Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  He'd received the order only the previous morning, he blurted in a trembling voice, and—

  Comrade Quon should have been released immediately. The matter had been passed to them by an important government figure.

  Wu grew numbed.

  Air Regiment Commandant Quon, hero of the People's Democratic Republic, had been judged reformed and reliable. Did the assistant commissioner have argument with the judgment of the People's Court?

  Wu agreed totally with the court's decision, fawning, telling them he'd attend to the matter immediately. Quon would be released and taken to his home as soon as he returned to the ministry building.

  They stared at him without emotion. He was dismissed.

  As he fled from the People's Court, Nguyen Wu was distraught. He'd wanted to speak to the Commissioner about it, had wanted to expedite the matter since his aunt's first warning, but Quon wasn't ready. He'd not responded to Wu's shift to kindness, had ignored his whispers that he was working to obtain his release. He'd simply stared without expression at Wu, as he might at an insect, and did not even act grateful that the beatings had stopped.

  Wu had grown to despise him even more.

  Other men in Quon's position would have groveled for the kindness he'd offered. Had someone spoken to him? Told him that his father-in-law was intervening? It seemed impossible, for the prisoners—the reeducation trainees—were kept isolated.

  Now the matter had been taken from Nguyen Wu's hands. Quon would not be released when Wu felt he should, but now . . . immediately . . . and he wasn't ready at all!

  Wu's misery was compounded by the fact that he'd not yet been reconciled with his powerful and beloved aunt. He wondered if there was any possible way he could repair the terrible rift that had grown between them. He must find a way. Another tryst, where he would give her the pleasures he still had to offer?

  But there remained the problem of Quon, of turning the man loose before he understood that Nguyen Wu was not responsible for the horrors that had been visited upon him.

  Reeducation Trainee Quon

  The time had arrived for his release, which he'd known would come since his first day. That knowledge was the difference between Quon and the other trainees. He'd known there would be an end to the beatings, a stop to the confessional lies dragged from his tormented soul.

  That it was about to happen had become apparent the moment Nguyen Wu had shifted tactics. When Wu had demanded loudly before the guards that Quon be moved from the tiny cell to a larger one—when he'd whispered that he was working to have him released—when he'd inquired about his health, and Quon was visited by a physician—when he'd asked about the food, and food became palatable. But more than anything, when the beatings had stopped, Quon had known he was about to be freed, because if it were up to Nguyen Wu, they would continue. Even as he'd spoken of mercy, malevolence had glittered from Wu's eyes.

  As soon as he'd realized it would soon end, he'd no longer cooperated with the worthless dog. He'd simply stared at Wu and refused to answer his simplest questions. As his body and mind were restored by nourishment, he was increasingly tortured by memories of confessing to terrible things about himself and his family.

  Wu was again in his room, speaking to him in low tones, but he was both nervous and anxious, and Quon knew the time had arrived.

  "I have just come from the People's Court," Wu started, "where I persuaded them . . ."

  Quon slowly stood, staring as Wu mouthed more meaningless words.

  A guard brought a uniform, the one he'd worn the day he'd been picked up at Phuc Yen by Wu and his secret policemen. Even as he disrobed, dropping the hated striped pajamas onto the floor, Wu continued to babble and Quon to stare.

  "I spoke many times in your behalf. You must realize that I held no personal part in this, comrade Quon. One must do his duty. I know that you are an excellent patriot to the—"

  "Yes. A man must do his duty," Quon interrupted in monotone.

  Wu swallowed, then nodded vigorously.

  "Please provide me with a vehicle and driver," Quon said quietly as he pulled on his uniform. "If necessary I will walk, but—"

  "I will be happy to personally take you, comrade Quon."

  "I would not be so presumptuous," Quon replied in a caustic tone.

  "I do not mind. In fact—"

  "The vehicle?"

  "As you wish. I just want you to realize that—"

  "I hear your words. Now I am anxious to go."

