Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  Julie made a face in the subdued light. "You're staring at my nose."

  "What?" he said, jolted from his thoughts.

  "You're thinking my nose is too big, aren't you?"

  He laughed. "Not what I was thinking at all."

  She rolled her eyes and threw up her hands. "Here I work my buns off to get this hunk of a guy out alone, ply him with booze, and he looks at my worst feature."

  "Honest, I was—"

  Julie leaned forward, giving him a mock glare. "Do I stare at your dimples, even though they're cute and I know you're bashful about having 'em? Do I?"

  He grinned. She was acting like her old self, the lovable side of her he'd scarcely noticed since her mother had arrived.

  "Okay, wise guy, you finished with your wine?"

  "You ready for another?"

  "Nope, but I'm ready to leave."

  "We just got here."

  "One drink's enough."

  "They'll have the big celebration at midnight and we'll miss it."

  "That's why I want to get out of here." She stood and waved at the busy waitress, who gave her a smile and nod in response.

  "I'd better pay," he said.

  "All taken care of. We girls stick together." She began to slither through the crowd.

  She slowed, then stopped and turned to him, held out her arms.

  "Just one dance," she said.

  The band was playing "Stardust."

  "Nice," Julie said in her whiskey voice as she nestled against him. They moved together without working at it. They continued until the band finished.

  Julie gave him the mysterious smile and pulled his hand. "C'mon, hunk." He followed. She pulled him straight ahead, toward a group of revelers waiting for an elevator.

  "You want to go home?" Benny asked incredulously.

  "Something I want you to see," she murmured, and he saw the same imps in her eyes he'd noticed during dinner. They crowded into the elevator car, where Benny wedged himself between Julie and the wildest drunk.

  At the second stop, the fifth floor, Julie tugged and he followed her out.

  "This way," she said cheerfully, pulling him along down the corridor. She looked at numbers on doors, stopped, fished a key from her purse, and grinned. Her eyes were sparkling, her voice husky. "You do the honors."

  He gave her a quizzical look. Julie opened her mouth to speak, then swallowed and hesitated. "Hope it's okay with you," she said. She suddenly didn't seem quite as sure of herself.

  The room had two large beds. A bottle of champagne was nestled in an ice stand near the balcony. Benny was astounded—almost said something stupid, like, "Well, I'll be damned," but didn't.

  When he shut the door, she came close. "With you leaving tomorrow and all, I thought we should celebrate privately."

  "Yeah," he finally managed, wondering if he sounded as dumbstruck as he felt.

  Julie kicked off her shoes and padded to the ice bucket, then turned and frowned. "I want this night to be perfect. Smile, damn you, Benny Lewis."

  He gave her a chuckle, but he was nervous and was sure it sounded contrived. "You've gotta put up with me being a little overwhelmed, Julie."

  "Surprised you?"

  He nodded.

  "Surprised myself too. After I decided what I wanted to do, I didn't know if I'd have the courage to carry through with it. When I told Mom—"

  "You told your mother about this?"

  "My God, no. She'd have apoplectic fits if she knew I'd gotten us a room for the night and plotted to get you here. But I did tell her we were going to be very late and not to worry, and she gave me a lecture like I was a teenager about to jump on a motorcycle with a Hell's Angel."

  "She's . . . unique."

  "You've been patient."

  There's been no alternative, he thought. Benny chided himself for being mean.

  "Champagne?"

  When he'd opened and poured, they went onto the small balcony. They were on the back side and looked out over the city and the dark mountains beyond. He placed his arm about her shoulders and felt protective. Julie snuggled and sighed contentedly.

  It was going to be as perfect as it could possibly be, he thought.

  At midnight there came a swell of noise. They kissed, and he felt more sure.

  "I love you, Julie."

  "God, I hope so. I'm crazy about you."

  When they went inside a few minutes later, he took pains to appear calm. He'd looked forward to making love to Julie for so long, with such fervor, that it was difficult. He went about switching off lights until there was only one, shining dimly in the corner farthest from the bed. It was all perfect.

