by Tom Wilson
There was an ambitious colonel within the Army of National Defense who was senior to Xuan Nha—the Commandant of Militia, who had too often questioned Xuan Nha's decisions. His supporter within the general staff was General Luc, who hovered at death's door. Xuan Nha signed an order relieving the colonel of his Hanoi position and reassigning him to a newly created important post guarding the southern borders and beaches from invasion. The colonel's headquarters would be established at Dong Hoi, a few kilometers from their southern border. Xuan Nha ordered that the reassignment be featured in Nham Dan, the official newspaper of the Lao Dong party.
The colonel and his headquarters would certainly become targets for assassination teams sent to vulnerable areas of the Democratic Republic by the Saigon government. He'd be kept busy surviving, and that far from Hanoi he'd present no further arguments to Xuan Nha's directives.
Then there was Nguyen Wu, who had foolishly continued to shame him by meeting with his wife in his own household. Quon had told him he must take a stand, and he knew it was so. This matter must be handled with discretion, for he didn't dare to confront Li Binh's authority openly. Yet the time seemed appropriate, with Wu so far from the sanctuary of Hanoi.
He wrote a note to Quon by hand, explaining that the source of their "mutual shame," whom he would subsequently call an "official," had been helicoptered to Ban Sao Si that morning. He told what he knew of Wu's mission, to interrogate a Mee woman held by the Pathet Lao, and that he didn't yet know when he was to return.
The courier took the sealed note to Gia Lam airfield, where Quon had set up his new offices. He returned with a simple response from the fighter-pilot commandant, asking that he be kept abreast of the "official's" schedule.
1850L—O' Club Dining Room
GS-7 Penny Dwight
Rudy sat across from her, avidly rambling on about what he'd heard of the events in South Vietnam. The Tet offensive was on everyone's lips at the base.
They'd finished dinner and were killing time before heading to the base theater to catch the seven o'clock movie, which starred Elvis Presley. Forget the story line, Penny loved just watching Elvis. She remembered thinking that Manny DeVera had the same ultrasexy smile.
As he droned on, Penny grew increasingly bored with Rudy's conversation. She knew what was happening with the offensive, because she had access to classified messages and reports that he did not. Like the fact that a team of VC had taken over the bottom floors of a wing of the U.S. embassy in Saigon, trapping a number of government workers above them. American paratroopers had been landed by helicopter on the roof of the massive building, saving the terrified bureaucrats and wiping out the enemy suicide squad. She also knew that fighting was fierce in some areas of Saigon, as it was in the various provincial capitals. The pressure on the American bases was fast being relieved by air strikes and artillery, followed by mop-up action by ground forces, but fighting in most of the country was being borne by the ARVN, and American commanders had their fingers crossed that they'd fight.
But she let Rudy continue to tell her his version of what was happening, and tried to show interest in his analysis that the communists were now so entrenched that it would take a million or more American troops to dislodge them. And that, Rudy said, would create a logistical nightmare. Did she realize how much effort it took to maintain just a thousand new men in a combat zone? How many tons of food, fatigues, and razor blades? How many . . .
Manny DeVera came into the dining room, escorting a blond wearing a miniskirt and an utterly tasteless sleeveless blouse—the Deputy for Maintenance's secretary, whom Penny hadn't previously seen out with a man. She looked back at Rudy and nodded agreeably as he made some point about the mountains of jungle boots, shorts and socks it took to . . . Her eyes moved to the table where Manny pulled the chair out for the blond.
She knew Manny had put in a ten-hour day, then flown twice that afternoon to South Vietnam. Squadron pilots were flying two and three sorties daily to augment the in-country fighters trying to relieve the pressure on beleaguered American and allied soldiers. Penny wondered if Rudy knew the difference between in-country and out-country forces, or even between a sortie and a mission.
She scarcely heard as Rudy changed subjects. Her eyes narrowed as she examined Colonel Armaugh's secretary . . . pretty enough, if somewhat common . . . and if you overlooked the fact that she dressed and acted teenagerish. Manny looked tired and drawn sitting beside her, as if he could go to sleep there at the table; but the girl gushed and laughed as if he should have nothing else on his mind but her prattling.
