Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  "There goes the booze at the club," lamented a pilot. Every time someone fucked up by going supersonic near the field, windows were broken, but the jocks and crew chiefs didn't give a damn about that. They mourned the liquor bottles and glasses that fell from perches at the O' Club and NCO Club stag bars, and the fact that another pilot was now in deep shit.

  B.J. glared at the sky, then turned to Colonel Leska with an apology, which was unintentionally transmitted over the PA system. Leska said to forget it, and that was also amplified. Parker finished his speech, unable to suppress his anger at being upstaged. He did not pause or look up again as flights from the morning combat missions began arriving home.

  When it was Leska's turn, he told the group that he was happy to be there, freed from the musty bowels of the Pentagon. He told them he expected good work from everyone because it had to be a team effort. He said loyalty was a two-way street, and if they gave theirs, they could expect his in return. Finally he said he'd buy a round for everyone at the NCO and Officers' clubs, and that brought a real round of cheers.

  As Leska stepped away from the mike, Manny saw his eyes light on him again.

  He remembered Buster Leska from Europe. He'd been a lieutenant colonel on the staff at the headquarters at Wiesbaden, Germany, and paid several visits to the gunnery base in North Africa where DeVera had been assigned. He'd seen no pretension in the tall pilot, only a dogged dedication to duty, and they'd found agreement in most things they'd discussed. He'd worked with Leska on several weapons projects and spent a couple of evenings drinking with him at the rowdy Wheelus Officers' Club bar. He'd even shared his insights and complaints about overly cautious rules governing flying training in Europe. Manny remembered that he'd been outspoken, as he often was, and that Leska had listened closely. He wondered if he remembered and was holding a grudge. His recent experience with Parker made him wary of colonels he'd once admired.

  As the group dissipated and Manny walked toward base ops where he'd left his bags, a staff sergeant hurried to his side. "Captain DeVera?"

  Manny returned his salute. "Help you?"

  "Colonel Leska would like to see you in his office after the ceremony, sir."

  Shit, Manny thought. "I just got in, Sarge. I've still gotta sign on base."

  "He asked that you meet him there as soon as he sees Colonel Parker off."

  "Goddam it!" Manny exploded. He wanted it to be over, to be left alone!

  The sergeant drew back nervously. "He asked me to tell you, sir. I'm just . . ."

  Manny sighed. "Not your fault, Sarge. I'll be there."

  As the staff sergeant disappeared into the crowd, Manny watched the two colonels, Buster Leska and B. J. Parker, standing and talking together. A shiny T-39 Sabreliner was parked in front of base ops, probably waiting until all the combat aircraft had landed so it could take Parker to Bangkok or wherever he was going. Manny DeVera wondered what kind of shit he was in with Leska. Probably something Parker had passed on. He'd likely tell Manny that he knew what he'd done, and not to step out of line again. He decided to say yes sir and bear it. Fuck 'em all.

  He left his bags at base ops after asking a sergeant there to look after them, then walked down a newly paved sidewalk toward the wing commander's office.

  When he'd departed two weeks earlier, there'd been several of the old boardwalks left, but now it looked as if they were trying to pave the entire base. New parking lots were scattered here and there, and concrete sidewalks, some of them still roped off so they could dry in the high humidity, made it look almost like a stateside base. No more walking the boardwalks and watching snakes slither underneath.

  At the wing commander's office, the chief master sergeant in charge of admin asked him his business, and Manny said he was waiting for the new commander. The chief said the colonel would be busy with meetings scheduled with the various deputy commanders all day, but Manny said he'd wait anyway. He settled into a chair in a corner and read a dog-eared copy of Airman magazine. A few minutes later he watched as several full colonels arrived, got their cups of coffee, and gathered into a group not far from Manny to discuss their new boss.

