Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  The overweight senior engineer from the Texas team's company snorted, and Moods told him they still hadn't been assigned aircraft. "We're at zero, Benny. Zee-row. They keep telling us there's no airplanes available. Higher priorities, they say."

  Lewis grimaced. "Hell, I thought a 1-A was as high as they got."

  "Exigencies of combat, I'm told."

  "And the wing commander won't let you send messages?"

  "Not without a hassle and until he's read and corrected every word. We think he's intercepting 'em too. We were supposed to receive new bias voltage settings from Texas, but they've never arrived."

  "Is it just the wing commander, or are you getting flak from everyone?"

  "One word from him, and the bullshit will stop, Benny. It's all coming from the top."

  "I'll go talk to the man."

  The delay was a short one. The secretary told him to go on in as soon as the colonel was off the phone. Lewis motioned for Moods to wait in the outer office.

  Benny reported in, telling the colonel he was the fighter-tactics branch chief from Nellis, here to observe the progress of the Pave Dagger combat tests.

  "How're they doing?" the wingco asked. Benny could hardly believe his ears.

  He was careful to keep his voice even. "From what I've seen, sir, the entire project is on hold. The project officer believes someone's deliberately holding things up."

  The colonel's expression turned nasty. "What do you mean, deliberately, Major?"

  "All he's trying to do is follow orders. He was directed to come here and run a very classified, very high-priority test."

  The wing commander frowned. "Whose priority?"

  "Headquarters Air Force, priority 1-A, sir. That was included in the initial messages to PACAF and puts it at an equal with nonessential combat missions. From what I was briefed yesterday by General Moss, the 366th wing's had few of those since the battle at Dak To."

  "You saw the general?"

  "Yes, sir. He asked me to pass on his greetings."

  The wing commander pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  "We really need to move with these test sorties, Colonel."

  "Why the rush?"

  Benny glanced at the closed door, drew a short breath, then plunged on. "The Pave Dagger laser-guided bombs are to be used in LINE BACKER JACKPOT."

  Ten minutes later Benny left the colonel's office with a pledge of support and authorization to send and receive classified messages. On his way out he picked up Moods, who was studying a wall photo of the commander in chief as if Lyndon Johnson's bulldog smile held something interesting. As they exited the outer office, Moods kept his head turned toward the wall, avoiding a full colonel with a haughty air, who was waiting to see the wing commander. Benny recognized the man, but he was more interested in Moods's odd behavior.

  When they were outside, walking toward the decrepit pickup, Moods looked back. "That guy in there's the one who gave me all the heartburn when I tried to brief the project at PACAF."

  Benny was thinking about a run-in he'd once had with the colonel, as well as General Moss's advice. "His name's Tom Lyons. Watch out for him and stay out of his way."

  "You don't have to tell me," said Moods.

  "Let's get some lunch, then we'll go back and hopefully get some work done."

  "How did your meeting go?"

  "I got his pledge of support for the project."

  "I'll believe it when I see them taxi over a couple of test birds."

  As they drove to the club, Benny decided that if the delays continued, he'd try to get the tests moved. There were other F-4 locations.

  A giant of a man, wearing fatigues with subdued captain's rank and a weathered Aussie hat, sauntered along the sidewalk. Benny took a second look and told Moods to pull over to the side.

  "Captain!" Benny shouted in a mock angry voice. "Get your raggedy ass over here."

  The huge captain looked up, a snarl growing on his face. Then the look froze and slowly changed to a wide grin.

  "Well?" Benny yelled.

  "I'll be double gah-dammed."

  The behemoth hurried over, reached through the open window—which made Moods Diller cringe—and began to pump Lewis's hand. "Benny!" The giant shook his massive head.

  "Where you headed, Tiny?"

  "Th' club for lunch. Jesus, but you look good. How's the back?"

  "Fine, but I can't convince the flight surgeon. I'm still grounded." Benny half turned. A small spasm shivered through his back, and he let out an involuntary grunt. He didn't think the others had noticed. He drew a breath. "Moods, this is Tiny Bechler, who's as fine a lieutenant wingman as they ever made."

