by Tom Wilson
"Nope."
"Some of 'em carry Gatling guns. Bullets come out so fast you get dizzy. Big twenty-millimeter rounds that explode on contact. I sure as hell wouldn't wanta be this poor bastard if they get him in their sights."
"If they find him. That won't be easy where he's traveling." The operator peered at his typing, grimaced, and corrected an error with a ballpoint pen marked U.S. GOVERNMENT. "Sure makes me wonder what our two North Viet buddies are up to."
"That's your problem, you keep trying to think."
The operator finished, drew the message form from the typewriter, read it over and handed it to his friend.
Wednesday, March 20th, 0640 Local—Military Assistance Command-Vietnam HQ, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, South Vietnam
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
The previous morning, when Friday Wells had relayed a MAC-V intell request for fighter sorties to find and destroy a convoy in North Vietnam, General Moss had balked. It hadn't been as easy to convince him as Pearly had thought, even when he'd told him about Clipper being involved.
Find out more, the general had told him. The whole thing sounded fishy to him.
Pearly had all the right clearances—they were required in his job. It was the need-to-know prerequisite that made the Army major hesitate to provide the nitty details of a priority–one, no-shit, sensitive project. He'd flatly refused to come over to the Seventh Air Force headquarters building and talk in his classified vault.
If they decided to speak with him, it would be on their turf, at 0615 the next morning, they'd said.
Why so early? Later, Friday had told him how the Army did everything at uncivilized hours. Those strange people liked to get up at two or three A.M., hump around a course in full packs, and work until noon. They turned into pumpkins shortly after lunch.
No wonder the Air Force had broken away from the Army, Pearly had groused, but he'd agreed to the early briefing time.
Now Pearly awaited the major's arrival in the vaultlike briefing room in the annex to MAC-V headquarters, the private domain of the recently departed General William C. Westmoreland. It was said that since Westy mistrusted the CIA and their cautious estimates, he'd created his own set of spooks, involving MAC-V intell and much of MAC-SOG, but that they'd quickly become just as bureaucratic as the agency.
Pearly was forming his own opinion on their efficacy. At 0620 a clerk had poked his head into the room and said the briefing had been delayed fifteen minutes. Now the major was ten minutes late for that meeting time. Pearly decided to give him five more, until a quarter till seven. He would then return to his headquarters and tell the United States Army and Military Assistance Command–Vietnam to go screw themselves.
He was rising from his chair when a serious-looking gnome who stood no taller than five-five entered the room and nodded.
Pearly sat back down.
"Good day," said the dour major. From first eye contact, antagonism grew between them.
Pearly removed his glasses and stared moodily at the blurred vision. These people knew how to start a meeting on the wrong foot, he decided.
"I've been cleared to brief you in," the major said abruptly, "but keep in mind that everything I'm about to discuss is compartmented Top Secret, Sensitive Information."
Pearly nodded absently as he carefully polished the lenses, then pushed the spectacles back into place. The major proffered and he signed a U.S. Army form stating he was in receipt of special information regarding source-sensitive material.
"Have you heard of a man called Le Duc Tho?" the major began in his clipped speech.
"Sure," said Pearly. "He's the guy who coordinates the war and the politics in South Vietnam for Hanoi's Lao Dong party."
"He is Ho Chi Minh's personal emissary. A very important man."
"You're not trying to tell me that Le Duc Tho's been passing you information, are you?"
"Have you heard of Quon?"
"He's a senior officer in the VPAAF. No one knows if he's a colonel or general, because he doesn't wear rank. Real mysterious-type guy."
"He's also a national hero and Le Duc Tho's son-in-law. A few months ago Quon became a bit sloppy in his work as the air regiment commandant at Phuc Yen and angered his boss, who not only runs their Air Force but is even better politically placed than Quon. It seems the Lao Dong party thought Quon needed to be taught a minor lesson, so . . ."
Another minute passed before a light bulb came on for Pearly Gates. He raised his hand and said, "Whoa!"
