by Tom Wilson
"I'll tell her you ran out of money," Henry kidded. "Then I'll take her shopping and see if she's properly grateful."
"Smitty, I'll see you at the oh-three-forty-five briefing," said Billy before he turned his attention back to Horn. "You coming, Henry? If not, I'll get someone else."
"What kind of mission?" asked Henry Horn.
"All I can say here is it's going to be different and very interesting."
Henry leered at Smitty, twisting the tips of his bushy mustache like a Simon Legree. "Maybe Smitty's girlfriend would be interesting too."
"She's a nice girl," said Smitty, "not one of the whores from downtown you guys are used to."
"She's such a nice girl," asked Joe Walker, "how come she carries a change machine and wears a mattress on her back?"
"You shouldn't talk bad about her. She's the Thai base commander's daughter."
"Yeah, but by which wife?" asked Joe Walker. "Makes a big difference in status."
Smitty hesitated. "Her mother's number-two wife. Don't mention that when she's around, because it makes her feel bad. She thinks her mom should be number one."
"Hell, Smitty," said Horn, "the way you keep buying things for her, by the time you leave, she's going to own Ta Khli."
"Open up her own cathouse," said Joe Walker, and this time Smitty came close to a malevolent glare.
"You coming with us?" Billy asked Henry again.
"I'll tag along. Can't let you guys go screwing things up."
Smitty looked relieved.
Henry waved to Jimmy the bartender. "One more before we turn in."
Everyone but Billy ordered.
While they waited, they endured a long moment of silence. "Lara's Theme" was playing on the jukebox, and a soft voice was crooning, "Somewhere my love . . ."
Joe Walker gruffly voiced their thoughts. "Think we'll ever see Manny again?"
Henry Horn turned toward him and snorted. "Goddam right we will. They can't hang him with that kind of shit."
Then they grew silent, staring into the distance as the sad song played on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Saturday, October 7th, 0623 Local—Senior Officers' Quarters, Hanoi, DRV
Air Regiment Commandant Quon
The helicopter arrived eight minutes late, but though Quon was a fanatic for timeliness, the fact failed to darken his mood.
His adjutant apologized for the tardy aircraft.
"Russians are piloting it," said Quon. "They are slow and ponderous people."
"I shall be at Phuc Yen when you return, comrade Quon."
"And I," said Quon, "will fly this afternoon and show our pilots how the small-tail MiG should be flown."
The major smiled, for Quon had not been himself for several weeks.
"Contact the Nham Dan reporters and tell them to be there when I land, for I plan to kill a Thunder plane. Tell them I will kill a Thunder plane, and to look for my victory roll."
"Yes, comrade Quon," said the adjutant, looking pleased that Quon had returned to his former level of exuberance.
Why did I become so withdrawn? thought Quon. He would call General Tho when his immediate task was done, to speak of old times and apologize.
Quon boarded the waiting helicopter, resplendent in his dress-white uniform with its gold-and-blue epaulets and golden wings over his right breast pocket. He'd worn the dress uniform because he'd wanted to look as good as he felt.
Day 58, 0636 Local—Western Mountains, North Vietnam
Major Lucky Anderson
Just before daybreak a large, many-bladed helicopter landed in a flat area at the northern edge of the camp, but Lucky feigned apathy. He'd cursed himself throughout the night. The things he'd done, approaching the camp, devising a plan as silly as his had been, seemed ridiculous. But of course he was now thinking from the advantage of having a full belly and an increasingly functional mind. He'd been fed well again that morning and already felt new vestiges of physical strength returning to him. They'd also untied him to let him urinate, and his shoulders and arms had screamed from pain as they were released. Immediately after he'd done his chore, they'd slipped the flight suit back over his shoulders and retied him.
