by Tom Wilson
Moss glowered. He didn't like games, such as the one Buster had just tried. "Go on," he muttered.
"The chief listened hard when you gave him your JACKPOT briefing and told him we could force the North Vietnamese out of the war with appropriate bombing. As I said, he's concerned about the way the war is getting out of hand, and he agrees that the best way to do it is through an all-out bombing campaign. His problem is convincing the President. Let me rephrase that. His first problem is getting to the President, and then it's convincing him."
Moss listened, lips pursed.
"There's a certain supporter of an intensified aerial campaign on the executive staff, whom the chief wishes to remain unnamed. Let it suffice to say he's in a position that should allow him to get General McManus in to see the President. But for this thing to work, he'll need your support. As soon as you contact him that we've had this meeting and tell him you're on board, he'll send a note through his contact to the President, asking for a private meeting."
Moss chuckled out loud. "Hot damn. Didn't know Gentleman Jim had it in him. Thought he was too busy trying to get himself appointed chairman of the Joint Chiefs to make waves."
"He realizes there's a chance his career will be terminated as soon as the SecDef finds out what he's doing. A few months ago he had aspirations of being named chairman during the spring shuffle, but the heart attack changed his perspective."
"So he's willing to throw himself on his sword."
Buster raised an eyebrow. "There's something he wanted me to pass on, sir. In private."
"Go ahead. Pearly can keep a secret."
"General McManus said to tell you he's going to nominate you as commander of Tactical Air Command in April, during the shuffle. If he's relieved of his position, that appointment would also go by the wayside. So, as he said, it's not only his aspirations at stake."
Moss was quieted. TAC was commanded by a full four-star general, and the post was the ultimate goal of all fighter-pilot generals. The Air Force Chief of Staff job was the private fiefdom of bomber pilots like McManus, had been since the inception of the Air Force. TAC was the coveted top job for a fighter pilot. But Moss had been feuding with "Bomber Joe" Roman, his four-star boss at PACAF headquarters, since he'd taken over at Seventh Air Force, and it was unlikely he'd even dreamed he might be considered for the TAC position.
"I . . . uh . . . thought Gentleman Jim was close with General Roman," he said awkwardly, "and . . . Commander of TAC?" It was out of character for Moss to stumble on words.
"General McManus wants everything we're discussing to be held in confidence, especially from General Roman."
Moss peered at him. "I thought they were buddies. Both being bomber pilots and all, I thought . . ." His voice trailed off.
"General Roman has repeatedly stated his support of the SecDef's suggestions, all of them, including the one to cut back the ROLLING THUNDER campaign. He's done so in several memoranda circumventing General McManus. He's very obviously shooting for the chief's job."
Moss's face clouded.
After a short silence Buster continued. "The chief wanted to make sure we considered alternatives first. There being none, and he couldn't come up with any either, by the way, he wants you to formalize your JACKPOT plan for the bombardment of Hanoi and Haiphong. He wants it to be a complete OPlan, with force structure, targets, timing, projected losses, and an addendum that shows costs. He'd like it done in a timely manner. He wants you to include everything it will take to win. His people will polish it on the other end."
Moss slowly nodded.
"He suggests that you include B-52's in the OPlan."
Moss frowned. A superior officer's "suggestion" was tantamount to a direct order. "I was told by General Roman that the bombers aren't to be jeopardized, that they're a limited resource."
"The chief said a few people might oppose their use, but he emphasized that they be part of the picture."
Pearly Gates's mouth curled as a smile threatened to surface. Moss turned to him.
"You had some kind of straw-man plan you put together using a composite force of bombers and fighters. What did you call it?"
"Total Forces Utilization, sir."
"That's the one."
"You had me take out the B-52's. That's when we changed the code name to JACKPOT."
"Well, put 'em back in," Roman growled.
"As you said, it was only a skeleton plan, sir."
Buster interrupted. "The chief wants us to call this whole scenario JACKPOT, same as the briefing you presented. He'll be setting up back-channel message routines and asks for you to do the same here."
