by Tom Wilson
Secondly, how about the ECM pods they relied on to mask the big formation? Too many were failing on a long mission. So . . . jack up the ECM maintenance shop and find out what's wrong, then correct it.
Sounds easy, Manny, he told himself, and wondered.
His mind returned to Ron Wilshire. The gunners had been able to concentrate on his bird. Perhaps if Donovan's flight had done as Manny's had—rolled in and bombed the target almost simultaneously so they'd confuse the gunners, a matter of tightening up only a second or two between aircraft—maybe that would have saved Wilshire.
There was another thing. One of the Wild Weasel pilots wanted to increase the numbers of SAM killers accompanying the strike force to two flights on the toughest targets. They'd been getting more Wild Weasel aircraft and aircrews, and he said they could provide better protection that way. Manny decided to speak with the Weasel pilot again, then maybe go see Colonel Armaugh and try to get the change pushed through.
Perhaps there was work for him to do after all.
1725L—Hale Koa Hotel, Honolulu, Hawaii
Major Lucky Anderson
The Hale Koa was a hotel in downtown Honolulu operated and maintained by the U.S. Army at Fort DeRussey for military personnel stationed in the Pacific. Since Fort DeRussey occupied some of the prime beach frontage along Waikiki, the Hale Koa was extremely popular. As the Vietnam War wore on, it became impossible to get a room on short notice, for war-weary soldiers, sailors, and airmen used it as a haven, a place to meet with wives who flew in from the States, and to forget about combat.
Lucky was fortunate, for General Moss had personally called the commander of Fort DeRussey, and he'd felt embarrassed at the way the hotel staff had greeted him, ushered him to a suite on the top floor, then treated him like some sort of royalty. He was not royalty at all, just a fighter jock who'd been dumb enough to let himself be shot down and spent too long running around North Vietnam trying to get himself rescued. Which made the suite and the good food and the company—especially the company—even better. They'd been there for five days, and would remain for the rest of their two-week leaves of absence. Right up to when they had to leave, and then he'd want to stay longer. Only a fool would want to return to combat.
Linda called in to him from outside. "Paul? When you gonna bring a girl a drink?"
Lucky finished swizzling her boozeless mai tai, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator for himself, and walked out on the balcony. She was stretched out on her tummy, straps of the bikini top loosened and lying to either side. Linda spent an hour of each day either on the beach or the balcony, soaking up rays.
He grinned and held the mai tai up high, so she'd have to raise and expose herself. She foiled him, holding her top in place with one hand as she took the glass.
Lucky frowned. "How do you do that?"
"A gal's gotta learn to cover her assets."
He leered. "Why don't we go inside and uncover your assets."
"You're insatiable," she said, sipping and sighing. She looked his rugged body up and down, then giggled, sounding more like a teenager than a government official responsible for multimillion-dollar budgets. When they'd first arrived in Honolulu, she'd been the one to initiate their frequent lovemaking. Now they were both into the game, and neither could get enough.
"You're going to bake out here anyway," he observed as she stood, bra still held firmly in place, and followed him into the living room.
"I don't burn," she said, jauntily tossing the top aside as he closed the blind. "My daddy's side's Mexican, and we just get browner." It was the truth. Only her breasts were pale, the rest of her evenly tanned. She rose onto tiptoes to stretch lazily, and he admired. Linda moved in fluid motions, like a cat. She was tall and trim, perhaps not beautiful to all others, but certainly perfect in his eyes.
"Let's go build up an appetite for dinner, hunk," she said in her sexy tone, then twitched her hips suggestively as she started for the bedroom.
He didn't need encouragement.
A rappedy-rap sounded at the door.
"Damn," Linda muttered.
"I'll get rid of 'em," he said morosely. The three times they'd made love that day was not nearly enough. Lucky waited until she closed the bedroom door.
The rapping came again.
He cracked the door, then opened it wide. First Lieutenant Henry Horn was there, a cute brunette at his side with a papoose carrier on her back.
"I'll be damned," Lucky muttered. He grabbed Henry's hand and began to pump it energetically.
