Chain of Command c-12

by Keith Douglass

  Gator smiled dreamily. "Hong Kong?"

  "No." It was as bad as I thought it might be. Gator was disoriented, and there was no telling what he might say until the drugs wore off. "Gator, listen to me. You punched us out, we were in the drink. The Vietnamese picked us up. Listen, good buddy, they're taking real good care of us so far. But I don't know how long that will last. You need to keep your mouth shut, don't say anything. Not about the ship, not about the aircraft, not about anything. You got that?"

  "You're always telling me to shut up," Gator said vaguely. He looked up at me, and his pupils were dilated until they ate up the whole iris. "You never listen to me."

  "I will from now on, Gator." I laid my hand on his good one, and held it tight. "You were right this last time, buddy. You were absolutely right and you saved my ass. But you gotta listen to me, Gator ― pay attention now. Don't say anything. We're POWs, you understand?"

  Gator nodded. "Don't say anything." His voice trailed off into a sleepy mumble. I sat right next to him in the room as activity teemed in the passageway. Through the open door, I could see more pilots being brought in, all of them Vietnamese. The sounds of a working hospital were almost overwhelming.

  For a while, I thought they'd forgotten about us. But no such luck. Finally a big heavy guy, a security fellow of some sort, showed up. "Come." The word was clear and understandable.

  I stood up, then motioned to Gator. "He can't walk just yet."

  That damn panel truck was back, parked right by the ambulance entrance. It must have followed us back from the pier. I couldn't be certain it was the same one, but it looked like it. It had that faded, oxidized green you get on Army vehicles, streaked with rust on the sides. It looked pretty rickety, but the engine sounded decent.

  The guard motioned us to the back of the truck, and I helped Gator in first. Damn, it was so hard not to jar him ― thank God the drugs hadn't worn off yet. He moved like a little schoolkid, sort of clumsy and awkward, with a trusting expression on his face.

  I handed him up into the truck, and whispered to him, "Don't forget. Don't say anything." He nodded once dreamily, scooted back into one corner, and seemed to doze off. I turned back to our guard. "Where are we going?"

  He motioned at the truck again with his rifle.

  I took the hint. As soon as I sat down, he slammed the door shut and I heard the lock turn. He walked around, got into the passenger seat, and talked to the driver for a minute. We pulled away, out of the parking lot, and onto a paved road.

  Thirty minutes later, we were deep in the countryside. The road had degenerated to a rutted track, mostly paved but often not. Gator was awake now ― the first teeth-rattling jolt over an enormous pothole had brought him awake with an anguished moan. Now he just sat there, staring out into the air, holding his arm close to him and trying to keep it from jarring. It looked like the drugs were wearing off ― his face was getting tight, and his pupils were contracting.

  "How're you doing, Gator?" I raised my voice to be heard over the rattling of our vehicle.

  He groaned and turned white as we jolted hard to the right. I knew, whatever he said, he wasn't doing well at all. Not at all.

  "I'm okay," he said finally. The words were forced out between clenched teeth. "My arm ― they fixed me?"

  Okay, so maybe he wasn't all the way there yet. The last couple of hours must have been a blur for him. I debated rehashing them, then glanced toward the front. There was nothing separating us from the security man and the driver, and I had evidence that the security man knew at least one word of English. "Yeah, they set your arm."

  Gator nodded, then looked back up at me. "What happened?"

  I shook my head. "Not here, Gator. It's not safe." I pointed to the guys up front. His eyes followed my gesture, and it seemed to make sense to him. He nodded, then said, "Are you okay?"

  Jesus, how could the guy even think of it? Here we were, trundling off to God knows where, his arm in a sling and my ass in one, and he asks if I'm okay? I don't know what I ever did to deserve flying with a guy like Gator, but whatever it was, it wasn't enough. He'd been taking care of me for years now, going along with some of the wild-ass schemes I cooked up ― the one over the Arctic came to mind first, where we'd whizzed along blind nearly at ground level to chase down some bad guys living in the ice spears ― and he'd damned near never said a word. Oh sure, he complained from time to time, but he went along with it. And so far, I hadn't done anything serious enough to get us killed.