  They both stared. A tic formed at Nguyen Wu's jaw.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Thursday, December 21st, 1500 Local—Command Post, Danang Air Base, South Vietnam

  Captain Moods Diller

  The test team had been in place at Danang for a week, and all the pods and bomb kits had been checked and tuned on the bench in the ramshackle Pave Dagger building. Moods and his backseat pilot were impatient to fly. Everyone and everything were ready to test, but the two promised aircraft had not yet been made available.

  Moods had inquired at the Deputy for Maintenance's office and been told that the release of the two aircraft hadn't yet been approved by the wing commander. When Moods had gone to see the wing commander, twice he'd been left waiting in the outer office as others paraded by, and he was told the commander was busy. Finally, on his third attempt in as many days, he'd gotten in and was advised by the wingco that there were other, higher priorities. The North Vietnamese Army was still attacking at Dak To, and they were providing close air support to save American lives. It was difficult, close-in work, and they needed every available aircraft.

  Great, Moods had told him. The Pave Dagger smart bombs could be used. They could pinpoint-bomb targets that would take a dozen or more normal sorties to hit.

  The wingco said he wasn't going to experiment when the lives of American ground troops were at stake.

  Moods had written a message to Benny back at Nellis, pleading for him to somehow gain leverage and support for his tests. He'd submitted it to the wing commander's secretary, but didn't receive a memo-for-the-record back, showing it had been sent. When he queried, she'd said it was still on the wingco's desk for signature.

  At their next meeting the wing commander had told Moods that he couldn't give him the two birds because not only were they still pounding the NVA in the hills around Dak To, they were also trying to stop the supplies that were pouring into South Vietnam at a rate unparalleled since the beginning of the war.

  When Moods again offered their services, the wing commander had said he didn't have the time or the inclination to experiment, that Moods's people would just have to settle back and wait until they got a handle on the interdiction problem. The fact that they'd not had a handle on the interdiction problem for the past three years wasn't lost on Moods.

  He'd wearily asked about another matter. They'd sent thirty 2000-pound bombs to Danang, specifically earmarked for the Pave Dagger project. The munitions people could find only twelve of those. He wondered what might have happened to the others.

  The wingco shrugged and told him to ask the Deputy for Logistics.

  Finally, Moods had asked to get the classified message back that he'd wanted to send to Nellis. He said he wanted to reword it.

  The wing commander found and returned his message.

  When Moods asked, all the Deputy for Logistics could tell him was that the bombs had been delivered to the Chief of Munitions, and showed him the shipping document.

  Moods tore up the old message and wrote a new, longer one, addressed to Benny Lewis's Fighter Tactics branch. He filled it with gobbledygook phrases and made it sound as if everything was humming along fine, except there were combat priorities they had to honor. In a middle paragraph he said that he'd require the immediate support of Second Lieutenant G. S. White, and requested that he be briefed on the Titanic Project.

  The only White assigned to the Fighter Weapons Center at Nellis was Major General Gordon S. White. Until Moods had written the message, there'd been
no Titanic Project, but he felt his Pave Dagger test was headed in the same direction as the British luxury ship when it played chicken with an iceberg.

  The wing commander did not pick up on that. The message was sent as written.

  1740L—Nakhon Phanom Air Base, Thailand

  Lieutenant Colonel Lucky Anderson

  It was Lucky's fourth discouraging day at NKP, and so far he'd repeatedly run into dead ends as he tried to find out about the ambush and Linda's circumstances.

  When he'd gone to the Special Forces compound gate the first day, the guards checked a roster and said they had no Sergeant Black listed, and that he'd need authorization to enter the place. He said he was from Takhli and tried to explain the purpose of his visit. When the sergeant on duty asked for his travel orders, he said they were being forwarded, but that wasn't good enough. Lucky didn't pursue the matter; if Black wasn't there, he could serve no purpose by nosing around the Special Forces camp.

