by Tom Wilson
He then placed the two letters on the dinette table and eyed them as he popped the lid on an orange soda.
Buster had called home on Christmas day and enjoyed brief conversations with Carolyn and Mark, who'd spent a portion of his school break there.
In her earlier letters, Carolyn had written that Christmas with Mark had been a delightful time, made better by the fact that he appeared normal, and not at all like the horrible dope-head she'd envisioned he was becoming. He'd even gotten a haircut of sorts, although it would still be too long for Buster's liking, and had dressed in clean jeans and tie-dyed T-shirts. She'd told Buster how she'd tried to fatten him up, for their son was becoming skinny to a fault.
Mark had developed a passion for the Beatles, she'd written, and she was beginning to come around. Their music wasn't all that bad, she said, although she didn't really understand what their latest hit, "Strawberry Fields, Forever," was really about, and she still preferred their old Frank Sinatra and Perry Como records.
"Me too, Carrie," Buster said to her unopened letter.
When Carolyn wanted to put him in a proper mood, she'd pull on a sexy black nightgown, put on some soft Sinatra; then her eyes would go soft and he'd begin snorting like a bull. He guzzled soda pop. He remembered Carolyn smiling the secret way she did when they'd just finished, whispering how happy and in love she was.
God, but he was horny.
He envied the young studs who visited the ladies in Ta Khli village to lighten their loads. He'd done that during his first combat tour in Korea, before he'd returned and married Carolyn. On his second tour he'd abstained. Except in his mind a few times, he'd never cheated on her, even though trysts with ladies of the evening weren't generally regarded so much as cheating, but rather a physical necessity. While broad-minded toward others, Buster had never been able to really differentiate or rationalize the act for himself. Cheating was cheating.
Fighter pilots, especially those who were presentable or on their way up through the system, seldom had to search for opportunities to take women to bed. Females of varying degrees of beauty, wealth, and even chastity, were vulnerable. For some it was the way the men lived in constant danger. With others the attraction wasn't definable. The devoutly pacifist wife of their church's pastor had once whispered to Buster that she was available. The normally shy daughter of a local politician had been caught en flagrante in the bachelor officers' quarters of an East Coast fighter base. She'd knocked on doors at random and offered, then provided, oral and vaginal sex to more than a dozen junior-officer pilots. Those were not unique incidents. Women were readily available to them.
Buster Leska didn't partake. He preferred to remember the Sinatra songs and Carrie in her glazed-eye moods. He loved her as intensely now as he had when they'd married.
Time for his prize. He had another hour to savor the letters.
The best, he decided, should come last. Buster opened the one from her father.
It was short and direct. He was advised to come home immediately. Carolyn needed his help with Marcus.
Shit! Buster immediately tore open the second letter. It was neatly typed on Carolyn's personalized light-blue stationery.
January 16th
Dear Buster,
I hate to trouble you with family problems when you already face such great challenges, but I simply cannot keep the truth from you any longer and I must have your advice.
I am beside myself with worry and pray daily for strength to continue.
While I didn't lie in my previous letters about Mark's appearance and his promises to improve, you should also know that he had been placed on probation by the end of last semester. He failed to attend most classes or to turn in the required papers, and received incompletes or failures in four of his five courses.
I was notified last week that he was being suspended for disrupting two classes he wasn't signed for. Mark and several others showed up shouting that the instructors were "warmongers" and splattered chicken blood on them and the podium.
The school demanded that he depart the campus immediately.
This news came from a new, quite unsympathetic counselor. When I tried to telephone Mark, his roommate evaded my questions and would only tell me he was gone. I've since been advised that the roommate was also suspended.
I immediately prepared to travel to New York to locate Mark and bring him home, but was then called by the NY police. Mark has been identified as a participant involved in the burning of a campus police car. When they went to his dorm room, some of his clothing had been taken and he was gone, and the police are demanding to know his present location.
Page 2.
I did not know where he was, of course, and was beside myself with worry. I still am.
Mark finally called last night, Buster. He sounded quite intoxicated and refused to tell me where he was calling from. He just kept saying he was okay and not to worry. He said the campus police were fascist pigs and other things which weren't at all like him. When I told him you'd be worried sick, he said he could no longer call you father, for you'd been lied to so much that you'd become a part of the system. Then he said good-bye, that he had a bus to catch.
What do I do, Buster? I telephoned my parents, but father just says to have you come back to straighten things out, that it's not all my burden to shoulder.
I realize that you can't do that, and I probably shouldn't even write this letter, but I have no one else to turn to who will understand. I don't dare leave the house for fear I'll miss a call from Mark, or from a hospital telling me he's sick or has been hurt.
I have been through other crises, and know you think I am strong, but I am beginning to doubt everything. I love you dearly, and miss you so much that I cry constantly. I've never felt more helpless.
Forever yours,
Your Carrie
Buster reread the letter twice more. Then he took a deep breath and picked up the phone. He told the command-post sergeant to place an immediate call to the Pentagon operator and have them patch through to his home telephone.
