Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  "Stop!" she squealed with outrage.

  He made guttural sounds as he frantically worked in and out.

  "Oh Godddd!" she cried desperately, trying to push him off as the tempo continued to increase. He tensed and strained, pressing deep, then muttered a loud, grunting sound. He collapsed on her, blowing out a long, contented final sigh.

  Penny endured his weight helplessly, her thoughts confused and desperate, head pounding violently with the awful headache.

  "Better that time," he muttered. He was still inserted, and she could feel that part of him begin to relax too.

  "Get . . . off," she said, her breath slow to return.

  He slowly pulled his head up and stared at her, his face crinkling into an ugly smile.

  She remained silent as shame replaced outrage.

  "You'll remember that one," he said proudly.

  "Yes," she huffed unevenly. "Now please get off."

  The colonel pushed himself up and got to his feet, laughing low as he began to retrieve his clothing, neatly stacked on top of the table. "Tell the spick I left a present for him."

  She didn't comprehend, just wanted him to leave.

  "Don't get ideas about crying rape or anything," he said. "I've got four guys from the IG team along who're going to be telling everyone how you begged me for it."

  His words penetrated. The alcoholic haze was still with her, but she knew she didn't want him spreading word that she was a tramp, like the basketball player had so long ago. "Please don't let them do that," she pleaded.

  "Promise to tell the spick?"

  "Don't let anyone talk about me." Her head was pounding unmercifully.

  "DeVera, dammit! Tell him every juicy detail, or I'll stay and fuck you again!"

  "Yes, sir," she quickly whispered. "I'll tell him."

  He began to hum a tune, obviously pleased. Penny stood on wobbly legs, stumbled once, took a couple of deep breaths, then pushed by him and into the bathroom. She closed and locked the door behind her, shaking violently, feeling numbed. Thoughts were difficult. She found and loaded her white douche bulb with water and solution. It was difficult to do, because she couldn't stop her hands from shaking.

  She squatted, inserted, squeezed. The water was startlingly cold. Penny repeated the act.

  In the other room the trailer door slammed. Penny felt her gorge rising and quickly turned, knelt, and grasped the bowl to vomit. She remained locked in the bathroom for a long while. As she continued to grow sober, she wished she could die. The self-confidence she'd developed in the past weeks had left her. She was unsure and felt dirty and terribly afraid.

  Friday, December 22nd, 1515 Local—Fighter Tactics Branch, TFWC, Nellis AFB, Nevada

  Major Benny Lewis

  The second message from Moods Diller was spread before him and was just as confusing as the first he'd received. Again there was the reference to Lieutenant White, which obviously meant Major General White, and a second puzzling mention of Project Titanic.

  Which indicated that the Pave Dagger test was in deep trouble and Moods needed high-level support . . . but why didn't he just come out and say what he meant?

  General White was away, gone to Matamordas Island, Texas, ostensibly to observe a live weapons release by B-52's, but secretively meeting with an SAC general officer about JACKPOT. When LINE BACKER JACKPOT kicked off, Strategic Air Command wanted to send ten three-ship cells in trail up to Hanoi, and Gordie White wanted to talk them into using more diverse tactics. So far it had been a hard sell. The SAC general said his B-52's had such great electronic jamming power they wouldn't have to worry about SAMs. JACKPOT being so secretive, it was impossible to bring the argument into the open with normal classified message traffic. Also, General McManus had great faith in the ops staff at SAC headquarters.

  So with General White off on business and intending to remain away for the next couple of weeks, Benny had no one he could turn to with gritty questions, especially those concerning JACKPOT and the ongoing Pave Dagger combat tests. He wanted to fire off a message to Moods, telling him to clarify the issue, but warning bells told him Moods was being deliberately vague with his gobbledygook messages. Something was definitely wrong at Danang.

  He checked his calendar and decided to move up his visit to the war theater, previously scheduled for the following month. There was little holding him at Nellis. He was caught up with his JACKPOT tasks, and even the mundane parts of his normal work.

