Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  "Most specifically the woman."

  "Jesus!"

  "She simply knows too much."

  "Are they sure she's still there?"

  "She was four days ago. That's when the last sighting was made."

  "She's one hell of a brave lady, Colonel."

  "Yeah. She's no pushover."

  "It's not right, what they're going to do."

  "No." He stared again. "It's not right at all."

  "Our deal's off now, isn't it, sir?"

  "Our agreement that you aren't to be placed in jeopardy?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Since I'm sending you on the recon patrol, I suppose you might say that." He paused. "But it doesn't mean you should do anything foolhardy."

  "Of course not, sir."

  "Before you get your briefing from the XO, you might want to give your team a couple of days to . . . ah . . . prepare for the operation. Some kind of exercise that I'll leave to your judgment." The fish-eye again. Now Black understood.

  "I'll do that, sir."

  "Watch after yourself, Black."

  "Yes, sir."

  Black left the lieutenant colonel's office with an ominous feeling. They had only two days before the gunships arrived. Although it would be without official backing, Papa Wolf knew precisely where he'd take Hotdog for their premission exercise.

  Black drove to the snack bar, the same place he'd met Lucky Anderson, and ordered two burgers and white rice from the happy Thai waitress. He held off on the usual beer. They'd have only a single day for planning, and there could be no trial runs. Tomorrow night they'd cross the Mekong.

  As he ate, he considered the night river crossing, then the hike to Ban Si Muang. By the time he finished, he'd decided they would don the NVA uniforms before crossing the river and try to remain out of sight until they arrived at the guerrilla headquarters camp.

  From the snack bar he went to the obscure compound at the rear of the camp where the Hotdog recon team was billeted . . . to begin nailing down details of the Clipper op.

  He found the lieutenant in his quarters. "Let us find a private place," Black said in impeccable Hanoi Vietnamese.

  The lieutenant smiled in anticipation. They'd been idle too long. "The woman?" he asked tentatively. He'd asked several times about her. His mind had been troubled by Lucky Anderson's grief and what he'd seen in the Pathet Lao camp.

  "Yes," Black answered. "We are going to bring her out."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Wednesday, January 24th, 0030 Local—Ban Si Muang, Southern Laos

  Sergeant Black

  The Pathet Lao headquarters camp was located immediately west of Ban Si Muang, a town at the base of a low, stark hill that jutted rudely upward from the jungle. More than a thousand years before, an enormous figure had been carved into the stone of the hill's western face. The rock had quickly become covered by vegetation, and merchant caravans going through the area carried tales about the "Green Buddha of Ban Si Muang." Although the ancient figure grew weatherworn and featureless, the village attracted small numbers of curious Buddhist priests. In 1907 Ban Si Muang was given a single short paragraph in Le Monde's Travelers Guide to Indochina, which attracted numbers of adventuresome European tourists and swelled the numbers of local merchants and vendors. A small hotel was built. Just as proclaimed in the tour book, the villagers were gentle and delightfully shy. The last European tourists had left thirty years ago. When the Pathet Lao guerrillas arrived to set up a small headquarters camp, they'd felt it their duty to promote communistic atheism and chased away the Buddhist priests. Those last departures had occurred only six weeks earlier.

  The Viet People's Army lieutenant and his four men had entered the village quite openly in the early afternoon. Then they'd arrogantly taken hot bread and several ripe mangoes from a small market and refused to pay, telling the merchant he should be glad they didn't take more.

  A Pathet Lao foot patrol had warily approached, and the lieutenant had sent the senior sergeant forth to tell them their truck had broken down several kilometers to the east. They'd need transportation to go back to retrieve it in the morning. A short argument had broken out when the Pathet Lao leader demanded to see their papers, and two of the Hotdogs joked that AK-47's were all they needed. The leader had literally screamed in anger. The lieutenant had raised his own voice and calmed things by showing travel authorization. The patrol leader couldn't read Viet, but he'd seemed mollified. The lieutenant had then drawn him aside for a private talk.

