by Tom Wilson
"What do you think?"
The major mused for a moment, then looked up with bloodshot eyes. "Fifteen feet's a damn impressive average miss distance. A two-thousand-pound bomb going off that close to a tank should blow the thing all to hell. But from what he's saying, they're getting sixty percent direct hits and that's better yet. I'd say we ought to give 'em a chance."
Pearly nodded slowly, still reluctant to be trying something new in the middle of a fight. "Let's talk about it more when I get back from lunch."
"How about if I call Major Lewis back so his people can bolt a few more bombs together and stand by?"
"Can't do any harm, I suppose." Pearly limped gingerly toward the door. His ankle still hurt like hell.
1250L—355th TFW Commander's Office, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Captain Manny DeVera
He'd spent half the night working with munitions people, crashed, and slept hard for a couple of hours, then been awakened at four-fifteen for the first mission briefing. He was bone-weary following his second sortie of the morning, but the wing commander had wanted to talk as soon as he'd landed.
Manny was shaky—so damned tired his fingernails ached. He planned to fly once more, then head to the Ponderosa and collapse.
Colonel Leska called him directly into his office, where he and Colonel Trimble were working on a schedule for the next day.
"Another max effort in the morning, Manny," said the Deputy for Operations. "This time we're heading to Mu Gia pass. F-100 Misty pilots are reporting so many convoys stacked up there, there's traffic jams." Mistys were fast-mover forward air controllers, used in areas too dangerous for O-1 Birddogs, like some of the mountain passes of the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
"The guys are pretty beat from all the flying," Manny said, examining the names. He had to squint. He was too tired to see straight.
They worked on the schedule for half an hour before everyone was happy. Manny's new boss, Colonel Trimble, seemed more secure in his ops job. It had been a while coming, after being so abruptly shuffled over from maintenance.
Buster Leska shooed them out. "I'll talk to George Armaugh for his inputs. We've been working his people awfully heavy the last few days."
As they left the office, Trimble wore a look of satisfaction from the colonel's last statement. It might have been humorous if Manny didn't feel so damnably tired.
"Captain DeVera?" The voice was low.
Manny stopped and looked at Penny Dwight, peering at him over her typing.
He approached and she gave a small smile. "Tired?"
He shrugged. She looked nice.
"Too tired for dinner tonight?"
"Of course not," he said without hesitation.
Her voice remained even. "Drop by my trailer about sevenish?"
"Sure."
"It's been a while since we talked, Manny."
"Too long," he said, trying to keep elation from his tone.
He left the wing headquarters building feeling better, even dredging up a spring to his step. Smitty had been right about taking out the blond secretary. Jealousy had done its thing with Penny Dwight.
He saluted a major, grinning his greeting, and the guy looked at him as if he were crazy.
But Manny DeVera had come to a new revelation about himself. For the first time in his life, he felt he might be in love. There was very little that could make him unhappy.
Colonel Buster Leska
Manny looked bad, he thought. He'd had puffy bags under red-rimmed eyes, and Buster had noticed that his hand trembled. He'd been that tired himself a few times in Korea, flying quick turn-around missions. He jotted a note to send his weapons officer on a good R and R when the emergency flying gave them sufficient slack. Right now he needed him.
While he waited for the Deputy for Maintenance to report, Buster reread the letter that had just arrived from Carolyn, and his heart ached once more.
Not for Mark so much now, for he was beginning to resign himself to the fact that their relationship was on the verge of destruction. He worried some about his son, but the majority of his waking hours were spent in concern for Carolyn, who bore the world on her slender shoulders.
He was a warrior. He'd dedicated his life to flying and fighting when called upon. As commander of an F-105 wing, he was responsible for men and machines that could, if appropriately directed, unleash awesome destructive power. Carolyn had signed up too, but she'd done nothing to deserve the turmoil she was now having to endure.
Mark had called her again. She'd tried to use reason, to cajole him into returning home. She'd exhausted every argument while he'd railed against the establishment and said they were out to destroy him and his beliefs.