  At least not until now.

  If I ever got out of here, I was gonna have to make it up to him somehow. Be more considerate, not roll inverted in a steep dive just for the sheer hell of it when I know it pisses him off. Listen to him occasionally, even laugh at those dumb-ass jokes he likes. Hell, I'd even make his rack every day if it would get us out of this situation.

  "I'm fine," I said finally. "As fine as I can be."

  Gator nodded. It looked like the medicine had kicked in just a little bit more. His eyes, unfocused and glazed, drifted shut, then jolted back open wide as we hit another bump.

  "Where are they taking us? Did they say?"

  "They're not the most talkative of fellows," I said.

  I'd taken a long hard look at the sky when we walked out of the hospital and headed for the truck, wondering if the air battle was still going on. I hoped not ― it had looked like it was turning in our favor when we departed the pattern, but I couldn't be sure. Still, given enough Tomcats and Hornets, the United States Navy can whip the ass of any fighter air force around. And that included the bad-ass MiGs that were flown by the Vietnamese. Hell, I'd shot down a couple myself in the last Spratly Islands conflict.

  I hadn't seen anything, but I was glad I'd at least looked. There was no chance that we would see it now, not this deep in the jungle. Trees towered overhead, tangled with vines and undergrowth. The sky was just patches we'd occasionally catch a glimpse of. The real overhead was the jungle.

  I was halfway expecting it when we got there, but it still depressed me. Wire fencing, with guard posts set in every corner. One main building, no signs of barracks or anything like that. But behind the building, a structure in the ground that slanted downwards, about eight feet across at the entrance and maybe six feet high. The entrance was fortified with huge wooden girders, a nicety of construction that degenerated further back into unfinished tree trunks.

  The open cavern inside was pretty big, and seemed to be well supported by timbering and boards. It was maybe fifty feet by twenty, illuminated only by a single strand of electric lights that ran across the middle of the ceiling. Near the rear, there were eight sets of bunk beds. A primitive bucket evidently constituted the sanitary arrangements.

  One of our guards flicked on the lights, pointed us down the ramp, and gave me a gentle shove. I started to swing at him, but Gator caught my arm with his good one. "Not now."

  I looked around the wire enclosure outside. Twenty, maybe thirty uniformed ground troops were milling around smartly, their curiosity about us evidently at a fever pitch. Our two guards held them back, waving them away with their weapons.

  We went in and settled down on two bunks, the lower two that were side by side near the forward part of the cavern. It seemed important to me to be as near as I possibly could get to that one blank patch of natural sunlight. Gator stretched out on his rack and fell asleep. I lay down on mine and tried to think.

  What were the odds that anyone had seen us taken by the Vietnamese? The helo had seen us in the water, sure, and had probably gotten a report back to Jefferson. But after it had been shot down, what had happened next? Had any of the aircraft overhead actually seen the Vietnamese fishing boat come out and pick us up?

  And what about Fred ― General Hue, I mean? If he really was a general, what was he doing flying? You don't do that when you get stars, at least not in the United States Navy. You barely get to fly when you're a captain. And if he wasn't a general, what exactly was he?

  My mind ra
n around in circles, trying to make some sense of it and wondering whether anybody even knew we were still alive. Finally, despite my best intentions of standing guard over Gator the entire time, I fell asleep.

  6

  Admiral "Batman" Wayne

  27 September

  USS Jefferson

  I hauled my ancient ass up six decks to Pri-Fly to watch the preparations. We'd lost three Tomcats, one tanker, and one helo. That in addition to the E-2C that went down four days before.

  It wasn't just the aircraft, although that was the way we phrased it to keep from facing the ultimate tragedy. Airframes could be replaced, but the men and women who'd flown in them could not. Not in my air wing, and not in the families ― wives, husbands, children, and parents ― that they'd left behind. I would be writing those letters all too soon, facing the hard reality of what we do as day-to-day business. Then there would be time to mourn, time to think about them as I knew them, as I saw them in the mess every day and in the passageways of my ship.

