Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  He nodded, and the guard began to unlash the cage door.

  Phase one begins, she thought grimly, working to remain calm. She wouldn't allow herself to give in. Express surprise and play innocent. Say nothing at all. Not yet, anyway.

  When the door was opened, she was beckoned forth.

  The guard tied her spread-eagled to the side of the cage, facing out. It began with a quiet beating, using a bamboo stick. She'd never known the stuff could be that hard—or that a methodical thrashing of her stomach, ribs, and arms could be that painful. The officer gave instructions and the guard administered the blows. He didn't even use all his strength, but after the fifth time the bamboo stick landed, she groaned aloud from the pain, and after the twentieth she began to cry out sharply each time it struck her flesh. The blows continued until she was shrieking and begging for them to stop.

  When the blows ceased and her sounds had abated to moans, the officer asked her name.

  She told him.

  Whom had she spoken to in the villages around Nakhon Phanom?

  She'd passed out food and implements to the headmen at several villages.

  He said he was growing impatient.

  The next whipping took twenty minutes, and her stomach and chest felt as if they were raw and turning to mush. Each time the bamboo struck, she howled at the awful pain.

  Another questioning.

  Don't say anything. Say nothing. Don't say anything. Don't answer.

  She tried remaining utterly quiet that time, and the next, and the next . . .

  "We mus' tawk more," the officer finally said in a pleasant tone. He barked instructions in Lao and left. Linda was untied and shoved back into the cage. She hurt everywhere.

  She huddled in a corner, the pain so intense that she ignored the swarms of flies that buzzed about her and walked on her face and in her hair.

  How long can I last? she wondered. They were onto her role in intelligence, but how much did they really know? She couldn't tell them. She mustn't. But again she asked herself how long she could endure, because it was only the beginning and was sure to get worse.

  A while later the officer returned, this time with visitors. She recognized the cotton field uniforms of the North Vietnamese Army. One wore junior officer's markings. The other was older and tough looking. The Pathet Lao officer gestured at her. He kicked dramatically at the side of the cage, and she cried out and cringed. He laughed, and the Vietnamese joined in.

  They were leaving when the NVA officer held up a hand and walked back in, very close to the cage. His expression wasn't cruel. She would remember that he had soft eyes.

  Hardly moving his lips, he whispered four low words, stared for a split second longer, then turned and spoke to the Pathet Lao officer in a belligerent voice.

  The door closed and Linda was left alone with the guard.

  She sat upright on the floor, the pain in her abdomen and ribs intense.

  Nod ver' long now, the NVA lieutenant had whispered, and she wondered what he could possibly have meant.

  1400L—HQ Seventh Air Force, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Saigon

  Major Benny Lewis

  Flo, the general's spinster secretary, had filled Benny in on the local headquarters gossip by the time Moss called out that he'd see him. It was Benny's courtesy call. Before he visited the various units, it was proper protocol to stop in at the headquarters. Normally he'd see a colonel in operations, but in this case General Moss had demanded that he stop by. Benny had worked for him at Nellis before they'd been sent to the war zone.

  Moss was at his desk. Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates stood before a large wall map of North Vietnam.

  Moss smiled. "Good to see you, Benny." They shook hands warmly.

  "You're looking well, sir." The general was sun-bronzed and the picture of health. He played a relentless game of tennis, Benny remembered, and most often won.

  "I am, I am. How about you? How's the back?" The last time Benny had visited, he'd had a bad time of it. The plane ride over had been awful, and he'd wrenched something coming up the stairs to the general's office. Moss had brought in a flight surgeon to medicate him, and when he'd left, it had been via a med-evac bird. Thus far, this time was very different.

  "I feel fine. Flew over first-class. Pampered and slept like a baby all the way, sir."

  Moss pointed a finger. "You watch that back. Tennis, that's the therapy. I still play three games a day, minimum, and I've got the stamina of a twenty-year-old. Bring it up with your flight surgeon. Soon as he clears you, get yourself down to the courts and start practicing." Moss grinned. "Then come back over here and I'll whip your young ass just like I have every time we've played."

