Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  "Just keep me informed," Xuan said. When Quang Hanh had departed, Xuan blew a breath and began the arduous task of rising from the chair. He'd fumbled at two attempts when a male servant appeared. Xuan settled back in the chair, failed in his task and panting from exhaustion.

  The man stood quietly, obviously too frightened to speak.

  "My room," croaked Xuan Nha, and the man hurried to help.

  When they entered the south bedroom—Xuan lightly supported by the manservant—the young cleaning maid was inside, turning down crisp new sheets. She regarded Xuan with a fearful look and tried a smile.

  "Out," Xuan whispered to the man, and both servants bolted to leave.

  "You." Xuan lifted a hand at the girl. "Stay for a moment." She was visibly trembling as the man carefully shut the door.

  "Who was that?" he asked, casting his eye toward the door.

  "My father, Colonel sir," she answered in her timid voice.

  He nodded, wondering if she was repelled by his disfigurement. During the past two weeks he'd noticed a certain slight stirring and had been curious to find if his body still functioned properly in that regard. He'd seldom been satisfied rutting with Li Binh, and the present sleeping arrangements were satisfactory, as was the frightened girl. Xuan curtly motioned with his hand to draw her nearer, then leaned on her child's body as he hobbled toward the bed. She was trembling with fright, which made him anticipate his experiment all the more.

  Never a sensuous man, for he viewed that as weakness, before the bombing attack Xuan Nha had nonetheless occasionally enjoyed a female—preferably when the conditions were correct, such as after the killing of an enemy, and when there was a handy receptacle to dominate. This time it would be different, more of an exploration to prove he'd not lost that masculine capability.

  As he cautiously lowered himself onto the mattress, he grasped a handful of her hair. He tried to will the stirring sensation to return as the girl whimpered and followed his grasp. It would be better if she fought, he grumbled to himself. Then he remembered that he was far too weak for that.

  First things first, he thought, and had her pull down her trousers and stand on shaky legs as he reached harshly into her with his blunt fingers and reamed, grunting with his effort. He withdrew his hand once to hit her and angrily order her to stop wailing. He groped harshly in her for several minutes, until the hymen was torn and the orifice stretched to his satisfaction. Finally he grasped her arm and pulled her onto her knees.

  Xuan sat silently for a moment, huffing and regaining strength, satisfied that he'd eliminated that initial barrier. He forced her mouth open with bloody fingers, again grasped the handful of hair, and brusquely pushed her face onto his lap. He'd grown fond of the French way as a university student in Paris, and wondered if he could succeed in building the sensation by using her that way.

  For the next few minutes, until he grew impossibly tired, the terrified girl worked relentlessly, her objections reduced to snuffling into his sparse pubic hairs.

  To no avail. Finally, he groaned unhappily and ordered her to leave.

  Had the Mee taken even that away? He heard the girl crying outside the door, her sounds drowned by the anxious voice of her father, the former people's magistrate, asking if she'd pleased the colonel.

  2015L-O' Club, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Captain Manny DeVera

  Manny emerged from the phone booth with mixed emotions. He'd called the Peace Corps camp near Nakhon Sawan where his girlfriend from before his trip to the Philippines worked, and struck out. At first their conversation, especially her coolness, had puzzled him. While she was pleased that Manny was free of his legal nightmare, she wouldn't drive over to see him. She said she knew how that would end up.

  He'd had pleasant visions of the way she grasped her ankles and rocked and crooned her orgasms. She was one of the horniest females he'd ever known, and he'd looked forward to their celebrating his return in bed.

  And no, she'd said, she wouldn't come by if he made his way to Nakhon Sawan and rented a hotel room. When he began to argue and sweet-talk her, she revealed the truth. During the past week she'd gone bonkers over the camp supervisor, and her new love was both a pacifist and a jealous man. If he caught her even talking to a warmongering fighter pilot . . .

  She'd said she didn't remember saying she'd wait for Manny. She'd ended the conversation abruptly, saying she was busy. Gotta get back to work. Good hearing your voice, hon. Click.

  Manny had stared at the warbling phone in his hand, then tried to make light of it.

