Eagle Station
by
Mark Berent

MARK BERENT is a Veteran of three tours in Vietnam and winner of the
Silver Star and two Distinguished Flying Crosses

Jove titles by Mark Berent

ROLLING THUNDER

STEEL TIGER

PHANTOM LEADER

If you purchased this book without a cover, you 'should be aware that
this book is stolen property.  It was reported as "unsold and destroyed"
to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received
any payment for this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction.  All of the characters in this book are
fictional and bear no resemblance to real-life personages either living
or dead.  (Sometimes I think the Vietnam War bore no resemblance to real
life.)  However, in striving for authenticity, some of the organizations
and public figures exist or existed at the time.  Note that not all
actual events occurred in the exact chronology presented.

This Jove Book contains the complete text of the original hardcover
edition. It has been completely reset in a typeface designed for easy
reading and was printed from new film.

EAGLE STATION

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with Berent-Woods, Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY G, P.  Putnam's Sons edition published June 1992

Jove edition / November 1993

All rights reserved,

Copyright C 1992 by Mark Berent.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or
any other means, without permission.  For information address: The
Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

The manuscript of Eagle Station was written on a Toshiba T120OXE using
WordPerfect 5.1 and an IBM 4019 Laser Printer.

ISBN: 0-515-11208-9

Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison
Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

JOVE and the "J" design are trademarks belonging to Jove Publications,
Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is dedicated to the KIA, MIA, and POW air-crew from Air
America, the US Air Force, the US Amy, the US Coast Guard, Continental
Air Service, the US Marine Corps, the US Navy, the Royal Australian Air
Force, and to the men of the US Army Special Forces.

While this is a highly fictionalized account of the action at Lima Site
85 in northeastern Laos, the dedication to the USAF and CIA men at the
site is no less real and heartfelt.

"We stand to our glasses ready."

And to MB.

I give special thanks to combat Jolly Green pilot Dr. John Guilmartin,
It.  Col.  USAF (Ret); M/Sgt USAF (Ret) Ed Kobernik, the man who kept
the Jollies flying; and to CMSgt Don Boudreaux, Spectre Gunner and Vice
President of the Spectre Association.  Any errors, of course, in their
area of expertise are mine.

Prologue

0745 Hours LOCAL, Sunday 20 JULY 1958

UNITED STATES AIR FORCE ACADEMY (PROVISIONAL)

Lowry AIR FORCE BASE, DENVER, COLORADO

The young men stood at positions of exaggerated attention on the grass
field in front of the cadet barracks at Lowry Air Force Base.  The
morning breeze ruffled their new khaki uniforms, all stiff and creased.
It was the cadets' first Sunday at the Academy, and as the officers
called out religions one by one, they broke ranks to go where they were
told: Lutherans here, Protestants over there, Catholics, Jews, Baptists,
LDS.  Re-form in columns of twos.  Cover down.  Prepare for mandatory
chapel.

The mint-fresh Air Force cadets hustled to line up correctly and not
incur the wrath of their upperclassmen.  There were 465 new cadets, and
461 of them fell into one of the religious formations.

When asked why they had not, three of the four remaining said they were
agnostics.

Agnostics?  They were told they were Other and to snap to and form up
off to one side.

The fourth man, eighteen-year-old cadet Fourth Class Kenichi Tanaka,
didn't move.  He stood five foot seven, weighed a stocky 150 pounds, and
displayed a square jaw.  His billed cadet hat pulled low over his dark
Asian eyes concealed his black crew-cut hair.  His skin was a consistent
brown, as if he had a well-established summer tan.

Cadet Second Class Jerome Powers detached himself from the group of
upperclassmen, walked over and stared disdainfully from his six-foot
height down into the face of the lone cadet.

Powers's eyebrows and eyelashes were white-blond, his eyes icy blue.

"And what are you, Mistee'-he glanced at the name tag"Tanaka ...  a
Confucianist?" Powers, a sometimes-Baptist from Mississippi, smirked at
his little joke.

"No, sir.  Buddhist."

Powers tilted his chin toward the "others."

"Fall in with those three."

Tanaka stared straight ahead as he had been taught.  "Sir," he said in a
low voice, "those are 'others." I am not an 'other.'"

"What?" Powers yelled into Tanaka's face.  "What did you say,
dumbsmack?" Whereas Marine drill instructors could use inventive
scatological terms for their boots in training, upperclassmen at the
United States Air Force Academy could not, hence the term "smack" had
surfaced, and was used when an upperclassman really wanted to get after
a doolie.

"Sir, I am not an 'other." I am a Buddhist," Tanaka said.

"You trying to get smart with me?  We don't have any Buddhist"-Powers
spat the word out-"around here.  You're a Protestant or a Jew or
something.  We have services for all of them.  Or maybe you don't
believe in any God.  In that case you go to the library during chapel.
But we don't have any Buddhist.  So you are an 'other."' He said the
words slowly and with theatrical emphasis.  "You got that, Mister?"

Tanaka did not remove his eyes from the horizon.  "Sir," he began, "this
is chapel formation.  Every cadet has mandatory church services every
Sunday in the church of his faith.  You called out all the religions
except mine.  My faith is Buddhism.

I don't want to go to the library.  I don't want to go to Christian or
Jewish services.  I want to attend a ceremony by a Buddhist monk in a
temple." Tanaka's voice remained low and without inflection.  He had the
faint broad "a" accent of those from the Napa Valley in California.

Jerome Powers put his hands on his hips and looked around at his
classmates, who were watching him in silence.  Behind them, Jerome
Powers saw a commissioned Tac officer headed toward him.  Powers turned
back to Tanaka.

"Now you're in for it.  Here comes our Tac officer and he's going to
have your ass, Mister." Tactical officers-captains and majors-were
assigned to each cadet squadron and wing to teach proper military life
to the future Air Force officers.

Powers saluted as Captain Tom Dudley approached.

"What's the problem?" Dudley asked as he returned the salute.

Dudley, an Annapolis graduate from Miles City, Montana, who had chosen
the Air Force, had been selected from his F-86 fighter squadron to be a
Tac officer.  He had dark brown hair and stood just under six feet.

"Sir, this doolie won't obey orders," Powers said.

Dudley raised an eyebrow.

"He won't fall in with the group I've assigned him to," Powers
continued.  "I think he is trying to run a number on me."

"A number, Mister Powers?"

"Yes, sir.  I think he's trying to take advantage of the system. He
refuses to fall in with any of the formations set up for chapel. Says
he's a Buddhist."

Dudley eyed Tanaka.  "Do you doubt his word?" he asked Powers.

Powers stiffened.  "Well, ah ...  you see, we have no Buddhists around
here, so I .  .  ."

"Over here," Dudley said.  He walked to one side.  The morning sun
warmed the air.  "Look," he said to Powers.  "One of the duties of a Tac
officer is not to interfere with the proper duties of the cadets.  You
upperclassmen run your own wings and squadrons.  We supervise, correct
your mistakes, nudge you toward correct leadership solutions.  We do not
solve your problems for you."

"Sir, I don't have a problem," Powers said in a belligerent tone.
"Mister Tanaka does."

"Are you going to write him up?" Powers pursed his lips.  "Yes, sir."

"On what charge?"

"Failure to obey a lawful order."

"If true, that could probably get him expelled."

Powers grinned.  "Yes, sir."

"What exactly was your lawful order, Mister Powers?"

"Sir, I told him to fall in with that detail over there." He pointed to
the three cadets who had said they were agnostics.

"What exactly is that detail for, Mister Powers?"

"Sir, it's the library detail."

Dudley didn't speak and continued looking at Powers.

"Sir, it's what we call 'others." They're, uhm, cadets who have no
religion at all.  They don't believe in God or anything."

"Didn't Mister Tanaka say he was a Buddhist?"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't Buddhists believe in God?"

"Well, no God like we believe in," Powers snapped, then belatedly added,
"sir."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Sir, I guess they believe in a God."

"Then he is a member of a recognized religion, isn't he?"

"Sir, he belongs to a religion we don't have."

Dudley drew himself up.  "Powers, I'm getting mighty tired of our
conversation.  This is a cadet situation that I want you to solve. Solve
it.  Any questions?"

"Sir, no sir," Powers said, and saluted.  He did an about-face and
walked back to Tanaka.  He was seething inside.

"All right, Tanaka," he spit out.  "Suppose you tell me how you go to
church, or temple, or whatever you call it."

"Sir," Tanaka said in a wary voice, "there is a Buddhist temple in
Denver.  I could either go there or the Academy could bring the monk out
here."

"Monk, hunh?" Powers leaned down and placed his face two inches in front
of Tanaka's.  He spoke slowly, with great deliberation and menace.  "All
right, Mister Tanaka.  You'll get your monk.  But I'll tell you right
now, I'll get you.  You'll never graduate from here and I'll tell you
why.  My father was killed on the Arizona on a Sunday morning ...  just
...  like ... today.  Sunday, December 7th, 1941, Mister Tanaka.  Killed
by the sneak Jap attack.  Killed by one of you Jap Buddhists.  That's
why you'll never graduate.  You don't belong in my Air Force."

1545 Hours LOCAL, SATURDAY 30 AUGUST 1958

UNITED STATES AIR FORCE Academy (PROVISIONAL)

LOWRY AIR FORCE BASE, DENVER, COLORADO

It was toward the end of Basic Cadet Training (shortened to BCT and
pronounced "Beast"), the six-weeks period of time before the rigors of
the academic year began.  The time when the new cadets of the fourth
class, referred to as basic cadets, were indoctrinated into Air Force
life in general, and Academy life in particular.  The fourthclassmen
were on a five-mile run along a trail marked out on the Lowry bomb
range.  They wore fatigues, black boots, helmets, and carried the
eleven-pound M- I Garand rifle.  On their backs were ten-pound packs.
The afternoon sun shone hot through the thin Colorado air on the dry
dust kicked up by their pounding heels.  The elevation was over 5,000
feet.  The upperclassmen, clad only in tee-shirts, gym shorts, and
tennis shoes, ran alongside and continually harassed the fatigued
cadets.  This was their last chance to weed out the physically unfit,
the laggards, and those who lacked the will to finish under adverse
conditions.

Kenichi Tanaka ran easily, breathing slowly and evenly.  He had lettered
all four of his high school years in cross-country track, and his last
two years as an offensive end in varsity football.  The members of his
unit, C Flight, were scattered along the last half mile of the run.
Tanaka and a fellow fourthclassman, Joseph C.  Kelly, had slowly assumed
the lead of their flight as their mates had fallen back.  Kelly was
slightly taller and much broader than Tanaka and had a naturally ruddy
face.  Neither spoke as their boots slammed in unison on the hard path.
Ahead, upperclassmen were ticking off finishers on clipboards as the
stragglers from the flight in front staggered across the line.  The
flight that got all its members across the line before the others won
the right to eat their meal "at ease" that night instead of at
attention.  The new cadets were assigned to twelve flights comprising
four squadrons.

Tanaka looked back over his shoulder and saw that C Flight was doing
very well, except for a lone, limping straggler.  Without saying
anything to Kelly, Tanaka slowed to a walk and slung his rifle on his
back as the squadron ran past.  He waited for the straggler, who was
grimacing with effort while favoring his right leg.  His helmet was
bumping his nose, his fatigues were black with sweat, and he was trying
not to trail his rifle in the dust.  His name tag said his name was
Dominguez.  Tanaka grabbed his rifle, slung it next to his own, then put
the cadet's, arm around his shoulder.

"Hey, man .  .  ." the cadet tried to speak.  He was a slender fellow
with large dark eyes.

"Come on, Dominguez," Tanaka said in a quiet voice, "move it and we'll
catch up to the others.  You can do it."

"It's my damn ankle," Dominguez gritted.  "Twisted the stupid thing."

Dominguez moved his legs faster as Tanaka half-carried him in a loping
run.  They were within fifty feet of the rear ranks, of their squadron
when Jerome Powers came up alongside.  He looked rested and relaxed in
his white gym clothes.

"Get away from him, Tanaka," Powers snarled.  He jogged along with the
two men.  "Give his rifle back."

Dominguez began to lag.  "Maybe you better.  .  ." he began.

"Keep moving," Tanaka said.  "We're almost there." He picked up the
pace.

"Tanaka, I told you let him alone.  Now BACK OFF.  That's an order."

Tanaka ignored Powers' commands and stepped up the pace even more.  In
seconds he and Dominguez would be even with the rear rank of the cadets,
which would allow the squadron to set the record for the doolie run.

Powers jogged ahead, whirled, and planted himself on the path, fists on
hips.  "All right, you two, stop right where you are," he roared. Tanaka
and Dominguez ground to a halt facing the upperclassman.  "Drop down and
give me twenty loud ones right now.  Call 'em out," Powers screamed in
their faces.  Tanaka let go of Dominguez and they both stretched out on
the ground to begin twenty push-ups.  Both rifles were still slung on
Tanaka's back.

"One ...  two ...  three with each push-up.

the two cadets counted cadence

"Louder, I can't hear you," Powers yelled.  "Start over."

Engrossed in his work, he wasn't aware of the activity of the cadets
behind him.

"ONE ...  TWO ...  THREE..." Tanaka and Dominguez yelled out.  Tanaka
was pumping up and down easily, rifles sliding back and forth on his
shoulders.  Nor was Dominguez having any difficulty.

"You happy now, Tanaka?" Powers yelled down at the two struggling men.
"You're responsible for the whole flight being last in the competition.
Just wait till your buddies find out about that.  You'll be in a world
of trouble."

A chorus of loud cadence counts came from behind Powers.

He whirled around.  Joe Kelly was flat on the ground, doing push-ups and
yelling cadence as loud as he could.  "ONE ...

TWO ...  THREE..  ." Beyond him, other cadets from C Flight who knew
what had happened were dropping down to do the same.  As they did, they
called up to those ahead, who passed the word on to the front-runners.
They had all seen Kenichi Tanaka drop back, followed by Joe Kelly. Those
closest had heard Powers' order to let Dominguez run by himself, then
Powers' scream for push-ups.

Joe Kelly had organized them to action by saying, "C'mon, guys, let's
hang together on this.  He who fucketh with one of us, fucketh with all
of us." The dipping and bobbing of the fatigue-clad cadets so close to
each other made the trail look like an undulating river of olive drab.

Startled at the squadron's cohesion, Powers drew back to the side of the
trail.  The cadets yelled louder and louder as their cadence count
finally totaled twenty.  "All right," Kelly boomed out.  "Everybody on
your feet.  Let's move it.  We all go in together."

Catalyzed and hyper by their first self-organized endeavor and seeming
disobedience to authority, the cadets jumped to their feet and began to
double-time toward the end of the run.

Then Kelly started a well-known chant that quickly swelled through the
ranks.  By the time the thirty members of the flight ran through the
finish-line goal posts, they were in perfect for their boot heels
slamming the ground in a forceful time pace, their young voices booming
out their pride and the words of the song: HERE COMES C FLIGHT FORTY
TWO, BETTER WATCH OUT, WE'RE COMING THROUGH

WE ARE C FLIGHT FORTY-TWO.  FORTY-TWO, WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?

"Not bad, Dudley," said another Tac officer, J.  T.  Neddle, as they
jogged together behind the exultant cadets.  "Quite a mover you got
there.  What's his name?" Each man had studied for days the background
and pictures of the basic cadets assigned to their squadron.  Those that
Stood OUt-on paper, anyhow-were known as boomers.  Joe Kelly was thought
to be a boomer.

"Joe Kelly.  Iowa All-State high school tackle and president of his
class."

"What about the cadet with the bad leg?" Neddle asked.

"Manuel Dominguez.  Eagle Scout, wrestler, played guard on his high
school basketball team.  League champions.  Lots of hustle.  At the
beginning of the run he tripped and dinged his ankle.  Refused to fall
out with the puny squad."

"How about the other guy?"

"The Oriental?"

"Yeah."

"Tanaka," Dudley replied.  "Grass Valley, California.  Good grades, good
track runner and offensive end.  Nothing special.

No boomer ...  but maybe a sleeper.  Gave up his number one position in
this trek to help a guy in the rear."

"Looks like he took some heat from that upperclassman, what's his name,
Powers?  Happen often?"

"Saw it once before."

"Going to do anything about it?"

