by Mike Jenne
“All that stuff’s yours. Everything you asked for. Just arrived this morning,” said Blair, waving his hand toward several wooden loading pallets stacked with crates.
“Will I need to sign for it?” asked Glades, shivering. A window-mounted air conditioner ran at full blast, spewing out air frigid enough to raise goose bumps, but Blair still sweated like a fat missionary invited to a cannibal tribe’s pot luck supper.
“Hell, Nestor, no one’s signing for anything anymore,” replied the bored-looking sergeant. “I have orders to hold this junk until you no longer have any use for it, and then I’m supposed to torch what’s left over.” He gestured at a crate of thermite incendiary grenades next to his desk.
Nodding, Glades tore brown paper wrapping from a brand new AK magazine. Examining the curved magazine, he recalled periods of scarcity in the past, when his teams had to scavenge, scrounge and barter for items as simple as radio batteries and blasting caps. After becoming so accustomed to deprivation, it was difficult for him to grasp the notion of almost inexhaustible plentitude. Of course, there was a very logical reason. He was aware that an entire warehouse was still crammed with off-the-books “non-attributable” gear and supplies; for various reasons, most of the goods would be destroyed instead of being handed over to the South Vietnamese. Most of it was captured material, but there was also a lot of ordnance and sundries from other countries. Some of the third-country armaments, such as ammunition from Warsaw Pact nations, had been obtained surreptitiously, while much had been sold or donated to MACV-SOG by countries not overly eager to advertise their relationship with the United States.
Circulating amongst the pallets, Glades and Finn surveyed the booty. One wooden crate was packed with spanking new AK-47 assault rifles, still coated in sticky brown cosmoline. Large burlap sacks swelled with NVA uniforms, pith helmets, rucksacks, and chest webbing. There was a collection of Soviet-built radios, as well as rocket-propelled grenades and their tube-shaped launchers. Grinning, Finn looked like a kid in a candy store, almost drooling over the abundance of equipment.
A stack of light blue metal containers, resembling oversized sardine cans, contained Israeli-manufactured AK ammunition earmarked specifically for the actual mission. The “sterile” Israeli rounds bore no case stampings or other identifying markings, and were produced to the highest standards so as to be absolutely reliable. Wooden crates with East German and Yugoslav labels contained the less trustworthy Warsaw Pact ammunition they would expend in training.
Not all of the allotment was foreign-made. Some of the stuff Glades had requested was proudly made in the good ol’ US of A, as American as Ford, Chevrolet, Mom, and apple pie. Glades was a discriminating connoisseur of lethal goods, and there were certain instances where only the best would do and cheap substitutes just could not be accepted. Consequently, one pallet was filled with US-made C4 plastic explosives, Claymore directional mines, silenced Hi Standard pistols, and a pair of M-79 grenade launchers with an assortment of rounds.
Kneeling down, Glades picked over the pallet to ensure that it contained the M14 “toe-popper” mines he had specifically asked for. Intended to deter pursuers, the little mines were about the size and shape of half a soup can. They were easy to emplace but not designed to kill; rather, they contained just enough explosive force to mangle the foot of anyone unfortunate enough to step on them. And of course, besides materials intended to maim and murder, the pallet contained a large assortment of medical supplies requested by Henson.
Glades listened to a helicopter landing at the small helipad within the compound. He turned to Finn, pointed at three of the pallets, and said, “Go grab Henson and tote that stuff over to the team house. I’ll be over as quick as I can to lend you a hand. We’ll get the rest tomorrow.”
As he headed toward the door, he heard Blair’s voice behind him. “Let me know if you need anything else, Nestor. Official or otherwise.”
“I’ll do that,” replied Glades. He thought for a moment about a problem which had been vexing him. “Are you still qualified as a parachute rigger?”
“I am,” replied Blair. “Do you want me to scrounge up some parachutes for you guys? I have a wire on some HALO rigs if you’re interested. Top quality stuff.”
“No. I have something else in mind. Let me think about it, and I’ll get back to you.”
