by Tom Wilson
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Wednesday, March 27th, 1829 Local—Tactical Fighter Weapons Center, Nellis AFB, Nevada
Major Benny Lewis
Benny finished his briefing for Major General Gordon S. White.
They'd done all they could to assist in the preparations for LINE BACKER JACKPOT. Helped with the planning for deployments. Coordinated with Strategic Air Command about how F-4 and F-105 flights would escort B-52's when they bombed targets near Hanoi. Sent their best air-to-air and air-to-ground instructor pilots to the fighter units that would deploy, to give insights into anticipated enemy defensive reactions and brush them up on their tactics. Accelerated operational test and evaluation on new weapons and aircraft avionics. Ensured the logistical train was prepared to accept the surge of weapons and supplies required by five additional combat wings of aircraft.
"Can you think of any loose ends?" the general asked.
"Nothing, sir. We've done our part. Now all we can do is sit back and watch. It's up to the unit pilots."
"What's your impression there?"
Benny shook his head. "We're still not training them properly, sir. When the units are in place and fly their first missions, we'll take unnecessary losses, like we do with all new pilots who deploy to Southeast Asia. They're trained to fight another World War II, but when they get to combat, it's an entirely new show and they're not prepared."
"You keep telling me that, but we don't have time to train as realistically as you'd like to. Maybe we'll be ready for the next war, Benny."
They talked as if the ongoing conflict were about to end, because they sincerely believed that to be true. LINE BACKER JACKPOT would be bloody for both sides, but it would force the North Viet Army out of South Vietnam, and that would be the beginning of the end for communism there. Left to their own devices, the Viet Cong would fold in short order. The ARVN had proved they could fight effectively during the Tet offensive.
The general stood and stretched, shuddered, and blew a weary breath. Gordie White had worked hard to bring things to the present state. "Let's get out of here," he said.
Benny looked at his watch. "Damn! Julie's supposed to pick me up in fifteen minutes. I've gotta get over to my room so I can change."
"Going somewhere?"
"I'm taking her to dinner at the Ranch House. She likes their piano bar."
"Tell Julie hello for me." General White and his wife were partial to both Benny and Julie and were prone to act as matchmakers. "You could do a lot worse than that lady, you know."
That was precisely Benny's view of things.
Benny was ten minutes late getting out to the parking lot, where she waited in her new Ford Mustang. He leaned in the window and gave her a light kiss.
"You want to drive?" Julie asked.
"No," Benny said. He went around and crawled into the passenger's seat. "I'll criticize."
She put the car into gear and eased out of the parking lot and onto the main street of the base. He watched her closely.
"Quit looking at my nose," she grumbled. "That's my bad side. That's why I wanted you to drive." She was in a mood.
"You don't have a bad side," he tried.
"You're blind. My nose looks lumpy from the right side." She glanced in the mirror as if to confirm her statement, then slowed as they went through the gate, dog-legged down Las Vegas Boulevard for a block, and accelerated onto Craig Road.
"How was work?" he asked casually, wondering how he should approach what he really wanted to say and hoping her mood would get better.
"Same as always," she said. "Stews complaining they're getting too much or not enough flying time or because they're put on crummy routes. No one's happy with my scheduling, which means I'm probably doing a fair job."
"You miss flying?" Before the baby, Julie had been a stewardess.
"I'll let someone else handle the sick kids and the drunks wanting a quick feel."
"I visited the flight surgeon today."
"Oh?"
"They've finally agreed to evaluate my back. I go in next week for a physical. If I pass, they'll forward a request to get me back onto flying status."
"That's great, Benny." She knew how much he missed flying. "We'll celebrate."
Now she was improving. He thought of a way to approach his subject. "General White said to tell you hi."
"He's nice."
"He . . . ah . . . also said I could do a lot worse than . . . ah . . ."
Julie waited.
Benny took a deep breath. "Let's get married," he said. "Go downtown and . . . you know."
