Termite Hill (Vietnam Air War Book 1)

by Tom Wilson

  "Yeah?"

  "Well, there wasn't a damned thing wrong with the airplane. I checked with Chief Roberts and he said they couldn't duplicate the problem and that it was just fine when they flight-checked it. Maisey did that sort of thing a lot."

  "We all knew that, Tiny."

  "So all I did was just suggest that if he ever did get shot down, not to wear his helmet, cause I'd like first dibs on it."

  "And he up and quit?"

  "I guess maybe I said it to him a lot."

  Tiny showed off his new helmet, trying it on several times and marveling at the fit. Swede sat down and worked on officer evaluations for the pilots in his flight. Clark told jokes he'd just heard from some of the new replacement pilots. The Bear tried to finish his letter.

  They all kept thinking and joking about what Ken Maisey had said about them being crazy, not him.

  Maybe he was right, the Bear thought. But Maisey was the one who would remember this day for the rest of his life. He felt sorry for the poor bastard.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Monday, February 6th—0130 Local, 10 miles north of Vinh, North Vietnam

  Chickenplucker Crawford

  As Red had told him, it was no fun being taken through the villages. The cities were even worse. They'd marched through Vinh two days before, where rocks had been thrown and kids had taunted. Women had screeched insults. An old man had cackled with delight as a thirteen-year-old boy poked a long, sharp stick into his belly, drawing blood.

  Crawford had not cried out. He'd just narrowed his eyes and endured it, contemplating how nice it would feel when he got even. The guard, Grumpy, who'd been leading him by the rough rope around his neck, had finally yelled at the kid and made a halfhearted effort to chase him off. It was then the teenager poked the stick at Crawford's eye, causing him to twist away. The sharp point went into his cheek and broke a tooth. That hurt worse than the hole in his belly.

  Tonight they were in a thatch hut, hands still tied behind them, and after thinking things over, Crawford decided it was time.

  "Tonight we do it," he whispered.

  Red said he was ready.

  "I got a start on the knots. Maybe you can help."

  Red moved so they'd be back to back. He worked for a long while. "Don't think so," he finally said.

  Red's energy had been noticeably waning the last few days. The gomers weren't feeding them enough. Crawford was skinnier than Red, who was barrel-chested and heavy-boned, and figured he needed less, so he'd tried to give some of his own food to Red. The F-100 jock had indignantly refused, saying he needed to lose weight anyway. Probably improve his golf game, he'd said. Red was like that.

  "I'll work on 'em some more." Crawford pulled away from Red, stopped struggling, and just relaxed. He'd read a book once that escape artist Harry Houdini had been able to relax his muscles, go into a sort of semi-coma, then very slowly work his way out of anything. Crawford tried it himself.

  He didn't know if that was what did it for him, but half an hour later he'd shucked off enough slack to get his fingers on the knots. It went much easier then. He finished with his own bonds, then worked to free Red.

  "Good thing you're skinny," whispered Red.

  "It ain't the dog in the fight, it's the fight in the dog," said Crawford.

  They both stretched and rubbed their wrists in the darkness, then crawled quietly toward the back of the hut. Crawford lay flat and felt around on the back wall. The hut was built of thatch tied onto a bamboo pole frame with strips of woody fiber. It looked flimsy, but as he felt it he realized the wall was quite tough and resilient. Tearing it or taking it apart would be both difficult and noisy. He picked his spot and started to dig in the earthen floor with his fingers, carefully brushing back each small accumulation of residue with his hands.

  Red tapped his arm. "I found a stick."

  Crawford felt around and found Red's hand. It was a piece of bamboo an inch in circumference and several inches long. He began to dig quietly with it and made better progress.

  "Someone's coming!" Red urgently whispered.

  Fumbling at the door.

  They scrambled back to their previous positions and feigned sleep, lying curled, hands held behind them away from the door.

