by Tom Wilson
"Roger, Stinger Bravo. Hold down your transmit button and we'll home on your position."
"Holding down. Here is a series of short counts, Beagle. One, two, three, four, five, four, three, two, one. One, two three . . ." The Bear continued his counting for two full minutes, until he could see a flight of four Thuds at about 5,000 feet in the distance. His heart started to pound at the sight.
"I've got you in sight, Beagle, heading directly toward my position."
"Roger, Stinger Bravo. I read you loud and clear now."
"Come right a couple of degrees, Beagle. I'm on the side of the ridge, four or five miles at your twelve o'clock."
"Any unfriendlies in your area?"
"None I'm aware of. I crossed a road a couple miles to the east with heavy truck traffic. They were hauling a Firecan radar, some fifty-seven millimeter guns, a Barlock radar, and maybe a couple hundred troops. I don't think they could be set up this fast, but you might want to look out for them a few miles to the southwest of my position."
"No one in your immediate vicinity, Stinger?"
"Negative." He paused, eyes fixed on the flight of fighters weaving and jinking overhead. "Beagle, you just passed over me."
"Roger, Stinger Bravo. I've got my number two calling the rescue people now. We can't stay much longer, but we'll try to get things in motion for you. Are you injured?"
"Negative, Beagle lead." The Bear nestled into an outcropping of rocks and surveyed the road far below. He could see no traffic.
The Thuds orbited north of his position for a few minutes before Beagle lead came back on the air. "Stinger Bravo, the Sandies are alerted and they've located fighters to fly CAP. We're Bingo fuel and have to depart. Sayanara and see you later, buddy."
"Thanks for setting things up, Beagle," said the Bear. He released a long breath. It had gone well thus far. When the Thuds banked westward and departed, however, he felt awfully alone. He started up the hillside again. He climbed for fifteen minutes and heard nothing . . . neither in the air nor on the radio.
"Come on, Sandies," he urged.
He saw a delta-winged fighter swooping from high above and hunkered behind rocks until he was sure that it was not a MiG-21 but an F-4, with three other Phantoms in tow. The flight swept past his position, banking into a lazy left turn.
"F-4's," he called, "you just passed over Stinger Bravo. I'm directly at your nine o' clock position on the east side of the ridge."
"Roger, Stinger, This is Pistol lead. We'll be MiG-CAP for the rescue."
They're flying too damned low, the Bear thought.
"Pistol, there are some trucks hauling big guns on the road a couple miles east of me. You may want to keep an eye out for . . ."
An eruption of artillery fire streaked upward toward the flight.
"Watch out, Pistols, they're shooting," called the Bear.
"Hot damn!" said Pistol lead. "I'm hit."
The F-4 trailed smoke as he climbed out of the area, turning west. The rest of his flight moved in close, departing with him. A minute later Phillips's Bear heard the distinctive sounds of two emergency beepers on Guard frequency. The pilots of the lead Phantom had ejected.
"Damn it!" he cried out, hoping this rescue attempt would not also be aborted.
After the F-4 beepers had been shut off there was no radio contact for five long minutes. Then the airborne F-4 pilots started to talk with one of the crew members on the ground. The Bear remained silent, still climbing the hill as they worked to locate both crew members.
Nearly an hour passed with the rescue attention shifted to the F-4 crew. He listened to them being picked up by a chopper, which he saw only once in the distance. The Bear continued climbing until he reached a relatively flat area near the apex of the ridge. There he waited, craving a cigarette.
A flight of Thuds arrived, homed in on the Bear's count on his radio, and reestablished his position. He called for them to remain alert because of the guns.
"Stinger Bravo, this is Red Dog lead," came Sam Hall's distinctive Southern voice. "Just where are those guns located, Bear?"
"Seven or eight miles north of my position, Red Dog."
"Keep your head down for a few minutes while we calm them down some, you hear."
"Yes, sir."
Bear watched as bombs were dropped into the valley from which the flak had erupted. Sam rolled and jinked away amid another flurry of shooting and bursting clouds of shrapnel.
