Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3)

by Tom Wilson

  He hoped Julie Stewart would be happy wherever she was. Maybe he should try to track her down and give her a call after he got to Washington.

  2040 Local—Pirate's Den, Honolulu, Hawaii

  Captain Manny DeVera

  He met the aging hooker the second night, while nursing a drink in a quiet bar not far from the beach. She was on the sundown side of forty, but she had a pleasant face and a sort of sophisticated air about her, even stuffed into the tight, flashy dress. She'd approached his table with a come-on smile that made her profession obvious, asked if he minded if she sat with him, then gave him a sideward smile as if she wouldn't mind if he bought her a drink.

  Manny, being a gregarious type, enjoyed the company even if he wasn't interested. He hadn't thought about chasing women, because of Penny back at Takhli and the way they felt about each other. But he enjoyed the woman's chatter. She said her name was Ann. To put her off, he stretched the truth some, saying he was convalescing at the base hospital because he'd been shot down in combat. It was the right thing to say, because the aging hooker's fierce patriotism surfaced. She had a son who lived with her ex back on the mainland. He'd just been drafted into the Army, and she was scared he might be sent to Vietnam. Then she'd bought him a drink, insisted on it even when he made it clear he wasn't interested in sex, paid or otherwise.

  They chatted. Manny treated her like a real person instead of a whore. Ann responded warmly and once said that her son smiled the same rascally way he did. She introduced him to her girlfriend, who came over from another table.

  It was a slow night for a Friday, the friend said.

  They worked together, Ann told Manny, and when her friend tried to come on to him, she told her to lay off.

  Ann looked at him closely. "You sure got some ham-sized bags under your eyes, Sweetie. That from getting shot down, or you got woman problems?"

  She was astute. "I'm feeling better," Manny confided, and realized it was the truth. The nights of forced sleep were steadily improving his outlook and health.

  They alternated buying drinks, and Manny broke his promise to lay off the alcohol. After an hour passed, they'd gotten down to telling tales, and he remembered and told them about this rich colonel who lived at a big hotel suite there in Honolulu—which he'd learned from a phone call to Tom Lyons's office—and what the guy had done to a nice girl back at his base and how he mistreated his subordinates. Ann listened carefully, her mouth taut.

  The girlfriend bristled at what the colonel had done to Penny.

  "And he oughta treat his men good," Ann added. "We don't send our kids to war to be fucked over by their own bosses. Sounds like a real asshole."

  "He is," Manny confirmed.

  After a few more drinks Ann brought the subject back around to Lyons. She asked which hotel the bastard lived in. She'd like to meet him.

  "Naw you wouldn't," Manny told her, shaking his head with his growing intoxication. "He's a real bastard. Ask that girl back at my base."

  "Which hotel's he in?" she demanded.

  "The Royal Hawaiian."

  The girlfriend said the Royal Hawaiian was the grand lady of the beach resorts. It had been the first big hotel to be erected on Waikiki, and in her estimation was still the classiest. She bragged that she'd hustled a number of big-spending tourists there in her younger years.

  Ann had him repeat the asshole's name and what he looked like, and she listened hard.

  When he finally went out to catch a cab to the base, Manny was feeling little pain.

  He didn't get back to the hospital until late, and a morose floor nurse chewed him out before allowing him into the ward. She said he was to be discharged from the hospital in the morning, to full out-patient status, and could check into the BOQ for the remainder of his stay, where he wouldn't disturb the real patients. As soon as she left, Manny DeVera pulled off his outer clothes, crawled onto the bed, and immediately fell asleep, as if he had no troubles at all.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Saturday, March 2nd, 0930 Local—Royal Hawaiian Hotel, Honolulu, Hawaii

  Colonel Tom Lyons

  Tom slowly came awake, but he kept his eyes closed, afraid to open them lest the pulsing headache split his head open. He heard a loud rasping sound that reverberated through the room. Remembrance was slow in coming—how it had taken a goodly series of mai tais to get the woman tourist into the sack.