  He'd gone to the Air Force security police, and they'd acted as if they knew nothing about the USAID incident beyond what they'd read in the newspapers. Maybe he should talk with the police in town, they said. Just take a Thai bus from the main gate. So he'd traveled into the city of Nakhon Phanom and found no one at the police station who could speak enough English to answer his questions. When he'd repeatedly said "USAID," one officer had brightened and given him directions to that office. The place was manned by a lone Thai secretary who spoke only rudimentary English. She kept wringing her hands and repeating that Mistah Jah-stone was gone. When he asked about Miss Lopes, she said that she was also gone. He'd hung around for a while, hoping an American might show up, but none did.

  He'd returned to the base and tried the security police again, and a major begrudgingly told him he might try the Thai provincial police. Maybe it was their show, he said. Their headquarters was in Sakhon Nakhon, sixty-five miles west on the national highway. Lots of potholes, he said. So Lucky went to the motor pool to check out a vehicle, and a harried sergeant said he was fresh out, but they'd likely have one for him the next morning. Could he show his orders, please? By then he'd had orders made up and forwarded from Takhli, so he showed them.

  "You're next on the list, Colonel. Tomorrow morning I'll have you a pickup."

  He felt exasperated and miserable as he trudged from the motor pool back toward the room in the officers' hootch his friend in Birddogs had provided. Four days, and all he'd drawn were blanks. Lucky knew he was getting an official runaround from damn near everyone, but could think of no way to force the issue. He thought about calling General Moss for leverage. It was the sort of thing he never did, running to the brass for help—but it was for Linda, and there was nothing he'd not do to retrieve her from harm.

  He was wondering about calling Moss as he stopped off at a small, crowded base snack bar and ordered a hamburger and fries. The cheerful female cook plopped the precooked things onto his tray and added a Coke.

  "I see you made LC," said a quiet voice behind him in the line. "Congratulations."

  It was Sergeant Black, wearing a civilian bush outfit.

  "I've been looking for you," Lucky said.

  "We just got in." Black nodded to the Asian behind him in the line, who also wore civvies. Lucky recognized him as the lieutenant on Hotdog team. Both men looked tired.

  "We need to talk," Lucky said. He picked a table in a corner. Most of the people in the snack bar were Army Special Forces, with their cocky attitudes and disdain of outsiders, which included anyone who hadn't earned a beret. His officer's rank gave him little special consideration.

  Black and the lieutenant joined him. When they'd deposited their trays on the table, Lucky shook their hands. "You're a hard man to locate, Black."

  "When we arrived, I was told you were looking," Black said. "I also heard there was a lady asking about me a few days ago, using your name."

  "She's why I'm here." Lucky explained the relationship, then what he knew about the terrorist attack and how he'd been running into dead ends.

  Black listened closely, without expression, and the lieutenant also tried to follow his words. A couple of times Black would halt Anderson and explain to the lieutenant in Vietnamese. The Hotdogs weren't good with English, Lucky remembered.

  "So that's where I am now," Lucky finished. "Smack up against another dead end."

  They ate for a while in silence. Lucky's burger had the taste of rancid soy sauce.

  "Is there any way you can help?" he finally asked.

  "I doubt it. Sounds like a CT operation. Besides advising the Thai army, we don't get involved in domestic counterterrorist ops."

  "I need your help, Sarge."

  "I'll see what information I can get. Probably not a lot, but I'll try."

  "I appreciate it."

  Black nodded and went back to his hamburgers. He ate two of the greasy things, with a side of rice, a beer, and a slice of dried-out apple pie.

  "How's your team doing?" Lucky asked.

  Black guzzled beer for a bit, pondering the question. "Streamlined," he finally answered. "We lost two men last time out."

  "Sorry about that."

  "Yeah." Black bobbed his head thoughtfully. "Good people. They'll be hard to replace."

  "Did you make a radio call up around Channel Ninety-seven TACAN a few weeks back?"

  Black stared at him for a moment, then took another sip of beer. "Maybe."

  "The mission commander you talked to was a guy named Donovan. He wanted to help, but the airborne command post denied permission."

  Black shook his head. "Let's talk about it in private sometime, okay?"

