by Tom Wilson
"Red Dog two shows a SAM launch," called Smitty.
Billy responded by winging over and entering his dive attack. He feinted first to his right, then after a couple of seconds he adjusted hard left, which should throw off the SAMs. He forgot about them and concentrated on the dive-bomb problem.
Passing nine thousand feet.
There is a period during the final seconds of a dive bomb when, if he is going to hit the target, the pilot must hold the aircraft steady and true, neither jinking nor taking any other defensive action. Billy entered that zone. He'd throttled back and was now holding the bird steady on its forty-five-degree dive bomb.
Eight thousand feet.
A bright flash! The explosion was violent and wrenched the bird sideward, slewing it through the sky.
SAM?
He was still falling earthward.
Billy fought the controls, then pushed in left rudder and felt a response. He shoved the throttle outboard to the A/B notch, eased the stick back, and the bird began to recover.
Still flying.
With afterburner lit, he swung left and was jolted again, this time by flak bursts.
He checked his telelites and gauges. His primary hydraulic system was out. The needle quivered as the fluid drained, then settled at zero. Now there were only the limited hydraulics supplied by the utility system.
The altimeter read 6,000 feet, and he was climbing, headed north.
He still had his bombs aboard. Should he reattack, considering the severe hydraulic-system problem? He left the flak and made up his mind. With a pang of apprehension, he sucked in a breath and held it as he turned in an arc toward the target.
He'd finished the turn and was headed back toward the bridge, flying level at 7,500 feet, when he came out of afterburner.
The bridge was still standing. Its previously destroyed middle span, rebuilt with scaffolds and wooden structures, was unharmed.
Billy pushed the nose over and aimed for the rebuilt section. Flak was everywhere, before and about him, for now they had only the single Thud to shoot at. He ignored his pounding heart as he concentrated on the target. He'd set up well. He acquired a good sight picture, adjusted for the slight wind, and pickled off the bombs at 6,000 feet. He shallowed his dive angle, but did not pull out. Flak still surrounded him, but most of the rounds were passing behind him. I'm going too fucking fast for you bastards, Billy gloated.
He engaged afterburner for even more speed and shallowed his dive even more, heading directly toward the heart of the city of Bac Giang.
At 2,000 feet he felt the concussions from his bombs.
He leveled at fifty feet, flying at Mach one and accelerating. His peripheral vision was blurred because of the vortices created by the speed. He stared only forward, holding the bird down very low, skimming over rooftops.
As Major Lucky had taught them, the laws of physics hadn't been revoked. There was no way the enemy could hit a target this low and going this fast.
He slowed to Mach one when he approached Thud Ridge.
Billy caught up with the rest of Red Dog beyond the Red River, where Henry Horn had them waiting. Henry looked him over and called that he'd taken several hits in his left wing, and that there were so many holes in his vertical stabilizer, it looked like a sieve.
Since Billy was flying a wounded bird, and because he was short on fuel due to his extensive use of afterburner, they were unable to drop down and search where they'd seen the flashes from the ground. Still, they looked there as they flew by.
Horn reported he saw another flash of reflected light he was sure was man-made. Sure as hell, he radioed, someone's down there trying to get our attention.
0940 Local—Command Post, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
During the debriefing Lieutenant DeWalt was interested in what Billy had to say about dropping the span of the bridge, but when he mentioned the flashes, he grew wary.
"Could it have been glints off of water?" he asked.
"Not likely," said Billy.
Colonel Tom Lyons was standing at the nearby doorway, taking it in.
Henry Horn spoke up from the next debriefing table. "They were man-made flashes. I've seen 'em too many times before. Someone was down there trying to get our attention."
"I see," said DeWalt, unconvinced. "If you really think it was a signal-mirror flash, I'll include it in the remarks section."
"I'm sure enough," said Billy. "I'll give you the coordinates." He peered at his map and began correlating what he'd written on his kneepad with the contour lines.
