by Tom Wilson
"The false lieutenant and his team of spies were seen in Son Tay today, comrade Quon. I have been ordered to terminate this search and go after them."
"Who gave such an order?" stormed Quon.
"My major at Hanoi. He has received great pressure to find the spy team, and I must withdraw with my men. There are others here now who can continue to search for Lokee."
"How close are you now?"
"We have closed our net to within seven kilometers, and I know Lokee is inside. Three hundred men will stay here to find him while we go after the spy team, comrade Quon."
"You will also stay."
"But comrade Quon . . ."
Quon broke the connection and rang the colonel who commanded the sergeant's superior officer. After a short argument the colonel agreed that the sergeant would continue the search for Lokee.
All People's Army units within fifty kilometers of Son Tay would be alerted to look for the band of spies, and when found, they would be shot on sight. If they hadn't been caught by the time Lokee was discovered, the sergeant would then join the search for the spies.
Thursday, October 5th, 0600 Local—Seventeen Miles Southwest of Son Tay
Sergeant Black
By nightfall they'd holed up and prepared the radio for the next morning's radio call; then the lieutenant had taken two men to reconnoiter and verify the existence of the helicopter base. Their 0200 report confirmed only that there was some sort of fenced military base there. Sergeant Black decided it was worth a look-see of his own in the light of day, so he'd asked the lieutenant and the two men to return with him. They'd crawled to the camp's perimeter and dug in in the darkness, waiting for dawn so they could observe what was there.
As the sun sprayed tendrils of red across the eastern sky, Black sucked in a breath of wonder. Huge camouflage nets covered an operational base with full maintenance facilities. He counted a dozen of the big Russian helicopters parked insolently beneath the nets.
As he watched and waited, a helicopter's engine began to whine, and its eight tremendous blades began rotating. The blades chattered, then roared, then slowed to a steady clop-clop. A couple of minutes later the huge bird's engine surged, and it lifted off. Forward at first, until it had cleared the high camouflage nets, then gaining altitude and turning to fly over them and roar away, eastward toward Hanoi.
He heard a low whistle and glanced back to see the lieutenant motioning his head to the south. He looked there.
Shee-it!
A tracked, armored vehicle was coming directly toward them, likely making a routine check of the perimeter. If they remained where they were, the damned thing would run over them.
Time to fake it.
Sergeant Black rose nonchalantly and strolled to catch up with the three other men, who were also up and chattering as they casually walked from the area.
The vehicle headed directly toward them, slowed, and stopped a few meters distant.
The lieutenant spoke for them, telling their cover story to the sergeant in command of the vehicle and motioning toward Sergeant Black to add a war tale about how he'd been wounded in the South after heroically shooting down an American helicopter with a machine gun. He told windy stories about the other two men, and the NVA sergeant grew impatient.
Dammit, get rid of 'em, Black thought, but he knew the lieutenant was doing the proper thing.
The sergeant finally waved them on.
"This is a restricted area, and you must leave immediately, comrade Lieutenant," he said forcefully. "I will check with my office and tell them to not bother you, so long as you depart immediately. What is your unit?"
The lieutenant again told him their unit was the 310-A and said they would be very quick about leaving.
Buddy, you ain't lying there, thought Black.
The personnel carrier revved its engine and was off, continuing around the perimeter.
That group looked at one another with grim expressions. If the sergeant called their unit and cover story in to Hanoi, they'd been compromised. They hurried back to the others, where Black strung the radio's wire antenna over a tree limb and prepared for transmission.
At precisely 0700 Black called over the pretuned low-frequency radio. He started with their code name and today's password. "Hotdog, Pigeon," he radioed.
The listener answered with two beeps, which meant he'd received him loud and clear.
First Black related what they'd found at Son Tay. That one was simple, for he followed a memorized checklist. "Yes. . . . Medium, three. . . . One. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . Eight. . . . Seventeen. . . . Five," he radioed, and the first task was done.
