The Fall of Camp A-555: The Vietnamese Army are one step closer to victory... (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 4)
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“No. He only saw the two helicopters the general flew in with and the mobile field command center he brought along, a modified conex with a lot of communication gear crammed into it.”
“It is against MACV regulations to utilize a conex for such purposes,” said Bradlow.
“Maybe the general it belongs to didn’t realize that,” said Bates sourly.
Bradlow ignored the remark. “So, then, this master sergeant did not actually see any general officer, he merely saw the conex.”
“That’s right. But the presence on the camp of a general officer was confirmed by Lieutenant Novak and Sergeant Krung.”
“Oh. I see. They’re the ones who actually saw the general in the camp being taken prisoner by the Viet Cong?”
“Well, not exactly. Neither of them actually saw the man. Lieutenant Novak saw the general’s helicopters come in and land shortly after the VC had taken the base, but he didn’t personally see the general. Sergeant Krung had escaped the VC dragnet in the camp and was hiding near the helipad when the helicopters landed.”
“So it’s this Krung who saw him?”
“He couldn’t see him because he was hiding in a drainage tube beneath the runway, but he heard him speak, and he heard Major Dung address him as General.”
“Dung? Who’s he?”
“He’s the LLDB executive officer who turned out to be a Viet Cong infiltrator.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Bates,” said Bradlow heavily, “just who in hell are these people? You come to me with some fantastic story about a Special Forces camp being captured by the Viet Cong, a mysterious American general whom nobody has seen swooping into the camp like some demented bird of prey and getting himself captured by an ARVN Special Forces lieutenant who turns out to be a Viet Cong spy, and a major at that. When I ask you where this Intelligence comes from, you tell me that you got it from a master sergeant, who got it from a lieutenant who was there when the capture occurred, but presumably escaped afterward somehow, who got the information from an indigenous sergeant something or other.”
Colonel Bradlow looked as though he was seriously considering throwing Bates bodily from his office. “Do you really expect me to put any credence in such a fabulous story, Colonel?”
“Sir, I know Sergeant Krung, Master Sergeant Fetterman and Captain Gerber personally. I’ve known Mack Gerber ever since Korea. If they tell me the VC are holding an American general out there, they’ve got one.”
“Colonel, don’t you think if we were missing a general officer, we’d know about it?”
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
Bradlow glared at him but said nothing.
“What about the report of the downed Otter with General Westmoreland on board that Brigadier General Crinshaw sent to Captain Gerber.”
“Ah, yes, that. As it turns out, I do have some word for you on that. You can forget about it.”
“What do you mean, I can forget about it?”
“Just that, Colonel Bates. I mean forget it. The missing aircraft is no longer your concern or Captain Gerber’s.”
“It’s been found, then?”
“Not yet. We expect that it will be shortly. Responsibility for its recovery has been turned over to another agency.”
“What other agency?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not authorized to give you that information.”
“Jesus H. Christ. I don’t believe this crap,” Bates finally exploded.
“Lieutenant Colonel Bates, you would do well to control yourself. Such outbursts of profanity are not appropriate for a United States Army officer and will not be tolerated in this office.”
Bates threw up his hands. “All right, Colonel. You sit there and tell me my story is fantastic? Well, let me tell you another one. I get a report of an American general being captured by the Viet Cong, and I believe it because it comes from men I know and trust. This report says the highest ranking officer in Southeast Asia is now in enemy hands, so I go first to the man who originally initiated the report of such a possibility — General Crinshaw. Only he’s gone somewhere and nobody seems to know where. So I check with his XO, who doesn’t know anything, including where he’s gone. So then I go to my commander, Major General Hull, only he’s gone, too, and his XO is supposedly on R and R in Australia. So then I try to check with General Westmoreland himself, the man who’s supposed to be missing, and sure enough, he’s gone somewhere and nobody can tell me how to get in touch with him. So I ask to speak with his deputy commander, and I get told he’s not available, either, but I can talk to you if I like.”
Bates drew a breath but continued before Bradlow could stop him. “So I’m asking you, Colonel Bradlow, what the hell is this, some kind of plague that affects general officers only? If that isn’t Westmoreland out there, just who in the hell have the VC got?”
Bradlow rose and leaned over the desk. “Colonel Bates, for the last time, I’m telling you that I spoke with General Westmoreland only minutes before you entered this office. He is not missing, and to the best of my knowledge, no other general officer is, either. If you want to know who this mystery man is that so many people seem so concerned about but nobody seems to have actually seen, I suggest you go ask the VC since they seem to be in possession of him now, and of one of your camps, I might add.”
Bates returned Bradlow’s glare.
“Thank you for your advice, Colonel Bradlow. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll go have Captain Gerber do exactly that.”
By the grace of God, Bates somehow remembered to salute before he stomped out of Bradlow’s office.
CHAPTER 16
THE CAMBODIAN–VIETNAM BORDER REGION NORTHWEST OF U.S. ARMY CAMP A-555
It was nearly dusk of his second day in the jungle when Major David Rittenour heard the sound of the big helicopter beating the air into submission and began firing flares.