  After reaching an agreement, the lieutenant had called for only the senior sergeant to accompany him. He'd ordered the three others, Black included, to wait in the village while he and the sergeant accompanied the patrol to their headquarters camp.

  It was an alternative to the strategy they'd worked out, and the lieutenant had switched to it without explanation. The original plan called for them to enter the camp together and demand the woman be turned over. They had hastily forged documents with the authorizing signature of a senior Pathet Lao official. As Black had watched the lieutenant and his sergeant stride toward the camp, he'd known there'd been a reason for the change. But as minutes and then hours crawled by and the three of them trudged impatiently about the dirt-poor village, he'd begun to worry and couldn't keep his mind from pondering a few what-ifs. At 1600 hours he'd sent a third Hotdog to the Pathet Lao camp, following the dictates of yet another alternative plan. When they still didn't emerge, he fretted even more.

  The previous day Black had forwarded his second letter to the Bangkok embassy, to request political and humanitarian asylum for the members of Hotdog. That was, the immigration official had written, the best vehicle for such an unorthodox request. Black hoped the renegades survived long enough to allow the bureaucracy to run its course.

  At 1840 hours, when the villagers had begun to withdraw into their stilted thatch houses for the night, Black and the remaining Hotdog had left the village and walked out the road to the south. After a hundred meters they'd stepped off the road and slipped through the jungle for half a kilometer to a prearranged rendezvous point.

  There Black had stopped and worried anew about allowing the team to split up. Several times he and the Hotdog checked their weapons. At 0130, if there was still no contact, they'd slip into the camp, locate the Hotdogs, set off claymore mines, rescue Clipper, and withdraw in the confusion. That final alternative was mostly desperation, in the event deception failed.

  It was after midnight when they heard the lieutenant's low birdcall, answered, and watched the three men slip into the tiny clearing.

  "The woman is gone," the lieutenant whispered. "We had to wait for the interrogator I met on our last trip. He delivered her to a night convoy on a roadway east of us."

  "When?"

  "He took her yesterday and delivered her to the convoy leader late this morning. He was angry, because he felt the woman was weakening and about to talk."

  "Where is she being taken?"

  "North. That was all they would tell him."

  Black blew a single long breath. So close!

  "Were they suspicious of you?" he finally asked.

  "They remembered us from the time before. They're frightened of the Viet People's Army. The Lao know who to look up to."

  "Go on."

  "I told them Hanoi had ordered me to check on the Mee woman as we went by Ban Si Muang. The camp commandant was anxious for us to leave. When Nguyen came to tell us you had gotten a radio call that our truck was repaired and on the way, the commandant was so relieved he began to laugh out loud. When I continued waiting, he kept asking if we should not hurry in case the truck might miss us. After the interrogator arrived and I questioned him, they were too joyous about our departure to be suspicious."

  "Good," Black said.

  "I do not feel good about this, Sarge Brack," said the lieutenant. "I do not believe we will hear about the woman again."

  "There is nothing more we can do. Prepare to leave."

  "I nee
d to rest for a moment," young Nguyen complained, still huffing. "We ran all the way here."

  "You are soft," said the senior sergeant. The others liked to joke that Nguyen was a slothful youth.

  The lieutenant remained sad. "If we had come just two days earlier, we would have her."

  At least, thought Black, Clipper won't be here when the gunships come to destroy the camp. "Let us return to the river," he said.

  "In file," the senior sergeant ordered gruffly.

  As they formed, then set off in the quick-shuffle gait that People's Army soldiers were trained to use, Black forced himself to shift his mind from the woman's plight to the training he needed to instill in Hotdog. Regardless of failure, the exercise had gone well, but he wanted them in better physical condition when they deployed on the recon patrol in two weeks. It would likely be their last one together.

  1000L—Hanoi, DRV

  Deputy Minister Li Binh

  They'd met often in the past weeks, and Nguyen Wu performed his task with a newfound authority that drove her to the brink of madness. She glowed from his attentions.

