by Tom Wilson
"So it was probably Thai CTs, but we don't know, and it could be they've taken her across the river and handed her over to the Pathet Lao guerrillas, but we don't know that either." Anderson shook his head. "Sure seems to be a lot we don't know."
Black sympathized, but he felt there was something he had to tell him. "Come with me, Colonel."
They walked to the place where the USOM vehicle had come to rest on its side, and he pointed at the ground. "When they examined the vehicle, there was blood inside, and also on the ground. It was your lady's blood type, so we know she was hurt. Possibly hit by the burst that killed the driver."
Anderson stared intently at the ground—now covered with boot prints and marks of bare feet—as if searching for her there. The Hotdog lieutenant joined them, and he looked there too.
After a long pause Black continued in a soft voice. "She's very likely dead from the injury. Neither the CTs nor the Pathet Lao—if they got her across the river, which I think is where they went—are big on first aid and prevention. When they're left unattended, wounds get infected fast here in the tropics."
"What makes you think they crossed the river?"
"I'll show you." Black went back to the jeep and retrieved the last M-16, motioned to the lieutenant with a hand signal, then for Anderson to follow. One Hotdog remained with the jeep. The lieutenant and the other Hotdog went into the thicket where the CTs had set up the ambush, and Black led the major after them. He pointed out the firing positions, then plunged on. After pushing their way through for a few yards, they found themselves on a narrow, well-beaten path. Five minutes later they were at the bank of a wide river the color of burnt orange.
The Mekong was empress of southern Indochina, just as the Hong Song ruled in the North. But the Hong Song, or Red River, was a streamlet compared to the Mekong. The empress of the South began her twisting trek in China's vast Qinghai Province, north of the high mountains of Tibet and very near the source of the Yangtze, the great river of China. She'd already flowed for more than a thousand miles when she came into sight of the Red River headlands, where they paralleled one another for a few miles until separated by a high mountain range. There the Red River turned and entered North Vietnam, nurturing the farmlands of the Hong Valley and the important cities of Hanoi, Haiphong, and Nam Dinh. The Mekong had another thousand miles to go. She became the border between Burma and Laos, then Laos and Thailand, then ran the length of Cambodia, and finally across the southern extreme of South Vietnam to splinter the land into a vast, rich delta. Her silt replenished soils, her waters provided irrigation, and her surface supported transportation for people of six nations.
The four men stopped at her bank and stared out at the murky water. A long boat was passing a few meters off shore, sculled by a lean, ageless man who very carefully did not see them.
"Someone's been pulling boats up on the bank and hiding them in the brush there," Black said, pointing. "Two-to-one odds we know who the someone is."
Anderson walked to the hiding place and examined marks where something had been dragged across the earth.
"I believe they'd crossed the river the previous night in two small boats, then set up the ambush where they did because they could get away so quickly."
"Did they know who they were shooting at?"
Black pondered that one for a moment. "They'd probably heard about Americans in the white jeep asking questions in the villages and were told they passed here. From what I've been told, your lady was asking questions about them and paying people to tell her about their movements. That likely got their interest."
"Do they know she's important?'
"They do now. The press has told everyone who could read."
"If they know, they might treat her better."
Black nodded. "That's a possibility, if she's still alive. If she is, they're probably trying to get information. Later they might decide to use her for propaganda or trading material."
"What kind of information could they be after? She's USAID, remember."
Black didn't answer. From the questions she'd been asking, he knew she'd been doing a lot more than passing out food to villagers. The CT, and certainly Pathet Lao officers, would be smart enough to deduce the same.
Anderson was looking across the river, the expression indeterminable on his badly scarred face. Again Black noted the lieutenant watching Anderson closely. A thorough warrior himself, the lieutenant said he felt a kinship with Kunnel Lokee Anduhson. Now he shared his grief.
"Is anyone searching across the river?" Lucky asked.
