Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)

by Tom Wilson

  Quon had tried to explain that he'd been ordered to place his Vietnamese pilots at the controls of the spin-prone MiGs before they were ready. The generals hadn't listened. The commandant from Kien An had looked away, likely happy that it wasn't him under scrutiny.

  Quon had said he'd personally look into the training they were getting from the Russian advisors, and the generals asked why he hadn't been more diligent in that task in the past.

  He didn't tell them that he'd become so consumed by the search for his son's killer that his performance had suffered. He simply promised the generals that he would do better in the future and left the meeting breathing hatred for Lokee. If it weren't for the disfigured Mee pilot, he wouldn't have had to endure the humiliation.

  Following the meeting he'd come to the Command Center with General Tho to review the performance of their forces during the afternoon raids. Tho listened to a major tell them about the day's raids. Another bridge down, this one at Hung Yen, south of Hanoi. Two more had been damaged in the far north. Reports of yet another attack were arriving from Bac Giang. The general listened somberly as he was told about the failure of MiG interceptors from Kien An Air Base, whose pilots were having the same difficult problems as Quon's pilots at Phuc Yen.

  As General Tho berated the colonel from Kien An, Quon noticed his adjutant beckoning. He sidled over to him, unseen by Tho as he continued to speak harshly to the other air regiment commandant.

  "What do you want?" Quon hissed impatiently.

  "The sergeant just radioed that he has captured Lokee."

  A heavy weight was instantly lifted from Quon. "Alive?"

  "He is unharmed, comrade Quon. Thin from the lack of food, but otherwise well."

  Quon's nostrils flared as he thought of it. He felt giddy.

  "Have them hold him where they've caught him," he whispered. "I must accompany the general to another meeting, which will last until late."

  The adjutant nodded.

  "Arrange for a helicopter to pick me up at the senior officers' quarters very early in the morning. I'd like to be in the hills and gone before the early Mee attacks."

  "Do you plan to bring the Mee pilot back with you?"

  Quon laughed very low so General Tho wouldn't overhear. "Only partway back."

  The adjutant looked puzzled.

  Quon intended to proceed to Kep and then throw Lokee out of the helicopter from a thousand meters height, to land precisely where his son had been killed.

  He rejoined Tho and the colonel from Kien An, knowing that nothing the general told him could make him unhappy.

  1645 Local—354th TFS Duty Desk, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Captain Manny DeVera

  Manny was leaning over the counter talking with Joe Walker, who was duty officer, and with a couple of other squadron mates when the legal officer entered. This was alien territory for nonfliers, and he looked ill at ease as he peered around.

  Manny waved him in. "Any of you guys get in trouble and need a shark," he said cheerily, "this guy's your bet."

  The major winced at the word "shark." "May I see you privately, Captain DeVera?"

  Lieutenant Walker and a couple of the others gave the lawyer cold looks as he followed Manny into the C-Flight office.

  Billy Bowes looked up from the desk. "You want me to leave?" he asked Manny.

  Manny looked back at the legal officer.

  The major nodded. "For a few minutes, please."

  "Take your time," said Billy. He gathered his papers and departed, closing the door.

  The legal officer stared at the nameplate on the desk.

  CAPTAIN M.G. DEVERA

  "The Supersonic Wetback"

  - WORLD'S GREATEST FIGHTER PILOT -

  "I thought you were relieved of duty," said the major.

  Manny shrugged. "I took the desk plaque to my room a couple times, but the guys keep taking it and putting it back. They say I'm still their flight commander, no matter what they're told."

  Manny sat behind the familiar desk and leaned back. The major sat opposite him.

  "You'll be leaving tomorrow for the Philippines. There's a military flight departing from Bangkok at noon, so you'll have to take the nine o'clock base shuttle down there."

  "Good. I'm tired of sitting on my ass and just waiting."

  "As soon as you get to the Philippines, they'll admit you to the hospital and perform a series of psychological tests."

  "To see if I've flipped out and become a baby killer?"

