by Tom Wilson
"Yes, comrade Colonel." Quang Hanh wrote on the report he was preparing.
"Damage to the target?"
"Colonel Tran Van Ngo will forward that information in fifteen minutes, sir. We know that the large derrick at the center of the buildings was damaged, and that several of the adjacent workshops were destroyed. Nothing more yet."
Xuan grunted, thought about it all, then returned to the commandant's table.
"Anything new?" asked General Luc.
"Two aircraft destroyed, as we thought. My forces have suffered some losses, but not bad ones."
"The steel mill?"
"Damage to the crane and central buildings. We don't have a final report yet."
General Luc looked hopeful. "If the second blast furnace is not destroyed, the Minister of Industry says he will still be able to produce steel. He reported that to First Minister Pham Van Dong."
"Yes, comrade General," said Xuan Nha. "My forces are doing everything possible to save what has not already been destroyed."
"Everything possible?" Luc glanced at him.
Now, thought Xuan, it will come.
But General Luc went back to reading another report, and carried the matter no farther.
He heard the sounds of chairs scraping.
Colonel-General Dung had entered the command center, and noise in the large room quickly fell to a hush as everyone stood. General Luc bowed sharply to the waist, and the others followed his lead.
"Return to your work," growled Dung. He looked fresh and prepared, as if there were no problems in the world. He wore the dark-green field uniform he preferred over the whites some of the other generals wore.
"Colonel Nha," he said, and beckoned.
Xuan Nha hurried forth, knocking over a pad and pencils as he brushed the table, and followed the general out the door.
General Dung was silent as they strode along, Xuan following in the midst of the general's entourage of aides and assistants.
They stopped at one of the smaller military intelligence offices.
"Clear that room," Dung barked, and an assistant went in and herded out three baffled men in sweat-darkened work uniforms.
"The rest of you wait," the general said quietly. He motioned for Xuan Nha to join him.
Xuan went in with him and closed the door behind them.
General Dung relaxed, leaned back, and rested his buttocks on a desktop. He tapped two cigarettes from a pack of Salems, and lit them, handing one to Xuan Nha.
They smoked quietly, creating a fog in the poorly ventilated room. Two soldiers, relaxing together.
Xuan Nha knew his time had come to face the consequences of not winning. He vowed to exit with dignity, and felt strangely serene.
"Congratulations," said Dung finally, "on shooting down so many enemy aircraft with your forces, Xuan Nha."
Xuan shrugged, as if it were a small thing. "I have done my best."
"Certainly you have. We all know that." He waved the hand dangling the cigarette, scattering ashes. "Everyone. Giap. Van Dong. Me. We all know. We gave you an impossible task."
Xuan Nha remained quiet. He wondered if the general would do it himself, perhaps with his own side arm. That would be an honor.
"I knew," said Dung in a calculating and quiet tone, "that the steel mill would be bombed since the first day the American fighters came to destroy the railroad loading facility. It's their way. They nibble cautiously, as if they do not understand the psychology of war. One nibble, then draw back to see our reaction, then another nibble."
Dung shook his head before continuing.
"If their leaders were half as brave as their pilots and soldiers, even if they listened to them, the war would have been over almost before it began. Thankfully the Washington leaders are cautious and fearful men."
Xuan Nha smiled.
"You are a brave and intelligent man, Xuan Nha. You have an understanding of these new weapons of war that the rest of us do not. You're a man of many talents, and furthermore you are a fine patriot. You've proven all those things in your years of service."
Xuan Nha felt a wave of exhilaration.
"You could not have imagined that the Americans would persevere and continue to attack in the face of such losses. You should not feel ashamed."
Xuan bowed his head, feeling the glow of a child bringing home good marks from école. Not perfect marks, though.
"Just now I need such a man as you, Xuan Nha."
"I have always been your faithful servant, sir."
"Have you heard of what has happened to Colonel Huu, General Giap's staff officer?"
The colonel who was reported to have been sent to the south as a common private!
