by Mike Jenne
“If the SAR effort is unsuccessful and he’s not picked up by nightfall, Scott has already been instructed to proceed to a link-up site, here,” explained Coleman, gesturing at a spot on the map.
Coleman started to light a Marlboro, but quickly extinguished it when Glades glared at him. He continued. “We want you folks ready to launch tonight, to meet him at the link-up site. The chances are good that this whole thing will blow over shortly, and we’ll be able to stand down this mission and send you all back to the States.”
“Well, maybe we’ll eat Christmas dinner after all,” snorted Finn. “Obviously, one way or another, we should be closing out this mission very shortly.”
“Don’t go staking your life on it,” noted Glades, examining the map and making notes on an index card. “How about the Combat Talon I requested?”
“It will arrive here right after nightfall,” answered Coleman. He pointed at the two waterproof bags that he and Lahn had brought with them. The parcels were marked with strips of masking tape bearing the aviators’ names in big block letters. “By the way, Nestor, you’ll haul in an evasion kit for each guy. If Leesma is yanked out today, you’ll only need to tote the kit for Scott.”
Glades nodded as he hefted one of the bags. Approximately the size of a pillow case and filled to capacity with sundry items, it was considerably heavier than he would have imagined. He opened the bag and examined the contents. When and if they went into North Vietnam, Glades and his team would be wearing OG-107 jungle fatigues specially dyed to match the coloration of NVA field uniforms. They would also wear the distinctive green NVA pith helmets and canvas chest bandoliers. Accordingly, each waterproof bag contained a uniform that matched theirs, along with a set of black canvas “Bata” rubber-soled boots. Glades assumed that the clothing boots were pre-sized for Leesma and Scott. Additionally, each bag contained an extensive survival kit, including a PRC-90 survival radio and Colt .45 pistol.
Glades was somewhat surprised to see that the bulging bags also contained a variety of bartering items, including a leather pouch that contained ten coins minted of solid gold, that had previously been standard issue for MACV-SOG recon teams operating in denied areas. The gold coins obviously accounted for why the bags were so heavy.
Rounding out the collection was a tightly folded American flag sealed in a plastic bag. The reason for the flag was simple. Glades and his team carried them as well; in a pinch, since they would be dressed as the enemy, they could display the flags to helicopters or other aircraft, ideally to keep fratricide to a bare minimum.
Coleman dropped the two dossiers, maps, and other documents on a table. “After you’ve had some time to look that stuff over, give us a yell. Major Lahn and I will come back to brief you on the operational area and current enemy situation.”
Current enemy situation? thought Glades. That was amusing. He didn’t need to gaze into a crystal ball to divine the current situation. He knew that the NVA were currently piling into the area with everything they owned in an effort to grab the two Americans. Moreover, they knew that scores of men would be dispatched to rescue them, and they clearly wouldn’t waste an opportunity to kill or capture as many of them as they possibly could.
Henson flipped open one of the two dossiers and began reading. His eyebrows arched as an alarmed expression passed over his face. Softly clearing his throat, he closed the folder and slid it across the table toward Glades. “Check the blood type,” he commented. “I’ll need to tote in a few cross-matched units, just in case. We have no matches on the team, so a field transfusion would be out of the question.”
“Good catch, Henson,” noted Coleman. “The doc over at the advisory detachment already has some stuff in his refrigerator for you. Cross-matched blood, serum albumen, etc.”
Glades was slightly puzzled; he couldn’t understand why Henson would call such an arcane medical issue to his attention, so he must have seen something more pressing in the folder. He glanced at Lahn, and then studied the map a few minutes longer before nonchalantly opening the dossier folder marked “SCOTT.” The first page was a basic information summary on the subject; as soon as he saw it, he immediately realized why Henson was concerned.
Looking at the photographs stapled to the top of the sheet, Glades immediately recognized the man. The dossier identified the pilot as “Scott, Andrew C. LCDR USN,” but since he had met “Scott” previously in Haiti, he knew that he wasn’t a Navy pilot nor was his name Andrew Scott.