The major grew silent.
"Are you telling me that Quon's trying to use us to eliminate one of their own government officials?"
"We believe so."
"And he's cooperating with you?"
"On this matter at least, that appears to be the case. He's using a known compromised frequency, and he speaks very distinctly. The second voice on the frequency belongs to a senior officer in their Army of National Defense."
"Militia or the air-defense side?" The VPAND was a large organization.
The major sighed, as if speaking with Pearly were a hardship. He obviously did not like answering questions and paused for a long while. "He's influential over the entire VPAND structure."
Pearly tried to remember the name of the general who commanded the VPAND.
"This second person also speaks slowly and clearly, which makes us think he too knows the conversations are being monitored. His voice is distinctive and easily identified."
"What's the VPAND commanding general's name? Luck?"
"General Luc hasn't been seen in public recently. We've got photos of a colonel with one arm, a patch over one eye, and a small beak, who's attending all the right meetings. According to the intercepts, he was recently promoted to general, so the rank is also correct. The new guy's name is Nha . . . General Nha."
"And he and Quon are cooperating with the United States military? It seems preposterous."
The runt major hesitated. "It may not really be a matter of cooperation as much as expediency. Perhaps we provide the only way they've got to get rid of this official."
"So why should we help them?"
"Three reasons. One, we might get more cooperation in the future. Two, the initial contact, the radio transmission from General Nha to Quon, stated that the VIP is carrying intelligence material that we believe is important to our interests and should be destroyed. Our third rationale for intercepting the convoy and eliminating the VIP is that we believe it's good policy to keep as much infighting as possible going on up there."
Pearly was in agreement with that reasoning. With LINE BACKER JACKPOT about to begin, any cracks in the North Vietnamese hierarchy would work to their advantage. "Why don't you go through normal channels?" he asked. One of General Moss's several hats was as the Deputy Commander for Air, MAC-V, meaning he worked for General Abrams.
"There's very little time, and this matter is simply too sensitive for normal channels." The major collected his notes and grew silent as he looked to Pearly for a response.
"I'll have to brief General Moss about all of this."
"We'd rather you didn't, but if that's the only way we can get the missions authorized—"
"It is," Pearly interrupted. He was irritated at the major's lack of courtesy, his asshole attitude, and could likely come up with a few more irritants.
"Will you comply?"
Pearly would have loved, just then, to tell the major to go fuck himself. Instead he asked about the convoy and any air defenses they might have.
"Four vehicles. Three two-ton four-by-fours and a utility vehicle about the size of one of our weapons carriers. That one's second in the convoy, and the one we're interested in. They'll have two 12.7 and two 14.5 millimeter machine guns, and one rapid-fire 37 millimeter towed gun."
"Where are they?"
"Then you'll do it?"
"I think the general will go for it."
The major spread a map onto the tabletop, then pointed out a line that snaked through mountain
ous terrain. "General Nha described the route of travel very carefully."
Pearly noted the United States Military Academy ring on the major's finger, and his antagonism dwindled. As a West Pointer, the guy couldn't help being an asshole. American taxpayers had spent a lot of money to educate him that way.
At 0810 hours Pearly Gates went directly from General Moss's office to the Tactical Air Control Center, where he made out an addendum to the current air tasking order, which had been sent to the combat flying units the previous evening. He tasked the wings at Korat, Ubon, and Takhli to search out and destroy a four-vehicle convoy enroute from the village of Yen Chau to Hanoi, describing the route of travel as well as other physical details.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Thursday, March 21st, 1145L—Command Post, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Lieutenant Colonel Lucky Anderson
Lucky was leading Scotch flight; Manny DeVera, Brandy.
There were only eight aircraft involved, but most of the pilots thought even that small number was a waste of time and effort on another bullshit mission to locate and destroy trucks under a jungle canopy. This one was unique in the amount of information they received and the mystery over why they were going at all, but it didn't alter the fact that they were being sent on another useless wild-goose chase. Korat Thud pilots had discovered that the previous afternoon when they'd thoroughly scoured the area and found nothing. That morning Ubon had sent out eight F-4 Phantoms, with the same results.
