Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)

by Tom Wilson

  Parker told him about what was going on with Manny DeVera.

  Lucky said he didn't believe it.

  There was the incriminating page from Lucky's steno pad dated July 29, B.J. said, that they were using as evidence.

  Lucky hesitated, confused, then thought he knew what Parker might be referring to. "What about the rest of the pad?"

  "I wasn't told about that," replied B.J. "I was told you gave the one page to Lieutenant Colonel Encinos in case you were shot down."

  "That's bullshit. I never gave the Bad Injin anything," said Lucky. "Ask him."

  "Colonel Encinos was hit by a SAM. He's KIA."

  "Well, the page you're talking about was from a steno pad in my bottom desk drawer, marked 'private.' I bought the pad myself and kept notes for my use only."

  Parker became quiet, which allowed Lucky to reflect further on what he'd written in the steno pad.

  "Not only that, Colonel," he said, "the entry on that particular page was about another guy, not about Manny DeVera." He paused, remembering more, then exploded. "Hell, it wasn't the same date or the same initial. What the hell's going on there?"

  "It said 'Captain D.' I read it myself," said Parker.

  "Then someone changed it. I wrote it and I remember it clearly. Anyway, I used an M when I wrote about Manny, not a D."

  "You sure of all that, Lucky?"

  "I'd stake my wings and my commission on it, as well as on Manny DeVera."

  "Thanks," said Parker with a heavy sigh. "You've just cleared something up." He paused for a moment longer. "You'd do that, wouldn't you?"

  "Do what?"

  "Stake your career on protecting your men."

  "That's part of taking the oath and accepting the commission, isn't it?"

  B.J. was quiet again. Finally, "Yeah, it is."

  "Where's Manny?" Lucky asked, his anger smoldering.

  "He's at Clark in the middle of a preliminary investigation. They're trying to set him up for a court-martial."

  Anger welled in Lucky's chest. "Who is they, sir?"

  B. J. Parker did not answer. He said only, "You're being sent to Clark?"

  "Yes, sir. They've got to wash some bugs out of my system and let my feet heal."

  "I'll call the JAG office there and have 'em hold things up until you've given them a written statement."

  Lucky's anger was reflected in his voice. "Colonel, we don't need this kind of shit while we're doing our best to fly and fight."

  Parker agreed. "Call me when you get to Clark. I've got something else to talk to you about, but it'll wait. And . . . welcome back, Lucky."

  As soon as Lucky had hung up the phone, the admin sergeant stuck his head into the doorway. A look of awe was registered on his face.

  "You've got a call from General Moss on line three, Major. He said to ask you where his damned six-pack was before I put you on the line."

  "Six-pack?"

  Then Lucky Anderson smiled as he remembered the bet the general had made with him and Benny over the 1,000-pounders.

  "While I'm talking to the general," Lucky said to the sergeant, "send someone over to the base exchange to get me a pack of cigars."

  "What brand, sir?"

  "Doesn't matter. Just get the biggest and best ones they've got."

  1115 Local—HQ 355th Tactical Fighter Wing, Takhli RTAFB

  Colonel B. J. Parker

  He was answering an admonishment from PACAF headquarters, this one about a poor rating given the base during a recent tidiness inspection, when he heard a rap on his door.

  Tom Lyons looked in, grinning. "You wanted to see me, B.J.?"

  Parker looked at him, watched as he slouched into the room and leisurely took a seat.

  Lyons spoke first. "I wanted to talk with you too. About the sloppy way the guys are debriefing after their missions. I feel . . ."

  "Don't call me B.J.," interjected Parker. "I don't like it."

  Lyons chuckled. "I understand. It's just that I've heard it so much from so many others, that I . . ."

  "And I don't remember asking you to sit down, Colonel."

  Tom Lyons blinked at him.

  "Stand up, goddammit!"

  Lyons slowly gained his feet, frowning.

  "About an hour ago I got off the phone with the vice commander at PACAF . . . ," started Parker.

  "I know the general. He . . ."

