by Tom Wilson
With those figures in mind, watch this.
An enlisted projectionist switched on a 35mm slide projector.
A photo of a laser generator, then another showing it was mounted in a small shed on a hilltop at a bombing range at Indian Springs, north of Las Vegas.
There were several appreciative nods from the eggheads in the room.
"We call this our 'zot machine,' " quipped Moods in his slow voice. "It will generate a light beam that will illuminate . . ."
A photo of the outline of a bridge, etched onto the desert floor by bulldozers.
". . . the target."
A photo of a 1,000-pound concrete bomb shape, with makeshift, stubby, movable wings fixed to its top and a bulbous apparatus on its nose.
"This is a full-scale practice bomb, equipped with a light sensor, steering circuitry, and movable fins."
Another shot of the shape fitted under the wing of an F-4 test aircraft, with a grinning Moods Diller standing beside it.
"I flew this test last Saturday. Takeoff was routine, although I couldn't rotate the nose quite as much as normal because of the size of the bomb's seeker-head. When I was in the air, approaching the range . . ."
A photo of the F-4 when it was airborne, taken by a photographer in a chase aircraft.
" . . . I enabled the weapon's circuitry, and called for the zot machine to be turned on."
A shot of a bright bead of red light on a reflective surface at the center of the "bridge."
"Then I positioned my aircraft at four thousand feet in a slight dive at the target, and . . . released."
Two shots in succession. One of the bomb in the air, the next of it impacting not more than ten feet from the bead of light.
"One sortie, one bridge."
The audience was delighted.
Three hours later the impressed action officers promised Moods Diller a much higher priority. Immediately after they left, Benny Lewis confronted Moods back in the office.
"You like it?" asked Moods happily, reverting to his machine-gun bursts of speech.
"It was great. I liked it."
"We've got the go-ahead . . . all the way up th' ladder, Benny."
"Not me, you. It's been your baby all the way."
"I'll need your support."
"You've got it."
Moods beamed.
"I talked to Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates this morning," said Benny.
"I'll call him right away. . . . He'll wanna know we're on track with the smart bombs."
"I'm taking you out of the loop on CROSSFIRE ZULU, Moods."
Diller's jaw dropped in astonishment.
"Colonel Gates thought you had something he could use on his campaign tomorrow, not next year. You don't have anything like that. You've got a concept, not a weapon."
"You can't do this, Benny. You can't! . . . I've got the perfect weapon to use on the bridges. . . . It'll reduce losses and . . . you can't do this!"
"I did. I briefed our bosses already, and I'm sending a message to Colonel Gates. A no-shit message, Moods, telling him to forget about your smart bombs until they're ready. It's no game over there. Guys are betting their asses trying to fight the war, and Gates thinks you've got something that can do the job."
"I do!"
"Bullshit. You've got a concept."
"You saw the results. . . . The bomb hit squarely on th' bridge. . . . I plan to send pictures to Colonel Gates to show him we've got the right weapon."
Benny ticked off on his fingers. "One, you aren't even close to operational testing of a real kit. Two, the target illuminator is too big to be carried in a fighter."
"They're working on it! . . . They promise a zot machine that can be carried in the backseat of an F-4 within weeks."
"Three, you dropped from unrealistic parameters. Hell, I can hit a bridge in the sand at Indian Springs from four thousand feet without a laser or anything else."
Captain Moods Diller clenched his teeth in anger. "I'll take it to the general."
"If you think that's wise, go ahead. But first let me caution you. If you do, you'll risk having your project terminated, and I'd hate to see that happen."
Moods was too angry to listen. He stormed off to the general's office upstairs.
"Shit," muttered Benny Lewis. He'd been up for too long, and his back was beginning to throb. He took another muscle-relaxant pill.
A few minutes later the secretary stopped by to admonish him for exerting himself before she left for the night. He nodded absently.
The telephone rang. It was the two-star who ran the Fighter Weapons Center.
Twenty minutes later Moods was back downstairs in their vault office, looking forlorn.
"Sorry I blew up like that," he muttered.
Benny shrugged. "I should've been on top of things better. I've been spending too much time at the hospital and forgetting to mind the store."
"You got a broken back, for Christ's sake." Moods looked at him. "I fucked up, huh?"
"Yeah. You're the best there is at what you do, Moods, but sometimes you lose track of what's happening in the world."
