Termite Hill (Vietnam Air War Book 1)

by Tom Wilson

  Time passed slowly. The likelihood of locating the pilot before civilians found and perhaps killed him grew slimmer with each passing moment.

  "Ayyy, comrade Colonel!" exclaimed Quang Hanh suddenly. "They found the pilot."

  Xuan started to smile, then repressed it. Quang Hanh appeared unhappy.

  "He was captured by villagers and severely beaten."

  "How badly beaten?" Xuan asked, frowning.

  "He is not expected to live. That was what the soldiers who found him told the radioman at a unit they passed."

  Xuan Nha's brows furrowed. "Go on."

  "The soldiers found him placed in a small cage, being punished with sharp sticks and clubs. The soldiers had to force the villagers away from him."

  "Will I be able to question him before he dies?"

  "I ordered them to give him aid, but the radioman said the truck had already left, toward Cam Khe. There is a compound there where they hold prisoners."

  "Fools," whispered Xuan Nha. "They won't need a compound for a corpse."

  Others looked at him with drawn breath, for they feared him most when he grew quiet. He felt that fear was a good thing to generate in subordinates.

  Major Wu hung up his own field phone and looked on, a silly smile on his thin face.

  "You have let me down," started Xuan.

  "I have more news, comrade Colonel," Major Wu quickly interjected.

  Xuan looked at him, wondering how Li Binh could have such a fool in her family.

  "Another pilot escaped from the airplane," Wu said hurriedly.

  "I didn't know this was a Phantom."

  "It was a Thunder plane," said Major Wu, "but there were two pilots."

  Such had been reported before, but Xuan Nha had never fully realized the implication. Thunder planes with two cockpits had been reported by observers in Thailand, and had even been shot down. Were those the radar-hunters' aircraft? The thought of discovery excited him.

  "Where is the second pilot?"

  "He was seen parachuting into the same area as the other. The villagers didn't see him, but three different farmers saw two parachutes come from the airplane."

  "Get him," said Xuan Nha in his quiet voice. He cast a hard stare at Major Wu. "And this time I want him alive and well so he can answer my questions."

  "We will start at first light," said Major Wu.

  "Not in the morning. Not even in an hour. Have them go after him now, tonight. I want him captured quickly, before he can be killed by civilians or worse, rescued." Xuan knew his words were reaching him—Wu appeared frightened. "You are responsible."

  Major Wu licked his lips, his voice unsteady. "I will have a hundred soldiers take the field tonight."

  Xuan spoke so quietly that Wu had to strain forward to hear. "You will send as many as is required. You will find the second pilot and have him brought directly to me."

  "Yes, comrade."

  Xuan Nha rose from his desk and looked about the busy command center, then strode away. He turned before reaching the door. "I will spend the night at home. Call me as soon as you find him."

  29/0320L—Northwest of Nghia Lo, North Vietnam

  Bear Stewart

  The Bear woke with a start and peered through the darkness. Something had moved out there, not far from his hiding place. He carefully, quietly, pulled his revolver from its holster.

  The rustling sound grew louder, then suddenly stopped as if whatever-it-was had sensed his presence. Whatever-it-was remained stationary. Periodically he heard a woofing sound, an exhalation of breath. Crickets that had been chirruping were silent.

  God but it's dark, he said to himself.

  He carried a small flashlight in his flight-suit pocket. It had both white and red-lensed lights, which was handy since red didn't screw up your night vision when you flashed it about a dark cockpit. His fumbling left hand found it, carefully pulling it from the pocket.

  He hated to use up the batteries' charge—He had no idea how long he might have to evade—but he very badly wanted to know what was out there. He didn't even know if he should be frightened, for Christ's sake.

  Probably a jungle rat, he told himself, or a monkey of some kind. He'd seen small monkeys scurrying about the branches during his day's trek; some jungle rats grew as large as small dogs.

  What the hell would a monkey be doing on the ground in the middle of the night? he asked himself.

  A jungle rat? Making a woofing sound?

