by Tom Wilson
"Tuna two's in," called Manny DeVera, meaning he was turning toward the target.
"Tuna lead has very heavy gunfire," Lucky radioed, and his voice was shrill. He could no longer see the target through the white blankets of popcorn, the red flashes, and the big gray and black bursts, which seemed to be everywhere.
"Jesus . . ." Manny's voice.
Lucky looked frantically for the obscured target.
"Weeep, weeep, weeep . . ."
Someone was down! He thought it might be DeVera, then heard Parker calling about his number three, so it was one of the flak suppressors. They were less vulnerable than the shooters, but one of them had been hit. Damn! he thought. How the hell were they supposed to make it?
"Tuna three's in," called Turk Tatro's voice, not nearly as lazy as normal. The flak was an attention getter.
"Weeep, weeep, weeep . . . ," the emergency beeper continued to wail.
"Guppy lead is in hot," called Major Max Foley, although Tuna four hadn't yet turned in. The Guppys were going after the southern end of the big bridge, so that was okay.
Lucky strained and tried to see the target through the stuff, and he finally did. Too close. He pulled his wings level and pickled off the Bullpup. He felt it release, then saw the plume merge into his vision, wondered how it could not be hit by the flak. He steered and corrected with the controller handle.
"Tuna four's in," called Henry Horn, hardly audible over the noise of the beeper and radio chatter.
A fireball. Lucky's missile had hit the bridge. And just after he saw the Bullpup's warhead explode, his Thud lurched and slewed sideways. He was hit.
"Guppy two's in," called Foley's wingman.
Lucky was able to overcome the yawing motion by using rudder. He glanced to his right as a new hole was punched through the wing joining several others already there. "Damn!" he shouted to himself.
"Weeep-weeep-weeep . . ."
His airplane was still flying, so he pulled hard to his left to get away from the terrible flak.
"Guppy three's in."
Another burst hit his Thud, and as he heard the muffled boom, a shard of shrapnel sliced a hole in his canopy and struck his headrest, jarring him violently.
"Damn!" he yelled again, and his adrenaline pumped even more wildly, but his voice was lost among the shrill call of the beeper, the jabbering on the radio, and the roaring sound from the canopy hole.
He flew free of the worst of it, and it was as if he'd emerged from a thunderstorm.
"Guppy four's in hot," could hardly be heard. Then he realized that a second beeper had joined the first one.
"Weeep-weeep, weeep-weeep, weeep-weeep . . ."
Whose? he wondered. He swiveled his neck back toward the inferno. The flak was so intense that he could make little sense of what was going on there. He saw that a Thud had broken off its attack early, and he could not fault the pilot. Manny DeVera?
Then he stared and saw that the span was still standing. He'd hit the damned thing squarely, but it was still standing!
Someone shouted excitedly on the radio, but through the wailing of the beepers and the wind noise he couldn't make it out. He turned up radio volume and listened.
The Weasels were dive-bombing a SAM site.
One of the beepers shut off. Whose, dammit?
He looked back again. A Thud was zooming upward trying to get out of the flak, torching brightly from the main fuel cells. The stores dropped away, and just afterward the Thud nosed over, going down.
Again the sounds of two beepers rent the airways.
"Weeep-weeeeep, weeep-weeeep, weeep-weeeep . . ."
"Guppy three . . . down," came a call through the noise.
Who was the one not yet identified?
He shut off the emergency-guard radio channel to eliminate beeper noise and slowed a bit. He flew in a long arc so his men could cut him off and join up. Then they would fly together to Thud Ridge, where Colonel Parker's flight orbited and waited.
Only two Thuds pulled in beside him. The other had been lost.
0945 Local—People's Army HQ, Hanoi, DRV
Colonel Nguyen Wu
He was in his office, demanding more information from his intelligence officer about the morning's air attacks on the Long Bien bridge, pleased about the three Thunder planes shot down by Colonel Trung's artillery. He would take credit for at least one of those. They'd lost a rocket battery to bombs, and another had been damaged by a terror missile, but that didn't bother him, for the generals were growing to expect such losses. His anger was directed toward those rocket-battery commanders who had shut off their radars and not fired at the attackers.
