by Tom Wilson
"And Colonel Phong reports one of his interceptors was lost due to mechanical failure."
Again, there was silence, before Nha said, "Everything considered, it went well."
The smiles returned, followed by a roar of triumph.
"Congratulations, Tiger one!"
Xuan Nha interpreted his news for Gregarian's benefit.
The Russian mused. "Two aircraft killed with rockets?"
"Yes."
"It could have been more."
"That is why I want even more rocket systems."
Maj Tran Van Ngo, who had been congratulating his men, joined them. This was his first chance to meet Gregarian. He had been busy preparing his battalion, Tiger one battery here and Tiger two battery located twenty kilometers northeast, for the air attack when he and Xuan had arrived. Xuan watched as the two shook hands and exchanged greetings. He was proud of his protege. Gregarian, he noticed, frowned at Ngo's smelly uniform. You'll learn how it is, Russian, he thought.
When the two were silent, Xuan took Tran Van Ngo's arm in his strong hand. "One more kill and your total will equal mine."
"It was you, comrade Colonel, who entrusted me with your battalion, and who constantly provides the means of success. I am eternally grateful."
Xuan smiled. "Then perhaps I should claim today's kill."
Tran Van Ngo deadpanned. "We would not want others thinking that yours was the hand that trembled on the launch panel, would we, Colonel?"
Xuan snorted in mock disgust. He liked his young, brash major, whom he had named to fill his position. Xuan lit a Salem cigarette, popular at the headquarters because it was the same band that President Ho Chi Minh smoked. He inhaled pleasurably.
Xuan switched to Russian. "So what do you think of Tiger one and our operation, Mayor Gregarian?"
"I have much to see before I make final suggestions, Podpolnikov Nha, but I noticed that Mayor Ngo was hesitant before switching the transmitter into dummy load when the radar-hunter aircraft began its attack."
Gregarian glanced at Tran Van Ngo, who had turned away to deal with a problem concerning defueling the rockets. Tiger battalion was preparing to move out, since both batteries' locations had been compromised by their rocket firings.
Xuan said, "Do not worry, Tran's Russian is very poor." He didn't reveal that it was not nearly as poor as Gregarian's Vietnamese.
The Russian major drew a breath. "This is my first exposure to the tactics the Americans are using, but I studied the reports closely before my departure." Gregarian's tone was chiding. "The tracking radars should only remain on the air for short periods, only for that time necessary to acquire and shoot down the target. I sent such guidance from Moscow several weeks ago."
Xuan was displeased. Gregarian was concerning himself with trivia. The important thing was that the rocket forces had destroyed two American aircraft and had relentlessly driven other invaders down into the furious artillery fire.
"Did you receive my message?" Gregarian asked.
"Colonel Dimetriev passed it to us and I forwarded it to the battalions with my own remarks. Perhaps when you've seen more of our operation, you will understand why we sometimes keep our tracking radars on for longer periods of time."
Gregarian's voice filled with passion. "You'll only lose radars. We examined the missile parts you sent us three months ago and found they were indeed from a radar-homing missile. We'll know more when we get a missile in better condition, but we have enough information to say that if you shut off the radar the missile can no longer track its target."
"Perhaps," Xuan said, "but if you remember my earlier briefing, I told you of the importance of defending Hanoi. The rocket battalion at Vinh, for instance, is guarding a lower-priority area and is more vulnerable, so the commander there must be cautious and seldom turn on his radars. Here, we have many rocket battalions that can threaten the radar-hunters from all directions. This area is very important and must be protected. We cannot and often need not be cautious."
Xuan Nha did not add that he had never considered the radar-hunters as much of a threat. They had destroyed a few radars, but were more of a nuisance than a threat.
Gregarian was obstinate. "I noticed also a sudden blooming of one aircraft return on the radar scope, one I considered to be a radar-hunter. When I used tracking radars in Russia and watched aircraft firing missiles, I noticed the same phenomenon. The aircraft we saw today was launching a missile. Were any radars threatened by missiles today?"
