Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  Black confirmed. "Minimum of two buckets, probably more. And they're confirmed as vee-pand militia, but they look damned professional. I've got bad vibes about 'em. I think they're gonna be tough unless you take 'em out right away."

  Larry asked if the guns were horse pistols, meaning howitzers, or air pistols, meaning antiaircraft guns.

  "Horse pistols. No air pistols observed so far, but don't bank on it," he radioed. "We're taking another look. You gonna give me an air strike on coordinates?"

  "Stand by, Hotdog. We're awfully busy. All kinds of hell's starting to break loose."

  "I need an air strike, Buffalo Soldier."

  "Stand by."

  Shit. He waited. The lieutenant had left three men with a hand-held radio behind on the outcropping, to observe and count the militia force moving through the clearing. He had a feeling there were a lot more than they'd counted, and the lieutenant was seldom wrong.

  Black also wanted to confirm the fact that there were no antiaircraft guns. It would make sense for a militia force of that size to bring along 14.5mm and 37mm guns, which were easy to haul and gave at least some protection against aircraft. They'd certainly be available to the VPAND, because that organization controlled air defenses inside North Vietnam.

  The observers called in. They'd counted more than 300 militia troops passing through the clearing. A small number turned west toward Ban Sao Si, but the rest continued southward, toward the flat-top mountain where the nav station was located. They confirmed ten howitzers, fifteen supply carts, and a number of antiaircraft guns. Besides the six utility vehicles, there were also two tracked armored personnel carriers hauling closed trailers. Those, they said, were heavily guarded. New estimate: 332 soldiers.

  After an hour had passed since his last contact, Black called Buffalo Soldier again, updated the numbers, and told them about the APCs hauling something they wanted to guard.

  Buffalo Soldier had him repeat, then again told him to stand by.

  "Hotdog requests air strike," he reminded Larry.

  "I gotcha, Hotdog. Stand by."

  "Every minute you wait, they're that much closer to Yankee two-one."

  "Stand by, Hotdog. Be advised that Vientiane Control has a lot of requests today. The PDJ's hot. The papa-lima are raisin' hell over there." Meaning Pathet Lao troops were attacking in the Plains des Jars, and Black's request for air strikes had been outprioritized.

  Black waited, thinking it had better not be too much longer or the airplanes would miss their chance to catch the militia in the open.

  "Anything new from the men?" he asked the lieutenant in Viet.

  The lieutenant shook his head.

  "Bring them in."

  The lieutenant relayed the order over his hand-held radio.

  The single-sideband crackled. "Hotdog, this is Buffalo Soldier."

  "Hotdog here."

  "Proceed to Yankee one-zero."

  "Where's my air strike, Buffalo Soldier?" The trees the militia were presently moving through were sparse, and they'd be easy targets. If they were able to travel five more kilometers, they'd be in the dense jungle surrounding the base of the mesa.

  "Negative on air support for today, Hotdog. You're way down on a long list. When you get to Yankee one-zero, establish radio contact with Yankee two-one, then call me back."

  Black huffed a single, angry breath. "Message received. Hotdog's on the move."

  Larry responded with a beep-beep, meaning he understood.

  Yankee ten was a prepared and provisioned location at the base of the steep-sided, flat-topped mountain. Black was not at all pleased with the directive to proceed there. At present they were free to move at will and set up where they thought best. When they got to Yankee ten, they'd be trapped between the mountain and the oncoming militia. He pointed at the single-sideband radio, and one of the men began to reel in the antenna while another disconnected the battery pack and snapped on the waterproof cover.

  They'd move out as soon as the rest of the team arrived.

  Monday, November 27th, 2045 Local—Trailer 12, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Lieutenant Colonel Lucky Anderson

  "That was a nice dinner, Colonel Anderson," said Linda as he closed the door.

  "Thank you, Miss Lopes," he replied as he unbuttoned his shirt.

  We're certainly getting domestic about things, he decided.

  Don't fight it, his happy brain interjected, digesting the scenery as Linda began removing her own top.