As his mind had begun to function, he'd kept it busy, and by early morning he'd entered into a new role to keep his captors off guard. All morning he'd ranted to himself, muttering about inconsequential things like spin-recovery procedures for the T-6 trainers he'd learned to fly in, and the batting order of the Cincinnati Reds. When they'd helped him up to urinate, he'd sagged in their grasp to make it obvious he was in no condition to run. It hadn't worked, for they'd cinched his bonds as tightly as before, but he'd clenched his arms and wrists as they tugged, and later, when he'd relaxed them, the ropes were not nearly as taut. It was a tiny victory, but perhaps an important one, for as he grew more lucid, Anderson mentally and physically prepared himself to escape.
As he chanted the inconsequential things, he mapped the area and locations of soldiers. He flexed his shoulders and legs often, trying to keep the circulation going, and the gomers didn't seem to notice or care. Not that they were stupid. An armed guard continually stood nearby, watching his every move, hardly taking his eyes away even when, in the gloom of dawn, the Russian chopper landed and the rotor blades slowed to an idle.
A compact gomer in a white uniform, with gold epaulets on his shoulders and upswept wings on the right breast of his tunic, emerged from the helicopter and looked about. The leathery-skinned sergeant hurried forward and greeted him by bowing sharply from the waist.
A high-ranking pilot?
They talked for a while, and three-stars motioned toward Lucky as they walked to a cloth upon which his belongings were displayed. The officer handled the silenced .22 and glanced contemptuously at the prisoner before dropping it back onto the cloth.
As they approached him, the three-star sergeant pointed about the area, obviously explaining how they'd snared him.
Was this the way they handled all captured pilots? Somehow he felt it was not.
Lucky noted the look on the pilot's face, the taut mouth and eyes that narrowed as they looked into his, and saw something fervent and hateful in the expression.
The officer barked a few words and three-stars interpreted.
"He say . . . do you rimmembah . . . kill Thanh?"
Lucky rolled his eyes and tried to recite the top of the Reds batting order.
The officer jabbered, and again the sergeant spoke.
"He say you rimmembah!"
Fuck 'em, thought Lucky, and he continued to mumble. Once they saw through his lunacy game, he intended to give only name, rank, and serial number; until then he'd continue the craziness.
The sergeant bobbed his head at Lucky and motioned toward the helicopter. "He say . . . we go with him. We stop one time . . . until Mee air pirates go away . . . then we go to Kep."
Lucky understood most of it. They would fly somewhere to wait out the morning bombing mission, then proceed to Kep. Kep Air Base? Was that where they took new prisoners?
He grinned at three-stars and babbled excitedly.
The officer stared, hatred glittering from the eyes, face twitching with animation. He spoke again to the sergeant.
"He say . . . when we get to Kep . . . he teach you to fly!" The sergeant nodded happily.
And suddenly Lucky knew what would happen to him once they arrived over Kep. He stopped his crazy act and evenly returned the officer's stare. There was communication. A smile slowly crept onto the man's features, and it was one of triumph.
Two soldiers untied his feet, then supported and half carried him to the chopper.
As they loaded him aboard, Lucky feigned that he was very weak, which wasn't at all hard to do. While they pushed him into a corner to lie on his stomach against a bulkhead behind the chopper pilots, a soldier knelt nearby, his AK-47 trained squarely at his midriff. The gomer pilot, followed by the grizzled sergeant, boarded and took canvas seats facing forward.
The high-ranking officer strapped in, casually rested a booted foot on Lucky's neck, and barked something to the guards. He unholstered his pistol and rested it on his leg as the soldiers scurried off the helicopter.
The officer spoke sharply to the pilot, and through half-closed eyes Lucky turned to see that Caucasians manned both forward seats. Asshole Russians, he thought. As if reading his mind, the high-ranking gomer stepped down hard on his neck. It hurt like hell, but Lucky remained quiet as his face was pressed into the corrugated metal floor.
As they prepared for takeoff, Lucky tried to form an escape plan. Nothing he could think of seemed appropriate. He writhed and tried to turn so his tied hands would be out of view, but the gomer pilot bellowed and stomped even harder, which made Lucky want to yell out. He did not.