"Would you believe that, Pen?" Rudy was saying, now also staring at the other table. "He actually believes my men can order something with no justification and not even a stock or part number. Of course he's not trained in logistics, but you'd think a little of it would rub off."
"Who?" she asked.
Rudy frowned, as if she should know. "The guy I'm talking about, Pen. Your old friend Captain DeVera there. He wants the world, and he wants it right now." Rudy hmphed. "He's got a hell of a lot to learn about supply."
"What did he ask for?"
"You're not listening, Pen." He sang the word chidingly. "DeVera came in demanding we expedite an order for new electronic test equipment for the avionics and ECM shops, and raised so much hell that my men had to call me for help. Like I told him, we have higher priorities, and anyway, the funds would come out of the DM's account, so an expedite order would have to be authorized by one of their account managers, preferably by the colonel himself, and presented by one of his people." There was something irritating about the tone of Rudy's voice.
"Manny's just trying to help the maintenance people," Penny tried to explain. "He says they've been ignored far too long. They really like him, and they—"
"So what does that have to do with proper ordering procedures?" Rudy was frowning, perhaps with reason. Penny had told him early on that she wanted absolutely nothing more to do with Manny DeVera. "Anyway . . ." Rudy glanced at her reproachfully, as if he'd been interrupted. "I told Captain DeVera to come back when he's read the directives and knows what he's talking about, and never to raise his voice to my people again." He nodded with a hint of triumph, and Penny found herself wanting to defend Manny.
"You might regret that, Rudy."
"And just why might I regret it?" Rudy snapped. "I'm right. DeVera's wrong. He was even borderline insubordinate. I did him a favor by making it a simple chewing out. Next time . . ." Rudy nodded knowingly, as if next time he'd fix DeVera good.
"Manny's trying hard to get things done, and the colonels all know it and support him."
"What in the world does that have to do with proper ordering procedures?" He was growing increasingly exasperated.
"Nothing." She looked at the twosome again. The girl had her hand on Manny's arm and was leaning close, talking low. She giggled at something he said, as if she'd known him forever and they were . . . lovers? Penny's ears began to burn. She suddenly felt very irritated.
Rudy looked at his watch and gave his mouth a final swipe with his napkin. "We'd better get outa here, Pen. The movie starts in ten minutes."
"I'm not going." The swiftness of the decision surprised her.
His brow furrowed. "I thought you wanted to see it."
"Why don't you go alone?" Penny abruptly stood, pawed through her purse, then picked out three dollars and dropped the money on the table. "That should cover my dinner," she said.
"What did I do?" Rudy asked incredulously.
"You will never have an earthly idea," she said . . . as if she did . . . and left him with his mouth drooping.
"Pen?" he called out. Rudy used the pet name because he said it was also a female swan, and she was just as graceful and beautiful. She thought it was silly.
Penny marched resolutely toward the door, wondering why she was being such a snippy bitch. She decided. Men are utter fools, and that's reason enough. Then she stopped, turned, and without thinking further, went dire
ctly to the table where Manny DeVera sat with the blond.
The girl was talking, but Manny looked up. "Hi, Penny," he said.
"You are impossible!" she said in an outraged voice.
He looked as puzzled as Rudy.
Penny turned on her heel and stalked out the door, so incensed that tears formed in her eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Monday, February 5th, 0945 Local—Near Quang Tri, South Vietnam
Captain Manny DeVera
"Ford zero-one, this is Waterboy," the airborne command post finally responded.
Manny noted their distance and bearing from the Danang TACAN before he pressed the throttle-mounted transmit button. "Roger, Waterboy. Ford is holding hands with Dodge in orbit at two zero miles northwest of Delta Alpha Golf. We've got eight fox one-oh-fives with five-zero minutes of fuel, loaded with snake-eyes and twenty mike-mike."