  "Something like that."

  "What's the charge?"

  "Disobeying a legal order. They tried to make a couple others fly, like mutiny and dereliction of duty, but they felt those would just muddy the issue, so they dropped them."

  "How many counts?" asked Manny. He was getting the lingo down.

  "They're going with the one incident on July twenty-fourth. One charge and one count. That's good." But the major was wearing his grave look, not the happier one he'd had when Manny had last spoken with him.

  "Something changed?" Manny asked.

  "The headquarters legal people at Clark are talking general court-martial again, and that's serious. They're flying in a hard-ass full colonel from Hickam to run both the preliminary hearing and the court-martial. I've been talking to a couple of friends at Hickam, and they say General Roman called him in and said he wants to make an example of you."

  Manny DeVera looked out the window, at the rows of parked aircraft there. God, they're beautiful, he thought. He wondered if he would ever again crawl into a fighter cockpit.

  "You'll need a good lawyer," said the JAG. "You know any?"

  "Just you."

  "I'm talking about civilian lawyers. Someone with solid defense experience. You can have any lawyer you want, you know, and you'd better pick a good one."

  "I've been in the Air Force too long to trust a civilian with anything as important as this."

  The legal officer grimaced at his naïveté. "I've got a friend in the judge advocate general's office at Clark. He's young, but he's good."

  "Will he take me?" asked Manny. "He may want to think twice if they're bringing in the hanging judge from Hickam."

  "It'll be a fair hearing. I know the colonel they're talking about. He's tough as a nail and doesn't back off, but no matter what any general tells him, he'll be fair. The fact that he was put under pressure may even work in your favor. And yes, the captain will represent you. I've talked to him about it, and he's interested."

  "What do you think? What's going to happen?"

  "I think that unless you can get someone to prove the page from Major Anderson's book was faked or altered in some way, the matter will go to trial. That alone will damage your career. I know it's not supposed to if you're found innocent, but it sure as hell won't help it any."

  "You think they might find me guilty?"

  "Who knows? How much faith do you have in the military system, Manny?"

  "The military raised me from a pup. I haven't known anything else since I was twenty years old. I trust the system. I don't trust that bastard Lyons, and I don't like what I've heard of General Roman, but people like them aren't the Air Force."

  "Maybe not," said the major, "but you'll find they have a lot of influence."

  Manny thought about that for a moment and felt a chill in the room.

  "Call your lawyer buddy at Clark," he said.

  1945 Local—General Officers' Quarters, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Saigon, RVN

  Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates

  The tennis courts outside General Moss's quarters were lit, and Moss was volleying with his chief of staff, the colonel who ran his administrative staff. He chased a high ball to the back of the court and smashed it directly toward the colonel, who awkwardly drew in his racket and managed a weak return.

  Moss lobbed the ball over the backpedaling colonel's head.

  "Thirry—ruvv," announced the Vietnamese referee, and a ball boy chased after it.

  "Caughtcha
sleeping," Moss called amiably. He was ungracious in victory, nasty and unforgiving when he lost. He knew it and did not try to change himself.

  Maybe, Pearly thought, that was part of what made him a good fighting general.

  Pearly Gates edged onto the court and waited under the lights.

  "You here to see how it's done, Pearly?" called Moss.

  "Business, General."

  "Can't wait until morning?"

  "I'd rather it not, sir."

  "Be right with you."

  Moss smashed a serve at his chief of staff's knees. In less than two more minutes he'd won his game. The colonel went to the bench, shaking his head and sipping water. Moss retrieved his towel and came over to Pearly, obviously irritated that his game had been interrupted.

  "Trying to impress me by working late?" he growled.

  Pearly glanced at the nearby security-police bodyguards and lowered his voice. "I was called over to MAC-V, General. MAC-SOG's onto something pretty hot."

  The Military Assistance Command–Studies and Observation Group worked directly for General Westmoreland, out of the operational control of the military-service commanders. MAC-SOG controlled a number of Air Force aircraft, mostly C-130's and C-123's, which gave Moss, the senior Air Force officer in Vietnam, great heartburn.

