by Tom Wilson
Benny tossed the unfinished evaluation report back into the in-basket. Jimmy Taylor, fullback for the Pack, was his favorite power runner. "Let's lock up the classified and go over to the club so we can catch the last quarter."
"I'll be there in a bit," muttered Moods Diller, looking at his doodling as if it were doing something wrong. He might show up, but on the other hand, he might become immersed in his technical doodles until well after dark. Moods's Pave Dagger project meant much more to him than any football game. It rated right up there with sex and flying airplanes.
Benny gathered the classified papers from his desk, double-checked that he had them all, and secured them in his safe. Then he picked up and examined the scrap of paper stuck into the corner of his desk pad. It gave the flight number and time of Julie Stewart's arrival on Friday. His backseater had been killed when they'd been shot from the skies of North Vietnam seven months earlier. Julie was his backseater's widow, and she'd be bringing her month-old daughter, little Patty, to live in Las Vegas for a while. He'd feel better after she arrived, as he always did in her presence. Sort of warm and at ease, as if things were as they should be. She said that his being nearby helped give her strength.
Benny stuffed the paper into his shirt pocket, thinking about her. Also he thought for the hundredth time how he had to make sure nothing appeared improper about their relationship, what with his being recently divorced and her husband having just been declared killed in action. It would distress him if anyone was to think poorly of her. Regardless of how much he felt for her, and he wanted her so badly he hurt inside, nothing improper had happened between them. He'd never even kissed her, except the way a guy might peck his sister on the cheek, and if people were to think . . .
The captain was back at the door, exulting. "The Packers had to punt. The Colts have the ball on their own twenty." They talked about football on their way to the parking lot.
As he was walking toward his car, Benny heard a voice hailing him, and was surprised to see General White on the lawn, in jeans and a polo shirt, motioning at him.
They didn't leave the general's office for more than an hour, and not once did they mention football. Instead they spoke at length about a project General McManus called JACKPOT. The stated goal was to force the expeditious withdrawal of the North Vietnamese Army from South Vietnam through the use of sustained aerial bombardment of the Hanoi and the Haiphong regions.
Major General Gordon S. White was to provide all necessary testing and analysis required to support the project. Major Benjamin L. Lewis was specifically named as a project officer and would liaise between the Pentagon, TAC, SAC, Nellis, and Seventh Air Force in Saigon.
"Since travel's involved, that may be a problem in your case," White said.
"My back is feeling much better, sir."
"The hospital commander doesn't agree." Benny Lewis had recently created an uproar at the Nellis hospital by taking an unauthorized trip to Southeast Asia on another project.
"If you wish, sir, I can stay here and coordinate while someone else does the traveling." As much as he wanted to participate in the project, Benny didn't look forward to being constantly away after Julie arrived in Las Vegas next Friday.
"Maybe." General White reread the first paragraphs of the CSAF's message and shook his head. "Nope. He's specific about naming you as liaison officer. I'll speak with the hospital commander. Tell him it's an operational necessity that you travel, and that we'll send you first-class, commercial. The seats are bigger and more comfortable."
With that settled, they went back to the remainder of the message.
They'd been provided with a list of individuals who were currently cleared, and who could be contacted or involved in the project. All others were to be regarded as lacking the need to know. On the list were a total of twenty-eight names: seven at the Pentagon, two at Headquarters SAC, two at Headquarters TAC, two at a research and development lab at Wright-Patterson field, three at Seventh Air Force Headquarters in Saigon, and twelve others scattered around the various headquarters and operational bases. The number of stars on the list was impressive, but equally so were the generals who were not included, like the commanders of PACAF and Logistics commands.
