Phantom Leader Part 46

"The court will come to order," the president said.

"All parties to the trial who were present when the court closed are now present," Colonel Bruno Rafalko said.

The president nodded and continued. "Lieutenant Colonel Wolfgang Xavier Lochert, it is my duty as president of this court to advise you that the court, in closed session and upon secret written ballot, has found you not guilty of the specification and charge. This court is adjourned."

1830 HOURS LOCAL, SAt.u.r.dAY 16 MARCH 1968.

OFFICER'S CLUB TAN SON NHUT AIR BASE REPUBLIC of VIETNAM The club was smoky, crowded, and humid from the usual afternoon thundershower that drenched all of Saigon and the sprawling Tan Son Nhut Air Base next to it. No attempt had been made to air-condition the huge room. Big floor and wi ceiling fans moved the air about in sodden drafts heavy th the smell of sweat, beer, and abominable cigars. Green cardboard shamrocks hung from the walls. The Vietnamese aitresses wished one and all a "Happy Sane Patty Day."wIt's not until tomorrow,"

some would say.

"Happy Sane Patty Day," the cute little girls would repeat. "Happy Sane Patty Day,"

There was a small crowd gathered about the piano in one corner. In that crowd was Wolfgang Xavier Lochert, and Wolfgang Xavier Lochert was tight. Pleasantly, gentlemanly, tight. It was well known that Wolfgang Xavier Lochert rarely touched alcohol, and certainly never got tight, at least not since many years ago in Korea and twelve years ago in Heidelberg, Germany. a.s.signed then to the 10th SFG (Special Forces Group) at Bad Tulz, he had been detached for a few weeks as liaison officer to a bunch of legs from the 4th Armored out on maneuvers in what they had nicknamed the Sunshine Forest near the Neckar River. At the end of the exercise, he and a Norwegian army officer had visited the Roten Oxen university beer hall (one drank beer from a gla.s.s boot) in Heidelberg. At that venerable establishment (called the rotten ox by the troops, the Red Ox by the officers; it had been in business since the 17th century) Wolf had been neither gentlemanly nor pleasantly tight. He had been stinking, knee-walking, bar-wrecking drunk.

As it had been reconstructed, Captain Lochert, Wolfgang X., had been listening to his Norwegian friend tell how the n.a.z.is had lined up most of the people from his town against a wall one sunny day and shot them.

They had been shot because a small German patrol had been ambushed and slain. His friend's father had led the ambush. His friend's father had been shot that day, and so had his mother.

The Norwegian officer handled himself well as he told wolf the story.

Well, that is, until a table full of cute American leg lieutenants, who had spent World War Two in grade school, thought the German oompah band should play the "Horst Wessel Lied." The song had been a rallying piece for the n.a.z.is and had been banned since 1945. The young Americans thought it all a joke.

Two of the lieutenants still wear bridges, the base drum and its thumper along with the accordion player still shudder as they walk along the broad Neckar into which they were thrown, and Wolf Lochert has a small scar on his ankle from the chains his friends had had to use to pin him underneath the bridge and away from the Military Police. That was Wolfs second and last big drunk, Now, twelve years later, he stood by an old upright piano by the pie-eyed San Francisco lawyer Archie Gant and sang Irish ballads. He was neither a tenor, soprano, or ba.s.so profundo. Hard to tell what he was. Even though his face was creased in a beatific smile, his "Too ra Loo ra Loo ra, that's an Irish lullaby" defied description, almost.

"Hacksaw," said Court Bannister, who had arranged some official business at 7th coinciding with the victory celebration, "a dull hacksaw on plywood." His business at Tan Son Nhut was to brief Commander, 7th Air Force, and his staff, on Phantom-FAC operations. The short but intense session had broken up an hour earlier.

"File on gla.s.s, I'd say," said Toby Parker, who had a Coca-Cola can in his hand. He was due back at Da Nang the next day.

"Gravel," Jay Denroe said. "A car skidding on gravel."

He was drinking Ba Mui Ba beer from a large bottle. He was due back at USARV on Monday.

"Wolf's a grunt," Court said, "and grunts don't sing, they grunt. That's why they're called grunts."

"You men are so mean," said Greta Sturm. "Vulfgang has a very manly voice." She wore a flowing cotton shift and sandals. She sipped a soda water. Greta now had an apartment in Saigon on a tree-lined street near the West German Emba.s.sy.

Court and Toby moved off to one side when Archie swung into "Danny Boy"

and Wolf lurched along a mere half beat behind.