It was indeed a prisoner-of-war camp, it was defended by three 57mm AAA batteries, they'd noticed one SAM site in the area, the camp was active and held prisoners, they had seen eight guards and seventeen prisoners, five of them well enough to positively identify.
He waited and a few seconds later heard a single beep, which meant to repeat . . . which he did. Then he received a beep-beep.
"More coming," he transmitted.
Beep-beep.
"Twelve Sunday Hags plus full support at Tango-Foxtrot-Seven-Two-Five-One," he said, which told them there were twelve Soviet helicopters plus a full support base at the coordinates, which he'd defined down to a gnat's ass.
Beep.
The sounds of a machine gun, and then another, rattled in the distance. They heard the sounds of more than one APC now. He glanced around at the men of Hotdog team, giving them a "keep your cool" look. Then he repeated his message on the radio.
Beep-beep, they acknowledged.
Louder machine-fun fire. Closer?
"More coming," he transmitted.
Beep-beep.
"Big Hawk, negative. Probable." Telling them that Hotdog had searched for the downed pilot and had not made contact. And . . . that he'd likely been captured.
Beep-beep.
More engine revving sounds from the searching APCs.
"More coming," he said again, for finally he had to tell them that Hotdog had been compromised.
Beep-beep.
"Charlie, Charlie. Expedite. Hotdog out."
Beep-beep-beep-beep, said Monkey Mountain. Which meant Get the fuck outa there.
As he started to reel in the wire antenna, he heard a revving engine and the clatter of tracks growing close. The lieutenant gripped his shoulder, and he swung around to peer through the brush toward the road.
The APC was approaching fast up the nearby roadway. The same NVA sergeant was in the turret, looking around grimly and pointing the mounted machine gun wherever he looked.
The rest of the team hit the dirt. Black crouched lower but continued to watch. The silly shit couldn't see him. He was fucking invisible in the bush.
The sergeant began firing wildly into heavy foliage at one side of the road. Rrraaaap. He fired into the brush at the other side. Rrrraaaaap. Then he stirred the gun about its swivel mount. Rrrraaaa-rraaaap.
He swung the muzzle in his direction, and Sergeant Black dropped for the ground.
Rrraaa-aap.
He'd been too slow.
"Shit!" he exclaimed, and curled up, clutching at his side. God it hurt.
He almost screamed as the agony swept over him, but he clenched his teeth, and then the lieutenant was there, trying to help.
The Soviet armored personnel carrier with its loud engine and noisy tracks continued down the road. The sergeant continued to fire wildly at the sides of the road, oblivious to the fact that he'd hit his mark. Rrrrraaaa-aaap. Rrrraaa-aaaaap.
Hurting very badly, Sergeant Black looked down and wondered if he was dying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Day 57, 1430 Local—Western Mountains, North Vietnam
Major Lucky Anderson
He'd traveled northwest for two days since burying the useless radio, but he'd done so slowly. Find a source of food, his mind had begged him with every step. In those two days he'd eaten two frogs, a lizard, and a few insect
s he'd found sharing his hiding places in the barren karst land.
No more insects, though, except crickets. A fat shiny-green beetle had tasted bitter, and when he'd forced it down, he'd immediately felt terrible pains in his gut and began to wretch. After he'd puked it up and the pain finally subsided, he'd become leery of all insects, except crickets, of course. Crickets were tasty and went down well. The problem with them was that you'd have to eat them by the handful to fill yourself, and they weren't always easy to catch.
He'd been drinking rainwater, which collected in natural limestone basins after each downpour, but while water was most important, he knew he must now have food . . . and not just an occasional cricket. Increasingly his strength was failing him, and he was beginning to have trouble thinking through the simplest of problems.
Hope and willpower had helped sustain him during the journey, but since the failure of the survival radio, much of that had left him. Now each new day presented him with perplexing mental puzzles and impossible physical demands.
