Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  Dung agreed, though characteristically hesitant to do so.

  Giap asked the group to continue to meet for a while longer, for now they must agree upon the timing of the hundred great battles that would mark the beginning of the end of the great War of Unification. Without further word he left them.

  The meeting continued, but at 1530 Xuan Nha slipped out to gain a report about the Mee air attacks of the day, and how his forces had done with them. Quang Hanh waited in an outer office. His report was a good one; no targets had been bombed in the Hanoi or Haiphong areas. The Mee pilots had sent two waves of aircraft to Vinh and attacked the dock areas. Except for several reconnaissance flights, there was little else to report.

  Xuan dismissed the lieutenant, wondering if the Mee were not also up to something momentous. When he turned to go back into the meeting, he found General Tho before him.

  "It is a glorious day," said Xuan Nha.

  General Tho was not there to speak about Giap's decision. "More than a month has passed since we last talked about Quon," he said.

  Xuan Nha remained silent.

  "Did you speak of the matter with your wife's nephew?" he asked.

  "I passed the message," Xuan said, wishing he'd followed up. He'd assumed that Li Binh had spoken to Nguyen Wu. Surely she'd not forgotten such an important request. He decided that it must be Wu who was dragging his feet for some reason or other.

  "Le Duc Tho will depart soon," said the general, eyeing him. "The matter is to be concluded. Quon's reeducation must be completed before my uncle leaves. Quon's assistance to me is important in these turbulent times." General Tho had relied heavily upon Quon since the very formulation of the VPAAF.

  "I will relay the message once more," said Xuan Nha.

  "Your wife is a capable and valuable asset to the Republic," said the VPAAF general in a slow and deliberate tone. "My uncle does not wish to bring discredit to her nephew, but . . ."

  He left the remainder of the sentence unspoken as he returned to the meeting.

  Xuan stood silently, angry that Nguyen Wu hadn't released Quon. He would speak with Li Binh again. If Le Duc Tho's anger was unleashed, they both had much to lose.

  1545L—Seventh AF Headquarters, Tan Son Nhut AB, Saigon, South Vietnam

  Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates

  Twice Pearly had met with Second Lieutenant Lucille Dortmeier and asked her if there was still a problem in her section between herself and Master Sergeant Turner. Both times she'd remained at attention, regardless of what he'd said about relaxing, and barked out No Sir! like a cadet in training.

  This time he was determined to get through to her.

  She reported to his office, not saluting only because he'd made it clear they had to maintain a working relationship, but standing stiffly nonetheless.

  "Ease up," he tried. "Relax."

  She didn't respond, but simply stood with her eyes locked straight forward.

  He sighed and shook his head. "You're not making things easier, Lieutenant."

  "Am I doing my job properly, sir, or do you have a criticism?"

  As impertinent as it sounded, it was the first time she'd reacted.

  "Let's call it criticism. You aren't doing your job."

  She flinched.

  "You come to work, sit in your office like a robot, and go home at the end of the day."

  She finally moved her eyes to look at him.

  "Remember when you first came to see me about your problem with Turner? That's the way I expect lieutenants to act. Eager to bite off more than they can chew."

  She waited for a moment, then spoke slowly. "Sir, you made it quite clear that I was making waves, and you didn't have time for my childish complaint. You were correct. I looked closer and found that Sergeant Turner is doing an excellent job running the section. Any actions I take would be superficial, perhaps even detrimental. I feel it's in the best interest of the Documentation section to stay out of the way . . . sir."

  "Did I say your complaint was childish?"

  "That was my impression, sir."

  "You feel unnecessary?"

  "That too. Yes, sir."

  "Why didn't you tell me that when I tried to talk with you last time, or the time before?"

  "You mean just after you found out who my father was? I do not want special treatment because of my father or what he once did . . . sir."

  "Or your brother and what he did?"

  She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and swallowed. She spoke in a softer voice. "The fact that my brother was shot down should not give me any special privilege."