  Not many knew Leska. The Deputy for Maintenance said they'd attended the same class at the Air War College in Alabama, but he hadn't really gotten to know him. The base civil engineer said Leska was an ace, that he'd shot down six MiGs in Korea. Since then he'd been serving mainly in various headquarters. The Deputy for Logistics said he came from some kind of job on the JCS staff in the Pentagon. The Deputy for Operations said Leska had only recently been checked out in Phantoms and then in Thuds. He'd seen his records and confirmed that he had six kills in Korea. He had 2,000 flying hours in fighters, both prop and jet. But, he added meaningfully, he'd amassed a lot of hours flying support aircraft, which confirmed that he'd spent a bunch of time in staff jobs, and . . . his Form 5 showed a few hundred hours in BUFs. By that he meant "big ugly fuckers," bombers assigned to Strategic Air Command. That silenced the group and made them thoughtful. Anyone who'd flown bombers had served in an altogether different world.

  Colonel Leska came in before the deputies could discuss that interesting point. Manny noted he was now carrying the portable radio Parker had brandished half an hour earlier. To commanders, changing radios was like passing a royal mantle. Colonel Leska was now Eagle One, call sign of the man in charge.

  Leska stopped short and looked about impassively at the gathered colonels. "I feel overwhelmed," he finally said, his tone friendly. "You guys got nothing better to do?"

  The vice commander spoke for the group. "Colonel Parker liked to meet with us as soon as he returned from a trip, so we thought . . ."

  Leska interrupted, his jaw now set firmly. "Don't try to second-guess me, okay? I want to talk with you, I'll call. I set my own agendas."

  The colonels stared awkwardly, suddenly ill at ease.

  "I'll come around and visit each of you in the next couple of days, and you can tell me what you do and how you do it. I like stand-up staff meetings every Monday and Thursday, and that's when we'll get together and talk business. You'll all get a memo outlining all that this afternoon. Now, any of you have pressing problems that require my immediate attention?"

  After a moment of silence the civil engineer spoke up. "We've got a question about siting the new gym, and Colonel Parker said he wanted to be briefed on it. The ground is unfirm and the soil samples show . . ."

  "Hold it!" Leska turned to Colonel Hough, the diminutive base commander. "Your problem, Mike. You solve it." He glanced about again. "Any others?"

  Hough cautiously cleared his throat. "There's considerable damage from Major Foley's flyby. Broken windows and such. The estimates are just starting to come in, but . . ."

  Leska nodded toward the Deputy for Operations. "Apologize to the base commander because your guy screwed up. Then call Foley in and chew his ass. Tell him about all the grief he's put you through and all the damages, then threaten him with article fifteen punishment. Soon as you're done with that, I'd like to see both you and Foley here in my office."

  "Yes, sir." The DO hurried toward the door as if happy to escape, pulling his blue cunt cap squarely into position.

  The rest of them stood about awkwardly.

  "We've got a lot of work in front of us. You're big boys. You handle your business, and as long as you do your best, I'll be satisfied. That way we'll get along fine, and maybe we can even get the job done. But don't waste my time with minutiae and bullshit, okay?"

  Before anyone could answer, Leska motioned toward Manny. "Let's go into my office." He nodded to the staff sergeant clerk typist standing beside the chief master sergeant. "I like my coffee with one sugar, no cream. Captain DeVera?"

  Manny started. "Sir?"

  "How do you like your coffee? We may be in there for awhile."

  As the colonels silently filed out, glancing back at the two of them, it was apparent to all that Colonel S. T. "Buster" Leska had taken command. Manny trailed after Leska toward h
is inner office and realized he really didn't know this guy. He prepared himself mentally, grimly wondering what kind of bad news he was about to receive.

  1015L

  The discussion was not at all what Manny had anticipated. As soon as the door closed, Leska dropped all trappings of rank. He shook his hand warmly and said it was great to see a familiar face—someone he knew he could trust to help him get his new job done. Next he chatted about how he'd gone from Europe to SAC, of all places, in a program some idiot in the Pentagon had come up with to place pilots with fighter experience in bombers. He said he'd been like a fish out of water when they'd checked him out in B-52's. But, he said, he had to admit he'd found out what it was like on the other side of the fence and had grown a new respect for BUFs and Strategic Air Command.