And at this point, name games were the least of his concerns. Recalling their mission in Haiti, he realized that only he and Henson had been in contact with Carson, the misidentified man in the photographs. Given enough clues, Finn could probably put the pieces together; electing to limit access to the potentially dangerous knowledge as much as possible, Glades decided not to raise the issue with him. He swallowed quietly, looked toward Coleman, and asked, “Any idea who these guys are? I mean, why is all this special effort so necessary?”
“Not a clue,” answered Coleman. “Nestor, I subscribe to your theory that one of these guys is related to someone high up in the food chain, and they’re doing their damnedest to make sure that he doesn’t fall into enemy hands. I don’t know if it’s Scott or Leesma who’s the golden child, but the fact that the Navy has placed priority on bringing out Leesma should be a clue.”
Glades nodded solemnly. He looked toward Lahn. If the Vietnamese officer knew anything was unusual, his inscrutable face revealed no clues.
Coleman broke the awkward silence. “Look, we’re headed to the chow hall to grab some lunch. We’ll be back in about forty-five minutes. That’ll give you folks plenty of time to give this stuff a good once-over. To the best of our ability, we’ll answer your questions when we return.”
Glades waited until their visitors had left before standing up. “Hey, Matt,” he asked. “You mind taking a look at my left eye? I think I’ve got something in it. Finn, you can start building our terrain model.”
“Sure, Nestor,” replied Finn, intently comparing the details of a topographic map and some recent aerial photographs. The Vietnamese soldiers looked over his shoulder, talking excitedly amongst themselves. Glades surmised that at least one of them had previously been in this region, probably on a POW snatch mission, and was intimately familiar with the lay of the land.
Carrying a flashlight and his medical bag, Henson joined Glades at his bunk at the far end of the long room. “So you have something in your eye?” he asked quietly, switching on the flashlight as he tugged down Glades’ lower eyelid. “I suspect that it’s the same thing I have in my eye.”
Glades nodded and said in a hushed voice, “We need to keep this little detail to ourselves. Don’t discuss it with Finn. I don’t want him contaminated. And one more thing…”
Wielding a cotton swab as he pretended to remove a fleck of dirt, Henson replied, “Yes?”
“If we go on this trip, we cannot be captured, regardless of what happens. Do you understand?”
“Nestor, I understand completely.”
“Good.” For the first time in his life, Glades felt nervous butterflies in his stomach. This situation was a lot spookier than anything he had previously dealt with. Obviously, his earlier concerns about not making it home were well grounded, even if he didn’t know why at the time.
Over the Gulf of Tonkin, twelve miles east of Haiphong
North Vietnam
11:48 p.m., December 24, 1972
Earlier in the day, a combined Navy and Air Force SAR operation successfully extracted the F-4N’s back-seater—Leesma—from harm’s way. Despite their early triumph, later efforts to pull out the pilot—“Lieutenant Commander Drew Scott”—had ended in failure. NVA ground forces had poured into the area, establishing a cordon, just as Glades had predicted. While they initially suffered extensive losses from the F-8 Crusader jets providing close air support for the SAR mission, they fought tenaciously to prevent rescue helicopters from penetrating far enough inland to reach the do
wned pilot.
Tonight, after they infiltrated, the team would proceed to a link-up site in the densely vegetated terrain just south of the Duong Hoa River. They would remain there at a contact site, patiently waiting for the pilot to come to them tomorrow morning; after they had him, they would escort him south to be picked up by a boat from the coastline as early as tomorrow night.
In the dim red lighting of the MC-130 Combat Talon’s cargo area, wearing a bulbous flight helmet, the Air Force loadmaster resembled an alien creature. He operated a series of controls that hydraulically lowered the transport plane’s rear ramp. “You know you guys are crazy, right?” he shouted over the intercom as he flicked open an orange-handled switchblade knife.
Nodding in affirmation, Glades smiled. Looking forward, he saw the black canvas curtains that divided the cargo bay in half; the area forward of the tightly drawn drapes was the exclusive domain of electronic warfare specialists who operated massive racks of highly classified equipment.
