Lucky’s Bridge (Vietnam Air War Book 2)

by Tom Wilson

  Nguyen Wu knew who was trying to destroy him. The same man who'd connived his removal from his previous job and had him sent south on the dangerous fool's errand.

  Quon.

  He wondered what he might be able to do about it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Thursday, August 3rd, 1300 Local—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Major Benny Lewis

  The C-47 groaned and squealed to a halt before the base-operations building, and the engines settled to idle.

  Benny stared out at the base. The flight line, at least, looked the same. Row after row of F-105D Thunderchiefs were parked along the apron, extending for as far as he could see.

  He craned his neck. Atop base ops was a sign reading "WELCOME TO TAKHLI—HOME OF THE GREAT 355TH TFW—PACAF'S PRIDE—COLONEL B. J. PARKER, COMMANDER."

  Benny chuckled. B.J. was not a modest man.

  As the loadmaster came back down the tilted aisle, the left engine clattered to a stop. "Takhli," he announced to the four passengers seated on aluminum and nylon-web seats along the sides of the fuselage. The base shuttle flight had stopped first at Korat and would now continue on to Udorn and Ubon, as it made its circuit of the Thai fighter bases.

  Benny disconnected his seat belt and reached for his B-4 bag, with CAPT B. L. LEWIS still stenciled onto its side.

  "Let me help you with the bag, sir," said an airman who was also deplaning, and Benny gratefully agreed, for his back was burning with new pain. It had begun a few hours after coasting out on the leg from Seattle, Washington to Anchorage, Alaska, and had progressively gotten worse. He'd doubled his dosage of muscle-relaxant pills, hoping to stop the clenched feeling, and of painkillers to keep his sanity.

  Two days earlier, when he'd gone into the headquarters at Tan Son Nhut to pay his courtesy visit to General Moss, he'd slipped on the stairs and wrenched something back there. As he'd waited to get in to see the general, he'd sweated like a pig from the pain.

  Moss had taken a single look, raised hell with him for traveling in that condition, and within minutes had a flight surgeon hurrying into his office. The doctor grumbled about the Nellis Hospital commander signing the travel waiver and placed Benny on his back for a full day. Then he'd given him even stronger muscle relaxants and more painkillers before he'd returned to the headquarters to talk with Pearly Gates and General Moss.

  After ordering him to take it easy on the remainder of the trip, Moss said they'd make space on a med-evac bird to the States when he returned from Takhli. Benny had spent another night on the Tan Son Nhut hospital torture bed, and by this morning he'd felt good as he left for Bangkok. The shaking, shuddering C-47 base shuttle had taken care of that.

  He made his way forward and gingerly climbed down onto the tarmac, then stood there looking at the big war birds. A flight of four fully loaded, camouflaged Thuds taxied by, and he felt his heart stir. He was back to where the action was.

  He was accustomed to heat. It had been 107 degrees when he'd left Las Vegas. Yet the mugginess of Takhli's 90-degree heat made it seem worse. Sweat gathered in puddles on his skin, soaking his shirt in a ring about the back brace.

  "Captain Lewis," someone hailed, and he turned to see Staff Sergeant Jerry Tiehl, his old crew chief, hurrying up with a beaming smile on his face. "Good to see you."

  Benny grinned, and the pain and heat were partially forgotten.

  "Damn." Tiehl saluted him. "Forgot, sir."

  Benny returned the salute. "You still crew-chiefing Weasel birds?"

  "I'm on my way Stateside. Shipping out tomorrow."

  "Where to?"

  "George Air Force Base in Southern California. I'm from LA, and this'll be the first time I've been stationed west of the Rockies." He looked closer. "You're a major."

  "Miracles happen, Jerry."

  They went inside base operations together, chatting about the old days, which had been just four and a half months earlier.

  "Too bad about Captain Stewart," said Tiehl sadly.

  "He went out the way he figured a man ought to."

  "I think about him a lot, about how he used to joke with the crew chiefs and all. I heard he was put in for some big medal."

  "An Air Force Cross."

  When they finally broke up the reunion, Sergeant Tiehl motioned to a base ops tech sergeant. "This is Major Benny Lewis. He flew ninety-four and a half missions here a few months ago before he left one of my airplanes in North Vietnam."

