Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double

by Robert Vaughan

  “When, at last, one of the pilots did pick up the identifying code, the attack was terminated immediately.

  “Now, that brings up a question which has not been addressed by this court. Why was Colonel Mot butchering innocent men, women, and children? Perhaps it is not the function of this court to answer that question…but I believe it is the duty of this court to raise another. Is it possible that there may be certain elements in the South Vietnamese Army who don’t want this question asked? Could these be the same people who insisted that the Americans charge Mr. Carmack with Mot’s murder?

  “Gentlemen, I am not interested in why Colonel Mot was murdering villagers. Perhaps it is a question of international politics. I am perfectly willing to leave the question begging. I am, however, interested in the fate of Mike Carmack. I cannot believe, and…will not allow...an officer who has performed such valuable, loyal, and courageous service to be the sacrificial lamb no matter what the political reason.”

  Reynolds walked back over to his table and stood there for a long moment, letting the power of his last few words sink in. Finally, with a courtly nod, he sat down.

  “The defense rests,” he said quietly.

  Epilogue

  Washington Spring, 1986

  Mike Carmack was found innocent, though he didn’t get away without cost. The army remembered it, and when the big reduction in force came about in 1972, CW-3 Mike Carmack, who had eighteen years in the army, lost his retirement benefits when he was removed from the active-duty rolls. It was a matter of fiscal responsibility, the army said, and not only Mike, but also several thousand other warrant and commissioned officers were released.

  Ernie saw Mike about ten years later, down in Mexico. He had been flying helicopters for some high-risk oil exploration company and when the company went bankrupt, Mike was stranded with no money and nowhere to go. Ernie tried to loan him money but Mike would never take it.

  Then, just six months later, Ernie got a letter from him. In it was a picture of Mike and one of the most beautiful women Ernie had ever seen.

  Can you believe Colonel Todaro has a daughter like this? Hard to figure, isn’t it? Never in a thousand years would I have thought Todaro would wind up as my father-in-law, but that he is. I met her in Hollywood.

  That’s what I said…Hollywood. Maria works as a secretary for Helicopter Action Sequences, the company that hired me. I’ve got a cushy job flyin’ for the movies. Shit, a flight with only one-half the pucker factor we used to pull in Nam now pays five to ten thousand. Why the hell didn’t I do this a long time ago? By the way...I never collected that dinner you beat me out of at the My Kahn...

  The shadows grew long at the Vietnam monument and the line thinned. Ernie stepped up to the black polished stone and raised his hand to the chiseled letters. He let his fingers slide across the ridges of John Rindell’s name.

  “I retired today, John,” Ernie said quietly. “They wanted to give me a dinner…told me the White House press secretary would come. They couldn’t believe I turned them down, didn’t know why I didn’t want to celebrate.

  “They just don’t understand, that’s all. I’m going to celebrate. I’m going to have that dinner we never had at the My Kahn…drink a few cold beers to make up for all the hot ones we had to drink over there. And then, if I’m lucky, I might even find a woman to talk to who doesn’t think my hair is too white, my face too wrinkled, or my eyes too old.

  “How ’bout it, John? You wanna come along?”

  Dateline: AN LOI

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The day was scorching, at least ninety-five degrees and a hot, dusty wind rattled the limbs of the cottonwood trees. The road ran alongside a riverbed, dry except for a narrow stream of slow-moving muddy water. On both sides of the narrow stream, the mud had caked and broken into a mosaic of crazy tile.

  Ernie Chapel was in southwestern South Dakota, in the area known as the Badlands. Here, on rubble-strewn barrens, or shale land, under the overhangs of rocky plateaus, or in eroded gullies, he could see prickly pear and sage weed growing alongside the beautiful and delicate penstemon and Indian paintbrush. This was home to prairie dogs, buffalo, and pronghorn antelopes.

  Ernie had the hood of his van propped open as he walked down the side of the riverbank toward the narrow stream that ran through the middle. Behind him, little wisps of steam curled up from the radiator. He was carrying an empty milk carton.

