by Tom Wilson
Later he told Black he didn't think the sergeant had been totally convinced.
After hearing him out, Black judiciously decided they had to get the hell out of the area—quickly. This time the lieutenant did not disagree.
Black almost aborted the entire mission right then and thought of circling back to the exfiltration point. But after they'd separated themselves ten klicks eastward from the search team and were settling in for the remainder of the night on a peaceful hillside, he decided to change to an alternate cover story and proceed.
They'd made their first radio call the morning after parachuting in, that they'd been inserted and were together. Their next transmission was to be in four more days, before withdrawing toward Point Zulu, and he wanted at least part of the mission to be a success.
Too bad about Major Anderson, he thought. Unless he could contact someone on his survival radio and get himself rescued in one hell of a hurry, the poor bastard had little chance of getting out of North Vietnam.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Day 55, 0520 Local—Karst Area, Western Mountains, North Vietnam
Major Lucky Anderson
The NVA team that almost caught him had concerned Lucky so much that he'd immediately started up the rugged ridge north of the narrow valley. That was fortunate, for the next morning when he'd looked down from the crest, he'd seen a much larger search party making their way through the valley.
He hadn't delayed after that single look, but had continued making his way through dense jungle until he'd descended into the next valley. There he found another east-west mountain path, this one more narrow and less well traveled than the previous one. He'd wearily circumvented a village that night, and during the day he'd curled under a fallen tree and slept like the dead.
The following evening the new path took him out of the thick forests to twist through the ugly, barren red limestone karsts he'd often noted from the air. He remembered thinking what great hiding places their caves would make. Now, as he passed among their great shadows, a feeling of foreboding filled him. The countryside was barren of vegetation, and there seemed to be absolutely no food, not even the occasional tubers or sour, tough-skinned fruit.
Twice during his sojourn through the mountains, when Lucky had felt particularly secure with his hiding places, he'd removed his ragged flight suit, washed it in a rocky stream, and bathed. Both times he'd examined and gauged his gauntness from how prominently his ribs protruded. Now he knew it was worse. He was emaciated, and estimated he'd lost fifty pounds during the trek.
He must call in the rescue forces, for he was fast approaching the limits of his reserve.
The previous night he'd walked for only three hours before stopping to rest in a small roadside cave. Although exhausted, he'd had his days and nights reversed for so long that he'd found it difficult to nod off in the darkness, so he'd lain quietly and rested and thought of what he must do the following morning to make the rescue an easy one for the choppers.
Lucky arose well before dawn, restless with anticipation, and went through his ritual of checking to see that the pistol was ready for firing, then of carving a notch in the staff.
Fifty-six days on the run.
He drained the old water from his two remaining baby bottles and replenished them from a small stream. One leaked worse than the other, so he always drank that one first.
He looked about one last time, ready to move out.
"It is time," he solemnly declared, "to go home." The sound of the words thrilled him. He'd dreamed of saying them since his feet had first touched ground on Thud Ridge.
He climbed up onto the path and carefully walked on the side of it, as he'd trained himself to do, so the distinctive tread of the boots would not be obvious. It was difficult here, where there was only dust and rock, not to leave a trail. As he walked in the gloom of the false dawn, he stared at the sides of the rugged mountain. Most karsts were flat-topped, like American mesas. He was searching for one, and an easy way to get up. After half an hour he came to a break in the steep limestone karst formations. Off to his right was a gentle slope leading upward. He hurried, scrambling and climbing, unmindful for the first time in eight weeks of leaving signs of his passage.
At 0700 he was on top, in a superb location for a pickup. He could see forever, and there was a large, flat area. The rescuers would easily be able to tell if there were gomer soldiers in the area to be neutralized, and the chopper could land beside him.
He sat cross-legged and fished out his radio and . . . the single precious flare that he'd saved for the occasion. He waited for the fighters to come.
With the filled water bottles he could stay for two days. Hopefully the Thuds would be flying a combat mission into pack six today and fly their normal route, but he could wait another day if he must. The gomers were searching in the next valley, not this one.
Ten minutes later he saw the strike force, far to the west and flying very high, already in their large formation. With trembling hands he picked up the radio, then with great difficulty calmed and scolded himself to have patience. He wanted them closer so he wouldn't waste transmitting time with the weak radio.
Gotta remember, he briefed himself. It's the transmitting that takes the power. Once he switched it on, he could receive all he wanted but must talk very little.
Maybe he'd take Linda to dinner tonight. Big steak. Two steaks? No, he'd have to take it easy on the old stomach for a while. Maybe a single steak, and a potato and corn. He loved corn on the cob. He pulled out the radio's antenna and watched the dots in the sky.
He and Linda would have a good long talk and settle things between them. It was time for a settling. He'd been a dumb-shit fool. If she wanted to put up with an ugly wretch, he could at least listen to what she had to say. The Thud strike force was almost overhead. He switched to transmit/receive and depressed the button.
"F-105's, this is Barracuda lead transmitting in the blind.''
There were no side tones when he transmitted, and the battery needle showed no movement from the red zone.
