Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)

by Tom Wilson

  After fifty yards they stopped in a small clearing and waited.

  Several soldiers arrived, then one separated from the other, moving painfully toward him.

  "Good to see you, sir," the gomer said in a low voice with no trace of an accent.

  Anderson remained quiet.

  "I'm Sergeant Black, sir. United States Army."

  The words staggered him. Following a silly flash of hope, Lucky realized the man was lying. He kept his mouth shut and wondered why they were acting so strangely.

  "We're gonna have to move out, Major. There's about a hundred NVA camped a couple miles southeast of us who would like to have a piece of your ass."

  Lucky blurted, "You're an American?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How the hell did you find me?" Lucky asked suspiciously. He did not trust him. From what he could see, he looked like a gomer.

  "When I made my radio call-in yesterday morning, they said you might be in this area. We arrived about noon and found the NVA showing up too. I figured we'd better locate you in a hurry so we could get out of here."

  Lucky looked at the others, who were carefully watching the perimeter of the small field. "Who the hell are those guys?" he asked. "Don't try to tell me they're Americans."

  "Don't even ask. You hungry?"

  "Yeah."

  Black handed him something. "Rice ball. I'll get some water for you too."

  "I just had a drink from a stream, so I'm not thirsty." Lucky crammed the tasteless rice into his mouth without wasting a grain.

  "We gotta be moving out."

  "The bastards took my boots when they caught me, and my feet're pretty beat-up."

  Black rubbed his jaw, trying to figure a solution to the problem. Finally he conferred with his men. They dumped a few articles of clothing from their packs and carefully bound Lucky's sore feet.

  Lucky's heart pounded with mounting excitement as he realized it was no dream. It was really happening!

  "You gonna be okay like that, Major?"

  "How far have we got to go?"

  "About thirty klicks. First ten we've gotta do right away, then we'll be able to slow down and take our time. We've got a place to hole up and wait for a chopper to take us out."

  The mention of a friendly helicopter sounded wonderful. "I'll make it so long as I don't have to run."

  One of the men came over and spoke in Vietnamese.

  "There's one request the guys have, sir, and it doesn't involve running. Something so we won't all get caught."

  "What's that?" Lucky looked at the Vietnamese, who were obviously impatient.

  "They want you to stop and wash off, because they could smell you from fifty feet away." It was just light enough to see that Black was smiling. "Can't say I disagree, sir."

  Lucky Anderson laughed for the first time in a long while, and although it wasn't much of an outburst, it felt very good.

  When they moved out, Lucky realized he wasn't holding them up with his painful hobbling. They kept one man on point, another at the rear, and one on each side to monitor the flanks. The two largest and strongest of the Vietnamese supported Black as he walked and were very gentle about it. The task of the final man was to erase sign of their passage, and he did his job efficiently. Good mutual support, thought Lucky. They'd make good fighter jocks.

  When they stopped for a breather, between bites from his third rice ball Lucky asked Black how he'd been wounded and was told about the helicopter base and an NVA sergeant spraying the countryside with machine-gun fire. An unlucky round had taken Black in the side.

  "No big deal," Black said. "But it hurt like hell."

  "Sarge," said Lucky with a shake of his head. "Thank God you're doing it, but I wouldn't trade jobs with you for anything they promised me."

  Black shrugged. "It's what I do. Hell of a lot better than flying airplanes. Damn things scare the shit out of me."

  Saturday, October 14th, 1645 Local—Commandant's Office, Phuc Yen PAAFB

  Air Regiment Commandant Quon

  With each pulse Quon's arm hurt like a dull toothache.

  They'd found signs of Lokee's passage from the helicopter crash site and followed them, and for five days the search force had followed. A group of farmers had seen a very large man on the second day. But when the soldiers had begun to close in, he'd vanished.

  During all that time Quon had remained morose and angry, sleeping little and hardly emerging from his office. When he'd first arrived back at Phuc Yen, he'd allowed the bach si to tend him, to sterilize and stitch up the wound and place his arm in a sling. When the doctor had tried to see him thereafter, he'd shunned him.

