by Tom Wilson
Could they have been MiGs?
Sure, and Jane Fonda could be out pitching for people to buy war bonds.
By seven o'clock, after flying the morning mission and sitting in on the final debriefings for the afternoon go, Manny decided that following fifteen hours of work he was entitled to dinner and a couple of drinks at the bar. As he trudged along the concrete path toward the club, he lamented about what Pearly Gates had told them regarding the Air Force Chief of Staff's difficulties with the Secretary of Defense, and the feud between Generals Moss and Roman.
Politics, jealousies, and petty bickering. It was a terrible shame that their leaders were arguing like that while men were betting their asses. He'd always thought of American leadership as something finer. He'd believed that the politicians knew and cared about the shitty things that the guys walking through bad-ass jungles, sitting on ships off hostile coasts, and flying in the unfriendly skies had to go through.
He read in the papers how some politicians were turning against the war—listening to flag-burning demonstrators, even marching with them. Yet even that hadn't made him believe less in American leadership. Those were just a bunch of cowardly dope-smokers, unpatriotic assholes who went along with the biggest crowd. The ones in charge, the men who made things happen, were august, fatherly, and caring men.
Welcome to the real world, Manny DeVera, where generals argue about using this World War II tactic or that one while fighter jocks try to tell them that for Christ's sake the gomers are down there firing Mach three missiles. Where politicians on one side told them to keep on betting their asses, but to make sure they didn't bomb the important targets, and politicians on the other side told reporters that draft dodgers were doing their patriotic duty and the military was filled with baby-killers. Where the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, with his thirty-plus years of military experience, was having to shut up and get lessons on flying combat from the President.
He emerged from his thoughts as he noted activity at Colonel Tom Lyons's trailer; enlisted men carrying boxes while Lyons and Lieutenant Colonel Yank Donovan chatted and looked on.
Lyons was leaving?
Donovan saw Manny and nudged Tom Lyons, who turned to see who it was. Lyons's smile faded, and he grew a stony gaze. A hard, mean look, like Manny had been the one to try to screw him over instead of the other way around.
DeVera gave his "fuck you" smile and walked on, remembering the time Tom Lyons had slapped the girl in front of another trailer, not fifty feet away from where he was standing, and how Manny had thoroughly whipped his ass. That had been the morning before the charges had been made. His face burned at the memories of the outrageous lies. Yet Lyons was still wearing the uniform, with eagles on his shoulders and command pilot's wings on his chest. Which just showed you what you could get away with if your father was rich and powerful.
"Captain," he heard, and turned to see Donovan hurrying resolutely after him.
"Yes, sir?"
"You didn't salute."
"Sorry, sir." He saluted Donovan, who glared harder.
"I meant Colonel Lyons. You looked right at him and didn't salute."
Manny grinned, holding his salute and waiting for Donovan to return it. "It's starting to get dark, sir. Guess I thought he was a fucking post or something."
"Don't be insubordinate."
"I don't mean to be insubordinate to you, sir."
Donovan chewed on that for a moment, then turned to leave.
"Sir!" Manny roared in his loudest voice.
Donovan turned back to him.
"Are you going to return my salute, sir?"
Donovan gave a curt motion with his hand and stalked away.
Manny continued walking toward the Officers' Club, wearing a grim expression.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wednesday, November 1st 1645 Local—VPA Headquarters, Hanoi, DRV
Colonel Xuan Nha
The day was a glorious one and would not soon be forgotten. He should have known it would be so when it began so well. He'd risen early and walked about the perimeter of the grounds in the darkness, trudging more than half a kilometer before returning just as the orange morning sun peeked over the high stone fence surrounding the villa. As he'd entered the rear door of the household, servants were just beginning their labors, and he'd beckoned for the girl to follow.
She'd balked and begun to cry. He'd turned wordlessly to the father, who'd scolded and pushed her to follow the colonel.
Xuan had motioned for her to close the door as he painfully sat on the bedside. She'd known what was expected, for twice daily for the past ten days he'd exercised her mouth long and vigorously, each time with the same discouraging results. This morning had been different, a result of determination and hard labors, as were other successes of the day. The Mee had not taken his malehood. The thirteen-year-old girl was no longer a virgin!
