by Tom Wilson
"Ah roger. Expect SA-7's, thirty-seven-millimeter guns, and small arms fire. Hold your flight above flight level zero-fiver-zero, and keep your Mach up until we've made the area hospitable."
Lucky's flight was to take out the defenses with their cluster bombs and guns, then hang around while the other Thuds attacked, ready to take out more defenses should they threaten.
"We'll use your CBUs first this morning, Viper lead." Bongo described a knoll halfway between the mesa and the village of Ban Sao Si, then an area near the end of the dirt strip, where the SA-7 shoulder-fired infrared guided missiles were positioned.
Lucky winged over to lead the first attack, at thirty degrees dive angle, on the position nearest the mesa. He selected to drop a single CBU-24 and settled the aircraft very precisely. He was passing through 7,000 feet when a Thud driver announced that a missile had been fired from the location beside the runway.
They'd been briefed that intelligence didn't believe the SA-7's would be able to keep up with a fast-mover aircraft like the Thud. Lucky continued his dive and released at 5,000 feet. Two more SA-7's were called out. None of them came close. The cluster bomblets hit where he'd intended, sparkling brightly as they exploded.
The FAC confirmed it. "Good hit, Viper lead. Viper two, put another CBU a hundred yards north of lead's. "
"Viper two." The wingman was already in his delivery dive.
As the remainder of the flight dropped their bomblets on the small knoll, four more infrared missiles were fired from the dirt strip . . . and all missed. Viper three, Manny DeVera, released early and pulled up wildly when a missile launch was called, but that one came nowhere close either.
"Yeah!" exulted the FAC. "Now let's take out the rest of the defenses, Vipers."
Each of the four aircraft dropped a single CBU-24 on the area near the end of the runway where the SA-7's had been launched. Again DeVera's cluster bombs were off target, and Lucky wondered. The Supersonic Wetback was a better marksman than that. Then something happened that made him forget all about Manny.
As the last Thud pulled off target, Lucky noted muzzle flashes from the ground and called them out to the FAC.
"That's a concentration of thirty-seven-millimeter guns, Viper, . . . they're too . . . the village for your CBUs. How . . . a strafing pass?"
"Your radio's breaking up, Bongo. Understand a strafe pass on the guns?"
"Affirmative, . . . lead."
Lucky dipped toward the guns. Normally they'd slow down and strafe at ten- or twenty-degree dive angles, but he maintained the thirty degrees in case they hadn't taken out all the SA-7's. The muzzle flashes continued as he flew toward them, and red baseballs flashed past his cockpit. The M-61 Gatling gun growled and spat out 400 rounds of fury in a single burst.
After the second bird had strafed, there were no more flashes from that location. Number three noted another cluster of guns, and he and the Viper four took those out. The enemy was down to small arms. The Vipers tested the defenses by flying lower, appearing more vulnerable. There were no more missile firings or 37mm.
". . . work, Vipers. Now . . . in the . . . flights."
"You're breaking up badly, Bongo. Understand you're ready for the other Thuds to come in?"
". . . the hard . . ."
"Bongo, this is Viper lead. Your transmissions are breaking up and unreadable. "
A slight pause.
"This is Bongo. How's this radio, Viper lead?" The transmission was weak but readable.
"I'm reading you three by three again, Bongo."
"This is my second and last radio, Viper, and I'm going to conserve the battery by limiting my transmissions."
"Understand, Bongo. I'll relay that word to the next birds."
Lucky called in the next flights of Thuds, then held Viper flight up at 8,000 feet, as briefed. The F-105 pilots dropped napalm and 500-pound bombs in pairs on concentrations of soldiers camped in four different areas around the mesa. There was no more antiaircraft fire.
After the third flight of Thuds finished their attacks, and Bear Force arrived on the scene, Viper flight was relieved. Yank Donovan checked in and brusquely said he'd take control. By then Bongo's transmissions on the new radio had grown very weak, and he was transmitting only essential information.
Lucky told Yank about the FAC's failing radio and advised him to limit his conversations with the FAC.