  They disrobed, standing close, in such silence that the sound of their breathing seemed loud. Julie was first to shed the last of her clothing, and his breath became harsher. Her breasts were even larger than he'd imagined, curving in perfect half-moons, so full and firm that the perky nipples looked upward. Her tiny waist flared into hips she complained were matronly, but which suited her voluptuousness. She'd shaved her pubic hair into a small, neat patch of darkness, and emanated a pleasant, mixed odor of light perfume and musk. He observed her silently, wanting to tell her how beautiful he found her, but held his tongue for fear he'd spoil the moment.

  She gave a nervous little laugh, came close, and lifted a hand to his chest. "You really do have a wonderful body," she said in the low whiskey voice. "Is your back—"

  "Don't worry about my back," he said. "I feel great."

  She held her arms lightly about him. They kissed, explored a bit with gentle hands, then crawled into bed and nestled. He became aware that she was trembling. Stay calm, he told himself.

  "I adore you, Benny Lewis," Julie whispered. She wrapped her arms around him and held him as closely as she possibly could. They kissed more ardently. He stroked her wonderful body until she cried out, and he could restrain himself no longer.

  The lovemaking had been heated and frantic, for he'd shown absolutely none of the calmness he'd intended. He tried to tell himself that was because it had been so long, because he'd looked forward to their lovemaking so avidly. He'd never before been that way with another woman and felt ashamed that he'd been inconsiderate.

  They were both quiet now, lying side by side. As the minutes passed, Benny felt increasingly awkward. Julie passed a gentle hand over his chest.

  He turned to her, admonishing himself to be gentler and more in control as he caressed and slid his hands about her secret places. Small sounds issued from her throat. That's better, he said to himself. She began to tremble and breathe faster. He'd rolled over her and was about to enter, this time determined to satisfy her before thinking of himself.

  Julie groaned, arched, and called a name. Mal-Bear. Her dead husband.

  Benny stopped cold and felt an icy shiver course through him. He pulled away as she realized her mistake and tried to apologize. He said that was okay, don't worry about it, but the words had been uttered and the moment lost.

  He couldn't shake the vision of the man who had been his best friend. He wanted to stroke her face, but something held his hand.

  They tried it once more. Mal Stewart's specter looked on from a corner of the room, his presence strong.

  "Is your back hurting you?" she asked when he finally pulled away.

  Benny muttered an excuse about having so much on his mind. The trip, he said. His back was fine. They continued to pet and stroke.

  She told him to just rest, then nuzzled her head on his arm.

  He hadn't really lied. He had been working relentlessly, trying to tie up the loose ends of LINE BACKER JACKPOT before his departure, putting in twelve- and fifteen-hour days . . . worrying about the success of Pave Dagger . . . concerned about Julie and the baby, but frustrated by her mother's nagging presence.

  Weariness washed over him like an ocean wave. The ghost in the corner stirred. Benny came fully awake, hesitantly looked there, and saw only the outline of a chair and the curtains shimmering at th
e opened doorway to the balcony. He listened to Julie's even breathing, decided she was asleep, then adjusted himself and her head on his arm.

  He tried to sleep, but was plagued by the agonizing memory that haunted him . . . of a helicopter rescuing him, but not his best friend. Mal Bear Stewart had died saving his life. Julie's husband. Grief and guilt consumed him. It was a while before he could sleep.

  He drifted very slowly toward the surface. An involuntary low moan came not from his throat but from his soul.

  "Go back to sleep," a husky voice whispered. His arm was moist where she'd been crying.

  0900L

  When Benny awoke, the telephone was ringing insistently. He was alone, and his back was pinging with small spasms from the previous night's exertion.

  Julie's cheerful voice on the phone told him it was time to get up and called him a sleepyhead.

  He asked where she was.

  "Home." She said she couldn't talk right then. He supposed her mother was nearby.

