Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)

by Tom Wilson

  Quon nodded impatiently. He was pressed for time and could not dally long.

  Colonel Trung eyed him and interpreted his desire to be left alone with Xuan Nha. He rose slowly, not to be hurried by any younger officer, made his excuse, and left.

  Quon closed the door behind the grumpy old warrior. "I thought you disliked him."

  Xuan Nha's voice emerged in the raspy whisper, sounding like a huge rice-paddy toad. "A better relationship was needed. Our forces, yours and mine, cannot work independently of his guns. So I have been acting the part of the dutiful junior officer."

  "I was told he distrusts your rocket systems."

  "Colonel Trung is suspicious of all weapons he does not understand, and that includes anything more complex than a gun. He once told me he believes it is unnatural for men to fly in aircraft. He refuses even to get into a helicopter."

  "I agree about helicopters. Their propellers are on the wrong ends."

  Xuan Nha smiled at the quip.

  Quon could think of no reason to be indirect. "I have heard that your wife visited."

  Xuan stared back, the single eye unwavering, but Quon could not read what was there.

  "Were your discussions pleasant?" Quon asked.

  "Yes," Xuan carefully croaked. "She was pleased with the results of her trip to Paris. She worked not only with Tay diplomats, but also with representatives from various peace groups. A delegation of Swedes will arrive here next week, and then a group of Canadian and American activists. Her office will organize their tours."

  Quon waited for him to continue.

  "Premier Pham Van Dong applauded her accomplishments. I believe she is briefing the Central Committee now. Tomorrow she will join them as the newest member."

  The words weren't lost on Quon. There were eleven people on the committee whom Lao Dong party leaders trusted to run the Republic. Li Binh would become the twelfth and youngest member, firmly ensconced within the government hierarchy. She'd make it to the top.

  "Did you discuss Colonel Wu with her?" asked Quon.

  "She asked about her nephew, and I told her what I'd heard. That he had volunteered for a mission in the South."

  "And did you discuss my visits?"

  Xuan Nha pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I do not believe so. If we did, I do not remember it."

  Xuan Nha had an astounding memory and forgot very little. By his hesitancy was he trying to tell him something? Quon felt uneasy about what might have transpired with Li Binh.

  The lieutenant arrived with hot tea, and they sipped it and spoke of how well the radar controllers were communicating with all the elements of defenses, and how they were better coordinated now than they had been in months.

  When Quon left to return to Phuc Yen by helicopter, since daytime surface travel was discouraged for senior officers, he wondered what had gone on between Xuan Nha and his wife. By that afternoon he was immersed in the details of his job and had pushed the discussion with Colonel Nha from his mind. He'd decided there were more important matters to think about than the worries of a woman over the treatment of her worthless nephew lover.

  Later Quon came to think differently about that decision.

  0930 Local—Ta Khli Village, Thailand

  Major Lucky Anderson

  When they climbed off the bus, Linda immediately pointed out the row of tents set up across from the Ta Khli marketplace.

  "That's where the work's done," she said. "The priests are in there praying for rain."

  Lucky felt dubious about the entire thing. An hour earlier Linda had barged into his trailer and insisted they go into Ta Khli Village to see the rain festival, and he had not been able to dissuade her.

  "Everyone says its something we mustn't miss," she'd said.

  "Who's everyone?" he'd tried.

  "Paul Anderson, you've got to realize there's more to life than flying airplanes. There are so many interesting things here. Don't you want to learn about the local culture?"

  "Sure," he'd said wryly. Then he'd told her he shouldn't go because one of his lieutenants had some questions about his next assignment, but he knew it was a weak excuse. So he'd resigned himself, thinking he'd come back as soon as she was satisfied they'd assimilated enough local color, and changed into very casual clothing as she suggested.

  He'd been surprised by her visit, for during the past month he'd not answered her telephone calls or the two letters she'd written. But she'd mentioned none of those, only told him to hurry so they wouldn't miss anything. Then she'd called through the door of the bathroom as he'd dressed, saying she'd come early for her monthly visit so they could attend the festival. As soon as he emerged, she'd hurried them out of the trailer, saying they couldn't be late or they would miss everything.