  He squinted toward the other side of the bed. She was lying on her back, mouth agape, sheet pulled down to expose large breasts which splayed across her chest. It was hard to imagine, but the terrible racket that filled the room was her snoring.

  He vaguely remembered the two women coming out onto the lanai bar and taking a table beside his. More memory cautiously filtered into his tortured, pounding brain. She was the shy, buxom wife of a California state senator, visiting Honolulu with her sister, both of them sporting cameras and chattering about how delightful the beach had been. The breasts had looked full and inviting when she'd been clothed, even if she was little stout about the middle. Tom had worked hard at impressing her, then talking the suspicious sister into returning to their hotel alone.

  When she'd finally agreed to come up to his suite for a drink, he'd had to sweet-talk her into bed. Then she'd stepped out of her dress and loosened her girdle and the flab had swelled free, and she'd released the bra and the breasts flopped down to rest on the generous stomach. But he'd been drowsy and inebriated and wanted to curl up with her anyway. He remembered everything being fuzzy and how he had trouble getting it up and . . . had she laughed about it? That was all he could recall. He'd been so damned sleepy! It didn't matter if he'd fucked her. She wasn't worth a notch on the old musket.

  His head pounded unmercifully. She shifted, smacking her lips obscenely in her slumber. Jesus! he thought, angry at her for last night's false advertising with the girdle and uplift bra. When he got to his feet at the side of the bed, his head felt as if it would explode. He shook her.

  "Wha . . . ?"

  "Get your clothes on . . ."

  She blinked about suspiciously.

  ". . . and get the fuck out of here," he snarled.

  She crawled out, yawning, and gave him a sleepy-eyed inspection. Then she grunted and methodically began to stuff herself into the elastic girdle and cast-iron brassiere.

  Tom felt sheer disgust as he padded into the bathroom, took three aspirin, and washed them down with water. He decided it was time to stop with the women, since it would be only another few days until Margaret arrived with her father at their vacation home. He planned to act as contrite and caring as he possibly could. Maybe then she'd agree to see him.

  Indiscretion was a mortal sin. He would be very discreet from now on.

  Tom fumbled with the brush and shaving mug, wondering at his clumsiness as he finally stirred up a good lather and daubed it onto his face. His head pounded mightily as he scraped the beard away, cutting himself in several places.

  He prayed for the aspirin to take effect and promised there'd be no more women, except for Margaret if she'd have him back, for a long time.

  Tom finished shaving, wet a face towel, and scrubbed his face. Finally he padded back out and peered cautiously into the bedroom. The woman was gone. He heaved a sigh of relief as he returned to the bathroom and showered. While he bathed, something plagued him—there'd been something subtly different about the bedroom. Was something missing?

  He rejected the idea. The woman was a well-respected senator's wife, and she'd acted just as gaga as all the other women he'd pursued when he described life with his family's old money. Her sister had eyed him angrily when the woman had whispered tipsily that she would stay at the hotel and dance for just a while longer, and Tom had known she was in the bag.

  No way it could have been an act. Yet . . . he hastily shut off the shower and trailed water as he hurried to the bedroom.

  There was nothing left on the dresser. She'd taken it all—his wallet, the wafer-thin watch, the gold money clip, t
he three-carat diamond pinkie ring he wore to impress women at the bar—everything except a single scrap of paper. The thieving bitch!

  Tom immediately reached for the house telephone, then just as quickly paused, his hand wavering in midair, remembering. Indiscretion is a mortal sin!

  He thought of something else and walked into the sitting room to stare with open mouth and dead eyes. The soft leather folder was gone.

  Tom Lyons sat heavily on the couch, slumped and groaned, and felt extremely sorry for himself. In the past month his world of honey had turned to vinegar.

  After a bit he rose and dressed, fingers shaking violently as he buttoned his shirt, rationalizing that all would be okay. The woman would likely toss the classified papers out . . . probably had no idea what they were. He prayed that was true. The rest of it was replaceable.

  Anyway . . . how the hell could he have known she was a thief?

