Eagle Station Part 29

"The climate of Laos is primarily influenced by the monsoon winds that govern conditions in all of eastern Asia from India to Kamchatka in eastern Siberia. The monsoon cycle results from the changes in the seasonal flow of air over the vast Asian landma.s.s and the oceans to the south and east. In winter, dry air over the continent becomes cold and dense, settles, and flows-2'

"Okay, Stormy, that's just fine," Colonel Bryce said.

". . . and flows generally southward. From its prevailing direction in the Indochinese peninsula, this winter airflow is called the Northeast Monsoon. In summer, the situation is reversed. The continental air-"

"That will do," Bryce said, and stood up. "Thank you very much."

"But, sir, I'm not done yet."

"Oh, yes you are," Bryce said and looked at Hostettler. "You got anything more, d.i.c.k?"

"Yes, sir, the dry season is almost here but there are still some rotten weather days up at Eagle. In fact, rainfall averages sixty inches per year up there. I think we're going to have trouble maintaining a twenty-four-hour watch on that place."

"I think that's where we can help, Colonel," the commander of the AC-130 detachment said. "We fly almost entirely at night, and we have some bad-weather capability as long as the target is in a low-threat area. By that I mean we can tool around at three or four-thousand feet above the ground, but below a cloud layer that you men cannot dive-bomb through.

We've got three Spectres here and operational now, and more coming.

While we can't put one on dedicated alert for Eagle, we can divert easily enough from the Trail and send our alert bird out to replace the Trail bird. You'll actually get a faster response that way since the distance from the Trail to Eagle is shorter than from Ubon to Eagle."

The Spectre detachment commander was a broad-shouldered lieutenant colonel named Spike Charles.

"Good, Spike," Stan Bryce said. "We'll integrate you into the plan." He turned to Gordie Breault, commander of the 497th Night Owl squadron. "I want your men to know that place like Patpong after dark."

"Ah, Colonel Bryce," d.i.c.k Hostettler said, "there is one other thing you should know." He continued when Bryce nodded.

"The frag calls for a man on the ground to help self-FAC at Eagle."

"And just what are the qualifications for the man on the ground?"

"Well, that's just it. He has to be an F-4 driver who can FAC."

Bryce looked at Court Bannister, Breault, and B. J. Gierie, the commander of the Wolf FACs. "Well, that leaves just you guys.

Bannister, you've been there and set up Flaming Arrow, so you just volunteered. Get together with Hostettler for the details and work out the plans with Spike Charles, Breault, and Gierie to get Spectre, the Owls, and the Wolves into the system."

It was 2030 Hours that night before the four men had made the plans to integrate the Mach 2 fighter with the 300-knot, four-engined gunship in night attacks. They planned alt.i.tudes, words to be used, radio procedures, roll-in tactics based on where the big gunship flew, and target-marking by both the fighter and the Spectre gunship. Spectre would lick the ground with 20mm tracers or throw out a device called a log that would burn cherry-bright for thirty minutes, then tell the fighters where to attack from that reference. They set up the procedures Court would use from the ground to talk to Spectre, and how he would call in their 20mm and 40mm firepower. Court explained about the Flaming Arrow and how to shoot beyond where it pointed.

"Here's a little something for you," Spike Charles said and handed a metallic device about half the size of a cigarette carton to Court. "If we lose all radio communication," he said, "you use this small built-in compa.s.s to align this thing to the north, then twist these dials to show the type of target and the distance.

Our table nav gets all the info and feeds it to the pilot through the fire control system."

Etched on the metal face around one k.n.o.b were stacked boxes to denote supplies, a truck, and stick figures to represent humans. The next k.n.o.b dialed in the distance in meters. "You rotate the k.n.o.bs to show the type of target and the distance.

It operates off these dry batteries. It's kind of an electronic Flaming Arrow," Charles said. The batteries were flat and black and exactly the type used in the RT- IO survival radio. The case of the device was also from an RT-10.

"Solving the communications and rendezvous problems with the fighters is easy," Spike Charles said. "Alleycat or Moonbeam will code up the freqs each twenty-four-hour period and set up the rendezvous point off Eagle's Tacan."

"Better have a backup nav point in case Eagle gets blown off the air,"

Court said.

"Pessimist," Spike Charles said, "but you're right. We'll use Invert Radar and Udorn Tacan as backups."

Court had had a hard time concentrating on the briefing, but he was doing better than in the first week after his return from Bangkok.

Pictures and slow-motion movies of Susan had kept entering his mind at wrong times. One minute he wanted to write his father and ask him to find Susan. Then he would change his mind and think he should respect Susan's wishes to be left alone. But did she really mean it? Could she really want to live her last moments by herself? He tried to imagine what it would be like: the tubes, the trays and bedpans, the helplessness, the losing of the body and the mind. Would he want anybody to see him like that? He decided he would not.

So he did nothing and felt isolated and guilty. He snapped back to where he was.

"Hey, d.i.c.k," he said to Hostettler, "how am I supposed to get to Eagle Station?"

