by Tom Wilson
She took a deep breath. "I love you, Manny DeVera."
He leaned to kiss her, but she turned away.
"Not until we talk."
Manny waited.
"Do you love me?"
He was quiet.
"I've got to know. It's very important."
His voice was low. "I think so. I've never felt this way."
Penny nodded. "Me either. I was engaged once, but the feeling wasn't anything like I've got for you. I came close to loving Dusty. I think I could have, if we'd had longer."
Manny remained quiet. She appreciated his thoughtfulness.
"But I love you desperately, Manny."
He exhaled slowly. Happiness or fatigue? she wondered.
"I want to make love to you. I want to have your children. I want everything you're willing to offer."
"Maybe we should—"
"Please," she interrupted, "I've got to say this, Manny, and it's very difficult." She'd practiced her speech carefully and knew she must not be sidetracked.
He waited for her to continue.
"I'd be good for you, Manny. I'd be there whenever you wanted, and I'd promise to never look at another man as long as I live. We'd be right for one another. I know we would."
Although he said nothing, somehow, in the silent communication that only people in love can share, she knew he agreed.
"I want you to myself. I don't ever want to see you with another woman again, like the other night."
"Nothing happened. I just took her to dinner and for a drink after."
"Do you love me?" she asked again.
"Yes." He said it with little hesitation.
"You can have me, Manny. Tonight and every night of my life from now on."
He placed his arm around her shoulders, and she didn't pull away.
"But you'll have to promise me something. Just one thing."
He gently pulled her closer, raised a hand to trace her cheek. She noticed how it was trembling from his weariness. "You name it," he whispered in his deep voice.
"That you'll stop flying combat."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Thursday, February 8th 0520 Local—VOQ, Ubon RTAFB, Thailand
Major Benny Lewis
The orderly had awakened him five minutes before and said he was to go to the command center. "You've got a classified call, sir. I'll drive you."
Benny scrambled into the same jungle fatigues he'd pulled off the previous evening. As he gingerly pulled on his socks, then the canvas-sided boots, he remembered and pounded a few times on the wall. Moods and his GIB occupied the adjacent room in the visiting officers' quarters.
"Yeah?" came Moods's muffled response.
"I've gotta go over and take a classified call at the command post. You better get hold of the shooter crew and prepare to launch."
"Yeah!"
"Head on down to the squadron. I'll be there soon as I get off the phone. If it's a false alarm, we'll go to the club for breakfast."
Two F-4's, one with the illuminator pod and the other loaded with two Pave Dagger Mk-84's, had been loaded and kept ready for quick launch in the event they received tasking from the Seventh Air Force Tactical Air Control Center.
Ten minutes later Benny burst into the command post and hurried over to the scrambler-phone console.
An airman dialed through, connected with a similar scrambler unit at Seventh Air Force, and handed him the receiver.
"Benny, this is Pearly Gates. Over." The voice sounded as if it came from an echo chamber, and was accompanied by a periodic squeal. Only one person could speak at a time, so you had to tell the other when you were finished.
"You got a target for us? Over."
"The shit hit the fan at an outpost near Khe Sanh last night. The NVA overran a place called Lang Vei. Over."
"The tanks? Over."
"Nine or ten of the damned things. More than three hundred friendlies KIA'ed, some of them Americans. We lost track of the tanks again, but they can't have gone far. We're sending up three O-1 FAC birds and a C-47 with heat sensors to find them. I want your guys to try to take 'em out. How many bombs you got loaded up? Over."
"One shooter. Two bombs. Over."
"We need more. You got more bombs bolted together? Over."
"Sure do. Over."
"Have 'em load three more aircraft. Over."
0925L—Near Quang Tri, South Vietnam
Captain Moods Diller
They'd loaded the additional shooters, giving them a total of eight modified Mk-84 2,000-pound bombs. Moods led Pilgrim, a five-ship flight of F-4D Phantoms. They were leaving the initial orbit, heading west, following Waterboy's directions.