  The situation with Julie was as unclear as Moods's message. She was busy with her work at Pan Am, and with her mother still present, they got together less and less. Now usually only on Friday nights for dinner, and always at her apartment. They still kissed soulfully when he went to his car to leave, and still mouthed the word "love," but her mother was now coming between them even more forcefully, and he increasingly found himself blaming Julie. Whenever he approached the problem, she'd artfully sidestep the issue and say she couldn't just tell her mother to leave.

  She'd also repeat that she loved him dearly, but Benny was beginning to doubt even that. Maybe a period of separation would be good for them both, he told himself.

  When he called Julie and told her he'd be traveling to Southeast Asia, her voice trembled with concern. Did he really have to go? she asked. When he'd convinced her it was necessary, and calmed her concerns that he might be in danger, she said she wanted to see him.

  There was a catch of resignation in her voice when she said she loved him, and for him to remember that every waking hour. He told her it would be more than a week before he left. On New Year's Day, he said. He'd see her for dinner tonight at the apartment, he reminded her.

  "I want us to plan an evening alone, with just the two of us," she said.

  She'd said that before, though, and it hadn't materialized. Except for an infrequent lunch, there'd always been little Patty and Julie's mother. Benny Lewis hung up after the conversation confused, feeling the same, empty ache he experienced whenever they spoke.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Saturday, December 23rd, 0825 Local—354th TFS, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Colonel Buster Leska

  Periodically Buster liked to visit the fighter squadrons to see how things were progressing and talk to the squadron commanders. Today was Yank Donovan's turn in the barrel, and they sat in the 354th squadron commander's office.

  Donovan's losses were no higher or lower than those of the other squadrons, but the subject seemed to permeate his mind. He was telling Buster how he'd lost another pilot, this one down in pack two, bombing the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

  "It should have been an easy mission," he was grumbling.

  "Sometimes," Buster told him, "the gomers just get in a lucky shot. A golden beebee."

  Over the past two months Yank had gradually lost enthusiasm, although not his confidence. He'd seen some of his finest young pilots die while facing impossible odds in pack six, and others shot down as they bombed invisible targets they felt were the result of frustration on intelligence's part about not being able to find enemy supplies under the dense jungle canopy.

  Buster might have been more understanding if the same problem wasn't faced by the entire wing, as well as all the other Thailand units. Yank Donovan had changed, some for the better perhaps, because for the first time he was recognizing others in his selfish world, but his disposition was not improved. This morning he wore his usual sour expression and seemed even moodier than usual.

  Buster glanced at his watch. "I've got an airplane to catch," he said. He was going to Korat, where President Johnson was scheduled to deliver a speech to the troops. Moss had sent a classified message telling his wing commanders to attend.

  When he rose, Donovan followed. "I've got something I've gotta tell you, Colonel."

  "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon."

  Donovan frowned as they went out the squadron's front door and walked toward a blue pickup with a WING COMMANDER placard and an eagle on front. There was no driver.

 
"I'll ride along," Yank mumbled.

  He's made up his mind and has to talk, Buster thought, wishing he had more time.

  When they were seated, Donovan turned to him. "Colonel Lyons visited the squadron a couple of days ago."

  That was no revelation. "He and his people visited all the squadrons, Yank. He said he was on a tour of the bases, looking at our ops routines."

  "He's called me at least twice a week since he got the IG job."

  "Oh?" That was interesting.

  "Keeps wanting to know anything we're doing contrary to PACAF rules." He looked at Buster squarely. "I went along at first, Colonel. I told him things he wanted to hear, like how some of the guys weren't honoring the restrictions as well as they could've."

  Buster thought about that. It explained why he periodically received angry messages from PACAF headquarters mentioning specific names and incidents. They'd been minor transgressions, blown out of proportion.

  He started the pickup's engine, thinking about what Yank was saying.

  "I want you to know I've stopped telling him anything. Lyons is just out to get himself promoted by sucking on the blood of others."

