Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  Outside the taxi, Tom looked up at the clouds that roiled over the mountains to the north, then stretched wearily and watched as the cabbie pulled the two heavy bags from the trunk. "Up there," he said, pointing at the entrance at the top of the steep concrete stairway.

  "No way," said the cabbie. He dropped Tom's Cartier soft luggage beside him.

  Tom glared. "You want a tip, don't you?" The cabbie gave him a stare.

  Lyons angrily paid him precisely what had been shown on the meter.

  "Another buck more, asshole," growled the Hawaiian. "The sign there says fifty cents a bag. Come to think of it, make it two dollars. I put 'em in the trunk too."

  "Sue me," Tom said, and started to turn away when a vise grip squeezed his arm. Lyons gave a yelp and tried to pull away.

  "Two more dollars, asshole." The grip tightened until it threatened circulation.

  Lyons quickly pulled out his money clip and peeled off a five. "Have you got change?" he asked tremulously.

  The cabbie took the five and crawled into the taxi. "Sue me," he said before taking off.

  Tom was so relieved the Hawaiian was gone that he forgot to get his license number so he could turn him in. He struggled as he lugged the heavy bags up the stairs to the entrance. He'd bought a few things for his wife in Saigon. She liked surprises. Then he'd tell her he no longer needed information from her father, as he'd begged her on the telephone the previous week.

  He'd learned what Moss's conversation with Lyndon Johnson had been about and would not need inputs from Senator Lingenfelter. The thought gave him extra strength as he pulled his bags up the final steps. When no one answered the doorbell, Tom tried to let himself in with the key. It didn't work.

  He leaned close and called out, "Margaret?' When he received no response, Tom peered through the glass beside the door. The furniture was cloaked with dustcovers as they'd been when he and Margaret had first arrived—as if the vacation house wasn't in use.

  "What the hell's going on?" Tom grumbled angrily to himself. His wife seldom left home. She'd normally be on her fifth vodka tonic by now. Margaret was eccentric and spoiled, but he'd not expected her to act this strange.

  He walked around and through the gate of the rear garden fence. The swimming pool caught his eye as he approached the rear door, and he stopped and stared. There was a profusion of clothing and furniture, some floating, most of it sunk to the bottom. Uniforms, suits, tuxedos, shoes, underwear, an antique bureau—all of it his own. The leather easy chair he treasured and the huge French desk from his study rested on their sides at the shallow end. He hurried closer and . . . Christ!. . . his new handcrafted persimmon golf clubs lay directly beneath him. Who the hell could have done this! His immediate thought was of vandals. He staggered toward the white wrought-iron patio furniture, knowing he had to take a seat and calm himself.

  There must be a rational answer.

  A paper was weighted on the crystal-topped table. A note from Margaret?

  It was a copy of an official form, filled with typing. He peered closer, read the words. "Takhli Medical Dispensary," was typed into the FACILITY block. In the NAME block was "Thomas F. Lyons, Colonel, USAF" Under DIAGNOSED ILLNESS OR COMPLAINT was . . .

  Jesus! His hand began to tremble.

  Beneath the form was a short note, scribbled in Margaret's distinctive, childlike scrawl.

  Tom,

  I am leaving you forever. Do not telephone or try to follow. Father is as angry as I am, and has told me he will personally shoot you if you approach me or bother me in any way. If I have contracted your disease, he says he will do so regardless. You may gather your clothing and belongings—they are all where you see them now—and immediately depart. You are not welcome in my father's vacation home. Do not attempt to go inside, because the security company has been directed to turn you over to authorities for breaking and entering. I despise you, and always have. May you rot in hell.

  Margaret Anne Lingenfelter

  Tom moved into the Royal Hawaiian Hotel that afternoon and arranged for his clothing and personal goods to be removed from the pool. When he called home, his mother said his father was down with a cold and accepting no calls; her hesitant tone told him different.

  When he went to dinner that evening, Tom Lyons was despondent. For the first time in his life he was on his own. He was thankful that his military career was intact, and after dinner he went up to his room and worked hard on the presentation for General Roman.

