by Tom Wilson
It was a trade, he said. He gave them certain things, and they give him insights for blockbluster stories for his news agency.
It's harmless, the newsman said.
Peacemaker said he didn't care about any of that. He'd just come downtown to learn anything he could about his friend who'd disappeared.
The newsman persisted that he needed the targeting information, as Peacemaker had provided before. He leaned toward Peacemaker and told him he was in too far to back out. All the newsman had to do was name him as his source of classified information, maybe turn over certain bar napkins he'd received with Peacemaker's printing on them, and . . .
For God's sake, keep your voice down! Peacemaker blurted, running his hand nervously through his hair.
Look at the gentlemen at the table there, the newsman told him, indicating the Asians. They're your so-called enemy. They're officials of the National Liberation Front.
Peacemaker whipped his head about. The men staring back with the friendly expressions were Viet Cong?
The newsman said they gave him information as reliable as his own. Next week they might even take him on a tour of an underground headquarters located a few miles from Saigon. They weren't afraid of truth being printed. Why was he?
The OSI agents are closing in, Peacemaker reminded him, as he stared as the businessmen.
The newsman said his friends at the next table could stop the investigation . . . if Peacemaker cooperated again.
How would they do that? he asked incredulously.
The newsman said he never asked, but they always did as they said in such matters. The Vietnamese businessmen at the next table continued to smile openly at them.
Two nights after Peacemaker's meeting with the newsman, an ARVN major who liaised with the Seventh Air Force headquarters was found with incriminating information in his possession detailing one of the following day's bombing targets in North Vietnam. He'd been fingered by a Saigon taxi driver who had long been a reliable source for the OSI. Unfortunately the major had obviously discovered they were onto him, for while American and South Vietnamese agents were on their way to his quarters, he'd held his .45 automatic in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
With the matter wrapped up, the OSI agents curtailed their investigation of Peacemaker's office and quietly took credit for their achievement.
The following evening Peacemaker visited the API newsman's sumptuous Saigon apartment with detailed information about the next week's North Vietnamese targets. In trade for those coordinates, the newsman was given his tour of the underground Viet Cong headquarters. The story under the newsman's byline was featured in more than a hundred major newspapers in the United States and Europe.
Gino, Peacemaker's friend, was never seen or heard from again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thursday, May 25th, 0615 Local—Route Pack Five, North Vietnam
Major Lucky Anderson
Lucky was mission commander for the morning alpha strike. They were to attack targets of opportunity on the northeast railroad, the rail line that crossed from Hanoi over the Paul Doumer and Canales des Rapides bridges and then snaked a hundred miles across a broad flatland into China.
The pilots disliked going out over the flats, for large numbers of gun and SAM batteries were lined up along the railroad and the sidings. It was so flat and without terrain features, the gomer SAM and AAA radars easily painted and tracked them, and when the guns and missiles were fired at them, which was frequent, there was no place to hide. They simply had to do their damnedest to outmaneuver them. A respectable number of Air Force and Navy pilots had been shot down there, and none had been rescued. In order to give the rescue forces a chance, they would have had to walk back as far as the mountains to the west or the South China Sea to the east, and both routes were considered impossible.
The sixteen strike pilots flew in four-ship fingertip formations, one behind the other, and Lucky had briefed that the various flights should rove over different portions of the rail line between the Hanoi restricted area and the Chinese buffer zone. They carried standard combat loads, six 750-pound bombs, and were to bomb or strafe any rolling stock they found.
As they approached the Red River, Lucky had to force himself to remain alert and ignore the false serenity of flying in the early morning. It's visual trickery, he thought as he looked down upon the world in its semidarkness. The sun had not risen sufficiently to light the earth below, but their Thuds were bathed in a gentle yellow glow. High above them golden-hued tendrils of cirrus clouds streamered against a gentle blue background. It was difficult to think of killing and friends dying with all the beauty surrounding them.
Except for the Wild Weasels flying up ahead, trying to sucker the SAMs into firing at them, Lucky's Talon flight was leading the way.