  After six months in bombers he'd been selected for colonel and sent to the Air War College at Maxwell Air Force Base. When he finished, he'd been sent to the Pentagon. He wasn't sure, he joked, which was worse duty for a fighter jock, bombers or the five-sided circus. For the first twenty minutes Manny hardly had a chance to talk, because Buster Leska carried the conversation. Then he asked where Manny had gone since he'd seen him last.

  Manny told how he'd extended for another tour at Wheelus AFB, Libya, and had set up the new tactics range that he and Leska had discussed during the colonel's last visit there.

  Leska gathered his eyebrows quizzically. "When are you up for major, Manny?"

  Manny DeVera wondered where the conversation was leading. "Two more years, sir."

  Leska stared for a moment, then dropped his bombshell. He wanted Manny to replace Max Foley as wing weapons officer. He said he'd normally follow the chain of command and let the decision come from the Deputy for Operations, but he'd wanted to make this particular call himself so he'd know he'd have someone he knew and trusted in the sensitive job.

  Manny went through a period of slack-jawed silence, then of trying to compose himself. He nodded periodically, stupefied, not adding much to the conversation because he didn't know how to respond except with words that sounded like mundane horseshit. Leska charged Manny with the task of coming up with new ways to minimize losses while destroying the targets directed by higher headquarters as efficiently as possible. He told him to keep the Deputy for Operations and the squadron commanders filled in on what was going on with those efforts, but not to allow them or the system to interfere with his judgment.

  "Manny," said the colonel, "everything else that goes on here—building new facilities, maintaining morale, feeding the troops, keeping the supplies coming in on schedule, maintaining the airplanes, the running of the organization—none of it means a damn if we're not flying and fighting to the best of our potential. I consider what you'll be doing as one of the most important assignments I'm going to give out in the next few days."

  DeVera remained dumbfounded. Everything had been turning to shit, what with the official charges and the bleak trip to the Philippines. His outlook had been so bad for so long that he hardly dared to believe what he was hearing. A couple of days before there'd been doubts, official doubts, about his integrity. Now he was being entrusted with lives and given the best damned job in the wing.

  Colonel Buster Leska

  Buster enjoyed building Manny up and watching the sour expression evaporate. From the first time he'd worked with him at the base in North Africa, he'd found Manny DeVera to be not only capable, but also one of those rare people who unflinchingly told it like it was. It had galled him when he'd heard about the charges. The Air Force needed to nurture young leaders like DeVera, not try to destroy them. He observed him closely as he talked about teamwork. Manny was a handsome guy, with powerful shoulders, dark eyes, and an expressive face. Since he'd last seen him, he'd grown a Pancho Villa mustache that drooped at the corners of his mouth. Half an hour earlier he'd looked defeated. Now he was alive, like the guy Buster had known in Europe.

  He remembered stories about the Supersonic Wetback being one of the foremost womanizers in the fighter pilot corps and wondered how many were deserved. Likely quite a few, he concluded. But as great as Manny might be with the ladies, he had a lousy poker face. Buster could see Manny's spirits rising, see him losing the frown he'd worn when Buster had picked him from the crowd during the change-of-command ceremony.

  While Manny was digesting the news that he was to be the new wing weapons officer, Buster eased in a second hook. "There's another matter, that's got to be held strictly between you and me." Manny was still staring, but he'd regained some of his old composure. God, but the young are resilient, Buster thought.

  "Every few days I want you to come by my office and we'll talk, just like this. I want you to be my eyes and ears, a window into the combat arena. Let me know whenever you see or hear of anything new going on with the North Vietnamese, any insights you get that aren't covered in our normal intelligence briefings."

  Manny looked puzzled.

  "Any weaknesses we might be able to exploit. Any target that we could destroy to really hurt them. We've got to learn the North Vietnamese's Achilles' heel and don't have long to do it."

  DeVera narrowed his eyes before he said, "We're restricted on what we can and can't hit, Colonel. Targets in pack six are specified in the air tasking orders sent from Seventh Air Force."

  "I understand all that. I still want the information."

  Manny's brows remained gathered until a knowing look crept over his face. "What you want to know is what it would take to win?"

  Buster Leska nodded. "That's precisely what I mean."