The O-1 FAC called. "Patches zero-two echo has you in sight, Pilgrim. Turn right ten degrees and I'll be five, six miles off your nose."
"Pilgrim lead has you at our one o'clock, Patches zero-two echo. Confirm you're over the small stream flying south."
"That's me, Pilgrim. Continue to let down to five thousand feet."
"Pilgrim flight's descending to flight level zero-five-zero."
"I've got six tanks in sight down here, trying to hide in a thicket of trees. Watch for my mark, Pilgrim. I'm shootin' willy petes."
Moods kept his eyes glued as the tiny propeller aircraft turned sharply and dived toward a small stand of trees which covered perhaps half an acre. There was a flash. Two white phosphorus rockets splayed tendrils when they struck side by side at the near edge of the trees. "Pilgrim lead's got two willy pete marks in sight, Patches echo."
"That's the thicket, Pilgrim lead. Four tanks on the south side, two more somewhere near the middle. You're cleared to drop."
Moods went into a slight bank, flying an arc around the copse of trees. He directed the two shooters to set up an oblong racetrack orbit, then advised the O-1 to stand clear because of the large size of the bombs and their blast effect.
"I'm looking . . . I'm looking," the pilot in the rear cockpit muttered over intercom. He was viewing the world through a video camera with several levels of magnification. First he'd get the big picture, then slowly zoom in.
"I've got the trees now. Going to times ten. Yeah . . . yeah."
"You got the tanks?"
"Just trees. All looks the same in there."
Moods thought about it, then radioed for the first shooter to turn inbound and head directly for them. They were still evaluating different drop tactics, but this one seemed to work best with multiple shooters.
"Turn on the zot," he told the backseater over intercom, eyeballing the trees.
"I don't have 'em yet, Moods."
"We're gonna drop one right in the middle of the thicket."
"Zot's on." The laser was activated, casting its pinpoint of brilliant light.
He depressed the radio button. "You'll be releasing one bomb on this pass, Pilgrim two, at about eight thousand feet slant range from the target area."
He could see the F-4 shooter bunt slightly over. This time he'd told them to try dropping at just ten degrees nose-down. If that worked, next time they might even try releasing when they were flying straight and level. The idea was to get the bomb seeker in view of the target, so the steering mechanism could take over.
"Pilgrim two's got a lock-on light."
Moods made the call for Pilgrim two to release the weapon, holding his right turn as steady as possible to make his backseater's job easier.
He could see the weapon release. As the aircraft pulled up, he followed the bomb on its trajectory.
"I think I can see one of 'em now, Moods!" cried the backseater.
"Keep the illuminator going."
"I'm slewing to the target."
"Don't move it much, dammit."
"I'm on it!"
"You think it's a tank?"
"It's something man-made. The foliage looks different."
The bomb made a smooth correction, falling now at a steeper angle.
"The bomb's guiding," Moods muttered.
&n
bsp; The bomb exploded in the midst of the trees. Its concussive wave blew the trees outward like ripples after a pebble was dropped into a pond. Pebble hell—a big damn rock!
A small secondary explosion—followed by a thick streamer of black smoke.
"You got something in there, Pilgrim lead!" radioed the excited FAC.
Moods continued flying the arc around the copse of trees. He could feel the excitement growing.
"It was a tank all right!" yelled the GIB. "I can see it now."
"Pilgrim two," Moods radioed. "Turn back inbound now. You'll be releasing bomb number two."
"I can see motion in the thicket, Moods."
"Track whatever it is," said Moods. "We don't want any of 'em getting away."
"One of 'em's out of the trees now," said the GIB. "He's running."
"Zot him."
"Illuminator's on!"
When Pilgrim flight left the position fifteen minutes later, five tanks were burning brightly. The FAC felt the other PT-76 had also been destroyed in the thicket. He told them he'd never seen anything like the kind of accuracy they'd shown.