In fact, it was almost exactly twenty-four hours since he’d first heard the lighter helicopter, probably a Huey, come in and land somewhere nearby, then take off again. Later, while still trapped in the wrecked cockpit of the Otter, he’d heard a second helicopter, a flight of several helicopters, in fact. They’d been big ones, probably Chinooks, but they hadn’t landed, although they’d stayed in the area for quite a while. It had almost sounded as if they were hovering over the same spot, one after the other, but it didn’t really make sense to Rittenour that they’d do that.
This helicopter sounded big, too, but it was a little different somehow from the ones yesterday. As it drew closer, it dawned on him what the difference was. No turbine whine. This one was powered by an internal combustion engine, a big radial from the sound of it.
Just at that moment it wouldn’t have mattered to Rittenour if it was powered by a large windup key or a giant rubber band. It was a way of getting out of the jungle, and that was all that mattered to him. He fired flare after flare to attract its attention. As fast as he could reload the tiny launcher, he sent brilliant red balls of fire streaking upward through the trees.
Rittenour knew the day-night flare markers would be useless. The bright orange smoke of the distress markers would be more visible during the daylight than the tiny red flares from the launcher, but the overhead canopy of the trees would tend to trap the smoke and diffuse it close to the ground. Well, close from a helicopter pilot’s point of view, anyway. So he stuck with the flares from the Penguin launcher. They were designed to penetrate jungle canopy, provided they didn’t encounter a substantial branch on the way up, and they rose several hundred feet, had a brightness in excess of twenty thousand candlepower and didn’t burn out until they had almost reached the ground. As fast as he could screw fresh flares into the launcher he fired them until he had exhausted the ten-round bandolier. He was about to start using the flares from Jones’s vest when he belatedly remembered that the vest had contained an emergency radio transceiver like his own useless one, and he dug that out instead.
He connected the antenna and battery, switched it on and
was stunned to find someone trying to talk to him. They had seen his flares and were coming to get him. If he would stop shooting them off, they’d be overhead in a minute and would appreciate it if he would mark his position with smoke, if possible.
Joyfully Rittenour acknowledged the call. Unwrapping one of the six-inch-long green distress signals from its plastic bag, he pulled the tape over the cap marked Day, 45 Sec. Orange Smoke. Holding the cardboard tube away from his body, he used the coated surface of the end cap to strike the igniter button. The smoke signal popped noisily to life, billowing a thick orange cloud, and he tossed it a short distance away from the aircraft, watching the smoke climb toward the underside of the branches overhead.
When the Piasecki/Vertol HH-21B Shawnee finally hovered above him, Rittenour was so pleased to see it that he didn’t even care that it was painted the wrong color. In fact, when the Air Commando pararescue man came down in the sling on the hoist, Rittenour was so delighted to see him that he didn’t even pay any attention to the man’s Sears and Roebuck camouflage hunting coverall or the Beretta Model 12 submachine gun he was carrying.
The man slipped out of the sling and, holding the Beretta loosely in his hands, walked over to where Rittenour sat in the open doorway of the Otter.
“Are you Captain Jones?” the man called as he approached.
Rittenour shook his head. “Major David Rittenour. Damn, am I glad to see you guys.”
“Where is Captain Jones?” the man asked.
Rittenour nodded his head in the direction of the shallow grave beneath the right wing still hanging in the trees.
“He’s dead. I buried him over there.”
“Where is your passenger?”
“Other side of the aircraft. He’s dead, too.”
The man walked around the broken fuselage and disappeared. Rittenour could hear him digging up the shallow grave there. After a few minutes he came back around the tail section and walked off toward the detached right wing.
“Hey!” called Rittenour. “How about getting me out of here?”
The man ignored him. Rittenour could see him digging up Jones’s body. The thought was nauseating. When the Air Commando had finished uncovering the corpse, he took a walkie-talkie out of his pocket and said something into it.
The rescue sling on the end of the hoist vanished back up among the trees. A minute later it came down again with two five-gallon jerricans tied to it.
The Air Commando untied the cans and took one of them behind the aircraft. A minute later there was a loud whoosh, followed by a crackling sound and the smell of burning flesh.
“Hey! What’s going on over there? Just what in hell do you think you’re doing?” yelled Rittenour when the man came back into view.
“Following orders, Major,” the Air Commando told him. “Just sit tight. I’ll be with you in a minute.” He walked over to where Jones lay, soaked his body with the rest of the contents of the can and set the corpse on fire.
The man in the camouflage suit stood there for a few minutes, making sure that Jones was burning satisfactorily, then walked back and picked up the other jerrican. He tossed the empty into the plane past Rittenour, then opened the other can and climbed into the wreckage. Methodically he began dousing the interior of the aircraft with kerosene.
“Hey, now!” yelled Rittenour. “Just a goddamned minute here. What the hell do you think you’re doing, mister?” Hopping up from the doorway, he struggled to draw the .38 from its holster. “I want some answers, and you’re going to tell me what this is all—”
He stopped. The Air Commando had swung up the Beretta to cover him and snapped off the push-button safety.