  Forget it and go back to sleep, he told himself. But he couldn't. There was no way he was going to sleep with Benny's tiger or maybe a foul-tempered jungle bear out there deciding whether or not to have a taste of him. He stood up slowly, holding the flashlight in his left hand, the pistol in his right.

  He extended the flashlight and lined up the business end of the .357 magnum with where he thought the beam would strike.

  Don't shoot unless the son of a bitch charges, he warned himself. He switched on the light at the level he imagined a Bengal tiger's body to be.

  The light illuminated only the green forest.

  He heard a snuffling sound and lowered the light.

  A mean-looking little pig pawed at the dirt and grunted. Black, built low to the ground, it had sharp tusks that curled up. The eyes glittered red in the light's reflection.

  "Holy shit," he muttered.

  The boar shuffled to one side and tossed its head defiantly, eyeing him all the while. It half turned toward him, snorting.

  He fixed the beam on the pig, and began to laugh silently. The light jiggled as his shoulder moved. The pig gave a final snort, then trotted away as if satisfied with what it had seen.

  The Bear shivered involuntarily and gave another quiet, nervous chuckle. "Hell," he whispered, liking the confidence in his voice. "It was a fucking dwarf pig."

  He slid the .357 magnum Smith & Wesson Highway Patrolman model revolver, his private weapon, back into the horsehide leather shoulder holster, a present from his grandma Bowes's people. He was accurate with the revolver out to more than seventy-five yards, a feat few could match with an issue .38 Special. He carried the big revolver with a familiarity that he especially appreciated in his present circumstances. He was damned glad he had taken the time, done the paperwork, and endured the headaches to bring it along.

  By day the camouflage-colored parachute panel had served as his pack, loaded with the essentials from the survival kit. It was now spread out in a small pocket he'd burrowed between a thicket of bushes and the bases of two large teak trees that had grown together.

  He wrapped himself in the parachute panel, carefully checking for a good seal to discourage mosquitoes and tiny insects, reaching for the flashlight from the survival kit. Its beam was much brighter than that of a small rechargeable one, which was why he hadn't used it. He had to assume the gomers had located his cache of survival gear castoffs, had picked up his trail, and were tracking him. He did not wish to be betrayed by a bright light, unnecessary sounds, or even his smell. Twice he had stopped his journey to daub himself with dirt and leaves to mask body odors. An old Cheyenne practice he'd learned from Grandma Bowes's side of the family.

  The Bear grumbled to himself over his situation for a weary moment before succumbing to the waves of fatigue. Just before he slept, he heard once again in his mind, as he had a dozen times during the day, the piercing screams from the village. He wondered if it would have made any difference for Glenn if they'd been able to join up. He felt ashamed for running and worse about the jolt of elation he'd felt. One thing he'd decided after hearing the almost inhuman screams. If the gomers caught up, he would take as many of the bastards as possible with him.

  Light was beginning to filter through the forest when he awoke. His fourteen-dollar Seiko showed it was 0630. He pushed his head out of the cocoon and listened for any sound that might seem out of place. Except for jungle birds making loud and screeching conversation, he could hear nothing.

  He set about breaking camp as quickly and silently as
possible. He tied the survival equipment into a tight bundle, using nylon risers and the parachute panel, and fashioned arm straps. He pulled on his survival vest, then donned the makeshift pack, stretching and adjusting the nylon cords for ease of mobility and comfort. Satisfied, he zipped the g-suit at his waist and halfway down over his legs.

  The g-suit was made of tough canvas, and had a thick rubber bladder inside. When pulling positive gravity forces in the aircraft, the g-suit, worn snug about your legs and waist, inflated to keep the blood from rushing to your lower extremities. Now it served as chaps to protect his legs from stinging bamboo, razor-grass, thistles, snakebite, and other natural hazards of the jungle wilderness.

  Prepared to move out, the Bear pulled the survival map from a pocket, cursed at its inadequacy, and made educated guesses as to his position. He remembered mountains a few miles to the west. He studied the map carefully and eliminated all but two possibilities.

