by Tom Wilson
She pursed her lips and scribbled furiously. At the end of the meaningless scrawl she put down 4—4.
"Watcha wan on de side?" she asked.
"Potatoes?"
"No hab po-ta-to."
They ordered salad, for No Hab confided, after much prodding, that a shipment of lettuce had arrived.
No Hab nodded seriously, then left.
"She's in love," Lucky said. "An airman in my squadron asked to marry her, and she said"—he tried to grin like No Hab—"ho-kay."
Linda looked after the girl. "So she'll be going to the States?"
"Maybe. Thais don't take marriage as seriously as most Americans. You want to get married, you find a Buddhist priest and say I marry you. You want to be free, you go back to him and the marriage is annulled."
Linda grimaced. "I've heard about that."
"Which means she'll live with the airman while he's here, but when he goes home next year, she may decide to stay in Thailand."
"That's terrible."
"Not to their way of thinking. I tried to explain all that to the airman, but he was so lovestruck, he didn't understand what I was trying to tell him."
She made a face at him. "After we get hitched, I'm going to make sure you never get anywhere near a Buddhist priest."
The salads arrived. The lettuce had obviously been exposed to heat somewhere on its long route, for it was wilted and soggy, a shapeless, greenish blob smothered with the mixture of catsup and mayonnaise that served as dressing.
"You're leaving in the morning?" he asked, eyeing the ugly salad.
"Yes."
Yank Donovan walked past and Lucky said hi, but the man didn't respond.
"That was rude of him," Linda said.
"Yank's down today. Sometimes it's difficult not to take the war personally. You've got to grow a thick skin. Yank's having trouble with that."
"I've seen you awfully despondent when you lost a friend."
"Yeah, but I continue to function. Yank's letting it get to him bad. I think he relates losses to his personal capabilities, which he's never doubted for a moment."
Linda picked at her salad, her nose wrinkled like a little girl's, and he thought again how fortunate he was to have her.
"How long will you be at NKP?" he asked.
"Two weeks. There's a lot to be accomplished."
He didn't like the thought of her running around an area where the Thai CT operated. Then he recalled the conversation with Donovan about the radio calls from Hotdog. "While you're there, look up a fellow named Sergeant Black for me, would you?"
She took out a pen and paper and scribbled a note to herself. "He's a sergeant?"
"Claims he's an E-6. I don't know what to believe, but I owe him a lot."
She cocked her head inquisitively. "Something to do with when you were shot down?"
"Something," he said. He'd promised Black that he'd keep his secrets. "Look him up and ask about the CT situation in the NKP area. He'll know."
"Where would I find him?"
"He's attached to a Special Forces unit there. I think he called it his C-Team headquarters. Something like that. He may be in the field when you get there."
"I know a little about the unit. Why would this man be so knowledgeable, Paul? I get very thorough briefings about CT activities."
He tried another bite of salad and pushed it away, using the time to phrase his words. "He knows a lot about spook stuff," he finally said. "He may even know about your operation."
"Handing out foodstuff and shovels to natives?"
"Humor me, okay? Look him up."
"I will if you'll tell me more about how you were shot down and what you did on the ground all that time." Linda had wanted to find out from the first. She claimed it was her right to know everything that made him tick, his being her personal property and all.
He stared. She was the most trustworthy person he'd ever met, but he'd promised. . . .
She was serious. "Just give me an abbreviated, no-secrets account, Paul."
He thought a while longer before nodding. "It'll have to wait until we get to the trailer."
"I understand."
"I can't tell you about Sergeant Black's involvement, but there's other parts I'll share."
Dinner arrived, the hamburger burned to crisp blackness.
No Hab beamed. "En-choy!" she said happily before rushing off.
Thursday, November 30th, 0200 Local—Channel 97 TACAN Station, Laos
Sergeant Black
Buddy Canepa had worried because Black ignored the periodic calls from Buffalo Soldier. He'd also ignored calls from Vientiane Control, and that concerned Canepa even more.