"Back-channel" meant messages sent for the addressees' eyes only, with no copies going to anyone else and only minimal records kept. Back-channel traffic was used by senior officers when they wished to communicate covertly and off the record.
"Can I . . . ah . . . keep Colonel Gates in the loop?"
"The chief's using a small group of assistants, people he knows he can trust, to help on his end, so I'm sure that would be fine. He'd also appreciate it if you gave him the names of key people in the tactical-fighter business back in the States who he can rely upon. He wants to make sure we've tested and examined every possible detail of the campaign."
Moss remained thoughtful. "JACKPOT," he murmured.
"Yes, sir. He wants all messages to be coded that way. He's set up his end of the comm net, and they'll be looking for the word 'JACKPOT'."
Moss got up and gathered the other two in front of the wall map, and they began to discuss what it might take, studying the areas, pointing at this feature or that, talking strategies and tactics.
Flo buzzed on the intercom to announce that the general should prepare for his meeting at MAC-V.
Moss growled that he was busy with an important matter.
Moss said that he'd put Pearly to work on the project immediately and would recommend contacts at various fighter bases both here and in the States—people they could trust implicitly, as Gentleman Jim said—to make observations and inputs while Pearly worked on the plan.
"Strategic Air Command will be involved too," Buster reminded him.
"I can talk their language," said Pearly Gates. "Who's their project officer?"
"A full bull named Wesley Snider will liaise between here and Offutt. He's got a solid background in plans, and before that he flew B-29's, B-47's, and B-52's. I met him when I spent my year in the exchange program. General McManus trusts him and says you can too."
"From bombers." Moss's eyebrows were furrowed, as if it were difficult to think of a bomber pilot he could possibly trust.
"I flew with Wes Snider at Barksdale," said Pearly Gates. "He's a smart officer, General."
"Flew with him?" Moss seemed to remember something about Pearly he'd forgotten. As if he'd been reared by apes and only recently civilized. "In B-52's?"
"Yes, sir. Colonel Snider's a good man."
"Okay," Moss muttered reluctantly, as if giving in to a demand to allow the enemy access to vital secrets.
"Then you're aboard?" asked Buster.
"Damned right. It's the first ray of light I've seen out of Washington since I got here."
"I'll provide any support I can from the trenches, General."
"We'll need to maintain a good picture about what's happening up north. Keep your eyes open when you get to Takhli, Buster. Share any insights you run across."
"Will do, sir."
"You'll have a group of good guys working for you. One of them was shot down, and now he's off on R and R, recuperating." He emphasized his next words. "I suggest that he be assigned as one of your squadron commanders."
"Yes, sir." The "suggestion" was noted.
"His name's Lucky Anderson."
Buster brightened. "I met him once. The guy with no face?"
"He was burned in a bent-wing F-84 accident a few years back. He's a hell of a fighter pilot and has a good head on his shoulders. I trust him, like I trust you and the o
ther members of my mafia." Moss peered narrowly. "He'd be a lot of help on something like this."
"There's another young pilot at Takhli I want on my team. We'll send a weekly message, if that sounds appropriate."
"When does Gentleman Jim want his first message from me?" Moss asked.
"ASAP. He'd also like a couple of names. He picked Wes Snider to coordinate between here, the Pentagon, and SAC. He wants you to pick the liaison for the tactical side. Someone already stationed in the States."
"I'll give him two. Gordie White's the two-star running the Fighter Weapons Center at Nellis, and he's got Benny Lewis working for him. Those are two of the best. That way he'll have the test ranges at Nellis at his disposal to try out any new tactics he wants to use."
Buster knew both men and agreed. "As soon as he gets your message, the chief's going to send out his initial message to the small band of players; then he'll try to set up the first meeting with the President."
"How many in this small band?"
"Pearly here and the two in the States bring it to twenty-three, I believe."
"Why so few? This is going to have to be a very big effort."
"There are a lot of wolves around who'd love to scuttle what the chief will be trying to sell, and there've been entirely too many leaks recently. He says you can add people as required, but to send in the names and make damn sure they're reliable."
