by Tom Wilson
"History is with you."
"History and the force of arms. We are the warriors, they are the followers."
Gregarian pointed to hundreds of manholes, six feet apart, that lined the center of the street. "What are those?"
"Air raid shelters. Each can protect an occupant from a bomb landing fifty meters away. General Luc has ordered them placed throughout the northern and central quartiers."
"In case the Americans change their minds about bombing?"
"And to show that even if the Americans attack, we will survive. Earlier this year the old people and the children were evacuated to the countryside."
"To protect them?"
"Yes. Ho Chi Minh loves old people and young children."
"I thought Hanoi was the safest place in the country?"
"It is."
"Then you've created a fortress with only able-bodied soldiers inside."
Xuan Nha motioned to the left at a huge expanse of concrete. "Ba Dinh Square, where victory rallies are held, and that large building beyond is Ba Dinh Hall, where our politburo meets.
A few blocks later they approached two large buildings.
"Headquarters for the Vietnamese People's Army," Xuan Nha said. "Our shrines to military bureaucracy."
The driver turned in at the second massive building, drove slowly through a guarded checkpoint, then proceeded to a rear entrance.
"This building was headquarters for the French Union Forces. When we took over in 1954, in many instances we merely changed the words on the offices from French to Vietnamese. Change the names and the uniforms, and all headquarters are quite similar, don't you think?"
They exited the car and hurried to the protection of the overhang of the lobby entrance.
"My offices are on the fourth floor."
"That seems vulnerable to air attack."
"Perhaps that vulnerability reminds us to do a good job of protecting Hanoi. Come, let us go up and meet my staff. Then we'll go to the basement and I will show you the command center from which we control our defenses."
27/1015L—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Mike Ralston
Ralston pushed his way through the crowd in the briefing theater, finally taking a seat between Benny Lewis and Sam Hall.
Benny quietly handed him a flight plan card. He and Mike peered up at the flight lineup displayed on the board, which showed Lewis as Kingfish flight leader. Ralston had moved himself to number three, leading the second element.
Mike had only been at Takhli for two weeks, but he'd quietly measured the men in B-Flight and believed he'd made a good choice. "Sorry about interrupting your day off, Benny. Colonel Mack suggested an unofficial policy change for the flight commanders to select our best pilots to lead the pack six missions. Fair or not, that puts you in the barrel. I'm new in the Thud. A couple weeks from now and I'll be giving you flying lessons." The corners of his lips tugged upward. "But right now I'm in the listening mode. I'd be silly to do otherwise."
He nodded at Colonel Mack, who stood talking to Major Foley, the wing weapons officer. "I think it's a wise move on his part. He's going to be good for the squadron."
Benny agreed. "I've known him for a while. He'll do."
"I never developed much confidence in Colonel Lee. It was too bad, what happened to him, but Colonel Mack knows what he's doing and he puts that feeling across."
Ralston filled in his flight lineup card, with the different pilots' names, aircraft assignments, and codewords for the mission, from the information shown on the various Plexiglas boards in front of the room. He clipped the flight plan and the lineup card to a small board he could secure around his leg when he strapped into the airplane.
They listened to a joke Sam Hall was telling. Sam's Southern drawl and tendency to ridicule himself along with the others in the squadron made his humor special. He knew how to turn bleak occasions into bearable ones. Sam was a large man, very black, from rural Alabama, and he cast aspersion upon all things Northern or citified. He openly and equally disliked Communists, Governor George Wallace, and Northern peaceniks. He was also the ranking flight commander in the 357th squadron, flew a fairly good stick, and had more than a thousand hours flying the Thud.
Mal Stewart, the one they called the Bear, pushed through the group at the door and seated himself nearby. Tall, rawboned, and tough-looking, he was part Oklahoma Indian. He wore sunglasses, which had become a trademark of sorts, both indoors and out, to briefings, and even in the darkness of the officers' club bar. Probably to cover up hangover eyes, Mike thought wryly. Glenn Phillips, seated in the front row, turned to speak with him and the Bear nodded curtly before assuming a slouching position.
Some of the pilots said the Bear slept through the mission briefings; swore that when you were beside him you could hear faint snoring. He slid low in his seat, fingers laced on his chest, and remained immobile as others milled about, joked, or jotted down flight information.
Ralston glanced about the room. "Look at all these people. Why does it seem so damned lonely up there?"
Thirty-three men were jammed into the small theater to hear the mission briefing. Here they would receive general target and weather information, as well as any special instructions or new restrictions from higher headquarters. Following the mission briefing, they would break up into smaller groups to discuss flight profiles and tactics. At the mission briefing the senior officer, called the mission commander, ran the show. Afterward, at the individual flight briefings, the flight leaders would be in charge.
The aircrews sat, drinking coffee from paper cups as they told jokes and passed on nuggets of expertise. The same ritual accompanied every mission briefing, held before the morning, afternoon, and occasional evening combat missions. They all waited for the Execution Word, a code word designating the target for the strike force, to be passed down from higher headquarters.