"We'll see," Dudley said.

The two men jogged onto the athletic field together, then separated to
head toward their squadrons.

1955 Hours LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 25 FEBRUARY 1959

UNITED STATES AIR FORCE ACADEMY

COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO

The lighted halls were teeming with cadets returning to their rooms in
the new dormitories for CQ, the academic call to quarters, the beginning
of the mandatory time for each cadet to study in his room until lights
out at 2300 Hours.  The move from the temporary cadet facilities at
Lowry Air Force Base to the grounds of the new Air Force Academy had
been completed five months before.  The fourthclassmen had marched in
full field gear with rifles from the main gate to their sparkling
multi-storied new dormitories.

C4C (Cadet Fourth Class) Kenichi Tanaka marched down the hall of his
squadron area in the dormitory and made a squared right turn into the
three-man room he shared with C4C Joseph C. Kelly from Storm Lake, Iowa,
and C4C Manuel J.  Dominguez from Godley, Texas.  He relaxed his rigid
posture as he entered the door, threw his books on his desk, and slumped
into his desk chair.  Then he pushed his hat back on his head and slowly
unbuttoned his tunic.  The black cold of the night crouched just beyond
the storm windows.  Snow lay heavy on the mountains and hills around the
Academy grounds.  It was that time of year the cadets called the dark
ages, when the after-Christmas slump was compounded by short daylight
Hours, and when the countdown of the time to the joys of spring was
somewhat longer than eternity.

Both Kelly and Dominguez looked up from their desks.

"Powers again?" Kelly asked.

Tanaka nodded.

"Insoles again?" Dominguez asked.

Tanaka nodded.

When C2C Jerome Powers of Meridian, Mississippi, had exhausted all the
means to find fault with C4C Kenichi Tanaka of Grass Valley, California,
he had to fall back on the insole fault.

It was standard for upperclassmen to brace fourthclassmen and ask them a
myriad of questions ranging from the height of a Thor missile to the
full-up gross weight of a B47 bomber, or any other information contained
in Contrails, the book of basic cadet knowledge each doolie was required
to memorize.  It was standard for fourth-class cadets to be braced for
dirty rifles, messy uniforms, unshined shoes, or bad personal grooming.

And it was standard for fourth-class cadets to stand exacting and strict
inspections both in their rooms and out on the fields.  Lack of cadet
knowledge, excess linseed oil on the M- I Garand rifle, need of a
haircut, failure to perform the parade ground march required in the
halls by all doolies, an unpolished floor in their rooms, or a million
other items not up to snuff could bring upon the hapless cadet
punishment, ranging from a filled-out Form 10A that reported serious
offenses resulting in demerits, to the command "Drive around to my room
after dinner, dumbsmack," from an upperclassman who was displeased with
some aspect of the cadet's demeanor or dress.

Once in the clutches of the upperclassman in his room, Mister dumbsmack
could-at best-receive a little corrective lecture, or-at worst-he was
made to perform various physical fitness exercises.  In between were a
variety of inventive instructional harassments, ranging from singing the
upperclassman's favorite college fight song at the top of his voice to
reciting the first three paragraphs of Air Force Manual 1-1, which
spelled out Air Force Doctrine.

In other words, the hazing (that term was never officially used) of
Mister dumbsmack was a part of underclass cadet life.

The only restriction on the inventiveness of the upperclassman was that
Mister Dumbsmack could not perform personal services for him.  He could
not shine his shoes, carry his laundry, bring a pizza, perform research,
or any other personal task.

For the first several weeks, Powers had either caught Tanaka short on
obscure Contrails knowledge or possessed of cables.

Cables were the little threads that peeked out from behind buttons and
collars on new clothes.  Searching for cables, while considered pretty
chickenshit, was a perfectly legal method for upperclassmen to dump on a
doolie.

With amazing swiftness, Tanaka had memorized all the requirements,
meticulously clipped and shaved his uniforms to virgin cloth, and
maintained a military bearing and carriage while outside of his room
that would have impressed SAC General Curt LeMay.

Now all Powers could fault Tanaka for was dirty insoles, those little
strips of black leather that lay on the bottom of the shoe between the
heel and the ball of the foot.  Though Tanaka would polish and wipe them
at every opportunity, a walk on the path in snow or a fleck of mud would
soon dull the luster, and that was what Powers waited for.

"Shoes up, Mister Tanaka," Powers would order.

"Yes, sir," Kenichi Tanaka would respond, then lift one foot after the
other behind him while Powers checked each insole.

"Gross, Mister Tanaka, very gross," Powers would say in a disgusted
voice.

"Yes, sir," Tanaka would respond in a clear but noncommittal voice.

"Better drive around my room after evening meal, Mister Tanaka," Powers
would say in the ritual, and Tanaka was once again set up for an
uncomfortable session in Mister Powers' room.

"It's no sweat.  I can take it," Tanaka said as he opened his locker.
"After all, it is written that the peacock crows just once before its
tail feathers fall out." He shed his gear, donned his red bathrobe, and
headed for the showers.

"Him and his goofy sayings," Manuel "Little Cat" Dominguez said.  He
wore his sweatsuit over his athletic gear.  He had just come in from
wrestling practice.

"Makes 'em up as he needs 'em," Joe Kelly chuckled, and returned to his
books.  He, too, wore a red bathrobe.

Each cadet class had a color to distinguish them from the other classes,
even at a distance.  Red was for the class of '62.

Even their name tags were red.  After the field run when Kelly had had
the whole squadron doing push-ups to support Tanaka and Dominguez, he
had coined the phrase "Red-Tagged Bastards Hang Together; fucketh with
one, you fucketh with all."

It had caught on and the phrase was shortened to RBHT when one cadet
needed to whisper it to another for support in the ranks or in a
classroom.

Kelly looked up from his books and across at Dominguez.

"How come your nickname is Little Cat?"

"Aw, it came from a basketball game." He tried to keep studying, but
Kelly was persistent.

"Whadduya mean?  Come on, give," the burly cadet said.

Manuel Dominguez put a pencil between the pages and put his book down.
"It was a basketball game with Grandview in my junior year at Godley
High-they're our big enemy, you understand.  I, well, I ran around as a
guard and scored a few points in the last quarter."

"Winning points?"

"Well, yeah, I guess they were."

"So why you called Little Cat?"

"Well, a sportswriter for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram said I ran around
those big guys like a little cat."

"Easier to call you Dom.  RBHT," Kelly said and returned to his books.

"RBHT," Dom Dominguez said and opened his book.

1545 Hours LOCAL, SATURDAY 9 MAY1959

UNITED STATES AIR FORCE ACADEMY

COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO

Cadet Fourth Class Dom Dominguez marched, as all fourthclass cadets were
required to do even when by themselves, down the sidewalk parallel to
the road behind Vandenberg Hall, the new cadet dormitory.  He wore his
billed cap and summer khaki uniform and carried his athletic bag in his
left hand.

On the opposite side of the road were long rows of parking places for
the cars owned by second- and first-class (junior and senior) cadets, a
privilege fourth- and third-class cadets (freshmen and sophomores) were
not allowed.  It was an unusually warm day.

A black 1958 Thunderbird convertible with the top down turned left on
the road toward Dominguez.  The car drew near, slowed to a crawl, then
stopped.  Sitting in the passenger seat was a young girl with long brown
hair flowing down the back of her yellow dress.  A young man in a white
polo shirt was driving.  He stopped the car across from Dominguez.  The
driver was Cadet Second Class Jerome Powers.  He said something to the
girl, who giggled.  Dominguez, eyes straight ahead, took it all in with
his peripheral vision.

"You, man, come here!" Powers yelled.

Dominguez did a sharp right turn, approached the car, stopped, and
saluted.  "Sir, Cadet Fourth Class Dominguez reporting as ordered, sir."

Powers casually touched his forehead in return.  "Pretty sloppy bag
you're carrying there, dumbsmack," he said in a sarcastic tone.

"Yes, sir," Dominguez barked.

"Let's see your haircut, dumbwad."

Dominguez lifted his billed cap, bent forward, and slowly rotated his
head.

"Hmmm," Powers said.  "Pretty long.  Best get a haircut by the next time
I see you." Powers had not only been riding Kenichi Tanaka since the
push-ups on the run last fall, he had also gone out of his way to make
life tough for Tanaka's roommates as, apparently, cadets equally
unworthy of remaining at the Academy.

"Yes, sir," Dominguez barked.

"Isn't your name tag a little crooked, Mister Dominguez?"

"No excuse, sir." Eyes straight ahead, jaw set.

Powers glanced at his girlfriend and smiled.  She looked merely
thoughtful and did not return the smile.  Manuel Dominguez was fairly
certain she was the eighteen-year-old daughter of a big car-dealer in
Colorado Springs, one Barbara Westin.  He had seen her picture several
times in the society section of the Colorado Springs Gazette and thought
she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.  He wondered what she
was doing with this rat-faced creep.  Powers turned back to Dominguez.

"Pretty raunchy, Mister Dominguez.  You're dismissed.  I don't ever want
to see this again, you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dominguez barked, then asked: "Sir, permission to ask a
question, sir."

After a tiny pause, Powers said, "Go ahead."

"Sir, are you signed out on privileges?"

If a cadet kept his nose clean and was not on probation, he could sign
out on an ODP, Off-Duty Privilege.  That meant he could don civilian
clothes and leave the confines of the Air Force Academy.  But, before
each ODP, he had to sign a statement that he would not take drugs,
violate the limits set by the Commandant to the areas he could visit,
drink in uniform in a public place, or haze an underclassman.  Penalties
for breaking these limits could result in dismissal, for drinking (and
especially drunkenness) in a public place in uniform, to two months'
restriction to the room and immediate cadet area, for hazing
fourthclassmen.

"Yes, Mister Dominguez.  I am signed out on privileges.  Why do you ask
the obvious?" .

"Sir, you'll have to write yourself up for hazing."

Powers' eyes bulged slightly as his face grew red, and the girl with the
brown hair, Barbara Westin, hid a smile behind her hand.

Under the code, Jerome Powers was honor-bound to write himself up for
punishment for violating an ODP restriction.

Hazing was not an honor violation; Powers' failure to write himself up
once it was called to his attention would be.  An honor violation would
have a cadet out of the Academy in less than three Hours.  Powers' eyes
narrowed, as he realized that two months' restriction meant no more
seeing Miss Barbara Westin until this academic class year was completed
in June.

Manuel "Dom" Dominguez kept the smile from his face as he marched away.
RBHT, asshole, he thought to himself.  RBHT.

1545 Hours LOCAL, SUNDAY 29 MAY 1960

KACHINA LOUNGE, ANTLERS HOTEL

COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO

A year later, Cadet Third Class Manuel J.  "Dom" Dominguez sat next to
Miss Barbara Westin at a table in the Kachina Lounge of the Antlers
Hotel in Colorado Springs.  The Kachina Lounge was a popular hangout for
cadets and students of CC-Colorado College.  With them were Cadet Third
Class Joe Kelly and Cadet Third Class Kenichi Tanaka.  The table was
littered with sandwich pieces, barren french-fry plates, and empty soda
cans.

The three roommates were doing very well as the end of their second year
at the Academy drew near.  Each wore embroidered stars on the right
cuffs of their uniforms, to show they were on the Commandant's List for
military accomplishments, and embroidered wreaths, to show they were on
the Dean's List for maintaining a 3.0 grade average.  All three had
pilot training slots and would soon be spending time at a pilot training
base, where they would receive many Hours of initial flight training in
the T-37 jet.

Barbara wore a Mexican jumper, flowing skirt, and sandals.  Her brown
hair was shoulder-length.  She was, Manuel Dominguez thought again, the
most beautiful girl in the world.

Twelve months had passed since he had first seen her with Jerome Powers.
Twelve months in which she had all but chased Dom, who at first had had
a difficult time believing she was really interested in him, Twelve
months in which she had become the most important event in Dom's life.

Jerome Powers had not been idle during that time.  It was true he had
been growing indifferent to Barbara Westin and had started stepping out
on her.  Then when he had seen she was throwing herself at a dumbsmack,
he had become infuriated and written her off.  At first he had sought
out and dated many girls, almost always with success-so much so, he was
known by the sobriquet of Power Stud at most of the sororities.  But, as
the months and days wound down before his graduation, he had realized he
wanted Barbara Westin as his wife.  The other girls, while earthy and
fun, were not suitable to be an officer's lady.  Barbara Westin was. She
was attractive, would make a good presentation to his superior officers,
and she was rich.

He had begun an active pursuit to regain her attention.  He was
beginning to think he had a chance.  Just two days ago they had had a
heavy petting session.

Because public display of affection was against cadet rules and Dom
Dominguez was in his khakis-the best he could do was gaze deeply into
Barbara's eyes.  She appeared flattered by the attention.

"Like a lovesick marmoset," Cadet Third Class Joe Kelly said.
"Disgusting."

"The marmoset, having eaten, looks for dice," Ken Tanaka said.  He sat
between Kelly and Dominguez.

:'How long you guys been dating now?" Kelly asked.

"Off and on since June Week one year ago," Manuel Dominguez answered.
"Well, actually, it started after June Week."

The scene had been the most pleasant of the three cadets' doolie year.
Just before June Week, when they had been officially recognized and
didn't have to put up with any more fourth-class Mickey Mouse customs,
Barbara Westin had come driving into the cadet visitor area in a black
Thunderbird convertible, a perfectly legal thing to do.  Sightseers from
all over the country did it frequently.

,, Well, hello," she had said as Manuel Dominguez had marched by.  "I
thought you didn't have to march in public anymore."

Manuel had swung around.  Oh my God.  The Most Beautiful Girl in the
World.  "I wasn't marching, I was walking.

:'Like you had a board up the back of your shirt."

"You looking for Powers?" Dominguez loved being able to refer to the
nemesis by his last name.

:'Oh my, no.  Why would I be looking for him?"

"You're driving his car."

She had made a tart face.  "I most certainly am not.  This car is mine.
I just let him drive it that one time."

I'll bet it's her daddy's T-Bird.  He had walked closer to the car,
which sat very low to the ground from his position on the high curb. She
had worn blue jeans and a man's shirt with several top buttons open.  He
had meant to examine the interior of the car when he found himself
staring right down the front of Miss Barbara Westin's shirt at her cute
little B-cup breasts.  Startled at the magnificent view, he had looked
up, face flaming, and caught her looking intently at him with her deep
brown eyes.  Oh my god, ohmygod.  Now I've done it.  She's going to
drive right home and tell Daddy all about these lecherous cadets and
he's going to call my Tac officer and ...  and ...

"Want to go for a ride, zoomie?" she had asked in a husky voice.

"Oh yeah, you had been dating that Powers creep," Joe Kelly said to
Barbara in the snack bar.

"As a matter of fact we owe a lot to him," Dom said, convinced that
"that Powers creep' had made it possible for him to date the most
beautiful girl in the world by being the biggest creep in the world.  In
a way quite different from what he thought, however, he was correct.

Barbara smiled sweetly and said nothing.

Dom saw Tanaka's normally cheerful face darken when Powers' name was
mentioned.  "Still on your case, isn't he?" he asked.

Tanaka nodded.  Powers was still treating him like a fourthclassman by
jamming him for the slightest infraction at the SAMIs, the Saturday AM
inspections, at which he would find fault with such trivia as not liking
the way Tanaka folded his laundry or, in Powers' role as a cadet flight
commander, complaining of his gig line at noon meal inspections.

Dom's eyes turned hard.  "I'd like to get him someday."

Tanaka, cheerful again, nodded wisely.  "it is said the shallowest fish
has the broadest tail."

Barbara touched his hand.  "Oh Ken, you say the sweetest, most clever
things.  Whatever do they mean?" They laughed as Tanaka made an
exaggerated face of inscrutability.

"Well," Dom said, "your dad might have something to say about our going
together ...  all of it negative."

Mister George Hadley Westin indeed had something to say about his one
and only daughter, nineteen going on twenty, even dating a...  "Well,"
he had said, "someone of a different race."

Since her mother had died five years before, Miss Barbara Westin had
little difficulty getting her way with her grief-torn and highly
protective father.  She had talked him out of sending her east for
college, so she could attend Colorado College and   play the local
scene, where she knew her way around. Being an Out cast was too alien,
she thought; here she was in control and could do as she pleased,
especially when it came to playing the field with all the boys.

