Phantom Leader Part 32

Wolf gave Toby Parker's name and Da Nang duty station to Denroe.

"How come you don't have any problems with Parker's being called in?"

Denroe asked.

"He's Air Force. This won't touch him professionally. But in the Army, just being in Special Forces sets an officer up for promotion problems.

A trial like this would have Al's name mentioned once too often. Plus, he's a black man.

There are still some who don't think black men should be officers, much less commanders."

"Well, then, would you give me the names of some people I can call in as character witnesses for you? Fellow soldiers, maybe some high-ranking officers. Better yet, some highly decorated sergeants that would testify to what a good leader and man of character you are. They would go over pretty good, I think."

Wolf Lochert looked at Jay Denroe with disdain. "if I have to call in others to say I'm a good guy, then I belong in jail. Let my record speak for itself."

"Complicated, very complicated," Denroe said, and sighed. "I'll have to tell you, Colonel Lochert, I'm just your basic JAG-appointed defense attorney. You have real problems with all the politicians and the press that are after your a.s.s. There are probably many routes to go, but I don't know if I'm smart enough to figure them out. Any chance you can hire a civilian lawyer?"

"For a military court-martial? Is it legal?"

"Sure."

Wolf stared off in the distance. "No. I can't afford one."

He had a monthly pay allotment made out to the Maryknoll Church for four hundred dollars, almost half his base pay.

"No savings?"

"No."

"Rich friends?"

"Hah," Wolf snorted.

"Colonel Lochert, I want you to know I believe you and I will do all I can to get the members of the court to believe you." The look on Denroe's face matched the conviction in his voice. "But it is going to be very, very difficult."

1245 HOURS LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 7 FEBRUARY 1968.

HQ, MACSOG, RUE PASTEUR SAIGON, REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM.

It's always nice to have your lawyer believe you," Lieutenant Colonel Al Charles said to Wolf Lochert, who sat slumped in a chair next to Charles' desk.

"But that doesn't mean he'll be able to convince the members of the court," Wolf said, his face a study in dejection.

"I'll tell you, it's one thing to take on an enemy in front of me. For that I'm trained, prepared, certainly experienced.

It's the enemy behind me, like that TV guy, that I can't handle. And the reaction to the film."

"You did look like something from a Frankenstein movie when you tossed him into that tree," Charles said.

"Maybe so. But this is a real shooting war, not a movie, and people are going to look terrible and ugly when they do what they do. I think those newsie guys are prying. I feel like someone has been in my mind and taken my private thoughts and put them on a TV screen. They don't make much sense to the viewer and no doubt look ugly as sin."

"Can't rightly say. Meanwhile, old buddy, I have to remind you that under the court's orders, you may not leave the MACSOG grounds except on official duty."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Wolf rumbled.

"But that doesn't mean you can't have visitors. There is someone here to see you. When she came to the gate about an hour ago, the Nung guard called me for instructions. Said her name was Greta Sturm. She's waiting in the lounge."

Charles lifted an eyebrow when he saw Won face brighten.

"You got something going?"

Wolf made a puzzled grin. "Something going? No, just friends." Wolf had tried to forget how much he had revealed to Greta on the helicopter.

It was, he had told himself, an after-battle reaction; the usual talky reaction as the mind relaxes from the grim occupation of war and survival. But, he knew, he had never been "talky" before.

"Friends, sure. Just friends," Al Charles said, a wide grin splitting his mahogany face.

In the lounge, they stood for a moment looking at each other. Greta Sturm wore a blue linen skirt that, quite unintentionally, accentuated her ripe hips and long, muscular thighs. An off-white blouse, sternly b.u.t.toned almost to her neck, did little to downplay her remarkable bosom. She wore her flaxen hair straight and long, and just enough lipstick to show she had a perfect mouth.

Wolf stood still, suddenly very aware of a remarkable contrast. This was not the battle-stained woman, the female soldier he had been so taken with. This was a cool icemaiden. She sensed his hesitation and took his hand.

A had to come, I had to see you," she began with only a hint of reticence. "You told me about this unit. It was not difficult to find." Then she looked directly at him, her gray eyes warm yet firm and resolute. A have thought of you so much, what you did, what you said.