Xuan was silent, then acknowledged, "A missile destroyed the radar antenna at Happiness three site." Two technicians and an officer had been killed there.
"Southwest of us?"
"Twenty kilometers southwest."
Gregarian said, "Then it was a missile launch I saw. Did you notice the flash on the commander's scope?"
Xuan wanted to grit his teeth and growl; instead he smiled. "No, I did not." He had heard the same claim from the area commander at Vinh, not believing him. He'd considered it a story made up and circulated too widely, with no technical basis.
"It is interesting, don't you think?"
I will send a notice to all radar operators to look for the blooming, and tell them they should proceed with caution when they see it."
Gregarian said, "I would be happy to help you with the message when I return from setting up the P-50 radar."
Irritated at the man's condescension, Xuan turned away. Lt Quang Hanh was talking on a field phone, its antenna wire now strung into the branches of a squat tree since the command van was being prepared for its move. Hanh replaced the receiver and hurried over. "Wreckage from five aircraft have been located."
"What of the American pilots?"
"Three are dead. One was alive. Rice farmers near Tuyen Quang caught him and beat him to death."
Such was often the case. That was why the People's Army tried to reach the downed Americans first. Sometimes the pilots were interrogated for intelligence, but mostly they were kept alive because Lao Dong party officials felt the pilots might be valuable bargaining material in the future.
"Two pilots are in custody. One was shot as he attempted to get away, and will probably die. Headquarters wants to know if you wish to gain information from the other one."
Xuan sometimes sat in on prisoner interrogations. Often obstinate, their intelligence was of questionable value. He was most successful when he led his own private interrogations. "Major Wu may attend the questioning if he desires."
"Yes, comrade Colonel."
"Anything else?" asked Xuan.
"The aircraft that was in trouble, that was hit by artillery fire? . . ."
"Yes."
"Several witnesses saw it descending toward the mountains. They claim that it likely crashed east of Than Uyen, in the Fan Si Pan. American fighters circled over the eastern ridge for more than fifteen minutes, and a listening post heard them talking on their emergency frequency. Their rescue attempt was called off, but we expect another one tomorrow at first light. A team is forming at Than Uyen to go into the area and capture the pilot before the Americans return."
The Fan Si Pan was a mountainous region at the outer limits of the American rescue capability. Few American pilots had been extracted from its eastern slope, for it was close to the heavy defenses deployed along the Hong River and the adjacent rail line, proving dangerous for enemy rescue forces.
Xuan Nha thought. "Tell Major Nguy to have the capture team assembled at Than Uyen, but tell them to wait. If the rescuers dare to come, we will provide a welcome. Then the capture team will have even more pilots to look for."
Quang Hanh's baby face twitched with a smile.
"Pass on that much. I'll coordinate the rest when we've returned to headquarters."
Quang Hanh went back to his field phone.
Xuan regarded Gregarian. "We should return to Hanoi so you can prepare for your trip tomorrow." He had heard enough of the Russian's criticisms.
"One other thing. The mayor failed to follo
w doctrine. He did not shoot when he had an easy target at twenty kilometers range, waiting to select a more difficult one when it was closer. The system has a maximum range of forty kilometers, and is optimized for twenty kilometers, no closer."
"Perhaps he noticed something you did not."
They both looked about the site then, watching the men working at their feverish yet methodical pace to dismantle the site and prepare to move out.
A smile played at Gregarian's fleshy lips. "These rocket systems, wonderful as they are, must be used properly."
Xuan kept his silence.
27/1925L—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
That Sunday the stag bar of the Takhli Officer's Open Mess rapidly came to life as the men straggled in from the dining room after finishing their evening meal. Mal "Bear" Stewart sat at the end of the dark bar holding a scotch in his left hand. He slowly shook a dice cup with his right.
"You really want to bet your motorcycle?" asked the Bear.
"Sure," said the Thai bartender, called Jimmy because none of the American officers could pronounce Phahakkhaphap the same way twice. Jimmy looked about, enjoying the attention he was getting.
"Dammit," exclaimed the Bear, "this is serious stuff. Don't you go thinking if you win, you get your money back, but if I win, I won't take your motorcycle."