  "That's pretty strong."

  Donovan's voice was even. "You've been decent to me, Colonel. Most of the pilots here are doing their damnedest, and it's not easy with all the bullshit we have to put up with. I couldn't keep on shooting them in the back like that. Lyons is out to get you and everyone else here."

  Buster remained silent as he drove toward base operations, where the gooney bird waited.

  "This last time he wanted to know about something called JACKPOT," Donovan said.

  Buster fought to keep his face passive. "Go on."

  "He kept prodding to see if I knew anything about it."

  "Did he tell you what it was?"

  "Something General Moss is trying to hide from General Roman. Lyons wants to find out what it's about."

  Buster parked in his space in front of base operations. "Did you tell him anything?"

  "I didn't know what he was talking about. I'd never heard of anything called 'JACKPOT."

  Buster worked to keep concern from his expression.

  Yank squinted out at the flight line. "Anyway, don't worry about me telling Lyons anything in the future. I doubt anyone else here will talk with him either. He's not well liked."

  "Was he making any progress, finding out about this . . . JACKPOT?"

  "I have no idea." Yank Donovan wouldn't meet his eyes. Admitting error had been difficult and demeaning for his vast ego, but he looked happier.

  "Do something for me, Yank."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Whenever he calls, find out what he's after and let me know, okay?"

  Yank grew taut. "I really don't want to speak to him again."

  "You owe me that much, Yank."

  Donovan mused for a moment, then huffed a breath and nodded.

  Buster left it at that. As he walked toward the gooney bird, his mind boiled with activity. General Moss would be at Korat to attend the President's speech, but he doubted he'd get a chance to speak with him alone. He'd have to wait to inform him about General Roman's queries after he returned to Takhli and Moss to Saigon.

  What would happen if Roman found out about JACKPOT? Would he somehow scuttle the project, as General McManus had feared?

  As he stepped inside the gooney bird and made his way to a seat, Buster became increasingly paranoid and began to wonder if the discussion with Yank Donovan hadn't been contrived by Lyons to get his reaction.

  0900L—Nakhon Phanom RTAB, Thailand

  Sergeant Black

  The lieutenant colonel had called him into his office for a private meeting at 0600 hours, to give him an early Christmas present.

  "I'm pulling you off Hotdog," he'd said.

  Black had felt it might be coming after the loss of two of the two men. "How about the matter we discussed last week, sir?"

  "There's no possible way to get them American citizenship."

  "I promised 'em, sir."

  "It was a promise you can't keep."

  "I see, sir." But Black hadn't really understood. Hotdog had given as much as was humanly possible to help Americans, so hadn't they earned it?

  "They should rightly be turned over to the South Viets."

  "Not rightly, sir. That isn't right at all."

  The lieutenant colonel who went by the call sign Papa Wolf had sighed. "You're a hardheaded fellow. Makes me wonder why they sent the major's list down with your name on it. You made it two years early. It's not me taking Hotdog away from you, it's the U.S. Army."

  Black had been astounded.

  Papa Wolf had stood to shake his hand. "Congratulations. Your date of rank will be in mid-March."

  For more than a year, even in private, others had called him Sergeant or Black. It would feel strange to show up for work as an officer, wearing a different name tag. But, then, he'd be a different person. Black was the enigmatic tough guy who ran around in the bush with his bunch of renegades. Major John Dillingham would be just another field-grade puke.

  "Then I can keep Hotdog until then?" Black had asked.

  "I'm taking Hotdog off the active list as of today."

  "But why, sir?"

  "Because you're the only living man I've got in my group who's been put in for a second Distinguished Service Cross, and I'd like to keep you that way."

  Black had paused only a heartbeat before shaking his head. "I refuse the promotion and the medal, Colonel."

  Papa Wolf had immediately become upset. "That would be a foolish mistake."

  Black had drawn a deep breath. "If it takes it, I'll get out of the Army and lobby as a civilian to get Hotdog what they deserve."