Lieutenant Colonel Yank Donovan
Anderson was right about the FAC's radio. The damned thing was hardly readable, and with each transmission it grew weaker. You'd think the dumb shits would plan ahead better than that.
After the first flight had dropped napalm on a small troop concentration, the second was preparing to strafe two wooden buildings beside the small dirt strip. There, Bongo said, they had to exercise care, for there were noncombatant civilians very close by.
". . . from west to east and . . . take out . . . "
"This is Bear Force leader. Say again, Bongo," Donovan growled angrily.
"I said . . ."
Dammit! "Repeat your transmission, Bongo."
A low hissing sound, then silence.
0820L—Ban Sao Si, Laos
Assistant Commissioner Nguyen Wu
Nguyen Wu huddled at the dark, far end of the sandbagged shelter, beside the trembling admin major. The fat sergeant was curled into a fetal position nearby and refused to move.
So far the Mee had not bombed here, but they surely would. The lieutenant who was nearest the mouth of the shelter had just come from another encampment, and he said the airplanes had been eerily accurate. It was as if they knew precisely where each bunker and ammunition supply was located.
Wu's own breath came in shallow wheezes, and he could not remember being so frightened, yet he remained coherent, which was beyond the capabilities of his two men.
Where were the shoulder-fired missiles they'd been told would protect them? For more than an hour the aircraft had bombed and fired their guns in the area, and there was no longer the reassuring sounds of antiaircraft fire. Not even rifle fire.
So close, his mind kept whispering. He had the Mee woman's information. As soon as she regained a glimmer of sanity, there were a few more answers to be obtained, but he did not think many. He certainly had enough to impress his superiors in Hanoi.
He reached out and pulled at the leather courier's pouch the cowering major clutched to himself. In it was the notebook containing the woman's confessions.
"Give it to me," he demanded.
The major resisted, holding the pouch tightly to his body, as if it somehow protected him.
"Give it to me!"
The major heard, but Nguyen Wu had to pry his fingers loose. He pulled the pouch away, thinking of what it contained.
His redemption.
Suddenly he realized there'd been no sounds of bombing for the past several minutes. Had the Thunder planes gone? The lieutenant near the doorway peered outside and announced that there were still many fighters circling above, but none were attacking.
Strange.
A thought glimmered, then slowly took form. Several small trucks and weapons carriers were parked just beyond the runway. If the aircraft delayed longer, he might be able to escape!
He went cautiously toward the opening, was blinded by the brightness for a moment, then squinted up at the airplane specks.
"Why have they stopped?" he wondered aloud.
The lieutenant shook his head.
Nguyen Wu made up his mind. "Come with me," he shouted back to the dark shapes of his two cowering men. Neither the major nor the sergeant responded.
"I will have you shot," he shouted. "Come here!"
There were whimpers from the major, but no signs of movement. Both men were frightened into lumps of stone.
"Where are you going?" the lieutenant whispered anxiously. Even in the danger of the moment his voice held respect, for the officers had been briefed of his renewed importance.
Wu eyed him. "Can you drive
a truck?" he said.
The lieutenant's eyes glittered in comprehension. He stared up at the sky with some suspicion. "The airplanes will return to bomb."
"Let us hurry," Wu ordered, and hesitantly moved out of the door. The lieutenant followed.
Nguyen Wu heard the sound of a truck's engine. Someone else had the same idea. "Get a truck and bring it to the building there," he ordered the lieutenant. "Use your weapon if anyone tries to stop you."
The lieutenant hurried toward the camouflaged vehicle park as Nguyen continued toward his office. The hideous and filthy Mee woman might have more answers to provide. When he arrived in Hanoi with her, no one could doubt his worthiness.
As he hurried, he looked toward the eastward road and noticed how it disappeared into the jungle. If the Mee Thunder planes delayed only a little longer . . .
Sergeant Black
Sergeant Young vainly tried switching batteries between the two survival radios, but it didn't help. Captain Tiny Bechler sat, staring helplessly, first at the targets below, then back up at the fighters. His primary conversation became goddam no-good radios and fucking gomers down there.