When she'd asked about the talk he'd had with Buster, and his desire to become a pilot, Mark had scornfully replied that he no longer wished to be a baby-killer like his father. He'd told her not to worry about him, and when she said that was impossible—he was her son and only child—he'd told her that he was doing what he had to. She'd written that he'd had a catch in his voice as he hurried to hang up.
Please call, Carolyn pleaded to Buster in the letter. She needed very badly to hear his voice. Each day she drifted deeper into depression. She'd feared for Buster's safety from the moment he'd left her, and now, with Mark gone too, everything seemed magnified.
She said she prayed daily for Buster's continued welfare . . . and that he'd call.
But there was no way to place a call to the States with everything happening. All telephone lines were blocked to everything but official calls, and even those were most often interrupted by higher-priority traffic.
With all the recent frantic activity—he'd been flying early every morning, then returning to work through the day and long into the night—he treasured every moment of rest, and fell asleep the minute he hit the bed.
He started to reread the letter, then stopped himself and dropped it into a drawer.
There were too many tasks before him. Too many men who depended upon him for guidance.
A single knock sounded on the door, and George Armaugh stepped into the office. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yeah, George. Have a seat."
In the past few days Armaugh and his maintenance people had worked dog hours to keep the airplanes prepared to fly, and weariness was reflected in his eyes.
"We've got another big mission in the morning," Buster said.
1400L—Ban Sao Si, Laos
GS-15 Linda Lopes
The long, dusty trip from the Pathet Lao camp had been hard on her, yet provided a respite for her battered chest and abdomen. Throughout the ride she'd remained bound and blindfolded, sliding about the bed of a small truck at the feet of half a dozen soldiers. Aside from being occasionally used as a footrest, having her knees and elbows scraped raw and bloody and becoming bruised from head to toe, she'd been treated moderately well.
They'd hurried, driving at night and even during some of the daylight hours. She'd once been briefed that the communists moved their convoys so cautiously it took several months for them to travel the meandering routes from Hanoi to South Vietnam. This journey took only thirteen days, and although she didn't know the route, she knew they'd come a considerable distance.
When they arrived at the destination, the voices spoke in a different tongue. Linda was led from the truck, staggering and reeling on unsure legs, and deposited onto a hard dirt floor. When the blindfold was removed and she was unbound, she found herself in a small office with chairs, a table, and a small, four-by-four bamboo structure.
An obese man wearing a North Vietnamese uniform regarded her. Rolls of fat stretched the fabric of his uniform, and his face was badly pitted. He motioned the soldiers outside, then pushed her toward the cage. She crawled in and he secured the door, still examining her with narrowed eyes. He grew a pensive look, shifted his weight, and released a long blast of gas. Sergeant Gross, she named him.
An older officer came in, eyed her briefly, then sat at the table. He move
d papers about nervously, scribbled notes, and stared at them.
Sergeant Gross asked something in a low voice, and the officer nodded.
Another man entered and both became alert. Sergeant Gross stiffened respectfully and Paper-Shuffler bolted to his feet. Someone important? The newcomer was tall for an Asian, extremely thin, and had delicately sculptured features. He wore no rank on his uniform, but appeared extraordinarily neat. There was a strange, flat cast to his eyes as he stared at her. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, an almost effeminate expression, and spoke in a high, lilting voice. Sergeant Gross waddled purposefully from the room.
Thin Man joined Paper-Shuffler and they spoke. Paper-Shuffler nodded vigorously and scribbled new words on a pad. There was no doubt who was in charge.
Linda tried to gain an impression as to whether Thin Man would be compassionate or mean, but she could get no sense of what he was like. When he observed her, as he periodically did as he dictated to Paper-Shuffler, there was a complete lack of expression. It was as if she were a sack of rice, she decided.
Sergeant Gross came back in, unfastened the cage door, swung it open, and gestured.