  "Dammit, Lyons!" raged Parker, pointing his finger. "Don't interrupt me."

  Lyons drew himself into a loose semblance of attention.

  B. J. Parker calmed himself before continuing. "I apologized for bringing up false charges against one of my men and asked him to pass my regrets to General Roman. Captain DeVera was not the person referred to on the page you gave me. The page was from a private notepad, and it had been altered."

  Lyons looked surprised. "Altered? What could make you think that?"

  "Major Paul Anderson was rescued this morning . . ."

  Lyons looked shocked. "I didn't hear about a rescue attempt."

  Parker glared at the interruption. ". . . and he told me about the steno pad."

  But Tom Lyons was too slick for that. He tried to look surprised. "Lieutenant Colonel Encinos handed that page to me just like I gave it to you. You say it was changed?"

  "For Christ's sake, Lyons. Don't try to lay the blame on a dead man who at least had the balls to fly up north."

  Lyons looked hurt.

  Parker shook his head sadly. "I put an innocent man through hell."

  "Perhaps not all that innocent, Colonel. There are the other dates in question regarding Captain DeVera."

  "It's over!" roared Parker.

  "Perhaps not," said Lyons slyly. "General Roman is very interested in the case. His aide told me . . ."

  "His vice commander called back ten minutes ago. General Roman feels this incident has embarrassed him, and that certain people let him down. You're one of them, Lyons."

  For the first time Lyons was speechless.

  "You seemed surprised that Major Anderson was rescued," said Parker.

  "It was just that he was up there for so long," Lyons said quickly. "I'm very happy for him, of course."

  "A few days ago some of the pilots came to me and told me you tried to suppress information about his possible location."

  "Jesus no. I wouldn't try to do that."

  "That's not what intell says. A lieutenant there claims you threatened to change the debriefing reports if they mentioned the signal flashes the aircrews saw."

  "I only said I wanted to review the report for accuracy, not change it."

  "Like a young captain told me a few days ago, that's bullshit. Anyway, I phoned the coordinates in to Saigon, and I hope to hell they were instrumental in helping find him."

  Lyons was slowly shaking his head, as if being done a terrible injustice.

  "Until I can get rid of you, Lyons, and hopefully that will not take long, I'm giving you new duties. I wish I could assign you to shoveling shit for some local farmer, but since that might be frowned upon, I'm making you special assistant to the base commander in charge of monitoring base cleanliness. By the way, Lyons, that was the suggestion of a three-star general who says he can guarantee you'll never get a better job."

  "Jesus, you want me to apologize, I will, but I didn't do anything wrong." Lyons was beginning to grovel, and it was an embarrassing thing to watch.

  "You did," said B.J. "You did some very wrong things, and I was foolish enough not to listen when others told me about them."

  Lyons's look turned shrewd. "Forget this, and I promise you'll never regret it. I believe I told you that my family has certain . . . political connections . . . which can help . . ."

  "Did you hit the girl, Lyons?" Parker interrupted.

  Lyons's mouth drooped. His silence answered the question.

  "Get the hell out of my office, and take your slimy political connections with you."

  Lyons's voice became shrill. "You can't do this! If you take
me down, your career will go with me."

  "Fuck my career. Now get the hell out of here."

  1245 Local—Ministry of Internal Affairs, Hanoi, DRV

  Assistant Commissioner Nguyen Wu

  The prisoner sat in the chair in the middle of the barren room, arms tied securely behind his back, eyes downcast and full of pain and sorrow. They'd done their jobs well. There were few visible marks from the all-night beating. Only the puddle of piss beneath the prisoner revealed anything truly amiss.

  The interrogator looked to Nguyen Wu with a question on his face.

  "Did he admit to plotting against the Republic?" asked Wu.

  The interrogator shrugged. "He confessed to everything on your list, comrade Colonel. It is all written down and properly signed."

  Nguyen Wu turned to the prisoner and shook his head. "Oh Quon, you lied to me," he chided. "You said you would die before confessing your son was a coward."

  The prisoner did not react.

