by Stan Hayes
Shutting the driver’s door behind him, Barker turned to look at her, the smile still there. “Well. You’ve become a seasoned piloto de guerillas, but nobody’d notice just to look at you. My congratulations, Chiquita.”
“Aw, shucks, seen-yawer. Twern’t nuthin’.”
“BS. I know what you and Pete have been doing. I worry about you all the time. Him too, but in a different way.”
“You’re sweet to say that, Bernie. We had some good times in Havana, didn’t we?”
“Yes, we did, even if Johnny Boots pulled the rug out from under us. I blame that celluloid mobster George Raft for that.”
“You think he wanted to make a play for me?”
Barker’s eyebrows went up as the corners of his mouth went down. “Sure I do.”
“Doesn’t make sense. As the casino’s front man, he probably knew that Johnny wanted me out of there because he thought I was having too much fun, what with Pete’s and my having casino employee visas on his say-so. But from his point of view, why have me declared persona non grata by the Capri? As long as I was there, he could make his play anytime you weren’t around, and back it up with a wide choice of bedrooms. Frankly, I thought it might have been your bright idea.”
Barker’s eyebrows yo-yo’d again. “My idea? My idea? His voice slid up an octave. Why would I do that? Just as you said, we were having fun. Lots of fun.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, now for a few seconds the burlesque-kitten. “I thought maybe you’d gotten tired of me.”
“Goddamit! And after the chance I’m taking right now. Oooh, Chiquita...”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I just got caught up in a Havana moment. What’s up?”
Regaining his business face, Barker said, “You guys stay out of Cuban airspace next week. Do whatever you have to do to stay out. The balloon’s going up down there, and it’s gonna be a mess. They’re sending a bunch of my countrymen into a death trap, and a big fat Grumman amphibian would get shot down for sure. So do it. For yourself, for Pete and, goddamit, OK, for me. Please promise me you’ll do it; you can tell him why, I don’t care. Just stay the hell out of there.”
“Well, it won’t be easy, not if they want us to go. The way they’ve been paying us...”
“I don’t give a shit what they’re paying you! You won’t live to spend it!”
Linda took his face in her hands. “OK, OK! We’ll stay out. It may take an engine change to do it. Hey, why does it have to be a death trap? Isn’t the US backing these guys?”
“No, not really. The President wouldn’t OK the landing site, Trinidad, for the troops to hit the beach. It was perfect; firm sand, good beach gradient and almost in the foothills of the mountains. You know the Escambrays; Castro hid his own troops there before marching on Havana. And the people of Trinidad are still pretty much anti-Castro, so they’d support a rebel invasion force headed for the mountains. But this candy-ass Kennedy has said no to Trinidad. He told the planners to- if you can believe this- to ‘find a quieter beach.’
Can you believe it? So now they’re going in 80 miles to the west, at Playa de Giron, a rocky, swampy piece of shit that the locals call Bahía de Cochinos- the Bay of Pigs. And Castro knows they’re coming! Calle Ocho’s crawling with his fucking agents; meantime, we’re rounding up the would-be new government and keeping them sequestered until the shooting’s over, and there are probably Castro-ites in that bunch, too. So do us all a favor, Chiquita; stand down until we see how this mess shakes out.” Reaching over to pat her knee, he did a quick furtive scan of the parking lot. “I gotta go.”
Good thing, too, she thought; that Latino kiss and all the danger-talk has got me so hot I’ll straddle you right now if I don’t get out of this car. Turning to look him squarely in the face, she said, “This was dangerous for you, Bernie, and I appreciate it more than I can tell you. So will Pete. And don’t worry; we’ll all still be around after this business winds down.”
Smiling tightly at her, Barker moved the transmission lever into drive. “From your mouth to God’s ear, Chiquita. They might end up sending in the Marines, and after that it’s a pretty short step to trading ICBMs with the Russkies.”
Waving at the rearview mirror as Barker pulled away, Linda, cursing the heat, walked around to the passenger door and opened it, then opened the driver’s door, put the key in the ignition and turned it. When the engine fired, she made sure that the air-conditioner was on full-blast, returned to the passenger door, closed it, and got in the car, rejoicing that it came with a hard top. Things could get pretty interesting now, she thought.