"The general told me to get my head out of my ass."
"I wouldn't put it like that." Benny grinned at Moods. "Not exactly."
"Thanks for coming to my rescue so he didn't kill th' project."
"I want you to work full-time on your smart bombs, Moods. It's a hell of a concept, but that's what it is right now. A concept."
Diller bristled for a moment, then shook it off.
"And in the meantime, I'll show up in the office more often and run CROSSFIRE ZULU. They need inputs, so I'll put a message together suggesting regular hard bombs on the next test."
Diller sighed.
"Cheer up. You put on a good show today and convinced a lot of people you're onto something more than a wild-assed scheme."
1430 Local—HQ Seventh Air Force, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Saigon, South Vietnam
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
There were several classified messages in Pearly's in-basket when he returned from his afternoon meeting. One was of particular interest, because it regarded CROSSFIRE ZULU. When he'd called the Fighter Weapons Center tactics office night before last, which was daytime in the states, Moods had been out and he'd been connected with Captain Benny Lewis. He'd explained as much of his dilemma with timing and what Moods Diller had been telling him as he could on a nonsecure line, and Benny had quietly taken it all in. Then Lewis had told him that as of now he was taking over the project as Pearly's contact, and that he'd send a back-channel message outlining the status of various projects and giving him better answers.
Good, Pearly had thought. Captain Diller was undoubtedly bright, but he was also temperamental and disliked reports and dealing with headquarters. Perhaps Benny Lewis would keep him better informed. Anyway, Pearly had a hard time interpreting Moods's strange bursts of speech.
"Will the new family of smart bombs be ready within a couple of weeks?" Pearly asked Lewis in a hopeful tone.
Benny had again told him he'd explain it all in the back-channel message. He'd added that Captain Diller was conducting a briefing on his project that day, and he'd include any new data that came out of the meeting.
So Pearly had waited impatiently for the message to arrive.
When he read it, he felt betrayed, for it was not at all what he'd expected.
SECRET—SENSITIVE DATA—INCLUDES
WEAPONS TESTS RESULTS
PRIORITY MSG—ADDRESSEE'S EYES
ONLY—NO FURTHER DISSEMINATION
DTG: 242203Z MAY 67
FM: TFWC TAF/CAPT B. LEWIS NELLIS AFB,
NEV
TO: HQ 7AF DPP/LT COL P. GATES SAIGON,
RVN
SUBJECT: (U) CROSSFIRE ZULU (C-Z)
1. (C) AS PER OUR TELECON, SENDER IS NEW C-Z CONTACT OFFICER, REPLACING CAPT DILLER.
2. (S) "SMART WPNS": TO DATE ONLY LAB ANALYSIS & PRELIMINARY TESTING HAS BEEN PERFORMED. THERE HAS BEEN NO OP
ERATIONAL TESTING & NO KITS EXIST IN FINAL FORM. WE ARE PRESSING THE STATE-OF-THE-ART IN SEVERAL TECHNOLOGIES & CANNOT EXPEDITE THE DEVELOPMENT PROCESS OR GUARANTEE SUCCESS.
A. (S) "LASER-GUIDED BOMBS": LGB'S CANNOT POSSIBLY BE AVAILABLE IN TIME FOR THIS OPLAN (UNLESS DELAYED FOR "MINIMUM'' OF 120 DAYS).
B. (S) "E-0 GUIDED WPNS": EXPECT AVAIL N.E.T. 12 TO 18 MO.
3. (S) IF C-Z TEST IS HELD IN NEAR FUTURE, SUGGEST USE OF "DUMB WEAPONS, AS FOLLOWS:
A. MK-83 1000 LB BOMBS—GOOD AERODYNAMICS, GOOD PENETRATION, FAIR BLAST EFFECT FOR LARGE TARGET, PRESENTLY AVAILABLE IN ADEQUATE NUMBERS.
B. M-118 3000 LB BOMBS—GOOD BLAST EFFECT, FAIR AERODYNAMICS—BUT, REQUIRES 30" LUG ADAPTER, MUST BE CARRIED ON WING STATION, POOR PENETRATION, IN PIPELINE BUT WILL NOT BE AVAILABLE IN S.E.A. IN ADEQUATE NUMBERS UNTIL AUGUST.