Doc Roddenbush, the head flight surgeon, was beside Lyons, doling out paper cups of mission whiskey to pilots who'd finished their debriefings. He tried to speak to Colonel Lyons, but Lyons brushed him off and came over to Billy's table.
"Did you establish radio contact with anyone on the ground, Captain?" Lyons asked.
Billy held his finger on the most likely spot before he looked up.
"No, sir," he answered.
"Without radio contact your coordinates are useless."
"The last time I spoke with Major Anderson on the ground, his radio was very weak, Colonel. There's a possibility his batteries gave out and he's trying to signal us this way."
Lyons gave him a derisive smile. "Don't you think that's a rather remote assumption?"
"I think it's worth checking out."
"I think not."
Billy stared at him incredulously.
"If it was a man-made signal, and I think that is doubtful . . ."
Henry Horn broke it. "It was man-made, Colonel."
Lyons turned to him with a frown. "I do not appreciate being interrupted, Lieutenant."
Henry started to retort, but slowly closed his mouth.
"As I was saying, if it was man-made, it's likely an enemy trap. It would be criminal to send rescue forces up there on a wild-goose chase and needlessly expose them to danger."
Billy stared at the colonel for a moment, then shook his head from side to side. "That's bullshit."
Lyons's face grew dark. "Would you care to repeat that remark, Captain?"
"We can't just ignore what we saw. If Major Lucky or any other American pilot's up there trying to get our attention, we've got to follow up and try to get him out."
"It was not a man-made signal," said Tom Lyons.
Billy exploded. "How the fuck would you know? Lieutenant Horn has been up there ninety-seven times now, and he says it was man-made. You weren't there, and you've never been there!"
Lyons was startled by the outburst.
Billy stared hard, waiting for the retribution he knew would come.
Lyons spoke in a crisp voice. "Your remarks are both inaccurate and disrespectful, Captain Bowes. I'll speak with your commander about your insolence, and I will examine your debriefing report for inaccuracies before it is sent out."
Lyons glared for emphasis, then left the room.
Billy figured his chances of ever making major had just been reduced to zero.
"That asshole," someone murmured.
Doc Roddenbush came over to Billy and held out a cupful of Old Overholt, today's rotgut mission whiskey. "I think maybe you need this," the Doc said.
Billy declined.
"He can't change our reports, can he?" asked Henry in an incredulous voice, staring at the doorway from which Lyons had departed.
Lieutenant DeWalt licked his lips apprehensively, obviously frightened of Lyons.
Billy knew it would do no good, but he read the coordinates from his kneepad.
DeWalt wrote them down on a separate paper, not on the report.
"That's all I've got," said Billy, feeling shitty about everything in general. Henry Horn and Joe Walker met him at the door, and they walked out together.
"Unbelievable," Henry muttered.
"I think we should go to Colonel Parker," said Joe.
Billy shook his head bitterly. He remembered the previous evening. "He's in too tight with Lyons. He wouldn't believe us."
"Sir," called out Henry Horn.
"Goddammit," hissed Billy. "You've got ninety-seven missions now. Don't fuck it up."
B. J. Parker turned and noticed them, then returned their salutes.
"Could we speak with you, Colonel?" asked Henry.
B.J. glanced at his watch. "Make it quick. I've got a staff meeting in twenty minutes."
1523 Local—HQ Seventh Air Force, Tan Son Nhut AB, Saigon
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
The WAF staff sergeant poked her head in the door of his office. "I know you didn't want to be disturbed, Colonel, but Airman O'Neil wants to see you."
Pearly looked up from his work, the following week's target selections for the OPlan CROSSFIRE ZULU bombing campaign. The three pages were spread out before him.
"Can't it wait?" he asked.
"He says it's important."
"Have him take it up with his NCOIC." Sergeant Turner handled the day-to-day operation of his section, including personal problems and complaints about assigned duties.
