by Tom Wilson
He'd been thinking a lot about her during his trek.
Tuesday, August 15th, 0830 Local—Commandant's Office, Phuc Yen PAAFB, DRV
Air Regiment Commandant Quon
People's Army intelligence had confirmed for him, through their Saigon sources, that Lokee had indeed been shot down over the Democratic Republic, but after four days there'd been no trace of the hated pilot except his parachute and the pile of discarded items where he'd landed. The search team believed their quarry, like most Mee pilots they chased down and captured, was hiding not far from where he'd come down. The sergeant in charge of the search team told Quon that the Mee pilot's capture was imminent. So although he was increasingly impatient, Quon was not yet discouraged. The sergeant said no Mee had ever been rescued from the Viet Bac, the mountains stretching north from Hanoi, and that capture was not only probable but a sure thing. Some, he said, just took longer than others.
People's Army intelligence had an ultra-high frequency radio monitoring station on the roof of one of the headquarters buildings to monitor Mee pilots' radio transmissions and provide warning of attack. They advised Quon's adjutant that they had picked up two air-to-ground conversations with "Barracuda lead," which the prisoner had said was Lokee's radio call sign. The ground transmissions had been weak and garbled, so the pilot was likely behind a hill, but they'd come from an azimuth of 355 degrees. The direction-finding ability of the receiver station was accurate only within ten degrees, but that was good enough to establish that Lokee was indeed in the Viet Bac, confirming what the search-team sergeant had told him.
The grizzled and capable sergeant was said to be the most capable hunter of men in the Democratic Republic, the veteran of dozens of successful manhunts for American fliers and People's Army deserters. He'd even determined what Lokee had with him.
They knew the standard survival items included in the emergency pack. With that, what they'd found discarded, and what had been learned from interrogations of Pig Squadron pilots, they knew that Lokee carried his issue .38-caliber revolver with twenty-four bullets, a hunting knife, a bayonet knife sewn to the right leg and a sealed pouch sewn to the left leg of his antigravity suit, three radios, three plastic bottles of water, a signal mirror, two flares, a bottle of water-purification tablets, a first-aid kit, a small compass, a plastic-covered map, two hard food bars, a cigarette lighter, several cigars, which he put in his mouth but oddly did not smoke, a small flashlight, a square of material he'd cut from a parachute panel, and three lengths of nylon parachute cord.
Of his mental condition they knew that Lokee had once endured great pain and had been toughened by it. He had a woman who lived in Bangkok, but he was not married to her. A Mee prisoner said that while he appeared to take little interest in women, he thought Lokee cared for that one more than he'd admit but was ashamed because of his burns. He was a natural, capable, and very aggressive fighter pilot. But while Lokee loved flying, he was an unorthodox military officer who cared little about rank or protocol.
Lokee kept himself in excellent physical condition. At Takhli he'd run and exercised daily and had built incredible endurance. The search-team sergeant worried about that and reports of the Mee pilot's aggressive nature, for Quon insisted that he be captured alive.
Sitting in his commandant's office, Quon went over the information again and again in his mind as he stared out at the maintenance hangars and aircraft shelters without seeing them. Three MiG-17 interceptors taxied off the runway and back toward their shelters, returning from safe haven in China, but he hardly took notice.
He had just gotten off the field telephone with General Tho, who had demanded to know where he'd been the previous afternoon, and when Quon had told him he'd visited the team looking for Lokee, his superior officer had grown very quiet.
Quon had admitted that he was obsessed by the search for Lokee, had even suggested that he be temporarily relieved of his duties until the Mee assassin was found.
General Tho had quietly answered that he would stand for no more. If he relieved Quon, it would not be a temporary thing. His senior officers were expected to lead their pilots to protect the People's Republic, to subjugate their private lives for the duration of the war.
A moment of silence had followed, and then General Tho had asked if he'd understood.
He did.
Would Quon return to his duties and forget about the search for the Mee pilot?