As the Soviet helicopter lifted off, Lucky was still without a plan of escape. They had something special in store for him, and if it was what he thought, he'd damned well better hurry with some kind of idea.
0657 Local—Route Pack Five
Captain Billy Bowes
They flew with a mile's spacing between the two four-ship flights, directly toward the bright, orange morning sun peeking over the horizon. They'd set up the spacing as they passed over BRL TACAN, and as they crossed pack five, they'd slowly descended from 8,000 to 6,000 feet altitude.
Major Foley led the first flight, call sign Bass. Billy was Trout lead. Only the Wild Weasel flight accompanied them, flying forward and to their right, not so far ahead that they might betray their intention to turn toward the real target.
F-4 Phantoms had been fragged to fly MiG-CAP, but no one had yet seen or heard them, and none of the Thud pilots cared. The Thuds were lighter and more agile than usual, for they carried no bombs, and their internal Gatling guns made them at least as dangerous to the MiGs as the Phantoms.
The cannons were loaded with phosphorus-tipped incendiary rounds, to wreak maximum havoc on the helicopters. The same rounds would be just as effective against MiGs, and anyway, the MiG-drivers had appeared especially ham-fisted the last few days. Billy thought of the song about the barroom mouse and whispered, "Bring on your goddam cat."
The plan was to drop even lower when they reached the foothills west of Yen Bai, then to turn to the southeast, toward the coordinates of the chopper base. Although they'd carefully studied the maps, the next tough chore would be to find the thing. The gomers were good with camouflage.
Thus far they'd spoken little on radio. They were able to maintain radio silence better than usual because of the small force size, and because they'd briefed the mission thoroughly and every pilot knew precisely what he was to do.
Five miles before them the guns of Yen Bai began to shoot: 37mm flak formed in its white layer, then darker 57mm rounds began bursting in groups of six. They would not fly through the Yen Bai flak. A mile in front of them Bass flight began their right turn and descent.
Billy motioned to Smitty, his wingman, to prepare to maneuver, as he paused for a ten-second count before beginning his own turn. The remainder of Trout flight followed.
He descended to 5,000 feet, just above the small arms' reach, and began a smooth jinking motion with the bird, flying southeast above the foothills.
He checked the clock on the panel before him. Oh-six-fifty-eight. Two minutes until their scheduled time over target. Timing was important, for the flights from Korat Air Base would be hot on their heels, their TOT just minutes after their own. There was to be no interval between attacks that might allow any surviving helicopters to get away.
SAM and AAA radar activity made his RHAW system rattle and buzz, but the strobes were small and the sounds faint. The Wild Weasels had swung several miles out into the Red River Valley, and were flying parallel to them to shield them from the SAM action around Hanoi. The Weasels were playing decoy, presenting fat and vulnerable-looking targets, trying to get the gomers to concentrate on them.
The Weasels called a SAM launch, then fired a Shrike homing missile before setting up to perform their SAM evasion maneuvers. They twisted through the sky east of the shooters, building up airspeed and energy for the tactic.
After another glance to ensure the SAMs weren't coming their way, Billy carefully scanned the remainder of the sky. Nothing there. He looked back to the east.
The Wild Weasels had smoothly evaded the SAMs and were turning toward Hanoi, soaring to get into position to bomb the site, now keeping the missile-site operators' attention focused upon survival rather than the shooters.
Thus far it was going smoothly, but as Major Lucky had taught them, he concentrated on the challenges they might face.
If you're prepared for every contingency, there'll be no surprises.
Since there was no ground fire from the foothills, Billy led Trout flight into a shallow descent to fly a few hundred feet lower. He wanted to be able to see the camouflage nets, which were not easily discerned from above. They were much easier to see from one side or the other.
"Bass, see the building off at our ten-thirty," announced Max Foley. "The target should be just a couple miles south of it."
There was no response, but eight sets of eyes were now looking there.
"Lead, this is Bass two. I see something that looks out of place at our eleven o'clock. There's a patch of foliage that's a different color."
Pause . . . then, "I've got it in sight, two." Max sounded excited. "Double-check your switches for guns-ground, Bass."
