Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)

by Tom Wilson

  Benny sputtered, so outraged he was unable to form words.

  "I'll tell you what I'm going to do about your letters, Major. I'm going to write one of my own to your commanding general. You're at Nellis, right? I plan to tell the general precisely what kind of animal he has working for him."

  Benny opened his mouth to explain. "You're wrong. . . ," he managed.

  "You want to take advantage of a woman, go out and find a whore, but stay away from the men's wives. You are dismissed, Major."

  "You low son of a bitch." Benny was shaking with fury. He clenched his teeth tightly and stared for a moment, then turned and strode out of the man's office.

  "Come back here, Major!" he heard, but he ignored him.

  "Bastard!" he raged.

  Max Foley was emerging from the intelligence office. "Something wrong?" he asked.

  Benny didn't stop. He continued out the door and into the open air, where he stopped to take a couple of deep breaths, still trembling with emotion.

  Max had followed him. "You okay?"

  Benny didn't answer.

  "What happened in there?"

  Benny glanced back at the building. "I just came close to killing a man, Max, and he was wearing an Air Force uniform."

  Max shrugged. "If you're talking about Lyons, no one would care much."

  Benny was trying hard to cool down.

  "Was it Lyons?"

  "Yeah."

  "He's a regular asshole, except when he's around B.J. He's got Colonel Parker buffaloed, but no one else. Anything I can help with?"

  Benny gave a single, angry shake of his head and began walking toward base ops.

  "Give me a call from Seventh Air Force," Max yelled after him.

  He had to catch an airplane. Perhaps on the way to Saigon he would be able to think clearly again, but just then all Benny could think of was taking the bastard colonel by the throat.

  The voice inside him was dismally quiet.

  Thursday, August 10th, 2030 Local—Trailer 5A

  GS-15 Linda Lopes

  Linda had returned to Takhli tired of the charade and foolery surrounding her relationship with Paul Anderson. She was weary of worrying about how he felt about it, and of trying to honor his silly code of whatever it was that drove him to keep her out of his life. He was being imbecilic about it, and she'd had enough of doing nothing about it.

  It had started the week before, when she'd decided, once and for all, to hell with Paul Anderson. I'm going to get on with my life before the wrinkles are so established there won't be another chance, and had accepted a date with the ambitious, distinguished-looking, and very available Chief of Operations of the Bangkok embassy.

  They'd had a great dinner on a floating restaurant, brandy at the Siam Intercontinental, then eyed each other and smiled with knowing eyes before rushing to his sumptuous apartment, where he put on a Nat King Cole record and she'd purred and told herself she was going to give him something he would not soon forget. They'd almost fallen into each other's arms, and if he'd gotten to the point with things, it might have ended differently. But every now and then he'd interrupt their necking and pad over to the wine bottle so he could ply her with more booze. Then, when things were beginning to get heavy, when he was pawing and snorting like a bull and fumbling with her bra release like he was working on the Gordian knot, she'd realized she was more interested in the subtle, nutty flavor of the wine than in what he had in mind. She'd pushed him away and said bullshit. She'd left the poor klutz groaning and pleading about his needs and taken a cab back to her apartment in the American village.

  By the time she got there, she'd realized it had all gone on long enough. It had been nine weeks since she'd proved to herself, and to Paul if he hadn't been so hardheaded that he wouldn't admit it, that he could not extinguish the fires they'd lit eight years earlier.

  She rapped "shave and a haircut" on his trailer door, then watched the window and saw the light come on.

  He peered out, blinded by the light of the porch lamp.

  "Linda?" He hid behind the door, obviously unclothed.

  "Yeah."

  "I was taking a nap. I'd . . . uh . . . ask you in, but . . ."

  "Nope," she said. She'd fortified herself with a martini before she'd trekked over from Trailer 9A. "I don't want in."

  He looked confused, at least she thought he did.

  "You've got an advantage over me, Paul," she said fearlessly. No more beating around the bush or pulling punches. "Since the accident I can't tell what you're thinking."

