Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  Black looked closer. It was too dark to see more than a boxlike shape.

  "It's our backup UHF," said Young, "so we can talk to the aircraft. The primary went tits up before we dropped. You got a ground-to-air radio?"

  "No."

  A Hotdog slipped in beside them, and Bechler did a double take. Black motioned toward the remnants of the two chutes, and the Hotdog disappeared to bury them at a discreet location.

  "Looked like a fuckin' gomer," muttered Bechler.

  "He used to be one."

  "I hate fuckin' gomers."

  "That one may save your butt if things start going to hell. You two ready to move out?"

  Captain Bechler got to his feet, grumbling about gomers being assholes, then asked, "How far we got to go?"

  "Nine klicks."

  The big man stuck out his hand. "They call me Tiny. You?"

  Black shook the massive paw. "Sergeant Black."

  "First name?"

  "Sergeant."

  Tiny Bechler chuckled. "You some kinda spook?"

  "Something like that."

  The radio operator hefted the radio and adjusted carrying straps over his shoulders. Captain Bechler did the same with a bulky pack.

  "While we're walking," Black instructed, "remain quiet and follow my lead. We'll try to stay well clear of the Viet camps, but they'll have patrols out."

  "You're boss, Sarge."

  A moment later the Hotdogs were assembled and positioned. Black motioned to the lieutenant, then beckoned for Bechler and Young to follow.

  0500L

  The trek back to Yankee 54, although uneventful, took two and a half hours. During that time neither Air Force man uttered a word. They were both in good physical condition, certainly better than Black had expected.

  Black looked on as the lieutenant helped the Air Force men burrow sleeping niches into the jungle, making sure their positions couldn't be observed by someone walking through the clearing. Then he and Bechler left Sergeant Young tinkering over his radio in the dark and quietly walked to the rock at the top of the clearing. There Black told him what he could expect to see the next morning.

  "Lots of targets," said the big captain. "I'm gonna enjoy this."

  "How about the airborne FAC they were going to use?"

  "An O-1 Birddog got hit by an SA-7 missile three days ago near Mu Gia Pass, and the brass at Seventh Air Force are nervous about sending 'em up here until they get flare dispensers."

  "So they sent a ground team."

  "Yeah. And here we are. Been a couple years since I got my five jumps at Benning." He shook his massive head. "I didn't like that low-level jump one bit."

  "They tell you what happened to Banjo?"

  "Your button colonel at NKP said they were dropped way off to the west somewhere and landed smack in the middle of a bunch of gomers."

  "Jesus."

  "They lost a man. He said they'd've lost more, but the gomers were surprised as hell when these guys started landing right on their camp."

  Black's anger toward the contractor aircrews intensified.

  "They were going to use the same people to drop us, but your colonel said bullshit and raised enough hell to get it changed. Had a Special Ops C-130 flown over from Nha Trang."

  "Are they bringing in another recon team?"

  "He said you'll have to work it alone. Said they stirred things up enough as it is, and he doesn't want to chance another insertion."

  Black wasn't unhappy. Hotdog did best when they operated independently.

  "When're you gonna talk with Buffalo Soldier next?" Bechler asked.

  "Oh-seven-hundred. I'll let 'em know you made it okay."

  "Ask 'em to drop in another PRC radio, in case this one's not repairable."

  "You got any other way to talk to the airplanes?"

  Bechler heaved a sigh. "I carry a couple hand-held survival radios just in case, but I've had 'em awhile, and that one's got better range and endurance."

  "If they won't chance another recon team drop, the colonel might hesitate at that too."

  "Damn it, we've—"

  "Keep your voice low. Sound travels in the night when it's quiet like this."

  "Sorry," Bechler whispered contritely.

  "Why the hurry-up all of a sudden?" Black asked. "I was supposed to have ten days, then this morning they told me I've only got three days to look around."

  "Messages from God and the Pentagon came in saying they want the TACAN back on the air ASAP. They wanted to drop in another FAC, but he was off somewhere on R and R and the rest of 'em were busy on other projects. I happened to be here on temporary duty, so they asked if I'd like this little diversion."