  Too bad. So Sad. . . . Next? He wandered into the stag bar, feeling some of the gloomies returning. Upon reflection he realized that every time he'd gotten into trouble in the past, a female had been involved in some manner. It would be prudent, he decided, to avoid intimate contact with women for a long while, except maybe a periodic, therapeutic visit to one of the whores downtown. No more round-eyes until he finished his combat tour. The thought didn't thrill him. The Thai ladies in Ta Khli fucked so half heartedly the pilots often joked that the only difference between screwing one of them and beating off was that you had someone to talk to.

  DeVera went to the bar and downed a single MiG-15, the sticky mixture of Scotch and Drambuie called a "rusty nail" by civilians. Then he made his way toward the dining room, fighting against the current, for most of the guys were on their way to the stag bar to get an early start on Max Foley's hundred-mission party.

  He surveyed the dining room, looking for someone to join for dinner.

  "Hey, Manny!" Captain Billy Bowes and Lieutenant Smith, two guys from his old flight in the 354th squadron, motioned to him. There were already four at their table, so after he'd shaken hands all around, he pulled up a spare chair from another table, moved a battered guitar case to one side, and sat. They were ordering chicken-fried steak and fried rice from the Thai waitress, so he told her to add another to the list. The dining room's menu was limited to basic selections.

  Billy, who now commanded C-Flight, and Smitty, a C-Flight member, were seated on either side of Manny. Dusty Fields and Animal Hamlin from the 333rd squadron were across the table. They all welcomed him back and commiserated his getting the shaft; then Smitty asked when he'd be coming back to the squadron.

  "I'll be bunking with the guys in the 333rd squadron," he said, motioning his head toward Dusty and Animal, but withheld the announcement about his new position.

  "Well, hallelujah," kidded Dusty Fields in a caustic tone.

  Billy Bowes, who was half-Cherokee and looked it, seemed somber. "We were talking about Joe Walker, Manny. You hear about what happened?"

  "I heard he got hammered by a SAM, but he made it out far enough to be rescued."

  Billy nodded. "He was fortunate. The Jolly Green had to go in a long way to pick him up."

  "I hear he got busted up pretty badly."

  "Broke both legs and his pelvis," said Animal. "He'll be laid up for a while."

  Animal Hamlin was a quiet type, but he'd not always been that way. He'd gained his nickname as a wild lieutenant bachelor at McConnell AFB, Kansas, and couldn't shake it. His fellow fighter jocks continued to call him Animal, saying that he'd shown his true colors as a lieutenant and sooner or later they'd reemerge. Animal couldn't convince them he was a reformed, happily married man with a family. He was from New Jersey—pronounced Noo Choizey—and spoke with that odd, part New Yorker, part moon-man accent.

  Dusty Fields asked, "Where'd they take Joe? Clark Hospital?" Clark was a big base in the Philippines and had the largest military hospital in the region.

  Billy Bowes shook his head. "They flew him directly back to the States. Probably to either Travis or Wilford Hall in San Antonio."

  "Hope it's Travis," said Smitty Smith. "Joe's from California."

  "Then they'll ship him to Texas for sure," said Dusty. "The Air Force takes pride in fucking things like that up."

  Billy mused. "Walker's a good man. He's also one smooth pilot. We're gonna
miss him in the flight."

  Dusty leaned forward, eyes pinned on Manny. "Any truth to what I hear about your being assigned as wing weapons officer?" Rumors spread as quickly among fighter pilots as in any ladies' bridge group.

  Manny gave Dusty a look brimming with humility. "Colonel Leska said he wanted the very best, so what could I do? I told him I'd help out."

  Dusty didn't hesitate. "You should've told the truth and nominated me."

  "If I told the truth about you, he'd have you reassigned to Piper Cubs. You be good to me, and I'll tell him you're not as mediocre as everyone thinks." Dusty Fields and Manny had run into one another numerous times during their tours in Europe and the States. Both were better than adequate pilots, and both were devout bachelors with exaggerated and nefarious reputations. They competed mercilessly . . . and were friends.

  "Whaddaya t'ink a da new wing commandah?" asked Animal Hamlin in his Noo Choizey accent. He was a good pilot and also a fine musician, and the guitar went with him whenever he was off duty. When he sang, the moon-man accent was transformed. He played a mean git-fiddle—which for some reason he'd painted Day-Glo fluorescent orange—and when he crooned a ballad, it came out soft, clear, and melodious.