Hostettler checked the frag. "USAF courier to Udorn, Air America to the site. They want you up there by yesterday, so get hustling. Don't forget, wear civvies. The US doesn't have any combatants up there, doncha know."

2000 Hours LOCAL, THURSDAY 31 OCTOBER 1968 RIVER SUITE, Twin BRIDGES MOTEL ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA.

"This is it, turn it on," John Duchane said to the four other poker players. "Whitey's former boss is going to give us the word." He put down his bourbon gla.s.s next to his chips in the rim tray of the green felt poker table. The men stopped the game to turn on the television for the speech of President Lyndon Baines Johnson. "What will it be?"

Duchane, a dark, swarthy man, asked Whitey Whisenand, who was soon to come to work for him.

Whitey took a short sip from his water gla.s.s. "Could be any number of things," he said reluctantly. No longer privy to happenings in the White House, he had been closing out his office in preparation for his retirement, which was scheduled for the thirty-first of November at Bolling Air Force Base, across the Potomac from Washington. Soon after, he hoped to be flying the beautiful B-26 Excalibur.

There had been many messages back and forth, Whitey knew, between Johnson and his emissaries in Paris and Saigon regarding the peace talks with the North Vietnamese which were to begin the second day of November. Consensus had it that Saigon felt sold out by the United States because they thought the US had done anything it could to get the communist North to the tables in Paris to discuss peace in Vietnam.

Saigon's biggest complaint was that the US was allowing the Viet Cong's National Liberation Front a seat at the tables, with status equal to the United States, Saigon, and Hanoi.

Tonight President Johnson was to brief the nation about the latest agreements on those peace talks.

The poker players were solid Republicans who had contributed heavily to the Richard Milhous Nixon presidential campaign against Hubert Horatio Humphrey. Nixon was now crossing the nation with his plea for unity among the divisive, law and order for the unruly, and peace for all. He said he had a secret plan to end the war and win the peace, but did not want to divulge details for fear of disturbing the ongoing negotiations.

He had been so successful against Humphrey's dismal campaign (which didn't even have the full backing of the Democratic party) that the polls had showed Humphrey trailing Nixon 43 to 28 percent in September, with but five weeks to go before the vote was taken. Now it was the end of October, and the voting would begin in four days, on Monday the fourth of November.

Whitey remembered his talk with LBJ the day two weeks before, when LBJ had fired him. The President had said he would stop all air strikes in North Vietnam. Whitey had been met with disbelief when he had told this to the Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force. "Good G.o.d," the Chief had said.

"He wouldn't dare." The Chief had also offered Whitey his condolences for being fired. Whitey had said he had lasted longer than he had originally thought he would, and that hopefully he had done some good.

The poker players settled down to watch as Johnson faced the American people with a heavily lined face and a hoa.r.s.e voice.

He spoke of the tasks he had taken on as the President and of the horrors of the Vietnam War. He made no reference to the upcoming election. Finally he licked his lips and read without emotion from the TelePrompTer: "I have now ordered that all air, naval, and artillery bombardment of North Vietnam cease as of 8:00 A.M. Washington time, Friday morning the first of November. I have reached this decision on the basis of the developments in the Paris talks. And I have reached it in the belief that this action can lead to progress toward a peaceful settlement of the Vietnamese war."

"My G.o.d," one of the men said. "There goes the war for us and there goes the election for Nixon. All those middle-of-the road voters will take to this ploy."

"What do you think, Whitey?" Duchane asked. "Did he do this because he really thinks it'll help the peace talks or is it only a grandstand play to get more people to vote for the Democrats?"

Whitey rubbed his jaw. "Can't really say," he admitted finally. Oh, Whisenand, you liar you. You know d.a.m.n good and well you suspect LBJ of trying to swing the election by this call.

"We're in for some tough times if Humphrey gets it. He has absolutely no plan for Vietnam, but here at home he wants to give away the store."

"Well, he did say he'd crawl to Hanoi on his knees to get the POWs released."

"d.a.m.n liberals," another man growled. "Deal."

By ten o'clock the next morning the public opinion polls showed Humphrey had made a phenomenal jump and that Nixon had lost a lot of ground and was ahead by only 5 points.

By two in the afternoon Nixon had only a 3-point lead, and was predicted to lose that slim margin very soon, particularly if a major event occurred that signaled the end of the Vietnam War. The Democrats were in office, the Republicans were not.

Inc.u.mbent President Johnson could make an immediate and hopeful action to end the war; presidential hopeful Nixon could only make promises.

One of Whitey's longtime friends called him and asked if they could meet for a quick talk about an important subject dear to Whitey's heart.

Whitey told him they could meet at O'Tooles in McLean.

They took their coffee to the farthest corner booth in the bar. The place was frequented by CIA officials, who found it delightful not only because it had no sign advertising its presence, but because everybody that came there was a.s.sociated with the intelligence community in one way or another, so it was fairly safe to talk almost on a cla.s.sified level.