  Benny laughed.

  Moss said, "We were discussing how the Jackpot operation's going to look by the fourth day, when it's in full swing. We're all cleared here. Go ahead, Pearly."

  Gates pointed to targets on the wall chart and told about forces and timing. The strikes would be massive and continuous, day and night, with little respite between waves of striking combat aircraft.

  "What about defenses?" Benny asked.

  "By day four they'll start running out of missiles and large artillery ammo. By the sixth day they'll be depleted of SAMs. That's using our latest estimates of their stockpiles."

  Benny settled into the chair Moss had indicated. "I've got a ringer to toss in the game."

  Pearly turned and frowned. "Something I didn't consider?"

  "You're using big formations of fighters. How about our smart bombs?'

  Pearly's jaw tightened. He'd already been stung once, when he'd banked on using smart bombs on a campaign to eliminate the enemy's bridges, and they'd not been ready. "Are they operational?"

  "They will be as soon as we complete the combat testing."

  General Moss's eyebrows grew knitted. "Smart bombs," he muttered uncertainly.

  Pearly clarified. "That's the Pave Dagger project at Danang."

  "I remember something about it."

  "Moods Diller's in place with a group of technicians and civilian engineers," Benny said.

  Moss sighed. "Oh, yes. Homing bombs." He shook his head in a mild show of disgust.

  Benny spoke up. "They were getting a CEP of thirty feet on the Nellis ranges." "CEP" stood for "circular error probability," or average miss distance. "Moods is using two-thousand-pounders now, and he's shooting for a zero CEP."

  "The Nellis ranges aren't combat," Moss cautioned. "Not the same at all."

  "I've watched them impact and seen the films, General. They worked, and now they've improved them even more. But you're right, sir, it's different here. That's why they're in the combat theater with the test, where they've got real targets in a hostile environment."

  Pearly remained dubious. "Will they be ready in time?"

  "When do you figure LINE BACKER JACKPOT will kick off?"

  "Four weeks after we get the nod from the President. It'll take that long to get the forces and weapons in place."

  "Is he close? I get the idea we simply don't have a firm handle on a date."

  "I spoke with the President a couple weeks ago," said Moss. "I believe it will be another month, maybe two, before he's ready to give us a green light."

  Benny Lewis nodded. "The tests will be completed. I'll see to it." He didn't want to tell them quite yet about Moods's problems.

  "How about availability?' Pearly asked. "I'd imagine the kits are pretty complex."

  "We'll have to make it a quick-reaction order. Another problem will be training the pilots."

  "And you think they'll work?"

  "If only half of the bombs guide properly, that means we still can take out as many targets with twenty-four modified birds as we can with two hundred strike aircraft."

  Moss was skeptical, and he said so.

  "When they brief the test results, you'll be impressed, sir. I was the biggest doubter of all until I saw the steady improvements for myself. Moods is really onto something."

&nb
sp; "Is that why you're here early? You weren't scheduled to show up for another few weeks."

  It was time to tell him. "I received some strange messages from Moods, indicating he was having problems getting the test started. Then I got a letter. From what he said, the wing commander's a roadblock. He refuses to cooperate and won't even let Moods send classified documents off base. I came early so I could look into it."

  "I've got one of my best commanders at the 366th," Moss said. "He wouldn't hold up your tests unless he's got good reason."

  "I don't know about the rest of his problems, but if he can't send out secret information, Moods is in a bind, sir. The entire Pave Dagger project's highly classified."

  "I trust my commander. You want me to give him a call?"

  "I'd appreciate it if you'd let me find out what's going on first, sir. Perhaps Moods is doing something wrong. Maybe it's just a case of rubbing the CO the wrong way."

  "Yeah. Go check it out." From his tone Benny knew it was going to be a hard sell. When Moss trusted one of his men, he did so implicitly. Fortunately, Benny was also one of that group.