He said he could not forget, so long as Lokee was free.
Tho had ordered him to assign a subordinate to the task of monitoring the search team and to return to his duties.
Quon knew Tho well, knew that he was out of patience, so he'd reluctantly agreed. He would assign his adjutant to the search and give appropriate time to his duties. He apologized and told Tho that he could rely on him to attend fastidiously to his command in the future.
Tho had seemed mollified, and their conversation had returned to the business of war, for the Mee were intensifying their campaign against the bridges, and even though they were suffering losses, they were all too successful.
Supplies were bottlenecked at rail sidings near the Chinese border and on the docks of Haiphong. The attacks on the bridges must be stopped. His mind had been distracted during the conversation. He tried to remember what he'd told Tho they should do about the attacks.
He blamed his forgetfulness on the burned American pilot, the man he'd grown to despise more than any other. The man he was growing to know so well.
He told his adjutant to contact the search-team sergeant and get another progress report.
"Does the commandant wish to fly one of the aircraft tomorrow morning?"
They'd received an intelligence report that the Mee would target both Phuc Yen and Kien An airfields sometime during the next week. All day artillery-and-rocket batteries had been pouring into prepared sites around the two bases. For their safety, half of the MiGs would be flown out to China, others to remote auxiliary airfields near the northern border.
It had been a week since he'd gone up, and Quon seldom went that long between flights. He knew he should join his pilots during the evacuation, but . . .
"No," he finally said. "There is too much for me to do here."
He did not dare fly, for he might miss out on the capture of Lokee. Even if it meant staying at Phuc Yen and weathering the American bombing attack, he would stay.
1000 Local—Hoa Lo Prison, Hanoi, North Vietnam
Major Glenn Phillips
For the first time in two weeks, Glenn was able to communicate with other prisoners, and most of the news and the rumors and even the innuendos were bad.
He got most of his information while visiting the bo-dump, the filthy shit depository in the courtyard, while he was suffering a painful bout of dysentery. First there was a note hidden in a bo-dump hiding place, to be read by the P going there. Then a P working at breaking up bricks in the courtyard began hammering out a flurry of letters when he saw him, using their tap-code. And finally there were muttering sessions as other P passed him in the yard. It all came in bits and pieces, but information was treasured more highly than gold in the prison.
After getting the jigsaw pieces, it was always challenging to try to put it together so it made sense, and to try to separate fact from fancy.
In the bad news: The V were going through the P from the 354th squadron again, beating the hell out of them and bending them until they told everything they knew about Lucky Anderson. Then beating them for information about the strafing attack at Kep, the same information that had been beaten out of them back in April.
It was believed that at least two P from the 354th had been killed during their initial interrogations after being shot down, and it was rumored that the number was higher. At least one of those had been shot, the rumor said, and at least one, perhaps more, beaten to death.
Another rumor, yet unconfirmed, was that Lucky had been shot down and was evading, and that the V were hot on his heels.
The
good news was that he obviously hadn't been caught, because they continued to try to get information about what he carried with him when he flew.
When he was caught, the V had something special in store for him. Lokee was a hot topic with the V, and they spat out the name as if it were a dirty one.
Glenn reflected on the time at Nellis when he, Benny Lewis, and Max Foley had worked for Lucky on weapons projects, all under the watchful eye of then Major General Moss.
They'd all been superb pilots, but Lucky had been the most professional of the group. He remembered how Anderson had never wanted to be the one in charge of the projects, but how Moss, the other pilots, and Lucky's leadership ability had conspired to put him there.
He remembered a night when Lucky had hurried into their shared BOQ room, packed his gear, and told him he was going camping for the weekend. A tall, distraught brunette had appeared a few minutes later, asking for him, and Glenn had caught on right away that she felt something special for Lucky. When Lucky had returned from the desert and asked about her, it was just as apparent that he was as upset about things as she'd been.
