Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  They were sent to private schools—his sister to a local parochial school, which brooked no nonsense among the students; Yank to a military preparatory academy in Colorado, which he'd selected because of those offered, it was farthest from Chicago—and from the source of his shame.

  His mother was obviously doing well at her chosen trade once more, for she'd moved into an even larger town home, one complete with a full-time nanny to watch over his sister. Yank visited very seldom. He kept to himself at the academy and, when pressed, told other student-cadets that his parents were dead. When his mother visited, he said she was his aunt.

  Before he'd been smashed to pulp, Big Yank had told him to always learn something from life's experiences, good and bad. During his teen years Yank discovered a few big ones.

  He had an innate understanding of logic. Mathematics and physics were easy, for they entailed numerical solutions and comprehensible laws. English and the social studies were boring and mundane subjects to endure, but he had no trouble developing thorough understandings of chemistry, calculus, and electronics. At age seventeen his application was accepted to attend the University of Colorado at Boulder. It was there that he became interested in the world of flight, for the many and complex laws governing that wonder of nature intrigued him more than any other field. He joined the Air Force ROTC program. All the while the money continued coming in from Chicago, dutifully sent by the woman he described as his aunt, and whom he'd asked please not to visit.

  It was during his second year at Colorado that he'd met Tom Lyons, a senior who he later found had been suspended from Princeton for cheating. Tom was from an old, filthy-rich, and respectable Denver family, and after a few weeks at Boulder, he inexplicably tried to befriend Donovan. Yank remained a loner and did not reciprocate.

  Lyons said he needed help on an upcoming test. The subject was structural physics, which was incomprehensible to him and a snap for Donovan. When Yank declined, Lyons hadn't seemed angry. Two days later Yank went to his dorm room to find a plain envelope with his name printed on the outside. It contained a typed article to be provided to the campus newspaper, about an undergraduate student whose mother was one of the most infamous madams in the Midwest. Names were omitted from the note.

  Yank helped with the tutoring, and somehow got Lyons through his finals. When they parted, he'd felt it was unlikely he'd ever see Tom again, and rested easier. During his final two years Yank successfully maintained anonymity.

  He'd learned something that time too.

  Upon graduation he'd gone into the Air Force as a second lieutenant and forevermore severed his ties with Chicago. Preflight training had been a drag, but soon after Yank reported to Laredo AFB for flight school, he'd discovered what he'd been put upon earth for. He'd excelled at both academics and flying. Flight skills were the great equalizers. Little mattered to the instructors except how well you could interpret instruments and control a mass of aluminum, wire, and Plexiglas through the proper airspace. He'd nursed the propeller-driven trainers about the sky with skill, soaking up every tidbit of knowledge the instructors had to offer. A natural, they'd called him. He'd graduated at the top of his class of forty-nine pilots in 1953, during the final days of the Korean War. Before he reported to his next assignment, to upgrade into jets, the war had wound down to a militarily unsatisfying stalemate.

  Yank's personal world had been dramatically changed when he'd pinned on the sliver wings. He'd been transformed into a professional, whose potential was bounded only by his abilities. Yet he couldn't change his basic being and did not try to shake off the mantle of suspicion and selfishness that had armored him.

  He'd vigorously set about securing his niche, flying F-94's, then F-89 Scorpions, and finally F-102 Deuces for Air Defense Command, all with excellence. In 1961, as a captain, he'd won the prestigious William Tell Trophy, ADC's intercept profile and missile marksmanship competition, held at Tyndall Air Force Base in Florida. That same year he'd taken a wife.

  It was decreed by the Air Force that to rise in rank one must have a spouse, and that she must be socially acceptable. At age twenty-eight he'd carefully selected, then easily won, a quiet, rather plain southern girl, mindful of her place and content to remain in the background. From the first their household revolved about Yank's career. There were no children. He treated her well enough, but refused to share privacies, such as the manner of the death of his parents.