  He reasoned that they had passed beyond the muddy river for about a minute before ejecting, and then their forward momentum had taken them even farther by the time the chutes had opened. He had slipped his parachute beyond the village, probably for another westward mile or two. He added up the mileages, came up with ten or eleven, then added the distance he might have traveled and decided he was just nineteen miles from the river.

  He held the survival compass flat, let it settle down, and again selected due west. The map showed a road five miles farther. The road meant civilization, and he would have to exercise special caution there.

  He decided to slow his pace from the previous day's and to be more careful to eliminate traces of his passage. His goal was to get into an isolated area, then to get on the radio and set up a good, clean rescue. The area across the road looked like a good choice. Isolated enough and not too far away.

  He gnawed a bite off a pemmican bar from the survival kit and drank a third of a bottle of water as he carefully looked the area over again, determined to leave no sign of his overnight stay. Satisfied, he put away the tasteless pemmican and snapped the canvas cover over the baby-bottle pouch, eyeballing a distant tree directly to the west. When he arrived at the tree he would take another sighting, choose another landmark to the west, and carefully continue once again. He would thus be assured of traveling only westward. He wanted to make the job of his rescuers as easy as possible.

  By eight o'clock the Bear had neither heard nor seen signs of humans during his trek through the dense forest, and he was beginning to feel better about his situation. He was congratulating himself on his canniness and the increasing possibility of escape when he heard the deep rumbling of jets passing several thousand feet overhead. He cursed silently, remembering he had stowed the radios in the pack. He stopped to remove two radios, replaced them into their vest pockets, and continued on.

  He paused at a creek and drank deeply. As he refilled the baby bottles, he heard distant engine sounds. Not jets. Vehicles? Carefully and quietly, he continued.

  Less than an hour later he emerged from the thick forest. He looked around carefully, edging forward for another few cautious steps. His footing gave way. He tumbled down a five-foot embankment of red dirt, wet from recent rain, rolled to his feet, and crouched in a shallow ditch at the side of a well-traveled roadway.

  Again he heard the rumbling sounds, closer and clearer now. Sounds of many engines gunning and gears shifting as vehicles labored up the grade toward him.

  Heart pounding, he scrambled up the embankment, then scurried back into the protection of the foliage. He belly-flopped onto the ground and lay still, listening. He then wiggled, snakelike, peering cautiously around the base of a small bush. As the sounds grew louder, he flattened closer against the ground, wondering if he had been seen.

  Stay cool, he told himself, and don't worry about things unless they're real. Keep your eyes open and your head down.

  Part of him wanted to flee deeper into the forest, but he was too inquisitive. Gomer vehicle traffic normally moved only at nighttime or under the protection of a low overcast.

  Time seemed to stand still. Finally a truck labored into view, traveling from right to left up the hill. It looked like an old Studebaker six-by-six, spouting black smoke from an exhaust stack as it picked up speed on the level section of road. In the rear were a score of uniformed North Vietnamese soldiers and it towed an S-60 57mm antiaircraft gun. Both truck and artillery piece were adorned with branches and netting to camouflage them from the air. Next came a Soviet armored personnel carrier, spewing up a plume of moist, red dirt. Several more six-by-sixes passed, towing S-60 guns and carrying troops and ammo. A flatbed passed, loaded with a dozen or more smaller 37mm antiaircraft guns.

  What the hell, wondered the Bear, are they going to defend up here? He tried to think of a target of consequence in the hills west of the Black River, but could not. He edged forward to see better.

  After the flatbed there was a long pause between vehicles, but he could hear more trucks laboring up the grade. A utility vehicle, jeeplike with sloping front end, pulled up and stopped immediately across from where the Bear lay.

  Fuck! he said to himself, and flattened lower, face in the dirt but keeping an eye on the vehicle. He eased the big revolver from its shoulder holster.

  The driver and his three passengers got out, stretching, oblivious of the Bear who watched from just thirty yards away. They wore green field uniforms with dark epaulets.

  Two of them walked slowly toward the Bear, still stretching, and one said something over his shoulder as he unbuttoned his pants. Another man said "Nyet, nyet," and laughed.