  "Fucking prima donnas," he snorted.

  Pearly kept his voice low. "They have certain, ah . . . assets . . . in place west of Hanoi who've located a bunch of Russian helicopters."

  Moss blotted sweat from his brow as if not listening.

  "It's right on the line between packs five and six, General. According to our guidelines we're authorized to strike 'em, as long as it doesn't interfere with our priority missions."

  "How many choppers?"

  "Ten or twelve big ones, General. As well as an entire support base."

  Moss nodded.

  "We've never known much about their helicopters, except what our spooks hear on their radio frequencies. We believe they have quite a number of the things, but we've always thought they kept them under wraps at their restricted bases, like at Gia Lam or Phuc Yen."

  "And MAC-SOG found some and they want us to take 'em out?" Moss's voice was not forgiving. MAC-SOG had stolen his airplanes.

  "Their assets up there are in trouble. They radioed that they'd been compromised and are on the run. MAC-SOG doesn't have more details. Their assets didn't call in this morning."

  "Were they supposed to?"

  "The spooks at Monkey Mountain monitor for them at oh-seven-hundred, when the North Vietnamese are preoccupied with our airstrikes. When they're in trouble like this, the team's supposed to call in every morning they can do so without being compromised."

  "Maybe they've been captured and the helicopters moved."

  "May be, sir. But MAC-SOG is asking if we'll go in and give the North Vietnamese Army something to worry about besides chasing their team."

  "Are the helicopters in shelters?"

  "We looked over a couple of recce pictures, and the photo interpreter thinks they're just parked under camouflage nets."

  General Moss grew his narrow-eyed, fighter-jock expression, and Pearly knew he was finally getting interested.

  "Defenses?" snapped Moss.

  "Very few big guns and only one SAM site in the area, fifteen miles to the east. They've probably got a lot of small arms there, but not much else. It's like they don't want to draw attention to the chopper base." Pearly paused. "There's one other consideration."

  "What's that?"

  "According to our spooks who intercept their radio chatter, a lot of the conversations are in Russian. We think a number of the chopper pilots are Soviets."

  The general paused, then nodded. "Makes it all that much sweeter."

  "Yes, sir, it does."

  "But we'd have to get the job done before the SecDef finds out and goes squealing to the President to get us to chicken out."

  Now Pearly knew the general was very interested.

  Pearly quickly pressed on. "We either hit the base right away or forget it, General. I can't see the North Vietnamese keeping the choppers there for long."

  Moss draped the towel over his shoulder. "We have any high-priority targets up north tomorrow?"

  "Nothing big in the morning. Two new bridges in the afternoon."

  Moss smiled smugly. "And MAC-SOG's asking for help." A statement of satisfaction.

  "Yes, sir."

  The general's eyes glittered. "If we do it, they'll owe me for it."

  Pearly played his ace. "They said one reason for dropping their assets in where they did was to try to locate one of our downed pilots, sir."

  Moss looked at him sharply.

  "Major Paul Anderson."

  Anderson's loss continued to bother Moss. He'd asked to be briefed every time a pilot talked to Lucky Anderson on the ground, wanted to know every word Lucky had spoken, as if it might be a key to getting him out. After each of Pearly's briefings he'd spoken wistfully about the days when Anderson had worked for him at Nellis, and how valuable he was to the Air Force.

  "They went in after him?" asked the general.

  "Yes, sir, but they were unsuccessful. They believe it's likely the North Vietnamese captured him. They couldn't elaborate further."

  Moss looked grimly at the ground. "Well, he gave it one hell of a try." Then he regarded Pearly with a purposeful stare. R. J. Moss paid his debts. "Get on the scrambler phone and alert the command posts at Takhli and Korat before you send out the order. Have a couple flights from both Thud bases load fuel tanks and ammo only."

  "Both bases, sir?" asked Pearly.

  "Yeah. Suggest they go in at low level and strafe. This is one they'll enjoy."