  He blinked.

  "But I know for sure that you're wrong, and I'm sick and tired of you trying to screw with my mind."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I was going to wait until tomorrow, but then I realized you might find out I'm here and try to slither away like a low snake, like you did last time. Remember?"

  "I had to go to Danang to pick up an airplane," he said cautiously.

  "Yeah, I heard about how you volunteered for the job and took one of your guys'—Henry something?—place."

  "Lower your voice," he pleaded. "The guys have to fly in the morning. Hell, I have to fly in the morning."

  "Yeah, I know. But you're off tomorrow afternoon."

  He stared and blinked, and it felt good to be one up on him.

  "We're going to sit down over lunch at twelve sharp, Paul Anderson, and we're going to talk about a lot of things."

  "Well . . . ?"

  "Let me change that. We're going to sit down, and I'm going to talk about a lot of things. One of those things is going to be your god-awful face."

  He did a slow take on that. His mouth threatened to droop open.

  "I've done some homework, and I've found that if you want to, you can get a lot of facial reconstruction done."

  "Jesus, who've you been talking to, Linda?" He sounded like a child whose mother had gone through his room and found dirty books.

  "Three calls to the burn center at Brooks Air Station, for starters. They say you can begin as soon as you get back to the States. Two weeks per visit, and thirty days recovering each time you go."

  "I don't want that."

  "The hell you don't!"

  "Shhh." He looked about nervously.

  "I can get used to your face. I'm beginning to already. But you can't, so we're going to take a trip to the center every few months until you think you're presentable."

  "Dammit . . ."

  "And we'll also talk about where we want to be stationed back in the States, things like that."

  He stared.

  "Twelve noon, at the club. If you aren't there on time, I'll find you. I'll go to your squadron and cry a lot, and if you're not there, I'll go to Colonel Parker and tell him you've done me wrong." She furrowed her brow, then brightened. "I'll tell him you've given me some exotic venereal disease."

  He looked panic-stricken—she was beginning to read him after all.

  "Ciao," she said, waggling a raised hand, and walked back toward Trailer 9A, humming happily and thinking that Paul Anderson had tried to fool with the wrong lady.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Friday, August 11th, 0455 Local—Briefing Theater, Command Post, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Major Lucky Anderson

  Since the execution order hadn't yet come through for CROSSFIRE ZULU, and the planning had been completed, Lucky placed himself back onto the flying schedule. That morning they would return to the northeast railroad to locate and destroy rolling stock, which Seventh Air Force claimed was being hurried down from China in increasingly heavy numbers. Each aircraft carried four CBU-24's on the centerline station. Their Gatling cannons were loaded with high-explosive-incendiary rounds.

  As mission commander Lucky would lead Yankee flight to the northernmost section of the railroad. He assigned other sections of the rail line to the three other flights of Thuds.

  He gave a more thorough briefing than normal, for several of the pilots were new, including a ch
erubic lieutenant named Smith who'd been assigned to C-Flight. In pilot training Smitty had been Billy Bowes's student. Lucky placed them in the same room at the Ponderosa and told Billy to indoctrinate and teach him the essentials of combat.

  "Release high," Lucky reminded them all before the briefing broke up, "for wide dispersion of the bomblets. Release lower if you want to concentrate them." He'd felt irritable all morning, but tried to keep it from his voice.

  He looked around at the group. "Questions?"

  "Yes, sir," responded Lieutenant Smith. "What if there's no trains and we can't find any rail cars at the sidings?"

  Lucky had already covered the answer to that one and started to snap a response to "listen up, dammit." He cooled his irritation and passed the question on.

  "Captain Bowes?"

  He was beginning to trust Billy again. Since the ass-chewing there'd been no more breaches of trust, and he liked the way he'd taken Smitty under his wing.

  Bowes turned to Smith. "If the target area is socked in by weather or we can't find a suitable target, then we'll lug the CBUs back to pack five and drop on the alternate target."