  It was Sleepy, with a flashlight that cast a weak glow. He opened the door wide and stood there, peering into the gloom. They were immobile and looked to be still bound. He left, apparently not concerned that there was a small mound of dirt on the floor in the back of the room or that the rope that had bound Crawford was lying there in plain view.

  They waited for a few minutes longer.

  "Dumb shit," whispered Red.

  "Did you see if he had a gun?"

  "Sleepy likes to leave his rifle propped up somewhere, because it's heavy. He carries an old French Mauser."

  "Sleepy ain't exactly a ball of fire when it comes to work," said Crawford.

  They felt their way back to their excavation. Crawford dug slowly and methodically, while Red pulled the residue back. He was careful to spread the dirt more evenly behind them, in case Sleepy returned and was more observant.

  Half an hour later they had a hole big enough for Crawford to get his head through.

  He looked around carefully, eyes adjusting to the bright moonlight, and could see a thicket about thirty yards distant. There seemed to be no one about back there. Still he waited. A movement to his left. He discerned a shape. A man was sitting just five feet away, leaning against the side of the hut, his head nodded over. Crawford looked longer yet, until he saw the shadowy shape of the guard's rifle.

  He slowly pulled back inside, and drew Red over to the center of the hut to whisper in his ear. "There's a guard sitting on the ground back there. It's a wonder he didn't hear the digging."

  "Shit. Who is it?"

  "Can't tell. Hopefully it's Sleepy and he's alone. He's leaned up against the hut, head bent over like he's sleeping."

  "Sounds like him. Sleepy can even nod off standing up, long as he's leaning against something."

  "We're going to have to deal with him to get by."

  "Going to have to be awfully quiet about it."

  "I'll go out first. Soon as I start to take him out, you dig like crazy and get out of here yourself." Crawford drew in a breath, then went back to the hole in the floor and silently began to dig again.

  Ten minutes later the hole was big enough for Crawford's slender body to slither through. He did so very cautiously.

  He was out, crouching. He could hear the guard's even breathing. He approached him slowly, then crossed his hands carefully under the chin and paused. It was Sleepy.

  Had to do it.

  He clutched the cloth firmly and twisted his hands, the hard muscles of his fists gouging into the throat, as he'd been taught by the martial arts instructor at survival school. The hold would immediately cut off the flow of blood and oxygen to the brain.

  Sleepy flailed. An arm beat once against the side of the hut, and Crawford pulled him away, maintaining the tight grip.

  After fifteen seconds the struggling grew feeble.

  After thirty seconds Sleepy slumped, a dead weight.

  Two minutes later he was dead. Crawford counted to himself and relentlessly kept up the pressure before silently releasing Sleepy onto the ground.

  Crawford crept back to the opening and crouched. "Come on," he whispered.

  Red was digging frantically. A long minute later he wiggled his way through.

  Crawford retrieved the French Mauser. He was familiar with it for it was similar to hunting rifles he'd had. Still, he hoped he wouldn't have to operate the gun in the darkness. He motioned to Red, and they carefully made their way toward the thicket, then beyond, in the direction they knew the sea had to be.

  Crawford knew he wouldn't really feel safe until they were in a boat, maybe not even then, but he felt a lot better than he had when they'd led him around like a dog.

  06/2030L—Ponderosa, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand />
  Benny Lewis

  Monday, Jan. 30th

  Dear Benny,

  Received your letter today. For your information, it took six days for it to get here. Please let me know if it takes about the same time for mine to get there, so I'll know what you've read of my letters when you're writing yours (if you think that sentence was hard to read, you should try composing it!).

  The days have been chilly here in the city. The high temperature today was fifty-two degrees. Up in your area (Santa Rosa), it got up to fifty-seven.

  Highlights of the news today:

  —In New York, the U.S. Court of Appeals ruled that draft boards can't punish Vietnam War protestors by reclassifying them to one-a draft status (just heard that on the six o'clock news).

