by Mark Berent
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
1015 Hours Local, 13 September 1966
366th Tactical Fighter Wing
Da Nang Air Base, Republic of Vietnam
Court Bannister sat in the plain plywood paneled office of Major Ronald E. Bender, weapons officer for the 366th Tactical Fighter Wing. They had known each other since pilot training days when they shared the same T-6 instructor, Jan Helfrich, at Columbus, Mississippi. At the time, Court had been an aviation cadet and Bender, a Naval Academy graduate who opted for the Air Force, a second lieutenant. Later, they had gone through the F-86 fighter upgrade program at Nellis together.
Both men greeted each other with pleasure.
"I've been hearing good things about you," Bender said. "Jack Ward was through here on his way to R&R in Hong Kong and said you were tearing 'em up down there at Bien Hoa. Called you Crash Bannister. Said you were one of their top jocks and had the highest BDA."
"Did you expect anything less?"
"I suppose not, since I wasn't there to really show everybody how to do it." He grinned. "What about this `Crash' business?"
"Forget it, Bender. I brought in a Hun I should have jettisoned. Sprinkled it all over the runway. Jack was making a funny."
"Okay, Crashie," Bender said with a smirk, then looked serious. "Jack told me about Rawson. I hear 7th put him up for the Medal."
"Maybe so. I haven't heard. I guess by the books he deserves it. But he really was a dork."
"Saved your life, didn't he?"
"That he did. That's an action I'll accept from anybody, even dorks." Court pulled down his left sleeve zipper and took out his cigarettes and lighter. He offered one to Bender.
"No thanks," Bender said. He tilted his gray steel chair back against the plywood.
"I've got a bird lined up for us for several missions starting this afternoon," he said. "It just has tanks and the 20mm pistol so we can look around some and not be fragged on a target. You must rate, the authorizing TWX came in with a lot of horsepower behind it."
Bender grimaced at the smoke from Court's cigarette. Court stubbed it into the prominently displayed Number 10 can painted fire engine red.
"Here's the scene," Bender said, standing up in front of several aeronautical charts taped to a wall. He pointed to a dark line dividing North and South Vietnam. "That's the Demilitarized Zone, the DMZ. It was established by the Geneva conference in 1954 as the zone of demarcation between North and South Vietnam when the French pulled out. Most people think it's set at the 17th parallel, the truth is it's actually the Ben Hai river running east and west. U.S. policy forbids ground or artillery attacks into it so naturally the NVA has moved heavy artillery, rockets, and about four hard core divisions into the southern half." Ron Bender paused.
"Now," he said, "comes the Pentagon mess. It seems our illustrious Air Force and Navy leaders cannot agree to have all the air strikes in North Vietnam come under a single manager. So, they have divided North Vietnam into six different areas called Route Packages which are split up between the USAF and the Navy." Bender moved his finger along the outline of North Vietnam.
"Pack One starts here at the DMZ and runs north for about sixty miles, then further north are Two, Three, Four, and Five. The Hanoi area is split into Six Alpha, which the USAF is responsible for, and Six Bravo which the Navy has. The USAF has Packs One and Five, in addition to Six Alpha. The Navy has the rest. Of course, this means there isn't always a combined effort against Uncle Ho. Targets for all North Vietnam except Pack One come from the President to CINCPAC who assigns them to 7th Air Force or the Navy's Task Force 77 on carriers off the coast. Missions in Pack One and Laos can be fragged by 7th Air Force at Tan Son Nhut."
"That means without presidential approval we can't fast FAC anything other than Pack One and Laos," Court said.
"That's right," Bender agreed. He pointed at the outlines of the heavily traveled supply roads from Hanoi and Haiphong that exited North Vietnam into Laos via the mountain passes at Mu Gia and Ban Karai in Pack One, code-named Talley Ho. "Since we can't hit the rail lines that came south out of China or the seaport at Haiphong or even completely take out the marshalling yards near Hanoi, we have to go after the trucks as they come down these roads in Pack One and through the passes into Laos. The code name for that whole panhandle area of Laos is Steel Tiger. The public doesn't know we are hitting there."
