Termite Hill (Vietnam Air War Book 1)

by Tom Wilson

  "You fly Thunder planes."

  Silence.

  "Two-seat Thunder planes. Your mission is to fire missiles at our artillery and rocket site radars. There is a pilot in the front seat to fly the airplane and a pilot in the backseat to fire the missiles. Which one are you, Major?"

  Silence.

  "Those men who just left? The major and the sergeant? They want to talk with you, but I told them first I wanted one hour alone with you. When they return they will not be gentle. If you refuse to talk to me I will order them to remove the bandages and to break your leg again, and they will do it."

  A look of fear crossed the pilot's face, and he was unable to compose himself. "Please?" He gasped. "No."

  "Talk to me, Major."

  The pilot closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. "My name is Phillips, Glenn Parnell. My rank is—"

  "I know all that!" hissed Xuan.

  The pilot was quiet.

  "Would you have dropped your atomic bomb on innocent civilians in Germany?"

  Silence.

  "Open your eyes, Major."

  The pilot's eyes flickered open.

  "If you do not answer my questions, my men will break the leg again. I also promise they will keep you alive for a long time, and that you will suffer even worse than before."

  The pilot swallowed, tears brimming in his eyes. Was he ready to talk?

  "For the last time, would you have dropped your bomb?"

  The pilot hesitated, likely thinking how harmless the question actually was. He nodded then, and a tear trickled down the side of his face.

  Xuan relaxed. This one was easy. The mutilated leg had, after all, been fortuitous.

  "What did you learn in the school in Nevada?"

  Another hesitation.

  Xuan snapped the folder closed. "I am not a patient man. I am going to walk out, and later you will pray for me to return so you can answer my questions." He turned as if to leave.

  The pilot caught his breath. "Please," he pleaded.

  Xuan stopped. "I already know the answers to my questions, Major. They were given by other prisoners. Don't you think it is ridiculous to be quiet now, when you will beg to talk to me later?"

  Silence.

  "This is your final opportunity. What did you learn at the school?"

  The pilot's throat was dry, his voice weak and defeated. "Air-to-ground gunnery."

  "It says here that you learned radar bombing, dive-bombing, skip bombing, and loft bombing."

  "Yes."

  "Was that all?"

  The pilot hesitated before giving his response. "I also learned air combat tactics. And about the M-61 cannon. How to strafe targets at both low and high angles."

  "Did you fly in the front or the back of your Thunder plane?"

  After a pause, "The front seat."

  Now to verify that the pilot was telling the truth. "What was the name of your female friend when you were in Germany?"

  Hesitation. "Which time? I was there twice."

  Good. "The second time."

  "Her name was Nicole."

  "A German girl?"

  "French. She was from Lyons."

  The information checked with the sheet. Xuan was pleased.

  "What is the missile that you shoot at our radars?"

  A sigh. "It's called an AGM-45A Shrike."

  "How far away can you fire this . . . Shrike . . . and hit a target?"

  "Twenty miles? I'm not sure."

  Xuan exhaled sharply. "I'm out of patience."

  "Please," the prisoner whined. "The other pilot fires the missiles. I just go where he says."

  "What is the name of the backseat pilot you fly with?"

  Hesitation. "I fly with different pilots. We're not trusted to fly together with the same one all the time."

  That made sense, although the sheet said it was a man named Malcolm Stewart. "What was the pilot's name you were flying with when you were shot down?"

  "A guy named Malcolm."

  That was correct enough. "How does he fire this Shrike missile?"

  "I don't know, I don't like the damn things. They don't work half the time, and when they do they don't hit much of anything. Sometimes they just explode right there on the airplane's pylon. I lost a good friend like that once, but when I asked my superiors about it they told me to be quiet and I was afraid to ask more."

  "Your superior officers are cruel?"

  "Yes."

  "What are the names?"

  "General Roman is the worst. I think most of the men who work for him are homosexuals or fly bombers or something."

  "What about your backseat pilots? How are they trained?"

  "They don't tell me things like that. I don't like the backseat pilots anyway. They act so damn superior, but they don't know what they're doing. I think they may get some sort of training, but it can't be much."

