Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  2030L

  Pearly stuck his head into Lieutenant Dortmeier's new office. "You're still working?"

  She was busying about the place, putting things in order. She'd been assigned the room only late that afternoon and was pleased to get out of the corner nook in Pearly's office. "How did The Meeting go?"

  The Meeting had been on their minds constantly since they'd learned that L.B.J. would talk with Moss.

  "Let's walk over to the club and I'll tell you," Pearly said.

  "Done. I needed something to pry me out of this place."

  They both knew she'd waited anxiously for news of what had transpired.

  "And," Pearly mustered courage, "I'll buy supper."

  "If you're buying, it must have gone well," was all Lucy Dortmeier said as she retrieved her cap and purse, which made Pearly feel rather silly about the way he'd been so hesitant to ask her.

  Sunday, December 24th, 2100 Local—VIP Trailer Four, Nakhon Phanom RTAB, Thailand

  Sergeant Black

  Black had taken Lucky Anderson to dinner in Nakhon Phanom city, because it was Christmas eve and seemed the thing to do for the troubled pilot. The lieutenant had accompanied them, but afterward dropped out, saying he had to check on his men. Two were Catholic and felt melancholy on Christ's birthday. He was inebriated, as were Black and Anderson.

  In his VIP trailer Lucky poured yet another drink for the two of them. "The lieutenant's a nice guy," he said. "Hard to understand him, though."

  "He's speaking a mix of Viet, English, and island pidgin, so it's no wonder. He's getting better, though." Black took the glass from Anderson and told him about his losing attempts to get the Hotdogs to the States. "You know anyone who might be able to help?"

  "I'll get you a name from the USAID people. I call the embassy almost every day to see if they've heard anything new about Linda."

  For a while they were both quiet, sipping their drinks and contemplating. Anderson finally asked what had happened at the TACAN station when Black had called for fighter support.

  "I got my ass chewed for that radio call," Black said, feeling a trace of bitterness, and also the growing numbness of intoxication. "We're supposed to go through proper channels. I was in shit up to my neck, or I wouldn't have tried it, but they didn't buy my excuse."

  "Why?"

  "Got me. Interservice rivalry, I guess. You guys are the junior service and all that horseshit, and they think it's disgraceful to ask for support unless it's something worked out between our asshole generals and your asshole generals."

  "What was going on? All we heard was that the TACAN station was overrun by NVA."

  Black brooded for a moment, then shook his head sadly. "Can't talk about our ops."

  "But you were in trouble."

  "I lost two men there." He almost told him about the Montagnard noncombatants, but stopped himself. Anderson had his own troubles.

  "I didn't know you guys carried UHF radios. I didn't think there was any way you could talk to us." Lucky took their glasses to the fridge, dropped in more ice cubes, and refilled them with raw whiskey. He swayed a bit on his way back.

  "Normally there isn't," Black said, "but they had a UHF up there."

  "And the brass got upset about you making the call?"

  "It's against their rules."

  "Stupid rules."

  "Yes, sir. Stupid."

  Anderson brooded. "I thought we were the ones with the dumb fucking restrictions. I guess they've got different dumb ones for all of us." He shook his head sadly. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

  "Sometimes I ignore the most stupid ones. I've gotta."

  Lucky became thoughtful. "What kind of radios do you carry?"

  Black paused before responding. "VHF FM hand-helds." He saw no reason to mention the special-purpose HF packs.

  "Can you tune them?"

  "Nope. They're preset to our op frequencies."

  Anderson pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket and retrieved a pen. "Give me one of the frequencies. One you don't use very often."

  Black hesitated. The operational radio frequencies were highly classified and closely held.

  "I've got a good reason."

  "One-oh-six point four."

  Anderson wrote it down. "You get in trouble next time, and you see Thuds flying in the area, give us a call on that frequency."

  "You've got VHF?"

  "We've got a VHF instrument landing system in the Thud. We can receive audio, but we can't talk. I'll spread the word to fly with it preset to one-oh-six point four. Next time you get in deep shit, we'll be able to help. What's a good code word?"

