Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)

by Tom Wilson

  The screams became constant and Quon absently wondered how the man could do that without taking a breath.

  Precisely an hour after he'd emerged, he went back inside, ignoring the fawning guards, past the prison commandant's office and directly into the interrogation room. The Mee pilot's arms were tied at the elbows behind him, and he was strung up, arms pulled out of swollen sockets. Two guards were pummeling his torso, although the man was oblivious and only grunted weakly now and then.

  "Stop," said Quon, and they did. The Mee pilot swung there, his chest and stomach a mass of livid blue and red bruises, his face bloody and puffed.

  Quon glanced at the senior lieutenant, who stood rigidly at attention. "What have you learned?"

  The senior lieutenant nodded to the interrogator, who was still puffing from exertion. As he waited, Quon decided that his slackened jaw, oversized lips, and bland expression made him look like a grinning carp.

  "He is from the pig squadron," the interrogator finally panted.

  "The rest of it!" demanded Quon.

  "He flew on the attack on Kep you spoke of, but he has not yet told us the names of the other members of the flight."

  Quon glared at the interrogator's incompetence. "Was he the leader of the last four aircraft?"

  "No, comrade Quon, he was third in the blue-tail flight. But he admitted firing his gun at a taxiing aircraft."

  Quon's chest tightened convulsively and he looked again at the Mee pilot, this time with revulsion. This . . . thing . . . had helped kill his son.

  "How soon before you learn the other names?" he whispered in a hate-filled voice.

  The carp-faced interrogator looked troubled. "Soon, comrade Quon," he said. "He is . . . ah . . . a difficult one."

  The prisoner groaned in his semiconsciousness, smelling of dung and piss.

  "I will give you one more hour," said Quon to the interrogator. "You must give me the information then."

  The senior lieutenant intervened. "Comrade Quon, it will mean we must use such force that the prisoner may not survive. We have been ordered to keep the Mee alive. We can kill none of them except those brought in dying or with missing limbs."

  Quon brought the full fury of his gaze to bear on the man.

  The senior lieutenant began to plead. "If you give us more time, only a few days, we can get the information for you and the prisoner will live."

  "One hour, and when I return, I also want the prisoner to be able to understand what I will say to him," said Quon. He stalked from the room.

  An hour later he returned to find the Mee pilot still hanging there, mouth open and drooling blood, chest and belly whipped to raw meat. His fingernails were gone and blood ran from his scrotum down his legs.

  The senior lieutenant was sweating even more than before. He silently handed Quon a piece of paper upon which was written a list numbered one through four, with several lines of details written at the side.

  Quon read and asked, "What does this one mean? No face?"

  "His leader was burned in an aircraft fire."

  "Major . . . Lokee," said Quon aloud. He repeated it again and felt pleased. The man he hated most had a name.

  The Mee pilot said something. The words came out in a series of gasps scarcely louder than the whisper of leaves falling.

  "What did he say?" Quon asked.

  The carp-faced interrogator smiled humbly at Quon and moved closer as the broken prisoner whispered again. He turned back toward Quon. "He mentions something about his God," he said. "They often do that, comrade Quon."

  "Will he live?" asked Quon, peering at the Mee pilot.

  "I think perhaps so," said the senior lieutenant. "I've seen others this bad, and some of them survived. The Mee are stubborn about living."

  Quon drew his sidearm, a well-tended Makarov 9mm automatic pistol.

  The senior lieutenant looked alarmed.

  "Raise his head!" demanded Quon.

  The carp-faced interrogator tried to grasp the prisoner's hair, but it was too short. He lifted his chin.

  The Mee pilot's eyes dilated blindly, flickered, then settled upon Quon's.

  "Tell him to think of the time he fired his cannon at Kep," Quon said in a quiet voice.

  The interrogator babbled something in the Mee language.

  The prisoner continued to stare into Quon's eyes as the pistol was raised, continued even as it was placed against his forehead.

  "Ask him if he fears death," said Quon in a tight voice.

  The interrogator spoke, and shortly thereafter came a ragged, four-syllable response.