  "Where are you from?"

  "Hurlburt Field in northern Florida."

  "You're a fighter pilot?"

  "You've gotta be to become a FAC. Six months ago I was flying Thuds out of Takhli, looking down on this place."

  They spoke about other things for a few minutes; then Black remembered Lieutenant Colonel Anderson was stationed at Takhli and asked if he knew him.

  "Lucky's a good man. Sure is shitty, what I heard about his lady being kidnapped."

  "Yeah." Black decided he liked the moose-sized captain.

  Tiny Bechler nodded at the moonlit scene below. "Maybe we can even the score some for him. Soon as we get another radio and you've got things pinpointed, we'll call up the good guys and then the fun begins."

  0658L—Route Pack Six, North Vietnam

  Lieutenant Colonel Lucky Anderson

  It would be the second time they'd bombed in pack six in the past two days, and Lucky had volunteered to lead both efforts.

  Angrily. For Linda.

  He knew never to allow personal emotions to cloud judgment in combat and made sure he didn't place the others in unnecessary danger, but each time he pressed the pickle button and the bombs fell away, he prayed the weapons were doing the maximum damage.

  Lucky despised the enemy . . . but he also despaired at the fact that the war was being allowed to continue. He wanted to hurt the North Vietnamese so badly that they'd stop fighting. Perhaps then there'd be word about Linda—about all his friends who'd been shot down and captured. He thought about JACKPOT—the plan to end the war through relentless bombardment. Such a thing would work. It seemed ridiculous that it hadn't been done two years earlier.

  As the sixteen-ship formation flew abeam the curl in the Red River to their north, Lucky checked his altitude. They were slowly descending, passing through 8,000 feet just as he'd planned it.

  Takhli's target was the auxiliary airfield at Hoa Lac, west of Hanoi. The enemy had been actively repairing all of their air bases.

  The formation loosened, anticipating the climb to dive-bomb altitude.

  He could see the target runway at their one o'clock. It wouldn't be long now.

  Captain Manny DeVera

  Manny was in his dive. The sight picture was not great—the half-constructed building was too far left. He jogged the stick a bit to correct, then pickled before he was really ready.

  Damn! The bombs would be lousy, he knew. Probably impact a couple hundred feet off target. A burst of flak erupted close by, shaking the aircraft. He twisted and jinked toward his left, pulling too hard and letting off a bit to compensate—wondering why the hell he couldn't get his act together. He knew the answer.

  Keep your mind busy with essentials, like what you're going to do next. All of that was easy and just fine when your thoughts were sound.

  So goddamn tired! The Thud shook again from a near miss, and he felt a sudden jolt of numbing fear. He'd experienced them before, but he'd learned how to master them, and—

  More dark bursts appeared ahead, and Manny pulled the stick harder. The sick feeling intensified and grew in his chest, and he could not quell it. He panicked, began breathing fiercely and shaking uncontrollably as he pushed the throttle against the afterburner stop.

  He was still in burner, climbing and looking back as he raced we
stward, when he swung his head forward and saw two aircraft dead ahead—and dodged hard left to avoid them.

  He dimly heard the angry radio call over guard channel, complaining about a Thud that had damn near rammed one of the Phantoms.

  Captain Moods Diller

  Moods hadn't seen the Thud that almost ended his mission and ruined his day until the last second. It had come up from below, at his two o'clock, and flashed past in full afterburner, climbing through his altitude like a scalded ape.

  Lark two-two yelled over the radio that the Thud had damned near rammed them.

  Things were tense enough without that. Moods was more nervous than he'd been in a long while, since the last time he'd been to Hanoi, more than a year earlier. There was nothing as nerve-racking as flying in pack six.

  Lark flight, which consisted only of Moods and his wingman, were flying slightly right and behind the Ubon F-4 formation, hiding in the jamming noise created by their ECM pods.

  At least, Moods thought, the weather was good.

  They were halfway across the valley now. Thud Ridge loomed in the near distance, Hanoi sprawled to their right. Flying at 8,000 feet.

