't heard before. Then she turned her smile on Moods, said, "Nice t' meetcha," and glided from the room on her skinny legs.
Moods watched her go. "Nice lookin'." Moods's tastes were often peculiar to himself.
Benny felt he should say something complimentary. "She's dedicated," he said.
"You're first of th' fighter mafia t' return t' the States," Moods said abruptly. "The others're still in Southeast Asia."
Moods Diller, he remembered, switched subjects easily. You had to stay on your toes to keep up.
"Yeah," said Benny, "we were together at Takhli for a while. Then Glenn got shot down, and I almost finished my combat tour."
Four of them had worked closely together at Nellis for two years prior to leaving to fly combat: Lucky Anderson, Glenn Phillips, Max Foley, and Benny. Although he wasn't part of their group, when they needed heavy brainpower for a project, they'd called on Moods. He'd always acted honored, because the four pilots in the fighter mafia had been well regarded by both the brass and their fellow fighter jocks.
Moods lifted an eyebrow. "North Vietnamese . . . released Glenn Phillips's name on their latest POW list."
"Hey, shit hot! That's great news."
They spoke about Glenn and several other mutual friends who'd been killed or captured in SEA during the past months, then became lost in private remembrances.
"Anyway," said Moods finally, "y' made it. . . . Too tough t' kill."
Benny remembered the ballsy way Bear Stewart had exited life.
"Tough helps," he said, "but it's not enough. My backseater was plenty tough, but he's dead."
"Yeah, I heard," said Moods. "Major Sam Hall came through on his way t' Luke . . . down there checking out in F-4's . . . tol' us about it at th' bar. Said your bear left a pregnant wife b'hind. Said he hated it . . . said she's a good lady."
Benny nodded, started to add that he saw her almost daily, but decided against it. It might not look good, with her being a recent widow and people perhaps not realizing there was nothing going on between them.
"That's bad," said Moods, "leaving a wife 'n' kid on their own like that."
"She'll be okay," Benny said firmly.
"I hear you split, you 'n' your wife."
"It was a long time coming," said Benny.
"Women're jealous of airplanes," said Moods. He nodded at his wisdom.
After a pause and still being unable to decipher what Moods had meant, Benny changed the subject. "What's this new office supposed to be like?"
Moods told him they were setting up liaison teams at Nellis to interface with the guys flying over North Vietnam. One team concentrated on air-to-air to help the F-4 pilots, and another assisted the Wild Weasels with the SAMs. The third one was theirs. "You'll be boss . . . air-to-ground team," said Moods.
"Sounds good." Although he'd killed a MiG, and although he'd been a damned good Wild Weasel pilot, Benny's forte was dropping bombs. His friends said he had velvet hands, that he could thread a needle with a bomb from 5,000 feet.
"Message came in las' night," said Moods. "Our first task. Supposed t' help on some kinda combat test . . . set up an OPlan. . . . Prove they c'n knock out a big bridge in Hanoi."
"The Doumer bridge?"
"That's th' one. . . . Dumb shits're gonna try AGM-12's in a high-threat environment."
"General Moss knows better than that." Moss had been their two-star boss at Nellis, which was the reason their foursome had originally been called Moss's Fighter Mafia before he'd pinned on his third star and left for Saigon.
"Anyway, OPlan's name's CROSSFIRE ZULU."
"You'll have to carry the ball until I get there."
Moods nodded. "Colonel already sent th' message namin' me contact officer."
"There's three of us in the office?"
"You . . . civilian analyst to crunch numbers . . . me. We're supposed t' end up with four, five more pilots but that may take a while. . . . Ever' swingin' dick experienced fighter jock that's not in a critical position's on his way to combat." Moods grinned. "That's how you got t' be boss. . . . Down t' the sick an' lame." Moods grinned.
"Thanks a lot. What's your job?"
"Worker bee. Attached t' th' test-and-eval squadron for flyin' . . . keep up with anything's being developed might give our guys the edge in combat . . . fly on the tests . . . work on projects like this CROSSFIRE ZULU thing."
"Sounds good."
"Maybe. Guys at TAC headquarters hold an awfully close rein on us at Nellis. The President and the SecDef micromanage the air war . . . tell our pilots what they can't do . . . targets they can't hit. . . . New buzz word's 'command n control.' Ever' headquarters, large 'n small, wants in the act. . . . We fart, they ask why our gas is odious. . . . We try to work out tactics 'n' develop weapons for combat, but TAC keeps their nose in everything. . . . Roll up your flight-suit sleeves on a hot day, someone says t' roll 'em down 'cause someone at TAC likes 'em like that."
Tactical Air Command, with its headquarters at Langley Air Force Base, Virginia, was commanded by a four-star. Nellis only had a two-star, so they were often overridden by headquarters pukes who flew desks at Langley.
But Moods bitched entirely too much.
"It's always been like that," said Benny. "We'll work around 'em like we did before."
"Worse n before, Benny. . . . There's only th' one war, and ever'one wants to make the most of it like they're the only ones with answers. Ever' time we give a high priority to a project th' guys flying combat need . . . sure as hell someone at TAC will downgrade it 'n' push their own idea. Then the bomber people running things at the Pentagon get pissed off 'n' say something else's more important. It's fucked up royal, like nobody gives a shit about th' jo
cks over gettin' their asses shot off."
"Sounds shitty, but not abnormal. We'll make it work." Benny tried to remain upbeat.
Moods shook his head. "Wanta hear shitty? Last week they presented two DFCs to a captain just back from flyin' a tour in F-100's. Nex' day th' promotion list came out . . . wasn't selected for major, so he's being booted out of th' Air Force."
"Get off it, Moods. Save the sad stories for the chaplain."
Without changing his tone, Moods fired three measured machine-gun bursts, "Th' skinny nurse fuck? . . . I like em thin so I c'n feel what they got. . . . She married?"
Moods Diller was not the most romantic person in the world.
"The answers are I dunno . . . that's interesting . . . no. Anything else?"
Moods shook his head, looking analytical. His mind worked in strange and disjointed ways.
Before Moods could take off in yet another direction, Benny asked, "Are we going to get to go over and fly with the guys in the combat zone?"
"That's th' good news. Every couple months we c'n send someone over to fly a few missions . . . keep our hand in so we'll know what they're doin' and how we can help."
Benny nodded and hoped he wouldn't have to wait long before getting back into the cockpit.
"But there's paperwork ever' damn time we wanna send someone over."
Moods complained about filling out request forms until Benny stopped him by asking, "What are you working on that brings you here?"
Moods lowered his voice. "You won't believe it."
"Try me."
"Terminally guided bombs, Benny, so accurate we c'd use a single sortie . . . knock th' wick off a candle."
There'd been such dreams since the first pilots in biplanes had tried dive-bombing through flak.
"What kind of CEP are you talking about?" "Circular error probability" was the average miss distance.
"Zero. I'm talking about bombs hitting precisely where we want 'em to. Things'll damn near think for themselves, Benny, so I call em smart bombs. . . . You just fly along straight and level, pickle em off 'n' go home, 'cause you'll know the target'll be destroyed."