The gomers were after him, drawing ever closer, methodically searching each karst and barren hillock. He was sufficiently lucid to know they must be avoided, but it was increasingly difficult to do so. By day he hid in small caves carved into the stone by wind and rain. He moved only at night, and then mostly when it was raining. So far he'd eluded them, but they were drawing in from all directions, and unless he could break out of their net, it was only a matter of time before they captured him.
He had just the two goals, to get food and to break through the gomer net, and he was working on a plan to do both.
He lay on a rocky formation, looking down on a group of thirty soldiers as they chattered among themselves, preparing to move out. They'd camped there the previous evening, and the wonderful smells from their cooking pots had drawn him. They'd advanced farther into the net than the others, so for most of the day they had delayed, waiting patiently, periodically splitting into small teams to search the area. They were thorough, but there were too few of them, and he'd become adept at hiding in small, improbable places.
During their last search they'd left only two soldiers behind to guard the camp. If they did that again, he intended to kill the guards, then fill his pockets with food and run straight down the rocky path at their rear until he was clear of the net.
He hadn't run for a long time now, but he felt that with a few bites of food in him he could do it. Outrun them all. Once clear, he'd hide and again become covert about things. Another audacious plan, but he'd convinced himself it could work, just as the one had that had taken him through their training area.
The worst that could happen would be to be killed, and he cared increasingly less about that. The best that could happen would be to break free of the net with a full stomach and continue the seventy-mile trip to the TACAN station at the Laotian border. Then he'd be taken out by the CIA's hired help, maybe by one of his friends who had left the Air Force to fly with Air America. He knew they resupplied the tribesmen who refueled the TACAN station's generator and guarded the site.
Maybe he would . . .
. . . but first . . .
. . . first he had to . . . take out the guards and get food to provide fuel for his body and mind. Each day when he slept in his fitful naps, he'd awake not knowing whether he was conscious or hallucinating. He even drifted into reveries when he was walking.
Something was wrong with the plan.
He thought it through again.
The guards might be hard to kill. They were carrying AK-47's, and he had only the small-caliber pistol.
Anything else wrong?
It's a stupid plan, part of his mind tried to tell him. Just get through the net and worry about food when you're clear.
Then he remembered the mouth-watering smells of food from their cook fire and convinced himself that most of his plan was sound, and that would have to be enough.
Change the plan. The guards have AK-47's. He stared sullenly at the group as they prepared to move out.
Pick the right time and just quietly steal in and out of their camp. Take food from the two pots beside the fire pit while the guards aren't looking.
They'd never suspect he would do that. He felt very intelligent.
He thought about food for a while longer, and memories of eating became overpowering and impossible to push away.
The men formed into two groups, as they had earlier, and as before they left only two guards behind. He hoped they'd be as lazy as the previous pair had looked to be.
The soldiers fanned out and began to scour the area.
A chopper flew past, and Lucky looked up warily. The big green helicopter with the red star on its side continued on its way east toward the Red River Valley.
They'd not seen him. He'd covered himself with the omnipresent red dust and knew he appeared as a part of the rocks upon which he lay.
He waited, lying on the small rocky outcropping beside his hiding niche, watching as the two guards horsed around for a while, then settled into their routines. One wandered to the east side to stare after the departed soldiers. Lucky watched as the other one began to work with pots and big bags of rice, preparing the evening meal for the men.
"Jesus," Lucky muttered, and he thought of food. "Jesus."
A voice from behind startled him. He turned to see an NVA soldier looking at him, AK-47 trained directly at his back. They stared at one another, and the Vietnamese became slack-jawed with fright, then yelled out a string of words.
Lucky Anderson's freedom had come to a rude end.
When six of them had gathered, they all stared just as the first one had.
"Lokee!" one hissed.
They spread-eagled him where they'd caught him, face to the sky, and the one who'd found him went through his flight-suit pockets and took everything. There wasn't much. The pistol, knife, signal mirror, and the flare. The matches, compass, and dog-eared plasticized maps. Two badly cracked and empty baby bottles and a short remnant of cord. Finally the soldier removed his boots and the flying watch from his wrist. Those were his only remaining possessions, and they took them. Then they covered him with their weapons and barked shrill orders to one another as they herded him down off the rock.