"Sure good seeing you again, Major," Horn said, beaming',
Lucky ushered them in as Henry introduced his wife and their infant daughter. He said they'd gotten in the previous morning and planned to spend a week in Honolulu before going on to his assignment at Luke Air Force Base, near Phoenix. The couple were about to sit when Henry's wife, who carefully avoided looking at Lucky's face, noticed the bikini top on the floor and reddened.
Lucky deftly scooped it up. "My fiancée is . . . uh . . ."
Henry explained how Major Lucky was engaged to this nice lady who ran the USAID office in Bangkok. His wife smiled weakly, still trying to avoid looking at Lucky. His face had been badly burned and scarred in an aircraft accident several years before. He was accustomed to uneasiness and looks of horror.
Lucky went to the bar, hid the bikini top, and asked if they'd like a drink.
She passed. Henry said he'd take a beer.
Linda appeared from the bedroom, wearing a flowered muumuu and white sandals.
Lucky grinned at her. "Hon, this is Lieutenant Henry Horn, from Takhli."
She smiled graciously. "I remember seeing you there. You were in Paul's squadron, weren't you?"
"I was assigned to his C-Flight, ma'am," Henry answered. He introduced his wife again, and Linda made a fuss over the baby.
Lucky looked on, thinking how much he loved her. "Anything new back at Takhli in the last few days?" he asked Henry as the women continued their discussion.
"Joe Walker was shot down." Joe and Henry had both been assigned to Lucky's flight. They'd been close, graduates of the same class at the Air Force Academy.
"Damn," Lucky muttered.
"They picked him up, but he was badly banged up. Legs and pelvis broke all to hell from the ejection. It'll be a while before he's back in the cockpit."
"Good man, Joe."
"Lemme see. Oh yeah. They got in a new wing commander the day after I left."
Lucky gave him a questioning look.
"Guy named Lasko, Lesko, something like that. I saw the banner they put up for him. He's got an uncommon first name. Sylvester?"
Lucky brightened. "Buster Leska. I met him once. A big guy with white hair?"
"Got me. I was busy clearing out of the place."
"If it's Buster Leska, he'll bring a lot of clout. He shot down a bagful of MiGs in Korea and speaks with authority. Won't be long before he'll be wearing stars."
"I hear you're getting command of one of the squadrons."
"Wonders never cease," Lucky murmured, thinking Leska would be a good change of pace for Takhli.
"You'll do well. The guys like working for you."
Linda broke in. "Let's all go to dinner."
Henry's wife, who hadn't looked Lucky in the face after a single, horrified peek outside the door, tried to mumble an excuse.
Henry ignored her. "I think it's a great idea."
Linda, having sized up the situation, shook her head at Henry, then placed her hand on his wife's arm. "Hon, Paul may not look pretty to you, but when you get to know him, he's precious."
"Precious?" echoed Lucky.
"You go change while I entertain our guests," said Linda.
"Precious!" Lucky muttered as he dutifully went to the bedroom.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wednesday, October 25th, 1655L—Wing Commander's Office, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Colonel Buster Leska
The intell debriefings were held at tabl
es in a room adjoining the command post, and Buster looked on quietly. Manny DeVera was going from one group to the next, asking questions and generally being nosy. Buster was content with his selection. Manny was working hard at it.
That afternoon the Takhli strike force had paused in their relentless bombing of Phuc Yen and gone after the Doumer Bridge, on the north side of Hanoi, and when they'd left it, two spans had been knocked down. A good day's work, even if they knew the North Vietnamese would be quick to repair it. They'd knocked down spans several times in the past.
Manny had talked his boss, George Armaugh, into trying something new, sending out a Wild Weasel flight both in front of and behind the strike force on the hairy missions. Armaugh had immediately come to Buster, who'd called Pearly Gates and asked him to speak with his bosses at Seventh Air Force toute suite so they'd get the change added to the air tasking order. The increased protection from the SAMs and Manny's constant railing to the pilots about flying the formation precisely and getting on and off the target quickly had contributed to the fact that they'd suffered no losses during today's tough mission.