Stepping out into the bright sunlight, Glades squinted. He saw four men climbing out of a Huey helicopter on the helipad, and immediately recognized a South Vietnamese officer. The officer—Major Phan Lac Lahn—was a past member of the South Vietnamese LLDB Special Forces and had formerly been assigned to MACV-SOG as a liaison for intelligence. He apparently would be working with Glades and his team in the same capacity.
“Glades?” implored Lahn, extending his hand. He spoke perfect English with a Southern California accent; he could have easily passed as a used car salesman in Los Angeles. In the style so prevalent amongst Vietnamese officers, his camouflage uniform was tailored so snugly that it could have been a second skin. “This is quite a surprise. I didn’t think you would be coming back here.”
“Neither did I,” answered Glades. “I understand you have some men for me, Major Lahn.” He was never particularly trusting of anyone in the South Vietnamese Army, particularly Lahn.
“I do,” replied Lahn, handing over three dossiers. He pointed toward the trio unloading duffle bags and footlockers from the Huey. “You requested former NVA soldiers. Here are the top three. I have several more if these don’t work out.”
Glades leafed through the documents. The former enemy soldiers, now members of the Vietnamese SMS—Special Mission Service—had each previously participated in at least one clandestine infiltration of North Vietnam. Although they smiled and seemed eager to please, Glades could tell that they were incredibly tough men, intensely hardened by years spent at war.
Lahn introduced Glades to the trio. Their captain—Dai Uy—was Cao Dihn Quan, a wiry but studious-looking former North Vietnamese field artillery officer. Sergeant—Trung si—Liu Xuhn Hieu was a former NVA sapper who had participated in several raids on major US military bases throughout the South. Half-Chinese, Hieu was huskier, taller and lighter-skinned than most ethnic Vietnamese. Trung si Trihn Van Dinh was a communications specialist who had served only a year in the infantry before being captured. With a pockmarked face that was a lasting souvenir of childhood smallpox, he was a small man, even by Vietnamese standards, but could clearly hold his own. As he shook their hands, Glades felt confident that he could build an effective team between the three SMS commandos and his two Americans.
9:55 a.m.
As the former NVA soldiers unpacked their gear and made themselves at home, Glades, Finn, and Henson collaborated with a mission planner who was responsible for refining the operational aspects of the rescue mission. An Army captain, Al Coleman, was a competent and meticulous planner, but bore an air of Walter Mitty about him. Constantly alluding to heroic—and almost certainly imaginary—exploits, Coleman obviously perceived of himself as a highly skilled clandestine operator.
“We’ve been burning the midnight oil. I think we’ve covered everything, except for one important piece.” Coleman gestured at the map. “We’re fairly certain we can extract you, unless it gets really hairy. We’re just not sure how to insert you in there. We need your input. We’re receptive to just about anything you might suggest, within reason.”
“Well, I’m assuming we’re coming out by rotary wing,” drawled Glades, looking at the map while making mental calculations on distances and times. “Affirm?”
“Correct,” answered Coleman. “If your mission launches, the Air Force will exclusively commit a heavy package, which will be on stand-by from the moment you depart this location. You can expect at least three CH-53s to be at your disposal, as well as plenty of fast mover close air support, and about all the Combat Air Patrol in theater to cover your extraction. When and if the time comes, you folks will be the tip-top priority in the the
ater.”
Glades laughed silently to himself; he had heard that line plenty of times in the past. “Well, obviously the only practical way out of there is a helicopter ride, so rotary wing is off the table for the insertion,” he said. “Too much noise, too much risk, and unless I don’t have a choice, I don’t like to show the same card twice. Do we have a Combat Talon available?” Glades was referring to the MC-130 “Combat Talon” variant of the venerable Lockheed Hercules. The turboprop transport, loaded to the gills with classified electronic warfare equipment, was expressly configured for clandestine infiltrations deep into enemy-controlled areas.
“Sure. All you have to do is ask,” said Coleman. “Are you looking to jump in?”
“Maybe. Right now, I’m just figuring options. A HALO jump is definitely out, and our indig troops haven’t jumped in months, so even a static line jump would be a stretch.”
Coleman pushed his black-framed issue spectacles up on his sweaty nose. “I wouldn’t rule it out. There’s plenty of time before your window opens, so you shouldn’t have any problem bringing your guys up to speed. I can coordinate any resources you need for training. And I wouldn’t mind bustin’ some clouds with you myself, if you’re going to do any HALO jumping.”
