Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)

by Tom Wilson

  "I dunno, Manny. I think I could use a few more rides flying on the wing. I haven't been flying the Thud very long, you know."

  "You've got nothing more to learn on the wing. Anyway, won't be long and all the high-time Thud guys will have finished their combat tours. Then there's going to be a hell of a lot of guys from other airplanes coming over to fly one-oh-fives"

  Billy grumbled, "I should at least get a few more missions as element leader."

  "Whenever Lucky's along, you'll fly as number three, Billy. And before you take the guys up to pack six, you'll lead a mission or two in the lower packs."

  Maybe, thought Billy, he should fuck up bad enough in the lower packs that Lucky would take him off orders and let him return to flying on the wing. That was the only way he'd be able to sting the gomers some more without having to worry about someone else's ass. Flight leads came under too much scrutiny, being out in front as they had to be. Hell, if he dropped a bomb on an illegal target, the rest of them might follow him in and do the same.

  Then it would be as Tiny Bechler had said. He'd be hurting his friends. All in all, the flight-lead orders presented a shitty problem.

  Henry Horn peeked his smiling face around the door. "What're you guys up to?"

  "Telling secrets," said Billy. "Got any?"

  "Yeah. Weather officer's all fucked up. Said it was going to be clear, and it's raining so hard the frogs are carrying umbrellas."

  "Weather people are always fucked up," said Billy. "I think they shake up a bunch of Ping-Pong balls and read forecasts off 'em, like bingo callers. Makes me suspicious when I ask for a weather forecast and they say 'bee-five.'"

  "Where's Major Lucky?" Henry asked.

  "Got me," said Billy. "You know, Manny?"

  DeVera had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout their exchange. "He's not flying. You try his trailer?"

  "Yeah. He's not there."

  "Maybe he went downtown."

  "Major Lucky doesn't go downtown," said Henry Horn, taking a seat beside Billy. "You're assistant C-Flight commander, Captain DeVera. I'm supposed to put down where I want to be reassigned when I leave here, and I need some advice. I want to stay operational, but I want to consider my family too."

  "Try a stateside base. Europe's got good wine and horny women for the single guys, but the flying is shitty because of the congested airspace and the awful weather. You'd be gone from your family a lot, because you have to go to Italy or Libya to find good weather and gunnery ranges. But then there's . . ." He stopped midsentence.

  Henry was listening hard. "Go ahead. You've been there, and I value your judgment."

  That seemed to shake Manny even more. Finally he resumed, in a quieter voice. "I think . . ." His voice trailed off oddly then, and he just stared at Henry Horn.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Wait for Major Lucky," Manny mumbled. Then he bolted from his chair and hurried from the room.

  Henry gave Billy a surprised look. It was obvious that something was bothering Manny DeVera.

  2350 Local—Trailer 5A

  Major Lucky Anderson

  They'd drunk too many Singha beers and laughed too often, had eaten too much hot Thai food and become too intoxicated with memories. They'd also forgotten too many years and too many things in between, and acted as if they were still very young and in love.

  That was how he explained it to himself. Otherwise there was no reason for what they'd done, or at least no reason that made sense.

  They had returned to his trailer and without hesitation had stripped and made love. Gentle love, with no rushing, but also with no doubts or hesitation. Easy and natural love. Giving generously and taking selfishly. It had been as if she'd just driven down to Sembach, as she had back then, and they'd felt the first thing they must do when they got to the room was prove it all still worked.

  Dammit! Lucky cried from within.

  Rain began to fall again, in the big drops of the tropics that made soft, pinging sounds on the trailer's metal roof. It was dark, but not so dark he couldn't see her shape beside him, breathing softly and sleeping as if she were utterly without worry. As she'd drifted off, she had made the happy sounds of a fulfilled woman, sounds he'd remembered and which made his own satisfaction more complete.

  She smelled of pleasant, feminine odors that he hadn't known for a long time. Aromas he'd forgotten, that he had never again expected to sense.

  Stop it.

  A particularly strong gust made the trailer tremble, and he wondered if the morning mission would be canceled. He hoped not. He needed to fill his mind with the things you must concentrate on to fly a jet.

