by G. E. Nolly
Colonel Navarone returned to his office and planted himself heavily in the overstuffed leather chair. It had been a full day, getting sorties back to their normal rates, with munitions stores recovering. There had been a thousand brush fires to put out and every one of them required his personal attention, or at least his concurrence.
The POW Camp was a total loss, and all of the prisoners had been transferred to the facility at Long Binh. The Freedom Hill Exchange was a mess, and Military Police were still standing guard to prevent looting. The Red Horse squadron was operating at full capacity to get it up and running as soon as possible.
The Freedom Hill Amphitheater also needed to be completely rebuilt. It was a total loss, and would be needed for the USO show scheduled for Memorial Day. With almost a month, it normally wouldn't be too much of a problem, but construction capabilities were stretched to the limit with the other repairs, so getting it finished in time for the show would be a touch-and-go proposition.
Guns leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
There was a knock on the door of his room in the pilot hootch. He got up and opened the door.
“Danny, you don't need to knock. If my door's unlocked, just come on in.”
“Thanks, Johnny. I'm still learning my way around here, and wasn't sure what the protocol is. And I didn't know if you have a roommate.”
“No roommate, Danny. One of the benefits of being a Lieutenant Colonel.”
“Cool.”
Guns gestured toward some rattan chairs in the corner.
“Have a seat, Danny. Care for a drink?”
“Sure. I'll have whatever you're drinking.”
Guns retrieved two bottles of Heineken from the small refrigerator next to his bed. He picked up the church key from his desk, opened both bottles, and handed one to his brother.
“Here's to a great tour, Danny. Welcome to Korat!”
They gently clinked the bottles together.
“Thanks, Johnny.”
“So, are you getting pretty well settled in?”
“Yeah. Indoc went really well, and I got all fitted up at Life Support, so I'm ready to go.”
“I think you're going to like the missions we have here, Danny. We'll start you out on some Steel Tiger missions, and once you feel ready we'll send you downtown.”
“That's what I wanted to talk about, Johnny. I want to get on tomorrow's mission downtown. It sounds really important.”
“Oh, no way, Danny! You need to get really comfortable with what I call 'normal' combat missions before you go up north. Don't worry, this war isn't going anywhere. You'll get your chance.”
“Come on, Johnny. I'm not like a normal new guy. I've flown into every base in Vietnam, and I listened to all of your war stories from Korea and replayed them in my head so many times I feel like a seasoned combat vet. And I was Top Gun in my Thud training, just like you were.”
“You flew into Vietnam in cargo planes, Danny. You were talking to Approach and Tower controllers. Totally different.”
“Johnny,” Danny bristled, “I got shot at every time I landed and took off.”
“Damn it, Danny, you were shot at with small arms. Maybe AK-47s. I'm not trying to put down your previous combat experience, but the stuff we face downtown is in a league by itself. MiGs. SAMs. Flak so thick you can walk on it. The shit we face over downtown is worse, much worse, than the stuff Uncle Bill flew through over Berlin.”
“When you get over Steel Tiger,” he continued, “you're going to see stuff that will water your eyes. ZPU, ZSU 23-4, thirty-seven millimeter, fifty-seven millimeter, all kinds of flak. And downtown is even worse. Believe me, Danny, you need to ease into this.”
“Johnny, you told me you've never lost a wingman. Put me on your wing and I'll be as safe as a baby in his mother's arms. C'mon, Johnny!”
The intercom on his desk buzzed. Guns woke up, shook his head several times, walked over to his desk and answered.
“Yes, Sergeant, what do we have?”
“Sir, Mr. Rice is here to see you.”
“Send him in.”
Guns couldn’t believe he had fallen asleep in the middle of the day and had such a vivid dream. It had been months since he’d thought about his brother. Talking to his nephew had probably dredged up a lot of memories.
David entered and started to salute.
“We can dispense with that for now, Donny. Have a seat.”
They seated themselves opposite each other in the leather chairs.
David reached into his briefcase and withdrew a file folder.
