by Tom Wilson
Lyons glared at him but did not speak.
"And if being called a despicable, fucking coward doesn't matter to you, Colonel, sir, I've got a couple more items tucked away you might be even more surprised at. I think it might be interesting, what with your laying charges against Captain Bowes and myself, and my accusing you of all kinds of shit. It might even get downright exciting."
Lyons was chewing his lower lip.
"It's your call . . . sir."
"What do you want?" Lyons finally said in a low voice.
"Number one, stop any action you're thinking about taking concerning Captain Bowes. Two, it was hot pursuit, but we'll forget all about his MiG kill since it might upset assholes at headquarters who think like you. And three, I don't want any of your bullshit about taking him off lead orders or off the schedule, or anything else. Don't ever fuck with my men again, Colonel. Not with any one of them. Because next time, I won't give you the chance to crawfish out of it."
Lyons stared.
"You got all that, Colonel, sir? If you don't, we can sure as hell take this thing a whole lot further."
A few minutes later Lucky was walking back toward the squadron. When a few drops of rain sprinkled down, the forerunner of a real drenching, Lucky picked up his pace.
Lyons was such a lightweight that he'd not doubted the outcome, even though it had all been a bluff. Chief Wallace had indeed bitched about Lyons's order, but there was no deposition, and he had nothing else on him. But he knew that people like Lyons believed they were exempt from decency, and did a lot of things they wouldn't want aired, and Lucky had known he'd fold.
He didn't feel good about what he'd done. It was a bloody shame the Air Force had those few officers like Lyons around, who could give the rest such a bad name.
He would return to the squadron, he decided, and give the guys a minor chewing out about not following rules, and then tell Bowes he'd not get credit for a MiG kill. He wouldn't be too tough on them. Losing a member of the flight was bad enough. And deep inside he was damn glad Bowes had shot down the guy who'd done it. He'd have done the same.
Monday, June 12th, 1100 Local—Hoa Lo Prison, Hanoi, DRV
Air Regiment Commandant Quon
A week following the ignominious shoot-down in front of his entire air regiment, Quon hurried to the Hanoi prison. They'd finally captured the pilot of the Thunder plane he'd shot down. More important, the man's name, a long and especially difficult one, was on the list of Mee pilots who had strafed and killed his son.
Knowing the pilot was from the Pig Squadron and then shooting him down had been especially pleasing, but that pleasure had been spoiled by the subsequent embarrassment. Quon had landed in his parachute in the city of Phuc Yen, only a kilometer from his base. Neither the people there nor his own men had wanted to believe that the great Quon had been downed so easily. There'd been no interviews or mention in the party newspaper, but the word had been quickly and widely spread through word of mouth.
Even worse than that humiliation was his anger at himself, for he'd been shot down by a pilot of the Pig Squadron. The hunter humiliated by his prey. Thus he especially savored his trip to the prison. He felt increasingly pleased as he entered the prison's admission hall and went directly to the commandant's office.
The senior lieutenant was awaiting him and greeted him with the bow accorded senior officials. "Comrade Quon, I am once again honored to . . ."
"Where is the prisoner?" he snapped.
"We have had two interrogation sessions, and after much work I have the information you wished." The commandant was fawning, but seemed hesitant.
Was he worried that he might lose another prisoner to Quon's anger? In a dark rage Quon had determined not to shoot the Mee. Too easy, he'd decided.
"Where is he?" Quon iterated doggedly. He had a meeting in the afternoon and did not wish to be late.
"He is in one of the holding cells where we place new arrivals. He suffers from the interrogations. As you ordered, we went to work very soon after he arrived."
"What did you learn?"
"He admitted he was assigned to Lokee's flight, and that he flew the day your son was killed. He was the second one to strafe your son's aircraft, just as the other pilot told us."
Quon again relished the fact that he'd been the one to shoot him down. "He admitted firing his gun?"
"Yes. He was not sure he hit the taxiing airplane, but he fired his cannon at it."