"Patrols into Laos have to be approved by MAC-V, and the reason has to be a damned good one. But we've got our sources there, and so far we haven't heard a peep of information regarding your lady. Until we do, there's not the slightest chance for a patrol."
"I agree with you, Black. I think they took her over there. Now it's a matter of raising the priority to get her back."
"The effort to find her has a double-A priority, which is as high as I've seen. You're not supposed to know that. Her code name's Clipper. You're not supposed to know that either."
"Clipper," repeated Anderson.
"Yeah."
"Fuck the rules, Sarge. Take me across and let's get her out."
"It wouldn't do any good, unless we knew where to look. Let the intell people do their thing, Colonel. Once they find something, you can damn well bet, with that kind of priority, they'll act on the information."
Anderson shook his head helplessly.
"I'll keep nosing around. If I find anything more, I'll let you know."
"I appreciate the help, Black."
"You should return to Takhli."
"I'm thinking about it. But, God! I wish there was something I could do. I feel so fucking helpless."
"War's shitty."
"Yeah." He stared out at the river for a bit longer, then released a pent-up breath and turned to Black. "They're moving me out of the hootch. General Moss talked to the wing commander yesterday, so he knows about me now, and they're moving me into a VIP trailer. I think they said number four. If you find out anything, you can reach me there."
Black motioned to his men, and they headed back toward the jeep. Throughout the walk the lieutenant continued to observe Lucky Anderson. His concern was genuine. He knew how the communists treated prisoners. Black wondered if he was thinking about his youngest sister, taken to serve an NVA unit in the jungle.
1050L—Korat RTAFB, Thailand
Lieutenant General Richard J. Moss
The President had flown from Canberra, Australia, directly to Korat. The speech he was giving to the gathered officers and airmen was full of rah-rah stuff about how they were fighting for democracy, and how they were going to beat up on the North Vietnamese until they ended their aggression against the peace-loving people of . . .
It would have been a great show for the VFW back in Podunkville. The problem here was that most of the audience knew that the guy in front of them was the only one who could turn them loose to win, and thus far he had refused. Still, he was their commander in chief, so the guys listened and wanted to believe, and gave him a good response.
After five minutes of it Moss motioned to his driver, and they slipped off to his vehicle. He was taken directly to base operations, where he sent the driver on.
Air Force One, the sleek blue-and-white Boeing 707, was parked on the ramp in front of base ops, and he walked toward it. The aircraft commander, a full bull, was doing a walk-around inspection of the big aircraft, followed closely by two sharply dressed enlisted men. They brought their own crew chiefs along.
Moss ignored the security policemen who were eyeing him and hailed a plainclothed Secret Service agent, as he'd been told to do. "I'm General Moss," he said, although he was wearing a silver-tan uniform with three stars on the collar and his name tag above his right pocket.
It wasn't enough. He was asked for his identification card. The agent checked the photo and information on the plasticized card,
examined the contents of his briefcase, then nodded to the security policemen and led him aboard. Inside, he motioned at a seat in the forward cabin.
"The President will be along in about half an hour," he said.
Moss nodded absently and started to lean over to look out the pressure-glass window.
"The President doesn't want your presence known, General. Please stay away from the window."
"Sure," he said, and pulled back.
"We'll fly from here directly to Cam Ranh. When we get there, the President and his staff will get off, then you'll wait for half an hour and deplane."
"It's your show." He watched the agent leave.
A steward wearing a white uniform with no visible rank came through. "Anything I can get you while you're waiting, General?"
"No, thanks." He frowned. "Are you military?"
"Tech sergeant in the Air Force, sir. Stationed at Andrews."
Moss looked about at the rich surroundings, wondering. "How many military advisors did he bring along?"
"Only the flight crew and stewards are military. There's Senator Wayland Lingenfelter and a few others, and his press secretary."
The pilot and crew came aboard, talking together as they went into the forward cabin.