He tried again. Nothing. No side tones or static.
He frantically checked the battery. The radio was dead.
The strike force passed just north of him, continuing toward the Red River Valley, unaware that one of their own was far below, foolishly reaching upward and pleading for them to take notice.
Wednesday, October 4th, 1300 Local—Ponderosa BOQ, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Captain Manny DeVera
Manny was getting discouraged again.
It had been almost a month since the inquiry had begun, and still it wasn't resolved. He didn't know if the matter was going to the next step, an official preliminary hearing of formal charges, or if the whole thing would be dropped. He was on an emotional roller coaster. One day the legal officer would be cheerful and say it was all bunk, and the next day he'd say the brass were determined to hang someone, and even if the evidence was shaky, they had DeVera to experiment with. Manny was now buddies with the major from the legal office. If the matter went any further, they'd decided to send him to the Philippines, where they had a proper judge advocate general office and court facilities, and enough lawyers to proceed with things. As soon as the Takhli legal officer knew he wasn't going to be in that picture, he confidentially told Manny he thought it was all a bunch of crap. But the matter wasn't cleared up, and Manny was confined to base and unable to resume his duties.
He was lying on his bunk, thinking those things, when someone out in the day room loudly called the place to attention. Manny sat up, wondering, and was peering at the open doorway when Colonel B. J. Parker strolled up the hall and stood there looking at him.
B.J. smiled. "Caught you napping on the job."
On the job? Was he here to tell him to return to work, that the charges had been dropped? Manny's heart pumped faster as he quickly got to his feet and regarded his wing commander with a grin. "I'm working out grand strategies to win the war, Colonel."
"May I come inside?" asked B.J. too politely. No joking around, as he often did with DeVera.
"Yes, sir," said Manny, glancing around at the room in case something was amiss. It appeared shipshape. Two bunks, a desk, and a chair. He'd put up some pictures of airplanes and had a photo of Jackie Bell on the desk. They hadn't assigned a roommate since Liebermann had been shot down, so it was all his.
B.J. took the only chair and looked up at him, so Manny quickly sat on the bed B.J. probably didn't like being looked down to, and Manny sure as hell didn't want to piss him off.
"Is there anything to all this bullshit, Manny?"
He answered without hesitation. "No, sir. I've never tried to drop bombs anywhere but on an assigned target."
B.J. nodded, staring sadly, and suddenly Manny knew he was not bringing good news.
"Lucky's note is pretty convincing stuff," said B.J.
"Yes, sir. I don't understand it at all."
"He had a reputation for telling it like it was."
"Colonel, I was his assistant flight commander, and he never once mentioned anything to me about dropping on civilians or unauthorized targets."
B.J. raised an eyebrow at him. "Never?"
"No, sir. I went through a period when I had the shakes and jangles flying up in pack six, but he worked with me until I got my problem under control."
B.J. nodded slowly, then lowered his eyes, as if he were about to do something he had no heart for.
"He never mentioned any other problems," added Manny. He knew his words sounded lame and wondered how he might be more convincing.
"I wish to hell Lucky was here so he could tell us what the note was all about." B.J. sighed. "But he's not, and I've had to make a hard decision."
"It's your call, Colonel," said Manny in his quietest voice.
The disposition of matters such as this were left to the commanding officer. No one else was in the loop. The legal officer had made that clear. He'd told Manny that B. J. Parker could stop it all with a simple refusal to let it go further because of the shaky evidence. But he'd also said that pressure was being brought to bear from PACAF headquarters.
"I wish it was that simple," muttered Parker, and Manny wondered if he wasn't here to try to explain himself. "A four-star's got me by the neck on this, and he won't let go."
"I didn't do a damn thing illegal, Colonel," Manny tried.
B.J. sighed. "I've got a full colonel who swears he was given a note that says you did. I've got the note, in Lucky's hand, that says you bombed an unauthorized target. And higher headquarters tells me that someone's bombs hit an unauthorized civilian target that day."
Manny steeled himself.
"I'm preferring charges. You'll be going to Clark Air Base in the Philippines for the preliminary hearing. They're the ones with court-martial authority, and they're bringing in a senior officer from Hickam to run it."
"Jesus," said Manny. He hadn't known it would hit him this hard. He'd had all that time to prepare himself, but now he realized he'd never thought it would really happen.
"I've dropped the charges for that first date, when you were hit by flak. It's just the one date now, the one shown on Lucky's note."
He felt numb. As B. J. Parker rose to his feet, he followed.
"These things work themselves out, Manny. Tell 'em the truth and it will be resolved."
Regardless of his friendly demeanor, Manny DeVera realized he was facing no friend in B. J. Parker. He slowly came to attention, head stiff, and eyes locked straight ahead.
"I've written a letter about my personal knowledge of your capabilities and your courage in combat." Parker held it out to him. "It also says you've been put in for a Silver Star medal for destroying the bridge at the Canales des Rapids."
But he knew Parker didn't believe him and was throwing him to the wolves, and Manny felt no different toward him than he did toward Lyons. To hell with them both, he thought bitterly.
