Tango Uniform (Vietnam Air War Book 3) Read online

  It was a matter of luck, his passing Mack in rank and position. At the start of the Korean War they'd both started with two aerial kills in F-82 Twin Mustangs, but then, in 1951, he'd been assigned to F-86's while Mack had gone into F-84's. Buster had gotten four more enemy kills in Sabres while Mack concentrated on dropping bombs and dodging flak in his Thunderhog. Subsequently Buster had been assigned to headquarters jobs, impressing generals and giving speeches at civic gatherings, while Mack had remained in the squadron trenches, leading men and teaching them the finer points of flying fighters.

  Mack would be leaving Takhli in another week, and Buster wished to hell he was not. He needed his kind of steady support and leadership where it counted most—in the squadron. The previous evening he'd learned much more about the fighter operation in the two hours with Mack than he had during the full day with B. J. Parker and all his briefings.

  His mind returned to the matter at hand. The Deputy for Operations, George Armaugh, was waiting in the outer office. He had to do some fine pussyfooting to establish the right rapport with the man whose authority he'd just usurped, and which he intended to bend just a bit more.

  He paused thoughtfully for a few reluctant heartbeats before calling on the intercom, "Ask Colonel Armaugh to come in—alone, please."

  The colonel paused at the door and started to salute, but Buster waved him to the chair vacated by Manny DeVera.

  "Need to talk to you for a few minutes, George." The Deputy for Operations took his seat. He was a serious man, and from all Buster had heard, capable. He also outranked Buster by two years' time in grade as colonel. Both of those were reasons to play this one carefully.

  He attacked it in a direct fashion, as he did most things. "I just did something I will try not to repeat in the future. I jumped the chain of command and appointed Captain DeVera as wing weapons officer. I don't apologize for the wisdom of selecting DeVera, since I have great faith in him and have reasons for my action beyond that, but I apologize for not consulting with you first."

  The DO's face clouded and his jaw set firmly. Buster had stepped squarely onto his turf. The weapons officer worked for the Deputy of Operations.

  "I wanted to tell you at once so you wouldn't hear about it secondhand."

  The DO nodded, but it was a curt motion.

  "I saw the list you forwarded to Colonel Parker. The one regarding your recommendations for commanders of the flying squadrons, and I'd also like to discuss those with you, George."

  "You're making changes?" Armaugh asked too abruptly.

  "Suggestions. I do the suggesting, you do the changing."

  The DO's brows were knitted and low, his look dark. Buster knew that if he were in his shoes, he'd be feeling much the same. There was little worse than a boss who interfered.

  "You're going to have to bear with me, George. No matter what anyone thinks about the importance of various organizations within a flying wing, the critical elements of a combat unit are logistics, maintenance, and operations. We're here to fly and fight, and those three functions are the keys to making it happen. I'll be working very closely with my three deputies in those areas and calling some of the shots there."

  "If you don't trust my judgment, Colonel, I'll request—"

  Buster interrupted sharply. "I didn't say that, Colonel. I don't know you well enough to know if I do or don't trust you. If I find we can't work together, you won't have to request a transfer or another job, because you'll be history."

  The DO looked as if he'd been slapped. Buster continued without pause. "Now let's discuss your squadron commanders."

  "Yes, sir." Armaugh, who Buster had heard was generally quiet and unassuming, wore the look of an angry bulldog.

  Buster read from the key personnel list. The DO had recommended that Mack MacLendon be replaced in the 357th by Lieutenant Colonel Obie Zeigler. Leska knew Zeigler from Europe, and he was an amiable and capable, if overly cautious, manager of people. Not nearly the leader Mack was, but there were few of those around. "I know Obie," he said. "You made a good choice there and I agree. You tell him yet?"

  "No, sir."

  "Go ahead and cut the orders." He went back to the list. The DO had picked Lieutenant Colonel Yank Donovan, a new arrival, as acting commander for the 354th squadron until Lucky Anderson arrived back from R and R. For the reasons he'd told Manny, Buster objected to the temporary status. What he'd not told Manny was that he'd talked about Yank Donovan with Mack MacLendon the previous night. More than anyone, Buster trusted Mack's judgments of men.

