Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  "The Supersonic Wetback?" asked Buster.

  Max did a double take. "Yes, sir. You know him?"

  "I knew Captain DeVera in Europe. He was one of our instructors at the gunnery base in Libya."

  Foley glanced at B. J. Parker and hesitated before continuing. "Manny DeVera is damned good with weapons and tactics, and he's a hard worker."

  Parker cleared his throat and nodded his approval. "Captain DeVera would likely do a good job. You . . . ah . . . know about the hot water he was in? Being charged with bombing the wrong target and sent to the Philippines for court-martial?"

  "It was a daily topic at the Pentagon."

  Parker's lips became tightly pursed. "He's been cleared of all charges and should arrive back here at Takhli in the next day or two. I'll tell you about that incident later."

  There was something in the way B.J. said it that told Buster he wasn't proud of the way he'd handled the Manny DeVera incident. It made him curious.

  "Thanks, Max," said Buster, and Foley gathered his notes and left. Replacing him was a jovial-looking officer wearing a class-B uniform with no wings. "I'm Captain Boye, sir, and I'll give a short rundown on weather conditions here and in the North Vietnam target areas."

  "Smiley Boye," said B.J., "is our weather magician."

  The captain displayed a wide grin, explaining the nickname. "Weather on the subcontinent consists of two seasons, both driven by the Asian monsoon wind phenomenon. During the summer monsoon, from April to October, we get hot weather and heavy rain coming up from equatorial regions to our southwest. During the winter, which we're about to enter, the monsoon wind does a one-eighty and comes down from the northeast, and it gets drier and cools off a few degrees. . . ." He continued his canned spiel.

  After the briefings were completed and it was just the two of them, Buster asked Parker about the support he'd received from higher headquarters.

  B.J. said he'd had no problems with that aspect. Then, too cautiously, Parker asked if he knew General Roman, the four-star who commanded PACAF.

  Buster said he did not, that he'd heard about him but had never met the man.

  Parker said General Roman was interested in the fighter operations at the Thailand bases. "Calls us fucking cowboys," he added gingerly. Then he grew silent, and Buster knew he would say no more about superior officers.

  Before they left the now-quiet briefing room, Parker told him about a full colonel named Tom Lyons who'd been shuffled off on him by General Moss.

  Moss had already warned him about Lyons, but Buster listened politely.

  B.J., cautiously indignant, said Lyons had fabricated evidence that Captain DeVera had bombed a restricted target. "The man is amoral," he said darkly.

  Buster knew Lyons. He'd run across him in other assignments. He was from an obscenely wealthy and politically powerful family, and on previous occasions only his father's interference had saved him from disgrace. That same political clout was the only reason Buster could think of to explain his rapid rise to colonel.

  "What're your plans for him?" he asked.

  Parker's face clouded. "I'd like to court-martial the bastard for lying, but he covered his tracks too well, and the PACAF judge advocate general's office told me to cool it. I've got him working for Mike Hough, the American base commander in a job just as demeaning as I could make it—hoping to hell he'd get the message and retire. But I dunno. I think he's working something behind our backs. Yesterday we got a message from PACAF asking if he's excess and available for reassignment. I put my neck out and answered that Lyons is filling a critical position in charge of an important project."

  "Anything we can do to get him out of the Air Force?"

  "If there is, I can't think of anything. I asked him to resign, but he just gave me a fish-eye look and said no. I gave him a rock-bottom efficiency report, but the man came out and told my personnel shop he's been able to have others like it eliminated from the system. If he swings the reassignment, you'll be passing on a bad apple to someone else, but I'm not sure you can stop it."

  Then Parker told Buster the rest of the story, how Tom Lyons carried grudges for certain pilots and enlisted men and connived to get even. There'd doubtlessly been other losers, but his primary victim at Takhli had been Captain Manny DeVera, the Supersonic Wetback.

  "This is likely going to ruin Manny's career," B.J. concluded. "Too many people will remember he was almost brought to court-martial, and few will care that he was exonerated."

  "Maybe I can help," said Buster.