Moss mused for a moment. "I'm concerned that we're going out of the chain, straight from a numbered air force commander to the top. We're not only bypassing General Roman, but also Admiral Ryder at CINCPAC."
"Only at first. They'll all be briefed at the appropriate time."
"What's Gentleman Jim waiting for?"
"He feels there's no plan until we get a positive reaction from the President."
"Another problem we'll face is streamlining command-and-control on a big effort like we're talking about. At present it's fragmented. Approval comes from the top, authorizing the strikes, then CINCPAC sends target lists to both us and the Seventh Fleet. The Navy plans their thing and we plan ours, and the coordination is terrible. That's a definite concern." Richard Moss grew quiet in his introspection, trying to think of more problem areas.
"General McManus will ask you to forward all of those within the next few days, but first he simply wants to know whether you're aboard."
Moss turned to Pearly Gates. "Go down to the comm center and get out that first message. Tell him I'm aboard without reservation, and give him the two names I mentioned for liaison officers. And while you're there, set up the back-channel procedure. Anything coded JACKPOT is for my eyes only, and only you or I can pick them up."
Lieutenant Colonel Gates prepared to leave.
"And, Pearly, I want you to bring me back the only copy of the message. I'll keep the file in this office. I don't want another kept anywhere, understand?"
"Yes, sir." Gates hurried out, quietly closing the door behind him.
Moss eyed Buster. "If Gentleman Jim can pull it off at his end, we're going to save a hell of a lot of lives, Buster."
"We'll lose aircrews over Hanoi in the air raids, General."
"Fewer than if this thing keeps dragging out. There's been no end in sight." Moss continued to stare steadily. It was an old habit of his, to pin a person with his gaze when he spoke. Buster had picked it up and sometimes found himself doing the same with subordinates. Moss's voice softened. "You always were a damned good wingman. Looks like you did well for Gentleman Jim. This is fine work, Buster."
"Thank General McManus, sir."
Moss chuckled. "Oh, I do, I do. But it's funny, him changing his mind about the idea shortly after you were named to his office."
"All I did was answer the questions I could and give advice when he asked for it, like a proper staff officer."
Moss had trouble couching his next words. "When you get to Takhli and start flying?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Watch your ass."
Flo opened the door without knocking, a stiff and determined look on her face. "Your car's waiting at the front entrance."
Moss sighed, then rose and warmly shook Buster's hand. "Flo's got your day set up. First you get a tour of the control center and they'll go over the air tasking routine, then . . ."
"General!" Flo admonished.
Moss retrieved his hat. "Dinner tonight at my quarters, We'll play a set of . . ."
"I'll let the colonel know his schedule," Flo snapped, her jaw set.
Moss gave Buster a helpless smile and departed.
0850L—Route Pack Five, North Vietnam
First Lieutenant Joe Walker
The agony came and left in ever-intensifying waves.
Both legs were dangling uselessly, and he was at the end of the nylon line he'd threaded through the parachute harness rings. If the rope had been just ten feet longer, his boots would have touched the ground. He hung there, biting his lip apprehensively every time he thought about the fall that must come.
The prop-driven A-1H Sandy buzzed in the distance, the pilot unwilling, this near the Red River Valley, to venture closer for long.
"How you doing down there, Wildcat three?" his hand-held rescue radio crackled with the now familiar voice of the Sandy leader.
Joe's voice was low and monotone. "No change, Sandy lead. I can't lower myself any farther."
The Sandy pilot had advised him to cut the rope with his survival knife. He said the Jolly Green helicopter's pararescue corpsman, called a PJ, wouldn't be able to get to him if he remained in the tree.
But Joe knew that after he dropped onto his injured legs, he would surely pass out from the pain. He said he'd cut himself down as soon as he saw the whites of a corpsman's eyes.
"Wildcat three, this is Sandy lead. You hear the chopper yet?"
Joe listened, endured a wave of pain, then croaked, "Yeah, I hear it."
"Change to button Charlie on your survival radio and check in. If you get no radio contact, come back to me on this frequency."
