Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)

by Tom Wilson

  "She's a big girl," said DeVera. "Anyway, it's over between us."

  Manny knew he couldn't complain. His emotions had been on a roller-coaster ride during the past couple of months. It would have been unreasonable to expect her to act like a nun, waiting for him to come to his senses. Maybe, he thought, when he got his act together regarding C-Flight, he'd give her a call and see if she was still interested.

  But first Manny DeVera still had things to prove to himself. As determined as he was, and though he was able to put things into better perspective since Lucky's talk, he did not at all look forward to going back to pack six.

  Which he would do first thing in the morning when he would lead C-Flight into combat and try to knock down the bridge over the Canales des Rapides.

  BOOK III

  SAM Evasion Maneuver

  Saigon, Republic of Vietnam

  Peacemaker now had an apartment downtown. Not anything sumptuous like the newsman's, of course, but not shabby either. A quiet black-market air conditioner kept it cool, and it was nicely furnished. The newsman had suggested it. The rent payments were handled for him, as were payments for the twice-weekly maid service, the stocking of the bar, and the superb pot stash.

  When he'd hesitated because of the potential for security problems—the west-side location was adjacent to an off-limits area filled with known Viet Cong sympathizers—the newsman said to forget his worries, he was well protected. And when Peacemaker had mouthed the logical question, the newsman had laughed and said don't even ask.

  There was also a steady but discreet flow of women, some of whom he recognized as dancers from the Blue Pheasant, to handle his infrequent sexual stirrings and share a mind-blowing pipeful of Asian hemp.

  He waited impatiently for the newsman's friend with another list of targets, this one so long he'd been forced to mimeograph two pages of data. It gave the coordinates of all bridges that had been approved for attack during the CROSSFIRE ZULU campaign.

  The back door opened and the newsman's friend appeared, silently and unannounced. He was one of the Asian businessmen he'd first met more than two months earlier in the Blue Pheasant bar. Tonight he wore rumpled slacks and a flowered shirt. Peacemaker had learned that although he drove one of the city's thousands of taxicabs, he was really much more.

  Peacemaker pulled the two sheets from his shirt pocket and handed them over. The cab driver smiled and bobbed his head as if eternally grateful.

  The cab driver asked if he wished for companionship. Doreece was waiting in his taxi.

  Sure, he said. It had been a long, tough day at the office, staying out of the officers' way as they'd gathered the results of the first successful strike on the Doumer bridge.

  Then the cab driver had a strange request. He asked the names of the pilots who'd been shot down on the afternoon air attack. Peacemaker didn't like the sound of that one. It made what he was doing . . . too personal?

  He said he didn't know.

  It was important, the cab driver said insistently. It was the request of the newsman. Background for a story.

  Increasingly Peacemaker had come to realize it was not only the newsman who wanted his information, but the Viet Cong as well. The fact had bothered him at first, but then he'd rationalized it by remembering that this was an unjust war, one his country should not be engaged in. Back in the States, people who held similar beliefs to his were calling the pilots who bombed the North Vietnamese war criminals and baby killers.

  But still, he'd never given them a pilot's name before.

  He knew only one of the two names, and that only because his stupid colonel and the visiting major from the States had lamented about how he'd been a friend to them both.

  He hesitated too long, making it apparent he knew something. Again the cab driver insisted, this time not looking friendly at all. Peacemaker's heart raced as he tried to think of the possible consequences of giving an answer.

  The cab driver's eyes narrowed and his look grew mean.

  Peacemaker finally huffed a sigh and said maybe one of them was a major named Lucky Anderson. He remembered hearing something like that, he said.

  The cab driver resumed his bobbing, happy demeanor as he went to the back door.

  The girl named Doreece would be right in, he said as he left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Saturday, August 12th, 0650 Local—Route Pack Six, North Vietnam

  Captain Manny DeVera

  The morning sun seemed brighter than usual, a relentless orange orb directly before them, its glare making him uncomfortable and creating pain in his forehead.