"Don't you worry about Daddy," Barbara said.  I play him like a pinball
machine that never says tilt."

"One more picture," Dom said and raised his Brownie flash camera, which
he carried on a strap around his neck.  They all groaned, but smiled, as
he held the camera up and pressed the button.  Barbara's smile was
heart-melting, he knew, and he hoped he had captured her sweet warmth.
He checked his watch.

"Time to make my Sunday duty call." Each of the three cadets had
acquired the habit of calling home on Sunday afternoons from the bank of
pay phones at the Antlers Hotel.  Dom patted his pocket for change and
departed.

He whistled as he went down the hall toward the phones, but stopped
abruptly as a door to one of the small private dining rooms opened in
front of him and a youngish man Dom recognized as one of the local
rowdies stepped out, pulling a very drunk Jerome Powers in a
vomit-stained uniform after him.

"And stay the fuck out, punk.  This is a man's game." Before he slammed
the door, leaving Powers swaying in the hall, Dom saw several men
sitting around a poker table littered with chips and beer bottles.

"Fucking game," Powers slurred, and tried to walk down the hall.  He
caromed off a wall and fell to his knees, then toppled against the wall
and slid to a sitting position, eyes bleary and unfocused.

Manuel Dominguez whipped his camera in front of him and snapped three
photos as fast as he could wind the film and change the bulbs.

"Here, let me help you," he said when he was done, and grasped Powers'
arm.

And that was his mistake.  For because of that gesture and what it led
to, what Dominguez had seen and what he would do, Powers would finally
get his wish to get back at Tanaka through this young cadet, though
neither of them knew it at the moment.

A week later, on a dark afternoon, Manuel J.  Dominguez was ushered out
of the United States Air Force Academy for a violation of the cadet
honor code.

0445 Hours LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 9 OCTOBER 1968

EAGLE STATION AT LIMA SITE 85

ROYALTY OF LAOS

"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday," the frantic call sounded over the radio. Every
pilot in the night sky and every radar controller on the ground within a
200-mile radius of the transmitter heard the terse voice of the man in
trouble.  "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.

This is Beercan Two Two.  We're hit bad.  My frontseater is wounded.  I
need a vector to the nearest friendly base.  Anybody copy Beercan?" The
voice was thin and desperate.

A controller at a clandestine radar site in northeastern Laos at his
microphone.  "Roger, leaned close to his scope and keyed Beercan Two
Two, this is Eagle.  We copy you loud and clear. What is your location
from Channel 97?"

"Beercan is a Romeo Fox-Four Charley, ah, east of Channel 97 at, ah,
15,000 feet."

The Eagle controller spotted a blip at that location and marked it with
his grease pencil.  I think I have you.  Squawk 53 on your parrot to
make sure." Squawk 53 was the command for the man in the RF_4C Phantom
jet, call sign Beercan Two Two, to turn dials on a device to send a
special coded burst of energy to the radar screen at Eagle Station.
Beercan was a reconnaissance version of the Phantom jet.  It carried
cameras instead of cannons, photo flash cartridges instead of bombs.

"Beercan, you copy Eagle?"

"Ali, rodge, Eagle, I copy you loud and clear.  I'm in the backseat.
Negative parrot back here and my pilot is unconscious.  I need a vector
to the nearest base and you'd better get somebody up here.  My pilot
can't fly, and I don't know how.  All I can do is keep it straight and
level ...  sort of." The RF-4C had full flight controls in the backseat.

"Uh oh," said Staff Sergeant Al Verbell, the Eagle controller working
Beercan, to his senior controller, Lieutenant Bob Pearson.  "I've got a
problem here, Lieutenant.  You working any F-4s out there tonight?  I
need one to intercept Beercan."

He carefully watched the screen as he used the grease pencil to mark the
progress of the blip.  "Beercan," he transmitted through the boom mike
at his lips, "turn right forty-five degrees then immediately back to a
westerly heading." He watched the blip follow his instructions, "I've
got you, Beercan Two Two.

Maintain 270 degrees heading while I get a vector for you.

What is your fuel state?"

,'I, uh, think I've only got twenty minutes or so, Eagle.  I need help
fast." The voice was that of a young man who was doing his best to
remain calm.

Lieutenant Pearson leaned over Verbell's shoulder and studied the scope.
Verbell pointed out the lone blip fifty miles east of their station. The
two men were in a small gray van on a plateau atop a sharp piece of
karst rising 5,000 feet almost straight up from the surrounding jungle
floor.  Outside their van were the radio antennae and domes containing
their radar dishes.  They were in Laos, very close to the border of
North Vietnam.

"I think I can get someone to him," Pearson told Verbell.

"Meanwhile, give him a steer to Green Anchor." Verbell did as he was
told, telling Beercan to turn south toward the anchor point for the
orbiting KC-135 aerial tanker, call sign Green Tanker.

Pearson went back to his own scope.  He wore a walk-around headset and
boom mike.  He switched range on his scope, keyed the mike switch
clipped to his shirtfront, and called Alley Cat, an Airborne Command and
Control Center (ABCCC, spoken as Aye Bee Triple Cee).

"Alley Cat, Eagle, how read?" "Eagle, Alley Cat, loud and clear.  Go
ahead."

"Alley Cat, we have Beercan Two Two, a shot-up recce Fox-Four Charley,
fifty miles cast.  The frontseater is wounded. The backseater is flying
the bird and he's a navigator, not a pilot. You got any Fox-Fours under
your control we can vector up there to lead the guy in?"

After a short pause Alley Cat answered.  "Eagle, go 325.4 and we'll see
what we can do with an F-4 we are monitoring."

Pearson switched his radio to the new frequency in time to hear

Alley Cat make a call.

"Phantom Zero One, Alley Cat.  We've got a little problem and we need
your help.  You onto anything right now?"

"Alley Cat, Phantom Zero One.  We're not stirring up a thing out here
tonight.  All the bad guys are hiding from us.  What can we do for you?"

Phantom Zero One was an F-4 on night patrol over the Ho Chi Minh Trail
in Laos, looking for trucks and guns.  The pilot was Major Court
Bannister and the backseater was Captain Ken Tanaka, an aircraft
commander being checked out as a night IP (Instructor Pilot).  Bannister
was the commander of the unit the Phantom FACs from Ubon Royal 'Mai Air
Force Base-in which they flew.  In less than a minute, Alley Cat had
Bannister in touch with Eagle and they switched radio frequencies to
that of the crippled F-4.

"Phantom Zero One, steer 345 for an intercept with Beercan. Make angels
base plus six." Eagle had just told Bannister to take up the
northwesterly heading of 345 degrees toward Beercan and to use whatever
it took to get to 14,000 feet.  The coded base altitude for the
twenty-four-hour period was 8,000 feet.

Coding the altitude each day was an attempt to fool enemy radio
intercepts.

Thirteen minutes later Bannister was approaching the intercept point. He
was at a head-on angle to Beercan, who was one thousand feet above.
Bannister needed directions from Eagle to begin a long sweeping cutoff
turn that would place him on Beercan's wing.

Pearson listened as Verbell transmitted to Bannister.  "We'll start your
cutoff in a few seconds, Phantom.  How's the weather '. up there?"

"Getting pretty rough.  We're in what remains of a big thunderstorm."

"Get over here fast, Phantom," the frantic voice from Beercan
interrupted.  "We're in clouds now and I can't hold this thing much
longer."

Verbell keyed his mike.  "Phantom, start a left cutoff turn to - .  ." A
savage boom rocked the van, the lights flickered and went off.

Court Bannister heard the start of the explosion a split second before
the transmission from Eagle went dead.  He rolled his big Phantom
fighter into a left turn.

"Eagle," he called.  "Eagle, You read Phantom Zero One?"

There was no answer, He tried again, then called Alley Cat for an
alternate frequency to contact Eagle.

"Stand by," Alley Cat said.  He called back after a pause "Negative
response, Phantom.  We've tried all frequencies' They're off the air.
Can you continue your intercept of Beercan?" Alley Cat, the ABCCC, was a
C-130 full of radios and controllers but no radar with which to vector
Bannister.

"We'll try," Court Bannister replied.  He spoke to Ken Tanaka in the
backseat.  "You got him, Ken?" The F-4 carried its own on-board radar.

"Yes, sir.  Keep turning.  Tighten it up, he's thirty degrees port for
six miles." Tanaka refined the image on his radarscope in the backseat.

"Phantom, Phantom, this is Beercan, Beercan.  Help me, help me.  I'm
losing it - .  ." The sound of heavy and rapid breathing filled the
headsets of those listening as the backseater in his rising panic kept
his thumb on the mike switch, making it impossible for anyone else to
transmit.  If they tried, the air filled with squeals and howls.  The
man who has left his mike open hears none of that.  Finally the
backseater said, "Oh shit," and the mike was unkeyed.

"Take it easy, Beercan," Court Bannister transmitted.  He rapidly
cross-checked his own instruments and small radar screen as he closed on
the F-4.  "Take it easy," he said again.  "I've got good radar contact
with YOU.  Just keep those needles centered."

"Roll out, boss," Ken Tanaka said from Court's backseat.

"We're in trail with him.  He's twelve o'clock for six miles, one thou
high, we have a fifty-knot overtake.  You can start your climb.  I'm
locked on."

Court advanced the throttles a few percent and, using the radar, began
to climb and jockey into position behind Beercan.  After a few terse
minutes he was 600 feet directly behind Beercan, thirty feet low, and
closing.

"See anything?" Ken Tanaka asked.

"Negative," Court said as he alternated his scan up from the instruments
in the cockpit to the windscreen and the black night outside.

Tanaka read from his gages.  "We have zero overtake, we're about fifty
feet low and two hundred behind."

Court inched forward a few more feet.  Still nothing.  Then he slid to
the right a few feet and continued his overtake.  He didn't want to
overrun Beercan.  If he missed, he wanted to pass to one side, not ram
into him.  He scanned the gages, then looked through the windscreen
again.  Still nothing.

"Beercan, are your nav lights on?"

"Shit no.  We just came from bad-guy country.  They were off when we got
hit.  I can't put them on from back here."

"Hell, boss," Ken Tanaka said.  "No way we can intercept a blackout in
night weather." Tanaka was correct.  Radar could get them within 100 or
even 50 feet, but was not discriminate enough to show a pilot how to
join up within three feet of another airplane's wing in the black of
night and in heavy clouds.

"Beercan," Court transmitted, "turn up your cockpit lights to full
bright, put on your thunderstorm lamp, and twist your utility lamp to
shine out the right side of the canopy."

The navigator in the backseat of the Beercan F-4 did as he was told, and
Court saw a dim glow illuminate the black clouds off to his left.  He
quickly eased his airplane in that direction until he had the shot-up
Phantom in view.  The glow from the rear cockpit gave him enough
reference to fly a few feet aft of the right wing of Beercan.  The plane
was wobbling.

"Hold her steady, Beercan," Court transmitted.  "I'm off your right wing
and I'm going to talk you to the tanker for some fuel, then to Udorn for
landing.  You've refueled before, haven't you?"

"Uh, yes Sir," the backseater transmitted, his relief evident.

Most F-4 aircraft commanders (or A/C, as the USAF designates the pilots
in the front seat) allow, even encourage, their backseaters to learn how
to refuel from the KC- 135 aerial tankers.  The backseat was a real pit,
with limited visibility, and the practice improves the morale of the
navigators (or the luckless Young pilots directly assigned from flying
training who have to take a tour in the backseat) and is a bit of
insurance for the frontSeater, should he be incapacitated and unable to
perform the delicate flying.  Refueling required the pilot to position
the Phantom under the belly of the tanker, and hold still while the
boomer flew the long thin probe to the receptacle on the upper fuselage
a few feet behind the rear cockpit of the F4.  The KC- 135s were the
military version of the Boeing 707 airliner.  instead of passengers, the
big silver airplanes carried 200,000 pounds of JP-4 jet fuel, which they
dispensed through the probe, called a boom, that hung underneath the
rear fuselage and pointed to the rear.  It was control led-flown Was the
wordby the boomer, who lay on his belly facing aft; the compartment in
which he lay had a thick rear window that would have been a perfect
place for a tail gunner if the ai lane had had one.

The young backseater transmitted again, his voice quavering with
concern.  "But I've never landed this airplane."

"Not to worry," Court radioed.  "I'll talk you through it It's simple
once you're lined up, and I'll get you in position."' "Yeah, simple,"
Ken Tanaka said from Court's backseat on the intercom.  "About as simple
as steering a runaway race car through an obstacle course while
blindfolded."

Tanaka knew, as did Court, that the view forward from the backseat was
nil.  Instruments and the big metal shroud curving over the instrument
panel meant the person in back had no forward visibility whatsoever.
Until they had the ground clues out the side windows down cold, most
instructor pilots had to skid the Phantom the last quarter mile or so on
final approach, in order to keep the touchdown point on the runway in
view, then straighten it out at the last minute before the main gear
slammed onto the concrete.

"Hell, the Navy sets up flight attitude and just lets them crash down on
carrier decks," Court said.  "I'm going to do the same thing for this
guy.  He's got to get his frontseater to come around long enough to put
the hook down for him.  He can't do it from the backseat.  I'll have the
tower prepare the runway for an approach end barrier engagement."

The hook saved many an aircraft.  The pilots of shot-up F-4s, or pilots
trying to land in a heavy rain (where out-of-control skidding due to
hydroplaning on rainwater was common), lowered a hook attached
underneath the fuselage.  Like carrier airplanes, the hook caught a
cable stretched across the runway a few feet from the touchdown point.
The cable was attached to huge brake drums on each side of the runway
that absorbed the incredible energy and braked the aircraft to a halt in
less than 1,000 feet.

Court pushed the transmit button on his throttle.  "Alley Cat, Phantom
Zero One," he called.

"Phantom, Alley Cat, go."

"I've got Beercan.  Would you have Green Tanker come up on this
frequency?"

"They're already here, Phantom.  I brought them up just in case."

"Nicely done, Alley Cat.  Green Tanker, do you read Phantom Zero One?"

"Loud and clear, Phantom.  This is your friendly tank.  You call, we
fill.  We have you on radar.  Steer 220 for an intercept. We are at
15,500 feet.  You copy?"

The main transmitting was the Green Tanker navigator who had been in
contact with Alley Cat on another frequency.  With the Alley Cat
controller's help, he had located Phantom and Beercan on his own
radarscope, and was able to give them an immediate heading to his
location.  He had also asked his pilot to descend to an altitude 500
feet above the two Phantoms to make the final approach to the hook-up
easier for them.

"Roger, copy Green.  We are at 15,000," Court said.  Then he called
Beercan.  "Beercan, do like the man says and turn right to 220.  Can you
do that?"

"Uh, hell.  Look, I'm not a pilot.  I do have some time flying back
here, but it was all practice."

"Flying is flying," Court said.  "Whatever you do, keep the ball in the
center.  Make your turn now.  Bank to the right.  Ease into it and I'll
tell you when to roll out." Court had his own gages and Ken Tanaka's
instructions to keep him aware of what heading they had.

Court could barely make out the details of the Phantom. There were some
black streaks below the front canopy and what looked like torn metal, as
if a shell had penetrated the skin and exploded there.  He couldn't be
sure and saw no point in quizzing the man in the backseat, who had
enough worries of his own.

"Okay," Beercan said and started a shaky right turn.  it gradually
became steeper,

"Don't let your wing down so far," Court said.  The navigator brought
the wing up with a jerk that nearly flung Court off to one side.  "Easy
now," he said.  "Take it easy and we'll all get a beer at the O'Club
pretty soon."

"Contact," Ken Tanaka said, "dead ahead for twenty miles.

Looks like he's turning." At a head-on closure rate over 1,000 miles per
hour, the tanker had to time his turn away from the Phantoms precisely.
Too late and he would overrun the two Phantoms, too early and the two
Phantoms would waste a lot Of fuel trying to catch up- The Green Tanker
navigator had given his pilot good instructions.  Two Minutes later,
Beercan, with Court on his wing, was one mile in trail to the tanker.

"Going Bright Flash," Court said, and moved his navigation light switch
to that position.