  The four were Caucasians, Russians, for Christ's sake!

  The Bear sucked in his breath at the thought of lying on the ground in North Vietnam, watching Russians take a piss.

  The banter continued between the men; all but one laughed boisterously as they urinated.

  The Bear wondered what they were talking about. North Vietnamese pussy? He didn't wonder what he would do if they saw him, for he had decided he could take out at least two, perhaps three, before they could reach whatever weapons they might have in the vehicle. The fleshy one standing across the road and doing his business with his back to the Bear was quieter than the others and wore a single gold star on his dark shoulder tabs. A field-grade officer. One big star was probably a major. The others had smaller red stars on their tabs, most likely company-grade officers, lieutenants and captains.

  Without warning, black puke filled his throat, choking him. He snorted involuntarily and dark fluid splattered out of his nostrils.

  Damn! he raged inwardly, watery eyes fixed on the men at the sides of the road, ignoring the searing sensations in his nose and throat.

  The Russian lieutenant nearest him had heard and was looking about. He cocked his head, waiting for further sounds. The Bear drew a long breath, muscles tensed, preparing to bring his revolver up. He would take out the major first, then the others. Rank has its privileges, he thought.

  The Russian lieutenant stared into the forest, carefully scanning with narrowed eyes. The major on the other side of the road grumbled about something. The alerted lieutenant said something back, now staring at a point just above the Bear.

  The sounds of approaching heavy vehicles grew louder.

  The major started toward the utility vehicle and spoke gruffly over his shoulder, and the suspicious lieutenant looked abashed. They all buttoned up and hurried back to the vehicle. After a few grinds the engine started. The Russian jeep revved, then lurched away spewing red mud.

  "You lucky assholes," said the Bear with bravado and a heavy lump stuck in his throat. His adrenaline subsided, making him feel lightheaded. He had come close to bagging a Russian, one of the real enemy. Or maybe they would have bagged him. He wiped away the strings of black spittle and coughed up some more.

  A heavily laden, covered six-by-six passed, then a flatbed loaded with gray-painted boxes. A diesel roared and changed gears and hove into view, hauling a large trailer.
/>
  "A goddam Firecan radar," breathed the Bear. Next came another flatbed, with the Firecan's dish antenna stowed and lashed upside down on the bed and hauling a generator behind. Two fuel trucks passed, grinding along slowly, followed closely by a six-by-six loaded with Vietnamese troops who hunkered down miserably on the wooden benches.

  "What the fuck's it all for?" he wondered aloud. "What's up here to protect?" Firecan radars were used to direct 57mm and 85mm antiaircraft artillery fire.

  The next vehicle answered his question. A huge truck labored by carrying a tremendous framework of steel. It was the antenna for a radar that the Bear had studied closely. A Barlock command-and-control radar, the best the Soviets had, with long-range and precision capability.

  This was an important convoy for the North Vietnamese. They must be in one hell of a hurry if they're moving in broad daylight, he thought.

  He waited for half an hour after the final truck had passed before he warily crossed the road. He found himself at the bottom of a high, rocky ridge. The side of the ridge was sparsely covered with scrub brush, so he considered waiting until it was dark before proceeding up the hillside. You can't wait, Mal! the feeling told him, freedom is on the other side. He gnawed a bite off the pemmican bar and drank more water before pulling out and testing the two radios. He slid one into an upper pocket of his flight suit where it would be handy, determined to contact the next flight of fighters he saw or heard.

  God! he thought. I need a cigarette in the worst way. He turned and started up the steep incline.

  He was two-thirds of the way up the side of the ridge when he heard the distant rumble of jet engines. He switched the emergency radio to Guard channel and to TRANS/REC.

  "This is Stinger Bravo transmitting in the blind on Guard," he radioed. He repeated the call, then added, "I'm on the ground and need a ride out of here."

  Following his third transmission, an F-105 driver from Korat, Beagle lead, returned his call. "Read you three-by-three, Stinger Bravo. Weak but readable. Do you have us in sight?"

  "I can hear jets, Beagle. I can't see you."