Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  Penny shook her head. "I've gotta go. Big day tomorrow. We've got another PACAF inspection team coming in, and I have to get Colonel Leska's instructions out to the units." She didn't seem to be giggling as much as before, and her conversations were more than one-liners. Penny Dwight was definitely blossoming.

  "You can't leave this soon," Manny said woefully.

  She stood, and Manny followed suit. Animal Hamlin started to scramble to his own feet, but she gave him a small shake of her head, and he immediately settled. Which made Manny wonder again.

  "Walk you to your trailer?" he asked.

  She gave him the half smile. "Thank you anyway." She headed for the door with no further word.

  Manny settled beside Animal Hamlin. "Well, hell." They watched her leave. "How about you, Animal? You want a drink?"

  "I wish you guys'd call me Roger." He was fumbling with his guitar case.

  "Who's that?"

  "That's my name, dammit."

  "Too hard. Animal's easy to remember, and nobody'd know who I was talking about if I called you Rotchur or whatever you said."

  Animal shook his head sadly. He had the guitar out of the case and was examining it. "I'd better restring this thing pretty soon."

  "How's Penny holding up?"

  "She's coming around."

  "Only person she'll talk to is you. How come?"

  Animal shrugged. "Good sense, I guess." He picked a few notes.

  "I thought it was maybe, you being happily married and all, she thought you were safe."

  Animal Hamlin nodded vaguely. "I suppose."

  "You oughta put in a good word for me, Animal. Tell her I'm a good guy."

  Hamlin gave him a sideward look. "Compared with what?" he joked.

  Pak, the assistant bartender, was making the rounds, so Manny called him over and ordered two drinks.

  When Pak returned to the bar, Manny shook his head. "Something's been bothering me, Animal. That's a good guitar, right?"

  "Damn good," said Animal as he strummed some brisk chords. "It's a Gibson."

  "Then how come you spray-painted it bright orange?"

  "Had it stolen just after I got here. Air cops found it on a Thai when he tried to take it out the gate. Since I painted it orange, I can leave it anywhere and no one tries to steal it."

  "The thing sure is ugly like that," Manny agreed.

  One of the 357th Wild Weasel pilots was coming across the room. He wore a black handlebar mustache and was carrying a drink and a use-worn banjo. "Music time!" he hollered to Animal Hamlin in his Tennessee twang.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Wednesday, December 6th, 1500 Local—VPA Headquarters, Hanoi, DRV

  Colonel Xuan Nha

  The generals continued to meet daily to engineer the victory demanded by the Enlightened One, and with each meeting the bickering in the room grew more strident. The subject was still where and how to stage the great victory over American ground forces.

  General Tran Do, deputy commander of communist forces in the South, had been unable to attend the Hanoi meeting because of ongoing battles in the South. With Le Duc Tho away his hands were full, for the Viet Cong irregulars were difficult to control in the best of times. Even so, he'd sent voluminous pages of a plan he'd put together, his suggestion for a bold spring offensive.

  Colonel Van Tra, commandant of combined Communist forces in the Delta and Saigon regions, had come in Tran Dos place to present his grand plan, and from his first day he'd seemed appalled at the continuous dissension and bickering. The attendees listened to Tran Do's plan, but it only seemed to fuel arguments, centered about every phase of the operation. Where would they hold the battle? How would they move men and supplies with appropriate stealth? How much of both were required? Should they include Viet Cong irregular troops in the important phases? Who should lead? Who should be second in command? Which troops should be held in reserve, and where? Was the timing—just after the Tet holiday truce—truly appropriate?

  Today General Giap listened quietly to the bickering, letting it go on and on, although he'd indicated they must soon reach decisions. Periodically during an argument one of them would look to him for arbitration, but he'd just look on as if interested but not willing to interfere. When they spoke of Mee air intervention, however, he finally motioned a hand. The tone and volume of the arguments abated, but not enough. "Quiet," he uttered, and it became so.

  "General Dung has just told me of a victory. A small battle, but a victorious one." He indicated that Van Tien Dung should provide details.

