Termite Hill (Vietnam Air War Book 1)

by Tom Wilson

  The Bear kept his head during the apologies, then bellied up to the bar and got wobbly-kneed drunk with Lyle Watson. He told him about his high-scoring night in Angeles City.

  "Fourteen times?" asked Watson. "Naw. That's not humanly possible."

  "S' possible," slurred the Bear.

  13/1600L—People's Army HQ, Hanoi, DRV

  Xuan Nha

  Col. Xuan Nha's staff were still in the command center, exultant about the day's events. Three attacking aircraft had been shot down: a Voodoo reconnaissance jet by artillery, a Thunder plane by a direct rocket hit from Tiger one, and a Phantom by artillery. Nicolaj Gregarian watched from the rear of the command center.

  "We are a good team, Russian," said Xuan Nha. "Your equipment, my men. We are starting to improve our fence of steel, don't you think?"

  Gregarian smiled. "But it will be much better when we have Wisdom."

  "It will be better, but already it is very good. The added numbers of systems are making life miserable for the Americans."

  Gregarian agreed.

  "Anyway, site leveling of the Wisdom complex will be finished tomorrow and we will be ready to start putting it together. When will the systems arrive?"

  "Perhaps a week. A ship will bring the communications systems, vans, special rocket radars, and personnel to Haiphong. The P-50 radar will come by train from China, as the other one did." Nicolaj paused, likely reflecting on that first P-50. "My people at PVO Strany Headquarters are supportive but cautious, Colonel Nha. They will watch us closely and want us to take no chances with the equipment or the experts they are sending."

  "Wisdom shall succeed. Then we shall celebrate again, but now we are happy for what we did today. The Americans are beginning to tremble when they fly. I interrogated a pilot flying from Thailand yesterday, and he said they are afraid. We've put fear into their hearts, Russian."

  Major Nguy

  At one side of the command center, Major Nguy, Nha's quiet and capable executive officer, had been cornered by Major Wu, who hoped Nguy might have a solution to his latest dilemma with the colonel. He had reassured Xuan Nha that the wounded pilot captured in the mountains west of Yen Bai was recovering, albeit slowly, and that shortly they would be able to interrogate him. But when he had gone to view the prisoner, he'd found that again the damnable pilot was dying. Wu had been afraid to tell the truth, and now Xuan Nha was pressing for a time to see the pilot.

  Reluctantly, Major Nguy swore to keep Wu's secret from Colonel Nha. Then he asked if there was any hope at all of the pilot's recovery.

  Major Wu bit his lip apprehensively. "I spoke with an officer at Hoa Lo prison, and he does not believe so. The prisoner remains delirious."

  Nguy found it difficult to feel sorry for the intelligence officer. Wu was moody, acted aloof from the rest of the staff, and was especially difficult whenever Nguy was placed in charge. Yet, as the colonel's second-in-command, Nguy felt he must try to deal with personal problems that might affect the performance of the group.

  "Is there still infection?" he asked.

  "No," replied Wu. "At least the doctor I sent to visit the prisoner didn't believe so. He had been treated with sulfides and penicillin. He said some butcher had carved a portion of the muscles from the leg, but that there was no infection."

  "Then why does he not get better?"

  "The doctor is not sure. He knows the leg is healing incorrectly. He gave him drugs so the prisoner could rest better but then he was not coherent. And lessening the drugs only made the pain more intense. He cried and babbled nonsense." He added, "Other wounded prisoners have arrived at Hoa Lo in much better condition, and they died within a week or two. It is a prison, not a hospital."

  "Offer the colonel other prisoners to interrogate. We have identified at least four others at Hoa Lo who were likely flying the radar-hunter mission."

  "The colonel is determined to interrogate this particular man. He is very definite about it. It makes my position difficult, comrade Major." There was a plea in the voice.

  Major Nguy sighed at Wu's solicitousness. "There is perhaps a solution."

  "What is that?"