"I had no idea it was this screwed up," Court said.
"Yeah," Bender said. "You Hun drivers down there in the Delta had it easy." He walked toward the door. "Let’s go aviate so I can show you some of the big stuff. I filed our call sign as Snoopy."
1330 Hours Local, 13 September 1966
F-4 From Pack One to Mu Gia Pass
Royalty of Laos
They were over the dusty brown roads that headed south along the coast and then west through the scrub jungle of Pack One toward Mu Gia and Ban Karai passes through the Annamite mountain chain into Laos. They made several high speed runs at 3,000 feet jinking across the roads drawing heavy fire that widened Court's eyes. From the backseat of the F-4 he was trying to note the position and intensity of the bursts.
"How do you tell the type?" he asked Bender in the front cockpit.
"By the burst color and size. You saw the ‘23s--they go off never over nine thou with a string of white puffs. The ‘37s you just saw, they're kind of a reddish-white burst. The ‘57s are orange in black, and the 100 mils are red in black, you never forget that. And of course a SAM is a big white, fire-farting telephone pole shot at you. Their warhead is 286 pounds."
"Do you really count the bursts?"
"Naw. You don't have the time or eyeballs to spare. After fifteen or twenty bursts you just sort of estimate by groups of twenty or so."
They plunged down the roads at even lower altitudes to log the ground fire response. That night it took Court a long time to compose his first TWX to DOCB at Tan Son Nhut. He said in his final paragraph that speed and movement was the key to survival. Dunne's answering TWX let Court know that he wasn't interested in survival methods, just ground fire position, rate, and accuracy.
The missions over the next few days went by in a blur of sweat and jinking and heavy ground fire. The six-gun 57mm pits directed by radar were the worst, they agreed. Each plane they flew had to go into the hanger for battle damage repair. Each crew chief let them know he was mightily pissed that his airplane was holed without causing any hurt on the bad guys. Whatever this Snoopy stuff was, they said to each other at the NCO Club, it was sure tearing up airplanes. Court's TWXs became shorter. He listed only position, rate, and accuracy. He did place addendums on his info TWXs to the 37th at Phu Cat listing the survival methods he and Bender were developing. The 37th DO phoned in his thanks.
One afternoon, before their final mission, Bender said he was going to show Court exactly what the Russian SA-2 Guideline SAM with a 286 pound warhead was like. Bender explained how the F-4 could protect itself from SAMs by using the Radar Homing and Warning gauges, the RHAW gear, as he called it.
"When you eyeball your first SAM rising," Bender said with a knowing smile, "your sphincter will up and grab your Adam’s apple."
"Ten o'clock," Court yelled two hours later, his adam's apple suddenly enlarged, "I've got a lock-on at ten o'clock." They were just east of Quang Khe at 35,000 when Court saw the lights on the RHAW dial in the rear cockpit.
"Rodge," said Ron Bender in a far less excited voice, "take a look out the window."
Court looked out and down to where Bender dipped the wing low to the left. He saw a long white smoke trail leading from a cloud of dust on the ground to an orange trail of fire. He could barely make out the shape of the rising missile. His bowels jumped as his buttocks involuntarily clenched.
"The whole trick is seeing 'em," Bender said, "let them get close, then do a flight maneuver they can't follow. Those little stubby wings are just guide vanes. There's not much lift at all."
When the SAM was in position Bender faked it down th
en he pulled hard on his F-4.
"Watch the SAM," Bender grunted through teeth clenched against the brutal load.
"Shit, I lost it. I can't turn my head," Court grunted back, his head almost to his knees, helmet twisted, "You racked it so hard I'm looking into my headset."
Six seconds later they heard and felt the muffled explosion as the SA self-destructed when its fuzing said it had lost its target.
This time the crew chief was really pissed. His airplane had twelve holes and was starting to leak.
"It's unusual," the intelligence debriefer said, "for that SAM site at Quang Khe to come against just one airplane. You say you made no passes. Were you ever in a position where it looked like you were going to make an ordnance pass?"
"No, not at all," Bender said with some impatience. "Like I told you, it must have been an inadvertent firing or a new guy on a practice shot. You got to realize the gomers make mistakes, too. They're not ten feet tall and their equipment can screw up just like ours."