  They'd gone off base to eat at a new establishment in Ta Khli. Run by a canny restaurateur from Bangkok, the place featured hot Thai dishes and Kobe steaks. While it was known that their Kobe beef was actually water-buffalo meat tenderized with various chemicals and energetic pounding, the stuff was tasty, and you could cut it with a fork.

  "I like your cutesy little vehicle," he told her. They'd taken the white jeep provided by the USAID office in Nakhon Sawan, the provincial capital not far northwest of Takhli. "How come it's got U-S-O-M on the side?" he asked.

  "Stands for U.S. Operational Mission. That's the USAID branch for interaction with the locals in foreign countries, so we can determine their needs."

  "And pigs take off from short runways, right?" He knew she was in the intelligence business—had been since she'd graduated from Texas Women's University at age twenty-two. No one climbed the General Scale ladder to GS-15 that fast by handing out rice to villagers. He pulled off his socks and placed them in the laundry bag.

  "No kidding," she said with a deadpan face, watching as he slipped out of his chino trousers. "We work with the locals on a lot of projects."

  "But not all your projects have to do with giving away food and blankets."

  "Hey, fella. We're the good guys." Linda wouldn't discuss details of her job. She was as closemouthed about her work as he was about military secrets.

  He couldn't help grinning. She was down to nothing on top and wispy panties, showing off small but perfect breasts and great curves. Linda was beautiful to him either with or without clothes, but he preferred the latter. To hell with subtlety.

  She eyed him and struck a lewd pose, stroking long fingers over her Venus mound, which was barely hidden by the bikini panties. "Like what you see, fella?"

  "Uh . . . yes, ma'am." He started for her.

  She held up her hands, frowned and shook her head. He stopped and watched her grind her pelvis like a stripper. "Feel vulnerable?" she asked.

  "I would gladly give my soul for the privilege of fondling you, ma'am."

  "That's what I wanted to hear. May fifteenth, in Big Spring, Texas, at the First Baptist Church, you will betroth your life to me. I'll wear white, of course, and you'll not make lewd comments about having made love to the virgin bride on four hundred and seven occasions. You'll wear your white mess-dress uniform with gobs of medals and look heroic."

  "Jesus," he said, frowning. "That's only six months away."

  "By then you'll have visited the burn center in San Antonio and begun your transformation back to your old, devilishly handsome self."

  He glowered. "If I'd wanted to change my face, I'd have stayed at the center when I was there before."

  "Yeah, but you've promised me, Paul Anderson."

  "You traded sex for that promise, if I remember."

  "Anything's fair in this game. A promise is a promise."

  He sighed. "You're an insensitive woman."

  "Maybe I should put on my clothes and go to my own trailer."

  Dummy, cried his brain. He was getting hornier by the second, and it was showing.

  "I mean it, Paul Anderson."

  "If I agree to your terms, you'll stay and be a slave to my every disgusting desire?"

  She eyed his protrusion with a wicked gleam. "I'll delight you beyond your wildest dreams."

  "Maybe you should hear about some of my earthier night thoughts first."

  "As long as they're about me, I'll allow them. Anyway, I doubt they come anywhere close to my own." She
looked at him and grew the dreamy expression she acquired as she crossed the line from sanity to lust. Her voice hoarsened as she began wriggling out of the panties. "Take off your shorts."

  He paused. "First I want you to tell me who's boss here."

  "You're boss, now take off your damn shorts before I tear 'em off."

  Half an hour later she huffed and nestled in the darkness. "God, we're great together."

  She kept squirming until she was molded so closely to his side that a mite could not have crawled between them. Her knee was crooked over his leg and her hand caressed his spent maleness.

  "You've been comparing?" he joked.

  She was very quiet for a moment, then spoke seriously. "I've never been with another man."

  "Just kidding."

  "It's not funny to me, Paul. I was raised like that. My mother's the same way. We're one-man women."

  "I know."

  "I will never be with another man, Paul. I've got what I want. You'll never have to worry about that part of it."