  What was it she'd said, when she'd snuggled close to sleep, and the impact of what they had done had begun to sink into his brain?

  He remembered. "I'm home," she'd said in her sleepy voice.

  They'd made love twice, just as they'd always done before. The first time stridently to tend the urgent needs, and the second time more softly. My time, she'd always said of the second lovemaking, and she'd repeated it tonight. Then, as he had begun to gather his wits about himself, she'd whispered that she was home.

  Maybe it could work.

  No! he raved at himself, struggling toward reality.

  He'd realized it when he'd begun to recover from the accident, when he'd lain there thinking too much. He'd known exactly what he would do if they released him from the burn center and he could not get back on flying status. A flight nurse he'd known had told him how to do it.

  He would get a Texas fifth of good Scotch and find a secluded spot on a nice beach. Then he'd drink the whole son of a bitch down in a single, grand chugalug and lie back and pass out and not wake up, because that much whiskey would kill a horse.

  It was just after making that decision that he'd written the letter to Linda Lopes back in Germany, to stop things between them.

  He'd known that he would never be accepted by a society that revered beauty and was repulsed by ugliness. He refused to face life as a second-class citizen, which he would become once he was cast out into the civilian life, and he also refused to put Linda Lopes through the hell of being tied to life with a monster.

  She moved and came half-awake. Snuggled closer and murmured his name. He held his breath . . . then her breath evened, and he knew she was asleep again.

  Several times during and after their acts she'd said she loved him.

  Do I love her?

  He quickly pushed the question from his mind, refusing to consider it. It was an unreasonable, treasonous thought, a ruse to make him disavow his promises.

  Nothing's changed.

  He had a treacherous thought. What if I was wrong?

  But he knew he was not.

  Sleep was slow coming, fitful when it arrived.

  Knocking on the door. He slipped out of bed and padded over to open it. The rain had stopped.

  The squadron orderly grinned at him. "It's four o'clock, sir. Briefing's at four-thirty."

  "Thanks." He yawned and closed the door.

  She was stirring.

  He went to the bathroom and was shaved and showered in less than five minutes. He returned to the darkness of the bedroom then and pulled on his flight suit and socks. He was lacing his flight boots when she came awake.

  "It's early." Her voice was sleepy.

  "That's when we fly here, Linda, so we won't screw up the enemy. They can set their clocks by the sound of our bombs, every morning at seven, every afternoon at two."

  "You're flying this morning?"

  "Yeah. And you'd better slip out of here before everyone's up."

  She was sitting and the sheet had fallen away, but he carefully kept his eyes averted.

  She stretched and shuddered. "I'll be talking to the mayor in Takhli this morning and then with the provincial people at Nakhon Sawan."

  "Busy day?"

  "But it'll be an easy one." She stretched again, slowly and languorously. "God I loved last night." Her voice carried a trill.
/>   It was time for him to speak up, to stop it before it went further.

  "It was all wrong, Linda. I shouldn't have let it happen."

  "Bullshit."

  The word startled him, for he'd never heard her curse.

  "I'm not going to let you start your silly interfering again. Dinner?"

  "No," he said.

  "It's not going to work this time, Paul Anderson. I refuse to let you get away with it again."

  "Get away with what? I'm not trying to get away with anything."

  "Bullshit."

  "Stop that."

  "Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!"

  He finished lacing his boots and stood up.

  "Dinner?" she asked again.

  "Dammit, I do not want to have dinner with you."

  "Why? Getting together with your ex-wife?" she asked in a mocking tone.

  "What?"

  "That's what you told me last time you wanted to get rid of me. That won't work again. Nothing you say is going to work."

  "No dinner, Linda. And I don't think we should be seeing each other."

  "Paul, I just spent eight years believing that and being miserable." Her voice rose angrily. "Guess how many men I've been to bed with in that time?"

  Lucky winced. He was angry at himself because sometimes, in moments of weakness, he'd wondered. "That's none of my business," he finally said.

  "Bullshit."

  "Quit that."

  "Zero, that's how many men I've been to bed with."