“Just take it easy, Major. I got no orders to burn you, too. Unless you cause trouble. Now, then, I’ll just have that revolver of yours. Nice and slow like. Two fingers only, on the butt. Just put it on the deck there, and step away.”
Rittenour looked at the submachine gun, looked at the expression on the man’s face and did as he was told.
“All right now, why don’t you just pick up your crutch there and hobble out away from the aircraft. Once I’ve finished what I’ve got to do here, I’ll come back outside and have them send the sling back down again. If you’re a good little major, I might even take you with me. Now move.”
When it was finished and the Otter, the mystery copilot and the general impersonator were in flames, the Air Commando helped Rittenour into the sling.
“You’re not going to tell me what it was all about, are you,” said Rittenour as the man slipped the sling around Rittenour’s arms. It wasn’t really a question. “I’m never going to know what this was all about, or who that man was impersonating General Westmoreland, or why.”
The man in the Sears and Roebuck camouflage suit did something amazing. He looked sympathetic.
“I can’t tell you, Major. I don’t know. My guess is that somebody wanted somebody else to think Westmoreland was somewhere that he wasn’t, and now they’re covering their tracks. All I know is that my case officer told me to come out here and find whatever was left and make sure nobody else ever found it. The orders didn’t cover what to do with survivors because they didn’t expect us to find any. You’re somebody else’s problem now, not mine. Listen, Major, you take my advice. You forget this whole thing ever happened, you forget about those men and that plane. You forget your flight ever took place. Somebody with a lot of juice wants this whole incident forgotten. If you’re smart, you will, too. Now up you go. Watch your head getting in.”
Above, the hoist whirled away, and Rittenour was lifted slowly from the jungle floor. For a moment he watched the three fires burning below him and the Air Commando standing there in a six-foot clearing, waiting to be picked up. Then he looked up at the doorway of the helicopter.
The man who helped him aboard the Shawnee was dressed in the same civilian camouflage suit and Jones-style hunter’s cap as the man below, but there the similarity ended. He wore a revolver in a Western-style holster on a belt with all the cartridge loops showing, and he had an Uzi slung over his back. Quite unlike the man on the ground, he was friendly and talkative.
“Welcome aboard, Major. Careful of the head. How’s that leg of yours doing? Looks like you busted it up pretty good. We’ll see if we can improve on that splint of yours once I get John up.”
He leaned out the doorway to look down as he ran the hoist back out, then glanced back over his shoulder at Rittenour. “How long you been down there, Major?”
“Two days,” answered Rittenour.
“Oh. You won’t have heard the news, then.”
“What news is that?”
“About the Aussies. They’re upping the stakes. Going to send a whole bunch more guys over here to help us out.”
“The Australians are coming into the war?”
“They’ve been in. Had a battalion, a logistics company and support troops here since last year. They’re going to send a lot more, though. Bunch of battalions, some armored cavalry units, a field artillery unit, the works. Big buildup for the Aussies. They announced it this morning over AFVN. I guess somebody must have finally convinced ’em to quit straddling the fence and give us a real hand.”
“That’s nice,” said Rittenour distractedly. His leg was hurting again.
“How’s that again, sir?”
“Nothing,” said Rittenour. “I just said that’s good news. I’m very tired, that’s all.” He leaned back and closed his eyes and tried hard to forget.
CHAPTER 17
U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES CAMP B-41, MOC HOA, RVN
Gerber stood at the front of the room and looked at the men. They were seated behind the long tables that were used for meals when the briefing room was turned into a mess hall. Normally the pre-mission briefing was scheduled far enough in advance of a mission that a few cans of beer could be passed around, but not this time. As near as Gerber could figure, he had, at the most, five hours before the first of the assault troops landed at his camp.
“Okay, let’s get started. This is the latest information we have. It’s based on some personal observations and various reports. If there are any questions, please hold them till the end.”
He turned to where a rough map of the camp had been tacked to the wall. “According to Sergeant Fetterman, the majority of the American prisoners are being held here, in the team house. The reporter, Miss Robin Morrow, is being held in the northeastern corner hootch in the Vietnamese section.” Gerber held up a hand to stop the protest. “No, we were not able to ascertain the identity of the men being held, although we do know that one of them is a general officer.”
Gerber moved away from the map on the wall and consulted his notes. “I’ll give you a general view of the mission, and then we’ll hit the specifics. First, just prior to dawn, Sully Smith and Justin Tyme and their force will launch a diversionary attack on the west wall designed to freeze the enemy troops in place and draw their attention. Two minutes after that they will cease firing as Huey helicopters land strike teams in various locations. One each to take the command post, the commo bunker, the redoubt and Dung’s hootch where Morrow is being held.
“As soon as the helicopters break ground and vacate the area, Sully and Justin will hit the west wall again. This will keep the VC from stripping the wall.
“Now, as the teams hit their targets, taking them out, Smith and Tyme will stop the attack a second time, and a force will land on the runway in CH-47s.” Gerber glanced at Henderson.
“Coordination has been completed,” said Henderson. “We’ve got three Chinooks coming from Saigon, slated to land here in about thirty minutes. They’re ours until noon tomorrow. Colonel Bates arranged for the C-130s for the Mike Force to stand by at Cu Chi.”