"Talon lead, Talon two. I've got the MiG-CAP in view at eight o'clock high," called Captain Bowes in his Oklahoma drawl.
Billy flew on Lucky's right wing and was doing his usual good job. His chore was to view the sky about them and keep lead informed, and Bowes had exceptionally good eyes to do it with. He routinely spotted aircraft long before the rest of them.
DeVera was to his left, flying as number three, and Joe Walker was Manny's wingman. Both were in proper position.
During the past three weeks the Supersonic Wetback had mastered his problem, whatever it had been. He'd been cocky and sure of himself, and on two occasions had led flights into the lower packs and done a good job of it. His recovery had undoubtedly been accelerated by the sexy blond, for Manny spent most of his free time on five baht buses to Nakhon Sawan, where her Peace Corps camp was located. If that was what it took, Lucky was all for the tonic she offered him.
Manny returned from his overnighters looking as if he'd been chased by a pack of sex-crazed, three-peckered gorillas—and they'd caught him. Or at least that's what Henry Horn liked to say. But Manny took his job as assistant C-Flight commander seriously and lifted much of the dreary administrative load from Lucky's shoulders.
"Talon lead, Talon three. I've got three bogeys in the distance at our ten o'clock, going away." Manny's voice was businesslike.
"Roger, three. You hear that transmission, Pistols?" Lucky asked the MiG-CAP flight.
"Pistol has them in sight," the F-4 leader replied. "They're headed toward the buffer zone. No threat to you guys, but we'll keep 'em in mind."
The last flight in the series, Wolf, reported that a lone MiG-17 had made a single pass across their stern, had quickly flashed by, and then dived for the deck.
"Wolf, Talon lead. Keep a good eye out for his buddies," called Lucky, and felt the uneasy tingle that something was going on that he didn't understand. That sort of fast flyby had been occurring relatively often during the past weeks, as if the MiG pilots were looking for something. Some of the pilots thought the MiG drivers were checking out their weapons loads.
The four flights of Thuds crossed over the Red River twenty miles north of Yen Bai, keeping their vigil. Except for a few high cirrus clouds, the weather was clear.
0629 Local—Route Pack Six
Captain Manny DeVera
When Manny had spotted the MiGs in the distance, the old knot had threatened to return to his stomach. But the MiGs had flown on without turning and he'd calmed his stomach and the strike force had continued across the Red River Valley without incident. By the time Talon flight crossed over Thud Ridge, headed for the southernmost sector of the northeast railroad, and was still unchallenged, Manny was feeling better about it all, and even began to think it might be an easy day.
He needed a few more of those.
Of course he was over and done with whatever it had been that had caused the suffocating, puking fear, but he would not at all mind easier missions. He'd almost asked Major Lucky for a couple of more missions in the lower packs, but he'd realized he might be cheating some new guy out of his first indoctrination missions. And, of course, there was no reason to broadcast the fact that his nerve had gone on
him that time.
The Wild Weasels, flying a dozen miles out in front of them, began to call out threats. They announced several Firecan artillery radars and at least two active SAM radars in the area they were flying toward, and Manny felt his hair tingle and the knot growing again.
Steel up, dammit. The Supersonic Wetback doesn't come unglued.
And suddenly he knew he hadn't shaken his fear at all. He'd been flying down in the easy packs, and you don't learn fuck-all about flying in pack six when you're down there. All he'd done was keep the others from learning how chickenshit he really was. He felt increasingly shaky as he realized the truth, and began to dart his eyes about, imagining the worst. How the hell could he steel himself when he knew the gomers had a silver fucking bullet with his name on it?
They'd know . . . the fucking gomers would know . . . and they'd pick him from the group and kill him. Or maybe they wouldn't know he was shaking like a fucking idiot, but he'd screw something up . . . and they'd kill him.
He found he was sucking and wheezing, just like the other time. Dumb shit. Keep it up and it won't take gomer bullets. You'll kill yourself.