Yank Donovan, commander of the 354th squadron, came into the briefing room and took a seat, speaking with Captain Billy Bowes, who'd flown the mission with him.
Buster observed him. Yank's face, deeply etched with red creases from wearing his oxygen mask pulled taut, was animated as he spoke to Bowes. He seemed to be doing a good enough job with his squadron, but there was something about him that was troubling. He was changing in some manner Leska couldn't quite explain to himself. Yank maintained his reputation as a self-centered asshole, but every time Buster had seen him the last few days, he'd worn a sour expression and was talking intently with one of his men, as he was now doing with Bowes.
Fright? He didn't think so, although such an emotion would be forgivable. Donovan placed himself on the schedule for every tough mission that came down, and from what Buster overheard, he was putting his bombs squarely on target. Yank was uncannily accurate.
The previous morning, when he'd landed after losing one of his flight members at Phuc Yen, Donovan had acted almost light-hearted about the loss, but a bit later he'd found him brooding, so tense he'd snapped at Buster. He wondered if it wasn't his egotism and maybe the thought that since he was infallible, he should never lose a member of his flight.
After a pause Buster tried to shrug the matter off. The guy was doing his job, and there were other, bigger concerns. He left the command post and walked toward his office, tapping the portable radio on his leg, thinking about Donovan and wishing to hell that Lucky Anderson would get finished with his R and R to Hawaii and return. Squadron commanders, the good ones anyway, were the key to a combat operation. The unit pilots often reflected their attitudes.
Colonel Mike Hough, the short and abrupt base commander, pulled up beside him in his blue staff car and gave a quickie salute. "How ya doin', boss?"
Buster nodded his greeting.
"Seems cooler than normal today."
Cooler? The heat was stifling. He waited, knowing Mike had something on his mind.
"You know about a full bull we got here named Tom Lyons? The guy Colonel Parker caught lying about one of the pilots?"
"B. J. Parker warned me. He works for you now, right?" He'd spoken with Lyons briefly a couple of days before, and he'd seemed subdued, as if he was lying low and minding his business.
"Colonel Parker told me to give him a horseshit job. During General Roman's last visit his guys bitched about the base being dirty, so I put Lyons in charge of a bunch of jailbirds cleaning the place. Picking up trash and rocks, planting grass, washing down buildings, stuff like that."
"Sounds like a good job for him."
"A message came into personnel this morning telling us to cut orders reassigning him to PACAF headquarters."
Buster frowned. "Was it time for a transfer?"
"Nope. He's on a year tour, and he's only been here six months. You got any suggestions?"
"You say the message came out of PACAF headquarters?"
"Straight from their chief of colonels' assignments."
"Does Lyons know about it?"
"My admin guys haven't shown it to him, but yeah, I think he does. He's been bugging 'em, calling two or three times a day to ask if they've got something for him."
Buster sighed. "I'll phone PACAF and try to get it changed, but somehow I doubt I can swing it."
"The son of a bitch is pulling strings."
"More than likely. Anything else?"
"The lieutenant colonel promotion list just came in. We've got three people on it."
"How about Paul Anderson?"
"Lucky's at the top of the list. He'll pin 'em on in a couple weeks."
Saturday, October 28th, 1855 Local—Command Post, Takhli RTAFB
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
This time Pearly's briefing to the Takhli wing staff wasn't well received, for he brought news that the raid on Phuc Yen had produced no good or lasting results. Upon close analysis it had been determined by the photo interpreters at Tan Son Nhut that no operational MiGs had been destroyed on the ground, and even the long-range radar had been moved south into Hanoi and was back in business. The command-and-control building had been demolished, he said, but now the same function was being handled out of Gia Lam, the civil airport adjacent to Hanoi.