"No!" Julie's response was quick and emphatic.
The ensuing silence was awkward. He'd not expected immediate rejection. They spent most of their nights at her apartment, and she'd repeatedly told him how happy she was.
He approached the subject again. "I . . . ah . . . want to spend my life with you, Julie."
She pulled onto the Tonopah Highway, heading north toward the Ranch House turnoff. Still no response.
He was getting desperate. "I'd be good to you, Julie. And the baby."
"I know."
Benny deflated. "But you don't want to get married?"
The silence in the vehicle was complete. He looked glumly out the window.
She turned onto the dirt road leading to the restaurant, bumped along for a bit, then pulled into the crowded lot and parked.
He started to get out so he could go around to open her door.
"Wait," she said. She leaned toward him and gave him a slow kiss with her full, soft lips.
They kissed again.
"I will not go downtown to one of those fake wedding chapels to be married. I refuse to."
He began to understand.
"Now," she said, "would you please ask me to marry you in a proper church, any church in the world with a real pastor? If you do, I'll laugh and I'll cry, and I'll tell you I love you more than anything I've ever imagined. I'll tell you you're the most wonderful man in the world, which you are, and I'll promise to make you the best damn wife any man has ever had."
He laughed.
She glared. "Ask me, damn you Benny Lewis."
He did.
Thursday, March 28th, 0707 Local—HQ Seventh Air Force, Tan Son Nhut AB, Saigon, South Vietnam
Lieutenant General Richard J. Moss
Moss went over his notes from the previous night very carefully, examining them one at a time and pondering each at length. Twice in the early hours he'd received phone calls over the scrambler unit in his quarters from General McManus, and he'd scribbled down an unnerving mix of notes containing good news—bad news—good news.
CINCSAC, CINCTAC, CINCPACAF, and MAC were ready. Everything was in position and poised. Appropriate key personnel, including all affected unit commanders, had been briefed.
The air staff were prepared, both physically and mentally, to commit the most powerful air armada in the history of aviation to battle. Hundreds of C-141's and civil airliners would join surface ships in moving thousands of airmen and their equipment into position at forward bases. Thirty days later KC-135 tankers, EB-66 jamming aircraft, and C-121 command-and-control aircraft, would launch to provide their critical support. B-52's, F-4's, F-105's, even the new F-111's, would bomb relentlessly to destroy the infrastructure of a nation that refused to discuss peace or accept reason.
The military was ready.
But the CSAF hadn't been able to get in to see Johnson as scheduled. The President had sent word that he was busy.
Was that a bad omen? McManus couldn't say.
SecDef and SecState had been briefed in detail about LINE BACKER JACKPOT, then told simply that it was a viable option. Neither had betrayed their inner feelings to the briefing officers, but both men had recently been increasingly reluctant about even the slightest degree of escalation.
The President had asked the U.S. ambassador to Moscow about the potential Soviet reaction to a stepped-up bombing campaign, and he'd urged against it, saying
that Moscow would "react vigorously"—but of course he hadn't said how they'd do that.
Next Johnson had convened a panel of "wise men," including former top Army generals and statesmen, and offered the LINE BACKER JACKPOT OPlan as one solution, and the Westmoreland request for additional combat troops as another. Unfortunately, there'd been no Air Force generals or air-power advocates on the panel. Their response had not mentioned the air campaign. They'd urged the President to send no more combat troops and seek a negotiated peace.
The other tidbit of bad news had been uttered by McManus with none of the acrimony that Moss felt. The CSAF had been provided with an information copy of a message forwarded directly from CINCPACAF to the new Secretary of Defense. General Joseph Roman had worded it cautiously, saying that he was "not opposed" to the LINE BACKER JACKPOT air campaign. But he also stated that if the OPlan was not implemented, he agreed with the "immediate cessation" of bombing north of the 20th parallel in North Vietnam.