Four vehicles in the convoy. A two-ton truck in front with a canvas-covered bed, hauling a thirty-seven millimeter gun. Next was the target vehicle, a weapons carrier transporting whatever it was Seventh Air Force wanted destroyed. Bringing up the rear were two more two-tons, with mounted automatic weapons.
They'd be traveling the eastern slope of the mountainous region of route pack five. Much of the area was covered with dense foliage.
"Like looking for a rabbit in a briar patch," Manny DeVera grumbled. "If they don't want to be seen, they won't be. They hear an airplane and they just pull over and hide. Or more likely, they're holing up in the daytime and only traveling at night."
Lucky's response was quickly given. They'd received the tasking and they'd fly the mission. He pointed out the route they were to search between a mountain village and Yen Bai, on the Red River. He also pointed out the forty-kilometer stretch of road they were to concentrate on. The median point for their search was three quarters of the way to Yen Bai.
"We'll alternate," he briefed. "Captain DeVera's Brandy flight will start out by flying low along the track, and we'll sit up at three thousand feet overhead, looking down. After twenty minutes we'll drop down, and Brandy flight will take our place on top. After twenty minutes of that, if we have any time remaining, we'll split up and search different segments of the route."
Manny was examining the monocular he'd bought in Saigon. Lucky started to tell him the things were unauthorized and potentially dangerous to use in flight, but he stopped himself. Finding the trucks would take every trick they could think of. He went over it all again.
His audience listened with half an ear, unimpressed with the mission.
"What the hell is it we're after?" a pilot groaned.
"They didn't tell us in the frag order. But whatever it is, it's in the second vehicle."
The Thuds would each carry two BLU-1B napalm canisters—bluies—and a full load of high-explosive incendiary cannon rounds. The frag order directed them to burn the convoy.
1355L—Route Pack Five, North Vietnam
Captain Manny DeVera
They were fast approaching the end of their fuel endurance and had seen nothing at all on the mountain road, which was seldom visible beneath the tangles of trees and brush.
Brandy flight had flown for twenty minutes down low, then another twenty up higher, as briefed. At the slow speeds they'd used little gas, so the two flights had split up and would continue to search different parts of the road until they were "bingo fuel," meaning they had to return to the tanker and gas up for the trip home. Lucky was looking at the western twenty-kilometer stretch, and Manny had taken Brandy eastward along the road, to search closer to Yen Bai.
Manny had his four birds flying in a trail formation, throttled back to four hundred knots, each half a mile behind the next so the individual pilots could make their own observations. He bunted over a rise, then settled at five hundred feet above the terrain and pulled the monocular back into place.
He looked through it with one eye, keeping the other squinted but open for safety's sake. Manny didn't want to smack into a mountain while looking for a two-bit truck.
He saw a glint, decided it was from a mountain stream, and continued. They were getting close to Yen Bai. Ten miles at the most. Since he didn't want to wage an air battle with the antiaircraft guns at Yen Bai over a few stupid trucks, he decided to give it thirty more seconds before reversing course.
Manny started a slight pull-up over a knoll and saw another glint, this one brighter and near the apex, where the trees were more sparse. A windshield?
"Brandy lead's making a two-seventy-degree turn to port," he announced. The turn slowed him even more. He stared toward the knoll as he drew closer, then noticed brown bees zipping past the canopy.
"Brandy lead's taking small-arms fire," he said, and jinked away to his right as he pushed up the throttle.
"Lead, this is Brandy three. You got the trucks?"
"Maybe," Manny responded. He looked again, through the monocular. Something was there. He could see angular shapes that were obviously not natural.
"Yeah," he finally announced. "I think I've got our convoy. " He'd seen two of them, stopped on the roadway near the hilltop. Just beyond, to the south of the trucks, was dense jungle.