  "You've got Donovan down as the acting 354th commander. Why not put him in full-time?"

  The DO hesitated.

  "Tell me about him," Buster prodded.

  "Very capable pilot. A lot of experience in fighters."

  "He comes from McConnell, right?" McConnell AFB in Kansas was the replacement training unit, or RTU, for pilots upgrading into the F-105.

  The DO nodded, obviously still displeased that his recommendations were being second-guessed. "Yank was an instructor there."

  "When I went through McConnell a few months ago, he was considered somewhat of a pompous ass."

  The DO was quick to agree. "Yank's favorite words are "I" and "my." He's quick to take credit and slow to give it."

  "That why you're not giving him the command job?"

  "I want people leading the squadrons I can be damned sure are taking care of the pilots. I don't trust Yank Donovan to do that."

  "How will you know if you don't try him? He's a senior lieutenant colonel, and he's got more flying hours in the Thud than almost anyone in the wing. My suggestion is that you put him into the job full-time and give him a try. He screws up, we'll get rid of him."

  "Yes, sir," said the DO with a sigh.

  "How about the 333rd squadron? You didn't have a recommendation there."

  "Colonel Parker told me General Moss directed that Lucky Anderson get command of a squadron. That's the only one left for him now."

  Buster began his little bit of playacting, to boost the DO's ego that he'd just trampled. "I dunno. He's only a major, and that will create problems. If you don't think he's the right man for the job, I'll call the general and argue for someone else." Buster felt his charade was safe enough. Mack had told him that George Armaugh thought highly of Lucky Anderson. He also knew that changing General Moss's mind about giving Lucky Anderson a command would be next to impossible. When Moss made a decision about his men, he stood by it come hell or high water.

  "Tell me about Anderson," he said.

  The DO reflected for only a couple of seconds. "He can handle anything you give him. He's that kind. I think we should give him a shot at the squadron."

  "That good? He's only a major."

  "I trust him."

  Buster looked thoughtful, as if he were making up his mind. "Okay," he finally said, "I'll go along if you think he's the right guy for the job."

  The DO looked somewhat mollified, as if his toes felt just a bit less trampled.

  "How's the base commander reacting to Major Foley's flyby?"

  "He called three times before I left my office, to update the damage estimate. The total was up to five thousand dollars and climbing. Every time he called, his voice got a little louder, I'd tell Max his tab was going up, and Max would shrink a little lower."

  "Anything serious?"

  "Blew down a couple of sheds around the base perimeter they'd put up to keep the Thai guards out of the rain and the noonday sun. Otherwise it's mostly broken glass.

  "Dumb-shit thing for Foley to do."

  "Yeah."

  Buster cocked his head. "You ever do it?"

  "Once. I was flying F-89's, and it was damned hard to go supersonic without really trying. I buzzed the SAC base at Upper Heyford, over in the UK." The DO almost grinned. "They never caught me and I never told."

  "I did it just once too," Buster said. "After my sixth kill I made a low pass over Osan in an F-86. Couldn't sit down for a week for the multiple
ass-chewings, and they were seriously considering an article fifteen."

  "How'd you get out of it?"

  "The following week my engine quit on me, and I spent seven months up north, courtesy of the North Koreans. When I was released, they'd forgotten about it. At least I guess they had. I sure as hell didn't ask."

  The DO chuckled for the first time since Buster had called him in.

  "Tell you what," said Buster. "Drop back by this afternoon, and we'll figure a way to calm down the base commander and still get Max Foley on his way back to the States." Five minutes later the DO was gone, to check on the afternoon's combat-mission preparations.

  Leska picked up the key personnel roster and marked it up the way they'd changed it. Then he put it aside and sat back in his chair. His mind dwelled on the matter that was seldom far from the surface of his thoughts, the task he'd been given by the chief. He had never been entrusted with a mission of such consequence, and although primary responsibility was now passed to General Moss, Buster continued to be concerned. If Moss provides the proper ammunition, and if the chief can be convincing enough with L.B.J. . . .

