Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  While his family cared little about such things, it made Tom feel better about himself, and he'd begun to elaborate, then almost to believe his own stories. He told them how he'd been the first pilot to hit the big bridge on the north side of Hanoi with his bombs. He said he doubted he'd be put in for a medal for it, because the wing commander had been jealous and had it in for him.

  Now he sat waiting for General Roman, Commander in Chief of Pacific Air Forces, covertly staring at the secretary's legs and wondering what it might take to fuck her, trying hard to forget about his wife back at the penthouse hotel suite.

  The general's inner-office door opened and two men emerged, chuckling over some joke. Tom recognized the senior U.S. senator from South Carolina.

  "You can go in now," the secretary said in her pleasant voice.

  Tom rose and smoothed himself, glancing at her crossed legs. He saw her wedding band but didn't care. He was horny. Except for a single case of letting him crawl on just long enough to get his rocks off while she sniffed and complained, Margaret had had a constant backache or other excuse since he'd gone to New York for her.

  A short, beefy man came to the office doorway and peered out. "Come in, Colonel." General Roman spoke in an unpleasant, growling tone. Lyons hesitantly followed him inside. He started to salute, but Roman made a curt head motion that told him it was unnecessary, and waved him toward a chair. "How's Ambassador Lyons these days?"

  "Very well, General. I spent a few days with him on my way out."

  "He telephoned last week. I told him we were looking forward to your arrival."

  "He called? I didn't know."

  Roman made a grimace, the kind of expression a baby made when it was gaseous. It was a moment before Tom realized it was his smile.

  "We old workhorses stick together," Roman confided. "I first met the ambassador just after the big war, when I worked for Curt LeMay and we were trying to set up SAC. We needed government clout to give the bomber force proper emphasis, and your father was a great help. That's why I don't hesitate to take his calls."

  "He speaks highly of you, sir." A lie. On the few occasions he'd spoken of them, his father had called Curtis LeMay a grandstanding idiot and Joe Roman a gross, ill-mannered, and incompetent fool. But, then, he thought poorly of all career military people.

  "Well, I feel honored." Roman pushed a button, and his growl deepened into a sort of snarl. "Bring us some coffee in here."

  "Yes, sir. Right away."

  "Woman's dumb as a fucking wall," Roman said almost pleasantly, leaning back in his chair to survey Lyons closer. "Know what an automatic secretary is?"

  She hurried in with a carafe of coffee and two mugs.

  "No, sir," Lyons said, although he'd heard the joke a hundred times.

  She poured into a blue cup with four large silver stars about its circumference and set it at the general's elbow.

  "Something you screw on your desk and it does your office work for you." Roman made his grimace-smile.

  Lyons laughed, then glanced at the secretary.

  "Would you care for cream or sugar, Colonel?" she asked evenly, obviously accustomed to such talk.

  "Both," Tom Lyons said, unable to resist a smirk. The general knew how to keep a secretary in her appropriate place. She poured, mixed with a small silver spoon, and quickly departed. Roman watched her, then shook his head and chuckled again at his joke.

  Lyons broke the silence. "What position did you have in mind for me, sir?"

  "We'll get to that. First I wanted you to know that I looked into a matter your father spoke about. That efficiency rating Parker signed for you?"

  "Oh?"

  "It was shitty. I had it thrown out."

  Lyons paused appropriately. "Thank you, sir."

  "Also, there was a flag on your records at Randolph saying you were nonpromotable."

  "I wonder who could have done that, sir. I've given every assignment my best."

  "Perhaps someone jealous of your family's money. It happens."

  "It had to be something like that. I . . . I appreciate what you've done, General."

  "Or maybe it was because they thought you were caught lying about the matter concerning Captain Manuel G. DeVera."

  Tom Lyons's heart plummeted. He'd expected the matter to be forgotten after his father's telephone call.

  General Roman was peering at his face with a cold expression. Tom Lyons swallowed, but couldn't move his eyes away. It was as if they'd been captured by the force of the man before him.

  "I do not condone lying, Colonel. If you lie to me just once, I will not worry about giving you a bad efficiency rating or having a red flag put on your records. I will have you fucking court-martialed and summarily kicked out of the service. It will be as humiliating as I can make it, and be done so quickly your eyes will smart."

  Oh God, Tom cried inwardly.

  "Now, tell me. Did you lie to Parker about DeVera?"

