Frag Order: Enemy Inside The Gate

by G. E. Nolly

  He wracked his brain to figure out why those two names seemed so familiar. They looked alike, yes, but there was something else.

  Then he realized it: the names were anagrams, they had the same exact letters. He went back to the personnel list. Two names jumped out at him, making three in total. One was at Cam Ranh and one was at Bien Hoa. He excitedly pressed the Intercom button.

  “Sarge, I need the wing alpha roster, ASAP!”

  1830L, May 23, 1969

  DaNang Air Base, South Vietnam

  David was waiting for Kelly at the entrance of the base hospital. This was pretty much their standard routine now after almost two months of seeing each other. David had never planned on it lasting this long. For starters, he could’ve never anticipated how long he’d be at DaNang. Second, and more important, he never wanted to forge any personal attachments while working on a case. Although neither had spoken of any pact of exclusivity, their commitment to each other was tacitly understood.

  When Kelly emerged, he gave her a warm embrace. She held him, then pulled back.

  “David, I think we need to talk.”

  “Uh-oh. Is that a bad sign?”

  “Not necessarily,” she said, and held his hand as they walked, “I just thought it was time for us to discuss where our relationship is going.”

  He stopped walking, and paused for a long time before answering.

  “Honey, I know you could be going out with any guy on base...”

  “Well, as the pilots say, this is a target rich environment. Ten thousand horny guys and less than a hundred of us gals on the entire base.”

  “I know. And you are the most beautiful, intelligent, articulate of the bunch. I feel really fortunate to be dating you.”

  Kelly felt his response was evasive.

  “Kelly,” David continued, “I want to spend every free minute with you. And I hope you feel the same about me...”

  “I really do but I want to know I’m not wasting my time.”

  “How about we discuss this once I finish this contract? It’s hard to figure out what either of us are feeling when there’s a war raging on around us.”

  “And what is this contract you’re working on anyway?”

  David desperately wanted to tell her why he was there, about the danger to everyone at Danang, and warn her to be careful. But he couldn’t reveal anything to her without compromising the integrity of the case. So, instead, he said, “That’s classified.”

  “That’s bullshit.” She countered.

  “Damn it, Kelly, I can’t handle this right now! There’s a lot going on that you don’t know about, can’t know about. If you can’t handle that, why don’t you go bother one of those other guys.”

  Kelly looked she’d been cuffed in the jaw. Before she could answer, David stormed off, looking for the closest place he could get a drink. He headed to the Enlisted Club.

  2045L, May 23, 1969

  DaNang Air Base, South Vietnam

  David had lost count of how many drinks he’d consumed. The $20 MPC note he’d laid on the bar had dwindled to less than $3 remaining. At Happy Hour prices, that was quite a few drinks. He had completely overreacted to Kelly. But she had been prying again, asking questions she knew he couldn’t answer. What was he supposed to do? Probably anything but blow up at her.

  “I fucked up,” he slurred for the tenth time, to no one in particular, “I really fucked up!”

  An Airman three stools down glared at him.

  “Hey, mister fuck-up, you want to keep it down? I just put a quarter in the jukebox, and with your bawling I can’t hear my fucking song!”

  David left his bar stool and staggered over to the Airman, placing his face about three inches in front of the Airman’s nose. He swayed as his eyes tried to focus.

  “Listen, asshole,” David slurred, “mind your own fucking business.”

  It was clear to the Airman that David was totally blitzed. That meant he’d be a pushover.

  “That was my quarter, asshole, so the song is my business. And now I’m going to get twenty-five cents worth of entertainment out of you,” he said, as he roughly shoved David in the chest.

  David staggered backward and caught himself from falling by grasping two chairs nearby. He got up, planted his feet down, and rolled up his sleeves to fight. He weaved to the left and then quickly closed on the right, scoring a well-placed punch to the Airman’s jaw with his right hand. David was immediately flooded with pain. His injury had prevented him from forming a complete fist, and he had landed the punch with his index finger only partly bent.

