by G. E. Nolly
“She is, was, a cook.” Guns said, “And she was on duty for the Easter shift. A co-worker observed her telling one of the other cooks not to eat any leftovers, and this co-worker reported it to the white mice. None of the locals, no one, ever turns down leftovers that could feed their families for days.”
“I know about her involvement but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t Triad.” David countered. “She was seen talking to a round-eye just before starting her shift. And a twenty dollar bill was found in her possession. Not MPC, real U.S. currency.”
“That could’ve been anything. For all we know, she might have a round-eye boyfriend that’s just come back from R&R.”
“She might, but I bet she doesn’t. Why would she shit in the stuffing if there was the slightest chance that someone she cared about would eat it?”
“Why would anybody shit in the stuffing? Who knows.”
“Because Triad put her up to it.”
“There’s nothing to indicate that.” Guns said as he closed the file.
“Have you interviewed her?” David asked.
“Too late. She never showed up for her next shift. The white mice executed her that night. And the bastards didn’t keep us in the loop. Never notified us of a thing.”
“Why didn’t I hear about this sooner?”
“Well, I’m telling you now. I investigated this. It was just a case of some local trying to do her best for Uncle Ho.”
“So you still don’t think this is Triad?” David asked. His patience was wearing thin.
“You want to know what I think this is? I think this is your way of trying to get closure about your dad and what happened two years ago. So I’m going to tell you. Your dad had just arrived at Takhli and was chomping at the bit to get into combat. And it was the perfect mission for him. He was good. He was so good.”
Guns took a deep breath and reached for a tissue on his desk.
“We were fragged against the Doumer Bridge. Your dad was on my right wing. Flew perfect welded-wing all the way to the target. As we ingressed, we went to tactical spread formation.
We were spread out to about 1500 feet spacing, pretty much line abreast, weaving in and out. Just as we were about to start our roll-in on the bridge, we got jumped by MiG-17s. Came down from the overcast right behind us. I made a hard defensive turn to the left and then popped up for my bomb delivery. Just as I popped, I looked over and saw a MiG closing in on your dad’s tail. I’ve played this over in my head a thousand times. Maybe I should have jettisoned my bombs and tried to save your dad. But I didn’t, Donny, I completed my delivery. Your dad was the best fighter pilot I ever met. I knew he could take care of that MiG by himself. And yes, I put the mission first. The mission always comes first. In combat, nothing takes priority over mission completion.”
“Are you finished, Colonel? That’s not what this is about. I’m here to catch a killer on your base, not to discuss how you got my father killed.” David rose to his feet, his face crimson, as he stormed to the door. He turned and looked at Colonel Navarone. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m working on this Triad case by myself. And you’ll notice, Colonel,” he glared, “I’m not saluting!”
7
April 27, 1969
DaNang Air Base, South Vietnam
Triad did his best to conceal his delight as he drove the “jammer” – the weapons transportation truck – along the perimeter road from the Air Force bomb dump, located on the east side of DaNang, to the Marine bomb dump, on the southwest side of the base. A solitary LAU-59 rocket launcher, containing seven Mark-4 2.75-inch white phosphorous folding-fin aerial rockets, was securely strapped to the bed of the vehicle.
It was even easier than he had anticipated. He had been planning this mission for over a month, and now everything was falling into place. It was no accident that he had picked this particular night and this exact time for his plan’s execution. The sky was a dark canopy with no visible moon.
His surveillance over the past month had provided him with the knowledge that there would be no other traffic. Every night at this time, the Air Force transported a loaded LAU-59 from the Air Force munitions facility to the Marine side in a jammer, and on every night, Staff Sergeant Myers was behind the wheel. But he wouldn’t be behind the wheel for long.
When Myers rounded the corner at the south end of the perimeter road, just out of sight of the control tower, an Air Policeman waved him to a stop. Actually, it was someone appearing to be an AP. It was Triad.
“I need to see your manifest, Sarge.”