  Their alternate target was a section of mountain road that contained several suspected truck parks. Exactly the sort of wasted effort they hated most.

  Then someone in another flight asked about the marginal weather they anticipated, and Lucky, exasperated because he'd covered that one too, told them not to be stupid and to steer well clear of the biggest clouds.

  "And finally," said Lucky, "everyone remember that it's a long way to the northeast railroad. If you have to dodge SAMs or look around for too long, gas can become critical, so watch your gauges and call Bingo fuel when you get down to six thousand pounds."

  Bingo fuel was the amount required to make it back to a recovery airfield.

  Without further comment Lucky collected his briefing material and stalked out of the room toward their flight-briefing room, unable to shake his shitty mood.

  0709 Local—Northeast Railroad, Route Pack Six, North Vietnam

  Captain Billy Bowes

  They were flying in a spread formation with a half-mile separation between elements, and he and Smitty were far out to Major Lucky's right when Billy saw smoke in the distance.

  "Yankee three's got a train in sight, eight or nine miles up ahead," he announced.

  Major Lucky paused before answering, probably to look at his map, for they weren't far from the Chinese buffer zone. He'd been grumpy all morning, both during and after the briefing, and had snapped at the flight members over the radio during the refueling, so everyone was trying to toe the mark.

  Billy continued to scan up ahead, then turned and looked about the sky. Thus far it had been spooky quiet. They'd dodged several thunder-bumper clouds building in vertical developments, but there'd been no SAM firings, and they'd seen little flak on the railroad.

  "Yankee flight, the train's in the buffer zone," called Major Lucky gruffly, "and we're getting too close. Prepare for an in-place turn."

  The flight responded. "Two." "Yankee three." "Yankee four."

  "Ready . . . turn . . . now!"

  All four aircraft had wheeled into a three-G left turn to reverse course when a SAM signal began to chatter on Billy's RHAW.

  "Yankee flight, roll out level," called Major Lucky. He didn't want the firing to come from their vulnerable six o'clock.

  Billy quickly pulled out of his turn and flew wings level to get a relative bearing on the SAM site. The strobe grew, the LAUNCH light came on, and a squealing sound was loud in his earphones.

  "Yankee three's got a SAM launch at my seven o'clock," Billy immediately called. The LAUNCH light was steady, the strobe unwavering, so it was meant for his aircraft.

  "Turn to put him at your ten o'clock, three. Four, pull out well clear of Yankee three."

  "Yankee four, roger," called Smitty, pulling away as he'd been told and leaving Billy to face the SAMs. There was no reason to jeopardize both aircraft.

  Billy selected burner, dropped the Thud's nose slightly to pick up maneuvering energy, and turned to place the strobe at his ten o'clock, all the while looking for the missiles.

  He tried to spot the missiles against the green hillocks to the north. You had to see them to dodge them, but where the hell were they?

  "Yankee three doesn't have . . ."

  "Prepare to break, three," called Major Lucky.

  There they were, close!

  "Got 'em in sight," Billy muttered over the radio, heart pumping. He waited a second longer, until they appeared impossibly close, then pulled . . . hard . . . tensing and gritting his teeth to endure the strain of seven g's. A missile flashed by, close to his canopy.

  They launched them in threes, so he continued to pull hard on the stick.

  He reversed and rolled the Thud on its back. Another missile tried to correct but skidded by harmlessly before detonating in a tremendous orange explosion.

  "That's the last one, Yankee three," radioed Major Lucky.

  He'd become separated, and the remainder of Yankee flight was now a couple of miles southwest of Billy. He was turning toward them when his radio came alive.

  "Yankee four's showing a SAM launch, three o'clock," called Smitty.

  Dammit! thought Billy, for it was Smith's first time in pack six, and Smitty wasn't experienced enough to make a proper SAM maneuver on his own.

  "Get ready to take it down, Yankee four," said Major Lucky.

  "Yankee two has an activity light," called Henry Horn.

  "Ignore it unless you get a solid launch light, two," said Lucky. "These'll be headed for you, Yankee four."