  "There is a Russian surgeon at Bach Mai Hospital who is very good. He saved the life of one of our officers who was severely wounded during a missile attack on Steel two battery. Our doctors thought he did not have a chance, but the Russian operated and saved him. He might be able to repair the prisoner's leg. But," he paused, thinking, "it is unlikely we can get approval for him to operate on a prisoner."

  They tried to think of how they might be able to get the American pilot onto the doctor's operating table and finally gave up. The bureaucracies involved were too difficult.

  "Perhaps," said Major Nguy, "we should ask the colonel to help."

  "No!" said Wu, unsuccessful at hiding his fear. "I will find another way."

  Major Nguy was inundated with paperwork and had to return to his office. As he climbed the stairs, he reflected on Wu and his problem. Colonel Nha had softened his display of disdain toward Wu following their trip to Bac Can, but Nguy could tell there was still something wrong there. He also thought it likely that Wu was running to his aunt, the well-known Li Binh, to seek her support and advice. She would probably fix things for her spoiled and incompetent nephew once again. She might even be able to get the Russian surgeon to see the prisoner.

  When he thought more about Wu and Li Binh, he decided there was possibly more going on between them than Colonel Nha, or even he, had suspected. The nephew was about the same age as the aunt, and he spoke of her reverently. Nguy hoped, for the group's sake, that if Wu was exercising more than familial love for his aunt, the colonel would not find out. It would be best, he thought, if Wu were transferred away.

  He decided to look into that option.

  He transferred his thoughts to the discussion he'd had earlier with Col Xuan Nha.

  Following his promotion, the colonel had decided to retain the same offices and his old staff. Xuan Nha joked that it was a shame he only had a major for an executive officer, and that one of his men was most deserving to become a lieutenant colonel. Major Nguy was quietly proud that he was about to get the promotion he'd worked so hard for. He decided that Xuan Nha had been definite enough with his hints that he could pass the happy news to his wife tonight.

  He stopped worrying about Major Wu. Only much later would he realize his fatal error.

  13/2100L—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Colonel Mack

  Twice each week, wherever Mack MacLendon was in the world he took time out to write to his wife. They had been married for twelve good years, but in his heart he had known her forever. She was his solace, his pillar, a part of him like his right arm, and he could not imagine life without her. Unlike some of the other men, he never hesitated to tell it to her the way it was. From the first she'd wanted to know about the events in his life, and war was no exception. By writing her, he released something that it would have been unhealthy to keep inside.

  Tuesday

  December 13th

  Dear Alice,

  Hope your cold is getting better. It does not seem that long since you were ill the last time, so you had better start taking better care of yourself . Make sure you see the doc out at the base on a regular basis, hon.

  It has not been a good day here. You may have heard by the time you get this, but today we lost Johnny T. Polaski. He was hit over the target and was likely killed. We had become close since I took over the squadron.

  His wife Amy will need your support, so get a letter off quickly to her. I will write her one from here too.

  You have had to give so much support to so many wives lately, and I am sure there are going to be more friends lost in this war.

  Johnny T. was talking to me yesterday, saying he felt the SAM threat was overstated, that the men were overreacting to them. I tried to tell him that he had to weigh all the threats, and to worry about them equally for they were all lethal. I guess I should have talked to hi
m harder.

  Benny Lewis (remember him from Spangdahlem?) came to me a few days ago and asked if he could fly a very dangerous but necessary special mission called Wild Weasel, and I agreed. At first I had asked him about Bets and the kids, wanting him to think about them before making his decision, but he was abrupt and guarded with his answers. I believe they are having marital trouble of some nature.

  Too many of our friends' marriages seem to be going onto the rocks lately. Wish there could be more like you, but they broke the mold.

  Well hon, in my first war I was given a cot in a squad tent to sleep on. In Korea it was better, because I was given a bunk in a barracks. This war they've given me a single bed in an air-conditioned trailer. Wars seem to be getting better and better.