How you carried yourself. You saved my life. This is difficult to say, but ... you not only saved my life, you have changed my life. I am not the same person." She searched his eyes when he did not answer. "Do you understand? Do you?" A tinge of unsureness had crept into her voice.

Wolf placed his big hands over hers. "Over here," he said, indicating an ancient vinyl sofa in one corner. Two men in tiger suits, laughing over some joke, entered the lounge room, saw the intent look on Wolfs face, and withdrew.

"Yes, I understand," he said to her, his deep voice almost cracking in his effort to speak with unaccustomed softness.

"I understand, and 1, maybe I feel ... something, too." He had been so shocked by the charges brought against him that he had been occupied with little else. He forced himself to examine his thoughts. He could not tell her she had in no way changed his life ... at least he didn't think so. He knew she had made an impression, but more as a female soldier competent in combat than as a female that appealed to him.

Females were, well ... sort of fluffy and helpless, and full of soft curves and secrets. All that talk on the helicopter, well, maybe she misunderstood him.

"I'm not sure it's a good thing," he started, unsure of where he was going, "that I change your life. Maybe you confuse my saving your life with changing your life. I'm not sure you and I could ... I mean, I have nothing to offer you-"

"I do not want anything," she cut in. "I have no right to ask anything of you. I come here only to tell my decision not to return to Germany to become a doctor just yet. I have asked. There are many jobs here for nurses right here in Saigon. This is where I will stay. I said I will wait for you and I will." She crossed her arms. "I do not wish to further work with the Maltese Aid Society. It is not realistic to think one can nurse the soldiers of both sides in a war."

Wolf watched Greta Sturm closely as she talked. Her face was animated, her expressive eyes flashed and widened and narrowed as she spoke. The deep breaths she took as she explained her convictions moved her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in a way that suddenly became the most erotic sight of his life. He became aware of a slight film of perspiration on her upper lip. With an almost audible groan he suddenly realized he had to control an impulsive urge to kiss those lips. What had started as a friendly holding of hands became an electric coupling of an intensity he had never encountered or permitted himself to encounter. He realized he was sweating. He tried to withdraw his hands.

She gripped his hands tighter. She saw what was happening to him and gave him a soft smile. "You can have the good affection for me. It is permitted, you know." She gave him a light kiss on the cheek. "I know your thoughts are on your trial, as they must. I do not wish to be a burden. I want you to know I am here in Saigon for you, and ... I am yours if you want me." She leaned her head over and drew his hands to her mouth and kissed his strong fingers once and released them. She gave him a slip of paper from a pocket in her skirt. "Until I take a flat, this is where I now stay, the Astoria Hotel. Come there when you wish." A final cool kiss on his cheek and she was gone.

0715 HOURS LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 7 FEBRUARY 1968.

OFFICE OF THE WING CommANDER Udorn Royal Air FORCE BASE KINGDOM OF THAILAND.

Colonel Stan Bryce stood behind his large wooden desk, slamming a fist into a palm. On a wall shelf to his left was a twelve-pound cast-iron bulldog from his football days at the University of Georgia. In front of him was a handcarved teak plaque bearing his name, rank, and a large pair of command pilot's wings. Colonel Al Bravord, the Director of Operations for the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing, sat quietly to one side on a red-leather couch, smoking a pipe. Court Bannister stood in front of Bryce's desk in a position best described as a relaxed parade rest. All three men wore flight suits.

Bryce leaned over his desk toward Bannister. There was whiteness around the corners of his mouth. "You're here to brief me on this night FAC business I've had suddenly pushed down my throat, and the first words out of your mouth are that you want Higgens in your so-called unit.

You must be crazy. I want Higgens out of the Wing. And that backseater of his. I want them both in a hole at Tan Son Nhut where they'll never see the light of day. Or fly an airplane for the rest of their tour."

He shook his finger at Court. "And after the endors.e.m.e.nt I put on their efficiency reports, they might as well get out of the Air Force." Bryce sat down abruptly. "Does that answer your question whether or not you can have those two for your new outfit?"