  Pearly huffed a sigh.

  "I would like to transfer out of Plans and Programs, sir."

  He thought about it for a moment. "Nope," he finally said. "I figure any officer that's as hardheaded as you has a place in my branch."

  "Sir?" She gave him a slightly startled look.

  "See, I'm hardheaded too. First I'm going to keep you here until I get through to you that I am not God. I make mistakes right up there with the best of 'em, but normally I'm too hardheaded to see it, and if I do, I'm too hardheaded to admit it. Then I'm going to show you how you can use your own hardheadedness to advantage, because I've been through the mill and know the lumps you have to take when you've got the affliction."

  A smile quivered at her lips.

  Pearly leaned back in his chair. "Will you please relax? You make me nervous standing there like that, like I'm supposed to be swearing you in or something. Hell, Dortmeier, I damn near flunked out of ROTC because I questioned why we had to march and stand at attention so much. I thought the Air Force was about flying, not doing eyes rights in front of reviewing stands. I remained hardheaded about that until I got my ass chewed enough to see the light."

  Lucille Dortmeier relaxed.

  "Now, please sit down."

  She did.

  "Is Turner still giving you a hard time?"

  "No, sir. Like I told you, he's very good at his job."

  "And the section runs well."

  "Exasperatingly well. I'm really not needed there."

  "Good," he said. "I've got something else in mind for you."

  The diminutive, skinny redhead grew a puckish look. "Something requiring a spoiled hardhead?"

  "Something requiring someone who can write as well as you do."

  Pearly saw the general at 1600 hours, to show him the results of the morning air attacks. There'd been no missions to pack six and no losses. A four-ship Wild Weasel flight had bombed a SAM site west of Vinh, in northern pack two, and a strike flight had found and bombed a string of barges on the nearby Ca River.

  Moss told Pearly he'd received a short JACKPOT message from General McManus, telling him he'd meet with the President again the next day. He wanted to know if they had any new inputs from the field that should be discussed. Pearly could think of none. Moss said he'd send another message to encourage the chief to ask for the lifting of restrictions.

  Before he left General Moss's office, Pearly asked permission to bring another person aboard the JACKPOT program. Not to meet with them and talk about strategy or policy, but to help Pearly fine-tune the LINE BACKER JACKPOT OPlan.

  The general readily agreed. He'd known Little Lucy Dortmeier since she was a pup, he said, and trusted her implicitly. He said he'd add her name to the access list and would so advise General McManus.

  1640L—Wing Commander's Office, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  GS-7 Penny Dwight

  Two weeks had now passed since Dusty Fields's death, and the heavy weight of sorrow was being lifted from Penny's shoulders. Although she'd said she'd never forget him, it was increasingly difficult to remember his face or the mannerisms that had so permeated her mind. Now she often thought of another man, who was pressing his suit.

  Manny DeVera had just gone into Colonel Leska's office to talk business, and she thought again how nice he was, and how the feeling of danger in his presence had become something she found herself anticipating.
As she'd grown to know him, she'd found him a gentleman, sort of a pussycat, really, yet very masculine. Roger Hamlin was like a brother, and she could share privacies, like how she missed the feminine luxuries she'd taken for granted back in the States. With Manny it was different. They bantered and joked in an entirely different way, and she was driven to impress him, while with Roger she felt no such urge.

  Roger was like family. Manny was another thing altogether, and although he likely didn't know, she was increasingly hooked. If Dusty hadn't captured her attention so quickly, it could easily have been Manny DeVera back then, and the time wouldn't have been wasted, and the tragedy of Dusty Fields's death wouldn't have consumed her.

  In the two weeks since Dusty's death, Penny had matured—had changed in some intangible way that she knew was for the better. She'd grown new confidence, worried more about herself, paid attention to her looks, and was conscious about the way she carried herself. Dusty Fields had done that for her, had made her realize she could be pretty if she wanted to be and acted that way. As a result, the men at the base, even the colonels who came into the office, were reacting differently to her. With her newfound confidence came another benefit; she was also calmer and better at her job. Penny sat at her desk, sorting through the day's correspondence and glancing periodically at the colonel's door. Manny DeVera had certainly noticed the new Penny. He was even more attentive and was pursuing her with increasing vigor.