  The Air Force approved his application to return to the University of Colorado to earn his master of science degree in aeronautical engineering, and upon graduation Yank upgraded into F-105's. The change of missions, from firing missiles at incoming Russian bombers to dropping bombs, came easy for him, and he'd quickly become known as a superb dive-bomber and gunnery master. After an operational tour at Yokota, Japan, he'd returned to McConnell AFB in Kansas to introduce other pilots to the Thud. By then he was sure that he was the best.

  Yank prided himself on needing no one, relying solely on his wiles and abilities to succeed within the system. He suffered a few friendships with subordinates who were awed by his flying achievements, and with selected senior officers who could help him win promotions. He avoided association with colleagues who were in competition. He remained a loner.

  Upon his arrival at Takhli, the ghosts returned to Yank's life, for one of the first men he met was Tom Lyons, who greeted him as if they'd been college buddies.

  Lyons hadn't mentioned the ghosts then, but during the previous evening's telephone conversation he'd made a poorly veiled reference—how difficult it was to make rank these days, how the slightest scandal could ruin a man's career. He'd said that since he was now on the I.G. team, he'd expect word about any screwups Yank saw at Takhli, and gave him his phone number at Hickam. He said he'd be traveling often to the combat zone and would stay in touch.

  That conversation had been troubling Yank.

  Neither could he reconcile his growing inner turmoil as the strike force proceeded toward the Hanoi target and the danger waiting there. They were not far from the Channel 97 TACAN, and the North Vietnamese border lay just beyond. He found it hard to believe he was worrying about others—the men of his squadron, the pilots in this strike force who relied on his leadership. Yet he'd done just that since watching Captain Ron Wilshire smack into the ground. Then there'd been others, and he'd learned how easily lives were snuffed out. Young men, good men, bastards, snivelers, weaklings, or heroes—little of that seemed to matter. It was as if a roulette wheel turned and their time arrived.

  He'd seen men die. One in pilot training school at Laredo when a student had come in on his solo flight and become spatially disoriented on landing, and another on the McConnell gunnery range when a pilot had flown too low on a strafe pass and hit the ground. But those he'd rationalized by knowing the pilots had fucked up and more or less killed themselves. These seemed different—and had less to do with flying skill than with beating the odds.

  Like two weeks before, when one of his pilots had been flying in the pod formation and the SAM had selected him to kill. An unlucky spin of the wheel. Another letter to write to a wife, that one twenty years old and five months pregnant. The young pilot had been especially nervous the previous evening. Did he somehow know it was his turn? He'd come to that conclusion.

  He looked out and scanned the pilots in the closest airplanes. If his theory was right, they'd all come home today. The members of Bear flight had been jovial the previous night and businesslike during the early-morning briefing. None had appeared uptight.

  Since coming up with his theory that the guys who were sad the night before were the ones who bought the farm the next day, he'd been watching the young pilots closer—to either prove or to dispel the notion. Dusty Fields had been the most cheerful of the lot at the mission briefing. Yank liked the brash, yet soft-spoken young captain from Lucky Anderson's squadron, and the previous night had watched him lift a few beers with his guitar-playing buddy until the wing commander's secretary arrived.


  "Airplanes approaching Channel Ninety-seven TACAN, this is Hotdog," came a scratchy call over the emergency guard channel.

  Yank frowned, wondering who could be calling and whether he should answer.

  "This is Hotdog, Air Force. We're in dire need of air support down here."

  "Hotdog, this is Bear Force leader," Yank finally replied. "What's your location?"

  "Hotdog is at Channel Ninety-seven. Request fast-mover air support. We're estimating more than six hundred North Viets on the southern and eastern sides of the mountain."

  Yank wondered again. "You working with an airborne FAC, Hotdog?" Yank was referring to a forward air controller in a spotter airplane, like an O-1 Birddog, to point out targets and manage the strike.

  "Negative, Bear leader. We had tango thirty-fours in here yesterday, but one of 'em had a problem with a North Viet guided rocket, so I doubt they'd send us an airborne FAC. We sure as hell need air support, though. Got a bunch of good targets down here."