He hoped that the EW wizards and their radar-spoofing gear would confuse the NVA’s air defenses in this most vulnerable phase of the infiltration flight. Evidently aware that a potentially valuable commodity was within their immediate grasp, the North Vietnamese had aggressively repositioned SAM missile sites and other anti-aircraft weapons into the area, effectively isolating the terrain where the pilot was hiding.
Any close air support of the mission would be dicey, and slipping a helicopter in for an emergency extraction would be virtually impossible. Once they got their boots on the ground—if they survived the insertion—the six men would be largely on their own. Of course, they wouldn’t be nearly as alone as the pilot currently eluding capture.
Glades felt the plane roll into a tight left bank as the pilot executed the last turn before they crossed overland from the Gulf of Tonkin. “Final run-in. Two minutes,” declared the loadmaster, pressing his microphone close to his lips to muffle the roaring wind noise. He crouched down to slice through a pair of cotton safety cords. “Good luck. Merry Christmas to you and your little elves. I sure hope this sleigh works for you.”
Glades removed his headset and handed it to the loadmaster. He donned his leather “bunny” helmet, strapped it into place, and then bent forward vigorously as he interlocked his right arm with Henson’s. The six men were snugly jammed into a box roughly the size of two chest freezers, constructed of sturdy plywood sheets lashed together with nylon rigging straps.
They sat on a spongy layer of inflated air mattresses; the padding was intended to cushion the landing impact. Their heavy rucksacks were strapped down underneath the air mattresses. There were three men on each side of the box; a nylon cargo strap was hitched across their laps, effectively serving as a communal safety belt. The top of the box was partially enclosed by a plywood lid. Two G-12 cargo parachutes were positioned atop the lid; one would be automatically opened by a static line as the crate fell away from the aircraft. If the first parachute failed to open, Glades would pop open a pilot chute to immediately deploy the back-up G-12 chute. While it was a risky and untried endeavor, the unconventional technique would keep the team intact instead of scattering them across the landscape.
At this point, as they traversed the coastline of North Vietnam, only a short length of nylon parachute cord held the box in position. A green light flashed on, and the loadmaster slashed the final restraint. He nudged the box with his shoulder, and it slipped down a track of conveyor rollers and out into the darkness.
In his left hand, Glades tightly gripped the D-ring that would activate the reserve cargo parachute. He counted off the seconds, hoping that he had not sentenced the men to their deaths, as they fell. He felt a sharp jolt and breathed a sigh of relief as the giant cargo parachute, sixty-four feet in diameter, opened above them. Relieved, the six men braced themselves for impact.
Moments later, the box thudded to a bone-jarring landing. As a gentle breeze tugged at the cargo chute, the box promptly rolled on its side, pitching the men into an untidy heap. Wriggling, they extricated themselves from the pile and quietly climbed out to execute their post-landing tasks, just as they had rehearsed.
As the first man to emerge, Glades quickly activated quick release snaps that freed two of the four riser straps that connected the parachute to the crate; this action spilled the air from the billowing chute, preventing it from dragging the box and perhaps drawing unwanted attention.
Other than leaves rustled by the slight wind, the night was still and quiet. Thousands of brilliant stars adorned the firmament. The men silently loaded their AK-47s before collecting their rucksacks and other equipment. While Glades and Quan pulled security, the other four men loosened the cargo straps that held the box together, and then stacked the pieces.
They swiftly stretched out the cargo chute, rolled it into a bundle, and then heaped it onto the neatly piled plywood. Less than ten minutes after they had touched down, they moved out toward the north, with four of the men carrying the disassembled crate like an oversized litter.
Moving quietly in the darkness, Glades assessed the terrain. As best as he could tell, the Combat Talon crew had dropped them precisely where they had planned, in a clearing deep within the forest. From here, they would find a suitable place to conceal the dismantled crate and cargo parachutes and then proceed to the next phase of the mission.