  She would start going out with him—without Roger as chaperon—just as Manny wanted her to do. Since she'd made that decision in her trailer the previous night, she'd realized that the same danger flag that had once frightened her was now drawing her, like a mesmerized moth, to his bright flame. Some flame! Penny smiled. She was impatient, but knew she couldn't rush things. People might think she'd not mourned sufficiently over Dusty.

  Manny was quick-witted and intelligent, intensely handsome, and had the kind of physique that her girlfriends in the States discussed with rolling gaga eyes.

  There lurked, in the back of her mind, the possibility of losing him to combat. Penny wouldn't be able to handle another emotional impact like that. But he was most definitely the one. The timing though, was important and had to be just right—because she also knew it wouldn't take Manny long at all to talk his way inside her trailer.

  Penny began to establish a timetable for Manny DeVera. Some might think her calculating. Her mother would call her wise and tell her to wait even longer. But Penny felt another week or two would be just about right. Then no one could call her uncaring or callous about Dusty.

  Penny studied her desk calendar, placing her pencil on a series of dates that had been tentatively set by Colonel Leska. She nodded happily to herself. When the Christmas bombing halt was ordered by the President, she planned to tell Manny DeVera they would start going out together—alone. Then, after a few evenings, she'd offer him a Yuletide present that neither he nor she would soon forget.

  She felt giddy, and the sensual, tingling sensation grew. She pulled on her reins, as she'd recently learned to do. For ten more days it must remain a threesome, with good old trustworthy and safe Roger there between them. The new way Manny looked at her when she caught him unawares told her he'd wait.

  Manny emerged from the colonel's office and walked toward her desk. Penny observed how he moved with athletic grace.

  He gave her his easy smile. "Dinner downtown tonight?"

  Penny hesitated, feeling his electricity but determined not to let him know. "Roger says a USO group's coming to the club. A trio from Australia singing Aussie folk songs. He thinks we ought to go."

  "Sounds okay," Manny said, not particularly enthusiastically. "See you tonight."

  She stared at his muscular back as he walked toward the door. The man was positively sexy. She tried to imagine how Manny would be in bed. Her cheeks flushed hotly. Other memories of Dusty Fields had faded, but not the thoughts of that wonderful night when she'd come alive.

  Penny almost changed the timetable.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Thursday, December 14th, 0700 Local—Route Pack Six, North Vietnam

  Colonel Buster Leska

  Since the loss of the Channel 97 TACAN, the strike force had changed their method of operation. Instead of rendezvousing at the nav station near the border, they now formed into the big formation, although loosely, soon after dropping off the tanker. They flew that way across the huge, grassy plain of central Laos, then tightened up as they approached the tall mountains of westernmost North Vietnam.

  They'd done so that morning, as the early sun illuminated more and more of the earth below. Then onward, a two-ship element of Wild Weasels roving on either side and slightly forward, each carrying four CBU-29 cluster bombs and two AGM-45 Shrike radar-seeking missiles. Today a second sixteen-ship formation followed five miles behind, and aft of them was yet another flight of Weasels. The first big formation had crossed the border at 18,000 feet, the second at 21,000, and now both gradually descended. The 32 F-105D strike birds carried a total of 192 M-117 750-pound bombs, an explosive force equivalent to a small nuclear device. More than a mile above the Thuds, two flights of F-4D Phantom MiG-CAPs, each loaded with a gun pod, four AIM-7 radar-beam-rider Sparrows, and two AIM-9 heat-seeking Sidewinders flew in modified fluid-four formations.