"I bet my Honda," said Jimmy, smiling.
"Jimmy, I'll take it this time," the Bear threatened. "I swear I'll take it."
"Yep." Jimmy grinned wider. He had already lost eight dollars in tip money and his next month's salary. "Dubble or nuthin."
"Okay, you get your money and next month's paycheck back if you win, right?"
"Yep."
"And I get your money, your paycheck, and your motorcycle if you lose."
A crowd had gathered. Sam Hall leaned forward at the Bear's elbow, watching raptly. Glenn Phillips looked on with interest, carefully sipping a Manhattan. Tiny Bechler craned his neck to see over the group, watching the dice cup. Toki Takahara and Jimbo Smith discussed their belief that all Orientals were consumed by the urge to gamble.
Mike Murphy, seated to the Bear's right, was not attentive. He was drunk and quietly growing sodden, cradling his head from time to time. He thought of Tommy Larkins, the captain in his flight who had been hammered out of the sky a few hours earlier. He'd been a friend; the others respected his sadness and did not interfere.
Sam Hall shook his head at Jimmy. "Don't bet him your motorcycle." Sam turned to the others. "He's proud of that motorcycle."
The Bear said, "He wants to bet his motorcycle. You ready, Jimmy?"
They clapped their dice cups onto the table and lifted. The game was zap aces, the quick and dirty favorite of fighter jocks.
Jimmy had two sixes and a wild ace. The Bear showed four natural deuces. Jimmy looked at the dice in disbelief. He scratched his head, then looked at the Bear with pleading moon eyes.
"Where's the keys?" asked the Bear.
Jimmy regarded the dice intently, as if he could change the spots if he just stared hard enough.
"The keys," repeated the Bear. He took them from Jimmy's slowly extending hand.
"Dubble or nuthin," cried Jimmy.
Sam looked at the Bear quizzically. "You're not gonna take his motorcycle, are you?" Sam was becoming intoxicated and was maudlin about Jimmy's plight.
"He bet it," the Bear growled. "He beat me out of twenty bucks the other day, and he sure as hell took that."
"Dubble or nuthin," insisted Jimmy.
"You don't have anything, Jimmy," the Bear said.
"Dubble or nuthin."
"I already got everything you own that's worth anything."
Jimmy thought. "I got two wife."
"I don't want your damn wives, Jimmy. I had one once, and that was too many."
"Maybe you jus' borrow my wife." Jimmy gave his impression of a leer, with only marginal success. Like most Thais, he liked the Americans. He was not displeased at the thought of sharing one of his wives, especially the older, louder one whom he had been obligated to take following his brother's death. The consequence of losing his Honda was serious.
"No wife."
"We talk about it."
"Let's talk about the money you owe me. Write me an IOU," demanded the Bear, holding out a ballpoint pen.
Jimmy's face fell a bit. He took the pen from the Bear and scribbled on a bar napkin, looking at it as he handed it over.
"Dubble or nuthin," he repeated.
Max Foley entered the bar, pulling off his hat before Sam could reach the gong to the bell that hung over the middle of the bar. If the bell had been rung in time, before the hat was removed, Max would have been obligated to buy a drink for everyone in the bar. An old fighter-pilot rule. You also bought drinks for the house if you got a phone call from a wife when you were in the stag bar, or just rang the bell by mistake. The protocols of the stag bar were stiffly enforced by ridicule. Reputation meant a lot to the group.
Foley burrowed his way to the end of the bar, where he motioned to get the assistant bartender's attention. He was thirsty. "Shit!" he proclaimed to no one in particular, glowering. "Nothing's gone right today." He had just arrived from the command post, where he had filled out his final reports from his long day as supervisor of flying.
Sam Hall called out to Max. "Anything new on Benny Lewis?"
"No."
"How about the others?"
"Nothing new."
The stag bar was filled. More than two dozen men crowded along the Formica and chrome bar, and the same number sat at tables. Others stood in groups, discussing and laughing and moving their hands as they reconstructed air battles. Jimmy's assistant was a skinny, dark man they called Pak, shortened from another impossible Thai name. With Jimmy busy gambling, he worked hard to stay even with the demand for drinks.
