Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)

by Tom Wilson

  Had she discovered that Wu had been hiding in Vinh and contacted him? She'd spoken hatefully about Quon during subsequent meetings, which gave strength to the idea. Only Wu could have guessed it was Quon behind the trick to send him South.

  And now she'd altered things so the ruse was turned in her nephew's favor.

  Xuan Nha wondered. Would Nguyen Wu return to his old position, or had he gained a position within the secret-police apparatus? He felt a shudder of foreboding at either eventuality. He was especially vulnerable, tied to this hospital room as he was. He must act, set his plan into motion without delay.

  "So Colonel Wu has not visited his old office or contacted the men there?"

  "So far," said Tran Van Ngo, "he has shown not the slightest interest in us."

  The radio-telephone buzzed, and Lieutenant Quang Hanh went over to speak with the command center about the results of the morning Mee attack.

  Xuan motioned Tran to his bedside. "I wish to walk," he said.

  Tran Van Ngo helped support him as he got out of bed and hobbled painfully across the room to a chair. Xuan sat slowly as Lieutenant Quang Hanh rejoined them.

  "The morning attacks went poorly for us. A rail siding was destroyed, and a mobile rocket battery was badly damaged by radar-hunters."

  Xuan grunted. "Let us continue our previous discussion before we speak of business."

  Both men stood quietly, waiting for his guidance.

  "Quang Hanh," began Xuan Nha slowly, "has discovered an interesting fact about the communications breakdown on the day Quon's son was killed by the Mee?"

  Quang Hanh became concerned. "The communications officers were reluctant to speak of it, Colonel. I told them their secret would go no further."

  "Their fears are understandable," croaked Xuan Nha. "If the radios had not . . . malfunctioned . . . that morning, the aircraft would not have been caught on the ground."

  Quang Hanh looked uneasy.

  "And Colonel Wu ordered it?" asked Xuan. He had not pressed Quang Hanh when he'd first been told, but somehow he knew it was true.

  Quang Hanh fidgeted uneasily. "Yes," he finally said in a low voice. Quang Hanh continued the whisper, even though the three of them were alone. "It was made to appear that a power surge caused the radios to malfunction. The order came from Colonel Wu's communications officer, but there was no record made."

  "That is also understandable," said Xuan Nha. "Quon would have had Nguyen Wu killed if he'd known it was deliberate."

  "Perhaps it is best forgotten, Colonel Nha,' Quang Hanh said in a hopeful voice.

  "I believe you are right, Lieutenant. It will be officially forgotten."

  Xuan Nha looked back and forth between the two men. With only the one eye, he had to move his head to do it.

  "But," he continued, "rumors are always being circulated within the People's Army, and there are two that I feel would work in our advantage."

  "Rumors?" asked Quang Hanh with surprise. Rumormongering was a punishable crime in the People's Army, and Xuan Nha had always sternly enforced the rule among his men.

  "Both rumors involve my nephew. I want you to start them very carefully, so no trace can be made back to yourselves . . . or to me."

  Lieutenant Colonel Tran Van Ngo looked thoughtful, still digesting the news that Nguyen Wu had engineered the radio failure.

  "Do you have contacts at Phuc Yen Air Base, Tran?"

  "Many, comrade Colonel."

  "Trustworthy men?"

  "I have worked closely with them in life-and-death situations."

  Xuan Nha told him what he wanted circulated there.

  "An easy task," said Tran Van Ngo.

  "But I told them I would not let the secret go further," pleaded Quang Hanh.

  Xuan Nha stared harshly at his lieutenant, who quickly lowered his eyes. "The second rumor will be quite different and much easier to start. It involves Colonel Wu's personal preferences, and I wish it to become common knowledge among the people of Hanoi. This one is for you to do, Lieutenant Hanh."

  Lieutenant Quang Hanh heard the second rumor and was assigned the task to have it spread very covertly among the civilian populace. When Xuan had finished with his orders, they returned their attentions to the morning's air raids, but it was apparent from the distant looks of his two men that they were thinking of what they must do.

  Fleetingly, Xuan Nha thought of how political he was turning. A few months earlier he would never had considered such Machiavellian twists. But his world had changed, and he'd vowed never again to be a victim, either of bullets or of politics.

