Termite Hill (Vietnam Air War Book 1)

by Tom Wilson

The VPAAF was infamous for ignoring the requests of the VPAND.

  "No western patrols! I am acting for Colonel Trung in his absence, and I forbid them. Tell Phong that his mother indeed begged me to fornicate with her, but I did not wish to contract syphilis. Also tell him his pilots must remain east of the target area after thirteen-hundred if they don't want rockets up their tailpipes."

  "Yes, comrade Colonel," said Major Nguy, his smile broadening.

  Colonel Trung entered the communications center, just arrived from the reception and still in his dress uniform. Xuan gave him a concise briefing.

  "Good," Trung said simply, then pulled Major Wu and his own intelligence officer aside for a quick update on the tactical situation.

  Xuan watched them, then turned to Gregarian. "Would you like to see the battle firsthand?"

  "What?"

  "Tiger one is deployed near Bac Ninh, less than fifty kilometers from here. We can be there before the attacks begin."

  "Yes," the Russian finally said. "I'd like that."

  The squat Vietnamese had observed Gregarian's face as the man hesitated. Perhaps a little fear, he decided, but the man was no coward. Xuan told Major Nguy to act in his place during his absence, then hurried out of the command center, Gregarian puffing at his heels.

  27/1220L—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Tiny Bechler

  Phillips's briefing for Hawk flight was thorough, and he made it clear that he wanted no surprises once they were airborne. Then he looked hard at Tiny, as if he expected a screw-up, which did little to brighten Tiny's already poor disposition. As soon as the briefing ended, Tiny broke away from the others and walked alone toward the squadron personal equipment shop, wearing a scowl. He intended to stick to Phillips's wing like glue. If Phillips crashed, there would be two holes in the ground. He'd show the prima donna West Pointer what flight discipline was all about.

  Phillips and the Bear trudged along up ahead, deep in conversation. Strange about the Bear and his outburst, Tiny thought. Something told him, however, that he was probably right. Tiny didn't think much of backseaters in fighters, but Mal Stewart had a good reputation with the squadron pilots.

  He saw Benny Lewis standing in front of the vending machines outside the personal equipment shop.

  "I missed lunch," Lewis said quietly, showing a candy bar. "Couldn't face another chicken fried steak. That's all they've had for the past week." He guzzled Coke and took a bite from the Butterfingers.

  Tiny sympathized as he got his own orange soda and candy bar from the machines. "I had the chicken flied steak with flied lice on the side. It's all beginning to taste the same."

  "I understand why Thais eat rice bugs," said Benny. "They can't cook."

  Rice bugs were fat beetles the Thais picked up, inspected closely, and then ate with great relish. Sometimes they would simply bite off the rice bug's head and stuff the body into a pocket to save it for later. It was said the female beetles tasted best. Or maybe it was vice versa.

  Tiny skinned the wrapper back on his candy bar. "Sounds like you've got a tough one. Flak suppression can get hairy, and this may be a mean mission."

  Benny shrugged. "Some are worse than others." He looked closer at Tiny. "You ever fly in a Weasel flight before?"

  "No."

  "It won't be a cakewalk, having to fly out in front of the strike force like that. Phillips is damned good, but he's got a hell of a job. Toughest part might be trying to stay up when he starts moving around. When he starts to maneuver hard, your best bet is to fall into trail behind him and stay there."

  Tiny's eyes smoldered with anger as he thought of Phillips commandeering him. Fucking prima donna, no good, son of a bitch, bastard. Tiny's stomach was turning sour; the junk food didn't help. He refused to yield to physical ailment and bit into the candy bar.

  His mind switched tracks. "Sometimes I wonder why we put up with this crap."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Why don't we just ignore the frag orders and go in and win the war? Hit the MiG's on the ground, bomb the shit outta the ships bringing in the supplies, hit the dikes and flood the farms, and take out all the damn trucks lined up in Hanoi. Then maybe even take out Hanoi and Haiphong. How long you think they'd last before they started to cooperate?"

  "Not long."

  "Then why don't we do it? Ignore the bastards in Washington and just do it?"

  Benny eyed him. "George and the boys didn't want it that way."

  "George?"