  The tech grinned. "Nice to meet you, sir. Anything I can help with?"

  Jerry Tiehl interjected, "I want you to call over to the billeting office and threaten those guys with death if they don't assign him the best guest trailer on base. Then I want them to bring the key here, so the major can go directly to his quarters."

  The base ops sergeant went to the nearest telephone and began dialing.

  Jerry Tiehl turned back to Benny. "You got the NCOs looking out for you now."

  "Thanks."

  "You oughta get some rest right away, Major Lewis. You don't look so good."

  Friday, August 4th, 1615 Local—354th TFS, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Moss's Fighter Mafia

  On Friday afternoon the three of them, Lucky, Max Foley, and Benny Lewis, got together in the C-Flight commander's office, where Anderson had stacks of classified manuals, bomb tables, and scribbled notes laid out on his desk.

  "By God, the gomers would just blow the thing up if they knew the three of us were together, plotting the demise of their bridge," said Max Foley.

  "Good to see you two characters," said Benny. He moved cautiously, and the back brace was obvious beneath his shade-1505 short-sleeved uniform. Periodically he would become very still and wince, then unconsciously lick his lips.

  "Benny, you're a fucking human wreck," said Max.

  "You're not so pretty yourself," Benny told the skinny weapons officer, "and you don't have a reason."

  "I'm the pretty one," Lucky growled to settle matters. "Now let's get to work."

  They'd been together at Nellis, where they'd been called Moss's Fighter Mafia, and were accustomed to working with one another. At Nellis they'd tested, improved, and documented tactics to be used by U.S. fighter forces. Now they were to perfect tactics to destroy bridges, starting with the big one on the north side of Hanoi.

  "A piece of cake," Max said. "We just keep laying on sorties until we knock it down."

  Benny told them what Pearly Gates and General Moss had said about the importance of what they'd be doing. "You've probably only got one more chance at it," said Benny, "and you've got to make it convincing."

  "How about picking another bridge?" said Max. "This one's a tough bastard."

  "No," said Lucky. "It has to be the Doumer bridge. Everyone from the Pentagon up and down's looking at us, and this is the bridge they want."

  Max shook his head sadly at the stupidity of headquarters pukes. "Well, when do we get our next chance?"

  "Pearly Gates is working that end," said Benny. "He says it may be a week, maybe a couple of weeks. If he can't work it by then, General Moss thinks the whole idea will be scrubbed."

  Benny winced and groaned.

  "Bad one?" asked Max, frowning.

  Sweat had popped out on Benny's forehead. "Spasm," he finally said, but he looked as if he were relaxing some.

  "You oughta get the fuck back to the States," growled Max Foley. "We can handle this end of things."

  "It's better now," said Benny. "I plan to hang around here for a few days until the planning's done, then go to Saigon so I can help Pearly Gates interpret the results."

  Lucky shook his head at Benny's obstinacy. "Let's get on with things."

  Max shrugged. "Way I see it, there's no surprises. We load M-118's and do the same thing we did last time."

  "One thing we'll never do," counseled Lucky, "is send pilots to Hanoi using the same tactics twice in a row."

  "I agree," said Benny.

  "Okay," said Max, "so I lost my head for a minu
te. What changes are we going to make?"

  1950 Local—Officers' Club Stag Bar

  Captain Billy Bowes

  Billy was drinking alone, enjoying his sphere of privacy in the loud bar, when a major in a headquarters-puke uniform made his way through the crowd to stand beside him. The major tried to shout over the babble of a nearby trio of pilots who were happy because they'd bombed the hell out of a railroad siding, sad because they'd lost their flight leader.

  Billy leaned forward to hear better, then realized whom he was talking to. He'd heard about him being on base, but this was the first time he'd met him.

  "Major Lewis?"

  "Yeah."

  They shook hands. His cousin Mal Stewart had written a lot about Benny Lewis.

  "Good to see you," he said, then he remembered and nodded. "And congratulations on making major."

  Benny Lewis didn't act overly impressed with his new rank, and Billy liked that.