"What if they need to tell me something?" Canepa whined. As he'd continued to sober up, he'd become concerned.
"Talk to 'em when you get to Luang Prabang," Black had told him, but he wouldn't let him answer the calls.
During the night five more booby traps had been heard exploding on the slopes below. Another sounded, from the south, and this time Canepa jumped.
The pilot came into the hut, yawning. "I think they've started up the mountain," he said.
"They've been coming up for the past six hours," Black replied.
"Are they close?" asked the pilot.
"Not yet."
"How do you—"
They heard a whoofing sound; then an explosion rocked the building. The militia had begun shelling with their howitzers.
"Now they're close," said Black. A round struck at the far northern end of the mountain top, near the TACAN. "They'll try to soften the place up before they attack."
The pilot peered out the door. "We better go. They might get lucky and hit the chopper."
They went out. "See you guys in a minute," said Black, and walked into the darkness toward the Yard village.
They were ready. He greeted the mother as she lifted her head and listened to another whoofing sound. A phosphorous round hit and made a spectacle near the TACAN.
"This way," he said, and she followed.
A tremendous explosion sounded from below. The uppermost pathway had been blown by the Yards. The militia would be delayed a little longer there.
Another round struck and splayed bright white tendrils.
"Hurry it up," the pilot urged from the helo cockpit.
The chopper's engine coughed and caught, and the rotor blades began to churn.
Black took the first kid's hand and stepped under the blades, opened the door, and deposited him in the seat beside Canepa.
"Hey!' bellowed the pilot.
"Be right back."
He made the trip two more times, and each time the pilot yelled that he couldn't do that. Black wedged the last two kids between the seats.
"Get them out of here!" screeched the pilot.
Black walked around the helicopter and leaned in the half-opened window to the pilot.
"I'm gonna walk out of here," he yelled.
"Goddammit, you can't . . ."
Black pressed the muzzle of the AKM against the pilot's throat. "When I get to Luang Prabang, I'm gonna call on you. If I hear anything bad's happened to these kids, I'm going to cut off your balls and feed 'em to you."
"Jesus," the pilot muttered, his head held as far back as he could get it.
Another artillery round exploded, this one closer.
"Understood?"
"Yeah."
One of the kids, a three-year old girl, cried out for her mother.
"Now get the fuck outa here." Black backed away from the chopper. The pilot waited for another moment to collect himself. Then the engine surged and the blades clacked noisily.
The chopper rose, dipped, and disappeared toward the northwest.
Black held his breath, watching and listening as the helicopter's sounds receded.
Two blinding plumes traced through the sky. The chopper exploded and trailed fire as it plunged earthward. The militia had not been fooled a second time. They'd been waiting with their guided r
ockets.
The mother watched in numbed silence long after there was only darkness. So did Black. The children had been the healthiest he'd found in the tent village. He was not sorry. Their deaths had been merciful compared to what the others faced.
Finally he started back toward the prefab building. As he went inside, a round fell near the trash dump. Flying cans and bottles clattered against the sides of the hut. He aimed and fired two 7.62 rounds into the contractor's radio, then bent down to the HF set Hotdog had brought and called for Buffalo Soldier.
This time Larry answered. "Hotdog, we've got help on the way. A dragon ship." Puff the Magic Dragon was an AC-47, a gooney bird with infrared sensors and a Gatling gun mounted at the door.
"What's the ETA, Buffalo Soldier?"
"Two hours, fifteen."
Black noted that the shelling had stopped. "Too late." A booby trap went off at the southern perimeter, beyond the Yard tent village. "They're here."
He kept the mike button held down so Larry could hear the automatic-weapons fire.
"How about the contractors?" Larry asked.
"One died this morning of his wounds. The other was killed in the chopper when they tried to get out. The militia got 'em with the rockets, same as with the tango thirty-four."
"Good thing you didn't go along, huh?"
Black started to tell him about the Yard kids, but held his tongue. It would serve no good purpose.
"How about you guys? Any way out?"
"Dunno. Have Puff take out this mountaintop when he arrives. None of the good guys will be around by then, and I do not like the place."