Max stood beside Doc Roddenbush, one of three flight surgeons assigned to the medical clinic at Takhli. He was nursing a Coke since he was on call.
"I heard about Captain Lewis," Doc said. "Too bad."
"Yeah," Max said. "Hopefully we'll get the chance to snatch him out of there tomorrow. One of the Jolly Green choppers had engine problems today, so they had to abort the effort."
"How about the others who were shot down today?"
"They went down in the Red River valley, Doc. The choppers can't go there because the ground fire's too intense."
"But Lewis wasn't in that far?" Roddenbush was genuinely concerned. Benny's easygoing nature made him popular with just about everyone.
Max thought for a moment. "Where Benny went down was just borderline bad."
Sam Hall nudged his bulk through the crowd to move in beside Max, his face bleak. Hall had been stationed at Spangdahlem with Foley and Benny Lewis.
"You gonna write Bets?" Sam asked. They both knew Lewis's wife.
"One of us should, I guess."
"You write her. I'm not good at that shit."
"Who is? Anyway, they may pick him up tomorrow. Colonel Mack's trying to get approval for an all-out effort at first light."
Hall shook his head. "The chances for a pickup aren't all that great. He made it past the Red, but he was still about twenty miles on the other side of the Black River. The Jolly Greens don't like going past the Black unless they absolutely have to."
Max hissed out a pent-up breath. "I saw the position on a map at the command post. The area looks isolated, but sometimes that's deceiving."
"Colonel Mack made a couple of low, slow passes around the area and didn't see any natives. The gomers'll send in search teams if they know the airplane went down, and they probably do."
"How did Benny sound on the radio, Sam?"
"A lieutenant in my flight took a hit and I had to chaperone him outta there so I didn't hear him, but Colonel Mack said Benny sounded full of piss and vinegar. Even when Mack told him about the chopper having engine trouble, and that he'd have to spend the night up there, he took it well. Course, how else you gonna take it? B
ig thing is he said he was okay, didn't have any broken bones or anything."
"Shit." Max sighed. "I'll write the damned letter. Tomorrow. After the rescue attempt, in case they get him out."
The lonesome sounds of "Lara's Theme" beat out of the jukebox, drowning the sounds of a dozen conversations because it had been turned up by one of the pilots. Sam waved somberly to Max, then returned to the group watching the Bear playing dice with Jimmy. They were looking with disgust at the bartender.
Glenn said to Jimmy, "Give me a bourbon Manhattan. I hope you're better at mixing drinks than you are at dice."
"I just won both of his wives for a month," gloated the Bear.
Sam was intoxicated. "Aww, you're not really gonna take his wife are you?"
"Both of 'em. See this paper," said the Bear. "I've got his IOU."
Toki Takahara leaned forward. "How do you know what it says? It's written in Thai."
"I trust him. He can't write very good in English. I trust you, Jimmy!"
Toki, a nisei from Honolulu, confided drunkenly to Tiny Bechler. "Jimmy shouldn't gamble. The Oriental mind is different. They can't help themselves."
Jimmy handed Glenn his drink, then set his jaw. "Dubble or nuthin," he pleaded, staring at the Honda key resting on the bar before the Bear.
"What you going to bet, Jimmy? I already got it all."
"My house? I got house in town."
"Aww," said Sam, "you really don't wanna be doin' that, Jimmy. Like Toki says, you shouldn't gamble." He turned to the Bear. "Give him back his wives. Maybe he'll stop."
"He can't help it, I tell you," said Toki.
"Dubble or nuthin," Jimmy said, his eyes shrewd. "My house."
Colonel Mack entered the side door, grimly looking about as he made his way toward the group.
"What the hell's going on here?" he joked.
"Just having a few drinks, Colonel," said Phillips.
"We got approval for the Res-CAP, so don't you characters get too carried away."
Phillips said, "Think I'll go over to intell and see if they've got anything new."