  Parker droned on, as if he hadn't heard. "The war the guys are fighting should be enough. The restrictions, the crummy flying weather, the god-awful threat." Again B. J. Parker was staring at something in the distance that Buster could not imagine.

  1645L—Vietnamese People's Army Headquarters, Hanoi, Democratic Republic of Vietnam

  Colonel Xuan Nha

  The colonel in charge of North Vietnam's sophisticated defenses was a short and compact man who displayed a placid demeanor despite his maimed body. His face was scarred, accentuated by a small, sharp nose and a patch covering his empty right eye socket. His left arm had been severed at the elbow. Both the eye and the missing limb were casualties of a Mee air attack, when they'd bombed and strafed the guided-rocket command van he'd been in.

  A hero of the great Viet Minh victory at Dien Bien Phu during the War of Liberation, Colonel Xuan Nha was also a highly decorated hero of the ongoing War of Unification. He was regarded as the man most knowledgeable about the technical systems provided by their Soviet allies. He'd studied them and knew them—knew the circuits, every electron tube, switch, spark gap, and resistor. He knew rocket fuels, both solid and liquid, their burn rates, and the attack trajectories they provided. He'd learned to position rocket and artillery batteries to gain the greatest advantage. He knew the long-range radars, and how the controllers must coordinate their information to the interceptor pilots and rocket-firing batteries. Xuan Nha was responsible for the tools and methods that integrated the air defense system and was extremely good at his job.

  He stood at the rear of the Hanoi command center, slightly hunched over, for the effects of the Mee bombing still plagued his body. Six months earlier the doctors had not believed he would live, let alone return to duty. But Xuan Nha had a tenacious spirit and ignored their pessimism . . . and proved them wrong.

  During his recovery he'd performed his important job from a room in the sprawling Bach Mai Hospital, under the watchful eye of a medical team; but that would change. Tomorrow he'd move back into his home and only periodically visit the hospital. Today Xuan Nha had wished to visit the headquarters and view the current situation from the command center. It was time to return to full life and breathe fire into the defenses.

  His protégé, Lieutenant Colonel Tran Van Ngo, was with him, as was his communications officer, Senior Lieutenant Quang Hanh. They were not subservient in his presence, as most senior officers demanded. In the past they'd worked together like a finely tuned machine, Xuan Nha leading and they carrying out his orders. Colonel Nha demanded results and successes, and they strove to provide him with those.

  "Would you also like to see your office?" asked Lieutenant Colonel Van Ngo.

  Xuan Nha thought of the walk to the upper floor and replied in a rasping voice, which was also a result of his injuries. "I cannot get up the stairs." He despised mentioning such weaknesses.

  Quang Hanh, with a baby's face that betrayed his youth, spoke proudly. "We have moved our offices to the first floor. The intelligence people were not so willing to leave at first, but General Luc suggested they reconsider." He smiled. "I have set up my radios and telephones in a room adjacent to your new office."

  "Very good," croaked Xuan Nha.

  "Would you care to see it, comrade Colonel?" Quang Hanh limped toward the door. He had been caught in the same attack as Xuan Nha, his leg badly mangled.

  "One moment." Xuan pointed at a new aircraft track being drawn on a glass plotting board,
superimposed over a wall map of the Democratic Republic. The track paralleled the Hong Song, the great river that ran through the northern sector of Hanoi. "What is that?" he rasped.

  A nearby captain turned his head. "It is a Mee reconnaissance Phantom, comrade Colonel. This is the third one overflying that area in two days."

  "Phuc Yen?" muttered Xuan Nha. The air base located only twenty kilometers north of them was restricted from air attack by the Mee politicians. Was it about to be targeted? He thought about that, then almost rejected the idea. Normally the Mee were not so obvious. The reconnaissance Phantoms had new side-looking sensors and could observe a target from some distance. So unless they were looking for something specific and needed great camera resolution, why would they fly directly over the base?

  Puzzling.

  "Let me know," he croaked, "if they return there."