  Xuan smiled at his triumph. This prisoner would tell him anything he wanted to know. The pilot continued to babble about the stupidity of the backseaters until Xuan stopped him.

  "Tell me more about the Shrike missiles."

  The pilot sighed. "I'm only a major, but I heard they've discovered sabotage from one of the factories. An electronic module in one of the missiles they received was fouled with chocolate. They think it was from a factory near a place called Hershey, Pennsylvania."

  Again Xuan stopped him, but he made a mental note to tell Li Binh about the possibility of sabotage at a munitions plant in Pennsylvania.

  "How do you know where to fly so your missiles will hit the radars?"

  "Other pilots see the guns or missiles and radio the backseat pilot, and he tells me to go there."

  "How does the Shrike missile find the radars?"

  "I don't know. Maybe it goes after the heat from the radar. They don't tell me things like that. They don't trust majors. They have to force us to fly, you know?"

  Xuan leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

  "All night long they encourage us to drink whiskey and sing patriotic songs, and when we're very drunk they tell us to fly. Some of us don't want to, even when we're drunk, so they threaten our families."

  These insights were new to Xuan Nha. He continued his questions with mounting glee, periodically interjecting a question to check the pilot's veracity. He asked how many pilots and aircraft the Americans could call upon, and was told the numbers were endless. He asked about American politicians and was told they were corrupt and power-hungry. He asked if the two-man Thunder planes could actually locate the rocket sites, and was told they would never be able to find them. He asked about American women and was told they were silly and promiscuous. He asked about B-52's, and was told they could carry hundreds of bombs and would be virtually impossible to shoot down. He asked about the negroes in America and was told they were all lazy and lay around eating watermelon. He asked how atomic bombs were made and was told that aside from having something radioactive in them, he only knew they were dangerous.

  From the responses and his own knowledge about Americans, Xuan Nha knew the pilot had told the truth. He asked the questions again and was told the same answers. As the end of the hour drew near, he carefully pulled off his eyeglasses and wiped them before replacing them in his pocket. He was satisfied that his rocket sites were much safer than he had dared believe from the bungling two-man crews flying the radar-hunter Thunder planes.

  When Wu and the sergeant reentered the room, a fearful look came over the prisoner's face. Xuan studied him one last time and again concluded that he'd told the truth.

  Wu was smiling solicitously. "Another success, comrade Colonel?"

  "Did you doubt me?"

  "Of course not, sir."

  "He would have sold his mother. He is a poor and very unpatriotic soldier."

  Wu laughed. "Should we question him further now, or wait until we get him back to the prison?"

  Xuan contemplated what should be done with the prisoner. He considered the pilot his private trove of informatio
n and felt that others might dry up his well through mishandling.

  "No more questions for now," he finally said. "Let him heal for a while here, and when he is stronger, return him to the prison and put him with new pilots we shoot down."

  The sergeant said it was their policy to keep the prisoners isolated.

  "If I decide to interrogate him again, I want him to be aware of what is happening."

  "Of course, comrade Colonel," said Major Wu with a glare at the sergeant, as if Xuan's statement was the most intelligent thing he had ever heard.

  Xuan turned a withering stare upon the sergeant. "Watch over him and do not let him die."

  The sergeant groveled and swore to follow the colonel's instructions.

  "When I'm finally done with him, you can do as you wish. I feel unclean in his presence. He is a coward, a traitor to his country, but his information is valuable."

  As he left he failed to notice the pilot's flicker of a smile, or know that he was trying hard not to laugh about chocolate missiles.

  20/2305L—Mu Gia Pass, Laos

  Bear Stewart

  It had been a busy few days for Benny and the Bear. They had flown two more missions to the lower route packs, and now the two-ship night mission in support of a B-52 mission to the Laotian side of Mu Gia Pass, which straddled the North Vietnamese border. Mu Gia was a favorite bombing area for headquarters planners for it was a narrow valley through which the meandering Ho Chi Minh trail was funneled.