  Before leaving the suite, he paused to read the words scribbled on the scrap of paper.

  A mutuel frend sayed to look you up cause you are a rich no good shit. I dont wory about you saying anything to the cops cause you are chickenshit. I took a lot of nice pictures. Look in the drawer. I left you one.

  He opened the top middle drawer.

  The Polaroid photograph showed him lying on his hack with the woman astride him, hunkered as if he were fully inserted. The woman's face wasn't shown, only her grotesque body. His face was very identifiable. He was smiling serenely, and it wasn't apparent that he was asleep.

  "Oh, God," he moaned aloud. It was obviously blackmail.

  When she called, he decided that it was worth everything he possessed to make sure the photos—and the classified documents—were returned.

  Wednesday, March 6th, 1145 Local—Command Post, Nellis AFB, Nevada

  Captain Moods Diller

  The connection was made with the scrambler phone in the basement command post of the Pentagon, and the sergeant handed the phone to Moods and nodded. Moods remembered that he was also supposed to relay an important message from Julie Stewart.

  "Captain Diller?" Benny's questioning voice sounded as if it were coming down a long, hollow tube.

  "I'm reading you three by three, Benny. Go ahead. Over."

  "I'm here with a civilian from procurement, Moods. She needs some information so she can complete a quick reaction contract. Over."

  Moods grinned. "I'll try to provide it. Over."

  "Number one. How many bombs per month are we talking about, if we modify and dedicate an entire squadron of F-4's? Six illuminators and eighteen shooters. Over."

  "What kind of sortie rate are we talking about? Over."

  "Let's say sixteen sorties per day, average. Over."

  Moods's excitement mounted as he did a quick mental calculation. "Nine hundred and sixty bombs per month. Over."

  "We get the same here. We're adding four percent for training and rounding at one thousand bomb kits per month. The big question now is how can we get them? Your Texas company rep said they can only crank out eight a day, if I recall. Over."

  Moods didn't understand. "How many total are you talking about? Over."

  "An initial order of three thousand bomb kits, with a ten-thousand-kit minimum follow-on. Over."

  "Jesus!" Moods was staggered by the numbers. His voice became weak. "When do you need the three thousand? I mean . . . how long do we have, Benny? Over."

  "We want eighteen designator pods and three hundred bombs in place at Ubon one month from start production. Six weeks at the latest. Then one thousand bombs per month thereafter. Over."

  "One thousand a month?" Moods's tone was shrill. It was obvious that something very big was about to happen. "So when's the projected start production date? Over."

  "Two weeks from today. Over."

  Moods almost strangled. "That's impossible! They're going to have to hire and train people, get a facility, and . . . Jesus. Two weeks? Over."

  "If we don't jump at this opportunity, it may not happen for a long time, Moods. Maybe a year or more. This is their big chance. Over."

  His big chance. Moods related very personally with his project. He made up his mind. "I'll fly down there tomorrow. Over."

  "No. I want you there at Nellis. We're sending in a cadre of F-4 instructor pilots who'll specialize in smart bomb tactics, and they'll instruct aircrews on their way to Southeast Asia. By the way, the Pave Dagger code name's being changed. The laser-guided bombs will be called Pave Way, and the illuminator pods will be Pave Knife. Over."

  It was all coming very fast for Moods, who three months earlier had been unable to generate official interest outside the world of R and D academia.

  "Colonel Mack MacLendon is going to fly a procurement team to the Texas company tonight, to tell them what we need and look things over. If they can't handle the contract, they may lose it, Moods. Over."

  "They'll do it," Moods said confidently. "The Texas team's dedicated. Over."

  When he'd hung up, Moods stood there for a long while, his mind racing with the startling developments.

  Whatever was about to happen was damn big.

  He'd forgotten about the message he was supposed to pass on to Benny Lewis, and did not remember it until that evening when his fiancée Pam questioned him. And even then it hardly registered. His long effort to give the Air Force a new and more efficient way of conducting conventional warfare was about to bear fruit.

