by Tom Wilson
Penny's face fell, and Smitty caught the expression.
"Since you got in so late," he said lamely, "why don't I take your place tomorrow?"
Manny didn't answer, so Smitty just nodded and the deal was done.
Lieutenant Smith had changed considerably since Manny had met him upon his arrival at Takhli. He looked the same, with his cherub's face and guileless expression, but he was a different man. The guys liked to joke about being steely-eyed, TAC-trained killers. When he flew, Smitty came close to the description. He was calm, professional, and extremely aggressive. Smitty not only loved to fly fighters, he savored flying them in combat. After the toughest missions, where the SAMs flew and MiGs swarmed about the sky, he debriefed in such a manner that you could tell he'd enjoyed pitting his skills against those of the enemy. His flight commander, Captain Billy Bowes, swore he was the best wingman at Takhli, and Manny thought he was likely right.
Bowes joined them at the bar. "You guys holding a meeting without me?" he grumbled good-naturedly.
Smitty waved to Jimmy the bartender. "Give my boss here a drink, so he'll stay off my back."
"Good seeing you made it back from the ravages of Hawaii, Manny."
"Good to be back, Billy."
Penny eyed them all. "You guys go ahead and talk shop. I'm going to my trailer." She gave Manny a not very subtle look that said she expected to see him later.
"Don't let me run you off, Pen," said Billy Bowes.
"Don't be silly. Just don't let this guy drink too much," she said, motioning at DeVera.
"Why's that?" Smitty asked innocently, the sparkle of a grin threatening to surface. Everyone knew she and Manny were sleeping together.
Penny gave Smitty a mock glare and left through the side door.
"That's too nice for you, Manny," Billy observed.
"Okay, now you can tell us what you really did at Waikiki," Smitty said.
"I really got a lot of rest and laid around on the beach. I'd check in at the hospital and some medic would run a test, have me pee in a bottle, take a blood sample . . . stuff like that. Then they'd tell me to go off and relax and check back in in a couple more days."
"For two weeks?"
"Damn near."
"Wonder how I could get a deal like that." Smitty asked; then he grinned. "How'd the women look?"
"They looked like females anywhere, except they didn't wear many clothes."
Smitty's smile widened.
Billy Bowes cautioned. "You better not let the Thai base commander's daughter hear you asking about other women, Smitty. You just got paid, so she'll be in love again."
"We've got a date tomorrow."
"Gonna spend all your money on her again?" Manny asked.
"Not this time. We're going to a Thai boxing match. She's a nice girl."
"That," Billy said, "is probably true. I'll bet you haven't gotten a sniff of her snatch."
"I like going out with a nice girl. She's teaching me how to speak Thai."
Billy regarded Manny DeVera. "Smitty's getting it free from the girls at the Takhli Villa now. The hookers like him so much they're buying him dinner."
Smitty was noncommittal, so Manny decided it was true. "What does your sometime girlfriend think of you whoring around?" he asked.
Smitty colored. "We don't talk about it."
Billy shook his head, muttering something about if Smitty got it free, then the whores had to raise their prices for the rest of them to make up the difference.
Yank Donovan came in, looking weary. He sidled up to an open spot at the bar beside them and motioned for the bartender to bring him a drink.
Billy came up with an idea. "Since Smitty's driving the price of fucking up for the rest of us, he ought to subsidize our prices. We oughta bill him every time we get a short time."
"That's dumb," Smitty said. "You're just jealous."
"Damn right I am. Hell, you're king of the hookers. A real potentate. You oughta see it, Manny. Smitty walks in and the place gets quiet. Then the girls start deserting the rest of us so they can go over and try to impress him."
Smitty shrugged and grinned. "I can't help it if you guys are ugly bastards."
Manny was enjoying himself thoroughly, being with the guys he'd shared so much with when they'd been in C-Flight under Lucky Anderson. It was a sort of clique. They'd learned a lot from Major Lucky. Like how they could rely upon one another.