  Tom didn't want to answer. He wanted the matter to go away. "No, sir," he finally said in a low voice. "I . . ."

  Roman nodded curtly, his eyes fixed.

  Tom had stopped midsentence. Then other words gushed forth, as if of their own accord. "I will never lie to you sir. I am not a liar."

  Roman leaned back in the big chair and gave his grimace. "I had the flag removed from your records. It's inconceivable to me that a son of Ambassador Lyons would lie to his fellow officers."

  Tom forced a weak smile.

  Roman pursed his lips thoughtfully. "One hand washes the other, Lyons," he said quietly. "Tell your father how I helped."

  "Yes, sir. He'll remember this, sir."

  Roman gave another brief grimace. "I don't mind doing someone a favor . . . if they're in the right and they're smart enough to return it."

  Tom was nodding energetically. "My father was saying before I left how he felt you should be the next Chief of Staff."

  "He said that?" Roman purred.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, I'll be damned." Roman's eyes still hadn't left his face. "I think it would be an honor if I were to be appointed as Cee SAF. And if I was, I'd have to bring along my most trusted people, wouldn't I?"

  "Why, yes, sir."

  "But, then, there're others who should be left behind."

  "Sir?"

  Roman spoke carefully, pausing every few words for effect. "Those who might get it in their head to lie to me or make me look foolish. Like you told me you'd never do. I appreciate that, Lyons. I demand loyalty from my staff, and if one screwed up . . . say he tried to fool me like they thought you did at Takhli . . . his ass would be gravy. I wouldn't care if his daddy was a powerful politician with a hot line to the President, I'd put him right down in the dirt and leave him squirming."

  Tom Lyons again felt like a child being chastised. It was as if Roman would lull him, then push him back to the very brink of a hot fire . . .

  Roman's voice softened. "So that's why I appreciate your saying you wouldn't do any of those things."

  . . . and then pull him out again. "You can trust me, sir," Tom said staunchly.

  "Now let's talk about your position here at the headquarters. You'll be traveling—away from home a lot. That okay?"

  "I don't mind, sir." Tom thought of his wife in the hotel suite, and how periodically getting away from her would be a blessing.

  "Your official title will be vice commander of the inspector general team. Your unofficial duty will be to find out what the fucking cowboys are trying to get away with in South Vietnam and Thailand."

  Lyons remembered how the fighter pilots at Takhli disliked "Bomber Joe" Roman and the way he called them "fucking cowboys."

  "You'll have priority travel orders, meaning you can go anywhere, anytime, and bump almost anyone off a flight. When you're out there, you'll be my eyes and ears in the combat zone. I'll expect a phone call every day or two, between seven and eight hundred hours, Hawaii time."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I get reports from
the unit commanders, Lyons. Statistics and all. And I receive their bullshit excuses as to why they don't want to comply with directives. I want the straight word, from someone I can trust."

  "You can rely on me, sir."

  They spoke in more detail about what Roman expected from him. After twenty minutes, during which time Roman's eyes scarcely left Tom's face, he glanced at his watch, a time-honored signal that a general wished to terminate a meeting.

  "How does the job sound to you, Lyons?" Roman asked.

  "I feel honored that you place your trust in me, sir. It's only right that you know what's happening in the field, and it's a disgrace if the commanders aren't being straight with you."

  "Do you have contacts out there you can work with, who'll tell you what's happening?"

  He thought of the wing commander at Danang and Yank Donovan at Takhli. "A few," he said, thinking of pressures he would bring to bear on the two men. "I'll have to develop more."

  Roman seemed pleased at his responses and changed subjects. "How did your family fare on the trip over?"

  "We left the children at private boarding schools in New Hampshire until spring term's over. Only my wife accompanied me. She's at the hotel . . . resting."

  "Senator Lingenfelter's daughter."

  "Yes, sir." Twenty years before, Margaret's father had been appointed to fill a vacancy following the death of a New York senator. He'd served only two years and hadn't run for reelection, but he retained the title. Now primarily concerned with overseeing his extensive business interests, Wayland Lingenfelter also conducted fact-finding trips, met with foreign dignitaries, and chaired investigative panels for his old senate cohort, Lyndon Baines Johnson.

  "I'd like you and your wife to be our guests at dinner tonight. That way you can meet some of my other staff." It was not a request.

  Lyons didn't hesitate. "We'd be delighted, sir."

  "Nineteen hundred hours at my quarters."

