Rolling Thunder

by Mark Berent

  1645 Hours Local, 12 September 1966

  Military Assistance Command Studies and Observation Group

  Saigon, Republic of Vietnam

  Major Wolf Lochert adjusted his beret and stepped out of the low front end of the pedicab as the long-legged Viet­namese peddler slid it to a stop, bicycle brakes squealing, ten feet from the Nungs guarding the gate to the unmarked MACSOG complex on rue Pasteur. Wolf gave him 20 P, reached back for his rucksack and M-16, and shook his head as the man sped off down the sleepy, tree-lined street, his ropey-muscled calves pumping, only too anxious to get away from the fearsome Nungs. Shouldering his weapon and holding his ruck on his back by one strap, Wolf strolled along the creamy colored stucco wall topped by green tiles and coiled concertina wire. He motioned toward the fleeing cyclist.

  "The dan ong has fear," he said in a Chinese patois to the AK-laden Nungs as they opened the big wooden gate for him.

  "More of you than us, Thieu Ta," one of the guards responded with a toothy smile, scuffling his rubber tire sandals on the ancient French concrete.

  Wolf passed the giant tamarind on his right and strode across the compound, digging the heels of his jungle boots in as if passing in review, and entered the two-story building on his left. In the coolness he crossed the linoleum flooring, passed the bar where an enshrined old hat of Maggie's awaited her return, and entered through an unmarked door to the office of Lieutenant Colonel Al Charles, a black man taller and wider than Wolf.

  "MIGAWD, YOU'RE STILL UGLY," the Wolf boomed as the two men embraced and commenced a thumb-in-ear ritual that left both of them wrestling the other to the hardwood floor, smashing a cheap lamp and corner table in the process. Each had grabbed the other's right hand in a deadlock to prevent him from sticking a spit-laden thumb in his ear. Neither could get an advantage.

  "Let’s break on three," Charles said. Although panting from exertion, his voice was deceptively soft. They were laying flat on the floor, arms entwined as their huge hands pinned the others'.

  "Nothing doing," the Wolf said. "The last time we did that you broke the truce and stuck your thumb in my ear anyhow." He tried to shift his grip to better advantage. Charles countered by swiftly swinging his body and getting a leg lock on the Wolf. Wolf reacted by suddenly pulling Charles' arm to his mouth and grabbing a chunk of forearm in his teeth and applying pressure just short of breaking the skin.

  "All right, all right. On the count of three. and I promise I won't give you an ear job."

  "Unh huh," the Wolf agreed, shifting his body to test Charles's leg lock.

  "One," Charles said, tightening his leg lock, "two," the Wolf increased his pressure on the forearm, "three," Charles said. Nothing happened.

  "All right, I give," Charles said and released Wolf. With a howl, Wolf released his holds on Charles, spit on his thumb and started to grab the colonel's head. He felt his own head grabbed at the same time, and each man suffered simul­taneously the indignity of having a soggy thumb stuck in his ear. They stood up, pulses returning to normal, and brushed off.

  A large brass plaque hung on one wall. Wolf walked over and read the words.

  “I’d like to have two armies: one for display with lovely guns, tanks, little soldiers, staffs, distinguished and doddering generals, and dear little regimental officers who would be deeply concerned over their general’s bowel movements or their colonel’s piles, an Army that would be shown for a modest fee on every fairground in the country. The other would be the real one, composed entirely of young enthusiasts in camouflage uniforms, who would not be put on display, but from whom impossible efforts would be demanded and to whom all sorts of tricks would be taught. That’s the Army in which I would like to fight.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Didn’t some French guy write that?”

  “Yup. French General Marcel Bigeard. In fact, Larteguy had one of his characters, Col. Raspeguy in The Praetorians, say something similar. But let me tell you, Lochert," the colonel said, "I'm so glad you're here I could puke. Siddown." He kicked the broken table and lamp into a corner and sat at his desk.

  Wolf pulled up a tattered vinyl and chrome recliner and fell into it. "Charles, I'm so glad to be here, I'd eat it. I had to get out of Nha Trang or I'd blow it up. Fred Ladd is an ok guy but I can only take so much desk time." He leaned back and studied Al Charles. "I know what the official story is. How about telling me what this is really all about? What the hell is the MACV Studies and Observation Group? Why study and observe the VC when killing 'em is so easy?"

  "Wolf, don't act any more stupid than you were at Bad T when you decked that burgomeister giving you autobahn information because you thought he called you an ausfahrt."

  The Wolf grinned. "You're just hacked because it screwed up your messing with his daughter. Now tell me why the orders bringing me down here. Not that I mind. I was afraid they were going to leave me at Nha Trang."

