by Tom Wilson
"Anyway, I got your letter this morning."
"Have you been notified about the status of your fiancée?"
Lucky's heart thumped hard in his chest. "No," he blurted.
"Well, those bastards!" She cursed a bit, then paused. "I think I've got something you'll want to hear."
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Monday, April 1st, 0800 Local—VIP Quarters, Tan Son Nhut AB, Saigon, South Vietnam
Lieutenant General Richard J. Moss
Except for the morning when he'd been so down with the stomach flu that he hadn't been able to take more than a dozen steps without rushing to the bathroom, Richard Moss had never arrived a single minute late at his office. Not once. Some thought it a peculiarity. He felt it was setting a proper example. Fighter pilots were not late for flight briefings. Fighter-pilot generals were not late to man their desks. This morning was an exception—it would be a day of note.
He sat at the large kitchen dinette table with his full-colonel chief of staff and Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates, all sipping coffee from mugs kept refreshed by Moss's captain aide and all listening intently to the Armed Forces Radio and Television Service network station. Radio Saigon.
During the previous fifteen minutes Lieutenant Colonel Gates had filled in the captain and the colonel on what the President was about to announce. Those three were appropriately exuberant. Moss's own spirits were moderated only slightly by the natural cynicism that comes with age and experience.
The Good Morning, Vietnam show, which Moss disliked thoroughly because of the awful music, was interrupted for a "live report from the White House."
Pearly Gates slowly pulled off his ridiculous Coke-bottle-bottom glasses and began to fastidiously wipe them.
The radio grew quiet. There was a rustling of paper.
Moss asked the aide if he'd get him a glass of tomato juice. A wedge of lemon, please.
"The President of the United States of America."
Pearly Gates stopped the polishing motion. The colonel's chair scraped as he moved closer to the radio. The aide hurried so he could finish his task before the President got to the meat of his speech.
"My fellow Americans," Johnson began in his distinctive down-home drawl. His tone was grave.
For the next twenty minutes there was absolutely no sound in the room as the Texas politician ordered a "unilateral" halt to both air and naval bombardments of North Vietnam except in those areas north of the DMZ where the continued enemy build-up . . .
He called for similar restraint by the North Vietnamese, and for them to sit down and negotiate in good faith.
He would send 13,500 more troops to Vietnam and would request expenditures to . . .
He would neither seek nor accept the nomination of his party for another term as President, but would concentrate his energies upon seeking a negotiated end to the war.
Richard Moss switched off the radio.
The colonel cleared his throat to speak, but Moss waved a hand to quiet him. Without speaking, for he did not trust his words, he stood and stalked silently out to his car and the driver waiting there.
"Another beautiful day, sir," the sergeant said cheerfully, holding the door open.
Moss did not answer. He crawled inside and sat stiffly as the door was closed.
They rode toward the headquarters building in silence.
The driver commented that it was April Fools' Day.
It was indeed the Day of Fools.
1000L—Ministry of External Affairs, Hanoi, DRV
Deputy Minister Li Binh
There were happy shouts, laughter, and sounds of joyful celebration throughout Hanoi as the word of the American President's statement was read by gleeful announcers over Radio Hanoi. Sirens wailed and klaxons and automobile horns brayed, and many thought it was a Mee air attack until they were told differently.
When Li Binh had gathered her office staff to tell them the news, they'd been jubilant. The Minister of External Affairs might receive a degree of credit, but it was known among those who counted that, more than any single individual, it had been Li Binh's doing that had forced the announcement from the hated President Riddin Jah-soh.
She'd repeatedly told the party leaders that the work of her agents in America and Europe was eating away at public confidence. The continued and increasingly strident demonstrations her office nurtured and encouraged had produced the desired effect upon Washington politicians. Her office's efforts had turned the bleak and awful defeats of the Tet offensive into a perceived victory. And that had been just as effective as the success on the battlefield that had been denied the People's Army. The final, deciding factor, had been subtle promises her offices relayed to the American President that if he stopped the bombing, the Democratic Republic would immediately and without precondition enter negotiations to withdraw all foreign military forces from the South.