  It would reach Quon, the hint that Colonel Wu had ordered the radio failures, and even if Quon disbelieved it, he would surely wonder. That one was meant to show Quon his true adversary was Nguyen Wu and not some Mee fighter pilot who'd seen and strafed an interceptor on the ground. Xuan Nha owed him that.

  As for the other rumor, Li Binh's tentacles heard every nuance floating through the populace. She would surely react to the news that not only did many people know of her affair with her nephew because of his boasting, but that he was secretly laughing at her, because Nguyen Wu was a very active homosexual.

  Nguyen Wu would be kept busy trying to quell the revelations. So busy that he would not have time to plot against his uncle Xuan Nha.

  There were many ways to serve one's country, thought Xuan Nha. If things turned out as he'd planned, his forces could continue to destroy enemy aircraft, perhaps even deny the Americans success on destroying that first critical bridge. They must not allow that campaign to begin, for it would severely damage the war effort.

  If they could persevere a while longer, Xuan Nha was confident that the American politicians would halt the bombing of the Democratic Republic. During a visit Li Binh had told him of her contacts with Mee diplomats, how they were eager for some sort of deal, willing to trade even tiny concessions for stopping the bombing.

  She'd met with one very secretive delegation from an unnamed high-level American government source who wished to stop all bombing. If they did so, they asked, would her country respond in a positive way? She'd told them the Democratic Republic would act only after such actions were taken, but that she would personally work to see what she could do.

  To Xuan Nha it had been a staggering revelation.

  It meant the American government had become so cowardly and corrupt that victory might indeed be achievable for the Democratic Republic. Not by winning military battles, of course. Even though the American politicians tied the hands of their soldiers, their military might was so awesome that no one could defeat them in the field, and their air forces had proved they could destroy any target they wished, regardless of the defenses. But through an amazing mixture of connivery and treason, American politicians were working to give victory away.

  His nephew would fit in well with that group, thought Xuan Nha. It was easy to imagine Colonel Nguyen Wu as an American politician, twisting this way and that in his convictions as he tried to further himself.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Monday, July 17th, 0400 Local—Command Post, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  After a two-and-a-half-month delay, CROSSFIRE ZULU was turned back on. Another attempt would be made upon the Paul Doumer bridge, this time with hard bombs.

  In early May, when Pearly Gates at Seventh Air Force had put together his team of henchmen to run the combat test phase of OPlan CROSSFIRE ZULU, he'd asked Lucky Anderson to be his contact at the 355th Tac Fighter Wing. When Lucky had tried to beg out, saying he had his flight to run and a war to fight, Colonel B. J. Parker stepped in. B.J. had received a phone call from Lieutenant General Moss, saying how happy he was that Major Paul Anderson was helping his guy at Seventh Air Force. Colonel Parker had enthusiastically agreed that it was a good thing. And so, by God, would Lucky.

  Major Lucky Anderson

  Benny Lewis, a longtime friend, was his contact at Nellis Air Force Base. Lucky had received a package of tactics information from Benny and had agree
d to forward results of the 'combat test to Nellis for analysis by the tacticians and number crunchers.

  After examining the awful results from the AGM-12 Bullpup fiasco, the test-and-evaluation people at Nellis had explored various exotic methods to destroy bridges and survive in a high-threat environment. Those included classified tests on a new family called smart bombs, but they couldn't be completed in time. There was little innovativeness about their final suggestions for the next try at the big bridge. The Nellis weapons people felt they should resort to vanilla-flavored heavy bombs and some doctored World War II tactics.

  When Benny suggested they try 1,000-pounders, he ran into heavy opposition. While Pearly Gates was running CROSSFIRE ZULU, General Moss had taken a personal interest in the tactics-and-weapons selections. As Benny told Lucky Anderson on the phone, "Moss is still a fighter jock at heart, and trying to get him to stay out of a tactics discussion's like asking a wino to ignore an open bottle of muscatel—he knows he should stay out of it, but he can't help himself."

  General Moss was happy they'd stopped considering anything new. He said it was time for the fancy engineers to get out of the way so the fighter jocks could do their job. They'd learned how to knock 'em down in the big war. They'd used the largest bombs they could lug to the target, "bridge-busters" they'd called them, and they'd taken the bastards down.