  I love you,

  Mack

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Friday, December 16th—0800 Local, Dong Hoi, Route Pack One, North Vietnam

  Benny Lewis

  The Bear and Benny were flying together for the third time, but it was the first time they'd really been able to work on their own tactics. They were leading the Weasel flight in the lower panhandle of North Vietnam, supporting several flights of Thuds flying armed reconnaissance missions. The strike flights were looking for supplies and troop concentrations and attacking targets of opportunity in the more sparsely settled areas near the demilitarized zone separating North and South Vietnam. The Weasels were there to protect them from radar-directed threats.

  The Bear detected only a few, weak signals from enemy radars well north of them. "No threats," he said over the intercom, meaning there were no radars close enough to do harm.

  Benny surveyed the flight of single-seat Thuds they were leading. It was a no-brainer, an easy counter that the jocks savored after the peril and confusion of pack six. There were a few clouds in the area, but the visibility was generally good.

  "Okay," said Benny, wishing to make the best of things, "line me up on a radar."

  "All we've got are the radars from our own ships."

  "I'll safe my weapons switches so there won't be any goofs," said Benny. They flew southward at a lazy 450 knot airspeed.

  The Bear told him what he was doing as he tuned to a sweeping Navy signal and isolated it on his main receiver. "Now I'm transferring a radar signal to your scope. See it?"

  "No . . . Oh yeah! It strobed then disappeared again."

  "The operator's sweeping his radar beam around the sky, looking for MiG's."

  "There it is again, at our nine o'clock."

  "That's it."

  "I'm turning left," Benny said. He had trouble lining up on the signal, which intermittently blossomed on the small attack scope.

  "Come left five more degrees," said the Bear as they flew out over the South China Sea.

  Benny made the adjustment.

  "That's good."

  "The signal's steady now," said Benny.

  "He saw us turning toward him," said the Bear. "We got his interest, so now he's tracking and trying to sort us out. You get so you know what the radar operator's thinking."

  The signal jumped in power, the strobe immediately growing from one to three rings.

  "Now he's increased his signal strength so he can track us better. He's not worried because we got our IFF on and that tells him we're friendlies. But he's interested. Select a Shrike missile station and line up on him using the needles."

  "I got him." Benny corrected again, using steering needles that got their information from the Shrike missile. "He's dead ahead now, and the needles show him low, like he should be." He nosed over slightly and read his dive angle. "He's a couple of degrees down."

  "Probably fifteen, twenty miles away. Well out of the normal launch range for your Shrike. You'll have to use your Shrike tables to get the distances. See any ships up ahead?"

  "Yeah, three of 'em dead ahead." Benny referred to notes on his kneeboard. "At our altitude and with him four degrees down, we're . . . uh . . . sixteen miles from the radar."

  The Bear sounded satisfied. "You're doing great. Now, if we were going to bomb him, I'll show you one of the things I could do. First, I fine-tune the signal on the Weasel receiver, then I switch to AZ-EL. Is your steering dot doing anything?"

  Benny watched the dot pinging on the combining glass. "It's jumping all over hell."

  The Bear fined-tuned some more. "How's that?"

  "It's better, but it's still not settling down enough to bomb accurately with."

  "Ahh hell. I'll get the avionics shop to work on it. Let's try using the attack scope."

  "F-105's ten miles southwest of Dong Hoi, this is Jasper. Discontinue your present heading! I repeat, discontinue your present heading!" came a call over the emergency frequency.

  "What the hell?" said the Bear angrily. "They know we're friendly aircraft. They even know what aircraft we're flying."

  Benny banked and turned starboard, and the flight followed. "The ships out here carry missiles, and they might get really stupid and shoot if we continue inbound."

  "Navy assholes," grumbled the Bear.

  "Let's find something to drop our CBUs on," said Benny. He switched to radio. "Let's green 'em up again, Razors."

  "Razor Two."

  "Three."

  "Four."

  The responses came as they passed back over the coastline and rearmed their switches.

  They dropped down to 4,500 feet and trolled, hoping someone would shoot at them so they could knock out some guns. They had flown for ten minutes when Benny circled over an intersection. Below were several trucks stationary on the dirt road.

  "Razor flight, take a hard look at that intersection," called Benny.

