by Tom Wilson
When the first lieutenant pilot of one of the choppers came over and told them to load their equipment for the trip to NKP, Black told him he still had a man out there who was supposed to go with them.
"Hell, Sarge," the pilot said, "we're gonna have so much air traffic through here the next few days, it's gonna look like O'Hare International. He can catch a ride when he gets here."
Captain Bechler came over and pointed a huge finger at the lieutenant. "He says to wait, you fucking wait." The chopper pilot looked up at Bechler, who was the approximate size of two men, with warranted concern.
"It's okay," Black said, peering out at the Hotdog team who waited near the top of the roadway that led up the side of the mountain. "He's right. The lieutenant can catch a ride when he gets here. I'm just concerned that one of these guys will decide to shoot him and claim a kill. The only clothes he's got with him's the NVA uniform he was wearing."
Bechler looked unhappily at the roadway. "I like the little bastard, even if he does look like a fucking gomer. He's got balls."
Black went to find the captain who commanded the A-Detachment. He located him near the old Montagnard village site, where he was setting up business in a squad tent while his men stacked sandbags and prepared a perimeter.
"I've got a man still out there," Black told him.
"One of your renegades?" he asked sourly.
Black knew the captain only vaguely. He was new to the combat theater, but already very opinionated. "One of my men," he repeated wearily.
"Long as he doesn't look hostile when he shows up, we probably won't shoot him."
"Don't." Black pinned him with a cold look.
The captain returned it. "Where'd he go, Sergeant? Off chasing pussy? You oughta control those renegades of yours better."
Black bristled. For the past few hours he'd been thinking about how, this being his last recon op with Hotdog, there was no longer a need for the charade he'd kept up for the past fifteen months. "I know you didn't have a way of knowing this, but I'm a captain. I make major next month, and I'm being assigned as your XO. If you fuck up and shoot my man, I promise you I'll get even. You got that, captain?"
The A-Detachment commander gaped at him with disbelief.
"Call Buffalo Soldier and verify it with Papa Wolf. In fact, I'd like you to do that, so there won't be any misunderstanding."
"I will."
"And when you're through, I want you to brief everyone on your team that if anyone shoots my man, I'm going to have your balls."
Black stared for a moment longer, then left the tent and walked toward the waiting chopper.
The other Hotdogs still stood at the roadway, looking increasingly worried. The recon team had always worked together, and more than anyone, even Black, the lieutenant was their leader.
Black motioned for them to join him.
The senior sergeant came alone and spoke in Viet. "I think we should go for him. We know the way to the Ma village."
Black shook his head. "He is not there."
The sergeant looked perplexed.
"Get the men aboard," Black said softly. "The lieutenant will come later."
The sergeant obviously didn't understand, but he gave his hand signal, and the other two Hotdogs moved toward them.
"Where do you think the lieutenant might be?" Tiny Bechler asked.
"Let's get aboard," Black told him. He waited until the others had loaded, then swung through the door and sat on the web seat as the crew chief closed and latched the door. When the chopper lifted off, then dipped and hurried toward Nakhon Phanom, he continued to stare out toward the east.
2045L—Tan Son Nhut Officers' Club
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
Their routine had changed. After work they now went to their individual rooms and changed into civilian clothing before meeting at the club for dinner. In uniform he was Colonel Gates and she was Lieutenant Dortmeier. In civvies he was Pearly and she was Lucy. And each evening they'd do something, like bowl a game at the base recreation center or take in a movie—or just talk over after-dinner drinks, sharing private jokes that would be funny to no one else.
Afterward, when he'd walked her to her room, the door always remained cracked open, for they were proper about such things.
Tonight was an after-dinner drink evening, because they'd both worked even later than normal, and the Grand Marnier helped bring them down some. They sat alone in a corner of the lounge.
"I saw the general in the hall today," Lucy said. "He's been looking concerned lately."