C. MK-84 2000 LB BOMBS—GOOD AERODYNAMICS, ADEQUATE BLAST EFFECT, ADEQUATE PENETRATION—BUT, "POOR AVAILABILITY IN SUFFICIENT NUMBERS" DUE TO OTHER HIGH-PRIORITY REQUIREMENTS.
4. (C) WILL REVIEW DELIVERY TACTICS FOR USE OF "DUMB BOMBS" LISTED ABOVE AGAINST C-Z TGTS & FORWARD DATA DIRECTLY TO MAJ ANDERSON AT TKL, AS PER OUR TELECON.
5. (S) WILL CONTINUE TO MONITOR SMART BOMB TESTS & ADVISE OF PROGRESS. ANTICIPATE THEY WILL BE CARRIED ONLY ON F-4 AIRCRAFT SINCE TWO PILOTS W/BE REQUIRED TO OPERATE SYSTEMS. SUGGEST DANANG OR UBON (AN F-4 BASE) BE DESIGNATED FOR OPERATIONAL COMBAT TESTING "IF & WHEN" KITS ARE AVAILABLE.
6. (U) WILL REMAIN IN CONTACT. REGARDS. SECRET—SENSITIVE DATA
Pearly was shattered. He cursed Captain Moods Diller soundly for misleading him. General Moss had told him this could happen, but he'd been convinced otherwise.
There'd be no magical weapons for their next try at the Doumer bridge. The message suggested 1,000-pounders, so it meant the same routine, pilots running the gauntlets of guns. Which also meant there'd be more losses while they carried out his plan. He tried to temper his dejection by remembering General Moss's pep talk, but he knew that with every pilot lost, it would be that much harder to sleep at night.
When he called his contact at CINCPAC that evening, to try to get CROSSFIRE ZULU turned on for another combat test, he received further bad news. He'd waited too long.
The Navy commander said the admiral had questioned him about it, and about the delay, and when the commander had waffled as Pearly had asked him to do, he'd been told to shelve it. The target list was established and approved, and it would be mid-July at the earliest before CROSSFIRE ZULU might be turned on again.
Pearly was despondent when he hung up. The project was delayed, and it was his fault for not looking closer into what was really happening.
It was late when he went up the stairs from the command post where he'd used the scrambler phone, to retrieve his hat and briefcase. As he started down the hall, he saw Master Sergeant Turner, NCOIC of the Documentation section, locking up his office.
"You're working awfully late, Sarge," he said.
Turner looked surprised. "Yes, sir," he muttered.
"Any special reason?"
Turner abruptly shook his head. "Just double-checking things. I've been a lot more cautious since you told us about the . . . ah . . . problem."
After the OSI investigation Pearly had called in his officers and ranking NCOs and told them there had been a leak somewhere in the system. The OSI had plugged it this time, he'd said, and told them what he'd found out. That it had been an ARVN major who'd somehow gained access to targeting documents.
He'd told them to stay on their toes, that American pilots' lives depended upon their maintaining strict security. A loose tongue, even an innocent who talked too much about innocuous, unclassified material, could break their trust with the men flying the missions.
Pearly had thought his briefing had gone over poorly, that his audience was bored with yet another harangue about security, but now he wondered. Ever since the investigation and Pearly's briefing, Master Sergeant Turner had acted nervous. Like now. Turner was fidgeting and appeared anxious to leave.
"Your guys have been under a heavy work load recently," Pearly said.
The master sergeant shrugged. "We can handle it."
Pearly motioned at the room. "Find anything out of place in there?"
"Not really. Sergeant Slye's desk's a pigpen, like always, but I didn't find anything except a few candy-bar wrappers. I'll chew his ass in the morning."
"Tell him to get rid of the symbol," said Pearly. Staff Sergeant Slye had a metal peace symbol propped on a corner of his desk that was upsetting some of the men.
"Says his brother sent it to him, that he keeps is there as a joke."
"I know. Just tell him to get it out of sight or take it to his barracks so the guys here don't bitch." Airman First Class O'Neil had complained to Pearly about the symbol, saying he thought it was inappropriate. When Pearly had gone to see what was causing O'Neil's heartburn, Sergeant Slye had told him the story about his brother. He'd called his brother a dingbat who didn't know what was going on, but he hadn't offered to remove it.
"Slye's the kind who'll argue," said Master Sergeant Turner. "He's a bit of a barracks lawyer. Always talking about his rights and how the Air Force is trying to screw him."
"Is he doing his job?"