22
WAITING IN NEBRASKA
Ourecky Homestead, Wilber, Nebraska
10:25 a.m., Sunday, December 24, 1972
Sipping black coffee at his parents’ kitchen table, Ourecky was frazzled. He had barely gotten any worthwhile rest last night, even after an exhausting day of driving from Ohio. His MOL nightmare had become a recurring dream, haunting his sleep for the past week, so he had spent most of the night tossing and turning, afraid to lapse into unconsciousness. The dream was the same every time: he was alone in the Gemini-I, hovering close to the MOL, and saw Carson’s face in the viewport. And in every instance of the dream, Carson always looked the same, like he was desperately trapped or lost. But more troubling than anything else, Ourecky knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do to help his friend. He hadn’t shared his dream with Bea, although he was fairly sure that she knew that he wasn’t sleeping well.
He studied the clock, anxiously waiting for the phone to ring. As she helped Mama Ourecky prepare the big carp that would be the centerpiece of this evening’s meal, Bea looked at him and smiled reassuringly.
In accordance with family tradition, Papa Ourecky was concealed behind a makeshift curtain of bed sheets, hanging decorations—handmade over the course of generations dating back to their forbearers in Czechoslovakia—on the fir he had chopped down early this morning. Striving to distract their attention, Ourecky tried to read a children’s book to Andy and Rebecca, but his efforts were all but futile, since the Cat in the Hat was not nearly as intriguing as Papa’s clandestine activities.
He was still distraught over the news from Southeast Asia, but reconciled himself to the notion that Carson must be safe, at least for the time being. Carson’s fighter squadron flew a dawn-to-dusk mission cycle, and since it was nearly midnight in the Gulf of Tonkin, surely he was on his carrier, safe and sound. Moreover, last night’s news broadcast had announced that there would be a twenty-four hour cessation of the bombing missions, so that the Navy and Air Force crews could celebrate Christmas. So, Ourecky convinced himself that Carson had to be safe right now, which would soon be confirmed when his MARS call rang through.
On the long drive over from Dayton, as the kids dozed in the back seat, he and Bea had agreed upon a plan about Rebecca. When the MARS call came, Ourecky would introduce her to Carson; immediately afterwards, Bea would take the little girl out of earshot, so that Ourecky could confide to his friend that Rebecca was likely his daughter. While he could just tell Carson that he might have a child, he decided that also hearing Rebecca’s voice would carry a lot more psychological impact, perhaps enough to convince Carson not to take an
y undue risks.
He felt as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. As worried as he was about Carson, he was very aware that in just a few weeks, his friend would probably be back from Vietnam and the Navy MOL mission would become public knowledge. He had no earthly idea of how he was going to break that news to Bea when the time came. It was ironic; here he was, spending Christmas in the house where he’d grown up hoping and planning to be an astronaut, and now the last thing that he wanted to do was to fly into space—yet again—but he knew that he would likely have little choice in the matter. Even though it would likely destroy his marriage, he just couldn’t deprive Carson of the opportunity that he so rightly deserved. Ourecky closed his eyes and clenched his fists; he was incredibly frustrated, but right now more than anything, he just wanted to talk to his friend and know that he was safe.
“Daddy, can we go outside?” asked Andy, scampering out of his high chair and rushing to the window. His socks were mismatched, a consequence of his insistence to dress himself this morning. “Can we go outside?”
“Yeah. Can we go play outside?” begged Rebecca, tugging at the sleeve of Ourecky’s red flannel shirt. “It’s so pretty! Me and Andy want to make a snowman.”
“No,” snapped Ourecky. “Uncle Drew is supposed to call soon, and I want both of you to wish him a Merry Christmas. He’s far from home, so it’s very important.” He glanced out the condensation-beaded window. The yard and pastures were covered with a thick blanket of absolutely pristine snow, so much different than the gray stuff they were used to in Ohio. Big downy flakes continued to fall. In the distance, past a grove of bare trees, a faint wisp of smoke rose from the chimney of his cousin’s farmhouse. It was beautiful outside, a veritable winter wonderland. He felt sorry for the kids, but he wasn’t willing to risk not having Rebecca immediately at hand to speak to Carson.