“I stopped by the hospital on the way here. I ordered a copy of the toxicology on the deceased patients. It says another toxin was found in their system and is the most likely cause of death.” David said as he handed the file over to Guns.
“Yeah,” Guns said, as he opened the folder and skimmed through the pages. “This is what I was looking at when the explosion hit.” He looked at the highlighted sections, where it reported that traces of ethylene glycol were found both in the dead pilots and in the key lime pie, which was the suspected source of poisoning.
“Anti-freeze.” David said. “That explains the symptoms they had. Very nasty way to go.”
“Yeah. I see that. In the key lime pie, right. Here’s the thing, I had some of that pie, and I didn’t get sick at all.”
“I thought you working on Easter and didn’t eat at the chow hall.”
“I was working in the Command Post, and Colonel Donnelly came by. He brought over some pie from the chow hall just as I was finishing up. One more thing, all the pilots who died had been scheduled to fly the next morning. In fact, we had to scrub the early launches because the scheduled pilots didn’t show up. They were the only pilots who died from the pie. Can you think of any explanation for that?”
“Very interesting.” David ruminated on it for a second. “Let me ask you a personal question, sir. Did you and Colonel Donnelly have anything to drink that night?”
“Sure. We finished off a bottle of Stoli. Why?”
“Well, alcohol is an antidote for antifreeze. Think about it, the pilots scheduled to fly in the morning couldn’t drink the night before. Who knows? Perhaps you weren’t even the only people to eat the pie and not get sick.”
“You know, you may be onto something, Donny.” Guns said. “Now, tell me more about Triad.”
David reached into his briefcase and withdrew another file, this one noticeably thicker than the other.
“I thought you’d never ask, sir.” David said, thumbing through the thick pages of the folder. “What do you know about the Phoenix Program?”
“You mean the operation with the CIA?”
“Yes,” David confirmed, as he unfolded a map. Red stars marked the locations of three military outposts. “My sources tell me that these are the bases with Phoenix Centers. Two out of three of these have already been hit by Triad. And you can see what base remains.”
“DaNang!” Guns exclaimed.
“Exactly. He started in the south, at Ben Hoa, and then moved north, to Cam Ranh. Three attacks at each location. I tried to figure out what these two bases had in common other than these attacks. First, I looked at the attacks. They all demonstrated either a knowledge of military operations or required specific access, which rules out locals.”
“How do you know these attacks are all related?”
“Triad leaves his signature calling card on the third attack, a small plastic doll of a Vietnamese woman.”
“The one with the hat?” Guns asked.
David nodded.
“I’ve seen those dolls everywhere. How do you know that it’s his calling card?”
“Because he left one for me.” David replied, as he rolled up his right sleeve, “I felt like I was closing in on him at Cam Ranh. Then I received a package addressed to ‘Mr. Donald Navarone and family’ on Christmas. Because it was the holiday season, I just opened it up without giving it another thought. But then I saw the doll.” David revealed the long
scar that extended from his wrist to his elbow on his right arm.
“Jesus Christ, what happened?” Guns asked.
“It was a bomb. Fortunately, it was a low order detonation. That’s the only reason I survived, but I’ll never have complete dexterity in my right hand again. I had to learn how to shoot all over again.”
David opened and closed his hand, wincing each time. “That’s also why I had to change my name to stay on the case. Of course, you still carry that same family name.”
“Do you think Triad noticed that?”
“How could he miss it? I’m sure that’s why he chose DaNang for his next target. That, and possibly the Phoenix Center.”
“Okay, let’s operate on the assumption he’s at Danang. Where do we go from here?”
“I haven’t been able to get access to the Phoenix Center, but based on Triad’s M.O. there will be another attack.”
“The one where he leaves the calling card, right?”
“Yes. And, like I said, he’s likely to attack on a holiday.”
“So,” Guns furrowed his brow and looked up at the ceiling, “what is that, the Fourth of July?”