  The group of fighter jocks grew louder, and Lewis looked at them apprehensively. Billy knew he'd gotten a compression fracture of his spine when he'd ejected from the Thud.

  "Let's go over to a table where we can talk," Billy yelled, and received an appreciative look. He got a fresh drink for both of them from Jimmy the bartender, then cleared the way to an empty table, glaring and pushing to make certain no one bumped into the injured man.

  When they were seated, Lewis nodded. "I heard a lot about you from the Bear."

  "Same with you."

  Lewis began telling him how it had been to fly the Wild Weasel tour with Bear Stewart. Billy listened carefully, now and then puffing with pride as he heard how Mal had been as smart and brave as he'd thought.

  "We hear he was put in for an Air Force Cross," said Billy.

  "It's been approved. They wrote his wife it would be presented either when he was rescued or his status changed, meaning when they declare him dead."

  "I haven't met her yet."

  "She's one hell of a fine girl," said Benny Lewis, and Billy noticed something warm in his expression.

  "You talk with her much?" he asked.

  Benny nodded, and Billy detected something else. Hesitancy?

  Billy Bowes didn't drink much, because he disliked the foggy feeling of intoxication. He came to the bar often, but normally he'd nurse a couple of drinks and sneak in several straight tonic waters in between. But he liked Benny Lewis, whom Mal Stewart had accurately described as looking like a cross between a pleasant-natured bulldog and a fireplug. He was so good at his calling, his cousin had said, if he was told to bomb the warts off a frog, he'd ask which ones . . . and mean it. So Billy listened raptly to his tales about their exploits and ordered another round.

  Again Benny mentioned Julie Stewart, and again he got the faraway look.

  Mal would have been pleased, thought Billy. His cousin was like that, wanting the best for his favorite people. Billy knew, because he'd been one of them.

  "She's having it rough," said Lewis. "The Bear's still listed as MIA, and she keeps thinking just maybe . . . but it's not true, Billy."

  Billy agreed. "They should change his status to KIA. Hell, the gomers killed him, then the guys bombed and strafed the fucking place until they said it would have been impossible for an ant to have lived through it."

  "I heard them on the chopper radio when they were taking me out."

  Billy remembered what Tiny Bechler had told him ."They wanted to make damned sure none of the gomers came out of it alive."

  "His burial ground," said Lewis.

  "He would've liked it," said Billy simply. He went over and retrieved the new round from Jimmy at the bar and returned in time to see Lewis gritting his teeth with another bout of pain. He set the drinks down and sat, waiting for him to recover.

  "Spasms," said Benny Lewis finally.

  "You shouldn't be here. I heard Major Lucky saying that."

  "It got worse during the flight over."

  "So why are you here?"

  "I'm on a project that's pretty important to us." Lewis looked evenly at him. "And since I'd already be here . . . I figured I could try to convince them to change the Bear's status to KIA."

  "Anything I can do to help?"

  "I wanted to make sure it was okay with you before I proceeded further."

  Billy Bowes thought about that for a few seconds. "I guess you know from talking to Mal that we're a pretty close family. We all write our grandma back in McAlester. She's like the center of the family . . . lets the rest of us know how everyone's doing."

  "The Bear told me. Said she was one proud Cherokee."

  "Mal wrote good letters, usually five or six pages long. Some about the war, but mostly about his friends."

  Lewis was listening closely.

  "He wrote a lot about a guy named Glenn Phillips, and a lot about you. Said you two were as close as any brothers could be."

  "We got like that. I guess it was because we shared the same dangers and kept one another alive. I can't explain it exactly." Lewis stared down at his drink, then shifted his eyes upward. "He died saving my ass, Billy. He could have gotten away clean, but instead he stopped the gomers from getting me."

  Another silence.

  Bowes finally spoke. "I'll let you in on something. Grandma Bowes talks about you with the same pride she reserves for us. She brags about your being from a rich family, but how they work hard for their money. About your uncle who owns three auto dealerships, and your father who owns the biggest insurance brokerage in Northern California."

  "They're not all that wealthy."

  "Well, to Grandma Bowes they are, and I'd hate to argue with her. She says you've probably got some blood from the People, meaning the Cherokee, because you're so brave."