"You see where the shooting came from, Red Dog two?" asked Sam.
"Roger. Two is in hot."
"Three is in hot."
"Four's in hot."
The Bear gave an exultant whoop. In the distance the valley erupted in a pall of smoke and fury as six bombs from each fighter were dropped on the gun positions. Yet even as the last aircraft was pulling off the target, streams of tracers continued to shower upward and bursts of flak pocked the sky.
A pair of Sandies appeared from over the ridge line and buzzed over the Bear's head.
"Stinger Bravo, this is Sandy one-one. While your buddies keep them busy over there, what say we try to get you out of here?"
"Sandy one-one, I am all for that." Then the Bear began to laugh uncontrollably.
"Go to button charlie on your radio, and give me some orange smoke if you've got it."
The Bear changed channels and reestablished contact with Sandy one-one. He then pulled a smoke flare from his survival vest, pried the cover off, and waved it around in the air to get the orange smoke going.
"Stinger Bravo, I've got you in sight. A Jolly Green chopper's standing by. He'll come in for the pickup after you answer a couple of questions for us."
"Roger." He was concerned that he wouldn't be able to remember what he'd put down on the rescue questionnaire.
"What's your mother's maiden name, Stinger Bravo?"
"Uh, oh shit." Think, he begged himself. "Bowes! It's Bowes!"
"How about your cat's name when you were a kid back in Montana?"
"I'm not from Montana, I'm from Oklahoma. And I didn't have a fuckin' cat."
"Those re the golden words. By the way, Sandy one-two reports there's a group of about a hundred gomers down below you, coming up the hill, and I do believe they're after your butt. I want you to work your way over the ridge. That way the Jolly Greens will be masked from their small-arms fire."
"Shit!" the Bear exclaimed. He scooped up his pack and hustled away from the hillside from which he had come, running up and over the apex of the ridge. With a whoop of surprise he slid and fell twenty feet down a steep slope. He retrieved the radio from the dirt and limped on, cursing, then monitored again.
"That's good, Stinger Bravo. Real good. Jolly Green five-one will be coming in from the northwest to attempt a very quick pickup."
"I don't have him in sight," yelled the Bear, his words coming in a rush.
"He'll be there just as soon as I make a rocket run on your buddies, Stinger Bravo."
The A-1H turned on a dime and disappeared from the Bear's view. He heard a whoosh, and then the sounds of exploding rockets. Immediately following the rocket attack he heard the whop-whop-whop of the chopper. Two Jolly Green HH-3 helicopters were coming toward him. One held back, but the other continued in his direction.
"Stinger Bravo, this is Jolly Green five-one. You got any more smoke?"
He fumbled at a second flare, got it going, and waved it until it was billowing bright orange smoke.
"I've got a positive, Stinger Bravo. This will be a damned fast pickup. Sandy one-two just reported the bad guys are getting close."
"Roger, Jolly Green. I'm ready." Never been more ready in his life.
The chopper crew started to reel out a cable with a pickup device dangling below as they approached. The Jolly Green roared into position, and the Bear was almost knocked from his feet by the blast of air from the rotor-blades.
When the device was still ten feet overhead and the chopper was still stabilizing, the Bear began to jump to try to reach i
t. He heard one of the Sandies strafing the hillside, much closer. His greatest fear was that the chopper crew would weaken in their resolve and flee, leaving him to face a bunch of pissed-off gomers.
The pickup device was five feet above his head. Come on, dammit! He heard the rattle of AK-47 fire.
Finally it was within reach. He pulled down two lower arms of the device and clambered on, wrapping his arms around it, clutching it tightly so it couldn't possibly get away. As he reached down to fasten the safety belt, the chopper pilot decided enough was enough. He turned the craft westward, rapidly accelerating. The Bear hugged the pickup device tightly, maintaining a firm grasp on the pack with its supply of survival gear, just in case. He trailed along behind the chopper in the wind and downdraft.
After a couple of minutes the chopper slowed to a moderate speed so he could be reeled in. The reel operator and a paramedic pulled him inside. The pilot wasted no more time, and the chopper dipped and picked up speed.