“Probably. That’s a long time for him to go silent, but that’s the biggest holiday of the year, next to Christmas and New Year.”
“Plus, it’s symbolic.”
“Exactly.”
Guns got up and walked over to the large map of DaNang that adorned the wall of his office. “Now, where do you think he’ll try to hit? We’ll post extra security.”
“I wish I knew. I imagine it will be wherever he can have the greatest effect. I’m thinking it will be something really big.”
“Bigger than the bomb dump?”
“Yeah, even bigger than that.”
“In terms of casualties or in terms of operational capability?”
“Hard to tell. Could be either.”
Guns stared at the map.
“If he’s looking to disrupt our operations, the most likely target will be our runway complex,” Guns said, as he pointed to the two runways. “We need to post extra security all around the runways.”
“But what if he tries to sabotage an airplane, to cause it to crash on the runway?”
“Okay, we’ll post the security all over the flight line. Now,” Guns directed attention to a different part of the map, “If he’s going for casualties, there’s a USO show on the Fourth of July.”
“Where? At the base theater? I already checked into that. The base theater only has a seating capacity of about 200. I think he’ll try for a larger body count.”
“The USO Show will be at the Freedom Hill amphitheater. They’re almost finished rebuilding it. It can accommodate about 4000. ”
“That’s a tough call. Can we have security posted at both the flightline and the amphitheatre?”
“Security would be spread too thin. I think I’m going to cancel the Fourth of July USO show and concentrate security at the flightline.”
“No, if we do that, Triad we’ll know that we’re on to him and we’ll never catch the son of a bitch.”
“My job is to keep my people safe, not to catch Triad.”
“Why can’t we do both.”
“Look, I’ll do my best to help you catch this guy but come the end of June and Triad isn’t in custody, we need to cancel the USO show.”
“Deal.”
12
August 30, 1968
Bien Hoa Air Base, South Vietnam
Major John Dingle was tired, really tired. His crew had launched their C-130 aircraft from Ching Chuan Kang Air Base, in Taiwan, and flown to South Vietnam two weeks earlier, and it had been non-stop, frantic flying ever since. Missions usually consisted of six or seven sorties all over the country, with duty days stretching to sixteen hours. Then, after a 12-hour crew rest, they’d have to do it all over again. The oppressive heat and humidity were unrelenting.
Most of the missions were min-time turns, with refueling and cargo loading done with engines running. And most of the deliveries were LAPES – Low Altitude Parachute Extraction System – one of the most challenging events a Herc driver had to perform. And the enemy gunners were usually waiting for the Lockheed Hercules. They usually had the runways registered with their mortars, and the Herc was a really lucrative target. At Khe San, the marines called the C-130 the “mortar magnet.” And after a day of ass-busting flying, it was hard to get a good rest.
Unlike the permanent-party pilots, transient C-130 pilots at Bien Hoa were billeted in tents. Hot, non-air-conditioned, smelly tents. Other than breakfast at the Bien Hoa chow hall, most meals were box lunches provided by the flight kitchen. The box lunch would typically consist of a ham and cheese sandwich, a small bag of potato chips, a candy bar, and a pack of four Marlboro cigarettes.
Major Dingle and his crew were anxious to get back home to CCK. But they didn’t want to go today. If they stayed in-country for one more day, until the day before Labor Day, they would get combat pay and tax exemption for the entire month of September. But, no, now the Command Post told Dingle that he was fragged to fly back to CCK today. It was almost, he thought, like there was this giant conspiracy to fuck over him and his crew. First, they were sent down-range two days earlier than scheduled. Now, they were brought home a day early. It was, he was convinced, because they were TAC Airlift.
It was no secret that Tactical Air Command didn’t really want trash-haulers, called TAC Airlift, in their command. The C-130 crews were treated like red-headed step-children compared to the fighter jocks. Hell, even the pilots of the dinky little O-2s were held in higher esteem.
“If I can’t get a fighter for my next assignment,” he said to no one in particular, “I sure as shit want to get the fuck out of TAC.”