Pearly sipped his drink. "It's General McManus," he said in a lowered voice. "He had another heart attack yesterday."
"A bad one?"
"I don't think so, but he's in the hospital again."
"Could it affect . . ." She stopped herself, but they both knew she meant the LINE BACKER JACKPOT plan.
"No way to tell. Probably not, I'd guess. Now it's all up to the big man. All it will take is a phone call and we're on."
Lucy stared out at the room. "It's too normal here, Pearly. Like a dinner club in the States. It's hard to believe there's a war going on—that people are dying violently so close to us."
"In Saigon, just six miles from here, they're still finding infiltrators from the Tet offensive. A block away from the fighting, the stores are open for business."
"That's what I mean."
"Yeah. No front lines or anything, and you don't know who the good guys and the bad guys are. All of that makes me know we're on the right track with our plan."
Lucy was looking at him with an odd, soft expression. "Let's go, Pearly."
"To your room?"
"Yes, please." No hesitation.
He stood and waited as she gathered her purse, adjusted herself, and slung the strap over her shoulder. God, but she was petite and feminine. She gave him the intimate and sharing look once again, and Pearly felt a small pang of apprehension.
Lucy Dortmeier was a virgin. She'd told him that. She was also very correct.
She touched his arm in a fond and territorial way as they walked toward the entrance.
Tonight, he knew—they both knew—the door wouldn't be left cracked open.
Wednesday, February 21st, 1100 Local—Mountains, Northeastern Laos
GS-15 Linda Lopes
The vehicle was like an oversized, ancient American pickup with a canvas-covered cab and wooden bed, and there was only the sublieutenant driver, the assistant commissioner, and herself. Linda shared the truck bed with several large containers of diesel fuel that jostled and slid about, leaking noxious fluid which permeated the flooring. The other two rode in the cab.
Linda was naked but not really exposed, for she was covered with a gummy mixture created by the oil and the rust-colored dust that boiled thickly over her. Pain coursed through her body in a hundred places as she was bounced about. Slivers from the wooden truck bed, both large and small, had become firmly embedded in her flesh. It had been laborious going, but the truck had relentlessly crawled its way along the tortuous path that climbed ever upward through the thick jungle. The driver had stopped dozens of times to clear the crude roadway where it had become blocked. Other times the two men had gotten out to eat or urinate. Initially when they halted, they'd checked on her condition and given her water, but then they must have run low, for the practice was discontinued. When they'd spoken to her during those first stops, she'd only grunted responses and begun the low, howling sounds of madness. Since Sergeant Gross wasn't with them, they couldn't question her or interpret her words, but she remained fearful of any communication.
Was she truly mad? She thought so.
Twice day had dwindled into cool and welcome darkness, but then the relentless sun had returned to parch her. At first she'd been blindfolded, but the cloth had slipped up and became tangled in her hair, and they hadn't made an effort to reposition it.
Before the magical event happened, Linda had also been trussed securely with ropes.
; Periodically she'd waft into unconsciousness, and it was during those times when she came closest to peace. Despite the ever-present suffering, she'd feel herself slipping as she lost lucidity, and at first wondered if her prayers were being answered and death was finally coming. After several times she decided that respite would come only later, perhaps from dehydration but certainly after other, longer periods of unconsciousness.
Please don't let me wake again, she pleaded each time she drifted into unconsciousness.
Then it happened. The rope tying her elbows together was the first to loosen, then the cord binding her hands. It was not something she helped along, but was caused by the constant jostling, bouncing, and sliding about the truck bed. Linda moved her shoulders forward and briefly felt the wonder of freedom before a shock of severe pain coursed through her upper body. She wanted to scream from the agony, but contained it. She'd been through so many hells. She would also endure this one, created by the return of circulation to her torso and limbs.
It was an answer to her prayer to die in some place other than this, with her tormentors looking on. She wished to find a peaceful place, perhaps beside a pleasant stream, where she could drift off to dreams of her childhood.