"Hey Sarge," yelled the Bear, grinning at the reel operator who was frowning as he examined the ragged edges of a bullet hole in an aluminum bulkhead. "You got a fucking cigarette?"
30/1730L—People's Army HQ, Hanoi, DRV
Xuan Nha
Xuan Nha sat quietly at his desk, staring moodily out the window over the rooftops of the northern quartier of the city, watching the remnants of clouds in the otherwise flawless sky. It had been unseasonably wet this year. They should be well into the dry season and yet the mornings had been constantly cloudy, often rainy, for the past month. Perhaps that was changing; it had not rained for three days now.
Like many men who had faced death yet had inexplicably survived, he believed in the fates. As a warrior, he also felt he could influence the outcome. He had not done well with that during the past forty-eight hours.
Yesterday had not been a good day. The convoy carrying the new radar and guns had been bombed, and Nicolaj Gregarian, the Russian technical adviser, had received a concussion that had left him dazed and bleeding from one ear. He would require medical attention before returning to duty. The ultimate insult had been that the giant P-50 radar had been turned into a smoldering heap of twisted metal while the second radar-hunter pilot was being rescued.
That morning he'd received a curt message that General Luc and Colonel Trung, his superiors, wished to see him at 1800 hours, when they returned from discussions with the general staff. As Xuan prepared himself for the meeting, he wondered about the subject.
The possibility of disciplining him for Major Wu's ineptitude crossed his mind, but was was washed away. Generals did not concern themselves with such small matters. Anyway, Xuan Nha was their link with the world of technology—radars and complex rocket weapons—one of few who could understand those systems, pick out their merits and weaknesses, and adopt proper tactics. They needed him.
As for the destruction of the P-50 radar, Gregarian had ignored Xuan's suggestion to remain at Yen Bai. Nothing there to criticize Xuan Nha for. They would not be concerned about the rescue of the pilots. Under Xuan's guidance the People's Air Force interceptors had destroyed a propeller-driven rescue aircraft, a feat never previously accomplished.
He was not likely to be faulted by the generals, for they didn't realize he was in error. But he knew. He had selected the wrong man for an important task, and for that he had trouble forgiving himself.
Major Wu had remained convinced that the second Thunder plane pilot was hiding in the forests near the mountain village. At Xuan's urging he'd called for more manpower, but instead of sending them out to find the pilot's escape route, Wu had 2,000 troops stumbling over one another around the village. When they unearthed the second pilot's raft and remnants of his parachute nearby, he had only grown more stubborn in his belief that they would find the pilot cowering within the dense foliage.
Then the captain commanding the troops with Gregarian's party had radioed, saying American aircraft were orbiting a few kilometers south of them. The captain recognized the unique patterns as a rescue effort, and was setting up antiaircraft guns to protect his convoy.
The second pilot had traveled more than twenty kilometers from the village. Major Wu had sat benumbed, his thin, cadaverous face twitching in disbelief.
Xuan had taken over, ordering the captain to quickly establish his defenses and send all remaining troops after the second pilot. Fifteen minutes later the captain radioed that his gunners had destroyed a Phantom and asked if they should try to capture those pilots instead. Ignore them, Xuan had ordered, and capture the second Thunder plane pilot.
The fighters were orbiting over a hilltop. Xuan had directed them to proceed up the hill, regardless of the danger, and capture the second pilot.
All contact was lost until a dazed radioman reported that the convoy had been bombed, that dozens were killed, and that survivors were staggering about, bleeding from eyes and ears. The captain, as well as Gregarian and the other Russian advisers, had been incapacitated, the radar destroyed. All aircraft, including the rescue forces, had departed, and the second pilot—his prize—had been rescued.
Major Wu had mournfully reported that thirty-eight men had been killed by rockets as they tried to scale the hillside. The fool did not understand that the capture of the second pilot would have been worth ten times that number to Xuan.
If they had been in the field, Xuan Nha would have summarily shot his wife's nephew. That he was unable to take any action against Major Wu annoyed him.
Lieutenant Hanh interrupted his thoughts, peering into the open office doorway.