  The awful, laughing face of Lokee seldom left his thoughts.

  Why hadn't the Russian helicopter been on time? They might have all been killed at the helicopter base by the Mee attack, but it would have been satisfying to see Lokee killed by his own pilots.

  Why hadn't he killed him when he'd had him?

  Why? He sighed mightily, then slowly gained his feet. He could do this no more. It was time to go to work, to fly and to lead his men again. He would avenge his son by killing Mee pilots as efficiently and mercilessly as possible.

  His son? He'd hardly thought of Thanh for days. It had changed to become something between himself and the Mee pilot with the terrible face. Quon knew that somehow the pilot had been rescued. He felt it. For the moment at least, Lokee had won.

  The faceless pilot would fly his Thunder plane again, and it was there that Quon would find him.

  We are not done, Lokee.

  He called to his adjutant, but there was no response. A slender civilian with a sunken face appeared in the doorway. The man smiled. It was a moment before he recognized him.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked in a dull voice.

  "You are looking bad these days," said Nguyen Wu in a friendly tone.

  Quon glared as Wu came into his office and looked about.

  "Not impressive for such an important man. You deserve much better, comrade Quon."

  "I am busy. We can talk at a later time."

  "Oh, we shall talk, Quon. We shall talk, and you will tell me many things."

  Wu leaned against the desk and motioned for the two men who'd appeared at the door to wait. They wore plain, nondescript uniforms with no badges of office.

  "If you are difficult, these men and their associates will also talk with you, Quon. I must warn you that they are crude and not nearly as pleasant as I am."

  Quon understood then. He sighed, resigning himself to whatever was to happen. Had he somehow expected it? "You have cleared this with General Tho?" he tried.

  "With a higher authority than Tho, old friend. I have the signature of General Dung, among others. Your welfare has been entrusted to me. We will work together, you and I, to turn you into a much better and more patriotic man."

  "What are the charges against me?"

  "Charges? There are no charges. There will be no trial for such a great hero as yourself. You are a special case, and I have promised the party to take special care of you."

  Quon breathed no easier.

  "We are here to help you, comrade Quon," said Wu in a pleasant and soothing voice.

  He motioned to the two men.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sunday, October 15th, 0730 Local—HQ Seventh Air Force, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, South Vietnam

  Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates

  "Come on in," called Moss, motioning to him.

  Pearly walked in with his Bomb Damage Assessment folder, feeling particularly good about what he had to say.

  "What've you got this time?" Moss growled, but he was joking.

  Pearly pushed his glasses into position, then sat across from Moss and pulled the map from the BDA folder. He placed it before the general. It was filled with bright red X's. "There are seventeen bridges down and unusable right now, sir."

  "And . . . ?"

  "And the flow of supplies coming south have been slowed
down, just as we forecast. That's been confirmed by MAC-SOG using three different sources."

  "You believe 'em?"

  "Yes, sir. Two of the sources are Special Forces recon teams they've inserted to observe the trail firsthand."

  Moss called out to his secretary and asked for fresh coffee. A few minutes later she brought in a pot and two cups. Moss motioned, and she shut the door behind herself.

  "Go on," said Moss, pouring a cup.

  "Traffic is down by a third, General, and it's falling every week."

  "But it's still getting through."

  "Yes, sir. There's no way to stop it all without going after the Hanoi and Haiphong transshipment points."

  "I got a call last night. The SecDef's saying the bridge campaign's a waste of time. He wants to terminate our entire effort up north and concentrate on traffic coming across the borders."

  Pearly was shocked speechless. He used the silence to push his spectacles back on his nose and try to quell the queasy feeling growing in his gut.

  Moss sipped his coffee. "I'm supposed to evaluate the suggestion, and comment."

  Pearly shook his head. "Sir, we've tied up a hell of a lot of enemy troops up north with this campaign, just like we meant to."

  "How many?"