The Intel officer looked unimpressed. "We have to make just the opposite estimation," he said, "because there is no way we know which SAM site or gun pit is in a training status or has faulty equipment or error-prone gunners."
"Maybe so," Bender said, "but when I run across a bad gunner, one that shoots too early or too late, or has bad aim, I don't kill him. His replacement might be better."
"Major Bender, if you are that discerning when multiple guns come up, you've got to be the coolest man alive."
"Wellll..."
0915 Hours Local, 18 September 1966
F-4 En route from Mu Gia Pass to Da Nang
Republic of Vietnam
That morning, after several hairy runs through the passes at Mu Gia and Ban Karai into the Steel Tiger section of Laos, Bannister and Bender were checking in with Panama for final radar clearance to Da Nang when a new voice cut in.
"Hey Snoopy, this is Trot 11. You read?"
"Trot 11, got you loud and clear."
"Snoopy, we got a little problem here. You're close to Da Nang. How about a joinup and look us over. I'm on the 352 radial for 40 miles off Channel 77 at flight level 340." The second Trot 11 said he had problems, the air was full of transmissions, some blocking others.
"Trot 11, Panama. Are you declaring an emerg..." Panama was a ground radar site.
"Trot 11, this is Crown on Guard, are you declaring an emergency?" Crown was the call sign for an orbiting rescue coordinating aircraft.
"Trot 11, Snoopy, we'll find you. Panama, give Snoopy a vector to Trot 11."
"Trot 11, Crown on Guard. Come up 256.4, repeat, 256.4."
"Negative, Partner. Can't switch frequencies. Radio's acting up."
"Snoopy, Panama, Steer 142 for 10 to Trot 11."
"Snoopy copies."
"Let’s stroke the burner and catch those guys," Court said on the intercom to Bender.
"Rog. Just be ready to land from a flameout pattern,” Bender said as he moved the throttles outboard. "God, the radio goes ape with all these guys trying to help."
When Bender reached 600 knots he came out of burner. He looked at the fuel gauge and did some rapid calculations. "We've only got twelve more minutes and that's only if we stay at altitude until we're right over the field."
"Hey, over there at ten o'clock," Court said. "We've got a smoker." The two pilots saw a lone F-4 trailing a thin wisp of white smoke. Bender maneuvered into a position just off its right wing. "I'll fly, you handle the radio," he told Court. The plane, a Marine F-4B with Chu Lai markings, was steadily losing altitude.
"Trot 11, Snoopy here on your right wing."
"Rog, Snoop. Check me for battle damage, will you, Partner?"
Bender slowly slid their F-4 under and around the crippled airplane then maintained a parallel position off its left wing. Court transmitted.
"Trot, you've got smoke coming out of some holes underneath your forward electronics bay."
"Thanks, Partner. I thought it was getting a bit warm in here. Did you know you've got a few holes in your own rudder? They look clean."
"Everything looks okay on the gauges up here," Bender said on the intercom.
"Must have been that zipper at Mu Gia," Court said back to him, then transmitted to Trot 11. "Okay, thanks."
"Just thought you'd like to know, Partner...oh shit, our hydraulics are even lower now and we just lost our TACAN. What's the heading and distance to 77?"
Court checked his navigation instrument. "Hold 170 for 30," he said, "you're doing great." Then he saw a trickle of flame from underneath. They were down to 14,000 feet where the oxygen content was higher allowing flames to ignite.
"Okay, Trot. You just got some fire now," Court said as Bender slid twenty feet away from the burning airplane.
"Yeah, Partner. We might just have to leave...oh, oh. Just lost a few more pounds of flight control pressure." Bender slid another twenty feet off to the side. A burning airplane with control problems can explode or suddenly roll in any direction to collide with whatever is in the way.
"Trot, you got a long trail of fire under there, now. Look, we're over good guy territory. Best you punch," Court said.
"Crown, Panama. We've got a fix."
"Trot 11, Crown. Are you going to eject?"
"Well, Partner, guess we'll have to. I'll have my backseater go out here over land then I'll get this beast out over the water where it won't hurt anybody when I step out."