The new squadron commander, named Donovan, interrupted and said he'd known he'd taken the command-and-control building out. It was bragging of the most obvious type. Pearly paused only briefly before continuing. He announced targets for the next day. Another strike at Phuc Yen to take out hangars, then a sweep of the MiG auxiliary bases where the MiGs had most likely been dispersed. When the briefing was done, Colonel Leska and Captain Manny DeVera stayed behind for a private meeting, as they'd done the previous time he'd visited.
As soon as the door closed behind the last man, Pearly shook his head gloomily. "We received a bad-news JACKPOT message from General McManus."
"Go ahead," said Leska.
"The SecDef's office was openly pleased that we found no MiGs at Phuc Yen, especially after we'd been requesting to bomb there for so long. They say we're still overstating the numbers of MiGs, and all we did was cause the deaths of foreign personnel."
"If there's foreigners there, they're Russian advisors," Manny DeVera erupted angrily. "I think we oughta kill every damned . . ."
Colonel Leska raised a hand to silence the Supersonic Wetback. Pearly continued. "They're trying to use that as proof that there's no profit in bombing anywhere in North Vietnam."
Leska maintained a neutral expression, as if he'd heard it all before. Which, Pearly decided, was likely the case, since he'd just come from the puzzle palace.
"General McManus says it would help tremendously if we'd locate and destroy the MiGs. He says it's become as much of a political issue as a military one, and the JACKPOT project's going to be more difficult to sell if we keep missing them."
Buster Leska mused. "Does he realize that it was likely the recce missions flying across Phuc Yen that tipped them off?"
"Yes, sir. But General Roman at PACAF agreed with the requirement for the recce missions. General Moss thinks he's also in agreement with the SecDef about canceling bombing in the Hanoi and Haiphong areas. He's indicating he doesn't like the way things are going with the ROLLING THUNDER campaign and doesn't want more escalation."
Leska sighed mightily. "We don't need that kind of in-house opposition."
"General Moss thinks it's because he believes B-52's should be doing the job up north."
"I believe they should be a part of it myself," Leska said, "Perhaps a big part."
Manny DeVera looked uneasy with the suggestion.
"Has Wes Snider showed up at Seventh Air Force yet?" Leska asked.
"The colonel came in two days ago. He's still receiving briefings about our operation and getting his feet on the ground."
"Did he bring anything new from the S
tates?"
"He says SAC has had a plan for the heavy bombardment of North Vietnam for two years now. He's going to get me a copy of their OPlan."
"Like I said in Saigon, Wes will be a lot of help. He's well-known in the bomber business, and just maybe he can get General Roman aboard."
"I hope so, sir, but there's a lot of bad blood between General Roman and General Moss. General Roman thinks everything should be done with bombers, and General Moss thinks they just get in the way and flatten a lot of jungle."
"We're after a combination, Pearly. It'll take both to do the job right."
"Right now we've got to bomb the MiGs if we're going to maintain our credibility."
Buster Leska nodded. "We'll do our damnedest, Pearly, but first we've got to find 'em."
"And so far," Manny DeVera added darkly, "the gomers aren't cooperating."
Monday, October, 30th, 1812 Local
Captain Manny DeVera
Manny listened in on yet another series of pilot debriefings, going from table to table and wishing he'd hear from someone that they'd found MiGs on the ground. No one had, as they hadn't for the past two days, and they'd now attacked all the enemy's known auxiliary air bases, even including Yen Bai and other smaller ones, which weren't located in the Chinese buffer zone. That was where the operators at Motel, the over-the-horizon radar at Udorn, believed they were now operating, for the MiGs they watched on their scopes dropped below their radar coverage headed north, in the direction of China.
Colonel Leska had flown his first pack-six mission on the afternoon go, but when he'd returned, he was grumpy and wanted only a one-word report from the intell debriefers. Yes or no? Had anyone reported seeing MiGs on the ground? He hadn't liked the answers. Yet no one was sure they hadn't destroyed MiGs in the attacks. The target bases were heavily camouflaged, and nothing could be positively confirmed either way. There'd been several fires left burning beneath the netting, but they couldn't be confirmed as aircraft. Most of the pilots felt it was support equipment left behind, such as mobile generators or vehicles.