  When Tom Lyons left Roman's office, he tried to think of a way to sweet-talk Margaret into attending. If she was stubborn about it, he'd go alone and make appropriate excuses. It wouldn't be the first time. She thought military people, especially generals, were boring.

  He felt so good about the outcome of the meeting with General Roman that he stopped on his way out and said a few words to the secretary, letting her know he might be interested in taking her to lunch after he got settled.

  He walked from the office and stepped down the hall feeling better than he had in a long time. The job was better than he'd expected, with enough clout to make people take heed, and to . . . he almost laughed aloud. Captain Spick DeVera wouldn't get out of it so clean the next time they tangled. He'd teach the lowborn idiot. And General Richard J. Moss might not be quite so quick to try to deep-six his career. This time they'd be dealing with the vice commander of the inspector general's office, Pacific Air Forces. He imagined Moss glad-handing and trying to get on his good side, and DeVera sniveling as he was summarily booted out of the Air Force. Those were only two, and there were so many others. He trotted down the stairs wearing a smile that kept growing. As his father had taught him at an early age, privileges are due the privileged.

  Saturday, November 18th, 0730 Local—HQ Seventh Air Force, Tan Son Nhut AB, Saigon, South Vietnam

  Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates

  The third JACKPOT message from General McManus's office at the Pentagon was in.

  SECRET—IMMEDIATE—JACKPOT

  7 AF CC EYES ONLY—NO FURTHER DISSEM

  DTG: 17/1900ZNOV67

  TO: HQ 7 AF/CC, TAN SON NHUT AB, SVN

  FM: CSAF/CC, HQ USAF, PENTAGON

  SUBJECT: STATUS REPORT

  1. (S) MET WITH J FOR 2ND TIME ON 16 NOV. HE IS LOOKING FOR ANSWERS AND I BELIEVE IS "SOMEWHAT" RECEPTIVE, HOWEVER CAUTIOUS. WHEN I MENTIONED THE JACKPOT TIMETABLE OF "A TOTAL OF THREE WEEKS" HE SEEMED CONFUSED DUE TO CONFLICTING BRIEFINGS BY SECDEF. THAT WAS BEFORE RECEIPT OF YR DRAFT OPLAN. NEXT MEETING IS SCHEDULED FOR ONE WEEK FM THIS DATE AND I WILL USE SPECIFICS CONTAINED IN THE PLAN.

  2. (S) REVIEWED DRAFT OPLAN. THIS HQ WILL USE IT AS MODEL FOR PROJECT, & FORWARD INPUTS/CHANGES AS NECESSARY. YR COMBAT ATTRITION FIGURES APPEAR REALISTIC, BUT MAY POSE PROBLEM IN SELLING. WILL ALSO NEED MORE RATIONALE FOR SPECIFIC TGTS AND ANTICIPATED COLLATERAL DAMAGE.

  3. (S) RE. YR QUESTION. UNDERSTAND PILOT RESTRICTIONS ADVERSELY IMPACT COMBAT EFFECTIVENESS, BUT HAVE THUS FAR MADE LITTLE PROGRESS IN EFFORTS TO LIFT THEM. IF APPROPRIATE I WILL MENTION TO J DURING NEXT DISCUSSION, BUT SINCE MOST COME FM J FOR POLITICAL PURPOSES AND I CANNOT AFFORD TO DAMAGE RELATIONSHIP, IT MAY NOT HAPPEN. J IS (A) CONVINCED HE'S DOING "RIGHT THING" BY PROTECTING CIVILIANS AND FOREIGN NATIONALS, (B) IS IN CONSTANT PROPAGANDA BATTLE WITH ANTIWAR GROUPS, AND (C) ENJOYS CONTROL OVER "HIS" PILOTS.

  4. (S) FYI, GEN ROMAN IS CURRENTLY PROVIDING INPUTS DIRECTLY TO SECDEF RE. YET ANOTHER BRIEFING TO J TO SUGGEST TERMINATION OF BOMBING NORTH OF 20TH PARALLEL. I DO NOT EXPECT THAT EFFORT TO SUCCEED, BUT IT IS INDICATIVE OF OPPOSITION WE FACE AS THE JACKPOT PROJECT GOES FORWARD.