  "I'm not sure this is a good idea, Colonel."

  "Bullshit. Give me a code word. I'd want to know if it was you or some gomer talking. You're from Hawaii, right? How about . . . Tiny Bubbles?"

  Black snorted, feeling the alcohol and slurring his words. "That's for haole tourists. Ever'one from the islands hates the fuckin' song."

  "How about 'aloha? "

  That was better. "Okay."

  "Just say, 'F-105's, this is Hotdog. Aloha.' I don't give a diddley shit what the rules are, you say that to us, you'll get support."

  "I don't think we'll have to use it. We won't be going on any more—" Black stopped himself. He'd said too much.

  "Even better if you don't need our help, but I'll spread the word anyway." He pronounced it 'shpread,' and his eyes looked watery.

  Black nodded gravely.

  Anderson sat back in his chair. "I'll be going back to Takhli tomorrow. Might as well, because I'm getting nowhere here. I talked to the provost marshal today, and from what he said, you know more about it than he does."

  "An' tha's not much."

  Anderson gave a distressed shake of his head. "Sure makes me feel helpless. Wish you could have met Linda, Black. She's one hell of a woman." Lucky was slurring his words.

  "They showed us her official photo. Nice-looking lady."

  "Yeah." Anderson grew quiet.

  "I'll give you a call if I hear something."

  "There's nothing new you're not telling me, is there?"

  Black started to tell him the latest intell. That Clipper's cover had been utterly blown by her own man trying to recruit a new agent. Before her arrival the local USAID representative had told the man, in the presence of others, how she had intelligence networks set up at other bases, and that the woman was very important. The new recruit was himself a suspected CT, operating out of the last village they'd visited, and he'd disappeared after the attack.

  But Black did not say that.

  "No, sir," he said. "It's as if she dropped off the face of the earth." That part was true.

  "You think they'll kill her?"

  "I dunno." It was also true that Black's toes were growing numb. They did that when he'd drunk too much. He took another sip of whiskey, enjoying the glow. "I'm glad you're going back, Colonel. This isn't your kind of ball game."

  Lucky Anderson stared into space for a long moment, then dropped his head into his arms, consumed with grief, a condition that was not helped by the booze.

  Black left quietly. He was determined to help if at all possible, but sincerely doubted he could. The night air felt cool on his face. He took a few deep breaths before walking to the jeep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Monday, December 25th, 1855 Local—O' Club Stag Bar, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Captain Manny DeVera

  Christmas day was not a joyous one for most of the men at Takhli, and was helped little by the fact that there was a two-day bombing pause imposed by the President. Most of the pilots preferred to continue flying, racking up counters toward the magic one hundred missions, rather than sit around thinking sad thoughts about being so far from their families.

  Manny was listening to Animal Hamlin complain about how much he missed his wife and son, and how the tape his wife had sent had been demagnetized and garbled in the mail system. When he played it, it sounded like a barnyar
d full of strange animals.

  Manny's mood was made no better by the puzzling situation with Penny Dwight. He'd thought their relationship was fast developing, a fact confirmed by Animal between fits of nostalgia about last Christmas, which he'd spent with his family.

  "She told me she really likes you," Animal told him, "and for me not to feel bad when she starts going out alone with you. She's hooked. You treat her good, okay?"

  "She's a nice girl," Manny answered, realizing that was precisely what Dusty and Animal had called her. Penny might not be the woman of his dreams, but he liked her well enough, and she was posing a definite challenge by being so hardheaded about refusing to see him. Going to bed with him was another matter, but not even to talk with him was a real blow to his pride. He'd been encouraged by Roger's revelation, yet the secretary had stayed in her trailer for the past three days, saying she was sick. The one time he'd seen her, in the dining room the previous evening, she'd been alone and asked to remain that way when he and Animal had tried to join her. She'd kept her eyes averted, had eaten quickly, and immediately returned to her trailer.

  "She's avoiding me," Manny groused for the dozenth time.

  "She's sick. You notice how pale she was? And how she's not taking care of herself ?"

  He'd noticed. "Wonder what's wrong."