  "Razor lead, Razor three. I think it's a flak trap trying to sucker us in."

  Three's voice—that of Ken Maisey—was tremulous.

  The North Vietnamese were known for placing burned out trucks in open view on the roads to try to entice the Americans into bombing them. Then they would open up with their guns and attempt to shoot them down. Numerous pilots had fallen for the ruse. But the Weasels were carrying the right weapons load to deal with a flak trap.

  Benny called, "Razors, listen up. Three and four, hold high and keep a good lookout. Lead and two will go down and try to draw some fire. Let's see where they're shooting from and what they're made of. Razor two, jink out to the right. I'll approach from the west, you come in from the south."

  Three and four soared higher, leaving them. Tiny Bechler, flying Razor two, swung out to the right, then reversed back toward the trucks. Benny began a shallow dive, nose directly toward the intersection.

  Both aircraft continued toward the target. As they came into range they began to jink, weaving and dipping, waiting for groundfire.

  Streams of small-arms and 37mm cannon-fire erupted from thickets of jungle at their one o'clock.

  "Fucking amateurs," snorted the Bear. The 37mm was not aimed, but was simply fired into the air over the intersection where the gunners hoped they would fly. The 14.5mm, streams of bees, were aimed directly at them, not leading them, and went far behind the aircraft. White puffs formed above the flak trap, but both aircraft had already broken off their attacks.

  "You get a good visual on the guns, Razor three?" asked Benny.

  After a long pause Maisey answered in the tremulous voice. "They were shooting pretty good down there, lead."

  "Dammit," muttered Benny. "Did you note their positions?" he radioed.

  "I'm not sure, lead. I think the gunfire came from several sources."

  Benny was joined by Tiny Bechler, who gave him a thumbs-up. They climbed to gain altitude for weapons delivery. Benny wondered if he should believe Maisey. If the guns were bunched together as he'd thought, it would make things easier, for they could concentrate on that one area. He then saw the second element a mile away and waggled his wings in greeting.

  He decided to believe him. "Razors, we're going to drop our CBUs on the guns. Let's release high enough to get good area coverage. Foll
ow my lead."

  His delivery was a good one. Benny was pleased when he rolled over and saw the bomblets sparkling throughout the target area. Tiny Bechler's CBUs were also well delivered. After the CBUs stopped exploding, the ground fire had diminished to a few trickles of 14.5mm bees fired wildly about the sky.

  The Bear announced his pleasure. "Shit hot."

  "Where's three and four?" Benny asked. He looked about for the second element.

  "No telling," said the Bear caustically. "Three's Maisey, remember?"

  Benny looked more but still could not find the second element. "Razor three, say your position," he called.

  He was answered by silence.

  "Razor three, this is Razor lead. I repeat, what is your location?"

  After another moment Maisey radioed. "I've got a problem with my utility pump, lead. I'm five miles south of the target, holding in an orbit."

  The Bear grumbled from the backseat. "It's his same old bullshit all over again."

  Benny held his tongue. If Maisey had an emergency situation with his hydraulics, he should not be dive-bombing. Anyway, the flak trap was not a priority target. "Razor lead copies. Razor three and four, safe your switches and let's head home."

  The Bear went off the intercom so he could release his mask on one side and have a cigarette. When he came back on intercom it was apparent he'd been thinking about things.

  "You know," he told Benny, "I got a feeling we're going to sting 'em good."

  16/1200L—Bach Mai Hospital, Hanoi, North Vietnam

  Glenn Phillips

  Glenn knew he'd been drugged, for he was mercifully oblivious to much of the terrible pain. It was still there, but it had become a throbbing, bearable sensation. Everything about him seemed fuzzy and indistinct. He looked down toward the bent leg, healing at a ten degree outward angle, but couldn't see it. He had been clothed in a hospital smock and was covered by clean sheets. Aside from the fact that he was floating on a giant marshmallow, it was a pleasant change.

  Was he at home, returned from the dream? He was unable to reason it out so he stopped trying. He tried to move his marshmallow arms, but they were too heavy. Was he strapped down? He thought so.