"You're one mile in trail, Phantom Zero One," Green Tanker said.  The
radar in the KC-135 tanker was sharp enough to allow the navigator to
direct the two Phantoms into refueling position.

"Roger," Court replied.  "Hold it steady, Beercan," he said.

Court alternated his eyes from the Phantom next to him to his
instruments in the cockpit, then up to search the night sky in front.
Soon he spotted the glow from the indicator lights under the belly of
the huge KC-135 tanker.  The twin row of lights, called captain's bars,
were manipulated by the boomer to tell the receiving aircraft to move up
or down, fore or aft, left or right.  That way a refueling could be
Performed while maintaining radio silence.

"Beercan, the tanker is dead ahead," Court said.  "Can you see him?" The
dim glow in the clouds was eerie, as if a lamp were immersed in a dark
substance.

"Uh, yeah, ah ...  I see him, .  ." The Phantom started to wobble as the
backseater took his eyes from the instruments.

"Hold it steady, now," Court said.  The wobbling increased.

"Easy now.  Let's move on up to the tanker.  You said you've refueled
before,"

"NOT AT NIGHT," the young man yelled.  His airplane started to pitch up
and down in the black clouds.

"Steady, steady," Court said.

"I'M LOSING IT.  I'VE GOT VERTIGO .  .

Slowly, the Phantom fell off on a wing to the left.  Court followed and
tried to fly formation on the airplane in the black sky.

"You're in a left bank.  Center your needle and ball," Court transmitted
in as calm a voice as he could muster.  "Roll out to the right and raise
the nose.  Make the little airplane on your attitude indicator align
with the horizon bar.  You're in a left bank, roll out, roll to the
right.  Bring the nose up."

"I CAN'T TELL ...  I CAN'T TELL," the man in the backseat transmitted in
great confusion.

"Roll right, bring the nose up," Court said once more.

"Better break it off, boss," Tanaka said.  "We're passing through ten
thou."

The Phantom continued the slow left roll as the nose sliced lower. Court
felt the G-load and the airspeed increase as he tried to stay with the
airplane that was rapidly going out of control.

Seconds later they were in a diving spiral and he had to break away.  He
leveled off and began a left-hand orbit just below the base of the
clouds.  He saw his altitude was 8,000 feet, barely 3,000 feet above the
surrounding karst ridges that he could not see in the inky blackness.
There were no lights below to provide any horizontal reference.  Court
heard the backseater key his mike.

"I'M DIVING ...  I'M DIVING ...  I'VE GOT TO PULL OUT.  .  ."

"Level your wings, then pull out," Court commanded.  He knew the young
man was in what civilian pilots called a death spiral.  A Pilot who was
not trained to fly instruments in bad weather invariably wound up in a
sharply descending spiral, but his kinetic cues-the seat of his
pants-told him he was straight and level, or maybe diving, because he
saw the airspeed was rapidly rising.  Then they would try to pull back
on the stick without leveling the wings.  Pulling back on the stick
merely tightened the turn and made the nose fall more, until the
airplane smashed into the ground.  In the old days of wire and cloth,
the pilot might even have pulled the wings off in his desperate attempt
to live.  Court knew the Beercan Phantom was doomed.

"Beercan, bail out, bail out now.  Beercan, get out," he ordered.

He heard the carrier wave come on as the backseater pressed the mike
button on the throttle, then go off, then come back on.

"Can't," he said in a very calm voice.  "Can't do it.  Fred is still
alive.  I hear him moaning.  Got to pull thi-"

He was cut off in mid-sentence and Court and Ken Tanaka saw below them a
sharp white light that quickly expanded into a red mushroom.

"Ah shit," Tanaka said from the backseat, his voice thick with despair.

"Alley Cat," Court transmitted, his voice impersonal.  "Beercan has gone
in.  No chutes.  I don't think anybody got out." He leveled and began
the climb back to altitude.  "Alley Cat, you copy?"

"Phantom Zero One, Alley Cat copies.  Give us a position of the crash
site." From the backseat, Tanaka read off the coordinates provided by a
device called the INS, the Inertial Navigation System.

"Hey," Tanaka said abruptly on the intercom, the death of the two
Beercan pilots put out of his mind.  "We've got about ten minutes of
juice left before we make a nylon letdown."

"Green Tanker," Court called, "you still on this freq?  We're bingo
minus a bunch."

"Roger, Phantom Zero One.  Green Tanker still on orbit ready to pass
gas.  We have you six miles in trail." The Green Tanker navigator
paused, then said: "I'm, sorry 'bout your buddy, Phantom.  Tough way to
go."

Within five minutes, Court had found the tanker and was being refueled
through the boom at the rate of 600 gallons per minute when the ABCCC
called.

"Phantom Zero One, Alley Cat."

"Phantom, go," Court answered.    e Channel

"How you guys feeling?  We need someone to recc 97, find out what
happened- Other assets, slow assets, will be one advance idea of what
will be there later in the morning but need to know what they will
find."

"No problem, Alley Cat, we'd be glad to check it out," Court said
without conferring with Tanaka, who he knew would agree.

"Are you Winchester?" Alley Cat used the code .  word asking if Court
had any ammunition or weaponry remaining on his aircraft, As night fast
FACs (Forward Air Controllers) whose job it was to locate trucks and
guns on the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos, the Phantom FACs carried
2.75-inch marking rockets, a 20mm cannon slung under the belly, and a
load of parachute flares to illuminate the ground below.

"Negative," Court replied.  "We had a dry night.  Just popped a few
flares.  We'll go take a look." His airplane was full of fuel now and he
disconnected from the tanker.  "Give me a steer, Ken," he asked.  Tanaka
gave him a heading for the radar site.    Green Tanker, backed off,
Still in the clouds, Court thanked Channel 97. and turned back to the
northeast toward Tacan 97.

Tacan was a navigation device which, when tuned in, would show the
distance and heading to the transmitting station.  They were sometimes
referred to by their location, sometimes by the numbers dialed into the
receiving Tacan set to pick up the continuously transmitted navigation
signaled fighter pilots

Channel 97, known as Eagle Station by the tanker drivers, was known by
another name to those who controlled and flew the "slow" assets. Those
men, who flew helicopters and small propeller-driven airplanes, called
it Lima Site 85.  Those men wore civilian clothes and worked for or were
controlled by the Central intelligence Agency.

By 0545 Hours Bannister and Tanaka were ten miles Out, traveling at 600
miles per hour and still descending.  The jungle before the karst looked
like a thick green rug in the early morning light.

The whole area was composed of jutting limestone karst ridges and steep
peaks rising above thick jungle, sinkholes, and disappearing streams.
The radar and van complex at the radar site was on top of a rectangular
piece of karst that jutted up from the surrounding jungle to over one
mile in the air.  The layered texture of its steep sides resembled
buttes and mesas rising in the American Southwest.  The top formed a
sloping rectangle, about two kilometers by one kilometer, and held
jungle and small hills of its own, as if it were a portion of the
surrounding floor that had suddenly been elevated into the sky.  It was
oriented northwest to southeast and was only twenty-five kilometers from
the North Vietnamese border.  The village on the site, Poo Pah Tee, had
been an important guerrilla base in northeastern Laos, but soon became
viewed by the USAF as an excellent spot to put a navigational aid and,
later, a radar station, both of which helped US strike aircraft find
their way around North Vietnam and portions of the Ho Chi Minh Trail in
Laos.

The radar at Eagle Station was theTSQ-8 1, a modified Strategic Air
Command (SAC) radar bomb scoring system (RBS).

But instead of computing B-52 electronic bomb-drop accuracy, it worked
in reverse.  When firepower was needed in the daylight or at night, but
the weather was rotten and down to the deck, airplanes equipped with
special beacons could drop bombs by radar vectors from Eagle Station.
The operator would key into his computer fixed information, such as
target distance and direction from his site, height above sea level, and
type Of bomb, for which the computer already knew the aerodynamics and
fall rate.  Then the operator would add the weather variables:
temperature aloft, air density, high and low winds. The computer would
then give out a range of aircraft headings, altitudes, and airspeeds to
complete the bombing equation.

The operator would have the ground target fixed on his radar -screen,
and then would "paint" the incoming aircraft blip with sharp resolution
by receiving a Pulse of energy from the beacon mounted in the aircraft.
Similar systems, called the MSQ-77, were in use in South Vietnam, but
this was the only facility for North Vietnam and northern Laos.  The
method was called Skyspot and had proved of great worth in sections of
North Vietnam unprotected by SAMs (surface-to-air missiles) and Laos
(pilots did not find it healthy to fly in or above clouds that obscured
SAMs that might be fired at them).

What made the Laotian radar site unique from its counterparts in South
Vietnam was that those that ran it were classified as "technicians," not
military personnel.  This situation had arisen because the US did not
want to violate the 1962 Geneva Convention by maintaining American
military troops in Laos.

As a result, the sixteen USAF radar controllers and maintenance men at
Eagle Station, both officers and enlisted men, had become
"sheep-dipped." The process entailed having the men supposedly leave the
USAF to become field representatives and technicians for major American
radar manufacturing companies, such as Hughes and General Electric, For
this reason, Lieutenant Bob Pearson and Sta Sergeant Al Verbell were
known as Mister Pearson and Mister Verbell.

A shrewd analyst of military nomenclature might have figured out the
purpose behind Eagle Station by studying the nomenclature of the radar
set and how it differed from those in South Vietnam.  The RBS sites in
South Vietnam had the designation MSQ-77.  Under the DoD joint
electronics type designation system (JETIDS), each letter in sequence
had a meaning.  T meant transportable, M meant mobile, S meant Special
type, and Q meant Special purpose.  The two numbers, 77 and 91, were
model numbers.  The "T" in the TSQ-81 for Eagle Station meant that the
entire apparatus-scopes, power, antennae--could be broken down into
packages that were easily transportable by air.

Court threw the left wing down as they zoomed over the site at 500 feet.
"Look at that," Tanaka breathed into the intercom.

They saw the vans and a few buts, one smoking, and some large radio and
radar antennas that had crashed to the ground.  A small American flag
flew from a rod stuck in the ground.

Mister Bob Pearson heard the roar of the Phantom as it flashed by.  He
grinned and started the portable generator for his Mark 28 radio pallet.

"Fox-Four doing a bubble check at Channel 97, how do you read Eagle One
Four?"

"Loud and very clear, Eagle One Four," replied a surprised Court
Bannister.  "This is Phantom Zero One.  How you gentlemen down there
this morning?  Thought we lost you last night."

"We took a few mortar rounds, knocked our antennas out. No one hurt.
Tell Alley Cat to ask homeplate for the entire backup gear I
pre-positioned with them.  They'll know what you mean."

Court called the Hillsboro ABCCC, who replaced Alley Cat in the daytime,
and relayed the message.  Hillsboro told Phantom Zero One that it would
be done and that he was to tell Eagle One Four that some special people
would be on the ground at their location within the hour, and to keep a
listening watch on the standard Eagle Station frequency.

Court relayed the message, then asked, "You got any more bad guys out
there?  We can get some strike birds in here right away."

"Negative, Zero One, but thanks.  It was a small group and a probe, I
think.  Very professional.  Worse to come, I'll bet."

0615 Hours LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 9 OCTOBER 1968

TAN SON NHUT AIR BASE

SAIGON, Republic OF VIETNAM

It was in the pre-dawn dark when USAF Staff Sergeant Manuel J.  "Little
Cat" Dominguez entered the crowded GI snack bar at the end of the 8th
Aerial Port Squadron's military air terminal at Saigon's Tan Son Nhut
Air Base.  Military shift workers mixed with arriving and departing
passengers.  Most were dressed in fatigues or flight suits.

Dominguez wore khakis (Tan, shade 1505) with the pants bloused over
glossy spit-shined black (imported cowhide) paratrooper boots (the men
called them jump boots).  He removed his maroon beret with the silver
Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Service badge.  The crease in his tailored
uniform shirt and pants was knife-sharp.  On his left breast were two
rows of ribbons under the paratrooper wings won by Air Force ings had a
star and wreath over them, Pararescue men.  They were classified showing
he had made at least sixty-five jump as a master parachutist (master
blaster).  The jump wings were Army issue.  The USAF had tried to
introduce a fruity-looking enameled device depicting the wearer as
jump-qualified, but no one would wear them, so the supply types had
given up.

The ribbons revealed he had eight years in the Air Force, was qualified
in small arms as a marksman, was a graduate of the NCO Academy, had
logged time in Vietnam, and had been awarded the Good Conduct Medal and
three Air Medals.  In the top-left position of honor (facing the
ribbons), next to the Air Medal (with two Oak Leaf Clusters), was the
Distinguished Flying Cross. a small blue satchel known as an AWOL bag
Dominguez carried to hold a pair of shoes, a shaving kit, and barely big
enough to hold a shirt or two.  Just enough to go AWOL, it was said. The
bag was fabricated of canvas and cost $2.80 in the Base Exchange.

In his AWOL bag, Dominguez carried his shaving kit and a small survival
kit he had assembled, including a small RT-10 aviator's survival radio
he had obtained from a pilot he had picked up from North Vietnam. "Shit,
man," the grateful pilot had cried, "tell me what else you want.  it's
all a write-off, I lost it in the ejection, right?" Dominguez never flew
anywhere in Vietnam as a passenger without this kit.  For further
safety, he wished he could wear a parachute, even when he flew as a
passenger.

He followed the line, poured a cup of coffee into a mug from the big
silver urn, disregarded the greasy bacon and yellow scrambled eggs that
smelled like burnt rubber, passed up the chicken and tuna fish
sandwiches because they looked like a ptomaine preserve, and finally
grabbed a bag of Fritos out of desperation for something to munch on. At
the cashier's position he pulled out a wad of MPC (Military Payment
Certificates, used in lieu of real money) and paid his bill- He saw the
latest Pacific Stars and Stripes on a stack at the end of the line, put
a paper dime in the open mason jar, and picked up a copy.

Looking across the crowded snack bar, he saw two men leave sat down, and
spread out his paper to read. He sipped his coffee as he turned the
pages.

Sergeant Dominguez had just come from Headquarters, 3rd Aerospace Rescue
and Recovery Group (ARRGp), and was whiling away a few minutes waiting
to catch a C-130 flight to Da Nang, his home base.  Dominguez had so far
been in Vietnam four months.  Previously, he had been stationed at Cape
Canaveral, Performing satellite rescue duty, and had had a standing
volunteer statement for Vietnam in the Personnel Office ever since 1965.
At least once a week, he'd bugged the tech sergeant in charge for action
on his request.  Five months ago he'd finally gotten it.  Thirty days
later he was in Vietnam.

Staff Sergeant Manuel I.  Dominguez (soon to be a technical sergeant,
he'd found out the day before) was a man who stepped out of airborne
helicopters while riding on a cable.  He usually practiced this insanity
in territory where people were trying to kill him.  He could, if the
occasion demanded, make a parachute jump under the same conditions.  On
the personnel books, he was carried as a Pararescue Jumper (later as a
Pararescue Specialist), Air Force Specialty Code 8945 1.  They were
sometimes known as paratroopers, but always referred to as PJs.

Being a PJ was a source of great pride to the individual.

A PJ was a product of intense screening and intense training powered by
intense motivation.  When everybody else was running around trying to
kill somebody, a PJ was running around trying to save lives-usually
those of shot-down air-crewmen.

Of course, if a PJ had to kill somebody to save somebody, they were
quite capable of doing it in any number of ways.

Every PJ was a volunteer.  Once selected for his maturity, physical
condition, and potential, the would-be PJ was sent to jump training at
Fort Benning, then off to scuba training.  From there he was sent to
Gunter Air Force Base in Alabama to be certified as a medical
technician.  After that, he went through four types of survival schools:
desert in the Mohave Desert, swamp in the Florida Everglades, jungle on
an island near Key West, and Arctic not too far from McCall, Idaho.
Finally, each PJ was trained to be an expert in small arms and
hand-to-hand combat.  When Little Cat had volunteered, so had 2,600
other young airmen.  Sixteen had been selected, ten had won their maroon
berets.

Manuel Dominguez had accomplished all these things since he had enlisted
in the Air Force eight years ago in the early fall of 1960, four months
after he had been dismissed from the United States Air Force Academy. He
had returned to the small dairy farm his family owned two miles west of
Godley, Texas.