After an awkward moment Parker quietly asked, "Do you want the letter?"
"No, sir!" He barked the words out crisply, as he had as a flight cadet.
He kept his eyes locked forward and his face frozen as the wing commander nodded sadly and left the room.
1410 Local—Commandant's Office, Phuc Yen PAAFB, DRV
Air Regiment Commandant Quon
The sergeant had radioed again. He wanted to split his force and send more than half back to the Hong Valley.
Three nights earlier, when they'd first arrived in the Tay Bac, they'd met another, much smaller, group of People's Army soldiers led by a lieutenant. He'd thought it strange that such a small group was led by an officer and had called for Hanoi Command Center to confirm their story. Then he'd continued the search for Lokee.
They'd found Lokee's trail, had several good imprints from the distinctive tread of his Mee boots. But he had fooled them for a full two days because he'd crossed over into the next valley. They'd now also crossed the mountain and found new signs of his passage, and felt they were drawing close.
But back to the lieutenant and the six men he led. Hanoi had contacted Tu Ky Training Base and found that no such team had been sent to the Tay Bac.
"So?" asked Quon, impatient to return the conversation to the quest for Lokee.
"The lieutenant was an impostor. A very good impostor, for there is a lieutenant at Tu Ky with the same name, but he was there at the training base. I must find and capture that group of soldiers, comrade Quon. They are either spies or saboteurs."
"They are there to rescue Lokee," hissed Quon. "Continue to search for Lokee and you will find them."
"But, comrade Quon, the lieutenant and his men left in the direction of the Hong Valley. If we continue here, we will miss them, and they might cause great damage."
Quon was resolute. "They are trying to rescue Lokee. I order you to continue to look for him. If you see the rescuers, shoot them on sight, but you must find Lokee."
1545 Local—Five Miles West of the City of Son Tay, North Vietnam
Sergeant Black
As Hotdog approached the big, populated valley, Black had donned his NVA sergeant's uniform, and their charade had changed. Now when they were occasionally questioned, they were survivors from the 310-A Division, a unit that had been decimated during a battle with American Marines. They'd been sent home to join a new battalion that would augment the 310-A. They carried a properly sealed order to that effect, with the valid signature of the 310-A Division's adjutant. In another week they were to join a new battalion forming at the Dao Lang barracks and return south with it.
It was a good cover, but it wasn't fireproof. Most of the mauled NVA division's officers had been killed in combat and their adjutant captured. At least some of that could be discovered with a radio call to the right people at the People's Army headquarters in Hanoi. So regardless of appropriate uniforms and their possession of many of the current passwords used by various units in the area, they tried to avoid official contact.
They'd walked for thirty kilometers, then hitched a ride on a poorly tuned Soviet weapons carrier that continually backfired and belched black smoke and finally gave out. Then they'd fortuitously come across a small Army barracks with several dozen bicycles parked in racks, protected by a single sleepy guard, and had made a quiet midnight requisition. They'd biked the rest of the way to Son Tay, chattering and eyeing and waving at the prettiest girls, and acting as 310-A survivors would on a short leave back home.
They made good time, stopping only when area sirens announced the approach of American air parties. Then they'd dismount and shout angrily, and like other soldiers try to shoot down the Mee with their rifles. More than a dozen times during the bike ride, both coming and going, they'd seen large Russian helicopters clop-clopping their way to and from Hanoi, and the lieutenant told Sergeant Black that none of them had seen that many before.
Which made Black wonder if they weren't coming from some nearby helicopter base.
Near the Hong River at Son Tay that
morning, they'd observed the new prison camp. Sergeant Black had gotten a glimpse of American prisoners wearing dirty white uniforms with maroon stripes, moving rocks and debris under the watchful eyes of a group of arrogant, slovenly guards. His throat had constricted and grown a lump at the sight.
They'd carefully taken it all in, and the lieutenant had approached the camp guards to ask directions so he could get a closer look at things. The prisoners, he'd reported back, looked undernourished and in poor health.
By noon they'd been on their way, not daring to tempt luck more than they had, and with each kilometer Sergeant Black regretted more that they'd not found Major Anderson. Soon he'd face the same fate as the group in the camp. In fact, from what they'd learned in the mountains, he wondered if the North Vietnamese didn't have worse in store for Anderson.
But Black also knew they couldn't return to the area of the search. There were too many soldiers there, and with each encounter Hotdog's chances for compromise were increased. He picked a return course to the Zulu exfiltration point which took them well south of the search area. So much for helping the major he was himself beginning to think of as Lokee. Since there was nothing they could do about the pilot, he tried to push him from his mind so he could concentrate on other things.
As they pedaled westward, they watched the skies. The Russian helicopters were coming from the foothills of the western mountain range, from an area only a few kilometers south of their route. Intrigued, Black decided to make that small detour.
1915 Local—Commandant's Office, Phuc Yen PAAFB, DRV
Air Regiment Commandant Quon
Quon was summoned from his evening meal to speak on the radiophone with the search-team sergeant.