"The wounded pilot you wished to interrogate is now at Cam Khe, Colonel Nha."
"His condition?"
"A bone was sticking out from his leg. They stopped at a village and found a man who knew about such things and he set the leg, but the soldiers feel the man is dying."
"They said the same in the beginning. Perhaps he might not die after all."
"The leg is badly swollen and they say the flesh is rotting. The villager cut away some of the leg and soaked the wound with alcohol, but they think it was too late."
Xuan could sense Quang Hanh was holding something back. "Why didn't they tend the leg earlier?" he asked.
The lieutenant drew in a breath. "The driver said they had been told to find the American, but not that it was important to keep him alive."
Another wave of irritation washed over Xuan, subsiding quickly. He glanced at Quang Hanh. "You have done well, Lieutenant."
"Thank you, sir." The lieutenant's baby face beamed. He bobbed his head happily and departed.
Quang Hanh reminded Xuan of himself when he was that age and had performed similar duties, albeit with fewer modern radio conveniences.
He went to the window and looked out at Ho Tay Lake in the distance, trying to forget about Major Wu's ineptitude, until it was time to leave for the meeting with General Luc.
Two large, gray concrete buildings housed the headquarters of the Vietnamese People's Army. In Xuan's building were headquarters for the Army Air Force, the Army of National Defense, and the small People's Navy. Those forces, with only rare exception, operated within the confines of the Democratic Republic. The other building housed the general staff, various organizations supporting the People's Army and Viet Cong in the Struggle for Unification, and representatives of the Pathet Lao, Khmer Rouge, and Thai/Burmese rebels. The planning staff there concocted the battles and dispositions of troops, the logistics staff coordinated the vast shipments of arms and men, and the command center in the basement was concerned with troop movements and ground fighting.
Xuan walked across the parade grounds at the rear of the buildings. The grounds, which once hosted formations of gaudily uniformed French Union Force soldiers from the various provincial forces of Indochina, now served as a parking lot. Soviet and Chinese tanks, armored personnel vehicles, and several hundred trucks were parked in neat rows.
He entered a side door, showing identification to an eternally suspicious group of guards
, and proceeded down the corridor to General Luc's office. He waited a quarter of an hour before Luc's hawkish female secretary bade him to enter. He did so with a minor degree of apprehension.
Both Luc and Colonel Trung sat at one end of the general's office table. To Xuan's surprise, Lt. Col. Thao Phong, his friend from the VPAAF, was seated at the opposite end. Luc nodded curtly at Xuan and waved him into a seat beside Phong. There were no exchanges of pleasantries.
General Luc, wearing a guarded look, indicated Thao Phong. "This matter concerns both you and comrade Phong."
Thao Phong stared at the table, wearing a grave look. Xuan wondered if Phong might be in trouble, and began to think of ways to disassociate himself from his former friend.
"Colonel Trung and Thao Phong have made accusations against you. These have been taken up with the general staff, and have even received the attention of the party."
Xuan's feeling of concern grew. He feared no man in battle, but he was sensitive to criticisms from superiors, and anyone who did not respect the all-powerful Lao Dong party was insane. Yet wasn't it these, the Army and the party, that he served best? He willed his pounding heart to calm. "Accusations?" he asked.
"Yes."
"First," said Colonel Trung, glowering, "you left me with that smelly group of Russians at the embassy party."
"I humbly apologize, comrade Colonel." Xuan had already agreed that it would not happen again, and had considered the matter closed.
"I was forced to eat their cakes. Have you ever eaten such dry and tasteless garbage?"
Thao Phong looked at him sadly. "You accused my sister of being a common whore."
Xuan blinked his eyes, astounded. He knew Phong well, and although they joked about such things, he knew of no sister.
General Luc sighed. "There is little I can do but take action, comrade Xuan Nha. It has been decided by the general staff."
Xuan held his stare straight forward, waiting for the worst.
"I cannot disregard the desires of General Giap and the general staff, can I?"
"No, sir."
"Or the party?"
"Of course not, comrade General." Xuan steeled himself.