Manny reflected on other things they'd learned. Like it was the guys with the aggressive attitudes who survived, that the ones who didn't display steel nerves and big balls were more likely to screw something up and get hammered. To make a plan and stick by it. To fly the mission as you briefed it. To put the enemy on the defensive and keep them there. Yeah, he thought. All of that had been life-saving advice, but the biggest thing they'd learned was to know and rely on one another. To support your flight mates. Like Smitty saying he'd fill in for him tomorrow? The thoughts rolled around in his mind.
Yank Donovan was talking to Billy Bowes, one of his flight commanders, asking how his pilots were holding up and how proficient he felt they were. The squadron commander was a case in point: aggressive and sure, he constantly took the fight to the enemy. His problem was that he didn't rely on others and wanted to do it all himself. He hadn't built up that level of trust that Lucky Anderson had taught them was so critical.
Yank started a discussion with Smitty then, asking about the status of the squadron aircraft. It was some sort of additional duty he'd assigned the lieutenant, to keep track of which birds were going tits up and breaking most often, and which had write-ups that kept recurring. It was a task handed down by Colonel Trimble, to keep track of maintenance's screwups.
Billy asked Manny how many missions he'd flown.
"Eighty-five," he immediately answered. All the pilots kept track of the precise number of counters, which were the ones flown over North Vietnam.
"Won't be long until you're done," Billy observed.
Manny looked at Billy's Aussie bush hat, which had a series of vertical marks that reached halfway around the brim. Those were for counters. Red lines marked the significant missions, black ones the easier ones. "How about you?" Manny asked.
"Smitty and I have the same number—ninety-six," Billy said. "We've got our orders. Both of us are going to Luke to check out in F-4's. Then I'm going to Hahn Air Base."
"How about Smitty?"
"He's going to Bitburg. We'll be neighbors."
"Germany will never be the same," Manny muttered, but he was thinking about the fact that Smitty, with only four missions to go, had volunteered to fly in his place.
What if. . . He frowned, half listening in on the talk between Yank Donovan and Smitty. He squinted at Billy Bowes. "What's the target tomorrow afternoon?" he asked.
"Can't say. It's a big one, though. First big mission we've had in a week. Colonel Donovan's going to be force leader."
Smitty had finished his rundown for Yank Donovan, so Manny tapped his shoulder.
"I'll fly the afternoon go tomorrow," Manny said.
"You sure?" Smitty looked let down. He'd likely looked forward to flying one last big one.
"Yeah," Manny said, "I'm sure." He felt a small tingle of nerve ends, as if a cool breeze had passed over the hairs on his hands and arms. He was breaking the promise to Penny, but it was something that had to be done. He didn't try to explain it to himself.
A Wild Weasel pilot, a dark-haired guy with a great curled mustache, began to pick at his banjo. He was seated near the jukebox on a bar stool, and Manny remembered when Animal Hamlin would sit beside him and they'd play together, entertaining the others and leading the songs.
He wished Animal was there with them. He'd been one of the good ones.
"You guys ready?" the Weasel pilot asked, plinking out a chorus. A couple of pilots were beside him, anticipating.
They sang the one about the Doumer bridge first, Animal Hamlin's favorite.
"Come on down!" was the c
horus, and it raised goose bumps on Manny's arms, for he remembered flying to the big bridge on the northern side of Hanoi. They'd lost good men, trying to relearn the difficult secrets of destroying bridges, as other pilots had done in other wars.
When the song ended, there was a short moment of silence; then someone decided they should sing "Throw a Nickel on the Grass."
Yank Donovan remained at the bar, staring without expression as the rest of them sang. Manny DeVera went out and joined in.
Cruising down the Red River,
Doing five and fifty per . . .
When I call to my flight leader
Oh won't you help me, sir?
The SAMs are hot and heavy,
Two MiGs are on my ass,
So take us home flight leader,
Please don't make a second pass!
Manny especially like the chorus.
Hallelujah, oh hallelujah,
Throw a nickel on the grass,
Save a fighter pilot's ass.