The flight from Kadena to Bangkok was no louder or shakier than the series of C-124 hops that had gotten the still-hung-over, newly-minted Special Forces “B” team from Bragg to Okinawa. As DSSLs, Rick and Perry Dawson were assigned to the B-team to get operational experience, in order, someday, to transfer to an “A” team or Field Training Team (essentially half an A-team, or FTT). A Special Forces company, generally commanded by a Lieutenant Colonel, contains several A-teams, one B-team, and one C-team. The A-teams, each made up of two officers and ten Sergeants, execute operations; they’re the organization’s raison d’être.
The B-team runs the organization, handling billeting, communications, logistics, operational orders and personnel. The C-team exercises command-and-control over this rank-heavy organization of some 200 people. “A” team duty’s what they wanted, taking the US’s Laotian “clients” into battle against Laotian non-clients, the Communist Pathet Lao, Captain Kong Le’s Neutralists, or the even more challenging North Vietnamese Army regulars. Some combination of the three routinely made cross-border forays into the country. For now, however, Rick and Perry were confined to their destination, Luang Prabang, supporting the FTTs instead of leading them.
The C-54 taking them to Vientiane gave them a little smoother ride, but the difference didn’t help much. After covering jump pay for their 175-day temporary duty (TDY) assignment with a day of three jumps into an unbelievably-rough Okinawan DZ, a follow-up evening of celebration was mandatory, and noise and vibration of any kind whatever, even a day later, wasn’t welcomed. Most of the team flaked out, either on the floor or the folding canvas-and-metal seats that ran the length of both sides of the aircraft. West Pointer Dawson slid to the floor beside the supine Rick’s head. “Captain Taylor says it’s about a four-hour truck ride to LP.”
Remaining on his back, Rick cocked his ear a degree or two in Perry’s direction. “What?”
“Luang Prabang, buster. Cultural and religious capital of Bogeyland, and our immediate home-away-from-home. Land of opportunity and, with any luck at all, the land of nice, affordable pussy. Too bad they couldn’t find a Lao instructor to teach us the rudiments of bargaining for same.”
Rick, his interest piqued, eased over onto his left side. “You remember how to say it in Thai, don’t you? Lap naawn? Keep saying that while waving your money over your head; you can’t miss.”
Perry laughed. “The ‘what makes America great’ technique. I was going for something a little more subtle. Maybe the guys we’re relieving will give us some pointers in the hand-over briefing.” The mention of the briefing dimmed the voltage of his smile. “Not that we’re likely to have much of a chance to do anything for awhile but bust our asses at work. Captain Taylor’s already put me on notice; he said they didn’t load this team up with personnel the way they have if they didn’t expect us to get outstanding results.”
“Makes sense. Did the good Captain happen to say anything about what kind of results?”
Perry’s face clouded over momentarily. The clouds parted, revealing a look that was pure West Point, and quite familiar to Rick by now; he’d seen it on one occasion or another in every one of his other peers from the Military Academy. His private name for it was Hudson River Granite, acronym-ing it HRG, consistent with Army tradition. He’d tried the nickname “Chin” on Dawson a couple of months back, and it stuck. “No, he didn’t. I expect they’ll tell us i
f we’re giving them the results that they want. Or not.”
It was Rick’s turn to smile. “I expect you’re right. Maybe they’ll define our objectives for us during the hand-over. This is a pretty bright bunch, Chin, and their BS-meters are sensitive, particularly these senior NCOs’. We’ll need a lot of information about these-here Laotians that we haven’t heard yet.” Letting a few seconds go by, he said in mock surprise, “Well, pardner, that’s your job, ain’t it? Yours and Cap’n Taylor’s. Intelligence-R-Us.” He rolled onto his back again, clapping his bush hat over his face. “S’cuse me, but that’s all my booze-addled brain can handle right now. Sa wat dee.”
Dawson got to his feet, grunting, “Lap naawn, Peckerhead.”