Bender and Court followed the burning Marine F-4B as it turned east toward the South China Sea just a few miles away.
"We're down to five minutes, Court," Bender said about their fuel situation.
"We got to stay with these guys," Court said.
"Yeah, I know. You want to bail out in formation with them, too?"
The rear canopy of the Trot 11 aircraft suddenly flew off and the backseater was rocketed out in his ejection seat. Court looked back and saw the figure separate from the seat then jerk upright as the canopy blossomed open.
"Trot 11 Bravo's out with a good chute. Trot 11 Alpha is still in the bird," Court transmitted, then looked at the front cockpit. It was gushing flame with blowtorch intensity. Bravo was the backseater, Alpha in front.
"Trot, get out, get out, GET OUT," he yelled over the radio.
"Christ, yes," Bender said. "When that back canopy went, it created a terrible fucking draft into the front cockpit." They heard Trot 11's mike button key.
"Can't...can't..." they heard the pilot's tortured voice, "ahhhhHHHH GOD..."
The plane slowly nosed down. Bender and Bannister followed until it impacted in a great spray of water just off the beach north of Da Nang.
"Snoopy, Crown. Did Trot 11 Alpha get out?"
"Negative, Crown," Court transmitted, "he went in with his airplane. Give us a snap vector to Da Nang. We're on fumes."
"Steer 185 Snoopy. Can't you cap the backseater?"
Bender broke in. "Shit no, we'd fall on him."
Court twisted in his seat to look back. "There's an A-4 circling the chute," he told Crown.
"Okay guys, go home," Crown said. "One down is enough this afternoon." Then on Guard channel Crown called: "A-4 circling the chute north of Da Nang, this is Crown on Guard. Come up 256.4."
Bender switched to Da Nang Tower and got permission for a straight in landing. During the postflight inspection they found the two holes in the rudder. The crew chief said it didn't look as if anything vital was hit and he'd have it repaired by morning.
Court and Bender debriefed with Intel and gave them all the Trot 11 information they could. The Intel officer said Trot 11 Bravo had been picked up by a Jolly Green Rescue helicopter. Then the two pilots went to the wall map and retraced the route they had taken. When Bender was satisfied Court had absorbed and played back all the gun and route information he could absorb, he called it a day. He looked at the clock above the map.
"Damn near seven. Let’s fold it. Go write your TWX. I'll meet you at the O’ Club at eight.
" They never spoke of Trot 11 again.
A large sign, supported on three-inch bamboo poles, proclaimed the low wood-and-screen building painted dull green to be the DOOM CLUB, known by its acronym for Da Nang Officer's Open Mess. A silly journalist had written that the name was the product of the pilot's fatalistic frame of mind brought about by the rigors of combat.
After that, the F-4 jocks told any newsie dumb enough to listen that the heaviest casualties of the air war were caused by napalming beets and carrots, and cratering bridge approaches.
The B-57 jocks told tall tales of the doom pussy scratching at their canopies at night over the Trail.
The Marine A-4 jocks found sticking their fingers down their throats a more warranted and suitable response.
Inside, Bender's squadron mates waved them over and shoved two Budweisers at them. Bender made the introductions. Everyone wore his green bag flight suit.
"What brings you to Dang Dang by the Sea?" A tall captain asked.
Court, trying to preserve the security classification of his mission, said it was just for local orientation rides.
"You must be that Commando Sabre guy, the one working on the fast FAC program," the captain responded.
"The very one," Court said, eyebrows raised. "How did you know?"
"Some Hun jocks from the 37th at Phu Cat were in here the other day. They told us about it."
"So much for security," Court said.
"Security, HAH," the captain sneered. "No point in classifying anything. The gomers are tapped into all our nets. Those that aren't got their sisters and cousins working here on base." He guzzled down half the beer from his can.
"Heard you're up from Bien Hoa. You know that guy that used to be there named Parker, Pistol Parker?" he asked.
"Pistol Parker?" Court said.
"Yeah, he really is, you know. He was in here with some Phan Rang guys, flying around with them in the back seat of an F-model. He's wild. He drinks a lot, throws beer cans around. He even tried to start a fight. That guy's a real pistol."