Hallelujah, oh hallelujah,
Throw a nickel on the grass,
And you'll be saved!
Manny stayed late at the stag bar, singing and carousing with his friends—the best ones, he knew, that he'd ever have. There was a sense of camaraderie among men in combat you'd never find anywhere else. They relied upon one another. They could do that and never be let down.
It was after two A.M. when he left the bar with Smitty and Billy Bowes, and they began to walk toward the Ponderosa, half a mile distant, singing other songs and laughing together as they remembered funny things that had happened when they'd been in C-Flight together.
Manny thought fleetingly about the promise in Penny Dwight's look as she'd left, and about the vow he was breaking. He didn't linger on it, though, because Smitty started singing about the "Sexual Life of the Camel," and that was one of his favorites.
A security vehicle stopped, and a cop looked them over to make sure they were okay. He drove away, shaking his head with mock disgust as they began to sing about "Mary Ann Burns," who was "queen of all the acrobats."
Sunday, March 17th, 1230 Local—Yen Chau, Western Mountains, DRV
Assistant Commissioner Nguyen Wu
The town was an awful place in the growing monsoon winds—boiling with fine dust that permeated every pore and clogged nostrils on dry days, awash with muck when it rained. Each day Wu became more downcast and despairing.
When would they come for him? Had he been forgotten? The dream of his grand return to Hanoi, his rendezvous with greatness, was dwindling.
That morning a convoy of three canvas-clad trucks had rumbled into the village from a crude path to the north. They'd been diverted there, said the senior sergeant who commanded the forty militia men, by orders from Hanoi. The senior sergeant was greatly impressed when he was told about the man with the code name of Brave Hero, called that by the same general who was his own ultimate superior.
Nguyen Wu spoke excitedly on the radio, asking over the specially assigned frequency to be connected with General Xuan Nha, wondering if the convoy hadn't been sent for him.
"The general will be here shortly, Brave Hero," was the brusque reply. The mention of the code name no longer made him puff up with pleasure.
As Wu waited, he thought of the teeming streets of the capital city, and how wonderful it would feel to walk on pavement once more . . . to go to Ba Dinh square and watch the people celebrate victories, cheering the Lao Dong party's wisdom. Survey the fools as they listened to loudspeakers announcing the gibberish spoken by Ho Chi Minh. Watch them cast careful looks in his direction, for they knew he was an official of the Commissioner of Death, looking for those who were insufficiently exuberant. Before his silly mistake with Quon, he'd been known and feared. It would be that way again.
The radio crackled with Xuan Nha's croaking voice.
Nguyen Wu told him about the Phantom reconnaissance flights that had passed overhead three days before, and wondered if Mee fighters might come to destroy the village.
That was not likely.
When would they send the helicopter?
He was told the same maddening things as before. He was too important to be placed in danger. All VIP travel was postponed. Be patient. Perhaps next week . . .
Wu told him about the convoy, and how it would leave in two days for Yen Bai.
Xuan Nha told him it would be too dangerous to accompany them. Be patient. Wu was told that his aunt Li Binh wanted very badly to see her nephew. There was a great celebration coming up in eight days, and she felt it would be a perfect time to present his proud achievements to the Lao Dong party officials.
Wu's heart beat faster as he thought of it.
Too bad. There would have to be another time.
Nguyen Wu's mind raced as he considered his aunt's desire. She would know the best time to present her nephew's achievement, for she was very good with such things. Was she trying to relay her impatience to him?
Yes! he decided.
Xuan Nha asked if he was being treated well in Yen Chau.
Wu burst out that it was a dismal and despicable place.
Xuan closed the conversation on that unhappy note, saying he had matters to attend to.
Wu stared at the radio for a long while. He knew that he must hurry to Hanoi. Xuan Nha was no longer to be trusted. His aunt had spoken through his stupid lips to tell her nephew that he should come immediately. As soon as he reached Hanoi, he would tell her about the maddening and ridiculous delays Xuan Nha had imposed, placing him in such danger. She'd know how to deal with the man they both disdained.
