by Tom Wilson
Mark had told her not to worry. Before he'd left for Thailand, Buster had sat down with him and told him a few facts, one of them being that if he ever used, even experimented with, drugs, including marijuana, he'd be forever banned from military flying. Although he might have fallen off on his grades, drunk too much beer, and hung around with some of the wrong crowd, Mark said he still wanted, more than anything, to fly.
Thank God for that talk, Carolyn had written. Mark had pledged to change his image, even get his hair cut a little shorter. He'd said she would see the changes when he arrived home for the three-week Christmas break.
Quit worrying, Mom, he'd said.
Which was like telling the Mississippi to dry up. He was their only child.
Buster left the trailer and trudged toward the club for an early lunch, thinking about his family, how he missed them and how badly Mark was in need of a heavy, fatherly hand right now.
Lieutenant Colonel Lucky Anderson hailed him, saluted, and joined on his left side.
"How're things going?" Buster asked. Anderson seemed a bit hangdog. The previous evening he'd complained that his fiancée hadn't called for the past four days.
"Women!" Anderson muttered.
"Still no call, huh?"
"I'd chew her ass out if she didn't outrank me," Anderson quipped.
"You talk with Yank Donovan this morning?"
"I saw him."
"How's he taking the loss?" The guy who'd been shot down was from the 354th squadron.
"Same as he took the others. Bitching about the restrictions that make us predictable for the gomer gunners. Acting like someone's picking on him personally."
"Maybe I'm losing it too," Buster said. "I get the same feeling sometimes."
0900L—Danang AB, South Vietnam
Captain Moods Diller
Moods looked up at the sign over the front door of the wooden shack that read, Pave Dagger HQ. A crude stiletto had been painted above the letters.
"Whaddaya think?" he asked the overweight head engineer for the Texas team.
"I think we're gonna have the lab set up and ready by tomorrow, and have three laser pods ready for you to fly in about three days. You better get us some birds to prepare."
"Th' sign," Moods said in his exuberant tone. He pointed. "Whaddaya thinka th' sign?"
The contractor cocked his head critically. "It's uneven. Who did it?"
Moods showed him the black paint on his hands.
"You? Well then, that's different. I didn't want to hurt anyone's sensitivities. It's lopsided and downright ugly, Moods."
The men of the Pave Dagger test team, military and civilian, got along well and joked incessantly. They knew they were doing something important, even if others didn't.
"You guys thought the government was gonna pay you for coming over here, didncha?" Moods retorted.
"It's a beautiful sign, Moods. It should be hung in the Louvre."
"Did you say loo or Louvre?"
"It would be inspiring in either place. It's got a kind of . . . charm?"
"You're learning."
The engineer peered around. "They didn't do you any favors, putting us out here at the end of the runway."
"I told 'em in the message we needed isolation. I guess you can call it that." They were a hundred yards from the noisy runway, close to the south perimeter on the U.S. Marine grunt side of the base. Nearby was a collection of decrepit squad tents, kept for overflow new guys the jarheads might get in. Marines at Danang did not live nearly as well as either the Army or, especially, the Air Force.
"We're too far from the avionics and weapons shops, Moods," the engineer complained. "Hell, they're more than a mile away. They'll either have to move us or give us better transportation to run back and forth."
Moods nodded at an aging brown pickup with faded government markings stenciled on the side. "They lent us that."
"That's a piece of crap." The engineer eyed the vehicle and sighed. "I'll get the company to bring in a pickup and maybe a van."
"I was hoping you'd get your cheap company to spring for something since we're about to make 'em rich."
"How'd your morning meeting with the wing commander go?"
Moods frowned. The 366th TFW commander had not seemed overjoyed with either him or his project being on his base. He'd not been responsive when Moods asked about the two F-4Ds which were supposed to be assigned to Pave Dagger for field modification.
"I dunno," Moods answered truthfully.
"Maybe you oughta ask for a better location and a building with more room."