  The next morning the general's secretary regarded him coolly, almost angrily, as if she'd not been the cause of his awful predicament. He did not speak to her beyond the minimum words required to gain entrance to the general's office.

  The audience with the general began well enough, although there was none of the near camaraderie of before. It was obvious that the general had learned of Margaret's departure, for he did not open as he usually did by mentioning her or Senator Lingenfelter's name.

  Lyons told him about JACKPOT, a half-baked and poorly thought-out plan to change targeting from bridges and such to concentrate on the populated areas of North Vietnam. He embellished, saying that hotels and prominent downtown buildings as well as military and industrial targets in the center of the city would be targeted. The general looked on incredulously.

  "What aircraft would be used?" the general asked.

  Lyons hadn't been told those details, so he winged it. "Fighters only," he said.

  "Well that part's good," Roman sighed. "The fucking cowboys would be the only ones to get egg plastered on their faces."

  "They're also planning to use the Pave Dagger bombs they're testing at Danang Air Base."

  "What the fuck is Pave Dagger?" the general growled.

  "It's a new sort of munition that . . . uh . . . gives off bright light." He couldn't recall details of the briefing he'd sat in on, just remembered it had been Buck Rogers bullshit and there was some new kind of source of illumination.

  "Light?"

  "To blind the enemy," Tom said in a more positive voice, trying to remember.

  "For crap's sake, are we dealing with a bunch of loonies?"

  "You might say that, sir," Tom said happily.

  The general soon glanced at his watch and dismissed both Tom Lyons and any worries he had regarding JACKPOT, for the idea was so ludicrous it posed no threat to his ambitions. Just as soon as he was named Cee SAF, he said he'd scrap the plan so it could not be seized upon to reflect poorly on the Air Force.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday, January 16th, 0655 Local—Over Eastern Laos

  Lieutenant Colonel Lucky Anderson

  The air refueling had gone well enough. Their next challenge was to rendezvous at the North Vietnamese border so they could join in the big ECM pod formation. Without the TACAN nav station, the task was more difficult.

  Going from the air refueling area to the join-up point, the four-ship flights were to fly eastward in a loose semblance of the sixteen-ship formation, but they'd fucked it up. Whisky flight, supposed to be the third in the formation, dropped off their tanker a few minutes later than the others and hurried to catch up. They sped toward the join-up point, and since there was no TACAN to home on, Whisky lead used his Doppler navigator system for direction while he studied target photos. Half an hour later number three in that flight called that he thought they were north of course, and after Whisky lead checked his compass against the flight plan and looked about vainly for landmarks, he agreed.

  Lucky, who was mission commander, heard the chatter on the radio. By then he and the fourteen other aircraft, including the two airborne spares, had arrived at the Laotian–North Vietnamese border and were entering a left-hand orbit to wait for them.

  "Whisky lead," he radioed, "this is Scotch Force leader. State your position."

  "Roger, Scotch, stand by."

  Dammit, Lucky grumbled. It was obvious that Whisky lead had no idea where he was.

  After a couple of minutes, he radioed again, speakin
g slowly. "Whisky lead, Scotch Force leader will continue to transmit on radio. I want you to home on my radio signal. Short count follows: one-two-three-four-fwe-four-three-two-one. Scotch out."

  Military aircraft have a direction-finding position on their radios, which allows pilots to home on radio transmissions.

  "Roger, Scotch Force leader. Whisky lead shows you at our four o'clock position. We must've somehow got ahead of you."

  "We're waiting for you, Whisky," Lucky radioed, increasingly irritated as he continued to lead the other aircraft in the orbit. Lucky did not like surprises—not at all. He'd briefed the mission carefully and liked things to go as planned.

  "Scotch, Whisky still doesn't have you in sight. Could you—ah—give me another countdown?"

  He could see them clearly, for Christ's sake. "Whisky flight, I've got you in sight," Lucky radioed impatiently. "We're at your ten o'clock position, five miles out, at our briefed altitude."

  Another long pause.

  "Whisky four's got them in sight," announced an enthusiastic lieutenant. "Nine o'clock and slightly high."

  "We're turning to port, Whiskys," radioed their lead.