  Her nephew lay on his back, spent from exertion.

  "The Laotians insist on keeping the Mee spy," she told him.

  "Have they . . ." He waited to catch his breath before continuing. "Have they finally . . . agreed upon a location?"

  "I insisted on a specific place, nephew. I do not want you in danger."

  "Thank you, beloved aunt. May I ask where?"

  "A village called Ban Sao Si. It is in Laos, very near the border, and Xuan Nha assures me it is heavily defended. You will be taken there in a helicopter."

  Nguyen Wu looked troubled. Helicopter travel was dangerous with all the American fighter aircraft about.

  "Do not be concerned," Li Binh said soothingly. She felt very protective of her loving nephew. "The Mee will have other things to concern them."

  "When shall I depart?" He stroked her thigh, much more sure of himself than he'd been. At first she'd been troubled by his subtle changes—now she was grateful.

  "In one week. The woman will not arrive there until then, and you will be safe traveling." She smiled as she thought of the reason. The Mee would indeed be very busy. Then she sobered. "You must succeed, nephew. You must strip her mind of all secrets."

  "I will not fail." He continued to move his fingers on her skin.

  Li Binh trembled deliciously at his soft touch. She'd also changed. A few weeks earlier she would never have shown such weakness, but back then he'd not yet shown her his new talents.

  "Will the Mee woman be under my control, beloved aunt?"

  "The Lao insist on having their own man there to watch, and demand that he be in charge of her safety. They have their own purposes when you are done with her."

  "That might make my task more difficult. I work best when I can use my own methods."

  He traced light fingers through the sparse hairs of her mound. She drew a sharp breath when the butterfly found her clitoris and lingered.

  Li Binh arched her back, closing her eyes and allowing the exquisite sensation to grow. Her nephew had wonderful, tapered fingers, and other ways that delighted her as much.

  She felt his warm breath on the down of her leg, then as he moved higher. She shuddered as his tongue traced a path on her abdomen.

  "Now!"

  "Not yet, beloved aunt," came the impudent whisper, and he continued to move the tongue in an ever larger circle.

  "Please," she whimpered in a new voice.

  He dared to ignore her, continued with tongue and fingers. They moved in unison, lightly, like the wings of . . .

  "A butterfly," he whispered. "Do you love it, beloved aunt?"

  "Don't stop!"

  "Never," he whispered, and the tongue moved subtly, flickered repeatedly, maddeningly.

  She arched, reached down and caressed his head, and encouraged him to continue. Then she groaned, trembling and thrashing with the grandness of it, pressing his face to her vagina with all her strength.

  The tongue darted into her.

  She screamed.

  The orgasms continued for ten long and wonderful minutes.

  She collapsed onto her back, breathing heavily, drained as never before.

  He was also huffing, and telling her of his devotion.

  She did not doubt him. As she rose and began to dress, still trembling, Li Binh vowed to keep her nephew from harm . . . forever.

  "Beloved aunt," he muttered, and she could tell that he was about to ask for something. He did that now that he'd become bolder.

  "Yes?"

  "The Commissioner has ordered another man to assume my duties. I am an assistant commissioner in name only now, and soon they will take even that."

  "I know. It is a time for patience."

  "They do not even care if I report to work. It is very humiliating."

  "That is why you must not fail with the Mee spy woman. Return with her secrets and things will change. That will prove to the Lao Dong party how valuable you are. Perhaps . . . you will no longer be only an assistant commissioner."

  Her nephew smiled despite himself.

  "Return with her secrets, my nephew."

  "And if she proves difficult? What if the Lao who watch over her do not allow me to get her information?"

  "If they interfere too much, send word to me. I have ways to change it."

  1500L-Weapons Office, Takhli RTAFB

  Colonel Buster Leska

  There was a three-hour pause in Buster's schedule, and he took advantage of the respite. He'd received a letter from Carolyn and another from her father, which he would take to his trailer to read in privacy.