  And here we are, he thought. He had about the same interest in a Thai rain festival as he'd have had for a botanical field trip, yet somehow it was impossible to remain glum around Linda when she was enjoying herself.

  "Let go look," she said happily, pulling him toward the tents.

  He resisted, eyeing the swarms of people ahead. "What's this rain festival about?" he asked sourly. "I went to a water festival once, but that was a girls' swim-team demonstration."

  "The Thais need rain. It's been dry since December. All the rivers and klongs are very low, and they use them for transportation and irrigation . . ."

  "As well as for their drinking water and sewage system," he added.

  She frowned at him for interrupting. ". . . so the people hold this ritual and it rains."

  Lucky looked at the flawless, balmy blue sky. "It's almost summer-monsoon season, so it'll rain sooner or later, but it sure as hell isn't going to be today."

  She sighed dramatically. "You're just one big wet blanket, Paul Anderson."

  "But why did they pick today? The weather forecasters say it's going to be clear."

  "Their priests tell them when to hold the festival, not your weather people."

  They watched as a Buddhist monk in a saffron-colored robe came out of a tent and gawked at the bright heavens.

  "Maybe he's going to call it off," said Lucky. He peered again at the cloudless sky.

  "Come on, let's look." She tugged on his hand and led the way into the crowd.

  Children slithered through the masses, squirting everyone with water pistols. A five-year-old boy ran up and started to squirt Lucky, then stopped to stare at his face.

  Lucky growled.

  The kid fled.

  "Meanie," said Linda, pulling him along.

  She'd advised him to wear clothing he did not treasure, so he'd put on a cotton shirt, chino trousers, and sandals. When an old woman gleefully tossed a dipperful of water on them, he was glad he'd done so. The woman happily delved into her pail for more water, and Lucky picked up his pace to get away. Then another woman splashed them, and a more fearless kid squirted them unmercifully.

  Lucky sputtered water. "What the hell's this all about?"

  Several young boys gathered around them and squirted away until their guns were empty. Obviously poor kids, filthy, ragged, and without pistols, blew water out of their mouths, then squirmed away through the crowd, laughing shrilly.

  "The people are showing they have plenty of water and don't need rain," said Linda, her white blouse drenched and sticking to her skin. "If it looks like they need it, it won't rain, so they throw it all away. They're using a sort of reverse psychology on it."

  "What's it? Who're they trying to impress?"

  "The fates. Buddha's spirit. They're vague on it. It is what makes things happen."

  The crowd grew thicker as they approached the tents, so they tried to push their way through. When that failed, they just stayed close and went along with the ebbs and flows.

  "I thought you said they need every drop?" he yelled when someone tossed an entire bucketful on them.

  Linda shouted back at him. "That's why they throw it away. So it'll rain."

  "That's dumb."

  They heard s
ounds of a propeller aircraft. A Royal Thai Air Force T-34 flew low overhead, dumping water from a belly tank onto the boisterous crowds.

  "These guys are just wasting water," yelled Lucky. "I tell you the weatherman says its gonna be just another dry, hot day."

  "You probably think Santa Claus is a fantasy for kids!" shouted Linda. "You probably think the Easter bunny's a fake!"

  He watched as she turned her smile toward a group of shouting children they were passing. Although she had a graceful bearing and a look of class, Linda could transform herself into an excited little girl. He found himself smiling at the thought, infected by her cheerful enthusiasm. She'd affected him that way the evening they'd met.

  He'd not allowed himself to think of that night for a long while. Had they really been apart all those years? He remembered the bad time, when he'd wanted to think about her but knew he could never again allow it. He'd become master of himself. With time it had been easier. Now I'll have to do it all over again, he thought as he watched her and felt the warm glow.

  They were still being swept along as the crowd entered through the opened flap of the end tent, several of which had been joined together to form a single, long enclosure.

  "Are the tents here to protect them from the deluge?" he joked with Linda, who gave him a glare.