  He wondered if the North Vietnamese leadership had an inkling of what might be about to befall them, whether they were weighing the threat of a balls-out attack by the American air forces. They should be worried. No two-bit dictatorship should think they could get away with what they were doing. Surely the President would grasp at the chance to end the fighting, once he understood the awesome pressure the Air Force could bring to bear on the North Vietnamese. When he gave the green flag, the nature of the war would quickly change.

  He savored the thought.

  1945L—Hanoi, DRV

  Colonel Xuan Nha

  The homecoming, after spending more than six months in the Bach Mai Hospital, was more satisfying than Xuan Nha had dared to hope. His wife, Li Binh, made it so.

  When the aged black Peugeot delivered him to the driveway of their villa, Li Binh waited in the lighted entryway, a dutiful and serene expression stamped on her face. His car door was opened by the driver, and Xuan tried hard to maintain dignity as he turned and slowly emerged. Lieutenant Quang Hanh, who had ridden with him from the hospital, limped painfully around the vehicle and grasped his arm to help support him.

  Li Binh followed them to the front door, held open by a comely young girl hardly out of puberty, who looked on with wide eyes.

  "Welcome home, my husband," said Li Binh. As he made his way inside, Xuan passed six new servants lined and awaiting his inspection. Li Binh had expanded the number of household help, as befit her new positions in party and government.

  "There," Xuan Nha croaked to Quang Hanh, motioning at a rugged chair fashioned of coarse strips of water-buffalo hide.

  Li Binh pointed, and the young maidservant was quick to go there and hold it firmly in place as Quang Hanh maneuvered him. Xuan felt perverse satisfaction as he took his seat. The chair was Spartan and uncomfortable, but it represented his life prior to the Mee bombing attack that had crippled him. A symbol of normalcy and return.

  "Tea," barked Li Binh, and the girl bolted toward the kitchen. Xuan Nha watched her go as Li Binh curtly motioned Quang Hanh toward the door.

  "I have assigned Lieutenant Hanh as my aide," Xuan rasped. "I would like him to be assigned a room." Xuan Nha and Quang Hanh had shared much in the past year. The lieutenant had been his communications officer and courier throughout Xuan's triumphs and promotions. He'd also been there when the Mee fighters had found and bombed them, and had lain wounded at his side.

  "Of course, my husband," Li Binh murmured. She motioned to a manservant. "Show the lieutenant the quarters at the garages."

  Prior to his injury that room had been assigned to Xuan Nha's driver. He'd disappeared soon after Li Binh learned he was a sometime lover of her nephew, Nguyen Wu, now an official in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Li Binh had obtained the position for her nephew prior to hearing of his preference for males, when she'd used him for her own sexual gratification. She'd banished Nguyen Wu from her life . . . and her bedroom . . . and had his known male lovers killed.

  Li Binh was powerful, secretive, and very vindictive.

  She stood before him, the dutiful smile still on her face. Capable Li Binh, member of the Central Committee and advisor to the politburo, just assigned the title of Deputy Minister for External Affairs. The title was symbolic. She personally and zealously supervised the highly successful propaganda efforts abroad, interfacing with antiwar and other dissident groups around the world, her fingers in so many foreign pies it was dizzying. She was one of few who was not only a favorite of Ho Chi Minh, the Enlightened One, but also most of the others within the highest government circles . . . because she obtained results. Surely the most influential behind-the-scenes member of the government, she worked to remain in the background. Vo Nguyen Giap, Pham Van Dong, Le Duan, Le Duc Tho, and others were known to the world. Li Binh was a shadow who often made their political successes possible. It was Xuan Nha's belief that, although the Vietnamese People's Army was dedicated and capable, Li Binh and her offices had the only real chance of forcing the Mee from the war. The People's Army must withstand and endure, destroy as many Americans as possible, but only through quiet, judicious application of international wile could they win. Secrecy and political cunning were Li Binh's fortés.