Glades shook his head. “I don’t think so. I know it looks like we have an abundance of time, but we don’t. I would rather focus our training time on what we’ll be doing once we’re on the ground. Besides, jumping just throws too many variables into the mix. Even if things go smoothly, it eats precious time to assemble after the jump. And when things don’t go so smoothly, people get scattered, lost and hurt. I’m still interested in the Talon, though.”
“Well, if not HALO or static line, what exactly do you have in mind?” asked Coleman.
“When I did an exchange tour with the Brits, I used to hop the tram down to the Imperial War Museum in London,” explained Glades. “They had a bunch of German stuff on display from the war. Everyone knows that the Allies used to parachute operatives into France, but most folks don’t realize the Germans were dropping agents into the UK at the same time.”
Glades continued. “The Germans didn’t want to waste time teaching their agents to jump, so they came up with something called a PersonenAbwurfGeraet, which meant ‘Personnel Dropping Device.’ I saw one on display at the museum. It works like this.” He opened his notebook and pointed at a sketch he had been working on.
Enthralled, Coleman grinned as Glades finished articulating his concept. “Well, obviously not a carnival ride for the timid,” he commented. “But it’ll be your asses on the line. If that’s the way you want to go, we’ll make it happen.”
Finn, on the other hand, turned white as a sheet. Grimacing, he implored, “Nestor, you’re kidding, right? Please tell me that you’re kidding.”
“Oh, not in the least,” replied Glades.
18
FOOLPROOF PLAN
Alameda Naval Air Station, California
3:35 p.m., Saturday, December 2, 1972
Carson had phoned last night to let Ourecky know that he would be leaving today for Southeast Asia. He and his RIO—Radar Intercept Officer—had just graduated from Top Gun at Miramar and would link up with maintenance holdovers and various stragglers from the fighter squadron. After launching from Alameda Naval Air Station, on the outskirts of San Francisco, they would rendezvous with their carrier about three hundred nautical miles offshore.
The timing was fortuitous; this week, Mike Sigler was slated to fly the last of their T-38s to Edwards Air Force Base to be handed over to the ARPS test pilot school. At Ourecky’s urging, he flew a day ahead of schedule and dropped the engineer at Alameda.
An ensign at Flight Operations directed Ourecky to the flight line and urged him to hurry if he wanted to catch the departing flight. After frantically scrambling up and down the rows of aircraft, he literally found Carson at the last minute, in the process of boarding his F-4N Phantom. His RIO was already strapped into the back seat, obviously anxious to depart. If Ourecky had been only a few minutes later, Carson would have already been in the air, zooming westbound over the Pacific.
Seeing his friend, Carson grinned and clambered back down the ladder. “Scott, you came all the way out here to see me?”
“You didn’t think I would come to send you off for your big adventure?” asked Ourecky, bending forward at the waist as he caught his breath. “I sure wasn’t going to let you just swoop off into the sunset without saying goodbye.”
“It’s really no big deal,” declared Carson, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “I’ll be home in two shakes. As much as I relish the thought of mixing it up with some real bad guys, it doesn’t look like that’s going to come to pass. At least I’ll get my ticket stamped, though.”
“I’m so happy for you, Drew,” said Ourecky in a sarcastic tone.
Carson smiled. “Hey, since it’s going to be such a quiet cruise, are you sure you don’t want to come along?” he asked, twisting the end of his now flamboyantly long moustache. “We probably won’t do anything but hang out in the wardroom, gulp down sliders, and play acey-deucy. I could pull a few strings, work a few angles, and…”
“Thanks but no thanks. I hope you’re not too offended, Drew, but I’m not going to miss flying with you.”
“Ouch. That hurts, Ourecky,” replied Carson, playfully grimacing as he pointed at his chest. “Right here, like Bea says. Speaking of Bea, I suppose the notion of going home to her is probably a lot more enticing than bunking with me and a few thousand other guys aboard a noisy, stinky ship.”