  Friday, March 8th, 1845 Local—Command Post, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Lieutenant Colonel Lucky Anderson

  He made his calls from the command post, where they had the most lines and could get through easiest, but he ran into an old and familiar brick wall. Just as before, even though he used the number Black had given him, he was told by the man who answered the phone that there was no such person as Sergeant Black at the Special Forces field headquarters.

  "I know the man," Lucky tried. "I've talked to him on this number."

  The man at the other end was increasingly patient and would have become angry if it hadn't been for his rank. "I guarantee it, Colonel. There's no one here by that name."

  "Well if there's someone even close, have him give me a call," Lucky finally tried.

  "Sorry, sir."

  Lucky replaced the receiver, frowning and shaking his head with frustration.

  He went out to the status boards and reviewed how the birds in his squadron were faring.

  Of twenty-six assigned aircraft, eighteen were operational. Not a good ratio. They'd flown them into the ground the previous month and were feeling the effect.

  "Colonel Anderson," a master sergeant called out. "You've got a call on line three."

  "Who is it?" he asked. He had a squadron pilots' meeting to conduct in ten minutes.

  "A Captain Dillingham, sir."

  He didn't know him. "Take his number and tell him I'll call back in . . ." Lucky paused. "Where's the call from?"

  The sergeant spoke into the phone. "From NKP, sir."

  "I'll take it," Lucky grumbled. He picked up the nearest phone and punched the proper button. "Anderson here."

  "Captain Dillingham, sir." But it was Sergeant Black's voice.

  Lucky was confused, but then he recovered. Though he still wondered what the hell was happening. "You're a strange bunch there."

  Dillingham laughed. "Yes, sir. I would say that's so. Can I help you?"

  "Anything new about the lady in question?"

  The voice came back slowly, the tone guarded. "Nothing. If there is, I'll make sure someone contacts you, as we agreed."

  Lucky sighed. "It's been a long time."

  "I don't believe we'll hear anything positive, Colonel."

  When Lucky walked out the door of the command post, he was sorry he'd called. Each time he heard that the situation was hopeless, he grew more despondent. He'd done that the last time he'd talked with Richard at the Bangkok embassy. As he hurried toward the 333rd squadron meeting, Lucky decided not to telephone either of the
men again. The calls simply hurt too much. Linda was dead and gone, now only a memory to cherish.

  2200L—Mountains, Northeastern Laos

  GS-15 Linda Lopes

  For twelve days they'd traveled very slowly, avoiding the straggling soldiers on their way toward Hanoi, stopping often to allow her to rest. As a result they'd not come far. Just fifty kilometers, the lieutenant estimated, and they still had almost forty to go to reach safety.

  Linda gained strength each day, but the broken foot and arm hindered her.

  The squat, barrel-chested Ma tribesmen were tireless and treated her with great deference, offering fresh fruits, and making sure she didn't have to move once she was settled each evening.

  When she asked the lieutenant about it, he related in his pidgin English that he'd told them she was the woman of a great warrior. He made it plain that he considered Linda to be that, as well as a very brave individual in her own right.

  Linda liked the lieutenant and was humbled to think of what he'd done for her. He'd walked a hundred kilometers, searching day and night along the way, to find and retrieve her. Yet each time she tried to thank him, he apologized for not rescuing her sooner.

  They were now at the foot of a mountain range. Tomorrow they'd go a few kilometers south and intercept a path used by the Ma tribesmen when they traveled to markets in North Vietnam. From that point on they'd be safer, the lieutenant said. It was doubtful the Viets knew about the path.

  They'd delayed a day at their present bivouac, for a company of enemy soldiers had established a camp directly in their path and sent out random patrols. Once they'd passed by them the next morning, they'd move faster, the lieutenant explained. Linda would be placed in a makeshift litter and carried along the small, hidden path.

  Linda and the lieutenant spoke together often. He'd been difficult to understand at first, but he tried very hard with his pidgin, and it was becoming easier each evening. She supposed they were both adjusting, she to his strange language and he to simple English.