Three weeks had pa.s.sed since the two pilots had attacked and killed the 100mm gun. There had been no chutes, no beepers, no contact whatsoever with Captain Deacon Docks and Lieutenant Neil Tallboy, who had been apparently shot down by the big gun. Repeated recce of Rho Magna and the surrounding area turned up no clues as to the fate of the missing men, but neither was the big gun heard from again, or any other that size. The USAF had declared the two men MIA, Missing in Action. The pain of their pa.s.sing had been brief. Those men removed from Docks and Tallboy by rank and experience filed their faces among the many that disappeared each month. Those men who were close held short, private requiems within themselves, filing away their grief for expungement at a later date, a date they suspected would never come. The men knew instinctively that combat was neither the time nor place to mourn. Death due to distraction awaited mourners. Court had moved up another crew into training from his volunteer list to replace them. Life in the fighter wing moved on, while back in the States two families were forever shattered.

The Phantom FACs had been on-line and operational at night for the last two weeks. Their flying schedule was heavy, and they were still shy one backseater. So far they had taken no hits, but neither had they killed any trucks. They had, however, killed three or four guns a night.

Toby Parker had returned to Da Nang after spending his time with the Phantoms. He had flown several uneventful missions in the DMZ before being subpoenaed for Wolfs trial.

:'How did it go today at Seventh?" Toby asked Court.

'I know we're stopping traffic, because agent reports say we are," Court said, "but Seventh is getting pressure from the Pentagon because we aren't racking up truck kills.

They're glad we are killing guns, but they say trucks are our targets, and why aren't we getting any?"

"What did you tell them?"

A said the statistics of supplies moving down the Trail should eventually prove we have cut traffic dramatically, but we'd have to wait. Even so, the method of finding out how much material comes out of the pipeline isn't all that accurate. Then I said that if they wanted more night truck-kills, we'd have to have night eyeb.a.l.l.s."

"Meaning what?"

"Get a few of the new AC- 1 30 gunships to be stationed at Udorn to work the Trail with F-4s. Hostettler worked out a plan where we could suppress flak for them as well as augment their firepower." The gunships, call sign Spectre, were huge four-engined (turboprops with over 4,000 horsepower each) transports that carried 7.62mm, 20mm, and 40mm side-firing guns. Future plans called for a 105mm gun to be mounted in the plane.

"Think they'll go for it?"

"Probably. If they want to kill trucks. About all we've been doing is keeping them off the road. So far we haven't killed any. We've dropped a lot of flares, dumped a lot of ordnance, caused a few secondary explosions, but no positive truck kills. We come humming over, dropping flares, giving the gomers plenty of advance warning to pull over and watch us make little karst rocks out of big ones. Meanwhile we lost one strike bird into the karst. Not a very good return."

The songfest broke up when Archie tried to sing one of his early Navy songs. Something about some limey broad's fundamental orifice brought Wolf protectively to Greta's side.

He put his arm around her waist, his big hand resting just above her ample posterior.

"It sounds very clinical," she said to him, a disapproving frown on her face.

"Now just don't worry. You don't have to listen to him," Wolf said with soothing affection. "I'll be glad to sing some more." He weaved only slightly as he held her.

"Nein, danke, " Greta Sturm said. She took his big hand in hers. "Come, take me home now." She seemed determined to have her way.

"One moment, Liebling, " Wolf said, and disengaged. He pulled Archie Gant to his feet and maneuvered him over to Major Jay Denroe.

"You guys did a fine job. And I just want to say something to you both." He paused and put an armlock on each man's neck and gently b.u.t.ted their heads together. He had to bend Denroe to Gant's level. "I just want to say that for a leg"he tightened up on Denroe-"and a squid"-he tightened up on Gant, nearly popping both men's eyes-"you guys are okay." He gave a final squeeze and released them. He said good-bye to Court and Toby. Everybody shook hands. Gant was quiet. This was Wolf Lochert's show. Wolf went back to Greta Sturm.

"Okay, we go now." He put his arm around her and steered her toward the door, clearly in charge, maybe even in love. A final wave and he was gone.

"He's right," Court said. "You guys did a h.e.l.l of a fine job. You helped him beat it all."

"No, what he beat was going to jail," Denroe said. "His career is ruined. He'll never rise above lieutenant colonel.

Somebody, someplace, wanted just that to happen. This never should have gone to trial. Somebody was pushing."

"Yeah, maybe so," Archie Gant rasped. "But I was glad to do this for him. For a grunt, that is."

Court looked at him, well aware it was his money paying the lawyer's substantial fee. "You hinting you waive payment?"

"Waive payment?" Gant honked in smiling delight, as aware as Court who was paying. "Waive payment? h.e.l.l, no, I'm a lawyer, aren't IT' He slapped Court on the back. "But your brother might not be too pleased to know it's your money that squeezed that deposition out of him." He gave Court a synopsis of Michael LaNew's blackmail activities that forced the statement from Shawn Bannister. "Does that bother you?" Gant asked, studying Court's face.