Since Ourecky had not disclosed anything about their separation, Carson had no clue that he and Bea were not currently residing under the same roof. He glanced up at the cockpit and saw the name “LCDR DREW ‘REAPER’ SCOTT” stenciled in dark blue letters under Carson’s canopy and “LT JOE ‘BEANS’ LEESMA” below the rear canopy. “So is this Phantom a loaner?”
Carson looked back over his shoulder toward the RIO, and quietly answered, “No, it’s mine. Well, mine and the Navy’s, I suppose. Anyway, I think I told you that I can’t fly under my own name overseas, so that’s my nom de guerre. I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed some of yours. It does have a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Drew Scott? I suppose,” replied Ourecky, shaking his head. “I just think it’s a little asinine that you have to go to war under an assumed identity.”
“Assumed identity? I prefer to think of it as an alter ego, kind of like Batman or Superman. Hell, at this point you could call me Lois Lane, so long as it gets me into the fight.”
“If you say so.”
Adjusting the chin strap of his camouflage-painted flight helmet, Carson asked, “So was Virgil any more forthcoming about our future holds? Any idea of what’s in store?”
Ourecky thought about his recent visit to Vandenberg Air Force Base and the impending MOL mission. “Uh…no. Nothing significant, anyway. I think he and Tarbox will have more to say once you get back. In the meantime, I’m having to cover the mission debriefings by myself. Thanks, slacker.”
“Sorry,” replied Carson, not relenting from his curiosity. “Scott, are you sure that you don’t know anything? Didn’t Virgil make a big deal about sending you out to Vandenberg last month? He didn’t tell you anything?”
Ourecky swallowed; as much as he wanted to reveal the news about the MOL, he knew that he couldn’t dare speak of it. “Not really. Mostly, the Navy guys gave me the nickel tour of their facilities. Very nice set-up.”
“Time, Drew!” yelled the fidgety RIO, pumping his fist in a hurry-up gesture. “If we hold up the flight, you can bet Badger will torch your ass after we come aboard ship.”
“In a minute, Beans. We’re still on schedule.”
“I guess this is goodbye, then,” said Ourecky. He extended his hand.
The harsh wind coming off the Bay was bitterly cold, but Carson took off his flight gloves to shake his friend’s hand. “Thanks for every
thing,” he said, hugging Ourecky close to his chest.
“Take care of yourself, Drew. We’ll see each other again, soon enough.”
“Yeah, we will. Soon enough,” replied Carson. He replaced his Nomex gloves and started back up the crew ladder.
“Hey, Drew, I…” Ourecky knew he could say nothing about the MOL mission, but he struggled over whether he should tell Carson about Rebecca. He decided that it would probably be better to share that news after Carson returned from overseas, just as Bea insisted. After all, even though it looked to be a quiet deployment, Carson didn’t need anything to cloud his focus. He would be home in a few months, and after that he would have a lifetime to become acquainted with his daughter, if that’s what he chose to do.
“What, buddy?” asked Carson, leaning over and stepping into the cockpit.
“Uh…be careful over there.”
“Always,” replied Carson. “Bye, Scott. I’m sorry how things turned out, especially your shot at MIT, but at least one of us got his wish granted. Now, you should get back home to Bea.”
“Bye, Drew.” Yeah, at least one of us got his wish, thought Ourecky as he watched the Plexiglas canopy whir closed over his friend. He backed away several yards and lingered, clasping his hands over his ears as the engines started. Carson went through the last stages of his pre-flight and then revved the engines to taxi. As the fighter rolled forward, he looked toward Ourecky, flashed a cheerful smile and threw a quick salute. Ourecky waved and Carson waved back. Minutes later, trailing twin plumes of dense black smoke, the sleek aircraft screamed off the runway, and Carson was gone.
Dayton, Ohio
2:20 p.m., Sunday, December 10, 1972
Sipping a cold Schlitz, relaxing in an old sweatsuit and faded suede slippers, Ourecky studied a ponderously thick Navy manual about the fundamentals of nuclear reactors and power generation. The television was on, and he looked up periodically to see if there were any updates about Apollo 17, NASA’s last lunar flight. Launched three days ago, the astronauts should be going into lunar orbit anytime now, but there was nothing. Apparently, the television networks had lost interest in broadcasting news about the moon missions.