by Tom Clancy
Hanoi, Vietnam, May 7, 2000, 1500 Hours
The Military Committee of the Party had ordered all senior cadres to study diligently the lessons of the 1991 Gulf War. If the Americans, or even worse, the damned Chinese came again (they had attempted an invasion of Vietnam in 1979), the command-and-control centers of this nation would not be caught sitting around the capital waiting to be decapitated. The top-secret dispersal and evacuation plan was worked out in detail, but the details were changed at random intervals, and there were never any practice exercises, to reduce the risk that a high-level defection could fatally compromise the plan.
The first lesson of the 1991 Persian Gulf War for the leadership of bandit nations was that underground bunkers were a trap. They would be pinpointed by satellite reconnaissance, targeted, and smashed by precision-guided penetrating bombs. So the Party would take refuge in the vast network of natural caverns that abounded in the mountains north and west of the city. Centuries of bat droppings were cleared out, and carefully camouflaged remote antennas for French-built spread-spectrum cellular phone systems were installed; but otherwise, preparations were kept to a minimum, and no road construction was permitted in the vicinity of the cave entrances.
Following the incident between the frigates and the 366th’s A+ Package, the UN Security Council voted another resolution, this one designating the Hanoi regime as an outlaw government and authorizing the use of force. When word of this was received from the Vietnamese delegation in New York, the leadership evacuation plan was activated. The plan was executed so smoothly that the foreign diplomatic and journalistic community in Hanoi never got a hint that anything was amiss until virtually the entire Party and Government structure had vanished from the city. Thus it came about that elderly members of the Central Committee found themselves being winched down in darkness from rickety old Mi-8 HIP helicopters through the forest canopy and into tiny clearings, where National Security Force guards led them to underground hideouts connected by comm links that were difficult to intercept and almost impossible to jam.
The White House, Washington, D.C., May 7, 2000, 1800 Hours
“Mitch, I’m going to have to fulfill a few legal obligations to make this enforcement business happen the way you and the UN Security Council want it done,” the JCS Chairman said to the National Security Advisor in his office.
“What might those be, Jack?” the National Security Advisor asked coyly.
“I’m talking about assassination, Mitch. Not that it’s illegal; but we do have to do some paperwork to make it all nice and okay. Especially the part about a signed Presidential National Security Finding showing that the continued existence of the Hanoi regime is a clear threat to the security and safety of the region,” replied the annoyed JCS Chairman.
“Will this do?” said the NSC Advisor, handing the big Marine a leather binder with the seal of the President on it. The JCS Chairman looked it over carefully, taking his time as he flipped through the pages. He stopped abruptly when he reached the last page with the signature blocks.
“Nice touch having the Speaker of the House and the President Pro Tem of the Senate endorse it . . . makes it all nice and bipartisan,” the general observed.
“We thought it would add a certain moral conviction to the effort, especially since most of the veterans killed at the Caravelle were from the senator’s home state,” replied the National Security Advisor. “It just took some time to staff it through the Justice Department and the UN Security Council. Everyone wants to keep this most nasty of actions as tidy as possible. If, of course, your folks at the 366th can make it happen.”
The 366th Wing Tactical Operations Center, RTAFB U-Tapao, Thailand, May 8, 2000, 2200 Hours
“All right, Bob,” Brigadier General Jack Perry, the 366th’s commander and the resident JFACC of the UN-sponsored action, said, “give us a rundown on operations to date.”
“Yes sir,” the colonel commanding the Operations Center said. “We’ve been running no-fly operations in the southern part of Vietnam for two days now, and we seem to have things under control so far. The light grays”—F-15Cs—“from the 390th have gotten an even dozen MiG kills so far, and VNPAF air activity outside their borders has virtually ceased. Also, the movement of Vietnamese units and supplies from the north has slowed greatly, and they have a backup of trains going from Hue back through Thanh Hoa to Hanoi.”
“How about troop movements headed south?” the commander asked.