  "You say you've got SAMs in the area?" Yank asked incredulously.

  "Dunno what they are, but one of 'em knocked down a T-34. I don't think they'll be a problem, as long as you release high. Looked like it was a short-range missile."

  "Stand by, Hotdog."

  Donovan switched to enroute frequency, puzzled by the call. "This is Bear Force leader," he announced. "Anyone know anything about someone with the call sign Hotdog in this area?"

  He was answered by silence.

  The bearing needle swung about as the formation passed over Channel 97. Donovan led the force into an orbit around the TACAN, then called that he was going off frequency and dialed in the airborne command post controlling the area.

  "Cricket, this is Bear Force leader," he called.

  Cricket responded.

  "You know anything about someone called Hotdog down at Channel Ninety-seven TACAN?"

  Cricket told him to stand by. Thirty seconds later Cricket said they had no idea who he could be talking about. "That's not a known radio call sign, Bear Force leader."

  "What's the call sign of the people manning Channel Ninety-seven?" he asked. He would talk to the proper guys and find out what was going on.

  Cricket couldn't answer his question. "Suggest you proceed with your mission, Bear."

  "Sounds like an American voice," Yank argued, "and he says they're in trouble."

  "Perhaps you should contact Red Crown," replied Cricket.

  Cricket was supposed to handle the area they were presently in. Red Crown was the shipborne command post responsible for alpha strikes into pack six.

  Yank thought hard, then released a pent breath. "Bear lead requests that you find out who Hotdog is, Cricket."

  Cricket came back on the air, the voice more sure than before. "Bear, Cricket has been advised by Red Crown that you should ignore the radio call and proceed with your mission. "

  "Cricket, is this Hotdog an American?"

  "Cricket is out."

  Yank muttered some choice words about the Cricket controller as he switched back to the enroute frequency. Before he could check in, Hotdog called and again requested air support.

  "We were ordered to continue with our mission, Hotdog," Yank radioed. "I'll give you a call on our way out. In the meanwhile, try to get in touch with a FAC or someone and convince 'em you're real."

  "Never mind, Bear leader." Hotdog's voice sounded weary. "Hotdog's out."

  Yank rolled out on their preplanned easterly heading, shepherding his force toward the target. As he visually checked the big formation over, Yank wondered what the hell the call had been about. He had a nagging suspicion that Hotdog was indeed real, and in trouble. He decided to check it out further when he got back on the ground at Takhli, and scribbled a note to himself.

  They entered North Vietnamese airspace.

  "This is Bear Force leader. Green 'em up and check your music's in standby."

  One by one his flight, then the other flights in the sixteen-ship formation, checked in and told him they were ready to fight, and that their ECM switches were in the ready position.

  A couple of minutes later, when they were over the high green-clad mountains of North Vietnam, he began a very slow descent and called for the force to turn their music on. Static from the jamming pods made the RHAW receivers hiss, and their CRTs half fill with electronic grass. Yank turned the RHAW audio down and checked the green light on the lower right panel, showing that his ECM pod was indeed operating.

  The Wild Weasels, call sign Kingfish, were ranging a few miles in front of the strike force and called a SAM site near the Red River. "Be on the lookout when you go by, Bear Force," radioed Kingfish lead.

  Yank clicked the radio button twice, giving him a "yes" answer. He liked to maintain as much radio silence as possible.

  As they crossed the Red, Captain Dusty Fields called a SAM launch from their ten o'clock position.

  "Check that your music's on and hold your positions," Yank cautioned.

  He found the missiles visually and watched as the first stage boosters dropped away, leaving fiery trails as they fell to earth. The SAMs, now smaller and more agile, began to sprint toward them.

  The missiles didn't seem to be guiding on any particular aircraft. He relaxed a bit as the SAMs passed their altitude half a mile distant and continued upward.

  The sprawling city of Hanoi grew in the distance. The target area lay just beyond. His flight was to take out the guns with cluster bombs, eliminate part of the threat so the others could gain some respite from the heavy flak as they bombed.