Looking forward at the cab, she saw that both men were peering ahead at the road, and the Thin Man was grunting terse directions to the driver. Linda rolled and crawled toward the back of the truck bed, withholding a cry of agony as a two-inch splinter pushed deep into a bare and bony buttock.
At the rear of the bed now.
The truck accelerated some as they entered an open area of road. She tried to lift herself, paused to pant and collect her energy. Tried again.
She couldn't do it.
Linda cautiously looked around at the cab, but couldn't focus well enough to see the men there or whether they were observing her. She grasped her way slowly up the tailgate, clutched the rim, and pulled harder.
A voice shouted from the cab and she hesitated. It was not for her, she decided. They called her Whore.
Linda adjusted her position and pulled again. She found that with great effort she could claw her way farther. She levered herself even with the top of the tailgate, pushed again, teetered, and shoved forward with all her remaining strength. As she went over the side, she grasped for a handhold to slow the fall, but once she'd passed the balance point and her weight had shifted, there was no stopping. She flailed and tumbled, struck an arm on the back of the truck, then bounced hard onto the hardpack roadway.
The truck's engine revved, then down-geared, but kept going.
When they discover I'm gone, they'll come back, she thought dully, and knew she must get off the roadway and out of sight. She crawled, favoring the pain-numbed arm, slithering, for her legs were still bound together, toward the side of the road. She paused, then turned and tried to smooth out signs of her body's passage as she backed into grass and brambles.
Now clear of the roadway, she stopped and listened as the truck's engine grew fainter. She heard the slow tinkling sound of water in the distance. A drink would be wonderful, Linda decided. Then she'd wash herself thoroughly and find a nice place to die.
She crawled toward the source. The sounds of the truck engine became muted and even. Suddenly the engine revved.
They were coming back for her.
She continued crawling.
1247L
Assistant Commissioner Nguyen Wu
Wu shrieked at the sublieutenant for allowing it to happen.
"Find her!" he cried angrily.
The driver was working the truck back and forth, trying to turn about in the narrow roadway.
"Hurry! I think she is in the open area we just passed through."
"I do not believe she can go far," the sublieutenant said cautiously, fumbling with the gears.
Chuka-chuka-chuka-chuka . . .
"A helicopter," said the sublieutenant.
"Perhaps it is ours," Nguyen Wu muttered. He peered skyward through the tree canopy.
Chuka-chuka-chuka . . .
"I do not think so. Ours are louder." Wu chewed on his lip, wondering. If they returned to the open area, they could be seen from the air, but he definitely didn't wish to wait around until the helicopter had gone.
Chuka-chuka-chuka-chuka . . . The sound of the helicopter was growing louder.
He glanced down at the leather courier's pouch that contained the woman's secrets.
The sublieutenant crunched the gears again in his efforts to turn around.
Chuka-chuka-chuka . . .
"Stop," Wu demanded. The woman was only a burden, and was dying anyway.
The sublieutenant stared.
"We shall go on without her," Wu decided.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Monday, February 26th 0750 Local—HQ Seventh Air Force, Tan Son Nhut Airbase, Saigon, South Vietnam
Major Benny Lewis
Benny walked down the stairs slowly, mindful of his back and the stiffness he felt there. It wasn't that he was not getting better, simply that he had pushed himself too far during the Tet offensive, then as the pace of the Pave Dagger testing had increased. He prudently strapped on the light brace each morning, and twice daily took time for the simple, relaxing exercises the Nellis physical therapists had trained him to do, like sitting on the floor with his back held rigidly against a wall, or lying on a hard floor, knees up and arms at his sides. The stiffness was a handy danger signal, and whenever he felt it, he backed off—like now, taking his time coming down the stairs. He showed his badge to the security guard, then nodded to Moods, who waited impatiently at the main entrance of the headquarters building. The entire Pave Dagger team had come to Saigon to await a decision from General Moss on the future of the combat test program.
