The technician nodded, a pleased expression on his face. Then he slipped back into a professional mode. "Commander," he said, addressing Lab Rat, "your opinion, sir?"
Lab Rat nodded. "If there are revetments around, that's where they are, I would think. As you said, it fits all the criteria."
"Then let's get some ordnance on top of it. We may not be able to break through the top of the revetments and get at the aircraft inside, but we ought to be able to muddy up the entrance enough to make it difficult for them to dig out."
"The secondary strike, or divert some aircraft from the main one?" Lab Rat asked.
"The secondary strike ― hell, both. If we can put those aircraft out of commission, then we've accomplished our mission."
Again, Lab Rat relayed my orders to the Tactical Action Officer. I heard the pilots acknowledge the change of mission over tactical, and sat back to watch the show.
The satellite picture was now almost totally obscured by smoke. The one small area we had been bombing was only about one twentieth of the large-screen display, and I was struck by how vast and vital the country was around it. This was such a small area, but if the mission went well, one with major tactical implications for the Vietnamese. It was, I hoped, truly a surgical strike.
The third J-TARPS camera was now over the scene, and the photo image showed billowing clouds of black smoke. Down at the bottom of the screen, one small ball of fire seemed to take on a mind of its own. It was moving, traveling slowly from left to right on the screen. I stared at it for a moment puzzled, not understanding what I was seeing.
Lab Rat choked off an exclamation. He turned away from the cameras for a moment, then looked up at his Photo Tech, his face pale. "Screaming Alpha?" he asked.
The photo intel expert nodded. "That would be my guess."
I tried to ignore them, but my eyes were drawn back to that spot again and again. It had stopped moving now, settling down to look like any other fire spot on the ground.
A Class Alpha fire was one composed of combustible materials such as paper and wood. A Class B fire was fuel oil of some sort, Class C electrical, and Class D burning metal such as an aircraft on fire.
In the profane jargon of Damage Control, a Screaming Alpha was brutal shorthand for a human being on fire.
One of the advantages of fighting from the air instead of on the ground is distance from targets. Sure, you know that your bombs are hitting people, but you try not to think about it. It's like taking out an enemy aircraft ― the target is the aircraft, and the crew are merely incidental matters. You feel you've killed an it ― not a him or them. But this was something that ground troops faced all the time, both the Army and the Marines. They looked into the eyes of human death far more frequently than we did, shielded as we were by our aircraft and altitude. I thought, after seeing the picture, that perhaps it was a good idea that the J-TARPS pods had no display inside the cockpit. I wanted pilots focused on missions and threats, not on the hard facts of the destruction they were wreaking on the ground.
"Second flight leader acknowledges the new mission," Lab Rat said. "They should be on station in two minutes ― a little less now."
Now that I knew what I was looking at, I could see other small spots of fire moving erratically around the burning airfield. The more I stared, the easier it became to pick them out. The people were the ones that moved in short spurts of speed, then fell burning on the melting tarmac. My imagination started suggesting that I could see the figures inside the flames, and I shoved the thought away. Not now, no more than I would think about the men and women I'd lost in my fighters. Not now.
Suddenly, everything seemed to be moving on the ground. I turned to Lab Rat for an explanation.
"That heat generates strong local wind currents," he explained. "You heat the air, it rises, and cold air rushes in. That's how you get the mushroom effect from any bombing, and that's what you're seeing on the ground now."
The third camera showed the flight leader was almost over his target. Again the shudder as the bombs were dropped, making the aircraft suddenly lighter and more maneuverable. I knew that feeling, of dropping heavy weapons off your airframe. There's an immediate increase in your airworthiness, and your speed and maneuverability. You feel lighter, like you've just lost fifty pounds after sitting in a sauna.
The camera jiggled, and steadied back down. The bombs dropped, almost invisible, lofted toward the revetments on a parabolic arc.
Explosions, heat, and light ― the picture was a blur.
"Commander, there's something-" The Intelligence Specialist broke off and stepped over to stand directly in front of the monitor. As the aircraft veered away, the area where the enemy aircraft had been lined up on the airfield came into view. "It's not hot enough," he said. "Not for a Class D fire. It should be burning brighter than anything else on the screen, absolutely unstoppable. It should be ― no, it can't be."
"What?" Lab Rat and I demanded simultaneously. "What is it?"
"I saw something similar once," he said slowly. "It was a test-range film. They were touting the accuracy of a new guidance system, and a couple of Tomcats were making precision bombing runs on a mock enemy airfield. That picture looked just like this one."
"So what's wrong with that?" I asked, shifting my gaze back and forth between the burning area over the revetments and the technician. "That's what we wanted, right?"
He shook his head, a deep look of concern on his face. "No, I don't think so. Because in the training tape I saw, the Tomcats were dropping ordnance on wooden mock-ups of enemy aircraft. The point wasn't to test the destructiveness of the weapons, you see, but to demonstrate the effectiveness of the targeting. You don't need to burn up real aircraft for that."
I stared at him aghast. "You said it's not hot enough ― you think we're burning up wooden targets?"
"Shit." The disgust in Lab Rat's voice convinced me that he was in agreement with his technician. "Shit shit shit."