"Can't hurt tryin."
Moods drove to the business side of the base and found the communications center adjacent to the command post. He'd hand-carried a typed Secret message he wanted to send to Benny Lewis at Nellis, telling him they were in place, the equipment had made the trip intact, and they'd be ready to fly in three to four days. The comm-center sergeant refused to send it.
Why?
Because his detachment wasn't one of the units authorized to send message traffic.
Moods showed his temporary-duty orders.
TDY orders didn't mean he had access to the comm center. No, not even if they showed he had a Top Secret clearance.
How could he get on the authorized list?
That would have to come from the wing commander's office.
Moods drove to wing headquarters and asked the wingco's secretary if he could please be added to the authorized list at the comm center. She said those were handled by the adjutant, but after a half-hour wait, the major adjutant gave him a song and slow shuffle, telling him he couldn't be authorized since his was neither an official unit nor an authorized tenant of the wing.
He waited another half hour to see the wing commander.
The 366th wing commander, who had a solemn, yet nervous air and wore the same unfriendly look he'd displayed at 0600 that morning, received him warily. He told Moods that this being a special case, he'd allow Moods to send his messages out of his own office. Since he was bending the rules, he said he'd personally have to examine every piece of incoming correspondence, they received and approve anything they wanted to send out.
Moods blew an exasperated breath, gritted his teeth, and showed him the simple two-paragraph message, which the wing commander read closely, then signed out. He told Moods to drop it off with his secretary—that it would be sent out in the next batch.
Moods didn't waste his time by asking for the team to be moved to a better location.
It was an ignominious beginning for the Pave Dagger test project.
1400L—Seventh Air Force Headquarters, Saigon
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
"You're doing good work," Pearly told Lieutenant Lucy Dortmeier, examining her changes to section four of OPlan LINE BACKER JACKPOT.
They were in his private office. She spent most of her time there, working at a small desk he'd had brought in, because they felt the plan shouldn't leave the room unless it was to be taken to Moss for approval, or a copy sent to the Pentagon JACKPOT team. They'd told others in Plans and Programs they were working on a project for General Moss, something to do with changing the ways the units reported mission results, which in fact was one of Pearly's ongoing efforts.
In the three days since he'd briefed her on the project, Lucy had displayed amazing efficiency. She'd impressed him with her eye for detail, her thoroughness, and the amount of work she could cram into a twelve-hour day. She'd learned to research and prepare briefs in law school. Her handling of English was superb, and she'd gleefully eliminated Pearly's militarese gobbledygook, clarifying four of the plan's twelve sections into plain language. That alone had reduced the bulk of the plan by thirty pages. She said she'd have the rest done within another week.
He'd had to explain little. She knew the difference between "sorties" and "missions," about "sortie" generation and "turn-around times," that a "Flight" on the ground was a subunit of a squadron, and a "flight" in the air was
a group of aircraft. She knew "MiG-CAP" flights were MiG-killers, and "Wild Weasel" flights were SAM-killers, that "flak suppression" flights were AAA-killers, and "strike" flights were target killers, and that "Res-CAP" were fighters that located and then protected a downed pilot until rescue helicopters arrived. She'd learned most of those things in her years as an Air Force family member and picked up the rest in her few weeks at the headquarters.
She smiled at Pearly's compliment. "You don't mind my changes?"
"My God no," he said. "I tend to make things twice as long as they should be."
"You're just very thorough, Colonel. It's a lot easier for someone like me to condense what you've written than it would be to actually know and write it all."
She also knew how to exercise diplomacy around bosses.
At 1500 hours Pearly and Colonel Wes Snider met with General Moss to learn the latest news concerning JACKPOT and the LINE BACKER OPlan.
Moss was in a jovial mood and included Wes Snider in his smile.
He told them he'd just received their eighth message from the Chief of Staff, telling about his latest meeting with J.