  They'd eyed one another for a long while. After a full minute Papa Wolf had spoken. "I'll need a new XO in April. I'd like to pick you, but you'd have to take the promotion."

  Operations officer was the second most coveted job at the headquarters. Only the command position was better, and that was debatable. Under normal circumstances Black would have salivated for the job, but he'd held his tongue.

  "Let's say I kept you on with Hotdog until March. No more drops into hostile territory and no hazardous patrols. Would you volunteer for the XO slot?"

  "As of this second, sir."

  "Which means you'll accept the promotion and the medal?"

  "As long as you let me work to get Hotdog their citizenship, yes sir."

  "Only until mid-March. Anyway, the embassies will tell you the same thing they told me."

  "I've got to try, sir."

  "Yeah." The lieutenant colonel had stared. "If you tell anyone we had this conversation, I will remove your balls and joyfully roast them."

  "Yes, sir."

  Papa Wolf had suddenly chuckled, and somehow Black knew he'd been had, that the lieutenant colonel had expected him to rebel. "Get the hell out of here, Sergeant."

  It was natural that when Black drove to the O-1 pilots' hootch in an M-151 jeep, his mind was on his team. It took effort to bring himself back to his task. He, as well as the three healthy members of Hotdog who lounged in the backseat of the open vehicle, wore civilian clothing. M-16's were wrapped in a blanket under the rear seat, and they wore sidearms under their shirts.

  Lieutenant Colonel Anderson was waiting in front, also wearing civvies as he'd been asked to do. Black pulled up, waited as he crawled into the front passenger's seat, then immediately put the jeep into gear and departed for the gate. Twenty-five minutes later they pulled to a stop on a back road, in a small clearing surrounded by jungle, and the three in back jumped out and deployed around the vehicle with their M-16's.

  Black pointed. "The Mekong River's past the trees there, Colonel. Maybe two hundred meters from here. The vehicle, a white jeep with USOM stenciled in large black letters on the side, was coming down this road with two men in front and your lady in back. Five bad guys were in those trees. The vehicle was just about there"—he jabbed his finger�
��"going very slow, when they shot the driver. Took him out with bursts from one or two AK-47's. Five shots hit the vehicle, two hit him, and the vehicle flipped on its side . . . right there." He indicated the edge of the road. "The white guy crawled out of the vehicle on the far side, and they shot him. Either then or later they finished the two men with a single round in the head, using a small-caliber pistol. Then they pushed the vehicle back on its wheels, rolled it into the bush there, and covered it with branches."

  "What about Linda?" Anderson's voice croaked. He was understandably shaken.

  "They found the shooters' and her footprints leading away."

  "Which direction?"

  "Back into the bush. And from there?" He shrugged. "No one knows for sure."

  "Maybe to the river?"

  "I believe so. The USAID people had just visited a village farther down the road and were probably headed to the base. It happened about oh-twelve-thirty. There's a lot of boats in the area, but around noon the river traffic slows down because of the heat. I think they took her across. No one saw them, but when it comes to CTs, a lot of people around here get amnesia. I think they took her across and maybe handed her over to their Pathet Lao buddies."

  "But they could've just taken her into the jungle somewhere."

  "Could be."

  "Who's looking for her?"

  "Every Thai law-enforcement agency and military outfit in the area. The Thai Army's in charge of the search. They sent a full colonel to take over the investigation. The State Department's got the heat turned up in Bangkok, and they're demanding complete secrecy. That's why no one'll talk to you about it. And no one likely will, unless they're told different."

  "How about our people? Are we doing anything?"

  "It's not our country. Much as we might want to, we can't go charging around interrogating their people."

  "How about unofficially?"

  "Even unofficially they're our allies, and we've got no jurisdiction. Our people at NKP worked with the locals on the initial investigations, but when they kept coming up with blanks, they stood back and scratched their heads like everyone else. They've got a lot of pull with the officials here, but no one seems to have answers."