A strange, highly capable, withdrawn fellow was Lucky Anderson. Glenn felt a bit helpless that all he could do was offer prayer. But during his time as a prisoner, Glenn Phillips, once the most eligible, hard-driving, high-flying fighter pilot in the Air Force, had learned that prayer was more powerful than he'd ever believed. So he said a series of special prayers for his good friend.
A warrior's prayers.
He prayed the next news they heard about Lucky Anderson was that he'd been rescued.
And if what he'd heard was correct about the V being after him so intensely, and if Lucky wasn't rescued, he prayed they'd hear that he'd shot it out with the V and been killed.
1300 Local—TFWC/TAF, Nellis AFB, Nevada
Major Benny Lewis
"Tell, uh . . ."—he tried to recall Lady Dracula's name—"Nan?"
Moods Diller frowned, then brightened. "You mean Pam?"
"Yeah. Tell her thanks for calming down the colonel over there."
The hospital commander was finally satisfied that he would toe the mark and take better care of his back. Benny's penance was to check into the hospital each morning for physical therapy, including a periodic session on the rack, which was what he called the metal bed that sent random electrical shocks into the muscles of his back.
"Why don't you thank her yourself?" said Moods.
"You tell her, okay?" He'd tried to talk to her, but she hadn't slowed down with her complaints long enough to hear him. Sometimes he felt she'd interceded with the colonel only to make sure she remained his preeminent haranguer.
"Sure," said Moods. He was unhappy, almost morose, even though the LGB tests were going well.
Several laser kits had been shipped to him by the Texas team during the past weeks, as had a zot machine small enough to be mounted in a pod under the right wing of an F- 4 Phantom, and manipulated by controls in the rear cockpit. The first drop-tests had gone reasonably well. Only two hits out of eight, but the misses had been explainable and the hits had been squarely on target, so Moods was convinced they were in the home stretch.
He was working with the weapons officer at Danang Air Base in South Vietnam and had him as excited about what they were doing as Pearly Gates had once been. When the bugs were out of the kits and the zot machine, and they'd selected a host bomb, Moods planned to take them to Danang and try them in combat, he hoped against one of the bridges they were having so much trouble with, like the small one at the Canales des Rapides or the obstinate one at Thanh Hoa.
But there were still problems, one of which was the fact that they couldn't design modules that would work properly on all the bombs as they'd planned. The various bombs' shapes, circumferences, and centers of gravity were just too different. So Moods and his cohorts at the various test-and-evaluation offices had to settle on a single host bomb.
Moods Diller favored existing Mk-84 2,000-pounders. They were relatively new and aerodynamic, were still being manufactured at munitions plants, and didn't require special adapters like the 3,000-pounders. He'd convinced the officers at the development centers until there was only a single holdout, but that one was a powerful adversary. The guys at the Weapons Lab at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida favored entirely new bombs, completely reengineered to have the guidance modules installed at the factory.
For the dozenth time Moods explained the problem to Benny, who had elected to stay out of the squabble.
"I need it resolved," he pleaded. "They've gotta let me use Mk-84's."
"You work it out," said Benny, eager to get back to his work.
"Dammit, Benny, if they have to redesign a bomb . . . gonna delay things . . . I'm on the verge of making this thing work. If we prove the concept . . . not right to hafta sit on our asses while they build new bombs."
"The whole project falls under the charter of the Weapons Lab, not us."
"Yeah, but I'm here, not there." He was not bragging, just stating a fact. "Benny, they're just flexin' muscles . . . showin' me who's boss."
"Maybe if the Weapons Lab gave you a tailor-made bomb it would be better, you think of it like that?"
"I don't have the time. . . . Th' guys're losing too many people, dropping gravity bombs."
Benny stared.
"If Lucky'd had my laser-guided bomb . . . wouldn't've had to press low 'n' maybe he wouldn't've been shot down."