  Benny and the Bear never saw the bombers. The B-52's flew their "Arc Light" missions at much higher altitudes. The F-105 Weasels were escorts, tasked to attack any SAM threats that might appear. SAM sites had never deployed into the areas the B-52's bombed, but the Americans couldn't take the chance of losing one of the big, expensive bombers.

  When the bombs began to explode in the distance they watched in awe.

  "My God," exclaimed Benny. "I've never seen so many bombs going off."

  They watched as one long string of bombs after another flashed and danced brightly in the eerie darkness of the distant valley. Each bomber released more explosives than an entire flight of F-105's. The Bear wondered aloud why the hell the big bombers weren't being used up north in pack six.

  "I don't think they believe the BUFs could survive there," answered Benny.

  "Maybe," said the Bear, "but it would sure as hell give the gomers something to think about. The B-52 radar navigators are damned accurate. One string of those bombs would take out any of the targets we pound on for days. I flew in 'em, but I never actually saw what they could do from a ringside seat like this."

  He looked at his scopes. "No threats, Benny. I think they've taken the night off."

  "No threats," Benny radioed on a blind frequency, then turned back toward North Vietnam, fifteen miles distant. He returned to their conversation on the intercom. "You were an EWO in a BUF. You think they could survive in pack six?"

  "They'd have to change some things. Their war plan is to fly up there in three-ship cells. Ten cells of bombers one behind the other across North Vietnam. They'd drop their bombs, then make a nice right-hand turn and leave."

  "Sounds crazy."

  "Amen. If they ever bomb up in pack six they'd better either change their plan or prepare to lose a lot of aluminum and men. The crews know that, but they're being led by generals who flew in World War Two and never saw a SAM."

  Benny returned to business. "Any threats?"

  The Bear surveyed his scopes again. "Not a peep. I've got a long-range radar, but it's not generating enough power to be a Barlock like the one I saw when I was running around on the ground. I guess Sam and his flight destroyed it."

  "Can you tell where the signal's coming from?"

  "It's probably the old Token radar they've got up at Phuc Yen."

  They were quiet for a while as the Bear observed the multiple signals of the distant radar rise and fall on his analysis scope.

  "You hear from Liz?" he asked.

  "Once. Just a nice letter saying she enjoyed her time in Manila."

  "I got one from Julie. She's a hoot. Wants me to stop my fuckin' cussing."

  Benny laughed. "Watch your ass. I think she could be a determined girl."

  "Yeah? That's what she says, too. She wants us to meet them in Bangkok." The Bear became uncharacteristically quiet. "No threats," he finally announced.

  21/1900—354th TFS Pilots' Lounge, Takhli RTAFB

  Maj. Les Ries watched the last men enter the pilots' lounge. The group included the Wild Weasel crews from all three squadrons of the wing. Les nodded for Dan Janssen to shut the door, then told everyone to get a beer and take a seat.

  "This will take a while," he said when they'd all settled, "so let's get started. Everyone here?"

  Andy Schumacher and Larry Stark were there from the 333rd, as well as the two new crews in their flight. Ries looked out at his own squadron-mates: Shaky Anderson, Fred Norman, and another new crew. "My guys in the 354th are here."

  "I've got them," said Janssen, who was taking notes for the meeting.

  Benny gave a wave of his hand. He was the 357th WW-flight commander, with Pudge Holden and Lyle Watson, Dave Persons and Dutch Hansletter in his flight.

  "The 357th is here," said Janssen, writing the names.

  "Let's get started," said Ries.

  The Bear sat beside Benny, sipping a Coors and examining Ries from behind his sunglasses. Ries reminded him of a strutting tom turkey. Arms crossed on his chest, moving around in front of them with a grand air of importance. Benny had told him to cool his open criticisms. Regardless of how hard the Bear tried, it was difficult to like Ries.

  Ries went over and took two documents from Janssen, then waved one at the group.

  "This is an intelligence estimate from Seventh Air Force. It's very sensitive, because of the sources they used to get the information. What it says is that the numbers of MiG's and SAMs are being effectively doubled at this time. More than fifty new MiG's either have been or are in the process of being flown from Russia into Chinese bases, and are being prepared for deployment to North Vietnam."