  He instinctively grabbed his right hand with his left, and the Airman saw the opening and took advantage of it. The Airman quickly closed the distance and caught David in the chin with an uppercut, sending him sprawling onto his back. As he lunged in for his final attack, the Airman felt a firm grasp on his shoulder. He turned to look face-to-face with a large Sergeant.

  “I think you’ve had your fun, pal. You want to fight a little more, do it with someone who’s not shit-faced drunk.” He paused and stood up to his full six-foot-three height. “Like me.”

  The Sergeant drilled him with his stare, and the Airman backed down.

  “Okay, no big deal. I was leaving anyway. When your friend sobers up, tell him I said he’s an asshole, and I’d be happy to finish this whenever he wants.” And with that, he left the bar.

  The Sergeant went over to David and helped him get to his feet.

  “I recognize you,” he said, “We met here about a month ago. It’s David, right?”

  “Yeah, David. And you’re uh, Alex, no, Alek.”

  “Pretty good memory for someone who’s blitzed. Yeah, Alek Winters”

  David was still holding his right hand. Winters stared at his injured right arm.

  “Jesus, what the hell happened to you?”

  “I got injured back at Cam…” He stopped himself in mid-sentence, realizing he had almost said Cam Ranh. “Back at camp when I was in high school. It flares up every now and then.” David was trying desperately to sober himself up and not thoughtlessly blurt out anything. “I need to get out of here. I need to go see a friend. I need to talk to her. I need to apologize.”

  “Easy there, David. You’re in no condition to go anywhere by yourself. Tell me where you need to go, and I’ll help you.”

  Winters guided the staggering David to Kelly’s quarters, and pressed the ringer. She opened the door and gasped when she saw David’s condition.

  “I think your friend here needs to talk to you, but I think he’s going to need some coffee before you can get two intelligent words out of him.”

  Winters helped guide David to Kelly’s sofa, and David appeared to immediately drift off to sleep.

  “You must be Kelly. I’m Alek Winters.”

  “Yes, Kelly Hunter. Thank you so much for taking care of him.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kelly. Looks like he’s bit his tongue or something, quite a bit of blood.”

  Kelly pried open David’s mouth and performed a quick inspection.

  “He’s chipped a tooth, and his tongue has a small cut. I’ll get him fixed up in no time. I’m a nurse.”

  “I guess he’s in good hands, then. I’ll be going.”

  David stirred.

  “Alek, I owe you one. I’ll remember you.”

  “Just put yourself in Kelly’s hands and you’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks again,” Kelly said, as Alek left.

  Kelly glared sternly at David.

  “I’m going to call Colonel Navarone.”

  “No!” he objected. “Kelly, Honey, I’m so, so sorry! I was a real asshole to you.”

  Alek crouched outside the window of Kelly Hunter’s living quarters. There was something familiar about David but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The story about the scar on his arm was obviously made up. It looked too fresh to have been from childhood and Alek could’ve sworn that he was starting to say “Cam Ranh” before changing his mind t
o say “Camp.”

  “Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?” Kelly pleaded.

  “Kelly, darling, I wish that I could.”

  “Does this have something to do with Colonel Navarone? I know you guys have some kind of history. For instance, why does he call you Donny?”

  “I promise to explain everything when I can but I just can’t yet. You have to trust me. Please.”

  For once Kelly felt as if she wasn’t just being fed some line. He seemed so earnest.

  She cupped his face with both hands and planted a firm kiss on his lips.

  “I guess this means you forgive me for being such a jerk.”

  “We’re getting there.”

  “How about I make it up to you? Let me take you to the USO show next week.” He reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a crumpled flyer announcing the Memorial Day USO Show. “I was going to ask you earlier. It’s Nick Landis and the Gingersnaps. Plus Julie Lomax. Before you give me your answer, I have something I’ve been meaning to give to you.”

  He reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a cassette.

  “I found Julie’s newest record in the base library,” he said, “and I copied it onto here for you.”

  “How did you know I was a pushover for Julie Lomax? Okay, I’ll go with you.”