"Sir," Bannister said, "I can understand how you feel. Their actions were inexcusable. But I would like to point out something. Higgens and Rhoades lead all the Wings in SEA for truck and antiaircraft-gun killing on the Trail. Part of the latest Seventh Air Force award to this Wing came from the outstanding results they have been turning in. Further, Higgens and Rhoades have a MiG to their credit. Lastly, this is Higgens' second tour. I believe he has earned the right to blow off a little steam, and he--"

"Blow off a little steam!" Bryce yelped. "Setting a man on fire is hardly considered blowing off a little steam. Turning an officer's club USO show into a free-for-all is hardly considered blowing off a little steam. And that ridiculous duck call of his." He frowned at Court Bannister. "Why would you want such men working for you?"

"Colonel, these are combat men in a combat situation. They are not the least bit concerned with promotion, breadth of experience, managerial techniques, or career broadening jobs that lead to positions on the air staff. That all sounds good at Squadron Officers School. But this is combat. All they want to do is fight. It's what they were trained for, it's what they do best, it's what Uncle Sam pays them for. When the war is over, they will probably leave active duty and join the National Guard to stay current and to be ready if another war starts. If you put them in a hole at Seventh Air Force, all you'll do is deprive the Eighth Fighter Wing of two very competent Phantom crewmen."

Colonel Bravord untangled himself from the couch. His green flight suit was untailored and hung on him like a collapsed tent on a pole. He trailed a cloud of pipe tobacco as he ambled over to the desk of his wing commander. He had gray, almost white hair that surrounded a shiny bald pate, and was eight years older than his boss. He was an ex-sergeant pilot from early World War Two, where he had become double-Ace, then shot down three MiGs in Korea, yet he had always run a little behind on promotions. His lazy manner belied a smooth and shrewd mind. It was understood this was his terminal a.s.signment. After this tour he would retire; a solid airman who had fought in three wars for his country. He took the pipe from his mouth and spoke.

"Bannister has some valid points, Stan. Plus, after all, there is this TWX from Commander, Seventh Air Force."

He tapped the message form on the desk.

Bryce glanced at the forms and frowned. "Why do I feel you two are ganging up on me?"

Bannister grinned. "You mean I can have them, sir?"

Bryce snorted. "I don't know how, I'm not sure I know why, but you have a lot of horsepower behind you, Bannister. Yes, you can have them ...

if they volunteer, that is.

Now I want to see the requirements you have for this night FAC organization." He turned to Al Bravord. "Get Admin, Intell, and Maintenance in here. I want them to sit in on this."

Court pulled a file from his briefcase. In minutes the required members of the Wing Staff were in place around the conference table in the small briefing room next to Bryce's office.

"So that each of you know what is required across the board, all my requirements are listed on one page," he said.

Court gave each man a handout that he had cut on a stencil and run through a mimeograph machine early that morning.

NIGHT FAC OPERATIONS.

8TH TACTICAL FIGHTER WING.

APO SAN FRANCISCO 96304 UDORN RTAFB, THAILAND.

TO: Director of Operations, 8th TFW FROM: Major Court Bannister, Chief, Night FAC Ops SUBJ: Requirements for Night FAC Ops DATE: 7 February 1968 UNCLa.s.sIFIED.

1. For start-up operations to commence this date, I request the following from: a.) Civil Engineers: Two rooms in Wing Headquarters for: 1) maps and briefing tables 2) desks and file cabinets. Need ASAP.

b.) Administration/Supply/Logistics: Four desks, two file cabinets, appropriate aerial navigation charts and 1:50,000 Army topographical maps, and telephone service. Need ASAP.

c.) Personnel: Seven pilots, eight backseaters pilots or navigators, and one clerk-typist. The names of the aircrew will be forthcoming. You may select a clerk-typist providing he has at least eight months before DEROS.

Cut orders on the aircrew as signing them to me as I give you the names.

d.) Maintenance: Sufficient F-41) air craft painted black with one 600 gallon centerline fuel tank (also painted black) to fly six sorties per twelve-hour night on the following schedule: 1800-2200 Two aircraft 2200-0200 Two aircraft 0200-0600 Two aircraft e.) Armament: Request the following be on hand for six-ship night operations to average one sortie each with complete weapon expenditure per sortie; 1. Two SUU-42 Flare pods with 32 flares 2. Two LAU Rocket pods (2.75-inch white phosphorus) 3. Two CBU canisters f. ) Intelligence:Fullround-the-clock support as required to include access to gun camera film and projectors.