  The captain in his backseat checked the illuminator pod again. This was the third time. It was operating okay, he announced. Then, "We're two minutes from the target."

  Moods ignored his chatter. He could read the clock. They were both nervous as cats, and not only about the AAA and SAMs they'd surely find. If things went right, it would prove everything they'd been working on for the past ten months. If they screwed up—or the illuminator quit—or the bomb guidance circuitry failed—or if they . . . Stop it!

  The sixteen-ship formation of F-4Ds began to climb, setting up to dive-bomb Phuc Yen.

  Moods and his wingman continued straight ahead, toward their own destinies. Past the southern extremity of Thud Ridge. A SAM radar signal grew out of the fuzz of the jamming noise on his RHAW scope, and Moods knew they were being tracked.

  "Baron lead's got SAM activity at your two o'clock, Lark." Baron was the call sign of the Wild Weasels sent to keep the enemy occupied while they dropped the Pave Dagger bombs.

  Moods saw the F-105 Weasel flight ahead, turning starboard toward Hanoi. He searched the ground, followed the course of the big river eastward, saw the division where the Canales des Rapides veered from the main channel of the Red River.

  The SAM signal seemed to grow more persistent. Both the SAM and ACTIVITY lights glowed brightly on the warning receiver—which on the F-4D worked properly only half the time.

  "Baron lead is Shotgun!" Meaning the Weasel had launched a radar-seeking missile.

  The SAM and ACTIVITY lights went out as the SAM radar went off the air.

  Moods kept his eyes glued on the small dark line crossing the Canales des Rapides. "Target is at one o'clock, eight miles," he announced over radio for the benefit of both his wingman and backseater. "Lark two-two, extend," he called in a too-dry voice.

  "Lark two-two," acknowledged the wingman. He would drop back, swing out far to the right as he climbed, then turn back inbound toward the target, and set up for his dive bomb.

  Ten seconds slowly crawled by.

  "Target's in sight," the GIB said over intercom. "I'm magnifying. Going to times ten."

  For the hot action in pack six, they'd modified the tactics they'd used in lower-threat areas. This time there'd be little room or time for error.

  "Damn thing won't stabilize!" cried the GIB.

  They were fast approaching the target.

  "Keep trying," Moods said over intercom.

  The backseater was using hot mike, meaning the intercom was activated at all times, and Moods could hear the loud, grating rasp of his breathing.

  "I'm turning," said Moods, beginning his orbit around the bridge far below.

  "I've got the target again! Shit. The image is dancing all over the place, Moods!"

  "Use less magnification," Moods said, "and try again."

  "Yeah."

  "Lark two-two is approaching the release point."

  "Do not drop, two-two," Moods radioed. "Set up again."

  "Lark two-two." The shooter sounded concerned, which was understandable considering he had to pull up, go back around and try again while flying in the most dangerous area on earth.

  "I'm back to times five," the GIB muttered.

  Another missile site's radar signal danced on the RHAW receiver, a bright-green finger pointing to the four o'clock quadrant of the small cathode ray tube.

  "Lark two-one, this is Baron lead—we're showing SAM activity on you again."

  A shrill tone squealed in his earphones.

  "Lark, you've got a valid launch."

  The GIB spoke in a happier tone. "I've got the target. Good picture."

  Moods gritted his teeth. He was watching the strobe grow on the radar warning scope, and at the same time looking out for the missiles. "Turn on the illuminator," he told the GIB.

  "Lark two-two's approaching release zone," called the shooter, "beginning my dive."

  "I've got the zot turned on, holding on target," said the GIB.

  "Lark two-two, drop one," Moods radioed. He held the aircraft very steady, looking for the surface-to-air missile, praying it wasn't guiding—and if it was, that he'd see it in time to dodge it.

  "The illuminator's on the center of the bridge," the GIB said.

  1114L—Pave Dagger Test Headquarters, Ubon RTAFB, Thailand

  Major Benny Lewis

  Lewis pushed his way through the door, carrying a cardboard box.

  The crowd was jammed into the lab room, where Moods Diller and his pilot GIB were regaling the technicians and engineers with the gritty details of the mission.