  "I asked Doc, and he says she's probably got the flu—maybe a stomach problem. He said she ought to go over to the clinic to see him."

  "Think we should drop by her trailer and try to cheer her up?"

  "I tried. She wouldn't answer the door."

  Something, Manny thought, was definitely wrong. He decided to find the source of her problem.

  1945L—Trailer 5B

  GS-7 Penny Dwight

  "Please go away," Penny said to the door.

  The knocking sounded again. "It's Manny. We gotta talk."

  "Go away."

  The knocking continued.

  She went into the bathroom and washed her face, determined to ignore the insistent sound. Penny had washed a lot since the shameful night. She showered several times daily, but there was a stench in her nostrils that refused to leave, and regardless of how she cleaned herself inside and out, she felt dirty. Now she was beginning to itch.

  "Penny," she heard, "my knuckles are getting raw. You want me to go around with bloody paws?" He knocked on the metal door again, saying, "Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!"

  "Go away, Manny DeVera."

  "Not until we've talked."

  He knocked again, this time with a distinct tempo.

  "You like that one? It's called 'Unchained Melody.' It was our prom theme song back in high school. I've got a lot of 'em."

  "Just go away."

  He rapped again, at a faster tempo. "That one's 'Blue Suede Shoes.' Remember? You were pretty young when it came out, but my bunch really liked it."

  "Manny. Please go."

  "Not until we've talked."

  "No!"

  "Why?"

  "Because . . ." Penny drew a breath and blurted the truth. "I'm afraid."

  There was a small pause. "You're afraid of me?" The voice sounded incredulous. "Hell, Penny, I'd roll around out here in the dirt, if you wanted. Why would you be afraid of me?"

  She tried another tack. "I'm sick. I don't feel good."

  "Then you need to talk with the docs. Roger checked, and they say you haven't been by."

  "Go away."

  Manny paused, then spoke in a lower voice. "I like you, Miss Penny Dwight. I like you a lot."

  She suddenly and without reason began to cry.

  "Please don't," Manny said mournfully.

  She couldn't stop.

  "Okay. I'll go," said Manny, resignation heavy in his voice.

  Penny heard the creak as he stepped off the stoop, and felt even worse. She'd promised to tell him. The colonel had said he would spread the story, so Manny would find out anyway. She felt the deadened numbness of resignation as she cracked the door.

  "I've got something to tell you first," she said in a monotone.

  Tuesday, December 26th, 1025 Local—Weapons Office

  Captain Manny DeVera

  In all his life Manny DeVera had never known such outrage as he'd felt when Penny had detailed the encounter with Colonel Lyons. Not even when he'd been charged with trumped-up false accusations.

  Once she'd begun, Penny hadn't been able to stop from baring her shame and guilt. She'd poured it out without being prompted, all of it, from the sex to the threats and the promise Lyons had forced from her to tell DeVera, and he'd listened with pained ears. When her agony had been at its worst, Manny had tried to reach out for her, but Penny had drawn away with a look so frightened he'd wanted to cry.

  He'd repeated what he'd said before—that he liked her—he liked her a lot. She'd immediately begun to bawl, but that time she didn't cringe when he'd put his arm about her shoulders, so he'd held her and soothed her until she'd finally stopped crying.

  "He said he wanted you to know what he'd done," Penny had told him, and Manny'd felt awful, knowing it had been his fault that Lyons had picked her out. Lyons despised him and had taken it out on her. It had taken an hour of repeating what he felt for her, going much further than he'd intended, before Penny relaxed enough for him to feel good about leaving her alone.

  She'd asked him what to do, and he'd told her to push it out of her mind and leave the rest to him. He'd told her that he'd make sure nothing like that would ever happen again.

  She'd clutched him then, and he'd held her for a while longer.

  Manny DeVera, confirmed bachelor, had made a commitment, and he meant to keep it. As he'd sat there, holding and comforting Penny, he forgot about any previous reservations, and she became pretty and pure—despoiled by a true villain.