  A raised platform had been built on one side, extending the length of the interior. On it sat a row of Buddhist monks, hands held piously before themselves, chanting and diligently bobbing their shaven heads. Once inside, the crowd grew quiet, watching and moving in a long, silent wave past the praying monks.

  "Our American Indians do it better," Lucky whispered. "I should get Billy Bowes to teach them a real rain dance." Then he noticed that Linda was glaring again, and hushed.

  After they'd passed by the dozen praying monks, a young one climbed down and preceded them outside, and when he emerged, his robe fluttered, for a slight breeze was stirring.

  Then they were also outside.

  "I'll be damned," said Lucky in mock amazement. "It's not raining."

  Linda peered upward, as the monk was doing. "Look." She pointed to the south, at a few small clouds gathering in a vertical formation there.

  "They're too scrawny to hold rain," joked Lucky, but it was enough to make him wonder.

  As they walked toward the marketplace, they saw a group of children in rags, spitting water at better-dressed kids with water pistols.

  "Wait here a minute," he told her, and edged his way through a crowd to an open-air stand. He bought a dozen brightly colored water pistols and two lukewarm Singha beers.

  Linda smiled when he returned juggling the bag of water guns and the beer bottles. "You going to play with the kids?"

  "Nope." He gave her the bag. "Give 'em to the ones without guns, okay?"

  She passed them out to the group of squealing ragamuffins, then returned for her beer.

  "That was a nice thing to do," she said. "Keep it up and you'll ruin your Uncle Scrooge image."

  "Just thinking of your Easter bunny."

  They walked, sipping beer and joining the flow of various mobs of people, then stopped before a platform where three teenage girls danced amateurishly to music from a scratchy record player.

  "Sounds like a bunch of tin cans being rattled in a garbage can," observed Lucky.

  "It's called exotic music of the East, Uncle Scrooge."

  A high-pitched voice accompanied the music.

  "Now it sounds like they threw in a cat."

  "You're impossible."

  A drop splatted on her nose. They both looked up.

  "What the hell?" he asked in an unbelieving voice. The southern clouds had become gray and were closer.

  "There is too a Santa Claus," she whispered, as awed as he.

  The clouds moved closer yet, and gusts of wind blew more of the large droplets upon the villagers of Ta Khli.

  The crowds shouted joyously and began to throw away water in even larger amounts.

  "Unbelievable."

  "Come on, Uncle Scrooge. Let's get out of the rain."

  A few minutes later the clouds arrived and it began to pour in earnest.

  1330 Local—Ponderosa, Takhli RTAFB

  Captain Manny DeVera

  The base operator put Jackie's call through to the phone in the day room.

  "Hello," said Manny reluctantly.

  "Oh, hon. I heard about you being wounded and I've been worried sick."

  He felt queasy. "Oh?"

  "God, but it's good to hear your voice."

  "Yeah, yours too." His voice came out as flat as he'd intended it to.

  "When did you get back to Takhli, hon?"

  "Yesterday."

  "And you didn't call?" she pouted.

  He started, by reflex, to apologize, then thought about it and kept quiet.

  "Is it bad, hon?"

  "Not really." Manny looked at his bandaged hand.

  Her voice became kittenish. "I'll come over to the base just as soon as I finish with a little more paperwork. I cleared it with my boss, because I figured you'd be in need of TLC."

  He took a breath. "I'm gonna be busy, Jackie. I'm behind on paperwork too."

  "Then I'll help you write. I heard it was your right hand."

  "I can write with my left hand. I can use either one about equally, and . . ." His voice trailed off.

  A pause.

  "You don't want to see me?"

  Silence.

  Her voice was sadder, searching for an answer. "Are you in pain, hon?"

  "No. They gave me some codeine pills, but I haven't had to take any for a while."

  "I can get off. No trouble about that. I told the project leader here about you being hurt, and . . ."

  They both grew quiet.

  She tried again. "Sure good to hear your voice."

  Silence.