  "Not a chance. By the way, I read your after-action report last spring about the battle in Warzone C. Sorry to lose Haskell. He was good. Deserved the Medal. Spears came through here. He's lost some upper shoulder motion, but he'll be okay for duty. That Air Force guy Parker did a hell of a job. But, you know, I think there's a lot more activity going to happen."

  "Is that why I'm here?" the Wolf asked.

  "No. We are getting into some new out-country missions that should appeal to you. Here's how it is." Charles leaned back in his chair, his eyes serious. "MACSOG is a joint service command with the Air Force and Navy. We took over the old CIA mission of supporting the Viets doing sabotage and cross-border ops. Now we do more than support. We've got good assets; Navy SEALs and USAF special ops people with C-123s, C-130s, and Green Hornet Hueys. We even have some Chinats flying unmarked C-47 Goons and 123s."

  "Yeah, I heard a few things. You the guys that put those rigged mortar rounds in the VC supply system? Don't you do assassination and counter-terror?"

  "Yeah, but those are just minor on-going ops. We have five primary missions: Cross border ops into Laos, Cambodia, and North Vietnam; running black and gray psy-ops; setting up resistance groups in North Vietnam; planning and conducting POW rescue raids; setting up a net to grab shot-down aircrew and get them out before they get captured."

  "Everything except psy-ops sounds great to me. Where do I fit in?" Wolf asked.

  Charles stood up. "In the rescue net for shot-down aircrew. We've got a problem. We've yet to get even one pilot back from Southern Laos, the area along the Ho Chi Minh Trail we call Steel Tiger." Charles sat on the edge of his desk facing Wolf.

  "Here's the gen, classified of course. Bright Spot is a pilot pickup op we run out of FOB-4 at Da Nang under CCN--Command and Control North. We've tried to infiltrate indige teams with radios, rations, and medical supplies around the hot spots where the AAA is bad up North and along the Trail through Steel Tiger in Laos." Charles got off the desk and walked to the far end of the room. He faced Wolf. "But we have never gotten one word back from any of the two teams we've sent into the southern Steel Tiger area in Laos. Never. They vanished."

  "The answer is simple," the Wolf said, lounging back in the cracked vinyl and crossing his legs. "Send at least two Americans with each team. Or won't the Pentagon let you do that?"

  "There's never been a problem with Fort Bragg or the JCS at the Pentagon. It was McNamara and Johnson; they wouldn't let American ground troops into southern Laos. Afraid of being accused of invading, I suppose. But that's changed. They just now said we could beef up our efforts to get downed pilots back because we are losing so many."

  "Did they specifically agree in writing to us going up there?"

  "You just put your thumb in my ear, Wolf." Charles looked rueful. "No, they didn't. They just said to make the maximum possible effort to collect downed aircrew before they got captured and to rescue them if they were."

  "And you interpret that as the green light to send some of our guys with the teams, right?" Wolf uncrossed his legs. "Like me, right?"

  "L
ike you, Wolf, like you. Normally, I wouldn't send field grade--"

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Wolf spat out. "That I'm getting too old?" He glared at Charles.

  "No, Goddammit. Normally a major would be in charge of all the teams, not on one."

  The Wolf relaxed. "Okay. I want to pick my own number two," he said, "an NCO named Menuez. You know him? He's kind of slopey looking."

  "That's not the only reason you want him, I hope."

  "No, he's got Hatchet and Spike experience." Those were clandestine operations in Laos.

  "Sure, Wolf, I know him and we'll get him for you. But I reserve the right to supply you a new indige we think is right for your team. I've got him standing by to meet you. He's older but knows his way around the boonies and the commies."

  "How's that?"

  "He's from Hanoi. Fought against the French as a Viet Minh. Rallied to the South in the early sixties and has been here ever since. Excellent English and French. We ran a full background on him and have run a few local recce ops with him to see his ground savvy. Even Westy thinks he's okay. He thinks like a VC and can smell them, I swear. I went out with him one night and we got three who never should have been there, just outside the Michelin Plantation. You should have seen this guy light up when he greased 'em. He's tough and he loves zapping commies. There's only one thing," Charles said.

  "What's that?" Wolf asked.

  "He's pretty intelligent and acts like a general sometimes. He doesn't like to be ordered around. But it's not too bad because he's so smart he can usually figure out what you want before you do."

  "Well, I'm here and ready to go to work. Bring him in and let’s get started."

  Al Charles picked up the landline and called an office across the compound. Five minutes later, he called entrez in response to a firm knock on his door. Wearing a sun-bleached tiger suit, a tall Vietnamese man entered and looked squarely at the big black man, Lieutenant Colonel Al Charles, who motioned toward Wolf and said, "This is Major Lochert, the officer I told you about."

  The tall Vietnamese looked at Wolf. His face cracked in a half smile as he said, "I am honored to be working with such a famous warrior. I am Buey Dan."