  —In Washington, several peace marches are planned over the next few days to put pressure on the president and Congress to end the war—tomorrow it's a group of religious people (some organization I didn't have time to write down) who plan to starve themselves on the White House (or Capitol building?) lawn.

  —In Saigon, Bobby Kennedy is holding meetings with several western leaders about ways to end the war (he has dreamy eyes, but I wouldn't trust him too far if he wasn't from such a good family).

  —In Berkeley, another protest last week, not a big one, but very newsworthy because of the combined free speech, legalize pot, and antiwar themes (if you're on dope, like to curse, are gay, antiwar, dispossessed by the capitalist establishment, poor, pacifist (even if violently so), prefer whales to people, or if you're a graduate student, the news people here are likely to publicize your side—they seldom have time for anyone else (funny I didn't notice that before—Julie says I'm in the process of growing a brain!).

  —In San Rafael, a fire in a warehouse destroyed an antique car collection valued at ??? (missed it, but the cars were old).

  —In Santa Rosa (nothing on the news today).

  —In San Francisco, this reporter was shocked when her friend and confidant Julie (nee) Wright announced that Mal Bear has proposed marriage. Why didn't you tell me???

  —In San Francisco today, Julie (nee) Wright is busting her buns trying to get a YES answer back to Mal Bear by the fastest means possible. So far she has sent a telegram, mailed a letter with about five dollars postage, and tried umpteen times to telephone (without success).

  —In San Francisco today, this reporter has just gone over both the Chronicle and the Examiner and has nothing else to report.

  I think the news about Mal Bear and Julie is the stuff of romantic novels. Meet in Manila, fall in love in Bangkok, propose by mail, get married at the U.S. Embassy. None of her friends believe it's real!

  As you asked, I contacted your sister in Sacramento yesterday by telephone. She'd been away to L.A. on some government assignment. She said the California bureaucracy is alive and well, and that she's been promoted to assistant department manager. She sounded very happy to hear that you're okay. She said to tell you your niece has the measles and she hopes she doesn't get them from her.

  I've got to run. Going to make a couple back-to-back Tokyo runs on the evening express. Lots of businessmen going to Tokyo these days. Interesting point: most believe the Japanese are doing well with their small item manufacturing, cheap imitations, etc. A few even say Japan is where it's at for new manufacturing techniques, and that it won't be long until they make a concerted, government-supported effort to penetrate the U.S. automobile market. Sounds crazy to me, but who knows? They are certainly doing well in the stereo field.

  Gotta go. Love ya. I'll post a letter from Tokyo. No telling how slow that one will be in getting to you.

  Liz

  p.s. Julie asked and I've agreed to be maid of honor. See you at the altar.

  Benny reread the letter to make sure that what he thought he'd read was really written there. The Bear getting married? His first thought was an angry one—that it had to be a ploy of some kind by the Bear to use Julie. Then he wondered, because the Bear had been moody since returning from the Bangkok R and R.

  Julie was cheerful and fun-loving, a sweet and open girl, and the Bear was so damnably jaded when it came to women. He remembered him bragging about the two Filipinas and about other women. But he had never once mentioned taking Julie to bed, and Benny knew he had. Was Julie different for him?

  He started to go and find him, confront him. But then he realized how ridiculous that would make him appear. He decided to wait and let the Bear break the news.

  07/1300L—Command Post, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Benny Lewis

  From February 7th until the 11th, the president of South Vietnam had announced a truce for the observation of Tet, which was the Vietnamese Christmas and New Year's rolled into one. The classified message received at the Takhli command post added that the Operation Rolling Thunder bombing halt would last for even longer, that there would be no bombing of North Vietnam before the 13th. That meant there would be six days off, and the pilots in the wing were grateful for the respite.

  But they weren't idle.

  The 355th Tactical Fighter Wing used the Tet stand-down to prepare for the next fight, for they knew it would come all too quickly. Maintenance men worked hard to refurbish their airplanes. The fighter jocks worked to hone their skills.

