Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)
Page 37
Ahead of them SAMs were fired at the Korat formation, which was now outbound. A great, billowing cloud rose from the target area.
Billy switched to poststrike frequency and listened to the Korat flight leaders giving the success code word. "Bold Webster," they said, one after the other, meaning they'd destroyed their assigned targets.
He switched back to the Takhli strike frequency just in time to hear the mission commander tell everyone to double-check their armament switches.
As they approached the coastline, he could see four ships waiting to off-load and another tied up to the wharf. Bastards. Off-loading war materiel for their commie buddies. British and French ships, and a lot more from so-called friendly nations, were supplying the assholes who were trying their damndest to kill Americans, including Billy's family and friends. Too bad he couldn't take out a ship. Just one, to show them they were fucking with danger when they supplied America's enemies. But that would be obvious and surely reap repercussions. He would stick with the supply area. If anyone asked, he'd blame it on a bad bomb, just as he'd done before. This time he was flying his own bird, and there was no strike camera.
As they drew closer, he could see that two of the largest petroleum tanks were burning and billowing huge columns of black smoke.
Colonel B. J. Parker was mission commander. He led his flight down the chute first. Billy watched. Not bad for an old guy on the shitty end of forty. The bombs exploded into a third tank, but it was empty so there was no secondary explosion or fire.
The second, then the third flights went into their dives and set fire to two more full tanks. The remainder were obviously empty.
Then it was Tuna flight's turn.
1155 Local—354th TFS, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Major Lucky Anderson
Bowes looked in the doorway. "You wanted to see me?"
Lucky motioned him inside. He slowly unwrapped a fresh cigar and mouthed it, keeping his eyes on him and watching for clues.
"Shut the damn door."
Bowes did so, then stood awkwardly, waiting.
"You bombed the wrong target."
Bowes tried to smile but it didn't work, so he swallowed. "I missed the tank farm, sir. Bad bombs."
Lucky slowly shook his head from side to side. "If some guys I know had thrown bombs that far, I might have agreed, because they're ham-fisted bozos. You just plain and simple set up and bombed the wrong target."
"I offset the wrong direction and maybe used a bad approach, but I just got some bad bombs, sir."
Lucky wanted very badly to believe him, but he knew better. He wondered if Bowes even understood why he was angry.
He didn't want to turn him over to the headquarters pukes and lawyers so they could disgrace him. The real criminals were the politicians who made the restrictions and kept them from winning and kept killing American pilots and gomers alike. Breaking their stupid rules would be a shitty reason to burn the best young pilot in the wing.
He wasn't pissed off by what Bowes had done, but because he was lying to him, and to Lucky deception was kin to betrayal. He chewed harshly on the cigar, mashing it to pulp.
Lucky shook his head and lowered his voice. "You poor, dumb bastard. You've got big balls and hands like velvet, and nothing in your fucking head but sawdust."
Bowes drew himself up to stand at attention. This was a serious ass-chewing.
"You think you hid what you did pretty good, don't you? You think everyone else is a dumb shit. So far I've had three different people tell me about your bombs going off within a couple hundred yards of the ship tied up to the wharf."
"I . . . uh . . ."
"You had a bad bomb, right?"
Billy stared at him.
"Bowes, lie to me once more, and I'll turn you over to the headquarters pukes. I'll take a lot of shit from you guys, but I won't stand for lying, not in the air or on the ground."
Bowes stared straight ahead, his expression increasingly troubled.
Lucky slowly reared forward, then roared into Billy's face, "You like being a fucking liar?"
Bowes paused. He slowly shook his head.
Lucky sat down and lowered his voice. "What was your aim point?"
Bowes's answer was crisply given. "Surface wind was from zero-one-five at six knots, so I aimed thirty feet north of the target."
"What target?"
"The camouflaged area north of the wharf."
Lucky chewed the cigar.
"I thought it might be a munitions storage area."
"You thought?"
"Yes, sir. It made sense. Petroleum goes to the tanks, munitions and supplies to the camouflaged area."
"How about a POW camp?"
"Sir?"
"What if it's a POW camp? Maybe where they're holding Tatro and Liebermann and the other guys."
Billy paused. "I don't think so. Those are marked on the maps in intell."
"All of them? I doubt that."