“Well sir, that’s not so good,” the colonel observed. “Satellite photos show large formations of light troops moving south on foot, with most of them headed for Mu Gia Pass and the old Ho Chi Minh Trail routes. National estimates make their numbers at approximately fifty thousand, in four identifiable divisions. They appear to have nothing heavier than personal weapons, and there are very few vehicles supporting them. Looks like a modern-day version of the Long March. They’ll be through the pass and on the trail in less than a week. After that, you’re going to have one nasty civil war down south.”
“Just wonderful!” observed General Perry. He then asked the logistics chief, “And what happy news do you have for me, Harry?”
Lieutenant Colonel Harry Carpenter looked down at the notes on his laptop computer and began to speak. “Sir, the last elements of the C-Package arrived this afternoon. The Bones from the 34th will start mining operations of all northern harbors, rivers, and estuaries tonight. It will take about two nights to get them closed off. The UN posted the warning to navigators right after the embargo resolution was passed, and Lloyds threatened to pull the coverage from any ship still in harbor after 0000 local time tonight. The B-1Bs will start laying the eggs around 0400 local tomorrow, with activation in forty-eight hours.”
“How about escorts and ROE?” the general inquired.
“Per your orders, sir,” the lieutenant colonel replied, “no bomber shall drop any mine without logging it with a PY-code GPS receiver supplying the position. Also, each B-1B will be escorted by an F-15C loaded for air superiority and an F-16C with HARMs and HTS for defense suppression, if required. For tonight at least, the dark grays over at the 391st will do the no-fly job for us until that’s done.” He took a long breath and continued. “As for supplies and reinforcements, there’s good news coming. Our old friends, the 8th FS from the 49th Wing at Holloman AFB, have just arrived this evening with twelve F-117s to help out with our leadership hunting, should that work out. In addition, we’ve been getting little bits and pieces of other things, like two RC-135 Rivet Joints to help out with the SIGINT problem. We also got two more E-3Cs from Tinker, to help out the three we already have. The first of the French and British fighters will arrive in about six days, as soon as they can get their tanker support settled. As for logistics, the first of the propositioned ships will arrive tomorrow, so we can stop sweating ordnance and fuel supplies. The Alert Brigade of the 82nd Airborne and 7th Marine Expeditionary Brigade are standing by to help with the peacekeeping duties, if there ever are any. They’ll bring elements of MAW-3”—Marine Air Wing Three—“and the 23rd Wing at Pope AFB if they ever arrive.” He gave a rueful smile at that, knowing that things were not going well in the area they were about to discuss.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” General Perry announced, “lets get down to cases. What the hell happened to the enemy leadership, our designated center of gravity? Where are our damned targets? I want some dammed DMPIs, and I want them now! I’m listening. I’m waiting for an answer.” The young brigadier had been under heavy stress already, and was now seriously irritated by a stupid tropical rash he had picked up in this hellhole, by the disappearance of the North Vietnamese national leadership, and by the dumb stares of his bright young intelligence officers. Had he been more of a screamer, he might have enjoyed a late night snack of lieutenant’s butt on rye. But now, all he wanted was a target set for his Strike Eagles to hit.
FIVE hours later, the general was awakened in his hooch by the Operations Chief and Major Goldberg, a par
ticularly disheveled-looking officer, even for an intelligence weenie. After rising and turning the overworked air conditioner to its maximum setting, the general sat down across a small table from the two officers and said, “This had better be good.”
Goldberg pushed a book across the table. The paper binding was yellowed and stained, and the edges of the pages were ragged. It was in French:
LES CAVES DE TONKIN,
INVESTIGATIONS PRELIMINAIRES GEOLOGIQUES,
ARCHAEOLOGIQUES ET ZOOLOGIQUES, 1936
“What the hell is this, Major. I don’t speak Frog,” the General snarled, realizing he would have to stop saying that when their French coalition partners arrived.