Linda crawled out, then stood on shaky legs as he tied a rope around her neck and tugged it so taut she gagged.
Oh God! They were going to hang her! She clawed wildly at the noose.
Sergeant Gross gave the rope another jerk and led her to the door. Linda followed obediently, still gagging. Outside, her eyes were blinded by the brilliant afternoon sun. When she faltered, she felt a harder tug, and stumbled after the sergeant, grasping at the rope and trying to loosen it.
They'd emerged from the rearmost of two wooden structures, into a clearing where a few dozen soldiers moved languidly about in the midday heat.
Sergeant Gross stopped at an edge of the clearing. Two soldiers brought buckets of water and deposited them beside her.
"Take off your clothes," Sergeant Gross said in a low voice. The sound of English coming from his pudgy lips was unsettling.
Linda hesitated.
He gave the rope a tug. She choked, stumbled, and began to disrobe.
She wore no bra—had discarded it after the first bamboo-rod beating because her breasts had been so bruised and swollen she couldn't endure the confinement. When only her panties remained, Sergeant Gross gestured again. His insistence on full nudity was surprising, for she'd found the Lao guerrillas to be somewhat shy. This one was different. His eyes were alternately fixed on her breasts and crotch, and his breath caught in anticipation.
She awkwardly stepped out of the filthy underpants. The sergeant barked shrill orders, eyes lingering on her nudity, and a man gathered her clothing and hurried away.
Sergeant Gross reached forward and pushed down on her head, and when she hesitated, he did it again. She slowly squatted, looking about as gawking soldiers began to gather.
Gross spouted words to the men with the buckets. First one, then the other poured water over her head. She sputtered and blew, but it felt wonderful.
"Wash," Sergeant Gross grunted.
She moved her hands over herself.
More water cascaded over her head, and she continued to rub away grime
"Stand," he said, staring again. Muttering and laughter came from the gathered soldiers. It was unlikely any had seen a nude Caucasian woman. They came closer, curious, talking and tittering among themselves.
One reached out and boldly grasped a breast.
Linda pulled away, glowering.
Laughter.
A man in dark clothing pushed his way through the gathering and spoke sharply to Sergeant Gross. He had a sorrowful look about him. The two men talked, then Sergeant Gross chattered at the gathered men, who moved farther back but continued to stare. He also worked angrily with the noose about her neck, shoving her fingers aside and grasping at the knot. She sucked grateful gasps of air as he brusquely pulled the loop over her head.
They waited in place, Sad Man growing increasingly impatient. Five more minutes passed before the man returned with her clothing. They were twisted together, as Asian women do when they wash a garment.
Linda pulled them on, shuddering as the cool fabric embraced her skin.
Sergeant Gross grunted and motioned, then marched her back to the office, where Paper-Shuffler still sat with poised pen. The meticulous Thin Man smiled as Sad Man stepped inside. The two spoke together, and Thin Man's smile quickly disappeared, replaced by an expression of disgust. Finally he motioned deftly toward Sergeant Gross and took a seat to observe.
Sergeant Gross approached her, sweating profusely.
"We know you," he said. "You spy for Mee pigs." He gestured grandly at Thin Man. "The assistan' commissioner is ver' busy man in Hanoi. He nod have time for waiding. You mus' talk and tell truth." Though his voice rose and fell in improper inflections, Sergeant Gross's English was acceptable, and his pronunciation quite good.
Then, with a suddenness she hadn't anticipated, he swept his pudgy hand round in an arc and backhanded her.
She stumbled against the small cage, blood spouting from her nose.
Sad Man yelled at Sergeant Gross as Linda held her hands to her face. Blood dribbled freely through her fingers. Nausea welled. The cartilage was surely broken, for the pain was intense.
Sad Man spoke angrily to Thin Man, who looked even more disgusted.
Sergeant Gross nodded at Thin Man's new instructions, faced her, and brusquely began to ask questions.