  Lucky watched as the four aircraft turned and climbed toward them, wondering how much fuel they'd wasted. He called the F-4 MiG-CAP and the F-105F Wild Weasel flights, both of which were orbiting a few miles inside North Vietnam, and told them they were adjusting their TOT by seven minutes.

  When Whisky flight was within a couple of miles, Lucky led the way out of the orbit, and the flights began to join into a single sixteen-ship formation.

  He asked for a status check. Since all aircraft were fit, he sent the airborne spares home. Whisky flight was still joining up as they approached the high mountain range marking their entry into North Vietnam.

  "This is Scotch leader. Green 'em up and push 'em up," he announced. "Check your music on, and set up proper spacing." He set his own weapons panel switches, adjusted his throttle full forward, then backed it off a bit, and switched his ECM switch from STANDBY to ON.

  The strike force, now roaring along at 590 knots, began to jockey positions until they were flying as close to the mandated 1,500 feet and forty-five degree separation as they could eyeball. Manny DeVera had persistently worked with the pilots, and they were getting damned good at it, Lucky decided.

  It had been an ignominious start, and Lucky hoped the gremlins would get themselves ironed out before they crossed the Red River. No more surprises! he grumbled.

  The world beneath them was exposed in a bright glow from the morning sun. The rolling hills and occasional steep mountains were heavily forested—teak trees, reaching up 150 feet above the jungle floor. A few miles to their right were bleak, wind-shaped limestone formations called karsts, which appeared like desolate spires and castles. Ahead in the distance was the great valley formed by the Hong Song, the Riviere Rouge, or the Red River, according to your tongue.

  When you approached the Red from the west, you entered a new world. On the ground you went from Stone Age to Bronze Age cultures. From their height the multitudes of rice paddies made the valley look like a crazy quilt of tiny checks, interspersed with ribbons of water, villages, and sprawling cities.

  The hissing static on Lucky's radar warning receiver grew a couple of spikes, and the AAA light stopped blinking and became steady. He was centered in the beams of two Firecans, the van-mounted dish radars that fed targeting information to batteries of antiaircraft guns. Then the beams swept on by, for the strobes disappeared and the light went back to blinking, now just picking up background radiation from their ECM pods.

  Today, at least against AAA radars, the pods were doing their work.

  "THIS IS MOTEL. RED BANDITS AT BULLSEYE, THREE-ONE-ZERO FOR TWELVE. I REPEAT. THIS IS MOTEL. RED BANDITS AT BULLSEYE, THREE-ONE-ZERO FOR TWELVE."

  The powerful over-the-horizon radar at Udorn had announced that Red Bandits—MiG-21's—were flying twelve miles northwest of Hanoi. Lucky scanned the sky ahead but couldn't see them.

  "This is Scotch Force leader," he radioed. "Keep your eyes out for the MiGs." No response was required as they crossed over the Red River and continued east, slowly descending.

  "Scotch Force, this is Red Dog lead. We've got an active SAM just west of Phuc Yen and two more in the target area." The Wild Weasels were making their first call. There would be many more, for the strike force would bomb the small bridge spanning the Canales des Rapides, located immediately north of Hanoi.

  Lucky acknowledged the Weasel radio call.

  "Whisky three has two bogeys in sight at our three o'clock, low, traveling west!"

  Anderson craned his neck, then saw them. He immediately called the Phantom MiG-CAP. "Trigger, this is Scotch lead. We've got two MiG-21's passing south of us, and they'll likely try to set up for a stern attack. You got 'em in sight?"

  "Negative, Scotch. Trigger three, drop back and take a look."

  "Scotch leader, this is Whisky lead. The MiGs are starting to turn."

  "Hang in there, Whisky." Lucky had his eye on the MiGs, which had misjudged and begun their turns too late. By the time they rolled out, they'd be miles behind.

  "They're turning on us, Scotch!" The voice was shaken and filled with adrenaline.

  Lucky kept his voice even. "They screwed up their intercept, Whisky. They're overshooting."

  "Whisky lead's jettisoning and taking evasive action!" Meaning that the Thud driver was dumping his bombs and fuel tanks, putting his nose down, and going into afterburner.

  "Negative, Whisky lead!" Lucky said sternly.