  "What shall I do with you, old friend?"

  "Kill me," came a low response. The words were said pleadingly.

  "Do not be absurd. We only wish to determine the bad traits you have that must be changed during your reeducation."

  "Please."

  Nguyen Wu's voice changed to a low hiss. "You shall have no such satisfaction."

  He turned to go.

  "What next?" asked the interrogator.

  "Beat him until he waters his pants again," said Nguyen Wu, with a satisfied expression on his face.

  1930 Local—Field Grade Quarters, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Saigon

  Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates

  Pearly handled the pistol to become familiar with it. He did not like firearms and was nervous in their presence, but he wanted to do what he had to do properly. After great agonizing he could think of no other way to handle the problem. So many lives had been jeopardized by the man. If he lived, there might be others.

  Pearly wondered how he would handle his conscience after he'd done it. The Judeo-Christian upbringing General Moss had once referred to was strong in him. If he was successful in what he was about to do, he would always know he'd killed a man.

  No, not if he was successful. He had to be successful. The right thing must be done.

  He pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and methodically worked the action of the Colt M1911A1 .45 automatic. Sergeant Turner had told him it was a weapon commonly found in Saigon, for thousands had been provided to the ARVN. Sergeant Turner had asked no questions when he'd given it to him, but Pearly knew he was aware of what he would do with it.

  He let down the hammer, then inserted the clip with its seven rounds of ball ammunition. The bullets too were quite standard.

  Although Pearly would have liked to pass the awful task to another, he knew it must be done by himself. He was responsible for the tragedies, the airplanes and pilots. The buck stopped at his desk. Turner had understood and hadn't tried to dissuade him.

  He wore civvies, a light shirt and trousers, and a waterproof windbreaker to repel the predicted evening shower. He pushed the pistol into his waistband, checked to see that it was hidden under the jacket, and for the hundredth time he sighed.

  Knocking at the door.

  Master Sergeant Turner asked if he could come in.

  "He's run," said Turner.

  Pearly's heart pounded. "Where to?"

  "They don't know. He came out of the apartment at the same time a taxi was pulling up. He jumped in, and the driver took off like a scalded ape. They found the cab abandoned a few blocks away . . . empty."

  Pearly stared at him, feeling sick in the pit of his stomach, as if he were about to throw up.

  "I got my buddies looking, but it's going to be damned hard to find him, Colonel. Saigon's a big city and there's a million places to hide."

  Pearly felt miserable. He'd waited too long and O'Neil had escaped. His worst fears were coming true.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Tuesday, October 17th, 1000 Local—354th TFS Pilots' Lounge, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Captain Billy Bowes

  Bowes watched the last members of C-Flight enter the room and take their seats. Two of them still carried their in-processing papers. New guys, who'd have much to learn in their first few missions.

  He went to the fridge and fished around for a cold beer, found one and pried off the top.

  "C-Flight's all here," said Joe Walker.

  Billy walked to the table set up in front of the group and balanced a buttock on it as he took a swig of beer. It tasted cold and refreshing.

  "Once every week," he started, "we'll have these meetings. Not that I enjoy them or anything. I've got a hell of a lot of more important things to do with my time than hold meetings, but things change at a rapid rate here, so we'll meet and talk about what you can and what you can't do, and how to survive when you fly up in pack six."

  He looked out at them and felt a pang of protectiveness. They were a cross section of pilots you might find anywhere in the U.S. Air Force, but to him they were special. They were in his C-Flight, and he hoped he could keep them alive long enough to get a good start on their one hundred missions.

  "What's this I hear about all the restrictions?" growled a new captain.

  "There's so many, you'll want to puke," said Joe Walker.

  "We really have to follow them all?" asked the captain.

  "Last time I looked," said Billy Bowes pointedly, "the civilians still ran things in America. Yeah, we follow them all."

  The captain looked troubled by the answer.

  "What's this I'm hearing about Major Lucky?" asked Lieutenant Smith.