  5. (S) SECDEF OFFICE HAS TOLD ONE AND ALL ABT OUR FAILURE TO LOCATE MIGS AT PHUC YEN. THIS TUNE WAS PICKED UP BY HOSTILE PRESS, ANTIWAR GROUPS, AND CONGRESSMEN. I HAVE COUNTERED W/BRIEFINGS THAT LOSSES TO MIGS HAVE DECREASED SINCE BOMBING PHUC YEN AND OTHER AIRFIELDS, AS SHOWN IN YR LAST JACKPOT MSG.

  6. (U) KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK. SECRET—IMMEDIATE—JACKPOT

  "So what do you think?" General Moss asked when Pearly finished with the message and handed it to Colonel Wes Snider.

  "He seems to like the draft OPlan."

  "Oh, he'll make changes. Gentleman Jim's a perfectionist. But you're right, he liked what he saw."

  Wes Snider finished reading the message and looked up, his eyes narrowed. "It's hard to believe what he says about General Roman."

  "Do you still think we should bring Roman aboard?" Moss asked mischievously.

  "Not if he's advocating limiting the bombing even more than it is now."

  "Bomber Joe's not advocating anything, Snider. He's just betting his chips on the Secretary of Defense instead of Jim McManus."

  "But why?" Snider was a model military man. A dictate of the system was that one remained loyal to one's superior officers.

  "Because someone has to take over when McManus steps down, which will likely not be long. Gentleman Jim's had his heart attack, and he's not going to be reappointed in the spring shuffle. Roman's betting that the SecDef will be appreciative of his support and nominate him."

  "But that's not right."

  "May not be right, but it's a fact." Moss was observing Snider as if there was hope for him after all. "Have you come up with a nickname for the JACKPOT OPlan?"

  "I've brought a few candidates, keeping in mind what you said about trying to make the President know it's his baby."

  "And?"

  "I had the idea that maybe we could use the L. B. initials. Like Lady Bird and Linda Bird are the same as Lyndon Baines. We could use Lady Bug, for instance, but I thought that was just too transparent."

  "I'm listening."

  "I looked up code words that aren't being used that start with the initials L and B, and came up with three or four dozen. Most were inappropriate, like Lazy and Bunion, so I tossed 'em out. I picked four combinations and feel you should make the choice, sir."

  "Go ahead."

  Wes read from a scrap of paper. "Linus Blanket, Lime Bucket, Lion Bait and . . . Line Backer."

  Pearly did a doubletake. "Linebacker Alpha" was the name of the outdated OPlan Snider had brought from Offutt.

  Richard J. Moss, who had played defensive back for the West Point class of '41, didn't have to think hard to come up with his choice, not realizing how very similar it was to the code name for the SAC bombardment plan.

  "LINE BACKER JACKPOT," he muttered. "Got a nice ring to it."

  Snider smiled happily, with good reason. The OPlan name would please Lyndon Baines Johnson, the Commander in Chief of Strategic Air Command, and Genera
l Moss as well. Three key, high-ranking, and powerful people would feel a personal stake whenever they heard mention of the code name. Wes Snider was confirmed in Pearly's mind as a canny staff officer.

  Pearly walked back to his admin section, thinking hard about the JACKPOT message, the President of the United States, General McManus, and the LINE BACKER JACKPOT OPlan . . .

  And ran squarely into Lieutenant Lucille Dortmeier as she emerged from the admin office. She went sprawling back into the room, clawing the air, and fell squarely on her butt. It might have been comical, but she squealed with indignance and pain.

  "Oh, Jesus," he muttered, hurrying over to help her up, then watching her grimace and bite her lip. "Damn, I'm sorry."

  "All right, sir." She avoided his offered hand, rolled over on all fours, struggled to her feet, and limped out without another word or look back.

  Pearly stared after her, feeling like a bumbling fool.

  The WAF admin sergeant immediately went back to her typing. Now something was wrong with her too, because she looked angry. Women banding together?

  "Makes you feel dumb to do something like that," Pearly said lamely.

  The admin staff sergeant struck a key particularly hard but continued typing, her mouth firmly set. Pearly paused for her comment, listened to the clickety click of the typewriter for an awkward moment, then went into his office.

  A few minutes later he was going through the stack of correspondence in his in-basket when he came across Lieutenant Dortmeier's request for time off. She asked for a midweek day, the fifth of December, so she could be with her father, who would be visiting.

  Visiting Saigon? Pearly absently wondered just who her father was as he wrote "approved" on the bottom of the page and placed it in his out-basket.

  1735L—Fighter Tactics Branch, TFWC, Nellis AFB, Nevada