Friday, January 26th, 0720 Local—Nakhon Phanom Air Base, Thailand
Black and Captain Torgeson, leader of the seven-man Banjo LRRP team, were seated alone before the briefers, who were detailing specifics for the op.
The area of interest was the mountaintop TACAN station at Yankee 21, as Black had hoped. The first speaker was the major, XO of the C-Team headquarters unit for Command and Control—Central, who gave the mission objectives and overview.
It was improbable that they'd get choppers to use on the op. Although the major didn't explain, Black knew things were frantic on the NVA supply routes, and there was a tremendous effort underway to intercept and slow the traffic. Every available LRRP team was being used as trail-watch teams or to place detection sensors, which meant the HH-3's were busy.
"Special Ops C-130?" the Banjo leader asked hopefully.
"More likely by a contractor C-123."
"Air America?"
"Probably Air South or one of the others."
That news was not so good. Air Force Special Ops, Air America, and Bird and Son crews were generally very good. Most of the others, although also under op control of MACSOG, were regarded as CIA "Sunday help" and not always deemed reliable.
The major's pointer tapped on a rugged mountain immediately north of the village of Ban Sao Si. "Yankee five-four will be the observation post and base camp. The Viets are also using the mountain, but high-altitude recce photos show them farther down, with a good path leading down to the village but poor access to the top. I doubt they send patrols up there, but you'll have to set up as if they do.
"Banjo will be dropped in here, twenty-two kilometers northeast of the observation post. After they're inserted, Hotdog will be dropped in twenty klicks due north of the O-P. You can both take up to eight hours to get into position." The XO gave detailed instructions on how to proceed to Yankee 54 by the most surreptitious routes from the two DZs, then the routines, signals
, and passwords to be used for join-up.
The S-2 intell officer took over. He gave times of radio transmissions, more code words, cache sites, and suspected enemy troop locations. The dirt strip at Ban Sao Si had been cleared and improved, and was being used by occasional light aircraft and helicopters from Hanoi. That was one place they wanted examined in detail. They also wanted to know specifically where the SA-7 Strela missiles and 37mm antiaircraft guns were located, and about all troop concentrations. They estimated there were 500 Viet militia remaining, but weren't at all sure because of the dense jungle canopy south and east of the flattop mountain.
They were shown all known farm villages and locations where Ma tribesmen had set up hunting and foraging camps.
"That's a major concern," said the intell captain. "If it was just the Viets, the Air Force would bring in their heavies and bomb the shit out of the place. But there are as many as five thousand civilians scattered through the area. Before the zoomies arrive, they've got to know which locations to avoid just as well as where to bomb."
Air Force? Black raised a hand for attention. "I thought Vientiane Control had operational control of the area."
The XO stepped forward to answer. "Not for this one. The Air Force is going to bring in their best, and enough of it to make sure the job gets done. They want the nav site back and told Vientiane to butt out. General Moss at Seventh Air Force raised hell with MAC-SOG and told them he doesn't want an Air America contract T-34 anywhere near the place until his fighters have pacified it. He didn't even want us in there. MAC-V stepped in and there's been a compromise."
Captain Torgeson frowned. "If the Air Force wants to handle the air effort, why can't we get an Air Force bird to drop us in?" He, like Black, did not trust all of the CIA contractors.
"Like I said, it's a compromise. It's not really a joint op, because there's clear dividing lines. MAC-SOG handles the surveil, which means we send you guys in. After you've taken a close look, we call up the Air Force and tell 'em it's their game. They come in and lay on the bombs. We take over again—sanitize the mountain, and leave a detachment there as nursemaids. Then they bring in new nav equipment and an installation team. Clear lines of authority and responsibility."
"So what if we get in trouble up there?" Captain Torgeson asked.
"The Air Force is putting fighters on one-hour cockpit alert at Ubon Air Base."
"We can't talk to 'em on our radios."
"Your team will carry a UHF portable radio. They're also putting an airborne forward air controller on alert at a Lima site up north of here. Same people who'll be coordinating the bombing. You can talk to the O-1 pilots on button B of your VHF hand-held."
Sergeant Black was pleased. This time it looked as if they'd get the air support required.
The XO nodded to the S-2 intell briefer, who resumed where he'd left off. "Ban Sao Si is a farm village, with several hundred noncombatants. The people there probably don't get along very well with the Viets, since they've bickered for the past thousand years or so, but they're outgunned all to hell. Just a couple hundred yards away from the village, adjacent to the airstrip, there are new structures we know to be militia targets. We believe it's the same throughout the area. Good guys and bad guys almost side by side. That will be job one, to pinpoint everything."
As the end of the briefing approached, the XO stood before them again.
"Banjo will drop in one hour before Hotdog. Two hours later the team leaders will make initial radio contact. Keep it abbreviated. A max of seven hours later, you'll join hands at Yankee five-four. Black will run the surveillance effort, and Captain Torgeson the comm and housekeeping."
"I thought I was in charge of the patrol," Torgeson complained. He was a new captain, a West Point graduate, and after the patrol was finished, was in line to command a twelve-man A-Team, the most coveted job for a Special Forces company-grade officer. He had reservations about going out with the renegades, and—as far as he knew—Black was an E-6 NCO.