  From his position outside the window, Alek overheard their entire conversation. The name “Donny” reverberated in his head. What was his connection to Colonel Navarone? Donald... Donald Navorone. That’s why David seemed so familiar! Donald Navarone was alive and well inside Kelly Hunter’s quarters and going under the name David Rice.

  14

  October 13, 1968

  Cam Ranh Air Base, South Vietnam

  In the pre-dawn darkness, Triad did not look out of place on the O-2 flight line. He carried his tool box to airplane 007, and, to anyone who may have been looking, he was performing a critical task. He knew that the key to getting something done under everyone’s nose was to look totally confident.

  And Triad was flush with pride in his previous successes. Putting a bolt in the gust lock on the O-2A had been a piece of cake, and he was really proud of himself with the fuel contamination that caused the crash of the F-100. He had been posing as a civilian tech rep in the POL industry, and personally supervised the purging of the fuel truck that later serviced the aircraft that crashed. It was virtually child’s play to ensure that the fueling hose still contained nothing but water when the purging was complete. The stupid Airman who topped off the fuel truck from the fuel farm never even checked the truck’s hose. He was most proud of the destruction of the C-130. All he had to do was ensure that the pilot’s seat was in the full aft position, too far back for even the tallest pilot. No way any pilot could fly with the seat in that position, and he would have to move it forward. And that would set off the grenade. Yes, he was satisfied with his work at Bien Hoa. And now it was time to attack Cam Ranh.

  No slinking around and looking over his shoulder. He greeted all the other knucker-busters who were working on airplanes, and stopping to chat with them, even dropping a joke. He even helped bleed the brake lines on airplane 677. Bleeding the brakes was always a two-person job, and Airman Collins needed assistance. It helped, of course, that, as a saboteur, he was wearing someone else’s uniform.

  It had been an easy task to pick up Staff Sergeant Bonner’s fatigues at the base laundry. Sergeant Bonner was about the same height and weight as Triad, and they shared similar facial features. In the unlikely event that anyone remembered that someone had been working on the seat rails of airplane 007, they’d be looking for Bonner.

  Bonner was going to become an unfortunate collateral victim. By the time anyone went looking for Sergeant Bonner, he would have become a casualty of a recent rocket attack. The number of American GIs killed each week was so high that very few deaths were given more than a cursory investigation. As long the fragging was conducted during a rocket attack, it was certain to go unnoticed.

  And rocket attacks happened pretty much every day, and every night, at Cam Ranh. Even on Columbus Day.

  October 13, 1968

  Cam Ranh Air Base, South Vietnam

  Lieutenant Jim “Sully” Sullivan was scheduled for another day mission, flying solo. This was not the norm for O-2 drivers. Usually, the O-2s flew at night, with a FAN – Forward Air Navigator – in the right seat, to operate the starlight scope and locate targets. The 20th TASS had an equal mix of O-2A aircraft and OV-10s, but the OV-10s only flew day missions.

  The OV-10’s bubble canopy caused numerous reflections from the instrument lights, and the canopy couldn’t be opened during flight. To use a starlight scope effectively, it needed to be operated with no glass between the scope and the target. Since the right side window of the O-2 could be opened in flight, the FAN would sit there and operate the scope through the open window.

  There were normally a few daytime sorties reserved for the O-2 pilots, to allow them to see the area under normal illumination and hone their skills at controlling airstrikes during the day. But that wasn’t the reason Sully was flying a day sortie. After getting shot down and rescued a month earlier, Sully had been relegated to day-only flights for one simple reason: the FANs thought he was a magnet ass and they all preferred not to fly with him. It was not a totally fair assessment, but was fully understandable. In addition to his previous hit near Delta 22 that rendered his aircraft unsalvageable after he recovered, he was later shot down in the same area and his FAN, Pappy Johnson, was badly injured.