  Benny, Max Foley, and the Bear had finished their tutorial the week before, but had only been able to give it to small groups of pilots between combat missions. Now they were given the chance to do it right, one fighter squadron at a time in the command post briefing theater.

  Today they briefed their own squadron, the 357th clit-lickers.

  Colonel Mack introduced them, telling the pilots to clear their minds of preconceived ideas about tactics, and that they could argue like hell, but only at the end of the session.

  The briefing started with a rundown of the antiaircraft artillery situation in North Vietnam, and Benny covered each type of weapon, its effective altitude, and the weakest links of each system. Although 37mm fire was nimble and easily slewed, it had short range and the rounds were small and not easily fused, so they generally were preset for specific altitudes. In contrast were 57mm rounds, which could be quickly fused to explode at different altitudes. S-60 guns had a fast rate of fire. Less nimble was 85mm, etc.

  He finished the threat briefing, then they went over jinking and tactics to use when AAA was present.

  Max spoke next, and the jocks listened intently. Not only had he been an air-to-air instructor at Nellis, he had now proven himself by killing a MiG. He spoke of the differences between wing-loading and energy of the Thud and the various MiG's, and about the differences in fighting doctrine. He told them they must see the MiG's while they were still setting up and know precisely what they were going to do before they made their first moves. He said that the Thud had the advantage of speed and firepower, and while it wasn't the most maneuverable jet in the world . . .

  SAMs were last. Just the missiles. The Bear talked about the SA-2 sites, how they were set up with the command van in the center with six outlying missile launchers, and how the SAM batteries looked like a Star of David from the air. Then he talked about the timing once the missiles were launched. How when you changed your heading and airspeed, it changed the point in space where the missile was being guided, and how it took time for the radar to tell the analog computers, and for the computers to compute a new intercept point, and for the data-link to tell the missile and for the missiles to tell the stubby little wings to change position. He talked about how the stubby little wings couldn't really change the course of a Mach three missile very quickly.

  Then Benny told how you could take advantage of all that by maneuvering when the missiles were close, and how if you had your energy up and maneuvered hard, the SAMs couldn't keep up with your . . .

  Next the Bear talked about the various radars. How the long-range Barlock had six beams which together could give the gomers your position, altitude, and heading. How the mid-range Spoonrest fed target inf
ormation to the tracking radars. How the Firecan radars had a little dish antenna that wobbled around and kept you centered and were linked to the guns. How the Fansong was really two radars, one for azimuth and one for height, and how it was linked to the SAMs.

  The finale began with a description of how the gomers worked the entire system, coordinating MiG's, guns, and SAMs. It ended with a synopsis of how the pilots' tactics should be geared toward defeating that entire system, not just one threat or another.

  The pilots argued and added insights of their own. The tones of voice would heat up, die down, then flare again. The planned ninety-minute briefing stretched to two, then to three hours, and when they finally broke up they all felt wiser.

  As the last pilots filed out, Max Foley grinned at Benny. "Feisty bunch, aren't they?"

  "I'm glad they're on our side."

  The Bear was collecting the viewgraphs and looking sour. He had been going around like that a lot lately.

  "You look like you aren't happy about the way it went, Bear," he said.

  The Bear shrugged and took the classified viewgraphs into intelligence for safekeeping.

  Max Foley watched him depart. "Something heavy on the Bear's mind?"

  "He takes the briefing seriously," said Benny, but he knew it was more than that. The Bear hadn't yet mentioned what was going on with Julie. He hadn't wanted to talk about Ries and Janssen being shot down going after the Barlock, or the mounting losses among the strike pilots. He didn't even want to talk about Ken Maisey quitting. Whenever Benny tried to talk about anything other than the briefing, the Bear simply grew surly and less communicative.

  Benny had decided to follow the Bear and try again to get to the root of the problem when Colonel Mack stuck his head into the door. "Good job, you guys."

  They started talking about the briefing session and improvements they could make before they tackled the next squadron tomorrow.