We know you travel to the American bases and have spies working there. What are the names of your agents?
We know you work for the CIA in Bangkok. Who are your bosses?
We know you also work for the CIA in Saigon. Name all the agents there.
We know you . . .
She remained silent. It was not as if Sergeant Gross really wanted answers, only to show her what they knew and reveal questions they wanted answered. He paused for only a short time between each, letting it soak in.
They thought she was with the CIA and knew a lot more than anyone in her position would know about their operations.
"I am not with the CIA," she said after a moment of silence. "I work for the USAID office in Bangkok and do not know any agents or spies. We are a humanitarian agency."
Neither Sergeant Gross nor the others were listening. He'd walked to the table and was lifting a three-foot length of bamboo, which he showed to Sad Man. Linda's heart tumbled.
Sad Man examined, then hesitantly nodded.
Sergeant Gross came back to her and waited, smiling. She could tell that he was looking forward to his task.
She waited for it to begin.
Thin Man regained his feet, approached her, and examined her without expression. He turned to Sad Man and said something. Sad Man replied and Thin Man clenched his teeth angrily, then bolted from the room, trailing words over his shoulder.
Sergeant Gross sighed unhappily as he put away the length of bamboo, and motioned brusquely to her. . He pushed her out the doorway, Sad Man following closely behind. She was herded across the open yard to a thatch hut, where Sergeant Gross grasped her by the nape of the neck and roughly shoved her inside. Sad Man was shouting at him as he secured the door.
The dark interior of her new home was featureless, with a ratty-looking sleeping mat, bowl, and cup on one end. Behind the mat was a small wooden bucket—a traditional Laotian chamber pot.
Linda sat quietly, eyes still watering from the bolts of pain that shot from her nose. She made herself think—digest what had happened and evaluate the people she'd just met.
Something was going on between Thin Man and Sad Man, some sort of struggle she didn't understand. She prayed Sad Man would win. Thin Man and Sergeant Gross scared the hell out of her.
That evening Linda was given only half the meager rations she'd received before. She didn't care, because the broken nose hurt so terribly. She remained nauseous and could hardly hold down even that small amount.
1940L—O' Club Dining
Room, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
GS-7 Penny Dwight
Manny had picked her up precisely at seven and tried to maintain a light and upbeat conversation, but throughout the meal she'd uttered but a few words. Penny knew what she had to do and refused to be deterred. It would be difficult enough without allowing him to distract her, which she knew was a possibility regardless of her resolve.
She had trouble quelling the urge to reach out and comfort him. Since he'd met her at the trailer, he'd tried to hide his intense weariness, but there was little chance of it, with the baggy eyes and the slow way he was talking, which wasn't at all normal for him. He'd aged a dozen years from all the work the colonels were laying on him in addition to his normal hard efforts and flying once or twice a day.
Manny seemed increasingly puzzled by her silence.
Penny looked about the crowded dining room. It was not the place for intimate discussion. She returned her gaze to his face and felt the old quiver of reckless emotion. This was the man she wanted. Certainly not Rudy, although he'd make someone a suitable mate. Perhaps the silly blond she'd seen with Manny.
For the dozenth time Manny mentioned how nice she looked. She had been taking care of herself, watching her appearance more closely, since making up her mind about Manny DeVera. She'd been slipping some before, but Rudy hadn't seemed to care.
"Could we go somewhere more private?" she asked quietly.
"You bet," Manny said with a grin.
She impulsively reached across to touch his face. "Your eyes look so tired."
He shrugged and her heart did a two-step.
They got up and Manny paid. They went outside and were immediately bathed by the humid warmth. She led the way to the pool, in front and to one side of the club's entrance, and sat on a chaise longue.
Manny stood before her, looking awkward.
She spoke quietly. "Sit down, please. I've got something I have to tell you."
The chair squeaked a slight protest as he sat beside her, and he released a small grunt of weariness.
A shout, followed by laughter, came from the side entrance that led into the stag bar.