  But for now, we went by the numbers. It reduced the war to what it had to be for us to fight it ― for if we really thought about our people too long and too hard, or even about the other guy, we'd lose what you have to have to get shot off the pointy end of an aircraft carrier and go into battle.

  "Every aircraft you have, CAG," I said for probably the third time. It wasn't necessary ― he'd heard me the first time.

  CAG nodded. "We have contingency plans, of course," he began. "Actually drafting up the flight plans and getting all the birds on deck in the right spots with weapons on wings will take a little time." He shot me a glance that said he knew that I knew exactly how much time. I ignored it.

  "Two hours ― every aircraft," I said. "Unless it's an out and out hangar queen, I want it in the air."

  "We'll do it." CAG stood. "And if you could excuse me, I probably need to be down below keeping an eye on it." He pointed one finger in the direction of Vietnam. "Get a good look at the coastline, Admiral. In a couple of hours, there's gonna be too much smoke and fire to see anything."

  CAG headed back down to his office on the 03 level, trailing a couple of Strike Warfare people in his wake like pilot fish. He was a good man, and if anybody could pull this off, he could. The tower was fully manned up because we had SAR assets airborne. I'd sent out four helos and three S-3s, hoping that by carefully quartering the area we might pick up some trace ― any trace ― of our downed aircraft.

  Of our crews.

  So far, the results had been zero. Three oil slicks, one chunk of a fuselage floating. No signs of any aircrew anywhere, and that was all that mattered. Evidence that they'd gone into the drink didn't matter ― hell, that was something we already knew.

  The SH-60s and CH-46s had one advantage over the S-3. They could hover, get a good close look at the water, and see if there were any men in it. The S-3, on the other hand, had a lot longer legs. With tanking, she could stay airborne for five hours easy, although the noise and vibration would reduce crew efficiency considerably before then.

  Under the circumstances, I thought they'd probably tough it out. In fact, I was certain of it.

  After I'd committed a second squadron of Hornets to the battle, the Vietnamese had finally broken off and fled for home. They had an airstrip deep in the jungle, one that had been carefully camouflaged before except for heat sources and that was not the subject of constant intelligence updates. CVIC ― Carrier Intelligence Center ― was already working the problem real-time. Lab Rat had called me three times so far to let me know that Strike was getting the full picture on it.

  I think of all of us, if it were possible, Lab Rat felt the worst. It was his intelligence the crews depended on ― and he hadn't known about the SAM sites. A simple equation from an Intelligence Officer's point of view. Bad intel equals lost aircraft. I wondered how bad it would eat at him.

  The Air Boss turned to me and said, "Admiral, the first two helos are coming back in for fuel. No sign so far, other than those oil slicks."

  Unspoken was the bigger question ― how much longer did I want to keep it up? We knew where the aircraft had been, had already covered the area pretty thoroughly. But there was a chance, a small one, that somebody hadn't been looking in the right direction, or that a current had carried the crews further out of the area. I'd already dispatched two destroyers as well to ride at the twelve-mile limit, and put them patrolling outer limits of the area.

  "Another full cycle," I said to the Air Boss. "We've got to do it."

  He nodded, clearly with something on his mind. "May I be blunt?"

  "That's what I pay you for."

  The Air Boss took a deep breath, then spoke quietly. "Admiral, we're going to need most of our SAR assets and support during and after the strike. My only concern here is making sure we have that."

  It was a real concern, but one that I didn't think the aircrews would go along with. As long as there was a chance, no matter how slim, that there was a pilot or RIO out there in the water, they would insist on going back out. I had more crews than aircraft, and could rotate them through helos and S-3s at will, but eventually even aircraft start breaking down.

  "Another full cycle, then we'll see." I could see that the Air Boss was glad it was my decision and not his.

  I waited until everyone had come in to recover, fuel, and head back out. Then I went back to my cabin to wait.