  "Fuck you, by damn," were the words, and while Quon did not understand them, he heard the contempt in the voice.

  The 9mm bullet blew away the rear portion of the Mee pilot's head, spraying blood and matter on the wall behind him.

  1640 Local—Trailer 5A, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  GS-15 Linda Lopes

  She knew he was staying in Trailer 5A, for she'd asked Colonel Parker. The wing commander had pointed it out, and like a gentleman he'd not mentioned it since.

  She'd wanted to go there the previous evening after her discussions with the Air America administrators, but pride told her to wait for him to make the first move. He had not. She'd spent her evening grumbling at herself. Hadn't he made it clear enough during the past seven years that he wanted none of her?

  Not clear enough, she'd decided over today's lunch at the Air America Pilots' Club. She'd finished her day's business early and returned to her trailer. There she'd showered and changed into a fresh blouse and slacks, and then marched over to see him.

  She rapped at his door, then knocked again with "shave and a haircut, six bits."

  He should be in. A call to his squadron had revealed he'd gone there. Then she heard him moving around inside and felt a jolt of panic.

  He opened the door and grew a surprised look. He was wearing khaki shorts, T-shirt, and clogs.

  "He, neighbor," she said with a smile, waving two cans of Budweiser. "See, I was sitting in my trailer right over there . . . 9A if you've wondered . . . and I said to myself I'll bet there's a poor ol' thirsty Air Force major somewhere around here who . . ."

  "Hello, Linda."

  She grinned. "You gonna ask a girl in out of the hot sun?"

  He paused.

  "Well?"

  He opened the door and she handed him the two beers and went inside. She removed a set of dumbbells from a chair beside the table and sat. As he closed the door, she appreciatively eyed his build. Eight years older now, he looked to be in even better condition than when she'd known him in Germany. He'd always been serious about staying in shape. It's all a part of flying fighters, he'd told her.

  "What can I do for you?" he asked awkwardly.

  "How about sharing a beer, for starters."

  He found a church key, used it, and brew sprayed wildly. He tried to cover it with his mouth, and she laughed as the stuff bubbled down the front of his T-shirt.

  "What'd you do, shake em up?" he asked.

  "Hey, it's free, fella."

  As he was getting two more beers from his refrigerator and opening them, she looked around his trailer, observing the homey appearance. The basic half trailer was a mirror of the one she inhabited, but a few neatly arranged knickknacks and a couple pictures of old biplanes on the wall had transformed it to look much better.

  "You've got it set up nicely."

  He sat down opposite her, took a drink, then looked around as if seeing it for the first time. "It's where I live," he said simply.

  "Nice," she repeated, wishing he'd help carry the conversation.

  "You'll start people talking, coming to a guy's trailer like this," he said.

  "That's not what you used to say when I came to your BOQ room at Sembach."

  He shook his head. "That was a long time ago."

  "Sure was." She wished she could think of something just a bit more intelligent. She had a graduate degree and fifty-odd credits in communicati
ve skills, and all she could think of was sure was? She lifted her own can and sipped heartily, laughing at herself.

  "Just a second," he said. He retrieved a clean glass and set it in front of her. "Sorry about that. My manners have gone to hell."

  She poured her beer into the glass and wondered how long they were going to keep up the silly small talk.

  "I see you're a GS-15 now. That's great for someone as young as you."

  "I'm thirty years old, Paul."

  "Still awfully young to be a GS-15. Congratulations."

  "Thank you." Since he knew her general scale grade, she thought, he must have at least asked about her. She smiled and kidded, "Or is that sour grapes because I'm a mere woman?"

  "You've always been capable, so I'm not really surprised. Still working for the spooks?"

  "Of course not. I'm in charge of distributing food and essentials to the poor, deserving wretches of Asia."

  He smiled, or at least she thought he did. It was difficult to tell.

  He caught her looking at his face and held her eyes with his.

  At least he's no longer ashamed of it, she thought, but then he spoke and she was no longer sure.