  "Upward of five hundred thousand, sir."

  "Is that a firm figure?"

  Pearly looked at him silently, then miserably shook his head. "I don't know how I could get firm figures. Intell doesn't have them."

  "The SecDef is going to suggest to the President that we restrict all bombing above the twentieth parallel. He was gracious enough to ask our opinion on that too."

  "Jesus," Pearly whispered.

  "He says we can stop the supplies if we concentrate on closing off the borders. Wants to plant sensors along the border so we can tell where they're coming through."

  "The borders are just jungle, sir."

  "He says we can stop the trucks."

  "There aren't many trucks coming in. By the time they get anywhere near the border, they've loaded everything onto wheelbarrows, water buffalo and horses, and mainly onto bicycles. We're sending multimillion-dollar jets after bicycles."

  "I know how the supplies get here, Pearly. I'm just telling you about the kind of mail I have to answer."

  "If we stop bombing up north, we might as well pack up and go. There's no way to win if we don't put pressure on them up there."

  Moss sipped coffee, peering over the rim at Pearly and listening quietly.

  "Sir, we've got to increase the pressure, not decrease it. We've never really got to sting them yet."

  Moss cocked his head inquisitively. "The same message says every time we knock down a bridge, they just move their supplies another way. Like in boats and ferries and over submerged bridges. That true?"

  "Yes, sir, just like I briefed you they'd do. But it takes a lot of people and effort for them to do that, and the tonnage goes down."

  Moss sighed. "I know all that. I was just trying to play devil's advocate so I might get a new argument. General Westy and the Joint Chiefs are fighting the SecDef on stopping the bombing, but they need fresh ammunition."

  Pearly felt his ears burn with anger.

  "I don't think the SecDef's going to win this particular argument, Pearly. Too many people realize that if we stop bombing up north, we're tossing in the towel."

  "It scares me he even talks like that, General. Think about how our POWs would feel if they thought we'd deserted them. If we don't keep bombing, we'll lose all leverage to get them out."

  "How many bridges did you say are knocked down?"

  "Seventeen. It would've been twenty, but they've got three patched up."

  "Determined bastards."

  "Amen to that. By the way, the Navy's done good work on this campaign, sir."

  "Yeah. Much as I hate to, I periodically pass my congratulations to the admiral."

  Pearly rose to leave. "That's all I have, sir."

  Moss held up a hand to stop him. "I've got a note in my desk with a name on it."

  "Sir?"

  Moss lowered his voice. "Airman First Class O'Neil?"

  "He hasn't come to work for two days now, General," Pearly said in a monotone.

  Moss smiled humorlessly. "Maybe he's on his way to Canada or Sweden, to give speeches about baby-killing American pilots and pass out secrets to the press."

  "I don't think he's gone far, General," he said. O'Neil was holed up in his apartment. Sergeant Turner's NCO friends in the security police were unofficially keeping an eye on the place.

  "They'll give him sanctuary, you know. Good buddies, the Canucks and Swedes."

  Pearly's heart fell just thinking about the damage O'Neil could do. Not only that, he would become a hero to the antiwar organizations with his revelations. Perhaps even to the growing number of loud politicians in Congress. He could not allow that to happen. His day, begun on the high note, was turning sour as he thought about what he must do.

  Moss's intercom buzzed, and he brusquely tapped the button that turned it on. He'd asked for no calls during his conversation with Pearly. "Yeah?" he growled.

  "Wing commander from Udorn's on the line with a message for you, General."

  "What the hell does he want that's so important?"

  "He says they're just now picking up a pilot named Anderson."

  A grin flickered, then began to grow on Lieutenant General Richard Moss's face. "Put him on!" he said jubilantly.

  Pearly Gates settled back into his seat, listening in and feeling that maybe it wasn't such a terrible day after all.