Bowes was quiet.
"How about a hospital, or a school, or maybe an old folks' home?"
"Camouflaged and next to a wharf?"
"Did you get any secondary explosions?"
"None that I saw."
"I watched your bombs hit and there weren't any. So it isn't likely there were munitions there, is it?"
Pause. "Perhaps not."
"You hate the gomers, don't you, Bowes?"
"I've got personal reasons for my feelings."
"Fuck your personal feelings. You're supposed to be a professional fighter pilot."
"Yes, sir."
"You think the North Vietnamese are the first assholes our country's ever fought? Turk Tatro's a southerner, right? You ever hear of a place called Andersonville? That's where the Confederates systematically starved their prisoners to death, and one of those was an ancestor of mine. Think I ought to hate Turk?"
"No, sir, but . . ."
"You got Cherokee blood, right? They were a brilliant people, but they were ruthless when they captured their enemies. I had an ancestor that was killed on a Kansas homestead by a band of Indians. Not Cherokee, but their cousins. Hell, maybe I ought to hate you."
Bowes's lips were held tightly together.
"Most of our enemies have been animals, Bowes. Mean and despicable bastards. The gomers are assholes, but so were the Nazis and the Japanese and the North Koreans."
Bowes tried to interject something about his family, but Lucky wouldn't allow it.
"War's a violent business, Bowes, but it's our business and we're supposed to be able to handle it. We're the tools of the politicians, no matter if they're smart or dumb shits. They represent the people, we don't. If they say fight, we fight. If they say turn tail and run, we say yes, sir, and do it. To do otherwise is either mutiny or treason. You don't understand that, you should take up a new line of work."
Billy Bowes stared straight forward.
Lucky stopped talking and chewed on his cigar, feeling it was unlikely he'd gotten through. He sighed mightily, finished with sermonizing.
"Bowes, you've made the guys in C-Flight look shitty, like we're out of control," he said quietly. "I don't think we deserve that reputation, but I guess it's true."
"If you want, I'll ask to be reassigned, sir."
Lucky chewed his cigar on that, then decided to ignore it. "You let me down. I asked for your help, and you pulled this shit."
A flicker of emotion crossed Billy's face. "That was not what I intended."
"You just wanted to get even with the gomers, right?"
"I just want to beat the bastards, and they're not letting us do that."
"You ignored the lawful orders of your superior officers, then you lied to me. You've destroyed your credibility and made a mockery of my judgment, Bowes."
Billy frowned and became introspective, and Lucky knew he'd finally gotten through. But did he really believe what Bowes had done was wrong? He knew some about Bowes's family history. If he'd been in his shoes and had lost that many family me
mbers . . . ?
Lucky walked to the window and peered out toward the flight line. Dark clouds were boiling overhead. Few light clouds came their way. When they got to Takhli, they by-God dumped rain. The crew chiefs were busily lowering aircraft canopies and putting tarps over tool kits and start carts in preparation for another wetting.
He turned and regarded Bowes, who looked unhappy.
"I'll make you a deal."
"Sir?"
"A deal. You can take it or leave it."
Silence.
"You get another wild-assed idea like this one, tell me about it. Tell me what's coming off, and what to expect, and convince me it'll help win the war. If you want to hit a munitions-storage area, first prove to me that's what it is, and then we'll talk about what to do about it. Unless I say different, you follow the rules, period. But don't ever surprise your flight in the air or lie to me again."
Billy slowly nodded his agreement.
"You don't want to do that, then ask to be put into another flight and go your own way, and stay the fuck away from me and away from C-Flight."
Bowes had assumed a grim look.
"If you stay, there'll be no more lies, and no more shit like this. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now get the hell out of here," said Lucky. He ignored the salute and turned back to the window. He heard Bowes close the door. It began to rain.
Great sheets of precipitation swept across the tarmac.
He sighed and mouthed the cigar a few more times. Then he went to his desk, sat down, and fumbled through the base phone list to find the medical clinic's number. He could no longer trust Bowes, not until he'd proved he meant what he'd agreed to. But Lucky sorely needed someone he could trust to back him up in the air.
He called to find out when Captain DeVera would be released for flying duty and was connected with Doc Roddenbush, who was in charge of the clinic. Roddenbush said Manny was complaining about pain when he moved his fingers. The doc could find nothing wrong, but the human hand was a complex mechanism, and he wanted to give it a few more days.