  Together they were called a composite strike force, and such a powerful armada had seldom been seen in the history of tactical air warfare. Yet there were problems that plagued them. To launch from their individual bases, meet with the tankers and refuel, drop everyone off with full tanks, properly join and form up, proceed precisely along a planned route, and arrive at the target area at the directed time over target was a triumph of planning and execution.

  The fact that the TACAN was no longer available made it all more difficult.

  Any of a thousand potential errors had been compensated for by the existence of the navigation site, for you could always pause there to wait for tardy members of the formation, call in airborne spares if any of the strike-force birds had problems, precisely set up formation spacing, and take a deep breath before plunging into the maelstrom.

  When the TACAN needle swung as you passed overhead, you knew you were at a specific point on the face of the earth. It was reassuring, like a last friendly face—for when you left it, you knew the world before you would be hostile, and when you returned to it, you gave an inward sigh of relief, because somehow it meant you were back with the good guys. It didn't matter that Laos was a hotbed of military activity. The Pathet Lao guerrillas below weren't shooting at them with SAMs and MiGs and heavy AAA, as they found around Haiphong, Thai Nguyen . . . and especially Hanoi, where they were headed.

  Buster wondered about his repeated requests that the TACAN station be reinstalled.

  They crossed the big Red, ECM pods on, looking diligently for SAMs and MiGs, and continued toward the distant shadow of Thud Ridge. Their target was the Yen Vien rail yard on the northeastern side of Hanoi—again. Seventh Air Force had reported the largest concentrations of supplies ever, freshly arrived at Haiphong harbor and somehow transported to Hanoi despite downed bridges and daily surveillance for barges on the rivers.

  Everyone now knew about the massive resupply efforts moving toward South Vietnam. They were finding and bombing more supply concentrations at the transshipment points around Hanoi, such as Yen Vien, and were interdicting more convoys on the jungle trails, but they were still restricted from going to the source—the streets of south Hanoi, where the real buildups could be found—and the supplies steadily, inexorably, made their way south.

  Barracuda, the Wild Weasels ranging before them, called two separate missile launches as they crossed over the valley. Both groups of three missiles missed by a considerable margin.

  The ECM shop was doing better at maintaining the pods—the failure rate was much lower, like one in seven or eight—due to emphasis, added technicians, and better support by the manufacturer. On every other Thud they'd removed the s
econd Sidewinder and replaced them with another ECM pod, so the added jamming made the formations work even better. They'd not lost a single aircraft in the pod formation to a SAM since they'd made the improvements. Each missile that missed meant more kudos for Manny DeVera's astute work.

  As they passed over Thud Ridge, Buster swung the formation southward. The aircraft turned in sharp, crisp movements, so they'd quickly be wings level again, for they radiated jamming power at the earth more efficiently when flying straight ahead.

  Another missile launch, this one from Thai Nguyen, but Barracuda flight announced they were not guiding on the strike force and immediately went on the attack.

  They reached the initial point, and Buster went into his climb, followed by the other birds of the force. Flak over Hanoi was thick, as always. Buster looked about the airspace sharply as he climbed, gaining a last impression of the situation, then approached his perched altitude and immediately rolled in on the target.

  The rail yard and makeshift warehouses were glutted with supplies waiting to be moved into Hanoi. Three fiery explosions erupted and flung dark clouds of debris skyward.

  They were forced to turn away from the target toward the east, because it was verboten to fly over Hanoi proper. The pilots knew the rules. So did the Hanoi gunners, and they concentrated their artillery fire there. One aircraft was lost, and two more heavily damaged as they came off the target on their predictable paths.

  Takhli RTAFB

  After he'd debriefed, Buster found he had a respite before his next scheduled meeting. He returned to his quarters, retrieved a soda from the fridge, and relaxed in the comfortable easy chair he'd placed near the window of the trailer.

  He sipped at the soda before picking up the latest letter from Carolyn. She'd visited Marcus at Columbia and mentioned the rumors that drags were prevalent on campus and how she was concerned, since he looked as scraggly as the drugged-out hippies they saw on television.