Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  The lieutenant suggested that they walk southeast to Muang Hiam, where Royal Laotian government forces manned an often-besieged outpost on the eastern rim of the Plains des Jars. Before they'd left NKP, Black had heard Muang Hiam was about to be engaged by a Pathet Lao force, but he went along with the idea, for he had nothing better to offer. They made three more kilometers before the Hotdog with the shattered jaw collapsed. They placed him in a cool spot and forced water down him, but he became unconscious. Half an hour later they heard a long, low moan, and the lieutenant gripped his hand while he thrashed. He finally stiffened, relaxed, and died.

  The group sat about and talked about their dead comrade's exploits, how he'd been a faithful friend and a good soldier. The lieutenant said he'd come from a village near the coastal city of Cam Pha, where his father had been a fisherman.

  "When we go to Ha Wa Eee," said Nguyen, the youngest of the group and also the dreamer, "we will all be fishermen."

  They talked about the missing man and spoke well of him too. The Hotdog with the broken leg said he hoped he'd been killed, because if he'd been captured and it was found that he'd deserted to fight for the Mee, his fate would be severe.

  "Yes," said the lieutenant in a soft voice. "We must not be captured."

  They nodded and were silent for a while. They all had their individual reasons for despising the Hanoi regime. The lieutenant's case was not uncommon. He'd returned from officers' training to find that his thirteen-year-old sister had been taken while his parents had been tending their fields. A neighbor had whispered that a passing sergeant had seen her outside their house and led her away toward the nearby training camp. When his parents had hurried there, she'd already been sent with a company of soldiers going south to battle. They'd been given two small sacks of rice and told that the girl would be well treated. They should be proud she'd been chosen to serve her country. The lieutenant hadn't told his parents what the NVA did with the young girls commandeered from the countryside, or that they did not remain young after a few months of tending to the soldiers' needs—preparing their meals, serving as unit whore, and bearing huge loads of camp goods on the daily marches. He had nightmares about the treatment he knew she was receiving. If she was lucky, she'd died of disease or childbirth on the trail while carrying a fifty-kilo pack through the jungle.

  Young Nguyen sighed. "I will be very happy when we go to Ha Wa Eee. When will that be, Sarge Brack?"

  "Be patient." Black had promised to help get them to the Hawaiian Islands. People there were tolerant of the various races, he'd told them. They'd fit right in. He believed that. Nguyen asked him to describe Ha Wa Eee again, and Black spent an hour talking about his home. Their home too, once he got things moving properly. They remained spellbound as he described it.

  When he finally grew silent, the lieutenant said in island pidgin, "Mebbe we bettuh sleep, bruddahs."

  Early the next morning they crossed a well-traveled road. After talking it over, Black and the lieutenant left the injured man attended by the two others beside the muddy Hong Neun River while they slipped into Houa Muang, a small walled city a couple of kilometers distant. There they spoke to several people who didn't seem to think it odd that an NVA officer and an American sergeant were together. They were accustomed to seeing soldiers of many descriptions, and it made little difference what uniforms they wore.

  The two returned with bad news. The outpost at Muang Hiam, where they were headed, had been abandoned to foreigners, likely NVA, for a man had gestured at the lieutenant's uniform. Others like them were thick in the area, especially to the south where they were heading.

  They talked the situation over again. The lieutenant shook his head grimly. "They are everywhere before us."

  "And behind us," Sergeant Black offered, studying the map. He thought of something, nodded to himself, then traced with a finger. "We could go down the Hong Neun."

  The lieutenant frowned. "That is into Vietnam," he said.

  Black moved the finger. "Remember this place?" A year earlier, on their first recon into North Vietnam, they'd manned an observation post on a branch of the Ho Chi Minh trail.

  The lieutenant's eyes narrowed.

  "We need a long-range radio. We left one in the cache there."

  The lieutenant lifted his head and stared thoughtfully at the muddy river. "Will the battery pack still be charged after so long?"

  "I can think of no other way."