  Big Eye airborne radar announced red bandits at 270 degrees for fifteen miles of Bullseye. That was in their area, but no one could see the MiG-21's.

  Another trio of SAMs were launched, those from one o'clock, not far from the target area. Flak puffed in dark smudges over the big city. It would intensify as they dived toward the target. Yank Donovan's pulse quickened slightly as they approached ever closer. They were at the initial point. He pulled on the stick and led the force into their climb to roll-in altitude—the perch. At 12,000 feet he abruptly turned, rolled inverted, found the target area visually, and tucked the stick into his lap. When he rolled back upright, the aircraft had settled at fifty degrees dive angle, and he began to jink. He eyeballed, squinted, saw the target clearly before him.

  The largest building was still only half standing, down on one side from the previous bombing, but a number of specks moved about on the ground. Vehicles or large animals, he presumed. He bunted the bird, flattening his dive some so he could aim beyond the target. Muzzle flashes blinked frantically there. He steadied the aircraft and ceased maneuvering, preparing to release. The sight picture came together. At 6,000 feet he pickled the CBUs, felt the aircraft lighten, and pulled off target to his left. He started to jink in slow, random moves, never harshly, like a ballerina dancing erratically and saying, You can't catch me.

  They'd rejoin six miles north of the target. That was the way he'd briefed it.

  "Pull out! Jesus!" he heard on the radio. No call sign, just the words.

  He looked back. Flak bursts blossomed. Big stuff, fifty-seven and eighty-five—and a lot of it. Two birds were off the target, trailing not far behind. He searched the area, but couldn't yet see the fourth. The flak diminished as he passed over the foothills of Thud Ridge, and he began making lazy S-turns so it would be easier for his flight to catch up.

  The rest of the strike force was bombing now, hardly speaking on the radio. Good radio discipline, he thought—just as he'd demanded at the mission briefing.

  The Wild Weasel flight called a SAM launch from the southern side of Hanoi. They were not coming for him. Big Eye called bandits again, but though he looked, he couldn't see them.

  As he continued to S-turn and jink toward the rejoin point, a Thud pulled up on first one, then the other side of his aircraft. He felt a tremor of apprehension. Yank held his tongue and waited for a few more seconds, then looked back for the fourth flight member. Th
ere were only the more distant birds of the strike force.

  "Bear flight, check in," he finally barked over radio.

  "Bear two."

  "Bear four."

  Where was Captain Fields? "Anyone got a visual on Bear three?" he asked.

  "Bear Four saw him go down in the target area." There was a catch in Captain Hamlin's voice. "I think it was an eighty-five round that got him. Big explosion."

  Yank Donovan suddenly felt like puking. He tried to speak into the mask. No words emerged. He took a deep breath. "Was there a chute?" he finally croaked.

  "He took a direct hit. He didn't get out."

  1310L—355th TFW Headquarters, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Colonel Buster Leska

  Buster was a few minutes late for the Wednesday-afternoon staff meeting. He'd spent the time trying to console Penny Dwight, had met her with the news when she'd returned from a noontime appointment at an off-base Thai hair salon. She'd come into the outer office smiling, showing off her new hairdo, and he'd taken her to one side and told her about Dusty, because he'd seen them together and thought things were likely getting thick between them. She'd tried to cope bravely for a while, then had lost it. She'd held her eyes tightly closed and begun to shake her head and sob. He'd sent her to her trailer to grieve in private. The admin chief master sergeant had volunteered to drive her.

  When Leska finally entered the conference room, the others stood to attention. "Be seated," he said, and brusquely sat at the head of the long table.

  The colonels were at the main table, squadron commanders and lesser staff in folding chairs assembled to his right.

  Buster was not in a good mood. For one thing, the constant bickering between his deputies for operations and maintenance was continuing to get on his nerves. He'd had to jump on Jerry Trimble's case for yelling at George Armaugh and berating him on the flight line in front of several crew chiefs. If the situation went on much longer, it could come to blows between the two colonels. He was fast losing patience with them both.