He'd heard that O'Neil was unhappy about his latest task, to catalog and cross-reference several series of unclassified procedural manuals.
"He says he can talk only to you."
Pearly collected the pages of the classified document, thinking hard as he delayed his answer. He opened a side desk drawer and manipulated other papers before nodding.
"Tell him to come in."
He closed the cover of the SECRET—SENSITIVE INFORMATION document.
O'Neil entered and saluted sharply. "Airman First Class O'Neil reporting, sir."
"Take a seat," Pearly said.
O'Neil looked troubled as he sat across from him.
"Can I help you?"
"I've got some information, sir, and I don't know what to do with it."
Pearly observed O'Neil's tired eyes. He was jittery, as if he'd jump and run if you said "boo." This was the same man who'd been so cool a few weeks earlier.
"It's about Sergeant Turner, sir."
Pearly waited while O'Neil chewed on his lip, framing his words. During the past week he'd told Pearly of his suspicions about three different co-workers. Now it was his boss. He was obviously running scared.
"I worked late last night," O'Neil said, "and before I left, I saw Sergeant Turner take something out of number-three safe and copy it. Then he put the copy in a folder and carried it out of the building with him, Colonel."
"That right?" Pearly turned on an appropriate concerned look.
"I dunno where he took it, because I went on back to my barracks. Tired, you know. But I couldn't sleep, thinking about it. I know he's our NCOIC and all, but . . . it's not right doing what he did, is it Colonel?"
"Not if it was classified material. You think that's what it was?"
"We've got nothing in safe number three but classified, sir."
Pearly was frowning. "Sounds like this one might be something serious."
"Think I should go to the OSI, sir?"
"You're supposed to report security violations to your supervisor, but in this instance you're certainly justified in coming straight to me. I'll make sure the proper people are notified. I hope you're wrong about this, O'Neil."
"I do too, sir. I really respected Sergeant Turner. But I couldn't have looked myself in the mirror if I'd just let it pass."
"A man has to do his duty."
Do the right thing, the general had told Pearly.
"Thank you for your time, sir," said O'Neil, rising.
"Go back and act as if nothing's happened. I'll make sure this gets to the right people."
"One more thing, Colonel," said O'Neil. "Sergeant Turner has me doing some awfully boring duties right now. Maybe . . . maybe he's doing something wrong, and he's got me doing these other things so I can't get nosy."
"I'll look into that too."
"There's no problem with me, is there, sir? About classified or anything?" O'Neil was looking at him closely to gauge his reaction.
"From everything I've heard, you're highly regarded by everyone in your section. Even Sergeant Turner says you're very diligent. I'll look into the duties you're working on."
"Thank you, sir." O'Neil saluted and started to leave.
Pearly started to rise himself, but stopped as if remembering something.
"Help you with something, sir?"
"Take this revision back to the vault and turn it in. Tell them I'll need two copies before close of business tonight, and to call me when they're ready. I've already got General Moss's signature, so it's ready to go. This one's got a quick trigger."
Pearly noticed no change of expression as O'Neil took the SECRET—SENSITIVE INFORMATION document from the desktop.
"Happy to help, sir."
"I've got several other things brewing, so I appreciate it," said Pearly, already delving into the in-basket for his next piece of work.
At 1715 a staff sergeant called from the vault to tell him the two copies of the revision were ready and waiting.
"I'll be right there," he said.
On his way back to his office, the two copies in hand, he stopped by the Documentation section. At 1600 O'Neil had gone to his barracks, complaining about a migraine headache. Pearly took Master Sergeant Turner aside and told him to have someone check at O'Neil's barracks to inquire about his headache. "Then," he said, "come see me in my office."
Five minutes later Turner reported that O'Neil had stopped at his barracks only long enough to change clothes before he'd headed downtown.