  Puzzled looks prevailed. Ten days before, four crack People's Army regiments had been soundly defeated at Dak To, ground up with terrible losses after a twenty-day battle by a lesser number of American soldiers. Each day the estimates of communist casualties from the bitter fighting at Dak To grew. Certainly no victory had been reported to the group.

  Dung's answer was a surprising one. "Colonel Xuan Nha sent an expeditionary force of militia to our western border to eliminate an enemy base there. . . ." Dung outlined what had happened at Ban Sao Si, changing the poorly defended navigation station to a stronghold, describing mountain tribesmen as enemy soldiers, expanding even the inflated estimates of destroyed Mee aircraft provided by the exuberant Commandant of Militia.

  Xuan beamed his pleasure. This was the highest compliment he could be paid, to be extolled by his country's top two generals. The Enlightened One might be the supreme leader, but to a military man like Xuan Nha, praise from either of the nation's warrior leaders was a grand reward. This time it came from both! As Dung continued, it became apparent he would use the achievement at Ban Sao Si as a stepping stone to another subject. "Colonel Nha used a new weapon to protect his men from air attacks." Dung nodded for Xuan to provide details.

  Xuan began to describe the shoulder-fired Strela missile, but from his first words of infrared, solid propellant, intercept trajectories, and so forth, the generals' attentions flagged. As he began discussing firing strategies, some gained their feet to stretch wearily. He added a comment about Strela being the answer to their requests for antiaircraft weapons in the South and said he'd send a group of his men there to operate them. By then no one listened, so he concluded.

  Without pause the men went back to bickering over where the attacks should be staged. General Tran Do's plan was again detailed to the group by Colonel Van Tra, calling for a strong attack on Saigon to paralyze the Mee and their puppet army, while other forces simultaneously staged massive attacks upon Mee and ARVN bases throughout the Mekong Delta and the central highlands. Yet others would isolate, then take and hold Hué and Quang Tri. A few grizzled veterans raised eyebrows and relayed, for the hundredth time, their conviction that the plan was too decentralized, that the various, widespread battles would be too difficult to control.

  General Dung argued for a quite different battle. He said it must be held at a location they could easily resupply. His staff officers had identified that place to be Khe Sanh, where mountains surrounded a Mee base very near both the borders of the Democratic Republic and Cambodia. The terrain was sufficiently similar to that of Dien Bien Phu to warrant strong consideration.

  Yet another general, this one on General Giap's own staff, argued for multiple attacks throughout the South, much like General Tran Do's plan, but those would be mere diversions while massive numbers of troops poured directly across the demilitarized zone, to march in a great tide down the coastal highways, taking one city after another.

  Xuan Nha listened as the generals argued, wondering why they weren't interested in the Strela. But he'd had trouble convincing them of the need for other sophisticated weapons and knew he shouldn't be surprised. Colonel Van Tra, the arrival from Saigon, remained aghast at the petty bickering. Welcome to Hanoi politics, Xuan Nha thought, where political connivery is more important than accomplishments. He remained jubilant that the success at Ban Sao Si had been used as an example by Giap and Dung, for with those words of praise his position at the head of
the VPAND was secured.

  He thought the words "General Xuan Nha," and liked the sound.

  Thursday, December 7th, 0645 Local—O' Club Dining Room, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Colonel Buster Leska

  "G'mooning, Kunnel," said the waitress.

  "Good morning," Buster answered brightly as he walked toward the reserved table at the rear of the room. He felt good this morning, damn good. He took his seat, accepted the typed menu, and pulled out his reading glasses, as if it were really necessary to examine the bill of fare.

  B. J. Parker had done it differently. Every morning he'd demanded poached eggs on toast and bacon. Fresh eggs. Crisp bacon. The club officer had known that, and while the kitchen might run out of the various ingredients for other breakfasts, they'd kept enough on hand for the wing commander. B.J. had joked about it, saying it gave the pilots something to bitch about, which was a healthy tradition, and he'd continue to have a breakfast his aging stomach could digest.

  When Buster had been a buck captain, he'd watched wing commanders get preferential treatment, and he remembered his resentment. Buster had the same menu as the rest of his officers. But regardless of how he demanded that he receive the same service as others, the club officer made sure his menu was freshly typed and easy to read, and that the chair at the head of his table was sturdy—unlike many of the others that wobbled precariously as the officers sat.