  "Yes, comrade Colonel," the captain said obediently. They were accustomed to following Xuan Nha's dictates in the command center. Although he'd been away for several months, it was as if he'd never left.

  General Tho, the two-star commandant of the People's Army Air Force, entered the command center and immediately came over to greet him.

  "Welcome back, Xuan Nha." He eyed Xuan's painful, bent posture. "Are you well enough to be standing?"

  "It is such a pleasure to be out of the hospital that I will endure it. It is so grim there that you wish to heal quickly."

  "Sit. There will be no formalities until you are well, my friend."

  My friend? General Tho and his officers of the VPAAF had always maintained judicious distance from officers of the VPAND.

  "Thank you, comrade General." Xuan Nha grimaced painfully as he cautiously took a seat behind a scarred wooden table.

  General Tho flicked his wrist at others in the area, indicating he wished to speak privately. They moved away quickly, leaving the two alone at the back of the large room.

  Tho lowered his voice. "I attended a meeting of the general staff yesterday, and your name was mentioned. They spoke about your being released from the hospital."

  Xuan Nha waited. Discussion of one's name was not always desirous.

  "General Luc is not well," said Tho.

  "I had not heard," Xuan replied. Luc was the one-star general, Xuan Nha's immediate superior, who commanded the Vietnamese People's Army of National Defense. The VPAND included the guided rockets, antiaircraft and antishipping artillery, and the vast home-defense militia. They and General Tho's Air Force were assigned the task of protecting the Republic.

  "Few know about it. He became very ill yesterday morning, and the doctors at Bach Mai are still examining him. He has had stomach problems in the past, but nothing so severe as this. He was vomiting blood."

  Xuan nodded, withholding expression.

  "General Dung asked about a replacement. He wishes for you to attend the general staff meetings in Luc's behalf until he is well. There are important matters about to be discussed. Even I do not know the subject—it is that sensitive. I told the general that I would approach you and see if you would be able to attend."

  General Van Tien Dung was second within the People's Army only to General Giap, the Minister of Defense. Xuan Nha responded without hesitation. "I would be honored to attend, comrade General."

  "But are you able? Sometimes we must sit for hours, and your condition may not allow it."

  "The Mee bombs and bullets hurt me badly in many places, comrade General, but they did not affect the muscles of my buttocks. If I am not required to stand for long periods, there will be no problem."

  "It is your thoughts we must have, Xuan Nha. I will advise General Dung immediately of the soundness of both your buttocks and your mind."

  They smiled together.

  Xuan Nha gestured at the plotting board. "We have been discussing the Mee reconnaissance flights."

  General Tho stared at the board. "I was told the Mee were showing interest in that area, but that it also may be a bridge they are looking at."

  "Possibly they are preparing to attack Phuc Yen airfield, as they did Kien An last month."

  Tho nodded. "Perhaps. We have heard nothing yet from intelligence. They are normally reliable in such matters."

  "Who commands the air regiment at Phuc Yen?" asked Xuan Nha.

  It was a sensitive question. The previous commandant, a legendary fighter pilot and Hero of the Republic named Quon, had been accused of negligence to duty. He'd disappeared, as if from the face of the earth. In such matters one didn't question the wisdom of the Lao Dong party, nor was it wise to discuss the wrongdoer's name. But Quon was married to General Tho's cousin, daughter of the powerful politician Le Duc Tho. It was unlikely he'd remain in disgrace for long.

  General Tho cleared his throat. One walked cautiously when discussing party matters. "I have assigned a temporary commandant to the air regiment."

  The carefully couched words confirmed that Quon might not be gone much longer. Xuan Nha smiled, wordlessly conveying that he was happy the general's relative might soon return.

  General Tho again said he was happy to see him up and about, added that Xuan would be advised of the time of the next general staff meeting, and departed.

  Xuan Nha mused as he stared at the doorway. He decided it would be judicious to spend the remainder of the day in his new office, going over the various dispositions of his forces. He was pleased to be selected to attend the high-level meetings and didn't wish General Luc an especially rapid recovery.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Friday, October 20th, 0900 Local—Base Operations, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Captain Manny DeVera

  The Band of the Pacific, the group of Air Force musicians based in Hawaii who played at various functions throughout the command, struck up a single chorus of "Ruffles and Flourishes," then, after a short pause, launched into the "Air Force Hymn."