When Moss had bristled, McManus had quietly told him that the Secretary of Defense had obviously asked Roman the question and requested a response. It likely had to do with selecting a candidate to replace him as Chief of Staff of the Air Force.
That was all the news that had been given during the two A.M. telephone call, and Moss had not returned to bed with a good feeling. At four A.M. his aide knocked again at his bedroom door and told him General McManus was on the classified line again.
The CSAF had spoken with the White House contact who had engineered his meetings with Johnson, and had been presented with an entirely different story.
The President was determined to get the war behind him. Yet another poll had confirmed that the American people wanted the war over and done with, but they wanted to do it by winning. Johnson was damned angry at the milquetoast recommendations of the wise men.
Best of all, the President had reconfirmed that he wanted to reserve prime time on all three major television networks on 31 March, when he'd make an important announcement. He was very secretive about his speech and wasn't allowing anyone, including his closest friends and advisors, access to the words. He was sick and tired of leaks to the press.
Moss and McManus chatted a bit about the fact that as soon as the President made the announcement, everyone on the fence like General Joe Roman would very quickly shut up and get aboard the train. The CSAF said he felt that by sending the message that ran counter to the President's desires, Roman had lost his chance to take over his position.
The evening of the 31st in the States would be the morning of April first in Saigon.
Sunday, March 31st, 1950 Local—O' Club Stag Bar, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Captain Manny DeVera
The bar was overflowing with pilots, for it had been an easy day, with interdiction missions concentrating in the Mu Gia Pass—looking for convoys hidden under the jungle canopy. The frag for the following day was more of the same. They'd flown few missions to pack six recently, which was okay by most of the pilots, who didn't relish having mach-3 SAMs fired at them.
Lucky Anderson, seated at Manny's side, was uncharacteristically grim, as he'd been during the period after Linda Lopes had been ambushed. There had been absolutely no word for a long time, and he'd long since stopped making queries. Whenever the bad times like this returned, his friends gathered and tried to be upbeat, and it usually worked.
He said he'd received a confusing letter that morning from a lady he didn't know, and he had to make a phone call, but he didn't seem to be in a hurry about it.
Manny tried conversation. "Who's gonna replace Colonel Trimble?" The Deputy for Operations was leaving next week.
"A colonel named Hoblit. Tall, good-looking guy, sorta the John Wayne type. He's known as a mean bastard if you cross him, but he's a good pilot and takes care of his men."
"How about the 354th? Who's gonna take Donovan's place as squadron commander?" he asked.
"New guy named Sparks," Lucky said. "It's his second tour. A smooth, quiet-spoken guy who never raises his voice. Good reputation and lots of Thud time."
Lucky was getting tipsy. He was also opening up.
"You gonna listen to the President's speech in the morning?" Manny asked. They couldn't talk about Jackpot, not even this close to kickoff, but he was in an upbeat mood about it.
Lucky was looking toward the door. "I'm surprised at you, Manny. I thought you'd be going after that young lady with a vengeance."
DeVera turned. It was the Deputy for Operations' pretty, young, and large-breasted blonde secretary, the one he'd taken to dinner to make Penny jealous.
He shook his head. "Took her out once. She's a nice kid, but she wasn't happy when I went back with Penny. Anyway, I promised myself I'd stay away from round-eye females. I've learned my lesson. You see me even talking to a round-eye, kick me hard, Colonel."
"I'd still say she's the best-looking girl on base."
The secretary was stuffed into a party flight suit like the one Penny had worn, and it stretched in all the right places to show off her attributes. As Manny stared, a second female came in to join her and looked shyly about. She was slender and dark-haired, with a nervous but nice smile. She remained close to her friend, ignoring the men in the room.
"Who's that?" Manny asked.
"The new donut dolly. Just got here last week."
Manny had trouble dragging his eyes away. There was something about her that intrigued him. He wasn't alone in the feeling. Half of the men in the room were eyeing the two women.
"I've gotta make that phone call," Lucky said. He drained his glass and left.