“Sure,” Sergeant Myers replied. “Just a second.”
As Myers looked down at his sheaf of paperwork, Triad delivered a deadly blow to the back of his head with his flashlight. He caught Myers with a forceful blow to the brain stem, causing instant death.
Triad shoved Myers over into the passenger seat and took his place behind the wheel. After a few hundred meters, he maneuvered the jammer onto the shoulder of the road and turned off the engine. He got out and removed the willie pete rockets from the launcher, cautiously laying them in the drainage ditch alongside the road. With each rocket weighing in at slightly less than 19 pounds, it wasn’t a difficult task. However, it required a lot of care. Dropping one could be catastrophic; the lethal radius of a white phosphorous warhead was close to that of a grenade. After the last rocket had been unloaded, he gingerly picked them up, one at a time, and carried them to the large, overgrown field that was at the south end of the runway, close to the Marine ammo dump. Earlier that week, Triad had identified that spot as the location where the rockets would have the greatest probability of success.
He positioned them about 50 meters apart, then slowly unfolded all four fins of each rocket, and oriented the projectiles so that each was pointing directly at the open mouth of the Marine ammo dump. When they launched, at least one of them was sure to hit its target. It was almost dawn and all that remained was a launch sequence to be put in place. The grass in the field was at least 12 inches tall, and the weather had been dry for so long that the weeds were like kindling. He reached into the pocket of his fatigues and withdrew a timer that he had built. He had used parts from a Casio watch he had purchased at the Base Exchange and had it rigged to a 9-volt battery. He set the watch timer for two hours and attached it to the thermite igniter.
If everything worked out according to plan, he would be far away when the shit hit the fan.
He looked up at the ink-blue sky and focused his eyes on the North Star.
“Thien, this is for you.”
8
March 8, 1968
Son My, South Vietnam
Kevin Walters had never liked children. Even as a child himself, he couldn’t find anything remotely interesting about the other children. The same sentiment applied toward people in general as he got older, but he always found children to be particularly annoying. They were so whiny. So needy. So bothersome.
When Walters first met Thien, he wasn't sure how to react to the ridiculous smiling rugrat. Kevin figured the kid was about six or seven based on his size, but there was something about him that seemed indescribably younger. He was a bubbly kid. Talkative, too, although Walters couldn't understand much Vietnamese at the time. He tried being polite and finding excuses to avoid interacting with Thien but constantly found himself getting roped in simply because Thien couldn’t understand the rejection.
One time, Thien brought out a baseball and a beat-up leather glove. There was no way to tell where it had come from. Walters wasn't really interested in playing ball but before he could communicate his unwillingness, Thien had scurried off some ten meters away with the ball, leaving him with the glove. Walters left the glove on the ground where Thien had put it and began to walk away. Suddenly, he felt a soft thud to the back of his shoulder as he was beaned by the ball. Not too hard, but certainly not a soft underhand throw. He picked up the ball and acted like he was winding up to throw it full speed. Thien responded with a giant grin and quickly ran over to retr
ieve the glove. Walters put some smash on the ball and aimed right at the kid’s belly. Thien squealed, jumped out of the way and ran to retrieve the ball. Walters turned to walk away, when again he felt a thud on his right shoulder blade.
“Okay, kid, you wanna play rough?” he muttered as he threw the ball as far as he could. Even he was surprised with how far the ball went, as it disappeared into the distance. That’ll keep the kid busy, Walters thought. Thien ran off into the distance, looking for the ball. Fifteen minutes later, the ball rolled up to Kevin’s foot. He turned to see Thien, standing there, smiling.
“Looks like the only way I’m going to get this kid to stop bothering me is to toss the ball to him a few times,” he grumbled.
He threw the ball, softly this time, directly to Thien. Thien deftly caught it and returned it with a well-placed pitch.
“This kid’s got some mojo,” he said, as he threw the ball back, harder this time.