Larry gave him two beeps.
Black stepped back and fired two rounds into that radio, too.
A burst of auto-weapons fire thumped through the walls of the hut, and he crouched and ran to the door, opened it, and sprawled forward into the dirt. A firefight picked up tempo near the Yard village, AK-47's and M-16's fired on full automatic. A piercing scream from a woman. A child wailed fearfully.
He heard a slight sound beside him and swung the AKM muzzle around.
"C'mon bruddah. Le's ged gone fum heah."
A Yard voice yelled angrily and was answered by a profusion of gunfire. Black hesitated, then followed the lieutenant.
0615L—Green Anchor Air Refueling Route
Lieutenant Colonel Lucky Anderson
The KC-135 Stratotanker flew its elongated orbit and nourished the F-105 fighters that clung to the long appendage hanging below and aft. A flying gas station, the guys called it. Papa tanker, they also called it, because of the needle prick that was jabbed into the fighter's open receptacle. Sometimes when he was feeling feisty, the Supersonic Wetback would radio, "Take it easy with that big thing, sweetie, but it's soooo nice," when the boom operator connected.
Other tankers, those that trailed hoses with baskets on their ends, were called Mama tankers, because you inserted a probe into the basket and pressed forward until it latched there. That was when Manny DeVera would say, "This won't hurt much, sweetie, and it's guaranteed to prevent acne."
On this early-morning mission DeVera wasn't along, and the fighter jocks who hooked up just said the normal stuff like, "Go single pump," to remind the boomer that the Thud's fuel tanks were fragile and could burst from overpressure if the boomer used dual pumps.
"Thanks for the gas," Lucky radioed as the last member of his flight disconnected and sluggishly joined back on his wing.
He took a moment to look about at the beauty of the morning, one of those times when the sky was multishaded with blues and golds and the earth below was shrouded in darkness.
Nice, he thought. Really nice.
The tanker went into a slow left turn, leaving them, for they were past the Laotian border.
"Scotch flight, go en-route frequency," he called.
"Scotch two."
"Three."
"Scotch four."
He switched to the preset frequency shown on the flight-data card, waited a couple of more seconds after the radio stopped tuning, then called Scotch flight to make sure everyone was on freq. They were.
"Push 'em up, Scotch flight." That one didn't require a response. The others kept up as he eased the throttle forward and the big jet accelerated until the ground speed readout showed 420 knots. He would not be so precise about the airspeed, but they'd finally been briefed that there really was trouble going on at the Channel 97 TACAN and didn't know if it would still be on the air. The briefers hadn't mentioned Hotdog or people in danger.
Flying at 420 knots meant they were traveling at seven nautical miles per minute, making it easier when they estimated their positions. Since Lucky had also computed the figures on the flight plan based on a ground speed of 420, if he flew the appropriate heading for the amount of time shown on the card, he'd be at the next turnpoint at the proper time.
As long as Channel 97 was operational, they didn't need precise navigation until they'd passed it, because the TACAN instrument in the aircraft would read out its range and bearing. If it was lost, it would make things more difficult.
Today's missions were against shitty targets, truck parks in pack five, which had made his decision easier. If Hotdog called for help again, he planned to ask Black a couple of questions to establish his authenticity, then give him whatever fire support he required.
When they were seventy miles away, according to his Doppler navigator, he switched his TACAN to 9-7, and watched and waited as the needle rotated around the face of the instrument.
No lock-on.
He settled back in his seat and continued on course. Perhaps when they drew closer? They should be in range, dammit. He tried tapping on the glass face of the instrument.
Nothing.
Fifty miles out. Still zippo . . . nothing at all.
"Scotch flight, this is lead. Any of you guys getting anything on your TACANs?"
They all reported in the negative.
At thirty miles he switched to guard frequency, 243.0, and made his call. "Hotdog, this is Scotch. I repeat, Hotdog, this is Scotch. How do you read me? Over."
Lucky waited quietly. There was no response.