For three months he had labored on the farm, tackling any task he could
find and throwing himself into the chores with silent fierceness.  He
had refused to sleep in the house and used a corner of the tack room
next to the barn in which to live.  His parents and older brother had
been concerned, but left him alone to work out whatever burden was on
his mind.

As Manuel Dominguez thumbed through the sports section, he noticed the
Air Force Academy had narrowly beaten Colorado in baseball.  He was
almost over feeling a twinge every time he thought of his two years as a
cadet.  What hurt more than anything, and he had buried it as deep as
pain would permit, was never again seeing the girl with the brown hair,
Barbara Westin.  He could almost get through a whole week without seeing
in his mind the most beautiful girl in the world.  When he did, he would
pull her picture from his wallet and study her face until his chest
hurt.

As for the reason for his dismissal from the Academy ... no, cut it out,
he told himself.  He'd promised himself not to go over all that again.
Why dig up the worst memories a man could have?

He was saved from further thought when a bulky man wearing jungle
fatigues and carrying a tray sat across from him.

The man had a tough-looking, almost simian face, and was an Army
lieutenant colonel.  He had the CIB (Combat Infantryman Badge) and
master parachute wings sewn in black thread on his left breast.  On his
right breast was the name LOCHERT, also sewn in black thread.  Dominguez
remembered now: Colonel Lochert was the man who had been hounded in the
press about a so-called murder of a North Vietnamese double agent.

There had been a lot of bad publicity calling it an atrocity and
demanding his head-until the defense had proven conclusively at the
court-martial that Lochert had only been acting in self-defense.

After a curious appraisal of his tablemate, Little Cat Dominguez went
back to his paper and decided it was time for some Fritos.  He picked up
the bag, opened it, and took out a few to munch absently.  Head bent
over the page, he became aware that the burly Lochert seemed to be
sitting motionless and glaring at him over his own tray.

Maybe I'm munching too loud for him, Dominguez thought, and tried to
chew softly.  It was not an easy or satisfactory thing to do.  Hell with
it.  This is a place to eat, I'm eating, at least I chew with my mouth
closed.  He grabbed a few more Fritos and continued chewing.

Then, to Dominguez's great surprise, Lochert reached into the Frito bag,
took out some Frito chips and, glowering at Dominguez as if daring him
to do anything, popped them into his mouth and started chewing.

Startled, only by exercising great control did Manuel Dominguez keep
from making some smart-ass remark about Army lieutenant colonels who
were too cheap to buy their own Fritos and had to steal them from Air
Force enlisted men.  This guy is really goofy.  Maybe he stood next to
the cannon too many times.

instead, he stared Lochert in the eye, reached over, grabbed a handful
of the chips, stuffed them in his mouth, and chewed as loudly as he
could.

Lochert's face appeared to swell and his eyes bulged dangerously.  He
seemed about to speak, then did not.  He reached for the Frito bag with
both hands, ripped it open with a savage motion, crammed what was left
of the chips in his mouth, and chewed with what Manuel Dominguez thought
was a triumphal gleam in his eye.  Still chewing, Lochert snatched up
his empty tray and stomped away from the table.

Shaking his head, Dominguez watched him walk out of the snack bar and
disappear into the crowd outside.  God, but there are some weird ones in
Vietnam, he thought.  He bent back to his paper, read for another twenty
minutes, checked his watch, and decided it was time to go.  Standing up,
he picked up his AWOL bag, put it on the chair he had just vacated, and
reached for his spread-out paper to fold it.  There, underneath, was the
unopened bag of Fritos he had bought.

0830 Hours LOCAL, THURSDAY 10 OCTOBER 1968

REGIONAL REPORTING OFFICE (RRO) EMBASSY OF THE UNITED STATES

VIENTIANE, ROYALTY OF LAOS

"So you're the famous Wolf Lochert," the man in civilian clothes stated.

"Yeah."

hey?  And you're going to check our Lima Sites tell you, 85 is a real
pisser." Another man in casual civilian dress sat in a chair by the
desk.  They were in an office belonging to the RRO, Regional Reporting
Office, the name which had been selected as a cover for the large CIA
contingent stationed in Laos and attached to the embassy.

Wolfgang Xavier Lochert, a lieutenant colonel Army Special Forces, wore
civilian clothes--almost all civilian clothes; his white shirt hung
loose over his dark trousers, which didn't quite hide the Army issue
jungle boots on his feet.

The man who spoke was not chief of logistics for Military Region but
rather Jerm Powers who had Blue eyes from his blunt Nordic past regarded
Lochert steadily.  He had never liked Army men, especially Special
Forces, since his days as an Air Force lieutenant

when he had had the shit beat out of him and some of his men in a joint
field exercise in South Carolina.  He and four others had been on an
escape and evasion training mission, when they had walked into a night
ambush by a Special Forces team that had left them all hanging upside
down by their belts around their ankles from pine trees.  Now he was one
of the scores of former military men on contract to the CIA.  He wore a
thick gold ID bracelet straight from Vilay Phone's, in downtown
Vientiane.

Powers had graduated from the Air Force Academy on time in 1961 and gone
into pilot training, He had lasted through the propeller portion, but
run headlong into trouble in the jet phase.  He simply could not get his
mind ahead of the T-33 jet trainer.  Unlike a propeller aircraft, which
has instant power when the throttle is pushed forward, the T-33 gas
turbine engine required several seconds to spool up to develop thrust,

After nearly driving his T-33 into the ground several times on
go-arounds in landing practice, because he could not plan ahead for the
required thrust, Powers had been washed out.

Because of the education the USAF had provided Powers at the Academy,
however, he owed the Air Force five years of active duty service.  He'd
performed in various capacities and wound up his last two years as an
aide decamp to a lieu tenant general in the intelligence service in
Washington, DC.

Contacts from that job had led to an interview with the Central
Intelligence Agency at Langley, Virginia.  His background and the
background of his wife had checked out, he'd passed the lie detector
tests about his life-style (no hidden homosexuality, pederasty, money
problems, drug taking, pot smoking, or ram pant adultery), and had
quickly been hired to fill the gaping maw of the Indochina/Southeast
Asia region.

Contract men like Powers were not merely out of military uniform and
detached from their service to work with the Agency, like the
sheep-dipped men at Eagle Station.  They were fully and legally
discharged from whatever civilian or military job they had ever held and
had gone through almost-normal hiring procedures to work for the CIA.
They differed from career CIA officers in that they were on contract for
a specific job for a specific period of time and were not in competition
for higher rank within the Agency.  In this case, military-trained men
were hired to help the friendly forces in Laos.  The US had set this
scheme in motion to help maintain the fiction that, since Laos was
neutral, no US military forces were in that war-ravaged country running
around the hills and mountains training the locals to fight the
thousands of North Vietnamese soldiers who were also quite illegally in
Laos.  The North Vietnamese communists, of course, helped maintain the
fiction by denying their soldiers were in neutralist Laos.

The CIA also had a contract with two flying companies called Air America
and Continental Air Service Incorporated (CASI).

Each day, dozens of American civilian pilots flew light STOL (short
takeoff and landing) aircraft and twin-engine cargo planes to resupply
the Lima Sites where the friendlies maintained bases whose functions
varied from that of large base camp to forward observation post.  When
the Air America and CASI crews delivered food, it was mostly bags of
rice.  The weapons and ammunition they delivered daily was called hard
rice.  The sites frequently came under attack.

There were, however, many Americans stationed in Laos who were military
men: they worked in or for the US Embassy and were either members of the
DAO (the Defense Attache Office) or were Ravens, a flying unit.  DAO
members worked for the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA), whose mission
was overtly to collect military intelligence (as opposed to the CIA, who
operated covertly to collect military, political, economic, or any other
kind of intelligence they were tasked to acquire).  The DAO men, known
as military attaches, in fact helped run the war in Laos.  This was not
what attaches did in other countries.

Ravens were Air Force lieutenants and captains, and the odd major or
two, who flew light spotter planes, using the call sign Raven.  Neither
they nor the DAO personnel wore uniforms.  The Ravens, in fact, living a
sort of Terry-and-the-Pirates existence, went out of their way to look
anything but military.  Nobody really questioned the use of civilian
clothes.  It seemed the thing to do, some guessed, mostly to confound
the newsies who found their way into Laos to "expose" this not-so-tiny
war in this tiny kingdom.  Certainly, civvies would not confound the
scores of Russians from the Soviet Embassy who also ran around in
civvies and maintained dossiers on all the Americans.  If nothing else,
Laos was a hodgepodge of intrigue involving democracy versus communism.

On the map, the outline of Laos could be loosely compared to a frying
pan with the handle pointed south.  The pan portion bordered Burma to
the west, China to the north, Thailand to the south, and North Vietnam
to the east.  The bulk of the pan was called the PDJ, which stood for
the French words Plaine des Jarres (so named because ancient tribesmen
buried their dead in giant above-ground earthen jars).  The handle of
the pan bordered North and South Vietnam to the east, Thailand to the
west, and ended embedded in Cambodia to the south.

"Let me tell you about Laos," Powers said.  "There are three Laotian
factions here: the Royal Lao Government, which we call the RLG-these are
the guys we are trying to help--the Neutralists; and the communists, who
are called PL, which stands for Pathet Lao.  Currently, the PL and the
North Vietnamese Army occupy the northeast corner next to North Vietnam
and are supplied by Hanoi.  And, currently, the NVA occupies eastern
Laos all the way down to Cambodia.  In 1961, the PL, the Neuts, and the
Royalists were fighting.  North Vietnam decided it was a good time to
put 6,000 of their soldiers in-country, so in 1962 President Kennedy
sent 5,000 U.S.  Marines to Thailand, which forced the commies to sign
the Geneva Agreements.  We signed, and so did Russia and North Vietnam.
The idea was to stop the fighting, make Laos neutral, and all foreigners
were to haul ass.  After the Marines left, we shipped all 666 of our
people out.  The commies only shipped out forty of their thousands.  In
April '63 the fighting started again because the commies were using
eastern Laos as a giant supply route into South Vietnam.

A route that bypassed the demilitarized zone which cut Vietnam in half.
That supply route is called the Ho Chi Minh Trail."

What a Scheisskopf, Wolf thought.  He had been running teams of Special
Forces men up and down the Trail for years.  Further, as a Special
Forces major he had been in Laos in the early sixties with Project White
Star, training Hmoung tribesmen who lived in the Laotian highlands.  He
looked at the man sitting quietly in the corner who, on catching his
glance, winked.  He and Wolf knew each other from an operation earlier
that year.  He was Jim Polter, a slender, gray-eyed man with
short-cropped dark hair, whose strong but pleasant face gave crinkly
evidence of fom-tidable experience coupled with humor.

"Yup, the Ho Chi Minh Trail is important to the commies," Powers
continued.  "On any given day they have about 200 tons of supplies
moving south, and they have about 300,000 road repair crews and gunners
to keep things moving.  In the northern part of Laos, the war is
different.  It's the reverse of what's going on in South Vietnam.  Up
here the PL and the NVA operate pretty much as a conventional force just
like we do in South Vietnam.  Like us, they control the population
centers and get resupplied by road.  Like the VC are in the south, up
here the friendlies are the guerrillas.  The fTiendlies are our little
guys, the Meo under General Vang Pao.  They fight the commies." The
"little guys" that Powers referred to were the Hmoung tribesmen formed
up by their leader, Vang Pao, to fight the North Vietnamese and the
Pathet Lao.  The US Government totally supported them with training,
weaponry, food, and money.

"That's Hmoung, not Meo, Powers," Wolf said.  "Meo is a Laotian word,
means barbarian.  The French used it.  We don't.

Got it?  They're Hmoung, that's their word for 'the people."'

With a look of infinite distaste at the lecture which he had just
received, Jerome Powers rose and flung up a drop cloth revealing a
military map of Laos.  Scores of colored pins dotted the surface.  He
waved his hand at the black pins.  "We have 187 Lima Sites, 110 of which
have airstrips.  Most of them are bare-bones sites, but some are
full-sized military bases for Vang Pao-we call him VP-and his army.  His
base is here at Long Tieng.  And some"--he pointed to Eagle Station in
the northeast portion of the Laotian pan-"have special gear on them for
the flyboys." He winked.  "You know, the ones who fly north and east of
here."

"Didn't one of those sites get overrun?" Wolf asked Powers.

"Yeah," Powers answered.  "Site 61 at Ban That Si.  It was a Tacan site,
no bombing radar."

Wolf shook his head and looked at Powers.  "How come you didn't mention
that to me?"

"Not in my area.  It's in a different MR."

Wolf fixed Powers with a hard stare.  "What exactly is your job here?"

Powers put his hands on his hips, "My job is to run the war in MR.  Who
are U." Jim Polter coughed lightly.  "That is," Powers said without
looking at Polter, "my job is to recruit and to supply our guys and the
little guys in MR 11.  Without me, no war.  And"he made a leering
smile-"the chief of MR 11 is on leave in Bangkok, so I'm in charge now."

"And that's why you're in this office, Wolf," Jim Polter said.

"You were sent up here to tour the eastern Lima Sites and to inspect the
defenses, particularly Lima Site 85, Eagle Station.

It's one of our most important sites.  We want you to make sure VP and
his men are putting into practice some of the stuff the SF has been
teaching them down in Thailand."

"Why me?" Wolf asked.

Polter laughed.  "My request.  Hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" Wolf said.  "No, I don't mind.  Happy to get out of Saigon. More
than you know."

"I expect so," Polter said dryly.  He knew all about the courtmartial.
There were other soldiers that could have performed the on-site
inspections, but Polter figured, quite correctly, that Wolf Lochert
needed a break from the United States Army and MACV (Military Advisory
Command, Vietnam).

"Here's the latest report on Lima Site 85," Powers said and handed Wolf
a file.  "Just a minor affair, really."

For several minutes Wolf studied the papers and the attached map.  He
looked up.  "I think it was a probe, and that there will be a full-scale
attack very soon." He put the file back on Powers's desk.

"And I say it was an errant local PL commander who hadn't gotten the
word to stay away from the site," Powers said.

"What do you mean?" Wolf asked.  "Stay away from the site?"

"There's a lot out there you don't know about, Lochert, and Site 85 is
one of them.  They stay away-"

"Who are 'they'?" Lochert interrupted.

"The PL, the Pathet Lao.  They stay away for a couple of reasons.  One
is they probably get paid off from the opium poppy farmers, and
secondly, they know the site is well defended and we can have as many of
VP's troops and all the air strikes we want up there in less than a
day."

"Paid off?  Less than a day?  I'm here to check Lima Site defenses and
this one sounds like a real Maginot Line and you sound like Maginot
himself.  What if the NVA replace the PL? And what if the site is
overrun, what kind of an evacuation plan do you have for the men?"

"We have a plan not only to pull the men out, but to bring the equipment
out if there is time or destroy it if there isn't.

But none of that will be necessary.  We consider the site well defended
by VP's troops."

"Would they fight to the last man?"

"Well, no.  Why should they?  This isn't a piece of real estate we need
to hold forever."

Wolf tapped the file.  "You consider it vital, yet you don't think it
worth holding?  Sounds like you don't know what you want or how
important that place really is."

Powers frowned.  "Well, maybe you'd just better get on out there, then."

...  that's exactly what I intend to do.  I think there are NVA around
that site, not just PL." Wolf stood up.  "Tell me," he asked in a
pleasant voice, "where do you fit into my inspections, Mister Powers?"

"The reason you are checking in with Powers," Polter broke in, "is that
he is the assistant to the guy who has a handle on who is doing what out
there, who you should see once you're out there--2'

"And the man on Lima Site 85 is Mister Sam," Powers broke in.  "He runs
the CP and the Meo ...  unh, Hmoung garrison.

Counting wives and kids, there are about 200.  But he'll just tell you
the same thing I am."

"Which is?" Wolf said.

"Goddamnit, that there is no real problem up there."

"Swear one more time, Scheisskopf, and I'll break your arm," Wolf
flared.

"He doesn't like swearing," Polter said to Powers in a conciliatory
voice.

Polter turned to Wolf and changed the subject.  "Jerome will rig you up
with whatever gear you need as well as transportation to the Lima
Sites."

"I've got my own rig," Wolf growled.  It was an implied insult that he
didn't carry enough of his own gear at any given time to be ready to go
into the field.