Flight and target information for the afternoon mission was posted on the backlit panel:
NOVEMBER 27
The mission commander was Lt Col Mack MacLendon, who carried the heavy responsibility for executing the mission as directed. Mike Ralston studied him closer, remembering what he'd heard about the man.
A slender man of medium height with a boyish shock of unruly brown hair, Colonel Mack first struck you as average and unprepossessing. You might overlook him in a crowd unless you noticed the hooded eyes that expressed the quiet determination and awareness of a calculating hunter. Eyes that were alive, brown and green and flecked with yellow glints, and that were said to be of exceptional acuity.
From the front of the room Mack's voice was soft and easy. "Gentlemen, before we begin the formal part of the briefing, let's go over some basics."
He pointed at the illuminated board. "As you can see, the defenses vary for today's options. At Yen Vien, there would be SAMs, triple-A, and maybe a few MiG's from Phuc Yen or Kep. At Vinh, there'd be fifty-seven millimeter triple-A and maybe even a SAM or two. At the parrot's beak, we'd see small-arms fire."
He paused and surveyed the room.
"Let's talk about some rules we should use no matter where we go. In the high-threat areas, we take our losses, and some of those can't be avoided. A bigger complaint I've got is that we're taking too many losses in the low-threat areas. We've lost five aircraft in low-threat areas in the past month to small-arms fire. Why?"
He looked out at the fighter jocks, and they listened because he was one of them. "We're pressing too damn close in the face of small-arms and triple-A fire, that's why. Some of you are flying too low, too slow, and too predictable."
A hand rose amid the group.
Colonel Mack said, "Go ahead."
Redhead Mike Murphy, known for flippancy and his way with females on the ground, and his fastidiousness in the air, proceeded carefully, partly to feel out his new commander.
"I think you're right, sir. We have been pressing too close in the low-threat areas. That's because it's damn hard to see most of the targets we're ass
igned. If we're weathered out of the first two targets and go to the beak today, we're supposed to go after suspected truck parks."
A disgruntled murmur arose from the jocks. They despised "suspected truck park" missions.
"Well, sir," Murphy continued, "it's hard to see anything along the trails in the jungle, and they hide their trucks damned well. You've got to get down among them to see 'em, and when you do you expose yourself. Even when we get a forward air controller, he's usually flying an O-1 Bird Dog and can't get in close because of the small-arms fire. We still have to press in if we're going to get our bombs on the target."
"Are you sure, Mike?" Colonel Mack asked.
Murphy was openly impressed that Mack already knew his name. "Yes, sir."
"Anyone got a solution? I say a solution because you never want to be caught with only one tactic for a situation."
Silence.
"Tell you what. I'll give it a shot. Here's rule one."
Colonel Mack pulled a cardboard sign from the table before him, and held it up in front of the group.
DON'T FLY BELOW 4,500 FEET!
"Back in 1945, I flew P-47 Jugs at Normandy. We saw heavy small-arms and triple-A fire over some of the targets there. One of the novelties around the fighter group was a collection of these cards, with some rules that had been learned the hard way from 1914 to that date. I kept a set, to remind me that some things don't change, like the fighter jock's propensity to ignore teachings of the past. I took them to Korea where we were flying F-84's and we used them. Sure as hell, when I got here a couple weeks ago I found a lot of you guys in need of studying this old card.
"What it means, gentlemen, is that small arms and antiaircraft artillery have great difficulty tracking and hitting a fast, maneuvering target flying above the magic altitude of forty-five hundred feet. Inscribe that altitude in your brain, and fly above it at all times. Try to pull out above that altitude when you deliver bombs. Stay up there even when you're just around small-arms fire."
Mike Murphy spoke up again, grumbling. "You can't see the ten-cent targets they hide in the jungle from forty-five hundred feet."
Colonel Mack said, "I'll agree with that. You can't see them, so try to outsmart them. Don't operate a flight of four big, noisy jets down in the muck with them. Stay up high on one side of the target and send one guy in low from the opposite side. Let him pop over them from behind, get his look-see, and get the hell out of there. Bomb the position he calls over the radio, or maybe get him back up with the rest of of the flight to lead the strike in on the target. When they get wise to that one, try something else."
He looked out and met their eyes. Each pilot knew he genuinely gave a shit about their survival.
"No matter if we go to a high- or a low-threat area, some of the rules are the same. Stay above the small-arms fire, keep your speed and energy level up for maneuvering, and keep moving around so you don't make a fat target. Okay, that's the sermon for today."
An intelligence officer named DeWalt, a skinny second lieutenant with glasses and acne, had entered the room and stood near the doorway. He proceeded to the board then and printed the word DAYBREAK in bold letters with yellow chalk. Colonel Mack looked on with interest, then motioned the lieutenant to take his place at the podium.
DeWalt indicated a large-scale map of North Vietnam. His shrill voice and his attempt to speak with gravity conjured an image of a child trying to imitate an adult.
"We have just received confirmation from Seventh Air Force that this afternoon's target is the Yen Vien railroad siding located immediately north and across the river from the Hanoi restricted area."
The murmuring diminished as the impact sank in. Yen Vien had been prebriefed on earlier occasions but authorization to strike the target had never come. It was very close to Hanoi, and would likely be a tough one.