  "George Washington. The guys in civvies tell the guys in the flying suits what the hell to do. That's the way it is. Philosophy later, Tiny. Time now to gird the loins for battle."

  Tiny took another bite of candy and watched Benny go into the personal equipment shop. He finished the soda and followed, his indigestion and disposition getting worse.

  The pilots kept their parachutes stowed on individual racks along with their combat vests, g-suits, and helmets. Tiny wore a a size XL—T (extra large—tall) in everything made of cloth, and his eight hat size mandated an extra-large helmet. He looked over his equipment to ensure it was in order, then stopped as he saw the vest.

  "Sarge!" he roared.

  Staff Sgt Sal Perez, NCOIC of the shop, hurried to Tiny's rack.

  "Yes, sir."

  "What the hell is this shit?" Tiny held up the new vest made of mesh fabric. His old one had been made of canvas. He had specifically told the sergeant that he did not wish to change to the new material.

  "Directive out of Seventh Air Force Headquarters, sir. All the vests had to be changed to mesh."

  Tiny's eyes were narrow and signaled danger. "Where's my old one?"

  "Thrown away, sir," mumbled Perez, "as they directed."

  Tiny glared at the sergeant as he tried on the vest. It fit well. He checked the contents. Two survival radios were snapped into special pockets stitched into the fabric, as well as two baby bottles filled with water, a holster for his .38 Special, Combat Masterpiece-issue revolver, a spare ammunition pouch, a small survival kit with compass, mirror, and essentials, and a first aid kit.

  "It's all there," the sergeant said in his matter-of-fact tone. Sergeant Perez took pride in his job.

  "Assholes," grumbled Tiny. Bureaucracies at headquarters, Perez, why couldn't they leave well enough alone.

  He checked that he had his dog tags and that they were taped so they wouldn't make noise if he found himself on the ground trying to quietly evade a bunch of gomers. He patted the right chest pocket of his flying suit to ensure the packet with his Geneva convention ID card was there. He placed his wallet, most of his folding money, and his pocket change into the cubbyhole marked BECHLER. Personal belongings stayed behind, for they might be useful to the enemy if you were shot down. Finally he picked his revolver from the pistol rack, swung out the cylinder, and peered inside.

  "Goddammit!" he exploded.

  Perez had been waiting for the outburst.

  "What's wrong, sir?" he asked patiently.

  "There's only five bullets in here. Every damn time I check my gun out, it's only got five bullets in it. It's a six-shooter and a six-shooter holds six bullets. What if there's six goddam gomers between me and getting rescued? You want me to get fucking captured because I've got only five bullets and there's six gomers?"

  "No, sir," said the sergeant. "It's just that there's a regulation that says we load five bullets, with an empty chamber under the firing pin."

  "Shit." Tiny pulled a bullet from a pouch in the vest, pushed it into the empty chamber, and snapped the cylinder back into place. Another lieutenant, an Academy classmate who was flying in Benny Lewis's flight, whispered for him to lighten up on Perez.

  Tiny glared straight ahead, ignoring him as he continued to prepare for the flight. He zipped on the g-suit and vest, slung the parachute over his shoulders, then carried the helmet to the oxygen stand and gave the mask a thorough pressure check. Finding nothing further to bitch about, he stalked out to the waiting crew van.

  The
vehicle was stuffed with pilots waiting to be driven to their airplanes. It was hot, and the inside of the van smelled like a football locker room at half time.

  As luck would have it, Glenn Phillips and his bear were in the van and Tiny had to endure a lecture on how Phillips liked to see all the canopies in the flight raised and lowered at precisely the same time. Tiny mumbled his concurrence before escaping when the driver finally stopped at his aircraft.

  The sounds and smells of the flight line engulfed him. Acrid smells of kerosene, the basic ingredient of jet fuel, and of hydraulic fluid. Shouts from shirtless, sun-bronzed load crews as they maneuvered bomb racks and missiles under pylons; loud banter between mechanics and crew chiefs; the shrieking of engine start-carts and the roar of jet engines revving in the distance.