They had a good idea where he was headed. Three days earlier Master Sergeant Turner and a couple of his NCO buddies had followed O'Neil to an apartment in an off-limits district of Cholon. The sergeants had nosed around and found that O'Neil went there a couple of times a week. Turner had given Pearly the address, cautioning that it was definitely not the kind of area you'd want to wander into unsuspectingly at night.
Pearly handed the two SECRET copies to Master Sergeant Turner. "Take those back to the vault and have 'em destroyed."
"Another scam you're running? Like when you listed the fake targets?"
As Pearly removed his eyeglasses and began to polish them, a leaden weight filled his chest.
Day 62, 0240 Local—Mountainous Region, North Vietnam
Major Lucky Anderson
For three days he'd tried to signal every formation of aircraft that passed over, but none had seemed to take notice. With each discouragement Lucky became less sure about making it to the TACAN station. His feet were so sore that each step was agonizing, and the enemy was about to close in again. Twice he'd seen troops during the past two days. Both sightings had been distant, but they had been NVA troops, nevertheless, and he remembered only too well the last time they'd come for him.
The previous day he'd hidden on a mountainside with a view to the east and watched a convoy of Soviet-built trucks snaking their way along a road a couple of miles distant. He knew the gomers disliked moving on the roads in the daylight hours, so he'd guessed they were likely after something they thought was important—him. A bit later he'd seen troops on the adjacent mountain crest, scouring the area there.
He'd tried to step up his pace by beginning the nightly trek earlier than normal and had almost stumbled into a group of people working crops in a rough field. He didn't think they'd seen him, but there was no way to be sure. He'd drawn back and made a wide detour of the place, using up more valuable time.
Now it was very dark, and he was having trouble making his way through a stretch of steep, heavily forested hillside. He was dog-weary, his feet hurt like hell, he couldn't see where he was going, he was half-starved, and on top of all that the fucking gomers were out there dogging him.
He found a fallen tree and sat on it to rest, trying to quell the bout of self-pity.
A dim light blinked twice off to his left, from up the hillside, t
hen a low, barely audible whistle sounded.
What the hell?
He looked about carefully, then back toward the source. He waited, wondering what might be his smartest reaction.
Had someone seen him? Maybe. Otherwise why the light?
He should do something.
Hide? Not if they already knew where he was, for Christ's sake.
Run? His feet were sore as boils. The rags tied to his feet were threadbare, and he could feel every twig he stepped on. Running was definitely out.
He sensed something drawing closer and slipped over to the opposite side of the fallen tree and crouched there.
"Majuh Anduhsun?" The words were spoken in a low voice.
Shit! His heart thumped as he pressed to the side of the tree, molding himself to it. There was very little light, so it might not be easy to find him.
Someone came up the crude trail he'd been following and stopped on the opposite side of the tree.
"Majuh Anduhsun?"
He held his breath.
Other sounds from up the hillside, these moving directly toward him.
Fuck it. He let himself breathe.
The light came on and pinned him for a moment. Then the man flashed it three times down the hillside.
"Come, Majuh Anduhsun." The first voice.
Lucky slowly rose from his hiding place, wondering if he shouldn't try using the sharp piece of Plexiglas. Maybe cut the bastards with it and . . . what then, dumb shit?
He sighed. Twice captured.
The second man laughed, very low. "You smell rike shit. How you gonna ged away like that?"
"Well fuck you too, buddy," said Lucky. What the hell kind of soldiers were these, who'd track you down, then insult you?
"Ret's go, Majuh Anduhsun."
"You need he'p, bruddah?" asked the other one.
"No," said Lucky. "I don't need your fucking help." He raised his hands and started over the fallen tree.
"Low you han's, bruddah. Whut you wan' . . . Sarge Brack mad ad us?"
The other one agreed. "Low you han's, Majuh Anduhsun. You wid frien's."
Their pidgin English was so poor, he could hardly understand them, but he thought they were telling him to lower his hands. He was not sure, so he played it safe and kept them shoulder height as they made their way down the hillside.