  "We will need a boat," the lieutenant said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Monday, December 11th, 0755 Local—PACAF Headquarters, Hickam AFB, Hawaii

  Colonel Tom Lyons

  Tom had been at the headquarters for only three weeks, but he'd already made a trip to Saigon to look into problem areas General Roman felt were important. After hard questioning, mostly using threats of courts-martial on young enlisted men, he'd found that the people at Seventh Air Force had been withholding information, and Bomber Joe had been able to make corrections that forced the "fucking cowboys" to toe the line.

  That morning Lyons had arrived at his office to find a note on his desk. Roman wanted to see him at eight o'clock, following his morning intell briefing.

  Lyons stepped into the general's outer office and regarded the brunette secretary. Good legs, superb ass, and passable tits. Definitely worth expending effort on.

  Since learning that the general shared confidences with Tom, her attitude toward him had improved. She treasured her position as the general's executive secretary and was careful to treat Roman's inner staff better than others. She was also impressed with Lyons family and their old money. He'd taken her to lunch the previous week, and she'd hung on to his words about life among the privileged—hardly able to take a bite of her meal, she'd listened so hard. She was "in the bag," as his father once said about a woman he'd been eyeing. Meaning she'd be a sure thing.

  Her husband should pose no problem. He might even be the key to push her into the sack.

  "Colonel Lyons," she greeted from behind her desk, smiling as if pleased to see him.

  He used his haughty look. Her kind expected to be treated like furniture. "Is the general available?" he asked.

  "He's finished with the morning briefing and will be off the telephone shortly. Coffee, sir?"

  He gave her a brief nod.

  She hurried to the urn, carefully poured a cup, and dutifully brought it to him.

  After ten minutes, when he'd finished the coffee and periodically eyed the brunette as she typed, she purred that the general was ready to receive him. In the bag.

  He went inside quietly, as he'd learned to do, and stood waiting for the general to motion him forward. It was somewhat of a charade, for a couple of follow-up phone calls after their initial conversation had served to change things solidly in Tom's favor. His father, along with his powerful father-in-law, had let it be known through third parties that they might be willing to back Roman in his bid to replace General McManus as CSAF. The rotation would come in the spring, unless McManus had another problem with his heart and it happened sooner. Since word of the two powerful men's support had been leaked, Roman had treated Tom with increased respect.

  Roman beckoned from his massive desk. "Got something for you to chew on, Lyons."

  "Yes, sir?"

  The general sat back in his chair and mused for a moment, the corners of his mouth turned downward as if he'd tasted something unpleasant. "Concerns Jim McManus, the Cee SAF. Seems the old fart's up to some connivery."

  "Oh?"

  "He paid a couple of visits to the White House. At least two, maybe more. Very quietly, like he didn't want anyone to know."

  "What was the subject, sir?" Lyons asked.

  "That's the part that pisses me off. The report of the visits came from a fellow in the SecDef's office, but he didn't know what they talked about. There's some typical Pentagon whispers, but they're just farting in the wind."

  Bomber Joe abruptly stood and walked to the window to look out upon Pear
l Harbor. He stared for a moment, then nodded at the scene. "Twenty-six years ago Jap torpedo planes flew right down that channel out there, Lyons. Took out our battleship navy. I feel like the men who were betrayed back then. McManus is working some kind of surprise, and I don't like it one bit."

  Tom Lyons held his tongue.

  "You haven't heard anything from your . . . ah . . . relatives about this?"

  "Sir, if I had, you'd have been the first to know."

  "McManus is pulling something slick, Lyons, and I want to know what it is."

  "I'll see if I can find out, sir."

  "You do that. Maybe"—he hesitated, phrasing carefully— "your father-in-law could fill you in. He talks with Johnson."

  "Yes, sir, but it's unlikely he'd tell me about their conversations." Senator Lingenfelter was indeed a confidant of the President, but Tom knew it would be difficult to gain hard information. His wife's father had agreed to help with the rumor that he might support Roman for CSAF, but that had been a simple matter, and he could always change his mind. Betraying a confidence of the President was something quite different. He was consistently closemouthed about such things.