  He was quiet, not about to allow himself to feel good about it.

  "I almost slipped, Paul. I wanted to slip so bad sometimes that I cried. I wanted to feel like a woman again, to go to sleep all content and feeling like I belonged to someone. I wanted to feel wanted and needed. I didn't do anything to deserve being cheated out of that, did I?"

  He refused responsibility. "You'll find someone," he said.

  "Don't try to lay the blame on anyone else, Paul Anderson. It was you who took it away from me."

  She did not cry, for she was not that kind of woman. Her voice was strong and her words so sure that it was obvious she meant what she was saying.

  "You lied to me. I believed your wife was there helping you. I wanted it to be me at the burn center with you, but you even took that away from me."

  He felt harried, as if he were being chased. "Dammit, Linda, what do you want?"

  "To get back together. For things to be like they were before."

  "It can never be like before."

  Linda peered at him. Finally she shrugged. "Then I'll settle for dinner."

  When he landed from the morning mission, an easy counter to pack two, Lucky volunteered to leave on the base shuttle for Danang to pick up Manny DeVera's F-105, which had been left there for repairs. When he returned the following day, Linda Lopes had returned to Bangkok.

  This time she left no notes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Monday, June 5th, 0640 Local—North of Hanoi, Route Pack Six, North Vietnam

  Captain Billy Bowes

  It was the second time Billy had led a flight into combat, the first time he'd led in pack six. They were headed out over the flatlands, the tough and dangerous area where Manny DeVera had been hit and lost his cool. The northeast railroad.

  Talon flight crossed eastward over the midpoint of Thud Ridge at 10,000 feet altitude. Billy was leading, Joe Walker on his wing, Liebermann and Horn making up the second element. His thoughts lingered on Liebermann, how he accepted Billy's leadership even though he wanted to lead a flight of fighters into combat more than anything.

  Billy hadn't wanted to lead, but all it had taken was a word from Lucky Anderson that he needed him. Billy admired the man so much that he would do about anything he asked, and since this time it involved keeping C-Flight together, the argument had been unassailable.

  Anyway, Major Lucky had said he'd try to get them all upgraded to lead status; Captain Liebermann, and Lieutenants Horn and Walker as well. When that happened, when Major Lucky no longer needed his help, Billy would go back to his secret war. Stinging the enemy where it hurt them most, and fuck the restrictions.

  He looked over at the second element, then waggled his wings for Liebermann to close it up. Bob was a fair pilot when he loosened up, but he tried to get flying moxie through a scholarly learning process and by religiously following the rules. Billy had taught his student pilots that once they felt comfortable flying a bird, the rest would come. It was obvious Liebermann hadn't learned to do that. But Billy liked Bob and all the other pilots in C-Flight and intended to do everything in his power to keep them safe.

  They flew in a series of four-ships as they'd done when he'd first arrived at Takhli, fragged to locate and destroy rolling stock targets on the dangerous northeast railway.

  Big Eye airborne radar had called MiGs at "Bullseye zero oner zero for twenty miles," using the new code system designed to make it easier for them to figure out where the MiGs were. "Bullseye" was Hanoi, and just as the planners thought, the jocks always knew where they were in relation to Hanoi. And since Big Eye had called ten degrees at twenty miles from Hanoi, that meant there were MiGs in their vicinity. They'd been briefed that Big Eye had added some kind of system that decoded enemy transponders, so their warnings were regarded as especially accurate.

  Out over the flatlands now and not far from the railroad, so it was time to change switch settings from shooting MiGs to dropping bombs.

  "Talons, let's set 'em up for air-to-ground," Billy called.

  "Two." "Talon three, wilco." "Talon four," came the responses.

  Billy selected centerline station, where he carried his seven-fifties, and dialed in forty-five-degree dive-bomb settings. He double-checked that he was up properly, then scanned the sky ahead and to either side.

  Cumulus clouds towered in all directions, and he led Talon flight around an especially dark and ominous one that lay before them.