Still riled, Powers opened a door to a supply room next to his office.
"I'll bet you don't have one of these," he said, and held up a metal
object about the size of a half-carton of cigarettes.

It was an RT- IO air-crew survival radio.

"I've got two," Wolf barked.

"Or one of these," Powers said, pointing to a PRC-25 FM field radio.

"Yeah, one of those too.  What is this, some sort of a one-up game
show?"

"How about a weapon?" Powers asked.

Polter laughed.  "Give up, Jerome.  Wolf Lochert was snapping caps in
combat before you knew which end of the gun the bullet came out."

In Point of fact, Wolf Lochert carried his Randall stiletto in one ankle
holster and his 7.63 Mauser "social" weapon in the other.  He had two
bags with him on this trip: a duffel bag with field gear, harnesses, and
fatigues, and a parachute bag with his USAF backpack T-10 parachute
modified with a four-line cut for better steering control.  He also
carried a 7.62 AK-47 assault rifle,

"Well, I know he doesn't have one of these," Powers said and handed Wolf
a small booklet.

Wolf took it.  "No, I don't," he said, and thumbed through it.  It was
titled Air field Site List, Laos, dated October 1968.  it listed all 187
Lima Sites and broke out the I 10 with airstrips.

The index gave all the codes for radio beacons, fuel available, runway
headings, slope, elevation, length and width, and the UTM coordinates of
each site.  It also gave status codes such as OPN meaning open for all
aircraft, or UNF meaning it was in unfriendly hands.  The primary VHF
frequency was 119.1 for each site.  The company radio was 118.1, with
121.5 for emergencies.  For really long distance, the HF radio was used
on frequency 5568 at night, 8765 during the day.

"Keep that," Powers said.  "It may come in handy." He dug out a paper
from a folder and handed it to Wolf.  "Here is your schedule for today."

Wolf scanned the list of meetings.  Political/Military ... Military
Assistance Advisory Group ...  Consular...    Defense Attache ...  Aid
for International Development...   Raven Ops ...  Air America Ops ...
Scheiss, this would take all day.

And it did.  it was late in the afternoon by the time Polter and Lochert
finished the round of briefings.  Polter drove Wolf in the jeep to
Wattay Airport.  Enroute they passed the famous Vertical Runway, a tall
Arc de Triomphe structure made from concrete that had been given to the
RLG by the United States to expand the runway at Wattay.  The King kept
the monument under constant construction because a soothsayer in his
court had told him that to stop would be the end of his life.

At Wattay, they walked out to one of Air America's C-46s shimmering in
the sun on the concrete ramp.  Three men stood in the shade under the
left wing and watched them approach.  A fourth man busied himself
preflighting the twin-engined cargo airplane with the tail number 715.

Polter introduced Wolf to the pilot, the copilot, and to a young Lao he
called a bundle-kicker, whose job, he explained, was to toss out the
cargo as the ships made low passes over the Lima Sites.

"We've got to kick out some rice up in the hills at Xieng Khoung, then
we'll get you to Lima 85," the pilot said.  He wore dark gray trousers
and a short-sleeved gray sport shirt with the four stripes of a captain
on his shoulder epaulets.

The Lao, about five-two, Wolf judged, made a toothy grin at Wolf,
thumbed his own chest, and said, "Is Tewa."

Wolf thumbed his own chest and said, "Is Wolf." The two men shook hands.

The crew chief signaled the airplane was ready, and they all walked to
the metal steps hanging from slots at the cargo door in the left
fuselage.  Wolf put his two bags down and unzipped the parachute bag,
then pulled out his TIO backpack parachute and a set of rumpled jungle
fatigues.  He put the fatigues on over his civilian clothes, filled the
cargo pockets with survival equipment, strapped the two RT-10 radios
into the leg pockets, then threw the T- IO parachute to his back and
shrugged into the harness.  Then he pulled the AK from the parachute bag
and strapped it to his leg.  The pilot watched with some amusement as
Wolf squatted and tightened the leg straps for the parachute.

"You always fly like that, buddy?" he asked.

"Always," Wolf growled.  Except for combat assaults from helicopters,
Wolf Lochert wore a parachute anytime he was in an airplane in a combat
zone.  If pressed, he would say it had been years before he was
comfortable as a chuteless passenger on a civilian airliner.  Wolf
Lochert had logged 1,247 jumps since he began jumping twenty years
earlier.

"Some guys," the pilot muttered, shaking his head as he climbed the
small ladder and disappeared inside the ship.

"See you in a couple days," Polter said, shaking Wolf's hand.

"Keep in touch on the HF net.  Let me know if there is anything really
gross that needs immediate attention.  I don't think there is, but you
never know what you'll find out there."

Thirty minutes later the C-46 was level at 8,000 feet and beginning its
first run.  The airplane was cargo-figged; there were no seats, neither
airliner-type nor canvas pulldowns.  Even the big cargo door had been
removed.  Tewa had hooked a net over the opening.  Wolf sat on a pallet
of rice strapped down just behind the pilot's compartment.  In his ears
were rubber plugs he had inserted just before takeoff.  He had taken
them from a small tube he always carried.  Special Forces men, as with
any men who spent their lives in the bush, valued their hearing as much
as their weapons to keep them alive.  He studied the map, a 1:250,000
Aerial Navigation Chart he had pulled from his bag to keep track of the
approximate position of the C-46.  He felt the pilot set the throttles
and slow the airplane to drop speed.

He climbed down when he saw Tewa the bundle-kicker start pulling bags of
rice toward the cargo door.  Because they were going into range of
ground fire and Wolf wanted all his senses alert, he stowed his
earplugs, then stuffed the map under his harness.  Due to the tightness
of his parachute straps, he had to walk slightly crouched.  Tewa grinned
as Wolf helped drag rice bags to the door.  The Lao wore neither a
parachute nor a harness and safety belt binding him to the aircraft.
Earlier, Wolf had noticed four parachutes stacked haphazardly in a cargo
bin on the left side behind the pilot's compartment.

The pilot made a steep left descending turn toward the tiny encampment.
Out the gaping door Wolf could see the steep green hills and tall trees
that made up the Laotian countryside.

The pilot leveled at what Wolf estimated was two hundred feet above the
terrain and began his run.  In the doorway Tewa watched three small
light bulbs next to the door.  When the red went off and the green lit
up, he began flinging sacks of rice out the door as fast as he could.
The rice was double-bagged to handle any loose rice in case the inner
bag burst upon impact, which it usually did.  Wolf helped pitch them
out.  Tewa held up his hand after seven bags.  They were past the short
drop zone.

"Is all," Tewa mouthed.  Wolf nodded and put his plugs back in his ears.

The drop zone was the village itself, situated in the only clear space
along the top of a small row of green hills.  The pilot had tried to
align the left door with the edge of the clearing so the bags wouldn't
crash through the roofs of the thatched huts surrounding the longhouse
of the chief.

After the pilot had pulled away to the north and climbed, the door to
the pilot's compartment opened and a man wearing the three stripes of a
copilot on his epaulets came back to Wolf

"That was X-ray Kilo," he said, shouting above the noise of the engines
and the wind passing by the open cargo door.  Wolf reached to his right
ear and pulled out a rubber plug.

"Say again," he said to the copilot.

"That was Meng Khoung.  The Company just called on HF. We have a divert.
We have to go to a camp near Ban Ban and drop some hard rice.  Be there
in about twenty minutes, then we'll get you to Lima 85."

Wolf pulled his map out and had the copilot show him where they were
going.  It was a spot in the northeast corner of the PDJ.

After the copilot told Tewa what he wanted and went back up front, Wolf
replaced the earplug and climbed back on the rice pallet.  He watched
Tewa rig parachutes to the straps and hooks on three heavy wooden
crates.  Within minutes Wolf felt the pilot lower the nose and throttle
back for the next run.  Again, he carefully stowed both earplugs.  As
before, the pilot leveled a few hundred feet above the ground.  Wolf
made his way, hand over hand in the now swaying fuselage, to help Tewa.
Wind swirled through the fuselage, fluttering loose corners of canvas
covers.

Wolf heard the antiaircraft fire before he saw or felt anything.  Above
the wind and engine noise, he heard the sharp Pam-pam-pam-pam of what he
recognized as a 12.7mm (.51 caliber) Russian antiaircraft gun.

Immediately, the engines roared as the pilot slammed the throttles
forward and the big plane tilted left in a sharp turn away, Wolf hoped,
from the sudden ground fire.  In the abrupt turn, Tewa started to slide
toward the yawning door, eyes wide with alarm.  Wolf quickly grabbed a
crate strap with one hand and the tiny Lao with the other and hauled him
back to safety.

Then Wolf gave him a mighty shove toward the parachute bin.

Before the startled Lao could protest, Wolf had a chute strapped on him,
and had him started back to the cargo door.

As they reached the door, a spray of bullets drummed through the
underside of the aircraft, slamming into cargo pallets and zinging
through the skin of the curved top of the cargo compartment.  Every
fifth round was a tracer that left smoke in its path.

A cargo box started to smolder.  Wolf pulled Tewa down to the floor
behind one of the crates.  Another bullet spray hammered the aircraft
closer to the front of the ship as the gunner took more lead on his
target.  Wolf thought he heard a shout from the cockpit as the aircraft
abruptly nosed down.  At the same time he saw a trail of white smoke and
red flame issue from the left engine, The flames were long and hot and
almost reached the open cargo door.  Wolf could smell burning oil.  The
plane started to turn and fall into that side as the engine's propeller
began to unwind.  The bailout alarm, a huge bell mounted above the door,
started a strident ringing that galvanized Wolf into instinctive action.
Without a glance forward, he slammed Tema's hand onto the ripcord of his
chute and threw him out the door and tumbled out immediately after him.

Wolf had never gone out the door in such an awkward position, much less
at such a low altitude without a static line to open his parachute
automatically.  He did the best he could to roll to a spread-eagle
facedown position and pulled the ripcord.  For an instant he was struck
by the incredible silence, then he heard and felt his parachute pop
open.  He looked up, checked his canopy was fully deployed, and saw the
stricken C-46 crash into a hillside with a muted roar.  He realized
there were bare seconds remaining before he would hit the ground.

He took a quick glance around to orient himself to the terrain, saw Tewa
with a full canopy go into the trees south of his position, saw furtive
movements heading toward where the Lao would land, then looked down to
prepare for his own landing.

He had instinctively grabbed the two risers that allowed him to steer
his parachute and had just as instinctively turned into the wind.  He
saw a small clearing below and pulled a riser to steer toward it.  When
he saw he had it made, he assumed the landing position and slammed into
the ground.

Lochert hit, feet together, knees slightly bent, arms straight up with
hands on the risers, eyes on the horizon.  It was to be a classic
PLF-Parachute Landing Fall.  As soon as his feet touched, he pulled the
risers to his chest as hard and as fast as he could, tucked, and rolled
down on one shoulder.  But at the end of the maneuver, as the landing
energy was dissipated, his head struck a rock and he knew nothing more.

"Sor, sor, is dead?  Is sor dead?" The tiny Lao spoke in liquid
syllables.  He was crouched over Lochert's inert form, shaking his
torso.  "Sor, if sor not dead, sor must move.  Bad fucker come, bad
fucker come." He had gathered up Wolf's parachute and piled the silk
near his body.  The late afternoon was steamy hot and there was no
breeze.  The jungle, still quiet after the hammering of guns and the
crash of the C-46, seemed to be waiting for the next crescendo.

Wolf opened an eye.  "Sir not dead," he said softly.  "What compass bad
fucker?"

Years before, during White Star, Wolf had helped develop the 100-word
vocabulary taught to the Lao tribesman to make the rudiments of combat
conversation.  A few nouns, some basic single-tense verbs, names of
weapons and directions made up the pidgin English.  Like spice, flavor
was added by whichever additional words the Special Forces teacher felt
appropriate. The basic word denoting the reproductive act, and its many
wondrous and colorful variations, was by far the most popular and
common.

Tewa pointed south, down the hill from the small clearing.

"What kilometer?" Wolf asked, still lying flat, head throbbing.

"Maybe one, maybe two kilometer."

"Where Tewa parachute?"

The Lao pointed down the hill.  "Fucking tree.  Bad fucker see sure."

Wolf sat up and felt the back of his head.  He fingered a lump, but
brought forth no blood when he looked at his fingers.

Scheiss, he said to himself, if I'd worn a pot, that wouldn't have
happened.  He felt a dull throb and a momentary dizziness but nothing
else.

"Okay," he said, "make weapons check." Still seated, Wolf unbuckled his
parachute harness, then unstrapped the AK-47, checked it for damage,
pulled a magazine from a thigh pocket and inserted it into the weapon,
then jacked a round into the chamber.  He checked his stiletto and
Mauser secure in their holsters.  He inventoried the rest of his gear
and put one of the RT-10 radios in a chest pocket.  He pulled two
5-grain aspirins from a waterproof pack, punctured a pint tin of water,
and swallowed the pills along with half the water.  He gave the tin to
Tewa, who took it with a wide grin and emptied the tin with thirsty
gulps.

"Okay," Wolf said to Tewa, "let's move over there." He pointed to the
north edge of the clearing away from the direction Tewa said the "bad
fuckers" were.  Once away from the open space, Wolf buried the water
tin, then pointed up a tall tree and said to Tewa, "Go up, look, find
bad fuckers." The Lao seemed savvy enough to Wolf to be able to give a
dependable report.

As Tewa started shinnying up the tree, Wolf knelt down, quickly cut
cloth from his camouflaged parachute, buried the rest, and smoothed out
the disturbed brush.  Then he eased to the ground next to a fallen log
and concealed himself behind branches and leaves, yet leaving enough
space so he could see across the clearing.

From a pocket, he took out his map and fixed what he was fairly certain
was their position.  He pulled the RT- IO radio from his chest pocket
and extended the antenna, debating whether to use the international
distress call of Mayday.  Mayday, from the French M'aidez (help me), was
a powerful attention-getter in that it meant an airplane was in imminent
danger of crashing or had already crashed.  The call was usually heard
on what was called Guard Channel, which was 243.0 megacycles on UHF
(Ultra High Frequency) radio, and 121.5 on VHF (Very High Frequency).

All aircraft had a spare receiver permanently tuned to Guard Channel, so
that regardless of what frequency the pilot was using on his main
receiver, he would also hear it.  Sometimes Guard became too crowded
with frantic voices in uncontrolled chatter planes were going SAR or
combat situations when a lo down.  When that happened, the pilot would
temporarily turn his Guard receiver to Standby so as to better
concentrate on whatever he was doing on his own tactical frequency.

Since the RT- IO transmitted and received only on Guard, and an airplane
had crashed, Mayday seemed the obvious way to go.  Yet Wolf felt
reluctant to use the distress call.  I'm not in any distress, he
reasoned, only temporarily inconvenienced.  He decided not to use the
call and instead pushed the button on the small radio and began to
transmit.

"Any aircraft reading Wolf on Guard Channel, give me a call." He
repeated the transmission twice more and received no reply.  Tewa sprang
down from the tree.

"Bad fucker is half kilometer," he said in a rushed voice.

"How many?"

"Many.  mak-mak," Tewa said, using Thai slang for very many, which, Wolf
realized, could be anywhere from four or five to twenty or who knows.

"This many?" Wolf asked, opening and closing his right hand twice to
count ten fingers.

"Mak-mak," Tewa repeated, and opened and closed both hands three times.

-Maybe thirty?" Wolf said.

"Bad fucker look us.  Halb Tewa parachute."

Wolf pulled out his map.  "You know map?" he asked.

"Is know," Tewa said, and patted a back pocket as if that were where his
knowledge was stored.  Wolf showed him- where he thought they were on
his big 1:250,000 Aerial Navigation Chart.

Tewa made a big grin and reached into his rear pocket for a worn Army
1:50,000 map of the region.  "Is know," he repeated, and pointed to a
spot on the map.  Happily surprised at this man's ability to plan ahead,
Wolf looked where he pointed and agreed that Tewa had accurately found
their position.  The surrounding countryside was shown in much greater
detail on the Lao's map.  Wolf had a moment in which he had trouble
focusing and had to blink several times to clear his vision.