Moods was numb with elation. The bombs were like his children, and he was very proud of them.
1125L-Command Post, Ubon RTAFB, Thailand
Major Benny Lewis
The scrambler phone was working.
"They got five, maybe all six, Pearly. Over."
"I got a call from the FAC. He's dancing a jig. Good work, Benny. Over."
"The credit goes to Moods and his guys. Over. "
"Buy 'em a drink. Tell 'em it's on me. Over."
"Make sure the word gets out, Pearly. Over."
"Will do. I'll inform higher headquarters ASAP. Over."
"You gonna send us some more work? The guys are raring for another chance to show their stuff. Over."
A short pause followed. "I would've told you before, if it hadn't been for all the Tet bullshit. We got a message from the PACAF IG questioning your Pave Dagger project. Someone there wants to shut down your test. They also sent a query to the Pentagon. Over."
"They can't do that! Not now. Jesus, we just gave 'em a success. Over."
"Let's low-key it for a couple of days while I get the word about the tanks out. I'll try to arrange something new for you. Maybe give Moods a target that'll help convince everyone. How does he feel about flying up in pack six? Over."
"That's what it's all about. Pave Dagger's designed to take out tough targets so we don't have to send half the Air Force after 'em. Over."
"Let me see what I can come up with. We'll probably be going back up north in a few days. In the meantime, tell the guys they did good work. Over."
"Will do. Over." But a large part of Benny's elation had evaporated. Someone was trying to kill the Pave Dagger project.
Tuesday, February 13th, 0745 Local—HQ Seventh Air Force, Tan Son Nhut Air Base Saigon, South Vietnam
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
The briefers from intelligence gathered their charts and quietly left the general's office.
Pearly mused on what they'd been told. The Tet offensive had presented the grandest gamble and the most thorough whipping for the North Vietnamese thus far in the war. They'd gambled all their chips and failed. With their backs pressed to the wall, the Army of the Republic of Vietnam was fighting like furies, soundly drubbing the NVA in almost every confrontation. The NVA were losing thousands of their best soldiers. Entire crack units were being decimated, and not a single provincial capital remained in their hands. Although fighting remained fierce in some sectors, there was little doubt as to the outcome. Even the infiltrators who'd slipped into Saigon were being relentlessly hunted down.
South Vietnamese Buddhist leaders who had sympathized with Hanoi's goals were outraged that the armistice had been broken to defile the Tet celebration of life. Rather than rise up and take arms with the NVA, they looked on somberly, sometimes even mouthing support for the ARVN.
From the viewpoint of every major military headquarters, the Tet offensive was a solid victory for democracy. The only glitch was the press. Reporters rushed avidly about the city, interviewing every "official" and "qualified" source, meaning paper pushers and dissidents, who would agree to make a statement. If the words jived with their stories of gloom and doom, they'd send it out. When exuberant American or ARVN commanders told about kicking VC ass or humiliating entire NVA units, their stories were downplayed and often shelved. Self-serving articles and broadcasts from Hanoi were quoted in faithful detail. According to the press agencies, the Tet offensive showed the vulnerability of the allies and new tenacity by the communists.
Both General Westmoreland and President Johnson had issued upbeat statements very early in the confrontations, describing the heroic stand of allied troops. Antiwar activists called their words establishment propaganda, regurgitated Hanoi's assessments, and gleefully spouted that it was the beginning of the end for American adventurism in Southeast Asia.
Pearly wondered what he'd believe if he was a Kansas farmer or a housewife in New Jersey. It was troubling.
But General Moss was happy this morning, had been cheerful since calling Pearly into his office to sit in on the briefing. "We've got a new JACKPOT message," the General said when the door closed behind the last briefer.
He held it up and read: "In the wake of Tet, approval for LINE BACKER JACKPOT now seems assured. J is increasingly resolved to win the war as quickly and efficiently as possible."
Moss wore a thoughtful expression as he scanned the message further.
"Does he have any idea when it may happen?" Pearly asked.