  Ernie dipped water from the middle of the stream, then walked back up to the van. It had cooled down enough for him to pop off the radiator cap and this he did. A little water gushed over, but not too much. He waited for a moment, then poured the water from the milk carton into the radiator.

  He was just coming back up the hill for the fourth time when a pickup truck pulled up behind his van. Though not rotating, there was a blue light on top of the truck, and a sign on the door read: INDIAN POLICE, PINE RIDGE RESERVATION. A tall, dark-skinned, dark-eyed Indian got out of the truck and walked toward the van. He was wearing khaki trousers and a khaki shirt. His blue-black hair hung down his back in a long braid. A star was pinned to his pocket and a pistol was strapped to his side.

  “I hope you’re straining that water,” the Indian policeman said. “Otherwise, it’s so dirty it could pollute your entire cooling system.”

  “I had to do something to cool the block down,” Ernie replied. “My engine was about to go belly-up on me and that wouldn’t be too good out here.” He leaned against the van and wiped his forehead. His beard and hair were white, his eyes blue.

  “No, you’re a long way from anywhere,” the Indian said. He eyed Ernie curiously. “Are you visiting someone on the reservation?”

  “Yes,” Ernie said.

  “Who? Maybe I can help you...give you some directions how to get there.”

  “An old friend of mine,” Ernie said. He slid open the door to the side of his van, opened the little refrigerator and took out two cold cans of beer. He handed one to the Indian policeman, then popped the top off his own.

  “I’m on duty, I can’t drink this,” the Indian said. Even as he spoke he popped the top, then took a long swallow.

  “Yeah, I shouldn’t be drinking and driving either,” Ernie said. “But I’m not exactly driving right now. I’m looking for Hunter Two Bears.”

  “What do you want to see Two Bears for?” the policeman asked.

  “I just want to talk to him.”

  “You know Hunter Two Bears?” the Indian asked.

  “Yes.”

  The Indian paused with the beer can halfway to his lips. He squinted at Ernie.

  “How come you know him? You a federal marshal?”

  “No. I’m just a private citizen.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Hunter Two Bears?” the Indian wanted to know.

  “I’d say it’s been eighteen years.”

  “Eighteen years? Eighteen years ago, Hunter was in Vietnam.”

  “I know.”

  “You a Vietnam vet?” the Indian asked.

  “No, but I was there.” Ernie stuck out his hand. “My name is Ernie Chapel.”

  The Indian policeman smiled broadly. “Ernie Chapel? You’re the one who wrote the stories about Hunter, aren’t you? You’re the one got him his medal.”

  “No,” Ernie said quickly. “Yes, I did write the stories but I had nothing to do with his getting the medal. He did that all on his own.”

  The Indian finished his can of beer then put it on the floorboard of Ernie’s van. “Throw that outside and I’m going to arrest you for littering,” he said, pointing to the can. He hitched up his trousers. “Think this thing will run now?”

  “I’m sure it will,” Er
nie answered.

  “Come on, follow me. I’ll take you to Two Bears.”

  Ernie thanked the policeman, then put the hood down on his van. When he started the engine, he was gratified to see that it started with no difficulty. The pickup truck drove by. Then Ernie pulled out on the road to follow him.

  For over ten years, Ernie Chapel had covered the Vietnam experience, from the murder of the Diems to the helicopters the Vietnamese crash-landed at sea in the early days. He had been a reporter for Combined Press International, writing stories for the newspapers back home.

  Ernie had seen it all in Vietnam, from the bloody booby traps on the My Kahn Floating Restaurant to the Phantom Jet raids on Hanoi. He had dined with the loveliest women Vietnam had to offer and he had shared foxholes with dying soldiers. Now he was retired, traveling around the country, renewing old relationships and tying up loose ends. It was just such a task that brought him to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota.