Later, over dinner in what passed for the dining room, Court brought up Toby Parker.
"Yeah, I heard about him," Bender said. "Killed some FAC, didn't he?"
"No, Goddamnit, he didn't kill some FAC. He saved a bunch of guys, in fact." Court told Bender about Parker. Bender pursed his lips.
"Well, I wasn't impressed. He was pretty wild here. We all get a bit wild, but with him it was different somehow." Bender was silent for a moment. "He wasn't having any fun, doing what he was doing, no fun at all".
After they ate, Bender led Court back to the bar for one more beer. It was nearly ten in the evening and they were both blinking with fatigue. The boisterous bar had calmed down now that many of the pilots had gone back to their hooches. Those with a 3 AM getup for Pack Six mission briefs had been the first to go. The rest, scattered in twos and threes at the bar and tables, were exhausted from their day's work. The Tijuana Brass on the Doom Club's sound system tooted to no avail. Court noticed the difference between the Da Nang club and that of Bien Hoa.
"You know," he said, as they walked back to the hooch in the dark, "I think you guys work harder up here than we do at Bien Hoa."
"Yeah, different airplane, different missions, and we get rocketed, too," Bender responded.
Court didn't mention the mortar attacks on Bien Hoa.
0700 Hours Local, 19 September 1966
F-4 over Route Pack One
Democratic Republic of Vietnam
By seven o'clock they were airborne on their last mission, a road recce south of Mu Gia Pass in Laos. They spotted many fleeting targets they could have destroyed if they had had strike birds on call. Court logged where they could fly at 1,500 feet and where they had to fly above 4,500 feet. All told as they sped up and down the road system, Court counted over 80 puffs of flak, mostly the white basketballs of 23mm. They finally pulled up and headed back to Da Nang.
"It's good for you to get shot at like this," Bender said, over the intercom.
"Yeah, I know. I have to log all this for the fast FAC stats."
"I mean in addition to that."
"Oh yeah? Why?"
"Keeps the adrenalin flowing, and that's good for your pecker."
"Whaaat?"
"Adrenalin makes you horny, everybody knows that. Then all that inflating and deflating of your pecker makes it a more useful tool."
"Bender, you are so full of crap, I don't see how you get airplanes off the ground."
The Club was half full with pilots drifting in for early lunch. Bender drew two coffees, sat at Court's table, and handed him two TWXs he had picked up. "I saw part of one. You've got a two-seater Hun due in."
Court picked it up and read that, indeed, an F-100F was due in from the 37th at Phu Cat. Tomorrow morning at 0900, as a matter of fact. In the back seat would be Jack Barnes, a FAC instructor from the 504th FAC School at Phan Rang. He was directed to fly three missions with Court to give him a preliminary FAC checkout. Under no circumstances was Captain Bannister authorized to direct strikes.
A second TWX, a nicer one, was from the DO at Phu Cat. It said that since one each Captain Courtland Edm. Bannister, FV 3021953, was authorized upon completion of the training missions to return Barnes to Phan Rang then ferry the F-100F he had to Clark Air Base in the Philippines for time-required depot maintenance. Once there, he was to wait three days and ferry another bird back. Court grinned. He recognized the message for what it was; a sneak R&R at Clark as a reward for his Commando Sabre missions.
Court and Bender met the F-100F the next morning. It came in with another F-model with an empty backseat to take the ferry pilot back to Phan Rang. Court's FAC instructor was a pleasant young lieutenant named Jack Barnes who had volunteered for FAC duty after 152 F-100 missions in South Vietnam. He had another 124 missions in the O-1E as a FAC.
They holed up in a corner in the Wing Headquarters main briefing room where Barnes gave Court the equivalent of two weeks of FAC ground school in two days. On the third and fourth day they flew with the Snoopy call sign in Pack One to Mu Gia and on the Trail into Laos where Court gave Barnes his first look at North Vietnam and Barnes gave Court some FAC techniques. Barnes said there wasn't much he could teach Court on recce flying, just what to look for on the ground like dust, tracks, turned leaves, different camouflage, or suspiciously new trees or bushes that indicated enemy troops, supplies, or trucks. The guns were self evident.