"Tewa is good man," Wolf said in a low voice.  He took out his Air field
Site List, Laos, and checked the coordinates in the local area for the
closest Lima site in the opposite direction from the approaching Pathet
Lao "bad fuckers." To the north, twenty-one miles away, he found Lima
Site 36 at Na Khang.

The route to the site would take them up and down several ridgelines of
karst that pushed up in rows like the Appalachian Mountains in the
United States.  The karst punched up in bizarre forms and shapes caused
by wind working on the limestone for millions of years.  Wolf took out
his lensatic compass, checked bearings, sliced his hand toward Na Khang,
and said quietly to Tewa, "We go now." He put a finger to his lips to
emphasize silence and Tewa nodded.

The direction Wolf had chosen was uphill through scrub brush and karst
outcroppings.  They started to climb.  At first the going was easy.  The
single-canopy jungle was formed of broad leaves which kept the
late-afternoon sun from their backs.

The slope was not too steep and the jungle floor was soft from rotted
foliage but not slippery.  The humidity was high.  Several times Wolf
stopped Tewa with a motion of his hand and they listened for pursuers.
So far they had heard nothing.  Once Wolf stopped and cut a plug from
the base of a banana tree for the pure water it contained and they both
drank their fill.  Wolf pulled two prophylactics from his pocket, gave
one to Tewa, then they filled the thin membranes with water and
carefully put them in their front cargo pockets.  Wolf put the plug back
in the tree, then painstakingly concealed the spot with branches.

Soon they were working their way up through karst, the rocky limestone
outcropping so common in northeastern Laos.

There was no canopy over the karst; the soil would not support big
trees.  Some of the slope was covered with a mixture of tall elephant
grass and low scrub vegetation.

it was close to darkness when Wolf signaled to stop and conceal
themselves for the night.  He pointed to one of many small cave openings
in the porous rock.  It was easily defensible and gave a good view down
the slope, but was difficult to reach.

They climbed the steep rock face as high as they could, then switched to
a narrow vertical fissure that rose up a dozen feet and passed next to
the cave opening.  They ascended by bracing their feet and backs against
opposite walls.  Wolf used parachute cloth to make a sling for his AK to
dangle under him.  Halfway up, Wolf saw where his right boot had scraped
a white streak in the rock.  Balancing himself with both legs, he spit
onto his fingers, slowly stretched his hand forward, and made mud from
the surrounding wall dirt to cover the offending scratch.  Below him,
Tewa stayed wedged in watchful silence.

Wolf climbed the remaining five feet and levered himself onto the narrow
ledge at the top of the chimney, pulled his gun after himself, and
reached down to help Tewa out of the fissure.  Upon Wolf's instructions,
Tewa backed into the cave.

Wolf had to lie flat, then inch his way backwards through the cave
opening, which was a jagged slice two feet high by four feet wide.  He
pulled in his AK, then, still on his stomach, looked out over the
surrounding terrain from his vantage point.

The rough karst, slate-colored and crumbling through the green growth,
fell away steeply to the single-canopy jungle twenty feet below.  He
could see down onto the strip of elephant grass that lay between the
jungle and the base of the karst.

He saw no movement in the grass and none through the dense jungle
canopy.  He watched silently for several long minutes and finally noted
birds take sudden flight along a line pointing fairly close to their
position in the karst.  He figured their panic was caused by approaching
Pathet Lao troops less than a kilometer from the bottom of the karst. He
inched back into the cave to where it was wider and he could sit up.
What little light there was came from the darkening sky outside.  His
eyes soon became accustomed to the vague outline of Tewa in the cave.

"I doubt if they found our trail," he said in a near-whisper to Tewa,
forgetting for the moment the Lao's abbreviated English vocabulary.
"They probably figured we would climb to the closest high point in the
region.  We will bivouac here.  Rest.

Sleep."

"Yes, yes," Tewa said in the dimness, obviously not comprehending
exactly what Wolf had said but aware enough of the situation to get the
general idea.  The Lao drank some of his water and busied himself laying
out his meager equipment.

Wolf passed him some parachute cloth and used his own to fashion a
pillow, then began to pull survival items from his pocket.  He drank
half of the water, then positioned the thin bladder where he could get
at it, put one RT-10 radio next to the water and left the second in his
pocket along with a day-night smoke flare.  He didn't want to take
anything else from his pockets in case they had to make a hurried
departure from the cave in the middle of the night.  He crawled forward
to position the AK near the cave opening and looked out over the jungle
below.  Daylight was ending and the sky was a thick violet laced with
golden rays from the setting sun.  He began to feel nauseated and had
trouble seeing clearly in the dim light that seemed to grow more dim
then become bright again.  He rested on his elbows and felt himself
sway.

"is sor okay?" Tewa asked from behind.

Wolf pushed back.  He knew what was happening.  "Going into shock," he
said.  "Delayed reaction to the bash on the head.  Need water, aspirin,
warmth, feet up." He knew the Lao didn't understand.  He fought against
the increasing nausea and dizziness to drink water and take four
aspirin.  Finally he wrapped himself in the parachute cloth and lay back
with his feet propped up on a ledge higher than his head.

"Sir is sick," he whispered to Tewa.

1845 Hours LOCAL, THURSDAY 10 OCTOBER 1968

AIRBORNE IN AN HH-53B HELICOPTER

NORTHEASTERN PLAINF DES JARRES

ROYALTY OF LAOS

"Did you hear that?" Captain Joe Kelly asked the pilot sitting to his
right in the cockpit of the HH-53B helicopter.

"Did I hear what?" the pilot, an older lieutenant colonel, responded.

The big camouflaged HH-53B helicopter thrashed its way northeast to Lima
Site 36 at Na Khang from their home base of Udorn Royal Thai Air Force
Base (RTAFB) in Thailand.

The noise from the six blades of its massive rotor system and the howl
of the two T-64 turbo engines would have sounded to someone on the
ground like a cross between the whine of a giant sewing machine and the
thrum of whirling scimitars.

Only the ubiquitous Hueys made the whop-whop, blat-blat blade sounds.
The ship weighed over seventeen tons and was cruising at 9,000 feet,
with a true airspeed of 155 knots.  The autopilot was engaged, freeing
the pilots from the exacting job of keeping the helicopter on course.
They were deploying to Lima Site 36, a secret advanced base in Laos, to
spend the night.  Very early the following morning they were to take off
and set up an orbit by the North Vietnamese border in support of a large
fighter strike in North Vietnam.

Kelly turned the volume up on the UHF radio and pressed the sides of his
olive drab helmet close to his ears.  Head cocked, he listened intently.

"Mere.  Hear that?"

"No, dammit," the pilot, Paul Shifleto, replied with some disgust, "I
didn't." He was a forty-seven-year-old lieutenant colonel with eleven
years in grade and hearing that had deteriorated badly due to twenty
years of flying C-124s (between helicopter tours) and noisy helicopters.
He sat with his hands in his lap and had been watching the countryside
slip by underneath.  He was at the end of his tour and didn't really
want this overnight deployment ...  particularly with Joe Kelly, the
squad ron's youngest instructor pilot and rescue crew commander.  Joe
Kelly was known as a wild man.  Kelly had not endeared himself to the
rescue community when he had added the phrase We Die to the rescue
motto, That Others May Live.  Kelly, a 1962 Air Force Academy graduate,
was known as a pre-Rucker pilot.

That meant he had graduated from the complete fixed-wing USAF pilot
training and received his wings.  Then he had gone to helicopter
training.  Later on, USAF helicopter pilots went only to the Army's Fort
Rucker for helicopter training.

I've got it now," Kelly said.  He was a man of broad shoulders made even
bulkier by the survival vest he wore.  Shifleto listened.  Together they
heard the faint voice.

"Hello, hello.  Is Tewa.  Is Tewa.  Sor is sick.  Sor is sick.  You come
please.  Come now." The voice stopped with a static hiss as the talker
released the transmit button.  It hissed on for a second, then back off
as if the talker kept pressing the button but didn't know what to say.

"Heavy accent, bad English, sounds like a flak trap," Shifleto said.  He
checked his watch.  "We don't have much time." He put his hands back in
his lap.  Christ, he thought to himself, twelve months of this, eleven
pickups, shot up dozens of times, I'm ready to hang it up.  Should have
retired five years ago.

He turned to Kelly.  "It's a flak trap.  Got sucked into one of these at
Hue, When I was TDY at Da Nang, we lost a bird on a phony call from the
survival radio of a dead Thud driver."

"Maybe so," Kelly answered, "but I'll see what I can find out.  it
sounds different than someone trying to sucker us in.

Kind of plaintive."

"Suit yourself," the older man said, "just stay on course for Lima 36."

Kelly spoke into the boom mike attached to his helmet.  "Station calling
on Guard Channel, this is Jolly Green 22, over There was no answer.
"Station calling, this is Jolly Green, do you read?" Still no answer.
Joe Kelly thought for a moment about what the person transmitting said,
then called again.

"Hello, Tewa, this is Jolly Green.  Tewa, this is Jolly Green.

Talk to me." He activated the radio direction finding (RDF) gear and
waited for the voice to call back.  The RDF needle would swing and point
to the direction of the transmission.

He heard the carrier wave, then some tentative sounds, then the voice.

"Hello, is Tewa.  Sor is sick.  You come please.  You come please."

Kelly got a good bearing, about 20 degrees port.  "Yes, Tewa, I hear
you.  Put sir on the radio.  Give the radio to sir, Tewa."

Joe spoke as if to a child.

"Listen, Kelly," Shilleto said on the intercom, "we've got to get to 36
tonight and in one piece.  If this were a legitimate shootdown, we would
have been told by King to monitor the area and listen for a specific
call sign.  Even if it was an old shootdown, we would have known the
approximate area and would have a handle on this call.  Let's get on
with our deployment." Shilleto stared straight ahead through the
plexiglass of the big helicopter as if willing the craft suddenly to be
past this unpleasantness and somehow be over its destination.

The normal crew complement of an HH-53B Jolly Green helicopter was five:
pilot and copilot, a flight mechanic, and two PJs.  The big helicopter,
known as a Super Jolly Green, had three 7.62mm (.30 cal) miniguns that
could fire up to 4,000 rounds per minute.

In addition to the Air Force crew were four Hmoung soldiers returning to
Vang Pao's army after some special training by American forces in
Thailand.  They had been warned that there might be a diversion in case
of an emergency to pick up a newly downed pilot.  They had smiled
nervously and didn't seem to understand a word.  None looked to be more
than fifteen years old.

"Colonel," Kelly said, "for Christ's sake, it won't take any time from
our flight plan to talk to this guy on the radio.  You act as if every
time I depress the mike button I'm changing course 90 degrees.  I'm only
talking to him.  If he's a phony, it will be the first of a kind in this
area and worth alerting the others about.  If he is for real, well,
then, we've got to do something."

"He's not for real, you can bet on that," Shilleto said, more on hope
than conviction.

Kelly keyed his mike again.  "Tewa, do you read, ah, do you hear me?  I
am Jolly Green.  Tewa, answer Jolly Green.  Push button on radio. Answer
Jolly Green, Tewa."

"GET THE FUCK OFF GUARD CHANNEL," a voice boomed through their headsets.

"Cool it," Kelly said on Guard to the unknown complainer.

"We may have an emergency here.  Tewa, Tewa, talk to Jolly Green."

"Chollie Gleen, Chollie Gleen, is Tewa.  Sor is sick.  You come Chollie
Gleen.  You come."

"Tewa, give the radio to sore.  Give the radio to sore."

Inside the cave, Wolf was fighting a wave of drowsiness.

He heard as if from a great distance the halting conversation between
Tewa and somebody on the small survival radio.

"Oh, sor," Tewa said and held the radio out to Wolf, "is Chollie Gleen.
You talk."

With an effort Wolf pulled the radio close to his mouth and transmitted.
"Jolly Green-this is Wolf.  We bailed out of a Company aircraft.  Hiding
in cave in karst.  Need pickup.  Pretty sick.  Hit on head."

"Understand, Wolf," Kelly returned.  "Will you authenticate Romeo Alpha,
please?"

Rescue helicopter personnel and FAC pilots carried a code wheel that was
reset to a new code each day.  To verify that the person they were
talking to on the radio was not an enemy, they would call out letters of
the phonetic alphabet and the responder was to give the letters lying
opposite them on the small cardboard wheel.

Wolf grimaced with the effort to pull his thoughts together.  "Unable to
authenticate.  Airplane was Air America C-46 number 715.  The first
three of my serial number are 470.

You can verify that at Victor Tango.  There are two of us. Approximate
location three miles north of Ban Ban." He hated to give the location in
the clear but had no choice.

Captain Joe Kelly turned to look at Lieutenant Colonel Paul Shilleto. "I
think we've got two legitimate survivors from an airplane based at
Vientiane.  if we hustle we may be able to make a pickup before dark."

"Nothing doing," Shilleto said.  "That's not enough information to go
on.  We've got to verify there is a 715 missing from Victor Tango. Even
at that, these could be phonies.  They could have picked up the tail
number from the crash site, same with his dog tag. No, I think we should
stay on course for Lima 36."

"Oh, bullshit, Colonel," Kelly exploded.  "No way the PL could just
happen to have an English speaker at a random crash site.  I say let's
go for them."

"And I say not until we have verification from V through Queen, and then
get Queen's permission to go to the site." Queen was the call sign for
the rescue command post at the Tan Son Nhut ARRS headquarters.

"It's getting dark fast, that will take too long." Kelly took the
controls, snapped the helicopter off autopilot, and turned to a heading
of 345, the course the direction-finding needle last shown.

"Colonel, I appreciate your concern," Kelly said in a conciliatory tone,
"but I am on flight orders as aircraft commander for the entire
deployment, and as an instructor pilot as well, and that places me in
command of this flight.  I'm going to check with the crew and see what
they think."

A Jolly Green pilot did not arbitrarily decide to make a pickup attempt
without talking it over with the two PJs and the flight mech.  Too much
rode not only on each man's performance but on his evaluation of the
rescue situation as well.

What might look fine to the pilot might be clearly undoable to the
flight mech or PJ.  All of the men had to be up and ready

-What the hell

to fly into what could be a true valley of death.

Kelly switched the intercom jack box by his left thigh to talk to the
flight mechanic and the two PJs in the rear.  He gave the backend crew a
quick rundown of what he had heard and what he thought, then said:
"Okay, crew.  It sounds legitimate to me, but we don't have much time to
screw around, so sound off.

Flight mech?"

"Sir, I'm with you, but let's not hang it out too far," said the flight
mech.

"PJ One?"

"Ho, let's go," PJ One said in an eager voice.

"Ditto," said PJ Two without being asked.

"All right, then," Kelly said in a light tone, "we're going down to see
what's up."

He rolled the helicopter out of the turn and transmitted on Guard.

"Wolf, give me a long count."

Lying in the cave, Wolf Lochert heard the request and held the transmit
button down for a mental count of ten.  He was too exhausted and
fuzzy-minded to count out loud.  Tewa hovered nearby in the gloom.

On board the helicopter the direction needle pointed straight ahead
toward the signal from the survival radio.  Kelly switched the intercom
jack box by his left thigh to talk to the flight mechanic and the two
PJs in the rear.

"Okay, guys," Kelly said, "listen up.  We're talking to two possible
survivors on Guard Channel.  I'm DF-ing to them now.

Flight mech, make sure the passengers are seated and strapped in.  PJs,
be ready with the hoist if we have to go down." The two PJs and the
flight mech rogered the call.  Then Kelly switched over to his High
Frequency radio and called Queen.  He gave Queen the information about a
crashed C-46 and the survivor's serial number, and where he was going to
investigate further.

Then he asked that a backup Jolly Green be scrambled from alert to cover
them in case they had to go in for a pickup.

"Negative backup available, Jolly Green 22.  Alert birds are airborne,
so are their backups.  Use pilot's discretion."