Jimmy the bartender had finagled himself into a dice game, so Manny waved to get the assistant bartender's attention.
Smitty edged up beside him, grinning. "Want to go downtown tonight?"
"I thought you left this morning for the States," Manny said.
"I had it put off for a couple more days."
"So you could be with the Thai base commander's daughter?"
Penny Dwight came into the room, escorted by her redheaded major friend. She paused and spoke to the two other women, then followed her date toward the rear of the room. It was a different turn of events, because the nonrated major seldom ventured into the stag bar, which was regarded as a flyers' domain, and Penny fastidiously ignored fighter jocks. She ordered the supply officer major around as if she were boss in the relationship, and Manny did not doubt she was. He remembered how she'd once taken over a large part of his own life. The memory was bitter-sweet.
"Nope," Smitty was saying. "I'm broke and she won't go out with me." He nudged Manny. "You sure you don't want to go downtown? The girls at the Villa liked you the other night."
Manny snorted. As soon as they'd entered the Takhli Villa, several girls had immediately escorted baby-faced Smitty to a room in back, and he'd not been seen again until morning. The next day Smitty had told him the ladies had thrown a private going-away party for him back there, but he wouldn't give details. He'd had bloodshot eyes and walked very gingerly and a bit bowlegged.
"You go ahead," Manny muttered, looking again at the shy and dark-haired newcomer who was changing his image of Red Cross reps. She wasn't as well stacked or vivacious as her secretary friend; she looked to be more the steady kind.
As her eyes swept the room, they paused for a moment on Manny. Nice eyes.
Jesus! He felt as if he were blushing. He smiled and the girl averted her gaze.
"You sure?" Smitty was asking, sounding forlorn.
Manny sighed and pulled out his wallet, then handed him a ten.
Smitty grinned. "I'll give it back tomorrow when I get paid."
"Yeah, and remember the twenty I gave you the other night."
A couple of fighter pilots were looking at the two girls and edging closer.
Manny DeVera immediately picked up his drink and pushed his way past the two would-be suitors. The secretary gave him a frown, but Manny's attention was zeroed on her friend. "Hi," he said to the Red
Cross representative. "They call me the Supersonic Wetback."
2045L—Command Post
Lieutenant Colonel Lucky Anderson
That morning he'd received an odd two-liner letter from a woman he couldn't remember meeting, requesting a telephone call. She said it was important. Lucky had been perplexed, but decided he might as well phone her. It wouldn't hurt to find out what it was about.
It had been a good day, but for some reason he'd not been able to shake a rotten mood. That hadn't been the case with Buster Leska and Manny DeVera when they'd met in the wing commander's office. Pearly Gates had called Buster on the secure telephone and repeated that tomorrow morning the President would make his announcement to the American public. Get ready, he'd said, for hot and heavy activity. The war was about to take a definite turn for the better.
"Help you, Colonel Anderson?" asked a command-post sergeant as he entered.
"I've gotta make a call. Autovon to Clark."
The sergeant waved him toward a seat at the rear of the command center. "Lines to the States are all jammed up, but you should be able to get through to the Philippines."
Except for another sergeant posting numbers on the plexiglass boards and an airman manning a phone, the room was empty. Lucky stared at the maintenance board and noted the status of his squadron aircraft before picking up the hot line phone and telling the autovon operator he wanted to call Clark.
After the third try the Clark operator came on the line. Lucky read her the number shown in the letter.
"Third floor," answered a sullen male voice.
"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Anderson, and I'd like to speak to a Major . . . Mikalski."
"She's with a patient. It'll be a minute."
"I'll hold." A patient? Again he wondered what it was about.
"This is Major Mikalski." The woman's voice was businesslike.
"I'm Paul Anderson. I got your letter this morning, and—"
"Just a moment, Colonel." He heard her go off-line and give terse instructions about someone getting his ass in gear and responding to room 302. Couldn't he see the damn call-light?
"Sorry about that, Colonel Anderson."