Then the temporary duty assignment was completed. Their time was up, the missions were flown, the reports were made, and the F-100F was due at Clark.
Court called down to 7th and pleaded with DOCB for another airplane to replace the one that had run out of time and to be allowed to start putting in strikes. He said he knew his areas well and where the guns and trucks were. Negative, DOCB had told him. Snoopy operations would not commence until such time as the concept was approved by 7th AF, MACV, CINCPAC, and the CSAF. Then, and only then, would the full complement of airplanes and men be assembled at one base to perform on a full time, daily basis. Tentative plans were to run it out of Phu Cat under a Major George Day, using the call sign Misty.
"Okay, okay," Court had said when the major had run down, "just asking."
Court thought for a few minutes about the Clark trip, then spent a half hour getting Lieutenant Toby Parker, executive officer of the 504th Theater Indoctrination School, on the line.
"Hey, Toby, it's Court Bannister. Pack your gear and I'll take you to Clark for a few days."
"How did you arrange that?" Parker asked after a moment's hesitation. His voice sounded deep and measured.
Court explained where the F-100F came from. He said Toby would have to get a survival check and a backseat checkout so he'd be cleared per PACAF Regs for flight in a jet fighter. "I've done all that and even have a current altitude chamber card."
"How come?" Court asked, surprised.
"So I could fly F-100 missions with these guys. I've g
ot five now. The O-1E got a little slow. I also fly some missions with the helicopter people."
Court told him he was impressed and that he'd see him the next day. Toby said fine, and that he was sure he could get away.
Court spent the next two hours at the Mars station trying to get a ham radio hookup to Nancy Lewis in Los Angeles.
"Do you hear me?" he repeated several times after finally getting patched in. The static sounded like bacon frying.
"Oh, Court, I hear you. Are you all right?"
"Sure. Listen, I'll be at Clark Air Base Wednesday or so for a few days. How's your schedule? Can you be there? Hello? Hello?" The call faded, then just as suddenly came back.
"...leave tomorrow and I want so desperately to see...letters just not..." The connection faded. Court handed the microphone back.
"Sorry 'bout that, Sir," the Mars operator said, "sometimes these connections just zero out."
1915 Hours Local, 21 September 1966
Saigon, Republic of Vietnam
The black Mercedes 240D sped down rue Antoine, swerved sharply to miss two female bicyclists in flowing ao dais, and crossed an intersection barely missing two Honda motor bikes and a pedicab. The driver, Bubba Bates, pounded futilely on the horn ring on his steering wheel. The horn, as it had since the day after he bought the car, either made no noise or else gave a feeble and fading beep.
"Goddamn car," Bates said to himself, "paid seven grand green dollars and the frapping horn sounds like a butterfly fart. You can't trust those Goddamn East Indians worth spit." He dragged heavily on the soggy cigar in his mouth. It was a Cuban hand wrapped Corona Especial costing two dollars green. Bubba had two boxes, as a gift of good faith from the East Indian, who sold him the four thousand dollar Mercedes 240D for seven thousand. He did admit to himself it was a big Texas jump over that little French heap Alpha Airlines gave him to drive. So what if the horn didn't work. Another deal like what was coming up and he could buy three more, all brand new from the real Mercedes Benz dealer, not that pock-marked Indian dickhead.
Bubba squinted over the cigar smoke as he looked for the unobtrusive gate to Lim's villa. Dissipating black clouds of the late afternoon thundershower intensified gloom on the rue des Trois Fleurs, in the exclusive northeastern section of Saigon. Large villas with tile roofs crouched unseen behind tall barriers of brick and stone topped by broken glass and barbed wire. All the villas were guarded by privately hired armed men whose immunity from military draft was assured by a fee paid to a small man at a large desk in the Ministry Of Defense.
Bubba Bates spotted number 13/2 and honked impatiently to be let through the solid gate. The guards peered in the car, and waved him in.