She'd mouthed him to partial tumescence, then lost her remaining innocence by perching birdlike over him, anxiously fingering him and herself, squatting and grunting aloud as she stuffed him in. Reacting with sharp cries to his punches and slaps, she raised and lowered herself until . . . a stirring . . . a growing urge . . . a tremble . . . a spasm and emission. The task was complete.
When Lieutenant Quang Hanh had arrived at the villa entrance in the old Peugeot, Xuan Nha felt jolly. He'd joked and even crowed some about fucking the girl as they'd driven to the VPA headquarters buildings. Soon after arriving there and hobbling to his office on the first floor, he was again made happy.
General Tho, commander of the VPAAF, had entered his office, flanked by his aide and smiling widely. He did not dismiss the aide, so Xuan knew the meeting was official. Before taking his seat, General Tho had casually mentioned Quon, the disgraced commandant of the air regiment at Phuc Yen. Surely, he said, he'd completed his reeducation. His transgression had been minor, and his services were needed.
Meaning, Xuan Nha knew, that General Tho's uncle and Quon's father-in-law, Le Duc Tho, was going to make that "suggestion." Had he finally arrived from the South? No one except the Enlightened One, Giap, or Le Duan would dare deny Le Duc Tho.
The enigmatic Quon, hero of the people and the best-known pilot in the VPAAF, had been cocky and outspoken. Xuan wondered if that would still be true, if Quon would now be cautious, speak tentatively, and exude the odd serenity he'd seen in other powerful men who'd been politically disgraced. Quon's treatment was undoubtedly severe, for the man who supervised his program was Nguyen Wu, and the two men despised one another.
When Xuan Nha had been wounded in the Mee attack, Nguyen Wu had replaced him as commandant of rocket-and-artillery forces. He'd done such an awful job that the guided rockets had become a threat to their own MiG pilots. Quon had become outraged and arranged with General Dung that Wu be shipped to the South "to study the NVA air defenses." Wu had returned unscathed, but had not forgiven him. Later Xuan Nha had learned something else—that Wu had also engineered the death of Quon's only son, a lieutenant fighter pilot who had devoutly revered his famous father. He'd made certain that Quon heard rumors of Wu's duplicity, but the fighter pilot had refused to accept the fact as truth, believing Wu was too cowardly. He should have heeded Xuan's warnings, for there was little treachery the conniving Nguyen Wu would not stoop to. Now that Wu had Quon in his grasp, Xuan Nha was sure he was brutalizing his old enemy.
Nguyen Wu, now an assistant to the widely dreaded Commissioner of People's Safety, in charge of the Lao Dong party's reeducation program, was Li Binh's nephew. She'd used her influence within the Central Committee to gain his appointment, which was undoubtedly why General Tho brought it up to Xuan: to pass on through his wife to Nguyen Wu and begin the process of releasing Quon without embarrassing pressures being brought to bear by Le Duc Tho. The small group of officials who ran the Lao Dong party, and therefore the country, often used third parties to pass potentially embarrassing messages.
General Tho paused to lend the Quon matter appropriate weight b
efore turning to a happier theme—praise for Xuan Nha's advice, which had saved the VPAAF from destruction by warning him of the impending attack upon Phuc Yen. Tho had ordered the MiGs to be evacuated to dispersal bases, flying very low and exercising radio silence as Xuan had suggested.
He went on about how the Phantoms and Thunder planes had arrived the following morning to bomb only empty hangarettes and parking ramps. They'd lost two MiG-17's and a MiG-19, and those only because they were so battle damaged they couldn't be repaired in time to be flown out.
Next Xuan Nha had advised Tho also to evacuate the dispersal bases at Hoa Lac, Kep, and Yen Bai, saying that since the Mee had missed them at Phuc Yen, they'd try to find MiGs at bases they'd previously been authorized to bomb. He said he'd provide early warning with his radars. Tho had accepted that advice as well. As soon as enemy fighters were seen approaching the great Hong Valley, his pilots would fly their assigned missions, then drop low and recover at the small airstrips near the Chinese border where American fighters were strictly prohibited.
As if Xuan was able to foretell the future, four clays after they'd bombed Phuc Yen, the Mee had attacked the auxiliary bases.
Xuan Nha had maintained a neutral expression throughout Tho's words of effusive praise, but his chest almost burst with emotion. Not only was he being heeded by the generals, he was receiving praise from a man who, only a few months previously, had denounced him when he'd failed to stop the Mee from destroying the national steel mill.