"I know him vaguely, sir," said Xuan.
"Yesterday the Enlightened One was seen to grow angry with him, to blame him for what has happened at the refinery near Haiphong. General Giap sent Huu to the south, to fight as a private soldier."
Xuan Nha nodded. "I heard that rumor."
"It is true." Dung smiled mirthlessly then. "Within reason it is true. Huu will go south, but once there, he will help to establish a new headquarters. Three months from now, Colonel Huu will quietly be placed in charge of an elite regiment, the 320C."
Xuan Nha understood only that Huu had taken the blame, as contrived by the general staff. It was too political for Xuan to accept as right, but he understood. He did not even wonder if the rest of the story was true, whether the scapegoat was to rise from the ashes. Huu had been dishonored, and that was the worst thing imaginable for a proud soldier.
"The Enlightened One will not live much longer, Xuan Nha. He grows weaker and more foolish every day. A sick man. Control of the government is already passing to Secretary-General Le Duan, with the secret support of most of the politburo members. General Giap and Pham Van Dong will continue to be the key advisers when Ho Chi Minh is gone."
General Dung stubbed his cigarette out on the desktop, pausing and looking thoughtful.
Xuan Nha wondered what it was all about. It did not seem that Dung was going to shoot him. Had he been spared?
Dung regarded Xuan Nha. "The Enlightened One does not go easily. He is very aware of what is happening, and no one is silly enough to lie to him. So . . . until he passes, much emphasis will remain on his foolish, showplace industrialization projects. I tell you, the man is fanatical about two things, reunification and industrialization. To him both are equally important."
He drew out two more cigarettes, lit them and passed one to Xuan.
"He is shielded from the worst truths about the damage at the steel mill. When the destruction is completed by the Americans, Vo Nguyen Giap fears that he will not be able to accept it graciously, that he may resort to something foolish, like calling for negotiations with the Americans before we are ready. So . . . we need another brave man, Xuan Nha."
Xuan nodded, very slowly, letting the smoke of the cigarette curl up into his face.
"General Giap's man, Colonel Huu, was the last one. He will be publicly disgraced, harshly so, and sent on to the south."
"Harshly?"
"He will be paraded about Ba Dinh Square with placards about his neck. You've seen it done."
"To traitors."
"Yes."
"And me, comrade General?"
General Dung sighed. "Perhaps not even so gentle a public disgrace as Huu will receive, Xuan Nha. The Enlightened One must be able to take his wrath out for the loss of his precious steel mill, which he treasured far greater than the refinery. That is why I personally picked you, because of your courage and your great patriotism."
Xuan Nha tried to keep his composure. Roaring sounded in his ears. Could he beg the general? Would that change his fate, which to Xuan was certainly far worse than death?
"When?" Xuan Nha whispered.
"Not right away. I want you to go up to your Wisdom complex and take personal charge of things. Such an action might be appropriate in this time of turmoil. Perhaps when we return to the command
center, you should announce that you will go up there to personally control the defenses and save the rest of the mill from destruction."
Xuan Nha was still numb.
"Then, in a week or two when the entire mill is destroyed, we will tell the Enlightened One that you were responsible for the loss of the mill. Perhaps we will be able to focus his disappointment upon you, as we did yesterday with Colonel Huu."
Xuan remembered the feeling he'd had when he had been a child happily coming to Hanoi to join his family, only to find that they detested him. He'd been an outcast, feeling blame for something he'd not done. He'd rejected them and had come to realize the Lao Dong party and the Viet Minh were his true family. He'd risked his life for them, lived for them, been accepted and called a model son. The Tiger of Dien Bien Phu.
"You will be recalled to Hanoi," continued General Dung. "Here you will be called to task before the Enlightened One, and perhaps you should even argue that your way was right. We will then strip you of your command and rank, humiliate and reeducate you, and then send you to the south to fight as a common soldier."
The general spoke positively, as if it were already decided. The buzzing grew louder in Xuan's ears.