  One, two, and then three SAMs launched in furious flurries of dust and smoke at Billy's one o'clock, less than two miles distant. He was so close that the strobe on his RHAW was huge even though the SAM radar wasn't painting him.

  Was the site in the restricted area?

  The missile boosters were pushing the missiles toward Smith.

  Fuck the restricted area. Billy had already rolled over and now dropped the Thud's nose into a steep dive attack to get his sight picture.

  Fifty-five hundred feet. Fifty degrees dive angle. Not much time.

  He pointed the Thud's nose at the center of the SAM site, pickled, and immediately pulled hard.

  Flak began to puff about his Thud as he continued to sink.

  Dropping very fast toward the ground.

  Sinking farther yet. He read 2,500 feet altitude.

  The RHAW strobe and SAM light abruptly went off. He'd killed the site.

  White popcorn flak puffed around him. Then it stopped, and he figured it was because he was too low for them to track.

  When he finally recovered, the altimeter showed less than 500 feet, but he was in afterburner and going very fast. He climbed, then rolled over on his back to examine the damage. The CBUs had hardly had time to open and had made four small circles from which smoke drifted aimlessly.

  "Yankee three, what's your position?" called Major Lucky.

  "Coming off the SAM site, sir." He continued to climb.

  Pause. "Did you release your weapons, Yankee three?"

  "Roger that."

  "Hit anything?"

  "Either that or I scared the hell out of him, Yankee lead. His radar went off the air, and he stopped guiding the missiles. I'm pretty sure I got the control van."

  Another pause, then Lucky announced in a terse voice, "Okay, Yankees, give me a fuel reading."

  "Two's got sixty-one hundred pounds."

  As they sounded off with their fuel status, Billy realized that Lucky Anderson was unhappy.

  1130 Local—354th TFS, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Major Lucky Anderson

  Lucky's mind churned with anger as they walked into the C-Flight office.

  Billy Bowes had bombed a SAM site inside the Chinese buffer zone. He'd done precisely what Lucky had told him not to.

  Dammit!

  Lucky closed the door and turned to face
Bowes, who wore a stiff, defensive expression.

  "The last time we talked, I told you never to go after another fucking unauthorized target."

  "It was a SAM site, Major, and he was firing on my flight."

  "My flight, dammit!"

  "It was Smith's first time up there and he'd never even seen a SAM. He doesn't know his ass from his elbow yet. Without an element leader there to show him how to dodge it, there was a good possibility he couldn't handle it."

  "How the hell do you know that?"

  "Because I know Smith, sir. I was his instructor pilot at Moody, and I probably know more about his flying ability than anyone in the Air Force."

  "Did you know you were in the buffer zone when you dropped?"

  "I thought I probably was."

  "But you dropped anyway. Dammit to hell, when are you going to learn discipline?"

  "I was told that once a SAM site fires at you, it's fair game."

  Lucky sighed and shook his head. "Who told you that?"

  Billy looked thoughtful. "I don't remember for sure. One of the Weasel pilots, I believe."

  "Maybe that's guidance for the Wild Weasels, Bowes, but it isn't for the rest of us. Read the goddam rules for a change. For all you knew, you could have been in Red China, for Christ's sake."

  "Major, I wasn't thinking of anything but saving my wingman's ass. If it'd been in China, I'd have bombed it."

  They stood nose to nose, feet planted and glaring at one another.

  Sudden anger swept over Lucky, and he pointed a shaking finger at Billy. "You're grounded, Bowes. Tell your fucking lies to the lawyers. I've had enough of your private war."

  Billy looked startled, then shaken. Lucky boiled even more, wanting to hurt the fucking prima donna standing before him with the insolent look.

  "And stay the hell away from the other guys in C-Flight until I take proper action."

  Billy Bowes kept his voice very even. "I did not lie, and bombing that site had nothing to do with what we talked about before. Major, you're being . . ."

  "Get the fuck out of here!"

  "Major, you're wrong."