Again no response was anticipated, but the adrenaline flowed harder as the pilots of both flights checked their switch and sight settings.
Billy remained silent. Max Foley was doing his normal good job.
Bass flight began to fly in a left-hand arc, and Billy stared at the rectangular patch of foliage that was just slightly lighter in hue than the green trees and grass about it.
Then his mind was made up, because a road led into one side of the rectangle, disappeared, and reappeared on the opposite side.
It was camouflage netting.
And when his mind accepted what it was, he began to discern other phenomena, like the regular, man-made shape of the netting, and he even saw how it was elevated in places. The covered area was large, several hundred feet long and a couple of hundred wide.
Bass flight had dropped into extended trail, flying one behind the other, so Billy waggled his wings and Trout did the same.
Max led Bass into a thirty-degree dive, directly toward the nets. He was drawing close before energetic streams of 12.7mm and 14.5mm began to hose about the sky.
"They're protecting something down there," yelled someone in Bass flight.
A trail of smoke issued from Max's gunport as he fired his Gatling cannon. Something torched and burned brightly beneath the camouflage, then a flash and fingers of bright fire reached upward as it exploded. The phosphorus was doing its job. Two large and a dozen smaller fires were blazing merrily beneath the camouflage net.
Billy pushed over into his dive attack, offset so he would fly down the length of the rectangular area.
Bass two, then three, and then four fired long bursts into the camouflage and pulled off.
It was Trout's turn.
The nets on the end toward them began to fall, then the entire thing collapsed, and Billy could see several dark, fiercely burning shapes. At 2,000 feet slant range he depressed the red trigger switch, aiming for the nearest shape.
A bit low. Perfect.
He walked the rounds upward, pausing for a split second at three of the shapes and a small hangar, and finally, very close to the ground, he pulled sharply up and into a left-hand turn. Ground fire zipped past his canopy like angry bees.
"Shit hot!" someone yelled, unable to restrain himself. Henry Horn?
He'd obviously hit the helicopters.
Billy looked farther left and saw Max's flight stretched out as if they were on the downwind leg at a stateside gunnery range. They would turn back inbound and strafe again to make sure none of the choppers escape
d before the Korat flights arrived.
Beyond the second Thud, Billy saw something in the distance, coming slowly, hard to see because it was almost the same color as its background. He peered harder. It was indeed moving.
The shape was turning and descending toward the treetops.
"Trout lead has an airborne chopper in sight at my eleven o'clock," he announced.
He watched the helicopter moving lower yet, fleeing.
"Trout three and four, follow Bass in the strafe pattern. Trout two, follow me," called Billy.
"Two," responded Smitty.
He slowed as he broke out of the pattern and flew toward the chopper. As he closed, it began to fly in a frantic and erratic pattern. It would be difficult to hit the slow-moving, evasive target, but he was determined to try.
There was no telling what the chopper was carrying. Maybe, he thought, it might be someone important.
0702 Local—Over North Vietnam
Major Lucky Anderson
Lucky had no earthly idea what was happening. The chopper had chugged along for ten minutes, had made a turn, and the tempo of the blades had changed, quieting as if they were on an approach for landing. But then the pilots had begun to yell excitedly and the engine had roared to life and the chopper had turned and dived and they were going like a bat from hell, swinging first in one direction, then in another.
Lucky rolled helplessly about the floor, thrown against one bulkhead, then sliding the opposite way until he was slammed against that side. On the second slide he tried working to free the ropes, but he was being thrown about so violently, the task was beyond him, and he judiciously concentrated on protecting himself.
Simultaneously, holes appeared in the aft bulkhead, the engine quit, and the three-star sergeant's torso burst and splattered gore throughout the cabin.
The engine was silent, and the chopper was clop-clopping downward.
Autorotating for an emergency landing?
Lucky pushed himself under the dead sergeant's legs onto a coil of rope, kicking and wedging himself into place. Then he curled into a tight ball, anticipating . . .