  "Yes, sir, they will," said Pearly.

  Moss pursed his lips for a thoughtful moment, then turned back toward the tennis court.

  "Your serve!" Moss yelled to his chief of staff as Pearly hurried away.

  2155 Local—Intelligence Area, Command Post, Takhli RTAFB

  Captain Billy Bowes

  The supplemental air tasking order had been deciphered and fragmented thirty minutes before, and Major Max Foley had called Billy to the command post. "How about you and your C-Flight animals taking the second flight?" he asked.

  "I dunno," said Billy. "The guys have been working pretty hard, and I told 'em they were getting tomorrow off."

  "It's going to be an interesting mission, Billy." Max explained they'd be attacking a dozen helicopters, how they had to be covert about it or the choppers might scatter like quail and move to an alternate location.

  "We just sneak in and strafe 'em while they're on the ground?" asked Billy.

  "Yeah. No bombs or anything. We go in at low altitude and shoot the hell out of them." Max grinned.

  Billy liked what he'd heard. "We'll take it."

  It was a good mission, and Billy wanted C-Flight to get a piece of it, even if he had to use someone from the outside to fill in for Lieutenant Horn. Henry was into his final five missions, so Billy had to give him the option of backing out. After a pilot reached the magic number ninety-five, he was offered easy counters down in the lower packs until he finished.

  "You need me to help with mission planning?" he asked.

  "I'll handle it. Just have your guys show up early. Say at oh-three-forty-five?"

  "Will do, Major." Billy left to join the rest of the flight at the club, where they'd gathered to say farewell to Manny DeVera and wish him luck in the Philippines.

  2215 Local—Officers' Club Stag Bar

  Billy got himself a tonic water and ice before joining C-Flight at the end of the bar.

  "I leave on the nine A.M. for Don Muang," Manny was saying. "Then I'll take a flight to Clark and sit on my ass until Monday."

  "Don't give us that," said Henry Horn. "Saturday night in the PI where they've got round-eye nurses and schoolteachers, and the Supersonic Wetback'll sit on his ass?"

  Manny smiled, but it was a weak one.

&nbs
p; The silence was long and awkward. Manny drained his glass. "Thanks for the drinks. I promised Jackie I'd give her a call, since she couldn't make it tonight. It won't be easy to get through from the Philippines, so it might be a while before I get to talk to her again."

  Joe Walker spoke up in a gruff voice. "I've got the morning off tomorrow, Manny, so I'll drop by base ops and see you off."

  Billy started to tell Joe about the morning mission, but Manny was shaking his head.

  "Be better if you guys don't show up," said DeVera. His eyes were watery.

  He shook hands all around, looking each one of them in the eye, as if mentally storing something away. Then Manny looked around at the group, nodded, and left.

  "Fuck!" exploded Joe Walker, watching his back.

  Henry shook his head. "I love that crazy bastard."

  "I heard tales about the Supersonic Wetback at every fighter base I ever visited," said baby-faced Smitty. "I wasn't even sure he really existed until I got here."

  They stared as Manny left through the side door.

  Billy finally broke the silence. "I volunteered us for the morning go," he said.

  Smitty whipped his head around. "You didn't! Dammit, Captain, I've got to go to town tomorrow morning. I've had to put it off three times already."

  "Then tomorrow will make four times. We've got a three-forty-five show at the command post."

  "Hell, Smitty," said Horn, grinning maliciously, "Billy's saving you from poverty. That girlfriend of yours is going to break you."

  Smitty glared at him, then changed to a pleading look aimed at Billy Bowes.

  Bowes ignored him. "Henry, you've got your choice on whether or not to go on this one." He lowered his voice. "It's right on the border between packs five and six."

  Horn grinned. "Maybe I oughta stay here and look up Smitty's girl."

  "You stay away from her," glowered Smitty. His demeanor was so cherubic that it was difficult for Smitty to look mean. He managed to appear sullen, as if he was about to pout, but not at all threatening.