  Tiny beamed. "Made captain a couple months back. Now I'm a hell of a lot smarter."

  "Talking about smart, meet Moods Diller. He's so smart he's gonna buy us drinks tonight."

  "No way," Bechler roared. "I'm buying. You saved my ass one time too many to forget."

  "What the hell are you doing here? I talked to Sam Hall a couple of months back, and he said you were in Florida."

  Tiny nodded. "Stationed at Hurlburt Field, just outa Fort Walton Beach. I teach in the forward air controller course there. Really progressing. I went from bein' a single-seat fighter pilot to a schoolmarm."

  Benny chuckled. "Why are you here?"

  "We put together a road show. I'm on temporary duty over here to crosstalk with the airborne and ground FACs, making sure they've got the latest word."

  "Just you?"

  "Naw. I've got a ROMAD with me." ROMAD was the acronym for radio operator, maintainer, and driver. "He knows more about radios than Marconi did. We've already been to Bien Hoa. Couple more weeks we'll go over to NKP and talk with the O-1 Birddog drivers."

  "Let's have lunch."

  "Damn right."

  Moods drove into the club parking lot. "That guy's big as a house," he said, looking back.

  "Tiny likes to act dumb and grouchy. Sort of his trademark. But he's got his act together. An Air Force Academy grad who loves to fly."

  "I sure as hell wouldn't want him mad at me."

  "That's not an unintelligent thought, Moods."

  The three men joined up at the club entrance, where Tiny rendered Benny a stiff and very proper salute. He did that with men he admired, which numbered few.

  They took a seat in the dining room and talked like lost cousins.

  "I made some friends here I'll introduce you to tonight," said Tiny. "Marine fighter jocks flying old F-4Bs. Good guys. I'm teachin' 'em some of our songs, and they're trying to get me to quit the sissy Air Force and join the Marines."

  Moods tapped Benny's arm to gain his attention. "Guess who?"

  Two colonels walked through to the elevated area at the side of the dining room and were seated at the table reserved for the wing commander.

  1215L—Danang Officers' Open Mess

  Colonel Tom Lyons

  Lyons sat across from the commander of the 366th TFW. The friendship went back to pre–Air Force, even precollege days, to when they'd both attended an exclusive middle school in Golden, Colorado. His friend's family more or less owned the city of Milwaukee, but Lyons's family money was real, had been passed down and nurtured for four generations, while his friend's family's money was newly earned from land development and food distribution. They were nouveau riche who craved old-money respect.

  The caste system was entrenched at the exclusive middle school, and his friend had been flattered when Tom singled him out. Over the years Tom had taken him along to a few family holiday gatherings, and his friend still spoke about the people he'd met, which included Rockefellers, Kennedys, and DuPonts as well as past and present Presidents of the United States.

  Though apparently troubled, his friend remained appropriately respectful.

  "You told me the Pave Dagger test was low priority," he said.

  "General Roman thinks it's a waste of time and sure as hell doesn't want it interfering with combat sorties." It was a lie. Roman hadn't be
en briefed on the project.

  "It's got good priority at Air Force level," the wing commander said.

  "So . . . they're wrong."

  "I can't go against the Pentagon, Tom."

  "You don't work for the Pentagon. You work for PACAF."

  "I work for General Moss at Seventh Air Force. He works for your general at PACAF."

  Lyons raised an eyebrow. "You got a problem?"

  "The test manager from Nellis dropped by my office asking questions. He'd coordinated the visit with General Moss. I can't ignore it, Tom."

  "I see." Lyons didn't speak his real mind. If he had, he would've spoken in a sharper tone. But things weren't going well. He had bigger concerns than a pie-in-the-sky project from Nellis, namely trying to find out more about JACKPOT.

  "I can't hold up their message traffic any longer, either. This Lewis guy's going to report back to General Moss, and I can catch shit for it."

  "Do what you thinks best," Lyons said. "You want to give away two airplanes so they can play silly games, go ahead. I was just looking out for your interests when I made my suggestions."

  His friend hurried to smooth things. "I'm appreciative, Tom, and I'm a team player, but I can't refuse to support them any longer."