  He swallowed, embarrassed even in the dark.

  "And if you're away from me somewhere and find another woman, just don't get serious, and don't let me know about it, okay?"

  "I can't think of a reason to do that." He didn't like the way the conversation had turned, so he changed the subject. "Where are you going when you leave?"

  "Takhli?"

  "Yeah."

  "I've got a couple more days here, then I leave for Nakhon Phanom."

  "What're you doing at NKP?"

  "Same as here."

  "That doesn't give me a warm feeling."

  He'd deduced that her tasks as head of USAID in Thailand included that of helping ensure the security of the bases. He thought she set up networks of locals, to keep an eye out for foreign agents infiltrating to spy on American military installations. He'd come to those conclusions by keeping track of where she went and some of the people she talked to. If he'd figured it out, he knew the same could be done by the enemy, and that made him worry all the more.

  "Watch out for yourself, Linda. We hear more and more about Thai communist terrorists operating around the countryside."

  "The CTs are vastly overrated. They hardly deserve the name, except in the far eastern part of the country."

  "Like at NKP, where you're headed."

  "Even there they're poorly organized. Anyway, I'll have a bodyguard along when I visit the villages."

  "I'd feel better if you had a company of soldiers and went in a tank."

  She laughed. "Now wouldn't that be cute? Here comes the lady who's here to help us . . . and all her infantry."

  "Can't stop me from worrying."

  "Good, I like that. I'll even try to call more often so you'll know I'm okay. But you're the one in danger, Paul, every time you fly. Even on those you call the easy ones. I see the loss reports. I'll rest a lot better when you've completed your hundred missions."

  "I've got sixty-eight now. Just thirty-two to go. Anyway, now that I'm a squadron commander, bullets bounce off."

  She didn't laugh. "Promise me that as soon as you get your hundred missions, you'll stop flying, even if you have to go back to the States before I do."

  "Nope. We go back together. If that means I have to extend my tour, I'll do it."

  "Hardhead. Now I'll have to transfer out early."

  "Can you?"

  "Richard said he'd arrange it. He knows about you and me."

  "Richard?"

  "Someone at the embassy."

  "You work for him?"

  She paused, and he knew she was considering her words. He'd obviously asked a sensitive question. "Sometimes," was all she said.

  "I thought you were chief honcho at the USAID office."

  "I am." She huffed a sigh. "Richard's Chief of Operations at the embassy."

  "The guy you had the . . ." He'd almost said "affair," but stopped himself in time.

  "Yeah, he's the one I went out with when you got so hardheaded and refused to see me or return my calls. Nothing happened, Paul, and it's over."

  "If you work for him sometimes, I take it he's not just a diplomat."

  "Time to change the subject, Paul."

  "Hmmph."

  "God, you have a nice body," she said, adjusting herself again. "We fit together nicely, sort of like a puzzle. I'm getting hot."

  "Maybe you should move farther away."

  "Not that kind of hot, silly. Juicy hot. Wall-clawing hot. Mmmmmm." She kissed his chest and began to move the hand that grasped him.

  That one took longer, but it was the second act she'd always said was her time, and throughout she made guttural sounds of languid abandon.

  Before they slept, she said she'd never been so happy.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tuesday, November 28th, 0915 Local—3.4 km East of BRL TACAN, Laos

  Sergeant Black

  They'd spent two days at Yankee ten, a tiny, reinforced cavern carved into a knoll near the only path leading up the oblong, steep-sided mountain. The bunker's entrance was hidden by thick jungle growth, and they had to wiggle their way in through a maze of vines. While he knew they were well hidden, it made Black nervous that the enemy was so close. More than a hundred militia had set up camp within half a kilometer of Yankee ten, and they constantly heard their voices.

  The good news was that, while the North Viets had set up a three-man team with a 12.7mm heavy machine gun to watch the path, they hadn't yet attempted to send troops up the mountainside. Aside from a couple of shots fired from one of the howitzers, there was no offensive activity.