  They were Wasp flight and were in the middle of the twelve-ship gaggle, each of them loaded with a 3,000-pounder on each wing and a centerline fuel tank. Thus far the flight had been uneventful; no SAM launches and only a single, distant MiG sighting.

  Two minutes until time over target.

  The Wild Weasels announced there were numerous clouds in the target area, but that the area immediately surrounding the bridge was clear. It became a discretionary call, up to the mission commander whether to proceed or turn back.

  Major Max Foley chose to continue. "Keep a good eye out for SAMs and MiGs," he called, "and don't press the target."

  Pressing a target meant releasing lower than the minimum altitude, which Max had briefed as 7,500 feet. That would keep them above most of the 37mm barrage fire, the intense and deadly blanket of popcorn flak the gomers put up over high-value targets.

  The strike force approached Thud Ridge at its midpoint, then turned to fly down its eastern side, directly toward the bridge. The mountains in the southern half of the ridge were cloaked by low clouds. Only the taller ones peeked up through the cover.

  One minute and thirty seconds to go.

  Thus far Manny had felt apprehension, but only enough to make his blood pump faster. He'd been using Lucky's technique, keeping his mind filled with what ifs, going over the target's peculiarities and how they would destroy it. It was the headache from the sunlight that plagued him.

  The Canales des Rapides bridge was a sturdy five-span structure a quarter of the size of the one they'd attacked the previous day. Guns had been massed in all directions around the thing. It was so close to the Doumer bridge that they'd be in the coverage of the same six SAM sites.

  One minute from the target.

  He'd decided to go for the very center of the bridge. Which, if his geometric eye and bombing were good enough, would take down the middle span.

  Max Foley, flying in front of the gaggle by a few seconds, called he was at the checkpoint, which meant he was preparing to roll in on the guns with his cluster bomblets. On that cue the flights within the gaggle began to climb and separate slightly from one another. They would dive-bomb the bridge with minimum separation between aircraft and again try to saturate the enemy gunners. One or two aircraft might not be difficult targets for the AAA, but six or eight should prove challenging.

  Suddenly Manny's RHAW lit up with strobes and lights like a pinball machine gone berserk.

  "Wasp three has SAM activity," announced Billy Bowes.

  Manny felt his skin begin to crawl. The headache grew more persistent.

  Thirty seconds.

  "Wasp three, call if you get a good missile-launch indication," Manny advised. His voice was steady enough, even if he did feel the familiar knot of fear growing in his stomach.

  "Roger, Wasp lead," Billy answered.

  Max Foley announced his flight was rolling in at the same time the Weasel flight lead said he was firing a Shrike radar-homing missile.

  Large clouds were visible up ahead.

  Manny's heart began to race faster. Fucking clouds, he thought.

  As they approached closer, the first strike flight announced they could see the target and immediately winged over and disappeared from view.

  Wasp flight was next.

  Manny began to look for the target. A wide hole appeared in the clouds. Hanoi in the distance . . . he ran his
eyes back past the Doumer bridge and . . . the target appeared tiny down below.

  Too close.

  "Wasp flight is in the dive," he announced immediately, and at the same time rolled inverted and tucked in, then rolled back upright. The bird's nose was pointed toward the bridge.

  Flak began to blossom about him. The lump grew and raised from his gut to his throat. The headache was blinding in its intensity.

  Almost sixty degrees dive angle. Too damned steep.

  Manny jinked out to his left, downriver, and after a few seconds came back around hard.

  He'd lost the target! Where was the fucking bridge?

  "Say your position, Wasp lead," came Henry's voice.

  "I got him east of the target, two," radioed Billy Bowes. "Wasp three and four are also jinking out wide."

  A dark burst rattled his Thud mightily, and Manny caught his breath in a short whimper. His head threatened to explode!

  He looked harder. His attention was drawn by bombs erupting at his ten o'clock, and he saw the bridge. Manny turned sharply toward it, and at the same time noted he was diving through 7,000 feet, already below their minimum release altitude.

  Cursing, he steadied and pickled his bombs off, knowing they'd be shitty but not daring to press lower. He began his pullout and a right turn toward the rejoin point.