A stake-bed truck revved its engine near one of the wooden headquarters buildings below and fled eastward down the dusty road, where it was quickly swallowed by the dark jungle which lay in that direction. Another vehicle stirred. Antlike figures scurried around it and began to load.
The fighters hadn't yet been directed toward the headquarters compound. It was to have been next. Afterward, if there were survivors, the Hotdogs were to take a few prisoners there.
"Some of the bastards are getting away!" Bechler turned and raged at Black. "How come your asshole Army bosses don't give you fucking radios you can talk with the goddam airplanes on. This is pure bullshit!"
Black was equally upset by the turn of events. "Why didn't you remember to put fresh batteries in your backup radios? And as far as that goes, why don't your airplanes have VHF—" That was when Black remembered the conversation with Lucky Anderson in the trailer at NKP.
"Goddammit, Black—"
"Shut up for a minute," Sergeant Black snapped, trying to remember.
Bechler glared, then blew out a helpless sigh. "Fuck!" he bellowed. Another truck was preparing to leave the compound.
Black went to the lieutenant and spoke in an urgent tone. The lieutenant barked an order, and one of the men hurried up with a hand-held VHF squad radio. Black stared at the thing and tried to recall the conversation with Anderson. He'd given him a VHF frequency, and they'd come up with a code word. He'd drunk too much that evening, but he vaguely remembered something about a Hawaiian word.
He switched to preset frequency D, 109.5 megacycles, then stared out at the F-105's orbiting south of the mesa mountain. "F-105's, this is Hotdog. Tiny Bubbles. No, make that Aloha, F-105's. Aloha!"
"What the hell are you doing?" Bechler growled. "They don't have a fucking VHF radio."
Black repeated his radio call a couple of times, watching the fighters. Nothing. He switched the radio wafer switch to E, 106.4. "F-105's, this is Hotdog. Aloha." He repeated the call twice more as the fighters continued in their orbit.
He was about to switch to F frequency when he heard the FAC mutter, "What the hell?"
The flight of Thuds had turned toward them, and the lead bird was waggling its wings.
Black watched and began to smile. "Colonel Anderson told me they'd be able to hear, but not talk to us."
Bechler brightened. "The goddamn ILS. Why the fuck didn't I think of that?"
"He said they'd fly with their systems turned on when they were around here. We've got plenty of batteries for these."
The flight of F-105's came back overhead, and again the leader waggled his wings.
"Give me that thing," said Bechler in an exultant tone, and Black handed the radio over.
"Wildcat flight this is Bongo. If you read me, turn right."
The flight of F-105's made an immediate right turn.
"Wildcat, I'm going to have you strafe two wooden buildings at the edge of the village. There's a truck loading up there that I want you to get, too. Be aware that there are noncombatants in the village itself so make sure you . . ."
0841L—Over Channel 97, Northeastern Laos
Lieutenant Colonel Yank Donovan
"F-105's, this is Hotdog. Aloha." The transmission was clear, and for a moment Yank thought it came over the radio. But when he adjusted the radio volume, the sound didn't change.
He'd flown with the ILS switched on ever since he heard Hotdog the previous time and was told by Anderson that it was indeed an American he'd heard.
Yank ordered the other pilots to turn on their ILS so they could hear too, then had Wildcat flight turn and fly toward the valley.
The FAC, Bongo, picked up his litany and directed Wildcat to strafe a couple of buildings near the dirt strip very carefully, because of the village just beyond.
Wildcat used their Gatling guns, carefully as the FAC directed, to shoot the compound to pieces, blow up two trucks that were trying to get away, and destroy several other vehicles parked under camouflage. Next they revisited the various troop locations in the valley with Gatling guns, bombs, and napalm. After half an hour of it, a force of F-4's showed up. Yank told them he'd keep a couple of F-105's in the area to relay the FAC's words and direct their fire, because the Phantoms had no instrument-landing-system equipment.
Yank had cycled out to the air refueling tanker and was back on the scene, relaying the FAC's directions, when the second and final F-4 force prepared to depart. The valley had been sterilized of air defenses, and the FAC said he saw no green uniforms moving about any of the encampments.