"Take me to him."
The senior lieutenant licked his lips cautiously. "The holding cell is a filthy place, comrade Quon, for we have the prisoner secured in leg-stocks, and he has relieved himself there. You might be offended by the smell."
Quon's eyes flashed with emotion.
The senior lieutenant quickly acquiesced and hurried to lead the way out and down the hallway. They passed a guard station and entered a block of cells.
Quon felt weary and sore. He'd ached miserably since the shoot-down. Mainly his back, but also his neck and even his legs pained him so greatly at night that it was difficult to sleep. The aching continued during the daytime, but he suffered without complaint. It was the lack of sleep that bothered him most.
"Some of the cells here are empty," the lieutenant said. "This is where we bring the pilots after they are shot down."
"Which one?" Quon snapped, wishing for no more conversation.
The lieutenant pointed. He motioned at two guards and told them to open it.
A dim bulb glowed overhead. A figure huddled in a corner, fettered in leg-stocks and manacles. The stench of blood, feces, and urine was strong.
Quon approached.
The man had a heavy stubble and was filthy, clad only in shorts and bloody undershirt.
The interrogator with the carp's face came in, looking quizzically at Quon, carrying the length of pipe he'd had with him on Quon's previous visit.
Quon motioned silently, then pulled the pipe from his grasp.
"Leave me," he whispered.
The senior lieutenant began to argue, but Quon turned a cold eye upon him, and he left.
Quon looked down on the Mee, the man he'd vanquished in the sky.
"Are you a friend of Lokee?" he asked.
The pilot grunted. Was it in recognition?
He poked him harshly in the face with the pipe, eliciting a yelp of pain. "You are the second one, Leebuhmunn."
A flicker of attention at the mention of his name.
"There are only two more." He remembered his son, and that this was one of the animals who'd killed him. Then he thought of his fear as he'd pulled his ejection handle. He thought of the awful face of Lokee.
Quon began to beat the pilot methodically in the head with the pipe, continued until there was no trace of life remaining, continued even then until his rage had subsided.
As he stalked from the room, puffing from his exertion, he noticed that his hands and the sleeves of his tunic were bright with the Mee pilot's blood. He decided he must bathe and change before attending his staff meeting. The fact that he might be late was irritating.
1500 Local—Bach Mai Hospital, Hanoi
Colonel Xuan Nha
Lieutenant Quang Hanh read to him from the pages of Nham Dan, the party newspaper distributed just that morning. The article was about Colonel Nguyen Wu, patriot and hero, who'd been called to go south by their brethren in the National Liberation Front. They had specifically requested Colonel Wu's advice about what to do regarding the terror being rained upon them by the American imperialists and their lackey Saigon puppet troops.
General Van Tien Dung was quoted as saying that it was a most important mission the colonel had embarked upon. The selfless way that Nguyen Wu had volunteered to help their brethren, he said, was an example for others to emulate.
The article gave highlights of Wu's childhood, how he was first victimized by the French oppressors, and then by the Americans. It told of his rapid rise through the ranks, noticed by his superiors because he never asked
more of his men than he was willing to do himself. He led, said the article, by example and sacrifice.
He was the architect, said the writer, of the modern defenses of the Democratic Republic, and it was through his astute guidance that the Republic's rockets, artillery, and interceptors were constantly victorious. He had not been previously acclaimed, said the Nham Dan reporter, only because he preferred to work in the background, in harmonious relationships with all others.
Nham Dan asked its readers to decide whether Colonel Nguyen Wu, selfless and brave, should be awarded a hero's welcome upon his return from his dangerous journey.
Xuan Nha was smiling as Lieutenant Quang Hanh put down the newspaper.
"What does it mean?" asked Quang Hanh, which was a question readers of Nham Dan asked only when they were with trusted friends.
"It means," said Xuan Nha, "that General Dung has changed his mind about Colonel Wu. Perhaps my wife has visited with him. I know she holds the editors of the newspaper in her hand."