  In her recent correspondence things had been going well at home, so since there was no urgency, he wanted to linger over and savor her words. Carolyn was good at lifting his spirits.

  Before going to the trailer he'd walked across to the operations building to see Jerry Trimble, to ask about things in general and see how he was coping with the change of jobs. Buster liked to do that periodically, pop in on his key people and hold informal court, learn their problems and challenges and try to view things from their eyes. But Jerry was out at one of his fighter squadrons, likely doing the same thing.

  Before leaving ops Buster stopped at Manny DeVera's weapons office and looked in. The Supersonic Wetback had been despondent lately, was having problems with his social life since Penny Dwight had decided to forsake all connections with fighter jocks.

  Like now. Manny was at his desk, brooding and hardly aware of his surroundings.

  "You busy?" Buster asked.

  DeVera was quick to gain his feet. "No, sir."

  Buster shut the door behind himself and took a seat alongside Manny's desk. "How're things going?"

  Manny sat back down, nodding. "We got in twelve new ECM pods this morning from the States. That oughta help."

  Buster pointed at a wall map. "We may start flying a few close air-support sorties in South Vietnam. Our units there are getting overwhelmed by all the immediate taskings."

  Manny looked at the map. "Oh?"

  He should be more interested, Buster thought. "The NVA started attacking in mass at a place called Khe Sanh four days ago, and it's kind of touch and go. We were just alerted that we may have to help the F-4's and F-100's."

  "Our guys can handle it. We'll need more snake-eyes though." Snake-eyes were 500-pound bombs with retarding fins that popped out as they were released, giving them high drag, which immediately slowed them down. They could be released lower and closer to the target, and thus were more accurate.

  "Check on that with munitions, would you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Buster leaned back and regarded him. "You seem awfully down at the mouth."

  Manny tried to smile. "Nothing important, Colonel."

  Buster knew the cause—his own secretary. "Let me give you a bit of advice from an old pro, Manny. Very few women are cut out to share our kind of life."

 
; Manny nodded, looking miserable.

  "It's asking a lot to expect them to put up with our bullshit. We're a unique group. We fly high-tech killing machines and judge each other by how effectively we destroy things. Not only can we kill the enemy without remorse, we can send friends out to die, and then do it tomorrow and the day after that. In the process we lose some sensitivity."

  Manny looked troubled. "I don't believe we're animals."

  "Nope, just a bunch of guys who find ourselves in life-or-death situations a lot more often than most. In wartime we find ourselves facing those situations on a daily basis."

  Manny's lips were pursed.

  "And we shield ourselves from the emotions involved in killing and dying, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How about a decent woman, whose basic instincts are to nurture life? How do you think she's going to accept our special little pact with death and our flip-flops between duty and social life?"

  DeVera frowned.

  "We don't want them to accept it. We don't want them asking how many gomers we killed today, or how close we came to smacking into the ground. We try to shield them, so they'll never know that sometimes we get so scared we want to puke."

  Manny observed him with a pensive look.

  "Some women can handle it, most can't." Buster stopped, thinking of his own words, about Carolyn and how grateful he was to have her as his life's partner, but how he couldn't really share all of himself.

  "I get your point, boss. It takes a good woman to understand, right?"

  "You've got to sift through a lot of good ones until you find one who's not going to fold when things get tough."

  "What about Penny? You don't think she's right?"

  Buster got to his feet, shaking his head. "Who knows, Manny? I just thought you should know where she's coming from. She's a decent girl and she's been through a lot. She's had to do a lot of growing up in a short time. You can see the difference. Penny's a different person from when she got here."

  "Yeah," Manny muttered.

  "And if you haven't figured it out, females are different." That was his point.

  After the sermon Buster went by the class-six store, where booze and soft drinks were sold. He purchased several packs of soda and carried them to his trailer, put some in the refrigerator and the remainder in a cabinet.