“The Caves of Tonkin, sir. Back in the thirties, a French geographer named DuBois did a thorough exploration of the karst caverns near Hanoi. I figured that’s where they might be hiding their command and control infrastructure, so I called . . . an . . . old friend in Paris. She tracked this down for me. Please be careful with the fold-out maps in the back, sir. The paper is kind of brittle, but they’re better than anything that NRO, DMA, or USGS could come up with.”
The general picked up the book, leafed through it, and unfolded the first map as carefully as he would have treated the original manuscript of the Constitution. After two hours of study with Goldberg translating—as the first rays of sunlight began to light the eastern sky—he handed it back, almost reverently. “Get this all translated, and get the maps digitized and correlated to our datum references. Also, get access to someone who’s an expert on the geology of limestone karsts. Now. That means right now, Major!”
A sigh of relief passed around the room. “We got ’em,” the three officers muttered simultaneously. As the trio broke up, another thought about the French came to Major Goldberg, and he decided to make another phone call.
U-Tapao Royal Thai AFB, May 9, 2000, 2300 Hours
The twelve F-117s lifted off from U-Tapao, topped off their tanks from a pair of 22nd ARS KC-135Rs well out of radar coverage, and headed northeast. Through their FLIR imaging equipment, not a few pilots looked down on Thud Ridge, the karst finger pointed southeast towards Hanoi, which had guided their fathers and grandfathers in daylight on their own missions “downtown.” But this was a different time, and the new USAF preferred to fight at night, when the optically aimed AAA batteries were largely useless. One of their targets was the Paul Doumer Bridge, proof that at least one colonel who had experienced the Vietnam War on the CBS Evening News had a sense of humor. The mission was to turn Hanoi into a darkened, isolated city, and do it in a single night. The whole purpose of the mission was deception, albeit deception with highly desirable effects. The missiles were still there, the SA-2s and -3s from the 1970s, and a few newer systems were in place, bought from Russia or cash-strapped clients of the now-defunct Soviet Union. Hanoi thought it still had a formidable air-defense system, remembering how many American aircraft had fallen in its rice paddies. Indeed, there was a large museum of such trophies. It is often said that countries prepare to fight the last war. But in the case of Hanoi, the war they planned to fight was two wars back.
Two hours later, the lieutenant colonel flying the lead Nighthawk looked with satisfaction on the image of the Paul Doumer Bridge as he began his attack run. A generation earlier, at the dawn of the age of precision guided weapons, his father had led a flight of four F-4Ds with Paveway I LGBs against this same bridge. Now he was flying serenely over Hanoi, with not a shot flying up at him, lining up on the same structure his dad had nearly died for exactly twenty-seven years ago this day. His target was a bridge piling, which provided structural support for the center of the bridge, in the deepest part of the Red River channel. The two GBU-27/Bs with their BLU- 109/B warheads dropped accurately and hit the target with a pair of huge explosions. When the FLIR screen cleared, he smiled at the result. On either side of the piling, the bridge was down, like a giant V into the river. The piling itself looked as if it had been chopped off by a meat cleaver, the support tower having been completely destroyed. It would be a while until this link in the Hanoi-Hue railroad would be fixed.
Ten seconds after his bombs hit, he saw the flash off to his right of two more LGBs taking out the air defense command center at Gia Lam Airfield. Seconds later, the Party headquarters went up. Other targets went up as well. The thermal power plant took two GBU-27/Bs into the foundation of the turbine room, throwing the delicate mechanisms out of alignment, tearing them apart like lunatic pinwheels from hell. In all, ten targets in the Hanoi area went up in a matter of just three minutes. Meanwhile, two additional F-117s took out the “Dragon’s Jaw” Bridge at Thanh Hoa and the hardened Vietnamese II Corps command post at Hue. As the city went dark and panic erupted among the junior officers and bureaucrats left behind to supervise the functions of the government, the real targets of tonight’s strike began to pay the price for their arrogance.