  When he'd finally left her trailer, he'd dropped by the club to check on any rumors the IG inspectors might have started, as Lyons had told Penny they would. There were none the pilots he'd spoken with knew about. The IG team had departed the following morning, and no one could remember any words spread by or about Lyons.

  He'd dropped by and told that to Penny, so she would stop worrying, and returned to his room at the Ponderosa for the night. Before he'd gotten to sleep, which was difficult enough, he'd thought of something else. The fact that he'd seen Lyons emerge from the medical clinic with a frown, and that he'd told Penny he'd left a present for the spick.

  This morning he'd dropped by the clinic, and his flight-surgeon friend had told him something normally held in confidence, for Doc Rogers disliked Tom Lyons as thoroughly as the others at Takhli who knew him.

  Lyons had . . . an infection.

  Manny had played a what-if game with him then, like what if, the night after he'd been checked by Rogers, Lyons had gotten a girl drunk and taken advantage of her, and hadn't told her about the infection?

  "What girl?" the Doc had immediately asked, his face stone rigid.

  "Could she catch this . . . infection . . . from him?"

  "Anyone he came into sexual contact with would get it. He was in a most infectious period, and I told him that. What's the girl's name?"

  "You'll keep it confidential?"

  "As best I can."

  He'd told him it was Penny Dwight.

  The doc had exploded in anger. Lyons had an advanced case of gonorrhea, he'd said, the hardy strain the guys called killer clap. He told Manny to send her over immediately.

  Manny had dropped by Penny's trailer, and this time she'd not hesitated to let him in. She was dressed and ready to go to work.

  It was one of the hardest things Manny had ever done, but he'd told her what the Doc had said. Penny had taken it in without tears. She'd just quietly thanked him, and he'd left.

  He doodled angrily on the desktop, thinking about it all for the hundredth time, then rose and pulled on his Aussie-style go-to-hell hat. It was time for the weekly staff meeting.

  When he entered the wing commander's office, he was surprised to find Penny bac
k at work. She glanced up, but studiously ignored him as well as the colonels and lieutenant colonels into the small conference room. She was, he noticed, slumping again, as she had when she'd first arrived at Takhli.

  He bent over her desk and whispered, "Did you see Doc Rogers?" She nodded, still slumped and not looking at him.

  As he went into the meeting, he glanced back and caught her peeking. She returned her attention to a piece of correspondence, her expression wistful. Tom Lyons's face loomed in Manny's inner vision as he went to the side of the conference room for non-colonels.

  Buster Leska strode in and waved them into their seats. They began to discuss aircraft status, the numbers of sorties they anticipated during the next week, and how the partial lifting of restrictions was helping them use proper tactics.

  Manny DeVera's mind was elsewhere—trying to think of a way to even things between himself and Colonel Tom Lyons. It had been rape, but Manny knew there'd be no way to make the charge stick. Lyons was too slick for that, and all it would likely do was make Penny look bad . . . as if she were an alcoholic pushover. The man didn't deserve to live.

  Lucky Anderson was there, quiet, unsmiling, and looking haggard. After his return from NKP the previous day, he'd told Manny there was no new word about Linda Lopes. Manny sympathized. Lucky's problems stemmed from communist terrorists, his own from a colonel in his own service. He wondered which was despised most.

  1215L—Ministry for External Affairs, Hanoi, DRV

  Deputy Minister Li Binh

  The day before, word had been passed from Li Binh's sources confirming that an American civilian had been captured and was being held by the Pathet Lao. Western newspapers claimed the American female was an official in the foreign-assistance apparatus of the American embassy in Bangkok, but Li Binh's sources revealed that she was also an intelligence agent.

  Li Binh had immediately seized on the possibility that it might be beneficial if her nephew was the one to draw truth from the woman. Nguyen Wu remained in disfavor for angering Le Duc Tho. He'd been relieved of duty and would soon be discharged completely from his post. If he was to regain any degree of stature with the Lao Dong's Central Committee, of which she was a member, he must prove himself in some spectacular way. It was awkward to have a family member so poorly regarded by the group. Li Binh hated nothing more than embarrassment.