  The three fighter-squadron commanders came into the entrance, talking with one another. Buster motioned and caught Lucky's eye, then waved them over. It was seldom all three were available at the same time.

  They'd attended an 0600 intell meeting at the command post, the hottest topics being the loss of the Channel 97 TACAN, the buildup of supplies being funneled into the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and the fact that they were being sent out to bomb even fewer good targets. Increasingly the pilots were sent to patches of jungle that were suspected of sheltering truck parks, and when they bombed them, they most often got no secondary explosions or other feedback to show if anything had been down there. They were starting to call themselves "monkey killers," a nickname previously reserved for bomber crews.

  As the three lieutenant colonels made their way down the length of the room, Buster evaluated them, as he often did his critical staff officers.

  Obie Zeigler had turned out surprisingly well. His tendency to be overcautious was giving way, and he'd made some almost bold decisions for his 357th squadron.

  Lucky Anderson was as capable as Moss had predicted. Maybe as good a combat commander as Mack MacLendon. His 333rd squadron ran so smoothly and got such fine results that Leska spent little time worrying about it. Anderson was a born leader, and his men would do about anything for him short of assassinating the Pope. Maybe that too.

  Then there was Donovan, whom he'd insisted on putting into the job. Buster hated to be wrong. He was, though. He'd thought Yank would build a squadron of prima donnas like himself. Instead Yank was increasingly withdrawn, and Buster knew it was related to combat losses. His men disliked him, for Yank was not a lovable type at the best of times, and he seemed even more self-centered. The 354th squadron continued to function well, because they had a strong ops officer and good flight commanders. Yank spent so much of his time second-guessing wing ops and nitpicking the way they were flying combat that he was beginning to miss staff meetings, and Buster was tough on commanders who couldn't spare time to keep themselves informed.

  The three lieutenant colonels arrived, muttered their "g'mornings," and sat.

  Zeigler cast an appreciative eye at the door. "Look at that." The deputies for maintenance and logistics had entered, ushering newly arrived secretaries. Both were sharp looking. The younger one wore a miniskirt so short it was awe inspiring even to Buster's middle-aged eyes.

  "Now that's worth fighting for," Obie Zeigler said with a grin.

  After a minute of talking about the merits of having round-eye female secretaries rather than burly admin sergeants, they watched as Manny DeVera and Animal Hamlin came in, Manny opening doors and rushing about to seat Buster's secretary. Penny Dwight was looking better than she had since her boyfriend had been killed more than a week earlier. The young, Buster observed to himself, are resilient.

  Obie put it another way. "That gal does not let moss grow twixt her toes."

  "Yeah," growled Yank. "Her big toes." It was the kind of statement the old Yank Donovan would have made, and made Buster wonder if he wasn't finally reverting.

  "Manny's doing a great job as weapons officer, Colonel," Obie Zeigler said.

  Buster nodded in agreement. "He's a good man."

  Even Yank agreed. "The ECM pods are working better since he started working the problem."

  Obie pursued it. "He's flying the tough ones and setting an example. The Supersonic Wetback briefs something, then he goes out and shows the guys how to do it."

  Lucky Anderson spoke up. "Manny's got moxie you don't often find in a captain."

  "About time you said something," said Obie. "You've been as talkative as wallpaper."

  Anderson tried to ignore his friend's comment. Zeigler nudged Donovan. "Man's in love—only time he's human's when the Ice Maiden's around."

  "I've never liked that nickname," Lucky complained.

  "Hell, we all like her, Lucky. She's one sharp lady." Zeigler nodded to the others. "I was at Sembach in fifty-nine, when Lucky and the Ice Maiden first met. They made all the wives-club gossip columns . . . went around giving each other secret looks like they were a couple teenagers." He turned back to Lucky. "Where's Linda, anyway? Back in Bangkok?"

  Lucky was embarrassed by the attention given his private life. "She's making the rounds of the bases. I'm expecting a phone call tonight from NKP."

  "I'm surprised you two never tied the knot."

  Anderson mumbled something. "What was that?" asked Donovan, leaning toward him.

