Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  Moods asked if anyone had questions about the illuminator pod, which he'd just described.

  "Why Danang?" the colonel from the IG team barked unpleasantly.

  Moods blinked, caught unawares. "I . . . uh . . . they have the assets we need for the test."

  The colonel's frown deepened.

  Had Moods said something wrong? He elaborated. "We had to choose one of the F-4 units, because we use Phantoms to carry the illuminator pods. Danang's the biggest F-4 base in the theater and has a large maintenance setup. Then there's the—"

  The colonel snorted impatiently. "Whose stupid idea is this anyway?"

  Moods stared, first at the colonel, then at the image of the pod on the screen. "Ahhh. It was first thought up-by-a-group-of . . ." He realized he was rushing his words, so he took a breath and slowed his speech. ". . . engineers out in—"

  The colonel waved his hand. "We don't have time for shit like this at our combat units. If you didn't know, there's a war going on, Captain." He spat out the rank as if it were a dirty word.

  "The test . . . ah . . . the combat test has been approved by the Pentagon requirements directorate, and—"

  "Why didn't you ask us first?"

  "Colonel?"

  "You've got trouble speaking clearly—perhaps you can't hear either. I said"—he pronounced his words distinctly—"why . . . didn't . . . you . . . ask . . . us . . . first? It's a simple question, Captain. Why didn't you have the common courtesy to request permission from the major command where you wanted to hold your test? Is that too much to ask?"

  "I . . . uh . . . coordinated with Seventh Air Force headquarters in Saigon, and I thought . . . with the Pentagon Requirements Division telling us to proceed—"

  "Ahhh," said the colonel, removing a pen from his pocket. "Who at Seventh Air Force approved the request?"

  "You see, the Requirements Division—"

  "That's at the Pentagon, Captain. Now, specifically whom did you speak with at Seventh?"

  Moods blurted the only name he remembered. "Lieutenant Colonel Gates?"

  The colonel wrote the name down. "Thank you. Now I would appreciate it if you held up this ridiculous test of yours until we find out—"

  "Colonel Lyons?" A major from the ops-requirements branch interrupted.

  The IG colonel regarded him morosely for daring to intrude.

  "We knew about the test, sir. Both from Nellis and Seventh Air Force, and we received the message about the test from the Pentagon two weeks ago. The Deputy for Operations approved it."

  Lyons was momentarily silenced. Since the PACAF DO was a major general, Moods felt the colonel's argument was over. He was wrong.

  "Don't you think I knew that, Major!" Lyons suddenly snarled.

  The major drew back.

  "Of course I did, and I also know the paperwork was improperly staffed and coordinated before it went forward to the general."

  The major blinked incredulously. "I personally briefed the general, and—"

  "Who's your superior officer, major?"

  "Lieutenant Colonel Brown, sir, and I believe you'll find—"

  "Have Brown report to me"—he glanced at his watch—"first thing in the morning."

  "Sir?"

  Lyons stood and turned his glare back upon Moods. "We'll see about your dumb-shit project, Captain."

  He stalked out.

  The room was very quiet.

  "Who was that?" Moods finally asked.

  The major shook his head, his look troubled. "He's new. Name's Lyons, and he's the Deputy I.G." He sighed. "Our two-star Deputy for Operations was just reassigned, and we're waiting on his replacement . . . and he knows it."

  A captain from ops spoke up. "The guys at the IG shop tell us Lyons is a good man to avoid. He's got a shitty memory about everything except people he dislikes, and from what they say, it's easy to get on the list."

  Moods thought about that for a moment, then continued his Pave Dagger briefing where he'd left off.

  He was wrapping things up with a final question-and-answer period when a sergeant came in. The aircraft commander of a KC-135 had just phoned. The aircraft had been refueled and they were waiting out on the ramp for him. Takeoff was scheduled in thirty-five minutes.

  Moods Diller was not unhappy to leave the headquarters.