  "THIS IS BIG EYE. DOGMEAT AT BULLSEYE ZERO ONER FIVER AT THIRTY-FIVE MILES. I REPEAT, THIS IS BIG EYE. DOGMEAT AT BULLSEYE ZERO ONER FIVER AT THIRTY-FIVE MILES."

  Billy mentally calculated their position. The MiGs were close. He gave the sky another visual sweep and listened as the Wild Weasel flight, forward and right of Talon, dueled with a SAM site.

  No way he'd trade jobs with the Weasels, sparring with the big missiles, especially in shitty weather like this. He wondered how his cousin Mal had put up with ninety-five missions of the dangerous duty. Then he remembered what he was doing, dive-bombing targets while SAMs and a hundred guns tried to kill him, and he guessed everything was relative.

  Dark puffs ahead at their altitude. The guns along the railroad were active. He saw more bursts, concentrations of fours and sixes. Fifty-sevens and eighty-fives, he decided, as more and more of the big guns opened up, trying to zero in on a jinking covey of Thunderchiefs.

  A flight of F- 4 Phantoms high above turned right, heading toward Haiphong, and he supposed they'd spotted something there.

  0648 Local—Bac Giang Province, DRV

  Air Regiment Commandant Quon

  Quon called for his six MiG-21's to split into two sections of three, and they immediately responded. He was left with a Vietnamese captain and lieutenant in loose trail, each staggered a hundred meters above the MiG before him. The Russian, Aleksandr Ivanovic, led an East German and a Polish pilot in a similar formation toward the flight of Mee radar-hunters east of them.

  Quon's element was given a new VHF radio frequency, and after his pilots had called the switch, and positive identification was verified by the controller, he radioed, "Red Quon requests directions to target."

  The response was immediate. "Red Quon, turn to zero five five . . . four targets at eight kilometers."

  Since the Mee fighters were on the opposite side of the large dark cloud in that direction, Quon advised the controller to provide constant target information. Then, already in a hard turn, with his throttle full forward, he called for his section to p
repare for K-13 heat-guided rocket attacks.

  He planned to surprise the Mee pilots by using the wispy edges of the cloud for cover.

  A draft of air bounced his jet mightily, but he tensed his stocky body and ignored it, continuing to skirt the edge of the cloud, eyes drawn forward in anticipation.

  "Is it you, Lokee?" he asked quietly as he double-checked that he was set up to fire K-13 rocket number one.

  0651 Local—Northeast of Hanoi, Route Pack Six, North Vietnam

  Captain Billy Bowes

  Big Eye had warned of three different groups of MiGs, and then one of the Weasels sighted a MiG-21 and called for a hard turn.

  The railroad was only a dozen miles ahead, beyond the big cloud they were skirting. A flight of Thuds was in their pop-up there, attacking a rail siding on which they'd found a few boxcars, and someone in their group said the flak was heavy.

  Billy kicked the rudder in first one, then the other direction, checking their six o'clock position. Something was nagging deep inside that all hell was about to break loose, and he'd grown to trust his intuitions.

  As they approached the far side of the big cloud, he began to breathe easier. Only a few more seconds and they'd be clear. He hated clouds, not for what they were but for what they might be hiding. He'd been eyeing it warily, imagining MiGs and gremlins out of the various shapes of swirling moist air.

  He glanced out past Liebermann to Horn, flying off to his right, then to his left at Walker. Everyone was jinking nicely and appeared alert.

  "Talon two has a bogey at three o'clock," called Joe Walker.

  Billy whipped his head right, searched the edge of the cloud there.

  "Atoll, Talons, Atoll! Break right!" radioed Walker, and Billy was already throwing his control stick to the right when he saw two, then three delta-shaped aircraft emerge from the gloom of the cloud.

  A missile darted between Liebermann and Horn, leaving its white wisp of smoke. Close.

  Talon flight was coming around now, turning into the MiGs, sluggish with the weight of the bombs but no longer sitting ducks. Billy had all three delta-winged MiGs in sight. Very close. Not silver, but a flat green color, the leader with a dark red sash painted around its fuselage. One by one the MiGs flashed past their quarry and for a few seconds were behind them and lost to Billy's vision, but somehow he knew they would reattack.