  "Have you heard of something called JACKPOT?" Roman asked quietly.

  "What is it, sir?"

  Roman worked his jaw angrily, then abruptly shook his head. "Dunno. Something McManus's plans people are working on. They may have changed the name, because as far as I can find out from my contacts, that code name hasn't been reserved. I think it might be what the Cee SAF's seeing the President about. That fucking cowboy Moss may have something to do with it."

  Lyons was surprised. "General Moss?"

  "Yeah. I get feedback from the same Pentagon source that Jim McManus and Moss are exchanging love letters that may have something to do with this JACKPOT thing. He couldn't find out anything more specific."

  "But General Moss is your subordinate."

  "The bastard's going behind my back, and it's probably not the first time. I'd've replaced him a long time ago, but he's got powerful supporters, and it appears McManus is among 'em."

  The intercom buzzed and Roman gruffly answered, and dictated something to the secretary in a terse voice.

  As Roman talked, Tom Lyons thought about Lieutenant General Richard Moss, who several months earlier had booted him out of his headquarters and sent him to Takhli, where his latest problems had begun. If there was a way for Tom to get even, he'd not hesitate.

  Roman slammed the phone down. "Woman needs a good fucking," he muttered.

  Tom had entertained the same idea.

  "JACKPOT." Roman repeated the word a couple more times.

  "Perhaps I should go to back to Saigon and nose around the headquarters there."

  "Yeah. You do that. But first go out to the bases where you have contacts and see if they're sending Moss backup data. Try to check into any back-channel message traffic. Find out what this fucking JACKPOT thing is and get the information to me ASAP."

  "I'll give it my best, sir."

  "Before you go, see if Senator Lingenfelter can find out anything, okay?"

  Tom hesitated. "I'll try."

  Roman stalked to his desk, still brooding. He glared suddenly. "It's got something to do with the war. You can bank on it."

  Tom mused.

  "Lyons, I'll let you in on something else."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "If and when I get the Cee SAF job, I plan to suggest that we stop all bombing of North Vietnam that doesn't directly support our ground forces. It's counterproductive. Read the strategic-bombing survey conducted after World War II, and you'll learn that bombing a population does not end wars. The Luftwaffe tried it with England, and it just strengthened British resolve. Same thing happened in Berlin. That's what we're doing with North Vietnam. Every time we send a bunch of fighters up north to drop bombs and one of the things misses and hits a farmer's house, we piss off more people and make them band together that much closer."

  That made sense to Lyons. He remembered hearing about the postwar survey when he'd attended the Air War College.

  "If we'd hit the right targets, or if we were determined enough to nuke the bastards, it would be different. That would put an end to the thing. But we won't, so we should stop doing this halfway shit."

  Tom remained attentive.

  "I wonder if McManus is suggesting something like that, stopping the bombing." Roman pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  The general looked at Tom sharply and gave the grimace-smile. "Moss doesn't like you, Lyons. It was him that had the flag put on your records saying you were nonpromotable."

  "Oh?" Tom fidgeted uneasily, although he'd guessed that.

  Roman chuckled. "You ever think of what'll happen if McManus keeps making points with the President, him being buddies with Moss? What you going to do if Moss or one of his cronies gets the Cee SAF job when McManus steps down? How long do you think you'd last?"

  Lyons stared, a knot growing in his stomach. Could that happen? he wondered.

  "So you see, we've both got an interest in finding out what's going on with this JACKPOT thing. You . . . and me. If I get the top-dog position, you'll come along with me, and that means a star. If someone like Moss gets it, I'll retire, and you might as well go fishing with me."

  At the mention of wearing a star, Tom Lyons grew more intent. He became determined to find out everything possible about JACKPOT. He even wondered if there was a way to get the information from his father-in-law. As General Roman continued, Lyons's mind was busy, thinking of how a star on his shoulder would make so much that he'd endured worthwhile. While the general's mood continued to darken, his own improved considerably.