"Waterboy copies Ford and Dodge flights—eight nickels carrying full fuel, snakes, and twenty mike-mike. Stand by."
"Ford and Dodge are standing by."
After a few seconds Waterboy came back on the air. "Ford zero-oner, we've got immediate targets. Descend to flight level zero-fiver-zero and establish orbit at three-two-fiver at seventy-five miles of Delta Alpha Golf. Contact Patches five-one bravo on frequency three-two-three-point-six for instructions. "
"Ford lead copies." Manny read back the frequency and coordinates, then led the eight fighters into a rapid descent, flying northward past Hue toward the new position a few miles offshore from the coastal city of Quang Tri. They set up a right-hand orbit at 5,000 feet, as directed. Manny called the O-1 airborne FAC, call sign Patches five-one bravo, on the new frequency, while he eyeballed dark plumes of smoke rising over the sprawling provincial capital.
"Ford lead, this is Patches five-one bravo. Confirm you're carrying snakes."
Manny told the FAC pilot that six Mk-82 snake-eye bombs were loaded on each bird.
"Ah roger, Ford lead. I've got you in sight. Turn and fly heading of two-seven-zero."
As they approached, Patches five-one bravo directed the Thuds into a racetrack orbit north of the city. Manny spotted the light aircraft flying very low, immediately northwest of them, and told the FAC he had him in sight.
"We're receiving automatic weapons ground fire in the area, Ford. No big stuff. I've got targets. There's about fifteen tanks in four different groups just off the north-south coastal road."
Manny rogered. They'd been prebriefed that tanks had been seen in the area.
"Keep your eye on me, Ford lead. I'm gonna mark." The O-1 wheeled, leveled, dived, and fired a single white phosphorus rocket.
"Ford zero-one's got your mark in sight," Manny radioed.
"There's three PT-76 light tanks moving south, about three hundred meters north of the mark," the Birddog pilot said.
Manny saw dust trails on the road. "Got 'em, five-one bravo."
"I'll want you to release north to south. Avoid the houses adjacent to the road."
"Roger, north to south." Manny extended farther around the arc, keeping an eye on the rising dust.
"Take 'em out, Fords, but conserve your munitions, because I've got more of 'em for you."
"Ford flight," Manny radioed, "we'll drop two bombs each on the first pass." He checked that his switches were properly set for twenty-degree dive bomb and to release in pairs, then turned and nosed over. It would be close-up work, calling for pinpoint accuracy.
The dust plumes grew in the combining glass as he closed—eyes fixed on the targets—flying much lower and slower here than they did over North Vietnam.
He pickled. In the last seconds, as he began pulling up and away, he saw that the tanks had veered off the roadway. A not-so-near miss.
Manny pulled up sharply and went around, jaw tight, watching the bombs released by the second, then the third Thud. The tanks were frantically weaving and turning. Eight aircraft released snake-eyes in pairs. As the bombs dropped away, large fins popped out and slowed their flight . . . and all of them missed. On the second try Dodge two scored a direct hit on a tank. On their third and final release, Manny hit another. When he looked back, it lay on its side next to the road, a streamer of black smoke marking the kill.
Patches five-one bravo called for more flights of fighters, then authorized the Thuds to try their guns while the others were inbound.
Ford and Dodge flights made strafing passes on a second threesome of tanks the FAC pointed out, spewing hails of twenty-millimeter rounds. One tank was stopped dead.
"Good work," the FAC pilot told them as they departed and were replaced by two flights of F-100's. Patches five-one bravo sounded as weary as Manny felt.
"Bullshit," DeVera muttered to himself. Out of fifteen tanks they'd destroyed only two and damaged one.
Before they went off frequency, they heard the FAC tell the F-100's to hold in their orbit, because he no longer had the tanks in sight. He was going to drop down to take a closer look.
"Damn!" Manny said as he switched to their enroute frequency.
Twelve light tanks were still headed into a rendezvous with American and allied soldiers.