  If Giap grew upset about the effectiveness of a particular Mee weapons system being used against his troops, she could orchestrate a peace-group demonstration outside the manufacturer's munitions plants, cause delays, create exposes to appear in American and European newspapers, and even contrive political investigations by representatives of the American government.

  If Le Duc Tho called for a change to the image of Viet Cong savagery, articles would be released to the world's media by press services. The Viet Cong would be shown as dutiful, courageous soldiers, the atrocities committed by corrupt Saigon puppet soldiers who tried to blame them on the communist rebels.

  Li Binh provided results. She'd become indispensable to the party, infinitely more powerful than her technical-minded husband, and certainly didn't have to maintain charades of respect or politeness toward him. But they'd lived together, shared secrets never to be told another, and developed a familiarity and easiness together. He supposed those were the reasons she greeted him back into the household. She didn't need him for any purpose he knew of.

  When he'd been gravely injured, she'd visited only once, then left him to die in the Bach Mai Hospital without even a semblance of grief. She'd resumed visiting only after it became apparent that he might survive, when he'd resumed his duties of overseeing the country's sophisticated defenses from his hospital room, but she'd displayed open repugnance at his hideous burns and missing limb. The feeling of familiarity had been slow to resurrect.

  He settled in the chair, hunched to protect his still-sensitive abdomen, and regarded her. With a nod she banished the remaining servants.

  "You look well, Li Binh."

  "Thank you, husband." She bobbed her head, a tiny caricature of the traditional act of wifely obeisance, then pointed about the room. "It is as it was when you left."

  "But you are not."

  Her expression sharpened.

  "You have had many successes. I know how you have proved yourself again and again. I smile when I hear of each glorious victory. You bring honor to me and to your family."

  Her smile was genuine, for Li Binh was tremendously vain. She enjoyed exercising control and being told of her power. Xuan Nha knew to use that key. They were similar in that regard.

  "I see you have a new household staff," he said. As did other high officials, Li Binh drew political prisoners, who for a variety of reasons suffered the wrath of the Lao Dong, for use as servants. She felt the ones who'd fallen furthest, who had once held positions of power, were best, more fearful, and thus reliable, for they were sufficiently intelligent to know the alternatives.

  She shrugged. "The old ones grew complai
sant."

  Which meant she'd either had them eliminated or shipped to labor units. The thought of their fates didn't bother Xuan Nha. The reason for her decision interested him. Complaisant? They'd been constantly terrified and would have done anything not to anger her. It was more likely they'd learned too much about Li Binh's personal life. He decided they'd been executed by secret policemen from Internal Affairs and tossed into a killing pit to ensure their silence.

  Tea arrived, borne by the meek young girl who served and immediately hurried out. Xuan's eyes followed her with interest.

  "Her parents," Li Binh said of the departed girl, "were lawyers, her father a people's magistrate in Haiphong. Western books were found in their possession. They were about to be sent to carry supplies on the trails when I asked for them."

  Xuan looked at the closed door and wondered about Li Binh's desire to surround herself with failed success.

  "The servants know to assist you," said Li Binh. "I told them to be helpful."

  He nodded, uneasy that he was so dependent. Xuan Nha had his own vanities.

  "I had your things moved to the south room," she said quietly, "for I felt you should not be jostled while you sleep."

  "That was thoughtful," he responded. He felt no surprise. He'd known she wouldn't wish to share his bed. The spacious guest quarters in the south wing were quite sufficient for his needs.

  "I must return to my offices, husband. You will find I am even busier than before."

  "I understand your duties are important."

  "If you wish for anything, tell the servants." She departed.

  Xuan Nha sighed and settled back in the uncomfortable chair.

  After he'd spent half an hour of quiet contemplation, Quang Hanh cautiously peered into the room. "Colonel Nha?"

  He motioned him inside.

  "I have the radios set up in my room, comrade Colonel, and I have established contact with the command center. They know to call if they have anything requiring your attention."

  Xuan grunted his approval. Quang Hanh held a distrust of telephone lines.

  "If you no longer need me . . ."