As he lowered his voice and asked the intelligence officer which of the downed aircraft they could most credibly claim, the door opened. General Dung's aide, a captain, peered into the room.
Wu stood. "Can I help you?" he asked. He provided the general's aide with much more respect than he'd give another junior officer. He noticed that two brawny men in plain uniforms and bearing sidearms stood behind the captain. Very odd.
"Please come with us," the captain aide said, motioning to the two men, and realization flooded numbly through Wu, for those were the nondescript uniforms of secret policemen!
"Ohhhh," he moaned. They'd found him out, and his beloved aunt was not there to help! He felt his bladder loosen and was unable to stop himself from urinating.
"Please," he cried in a piteous mew.
The two secret policemen showed no surprise, but the aide stared in disbelief at the growing puddle. Then the captain regained his voice. "Comrade Colonel, we are only going downstairs so the general can ask certain questions."
Liar! "I did not do it," whispered Wu, cringing.
"Please follow me, comrade Colonel," said the aide, and led the way out the door. The policemen surrounded him, and one wordlessly motioned that Wu should follow the captain.
He hesitated until one man supported either arm and they assisted him.
Out into the hallway, then down the flights of stairs. Were they taking him to the interrogation rooms at the Ministry of Internal Affairs, or to the common ones at Hoa Lo Prison?
"No," Nguyen Wu periodically wailed, but he was gently urged to continue downward.
"This way," the captain said when they arrived at the main entrance and they continued on down the stairs to the basement, which housed the intelligence offices and the command center.
They will shoot me in the basement! Wu's chest was heaving with panic, his eyes furtive. He stumbled once, and a wordless policeman roughly caught him.
This treatment is for others, not me!
"My beloved aunt!" he shrieked, startling two young officers who judiciously averted their eyes and continued up the stairs.
At the basement level the captain led the way into a small office, where Generals Dung, Tho, and Luc waited. Beyond them Wu saw Quon and Colonel Trung.
"I am sorry," he babbled at Quon, then began to sob, wondering how he could atone for killing the pilot's son.
"Colonel Wu!" exclaimed General Dung, and Wu cringed. Dung nodded toward the door, and his aide and the policemen hurried out and closed it behind themselves. Wu was left with the generals, Trung and Quon.
"Comrade Colonel," General Luc said in greeting as Wu continued to cringe.
Wu looked fearfully around at the group.
"We came here," said Dung quietly and without expression, "to tell you we have an emergency at hand that requires your expertise."
Nguyen Wu shook his head to clear it, then stared with drooping mouth at the general.
General Luc picked up the conversation. "The helicopters in the South give our ground forces more and more problems. They provide great mobility for the Mee troops. Also, their fighters are very responsive and increasingly dangerous. We must do something."
"Another challenge is presented by the new Mee dragon ships," said General Tho, "cargo aircraft that carry rapid-firing guns and cannons. We thought it would be pruden
t to seek your advice on these problems, since you are our expert on antiaircraft matters."
Wu stared at them incredulously. Is it a trick? He swallowed and tried to think. What were they talking about? Hope tried to glimmer through his confusion.
"How do you think we should approach this problem?" asked Dung.
Wu realized they were serious about the discussion. He thought of the wetness of his trousers, but his mind was still preoccupied and not yet prepared for embarrassment.
"General Dung is reluctant to move rocket batteries or heavy guns south," said General Luc, "even though the commanders there ask for them."
"Yes," began Wu, trying to think. "I . . . ah . . . agree with the comrade general. The . . . ah . . . rocket sites would be . . . difficult to move there."
"And would be endangered if we did?" prompted General Dung.
"Yes . . . ah . . . they would be in danger."
"I told you," said Dung, looking at the others.