"Twenty minutes until the big man gets here," said the steward.
1155L—Base Operations, Korat RTAFB
Colonel Tom Lyons
The Band of the Pacific struck up "Ruffles and Flourishes," then "Hail to the Chief," and the President of the United States went up the boarding ramp, turned and waved, then disappeared inside. Last on, first off, according to protocol. Tom watched as the engines were started. No one emerged before the door was secured and the ramp was pulled away. That meant Moss was still inside and obviously would remain there for a least the next leg of the flight. Tom had monitored him from his position at the front of the crowd listening to the President's speech. He'd seen him leave and followed, and watched as he'd been escorted aboard the aircraft.
What's Moss doing aboard the President's airplane? Something to do with JACKPOT?
He wondered if there was any way to find out from his father-in-law, who was also aboard, traveling with L.B.J. as friend and advisor. Likely not. Not only was Lingenfelter closemouthed when it came to political business, he'd never been fond of Lyons. Tom was tolerated, so long as he treated Lingenfelter's daughter as royally as her father thought she was due.
Then he knew the answer. Margaret was the darling of the senator's eye. He'd tell her things he would reveal to no other. All Tom had to do was get her to ask the right question . . . convince her it was in her interest as well as his own. A smile grew at the thought of reporting that information to General Roman, and the reward the general had promised for his trusted staff.
And that was the key to Margaret! All he had to do was dangle the promise of a move to the Pentagon. She loved living in Washington, D.C., near her parents—the social scene, mixing with the powerful movers and shakers. She would ask her father the question.
And Tom Lyons would have his star.
1900L—Base Operations, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Saigon, South Vietnam
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
General Moss appeared contemplative as he stepped down the ladder of the T-39 Sabreliner and walked toward his waiting staff car. Pearly and Moss's driver saluted as he approached. Moss motioned for Pearly to join him in the vehicle, and they crawled in back.
When they were seated, Pearly opened his mouth to speak, but Moss curtly shook his head and ordered the driver to take them to the headquarters. He was troubled, Pearly could tell.
They remained quiet until they were inside Moss's inner office, and even then as the general went to the cabinet beside his desk and pulled out two whiskey glasses. He opened a small refrigerator and fished out ice. The cubes made a clinking sound as he added two to each glass.
"You drink Scotch too, I believe?"
"Yes, sir."
Moss poured from a crystal decanter, eyeballed, then poured again. He handed Pearly his drink. When Pearly was about to thank him, he turned, walked to the large wall map of the combat theater, and stared.
"We're in deep shit," he muttered.
"Sir?"
"America." Moss took a drink and slowly shook his head.
Pearly frowned. "I take it he didn't buy our argument."
"I didn't argue much. Sometimes it was like we had two discussions going at the same time. Johnson wasn't what I expected. He's in so far over his head, he's about to drown."
Pearly remained silent.
"He opened by trying to describe the situation in the States. About the rioting on the campuses and demonstrations in the streets. Now and then he'd stop and stare, and change the subject to his ranch in Texas. Things are simpler there, and he'd love nothing more than to forget 'all this shit,' like he called it, just go there and let the . . . his words now . . . 'let the bastards get what they deserve.' "
"What bastards?"
"Who knows? The rioters? Congress? The communists? Not us. He said every time he hears another soldier's been killed, he gets sick to his stomach and wants to puke. It hurts him, he said, and he meant it. All that 'Hey, hey, L.B.J., how many kids did you kill today' stuff is getting to him. He said he wants to do the right thing, but he's catching hell from every side, no matter which way he turns."
"Did you get to talk about LINE BACKER JACKPOT?"
Moss nodded. "I talked. When I told him the OPlan was designed to force the North Vietnamese to withdraw from the fight, he just stared back at me and asked, 'But what if it pulls the Chinese into the war?' "
"We thought he'd bring that up."
"Some of his advisors tell him it's a possibility."