  "Just make sure they don't interfere with your primary mission. General Roman wouldn't like that one bit." Tom was tired of the subject. He was also tired of batting zeros at every base he visited whenever he tried to learn about JACKPOT. He hoped his friend could provide answers.

  A smiling Vietnamese waitress arrived to take their orders. The food at the DOOM club, which was what everyone called the Danang Officer's Open Mess, was infinitely better than the slop Tom had suffered in Thailand.

  When the waitress had departed, he decided on a direct approach. "You know about a project called JACKPOT?"

  His friend was drinking iced tea and almost strangled. He gave Tom a sideward glance before shaking his head. "Never heard of it," he said in a strained voice.

  Liar, Tom thought. He could hardly suppress his excitement.

  Tuesday, January 9th, 1225 Local—Arming Area, Takhli RTAFB

  Captain Manny DeVera

  Manny sat at the end of the runway in his Thud, canopy opened, watching with interest as each pilot taxied onto the runway and took off. He was sitting spare, which meant he was the ground spare and would take off only if another aircraft had a problem and couldn't go. The F-105's were hardy and had few maintenance glitches, so ground spares were seldom used.

  The afternoon force was going back to pack two to look for truck convoys, barges, water buffalo, horses, bicycles—or any of the other conveyances known to be hauling supplies through the mountain passes into Laos, where they'd turn southward. If they'd been fragged to fly into pack six, they would launch airborne spares to tag along until the refueling was completed. There could be no holes in the formation for a pack-six mission. In the lower packs that was not nearly as important, for the majority of defenses there were visually fired artillery.

  First Manny had observed the Wild Weasel flight, four two-seat F-105Fs. Next had come the first two F-105D strike flights, and they'd taken off without a hitch. Snake flight, which was the third and last strike flight, was led by Animal Hamlin.

  As Animal took the active runway, Manny settled his head back against the rest, thinking it was shitty to come this far, make all the preparations, and not fly. He'd done the flight planning, attended all the briefings, put on the flying gear, all of it, and now he'd taxi back, shut down the engine, and return to his office to sift through paperwork. Shitty, he thought, and sipped water from a tube to avoid dehydration. The crew chiefs made sure the bottles behind the headrest of the ejection seats were full and the water was ice cold for their pilots.

  Manny wished someone in Snake flight would abort. He enjoyed flying with Hamlin, who was adventuresome in the air. He'd get right down amongst 'em and try to root out the convoys, and had more success at it than most. He was a good guy—a loyal friend and a leader in the air.

  Animal checked his engine at full throttle. The tower cleared Snake flight for takeoff.

  "Bite 'em in the ass," Manny said as Animal engaged burner, released brakes, and his Thud began to roll. He watched for and saw the brightening of the jet's exhaust plume as water was sprayed into the engine to give additional thrust. It was unusually hot, and with their full loads, the Thuds needed all the power they could get.

  Animal's F-105 passed the 2,000-foot marker, and Manny thought he was going a bit slow. Probably the angle he was observing from, he decided. At three, then 4,000 feet down the runway, Animal's jet still seemed slow.

  Manny sat up straighter and stared. Five thousand feet and the nose should be rotating.

  Damn, Manny thought. He was beginning to worry in earnest.

  The nose finally began to rise. Manny sighed with relief. He'd likely . . .

  "Snake lead, abort!" someone yelled over the radio.

  Animal was too far down the runway for that. "Negative, Snake lead!" Manny radioed.

  But Hamlin had reacted to the first call. The drag chute deployed and the bird's nose immediately dropped.

  "Shit!" Manny wailed. The Thud rolled on and on, yawing wildly as Hamlin tried to brake, then disappeared off the far end of the runway, spewing dust and angling sharply to the left. There was a deep ditch there.

  A fireball erupted.

  Just the fuel. No bomb explosions, Manny thought.

  He stared, pulled in a breath, then lowered his canopy as he pressed the radio button. "Tower, ground spare will assume Snake lead."

  A short pause followed.

  "Roger, ground spare," answered the tower operator. "You're cleared onto the active."

  Manny taxied around the remainder of Snake flight and pulled into position.