Wu wondered. It was unlikely they didn't see the wet stains on the front of his trousers, but they acted as if this were just another casual conversation. And why the secret policemen? He began to recover a degree of aplomb, but he was still terrified whenever he glanced to the rear of the room into Quon's stony gaze. Why is he here?
"General Giap says we must do something about this problem in the South," said Dung.
Wu tried again to concentrate on what they were saying.
General Luc said, "I told General Dung that you would know what we should do."
It is true! They are only talking business. Giddy with relief, Wu gave a last shudder.
"I told him you would study the problem and recommend positive action," continued Luc, "and that we should put our faith in your superb judgment." He smiled at Nguyen Wu as proudly as a father might.
"I would . . . ah . . . be honored to study the problem and give you my . . . best opinion," stammered Wu.
"See," said General Luc, beaming at the others. "He wishes to study the problem."
"You must leave immediately, Colonel Wu," said General Dung. "I will have my driver take you to the convoy."
"Convoy?"
"While you are on your way south, it will be safer if you accompany one of our groups going there. Of course, you will be convoy commander."
"South?"
"I assume that this very thorough study of yours will take several months," said Luc, "therefore I will find it necessary to temporarily assign someone to replace you as commandant of radar-and-rocket forces."
Wu opened his mouth to protest, but his mind was reeling, and he could not think of appropriate words. Surely this was a farce . . . but would such high-ranking generals take part in such at thing?
"My aunt . . . ," he began.
Dung cheerfully broke in, "You bring great honor to your family, Colonel Wu. Your assistance may save the People's Army in the South."
Wu sputtered, "Thank you, comrade General, but . . ."
General Tho nodded, still smiling. "By volunteering for this hazardous duty, you have set an example for others to aspire to. Don't you believe so, Quon?"
"As I suggested earlier," Quon said quietly. "I do not doubt that Colonel Wu will serve us well when he goes south."
Air Regiment Commandant Quon
When Wu had departed from the room, shepherded by General Luc and dour old Colonel Trung toward the waiting staff car, General Dung turned to Quon and General Tho. He pursed his pudgy lips thoughtfully. "I believe your problem is solved."
Quon looked at the door in disgust. "He watered his pants."
It had been Dung's idea that the burly staff officers remove all trace of rank, as if they were secret policemen. Quon no longer doubted that Dung was a master of manipulation.
"There was no lie spoken," mused General Van Tien Dung. "We do have a problem with the American air forces in the South, and I truly hope he will be able to assist us there."
"And," said General Tho to Quon, "now you can get on with repairing the damage he has done to the defenses."
"I shall begin immediately."
"General Luc tells me you were the one who advised him to keep the guns around the bridges," said Dung as he delved into his pocket for a cigarette pack.
"The credit must go to Colonel Xuan Nha. He is astute about such things."
"How many Mee aircraft were confirmed shot down this morning?"
"Three at the Long Bien bridge," said Quon, "all by Colonel Trung's guns. Since the Mee paid so dearly and had such little success, Colonel Nha believes they will think hard before trying again." Dung lit an American Salem and sucked in a satisfying lungful of smoke. He smoked the brand incessantly. He looked at Quon. "I am sorry about what happened to your son," he said.
Quon nodded wordlessly.
Dung pointed the forefinger of the hand with the cigarette, dropping ashes. "But do not allow revenge to consume you, Quon. There is still much we must do."
"The matter shall not interfere with my duties, General Dung."
"You must see that it does not."
Quon scarcely heard, for he'd just learned that the top of the vertical stabilizer of one of the Thunder planes shot down by artillery was painted bright blue.
1100 Local—Hoa Lo Prison, Hanoi
The prisoner was understandably confused and frightened when they dragged him in. He'd been followed closely as he floated down in his parachute, captured as his feet touched the ground. Then, when the blue markings had been verified, the prisoner had been beaten into submission, stripped and shackled, beaten again, and driven to Hoa Lo. Quon had been waiting outside the gray-walled prison and had watched as the truck arrived with him.