  There was a pilot waiting for me there, standing just outside my cabin. I stopped when I saw him, then shrugged. Why should I be surprised? After all, Skeeter Harmon had been flying wingman on Bird Dog long enough to pick up most of his bad habits in the air ― why not on the ground too?

  "What do you want?" I asked. I had a pretty good idea, but I wanted to hear it from him.

  "Admiral, I need to go on that strike," Skeeter Harmon began.

  Just what I thought.

  "You'll go if they put you on the flight plan," I said, aware of a rough edge to my voice I hadn't really intended. "And why the hell are you pop ― tall in front of my patch?"

  Skeeter shook his head, not listening to anything I said.

  "Strike won't let me go ― they're putting me in the second wave. Admiral, I have to-"

  "I had this conversation with your lead not so long ago," I said. "And look what happened to him. I know you're furious about this, Skeeter, everyone of us is. But damn it, I'm not intervening in the daily planning anymore." I tapped lightly on my collarbone at the stars there. "That's not my job. And for you to come in here and start insisting on-"

  "Admiral, it was my fault," Skeeter said, his voice low and crumpled-sounding. "I made the same mistake Bird Dog did with the E-2 ― hell, I saw him make that one, I knew it was wrong, but I didn't say anything. He's kind of a tough guy to argue with sometimes, you know." He looked up at me, and I could see that those hard, shiny eyes were glazed.

  "Mistakes in the air," I said. "You make them at the wrong time, and it kills you. End of lesson ― now get out of here."

  "Admiral, he's alive. I'm certain of it."

  I had started to walk away, but that phrase stopped me dead in my tracks. Without turning back to him, I asked, "How can you be so sure? The helos haven't found a thing."

  "I know he is, I just know it," Skeeter said, his voice insistent. "Admiral, there were chutes ― I'm certain of it."

  "Did you debrief chutes?"

  Skeeter shook his head. "No, it was only when I got to thinking about it ― it happened so fast, Admiral. God, you wouldn't believe-"

  "Of course I would believe," I said, turning back around to face him. "And just who the hell do you think I am? Some ship driver? Jesus, mister, I've got more time in the chow line on an aircraft carrier than you've got in the cockpit. And you barge in here and presume to lecture me on how my pilots need to be treated?

  "You want sympathy for how you're being treated, young man, you go see the chaplain. Not the admiral. You got that?"

  I saw him stiffen, drawing himself up into a rigid
posture of attention. "Yes, sir, Admiral, I surely do." A soft Southern drawl had crept into his voice. "I apologize for disturbing you ― I just thought that ― "

  "You didn't think," I said, cutting him off. "And if you don't think while you're on the deck, then how do I know you're going to think while you're in the air? Have you ever thought of that? Good judgment is good judgment ― it's not something that overcomes you the second you drop into one of those babies. Now get out of here."

  I watched him turn and head down the passageway, wondering just what the hell his point had been. Did he want me to make sure that he was personally on the flight schedule? Hell, there are too many pilots on the carrier for me to even know all their names, much less watch how they're assigned on missions.

  And why had I been so rough on him? The man's lead had just been shot down, and by most standards any wingman would feel it was his fault. No matter that I'd heard Bird Dog order him back into the stack, tell him to keep his distance while Bird Dog was searching for the tanker crew. That didn't matter to Skeeter Harmon ― anymore than it would have mattered to me had it been Tombstone who'd been in the drink.

  Then why was I an asshole about it? With a flash of insight, I knew. I'd known Bird Dog for several cruises now, watched him grow from a brash young aviator with more mouth and balls than ninety percent of them, seen him pull off some incredible stunts of airmanship. Every single loss we take hurts, hurts more than I ever thought possible, but it's even worse when it's someone you know that well. As well as I knew Bird Dog. As well as Skeeter knew him.

  And that was the unpardonable sin that Skeeter had just committed in my presence. He'd reminded me that at least one of the men in the water ― too junior to really call him this, but this was what he was ― was my friend.

  I went back into my office, got on the horn, and made my second call of the day intruding into Strike Operations.

  If Skeeter needed vengeance to be whole, then that's what he'd get.