Now all they had to do was act as if they would negotiate. Go through the motions and demand every advantage. America had blinked and been branded a coward. They'd blink again.
Hanoi was safe! The bombing respite would embolden the most cautious Lao Dong leaders to pursue the war vigorously.
It was a wonderful day. Nothing could possibly mar it.
She took a telephone call from the office of Le Duan, Secretary-General of the party. Her presence was requested at an afternoon planning meeting. She hung up slowly, feeling numbed. Le Duan wanted her there—had requested her presence at a meeting that was likely to decide the future of the nation.
Upon a whim she telephoned her husband's office and asked to speak with the general. Since his promotion he'd gained stature in her eyes. Xuan Nha came on the line. The first words that came from his mouth were of praise, for he knew she was the one most responsible.
Li Binh preened as she told him about the planning meeting, and how she'd speak for External Affairs. Xuan told her he was very proud. He said that he'd also be busy with meetings, determining new dispositions of the defenses presently massed around the capital city.
Then he made a statement that shook her, and she had him repeat his words.
Her nephew's body had been found in the mountains west of Yen Bai. Nguyen Wu had escaped Ban Sao Si only to be killed by an American air attack on his convoy.
She was stunned and unable to speak. A trill of rage swept through her, and she silently vowed to make the despised Americans pay in every way possible.
Xuan Nha spoke of his sadness at the death of her nephew.
After the telephone call, Li Binh remained despondent for more than an hour, until she received a written note from Le Duan's office.
They were sending her to Paris, to supervise their delegation there and orchestrate negotiations with the Americans until Le Duc Tho's arrival. The afternoon meeting was set up to discuss the matter and gain her insights.
Ways to negotiate, yet work toward the defeat and subjugation of South Vietnam.
Li Binh felt she would be very good at such things.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, April 3rd, 0705 Local—HQ Seventh Air Force, Tan Son Nhut AB, Saigon, South Vietnam
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
He'd been surprised that there'd been another JACKPOT message. But Flo had called from the general's office and summoned, asking him to pick up a special comm on his way, which was the way she acted when the back-channel communications arrived during the night. Pearly took the message into Moss's office and waited until the admin chief of staff finished his summary of the night's events. Nothing of any real note had occurred.
When the colonel had departed, Moss motioned at Pearly and reached for the message.
He read quietly, face impassive until he was almost finished. A tiny curl grew at his lips. Pearly couldn't tell if it was a sign of sarcasm or satisfaction.
Finally he pushed the message across to Pearly, then spoke to Flo on intercom, asking her to connect him with the chief of personnel.
"General Abrams's meet
ing at ten o'clock," she reminded him.
Pearly read the final message slowly.
SECRET—IMMEDIATE—JACKPOT 7 AF CC EYES ONLY—NO FURTHER DISSEM DTG: 02/1800ZAPR68
FM: CSAF/CC, HQ USAF, PENTAGON
TO: HQ 7 AF/CC, TAN SON NHUT AB, SVN
SUBJECT: STATUS REPORT
1. (C) MY OFFICE HAS TAKEN APPROPRIATE ACTIONS TO TERMINATE IMPLEMENTATION OF AF OPLAN 68-1011, SHORT TITLE: LINE BACKER JACKPOT.
2. (C) I HAVE SUBMITTED MY RESIGNATION AS CSAF EFFECTIVE 05APR68 DUE TO HEALTH REASONS. SEC DEF HAS NOMINATED GEN JOSEPH R. ROMAN AS MY REPLACEMENT. THE CHANGE WILL BE ANNOUNCED TOMORROW.
3. CC) IN A CONGRATULATORY PHONE CALL TO JOE ROMAN, I SUGGESTED THAT YOU BE NAMED AS CMDR OF TACTICAL AIR COMMAND, AND HE AGREED. HE WILL MAKE THAT APPOINTMENT, AND OTHERS, THE DAY AFTER ASSUMING HIS NEW POSITION.