  "You didn't have to come here, Linda. That's beyond the call of duty."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that I'm doing fine. I get to fly a lot, and I'm doing what I was trained to do." He searched for words. "I don't need moral support for anything."

  "You think I'm here because I feel sorry for you?" she asked.

  He laughed, but she heard no joy in it. "Sure you are."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "I thank you for caring, but I just don't need it. Honest, I'm doing fine."

  "That's not the reason I came," she argued.

  Lucky stared at one of his prints, a World War I combat scene. "This morning I lost a good man in my flight. He'd become a close friend."

  She felt awful. "I didn't know."

  Silence.

  "What was his name?"

  "Turk Tatro. We believe he's alive. The guy in the airplane behind his said he had a good chute. He was likely captured, but he got out of the airplane okay."

  "Thank God," she said.

  "Turk's a feisty little guy from Mississippi who likes to make people laugh. Has a wife and two little girls." He motioned at a pad of paper. "I was trying to write them."

  "It must be difficult."

  "Yeah." He looked at his beer can and brooded. "Damned difficult."

  She felt mushy about it, but she also thought he was beginning to accept her presence. "Something like this has to be hard on the family," she said.

  "His wife's a nice lady. A cute little southern belle who hasn't stopped flirting with him. I met her a few years back."

  "You knew him before you got here?"

  "I've known Turk since sixty, when we were checking out in F-100's at Luke. I'd just come from the burn center, and . . ." He looked at her strangely, as if he'd just realized he was opening up.

  She sipped her beer. "So you met him at Luke. Go on."

  Lucky shrugged, withdrawing into his shell. "That's all. He's a good guy and I like him."

  "That's hard, isn't it? To lose a friend and not know what's happening to him."

  "Yeah, it is." He decided something then and resolutely drained the beer. "How long are you going to be at Takhli, Linda?"

  "Until Monday."

  "I've got to struggle through this letter to his wife now. I'll see you before you take off for Bangkok, okay?"

  She smiled. "How about dinner tomorrow?"

  He paused, then nodded.

  "Promise?"

  "Yeah. I don't think you ought to be seen coming to my trailer again, though."

  "Well, I've been thrown out of better places." She stood and walked over to where he was sitting. "I'm sorry about your friend," she said softly. Before he could react, she brushed his forehead with her lips, lingered there for a moment, then straightened and made her way toward the door. He looked confused, and she felt a bit of triumph that she was able to interpret his expression.

  He stood awkwardly. "It's a bad time to talk, while I've got all this on my mind."

  She fluttered her fingers in a wave and went out, still smiling.

  1815 Local—Officers' Club Dining Room

  Captain Bob Liebermann

  Manny was brooding. So when he'd asked him if he'd like to go to the club for dinner, Bob had said sure, even though he'd already eaten a candy bar and wasn't particularly hungry. He just didn't like seeing Manny alone with his crummy mood.

  The members of C-Flight are growing closer, he thought as they walked into the O' Club dining room, just like Major Lucky planned it.

  When they were seated in the busy room, Bob brought up the gossip concerning Lucky and the Ice Maiden from Bangkok, but Manny kept talking about Turk Tatro and how shitty it was he'd been shot down. They'd all liked the little southerner, but it was something more with Manny. He'd pulled up and out of the flak and missed the target while Turk had pressed on and been shot down.

  Every one of the shooters except Guppy lead had been hit at least once. When the maintenance men had seen Lucky Anderson's flak-shredded Thud, they said he'd been fortunate to make it home, which was an understatement. His bird had taken multiple hits in both wings, and a piece of shrapnel had missed his head by inches.

  Manny said something about Turk Tatro.

  "Bad luck," said Bob.

  "No luck to it. We shouldn't have been using fucking Bullpup missiles, flying straight and level like that, with all the fucking guns in the world shooting at us. Jesus,'' said Manny, "I wonder what genius came up with that one."

  "I thought you said it was the people at Seventh Air Force."

  "They're blaming it on the staff pukes at PACAF but I don't know who to believe and I don't care. Headquarters pukes use their dorks to do their thinking."