Quang Hanh looked at the newspaper with a dubious eye. He'd worked with Nguyen Wu for two years and knew that absolutely none of the newspaper's words were true. They'd learned that Nguyen Wu had not gone south at all, but had left the convoy in the mountains west of Vinh and had hidden in that city with relatives.
Xuan smiled again, this time at the naïveté of his lieutenant, who often liked to quote the official party source.
"Tell me," he asked, "is there any mention of Quon's heroism in the issue?"
Quang Hanh shook his head.
"The tides of truth ebb and flow," said Xuan Nha, "and we must learn to work with them. Perhaps even," he said vaguely, "to influence them."
The seeds of a plan began to form in his mind.
Saturday, June 17th, 1900 Local—Bachelor Officers' Quarters, Nellis AFB, Nevada
Major Benny Lewis
By the seventeenth day of June, Benny began to wonder why he'd not gotten a response to his queries concerning the status of Bear Stewart. More than two and a half months had passed since they'd been shot down and the Bear killed, almost sixty days since he'd written the first letter, so he could not understand the reticence on the part of his old squadron commander. Mack MacLendon was a straight shooter with his people, yet neither of his letters had been answered.
Benny was also feeling feisty, for the previous morning he'd pinned on major's leaves. He disliked officers who threw their weight around after a promotion, but he felt that just perhaps it might make a difference.
He decided that on Monday morning he'd write another letter, this one addressed to Colonel Parker, the Takhli wing commander. Perhaps he might be able to help.
The telephone rang.
It's her, said the inner voice.
Benny grinned in anticipation as he picked it up.
"Is this the residence of Major Benjamin Lewis?" she asked.
"As a matter of fact it is," he replied.
"How does it feel?" asked Julie Stewart with a smile in her voice.
"The oak leaves are awfully heavy, but I think I may be able to manage."
"I'm very proud of you," she said.
"I'm still in shock. I keep thinking someone's going to find out and give the promotion to the right person."
"Don't be humble, flaunt it."
They laughed.
"I had my checkup at the hospital this afternoon, after I landed from my flight." She'd returned from an overnighter to Honolulu.
"And . . . ?" he asked.
"I'm healthy as a horse and the baby's got a strong heartbeat."
That's great! exclaimed the inner voice.
"Wish I could see you," he said, then wondered if he should have.
"No one should see me like this. I'm as fat as a cow. I waddle up and down the aisles of the airplane."
"How was the trip?" he asked.
"One thing about being pregnant, the guys don't joke as much. They used to ask if it was true they'd get lei'd when we landed in Hawaii. Now they call me ma'am and try to avoid looking at me."
"That's your imagination," he said.
"I'm going to be obese by the time I deliver."
"By the way, this is my private phone. I've got a room at the BOQ now." He'd left the number with her operations desk. "Ready to copy my new address?"
She paused as she wrote it down, then nagged him. "You should still be in the hospital, Benny Lewis."
"I've got a deal with them. I'll spend all the nights I'm feeling bad over there in their torture bed, and the rest of em here."
"And just how many times have you gone to the hospital to spend the night?"
"I only moved in here yesterday, and so far I haven't felt bad."
"You're impossible."
"I'm getting better. They even let me out of the back brace for a couple of hours every now and then."
"Hmmph. It's too early for that. I talked to your secretary last week, and she said you're entirely too active."
"So you visited the doctors today," he said.
"You're trying to change the subject."
"They give you a firm delivery date for the baby?"
"Late September, same as before. That doesn't change, silly. By the way, when I was at Travis, I talked with the nurse who took care of you."
"Lady Dracula?"
"Her name is Pam and she's very nice. When you were here, she was concerned about you and you just took it wrong. She said she's been seeing some guy who works for you."
"Moods Diller."
"She really likes him and thinks you're mean for not letting him visit more often."
"If I let him, Moods would be up there every week, and not because of Lady Dracula."
"Pam," she corrected.