  When the gaggle had re-formed and they were heading back westward, Max Foley queried the flights and received negative responses.

  No one's bombs had hit the target, but Manny DeVera's headache was beginning to disappear.

  1040 Local—Briefing Theater, Command Post, Takhli RTAFB

  Captain Billy Bowes

  Following the intell debriefing, Major Max Foley called everyone into the briefing theater. When asked why, he shrugged as if he weren't sure.

  "While we're waiting," said Foley, "I want to apologize to everyone here. The weather was shitty and I pressed it."

  "Hell," said Pudge Holden, the Wild Weasel flight leader for the mission. "I should've called it better. We had a couple of SAM sites cornered right then, and I wasn't too sharp with my weather report. Sorry about that, Max."

  "Not much good can be said about what we accomplished up there today, except most of the bombs were so bad, I doubt the gomers knew which target we were after."

  Laughter. The pilots liked Max Foley.

  "And we didn't lose anyone," added Manny DeVera.

  "Yeah," said Max, "that's really the good part, especially with all the clouds."

  "How long we going to have to wait?" grumbled a major from the 357th squadron. "I've got better things to do than just sit here."

  Max Foley shrugged. "I was told to assemble you guys in here. I got better things to do myself."

  Billy sipped on his Coke and waited, as did the other fighter jocks in the room. By the time twenty minutes had passed, the pilots had grown restless and began cracking jokes about everything from bomber pilots to Ho Chi Minh's cathouse at Yen Bai . . . and the Mickey Mouse leadership that had them waiting around like grade-school kids.

  Colonel Tom Lyons slipped quietly into the room and called Major Foley over to confer. A couple of times Billy saw Foley give grim shakes of his head. Finally Lyons leaned back against the wall at the rear of the room while Foley retook the podium.

  It was not Max's way to mince words.

  "Supposedly someone's bombs went flying half the way to Hanoi and hit in a residential area."

  The room grew quieter. Then someone said, "Gee, I sure hope we didn't hurt anyone. They might think there's a war going on or something."

  "A big fire was supposedly started in some houses there, and some pinko correspondent was on the phone to somebody tout suite, because they started receiving phone calls back here before we landed."

  Each time Max emphasized the word "supposedly," Lyons glared.

  Several groans and fuck-ems sounded from the pilots.

  Colonel Lyons spoke from the back of the room. "Don't take it lightly, gentlemen. General Roman has asked that anyone who bombs a restricted target be reported immediately."

  Someone muttered, "Fuck him too," and Lyons's head whipped around to identify the culprit. He scribbled something on a pad.

  Major Foley held up his hands to quiet the increasing noise level. "So how many of you guys think it could have been your bombs that went long?"

  Half a dozen hands went up, including Manny DeVera's and Henry Horn's.

  Billy's bombs had missed the target, but they'd been close. He didn't raise his hand.

  When he saw that Lyons was taking notes, he nudged DeVera. "I saw yours hit," he said. "They went off in the water. You didn't hit any fucking houses, Manny."

  Manny brightened. "You sure?"

  "You got yourself into a shitty position, but you made a good correction. You didn't do bad, considering you were offset like that."

  Manny pulled down his hand, but Lyons had completed his note taking.

  1530 Local—C-Flight Office, 354th TFS

  Lieutenant Colonel John Encinos

  The 354th squadron's operations officer was a friend of Lucky Anderson's, and since they liked to assign an officer of equal or higher rank as summary courts officer, he'd volunteered for the job. As such he would inventory Anderson's personal belongings and place them in cartons to be shipped to Lucky's next of kin, his parents living in Ohio. The ops officer had finished with the trailer and was ready to start on Lucky's office.

  Encinos worked his master key in the lock. "Soon as I heard he'd been shot down, I locked his office so no one would take anything." He said it as if proud of his achievement.

  "I won't be long," said the ops officer. "Lucky traveled light."