  It didn't matter much to the fighter pilots which headquarters pukes came up with the stupid ideas. They lumped them together as "they" and regarded them as cretins.

  "I got some friends at Seventh Air Force," said Manny. "Most of them have a pu-ying set up downtown in an apartment. I wonder if the assholes even realize there's a war going on."

  "What's a pu-ying?"

  "Hell, Bob, that's the first Thai word you should've learned. It means girl, for Christ's sake."

  "I've learned kop koom krup. That means 'thank you,'" he said proudly.

  "Yeah Bob, I know what it means." Manny looked at him and sighed, making him feel even more naive. "Anyway, I figure all those guys think about is Saigon pussy. They oughta get their heads outa their asses." Manny shook his head sadly. "Bullpups."

  No Hab came and took their orders, and this time Manny didn't joke with her as he usually did. He just kept brooding and talking about losing Turk and the two other guys in the heavily defended target area, and nothing Bob said seemed to help.

  Colonel Lyons came in then, ushering the blond Peace Corps administrator. Manny stared at them, eyes blazing. "And that cowardly asshole doesn't help anything," he said.

  "What do you mean?" asked Bob.

  "Did you know he hasn't flown anywhere outside of route pack one yet?"

  "You're shitting me."

  "Hell no, I'm not. He's flown seven missions so far, and every one of them have been just north of the DMZ, where there's no guns."

  Bob frowned. "Colonel Parker says his colonels are leaders both on the ground and in the air, so he'll have to fly up there sooner or later."

  "Then it'll be a hell of a lot later. I overheard the chief master sergeant who works for him in the command post complaining to Major Lucky. He said Lyons gave him an order to make sure he's only scheduled to fly in pack one. He said flying anywhere else takes up too much of his valuable time."

  Bob's frown grew deeper.

  "The chief said he'd had one too many bosses like Lyons, and he didn't feel like taking any more of their shit. Major Lucky told him if he
felt that way, he should go to B. J. Parker, but the chief said he didn't need the hassle. He's going to cut his tour short and retire."

  Bob had trouble believing him. In his years in the Air Force he'd never met anyone like Manny described. Maybe, thought Liebermann, he was just jealous about the girl.

  Manny was still staring at the nearby table where Lyons huddled close to the blond, expounding about something. Then Bob saw the girl glance over at Manny DeVera and give him a distinct flutter of eyes.

  A change crept over Manny's angry face, like a chameleon switching colors. His expression grew softer and so charming, Bob would have bet he could have calmed a rhino.

  Lyons was so busy talking and striking poses, he didn't see the girl nod a greeting and cast a warm smile at Manny.

  "I talked to her yesterday afternoon," said DeVera. "Name's Jackie Bell. Great body."

  "Very nice."

  Manny grinned. "I dunno if I'd get that carried away."

  "Wonder what she's doing with the colonel?" asked Bob.

  Manny didn't answer, but continued to stare at her until Bob became embarrassed. Then Manny stood, wearing a purposeful expression, and Bob grew horrified as he realized what his roommate was about to do.

  "Manny," he hissed, but DeVera was already walking the several paces to the "Reserved for Colonels" table, staring the entire time into the bright blue eyes.

  "Hi," he said, ignoring Lyons, who was in the middle of a statement.

  "Hello there yourself," the girl said in a husky voice.

  "You had dinner yet?" Manny asked.

  "No," she said, beaming at him.

  "What do you want, Captain?" asked Lyons, who had recovered from his initial shock.

  "Just talking with the lady, sir," Manny answered happily, "and asking if she'd care to accompany this poor bachelor to the fine metropolis of Ta Khli for a steak."

  Lyons's eyes smoldered. "I do not remember inviting you to join us, Captain."

  "I just thought the lady might like to accompany a bachelor downtown to see the lights," said Manny, placing as much emphasis on the word "bachelor" as Lyons was on "Captain."

  "I would love to join you," replied the blond.

  Lyons's mouth sagged.

  Manny very formally put out his arm. She stood without hesitation and took it.