That argument struck a chord. Benny thought about it, then shook his head. "I'll tell it to you like it is, Moods. You've cried wolf so damned many times, saying you were almost there, not many people believe you anymore."
Moods Diller sighed. "Yeah, I know."
"Every week you say, 'I'll have it next week.' Then it's another week, then another. Some people are beginning to believe you've got a great idea for the next war."
Moods looked miserable, and his voice came out so slowly, it seemed normal. "I'll have the guidance problem ironed out in a couple weeks. If they have to build a new bomb, the estimates are it'll be nine months to a year minimum before they'll have it ready and tested."
Benny was not sympathetic. "Perhaps by then all the bugs will really be out of your LGB kits, and just maybe they'll work."
Quit being such an old maid and listen, said the voice inside him. It had been a while since he'd heard it.
Moods looked thoroughly beaten.
Asshole, said the voice. This guy's giving it all he's got and he needs your help.
Benny narrowed his eyes and thought about it.
Moods shook his head sadly.
"Okay, Moods," sighed Benny. "Give me your rationale again."
Diller told him.
Benny cocked a finger and pointed it directly at him. "How long would it take to change your design so the modules fit to Mk-84's?"
"I've already got the design on paper . . . the Texas contractors say they can build a prototype in two weeks."
"How long until you get the bugs out of the laser-guidance kits?" Benny shook his head sternly. "I want a concrete answer, Moods. Something I can take to the bank. No more wags." A wag was what they called a "wild-assed guess." Benny looked evenly at him. "I don't want to back you and make both of us look dumb."
Moods almost laughed out loud. "You'll help?"
"How long, dammit?"
Moods jotted timelines on his pad.
Benny moved over beside him. "Let's make sure we add a few days to get money shifted from the discretionary fund, transit times for shipping the bombs, plenty of time to work out design bugs, and then a quick-reaction contract to produce a few kits."
Half an hour later they'd come up with a rough milestone chart. In three months Moods could travel to Danang for his LGB test . . . if they used existing Mk-84 bombs.
Benny stared at the figures, then nodded. This time he believed them.
Whatcha going to do now, Ace? asked the voice, rather proud of him.
Benny picked up the tele
phone and dialed an autovon number.
"Who you callin'?" asked Moods Diller.
"Friend of Lucky Anderson's who runs a division at the Armament Lab."
Moods looked dejected again. "That's at Wright Patterson. It's the people at Eglin who're giving me the problems."
"Yeah? Well guess who the two-star at Eglin works for?"
"The three-star at Wright Pat?"
"You got it."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Thursday, August 17th, 0900 Local—HQ Seventh Air Force, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Saigon, RVN
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
The previous night the Navy had taken a try at their bridges, and Pearly was trying to interpret the results. CINCPAC had told Seventh Fleet to work closely with Seventh Air Force on CROSSFIRE ZULU, but since it had been an Air Force idea, the airdales remained selective about what they told them. The Navy had always been reluctant to release results to the Air Force, whom their admirals called the "junior service," and that hadn't changed. Which was fine, thought Pearly, except he needed to know what to brief his boss.
Navy A-6 Intruders had been fragged to destroy two bridges west of Haiphong. The message Seventh Fleet had released said one was damaged and the other "heavily" damaged.
So what the hell did that mean?
He'd talked to one of the Navy liaison officers assigned to the headquarters, an elusive full commander, and found out nothing except: "Our guys are reliable. They say it's heavy damage, they mean it."
"So is the bridge down or is it just damaged?" he'd asked.
"Like they said, it's heavily damaged."
He sighed. "So they knocked down a span?"
"Well, I'd say if a span was knocked down, it's heavily damaged. Of course they'd've said it was destroyed if the damage was really heavy."
Pearly had tried a different tack, asking the commander for recce photos of the "heavily damaged" bridge. He was told they were unavailable. The commander said he was sure they'd be forwarded in the morning, after tonight's missions, which made Pearly suspicious.