  Encinos led the way inside, looking about the room and frowning unhappily at the stack of paper in the in-basket. He suspected that many of his memos went unread. His attention was drawn to the bottom drawer of the desk, which was still ajar as if Lucky had put something inside and left in a hurry. Visible in the drawer was a lone steno pad, which Encinos picked up.

  Probably the book Lucky said he kept on his pilots, because on the outside he'd printed in bold marker:

  KEEP OUT!

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  MAJ PAUL ANDERSON

  Encinos was intrigued. He turned and saw that the operations officer was busy filling in the heading of an inventory form, so he hurriedly leafed through the pad. On each page a different date was printed at the top, and below were notes about the men in Anderson's flight.

  Things like:

  23 APR 67

  CPT T.: WANTS R&R TO HICKAM IN JUL TO VISIT FAMLY/CANT FORGET TO ARANGE IT!

  CPT D.: AGRESIVE & LERNING.

  LT W.: SMOOTH AS GLAS THIS MSN. SUPER JOINUP. GOOD A/R.

  LT B.: SUPERB HANDS & GOOD EYES; READDY FOR MORE.

  CPT T.: COL B.J. SAYS OK HE WILL PUT TURK ON OFFICIAL ORDERS AS CLASSIFIED COURIER (OR SOMTHING). TOLD T. & HE IS HAPPY & ANXOUS TO SEE HIS WIFE & DAUTERS.

  Encinos read a few more entries and was about to put it down when he saw:

  29 JUN 67

  LT H. FINISHED HENRYS EVALUATION REPORT—9/4

  CPT B.: UNAUTH TARGET. LEAD IN LOWWER ROUTE PACKS UNTILL HE PROOVES TRUST—

  . . . Jesus!

  He slapped the pad closed, his mind churning with possibilities. Tom Lyons had said he was working hard to find who was making the wing look bad by bombing unauthorized targets. Here it was!

  Should he take it directly to Colonel Parker?

  No. Parker would just chew his ass for looking in a private notebook. Especially one that was properly marked, as Lucky Anderson's was.

  They were periodically briefed that the only documents not officially reviewable were those privately purchased notebooks that had been marked as Lucky Anderson's was. Those documents were not to be scrutinized by superior officers or anyone else.

  He should immediately put the steno pad back where he'd found it.

  "Find something, sir?" asked the ops officer.


  Encinos hid the pad at his side and snapped, "Go ahead and finish with your duties."

  The major looked at him for a quiet moment, then shrugged and began to go through the desk, inventorying as he went.

  Encinos needed advice. He walked from the room, his features drawn into a frown. He told the lieutenant manning the duty desk that if he was needed, he'd be at Colonel Lyons's office.

  1810 Local—Plans & Programs, HQ Seventh AF, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Saigon, RVN

  Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates

  Just after noon Master Sergeant Turner, NCOIC of the Documentation section, had said he wanted to speak with Pearly at the end of the day, which was rather strange because Pearly kept his door open at all times to the people in his branch. But he'd honored the request, feeling the sergeant likely had his reasons. Probably, he figured, he wanted more manpower to help with the ever-growing work load.

  The sergeant ran a tight ship. Pearly liked the way he operated, making damned sure Pearly was advised of everything that went on in the important matters, and not trying to baffle him with bullshit on the unimportant ones.

  When he closed the door behind himself, Turner did not hesitate. "Remember when you told us to watch for anything that looked funny, because there might be a security leak?"

  Pearly grew tight-lipped. Christ, not in his own group!

  "Well, something's funny, and I don't mean ha-ha, Colonel."

  "Go on."

  "When you told me to look closer, I started keeping a log of when the guys worked late and when they signed off the safes and the vault and all, and keeping track of the numbers on the mimeograph machine. I came up with seven times that things were run off on one of the copiers after hours and haven't been logged. Those machines are supposed to be used only for classified material."

  Pearly pulled off his glasses and furiously polished them, listening intently.

  "Sometimes it's one and two pages. Sometimes more. So next I decided to find out who could have been doing it. I came up with two possibilities, Colonel, because those were the guys working late those nights."