  "When I'm done at Danang, I'd like to visit the other fighter bases, to talk tactics with the JACKPOT project officers. Is that okay with you, sir?"

  Moss nodded, but Lewis could tell by his hesitation that there was something on his mind.

  "Anything you'd like me to be looking for?"

  "There's a colonel from the PACAF IG going around to the bases. We think General Roman's gotten wind of the OPlan, and this guy's snooping around, trying to find out more. If you run into him, back off. He's carrying weight from Roman and likes to throw it around."

  "What's his name?"

  "Tom Lyons. A bonafide asshole with political influence."

  Benny's face clouded. "I've met him." When Benny had traveled to Takhli on his last trip, Lyons had accused him of trying to have his backseater declared dead so he could take Julie to bed. It was the closest Benny had come to murdering someone.

  "When are you leaving for Danang?"

  "I'll take the base shuttle first thing in the morning. One other thing, sir. Who's your LINE BACKER JACKPOT project officer at Danang?"

  "The wing commander."

  1945L—Tan Son Nhut Officers' Club

  Second Lieutenant Lucy Dortmeier

  Colonel Gates finished his meal and sat back. "Care for an after-dinner drink?"

  Lucy begged off. "Not tonight, Colonel. I'm bushed, and I want to get out of these shoes and relax. Rain check?"

  "Sure," he said, but Lucy could tell he was let down. He enjoyed having someone to talk with and confide in as much as she. Following the long days of work, they went to the club for dinner often, except on the rare nights she dated a captain from the intelligence shop.

  "Why don't you come over to my room?" she asked on a whim. "I keep a bottle of Grand Marnier handy." He'd introduced her to the delightful after-dinner drink.

  He brightened. "Sure you don't mind?"

  "I'd enjoy the company."

  They left the club and walked toward the company-grade bachelor officer's quarters, where she had a room on the second floor.

  "What did you think of Major Lewis?" he asked.

  "We talked about my brother. He knew him at Takhli."

  "Benny was shot down too. Twice, in fact."

  "He didn't tell me about that."

  "Broke his back in the second ejection."

  They entered the BOQ, and she led the way upstairs and down the hall to her room. He followed her in, leaving the door open. Colonel Gates was always correct, the epitome of a gentleman.

  She poured them both half a glass of liqueur, handed his over, then sat and pulled off the ugly oxford work shoes they issued women in the Air Force.

  "That feels wonderful," she said, wriggling her toes.

  He sat on the bed and looked around. The room looked sterile, for Lucy refused to decorate.

  "Welcome to the Dortmeier hovel, Colonel."

  "We're off duty. Call me Pearly, like everyone else."

  She gave him an arch expression. "Only if you call me Lucy."

  "Little Lucy?"

  "General Moss must've told you. I was the runt of the litter and hated the nickname."

  "Still?"

  "Just Lucy if you don't mind." She wondered. She'd not minded at all when the Colonel . . . no, Pearly . . . had said it. She decided that he had a nice smile, and that he should use it more often. He was a serious man. Some of the enlisted men called him Colonel Grumpy.

  They spoke for more than an hour, drank two more liqueurs, and Lucy forgot about being tired. When he finally left, she wished he'd stayed longer.

  She decided to tell the intell captain to take a hike. Perhaps she could get Colonel . . . Pearly, darn it . . . to take her to a base movie now and then.

  2100L—Nakhon Phanom RTAB, Thailand

  Sergeant Black

  The lieutenant and the senior sergeant had returned. He'd picked them up at the landing spot an hour earlier. Clipper wasn't with them, but the lieutenant wanted to return immediately with the rest of the Hotdogs to pull her out. He wanted to so badly that Black worried that he might take action on his own. He'd seldom seen the lieutenant so upset.

  They were mistreating her, he'd said, and grew stony-faced when he spoke about the beating they'd administered before his arrival.

  After debriefing him Black went directly to the lieutenant colonel, who, with communist attacks flaring across southern Laos, was working long hours. Papa Wolf had dark circles under his eyes and wore a tired expression when Black came into his office.