  "I heard the same rumor," said Billy. He looked out at the group. "Can't confirm or deny it, but there's word going around that our former C-Flight commander will be coming back as squadron commander."

  "Where's he been?" asked a new, very young captain.

  "He was shot down," said Joe Walker. "Hairiest mission I've been on yet."

  "You were there?"

  "I was flying his wing," Joe said proudly.

  Billy interrupted. "It's a long story, so you guys can talk about that tonight at the bar. Right now let's talk about flying combat. Let's start with introductions. I'm Captain Billy Bowes, and I came out of Air Training Command. I've got forty-two combat missions now, but I've still got a hell of a lot . . ."

  "Captain Bowes," Smitty interrupted, "was my IP at Moody, and he was the best flight instructor there. Now he's the best damned combat pilot at Takhli. You guys listen to him."

  1600 Local—TFWC/TAF, Nellis AFB, Nevada

  Major Benny Lewis

  Strangely, Moods became more subdued as his project's success grew closer.

  The preliminary testing had been completed, and his smart-bomb project, although one of the most classified in the Air Force, was capturing the attention he'd always felt it deserved. But with the attention came increased involvement of every headquarters puke inside and outside of their chain of command.

  The Air Force test-and-development centers at Eglin, Wright Patterson, and Edwards were scrambling for bigger pieces of the action, as were the Navy's centers at Patuxent and China Lake. Several times control of the project had almost been stolen away. Only the determination of TAC headquarters supporters and the 1A priority they'd given the project kept Moods Diller in the loop.

  Finally a compromise was reached. The Armament Lab at Eglin would take over the project immediately after combat testing, which Moods would supervise.

  Twelve LGB kits were being hand-built by the sole-source prime contractor, and Mk-84 bombs had been earmarked and were being diverted to Danang for the combat test.

  Moods Diller was convinced he was about to change the face of aerial combat. "One target, one bomb" was the way he put it. He'd get his chance to prove it when he accompanied his kits and bombs to South Vietnam within the month . . . precisely on the timeline he and Benny had roughed out together.

  T
hey talked about it Tuesday afternoon, as they began to wrap up the day's business.

  "I wanta become part of the fighter mafia," he told Benny.

  "Hell, Moods, you've been a part of it all along. There's no initiation rites."

  Moods raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, there is. It's called trust. I don't think I had that . . . before we made out that schedule and I showed everyone I could stick to it."

  "Maybe so, Moods. You've proved it works . . . so far." He grinned at him.

  Two more captains now worked for Benny, but they'd taken desks with the civilian number cruncher in another room, leaving Benny and Moods with more elbow space.

  One of the captains leaned into the doorway, saying, "The daily summary just arrived." Secret daily and weekly summaries were released by Seventh Air Force in Saigon, to keep Air Force units in other areas of the world abreast of what was happening in the war.

  "Anything new?" Benny asked.

  The captain referred to the summary in his hand. "Lost an F-100 yesterday in South Vietnam, but they got the guy out okay. Couple birds down up north. An F-4 crew was rescued, but they're still looking for a Thud jock. Supply traffic going to South Vietnam is down. Let's see. Oh, yeah. Some major was rescued up north after he spent a long time living with a mountain tribe. They mention a little about what it was like."

  Benny nodded, deciding he'd read it later.

  "What's the major's name?" asked Moods Diller.

  The captain flipped to the second page of the message. "Anderson, Paul C. Ander—"

  Moods whooped.

  "Let me see that!" Benny said.

  Sure enough, Major Paul C. Anderson had been recovered after spending two months in the jungle. The message described how he'd been taken in by a small, nomadic tribe in the western mountains of North Vietnam, and how his life with them had been primitive but relatively uneventful. The tribe would be rewarded with presents of pigs and goats.

  "I thought you said Lucky went down near Thud Ridge," said Moods.

  "That's what they thought, but truthfully I don't give a damn where he went down as long as they got him out."

  Moods Diller whooped again, and Benny joined his laughter, delighted about his buddy's rescue. They created such a racket that the others came in to see what was going on.