He knew, of course, that the only way he’d get a fighter assignment would be to go to Air Training Command and be an Instructor Pilot, preferably in the supersonic T-38 Talon. Then, after a few years as an IP, if the war was still going on, he could volunteer for fighters to Vietnam. If the war ended too soon, he’d be stuck in ATC until his retirement. At the rate his career was going, he’d be retiring as a Major in another five years. The key to promotion as a field-grade officer, he knew, was to have high-level endorsements on his Officer Effectiveness Reports. And TAC made sure that only the fighter jocks got the best OER endorsements. He needed to get the fuck out of TAC.
Major Dingle filed his flight plan at Base Ops and went out to the aircraft to join his crew. They were as dog-tired as he was. Fortunately, this was going to be an easy mission. The cargo load was light for the flight up-range, and there were only five duty passengers. He gave a quick briefing to his passengers and crew and went up to the cockpit. When you’ve flown fifty sorties in less than two weeks with the same guys, you don’t need to brief very much. Especially when you’re leaving the combat zone.
His copilot, First Lieutenant Benjamin Moore, was already strapped into his seat, and had completed most of the cockpit preparation.
“Paint Boy’s got real potential,” Dingle thought to himself, as he sat down in the Aircraft Commander’s seat and lifted the seat-adjustment lever to slide the seat forward.
“Did you drop something, sir?” Lieutenant Moore asked, “I heard something fall down by your seat”.
Major Dingle looked down at the cockpit floor and saw what appeared to be a Vietnamese doll and a key ring. And protruding from the key ring was a pin about an inch long. He looked at it for a full second before he realized what it was.
“What would a grenade pin be doing on the cockpit floor?”
Then he realized what had just happened. When he’d slid his seat forward, the pin had been pulled out of the hand-grenade that was fastened under the seat. It was going to explode in three more seconds.
And there wasn’t a thing in the world he could do to stop it.
13
1047L, May 23, 1969
DaNang Air Base, Vietnam
Colonel Navarone decided to check perso
nnel records at the previous bases where Triad had been. After making several phone calls on secure voice to the Wing Commanders at Bien Hoa and Cam Ranh, and cashing in some “green stamps” in favors with the personnel folks at those bases, he had assembled the documents which he figured would lead him to Triad. They were now spread out across his desk.
First, he needed to see a roster of all the military and civilian personnel who had gone missing shortly after the final attack at Bien Hoa. Next to that was a similar roster for Cam Ranh. And he needed a roster of new arrivals at each base during the critical time periods. Then he had the MAC manifests for flights from Bien Hoa to Cam Ranh for the three-day period following the final Bien Hoa attack. And the MAC manifests for flights from Cam Ranh to DaNang for the three days following the final Cam Ranh attack. There were a lot of names to sort through.
Guns got up from his desk, rubbed his eyes, and walked out into the reception office, where the coffee pot was located. He yawned as he poured himself his fifth cup, and turned to go back into his office.
“Long day, sir?” his Admin Sergeant asked.
“Yeah, Sarge, longer than most.” He looked out the window, onto the flight line. Four Gunfighters were taking off. “What I would give to be a squadron jock again!”
He took a sip, made a face, and went back into his office. Terrible coffee. Then he smiled as he thought back to his first flying assignment, in Korea. The unofficial Rules of Engagement in his squadron had been that whoever bitched about the coffee would be responsible for making the next pot until someone else bitched. He had just come back from a combat sortie over “MiG Alley” and had poured himself a cup. As soon as he took a sip, he blurted out, “This coffee tastes like piss!” and then, before his squadron-mates could recognize the opportunity, “But good piss!”
“Yeah,” he said to himself, “I really wish I was a squadron jock again.”
He sat down heavily in the chair at his desk and once again looked at the mass of papers before him. His eyes started to glaze over. “Walter S. Nevik. I think I’ve seen that name before.” He pulled his file on the Phoenix Program. “Walter… Walter…” He found the name “Walter” but it was Kevin Walters.