  "I need a few minutes, Colonel."

  "Shut the door," he said wearily.

  Black did so. "We've located Clipper, sir."

  The lieutenant colonel frowned, then brightened. "The USAID woman?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Where?" He didn't ask how Black had gained his information.

  "She's in a P-T headquarters camp outside of Ban Si Muang." P-T meant Pathet Lao guerrillas.

  "Show me."

  Black fingered the town of Ban Si Muang on a wall map. "Not far at all, sir. It should be a snap to go in and take her out."

  The lieutenant colonel grunted. "How many men there?"

  "Ninety-two total, mostly couriers and headquarters people. Only twenty, maybe twenty-five, would be any kind of help in a fight."

  Papa Wolf pursed his lips. "Where are they holding her?"

  "In a hut toward the rear of the camp. One guard inside, no one on patrol outside."

  "What's her condition?"

  "No obvious bad injuries. Her face is a little cut up, likely from the vehicle overturning. She's also hurting from the beatings."

  "Shit," muttered the lieutenant colonel.

  "They're using bamboo clubs. They've just started to interrogate, and so far she isn't cooperating."

  "Good." The lieutenant colonel wrote down notes. "How reliable is your information?"

  "Type 2-C," meaning it was highly reliable, made by a U.S.-trained foreign national.

  "Time of observation?"

  "Eight hours ago."

  That note was added. "I'll pass it on." He looked back at his paperwork.

  "Can we get authorization for a raid, sir?"

  "I'll send the sighting info out in the morning status report. Problem might be, with all the other crap that's going on, getting the resources to put something together."

  "They may not keep her there long, sir. I think we should move quickly."

  "I realize that, but nothing moves quickly with MAC-V, and that's who it'll take to authorize a cross-border operation."

  Black blew out a breath. "I'd like to take Hotdog over tomorrow night, sir."

  "You say there's ninety guerrillas there? They'd have your renegades for lunch, Black. Then we'd be trying to get both you and the woman out."

  "With all the NVA around the countryside, we could walk right into the camp, just like . . ." He'd started to say just
like my men did. The lieutenant had told him he'd almost tried to get the woman out, even when it had been only himself and the sergeant. With all five of them using NVA bully tactics with the Pathet Lao, he felt there was a very good chance. If that didn't work, they could create a diversion and use force. He was scornful of Pathet Lao capabilities and doubted they'd put up much of a fight.

  The lieutenant colonel didn't allow him to present the lieutenant's logic. "We'll wait for proper authorization and use an appropriate force. And remember our deal, Black. You don't go on recon patrols that might place you in jeopardy."

  "Yes, sir." Dammit!

  "Thanks for the intelligence. Now get on out of here while I finish the status report."

  Black exited the office, feeling shitty and hoping to hell MAC-V responded more quickly than they normally did.

  A letter had arrived from Lucky Anderson that morning, asking about Linda Lopes and giving him the name of an embassy official to contact about sponsoring the Hotdog renegades for American citizenship.

  Before going to bed, Black penned two letters. One to the embassy official in Bangkok identifying himself, outlining what he wanted, and asking for guidance. The other was to Lieutenant Colonel Paul Anderson, telling him that there was reason to believe that the lady in question was alive. He didn't elaborate.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Friday, January 5th, 1100 Local—Pave Dagger Test Headquarters, Danang Air Base, South Vietnam

  Major Benny Lewis

  The situation was worse than expected. Moods said they were now down to four of the specially designated Mk-84 bombs in the munitions bunkers on the opposite end of the runway. They'd been disappearing, and no one would tell him where they were going. Probably being used on routine combat missions, he said, which was a bloody shame. Those had been carefully selected for weight and balance for the Pave Dagger test. Now, except for the four, they'd have to use whatever bombs they could get their hands on.

  Benny looked about the inside of the small, cramped, and decrepit building, then motioned his head toward the door leading to the ramp. "Where do they park your test birds?"