"Defenses in the target area are considered to be of medium intensity, with several fifty-seven millimeter batteries and possibly as many as three active surface-to-air missile sites within range of the target area."
Phillips's Bear stirred from his slouching position, sat upright, and leaned forward. He then removed the military-issue sunglasses and gazed intently at the map. His eyes were indeed red and swollen, Mike noticed.
Holding the black rubber tip of his pointer at a red X several miles northeast of the rail siding, Lieutenant DeWalt continued. "This SAM site, Lead nineteen, is photo-confirmed to be occupied, as is this one"—he moved the tip—"Lead nine."
He shifted the pointer again. "Another site, Lead one, is also believed to be occupied. It's located here, on the northern edge of the Hanoi restricted area."
He held the pointer on the site for a few more seconds, then moved it in a circle about the rail yard. "Several thirty-seven and fifty-seven-millimeter batteries are located about the perimeter of the rail yard, and their fire is coordinated by a Firecan radar, located somewhere in the vicinity, probably within a couple of miles of the target. Reconnaissance photos and intelligence reports about the area are laid out on the tables next door. They're classified, so don't remove them from the room."
The lieutenant paused, reading from a stack of papers for a moment before looking up at the group.
"Explicit instructions are provided from Headquarters, Air Force regarding this target. They are of such importance that Colonel Parker, the wing commander, had to acknowledge their receipt, and must certify that all of you were properly briefed before takeoff."
The lieutenant's voice was rising in pitch.
"The instructions are to be read to all pilots participating in the mission." He coughed nervously, as if the paper was sacred due to its lofty origin. "All due precautions will be taken to ensure that damage is only inflicted upon the railroad siding. No—repeat no—damages are to be inflicted upon the city of Hanoi or other targets in the area. To ensure this, no aircraft are to overfly any part of the city of Hanoi."
A few angry growls circulated through the group.
Colonel Mack nodded. "Is that all?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you, Lieutenant." He turned to the doorway. "Smiley, it's your turn."
The lieutenant left the podium and was replaced by rotund and jovial Capt Smiley Boye, one of the wing weather officers.
Boye spoke energetically, as if discussing an upcoming football game. "The target area is presently obscured, with towering cumulus clouds extending in a storm line from southern China through the length of North and South Vietnam. Tops of the clouds as high as forty-seven thousand feet, with absolutely no breaks in the clouds."
"Shit," groaned a fighter jock.
"Not typical weather for this time of year," Boye said. "We passed the tail end of the summer monsoon season a couple weeks ago, and should be getting more clear weather, but it's not working out that way. Lately it's been like this in the morning, but clearing in the afternoon. This particular storm is expected to begin to dissipate within the hour, and at your projected time over target you should find scattered cloud conditions."
"What probability is there that it'll clear up enough for us to see the target?" Colonel Mack asked.
The weatherman paused. "The forecasters in Saigon say sixty percent."
"Their track record hasn't been too good lately."
Smiley sighed. "As much as I hate to argue with my brethren weather officers, I must agree that the crystal balls in Saigon have been a bit foggy lately. In their defense, it's nearly impossible to accurately forecast changes right now, but they're doing their best, sir."
"No pilot reports?"
"No PIREP's yet. Recce birds from Udorn will be going into the target area in an hour, but the weather is changing so fast I doubt their report will do you much good."
"I hate to take a herd of airplanes in there if we're not going to be able to see either the defenses or the target."
"I understand, sir, but the Seventh Air Force forecasters are the ones with satellite and classified reporting station information. All we'v
e got to work with here is the net A weather station reporting, the same as civilian airports get. The classified station reports, combined with TIROS satellite data, give them a better, more complete picture. We have to leave the forecasting to them whenever we get into critical situations."
"Thank you, Smiley." Colonel Mack returned to the podium. Smiley Boye stopped at the door to take a wistful look at the men in the room, then abruptly hurried out.
MacLendon mused. "Glenn?"
"Yes, sir?" Phillips answered smartly.
"I want your Wild Weasel flight to stay twenty miles out in front today. Take a close look at the weather and let me know just how bad it is before I commit the rest of the force."
Glenn pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"Benny?"
"Yes, sir?" Benny Lewis leaned forward and listened closely.
Colonel Mack was looking at the lineup on the board. "You're flying flak suppression, so you'll be carrying a full load of CBU-24's."
"Roger, sir."
"I want you to approach with minimum exposure and hit them from north to south. Make one pass and haul ass. No screwing around in the target area after you drop, okay?"
"Yes, sir."
"And don't continue south over Hanoi. Break away shortly after release. That way you'll avoid overflying the restricted area."
"Will do, sir."
"I'm leading the first strike flight. Sam, you're second. Remember that damned restriction."
From beside Mike, Maj Sam Hall drawled, "Aww. Would I try to hurt anyone in Hanoi?"
Laughter.
Colonel Mack walked to the map and studied it closely. He touched his finger on a high knoll on Thud Ridge, the mountain crest that had gotten its nickname when the first F-105's had made strikes in the Hanoi area. "I'm going to pop up over the ridge just north of this rise and swing out over the flatland before attacking from the northeast."