  1225L—Near Nakhon Phanom, Thailand

  GS-15 Linda Lopes

  There were three in the white USOM jeep: Peter Johnston, who was her field man in the Nakhon Phanom area, a driver-interpreter-bodyguard named Pham, who was Peter's employee, and herself. The men occupied the front seats, with Pham's CAR-15 assault rifle resting between them, and she was alone in the back. They rode with the canvas top up to shield them from the hot sun, but the side panels had been removed for air circulation, and dust billowed inside and threatened to clog their nostrils whenever Pham drove too slowly.

  They'd just left a small village and were stopped at a crossroads, discussing whether they should continue to the next town or return to the air base for lunch and a shower in Linda's trailer.

  "We'll leave the decision to you," said Peter. "You're the lady."

  As well as your boss, she thought archly. Peter was a bit of a brownnoser and tended to fawn. If he worked for Paul Anderson, he'd probably get his ass chewed daily. Peter was not so fortunate, for he worked for Linda, and her way was much simpler. If a subordinate screwed up, she'd patiently tell him his error and advise him to improve. She'd do that a total of three times, and then she'd quietly get rid of him. Peter Johnston had recently made his third and final error. She was the Ice Maiden and had a reputation to uphold in the fiefdom dominated by males.

  "Let's eat," she decided. Pham put the jeep into gear and turned right, onto the river road leading toward the American base just north of the city of Nakhon Phanom. "Naked Fanny," the Americans there called both the town and the base.

  It had been another frustrating morning. The villagers were nice enough, if a bit withdrawn, but she hadn't liked the man Peter had selected to act as their local contact in the network. It wasn't that the man had done anything wrong, but rather his habit of staring away haughtily when she asked a question.

  Peter said the others in the village looked up to the man, but Linda felt it was something else. Fear? And why should they fear the man? He wasn't the headman. That was an ancient, semi-senile codger who'd led the village since he'd been appointed more than twenty years before.

  "I don't like your selection," she told Peter as the driver picked up speed on the wide dirt path called the river road, because it paralleled the Mekong River. As they went faster, less dust poured inside. She used the respite to clench her eyes and mop her face with a handkerchief.

  "The contact?" Johnston frowned.

  "I didn't like the way he refused to look me in the eye."

  Johnston chuckled. "The Thais here aren't used to seeing a woman in charge. He was probably worrying about losing face because he was even talking to you."

  Linda had experienced that and knew how to cope with it, but she had the feeling this was something different. "It was more than that," she said.

  Peter grinned. "You're the boss. You don't like him, I'll pick another contact."

  "Do that. I've got to get back to Bangkok in the morning. Richard called and left word we've got a group of congressmen coming in, and they want a briefing on the grain-distribution program."

  Richard was not only the Chief of Operations for the Bangkok embassy, but also head of State Department intelligence for Burma, Laos, Cambodia, and Thailand. South Vietnam eluded his grasp, for that effort was closely orchestrated by Ambassador Bunker, who preferred to use the CIA for his purposes. Since the agency was so preoccupied with military ops in Southeast Asia, she felt the covert intelligence effort in South Vietnam was in the dark ages compared to theirs. Richard was damned good at his job.

  So was she. When Linda briefed the congressman tomorrow about their successes in their USAID projects, improving their ima
ge and making the Thais think well of Americans, she wouldn't be lying. Too bad she couldn't brief them on the other efforts that took up the majority of her time. Of the eight major U.S. military installations in Thailand, six were protected by secretive networks of local informants. The Thai Army had used their information to chase down four North Viet agents, two with radios still in their possession, and they were hot on the tracks of a fifth. They'd also broken up two cells of local communist terrorists who were using the national telephone system to report information about American operations, and intercepted a courier from another. All of that had been due to information Linda gleaned from her networks,

  But she'd not had that kind of success at NKP. CTs crossed the river from Laos almost freely and escaped there when they required sanctuary. While Laos was ostensibly neutral, Prince Souvanna Phouma's government walked a tightrope between two rampaging lions. They accepted U.S. military and financial aid to help fight off Pathet Lao guerrillas, but not so much or so overtly that they'd be seen as U.S. allies, like Thailand and South Vietnam. They spoke in friendly terms with the Russians, North Vietnamese, and Chinese, but not so friendly as to anger the United States. They were enemies of neither capitalism nor communism. When Khmer Rouge from Cambodia or Thai CTs crossed into Laos, they did so at peace as long as they didn't make trouble for government forces.