  A cache of claymore mines and igniters had been stored at Yankee ten, for precisely the purpose they were being put to. Each night the Hotdogs had gone out and set up tripwire booby traps at approaches they felt were most likely to be used when the militia started up the mountain. By the second night they'd run out of claymores, so three Hotdogs made a covert raid on a militia camp and stole a dozen satchel charges and a box of grenades, and they'd planted those too.

  The radio antenna wire was properly strung over the top of the bunker, invisible to observers yet positioned so it was directional and the signal couldn't be picked up by Soviet monitoring stations in Hanoi.

  Black had also inserted a fixed-frequency crystal into one of the VHF hand-held radios, and twice daily he spoke with the American up on top of the mesa. The guy took his time answering and spoke in a hesitant monotone, as if he weren't really interested. He said there was another American contractor and thirty-one Yards up there with him. Twelve were fighting men, the rest women and kids.

  Jesus. Why the hell hadn't they moved the Montagnard noncombatants out when they'd first heard the NVA was on the way? Since the question was now more or less moot, with more than 300 enemy soldiers camped around the base of the mountain, he didn't ask. Black also wondered why the militia hadn't moved up the path. The CIA contractors had mined it in two strategic locations with high explosives, but the enemy should know nothing about those or the claymores the Hotdogs had set out.

  While most of the Hotdog team thought militia were all lightweights, the lieutenant didn't share the opinion about this particular group, and he told the rest of them not to be lulled. While his men had been placing claymores, he'd gone out and watched and listened in on North Viet conversations. They were handpicked, and a large number, including all the officers, had combat experience with the old Viet Minh. They were waiting for something, excited about what they were about to do, and none of them were taking opium, which was supplied to NVA and Cong units to bolster courage before a battle. They'd brought few women along, so the men had to do most of their own chores. Discipline was good, he reported, and morale was high.

  Not for long, Black thought happily, because he'd finally been promised air support.

  He kept the volume on the single-sideband radio turned low and had to move close to the set when Buffalo Soldier called. It was his friend Larry. Two flights of tango thirty-fours were approaching
their position.

  Black could hear the distant drone of their reciprocal engines. T-34's, probably with Royal Laotian Air Force markings and piloted by American or Thai CIA contractors.

  "Hotdog, suggest you button up and hunker down. They'll make a low pass or two, then start makin' crispy critters outa your vee-pand militia."

  Which meant they'd come down low to spot the soldiers, then drop napalm. Black pressed the mike button twice. Message received.

  The Yankee ten bunker was built on a slight knoll. They could see tree tops and little else, but none could resist the urge to watch. The engine noises grew louder. They spotted the first loose four-ship formation of propeller-driven aircraft a few kilometers to their west, turning toward them.

  Yeah, he thought, and felt a small thrill.

  A second flight appeared in the distance, flew closer, then settled into an orbit to wait their turn.

  Two T-34's dropped lower and throttled back some as they approached.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Braaaa! Bam! Bam! Bam! Braaaaaa!

  White puffs appeared in the sky near the low fliers. The prop-driven fighters began to twist and turn, but came on, ignoring the sparse 37mm burst and the few streams of tracers from 14.5mm and 12.7mm automatic weapons.

  The two aircraft passed overhead, rocking their wings first to one side, then the other, to see better; then their engines roared louder and they began to climb. They'd obviously had a good look at the area, but Black was going to relay enemy positions via Buffalo Soldier anyway. Just to make sure. He lifted his mike and started to depress the switch.

  A small streak of fire flashed through the sky, then another and another until four white plumes traced upward. One of the T-34's shuddered, and issued a stream of smoke.

  What the hell! Black was still trying to comprehend what had happened when he saw the T-34 pitch nose-up and a shape drop away. A parachute blossomed. The T-34 tumbled to earth without dignity. A fireball erupted a couple of kilometers away where it crashed. A single, large cloud of oily black smoke drifted upward.

  The chute was coming down much closer to them.

  "Let's go," said Black, ready to retrieve the pilot.