  He thought they should try 3,000-pounders.

  But Lucky knew that Moss and the pilots in the big war hadn't faced SAMs and tremendous concentrations of radar-directed guns, and that they'd been able to go after enemy fighters where they lived. He'd considered it all and then sided with Benny Lewis's suggestion that they try not the biggest, but the most aerodynamic bombs that might do the job.

  For the second test Benny suggested they send out twelve strike birds, protected by flak suppressors, Wild Weasels, and F-4's, and carry Mk-83 1,000-pounders.

  General Moss still recommended the bigger 3,000-pound bombs.

  Benny Lewis had called Pearly Gates on the scrambler phone to argue. His experts at Nellis had concluded the 1000-pounders would have less drag, so the pilots could fly faster and maneuver better, and they'd be more accurate because they could be carried on the centerline multiple-ejector rack. The 3,000-pounders couldn't be carried on the MER, but instead had to be attached to wing-station adapters, and bombs dropped from the wings were sometimes less accurate. He asked Pearly to pass that on to General Moss.

  When Pearly Gates had arrived at Takhli the previous day, he'd told Lucky that General Moss had relented only because he knew both Lucky and Benny and trusted their judgment. But he'd said to tell them both he was betting a six-pack they'd change their minds.

  Which gave Lucky pause. Moss seldom bet, but when he did, he almost never lost.

  At 0405, with sleepy-eyed Pearly Gates looking on from a corner of the room, Lucky kicked off the mission briefing and outlined the weapons, flight profile, and delivery tactics.

  Next Colonel Mack, the mission commander, briefed the target and what he expected from the pilots. Then Lieutenant DeWalt, wearing shiny new first-lieutenant bars, briefed they would face five SAM sites, with their thirty missile launchers, within twenty miles of the target area, and that the number of guns guarding the bridge had not decreased since their last try.

  But that time they'd used Bullpup missiles, and the attack profile had exposed them to the gunfire. Lucky felt better about the use of hard bombs. This time they could release even higher than normal because they'd be using the sleek, accurate Mk-83's, and that meant they'd remain in optimum range of the big guns for a shorter time.

  As Colonel Mack gave the group a few final pointers, Lucky observed Manny DeVera, who would be leading Viking flight on the effort while Lucky stayed on the ground with Pearly Gates and gathered test results. Manny seemed solid and was even cracking jokes. Still, Lucky wished it were him leading his men into battle, and Manny collecting results.

  0715 Local—Route Pack Six, North Vietnam

  Captain Manny DeVera

  The positive, give-'em-hell philosophy Lucky had told him about had worked fine during Manny's four missions down in the lower packs, but he'd never had a problem there, and this was his first return trip up north. It had always been the specter of pack six, seeing the collections of flak and SAMs coming up and knowing the MiGs were out there waiting, that had created the problem. Or so he'd guessed before takeoff. But he'd kept himself busy with mission details and worrying about things like fuze settings and delivery parameters, so it hadn't seemed bad.

  Since they'd dropped off the tanker and started toward the target, he'd given himself the pep talk as Lucky had explained, then kept his mind thinking of how he'd handle various emergency situations if they arose. Periodically he scanned the sky about them, even though his Viking flight was in the center of the sixteen-ship formation.

  He guessed Lucky's advice was helping, for so far all he'd felt was bitterness toward the fucking gomers because they'd scared the shit out of him, and by God no one should be able to scare the fucking Supersonic Wetback and get away clean.

  "Close it up, Viking three," he growled to Bowes, who was leading the second element and had let himself get farther out than what Manny estimated was 1,500 feet.

  Bowes pulled in a bit closer and Manny was mollified.

  "THIS IS BIG EYE. POPEYE AT BULLSEYE THREE THREE ZERO FOR TWELVE. I REPEAT, THIS IS BIG EYE. POPEYE AT BULLSEYE THREE THREE ZERO FOR TWELVE."

  MiGs northwest of the target.

  The queasy knot threatened.

  If they were jumped by MiGs they would . . . Shit, think! . . . If they were jumped, they'd take defensive action and let the Phantoms handle it.