1035L—Tactical Air Control Center, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Saigon, South Vietnam
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates
In the past six days Pearly had spent one thirty-six- and two twenty-four-hour tours in the TACC, and he was tired and irritable, which made the captains and lieutenants attentive whenever "Colonel Grumpy" approached.
The attack on Tan Son Nhut had been dealt with. Shells were no longer landing on the air base, and the runways were open for business. Except for Khe Sanh and a couple of smaller fire bases and outposts in the highlands, NVA and Viet Cong attacks on American positions had been blunted. But there would certainly be more to come, and Pearly wasn't at all happy with the way everything was going.
Fifteen light tanks, PT-76's, the best the Russians had to offer, had been located by an airborne FAC, hurrying brazenly down the coastal highway from the north. Seven flights of fighters, including F-105's, F-4's and F-100's, had been called in to destroy them as they approached Quang Tri. They'd been elusive, darting off roads, behind buildings, and into thickets of trees. It was frustrating that only five had been destroyed and two damaged.
Several more PT-76's had been reported at various locations in the central highlands, five of them not far from Khe Sanh. Were they the same ones? Where were the damn things headed? Those were questions the duty officers tried to resolve for MAC-V where action officers were hoping for an open confrontation as soon as the city fighting calmed down.
The TACC fighter duty officer had alerted all flying command posts and airborne FAC units, just as the MAC-V command center had alerted their own units and recon patrols, to remain on the lookout for the tanks.
They wanted to know where they were. Pearly wanted to resolve how they'd destroy the damn things once they located them again. He sat with the two pilots, a major and a captain, from his plans and programs branch, trying to come up with answers.
"We're going to find the damn things," he said resolutely, "and when we do, this time I want 'em taken out."
"It's not like they're lined up in a big battle formation," explained one of the pilots, "like in World War II. They're in small groups, and these guys arc fast. Every time we think we've got 'em cornered, they disappear and pop up somewhere else."
"We found them in the open the one time, and more than half still got away," Pearly grumbled.
"Should've got 'em with guns," the quieter pilot said, "but our guys were loaded with the wrong ammo. High-explosive incendiary instead of armor-piercing incendiary rounds."
"Had the right bombs loaded, though," said the more gregarious major. "Snake-eyes are damned accurate."
"But most of them missed," Pearly reminded him.
"Going after small, fast targets like that, they did well to take out the ones they did."
Pearly remembered something. He motioned to the senior
pilot. "Call Major Lewis at Ubon and ask him about their Pave Dagger bombs. See what he says about taking out maneuvering tanks."
The major looked dubious. Neither he nor the other pilot had been overly impressed by the Buck Rogers smart bomb briefings.
"Not next week, dammit," Pearly growled, and the major quickly gained his feet.
"Tell the Ubon command post to call Lewis over so you can talk to him on the secure phone." Things had calmed down enough that they were back to using proper security procedures.
"Will do." The major didn't look as if his heart was in it. They were all tired.
Pearly glanced at his watch and decided to get out of the TACC for a hot meal rather than open yet another C-Ration container. They had hundreds of the things, cardboard boxes full of them, but the best selections, like Salisbury steaks and franks and beans, had disappeared early.
Pearly felt his chin with its two-day wiry stubble and decided to drop by his room for a shave and hot shower. It felt good just thinking about it.
He telephoned the office and waited to be connected with Lucy Dortmeier.
"How about meeting me for lunch at the club in about an hour? You can fill me in on what's been happening at the office."
"Eleven-thirty, sir?" Her voice was upbeat and professional. With the other officers serving in the TACC, Lucy had been left in charge at the office.
"Sounds good." He hung up, feeling better after hearing his voice. He stood and stretched, shuddered with the effort, happy to be leaving the place that smelled like a locker room at halftime.
The pilot returned. "I spoke with Major Lewis."
"That was quick."
"He was in the command post, filling in for one of the action officers. They're putting in long hours there too."
"What did he say about their smart bombs?"
"Says they should work great on tanks. Told me they've dropped ten of the things so far and have a fifteen-foot CEP"