Before Lucky Anderson left his office, he scribbled notes onto the steno pad he kept in the lower drawer.
29 JUN 67
LT H.: FINISHED HENRYS EVALUATION REPORT—9/4
CPT B.: UNAUTH TARGET—LEAD IN LOWWER ROUTE PACKS UNTILL HE PROOVES TRUST—
CPT M.: RESOLVE MED. PROBLEM—BUILD CONFIDENCE.
Sunday, July 2nd, 1600 Local—Command Post
Colonel Thomas F. Lyons
The classified message dated 011520Z JUL 67 was from CINCPACAF/CC, a four-star general named Roman at Hickam Air Force Base, and was addressed to the commanders of all flying units participating in OPlan ROLLING THUNDER. Bomber Joe Roman, who'd worked for Curtis LeMay and become a hero in World War II, was a casual friend of Lyons's father.
His father considered Roman to be a boorish, loud, and ofttimes pig-headed fool. The kind of person he considered useful only to the military, he would create disaster in any corporation. But of course his father also thought that about his youngest son. The fact that Tom had risen so quickly through the ranks did not surprise his father, for it had been due to his influence rather than his wayward son's achievements.
It bothered Tom Lyons not at all that his promotions were due to political influence. Privileges were due the privileged. It was as simple as that.
Several times in his career he'd telephoned his father when things began to go sour. Each time, although he never knew precisely how, his problem had vanished. Demerits were erased that might have prevented him from graduating from undergraduate pilot training. An accident board had changed its collective mind about pursuing an embarrassing line of investigation. More recently, several marginal evaluation reports had disappeared and he'd miraculously been selected for colonel.
He was grateful for his father's help. But his next step, to general officer, would be a tough one, and he worried about the influence of General Moss, the three-star at Seventh Air Force headquarters who disliked him. Moss had inherited both money and a military heritage. His family had produced generals since the Civil War. He was doubly powerful.
Lyons's contact in the colonel's assignments branch at the Military Personnel Center in San Antonio had advised that he might have a problem with his next assignment. Meaning that a flag had been placed on his records jacket by someone with clout. He could think of many who disliked him, but only one who was in a proper position to do that. Lieutenant General Moss.
Which made Lyons realize that he must either do something to gain the attention of even higher-ranking generals, or allow Moss to keep him from further advancement.
When Tom Lyons reread the message from the four-star general at PACAF headquarters to the wing commanders, he knew precisely what he could do to gain high-level attention.
1. (U) ON 30 JUN 67 THE GOVERNMENT OF NORTH KOREA ISSUED AN OFFICIAL COMPLAINT IN THE UNITED NATIONS THAT ON THE PREVIOUS DAY SEVERAL AMERICAN AIRCRAFT ATTACKED AND BOMBED ONE OF THEIR UNARMED SHIPS NEAR THANH HOA, NORTH VIETNAM. THIS ATTACK WAS WITHOUT PROVOCATION, RESULTED IN DAMAGE TO THE SHIP, AND LEFT THREE NORTH KOREAN CITIZENS SEVERELY WOUNDED. TIME OF THE INCIDENT WAS REPORTED BETWEEN 0700 AND 0715 LOCAL TIME, 29 JUN 67.
2. (C) THE 8, 388, AND 355 TFW'S PARTICIPATED IN OFFENSIVE ACTIVITIES NEAR THE LOCATION OF THE INCIDENT DURING THAT PERIOD. THOSE COMMANDERS WILL TAKE IMMEDIATE ACTION TO IDENTIFY PILOT(S) RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS ILLEGAL, IRRESPONSIBLE, AND MOST UNPROFESSIONAL ACT. I EXPECT YOUR INVESTIGATIONS TO BE CONDUCTED VIGOROUSLY, AND TO PROVIDE TIMELY RESULTS.
3. (C) THIS IS THE SEVENTH INCIDENT IN THE PAST FOUR MONTHS IN WHICH U.S. AIRCRAFT HAVE BEEN REPORTED IN FLAGRANT VIOLATION OF RULES OF ENGAGEMENT. SUCH REPORTS ARE NOT ONLY EMBARRASSING TO THE OFFICERS AND MEN OF THIS COMMAND, THEY ARE ALSO DETRIMENTAL TO THE SUCCESSFUL CONDUCT OF THE CONFLICT.