  Captain Manny DeVera watched and listened. The band was good, accenting the lively tune with cymbal clashes and booming bass drums. But Manny was in no mood to be roused.

  He'd arrived at Takhli an hour earlier, from the Philippines where he'd been sent for court-martial for bombing a restricted target. Even though all charges had been dropped, he felt betrayed. It was embarrassing that anyone could think so lowly of him to believe he'd lie. Not that he thought they shouldn't be bombing more meaningful targets. Of course they should be. But to think they believed he could look a fellow officer in the eye and lie about anything at all was demeaning. It would be difficult to forget the experience, impossible to think well of the colonels who had believed he was guilty even after he'd told them differently.

  When he'd gotten off the C-130 and heard about the change-of-command ceremony to be conducted outside base ops, he'd decided to hold off checking back onto base, a procedure about as pleasant as getting teeth drilled by Dr. Payne. It hadn't been hard to delay going to personnel and waiting in line until some airman was kind enough to let you fill out a hundred forms, then take a checklist around to every minor office on base and get it signed and initialed as you dropped off various of your voluminous records, then go to the squadron, where you'd be assigned at the bottom of the list for a room, the best of which were already taken. It seemed unfair to have to repeat the procedure he'd completed when he'd first arrived at Takhli.

  So he'd decided to procrastinate and watch, with a sense of perverse satisfaction, as Colonel B. J. Parker was replaced. He'd known the outgoing wing commander and the new one about equally well and had once thought highly of them both. No more. He could never again think well of B. J. Parker, for the colonel had been the one to prefer charges. He'd told Manny about pressure he'd received from the four-star at PACAF headquarters, but no matter what he said, he was the one who'd signed the papers saying that Manny DeVera was a liar.

  Since he'd been betrayed by Parker, he was reluctant to think Buster Leska would be any better. Fuck 'em both. He'd be content to be left alone to lick his wounds and quietly fly out the remainder of his
hundred-mission tour as Blue four. Blue four was what they called the most obscure fighter jock in a flight of fighters. Number four was the least experienced, least responsible, and often most ignored position.

  He glared at the ceremonial platform as Colonel Parker raised his eyes to watch a four-ship flyby. Manny lifted his head and also stared. The F-105Ds were in a tight diamond formation. As they passed the end of the runway, the Thuds pulled up to perform a bomb burst. Number two was too quick with his pull-away, spoiling the symmetry, but they generally looked good. Only the fighter jocks watching would be critical.

  Manny lowered his eyes and caught Colonel Buster Leska looking at him, having somehow picked him from the crowd. After a moment's hesitation Manny lifted a hand and made an "okay" circle with his thumb and forefinger. It was one of those automatic things he sometimes did without thinking, and he instantly regretted it, even though Leska smiled and nodded.

  B.J. started to speak, stopped when the amplifier squealed and a technician hurried to fix the problem, then told the gathering about how it had been an honor to lead "the great 355th Tactical Fighter Wing," and how he'd never forget how the men from Takhli had served with courage and dedication. Then he talked about passing the baton of command.

  A clean Thud, returning from a combat mission and devoid of bombs and fuel tanks, streaked down the runway so low and fast the noise was ear-shattering. The pilot pulled into a slight climb, performed a crisply executed eight-point victory roll, followed by a second, and the gathered crowd began to cheer.

  It had to be Max Foley's hundredth mission, thought Manny; he was the only one in the wing with two MiG kills. He found himself wanting to yell with the others, but the sad feeling, the lump in his stomach, kept him from participating. Foley turned and came back around for another flyby, this time at 2,000 feet, and tapped his afterburner as he approached. Uh oh! Manny clapped his hands over his ears just as Foley's bird went supersonic and the wave swept over the base with a tremendous boom. The tower swayed and nearby buildings shuddered.