"The Chinese are in the middle of an internal revolution and have too many troubles at home to attack anyone right now."
"I told him that. Tried to explain the 'cultural revolution' you described in your brief. He got glassy-eyed, like a bored kid in a history class."
Pearly took a drink of the general's whiskey. It was a very smooth single-malt.
"Then he says if winning's all that easy, how come he wasn't told before McManus came sneaking over to see him? I said it won't be easy. That we'd need a buildup of forces, two more wings of fighters and a couple more B-52 wings. Another carrier group of A-6's and F-4's.
"L.B.J. just shook his head then and said, 'That's all you guys want to do, bring in more troops and airplanes. How much can this two-bit, shit-pot place hold?' Then he says, 'What if the Russkies step in?' "
Pearly nodded. They'd anticipated that one too.
"So I went over my brief on how they're too far away and don't have enough ships or naval air to challenge us, and he says, 'They could threaten us right in the U.S., especially if we strip away our defenses.' "
Pearly shook his head. "They wouldn't start World War III over a warm-water port, which is all they'd really get out of it if the bad guys won."
"I told him that, so next he brought up Korea. He says, 'What if they start a second front in Korea? We can't fight two wars over here.' I told him if North Korea thought they had a chance, they'd attack in the next five minutes. They don't, and they know it. South Korea could probably kick their ass by themselves."
"He sounds worried."
"He's troubled. Nervous as a cat and doesn't trust anything he hears. Next he asked me if I was sure we could force the North Vietnamese out of the South if we just bombed them. I told him I was, if we did it smart and tough. We'd keep pounding them day and night until they cried uncle, and how we felt that would take about two weeks. He perked up then, because he liked the idea of them yelling uncle."
"Me too," Pearly said.
"But then he frowned and said he was worried about collateral damage to civilians and innocents who got in the way. He said, 'Your bombs aren't that selective, General. If we do it, a lot of people are going to be killed, and the peaceniks are going to make my life miserable.' I said if
we don't do it, a lot more people are going to be killed before it's over."
"Did he buy that?"
"Like I said, he's in way over his head, afraid to make a decision because he's scared it'll be wrong. I've seen commanders get like that in combat. They get weary of sending men out to die. That's when you've got to pull them out of the fight and replace them."
"It's difficult, sending men out to die."
"Sure it is. That's why we get four years of bullshit training at West Point, to teach us how to use our resources, which includes humans. Even then it's hard. Some can do it, others can't. Maybe Johnson was a naval officer in World War II, but he never had to make that kind of hard decision, and he's not trained for it. That's why he pukes every time he hears he's responsible for another man's death. He can't just call in his top generals and tell them, 'Here's the resources you get and here's the national objectives—now go out and make them happen,' because assholes like the Edsel mechanic keep telling him he can't trust the military. He's an elected politician, for Christ's sake, and he listens to the people, but he only hears the loudest voices. The press, the liberal congressmen and anarchists in the streets, all say we're a bunch of jerks who want to napalm babies. He might not trust them, but he gets confused and doesn't know who he can trust."
Moss took a long swig of his drink, and Pearly thought he was about to throw the glass across the room.
"Then there's no chance for JACKPOT?"
Moss signed. "Yeah. I think we've won, Pearly. I think he's going to turn us loose."
Pearly was amazed at the switch.
"First I heard all the arguments against it. Then, when we were in the approach to land at Cam Ranh Bay, he turned and looked me in the eye. He thanked me for meeting with him, and I thought that was it, but then he said, 'When we do this thing, I'll want you in charge, Moss.' I told him I was a three-star reporting to a four-star in Hawaii, and he shook his head. You planned it,' he said, 'and you'll be in charge.' "
"That's great, General."
When Pearly left, Moss was still brooding. He'd said he'd get a JACKPOT message out to McManus right away, but he had not yet started writing it. There was something about it all he didn't like, something that made him uneasy and worried for his country.