  Recently, the tempo of the battles raging between Laotian and Pathet Lao forces throughout the central and southern parts of the country had increased dramatically, and coordination with the Americans had all but evaporated, which made her job at NKP difficult.

  Linda desperately wanted to establish a useful network of observers in the villages around the base. The CT were reporting on base operations, which included some very sensitive missions, directly to the people who ran the communist effort throughout Southeast Asia, the Lao Dong party and Viet People's Army in Hanoi. Thus far the people Peter Johnston had recruited in the villages had given them little information. Which made her question Johnston's ability and was the reason for the extended visit.

  What she'd seen had not been reassuring, and she'd come to a decision. When she returned next week, she'd bring Johnston's replacement. She liked the pleasant-natured, redheaded man, but he just wasn't holding up his end of the board.

  They drove through a small village along the river road, past stilted shanties and piers with long, narrow boats, then past a fish-merchant establishment, with its large drying racks and the pervasive, pungent odors of sun-cured fish.

  The driver nodded ahead at the thick trees where the road reentered the jungle. A roadside marker read: Nakhon Phanom 14 km. "Mebbe nod long now," the driver said.

  Johnston laughed. "You hungry, Pham?"

  "Berry, berry."

  That was Pham's unique way of saying "Yeah, I'm hungry as a horse," and also, "It is indeed a beautiful sunset," or even, "That Woman's awfully pretty." You'd ask him any question and if he agreed, he'd say "Berry, berry." Linda had first thought he meant "very, very," but when she'd asked, he'd frowned and shook his head. "Berry, berry," he'd repeated, as if that was what he'd said, and what he'd meant. Pham had been an English instructor at a Nakhon Phanom school when Johnston had hired him.

  Your lack of hiring skills are another nail in your coffin, Peter, she was thinking as Pham slowed down and negotiated a turn in the road. They emerged in a small clearing, and he continued going slowly, for there was another sharp turn just ahead.

  It happened too quickly for her to comprehend. Her first realization that something was wrong came when the vehicle skidded and teetered, but there was also the loud staccato sound of automatic-weapons fire, a brief shriek from one of the men in the front seat, and the force of being hurled sideward. Although her seat belt was fastened, Linda's head careened off the back of Peter's seat, then was jolted sideways as the jeep rose onto its two left wheels.

  The jeep skidded and slowly toppled, as if they were in stop-frame action in a movie. As the vehicle continued, sliding on its side, the canvas top was torn away.

  "Ummphh!" she grunted when the jeep came to a rest, still on its side.

  It became very quiet. Then she heard a low groan, and the word "Jesus" sobbed by Peter Johnston. Linda moved and grunted painfully because the seat belt was cutting her in two. She fumbled with it and saw that Peter was doing the same thing in front.

  Peter succeeded in freeing himself first and slid down onto Pham.

  "Get the rifle," she hissed with effort. The belt was cutting off her wind.

  Her own seat belt finally came loose, and she fell into the dirt of the roadway, resting there for a moment to collect her wits. She carried a small-caliber pistol in her shoulder bag, but she couldn't find the bag and wondered if it hadn't been thrown out. She ignored the metallic taste of a nosebleed and the thumping pain behind her right eye as she felt around her.

  "Oh, Jesus!" Peter cried out. "He's dead." Peter Johnston rose to his feet staring down in revulsion, then staggered away from the jeep. It was his last screwup. The loud, staccato burst was short, and he immediately wilted.

  Linda heard sounds from behind the overturned vehicle, and her mind raced.

  Blood was still gushing from her nose and covering her blouse. She tended to bleed profusely when anything rapped her anywhere near her nose.

  Think of something!

  She heard the noises again, of humans moving with caution.

  Play dead!

  She smeared bright-red from her nosebleed onto her blouse, then went limp and closed her eyes, drooped her jaw, and generally tried to appear lifeless.

  Closer sounds now.