4. (U) GOOD LUCK, AND THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPERB SUPPORT. SUGGEST YOU DESTROY COPIES OF PREVIOUS MESSAGES. SECRET—IMMEDIATE—JACKPOT
It was the job General Moss had wanted most, the best position a fighter-pilot general could hope for, and he'd get his fourth star to boot.
"Congratulations, sir," Pearly Gates said, but his words were lost because Moss began to speak on the phone with his chief of personnel.
Pearly heard his own name mentioned by Moss, along with other members of the small inner group the general called his mafia. General Moss was preparing for his move to Langley Air Force Base, Virginia, pulling his best men with him to the new assignment.
"Lieutenant Dortmeier," Pearly whispered during a pause, and Moss made an oh yeah raise of his eyebrows and added her name to the list.
1055L—Clark Regional Hospital, Philippines
GS-15 Linda Lopes
"Why do you keep asking the same questions over and over?" she pleaded.
Smith was his nasty self. "Because there's such inconsistency between what you've told us and the response we're getting from the enemy, Lopes. So far there's nothing at all to support your statement that they know anything about the networks."
"Do you think I would lie about it?" she cried. "Do you think I'd say I told them secrets if I hadn't? I hate myself for telling them. Why should I lie?"
Jones spoke up. "Would you be willing to take a polygraph test?"
Linda bit her lip to hold back another surge of fear. Nurse Marty had told her she was in charge of herself. Each time Smith and Jones visited, they made it clear who was really in charge.
"You see," said Smith, "there are some who believe you could be telling us . . . ah . . . misinformation which might cause us to unnecessarily dismantle important networks."
She looked at him with disbelief. Her fear intensified.
"A polygraph test would show these . . . individuals . . . that you're telling the truth, and that the—"
She interrupted. "Why in the world would I want to lie about something like that?"
Smith raised an eyebrow. "Well—we know that you were under their control for some three months, Miss Lopes. A lot of things could happen during that time."
"A lot of things," echoed Jones.
Male voices could be heard from the hallway beyond the closed doors. Smith frowned and looked there, then turned back to Linda.
"So, you see, it's imperative that you take the polygraph," Jones said. "We'd have the device brought to the room so it wouldn't be an inconvenience."
Linda studied her hands. Her fingernails were growing back. The metal brace had been removed, so she could move her arms now, but her range of motion was not meeting the doctors' expectations.
"Are you listening, Miss Lopes?" It was Smith's voice.
Linda didn't want to meet his eyes. Nurse Marty called them the comedy twins and told Linda to think of that name whenever they bothered her, but it didn't help. She'd also said to ring the nurse-station buzzer whenever she felt at all threatened. She'd always been too frightened to do that.
"If you refuse to take the test," Jones began, "we'll have to assume—"
Someone rapped insistently on the door. The agents stared with matching, irritated expressions. The knocking came again, louder.
"We're busy," Smith growled.
Male voices out there again. The rapping stopped. While the two were looking away, Linda edged timidly toward the buzzer, grasped it, and held it in her hand.
Jones looked back. "What the hell are you doing with that?" he asked in a loud, irritated tone, reaching for it. She pushed it away as if it burned her hand, then couldn't help uttering a terrified sob.
Smith glared. Jones shook his head. She'd angered them. "I'm sorry," she cried out, cringing.
"For Christ's sake, we're just—"
The door pushed open and a face peered inside.
Smith turned back. "What the hell do you—Jesus!"
Linda looked, but was so upset that it took a moment for her to digest what she saw. Then her heart lurched.
Smith and Jones both stared at Lucky Anderson's ruined face with horrified expressions.
Paul stepped inside, fixed the men with pale blue eyes, then looked at her.
"Who the fuck are you?" whispered Smith.
"Are you okay, Linda?" Paul asked.
She made an involuntary whimpering sound.
Lucky took two steps inside and grasped both men by their arms. They gave sharp yelps.
"Oh, God! Paul!" she cried.
"Did either one of you touch her?" His deep voice was angry.
"No!" both men wailed.
Paul gave a curt motion with his head. "Out."