The XO raised his palms, as if it were beyond his control. "That's the way the old man wants it, okay? Black's got the surveillance, you've got the communications, housekeeping, and any required firepower."
Torgeson still did not look happy about it.
"Don't worry," Black said smoothly. "My guys'll stay out of your hair."
Captain Torgeson, however reluctantly, agreed.
1100L—Pave Dagger Test Headquarters, Ubon RTAFB
Captain Moods Diller
Moods stood before the group of Pave Dagger civilian engineers and enlisted technicians and the two F-4 aircrews borrowed from the host wing. He could still feel the marks left by his tight-fitting oxygen mask, as well as the tension of flight, although they'd shut down engines more than an hour earlier. It had been their third test mission.
In both the first and second flights the designator pod had developed problems, for the circuitry hadn't taken well to the high humidity of Southeast Asia. The Texas team had repotted everything and recharged the black boxes with super-dry nitrogen. That had robbed them of three days, and time had become their number-one enemy.
Major Benny Lewis came in and gave a nod and wave of his hand to get on with the briefing. He'd been called out of the room for a phone call, and they'd been waiting for him.
Moods plunged ahead. "We went out with three birds. I was flying with the illuminator pod, and both of the other F-4Ds were carrying Mark 84 Pave Dagger bombs."
Moods turned and pointed to the target photos—two small wooden bridges, a river pier, and a coastal dock area, all in route pack two—blown up to many times their original size.
"Those're the culprits-we-went-after. Biggest problem was-locatin' th'-dam-thing."
The F-4 aircrews from across the field looked at one another in consternation.
"Better slow down, Moods," Lewis told him. "I don't think they've been around you long enough to understand you when you're excited and talking about your toys."
Moods took a breath and nodded, then slowed down his speech to what seemed a snail's crawl. "The small bridge in this photo was our first target. After we arrived, I set up a right-hand orbit at 6,000 feet, and my GIB turned on the illuminator. Soon as he was slewed and fixed on the target he called 'mark,' and the first shooter activated the first bomb, entered a thirty-degree dive attack, got a lock-on light, then released bomb number one."
The pilot of the second shooter aircraft approached the photo of target number one and drew in a large X just to the right of the target. He pointed. "My GIB took movie footage of the sequence, and the film's still being developed. But I watched it all the way down. Everything looked right on until just before impact, then the bomb's path flattened and it hit just a little long."
"What happened to the bridge?" asked a technician.
"A two-thousand-pound bomb hitting that close? Blew it all to hell."
There were several cheers.
Moods shook his head. "Not good enough, guys. Thirty feet isn't what we're after."
He nodded at the photos. "We went on to the second target, a couple of miles downstream, and did the same thing there. We illuminated, and they released bomb number two."
The pilot who'd marked the first impact walked to the second photo and examined it.
The Pave Dagger people watched pensively.
The pilot cocked his head and dragged out his words dramatically. "I think it hit about . . ."
He grinned and made a neat X at the center of the bridge.
". . . there."
The room erupted in cheers and good-natured banter.
Moods waited until they'd quieted. "Same thing happened with the other two bombs. One near miss and one direct hit."
The borrowed pilots shook their heads in amazement. "Fan-damn-tastic!" said a GIB.
"We've got to find the problem with the two misses," Mood said, frowning and peering out at the room.
"We'll find the problem," said the pudgy senior Texas-team engineer.
"S
ome problem," muttered the F-4 GIB. "Best damn bombs I've ever seen."
Benny Lewis appeared pleased. Moods walked over to him.
"Not a bad start," Benny said. "Congratulations."
"I want ninety percent hits. Then I'll feel good about it."
"You've got twenty-six bombs to go, Moods."
"Yeah."
"You better hurry up and get more test missions in," Benny told him. "There's a holiday bombing pause coming up in four days. That's what the phone call was about."
Moods was puzzled. "What holiday?"
"It's called Tet. Sort of like our Christmas. Washington, the South Vietnamese government, and Hanoi all agree. No ground action or bombing missions for a week."
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tuesday, January 30th, 0545 Local—Tan Son Nhut Air Base, South Vietnam
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
The blaring Klaxon horns woke him first. Then, through the thick fog of deep slumber, Pearly realized the shouting and rushing of personnel, and even the distant reverberations and whooshing sounds were not a part of his dream.
A voice shouted over a loudspeaker to take cover.
Pearly rolled out of bed and shook his head, then groggily began pulling on a fresh shirt and a pair of trousers.
Whooosh. Whump-whump-whump.
His mind registered then, and he grabbed a pair of boots and slipped them on as he pulled the door open. People were rushing down the hall.
The full impact hit him . . . they were under attack . . . the sounds were incoming rockets and artillery. His heart pumped wildly—he felt giddy with excitement and fear.
The pistol! Pearly went back inside, pulled on a drawer, and grabbed the issue .38 Special revolver. He hurried out and down the hallway, joining the mob, bootlaces flapping, gun belt slung over his shoulder.
"Where the hell's our shelter?" someone new shouted.
"Downstairs and out the south entrance! There's a bunker!"
"Go! Go! Go!"