2. Before each selected aircrewman commences night FAC operations, he must have flown ten daytime Wolf FAC missions.

This will provide daytime FAC ops techniques and procedures, as well as familiarize the crewman with the Ho Chi Minh Trail route system. Then he must fly twenty missions with the 497th Night Owl Squadron to gain a feel for night strike operations, and to familiarize himself with the Trail in darkness.

None of the wing staff said anything. This was, after all, the commander's desires. Each colonel inspected his sheet.

"Painted black," said the chief of maintenance.

"Yes, sir," Court said. "Same as the Night Owl birds."

"Gentlemen," Colonel Bryce said, "if you have no questions, please take care of the items in your area per Major Bannister's timetable." The meeting broke up.

"One last thing," Stan Bryce said to Court Bannister as the others left the office. "What are you going to call the unit?"

"Sir, I thought I'd leave it to the troops to come up with a name."

Courtland EdM. Bannister, Maj, USAF Chief, Night FAC Ops "You don't have all those Wolf or Night Owl missions, Bannister. Does that mean you are going to fly that many before activating your unit?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"How long will it be before your unit will be operational?"

"I need four weeks, sir."

Bryce studied the message from 7th Air Force on his desk.

"Can't do it. You've got to be up and running by the first of March.

That's three weeks from now. Think you can hack it?"

Court calculated he could double up on missions and paperwork. "Yes, sir. I can."

1530 HOURS LOCAL, THURSDAY 8 FEBRUARY 1968.

SUITE A, MEus BuELDiNG, MONTGOMERY STREET SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA Archibald "Archie" Gant stood looking at the San Francis...o...b..y from the floor-to-ceiling window of his 20th-floor law office. The office was large and traditional: dark panels, ceiling-high law-book cases, long conference table, large mahogany desk, a 30-by-40 Tabriz on the floor, concealed liquor cabinet and wet bar. In hidden holders in his desk were the controls of state-of-the-art electronic equipment: dictaphone, recorders, voice stress a.n.a.lyzer, telephone trace counters, camera controls, shielded-wire intercom, and telephone scrambler. Only the muted hiss of the central air-conditioning penetrated the soundproof and secure room.

The four additional rooms in the Gant & a.s.sociates complex were for his secretary, a 12,000-book law library, a conference room, and his three a.s.sociates. On the roof of the Mills Building was his six-room penthouse. Archie had once called his firm Gant & Gant, but there was no second Gant anymore, only Archie.

Archie stood five-two, had dark hair around a balding crown, a voice like a foghorn, and no time for imbeciles, charlatans, girls in granny dresses, or sociology teachers who didn't wear socks in the cla.s.sroom.

He was extremely proud his IQ was fifteen digits higher than his weight (which was 130). He religiously drank four ounces of scotch each day, no more, no less. One shot at nine, noon, three, and six. He touched no other hard liquor, but would now and then try a good wine with a meal. He and his younger brother, Virgil, were the only issue of Elder Gant, deceased, former owner/ publisher of the now defunct Bay Area Daily, a Republicansupportive newspaper that went under just before the old man died in the spring of 1953.

Archie had been a frogman in the Navy's UDT (Underwater Demolition Team) in World War Two (Virgil had been too young). At age nineteen, Archie had been one of the men who had spent an extra twenty-four hours huddled in the water at Normandy, waiting for the invasion that had been delayed due to bad weather. After the war he'd gone to law school on the GI Bill at Georgetown in Washington, D.C. In those postwar years the GI Bill had paid all tuition at any school, plus most books and a weekly stipend. The United States had been proud of its military men and proved it by educating millions. A year behind him, Virgil had entered the same school. Both boys had had to do it on their own because Elder Gant had made it quite clear he didn't want any d.a.m.ned lawyers under his roof. The boys had gone as far east as possible to get away from the old man.

"We'll be Gant & Gant, biggest law firm in the District," Archie had prophesied to Virgil. He had held a night job as a bellhop in the Willard Hotel to help pay Virgil's tuition.

Virgil had worked as a counterman at the White Tower hamburger stand on M Street in Georgetown to help pay his expenses. Neither had worked in the traditional positions as law clerks because the pay was too low. The millions old man Gant had sequestered were of no value to his two sons.

Soon after graduation Gant and Gant had opened on M Street.