  "Sure."

  "Where you staying, Colonel?"

  Lucky gave him the location and phone number of the hootch.

  "I'll be in touch." Black stood, and the lieutenant followed him to his feet. "We've gotta be going. Nice to see you again, sir."

  1800L—Hanoi, DRV

  Colonel Xuan Nha

  The visit was a short one, and not pleasant. Xuan had decided to call on Quon as soon as he'd heard he'd been released. He wanted to find if Quon was angry, whether he somehow blamed him for not gaining his release quickly enough. He also wished to judge the man's condition and mental state, for it was likely they'd be working together again. Xuan Nha's radars, rocket forces, antiaircraft and antishipping artillery—all worked closely with the People's Army Air Force, and Quon was likely to be an important figure again in the VPAAF.

  While they'd not been close, they'd enjoyed a relationship founded upon mutual respect. Xuan felt that Quon was surely one of the most dedicated warriors in the Democratic Republic, which had likely made the arrest and reeducation all that more difficult for the country's most renowned fighter-pilot commandant. They'd also shared a distrust for Nguyen Wu, who had now caused both men great grief. In Xuan's mind that matter must remain unspoken, even though he'd heard Wu had been stripped of his power.

  While Quon's home wasn't as grand as Xuan Nha and Li Binh's villa, it was nonetheless much larger and more private than those of other officers of his position. Quon's wife showed him in and said that he'd been resting and would join them shortly. She was a quiet one, but did her best to entertain Xuan before the fighter pilot made his entrance.

  Xuan Nha hid his shock as they exchanged greetings, for Quon had aged twenty years in the course of the three months since he'd last seen him. He walked oddly—in a slight stoop, with arms held immobile at his sides as if they were useless appendages.

  Quon examined him as well. "You have healed a great deal since we last spoke," he said quietly.

  Xuan shrugged. "Do you mind if I sit?"

  "Of course not."

  "I can stand for longer periods now," Xuan Nha said proudly as they both took seats on the wicker chairs adorning the small parlor.

  Quon's wife brought tea in small ceramic cups, and they sipped the hot, bitter liquid.

  "You have returned home to the villa," Quon said. It was not a question.
r />   "That part of my life is returning."

  Quon didn't have to tell him that his own life was difficult, that he was having trouble readjusting to normalcy. He still had a prisoner's pallor, and a nervous, suspicious air about him.

  "General Tho visited," Quon said. "He speaks highly of your advice to save the aircraft."

  "He is kind."

  They spoke of the weather, and how Hanoi had been unusually cool and dry recently.

  "Good flying weather for your pilots," Xuan Nha said.

  Quon nodded. "I do not know if I will fly again." He'd added the last without prompting.

  Quon had enjoyed piloting fighters, and the glory that had gone with it. In his twenty-four years of combat flying he'd shot down a total of fifteen aircraft—seven German fighters and bombers when he'd flown with the Free French in Russia in the forties, eight American fighter aircraft in the ongoing conflict. Those were the numbers Quon cited. The party newspaper credited him with many more. He'd been extolled as a Hero of the People, revered by the pilots under his command.

  "We have missed your expertise, Quon. When will you return to work?"

  "I go to Phuc Yen tomorrow to survey the damage and the salvage operation. Then I will travel north to observe the operation at dispersal bases in southern China. When I return to Hanoi next week, I will resume my position as air regiment commandant."

  "It will be difficult with your forces deployed."

  "Such things change. We always knew, you and I, that the Mee would eventually bomb Phuc Yen. My headquarters will now move to Gia Lam. There are too many civilian aircraft for the Americans to attack there. . . ." Quon's voice trailed off.

  Xuan Nha watched his compatriot closely as he drifted into some reverie.

  Quon suddenly blinked his eyes and looked about, as if surprised he was still in the room.

  Xuan sipped his tea, which was growing cool.

  Quon spoke in a low voice. "How is your situation at home, Xuan Nha?"

  Was it a general question? Xuan Nha believed not. He considered his response.