  Sully had developed the habit of turning on all his lights during airstrikes at night so the fighters could see him. He called it “going christmas tree.” The problem was that, with all the airplane lights on, the enemy gunners could also see his aircraft. While Sully felt totally comfortable playing “dodge ball” against enemy gunners, the FANs weren’t operating the aircraft controls and felt totally at the mercy of the skills, and luck, of the pilot. And, although everyone agreed that Sully had the requisite skill, all the FANs agreed he had run out of luck.

  There were good and bad aspects of flying an O-2 over the trail in the daytime. During the day, it was much easier to conduct a thorough preflight inspection of the airplane. Inflight, the pilot could see the terrain, could find targets without needing to rely on the starlight scope – and the skill of the FAN operating the scope – and could keep the fighters in sight throughout the airstrike. Reading the 1-to-50 scale target map was a piece of cake in the daytime. And if a fighter took a hit and had to bail out, the FAC could become the on-scene commander of the SAR – Search And Rescue – until the rescue helicopters arrived.

  The problem with flying the O-2 over the trail during the day was that every enemy gunner could see the airplane, and most ground fire was not visible during the daytime, so it was harder to avoid. Tracer rounds, easily seen at night, were pretty much invisible, at least from the air, in the daytime. So the FAC couldn’t play dodge ball. And if the FAC got shot down in the daytime, ten thousand pairs of enemy eyes would be watching him come down in his parachute. Not only would they know where he was coming down, they could shoot at him during his nylon descent.

  Night flying had its own benefits. If the FAC took a hit at night, like when Sully had been shot down previously, the enemy would have idea where he was coming down, and the gomers couldn’t shoot at him in his parachute. And, of course, with a FAN on board, the FAC had assistance during the airstrike. At night, the oppressive heat was pretty much gone. In fact, sometimes Sully had to wear a flight jacket because the cockpit got so cold with the window open.

  But conducting an airstrike at night was infinitely more difficult than during the day. It was virtually impossible to keep the fighters in sight, since they normally kept their lights off. And reading the target map was much more challenging, since the contour lines of elevation on the map were printed in orange ink, which disappeared from view under red illumination, the normal night lighting in the cockpit. Whether the FAC
went christmas tree or not, the sparkling motor trail from a willie pete rocket drew a line of illumination through the night sky directly back to the O-2 with every delivery. So finding an O-2 at night during an air strike was not that difficult for enemy gunners. If a fighter went down at night, there was very little the FAC could do for immediate rescue, since SARs weren’t conducted during darkness. So if the FAC got shot down, there would be no rescue until the next day.

  Sully took a philosophical attitude toward his relegation to day flying. He didn’t agree with the FANs, but he understood their concerns. He missed the camaraderie of a crew environment, and had learned a lot from some of the senior FANs, many of whom had flown during World War II and Korea. But, as the guys in the squadron used to say, “It is what it is”. Sully had a little less than four months until DEROS, and he vowed to do his best for the mission of the 20th TASS at Pleiku, day or night.

  This was Sully’s first day flight out of Cam Ranh, where a small contingent had been sent TDY from Pleiku. With the beach nearby, and no nightly rocket attacks, like at Pleiku, Cam Ranh suited Sully just fine.

  Sully preflighted his Skymaster, ship number 007, nicknamed “License To Kill,” started the engines, taxied to the quick check/arming area, and got the safety pins pulled from his rocket pods. Then he checked his flight controls and lined up in position on Runway 20 Left. When he was cleared for takeoff, he smoothly advanced the throttles to the firewall, accelerated to takeoff speed, and the aircraft was airborne.

  But, as the aircraft rotated, the pilot seat broke loose and forcefully traveled toward the rear of the cockpit. And, because Sully was holding the control yoke, the control column came full aft and the airplane pitched up violently, with the stall warning horn sounding steadily.

  Sully immediately realized what had happened. The solution was simple, but not easy. He would have to forcefully shove the yoke forward, the exact opposite of a pilot's normal response. As his seat traveled aft, he shoved the yoke, lifted the quick-release lever to remove his seat belt and shoulder harness, and aggressively leaned forward to grab the empty right seat.