Before he knew it, he was playing catch. And after a few minutes of throwing and catching the ball, he found himself enjoying it. Thien was fairly good at throwing and catching a baseball. Most likely, Walters figured, he had learned it at some point from another GI.
“Way to go, Mickey Mantle!”
“Mi-e-man-el.” Thien parroted
After that, he began to refer to him as Mickey and Thien would respond to the name.
One day, at the Exchange, he came upon a Mickey Mouse watch. He couldn’t help himself and felt compelled to purchase it for his little Mickey. The next time he saw Thien, he fastened the red leather band around Thien's wrist.
“Mickey Mouse,” he said, pointing to the picture on the face of the watch.
“Mi-e-mou,” Thien repeated.
“Very good, Mickey! Very good. You're so smart!”
About a week later, when Walters visited, Thien stood in front of Walters, pointing his right arm skyward and his left arm straight out. What the fuck is he doing now, Walters thought.
“Tree crock on the wats,” Thien said.
Walters looked at his watch and realized it was indeed three o’clock. The kid’s arms were imitating the hands of the Mickey Mouse watch.
“You're pretty smart!” Walters said in amazement, “Yes, it's three o'clock on the watch.”
Eventually, Thien became significant to Walters. He became the second most important person in Walters’s life.
There was going to be payback for his death.
9
0947L, April 27, 1969
DaNang Air Base, South Vietnam
Colonel Navarone was in his office, trying to catch up on the paperwork that had accumulated while he was running the wing. The Wing Commander had gone on R&R – the five-day Rest and Recuperation that provided Vietnam combatants the opportunity to get a short respite from the war – and things had been busy. He shuffled through his in-basket and a large envelope from Hickam Air Force Base caught his eye.
It was the Toxicology Report on the deceased pilots from the Easter incident. He was expecting to read more medical jargon about e-coli but was shocked to find something totally different and unrelated. This was definitely more than just a disgusting prank carried out by some cook. This had been a deliberate attempt to kill Americans and disrupt operations. Donny had been right. The tampering with the Easter meal had been a calculated attack from someone with greater access and expertise than just a local cook. This was beginning to look like a case of fragging, an American-on-American attack disguised as enemy action.
He picked up his handset and pressed the Intercom button.
“Get me Agent Rice on the phone ASAP,” he told his Admin Sergeant.
Just as he hung up the phone he felt the first blast. The building shook and the lamp tumbled off his desk onto the floor with a loud crash. He knew that it wasn't a rocket attack. Rocket explosions had their own distinctive sound, with limited concussive overpressure. This blast hit him like a punch in the chest.
He ran from the Headquarters building and started his jeep just as the concussion from the second explosion arrived. As he looked to the southwest, he saw a rising mushroom cloud, reminiscent of the photos he had seen of the Nagasaki blast. His initial thought was that a sapper had blown up the Freedom Hill Exchange, but then he realized that this was too big to be the result of a sapper attack.
He sped to the Command Post and rushed in to the sound of ringing telephones amid the intermittent explosions. There were no operable lights. Papers and broken glass were scattered on the floor, and several flashlights provided dim illumination. He looked at the Duty Officer.
“Fill me in, Major.”
“Sir, the ASP-1 Marine Ammo Dump has experienced a massive un-contained explosive event. The Marines have evacuated the facility, and the EOD people say it's too dangerous for the Fire Department to try to attempt to extinguish the fires.”
“That's right next to the Freedom Hill BX. Is the Exchange being evacuated?”
“Yes, sir. The NCOIC called a few minutes ago to advise us he was evacuating all military and civilian personnel.”
Guns was squinting at the base map on the west wall of the room. It was essential to get his troops out of harm’s way.
“I think we need to give the evacuation order for Hoa Phat Village, Dogpatch, Freedom Hill Recreation Center, the R&R Center, Civic Affairs, and the POW Camp.”
“Yes, sir.” The Master Sergeant was frantically scribbling the instructions while the Colonel was speaking.