There was more yelling and laughing as they marched him into the camp, prodding him with gun barrels.
He stumbled and fell. They prodded. He tried to get up and fell again.
They laughed and jabbed with the gun barrels, and one of the soldiers kicked him in the side. Another soldier, this one wearing two small stars on his shoulder, screamed at the one who'd kicked him and pointed, mentioning the word Lokee again.
The same soldier who'd kicked him hesitated before touching him, but helped him to his feet and supported him as they walked into the camp.
Even through his mental fog, Lucky realized he was a prize. He motioned toward the pots, where the cook was preparing the meal. The ranking man, the one wearing the two small stars, looked inquisitively at Lucky, then brightened and motioned toward his mouth. Lucky nodded and crumpled again as waves of weakness swept over him.
Two-stars said something and the others laughed. Then he barked orders and signaled for them to continue.
They bound him securely, taking no chance that he might escape. First they tied his hands behind him, then his elbows together, which hurt like hell, so he screamed until they loosened the ropes a little. Next they tied his feet and then his knees. To make sure, they set up a guard to stand over him, AK-47 at the ready. By that time the others had been called in from their search and were gathered about, gawking. One came very close and touched him on the shoulder, then sprang back, laughing while the others heckled him.
Two-stars called two men out and explained something carefully. Several times he looked over at him and mentioned the word Lokee. They both nodded energetically before taking off at a trot back up the path to the west. Messengers?
The cook knelt before him, holding a bowl heaped with rice that was gener
ously laced with dark pieces of meat. He fed him with a large spoon, and Lucky ate voraciously until the bowl was finished. It was sticky and stank of fish, and tasted as good as any tenderloin. The cook held a cup of water so he could drink, then cocked his head inquisitively and asked something.
Lucky nodded.
The cook fetched more food, and although he knew he shouldn't, he ate that entire bowl too. By the time he'd finished, his stomach ached with sharp, toothache-like pangs.
An hour passed, and the crowd watched closely as he writhed uneasily with his aching stomach and bloated bowels, and they laughed each time he could no longer contain yet another powerful release of gas.
The sounds of a revving diesel engine came closer, and finally an aging half-tracked vehicle labored up the path and into the camp. A tough and leathery-looking soldier dismounted and nodded curtly at the soldiers. He wore three small stars on his shoulders, and Lucky guessed he was some sort of senior enlisted man.
He stopped, bent down directly before Lucky, and stared carefully at his face. He made a distasteful expression and very slowly nodded. Three-stars stood and chattered to the driver of the half-track. He went to the vehicle, strutting proudly, and a few minutes later spoke vigorously into the microphone of a whining radio.
After a long radio conversation, three-stars returned and hunkered down again.
"You Lokee?"
Lucky realized the man was speaking English. He stared.
"You name?"
He spoke with difficulty. "Major Paul Anderson."
The man nodded and smiled. "Lokee."
Friday, October 6th, 1620 Local—People's Army HQ, Hanoi, DRV
Air Regiment Commandant Quon
He'd been called to a meeting of the general staff at the headquarters, and it was apparent to Quon that he was in trouble with both General Dung and General Tho. Every time either had spoken to him, they'd done so coolly, with no trace of their old camaraderie.
Two more bridges had been destroyed, both near the Chinese border. Thing's guns had downed one of the invaders, and Xuan Nha's rockets another. The fighters from Phuc Yen had not engaged the Mee, yet one of his lieutenants had been killed in his small-tail MiG-21 while trying to get away from a Phantom that had caught him fleeing toward China. The Phantom had fired a missile, and the young pilot had panicked and wrenched his bird into a hard turn. The MiG's nose had slewed sideward, and the airplane had entered a deadly, flat spin.