  A foot prodded at her side, and a voice muttered an order in Thai. She heard their grunts and sounds then as they searched one of her companions.

  She prayed that someone would come along the road.

  Pop! The sound of a small-caliber pistol.

  More chatter from the men. A low laugh.

  Pop! The pistol sounded again. She suppressed a shudder as she wondered.

  Someone came close then and knelt beside her. She felt something metallic being pressed against the base of her neck, and suddenly she knew!

  BOOK II

  √ Six [spoken "check six"] [fighter-pilot jargon, circa 1966] < words used to warn another pilot to observe his rear quadrant closely for enemy aircraft—Informal phr. cautioning others to watch out for themselves, remain wary of sneak attack.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Tuesday, December 12th, 1500 Local—VPA Headquarters, Hanoi, DRV

  Colonel Xuan Nha

  It was Giap's day of decision. The meetings and bitter arguments had gone on for more than a month, but this afternoon he entered the meeting room with a brooding countenance and did not respond to greetings. His mind was weighted, and he wanted no distraction.

  Vo Nguyen Giap took his seat before them and spoke very slowly. "This is my decision after listening to you for so many days." He stared out at the group gravely, taking his time, and Xuan Nha knew he was attending a momentous point in the great War of Unification. General Giap, with his great sense of the historical, would finally outline his road map for victory.

  "Honorable Le Duc Tho, messages from commanders in the South, and Colonel Tran Van Tra here, have told us that if given the proper encouragement, the people in the South will join us in a massive uprising. We must make that happen."

  His voice cracked with brittleness. A sign of aging? Of weariness of war?

  "General Tran Do sent a detailed plan from his headquarters saying we should attack relentlessly, massively, in a dozen vulnerable locations. Good. An ambitious plan. It shall be done. Colonel Tran Van Tra traveled many dangerous kilometers and tells us that if he is provided with appropriate resources, he will be able to take Saigon, if only for a short while, which will create disorder within the puppet government. I agree. He shall be provided with the resources and it shall be done. General Dung says that the American Dien Bien Phu should be at Khe Sanh, since it is ne
ar both the borders of the Democratic Republic and Cambodia, and we can easily mass and group our soldiers and supplies. Good. I agree. We shall attack there. My own staff says that we should capture and hold their provincial capitals. I agree. We shall attack and take them and hold them.

  "It shall be in all of those places, and the fight will be made by all of our forces, including all regular and irregular units in the South. There shall be no idle reserves. The battles will be widespread and quickly grow to include the people, the angry civilians who will rise up to join us and fight. You shall all have your wishes. You shall all provide your victories."

  The audience was stunned by the outrageous scope of the plan.

  "Each of our commanders in the South must do as Xuan Nha has done at Ban Sao Si . . . win a single, modest victory, take and hold a single area . . . but that will mean many victories, that we control many places . . . and the result will be like ten Dien Bien Phus!"

  The room remained hushed. Expressions varied from apprehension to smiles of wonder.

  Giap looked at Le Duc Tho, who had quietly slipped into the room and surely knew about his decision. "With your concurrence I shall name General Tran Do to coordinate the attacks according to the plan he has submitted."

  "A wise choice," said Le Duc Tho. Xuan peered at the powerful man, thinking he'd likely asked for that selection. If things went wrong, Tran Do would be blamed. If they went well, Le Duc Tho would claim credit, for Tran Do was his deputy.

  "We shall attack relentlessly," said Giap, "and all of the South shall be set aflame." He turned to Colonel Tran Van Tra, who had traveled so far for the meetings. "Surely you have had enough of talking."

  Van Tra readily agreed.

  "We will provide you with men, artillery, supplies. Take Saigon . . . offer it to the Enlightened One."

  "I will leave immediately."

  Giap studied General Dung, then pursed his lips. "Send your force to the hills about Khe Sanh as you wanted, and begin your attacks ten days before Tran Do's battles begin. Engage and destroy the Mee forces there. If they are persistent, as they've proved to be in the past, hold and paralyze them. We will tell the world that we are about to win a great battle, and while the Mee worry about Khe Sanh, we shall be moving units and massing supplies."