I turned back to the display and stared at it again. "The heat sources are the same intensity as the burning jungle and buildings.
"That's what I mean, Admiral." The technician's voice was grim. "If there're aircraft around that airfield, they weren't lined up along the side. We've been suckered."
"Can you play this tape back?" I asked Lab Rat.
He nodded. "Now, or after the mission?"
I considered it for a moment, then said, "After the mission. I want to watch this one play out first. Then I want every set of eyes you've got on the tape from the flight leader. Get a good look at those aircraft, see if we've been suckered. Do an analysis of the revetments again as well. One way or the other, Lab Rat, I need to know where those aircraft are."
"There's one thing that wasn't cardboard," the technician said. "Those people on the ground. That I'm sure of."
I repressed a shudder. I didn't want to know during which part of his training he'd studied classified imagery of human beings running while they burned to death.
"The fire's spreading, Admiral," Lab Rat said. He directed my attention back to the satellite overhead imagery. "The wind's picking it up and carrying it along ― see, there are spot jungle fires cropping up all over."
"Any nearby villages?" I asked.
"I don't know ― I don't think so. The people are so thinly scattered in some parts of the jungle, it's hard to tell. Maybe."
I needed to know, to see whether or not the fires that were spreading would inflict significant collateral damage. I told myself it was in order to make a complete report to my superiors, but in reality it was more than that. Command can be a terrible thing sometimes, but it demands that one understand the consequences of every order and decision. I'd made the decision to conduct this raid, even without Air Force support. It was up to me to face the consequences.
"Vector the flight leader ― the first camera ― down toward those jungle areas," I said.
"Might be a problem with SAMs," Lab Rat warned.
"Then get the E
A-6 back up there to cover him."
Lab Rat nodded. He spoke to the TAO for the third time, directing the lead Tomcat to fly a low, high-magnification sweep of the direction in which the fire was burning. I switched my attention back to the first camera and waited.
Sure enough, the picture changed almost immediately. "Back to photo," I said. Lab Rat nodded and complied.
We were back in the jungle again, skimming over treetops so close it seemed I could touch them. Lab Rat had set the J-TARPS pod to maximum magnification, and I knew the pilot was well clear of the treetops.
"Mark on top," I said, as a small cluster of structures zipped by me on the monitor. "I want another look at that. Maximum magnification."
Lab Rat slaved the J-TARPS to that geographic spot and asked the pilot to orbit overhead. He did so, and the picture was remarkably stable.
It was a small cluster of huts, along with one main building built out of wood. Smoke from the fires was drifting into it, and I could see people running and probably screaming, their mouths moving and wild expressions on their faces. Where they were going, I had no idea. The fire was moving up on them rapidly, and I could see no place nearby that they'd be safe.
"Who is that?" Lab Rat said suddenly. He jumped up and pointed at one figure on the screen. "She's not Vietnamese."
"Get in closer," I said. "Now ― Jesus, now."
The picture flickered, then zoomed in hard on the figure that had caught Lab Rat's attention. It was a woman, a tall white woman, clearly distinguishable from the families of Vietnamese flooding past her. Unlike her counterparts, she was facing toward the fire, pointing and talking to a large man in her company.
There was something about her posture, about the way she moved, that reminded me ― oh, dear God.
"It's Pamela Drake," I breathed, scarcely daring to believe it myself. "God damn, Pamela Drake, the ACN reporter. And that man must be part of her video crew."
"What's she doing in a small Vietnamese village?" Lab Rat said, his voice beyond surprise and into sheer shock. "She's gotta get out ― Admiral, the fire's moving that way and she's not making any effort to get to safety."
"She wouldn't," I said grimly. "Pamela Drake is as bad as any fighter pilot. She's invulnerable, don't you know? Just like all of the rest of them."
And indeed, that had been the case in most conflicts that Ms. Drake had covered. She'd been a continual pain in the ass to both Tombstone and me, but her sheer, raw courage and tenacity had always evoked a grudging admiration from both of us, even when she interfered with military operations.
"Finally ― she's leaving," Lab Rat said. Pamela had turned away from the fire and was following the path of the Vietnamese. A few had remained behind, dragging at her arms and urging her to leave the area. "But where are they headed?"
"See if the pilot can follow them," I said.
Lab Rat spoke in the radio, relaying my request. The pilot's voice was doubtful.
"They're disappearing into the trees, Home Plate. I may fly low, but I can't get that low. I can't see them under the canopy, and there's no indication of a road."
"Is there anything around? Anything that can provide them shelter?" I demanded. "Water? Some stretch that's bare of vegetation?"
"Nothing I can see. Hey, Home Plate, glad to oblige you guys" ― the pilot clearly had no idea of who he was talking to ― "but I gotta get the hell outta here. My visibility's getting obscured and this rising hot air is playing havoc with my low levels. So, if it's just the same with you guys, I'm outta here."
"Tell him to go ahead," I said to Lab Rat.
The picture stayed locked on the burning village as long as the J-TARPS pod was capable of doing so, but eventually it wavered and then slaved back to the forward view from the aircraft. I had Lab Rat freeze the last frame of the village on the screen.