  Lucky's voice remained hardly audible. "We get married in May. I'll be done before then, and she's going to get an early transfer. Middle of May in Big Spring, Texas. You're all invited."

  "Hot damn!" Zeigler grinned. "Gentlemen, we're witnessing the end of a long and pleasant friendship."

  "Congratulations," Buster said. "I'll expect a free drink at the stag bar tonight."

  "I didn't want to announce it on a loudspeaker," Lucky grumbled.

  Obie Zeigler raised his voice to a near shout. "HELL, LUCKY, WE WON'T TELL ANYONE THAT YOU'RE MARRYING LINDA IN MAY AT BIG SPRING, TEXAS!"

  Buster chuckled as Anderson looked frantically about. While it was often difficult to define the expression on the badly burned face, Lucky was obviously mortified.

  "Yayyyyy!" hollered a group of grinning captains. "Shit hot!" shouted a lieutenant. Manny DeVera hurried over and energetically pumped Lucky's hand. "That's great! Congratulations!"

  Anderson stood, grimacing as others lined up. "Thanks, Obie," he snarled.

  "Don't mention it," Zeigler said heartily as the line continued to grow.

  Leska took it all in wryly.

  During the hubbub Yank Donovan leaned toward Buster with a look more troubled than normal. "I got a phone call from Tom Lyons yesterday, Colonel. He's the new deputy commander of the PACAF inspector–general team."

  Leska hardly heard. He certainly didn't care much about the subject. "So?"

  Donovan opened his mouth to say more, then stopped himself. "Just thought you'd want to know," he finally muttered.

  Buster smiled at the hard time the guys were giving Lucky Anderson. A captain asked if the marriage to the USAID lady meant she'd start handing out shovels to the pilots. Animal Hamlin said hell no, it meant the 333rd had to start dropping rice on the North Vietnamese.

  1425L—South of BRL TACAN, Laos

  Sergeant Black

  It was their eighth day since skinnying down the western precipice. Only six of their seven had gathered at the base of the vertical path. One Hotdog was missing. Two of the surviving renegades were wounded, one with a head w
ound where a bullet had shattered his jaw, the other with a fractured leg suffered after a thirty-foot fall down the mountainside.

  For the first two days they'd holed up in one of the thousand limestone caves that honeycombed the western side of the mountain, quietly because a group of militia were camped close by. The lieutenant had covertly pulled his bayonet knife, to ensure silence if the pain became too much for either of the injured men to bear. Thankfully, he'd not had to use it. On the third day the militia camp had been left with only six men in attendance. The four healthy Hotdogs had taken care of them, their gunfire muffled by Phantoms bombing the mountain. During that attack the militia had fired several guided rockets, but as Black had forecast, the Phantoms were too high and flying too fast for them. The first night, when the AC-47 had dropped down to fire its guns, it had intermittently released flares to decoy the heat-seeking rockets away from the aged aircraft. The dragon ship went unharmed, although several rockets had been fired at them too.

  If they'd only done that before the militia came up the mountain, Black had commiserated, but he'd dismissed the thought; it was a what if, and he didn't have time to clutter his mind with those.

  After killing the six soldiers, they'd set and splintered the one Hotdog's injured leg, unbound and forced soft food through the other's shattered jaw, then set out walking southward, past the militia gathered about the mountain. It proved to be slow going. After five days of travel, Black estimated they'd come less than forty klicks. The Hotdog with the injured leg slowed them some, but the one with the wounded jaw had grown delirious, and they'd had to lead and sometimes carry him.

  They had maps spread and were trying to plan their route. They were 500 kilometers north of their home base at Nakhon Phanom, with no way to contact Buffalo Soldier. Since they couldn't lug the thing down the mountainside, Black had destroyed the HF radio, leaving only the hand-held VHFs with their very short range. To their east was North Vietnam, and to the west concentrations of enemy troops. They couldn't travel to the southwest, for the Plains des Jars, thick with Pathet Lao guerrillas, lay in that direction. Travel southward was equally dangerous. Before leaving NKP, Black had seen estimates of 70,000 Pathet Lao, gathering into battalion strengths throughout the panhandle.