They were several feet down the sidewalk, still walking slowly, heading back to the visiting officer's quarters, when Moods Diller burst out with his question. "So what did you tell the general?"
"Same as you and I talked about, Moods. I told him PACAF had shut us down without reason, and that we want to continue the tests."
"And?"
"And I asked if he'd help."
Moods waited, then exploded. "Dammit, Benny, what happened?"
"General Moss agreed that Pave Dagger's a good idea. Hell, he was acting like he'd agreed all along, even though you know how he fought it. When you knocked down the bridge with the single bomb, I think it convinced him."
"So the test's back on?"
"Yeah, Moods. But not here. He said to quit pushing for more combat testing . . . to go back to Nellis and finish your work there."
Moods looked crestfallen, and Benny wanted to tell him the rest, how General Moss had sent out a flurry of back-channel messages to all the LINE BACKER JACKPOT people, telling them the Pave Dagger smart bombs were perfect for use when they started going to Hanoi in earnest—how they'd solve a lot of the problem of collateral damage and threats to civilians and foreigners. Benny wanted to tell him that Pearly Gates was writing a new annex to the OPlan, which included Moods's smart bombs, designating an F-4 squadron at Ubon as the first to be equipped and trained, and planned to use as many of the weapons as could be produced in the JACKPOT bombing campaign.
General Moss had told Benny to return to the States via the Pentagon and visit the chief of RDQF, the fighter-requirements office, who was one of those briefed in on JACKPOT. The Pentagon contacts there and in procurement would have things ready and waiting. When they got everything rolling, it would likely be one of the largest nonnuclear weapons-acquisition programs in the post–World War II era.
Moods was frowning.
"You've proved your concept, Moods. You've won. Be satisfied with it."
"It feels like we're being chased out of Dodge City."
"You all packed and ready?"
"Why?"
"The general's secretary's got you and your military team members scheduled out on a civilian contract airliner at fourteen hundred."
"Damn! Now I re
ally feel like I'm being chased out of town." Moods looked at him oddly. "How about you? You're going with us, aren't you?"
"I'm taking another flight. I'm going to drop by my ex-wife's place in Oregon and see my kids, then go on to Washington."
"The Pentagon?"
"Yeah. I'll see you back at Nellis in a couple of weeks."
"How about Julie? What do you want me to tell her, with her moving and all."
Benny stopped cold in his tracks. "Moving?"
"When I talked to Pam on the phone last night, she told me about running into Julie Stewart again, and how she said something about a move. She was kind of hesitant, so Pam didn't press her. Where's she going?"
"New Jersey, I guess."
"You didn't know she was going? Jesus, Benny."
"It doesn't matter." Although he'd expected it, he was amazed at how much it did matter.
"Is there some kinda trouble between you two or something?"
Benny began walking again. "We'd better get ready to catch a plane."
Moods was often slow to catch on to the mundane features of life, but he knew when someone changed the subject that abruptly not to pursue it. Especially when it was his boss.
"Yeah," said Moods. But he still wore a puzzled expression. He'd thought Benny and Julie were a shoo-in for a trip to the altar, maybe even before he was dragged there by Pam.
Benny didn't enlighten him.
1000L—355th TFW Commander's Office, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Colonel Buster Leska
The Deputy for Operations had come to see him with a problem and had brought along the weapons officer. The Wild Weasel crews were raising hell because they were about to run out of AGM-45 missiles. There were only seven left in the munitions inventory at Takhli, and the Weasels fired a lot of them to keep the North Vietnamese SAM operators' heads down during strike missions.
"So how many Shrikes are we going to have to airlift in?" Buster asked the Deputy for Operations.
Jerry Trimble turned to Manny.
"I think about forty," DeVera mumbled too hesitantly, looking even worse than the last time Buster had seen him. Manny had the puffy bags under his eyes and looked both nervous and tired, and now he was getting blotchy patches on his swarthy skin.