  "Snake lead is number one for takeoff," Manny radioed. He pushed his throttle forward to check the engine at full military power.

  "Ah roger, Snake lead. Altimeter is three-zero-one-point-niner. Wind is calm, You are cleared for takeoff."

  1320L—355th TFW Commander's Office, Takhli

  GS-7 Penny Dwight

  She'd heard sirens and Klaxons, heard the clop-clop of the emergency helicopter rushing back and forth, so she'd known something was happening. The voices she'd heard over the colonel's radio had sounded professional and calm. Colonel Leska had hurried out to the crash site.

  When he returned half an hour later, he told the office admin crew that the pilot was Captain Roger Hamlin. Penny felt no hysteria this time. She was utterly numbed.

  "Is he . . . ?" she asked.

  "He was killed." Leska said he knew they were friends. He was sorry about it, he said, and waited for her reaction. She just nodded, stared out the window for a long moment, then resumed typing. Her fingers were unsure, so she had to be very careful not to make a mistake.

  "Do you want to go to lunch or anything?"

  "No, thank you," she replied. She had to finish the report.

  Colonel Trimble came in to brief Leska about the increasingly critical aircraft situation, after losing another bird. He appeared upset as he went into the wing commander's office.

  Five minutes later there was Colonel Armaugh, who also appeared to be angry, and when he joined the other two in Leska's office, voices could be heard through the door. Armaugh said maintenance had given his pilot a shitty bird. He was talking loudly, and Colonel Trimble answered in an even louder voice that Armaugh's goddam pilots didn't check properly for engine decay. Why the hell couldn't he have them . . .

  Colonel Leska emerged, leaving the other two shouting inside his office. He scribbled two notes and handed them to her. "Please capitalize everything," he said in his neutral tone.

  Penny rolled the report out of the carriage, then typed what he'd given her. He read them over and nodded. "Thank you, Penny." He remained calm as he went back into the noisy room.

  The shouting match quieted. When the voices resumed, they'd became subdue
d.

  "You can't do this," Colonel Armaugh said loudly, but the anger was replaced by a different emotion.

  "I just did, George," Colonel Leska answered.

  When the deputies for operations and maintenance emerged from the Wing Commander's office, they both appeared to be in shock.

  1650L

  It was late, almost time to get off work for the day, when Manny DeVera came by to see her . . . as she'd known he would.

  "You heard about Roger?" he asked grimly.

  She nodded.

  "Let's go downtown. Go somewhere and do something," he said.

  She regarded him closely. Manny looked sad, but where was the awful remorse you felt when a friend was killed? Horribly killed. Burned and mutilated. He'd called Roger Hamlin a close friend, just as he'd said Dusty had been, yet there was no real mourning. Even worse, where were her own tears? Had she become as callous as they were?

  "I don't want to see you anymore," she said.

  His brow furrowed. "What?"

  She shook her head.

  "I don't understand."

  "I just don't want to see you anymore."

  Manny turned to frown, then released a sad sigh and left.

  A tear blurred Penny's vision. She squinted her eyes and willed it away. Manny would be next, she knew.

  Thursday, January 11th, 1400 Local—Honolulu, Hawaii

  Colonel Tom Lyons

  The taxi pulled up in front of the large hillside home, and the native-islander cabbie turned and gave him a grin. "Need some help with the bags?"

  "Of course," he responded icily. The man was a fool, but Tom's spirits refused to become dampened by a simple aborigine. He'd returned from the difficult mission General Roman had given him with complete success. In the morning he'd brief the four-star on the details of what he'd learned about the cockamamy plan they were concocting at Saigon. His friend at Danang had, after a great deal of badgering, told him what he knew. Tom had telephoned the general immediately with an outline of what he had, but he'd saved the juicier tidbits for later . . . for tomorrow morning's face-to-face when he'd brief him on the rest of it.

  His friend at Danang had said he didn't know many of the real details, but that was okay. He would embellish it, to make Lieutenant General Moss look just as silly as he really was. The fools actually thought if they continued bombing, with different targets and a few more aircraft, the enemy would roll over and kick their feet in the air.