Still forty miles from the railroad.
He monitored his breathing and forced himself to do the things that had to be done.
Christ almighty, but I'm scared.
The Wild Weasels began dueling with a SAM radar, and in the distance he saw missiles arcing upward. He sucked a breath and a cold shiver racked his body. He wanted to turn and run, thought hard about it, but knew he'd have an even poorer chance if he left the safety of the group. Maybe it'll go away, he thought, but he knew it wouldn't, and that Manny DeVera was about to die.
They flew on toward the battle, and he tried to think of ways to chicken out gracefully, but all he came up with was a bunch of jumbled, dumb-shit ideas.
The Weasel flight leader radioed that he'd seen rolling stock moving south between Bac Giang and Bac Ninh. Major Lucky asked how many, and the Weasel leader said he'd counted about a dozen boxcars.
Fuck! Now they had a target, and Manny still hadn't decided on a way out of the mess.
Bac Ninh was at the edge of the Hanoi restricted zone, so the train was fair game. No piece of cake there, for a lot of guns were deployed around Bac Ninh.
Manny's breath came faster, and the hissing sound became louder in the helmet's earphones. He looked over and found he was too far forward, was almost line abreast with Lucky. When he eased the throttle back, he noticed his hand was unsteady.
Maybe something was wrong with his airplane?
Coward! he raged at himself.
Lucky told the other flights to continue searching, then led Talon flight into a right turn, descending toward Bac Ninh. After a few miles they'd likely turn northeast, and the train would be coming toward them, Manny thought, trying to keep his mind busy. Now he just wanted it to be over with, so they could fly back toward the west and away from the dangerous flatlands, and so his heart might quit pounding. Maybe if it all went very quickly, he'd be able to see it through without getting too clanked up.
Shee-it, man, you're already clanked. You're going to die!
They were at 7,000 feet when he saw, first, the railroad, a dark thread against the yellow-brown fields, then the city of Bac Ninh through which it passed.
Was it a smudge of smoke beyond the city?
"Talon two has the train in sight," called Billy Bowes in an even voice, as if he were Chet Huntley giving the evening news. The guy had eyes like binoculars. All Manny could see was the tiny smudge.
They flew around Bac Ninh to avoid its guns, then northeast, parallel with the tracks, and the smudge grew until it was clearly billowing from the front of a line of rail cars. Some trouble or other had obviously held the train up during the night, for they normally moved them only during darkness and heavy weather. Likely the engineer was trying to dash the remaining distance to Bac Ninh and safety. The gomers knew about their restrictions.
Lucky began to climb and Manny followed, stroking in and out of burner to keep up.
"Talons, this is lead. First element will drop on the front part of the train, near the engine. Manny, you and Joe drop on the aft section. Then we'll circle around and strafe."
"Three," Manny answered, hoping his voice hadn't betrayed him.
As they climbed, his RHAW system came alive with the unnerving sounds and strobes of distant SAM and AAA radars, and he was sucking and hissing hard in his mask. Again he had to slow his breathing consciously. He could see the train clearly now as it hurried toward Bac Ninh. Were those muzzle flashes coming from Bac Ninh or glints from water?
The first element, Lucky Anderson and Billy Bowes, went into their dive. Manny held high, delaying the moment as long as possible as he stared down at the train.
Flak bursts puffed in the sky around Lucky and Billy. The guns from Bac Ninh were reaching out for them.
He sucked a final breath and held it, wishing he could wait longer, then rolled onto his back and tucked the Thud into a steep dive. He picked an aim point a hundred feet west of the cars, because the smoke was blowing hard to the east and that should correct for the wind. He eased back his throttle and the Thud settled comfortably into its dive. Concentrate on the bombing problem, he told himself, like you're on a gunnery range in the States.
Fifty degrees dive angle, he noted. Good, that meant they'd have less time to shoot at him. He would be steep and fast, and there was no reason to press lower than was healthy.