While it was recognized that more personnel would be added to the list as the project progressed, names of nominees were to be provided, via back-channel message, to the office of the CSAF. Throughout the initial planning phase of the project, the numbers must remain minimal. All travel and research projects were assigned CSAF priority 1A. Three funding-program element numbers were initially provided: 11211F for strategic bombers, 21211F for tactical fighters, and 61611F for tactics-and-ordnance development. Those were all approved fund codes, established for and monitored from the office of the CSAF. Additional funds would be diverted as required. The Chief of Staff set a preliminary timetable—the target date for forces deployment was set for NO EARLIER THAN FEBRUARY 15TH AND NO LATER THAN APRIL 1ST, 1968. That gave them from four to six months to prepare.
Additional instructions would follow. General White was to acknowledge receipt and understanding ASAP via back-channel message. All such messages would be coded as Secret—Immediate—JACKPOT, and would receive special cryptographic handling.
As Benny returned to the basement, he had a thought. If they worked as Moods said they would, the Pave Dagger smart bombs would be a definite advantage for a campaign of the sort the CSAF envisioned. Losses might be minimized, and target results improved.
Moods Diller looked up with a surprised expression as Benny entered the small office. "I thought you went to the club to watch the game."
Benny shook his head. "You still want to do that combat test with your smart bombs?"
Moods's jaw dropped. "At Danang? Yeah," he finally croaked. "I want to do it bad. That'll give us the real proof."
Benny nodded. "You're on. Get the test plan together."
"I've already got it. We'll send thirty bombs and kits to Danang and . . ."
"How about your trip tomorrow?"
Moods grinned wider yet. "It's on?"
"If it's necessary to get the bomb project on track, it's on."
"How about the money?"
"I'll find it. You just get those bombs working as soon as possible, okay?"
When Benny left the basement vault, the football game was long over. He went to the club, where a bartender told him the results as he sipped a cold beer. His Packers had lost a close one, but it couldn't quench Benny's enthusiasm.
In the really big game, Vietnam, they were finally going for the win.
1535L—Sixteenth Tee, Base Golf Course, Offutt AFB, Nebraska
Colonel Wes Snider
"I think we should move the tee-box back a bit, so it catches more of the dogleg," Wes was saying.
The course was closed for the winter, but he was giving a few more pointers to the guy who'd be replacing him as chairman of the base golf committee. Wesley Snider had once faced the tough decision whether to take a commission in the Air Force or become a golf pro. The game had been good to him—a golf scholarship had helped him through his four years at Ohio State. The lure of flying had only barely won out, and although he enjoyed it, there were days when he wasn't sure he'd made the right decision. He still carried a ridiculously low handicap and was judicious enough to back off some when he was playing with superiors. General officers enjoyed playing a round with Wes, and his career hadn't suffered because of the sport.
He was a youthful colonel, and two weeks earlier had received orders to report to U Tapao Air Base in southern Thailand as Deputy for Operations. The next step would be as wing commander of a bomber wing, and after that he figured he had a good shot at wearing stars. He knew he was a capable officer, and the golf certainly hadn't hurt.
"Colonel Snider?" A man in civvies, carrying a brief case, approached them. The telltale bulge of a shoulder holster under his windbreaker revealed him to be a classified courier.
"Yes," he said.
&nbs
p; "The command post told me I might find you here. Could I speak with you alone, sir?"
"Sure." Wes nodded to his replacement and told him he'd be right back. He walked over to one side of the fairway and motioned the fellow in civvies over.
The courier quietly introduced himself as a captain from the office of the Chief of Staff of the Air Force and indicated the briefcase.
"I'm carrying a message for your eyes only, sir. Could we go to the command post?"
"It's classified?"
"Yes, sir."
Wes had handled couriered messages before, but had never been called into the command post like this. "Why all the secrecy?"
"I really can't say, sir. I'm just following orders. I can say that the message was given to me by General McManus, and he gave me the delivery instructions."
Fifteen minutes later they were in a back room at the Offutt command-and-control center, and Wes was reading the personal, informal note from the CSAF.