"Roger," he muttered through gritted teeth. Sweat ran profusely down Joe's face as he endured another agonizing wave. He moaned low, for he couldn't stand it. This time it was longer before the pain subsided.
He huffed a few breaths, then looked closely and selected C on the survival radio's leftmost rotary switch.
"Sandy lead," he uttered with a gasp, "this is Wildcat three."
A cheerful voice joined him. "This is Jolly Green four-one. Reading you loud and clear, Wildcat three. You ready to get outa there?"
"Yes, sir," he moaned, hurting again.
"Wildcat three, select tone on the right wafer switch on your radio and press the transmitter button for one minute. Then I want you to change back to voice and call me again."
"Ah roger, four-one."
He did as he'd been told, holding down fiercely on the transmitter switch. As he did so, the chopper approached, hovering overhead, the downwash of the rotor blades making the tree limbs thrash wildly. The chopper moved, but the engine and rotor noise remained loud as it hovered close by.
. . . fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, he counted to himself.
He heard the crackle of a radio . . . not his . . . and looked around down below.
A man in jungle fatigues and blackface approached cautiously, talking into his radio, looking up and scanning around the tree branches.
"Here," Joe croaked to get his attention.
The PJ found him. "You gotta come down, Lieutenant, 'cause I got no way of getting up there."
Joe Walker fumbled in the g-suit pocket for his survival-knife, then opened the blade and began to saw on the nylon cord.
He did not pass out when he fell to the ground, both feet crumpling beneath him at unnatural angles. The pain was so intense that he couldn't stop screaming and sobbing.
The PJ sergeant scooped him up in a fireman's carry and hurried through the forest. They quickly arrived at a small clearing over which the chopper hovered.
&
nbsp; Joe Walker continued to blubber with the awful pain as the pickup device was lowered, and as they were reeled upward together into the open doorway. They pulled him inside and the chopper ducked and the engine screamed defiantly as they sped westward toward safety.
As they secured him to a canvas litter, Joe heard the medic tell others to take care because both legs were badly fractured. He felt the pinprick of a needle jabbed into his arm, and then the warm sensation of something entering his system.
The pain began to subside.
At least for a while, First Lieutenant Joe Walker's war was over.
CHAPTER TWO
Thursday, October 19th, 1225 Local—Base Operations, Takhli Royal Thai AFB, Thailand
Colonel Buster Leska
The meticulously polished and maintained silver-and-white T-39, the executive jet normally reserved for General Moss's use, was taxied to a spot directly in front of base operations. As the pilot shut down the left engine, Buster stared balefully out the porthole window at the banner draped across the front of the mustard-yellow control-tower building.
WELCOME TO TAKHLI, PRIDE OF PACAF, COL SILVESTER T. LESKA
A colonel stood in front of base ops, staring at the aircraft and idly tapping his hand-held radio against his pants leg. After a closer look Buster confirmed him to be B. J. Parker, the man he was replacing. They'd met a few times before, but he didn't really know him. Pearly Gates had given him his impression, and at dinner General Moss had told him some, but it had been Flo, the general's secretary, who'd given him the snapshot judgment of B. J. Parker that was easiest to remember. He has a little man's complex, she'd said, that has nothing to do with his size. Something inside Parker drove him to impress upon others that he was one of the big boys.
Moss had said that Parker's reputation was mixed, that he'd never really made up his mind about him. He was an adequate manager of men, but too obvious in his zeal to make general. Most of his superior officers thought well enough of him, but many peers and subordinates were less impressed. On the whole, though, not a bad leader. The people he commanded delivered results. The 355th Tactical Fighter Wing, which Parker had led for the past year, was known as a unit that could be trusted to get the job done. Moss often used them for the toughest missions, against the meanest targets. Not long before, for instance, after numerous tries by various units, a pilot from Takhli had been first to knock down a span of the heavily defended Doumer Bridge in downtown Hanoi. That was just one in a long line of achievements. Certainly a can-do outfit, but the 355th also suffered higher losses than other units.