  Ernie followed the pickup truck. Because his engine had already overheated once, he was running without the air conditioner. The windows were down and hot wind blew through the van. He looked around the barren hills and desolate land. So, this was where Hunter Two Bears came from. Ernie smiled. He understood Hunter a little better now. It would take a mean son of a bitch to survive this place, and Hunter Two Bears was about as mean as they came.

  Chapter One

  Viet Cong Attack Long Binh

  by Ernie Chapel

  LONG BINH, South Vietnam, NOV. 7, 1967 — Viet Cong guerrillas staged mortar and sapper attacks last night against United States soldiers at the sprawling military base at Long Binh.

  Two Americans were killed and eleven were wounded in the shellings, a headquarters spokesman said. The attack was aimed at the 90th Replacement Depot and at those soldiers who had either just arrived or were just leaving Vietnam.

  The United States headquarters official said over 150 rounds of enemy mortar fire struck the base while at least two dozen sappers attempted to sneak on to the base to plant explosives. More than a dozen of the sappers were killed. Estimates are that another dozen VC were killed by “Puff the Magic Dragon” in defense of the base. “Puff the Magic Dragon” is a C-130 cargo plane, armed along one side with a row of miniguns. These guns, with rotating barrels similar to the old “Gatling” guns of the Civil War era, are capable of firing 550 rounds per minute. Ten such guns are located throughout the ship, firing through the windows at the ground below. A gunner tends to the guns, while the airplane orbits just out of range of ground fire. It is said that one of these planes can put a bullet in every square foot of a football field during just one minute of firing.

  “To hell with it, Sarge,” Sergeant Bill Hanlon said.

  “Yeah, really,” Sergeant First Class Hunter Two Bears answered.

  Ernie burped, then took another swallow of his beer. “To hell with them all,” he added.

  “Except for six and save them for pallbearers,” Bill put in.

  SFC Hunter Two Bears, Sergeant Bill Hanlon, and Ernie Chapel were sitting on top of a bunker at Long Binh, drinking beer and discussing ways to end the war.

  “The way I see it,” Bill went on, “we ought to put Nixon and Ho Chi Minh on a deserted island somewhere…without any weapons of any kind, without clothes, even.”

  “Without clothes?” Hunter asked

  “Yeah. You know, strip them down to their bare essence.”

  Ernie laughed. “Can’t you just see Nixon and Ho Chi Minh with their bare essences hanging out?”

  “I think it would make a fine sight,” Hunter said. “To their bare essences,” he toasted.

  “We ought to just put them there and say, ‘Okay, we’ll be back in six hours to pick up whoever’s left alive.’ ”

  Hunter burped, then punched a hole in the top of another beer can. “That’s what we need: young, fresh ideas like that.”

  Ernie laughed. “And what then?” he asked.

  “What then?” Bill replied. He took a long swallow of his beer. “Well, hell, it’s simple,” he said. “When we go back we just kill whichever son of a bitch is left alive and get on about our business.”

  There was a stomach-shaking boom from across the base and a huge ball of fire rose into a night sky that was already criss-crossed with tracer rounds.

  “Son of a bitch!” someone shouted from down inside the bunker. “Did you hear that? That was close!”

  “’Course, if you put those two pussies together, you sure wouldn’t have much of a fight,” Hunter noted, paying absolutely no attention to the shouts of panic from the bunker, nor to the fire fight going on across the base.

  “Do you...do you think the security team can stop them?” a frightened voice asked.

  “God, I hope so. I’m a personnel clerk. I’m not supposed to have to worry about this shit.”

  Hunter had driven Bill down to Long Binh today. Bill, who had been one of Hunter’s squad leaders, had finished his twelve months and was taking the Freedom Bird back to the world the next morning. Ernie had met both of them in the NCO club a little earlier. He wanted to go up-country to do a story, so Hunter invited him to go back with him the next day. Tonight they were giving Bill a royal send-off.