  "Well, I'll see you, Manny. Give me a call when you're feeling better, okay?"

  "Yeah, sure," said Manny.

  She hung up.

  He stared at the wall. He'd handled it precisely as he'd decided he would during the trip back from Danang. He and Jackie had grown close during his several visits to Nakhon Sawan. It wouldn't be right to saddle her, or anyone else he cared about, with the problems he'd faced when it became known that Manny DeVera was a coward and wanted out.

  At least he was man enough to let her go. The thought didn't make him feel better.

  He decided to go to the squadron and see if there really was any paperwork pending. Lucky hated the stuff and sometimes let it pile up.

  "Who's got the keys to the van?" he yelled out.

  Bob Liebermann, lounging in a nearby chair, held up the keys without raising his head from his book.

  "Anyone need a ride?" Manny asked.

  There were no takers.

  When he went outside, he found that the sky was as dark and foreboding as his mood. He walked toward the blue van, still thinking as drops of rain splatted down on him.

  It would be hard to admit to being a chickenshit coward.

  Might as well go all the way. Tell them he wasn't a coward at all, but a conscientious objector, or maybe a high priest of the Fuh King Temple. Get out and join a peace movement and learn to smoke dope and drop acid. Let his hair grow and refuse to wash it or anything else about himself, so he could stand the smell of his new buddies. Wear a peace symbol around his neck and carry a gomer flag. Learn to say Ommmm and enjoy blow jobs from hippie broads with blackheads and hairy armpits who'd be grateful he wasn't exploiting them. Wear an American flag on the ass of his jeans and . . .

  Wasn't that what all chickenshits did who had the crap scared out of them when they thought about real bullets?

  God, it was going to be hard.

  He crawled into the van and adjusted the seat.

  No more Supersonic Wetback jokes, or singing songs with his buddies in a fighter bar. No more landing after a fur-ball practice dogfight with a friend, thinking he just might be the best fig
hter jock in the world. No more feeling proud he was returning just a little of what the best fucking country in the world had given him.

  So hard.

  He started the engine, still thinking, and as he drove toward the flight line, he decided not to hurry with his announcement to quit. He had the bandaged hand for an excuse. Later, when the docs put him back on flying status and they wanted to place him back on the schedule, he'd tell Major Lucky and take his lumps.

  No way he'd fly with them and endanger someone with his cowardice.

  He thought about how much he was going to miss the guys from C-Flight, and how he didn't deserve to breathe the same air they did.

  354th TFS Duty Desk

  Captain Billy Bowes

  He was surprised to find the special orders in his cubbyhole at the squadron. On them was a list of unit pilots qualified to lead combat flights. Among them was Name: Bowes, William W.; Rank: Captain; SN: FR52221; AFSC: 1115E.

  He was frowning and examining the orders when Captain DeVera came in.

  He glanced at Manny's bandaged hand. "How's the paw?"

  Manny shrugged and started past him toward the C-Flight commander's room.

  "Something wrong?"

  Manny paused and turned. "Sorry, Billy. I've been thinking."

  "Bad habit." Billy grinned. "I try to avoid it as much as possible."

  Manny nodded at the orders. "Congratulations on making flight lead. Major Lucky told me."

  "Yeah?"

  They went into the C-Flight commander's office, and Manny sat behind the desk while Billy slouched in a chair. Manny shuffled through the papers in the in-basket.

  "He had to hurry your orders a little," said Manny, "what with my being off status. He can't fly every mission, so he needed someone to lead the guys when he's on the ground."

  "Hell, you're not going to be off flying status that long, Manny. Doc Roddenbush says you'll probably be back on in a week or so."

  DeVera shrugged, as if to say "who knows."

  Billy tried crawfishing. "You really think I'm ready for it?"

  "Flight lead? Damn right I do."

  Billy Bowes did not wish to be ready. He'd thought Lucky would give him some sort of check ride before he issued the orders, and that he'd be able to make a few stupid decisions and get it put off. That having failed, he now opted for a verbal tactic with DeVera, who, after all, was assistant flight commander.