Rick was sitting on the team house porch with his second beer, a none-to-frosty Singha, when Fred Compson, a Communications NCO, ground his jeep, which led the team’s 6x6 truck, to a stop at the foot of the steps. “Lieutenant!”
“What’s up, Sarge?”
“Captain Nicholson’s team’s bottled up at Nam Tha,” Compson said, breathing hard as he thrust the message forward. “We got orders to pull ’em out. Choppers inbound from Udorn. Major Cross wants everybody on the ramp, with weapons, NOW.”
On his feet before the NCO finished, Rick ran into the house, shouting as he went, “Everybody out! Exfil party, NOW!” Grabbing the door facing as a pivot, he leapt into the room that he shared with Perry Dawson, who was napping in his rack. “Get your ass up, Chin; we got business at Nam Tha. Jeep’s outside.” Grabbing his M3A1 “grease gun,” ammo bag and holstered .45 automatic, he stepped into the hall, shouting at the team house occupants, “Let’s go, goddammit! Choppers inbound! Briefing on the ramp.”
Major Cross would lead the operation and board Chopper One of the two Air America UH-34Ds with Lt. Terrell and Sergeants Harris, Hanna, Bowker and Vickers. Captain Davis would lead the second element, with Lt. Dawson and Sergeants Powers, Rogers, Montgomery and Humphrey, aboard Chopper Two. Chopper One would lead to the active area and raise the evacuees on VHF, dispersion orders on arrival. “Saddle up!” The major barked.
The run to Nam Tha would take a little over an hour; with only two and a half to three hours of daylight remaining, the situation was already tightening up. The main body of enemy troops had reportedly passed to the west of the team’s location, but there would likely be enough firepower remaining to provide the rescue team with a very hot reception if things didn’t go just right.
Laos looks a lot like home, Rick thought, watching the landscape stream by a couple of thousand feet below through the chopper’s gaping hatch. Roads little more than paths snaked through red clay banks, backing up into heavy forestation. It reminded him of the old sepia photographs that his grandfather, Smokey, had shown him of people and places in Georgia’s Habersham County, through which two or three generations of his ancestors had passed after leaving North Carolina. Leaning back against the chopper’s vibrating skin, Rick joined the rest of the team in looking to his weapons.
He’d taken the advice of Sergeant Vickers, the weapons NCO, and chosen an M3A1 “grease gun,” so called because it looked like one, for his automatic weapon. “Weapon’s no fuckin’ good without ammo,” he said, dead serious, a professional going about his trade. “You want something that you can load with available ammo, and we ain’t running out of .45 caliber ACP. I got a couple of Thompsons you want one, M-1’s, carbines, 12-gauge pump, even a cut-down M-14, but believe me, sir, this is better for what we’re gonna be doing. Now, you put that together with your 1911 Colt sidearm, and you ain’t got to worry about carryin’ but one thing; lotsa .45 ACP.” He’d put 500 rounds or so through it at the makeshift range behind the team house, and was surprised at how easy it was to hold on target. Toward the end, Rick could actually fire single rounds, even though the weapon was designed strictly for automatic fire. He had four 30-round magazines preloaded in his bag. “Pretty good for a few bucks’ worth of stampings,” Vickers had said.
They picked up the Nam Tha River 10 miles or so south of the city. The team’s original Mayday message gave a position west of the river and north of the city. Captain Davis went to the cockpit, slipped on a pair of headphones and listened intently. A few seconds later they banked left, following the lead chopper and holding altitude while all eyes in the lead chopper’s cockpit looked for signal smoke rising from the target area. A minute or two later, they began letting down. Captain Davis rejoined the team, waving them in with both hands as he knelt to get his head as near to everyone else’s as possible. “The FTT’s hunkered down within sight of the small clearing that the Major’s designated our LZ. Everyone’s OK. They have an FAR guy with them who says he’s a General, but he’s not wearing any rank insignia. As soon as we touch down, form a perimeter and stay there until we’ve got the FTT on board. Watch your asses, because there’s not much cover out there. Stay put until you see me move toward the choppers. Terrell.”
“Sir.”
“Major Cross will stay on board to communicate with C-team. I’m in command, you’re second-in-command. Chopper One’s been so advised. If I go down, everybody hold the perimeter until Terrell moves. And don’t you move, Terrell, until you count seven new butts on board.”