"But not so in truth, Xuan Nha. General Giap and I will know, as will Le Duan and Pham Van Dong. No others, of course. To us you will be the greatest of heroes. You will go to the south and establish defenses for our forces. The fighters, dragon planes, and helicopters pose a great problem for us there. Then, when the Enlightened One dies, you will return to Hanoi as a hero. At that time you will replace General Luc, in command of the Army of National Defense. Do not fear. It will all be properly contrived and there will be no mistakes. You are too valuable, Xuan Nha."
"Li Binh?" Xuan breathed. "May I tell her?"
Van Tien Dung, the peasant who had risen to become a general through his wit, intelligence, and ability to inspire and manipulate subordinates, smiled graciously. "Not yet. When it happens, I will personally tell her and make certain that she understands fully. That I promise you as a fellow soldier, Xuan Nha. Until then, there should be no one except you and me to know."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Friday, March 17th—0425 Local, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
B. J. Parker
The wing had bombed Thai Nguyen for seven of the past eight days. They'd been the first to bomb the target, and they were the unit used most persistently by higher headquarters.
Thus far sixteen aircraft had been lost bombing the Thai Nguyen steel mill. Nine strike pilots were either captured, dead, or missing. Two Weasel crews had been lost, none recovered. Of the five strike pilots rescued, two were injured. Two more aircraft class-26'ed, another badly damaged but fixable, seven more lightly damaged by flak.
At first they'd averaged two or three losses on each round-trip mission to the steel mill, but as time went on they lost fewer.
Although they'd faced the most dense concentration of sophisticated weaponry ever encountered by aircraft, they had been able to persevere. Most of the steel mill complex had been destroyed. All that remained standing was part of the new, northernmost building that housed the second blast furnace.
Was it worth it?
How the hell was a dumb-shit fighter jock colonel supposed to know?
B. J. Parker turned off his office light and walked out, toward the command post. Mack was going to lead the strike today, try to knock down the remainder of that last big building.
He found Mack worrying over maps and poststrike photos of Thai Nguyen. B. J. stared up at the lineup board.
"Max Foley's tail-end-Charlie again," said Mack, also looking up. "He likes it, says he sees more MiG's back there."
"That's how he got his MiG," said B. J. "I see Benny and Pudge Holden are flying together again."
"Four times over the last four days," said Mack. "They alternate leading, but the way they split their flight it doesn't matter much anyway. They're doing well at keeping the defenses busy. Yesterday they flew the afternoon go and there were no losses at all. I hope to hell we can match that today."
"So what's your pitch about this morning?"
Each time Mack led a mission he gave out one of his philosophies on flying combat, being effective, and surviving to fly another day.
"Too many of our losses at Thai Nguyen have been number two or number four. I think some of the wingmen are following right down the same chute as their lead, and when the gomers shoot at the guy in front, they're getting the guy behind him. I'm going to remind them to jink out wide and come in from odd directions to confuse the gunners."
B. J. nodded. These were things you learned from experience. Too many of the young pilots flying on the wing weren't lasting long enough to gain that benefit.
Some of the pilots were beginning to arrive in the briefing theater, taking their seats and sipping coffee from paper cups.
Bear Stewart shuffled by, cup clutched in one hand, his flight plan and lineup card in the other. He wore sunglasses, although it was still dark outside.
"Bear!" called Parker in a gruff tone.
Stewart turned and faced him coolly, sipping his coffee.
"Why the hell are you wearing sunglasses?" He'd wondered before.
That caused the Bear to fidget and look uncomfortable.
"Well?"
"They're corrected, sir. I wear corrected lenses so I can see."
"Don't you have any clear glasses?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why don't you wear them instead of sunglasses?"
"Same reason Sam Hall always wears the same cruddy boots when he flies, even though he's got two new pair. Same reason some people wear a Saint Christopher's medal and some wear the same old holey gloves when they're flying. And the same reason everyone's started growing a mustache and nobody's shaving them off. I've worn sunglasses to every mission briefing since I got here. This is my eighty-fifth mission, so I guess I'll wear 'em fifteen more times, sir."