  DeVera was perceptive. He was also the sort who had to think things out for himself and disliked doing something unless he understood it. In a nutshell, Buster thought, he was the kind of officer who'd be needed to lead tomorrow's Air Force. In order to rise through the ranks in the military world, it was best if an up-and-coming young officer had a "sponsor," a senior officer to help guide and nurture his career, just as General Moss was doing for Leska. During the long plane ride to the Orient, Buster had decided to do the same for DeVera. He couldn't think of a better man to put his trust in.

  The chief master sergeant called from the outer office that the Deputy for Operations had arrived with Major Foley in tow. Leska paused, then spoke in a terse voice, loud enough to be overheard by Foley. "Tell them to take a seat and wait."

  He turned back to Manny. "It'll do Max good to cool his heels and worry some. That was a dumb-shit thing he did, lighting his burner over the field at low altitude." Manny couldn't suppress a grin, which Buster ignored as he glanced down at notes on a scratch pad.

  "What do you know about Major Paul Anderson?" Buster asked.

  Manny answered without hesitation. "I consider him the finest man and best combat pilot in the wing, Colonel."

  "That good?"

  "Lucky Anderson's a superb pilot, he's a good leader of men, and he's got rock-solid judgment."

  "We're going to be working closely together, the three of us. You two are going to help me on the project I was speaking about. We're going to find that Achilles' heel, and the smartest way to chop the damned thing off."

  "The rumor's around that Lucky's taking command of the 354th squadron," Manny said. "Is that true, sir?"

  "No. The Deputy for Operations assigned Lieutenant Colonel Donovan as interim commander of the 354th, but I'm making it permanent. That squadron's gone too long without a squadron commander, and they can't wait around while Anderson plays on a beach in Hawaii for two more weeks."

  Manny looked crestfallen, as if it were he being bypassed for the job. He fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. Quite obviously, he thought a lot of Anderson.

  "Lucky Anderson will get a squadron," Buster said. "Probably the 333rd. They've had good leadership, so it'll be a better place for a new squadron commander to try his wings." He watched DeVera's face brighten. He hoped he received the same kind of loyalty.

  "You want me to fly with any squadron in particular?" Manny asked, a touch of his
old cockiness growing in his voice.

  "Fly with them all. Keep 'em up to speed on the latest tactics and pick up what's going on. I'm placing a lot of faith in your judgment, Manny."

  DeVera glowed each time Buster mentioned his trust. The legal battles had eaten away at his indomitable pride, but it was fast returning. Buster picked paperwork out of his in-basket and waved at the door. "You've got a lot to do, so go ahead and get started. Learn anything you can from Max before he leaves, get settled in your new office, and fly a couple missions. When you've got your feet back on the ground in a few days, I'll want you to check me out on the flying here."

  "You want me to check you out?" Again Manny looked amazed.

  "Yep. Put me on your wing and show me the ropes."

  Manny stood. "Yes, sir." His salute was very proper.

  When the door closed behind Captain Manny DeVera, a smile played across Buster Leskas face. There were aspects of command that he especially treasured. At the forefront of those was rewarding men who deserved it.

  Buster looked out the window at the fighters parked in their neat rows, baking under the relentless sun. He stared for a full minute, savoring the new job. Then he glanced down at the list of the wing's key personnel, past the deputy commanders to the names of the squadron commanders he'd penciled in at the bottom.

  His eyes lingered on the name of Lieutenant Colonel Mack MacLendon. On Buster's very first operational assignment, fresh out of flight school and just a couple of years after World War II had ended, Mack had been his flight commander. Although Mack had flown P-47 Jugs in Europe during the war, he'd piloted the nimble P-51 like a maestro with a fine violin. He'd taken Buster under his wing and shown him the intricacies of the P-51H and how to get the most out of it. Buster had developed a sort of hero worship for the man. Now here he was, Mack's commanding officer. Lesser men than MacLendon might have been upset by the twist of fate, but when he'd dropped by his trailer the previous night, after leaving Parker with the Thai base commander, Mack had broken out a bottle of single-malt Scotch and they'd celebrated.