His orders were being changed. No longer was he going to U Tapao, Thailand. While he would be officially reassigned to the CSAF office in the Pentagon, Wes was to report to the commander, Seventh Air Force, in Saigon, and he was to do it ASAP. He could expect to travel often for the next six months, as a project liaison officer on something called JACKPOT. He could not, General McManus wrote, speak that code word aloud for the present. Prior to his departure from Offutt, he'd be briefed in by the four-star CINCSAC, who was also on the project. He would be further briefed by Lieutenant General Moss upon his arrival at Saigon.
His important task, McManus wrote, would be to help provide a bridge of understanding between the strategic and tactical forces involved in JACKPOT. That would be a major chore, but a most critical one.
Although he was mightily let down that he would no longer be running operations for the composite strategic wing at U Tapao, Wes Snider was a good soldier . . . and was increasingly intrigued about what JACKPOT might be. As the instructions on the note demanded, he ran the two sheets of paper through the nearest shredder.
The captain in civvies nodded. "I'll be leaving you now, sir. I've got to catch a flight back to Washington.' His task was completed.
A few minutes later Wes started out of the command center, but he was held up by the security guard on the desk. "CINCSAC's in briefing room three, sir. He'd like to see you."
Things were moving rapidly in Wes Snider's world.
CHAPTER FIVE
Monday, October 23rd, 0435 Local—Command Post, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Captain Manny DeVera
The four pilots of Buick flight spent almost an hour in the six-by-eight briefing room. On the table before each was a small, canvas map-case containing their flight plan, flight-data card, and charts. Manny stood at the blackboard, carefully going over details of the indoctrination flight. The two captains, who would fly in the second and fourth positions, listened more intently than they might have otherwise, because Buick three was their wing commander. As Manny spoke, all took notes on the backs of their flight-data cards and interrupted when they had questions.
This was the first of their one hundred missions, their initial flight over North Vietnam. They were to air refuel from a KC-135 tanker on Blue Anchor, the easternmost of the racetrack routes, which began a few miles north of Ubon Air Base. After tanker drop-off they'd fly southeast into route pack one, then survey the South China Sea coast northward into pack two.
"We'll remain south of the city of Vinh today, to avoid the SAMs and guns there," instructed Manny, "but I want you all to monitor your RHAW receivers for radar signals and call out what you see and hear."
He refreshed their memories about Firecan radars, with their dish-shaped antennae that fed information to antiaircraft artillery. "They control fifty-seven- and eighty-five-millimeter guns," he said. "The smaller stuff, like fourteen-five-, twenty-, and thirty-seven-millimeter, are visually aimed and can't reach up very far for you anyway. The big stuff, like hundred-and hundred-twenty millimeter, is too unwieldy and awkward to track a maneuvering jet. But fifty-seven- and eighty-five-millimeter guns are nimble as hell, and they can reach up and grab you, especially if they're directed by a Firecan. Watch out for 'em.
"If you hear a rattlesnake sound on the RHAW, look again and see if the SAM light's illuminated. That means a Fansong radar's painting you and feeding information to a surface-to-air missile launcher." He went over the simplest SAM evasive maneuver, just in case. "Long as you see the missiles in time and you maintain your maneuvering energy, you can dodge 'em by turning hard into them. Remember, wait until they're damned close, then . . ."
"How close?" asked a captain.
"So close you can read the fine print on the warhead. You'll know when he's overcommitted. Then, when you're about to crap your pants, break into 'em hard, like you would a MiG, and they'll overshoot just like a MiG would. The stubby little wings just can't turn the missile fast enough to keep up with you.
"We shouldn't see much of either big guns or SAMs today, but keep jinking and moving it around or you may be unpleasantly surprised. When we get there," said Manny, "we're going to take a good look around so you can get the coastal terrain and the Ho Chi Minh Trail imprinted on your brains. When you fly combat, you want to know where you are, anywhere over North Vietnam, just by glancing out at the ground. It'll surprise you how quickly that knowledge comes once you realize that sure as hell, someday your life's going to depend on it."