"What's up?" Whitey asked d.i.c.k Mumane, an Air Force chum who had as much time in the intelligence business as Whitey.

"I just want you to know," the silver-headed Murnane said over his cup, "that Dancer was accepted and has gone in."

Whitey made a delighted smile. "And Dipper has no idea."

"None. At least now we're fairly sure some of them will get the messages."

"d.a.m.n, but that's good news. What have you heard about the big propaganda coup they want to pull off up there? Any tie-in?"

"We're a bit blind there. We do know they've a.s.sembled a lot of East Bloc and North Korean writers and photographers in Hanoi and Vientiane.

In Hanoi, we think it's for a big splash, like an early release or at least an anti-American speech or concession of some kind from a live POW.".

"It's great to have Dancer on the scene."

"Right, but we can't get a handle on what the other part might be. All we know is they have some plan or gimmick called Brave Fight or Valiant Struggle. Something like that. In Vientiane we've got so many people watching those commie newsmen they're stumbling over each other's cloaks."

"No penetration?"

"None."

"d.i.c.k, I appreciate your keeping me current even if you have to sneak around to do it."

"Only fair. After all, you're the man who dreamed up Combat Dancer."

"True, but I never thought he'd wind up in Hanoi."

0900 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 1 NOVEMBER 1968 HANOI CITY HosPITAL HANOI, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIc OF VIETNAM Thach ushered Shawn Bannister and Richard Connert into the same doctors'

lounge they had been in two days before. During the wait Thach had taken them to the makeshift museum, which contained the remains of no more than three or four airplanes and some piles of sc.r.a.p that seemed to be from the pile next to it, although labeled as a different airplane.

Shawn had proudly displayed his ring made of shot-down American aircraft, but Connert mumbled he had lost his.

The room had been freshly whitewashed and a square table covered with a blue cloth stood next to one wall. On the table were two bowls full of rice wafers and bananas.

"You will see him before his press conference. You will talk to him. He will be here soon. Sit, please to sit." Thach pointed to two chairs placed in front of a low stool to form a triangle.

"No, thank you," Shawn said, prowling the room, looking out the window, eyeing the fruit. Connert's cold was worse and he was constantly coughing and sneezing. Shawn gave him a look of disgust after one particularly loud sneeze.

"Christ, Connert," he said, "can't you do anything about that?"

Connert shook his head in mute apology while blotting his nose with a big wad of tissue.

The door opened and Co Dust entered, helping a shambling Flak Apple.

Maroon-and-gray-striped pajamas hung on his emaciated frame like rags on a weather-beaten ebony fencepost. His face was lined and strained as he peered at the two Americans through black eyes sunken deep into his skull. He knew now why they were here. The weeks of sustained pressure and torture of Co Dust had proven these Americans weren't here to help him.

It was another propaganda session. But so what? Maybe they wouldn't help, but he would escape his surroundings-one way or another.

"Well, well," said Thach with false gaiety. "Look who we have here." He turned to Shawn and Connert. "Misters, this is Algernon Apple. He is very glad to see you." Thach ignored Co Dust, who was as pale as her uniform.

Shawn and Connert stared in shock at the apparition in front of them.

"How-how do you do?" Shawn stammered and put out his hand.

Flak Apple looked at it as if he didn't know what it was or what he was supposed to do with it. After an awkward moment Shawn withdrew his hand and asked Thach if they could sit.

"Please, misters, take some fruit. See, we give our prisoners good care, we give them good food." He s.n.a.t.c.hed up two bananas and handed one to Shawn and one to Connert, who took it and sniffled and coughed heavily. "If they have medicine problems, we take care of them," Thach continued, eyeing Connert.

Flak Apple didn't want the two Americans to see the hate he felt for them and kept his eyes down. G.o.ddamm these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Can't they see I've been tortured? Can't they see this is a setup?

What kind of Americans are they? A moan escaped his lips as he sat down. Oh G.o.d, help me. I hurt so bad.

Shawn leaned forward. "I'm Shawn Bannister and this is Richard Connert.

We're here to help you." Connert had a sneezing fit.

Flak's eyes blinked in surprise but he didn't answer. Bannister, for G.o.d's sake. This is Court's dips.h.i.t brother. It wouldn't take much to spit in his face. Christ, that Connert is almost spitting in mine with all that hacking and sniffling.

Thach looked at Flak with barely concealed menace in his eyes and surrept.i.tiously motioned with his head at Co Dust.

"I am Major Algernon A. Apple, United States Air Force. Please tell my mother I am alive and ... and well." He stopped talking, to see what would happen next.

"Oh, Major Apple-" Shawn blurted.

"There are no ranks here," Thach interrupted.

"Algernon," Shawn continued, "would you like to go home with us? You can, you know. You would be doing your country a great service if you did."

Flak looked up. Doing my country a great service? In a pig's a.s.s.

Doing you and these commies a great service. G.o.d, that Connert has some trouble . . . "What do you mean, 'go home'?"

Shawn licked his lips. "Well-I mean you can walk out of here with us and get on an airplane and fly back to the United States with us."