He called again. This time the shipborne command post answered, also on guard frequency. "Scotch, this is Red Crown, repeat your last transmission."
Shit, he said to himself. He started to switch to Red Crown's normal frequency.
"Scotch lead? Scotch three's got ground smoke at twelve o'clock."
Dark wisps streamered from a mesa surrounded by dense jungle. The TACAN's fuel supply?
"Roger, three," Lucky responded, feeling downbeat. Too late to save the TACAN. He wondered how Hotdog was faring. He decided they were likely already back at NKP, having a cold beer and cursing fighter jocks for not helping.
"Scotch force, let's join into formation," he radioed, and began to slow down so the other flights could catch up and get into position.
The flights were relatively quick about it, since they'd anticipated the loss of the TACAN. As soon as they were in a semblance of the proper formation, Lucky decided they'd further refine their relative positions while enroute.
"Scotch force, push 'em up and green 'em up," Lucky radioed. Time to throttle to 540 knots, the combat en-route airspeed he preferred in pack five, and prepared the weapons stations.
After settling on the new speed and checking that everything was right with his bird, Lucky continued monitoring for a call from Hotdog until they were well out of radio range.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Saturday, December 2nd, 0850 Local—Fighter Tactics Branch, TFWC, Nellis AFB, Nevada
Major Benny Lewis
It had been envisioned that there would be two centers of activity for the JACKPOT project: Saigon, where the plan would take raw form using inputs from the combat units, and Washington, where the plan would be polished and General McManus would convince the President to authorize it. A third hub developed at Nellis Air Force Base, where Major General Gordon White's analysts an
d project officers had an equally critical role—to determine appropriate weapons for the aircraft that would participate in LINE BACKER JACKPOT, and specify the best possible tactics for their use. The stream of JACKPOT messages between the three centers was consistent and heavy.
At Nellis only White and Lewis were cleared for JACKPOT and knew what the activity was about, but their inputs became invaluable. General White initiated a high-priority study project that examined a major, conventional, round-the-clock bombing effort by joint strategic/tactical air forces. He used numbers and types of aircraft contained in the draft LINE BACKER JACKPOT OPlan forwarded from Saigon, and specified a target area in the western USSR with terrain and defenses similar to Hanoi's. He relayed the results to Colonel Mack MacLendon, who'd been appointed to Buster Leska's old position in the office of the CSAF.
Major Lewis was occupied with nuts-and-bolts aspects, getting the project gurus at Strategic and Tactical Air Commands to agree how they should mesh air refueling, ingress and egress procedures before, during, and after a bomber strike. His office ran flight tests using F-4 Phantoms to dispense chaff in massive, twenty-by-one-hundred-mile corridors that could shield B-52's flying at high altitude. He also stayed up to speed on the Pave Dagger project, for he was increasingly convinced that Moods Diller's smart bombs would make a difference.
The date of the Pave Dagger combat test was fast approaching, and Moods and his group were frantic with activity. They'd shipped thirty new Mk-84 2,000-pound bombs to Danang. The three laser pods selected for the test were flown and calibrated on the Nellis range daily. Forty bomb-guidance kits were at the Nellis weapons shop, undergoing grueling bench checks.
There were, as always, last-minute problems. Although the lasers and bomb kits were much better than before, they still needed tweaking. One task was to determine the constant error rate of the bombs, so they could correct for it. Volumes of drop-test data were reduced to meaningful information. It appeared that only a modest pitch-down bias would have to be introduced into the electronic circuitry, but that correction was critical, since it would make the difference between a direct hit and a near miss.
Another problem developed with two of the three zot machines, the target illuminators that were now mounted in pods, which would be hung under the right wings of the Phantoms. After fifteen minutes of power-on operation, the rear-cockpit circuit breaker would sometimes pop out, taking the entire system off-line. The only fix was to wait ten minutes, reset the breakers, then turn the system back on for another fifteen minutes of operation. The senior Texas team engineer finally traced the problem to the illuminator pod's power supply and sent in a panic order for new, better-cooled black boxes.