  A couple of the Weasel pilots grinned. "Good. More targets," they muttered.

  "Also, two or three SAM batteries are arriving every week at Haiphong and are being transported to Hanoi. There they are married up with new crews and trucked off to the countryside. That means that an entire new battalion is being added to the SAM network every week."

  "Jesus," the Bear muttered. It was worse than he'd believed.

  Ries held up a message. "This is a Seventh Air Force message, asking our opinions about how to best mount an offensive against the air defense system. The discussion we're about to have is classified at least Secret, maybe even Top Secret, so I don't want any talk in unsecured areas."

  The Bear's mind churned. He'd been an advocate of a balls-out offensive against the air defenses since his first week of combat. Now they were being forced to come up with something, or face sure disaster. "Shit hot," he growled.

  Ries agreed. "I think that's the consensus of all of us older heads. We've been wanting something like this. It's just too bad we've had to wait this long. Now it's going to be doubly hard to try to take on this number of defenses, but at least headquarters agrees that something has to be done."

  He read from the message: "Recipients will consider coordinated attacks on both air-to-air and surface-to-air defenses."

  "Sounds ambitious," said Andy Schumacher.

  Andy, noted the Bear, is getting cautious.

  Ries continued. "The message asks for representatives from each F-105 and F-4 base to meet for three days at Seventh Air Force Headquarters in Saigon and present their plans. Colonel Parker, Dan, and I will be the representatives from Takhli. The wing commander at Korat will bring along his Weasel reps, and there'll be some guys from the F-4 wings at Danang and Ubon. We'll talk about the best way to take out SAMs and MiG's, and present our ideas to General Moss, commander of Seventh Air Force."

>   The Bear swigged his beer, grinning about the possibility of slugging it out with the defenses instead of being encumbered with having to protect a strike force.

  "What are you going to suggest, Les?" he asked.

  Ries glared his way, and he could tell from the look that he had not been forgiven.

  The Bear ignored the look, for the matter was too important to him. "I've put a lot of thought into how we could do something like this."

  Ries's voice was icy. "We all have. You'll get your turn. Now, let's start with the 333rd. How about you, Andy? You've been here since creation itself."

  The Bear bit his tongue. He and Phillips had arrived at the same time as Schumacher. As Andy Schumacher began expressing his cautious views, doubts began to niggle about Ries's ability to put together a good plan.

  After several had spoken and the meeting had made little progress, the Bear stood up during a period of silence.

  "I think we should start by spending a week with the best recce photos we can get. No strikes that week, just lots of recce missions, with the recce birds protected by F-4's and Weasel Thuds. We study every search, command-and-control, and acquisition radar up there, and target every one of the bastards."

  Ries looked on in exasperation, but the Bear continued. "Then we start phase one. We send in a bunch of F-4's, maybe seven or eight flights of them, flying the same speeds and medium altitudes as the Thuds normally do. The gomers launch their MiG's, thinking we only got a bunch of bomb-heavy Thuds, and our F-4's wipe them out. Right on their heels, while the F-4's are still shooting MiG's, we send in our guys. By then the gomers will have their command-and-control and acquisition radars on so they can fight the F-4's. A Weasel leading each flight of Thuds, using all the Weasel and strike birds we've got here and at Korat, and we bomb the shit out of those radars."

  "Which ones?" asked Cinnamon Bear Stark.

  "The acquisition and search radars we targeted the week before."

  "What about the SAM sites?"

  "We ignore them. They come on the air, we pop a Shrike missile their way, but we just concentrate on the long and medium-range radars. We put out their eyes."

  "Okay," said Ries. "You've had your turn. Next idea?"

  "I'm not done," said the Bear. "When their eyes are out, we attack their SAM sites with every jet in Asia that can carry a bomb. With the command-and-control radars gone, we could even use B-52's, but if the generals don't like that, we do it with Thuds and Phantoms. Bomb nothing but defenses for a couple weeks and get it over with. Every time a SAM comes on the air, have three or four Weasels and bombers ready to pounce on his ass."