"No, but I've got a feeling it's close. Gentleman Jim says the incoming Secretary of Defense is reluctant about further escalations, so Johnson's toying with the idea of briefing him on the project, showing him there's a way to win."
Pearly nodded. "I think it's time to start briefing a lot of top people."
Moss raised an eyebrow. "Like who?"
Pearly took a breath. "General Roman, for one."
Moss's lips became a taut line.
"The people at PACAF could give us a lot of good input to help finish the OPlan."
"Gentleman Jim doesn't trust him, Pearly. Neither do I."
"General Roman may approach things differently than we do, but no one can question his patriotism. I think if he was made part of a plan to win, he'd go for it."
"He's going around the system—straight past the Chief of Staff to the SecDef."
"He was going directly to the old Secretary of Defense. I wonder if he's got a line into his replacement."
Moss snorted. "Roman's half politician. I'll bet he's sending messages right now."
"Then by convincing him, perhaps we could get a positive word through him to the new SecDef."
"Dumb idea, Pearly. Forget it."
"General, he knows something's afoot. He sent Colonel Lyons out looking for answers, and from what Colonel Leska reported, just maybe he's found some."
"Then if what you're saying about his sense of patriotism is true, he'll go along."
"Not if Lyons is giving him the wrong word. A lot of truth can get garbled when you're dealing with third parties. I don't trust Lyons. I think he'd present his reports in the most self-serving way possible."
Moss grew reflective. After the visit by Benny Lewis, when Benny told him about the cozy relationship between Tom Lyons and the wing commander from Danang, Moss had called in the commander and questioned him at length. He'd said that he and Lyons had discussed only the results of his informal inspection, but Pearly knew the general still wondered.
"Just an idea, sir," said Pearly. He'd planted the seed. Anything further would be up to Moss and McManus.
1000L—355th TFW Commander's Office, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Captain Manny DeVera
Colonel Leska had called him in to talk business—to ask how well prepared the pilots were to go back to pack six, for they'd been alerted that a large-scale strike would be ordere
d the next day. Throughout Manny had tried not to show his fatigue as well as the utter glumness he'd felt over the past week, during which time Penny had not spoken to him once. The previous evening Penny had gone to the club and even joked around with a few of the guys in the bar, which shed not done since Animal Hamlin's death. But when Manny had approached her, she'd just given him a wistful stare, then said to another of the guys that she had to go to her trailer.
How the hell do you feel good when you know what you want, and you want it so badly that you'd die for it, but you can't make it happen because it would destroy your manhood?
Penny's demand was unfair and unreasonable. There was no way he could quit flying combat—just drop his life and back out on his friends. He'd gone around the entire week feeling as if his stomach were stuffed in his throat. No matter how hard he tried, Manny couldn't forget Penny and her demand. He wanted her—wanted to live his life with her as she'd said. He couldn't remember feeling so intensely about a woman before. He couldn't sleep at night thinking about it, and that just added to his being do damnably tired.
The talk with Leska was over, yet Manny remained seated.
"You've look troubled the past few days," the colonel said.
Manny wanted to talk about his dilemma with someone whose judgment he respected and trusted, but he didn't know how to begin. He was also so very tired that he didn't trust his own thoughts on the thorny subject.
"You got a problem, Manny?" Leska prodded.
He decided on the "good friend" routine. "A buddy of mine needs advise, sir, and I'm having trouble giving it. Could I run it by you?"
"Shoot."
"He's in a bind right now, and I'm trying to tell him what to do. It sort of relates to what we talked about in my office that time. About how a guy has to choose his lady carefully, so she's right for him?"
Leska nodded.
"Anyway, this guy's found a perfect lady. She's pretty and they can talk without even speaking . . . know what I mean?"
"The poor bastard's in love."
"More than he's ever thought he might be. I mean, he's had his share of women, but this time he's hooked. He can hardly think, he's so hooked."
"It gets like that sometimes."