Court was silent for a moment. What Gant mistook for contemplation of a difficult question was in fact Court's efforts to keep a grin from his face over his half-brother's self-inflicted tribulations. He succeeded, and with a straight face answered, "Not one bit."

"How about this, then? Came this morning from my office." Gant took out his large folding wallet and handed Court a newspaper picture from the Calfornia Sun. "Does this bother you?"

Court studied the picture. It showed a clean-shaven Shawn Bannister in the foreground of a crowd of bearded protesters carrying antiwar signs.

On one side of Shawn was a heavily bearded man wearing Army fatigues sitting in a wheel. On the other side was a scowling and warlike-looking Richard Connert. The headline stated that combat pilot Richard Connert was the latest member of the VVAW-the Vietnam Veterans Against the War.

Court laughed. "It doesn't bother me one f.u.c.king bit."

Gant barked approval and turned to Denroe, who looked at his watch and said, "Time to go." The two lawyers departed on a prearranged tour of Saigon bars. Toby and Court stood by the silent piano.

"I got some good news from Colonel Annillo today," 'Toby said. He had a broad smile on his face. "He called this morning and said he had fixed an upgrade slot into F-4s for me at George Air Force Base."

"Toby, that's great," Court said in pleased surprise.

"You've got the fighter-pilot att.i.tude, now you get your fighter. Try to get Ken Tanaka as your instructor."

"I will."

"You know you'll come right back to the war, don't you?"

A know that."

Court regarded him steadily. "I hope it's what you really want."

Toby Parker looked off in the distance. He thought of Phil Travers, the pilot who had introduced him to the sheer joy of flying. Travers had been killed in front of Toby while rescuing Wolf Lochert and a Special Forces unit. The roar of afterburners from a fighter taking off drowned the club noise for an instant.

Toby nodded and grinned. "It's what I really want."

Toby took a long pull at his can of Coca-Cola. "Court," he said, "mind if I ask you a question? It's kind of personal."

Court took a sip of his own c.o.ke. He still didn't want to drink in front of his Toby. "Sure," he said, "go ahead."

"Well," Toby said, slowly, "you seem so serious these days. You don't seem to laugh as much anymore. Is everything okay? Phantom FACs doing okay? Your dad all right?

I don't mean to pry, but . . ." He trailed off.

Court slammed his c.o.ke down on the piano top. "G.o.ddamm, Tobes, you're getting just like Doc Russell. What's with you guys, anyhow? Just 'cause I don't go around ha-haing and ho-ho-ing all the time you think I'm a candidate for the couch of the closest shrink."

Toby looked concerned. "Court, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up ... but, well, you're my friend and I want to help you. I think I know what your problem is,"

"You what?"

"Yeah, I know what your problem is."

Court's eyebrows went up. "Okay, Doctor Parker, what is it?"

Toby looked around conspiratorially; his glance swept by two Air Force nurses at a corner table.

"Lackanookie," Toby said.

Court drew back. "Parker," he said with an explosive laugh, "you son of a b.i.t.c.h, you're probably right."

Toby nodded his head toward the two nurses. He had seen earlier that the two girls seemed to have noticed Court, as if they knew who he was.

Court followed his glance. One of the nurses, a tall brunette, nudged the other, who looked up and smiled.

Toby turned to face the girls. He spoke to Court out of the corner of his mouth. "Tallyho, eh what, old chap?"

"Tallyho it is," Court said.

The two men started for the table.

2045 HOURS LOCAL, SAt.u.r.dAY 16 MARCH 1968.

THE MINT, HOA Lo PRISON, HANOI DEMocRATic REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM It was set. Conditions were right; it was raining. Tonight was the time they would go. Frederick had learned how to slide his ceiling slats out. They had made their needles and sewn the pajamas in such a way that at the last minute they could attach pieces of the blanket so that from a distance the clothes would appear to be civilian garb. At the last minute they would dunk the whole maroon-and-gray ensemble into a vile mixture of beet juice and mud they had been h.o.a.rding.

First they had to pee into the can for moisture, then rip and crush the beets they had stolen from the pitiful garden the guards kept, then blend in the mud. Then they were to poke their newly formed civilian clothes into the mess and hope they would come out dark enough to camouflage the stripes.

They knew it would be a stinking mess that wouldn't fool anybody at twenty feet in the daytime. But they were going out at night and wouldn't pa.s.s within ten feet of anybody.

They hoped.

At what they guessed was one in the morning, they tapped and said, "Let's do it." They both had actions to perform while the other kept watch under the door. If a guard was spotted, the watcher would give a loud sneeze and a kick on the wall. Frederick would take the first watch.