A short time later Nguyen Wu spoke with the senior sergeant commanding the convoy. He told him that he'd talked with Xuan Nha. The general wanted them to leave at first light the next morning and proceed with haste to Yen Bai. Wu and the sublieutenant would travel with them in the weapons carrier they'd brought from Ban Sao Si.
He was pleased when the senior sergeant readily agreed. Wu asked how long the trip to Yen Bai would take.
Traveling cautiously, only at night as was normal, would take them as long as ten or eleven days over the treacherous mountain roads.
He thought of the celebration in eight days. What if they traveled during daylight hours, at a faster speed?
The senior sergeant frowned, then dutifully replied that the trip could be made in four or five days of hard travel, if there were no serious breakdowns.
Which meant that Nguyen Wu could be in Hanoi six days hence. In time for the great celebration Xuan Nha had spoken of.
Wu briefed the village militia leader and the mayor of Yen Chau. They were to tell absolutely no one about his departure, and that included even the highest-ranking generals. He then ordered the sublieutenant to prepare to leave. The officials in Hanoi, he said, were preparing a welcome for him.
A great rumbling sound passed overhead—another visit by the Phantom reconnaissance jet.
Nguyen Wu shuddered, thinking he was leaving the place none too soon.
1255L—Brown Anchor, Gulf of Tonkin
Captain Manny DeVera
The mission was to destroy POL storage tanks and a large warehouse at Nam Dinh, which was in pack four, and they would attack from the water side. Which meant they'd flown across the panhandle of North Vietnam and were refueling over the South China Sea.
It was, as Billy Bowes had told him the previous evening, a big mission. Two flights of Wild Weasels, and two flights of MiG-CAP F-4's to protect them from defenses. A sixteen-ship force from Korat was to attack the petroleum-storage tanks first, and just behind them a similar force from Takhli, theirs, would bomb a nearby warehouse. The intell briefing had warned them there'd be SAMs and hundreds of big guns. It was classified as a heavily defended area, and those pilots who had flown into the area were believers.
Yank Donovan, Bear Force leader, had remained quiet during the flight, but Manny, flying as his number three, ascribed that to the man's strangeness. The squadron commander was a loner and h
ad difficulty interrelating. Yet he was entirely changed from the prima donna who'd arrived at Takhli with an ego as big as a Mack truck.
Bear flight had twice cycled through the position on the KC-135's boom, topping off their fuel tanks the second time through.
"Good luck, Bear flight," the tanker pilot radioed as they dropped away.
Yank answered with two clicks on his radio button.
One by one the other flights in the strike force, Wolf, Wildcat, and Bison, checked in on frequency and joined into the large formation.
"Bear Force, this is Bear Force leader. Check your switches and turn on the music," Donovan called. No response was required. The formation tightened some as the ECM pods came on. Manny ran through his familiar mental drill. Remain calm—stay on the offensive—think of the next move. He was not overly apprehensive, as he'd feared he might be.
"Wolf lead has the MiG-CAP in sight at four o'clock high," came an unnecessary radio call.
Manny was surprised that Donovan didn't comment. He was a stickler for radio discipline.
The force flew northward toward pack four, slowly accelerating to 600 knots, maintaining 18,000 feet altitude.
At thirty nautical miles from coast-in, Donovan made his first odd radio call. "Bear Force, this is Bear Force leader. When we get to the target area, I want you to proceed on past for ten nautical miles, then turn back inbound, holding your altitude."
Wolf, Wildcat, and Bison all radioed that they understood the instruction.
Manny DeVera wondered what the hell was coming off. He also wondered when Donovan would have them begin the step-down descent, for although they were getting ever closer, they remained at altitude.
Donovan finally began the descent.
Lucky Anderson, thought Manny, would be coming unglued if he were on the mission. He was fanatical about flying a mission precisely as it had been briefed. He wondered again about Donovan's directive to fly past the target and double back.