The Bear nodded politely and went to find a seat.
Mack was grinning. "We're certainly not a superstitious group, are we?"
"I've carried the same dog tags since I started flying. You?"
"I carry a silk scarf in my flight-suit pocket. Started out bright blue, but now you can hardly tell what color it is. I can't even remember what the girl looked like who gave it to me, but I wouldn't fly combat without the scarf."
B. J. looked over where the Bear sat, slouched down with his hands laced over his chest, sunglasses hiding his eyes. "I wonder what would happen if the Bear didn't wear his sunglasses to a briefing?"
"Probably half the guys would think up reasons for not flying." Mack chuckled. "Hell, I don't know if I'd want to."
"I'm not superstitious, mind you, but me either."
Lieutenant DeWalt came in with the execution word. As all had suspected, they were returning to the Thai Nguyen steel mill.
17/0625L—Wisdom Rocket Site, DRV
Xuan Nha
Xuan Nha had acted like a man sleepwalking since coming to Wisdom. He was unable to concentrate upon the attack problems, unable to care much about the controllers who gave their instructions to the ground and air forces.
The steel mill had been all but leveled. Only a single corner of the northern walls of the building housing the second blast furnace was standing. The rest was twisted and mangled steel and ever-smaller chunks of concrete. He received the damage reports listlessly.
Following the previous day's reports, he'd realized that his time was up, and tried to mentally prepare himself for the trip to Hanoi, the confrontation, the loss of everything.
He had tried, with all his mental resources he had tried, but he could not bring himself to accept it.
The previous afternoon he'd brought Quang Hanh with him from the command-and-control center to the experimental rocket battery. Nicolaj Gregarian had also come to proudly show off the improvements his Soviet technicians had made to the system since they'd used it to shoot down the Pesky plane and the
attacking radar-hunter.
Xuan had listened to the explanations of the electro-optic system, stared at the television images on the cathode-ray tube, slewed the great antenna with its attached videcon sensor, and since it was a clear day, had even used the television to watch the Thunder planes attacking the steel mill. He had been able to see the columns of smoke as the American bombs broached the few remaining tanks of fuel there.
The Thunder planes had been forty kilometers distant, and it was impossible to get the optical system to seize and track using video contrasts.
"If they were ten kilometers closer," boasted Gregarian, "there would be no trouble with it."
"And the radar remains off?" asked Xuan Nha, showing a glimmer of interest.
"All tracking may be done with the optical system. Before you fire missiles, the missile tracking beam and data-link must be activated, but otherwise there is nothing for them to detect."
"Perfect for use against the radar-hunters," Xuan said.
"My concept has been accepted by PVO Strany," said Gregarian proudly. "All future surface-to-air rocket systems will be equipped with dual tracking modes such as this."
"You will be well received when you go back home this summer," said Xuan Nha, feeling low. He was to be disgraced and this Tay pig would be honored. What an unjust world it was.
There were two elite teams, one Russian and the other Vietnamese People's Army, trained to man the command van of the special rocket site. Its only use was to protect the Wisdom command-and-control center. All training had been suspended at the rocket site, for Thai Nguyen had been deemed too close to Wisdom, and they did not dare to risk compromise and discovery.
The two teams, Russian and Vietnamese, alternated shifts. The Russians worked from noon until midnight, the Vietnamese team took over until the next noon.
It galled Xuan Nha to think of these elite teams watching the battle to the south, yet carefully remaining out of the fight. They were prepared to give nothing and live their fat lives up here, pampered and isolated from the violence.
With all those thoughts in mind he started pacing, his mind churning with emotion.
Before Gregarian had departed the previous evening, to hurry off to the Tay sow Xuan had given him, he asked if Xuan Nha would like to accompany him for an evening meal.