Before Tho had left his office, they'd discussed the next move the Mee might make. Mee commanders would be so frustrated by their failed attempts that they'd ask for new, perhaps even bolder, targets. It would be up to their politicians whether permission would be granted.
As General Tho rose to depart, he'd looked about and asked why Xuan hadn't moved into General Luc's elaborate offices. Perhaps even into the new underground facilities for senior officers being completed north of the present headquarters. Those were air-conditioned, safer from attack, and would, he added pointedly, be appropriate for a man with Xuan Nha's heavy responsibilities.
Xuan had answered humbly that since he was only acting commander of the VPAND, he didn't wish to be presumptuous. Tho had raised an eyebrow, as if to say it was only a matter of time until Xuan was named permanently to the position.
In the afternoon Xuan attended yet another strategy meeting of the senior staff, this one headed by General Dung, to discuss the spring offensive demanded by the Enlightened One. At the outset of the meeting, General Tho repeated his praise of Xuan Nha. He was finishing when Le Duc Tho, personal emissary of the Enlightened One and second only to Le Duan in the Lao Dong party, entered. He had his nephew, General Tho, repeat his words, and this time Xuan Nha was lauded to a man who would undoubtedly relay the words to Giap and the Enlightened One.
A glorious day indeed for Colonel Xuan Nha.
It was difficult for him to concentrate on the meeting as Le Duc Tho told about the fight in the South, describing the present, mobile situation and the concentrations of power. Four full regiments of his best VPA forces were being positioned in the central highland near the Cambodian border in hopes of annihilating the thousand Mee soldiers and six hundred puppet militia at the large supply base at Dak To. If they could maintain their surprise, the battle would be swift and the outcome sure. If they were detected, they'd hasten the attack before the Mee could reinforce.
Victory at Dak To, he said, should be complete within the week. If things went as planned, they would indeed win a major battle against the Mee. Perhaps not as grand as the one over the French at Dien Bien Phu, but impressive nonetheless. The Enlightened One was entirely correct, he said. They must achieve a widely publicized victory, and it could not come too soon. The Mee were winning every major ground battle, and that fact wasn't lost on the people in the South. If the Mee continued to succeed, the people would be increasingly unresponsive to NVA and Viet Cong demands for support. But provide a single, decisive communist victory—show them, as they'd done in 1954, that even with their technology and vast resources, Westerners were human and beatable—and people across the puppet nation would rise up to help.
It was a powerful speech, given by a masterful orator.
Le Duc Tho then launched into a discussion about possible locations for the great battle. He felt the area around Dak To was appropriate. After the People's Army won the initial battle, the Americans would reinforce in great numbers. If they could annihilate the replacements as well, it would be an even greater victory. When General Dung mentioned Khe Sanh, a town near the demilitarized zone where Mee Marines maintained a base of operations, Le Duc Tho solicitously said that was also a possibility. The mountainous regions south of Dak To and surrounding Khe Sanh both reminded him greatly of Dien Bien Phu.
Le Duc Tho was extremely pleased that Giap had called for the buildup of troops and supplies. Regardless of where they attacked, if the effort was to be as massive as it must be, they'd need plentiful stores of soldiers, weapons, and ammunition. They began to speak of the supply effort. A colonel from Dung's office said they were shipping half again as much as normal. Within two more weeks they'd succeed in doubling the tonnage. Intelligence sources in Saigon reported that, at least so far, the Mee were unaware of the dramatic increases.
Thursday, November 2nd, 1845 Local—Wing Commander's Office, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Colonel Buster Leska
Buster hand-printed the message, reluctant to have it typed by the chief master sergeant's administrative crew in the outer office.
SECRET—IMMEDIATE—JACKPOT
7 AF CC EYES ONLY—NO FURTHER DISSEM
DTG: 02/1200ZN0V67
TO: HQ 7 AF/CC, TAN SON NHUT AB, SVN
FM: 355 TFW/CC, TAKHLI RTAFB, THAI
SUBJECT: JACKPOT INPUTS
1. (S) RESTRICTIONS ARE ADVERSELY IMPACTING COMBAT EFFECTIVENESS, ESP. BEING UNABLE TO FLY IN NUMEROUS AREAS, I.E., TWENTY (20) NAUTICAL MILE RING AROUND HANOI—WITHIN TWENTY—FIVE (25) NM OF CHINESE BORDER, ETC. RESTRICTIONS SEVERELY LIMIT TACTICAL OPTIONS AND INGRESS/EGRESS ROUTES, MAKING OUR TURNS AND ROUTES PREDICTABLE. ALSO, NUMEROUS LUCRATIVE TARGETS OF OPPORTUNITY ARE CONTAINED IN THESE AREAS (INCLUDING TRAINS, CONVOYS, WAREHOUSES, LOADING DOCKS, VEHICULAR TRAFFIC, AND AUXILIARY MIG BASES).