They went over the day's objective, which was to bomb either supply barges they might find on the Ca River, which dumped into the sea just south of Vinh, or suspected truck parks on the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
"You probably won't see any trucks on the trail, so you'll have to take intell's word that they're there. They travel at night and hide under trees and camouflage during the daytime. Unless they're carrying ammo and you get a secondary explosion, you likely won't even know if you've hit anything when you drop."
Manny was pleased to see that Colonel Leska was frowning at his description of the suspected truck parks. They were the least favorite targets of the combat pilots, who generally considered them a waste of both their time and taxpayer money.
"On our way back we'll climb up to twenty thousand feet, and everyone will practice flying at fifteen hundred feet out and forty-five degrees back from one another. That's the way you'll be doing it in pack six, when you get into sixteen-ship ECM pod formations."
"Why fifteen hundred feet?" asked a new captain.
"That's how close a SAM radar operator can distinguish you from another aircraft. His resolution at his favorite firing range is fifteen hundred feet. If everyone has their ECM pods on, and if everyone's in proper formation, he can look at the formation from any angle and all he'll see is jamming. That gives him a big blob on his radar screen instead of individual targets. Today it doesn't matter if you fuck it up, but when you get to pack six, you'd sure as hell better get it right."
As they all went out of the briefing room, headed for the personal equipment shop to check out and put on their flying gear, an unpleasant memory came to Manny. Several months earlier he'd allowed fears to get the best of him when he'd flown combat. An all-consuming terror had taken over his mind and paralyzed him. It was not likely to happen today, since they were going nowhere near the big guns in route pack six, but he wanted to make damned sure of it. Even before he entered the PE shop and went to the counter, he began reinforcing himself with the ritual he'd learned to beat the shakes and jangles.
Lucky Anderson had told him it was the same method practiced by fighter jocks since the beginning of aerial combat. Remain calm by staying on the offensive and keeping your mind busy with what you're going to do next to beat the enemy, Lucky Anderson had told him. Remain calm—stay on the offensive—think of what you'll do next, Manny's mind would chant to him when he was flying combat. Calm—offensive—what next? Captain Manny DeVera began the ritual as he slipped on his helmet and tested for oxygen leaks at the test bench. By the time he
'd collected the rest of his flight gear, his face had become hard. His eyes had narrowed and grown calculating, like those of a warrior.
0640L—Blue Anchor Air Refueling Track
Colonel Buster Leska
The refueling went smoothly. They'd hooked up with the tanker just north of Ubon Air Base and were dropped off over western Laos with full tanks. Then they followed Manny DeVera's lead and flew the short jaunt into the southern panhandle of North Vietnam.
Manny began his running narrative at Dong Hoi, a coastal fishing city thirty miles north of the demilitarized zone, and described various landmarks, like the fishhook—which was a curved spit of land that jutted insolently into the sea—as they continued up the coast.
They flew at 4,500 feet, just above the effective range of small arms, so the terrain features, villages, and boats would be easily discernible.
Thirty-seven-millimeter flak exploded in random white popcorn bursts over one coastal town, and Buster found himself grimacing. It was no different from what he remembered seeing in Korea, but there he'd flown at 20,000 and 30,000 feet, searching the sky for MiGs in his Sabre, as the fighter-bombers rooted around down below doing the dirty work with bombs and rockets. The previous night Mack MacLendon had joked with him that his turn had arrived. "Glad you're finally going to help out with the real work," he'd said, grinning.
When they were thirty miles south of the city of Vinh, at the mouth of the Ca River, Buster picked up first a Firecan AAA radar, then a Fansong SAM radar on his RHAW receiver, and Manny confirmed they were being tracked but said the radars were too distant to be a threat. It was when the strobes grew out to the second and third concentric rings on the scope that you had to worry, he told them. As they drew closer, they encountered a few bursts of 57mm flak, but Manny held them away and narrated over the radio.
"Buick flight, note the shape and color of the flak bursts. Fifty-seven comes up in groups of fours and sixes. It's gray like that when it's all high explosive and shrapnel. If it's got phosphorus in it, it's bright red or white, but you won't see much of that."
