Termite Hill (Vietnam Air War Book 1) Read online

  Termite Hill

  Tom Wilson

  Copyright © 2015 Tom Wilson

  CONTENTS

  BOOK I

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BOOK II

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BOOK III

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  This work is dedicated to those who grow misty-eyed whenever the "Star Spangled Banner" is played, and to those who would dare to fight to keep the American dream alive.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No writer, even of fictional accounts, can work in a vacuum. For Termite Hill, I had the luxury of having the support of two experts, both close friends who were once also comrades in arms.

  Today the top graduate at the USAF Electronic Warfare Officer course at Mather AFB, California receives the Colonel Mike Gilroy Award. As a captain, Mike emerged from the Vietnam War as a respected hero. He went on to shape the future of electronic warfare for the Joint Services, Air Force and NATO. During the writing of Termite Hill, Mike spent much of his valuable time helping me get my facts straight and encouraging me to continue. Thanks, old buddy, and thanks for reminding me of the old Thai saying about true friendship: "A great number of people will drink with you. Very few will die with you."

  Jerry Hoblit has many times proven himself to be a true friend. When I first met him, I thought the ring-knocking West-Pointer was a boisterous fighter jock who loved to fly and fight . . . and win. After flying an eventful tour over North Vietnam with Jerry in 1966/67, I confirmed that first impression. A fighter weapons school graduate and instructor as well as a canny Wild Weasel tactician, he went on to become an astronaut-qualified test pilot, a test squadron commander, and a superb logistician. But his heart never strayed from the guys in the operational fighter squadrons. Jerry spent many hours reviewing Termite Hill for technical accuracy.

  I would like to toast the United States Air Force, and especially the group within who called themselves the fighter mafia and dedicated their lives and careers to correct the many inequities of leadership, training, and tactical employment. Together they built the finest Air Force in the world, and provided inspiration for this series.

  Finally and perhaps most importantly, my late mother taught me to read at the tender age of three and, shortly thereafter, to enjoy literature. If it had not been for her persistence I would not have begun the novel. Without the enduring support of my wife Andrea, who is also my chief critic, listening post, and personal editor, I could never have finished it.

  BOOK I

  Today—Termite Hill, Democratic Republic of Vietnam

  Precisely ninety-three miles west of Hanoi, the Da River, which flows southeast to Thanh Hoa, is joined by a small tributary from the southwest. In the "V" of the union is a low mountain, barren and desolate and pocked with deep craters.

  American pilots once called it Termite Hill.

  Tribesmen travel from the mountainous region near the Ma River in eastern Laos down the ancient, hard-pack trade road into Vietnam and ford the Da near the intersection of the stream and in full view of the mountain. They are taking wild game, betel nuts, scrawny chickens and pigs, and crude baskets to market to trade for rice, salt and ammunition as they have done every few months for centuries. But they are especially wary as they pass by the mountain. Like the local villagers, they call it Dead Mountain. It looks eerie and forlorn. The tribesmen believe it is inhabited by spirits.

  Years before, the elders of the short, bandy-legged group remember, the mountain had been tall and proud, thickly forested and lush, loud with the busy sounds of monkeys, birds, and flying insects. Of course, the mountain had been alive then.

  When the War of Unification was raging and the Americans flew their airplanes loaded with bombs toward the Great Hong valley, the tribesmen had astutely found another market far to the west, and for several seasons had gone there. They'd heard stories that the mountain had angered the Americans and that they were killing it, but few had believed they could succeed. Few things are so tenacious as the spirits of rocks and mountains.

  When the Americans stopped flying overhead, the Ma tribesmen returned to their old route and the closer market towns. They were amazed at what they saw when they looked across the tributary to the mountain. No sign of life. Quiet, except for an occasional stirring of wind across its barren and desolate ground.

  Nothing grows there now. During the rainy season the heavy downpours wash great amounts of red soil from the mountain, so much that the Da River changes to the color of blood as it flows past, and every dry season it seems that the mountain has shrunk again. They wonder if someday it will disappear altogether.

  The tribesmen were puzzled, so they asked the people at Bac Yen, the farm village nearest the mountain, what had happened.

  The villagers were annoyed by the questions of the ignorant tribesmen, but they finally confided that American airplanes had dropped great numbers of bombs and sometimes would even shoot their guns at the mountain. Everyone knew the Americans were crazy, the villagers said. There was no reason to destroy the mountain, but they had.

  The Ma tribesmen left, still perplexed and wondering why the Americans had chosen that particular mountain to kill.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday, November 25th, 1966—1417 Local, Route Pack Six, North Vietnam

  Tiny Bechler

  Twenty-four aircraft were in the strike force: six flights, with four F-105 Thunderchief fighter-bombers in each flight. Each aircraft was loaded with six M-117 750-pound general-purpose bombs. The target was the Yen Bai railroad siding and loading facility, a minor way-station on the railway that snaked northwest out of Hanoi and followed the Red River to China.