"He said the President likes the LINE BACKER JACKPOT name. He picked up on the initials right away."
"Maybe we should have called it Lady Bug," quipped Wes Snider. "Then we'd have Lady Bird on our side too."
"L.B.J.'s upset about the lack of movement in the war and told McManus he's tired of waiting for the North Vietnamese to start talking turkey. Gentleman Jim realized that meant he was getting more interested in JACKPOT, so he jumped right in and presented the request for removing the restrictions on our pilots and going after better targets."
Moss leaned forward and told them in a more hushed voice that there was to be a group of new targets released within the hour. The same message would bring an easing of restrictions. It wouldn't be nearly as much as they wanted, but it would be a start.
They talked for another half hour, for it appeared as if they were about to see the first sign of acceptance of the project they'd worked so hard on. When the message center called that the classified TWX was in, Moss had a copy brought directly upstairs.
Pearly got back to his office at 1900 hours, following a session at the Tactical Air Control Center, where he'd briefed the on-duty fighter-plans officer about what the general wanted transmitted to the units. The WAF admin sergeant had left for the day, but Lieutenant Dortmeier was still working doggedly on the OPlan.
She looked up, half glasses perched on her nose. "You look happy."
"Very happy," Pearly said. "We were tossed a crumb, and we're so starved we love it."
She furrowed her brow, then went back to work with red and green pens.
Pearly had a thought. "You . . . uh . . . got a date or anything tonight, Lieutenant?"
She peered up at him. "No."
He immediately got cold feet. "Just wondering," he mumbled, and acted as if he were searching through his in-basket. She was still staring, and he knew he was red-faced. "Guess I'll be going, unless you need something from me," he said.
"No, sir. I'm done for the day myself. The words are starting to blur together." She changed her glasses and blinked. She wore half glasses for close-up work—large, horn-rimmed ones for long range. She was almost as nearsighted as Pearly, her glasses nearly as thick.
"Going to the club for dinner?" he asked, trying to build courage again.
She nodded.
"Maybe I'll see you there," he finally said, and started for the door.
"Wait up, Colonel," she said. "I'll walk over with you." When she'd secured the OPlan in the safe and he'd locked the office, both the inner and outer doors, they went downstairs and checked out at the security desk.
Both remained silent as they walked toward the club. It was quite dark, with a sliver moon and bright stars. Insects were setting up a chatter. A bird squealed, another answered.
"It's sure a nice night," said Lucy Dortmeier.
"Unh-huh." Pearly had never married and seldom dated, blaming that fact on his dedication to work. He was okay around casual female acquaintances or women at work, but grew awkward when around them socially. Like now.
During the past couple of days he'd begun to view Lucille Dortmeier less as a fellow officer and more as a woman. She was small, skinny, feminine, stubborn, and very intelligent, and somehow all that appealed to him. The fact that she was appealing made him nervous.
They walked on quietly. Back in the office he'd wanted to say to her, I feel like celebrating. Would you be kind enough to allow me to take you to the club for dinner? Maybe a steak, with a bottle of wine? Those were the words that had formed in his mind, but he'd screwed it up. Now he felt coarse next to her petiteness.
They arrived at the entrance to the O' Club, and she waited as he opened the door. He started to ask if she'd like a drink before dinner, then wondered how he could word it without it sounding like a come-on. "I'm . . . uh . . . going into the bar."
She nodded pleasantly, hesitated for a short pause, then started toward the dining room. "See you tomorrow, Colonel."
He went into the lounge, still feeling awkward. Wes Snider was there, seated at a table near a corner and talking with two pretty civilian secretaries. He waved Pearly over.
"Let me buy you a drink. You're working too late." Wes introduced everyone.
Pearly had a couple of drinks with them, listening with half an ear, responding on cue, thinking about the work he had stacked up for the next morning. When he went into the dining room, Lieutenant Dortmeier had already left.