Passing through 9,000 feet, altimeter unwinding like a fucking banshee, pipper climbing steadily toward the aim point.
He pickled at 7,500 feet, pipper squarely on the aim point, and immediately threw the throttle forward and reefed the control stick back and left, gritting his teeth and groaning as he endured seven gravities. And he flew right into it.
Flak bursts exploded directly before him. The windscreen immediately turned opaque, and a jagged piece of alien metal lodged and sizzled there, smoking; then something else penetrated through the side of the cockpit, and a wasp stung his right hand.
Oh sweet Jesus.
He panicked. Not here. Don't let me die here!
He pulled harder yet on the control stick.
"Good bomb, Talon three," he heard Lucky call in his too-calm voice.
Lucky didn't know.
The alien shard of hot metal stuck in the top of his windscreen fluttered, then dislodged and flew back to strike his helmet visor and drop down against the side of his seat.
"Oh shit. I'm hit!" he cried out over the radio.
He cautiously peered down and saw the small, twisted piece of metal lodged between his ejection seat and the bulkhead. He looked forward and watched as beads of Plexiglas separated from the edges of the two-inch hole and zipped over his right shoulder . . . like white beebees. He ducked lower into the seat.
Someone called but the words were dim, and he couldn't understand them over the sound of air rushing into his cockpit.
All of that had happened within a few seconds after he was hit. It was as if he were moving in snapshots of time, like a movie pausing on each frame.
He maintained the hard turn.
". . . right two o'clock," he heard.
He strained to hear better.
"Talon . . . heading of . . . repeat, heading . . . zero . . . zero." Lucky Anderson's voice was calm and reassuring.
"I'm hit!" he called again, wanting someone to know. Then he remembered his call sign. "Talon three is hit!" he cried out.
He dialed in more radio volume with his trembling throttle hand.
Lucky's calm voice again. "You're not smoking, Talon three. No fire. Turn to a heading of zero, niner, zero. Fly due east, Talon three. Zero, niner, zero."
They knew.
He'd begun to turn to the easterly heading when his body betrayed him and convulsed in a shuddering spasm. He rolled out, trying to control himself, then corrected to ninety degrees.
The other Talons closed in around him, sheph
erding him toward the coast.
A bracket of four 85mm rounds exploded in the distance, and although he was already crouching behind his combining glass to avoid the windblast, Manny hunkered even lower into the ejection seat. Heart pounding, he pushed the throttle outboard to select afterburner, and when it lit, he heard Major Lucky tell Talon to do the same so they could keep up. As he accelerated, the force of the wind blowing through the hole in the windscreen created more and more pressure on his body, but he tensed himself and endured it.
Six awful, long minutes later they passed over the coast and Lucky called "feet wet."
Manny DeVera began to sob.
Lucky called for him to come out of afterburner, and after a fearful look back at the enemy coastline he did so. But he continued sobbing.
He was safe. They couldn't shoot at him over the water because the U.S. Navy controlled both the surface and the air here. And if he did go down, they'd pick him up. He tried to stop crying, but could not. He tried again and felt a final grand shudder. It was as if his mind and body had been taken from him, but were given back.
He began to pull himself together.
Red Crown gave Talon vectors toward an emergency tanker on brown anchor, the air refueling track that would take them down the coast toward South Vietnam. Manny looked, and for the first time noticed that the map as well as all the papers that had been clipped to his kneeboard were gone. Siphoned out the small hole at the top of the windscreen? Impossible. Then he saw them scattered about at his feet, covered with red. Hydraulic fluid?
Lucky was calling, but Manny was too busy recovering his composure to answer.
The pressure was still tremendous, for the hole at the top of the windscreen continued to funnel air into the cockpit. He throttled back again, down to less than 400 knots.
"What's your status, Talon three?" Lucky called for the fourth time.
But Manny had noticed something bizarre. It was not hydraulic fluid on the maps and papers. He carefully switched to fly with his left hand, then lifted his right hand up before his eyes and turned it over and stared in amazement.