  Lewis looked self-conscious.

  "I came over here thinking you're likely one of the best pilots in the Air Force, and guess what?"

  Lewis cocked his head.

  "Anyone says different, they've got a fight on their hands."

  At that Lewis smiled.

  "Now if you've thought it out, and you say it's best for Julie Stewart," Billy looked at Lewis, "or for anyone else, that Mal be declared KIA, you've got the family's approval."

  "I would guess," said Major Benny Lewis, "that's a yes answer."

  Sunday, August 6th, 1500 Local—Command Post

  Major Benny Lewis

  He went to see Colonel Lyons on Sunday, after they'd completed all the mission planning they could accomplish before the date was announced, and Benny prepared to return to Saigon.

  He'd already seen Colonel Mack, whom he'd written the first letters to, had visited him in his trailer the same night he'd talked to Billy Bowes. After a long session of bullshitting over a bottle of good Scotch whiskey, he'd asked Mack if he'd received the letters.

  Colonel Mack said he'd forwarded both letters to B. J. Parker, the wing commander, with his recommendation to follow Benny's advice and declare Bear Stewart dead.

  On Saturday he'd visited B. J. Parker in his office and was warmly greeted. Parker said he'd given the letters to his special-projects officer, a full bull named Tom Lyons, who'd proved to be adept with paperwork and getting around bureaucracies. Lyons, said B.J., had some good contacts at PACAF headquarters and was the right man to handle it. Colonel Lyons ran the command post and would be returning to Takhli on Sunday morning.

  At 1400 on Sunday, Benny entered the command post and endured the most miserable confrontation of his life.

  He was directed to Lyons's office, at the rear of the command post. When he entered, the colonel looked up and stared.

  "Hello, sir. I'm Major . . ."

  "Don't you salute?"

  Benny did so, then again tried to introduce himself. "Major Lewis, sir, and I've . . ."

  "I'm really quite busy." Lyons looked irritated.

  "I'll only take a few minutes of your time. I have to catch a T-39 going to Saigon."

  "Well, get on with it." Lyons sat back, hands coupled over the em
bryo of a potbelly.

  "It's regarding three letters I sent from the States."

  "Which letters? I get a lot of correspondence through here."

  Benny noted the clean desk and empty in- and out-baskets. "I forwarded two letters to Colonel Mack and another . . ."

  "I assume you mean Lieutenant Colonel MacLendon. There is a difference between the two ranks, you know."

  Jesus! "Yes, sir."

  "Go on," said Lyons. He impatiently glanced at his watch.

  "The letters refer to the official status of Captain Malcom Stewart, who's presently being carried as MIA."

  Lyons nodded.

  "His wife is terribly troubled. She believes he might be wounded and trying to get out somehow. Of course he is not. So . . ."

  "Do you know her?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And just what is your relationship?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "Your relationship with Captain Stewart's wife?"

  Benny knit his brow. "I don't understand."

  "Are you close friends?"

  "You might say that. Captain Stewart was my backseater, and she's . . ."

  " . . . she's very close?"

  Benny bristled. "She is a very nice lady."

  "And the two of you are . . . close."

  "I am trying to do her a favor, sir."

  "Did she ask you to? Did she ask that her husband's status be changed?"

  "Not in precisely those words, but she did say . . ."

  Colonel Lyons raised his hand to stop him and shook his head slowly from side to side. His voice emerged in a hiss. "This is one of the most despicable things I've ever heard of."

  "Pardon me?" asked Benny, wondering if he'd heard correctly.

  "I'm talking about a man, a field-grade officer, trying to take advantage of an Air Force wife by having her husband declared dead."

  "Take advantage?"

  "Have you been making love to her, Lewis? Is that it? Or is it that she refuses to do so until her husband is declared dead?"

  Benny's mouth drooped in astonishment.

  "Yes, I was given the letters for action, and they made me sick. I know some of the rabble in the States are protesting our involvement in the war and insulting our fighting men, even dragging our flag in the mud. But I've never seen anything quite so low as trying to take advantage of a fellow officer's wife by having him declared dead."