  Right?

  Right.

  He checked his weapons settings. Four Mk-83's on the centerline MER. Set to ripple position. Master arm switch armed. Sight set for forty-five-degree dive bomb.

  Ready and loaded for bear.

  They approached Thud Ridge, crossed it at the high peak in its center, where Lucky had said they should.

  "Cowboys . . . now," called Colonel Mack, who was Cowboy lead.

  One after the other, they made crisp forty-five-degree right turns, also as briefed.

  Within seconds they were all headed directly down the ridge toward a point a couple of miles east of the bridge. They would dive to their right and release high, at 8,000 feet, then swing back around to recover over the ridge.

  SAMs arced upward in the distance, and the Weasels lofted their Shrike radar-homing missiles toward a downtown Hanoi missile site.

  Sic 'em.

  Manny ran through his mental drill. If they had SAMs launched at them, they would hang firm and let the ECM pods do their work. Trust the damn things, whether they worked or . . . Quit it! Trust 'em.

  "This is Cowboy lead," called Colonel Mack from up ahead. "Target visibility is good." There were towering buildups of clouds all about them, but obviously none were over the target. The mission was on.

  Getting close now.

  Manny's nerves began to crawl, creating a tingling feeling all over his body.

  Cowboy flight was first in, turning up on their right wings and nosing over into their dive-bomb deliveries to drop CBUs on the guns.

  The RHAW rattled warning sounds, and three different strobes were accompanied by the AAA light, meaning three Firecan radars were painting him.

  Manny shivered uncontrollably.

  Major Max Foley led his flight down the chute. Viking was next.

  Gotta be quick about it. Lucky had wanted them in and out in a hurry.

  Wind from the east at fifteen knots. That meant offset downriver . . . eastward . . . at . . .

  Oh shit! He looked down into hell, for so many bursts were exploding around the Thuds down below that . . .

  "Viking, let's go to work," urged Billy Bowes in a quiet voice.

  He was beginning to breathe hard, felt the sweat running into his eyes and stinging.

  Gotta do it.

/>   He cocked the airplane up on its right wing, then pulled over and into his dive bomb. Fuck you, bridge. The sweat was hurting his eyes. He blinked hard and looked for the target.

  Jesus. Flak everywhere down there, but there was no bridge. Something was bad wrong.

  He had to search for his sight picture. He'd delayed too long and was over downtown fucking Hanoi! He came around harder to his right, leveling out to a very shallow dive and flew back toward the river . . . along a gauntlet of guns.

  The gomers began to search for Viking flight in earnest, zeroing on them, for they were the most obvious target, and the sky filled with even more flak.

  Manny DeVera raged at himself for delaying the dive. Then, I'm coming, bridge.

  Dark bursts buffeted his Thud, then shook him again.

  Still too far out. He flew on, passing through 10,000 feet in his slight dive. He glanced down and thought he saw 650 indicated. Which meant almost 800 knots true airspeed.

  Two bursts shook him simultaneously. More flak in his path. Too much.

  He turned over on his back and pulled the stick, then eyed the bridge and turned back wings level, diving. You fucker! he yelled at the target.

  He was at forty degrees. Close enough to forty-five degrees that he could compensate for the error. He watched the altimeter unwinding through 8,000 feet.

  His mind clicked and he remembered his offset and aimed short of the target. That's better. Through sixty-five hundred feet. Pipper on the offset point. He pickled, remembered he should have corrected less because of the lower dive angle, and then, as he was pulling back on the control stick, the aircraft shuddered.

  "Viking lead's hit," he immediately announced in a shaky voice.

  His Thud was still flying and responding to control inputs, so he pulled back harder, until he was enduring six gravities of stress. The foggy phenomenon created by moisture, high angles of attack, and high speed in the Thud grew at the canopy bow until he could not see the world outside.

  Still flying and . . . the gauges were good and the master caution light was still off, so the bird wasn't badly wounded. Which way to turn? He started left, but changed and whipped the stick back to the right and selected afterburner. The burner took forever to light. He finally felt the kick in the seat and hurried north toward the rejoin point, wondering how badly he'd been hit.