“And, call the Third Mar Div and advise them to evacuate troops from Camp Monahan to the Air Force side. We'll house them in the open bay barracks in buildings 3498 and 3499.”
“Yes, sir.”
Guns turned to the Major.
“Gunfighter One sure picked a good time to go on R&R. Any damage on our side of the base?”
“No, sir. Everything appears-”
The Major was interrupted by a deafening explosion and massive tremor. Guns ran to the Command Post door and looked outside, toward the south.
“The Air Force bomb dump has just started exploding!”
The telephones were now ringing continuously.
“Major,” Guns ordered, “recall all Command Post personnel to their duty stations. We need every available hand on deck.”
“Yes, sir.” The Major nodded to the Staff Sergeant, and both of them started dialing telephones.
Colonel Navarone noted the arrival of Lieutenant Colonel Bill “Sam” Spade, the Wing Plans Officer.
“Sam, what are your thoughts on activating the Typhoon Evac Plan to flush our planes out of here, maybe to Tuy Hoa?”
“Sir, that's the evac base of choice, but I don't think we can do it. The wind is calm, so we could depart in either direction. But if they take off to the north, the planes will be exposed to damage from the bomb dump at the south end before they launch. And if they depart to the south, they risk in-flight damage as soon as they get airborne. There's a lot of stuff cooking off and flying through the air down there.”
“Good thinking, Sam.” Guns reflected, then called out to the NCOIC, “Sarge, fill me in on our wonder arch capacity.”
The wonder arches were the concrete fortified covered revetments, used to protect aircraft.
“Sir, all of our F-4s are in wonder arches. All other base aircraft are in open revetments. We have,” he looked at papers on his clipboard, “space for 18 more planes in the arches.”
“Get me the FMS Squadron Commander on the line.”
The NCOIC started dialing the telephone before the Colonel had finished speaking. He handed the telephone handset to Navarone.
“Frank, this is Guns. I need to free up more space in the wonder arches. Get the wings folded on all the Phantoms, and crowd them in as tight as you can. I'll see if I can get ANGLICO to give you a hand. Then move every other airplane you can into the arches. Start with the A-1s, then the C-130s and AC-119s.”
He hung up the phone and looked at the NCOIC.
“Do we have any 141's
on the ground right now?”
“No, sir. A Starlifter was on final when the explosions started, and he diverted to Chu Lai right before the control tower was evacuated.”
“Any freedom birds at the terminal?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I'd rather be lucky than good. Now, get the ANGLICO on the line.”
The Air Naval Gunfire Liaison Company Officer, Marine Lieutenant Colonel John “Justin” Case, was assigned to DaNang to coordinate artillery from naval ships with DaNang Artillery. He had recently arrived at DaNang after completing a cruise on the USS Bonhomme Richard, designation CV-31.
“Justin, this is Guns...Yeah, it's getting that way. You told me you flew Phantoms off the Bonnie Dick, right?”
“We need your help,” Guns continued, “cramming our Phantoms into the wonder arches as tight as the anchor-clankers do on the ships. Can you meet Frank Lofton at FMS headquarters to get the wings folded on the aircraft and help him out?... Okay, thanks!”
Guns looked at the NCOIC.
“One more call, Sarge. Get me the 20th TASS Commander.”
The Sergeant dialed a number by memory and handed the phone to the Colonel.
“This is Colonel Navarone. Who's this?” He waited for a response. “Okay, Major Scoville, I need you to get your planes over to the wonder arches for better protection. Move the OV-10s first, then the O-2s. Be advised the tower has been evacuated, so you'll be on your own to de-conflict yourself from the other aircraft. Lieutenant Colonel Case will give further instructions to your aircraft when they arrive at the arches.”
Colonel Navarone breathed a deep sigh and seemed to relax during the lull in explosions.
“Okay, guys,” he called out to the crowded room, “Anything I've forgotten?”