"He's working on a technical project, and he goes there to see engineers at Stanford, not a blood-sucking, skinny nurse."
She ignored him. "Pam has asked to be transferred to Nellis Air Force Base so she can be closer to him."
"Damn," he said, fearing the worst.
"She succeeded, and I'm happy for her. She'll report there in two weeks, and she promised to keep a close eye on you and your progress, just like she did before."
His heart sank. "Thanks."
"You need a watcher, Benjamin Lewis."
"I thought I was doing okay."
Her voice changed subtly. "You have any prospects for a steady girlfriend?"
Watch it, Benny! the inner voice warned.
"No." Did he say it too firmly? he wondered.
"Well until you get one, I plan to watch out after you."
"You think I should get a girlfriend?"
Don't ask her that, dummy.
"Darned right I do." She was quiet for a moment. "You're a nice guy, Benny, and you'd be good for some girl."
See what you started, said the voice.
He felt awkward, found it difficult to tell her he hadn't been that interested in women lately, that whenever he met someone, he compared them with Julie and they came up short.
Go ahead and tell her, counseled the voice.
"I'd have to check her out, of course," said Julie.
"I miss you," he said suddenly.
That's better.
She was quiet. Finally, "Maybe I can come down and visit after the baby's born."
"Three months? Why so long?"
"Benny, you just made major early. Think of your career. It wouldn't look . . ." She caught her breath. "Anyway, I won't be able to travel with the baby for a while after it's born. It'll probably be more like four months before we'll be able to travel."
Too long, complained the voice.
"Too long," Benny said.
"By then," she added, "you'll probably have someone, and I'd just get in the way."
"I won't have someone," he said quietly.
Not had.
She said nothing.
"You want me to come up there, Julie? I could spend a couple days. Maybe we could talk. Go out to dinner or something."
"I don
't want you traveling anywhere with your back."
The conversation grew difficult. Too many forbidden words had been spoken.
That night as he slept, he dreamed again about the distant popping sounds as the Bear shot it out with the gomers.
It was not a nightmare, not at all tragic as it had been at the time, only a memory he would never forget. As he roused into the twilight of consciousness, the sounds faded.
That was for you, said the inner voice, but don't forget about Julie and the kid.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thursday, June 29th, 0655 Local—South of Haiphong, North Vietnam
Captain Billy Bowes
The Takhli strike force was flying northward over the South China Sea, approaching North Vietnam from the water side. They'd finished refueling and were forming into the protective gaggle. Since Thanh Hoa was located near the sea, they wouldn't spend much time over land, but that target was well defended, and they'd have to take care.
Lucky had decided it was time to upgrade the two lieutenants to flight-lead status, and today Horn was leading and Walker was number three on the strike into pack four. C-Flight flew as Tuna flight, positioned at the rear of the Takhli gaggle, which was following on the heels of a similar force from Korat Air Base. Lucky flew on Henry's wing to make sure he got things right. Billy was flying as number four, on Lieutenant Joe Walker's wing, and would be last to drop his bombs.
Which was just right for what Billy had in mind.
The targets were a collection of petroleum tanks near Thanh Hoa, a port city ninety miles south of Haiphong. Surely, Billy reasoned, the tanks would be destroyed before his turn came. If they'd not been hit by then, he would bomb them. If they had . . .
The target area was several miles downstream from Thanh Hoa, at the mouth of the Ma River. There foreign ships off-loaded fuel and supplies onto a small wharf area. At one side and several hundred yards from the wharves, fuel was piped into a dozen large storage tanks. Those were today's target. But in an area at the opposite end of the wharves, well camouflaged by netting, Billy Bowes felt that a trove of war materiel was likely being amassed, probably to be taken up the Ma River at night.
The camouflaged supply area, not the tanks, was Billy's intended target. They'd been specifically briefed to avoid that area, so close to the wharves, and any ships either docked or waiting to offload there. To Billy Bowes that meant his target was a good choice.