  During the briefing it had been forecast as a routine mission, and the mission commander had said there shouldn't be much trouble if everyone did their jobs. A quick in and out strike. Barely poke our noses over the Red River, he'd said, like he'd known what he was talking about. Tiny was a lieutenant and he'd only been flying combat for three weeks, so he'd believed him. A few of the old head pilots, who'd been at Takhli more than a month, said the target might be more difficult. They joked that Yen Bai was either Ho Chi Minh's home town, where he'd gotten his first piece of tail, or the place he just stored all his extra guns. They said it was defended so well it was ridiculous, considering its minor importance.

  Red Dog, the third flight in the procession, entered North Vietnamese airspace at 0717 Greenwich Mean Time, so heavily laden with bombs and fuel that it could maneuver only sluggishly. Tiny was Red Dog two, wingman for the new squadron commander who was even newer to combat than he was. Lieutenant Colonel Lee was entering Route Pack Six, the meanest area of North Vietnam, for the first time. Tiny was determined to be as helpful as possible.

  Jim Lee

  Lee craned his neck to ensure his four-ship flight was properly spaced. Lieutenant Bechler was flying several hundred feet off to the starboard side, turning and weaving in the jinking maneuver. Farther out off his left wing, the third and fourth aircraft flew in stag
gered echelon. Everyone seemed to be in their proper places.

  The flight wove its way through the sky, high above the green forested mountains. White, billowing clouds towered in the distance, appearing deceptively serene. Jim disliked sham. The weather should be angry and threatening, and exhibit the bleakness of war.

  He was flying at 545 knots calibrated airspeed, and although he had flown faster, he was rushing to a destiny he would not be fully able to control. With every passing minute they penetrated ten statute miles deeper into the heart of North Vietnam. The bombs and bullets were live, the switches were hot, the enemy would shoot. It was difficult to push the thoughts back, but he was neither a coward nor a quitter.

  Lee was a God-fearing man, a loyal husband, a proud father of three bright children, and an intense believer in America. His records showed early promotions to major and lieutenant colonel. He was a distinguished graduate of the USAF test pilot course at Edwards, with a formal education capped by a two-year tour at MIT where he'd completed a doctorate in physics. He was on NASA's alternate astronaut list for the Apollo space program, but he had been in that status since submitting his application the previous year. Instead of waiting with dwindling hopes for someone to be disqualified from the primary list, he had volunteered for a combat tour. Combat experience was a requisite for a successful military career.

  At McConnell AFB, where Lee had been sent to become combat ready in the F-105D, he'd earned creditable scores on the gunnery range. He'd flown box-patterns and dive-bombed practice bomblets onto a bull's-eye etched onto the ground, and strafed white panels hung between telephone poles. The tactical targets, barrels stacked up to simulate buildings and junked cars to simulate tanks, appeared more realistic from the air, but he'd learned little about combat flying. The instructors mentioned some in combat maneuvers but he couldn't practice them because they were considered too dangerous for peacetime training.

  He'd departed for Southeast Asia in mid-October, his end assignment unspecified. He was to attend jungle survival school in the Philippines, and somewhere en route he'd be issued amendments to his orders showing his final destination.

  When he'd finished the survival course, he'd cooled his heels for a week waiting for the amendments. He'd called Hickam Field and learned that his records had been circulated ever higher through the PACAF headquarters hierarchy, and finally had been passed to the ultimate boss. General Roman, commander at Pacific Air Forces Headquarters at Hickam Field, Honolulu, had personally reviewed Jim Lee's records. The loud, foulmouthed four-star, one of the small clique of bomber generals who had run things in the Air Force since its inception, was heir apparent to the Air Force chief of staff. He was a powerful man who got his way.

  When the amendments to Lee's orders arrived, telling him to report to Takhli Air Base in central Thailand, they also directed that his Air Force Specialty Code be changed from 1115E to A1115E, meaning he would be sent there as a squadron commander. An accompanying message advised him that the PACAF/CC had shown personal interest in his assignment.

  The selection had pleased Jim. He was a recently promoted lieutenant colonel, so "squadron commander" would look very good on his records.

  While he'd been clearing on base, dropping off his hand-carried records and receiving the half-dozen mandatory briefings, General Roman had telephoned B. J. Parker, the Takhli wing commander, to tell him that Jim Lee was his choice to take over the newly vacant squadron command job. Jim had learned about the call when he'd reported to the wing commander, and it embarrassed him. He'd explained that he had not requested the squadron commander's job.

  "Every now and then the general does something like this to remind us fucking cowboys down here who's boss," Parker had said when he welcomed him aboard. "That's what the general calls fighter pilots," he'd added.

  Jim disliked being caught in the middle. He'd told Parker that he may have been away from operational flying for five years, but that he prided himself on being a good pilot. Yet he would gladly serve in whatever capacity Parker wished until he'd proven himself. Parker had assured him he wasn't about to try to reverse Roman's decision. He assigned Jim to command the 357th squadron. He'd have some of the best flight commanders in the wing. Listen to them, he'd said, and in no time at all Lee'd get back into the swing of operational flying.

  Lee had left the colonel's office to move into his trailer, then to take charge of his fighter squadron. He felt good about the assignment.