The preparations had been painstaking. As soon as Flak was clubbed back into his cell after his visit with Ceballos, he pulled out the pencil he had stolen and the yellow paper with the "one equals two" equations on it. He drew quickly and accurately the map portion of Hanoi that led from the Hoa Lo prison to the British Emba.s.sy. The last two blocks were a muddle. He hadn't quite had the time to pinpoint the exact streets from Ceballos' map. He tore a piece off and made a second copy. That night he had climbed into the attic and dropped a copy to the waiting Ted Frederick. Memorize the map, Flak had tapped to him. They still hadn't seen each other's face. The moving of the slats was practiced and easy now. They had agreed Ted wouldn't touch his slats until it was time to go. Then Flak could help him from above. They both had taken to sleeping on the floor, so the guards were used to looking in during night inspections and not seeing them on their bunks.

Flak had held water as much as he could and now peed with vigor into the waste can. He was naked. Sweat gleamed on his black skin, accentuating the muscles he had developed for the escape attempt. Then he shredded the meager beets he had stolen, mixed some dark dirt into the mess, and set about staining his pajamas. He heard a sneeze and a light thump on the wall. They had practiced for just such an event. He quickly seated himself upon the waste can as if he had to use it. The guard strode the hall, opening flippers at random. He looked in at Flak and quickly pa.s.sed on. The V abhorred such sights. Two thumps from Frederick and he knew he was clear. He finished the dye job and tapped for Frederick to begin. Minutes later, when Frederick tapped he was ready, it was time to climb to the crawl s.p.a.ce and escape.

He stood on his slab, quickly took out each ceiling slat and piled them up inside the attic, pulled himself up, wiggled, and was crouching on the ceiling joists. Off to one side, he was aware of Frederick wriggling through his opening.

He replaced the slats, which cut the light considerably. As he had learned from his practice runs, just enough light came up from holes to fill the crawl s.p.a.ce with a dim glow. The two men duck-waddled toward each other. As agreed beforehand, they did not speak. They stared at each other's face in the gloom and clasped hands, then embraced.

To finally see each other, after becoming so familiar with each other's thoughts through the tap code, was strange and disconcerting. Though they had shared pain and sorrow, joy and humor eked out of the harshest of conditions, neither man looked as the other had imagined. There were no familiar contours and planes of recognition, nor hair color or profiles of well-remembered physique. In the gloom, Flak could see Ted Frederick had thick black hair, a square jaw, and broad shoulders. It was almost like starting an acquaintance with a stranger.

Flak whispered into Ted Frederick's ear. "You smell like s.h.i.t."

"So do you," Frederick whispered back. "We'd better not get too close to anybody. Where's your turban?"

Flak pointed to the cloth he had wrapped around his arm.

He motioned to the triangular wall near the street and the two men waddled to the bricks. Flak peered out the louvered vent. The street was black, deserted, and rain-swept, barely lit except by flashes of lightning from the west. The vent came loose in his hands when he tugged at it. He and Frederick began dismantling a portion of the wall downward from the vent hole. With a little tugging back and forth, the mortar yielded and the bricks came loose one by one. As they widened the opening, they looked down at the top of the huge wall surrounding the prison. The sharp gla.s.s pieces looked thick, as if from champagne bottles. How French, Flak thought. They piled the loose bricks inside and stopped removing them when the hole was big enough to climb through.

Flak picked up the ten-inch piece of bare copper wire he had found earlier in the crawl s.p.a.ce and stashed at the base of the wall. As planned, Frederick held him by the waist and he leaned out and gingerly wound one end of the wire around the top strand of barbed wire. Holding it up in the rain, he looked back at Frederick with a question in his eyes.

Frederick gave Flak a rea.s.suring squeeze and nodded his head. Flak released the wire. It swung down and shorted against the bottom strand with a popping crack and flash as 220 volts blew the ancient fuse someplace in the circuit. Half the lights in the prison went out, and now it was pitch black in the crawl s.p.a.ce. The illumination from the street barely provided an outline of the top of the wall.

Operating more by feel than sight, the two men stepped cross the open s.p.a.ce to crouch on top of the wall, careful to place their feet between the gla.s.s shards, one leg on each side of the barbed wire. The rain enveloped them, chilly and persistent. They helped each other balance, then, as planned, Frederick steadied Flak as he let himself down to hang over the street side of the wall and let go. He fell the remaining ten feet and landed in a heap, head buzzing, feet hot through the rubber sandals from the hard landing. He staggered to his feet, leaned against the wall, and looked up at the dim outline of his fellow pilot.

"Ssst, ssst," he hissed in the prearranged signal signifying he was ready to cushion Frederick's fall. A large ma.s.s suddenly materialized above him and struck him to the concrete sidewalk where he lay stunned.

"Hey. Hey, Flak," Frederick said in his ear as he untangled himself.

"Come on. We got places to go and people to meet."