More brown bees zipped past as he approached. It was coming from a position immediately west of the trucks he'd sighted.
Manny checked his fuel. Enough for a couple of passes, no more. He turned outbound again, to set up to release the bluies. The other three Brandys were circling off to his left.
"Brandy lead, this is Scotch leader," Lucky radioed. "We're bingo fuel. You're going to have to destroy 'em by yourselves."
"Roger."
Manny double-checked his weapons-release switches. "Brandys," he called, "Lead's got two of the trucks in sight near a small hilltop, and I believe the others are in the trees just to the west of 'em. Stay in trail and follow me in for a nape drop. Then we'll go around for a low-angle strafe pass."
Assistant Commissioner Nguyen Wu
Nguyen Wu sat in the truck's cab, subtly coaching the sublieutenant on how he should tell the world of Wu's heroics at Ban Sao Si. The sublieutenant was a willing subject, sufficiently intelligent to realize that his future rested in Wu's hands.
They'd been pressing hard toward Yen Bai and had stopped at the hilltop for a short rest to let the overheated truck engines cool.
Nguyen had heard the first Thunder plane pass overhead and make a lazy turn toward the north, but he was not worried, for they'd heard the sounds of other aircraft in the past two days and none had discovered them. The trees here were sparse, but they were enough to hide them, he decided. Then he heard the ear-shattering sound of gunfire from one of the automatic weapons.
"The fools are going to attract the aircraft," he told the sublieutenant as he peered through the dust-caked window. He heard the senior sergeant outside, screaming that they'd been seen, and for his soldiers to man the other truck-mounted machine guns. They began to fire even more wildly, entirely without a disciplined plan.
"Stop shooting!" Wu screeched, for he saw three more Thunder planes in the distance.
Soldiers worked frantically to set up the small towed antiaircraft gun.
"Don't shoot!" he implored.
The first Thunder plane had now turned inbound, directly at them. Nguyen Wu immediately scrambled out of the cab and began to flee toward the jungle.
The sublieutenant called after him
in a loud, frightened voice, but Wu didn't pause. Heart pounding wildly, he looked around at the oncoming Thunder plane, then back forward—and ran smack into a tree. He squealed with the pain from his nose and scrambled on into the brush.
WHHOOOOOOM!
The fighter roared overhead, and he fell, flattening himself as close to the ground as possible, expecting the awful concussive blast that came from bombs. Instead there was a bright flash and wave of searing heat. What? He heard terrified screams and began to whimper, although he'd not been hurt.
WHHOOOOOOM! Another aircraft passed over, and a second later there was another flash and heat-wave, that one farther away and not as intense.
He looked back and saw the sublieutenant staring at the sky, then turning to search the edge of the jungle. "Brave Hero!" he called plaintively.
Nguyen Wu started to yell for him to hurry, but was mesmerized with horror. Another Thunder plane approached—two shapes tumbled free—an immense ball of orange fire engulfed the forward-most truck. Tendrils of liquid fire spewed onto a tree . . . and onto the sublieutenant. He screamed and leapt about, trying to put out flames that engulfed his upper body. He stumbled drunkenly toward the truck, blinded, still screaming.
The fourth Thunder plane also dropped, but by then Wu held his head flat against the ground. He was shivering violently and trying to dig into the earth with clawed hands.
Sounds of the jet engines receded, and he slowly relaxed. The shrieks were now coming from many sources as other humans burned. He raised up to survey the aftermath.
Several fires roared. Bright figures staggered about, igniting everything they contacted. Two trucks were burning fiercely, thankfully not theirs, for in his haste Wu had left the precious courier pouch on the vehicle's seat.
The pouch! He must have it! He slowly stood and walked ever so cautiously back toward the truck. He gingerly avoided the sublieutenant where he lay burning from head to fiery toe, body fat crackling, arms clawing beseechingly upward from the flames.
"They are returning," a soldier shrieked, and began firing his rifle.
Wu immediately spun about and ran toward the protective jungle.