They fled.
Paul Anderson came close and reached down to touch her face with a strong, gentle hand. Through the door Linda heard Smith's quavering voice ordering the security policemen into the room.
A staff sergeant peeked around the door at her with a quizzical look. "You okay, ma'am?"
Linda couldn't speak, but she nodded vigorously.
"Get him out of there!" Smith demanded.
The staff sergeant obviously didn't like the agent. "The colonel says he's her fiancé, and I believe the lady wants him in there. I'm not so sure about you, though."
"He is not authorized to go into that room."
"Maybe we'd best call the provost marshal about this."
"Sergeant, could you close the door?" Lucky said.
"You can't do that!" screeched Smith.
The door closed.
"I'm sorry," Linda said in a low voice.
He just shook his head very slowly from side to side. "God, I've missed you."
Linda Lopes reached up and clutched the hand stroking her face, and smiled for the first time in five months. She was safe.
1400L—Base Operations, Nakhon Phanom RTAB, Thailand
Major John Dillingham
The gooney bird hovered over the end of the runway, then landed gracelessly.
The three men before him wore new civilian clothing: outsized brightly colored shirts, shorts, tennis shoes, and baseball caps. Dillingham had made the purchases and told them that was how they'd dress when they arrived at their new home. The senior sergeant even had a Japanese camera hung around his neck. They peered at him soberly and listened hard.
"You guys just stay put after you land at Don Muang. Someone from the embassy's supposed to meet you, but if they're late, don't go rushing off anywhere and get lost."
Two of the Hotdogs looked puzzled at the English words, so he repeated his instructions in Viet.
"Hokay, Sarge," said Nguyen, as the lieutenant used to do. Nguyen was the youngest of the group. He also understood English best.
Dillingham had instructed them thoroughly and repeatedly on what to expect, from their arrival in Bangkok right down to how to recognize his sister, who would meet them when they landed in Honolulu. He'd given them a picture of her lest they forget. Still he was nervous and fidgety, as if he were seeing kids off to camp for the first time.
The request for special consideration for immigrant status had been speedily approved. Richard
the Spook had done that for them, and he'd apologized that he wouldn't be there to meet the Hotdogs when they arrived in Bangkok. He'd received a call from a nurse in the Philippines that a couple of guys were giving Clipper a hard time, and he was leaving for Clark tout suite. When he was done with them, he'd said in an angry voice, the too-young and too-eager CIA agents would be grateful that they were being posted to a consulate in the Cameroons. Dillingham said he didn't know where that was. Richard just chuckled.
He'd told Dillingham all that before he'd left Bangkok, when he'd also given his final instructions about the Hotdogs. They'd spoken so often on the classified line recently, they were getting to be regular telephone pals. Richard said he'd have an embassy representative pick up the renegades and process their paperwork. As soon as he returned tomorrow, he'd make sure everything was on track and get things started for their flight to Hawaii.
A good man, was Richard the Spook.
Dillingham realized the senior sergeant was speaking to him.
"What?" he asked, leaning forward. The gooney bird was creating its normal racket as it taxied toward base operations.
"We are very happy to be going to Ha Wa Eee. We thank you, Majah Dir-rin-hum."
"I rike Sarge Brack bettuh," said Nguyen, wearing an impish look.
"You all earned it."
"We will be good Americans," said the senior sergeant gravely.
"You've already shown that. There's nothing left to prove."
The left engine on the goon clattered to a halt. They shut down only the one engine on the round-robin flight, and kept the other propeller turning. As soon as the passengers were loaded, they'd depart.
John drew a deep breath. "I guess you'd better be going." One by one he shook their hands and looked each man in the eye. The Hotdogs turned together and started hesitantly toward the gooney bird.
Nguyen turned and waved. "See ya, Sarge Brack."
Major John Dillingham stood at attention and rendered them the sharpest salute he could muster. He watched as the hatch was closed behind them, then as the left engine coughed and caught. The goon revved once and taxied back toward the runway. He stared for another moment, then turned and strode toward the jeep he'd left at the side of the building.