The flames had crept to the edge of the clearing, and were now nibbling at the small building inside it. There were no people anymore ― they'd all fled. One pig wandered around the compound, confused and lost.
Where had they gone? The villagers had looked as if they'd known where they were going, but what refuge did they have from the flames there? What was it I didn't know about these mountains, these hills?
Another worry intruded. Where was Tombstone? I knew he was on the ground in Vietnam, but the circumstances and conditions of his mission meant that he was completely out of touch with us. Was he anywhere near the burning airfield, the fire spreading out in giant plumes around it?
I could only hope and pray not. Collateral damage to this small village that I'd watched was bad enough, but the possibility that I'd just torched my old lead was almost more than I could bear. The devastation that nuclear weapons would wreak on this beleaguered country was just beyond imagining.
One thing I knew for certain. If Pamela Drake was around, Tombstone couldn't be far.
7
Admiral "Tombstone" Magruder
28 September
Northern Vietnam
After two days in camp, I'd uncovered far more than I'd ever thought possible about the lives of the men who'd lived and died there. At first, the cryptic markings meant little, other than the comment from my own father to "go west." Even that was open to interpretation ― how far west? Russia, as I'd originally thought? Or another camp to the west somewhere in this part of the world, perhaps Laos or Cambodia?
The other messages I found scratched into wood and etched in concrete were less meaningful. Some were clearly parts of prayers, left to encourage either the writer or others that followed. Others bespoke immense pain, anguish beyond anything I could imagine. There were simple ones "I am dying." The longer I stared at that particular one, the more I began to see images of the man who must have written it.
I'm not some New Ager that believes in ghosts and channeling spirits from the other world, but I've had some experience with the inexplicable. The scratchy feeling I always get along my spine right before I hear an enemy fire-control radar. The impulse to wake up and tour my squadron in the middle of the night, back when I was in command, only to find something that had gone wrong and needed my attention ― or just a sailor who needed to talk. Call it ESP, call it command instinct, or just call it survival skills. Whatever it was, I knew about it. This was something different, and I chalked most of it up to my imagination. The longer I stared at those words, the more a face began visualizing in my mind. Gaunt, terribly drawn. Stubble clipped short along the jaw. A massive bruise along the right cheekbone, spreading over to encompass a black eye shot with purple and yellow around the eye.
I imagined him to be a man slightly shorter than myself, the same sort of build when well fed, but emaciated now from lack of food. He would be a brave man, although I doubt he would have believed that himself. The face I imagined bore scars from repeated beatings, the body bruised and welted in an ominous, indiscernible pattern. One arm looked as though it had been broken and reset badly, with a limited range of motion.
This man ― I had no name, merely this vision I created in my mind ― was a survivor. I imagined him bearing up under pain beyond anything I'd ever experienced, yielding only when it drove him completely out of his mind into sheer survival desperation. Then the words would come halting, slow, revealing as little as possible as he tried to lie. They would have known that, when he started lying, and the beatings would have gotten worse.
Still, he would have never broken completely. He would have been one of those men of incredible depth who are able to face their own limits, go past them, and rebound into some form of resistance. He would have brought strength to the others imprisoned there by his sheer determination and example. Had he been very senior? I considered the matter, then decided not. No, there have been others who'd taken command in the close-knit POW community, others who'd borne the ultimate responsibility for the performance of the men held captive there. But this man, the one who'd scratched those simple words on the wall, would have been one of their mainstays, the example that the
y held out to the others.
Had he died here?
Probably. I'd read the reports of the POW camps that were examined thoroughly, and I'd never found one that matched this location. But his message seemed more one last calm attempt to convey information than the anguished howl of a man who knew he would not survive.
But why had he not signed his name? Why not add that one word, just a last name, that would have identified him to the rest of the world?
Perhaps he wrote those words not just for himself, but for those men around him who were made of lesser stuff. They were all dying, they had to be. Abandoned here by their own country, their existence not even suspected until I'd come here on this tour, they had died one by one.
Other images came to me as I studied the rest of the secret messages scribbled on the walls. "Tell Sally I love her." It was signed "Rieger," probably a last name. Or maybe a nickname, something that he left as a message only to his relatives.
I saw a few more messages that I came to believe were left by my father as well. One had my own name, Matt, scratched into it. "Be strong, Matt." Whether it was a prayer or an admonition intended for my eyes someday, I could not decide. Yet it was more evidence that my father had been here, that he'd thought of me, and that somehow perhaps the image of me as he'd last seen me, as a very small, barely talking child, had helped buoy him through the torture and deprivations.
After two days, I was finished. I had compiled an extensive photographic record of the messages I'd seen, as well as a detailed pictorial overview of the camp and its location. I'd made sketches, suggested possible meanings to some of the more cryptic notes based on their location, and generally done what I could to document the camp and its existence.
Than was healing rapidly, regaining strength every day. His constitution was such that while the injury still limited his range of motion, it seemed barely to affect him. I marveled at his recovery, not sure I would have done as well, particularly not in the stifling heat and humidity that plagued the camp.
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