  0945 Local—Medical Dispensary, Udorn RTAFB, Thailand

  Major Lucky Anderson

  An unmarked chopper had picked them up at Point Zulu the previous afternoon to fly them to a small camp in eastern Laos. The dirt runway and the camp were maintained by a Special Forces A-Team whose medic fussed over Sergeant Black's wound and Lucky's feet. But it was the cook who'd been most popular, for he'd fed them hot meals without rice.

  From there Lucky was to return to the care of the Air Force at Udorn, while Black and his crew waited for an Air America C-123 to airlift them to the Special Forces headquarters camp at Nakhon Phanom, a small base 130 miles due east of Udorn.

  "We've got fresh watermelon at NKP," Sergeant Black had said. "You can't imagine how good that watermelon tastes, Major. You ever get there, try it."

  The entire Hotdog team had gathered when the big Jolly Green helicopter landed, and watched the paramedic hurry out to help Anderson board. Lucky had started forward with him, then went back to shake hands again and pour out more effusive praise for Sergeant Black and his men. The NVA renegades had grinned awkwardly. Black said to forget it.

  "In fact," he'd said with an eye trained directly on Lucky's, "please forget it."

  Several times he'd told Lucky to develop amnesia about Hotdog and their participation in his rescue. Black felt if certain American politicians even suspected they operated inside North Vietnam, their activities would be curtailed. He'd intimated that Lucky was not the first fighter jock to be pulled out by a Special Forces team, but if word got out, he'd surely be the last.

  He'd prompted Lucky to say his Thud had made it to the western mountains before he'd bailed out, and he'd stayed with friendly mountain tribesmen before being picked up by the Jolly Green. Sergeant Black had described the Ma tribe so his narrative would ring true.

  Lucky said he'd stick to the story, no matter who asked.

  To make his story credible, at 0550 the Jolly Green helicopter had landed at the Laotian camp, then ferried him directly to Udorn Air Base, where they landed at the helo pad beside the base medical clinic.

  The doctors at Udorn made a fuss over him, worrying about his lack of nutrition and his mental state, even though he kept telling them it was his feet that were bothering him.

  "They'll heal," said a flight surgeon who wore thick glasses and a worried expression.

  Lucky was x-rayed in ever
y conceivable position, donated copious amounts of blood and numerous urine and fecal samples, and was told he'd likely contracted every bug known and unknown to man. They fed him, gave him a massive shot of penicillin, and told him he'd be med-evacuated to Clark Air Base in the Philippines.

  He told the doc he had to make a telephone call.

  "I don't know," said the worried flight surgeon.

  Lucky gave him a conspiratorial look. "It's a matter of national security," he whispered. "There's a VIP at the Bangkok embassy, who must hear what I've got to say."

  The flight surgeon relented, but he accompanied him as a hospital tech wheeled him down the hall and into the admin office.

  Lucky had the command post patch him through to the USAID office in the Bangkok embassy. While he waited for them to connect him with Linda, he turned his meanest glare toward the corpsman and the flight surgeon, who looked on with mounting interest.

  "Dammit, it's sensitive information," he said ominously, and they reluctantly left.

  She answered.

  "Hi, lady."

  A long pause.

  "Paul?" Her voice was breathless.

  "You got any vacation time built up?" he asked her.

  "Oh my God! Paul!"

  "They're flying me to the Philippines for medical observation, and I figured . . ."

  She was crying. "Are you okay?"

  ". . . and I figured if I didn't invite you over there, you'd call me a snake again."

  When he finished a few minutes later, he felt much better about himself and a lot of things. He yelled out, and the hospital tech came in and wheeled him out of the office and back down the hall toward the examination room. Then a staff sergeant came out and nabbed them.

  "You've got a call from the wing commander at Takhli," the sergeant said.

  He was wheeled back to the same telephone, and this time they knew to leave.

  Colonel Parker was happy as hell that he'd made it out of North Vietnam, and happier yet when Lucky told him he intended to return to Takhli after the doctors at Clark saw him.

  He made a request.

  Damn right he could take a couple of weeks' R and R to Hawaii before he reported back, said B. J. Parker.

  How're my men doing? asked Lucky about C-Flight.