"Yes, sir. He hangs around with the wrong crowd downtown, but Slye gets his work done. Sometimes it takes him longer than the others and he has to work late, but he gets it done. Like tonight. He worked a couple of hours later, then took off for downtown."
Pearly decided it wasn't worth the hassle. He had bigger problems. "Forget it, then."
Turner made his farewell and departed.
Half an hour later, as Pearly Gates continued to mourn the delay in the CROSSFIRE ZULU plan, coordinates of the following week's bombing targets were passed from an American serviceman to a Saigon taxi driver.
2355 Local—Hoa Lo Prison, Hanoi, North Vietnam
Major Glenn Phillips
They'd had trouble getting news recently, for the turnkeys had been trying to shut off communications between the prisoners. When they heard talking, or even the tapping sounds, they'd storm in and give a beating to whomever they suspected. Whenever the prisoners tried to leave a note in the bo-dump, the guards would find it and take it and beat someone. Until the guards got off this kick and onto another, it was a time for innovation.
Glenn peered out his peek hole across and into the gloomy light of another cell. At night the gomers, whom they collectively called V during their abbreviated communications sessions, kept a dim light bulb burning in the occupied cells. For the past half hour Glenn and the other prisoner had been "talking" by alternately covering and uncovering their peek holes.
The final communiqué from the Navy lieutenant across from him had been worrisome.
354 P IN IMMED DANGER. V TLCNG TO ALL 354 P. ASCNG ABT 354 SQ AND LUCCY ANDERSON.
There was no K in their code. They substituted C's. They also abbreviated a lot: "354 P" stood for prisoners from the 354th fighter squadron. The guys from his sister squadron at Takhli were getting special "attention" from the interrogators.
They heard a guard approaching on his round, so both prisoners scurried to their bunks. Phillips crawled under his mosquito net and feigned sleep, thinking hard about this latest news. Lucky Anderson was a close friend and his former boss. They'd been stationed at Nellis, both of them instructors in the air-to-ground flight, and had worked together on tactics-development projects. For a while they'd even been roommates in the BOQ.
Since as far as he knew Lucky hadn't been shot down, he wondered what the gomers wanted with him. It could be nothing good.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Saturday, May 27th, 0845 Local—Bach Mai Hospital, Hanoi, DRV
Air Regiment Commandant Quon
As he entered Xuan Nha's hospital room, Quon noted that it had been transformed into a functional field headquarters. An entire wall was covered with maps of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. Maps of the various provinces were sprinkled with colo
red markers, showing radars as well as permanent and deployment sites for rocket and artillery batteries. A composite map showed the communications net, and as the net expanded, so did the spiderwebs of red lines. Another showed where Mee aircraft had been hit by defenses and where they'd gone down. Green safe zone had been liberally watercolored onto all the maps, areas restricted from Mee bombing by Mee politicians.
Xuan Nha's young and badly crippled communications officer had set up business in a corner, on a table sporting two field telephones and a radio receiver, and a profusion of cables were bundled and run out of the room's single window to antennae and power supplies.
Visitors' chairs were set up before Colonel Nha's bed. He was meeting with Colonel Trung when Quon entered.
Xuan Nha's torso had been exposed to healing air, and Quon examined the sheath of gnarled and discolored scar tissue still forming there. The last time he'd seen him, Xuan had rasped that he didn't care what it was that held them, so long as his organs didn't spill out.
Quon had dropped by on other occasions during the past weeks, but this time it was for an entirely different and less official reason. Xuan Nha's wife, Li Binh, had visited the day before, following her return from Paris, and he was curious to know what had been said. He'd heard that she'd acted as concerned as any wife might, but that report only made him more suspicious. Li Binh was no dutiful spouse.
How was she reacting to the news that her nephew had been sent south into danger? General Dung had engineered it, but Quon was a rational man and knew that generals were political and that politicians rarely accepted blame. He also remembered that Dung had insisted that Quon be there when Nguyen Wu was brought before him.
Xuan Nha turned from Colonel Trung, the aging warrior who commanded the artillery forces, and greeted Quon warmly.
Quon glanced warily about the room, and Colonel Nha's communications officer hastily shut off the noisy radio and announced he would get tea for them.
"I was just congratulating Colonel Trung," said Xuan Nha. "His artillery are doing well. We've agreed they will bring him even greater glories when they are tied more firmly into the communications network."