The Caves of Tonkin, Northwest of Hanoi, May 10, 2000, 0055 Hours
The rule was that nothing would go into the caves that could not be hand-carried to the entrance on a narrow footpath. Six champion athletes of the People’s Army had the honor of carrying the 300 kg./660 lb. steel blast door almost 10 miles/16.3 km. from the nearest road. The engineers calculated that it would withstand the overpressure from any conceivable near-miss by a conventional weapon, and it was located far enough down a twisting passage that any guided weapon would have to be as agile as a Habú to negotiate the two right-angle turns. The Sergeant of the Guards at the entrance to the blast door was startled when he turned and saw the Defense Minister, General Truong Le, standing before him. “Comrade General, you cannot go outside.”
“Comrade Sergeant, they won’t let me smoke down there. I appeal to your fraternal revolutionary spirit. Take pity on an old man who is dying for a cigarette.”
The general had been a recruit in Giap’s army at Dien Bien Phu. He had led a battalion in the bitter street fighting in Hue during Tet. He had commanded a division during the final liberation of the South in 1975, then a corps on the Chinese border during the 1979 war with their hated Chinese neighbors. He might be Chief of Staff for the People’s Army of Vietnam, but he was still close to his peasant roots. A big man by Vietnamese standards, he lived simply, and had refused to use political influence to get his sons cushy jobs in the Party. The soldiers loved him. His request was a breach of discipline, but the general and the sergeant stepped outside the cave entrance together into the cool night air for a smoke, carefully closing the blast door behind them. This ensured that they would be the only survivors of what was about to happen.
THE two RC-135 Rivet Joint aircraft were working with a C-130 Hercules equipped with a Senior Scout clip-on SIGINT system to isolate the final locations of what were now being called “the leadership caves” from the minute emissions of the French-supplied cellular phone equipment used for their communications. The idea had come to Major Goldberg when he remembered a small notice he had seen on an Internet newsgroup several months before about a French firm in Toulon selling several million francs’ worth of satellite cellular equipment to the Vietnamese government. He talked the situation over with the newly arrived French liaison officer, sent ahead to scout for the squadron of Rafale fighters that was due to arrive in three days. A phone call was made to the electronics firm and the company controlling the satellite cellular service contract for the Vietnamese. After finding out that the service had been almost unused until a few days earlier, and exactly what frequencies the phones transmitted on, it was a simple matter to have one of the NSA SIGINT satellites identify a rough location for the cellular activity.
The three aircraft refined their positions, then handed them off, via their own MILSTAR satellite links, to an inbound strike force of 366th Wing aircraft. The Vietnamese leadership was in the 366th’s sight, and the gun was cocked.
General Perry was flying this one himself in his own F-15E Strike Eagle, known as Wing King. Tonight’s mission had it flying at 16,000 feet/4,876.
8 meters, loaded with four GBU-24/B penetrating 2,000lb./ 909.1 kg. bombs. He had ordered a maximum effort for this evening’s mission, and the maintenance chiefs had done themselves proud, getting sixteen of the complex birds into the air. The real kudos, though, had to go to the enlisted ordies from the bomb shops, who had switched plans for the evening and managed to build up the necessary LGBs to arm the dark grays, as well as getting the necessary mines into the B-1Bs for their last night of mining.
“Final update coming in over the MILSTAR link, sir,” said Captain Asi “Ahab” Ontra, the general’s personal WSO, over the intercom. The general smiled in his oxygen mask at the report. Ontra was one of the growing number of Moslems making a career for themselves in the U.S. military. Born in the Detroit area, with its large population of Lebanese immigrants, he may have been a bit too “dry” on Friday nights at the officers’ club, but a better operator of the LANTIRN system was not to be found in the 366th. Now they were on their way to kill a government.
“How many of the caves have they identified?” asked the wing commander.
“Nineteen so far, sir. Major Goldberg seems to feel that may be all of them, sir,” replied the young WSO.
“Have they told us what our target for tonight is?” the general inquired.
“They’re not sure, sir . . . maybe some kind of military command center,” the young man speculated.