As Yank prepared to follow them from the area, a camouflaged C-47 approached from the south, banked and orbited around the mesa, and began to chew up the mountaintop with Gatling guns and cannon. Puff the Magic Dragon was on the scene.
He departed, knowing he was leaving the place in capable hands.
1125L—Y-54, Northeastern Laos
Sergeant Black
The spectacle was nearing completion. In the distance the final flights of fighters were forming up to return to their bases. Those were F-4 Phantoms. Black had counted a total of twelve different call signs, which meant that fifty-odd fighters had pounced on the area. Add the C-47 gunship that was still beating up the mountaintop, and it accounted for a lot of munitions dumped onto the area in the course of the four hours.
Half an hour earlier, in the midst of the final furious action, the lieutenant and two of his men had slipped down the main trail leading toward the village to take prisoners, officers if possible. They were in little danger. The fighters had pounded and strafed all moving things into oblivion, directed by Captain Bechler's magnified vision and calm instructions. Cluster bomblets, high explosive bombs, napalm, and 20mm cannon fire had been rained furiously upon the militia surrounding the mesa.
Black had witnessed the aftermath of a B-52 attack in the iron triangle—choppered in only minutes after the bombers had finished. He'd seen wily Cong and hardened NVA soldiers wandering dumbly about, weapons abandoned, mouths agape, and blood trickling from their ears, uncaring if they lived or died. The destruction below appeared similar to what he'd seen, if more selective. Areas of the lush valley forest had been flattened by concussive waves from bombs. The Soviet-built observation plane still issued a tiny streamer of smoke from where it lay gutted and burned. The compound had been riddled with 20mm gunfire. The only sounds they'd heard during the final hour of bombing had been occasional distant shrieks of agony and abject terror.
The lieutenant called from below on his hand-held radio. They'd crossed the dirt strip and were outside Ban Sao Si village and had met no opposition, no one who wondered who they were or why they were there. The final survivors were fleeing.
"Are there any potential prisoners?"
The lieutenant paused. "We can take our pick," he finally answered.
They decided
on four men they found near the village, still whimpering and cringing in a bomb shelter. Three were officers, the other a sergeant, and all looked to be unharmed, although they were crying like babies. Hotdog quickly stripped them of weapons and marched them forth. They arrived back at the small clearing near the mountaintop at 1255 hours, and Black looked them over.
The men were still in shock, not caring that Black wore an American uniform, likely not even realizing what it was. All four had pissed in their pants, and the smell of urine was strong. The two lesser officers had brought their leather pouches as the lieutenant had directed, and when Black barked instructions, they surrendered them. The sergeant was obscenely fat, with a pocked face and eyes that were wide with terror. He'd periodically babble words of gratitude and obeisance until the lieutenant would again tell him to be quiet.
Captain Bechler came down from his rock to examine them, his eyes glittering. "So these are the bad guys."
"Yeah. That one's a major. Those two are couriers. The ugly bastard there's a sergeant."
"I think they are all intelligence people from the headquarters down there," said the lieutenant in Viet.
"Find out," said Black.
"Are we going to take them back with us?" Bechler asked.
The lieutenant swaggered up to the major, leaned forward like an angry drill sergeant, and began barking questions.
"Maybe," Black told Bechler, listening to the responses.
The two sublieutenants worked in intelligence. The soft major and the fat sergeant worked for a bureaucrat, an assistant commissioner of some sort from Hanoi. All were members of the Army of National Defense militia.
"Take them away and question them," he told the lieutenant, who was leaning forward and glaring meanly at the cowering major.
Two Hotdogs took the prisoners off to continue the interrogation.
"They gonna kill em?" Captain Bechler asked cheerfully.
"I don't like killing anyone unless they need it," said Black, "like if they're shooting at me."
"Maybe you don't, but how about those guys doing the questioning?"
"They generally feel the same. But then maybe we will have to kill them. Now they've seen us, we can't let 'em go back to their people. If the brass doesn't send transport to take 'em back . . ." He shrugged.