  Benny looked at the clock and scrambled upright. "Gotta go!" he mumbled.

  "Take care of yourself," Julie said.

  "Bye!" He didn't hear her say she loved him. In fact, as he showered quickly and threw on his clothes as adroitly as his back would allow, he was still troubled and unsure. He wondered if she'd still be in Las Vegas when he returned from the trip.

  2000L-O' Club Stag Bar, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Lieutenant Colonel Lucky Anderson

  Lucky sat at the end of the bar, nursing a drink he didn't want. Two of his squadron pilots tried to talk to him, but he was in a private and unsocial mood, so they drifted away. He fixed his attention on Manny DeVera, who sat at a table at the far end of the room talking to Captain Rogers, one of the flight surgeons. The doc seemed argumentative about something Manny was saying.

  Captain Hamlin, one of the better pilots in Lucky's 333rd squadron, came in with Buster Leska's secretary. Doc Rogers and Manny DeVera got to their feet to greet them. After a few words the doc left for the bar.

  Lucky observed idly, not truly interested. Other than Linda, very little interested him now. The Supersonic Wetback began a story, waving his arms and speaking loudly, and Lucky noted that the girl's eyes were pinned to his face. She watched Manny as if he were some kind of sage telling great truths.

  Animal Hamlin's laughter was loud when Manny came to the end of his tale. The three stood, and DeVera put his arm protectively around the girl. The two slipped out the side door, and Hamlin watched for a moment, then made his way over to a group of squadron-mates.

  Lucky pulled his attention back to his glass and the melting ice cubes. There'd been absolutely no word about Linda. Not from Black, or Richard at the embassy, or from anyone in the cop shop at NKP. Not from anyone. Soon after his return he'd gone through the pictures he had of her, stared at each one, and remembered each good time. He wondered if he'd treated her well enough—if he'd told her how dear she was to him often enough. He knew he wasn't good at expressing such things.

  He'd put the photos away very carefully, and hope had coursed through him. Seeing the image of her animated face had done that. No one that vibrant could be dead.

  Lucky had taken the photos out and gone through the same drill the next night, then the next. They renewed his faith and refreshed his mind's picture of her.

  He pushed the glass away and stood. Time to go to the trailer. He had to fly in the morning, an easy counter to pack two to look for trucks in the mountain passes and barges on the Ca River. They'd been getting easier ones lately. But regardless of where they were going, the four o'clock get-up call would come early, and he wanted to be fresh and ready. Lucky wended his way through the crowd of noisy fighter jocks to the side door. Not many spoke to him, for they knew his new moods. He ignored pleasantries as often as he answered them.

  Tonight he'd take a look at photos Linda had given him of herself as a child. He especially liked the one of a thirteen-year-old gawky kid with a shy expression. He'd joked with her about being all knees and elbows. She'd told him that was the year she'd discovered there was some kind of wonderful difference between boys and girls, and she'd so badly wanted to be beautiful. She'd been taller than the boys in her class, and that was why she was hunched over in the photo. She said she'd spent the year walking around like that, trying to think of a way to shrink.

  He wondered where she was.

  Lucky passed the Supersonic Wetback and his girlfriend. Manny was pointing at the sky, explaining the different stars. They'd been taught the prominent ones in pilot training so they could use them for reference when they flew at night. He remembered pointing them out to Linda, and his surprise when he found she knew more about them than he did.

  He arrived at his trailer and went inside.

  Captain Manny DeVera

  Manny went back into the stag bar and looked about. Doc Rogers was pushing away from the bar, preparing to leave.

  "Walk out with you?" Manny asked.

  Rogers gave him a frown as they fell into step. "The answer's still no, Manny."

  "I'm not asking for much, Doc."

  "You're asking me to do something illegal."

  "Don't you guys sometimes send medical-exam sheets out . . . like if you catch something after a patient's left the area, so they'll know what they've got? I phoned a lady friend at PACAF, and she gave me his address. All you've got to do is mail it."