Friday, December 15th, 1000 Local—Wing Commander's Conference Room, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Lieutenant Colonel Lucky Anderson
The key operations staff, including squadron commanders, had been summoned. The staff was in place, waiting for the wingco, when Penny Dwight came in and told Lucky he had a telephone call.
Buster Leska was coming out of his office as Lucky went by. Leska nodded and watched as he picked up the telephone at Penny's desk, then proceeded into the conference room. Leska didn't delay staff meetings for a single attendee.
"Hello," Lucky said into the receiver.
"My name's Richard, from the Bangkok embassy."
"Linda's spoken of you." It was the guy she'd once dated. She'd also said he was her "sometimes" boss, Anderson remembered.
"Just wondering if you've heard from her in the last couple of days. I've—ah—got something to pass on to her."
"She called from NKP Sunday night," he said, "but not since."
"Yeah? Well if you hear from her again, please ask her to call me," He gave a number.
"Something to do with work?" Lucky asked as he jotted down the information.
"Yes. It's important. Thanks." The connection was terminated.
Lucky stared at Richard's telephone number for a moment, wondering if he should worry. He decided not to. Linda sometimes disappeared for a few days, then emerged without explanation, saying she'd been working with locals, determining quotas and that sort of thing.
He slipped quietly back into the conference room, where Buster Leska had the floor.
"What's it about?' Lucky whispered to Yank Donovan.
Yank sourly nodded toward Leska, meaning he should listen up.
"Every wing commander over here's forwarded requests to lighten up on the restrictions. Two that especially stuck in our craws were the large buffer zone with China, and the no-fly circle around Hanoi. As you know, that last one severely limits our tactical options when we go up to bomb a target near Hanoi. The enemy knows we've got to turn in a certain direction to avoid the restricted area, and he knows we've got to fly around it when we're coming in or going out."
Buster let that soak in for a bit. He'd accurately voiced what the rest of them grumbled about in the bar. "Well, gentlemen, someone up there listened. As of now there's no longer a no-fly restriction around Hanoi, and the no-fly rule has been lifted for the buffer zone."
There were
smiles around the room.
"Does that mean we can start striking the previously released targets in there?" Colonel Armaugh asked. It was a logical question. Once a target outside the restricted areas had been selected by the President, Seventh Air Force planners had the option of attacking them again.
"Let's take one gift at a time," said Leska. "We'll still need executive authority to bomb targets in either place."
"Yeah, but do you see a chance of that happening?" the DO persevered.
Buster Leska paused thoughtfully, then nodded his head. "Yes."
"Wonder why the President's changing his mind. Think we'll start getting better targets?"
Lucky knew that the wing commander had gone as far as he dared and watched him ponder his response.
"Who knows what makes politicians tick?" Leska finally said. "But, yes, I believe this is the first step. I think he's about to let us go ahead and win this damn two-bit war."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sunday, December 17th 0715 Local—O' Club Dining Room, Takhli RTAFB
Captain Manny DeVera
It was a nonflying day for him, he'd finished with his most critical business at the weapons office, and it was Sunday. He knew it was Sunday because the Bangkok World newspapers they'd just brought in from the early flight from Don Muang were in color. On other days they were black-and-white. The other reason he knew was that Penny Dwight had announced to her two favorite male friends the previous evening that she was going to sleep in, and for them not to dare disturb her for breakfast.
Animal Hamlin went to the counter and bought a paper, then returned to their table. "You want the funnies or the front page?" he asked Manny.
"The front page."
Animal separated the newspaper and passed it over. A few seconds later Hamlin was sipping coffee and chuckling over Li'l Abner. "I get a kick out of the shmoos," he said in his Jersey accent. "Sure as hell could use a few around here."
Manny agreed. Schmoos tasted like pork chops when they were fried. He'd give a lot for a meal of pork chops and fresh eggs, instead of the reconstituted, once-dehydrated potatoes, limp and greasy bacon, and reconstituted, once-powdered eggs he was eating.