“Yes Sir!”
Everything sure as hell turned to shit in a hurry, Rick thought as he lay in a shallow ditch with Sergeant Montgomery, one of the team’s medical NCOs, and the so-called General. They began taking fire before they could set the perimeter around the clearing, which was no larger than a couple of tennis courts. A couple of AK-47s, Rick guessed; rattle like they’re falling apart, but rarely do. Close together, south of us, firing into the tail boom of Chopper Two. Five or six of the team immediately returned fire, squelching the AKs temporarily, allowing the FTT guys to scramble for the choppers. Then, one hell of an explosion erupted just beyond the area where the FTT had lain in wait. Mortar. A couple more and they’d have the range.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rick saw the bandy-legged “General” hauling ass for the bushes, with Sergeant Montgomery in hot pursuit. Rick instinctively went after the Sergeant, knowing that the Air America pilots wouldn’t be sitting around a hot LZ for long, and it would soon be dark. Fuck the “General;” an FAR guy couldn’t help them much anyway. Rick had to get the Sarge, or he’d be spending a long, long night in Bogeyland. He was gaining on him, his ammo bag slapping him rhythmically on the ass, until he hit a patch of gravel and went down. The fall rolled him over on his back just in time for him to see the choppers lifting off. They were no more than a couple of hundred feet off the ground when a second mortar round hit LZ dead center, the blast giving them a little extra lift. Rick hauled ass for the bushes.
“Lieutenant!” Montgomery shouted, his voice coming from somewhere in front of Rick and to his right. He and the “General” lay on top of a slight rise, Montgomery using the weight of his body to hold the smaller man down. He could just make them out in the lowering dusk.
Rick got to the rise and flopped down on the other side of the “General.” “Monty, what the hell were you thinking about, going after this gook? These goddam woods are probably full of PL. NVA, too, if our shitty luck holds out.”
“You’re right, Lieutenant,” the “General” said in French-accented English, “more NVA than PL. We should head south immediately. The enemy sweep is on a direct line from east to west. If we can make 10 or 12 miles due south, the last of the line should be well behind us.”
Momentarily dumbstruck at hearing fluent English from such an unexpected source, Rick shot a questioning look at the Sergeant. “He says he’s a General, sir,” Montgomery said, “FAR. I got it wrong; I thought Captain Davis said they’d snagged a PL General. Been talking a blue streak ever since I caught him.”
“I am Ban Sayasone, Lieutenant, Général de Division, Forces Armees du Royaume. Far from this unfortunate state of circumstances, I have had the honor to serve the King as military attaché to your country.”
“Well,
sir, if that’s the case, I’m sure His Majesty would like to have you back in one piece, which is probably why Captain Nicholson wanted to bring you along on the chopper lift. Why’d you run off like that?”
“Mortar fire. Mortar fire from North Vietnamese 82-millimeter mortars, which is what routed my troops. They are exceedingly quick to find the range of their target. I was certain that the next round would be a direct hit on your helicopters.”
“Almost was, too,” Rick said with a rueful smile. “Well, you made your decision, the Sergeant made his, now I have to make mine. The idea of working our way south seems right, as long as we stay away from the river. Rescue choppers will be back, I hope, soon after first light. You know this area far better than we do, and I’ll listen to your advice, but I’m in command. Agreed?”
“By all means. Have you a compass?”
“Hell, we don’t even have a canteen. This exercise was supposed to be a three-hour proposition. Damn lucky I’ve got smoke bombs in my ammo bag.”
“Then we shall have to keep Polaris at our backs. Let us hope that a cloud layer doesn’t prevent that.”
Back on the team house porch with more tepid Singhas, Chin “debriefed” Rick on his overnight stay near Nam Tha. “You guys had some hike to get clear of that troop advance. How far do you suppose you walked?”
“The chopper pilot that picked us up said we were 6 miles southeast of Nam Tha City, and our original LZ was about a mile northwest, so 7 miles, maybe a little less. It sure as hell felt like more than that, with nothing but moonlight to go by, and not much of that.”