  "I knew Colonel Leska from Europe," said Manny. "He had a shit-hot reputation. When I talked to him this morning, he confirmed it. Man's got his act together."

  "The rumor's going around he's from SAC," said Dusty, wearing a frown. Fighter pilots distrusted bomber people.

  "He spent a few months in B-52's after he left Europe," said Manny. "That's all."

  "I heard it different," Dusty argued in a low voice. "I heard he's got a lot of bomber time."

  Manny's face grew hot as his anger rose. "For Christ's sake, Dusty, he was an F-86 ace in Korea. Spent the last months of the war in a POW camp. They sent him to SAC on some kinda exchange tour, then to the Pentagon, but the first chance he got, he came back to fighters."

  "He was a POW in Korea?" Billy asked. He sensed that Manny's disposition was heating. Bowes was good at tempering arguments.

  "Yeah. He was treated pretty bad. That's where he got his white hair. He hates commies with a passion." Manny stared malevolently at Dusty, still angry that he'd poor-mouthed Leska. He pulled his eyes away finally and looked at Billy, who'd taken his job when he'd been relieved of duty. Bowes had developed into a capable flight commander. "Where's Henry Horn?" Henry was another member of the flight.

  "Finished his hundred missions two days ago. Said he was meeting his wife at Don Muang airport and they'd spend a day or two in Bangkok, then drop in and check on Lucky in Hawaii."

  They talked about Lucky Anderson and how fortunate he was. He'd been shot down, then rescued from North Vietnam after spending nearly two months on the ground. Intell reports said he'd spent the time with a hill tribe near the Laotian border, but somehow it didn't ring true.

  "He's going to take command of the 333rd squadron soon as he returns," announced Manny. "When I talked to him in the Philippines, he thought he was getting the 354th, but they assigned it to another guy." He thought he was breaking the news, but Smitty piped up that they'd been told that afternoon. The new 354th squadron commander was a light colonel named Yank Donovan.

  "What's he like?" asked Manny.

  "That's him over there," Smitty said, nodding to a corner table. A meticulously groomed lieutenant colonel was seated, talking with Colonel Tom Lyons. He glanced at their table, and his eyes met Manny's for an instant. The look was cool and neutral.

  "He doesn't care much about who he talks to," murmured Manny. Tom Lyons was the one who had "discovered" the trumped-up evidence that had almost hanged DeVera.

  "He's the only man on base who's friendly with Lyons," said Billy. "Even before Colonel Parker relieved him, it was common knowledge that Lyons fucked you over."

  Dusty Fields frowned. "How come he's got it in for you?"

  Manny blew out a sigh. "First time I ran across him was down in North Africa, at the El Uotia gunnery range. I was in the range tower watching a flight of F-100's on the dive-bomb circle. One guy pulled up into the leader, and they both went down. Lyons, he was the one who screwed up, made it out okay, but the other guy was killed. Lyons tried to get me to lie to the accident board, but I wouldn't go along, so he's had me on his shit list ever since."

  "And that's a very long list," Smitty said.

  Manny nodded. "Anyway, when he got here, he found a chance to get even by making it look like I was deliberately attacking the wrong targets up in pack six."

  "I heard about that," said Dusty. "You better not give him another chance at your ass. The looks he's giving you aren't exactly friendly."

  "What's Donovan like?" repeated Manny, not wanting to discuss his previous woes.

  "Impressed with himself, but not much with the rest of us," Smitty said.

  Dusty spoke up. "Give him a chance. I watched his bombs hit yesterday on a target down at Vinh, when he took out a loading dock. Little bitty target and they were shooting, and he still took it out clean. He's a good pilot."

  "You can say that," Smitty said woefully. "You're not getting him for a commander."

  Dusty grinned at DeVera. "As for his ego trip, how about all the stories we hear about the exploits of the great, one-and-only Supersonic Wetback?"

  "That's different," Manny said with a straight face.

  Dusty Fields laughed. "Welcome back anyway, asshole." He raised an eyebrow. "When's Lucky Anderson coming back from his R and R?"

  "Couple weeks, I'd guess."

  Animal Hamlin spoke up. "Be glad when Lucky gets here and takes over our squadron. We heard the new wing commander's gonna be flyin' with us until he does, and he's gonna be adjustin' to combat."