4. (U) IT IS THE DUTY OF SENIOR OFFICERS OF ALL COMBAT UNITS OF THE PACIFIC AIR FORCES TO ENSURE THAT ASSIGNED PILOTS STRICTLY OBSERVE ALL RULES OF ENGAGEMENT IMPOSED BY HIGHER AUTHORITY. ANY, REPEAT, ANY VIOLATIONS, WHETHER KNOWN OR SUSPECTED, WILL BE IMMEDIATELY AND WITH DUE DISPATCH FORWARDED FOR MY PERSONAL ATTENTION. SIGNED: JOSEPH T. ROMAN, COMMANDER IN CHIEF, PACIFIC AIR FORCES.
CONFIDENTIAL IMMEDIATE
The wing commander had passed both the message and the investigative task to his Special Projects officer, and Tom Lyons had immediately interviewed all flight leaders on the mission in question. None had seen anything out of the ordinary, or at least anything they wished to report. Two flight leaders had seen bombs that had been errant and missed the target, but that was common and they swore none had hit the ship. Regardless of how Lyons threatened or cajoled or what he promised for reward, no one changed their stories.
He'd concluded that this particular infraction had either been accomplished by pilots of another unit or was being covered up by the flight leaders.
That was not important.
Although he did not yet know precisely how he would proceed with it, he knew he'd discovered his vehicle to draw favorable attention to himself, and a potential route to general officer's rank.
He started by preparing a message for B. J. Parker's signature, addressed to CINCPACAF/CC, saying that although their investigation had proved unfruitful, the 355th TFW shared the general's concern about the gravity of the subject violations and had assigned Colonel Thomas F. Lyons the important task of running Operation TAKHLI PATRIOT, to ferret out any illegal activities on the part of assigned combat pilots. Operation TAKHLI PATRIOT would be given top priority within the wing, and periodic reports would be provided directly to CINCPACAF/CC showing progress in properly indoctrinating unit pilots, and reporting any future violations.
Colonel Parker had liked the message and immediately signed it out, saying, "That should satisfy the bomber-loving"—smile,—"did I say that? . . . general."
All of which made Tom Lyons so happy that he'd telephoned the sexy morsel named Jackie Bell at her Peace Corps camp near Nakhon Sawan.
He wanted to fuck the sexy little blond more than about anything, had wanted into her pants since he'd first met her, but she'd proved to be elusive and he'd had interference. First the cold-bitch GS-15 from Bangkok had asked him how tough it was being away from his wife and three kids . . . right in front of the girl . . . and with Colonel Parker looking on he couldn't lie. Then, after he'd later convinced her he was splitting up with his wife and she'd begun sympathizing about how traumatic it must be . . . the goddam spick captain had interfered and waltzed her away from his table and out of the club. When DeVera had finally become smart enough to drop out of the picture, she'd asked so many questions about his wounded hand and how he was doing that Lyons had hardly had a chance to get personal.
But tonight the cold bitch was away in Bangkok and the spick captain was out of the picture, and he'd sent a driver to pick up the blond at her camp so they could share a special dinner in his trailer. He'd even called a friend of his father's at the Bangkok embassy and had them send up a variety of good French wines and brandies.
He had been close a couple of times with her. Once he'd even gotten a hand inside her blouse and felt a superbly firm breast before she'd twisted away.
She always left with his promise to provide administrative supplies or pumps or spades or something else from the long list of things she said her camp needed, even though he felt her requests were just a game she played to be with him more often. Still, to help grease things tonight, he'd sent a truckload of lumber to the camp with instructions to the driver to make sure the project leader and his female administrator knew who had authorized it.
He stopped, staggered by a sublime thought. He wondered, the way she acted when it got right down to things, if Jackie Bell wasn't a virgin? He'd bedded some tough ones, including wives of close acquaintances and subordinates, just by telling them what it was like to live with old money or how he'd help with their husband's promotion, or whatever else seemed appropriate for the occasion. It didn't make sense that this little bitch would ignore all of that and put someone like him off unless there was something golden about her ass.