  As the van drove away, Tiny Bechler was met by the crew chief of his F-105D. They walked around the big fighter, checking its general appearance, the crew chief pointing out the weapons load and the minor maintenance discrepancies noted on the previous mission.

  Tiny stopped suddenly and a smile flickered, then grew on his face. He stood back, looking up, and shook his head in wonder.

  "Hello, beautiful," he muttered. "I've missed you."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sunday, November 27th—1230 Local, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Benny Lewis

  Benny watched as the last of the heavily laden KC-135 Stratotankers rolled down the runway, rotated, and took off. Thermal waves rising from the hot runway blurred his vision, distorting the big airplane's image as it diminished in the distance.

  He watched with interest as the first element of the flight in front of him, Hawk, led by Phillips and his bear and carrying heavy weapons loads, took the active runway. They ran up their engines, then Phillips released his brakes and began rolling. His wingman followed after five seconds of spacing interval. He seemed to rumble down the runway for an eternity. Oh, you ground-loving whore, Benny thought. The first aircraft, then the second, rotated their noses skyward and after another long pause began to fly. The next two aircraft were already chasing them down the long runway.

  "Kingfish, you're cleared onto the active," radioed the tower operator.

  Benny nodded to his wingman, then pushed the canopy lever forward. The four canopies came down in ragged unison. The heat in the cockpit became stifling and would remain so until the engine was revved enough that the airflow cooled things. He pressed the bayonet connector of his oxygen mask into its receptacle at the side of his helmet, tugged at the straps at the sides of the mask to pull it taut, and began breathing a mixture of oxygen and ambient air. He taxied to the left side of the runway, stopped, and watched as his lieutenant wingman rolled into position beside him. He pushed the throttle forward to check the engine at full military power. Oil pressure and engine temperature were normal. Benny pulled his throttle back to idle.

  "Kingfish, you are cleared for takeoff."

  Benny released his feet from the brakes and smoothly pushed the throttle forward. He was rolling. His wingman would follow in five seconds.

  He pushed the throttle outboard, then after a long two-second count, felt the afterburner kick him in the ass. Three seconds later he felt a second boost as water was injected into the engine.

  The huge jet emitted a deep-throated roar as he accelerated down the runway; in the heat of the afternoon it seemed he would never reach flying speed. World's fastest tricycle, he thought. Finally he felt it, the familiar sensation that told his body that the aircraft had overcome the bonds of weight and gravity and was capable of flight.

  Benny rotated the aircraft's needle nose upward, still in afterburner and rolling on the main gear at 190 nautical miles per hour. Finally the main gear became unglued from the runway and he was airborne. He immediately raised the landing gear and flaps, and experienced a rush of excitement as the aircraft continued to accelerate and climb.

  He changed to departure control frequency, checked in, and found the controller in a conversational mood.

  "Good afternoon, Kingfish. Climb and maintain five thousand feet until three miles from the end of the runway, then turn left to a heading of oh-one-fiver and climb to twelve thousand feet. Contact Brigham on prebriefed frequency."

  Benny keyed his mike. "Kingfish copies."

  "Good hunting, Kingfish."

  Benny pulled the throttle to the right, out of burner, to allow the rest of his flight to catch up.

  He had started the left turn to fifteen degrees heading, climbing toward the refueling rendezvous point called "Green Anchor." He turned in his seat, first to his right to confirm that his wingman was tucked into position, then to his left, looking back toward the field. Mike Ralston and his wingman were airborne and coming into position too fast. Then he was gratified to see the silver petals of Ralston's speed brakes open at the rear of the big jet engine. After a few seconds Ralston retracted his speed brakes. He had to tap his afterburner once to reach cospeed, then smoothly pulled into position on Benny's left wing.

  Using afterburner wasted fuel, but Ralston had joined up aggressively and that was good. Benny looked them over, a mother hen checking her chicks.

  "Kingfish, check in," he called, requesting a radio check from each flight member.

  "Two!"

  "Three!"

  "Four!"

  The responses were immediately and crisply given. All radios were in working order.

  As the flight climbed through 6,000 feet, steady on the correct heading, Benny made his next call. "Kingfish, afterburners, " he said slowly, "now!" and stroked his own throttle outboard into the A/B position.