They'd dragged him inside, into the admittance building's interrogation cell, a room so unkempt that Quon wrinkled his nose in distaste.
When a prisoner was first brought to Hoa Lo, Quon learned, he was taken to a cell in this building and shackled to a concrete bunk. Then he was relentlessly interrogated for several weeks until the jailkeepers had learned the military secrets, such as his unit and information about it, the next targets the Americans would attack, and so forth, to be used by People's Army Intelligence. Personal information about his family and home life was also elicited and provided to the Ministry of External Affairs for propaganda purposes. Yet as he looked about at the disorder of the room, Quon doubted they were efficient about their jobs.
He heard loudspeakers spouting a cacophony of scratchy music and American words.
The nervous prison commandant, a senior lieutenant wearing a wrinkled and grubby uniform, eyed Quon continuously, obviously impressed.
"What is that?" asked Quon, frowning and waving a hand toward the source of noise.
"We reeducate the prisoners to become sympathetic to our cause."
Quon snorted. "Does it work?"
"Sometimes a little, General Quon."
"Did I say I was a general?" snapped Quon.
The senior lieutenant looked confused.
"Have them stop that noise," said Quon, looking again at the prisoner.
"At once, comrade Quon," said the lieutenant, and he shouted shrilly at the open doorway. After a few moments the sound abruptly stopped.
The prisoner was very short for a Westerner, red-faced and ugly as Americans are, with blue eyes and close-cropped hair. He'd been stripped to undershorts and socks and looked ill at ease, yet there was something still defiant about him.
"What is his name?" asked Quon.
An interrogator, a man with a pronounced and rounded upper lip, barked Mee words and gained a series of clipped responses from the prisoner.
The interrogator turned to Quon. "He is a captain, and his name is Tai Tro."
"Shut the door," commanded Quon, not taking his eyes from the prisoner's.
The interrogator hurried to do so.
"There is certain information I must have regarding the air attack at Kep airfield on Monday." He spoke slowly, eyes still locked on the American's, telling the men pr
ecisely what he wanted and taking enough time for the prison commandant to write it all down.
When he'd finished, the senior lieutenant bobbed his head energetically. "We shall get it for you, Colonel Quon!"
Quon gave him an exasperated look.
"Ahh . . . comrade Quon?" the man corrected.
"How long until you have the information?"
The senior lieutenant, looking as worried as the American prisoner, calculated. Finally he answered. "Three days?" The lieutenant looked at Quon proudly, as if that would be a feat.
"I will give you one hour."
The prison commandant's eyes bulged comically.
"In one hour I will return to this room, and you will give me the answers to my questions." He turned without ceremony and left.
Quon did not care for either the dismal place or the men assigned there. The guards and officers of Hoa Lo were obviously People's Army, yet were a motley-dressed and sniveling group. They had likely volunteered for the duty so they wouldn't be sent to fight alongside real soldiers in the South or to man Colonel Trung's artillery.
He went outside, spoke with his driver, then sat in the rear seat of the utility vehicle and went over paperwork he'd brought with him. It never ends, he decided. If the bureaucrats had their way, commanders would sign authorizations before their men were allowed to shit.
He heard screams in a foreign tongue, then loud sobbing, and then more screams, and knew it was the Mee pilot named Tai Tro. It was no way for a fighter pilot to be treated, but as he listened he felt no pity.
His vehicle was parked in the shade of trees on the side of the prison near a long gray concrete wall. Watchtowers were at either end, and guards in them were peering toward Quon's vehicle and chattering. None appeared interested in watching the grounds inside. His feeling of disgust at the sloppy operation intensified.
He returned his attention to the paperwork, marking notes here and there with a black pen stenciled U.S. GOVERNMENT. American supplies captured from ARVN puppet soldiers or pilfered from the Mee themselves, even air conditioners destined for the offices of high government officials, were brought north in returning trucks.