  In the meantime, a suicide squad of VC sappers had chosen that very night to attack Long Binh. When the attack came, everyone rushed to the bunkers except Bill, Hunter, and Ernie. They took a couple of six-packs of beer to the top of the bunker they were assigned to and throughout the attack they sat there, watching the show. They felt no sense of danger because the attack was taking place a good half mile away from them.

  “Well, it’s not like you could sell tickets to watch them or anything,” Bill defended. “That’s not what it’s about. Who’d want to watch two wimps fight?”

  From some point in the sky, a solid stream of red tracer rounds started streaming down toward the ground.

  “Look at that, will you?” Ernie said, pointing to the sky. “They brought in Puff.”

  “So, that’s Puff,” Bill observed. “Shit! No wonder nobody can get Puff up-country. He’s too busy down here protecting file clerks.”

  “Come on, Bill, don’t be so hard on file clerks,” Hunter said. “You’re going home tomorrow, aren’t you? Just think if Charlie got in and screwed up all the records and nobody knew when anyone’s DROS was.”

  “Yeah, you’ re right.”

  “DROS, R&R, payday. That’s what we’re fighting for.”

  “Maybe that’s what you old farts are fighting for,” Bill said. “But not me.”

  “What are you fighting for?”

  “A twenty-two-foot jumper at the buzzer, root beer floats, screwin’ on the beach.”

  “Really? You think Custer’s men were fighting for that shit when my people kicked his ass?” Hunter asked.

  “Nah. They didn’t have basketball then,” Bill said.

  “No, but they had beaches and they sure as hell had screwin’,” Ernie said.

  The sound of Puff’s guns reached them. They didn’t pop like machine guns; they buzzed, like a buzz saw.

  Hunter held his beer can up to the sky in salute. “Give ’em hell, Puff.”

  “Yeah, pour it on ’em,” Bill said.

  There were three louder-than-normal bangs as, over by the perimeter where Charlie was trying to make his penetration, three Claymores were set off.

  “Oh, shit! Did you hear that?” a frightened voice down in the bunker said. “Those were Claymores! They must be gettin’ through for the Claymores to be set off!”

  “Where’s the goddamned security? Goddammit! Why aren’t they doin’ their job?”

  A Viet Cong mortar went to work and a round was dropped in one of the company streets.

  “Oh, shit! Now they’re using mortars!” someone down in the bunker said.

  “You think this bunker can take a direct hit?”

  “I don’t know, I wouldn’t want to find out.”

  “What about th
ose three dumb shits up on top?”

  “To hell with them. Two of ’em are from up-country, the other one’s a reporter who doesn’t even have to be here. If you ask me, they’re all three crazy.”

  “Hey, Bill, you goin’ to stay in the army?” Hunter asked. “I mean you’re what, twenty? And already made sergeant. Hell, I was twenty-five before I made my third stripe. It seems a shame for you to just go home and throw it away.”

  “I don’t know, man,” Bill answered. “I’ve got a basketball scholarship to go to college. Seems like I ought to try and make something of myself.”

  “You can make something of yourself in the army,” Hunter said.

  Bill laughed. “Trying to work the old recruitment on me, are you, Sarge?”

  “It’s an honorable profession.”

  “Yeah, well, you Indians always have been big on that honor shit,” Bill said.

  “What do you know about Indians?” Hunter asked.

  “Hell, I read Last of the Mohicans and I know all about Tonto, and, oh, I saw the movie Broken

  Arrow. That was a damned good flick, man, with Jimmy Stewart? He married an Indian girl in that picture.”

  “Damn! With credentials like that, the government could appoint you head of the B.I.A.,” Ernie teased.

  “You got that right.” Hunter laughed. He rubbed his chin. “Say, listen,” he said, suddenly changing the subject. “Are you two guys hungry? Would you like some steak?”

  “Steak? Are you serious?” Ernie asked.

  “Sure,” Hunter answered. “When we walked by the officers’ club before this shit started, I saw a bunch of doofus lieutenants cooking steaks. What you just bet they’re still on the grill? If we don’t get them, they’ll burn up.”