  "No way, Manny. We forward to the medical facility nearest the patient, never to a home."

  They exited through the front door, and the doc headed for his trailer. Manny called after him, "You want him to get away with what he did?"

  Doc Rogers stopped, turned, and looked at him for a long while.

  "We've gotta stop him, Doc. Teach him he can't get away with it."

  Rogers sighed. "I'll make a copy of the consultation form, and you can stop by and pick it up tomorrow. But Manny, if anyone asks, I'll tell 'em I don't know a damn thing about it."

  "Thanks, Doc." Manny returned to the bar to have one more drink and think about the next step in his program of retribution.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Thursday, January 4th, 1968, 1100 Local—Ban Si Muang, Laos

  GS-15 Linda Lopes

  The heat was stifling in the thatch hut, but she could endure it. She could withstand anything they tried to do to her!

  Be tough! she told herself for the hundredth time.

  The band of men who'd ambushed the jeep and taken her across the river had vanished after handing her over to another group of armed ragtags. Then she'd been dragged from one camp to the next for two weeks, furtively and always at night. Pathet Lao, she was sure. They'd mistreated her some, kicking her when she'd stumbled and yelling at her in angry words she hadn't understood, but they'd fed and watered her enough to get by and took her to urinate and defecate when she had to go. The worst part of those first days had been the fear of the unknown as she'd wondered about her fate. Then something new had happened; she'd been marched down the rutted dirt roads in broad daylight. Past gawking farmers and townspeople, her captors yelling to them, pointing at her and joking.

  At first it had been puzzling why they'd become so brazen. Then it became obvious that they were in control in the area. Most of the people they passed were expressionless. Some seemed sad when she was marched past. A few joked with her captors and made obscene gestures.

  Her latest jail was a bamboo cage built into one side of a single-roomed thatch hut. Not so small that she couldn't stand and take two steps in any direction, but restrictive enough to activate claustrophobic tendencies. They kept a guard with her day and night, who sometimes watched the cage but more often stared off in daydreaming sessions.

  Her treatment, she'd decided in those first days, would be dictated by whether they suspected what her job entailed. If they did not, she'd likely continue to be treated well enough, perhaps be kept for a while and then released in some sort of trade, or in a grand humanitarian gesture. Perhaps
turned over to an American peace group. Linda could think of no advantage for them to keep her, as long as they didn't suspect she also worked for State Department intelligence, setting up the networks around the bases. It was unlikely they'd know, she reasoned. Most Americans didn't know about the organization.

  So far there was no indication that they knew. No one had questioned her. None of the Pathet Lao spoke English. The ones she'd met, even those she believed were the leaders at this latest camp, were a backward group—not nearly as sophisticated as she'd imagined them to be.

  More than anything, she wished they'd give her a change of clothing. Nothing fancy, just something that didn't smell so ripe. Her sandals had been taken the first night, and she'd been left barefoot. For three and a half weeks she'd lived in the filthy sailcloth trousers and blood-stiffened linen blouse she'd worn on the jeep trip.

  Her reverie was broken when a man came into the room, then came closer and stared. This one was somehow different from the others. He spoke tersely to the guard, who quickly responded and became nervous. An officer? He appeared too young to have much rank, but the guard was now beside the cage trying to appear alert. The officer went to the door and beckoned, and when a new person came in and approached the cage, Linda's heart plummeted.

  It was the man from the village who'd refused to meet her eyes when she'd asked her questions. The man Peter Johnston had wanted to recruit.

  Oh damn! She tried to recall how much they'd told him. The young officer and the man from the village spoke at length, and again it was apparent who was in charge. The officer carried the conversation. The CT answered when spoken to.

  "I sink you an' me mus' tawk, Muss Lo-pees." The words startled her. His English was not terrible. "I am Lootna Boun Pouva, an' I spen' two ye-ah in Eng-lun. I awso spen' two ye-ah in Mosk-va. I be da one you tell you see-creets."