A male servant in slapping sandals led Bubba across marble floors to a small teak-panelled room in the back of the house and bade him wait. Bates noticed they had passed by several larger and nicer rooms. Within moments, he heard approaching footsteps. He started to put his mashed cigar in a tall ceramic vase, thought better of it, made a pass at the pocket of his white sport shirt, and put it in the pocket of his black trousers.
"Mr. Bates," Lim said, extending a hand thin and withered. Bates grabbed at it with both paws as if fearful it would fly away. He grinned and pumped. Lim's arm moved in jerks within the wide sleeve of his silk vestment.
"Mr. Lim, a pleasure. A real pleasure to see you again. And you too, General." He extended his hand.
"God rot it, Bates, don't call me by my rank," the general, a sparse American, said. He wore tan slacks and a short sleeved white shirt open at the throat. "I told you that. You want this arrangement to continue, you go by the rules. Call me John, that's all you need to know." Bubba Bates lowered his hand when the general made no move to shake it. When the general moved his hand, Bates raised his in expectation, but quickly put it down when the general reached for his rear pocket and pulled out a handkerchief into which he sneezed heavily several times.
"God rotted allergy," he said. He sniffed, examined the contents, and put the hanky back in his pocket. "I called you here because we are entering a new mode of logistics operation. We wish to increase our out-shipments and disperse more quickly what comes in."
Bates stepped back. "General, I mean John, I just can't add any more unmarked outbound suitcases, and it's already looking suspicious the unclaimed inbound bags that pile up in the luggage area. No, Sir, I can't…”
"Bates, you'll do as I tell you because if you don't, Mr. Lim will send some people to have a little chat with you. And I swear to you, they will feed you your balls one by one." Mr. Lim nodded, a thin smile moved his lips.
Bates swallowed. "Sir, I…”
"Shut up. Listen to me. From now on a courier will accompany the baggage on your planes to and from Bangkok. There will still be unmarked bags both ways, but he will be carrying two more in and out. It is your job, as usual, to see that they bypass inspections." The general retrieved his hanky and sneezed again.
Bates nodded his head. Bypassing inspections was the easiest part of the operation. He personally onloaded the bags with special tags on the ramp at Tan Son Nhut to be claimed by who knows at the Bangkok end. He had to personally supervise the offloading of luggage from the cargo hold of the Alpha Airlines DC-3s and DC-4s to intercept the inbound bags or packages that had distinctive markings. As to what was in the bags, he wasn't sure. He guessed, by the difference in weight, there was money going outbound and maybe jewels and drugs inbound.
One hundred dollars in green spread around the customs officials and ramp inspectors each week solved any security problems before they occurred. Soon, he knew, the price would go up. His had to, anyway. He was starting to run through his $250 per week too fast. Damned woman, he thought of Tui, if she hadn't run out on me I wouldn't spend so much chasing tail all over Saigon. He realized the general was talking.
"The passenger will always be a Caucasian male or female, not necessarily an American, who will ask you if you have any flights after 1500 on Sundays, which you do not. You merely say no, and take the usual precautions. Do you understand?"
Bates nodded. His mind already on Lim who produced a brown envelope from his robes. He tried not to look.
"Any flights after 3PM on Sundays," he said, already mentally counting the forty percent profit he could make with currency manipulation of the American dollars in the envelope.
"No, God rot it, 1500 military style, 1500." He rolled his eyes. "The first one will be around sometime next week. And this is the last time we meet. Things are getting bigger, now. Lim here will be your contact." With a sudden motion, he grabbed Bubba Bates by his shirt front and pulled him close. "Don't ever, repeat, don't you ever contact me for any reason. You got that loud and clear, Bates?"
Bubba nodded. The general spun and walked out. Lim gave Bubba Bates the package and escorted him to the door.
"Mr. Bates, it is always a pleasure to see you. We are very pleased with your work. You will find a little bonus of fifty dollars in the package. You may expect that each week from now on."
Bubba nodded. He could hear the rain beginning in the darkness beyond. Deep in the house he thought he heard a sneeze. He started out.
"Oh yes, one last thing," Mr. Lim said. "In the future, I will have a courier deliver your weekly package to your apartment. Please, it will be better if you do not come here again."