  During his first week, Jim was given five indoctrination flights over the lightly defended southern panhandle of North Vietnam. On the second one, flying armed reconnaissance near the coastal city of Dong Hoi, he'd noticed flashes of small-arms fire on the ground. He had held his aircraft up high as suggested by the pilot in the accompanying aircraft and had not felt unduly threatened. On his ensuing missions he'd bombed dense forests, which intelligence said hid suspected truck parking areas, with growing confidence.

  One morning at a wing staff meeting, the short wing commander had announced to his assembled deputies, staff officers, and squadron commanders: "Colonel Lee's ready to take his turn in the barrel with the rest of us. Welcome aboard, Jim."

  It was to be a straightforward mission to the edge of pack six, but he was cautioned that even the easiest of missions there could be rough.

  Before noon, Jim Lee had written his wife that he was about to take his first flight into the area of North Vietnam designated "Route Pack Six" by headquarters.

  There's a unique kinship, he had penned, between pilots who have flown across the Red River into pack six. When I return from this afternoon's mission, I'll be one of that group. I've always regarded the camaraderie of fighter pilots as one of the things that makes the trials worthwhile. This is an elite group within another. I'm interested in discovering why they feel this way. It'll also make my job as squadron commander, with men assigned who have advantages of time and experience with tactical flying, much easier once I'm regarded as a part of their special group.

  I'll continue this letter tonight and tell you more.

  They'd flown over the rugged mountains of northwestern North Vietnam for ten minutes without incident. According to Jim Lee's map, not many miles ahead the mountains would dwindle to wooded foothills, then abruptly end. Beyond would be the broad valley, shaped and nurtured through the years by the Red River.

  As they passed over a small flatland between two mountain ridges, the radio silence was shattered by an excited voice. "Whiskey flight, we've got bogeys at our ten o'clock, heading west."

  Lee stared out to the left and forward of the flight. Whiskey flight was only a minute or two in front of Red Dog. He looked about the skies, saw nothing, keyed his radio, and spoke carefully to keep his voice calm and steady.

  "Red Dog flight, be on the lookout—" His radio transmission was interrupted.

  "This is Whiskey lead. We got two MiG-17's at our nine o'clock high, coming in fast. We're breakin' left and into 'em, Whiskeys."

  Lee almost maneuvered, but checked the impulse. He was leading Red Dog, not Whiskey flight. He stared about the sky, adrenaline pumping hard.

  "Whiskey three and four, take the starboard MiG! He's starting to turn."

  "Whiskey three, roger!" The voice strained under the stresses of g-forces.

  Jim Lee looked frantically to his left and right. "Red Dogs—" His transmission was interrupted by another excited radio call.

  "Whiskey three, this is lead, you still got a visual on your MiG?"

  Sounds of high-g grunting came over the radio. "I got him in sight."

  "Whiskey two, this is lead. Let's clean 'em up and engage. The port-side MiG's at our eleven, going left to right."

  "Two is jettisoning."

  Again Jim Lee began his radio transmission to the flight, voice crackling with apprehension. "Red Dog flight, this is lead. Keep a good lookout and report anything you see."

  "Red Dog!" snapped the previous voice, "stay off the air unless you see something. Whiskey flight's e
ngaged by MiG's!"

  Lee burned with embarrassment. The rebuke had come from a flight commander assigned to his own squadron. He glanced down at the flight line-up card on his kneepad to note the name—Major Crawford—and resolved to talk to him after they got back on the ground.

  Whiskey's chatter continued. "Whiskeys, let's break it off. The MiG's are still headin' north and we're getting close to the Chinese buffer zone."

  The flight responded.

  "Whiskey two, roger."

  "Three."

  "Four."

  Lee wondered if Crawford wasn't a bit MiG-happy. Shouldn't he have used defensive tactics, not immediately gone on the attack? He'd look into it. His nervousness was waning and he was better able to discipline his emotions.

  Red Dog flight was over foothills, approaching the valley. The Doppler radar navigation system showed twelve miles to the target. Beyond the foothills, the Red River valley was flat and featureless—a patchwork of rice paddies painted in shades of dull greens, yellows, and browns, interrupted by laceworks of reservoirs and irrigation canals.

  The weather was acceptable, with only a few distant clouds marring their visibility. The mission wouldn't be called off. The counter showed nine nautical miles to go. Their ground speed was 550 knots, about nine nautical miles a minute, so time to target was about a minute. His breathing became harsh, the suck and hiss loud in his earphones. Don't hyperventilate, he told himself, trying to ration his breathing in the confinement of the oxygen mask.

  He could see the wide, muddy river, then the town of Yen Bai. White puffs of flak spattered here and there above the village.

  The fighters in front of Red Dog were visible as dark specks in the distance, now soaring upward as they approached the target. The number of white puffs increased, then increased again, growing into a blanket, and he felt it would be impossible to fly through the shrapnel hidden there. New danger! Larger, charcoal-gray blossoms, aimed bursts from the bigger guns, moved about in intelligent patterns, seeking the individual aircraft diving toward the target. The dark bursts were guided by optical systems and precision radars.