  Manny was quick to defend Colonel Leska. "Shouldn't take long."

  Billy Bowes shrugged. "Doesn't matter anyway. Since Leska's the new wingco and Yank Donovan's been named squadron commander, we don't have much choice, do we?"

  Manny watched as Tom Lyons leaned forward and said something to Yank Donovan. They both chuckled low and glanced about the room. Like conspirators, Manny thought. Since Tom Lyons's connivery had been found out, he'd be in no position to make trouble for Manny or anyone else for a while. But what about Yank Donovan? He decided to keep an eye on him.

  Dinner arrived and they ate quickly and efficiently, as professional military men do. They made the standard comments about the lousy food and bemoaned the fact that Max Foley's hundred-mission party was obviously getting under way without them. The noise level from the stag bar was growing by the minute.

  "Foley's leaving big shoes for you to fill, Manny," Dusty Fields said with happy malice.

  DeVera finished his mouthful before speaking in a quieter voice than normal. "Then I guess I better grow big feet." There was no way Manny was going to betray the trust Colonel Leska had shown. No way at all.

  Animal Hamlin hefted his battered guitar case, and they headed for Max's party. As they left the room, Manny felt Colonel Tom Lyons's cold glare. He turned and stared hack for a moment, then very slowly gave him a "fuck you" grin. The Supersonic Wetback had returned.

  The stag bar was packed. Max Foley was at the other end of the room, fending off questions about his foul up earlier in the day when he'd tapped afterburner and trashed the base. Two sets of songsters competed loudly from different areas. Laughter and shouted conversations added to the general din. Animal took his brightly colored guitar out of its case and plunked a couple of notes in anticipation. Dusty took orders, wormed his way through the crowd to the bar, and a few minutes later returned with drinks for the five of them.

  "Thanks," shouted DeVera over the hubbub.

  "Thank Max. The drinks're all on him!" Dusty yelled back.

  "I think I will." Manny tried to get to Max Foley to tell him how much he appreciated the information he'd passed on that afternoon and wish him well, but couldn't make headway through the mob.

  A stern face appeared above the others. Colonel L
eska had entered the bar, flanked by Colonel Armaugh, his Deputy for Operations, on one side, and Colonel Mack from the 357th squadron on the other. The pint-sized base commander glowered about angrily in their wake. Leska understandably had less trouble getting his group through than Manny had experienced. He pushed his way to a position directly in front of Max Foley, and the clamor lessened a bit.

  "Quiet!' yelled Colonel Mack.

  Buster Leska tried to say something but was drowned out by the noise level.

  "Dammit, be quiet!" Mack roared. Mack MacLendon was regarded as a superb leader of men. He could also get downright mean if his orders went unheeded. The group grew silent. Leska motioned Colonel Hough forward. The tight-jawed little base commander brandished a sheet of paper and waved it in Max Foley's face.

  "I have here a list of the damage caused by Major Foley's flyby. It comes to more than nine thousand dollars, mostly in broken windows and collapsed guard shacks." He held it high, then carefully handed it to Foley, who took it and read with a woeful expression.

  "This is no place for an ass-chewing," Dusty Fields grumbled angrily. "He's . . ."

  "Quiet," Mack growled in their direction.

  Colonel Hough glared at Max for a long moment, then stepped to one side. Buster Leska carefully removed a second sheet of paper from a zippered flight-suit pocket, slowly unfolded it, and held it out to Max. His voice emerged in a deep rumble. "Major, I think you'll find the disciplinary action in order."

  Right here in the club? It bothered Manny too. Foley looked troubled as he gingerly took the sheet. Animal Hamlin muttered something about fucking bomber pilots. Buster Leska, the Deputy for Operations, the base commander, and Colonel Mack wore stern looks, all directed at Foley. Max, looking contrite and embarrassed in front of his friends, cautiously opened his mouth to speak. But his mouth drooped as he stared at the sheet of paper.

  "What've you got to say to the nine thousand dollars, Major?" asked the Deputy for Operations.

  "It's . . . uh . . . a lot of money, sir." The fact that the corners of Max's mouth began to twitch, that a grin was curling his lips even in the face of his tormentors, was mystifying.