  Silence answered him.

  "Trigger three's got the MiGs in sight. We'll take a high-angle Sparrow shot, then come around at 'em." The F-4 pilot's voice was straining as he pulled g-forces.

  "Trigger four has 'em turning north."

  "I got 'em. I got 'em. Fox one . . . no splash."

  The Phantom drivers chased the MiGs northward, firing more missiles but missing.

  "Whiskys, this is Scotch Force leader, check in," radioed Lucky.

  "Whisky three."

  "Whisky four."

  A short pause, then a hesitant and penitent voice. "This is Whisky lead. I'm a couple miles south of the formation, rejoining. "

  "Whisky two, same."

  "You still got your bombs, Whisky lead?"

  "Negative. I jettisoned. The MiGs were coming in on us, Scotch."

  "We'll talk about it when we get on the ground," Lucky replied evenly, keeping anger from his tone. They were abeam the MiG base at Phuc Yen. He peered ahead, beyond Thud Ridge, at the Red River, then at the streamlet branching off from it. "Scotch Force leader's got the target in sight."

  The fourteen aircraft with weapons still aboard released on the target. Scotch flight carried cluster bomblet units, and decimated AAA guns and gunners both north and south of the stream. The ten other aircraft dropped their twenty 3,000-pound bombs. One of those struck the bridge's southern approach, and another partially knocked down the adjacent span. Eighteen bombs missed, although some were close and likely did some structural damage.

  Whisky lead and his wingman orbited north of the target, dodged a threesome of SAMs, and waited to rejoin the safety of the strike force on its outbound journey.

  When they'd crossed back over the Red, then the Black, rivers, Lucky decided they were safe enough, so he pressurized his cockpit and released the right catch of his oxygen mask, letting it dangle to one side as he thought about what he'd do after they'd landed.

  He had only a couple of minor write-ups on his aircraft to tell the maintenance people about, and there was nothing unique about the mission, so the intelligence and mission debriefings would be short. And finally, he would take the captain flying Whisky lead aside and give him a butt-reaming he wouldn't forget.

  Brief 'em as you planned 'em. Fly 'em as you briefed 'em.

  Good words for a fighter jock who wanted to grow a bit older.

  The captain was on his twelfth mission, still getting hi
s feet on the ground, and this was his first time to pack six, flying in place of Captain Hamlin. He'd survive the ass-chewing, and if he listened hard, he might even survive the remainder of his combat tour.

  Lucky relatched his mask and called Red Crown, then gave the "Successful" code word and a snapshot description of defenses in the target area. When Red Crown acknowledged, he switched back to mission frequency, checked in, unfastened the mask for comfort again, and went back to scanning the sky for MiGs.

  Lucky Anderson was smiling to himself. He'd enjoyed the flight more than others in the recent past. He was like Phoenix rising from the ashes, and there'd been no way to get him upset for long in the past couple of days. The short letter from Sergeant Black was already dog-eared and barely legible, because Lucky unfolded it and reread it about a hundred times a day.

  Linda was alive.

  1400L—355th TFW Commander's Office, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Colonel Buster Leska

  The atmosphere in the command section had become more peaceful now that the constant bickering between Colonels Armaugh and Trimble had ceased. The silence was golden.

  George Armaugh no longer argued violently that his pilots received dogshit airplanes. He no longer had operational pilots assigned to him.

  Jerry Trimble no longer complained that the pilots were wrecking his birds and overworking his mechanics, for he had no airplanes or maintenance men assigned to him.

  The solution had been an easy one, and Buster wondered why he hadn't thought of it earlier. First he'd done his homework by asking Seventh Air Force to approve his action. General Moss had howled with laughter and told him to report back on how it went. Then, the very next time the two colonels had charged into his office with their complaints, he'd let them carry on for a while, then handed each a signed note.

  To Armaugh:

  BY ORDER OF THE COMMANDER, 355TH TFW: EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, YOU ARE RELIEVED AS DEPUTY COMMANDER FOR OPERATIONS, AND WILL ASSUME THE POSITION OF DEPUTY COMMANDER FOR MAINTENANCE. OFFICIAL ORDERS WILL FOLLOW.