  Moods pointed at the backseater. "He kept trying to get a stable picture, but the magnification was just too much."

  "Soon as I backed off a bit, everything settled down."

  The senior Texas-team engineer was frowning. "We'll try gyro-stabilizing the pod. In the meanwhile we should either change the videcon, or get an increased pixel count on the video monitor."

  "Enough talk about pixels and that crap!" Benny yelled to the group.

  "You got something, Major?" asked the GIB.

  "People at Seventh Air Force called," Benny said. "They just got a look at the BDA film. The bomb damage assessment interpreter confirms what you guys saw. The middle span's down."

  "Yeah!" shouted an exuberant tech sergeant.

  "General Moss passed along his congratulations."

  "Maybe they'll all start listening closer now."

  "When do we get our next good target?" Moods Diller asked. "We got the last twelve bomb kits peaked and ready."

  "Soon enough. Don't be so anxious."

  "Gimme another bridge," said the pilot GIB.

  "The regs say you can only fly one pack-six sortie a day. No more flying today."

  "Yeah. Maybe one of those is enough," said the GIB. "But tomorrow . . ."

  Benny pointed at the cardboard box. "That's champagne, and there's another case in the back of the pickup."

  The loud tech sergeant hurried toward the door. "You oughta know better than to leave it out there, Major. The Thais steal anything that's not tied down."

  A grinning airman first class ripped the lid off the first box.

  "Now," crowed the GIB, "we'll start really proving our stuff."

  The airman started passing out magnums of champagne.

  The GIB wasn't through. "These smart bombs are so accurate we could take out Ho Chi Minh's private crapper."

  "No use to get personal," joked the pudgy lead engineer. "They might retaliate."

  "The battle of the shitters?"

  "Damn war's getting serious."

  1305L—VPA Headquarters, Hanoi, DRV

  Colonel Xuan Nha

  The room was occupied by only a handful of the military leaders who normally attended the meetings. Giap and Dung sat at the forefront of the room, the lesser commanders in the rows of
chairs behind.

  A People's Army intelligence major was providing a candid briefing of the status of the war, and the effects of the widespread attacks in the South.

  Two entire People's Army divisions had been decimated to the point that they would have to be reconstituted from the bottom up. Losses included three of their most capable general officers. The People's Liberation Front had suffered even worse. Whole regions were leaderless. Only in the Song Mekong Delta had they made lasting inroads.

  It was all most disturbing. There'd been the initial flush of victory as their forces attacked throughout the South, but within two days they'd begun to suffer defeat after bitter defeat.

  A second briefer moved to the front of the room, smiling childishly at General Giap. He bowed solicitously, obviously uneasy that he'd been selected to present the next topic.

  The worst situation that might happen.

  If . . . the puppet Saigon Army now moved quickly and decisively to solidify their victories, responding with the same vigor they'd shown during the past three weeks . . .

  If . . . the American Army mounted a counterattack at Khe Sanh, as was expected, and broke the siege that was beginning to falter there . . .

  If . . . the American air forces brought in even more aircraft and began an around-the-clock bombardment of the Hanoi and Haiphong areas . . .

  General Dung interrupted, wondering what made the intelligence briefer think such a thing was even remotely possible.

  A colonel stood and warily approached the front of the room, careful to keep his eyes diverted from both Generals Giap and Dung. He cleared his throat testily and spoke in a high voice. "There is a new intelligence input from the Soviets, who intercepted an American colonel's telephone call from Saigon. There is a project called 'Zhack-pot,' which calls for a buildup of Mee air power, followed by a relentless bombing campaign."

  Was such a thing possible? Mee politicians had never shown such resolve in the past.

  "We believe it is only a plan now. But there was also reference to a December meeting between the general in Saigon believed to be writing the plan, and President Riddin Jah-soh."

  There followed a deep silence around the room. No one dared to utter their long-held fear that such a bombardment might actually take place. The aging leaders of the Democratic Republic would surely pull back the military forces—agree to anything to ensure the fragile infrastructure of the nation, and all their achievements of the past twenty years, was not destroyed.