  The others followed, their afterburners leaving a smoky path. The rate-of-climb needle leaped and they soared upward like great, primeval birds.

  Benny waited for a long moment, savoring the headiness of flight. Finally he prepared to change radio frequencies to get directions to their tanker from Brigham, the ground radar site.

  "Kingfish, go button four."

  "Two!"

  "Three!"

  "Four!"

  He could tell from the chorus of voices that they shared his exhilaration.

  He depressed the radio button, waiting for the radio to electronically tune to Brigham's frequency. A tanker, Green 31, was calling on the frequency, advising he was on station. Smooth going thus far.

  "Check in, Kingfish," he radioed.

  "Two!"

  "Three!"

  "Four!"

  "Green 31, this is Kingfish. We are passing through flight level one-six-zero, and will rendezvous on time. Noses are cold."

  He had just advised the tanker that the fighters were at 6,000 feet and climbing, that they would be at the Green Anchor coordinates on time, and that their MASTER ARM–WEAPONS switches were in "off" position, which effectively safed all the weapons. The tanker crews were most concerned about forward-firing ordnance like rockets, missiles, and the Gatling gun. An error could be disastrous for the flying gas station.

  The refueling went well, though number four had trouble steadying down and had to make three attempts before getting connected for his fuel transfer. They pulled back from the tanker at the drop-off point on time, with all fighters topped off. Ralston's refueling went smooth as glass. Mike had been right: It would not be long before he would be hard to beat.

  They were well out over the flatlands of Laos. The Plains des Jars lay to the right, a barren and brownish-purple high desert that had served as a major battleground just the year before. Two of Benny's friends had been shot down there in Thuds deployed from Japan. One had been captured and dragged into a village, where he'd been spread-eagled and hacked into pieces by the Communist Pathet Lao as his friends flew overhead in full view. The fate of the other pilot was still unknown.

  The tanker made a long, sweeping left turn, back toward the safety of Thailand. "Drop a bomb for us, Kingfish," the tanker pilot called.

  "Ah roger, Green Anchor 31. Thanks for the gas. Kingfish, let's go squadron common freq
uency," called Benny.

  The flight checked in on 357.0.

  Long minutes of idleness passed, the flight maintaining radio silence as they grew closer to the combat arena. It was a very private time, time for the brain to adjust to the imminence of danger, to mull over the details of the mission. Time for Benny to mutter a short prayer for Bets and the kids. He never pressed his luck by asking for intervention for himself. He had chosen his lot. They were the innocents.

  Below, the ominous, purple plain turned to green grassland and rolling hills. Flat-topped mesas popped up occasionally, green versions of the brown ones Benny remembered in the American Southwest.

  Ten minutes before crossing into North Vietnam, Benny heard the Bear calling on the radio, announcing that the Weasel flight was passing over the channel 97 TACAN navigation station.

  "Hawk flight is over the checkpoint."

  Channel 97 was located on one of the flattop mesas. The critical outpost was manned by tough Central Intelligence Agency contractors, Laotian tribesmen who were often surrounded by very unfriendly Communist troops. They were resupplied by Air America C-130 airdrops and protected by Air America T-28 aircraft.

  Benny monitored his TACAN distance-measuring equipment. They were twenty-three miles behind Hawk flight. Not bad, he thought. He nudged his throttle forward until he was flying at 460 knots calibrated airspeed.

  Two minutes and thirty-five seconds after Hawk's call, Benny passed over the TACAN station which translated into the twenty nautical mile separation Colonel Mack desired.

  "Kingfish is at the checkpoint," he called, his voice low and calm.

  Back and to his left he could see another flight of Thuds. Falcon, Colonel Mack's flight. He craned his neck back and could see the other two flights of F-105's.

  Falcon, Swift, Crane, and Eagle flights called in rapid succession as they passed over the checkpoint.

  "Hello Mister Ho," he muttered. They were in North Vietnamese airspace.

  "Green 'em up, Kingfish. Let's go to Guns–Air," Benny called, pushing up his throttle. He'd reminded the pilots in his flight to check the positions of their weapons switches, to select and arm the M-61 Gatling gun, and to prepare the gunsight for possible MiG engagements.