  As he left the inner office, the secretary was leaning over a file cabinet, sorting through a drawer. Tom stared at her nicely rounded ass for a moment, then approached closer, remembering what his father liked to say, that "privileges are due the privileged." Fucking her would certainly be one of those. He'd been screwing a couple of call girls lately, because Margaret was indisposed more than she was available to him, and he looked forward to something fresher, and with more challenge—like the general's ambitious secretary.

  He cleared his throat.

  She turned, then smiled as she took her seat at the desk. "Yes, sir?"

  He dropped his voice. "This evening after I get off, I'll drop by the Hale Koa downstairs bar. Maybe I could see you there. Buy you a drink and talk things over."

  She furrowed her brow. "I don't think . . ."

  Tom Lyons didn't appreciate hesitation from women of lower class. "Seven o'clock," he said in a more authoritative voice.

  She grew flustered. "I mean . . . your wife, colonel. You're married."

  He shrugged and gave her a smile. "So are you." Her husband was a civilian who worked on the transient aircraft flight line. He'd been a GS-8 for five years now, and his supervisor said he'd likely remain in that grade for another three. Tom had made it a point to find out.

  She looked troubled.

  Dumb bitch. He didn't hesitate to apply leverage. "I believe your husband's eligible for promotion this cycle."

  She stared. "I think so."

  Of course she knew. She also knew that his bosses would be attentive to the Deputy IG for PACAF. A word to his supervisor, and perhaps another to the lieutenant colonel he worked for, would undoubtedly make a difference in the priority list submitted to the promotion board.

  "Maybe I can help." Lyons arched an eyebrow. "We'll talk about it over a drink."

  Her eyes remained evasive, but he knew she was thinking about it. Her words emerged in a small whisper. "I don't think it would be advisable for us to be seen in a bar together."

  He glowered, wondering if he'd made a mistake about the level of her ambition.

  "Someone might talk." She looked about for listeners and deftly licked at her lower lip. "You know how rumors get started."

  He understood and felt relieved. She was still in the bag. "You're right." He fished a key out of
his pocket—the one to a Hale Koa guest quarters used by visiting dignitaries. "Room six-oh-four. Seven o'clock. Don't bother to change." He left, glancing back only once. She was at her desk, examining the key with an amused look, then putting it into her purse.

  In the bag. Another notch on the old musket. The fleeting thought that she'd been awfully easy to convince passed through his mind, but he dismissed it.

  Lyons smiled to himself as he walked down the hall toward the stairs. He had a briefing on his morning schedule. Some guy from Nellis Air Force Base pitching some pie-in-the-sky idea called Pave Dagger, which was some kind of homing bomb. He hoped it would be a short presentation, because he planned to drop by the Hale Koa for an early lunch, then go up to the guest suite and make sure the bar was properly stocked and the room ready.

  She was the kind who'd be impressed with horse-piss champagne, anything chilled in an ice bucket with a white towel draped over it.

  Yeah. Fuck her for a couple of nights running to put himself in a proper mood before he left for Saigon. If she performed well, he might even put in the good word for her husband.

  Maybe not. It would be enough to give the silly bitch a few hours of his time. Keep dangling the promotion carrot in case he wanted more of her. Young and up-and-coming. On his way to wearing stars. Old moneyed family. Hell, she should be grateful he asked her.

  1000L—XOO Briefing Room, PACAF HQ

  Captain Moods Diller

  The classified pitch was to a group of twenty staff officers, most of them majors and captains from ops and requirements. There was also a full bull from the IG shop.

  Moods kept it light, simplifying the complex Pave Dagger concept to basic and understandable elements. He also worked hard to keep his speech from reverting to rapid-fire mode, which some found difficult to understand.

  As the briefing continued past eleven o'clock, the colonel from the inspector-general team began to peer at his watch and frown.