2. (S) FEELINGS AT THIS LEVEL INDICATE BELIEF THAT THERE ARE VIABLE MILITARY AND NONMILITARY TARGETS WHICH HAVE BEEN RESTRICTED WHICH WOULD HAVE GREAT IMPACT UPON NVN CONDUCT OF WAR, BUT ARE NOT INCLUDED ON THE JCS TARGET LIST. THESE INCLUDE DIKES AND DAMS. REQUEST LTC GATES'S OFFICE STUDY IMPACT ON NVN MORALE IF THESE WERE AUTH.
3. (S) INITIAL IMPRESSION IS UNCHANGED. SAM/AAA/MIG ENVIRONMENT IS "EXTREMELY" DANGEROUS, AND GOING AFTER PIECEMEAL OR "SMALL POTATOES" TARGETS SEEMS RIDICULOUS. MUST GO WHOLE HOG IF WE ARE TO FORCE NVN OUT OF WAR. SECRET—IMMEDIATE—JACKPOT
Buster personally carried the handwritten message to the communications center adjacent to the command post. When they'd transmitted it, he returned the only copy to his office and burned the pages, as well as ten blank ones that had been in the pad beneath them.
He sat back in his chair and heaved a long sigh. Command was a wearying job and needed no additional factors to make it worse. He pulled the letter from Carolyn from his middle drawer and placed it on the desktop to read once again. It wasn't a big matter, just the fact that she'd learned that their son had gotten himself into hot water at Columbia. Not trouble so much as not applying himself and hanging out with the wrong crowds, or at least that was what she'd been told in a phone call from one of his instructors, who was also a family acquaintance.
Mark was increasingly late for a number of classes and often appeared for them unprepared and looking disheveled. Buster snorted. Mark had always had a bit of the slob in him. When he was a child his room had always looked as if a tornado had just passed through.
Carolyn had called the campus and, after missing him several times, had finally contacted Mark. He'd seemed penitent and said he'd clean up his act. Sh
e felt their son was simply overwhelmed by the university scene. He was easily influenced, and she worried that he might fall in with the wrong crowd. She didn't mean for Buster to become concerned, because there really wasn't anything to worry about, but it was nice to be able to share things with him, and she knew he'd want to know.
Nope, Buster thought. She was wrong. All he wanted to hear was how wonderful things were going at home, so he could concentrate on the considerable business at hand. Then he fussed at himself, for he knew the most important part of his life was bundled up in a five-three package he called Carrie and a gangling, grinning slob named Marcus, God how he missed them.
She finished the letter by telling him her parents were visiting next week and that her father said he was following every detail of the war. He'd told her over the phone that the whole thing would shortly be over with, now that Buster was there.
They were fishing buddies, her father and Buster, and the old man treated him like the son fate had cheated him out of. He boasted to his cohorts about Buster's achievements, and whenever Leska visited, he spent hours filling in the aging group of retired businessmen on the intricacies of the modern Air Force. He received letters at Takhli from people he didn't know—friends of Carolyn's parents—wishing him Godspeed and giving him advice. By helping to maintain Buster's morale, they felt they were doing their part to support the war effort.
One had written that he shouldn't listen to the liberal-controlled American press, because the country was behind their boys 100 percent.
Buster thought again about Carolyn's concern over their son and brushed it off. Mark was no better or worse than he'd been in his own youthful, hell-raising days.
2030L—Hanoi, DRV
Deputy Minister Li Binh
Li Binh arrived home weary, for it had been a long and frustrating day. After being let off at the entrance, she didn't wait for a servant to open the door, and once inside she ignored the fawning manservant who bobbed his head as he explained his slothfulness. She dismissed him and went to her settee. The girl-maid hurried in with tea. Li Binh simply accepted the tea and waved her away.