Rescue procedures called for two Jolly Greens to be present for all
pickups in high -threat areas; one was called the high bird, the other
the low bird, The high bird would orbit high and safe from enemy guns to
act as backup while the low bird went in for the pickup.  There was
usually an on-scene commander present controlling the entire rescue
effort.  He would coordinate the rescue helicopters and the big
prop-driven A-1 fighters, which were used both to suppress the
antiaircraft guns trying to shoot down the rescue force and to stop
enemy troops trying to capture the downed crewman,

Now, in October of 1968, over 2,200 fixed-wing and helicopter pilots had
been shot down over North and South Vietnam and Laos.  Over 1,300 had
been successfully picked up.  The ARRS crewmen and support pilots had
learned how best to pull a man from the ground under heavy fire.
Unfortunately, the communist forces'had also learned how to use crash
sites, radios, and fake crewmen as flak traps.  More than once a
perfectly accented American voice had come up on the survival radio
saying the way was clear.  Usually, unmilitary phraseology or
unfamiliarity with the rescue procedures that every crewman was taught
in a variety of survival schools gave the fakers away before the rescue
force was in gun range.

The phrase "use pilot's discretion" meant Queen had put the ball in
Kelly's court, If all went well, it could be said he had used excellent
discretion.  If it went badly, it would be said he had used poor
judgment and, at best, would probably have his IP orders revoked and a
rather derogatory statement entered into his efficiency report; at
worst, he and his crewmen would be dead or captured.

Kelly didn't really give two-thirds of a purple fuck for any of that. He
cared only for the man on the ground and the crew in the helicopter
behind him.  There was a very thin line as to how far he could hang.out
the lives of the flight mech and PJs who depended on his skill and
judgment not only to get the job done but to get it done without
reckless risk.

Not every flight mech went along with Joe Kelly's We Die That Others May
Live philosophy.  Many preferred that the others" include themselves, a
reasonable request.  Many pilots felt the same way.

Flight mechs were generally of a different mold from the PJs.  Flight
mechs started life as a General Aviation Mechanic, Helicopter (slanged
to GAMs and referred to as Greasy-Assed Mechanics). Some helicopter
mechanics decided they wanted to fly aboard their birds for fun and
excitement, not to mention the extra flight pay added to the monthly
salary and the silver wings of an aircrewman.  When they had enough
experience to apply (up to a five-level in USAF terminology) and were
good enough as rated by their line chief and maintenance officer, they
could go to school to become a flight mechanic in a specific helicopter.
Others who had experience in the unit helicopter could be upgraded
locally.

PJs, on the other hand, usually were quite satisfied with Captain
Kelly's decisions about hairy pickups.  Pis were there to rescue people,
Pis were in combat so that others might live, and Captain Kelly gave
them great opportunities to do just that.  Ergo, Captain Kelly made good
decisions, they said.

The PIS remembered Kelly's reaction when a staff wienie in Headquarters
had suggested that the Jolly Greens paint big red crosses on their
helicopters and remove all the guns.  "Hell, no!" Kelly had exploded.
"As far as that goes, in addition to the guns I want a chin turret with
a grenade launcher." PJs frequently traded flights among themselves to
fly with Joe Kelly.  An aggressive Jolly Green Crew was self-selective.

PJs, who almost always were younger than the flight mechs, came in two
categories: those that had become Pis purely because of their desire to
get down in the weeds to help their fellow man, and those who-in
addition to that reason-wanted to live the daredevil existence of a
combat PJ- A PJ was either a Florence Nightingale or a knife-fighting
Florence Nightingale.

To a downed crewman, often injured, it made no difference whatsoever
what the motivation of the man was who came to rescue him, the man was
there and that was all that mattered.

Most PJs felt that the helicopter and the pilot that flew it was merely
a PI delivery system.  When fighter pilots and backseaters would gather
and talk about air rescue people in general, and PJs in particular, they
would frequently be seen to make cupping motions with their hands well
apart as if describing giant three -foot globes, and the words they used
would include "balls this big."

After Kelly had told them of the upcoming rescue attempt, the three men
in the cabin of Jolly Green 22 set about their tasks.  The flight
mechanic scanned each of the four Hmoung soldiers and told them the
flight was diverting to check on some downed crewmen.  They were to
remain strapped in at all times and keep their feet out of the way when
any crew member had to move about the cabin.  The four Vang Pao soldiers
smiled and bobbed their heads and didn't seem to understand a word the
flight mech said.

The two PJs checked all their provisions, their rescue equipment, their
medical gear, and the three 7.62mm miniguns mounted in a left window,
the rear ramp, and the right door.

The right-door gun had to be swung forward to clear the doorway so the
flight mech could get to the hoist that was mounted just above the door
on the outside.  The hoist was a heavy hydraulic unit that raised and
lowered the penetrator.  The penetrator was a heavy metallic device
shaped like a big arrowhead, with three paddle seats that unfolded down
from it like petals from a flower.

It was lowered on a 280-foot steel cable from the hoist, which was
controlled by the flight mechanic.  Except when the PJ rode it down, the
penetrator was closed and its weight forced it through the jungle
canopy.  A PJ descended if the survivor was unable to strap himself onto
one of the seats.  The flight mech stood in the door, raised, lowered,
and guided the cable while telling the pilot using hot mike on the
intercom just what was happening and where he should move the helicopter
to position the penetrator.  If the flight mech did not guide the cable
with a gloved hand, particularly when it was winding up, it would
usually jump the track on the reel and snarl into a mess called a
birdcage.

"Okay, pilot," the flight mech said, "all is squared away back here."

"Roger," Kelly said.  "We'll try for a visual in a few minutes." Outside
the speeding helicopter, the sun had just touched the horizon.  "Give me
one more hold-down, Wolf," Kelly transmitted.

Wolf lay flat on his back, the radio in his hand resting on his chest.
He barely made sense of the request.  When he finally knew what was
needed, he pressed the transmit button for a few seconds and released
it.

"Got a strong signal, Wolf," Kelly transmitted, "now get ready to pop
some smoke and we'll see what we can do about getting you back for
supper."

An involuntary groan escaped Wolf's lips.  He mouthed a faint whisper.
"Tewa, get smoke my pocket.  Pull when I tell you." He made a feeble
attempt to pull a day/night smoke flare from his leg pocket.  Tewa
looked confused, so Wolf tapped the bulging flare in his pocket.  "Get,"
he said.  "Get." Tewa moved to comply.  The tinny voice on the RT-10
spoke again.

"We're coming up on some karsty stuff now, Wolf.  Be ready with the
smoke."

Wolf motioned toward the cave mouth with his thumb.  "Tewa make smoke
outside when I say." Tewa shrugged helplessly and pointed to the flare
that lay in his hand.  It was like a thick baton, six inches long by two
inches in diameter.  Each end had a pull tab that ignited either an
orange smoke generator or a flare that would make a glowing red light.
Wolf pointed to the tab on the smooth end of the baton.  "That make
smoke," he said.

The flare end had a knobby collar I-or identification at night by touch
alone.

Tewa became very animatcd --i cupped his ear toward the door.  "Chollie
Gleen, Chollie Gleen," he said.  Wolf listened but all he heard was
roaring in his ears that told him he didn't have much time of useful
consciousness remaining.

In the helicopter, Kelly pointed a gloved finger at the karst field
rising from the jungle dead ahead.  "In there someplace," he told
Shilleto.  Kelly punched the transmit button.  "Okay, Wolf, now's as
good a time as any.  Pop your smoke.  Let's be quick.  Almost dark."

Wolf heard the beginning of the transmission, the "Okay, Wolf" portion,
then the voice faded quickly on his tiny radio.

At the same time, Wolf heard the distinct sound of a helicopter
overlying the cave.  He thought the whirring noise sounded like the
wings of a giant angel.  It was peaceful and maybe he should just sleep
for a while.  Let the angel take care of things.

He jerked as his subconscious triggered an alarm.  The radio, the smoke.
.  .  "The antenna," Wolf said, and motioned toward the mouth of the
cave.  "Get the radio antenna out of the cave." Tewa looked bewildered,
then cocked his head at the sudden noise that swelled in from the cave
entrance.  It was the sound of many guns firing, big ones and little
ones, in a rocketing barn-barn-barn of sound that mingled and boomed
inside the cave.

"Holy shit," Joe Kelly said as a heavy stream of tracers seemed to
converge on the helicopter from all directions a reflexive movement he
added power, lifted and banked away from the heaviest stream.  Then he
heard the hammering of the three miniguns from the backend.

"That's it," Shilleto said as he involuntarily hunkered down in his
armored scat.  "Let's get out of here."

What the hell do you think I'm doing?  "Yes, sir.  We're gone."

He scanned the engine and flight instruments.  They appeared to be
operating correctly and were not reflecting any engine damage.  He took
up a heading for Site 36.

"Sir, we've taken hits and were here," the flight mech called on the
intercom.

"How bad?" Shilleto asked.

"Pretty bad.  The Pis are working on them.  They say we got to get them
on the ground ASAP."

"We're ten minutes from 36," Kelly said.  "VP has a pretty good field
hospital there.  How's the airplane, chief?  Leaking anything?"

"Not that I can see," the flight mech responded.

"Okay, we'll be at 36 toot sweet." Kelly looked at Shilleto.

"See any smoke from the survivors?"

"Smoke, hell!" Paul Shilleto said.  "There was no smoke from them.  The
only smoke I saw was from the ground fire.  I told you it was a goddamn
flak trap."

Kelly switched his intercom jack box to Guard Channel.

-wolf, Wolf," he said, "this is Jolly Green 21, you copy?"

There was no answer.  He repeated the call twice more as they topped
another karst ridge eight miles north of the cave where Wolf and Tewa
were hidden.  There was no answer.  He switched his main VHF receiver to
the Air America operator at Site 36 and told them he would be there in
ten minutes and that he had two wounded on board.

Joe Kelly set the HH-53B helicopter on the helipad at Lima Site 36 as
the last ray of sunlight faded and the lavender sky turned black.  They
had taxied to park next to the other Jolly Green alert helicopter.
Nearly a dozen people were gathered to meet the ship. They appeared
little more than shadows in the soft glow from two small kerosene
lanterns set on the ground at each side of the pad.  Several men
approached even before the big blades swished to a halt.  The two PJs
jumped out and chocked the wheels.  Then each stepped to a side of the
fuselage and pulled from their brackets the I x 2-foot boards with the
USAF stars and bars painted on them, reversed the boards to their blank
sides, and reinserted them in the slots once again, proving no American
combat forces were on the ground in little old neutral Laos.

Four soldiers from Vang Pao's army bore two stretchers UP to the door
while three men in safari suits stood on the edge of the pad and
watched.  The entire crew of the second-alert Jolly Green crowded around
the door and watched the Lao stretcher bearers off-load the wounded and
head for the infirmary.

Joe Kelly and Paul Shilleto finished the cockpit postflight and
unstrapped.  They took their flashlights and walked into the aft cabin
and stepped out the door.  They were greeted with cold beers from the
other crew, each of whom carried a flashlight.

Then the two crews walked about the helicopter, shining their
flashlights, trying to count the holes.  The PJs were doing most of the
talking about what had happened.  They counted eight nickel-sized holes
from the 12.7mm (.51 cal) gun that had fired on them.  The night air was
cool and damp.

"Probably find more in the morning, sir," the flight mech said to the
two officers.

"Hopefully no leaks," Lieutenant Colonel Shilleto said.  "We'll have to
call back to Udorn for a replacement bird for tomorrow.

No way we can fly a mission with this airplane."

"I already called Udorn on the HF," the pilot of the second helicopter
said.  "Nothing available.  They want you to call them as soon as you
land.  They said they'll tell you to use your own discretion, but get on
station tomorrow if you can.  If you don't go, I can't go it alone, so..

"We'll see in the morning when we have some light," Shilleto said with
some sharpness.  "But don't count on us getting airborne."

All of the men pitched in to hook up the hand pumps and hoses from
fifty-five-gallon gas drums to refuel Jolly Green 22.

Flight mechs were known to brag about their strong right arms from
rotating the pump handle.

When they were finished, the two crews walked to the large main tent
that covered their messing facility (a long wooden table made of old
ammo crates with cases of C-rations underneath), their combined
Officer-NCO recreational club facility (a long wooden table with cases
of beer underneath), their operations facilities (a narrow wooden table
with a battery-operated PRC-47 high-frequency Single Sideband radio on
top), and their NCO and officer quarters (rows of metal GI cots along
both sides of one end of the big tent).  A 5kw generator supplied
electricity for the lights.  The Jolly Green crewmen would bum ice from
the Air America operations hut to cool the beer if they weren't flying
too early the next morning.

Bathing facilities were primitive; there weren't any.  Bathroom
facilities were practical; four halves of fifty-five-gallon gas drums
planted in the ground.  To use one, a crewman would take a board with a
hole cut in it from the crew tent and a small jar of JP-4 jet fuel.  He
would walk out to the waste place (shit city, as some called it) being
on the lookout for cobras and leeches (hard to do at night), and was
careful not to overshoot because the outer perimeter had a variety of
mines placed by the Japanese in World War II, the French in their
Indochina war, and, currently, the defending Hmoung tribesmen.  At the
waste place, he would place the board across the rough edges of the
hacksawn-in-two barrels, perform his business, arise, pull up his pants,
sprinkle the JP-4 into the barrel, and throw in some flaming paper.
Whoosh-whump, "toilet"

"flushed." Crewmen usually preferred a recently vacated barrel, still
warm from the previous flush, because said flames were sure to have
incinerated the saucer-sized black spiders that found the barrels to be
marvelous pieces of real estate in which to inhabit, cohabit, and
replicate thousands more of themselves.  Unless it was a diarrhetic
emergency, no one wanted to be first to use shit city.

Any anachroid tickling of a seated helicopter crewman's balls at night
by searching little hairy feet not only sent him seven feet straight up
while piercing the night air with a heart-rending shriek, it also ruined
his sex life for weeks, or whatever time it took to coax his shriveled
testicles back down from someplace north of his lungs.

Joe Kelly sat in the chair in front of the HF radio and made contact
with ARRS rescue control center, call sign Compress, at Nakhon Phanom.
He made his report of their battle damage and noted that they wouldn't
know until sometime after dawn if they would be able to fly the
scheduled mission orbit, but that probably they would not.

"Roger Jolly Green 22, Compress copies your transmission.

We have no standby aircraft.  Use pilot's discretion."

"Yeah, right," Kelly said, then depressed the transmit key on the base
of the microphone stand.  "What have you got on that survivor?  Does he
check out?" he asked.

"We confirm an Air America Charley 46, tail number 715, is many Hours
overdue and there was a passenger with the nickname and numbers you gave
us.  But from your report it sounds like he's been scarfed up and his
crash location turned into one big flak trap.  Copy?"

Kelly looked up and saw Shilleto and the rest of the crew standing
behind him watching and listening with consummate attention.
"Understand," he said and signed off.

Although Joe Kelly was on orders as the rescue crew commander for the
entire flight, as a captain, he did defer to some of the housekeeping
orders Shilleto, the lieutenant colonel, was issuing.  Kelly liked and
respected Shilleto, who had flown rescue helicopters in Korea when the
dynamics of the machines were barely understood.  There had been a big
phase-down after the war, until the early sixties, when the rescue
mission had again been given serious attention.  During the slack
period, Shilleto had been flying Old Shaky, the giant C-124 prop-driven,
double-decked cargo plane.  Last year Shilleto had been recertified in
helicopters and, because of his rank, made a detachment commander at
Udorn.  But, as Kelly and some of the others had said, great guy but his
day is past.  He paved the way but we have the controls now.

"All right," ShilIeto said, "let's go check the weather." He indicated
Kelly and the two pilots from the second HH-53B.

"The rest of you men settle down.  I don't think we are going anyplace
in the morning.  Turn in if you want."

The four pilots walked out of the big tent and down the dark path to the
Air America operations shack.

"Ready for the weather?" the civilian inside greeted them.

It was a nightly occurrence for the USAF rescue crewmen to stop by for a
briefing from the Air America operations people, who in fact had a
composite of the weather forecasts from all the USAF bases.  They used
their extensive HF radio net and teletypes to gather and collate the
information.  The man scanned his reports and wall chart.

"Although this is the dry season in Laos," he said, "it's toward the end
of the northeast monsoon season and we're starting to get some
associated weather here.  I think we're going to get some low clouds and
rain from the north because C, of a low-pressure area sitting over
Hanoi.  Should clear up by noon. If it doesn't rain, there may be haze
due to rice paddy burning." Lao peasants fertilized their rice paddies
by burning the stubble after a harvest.  He went on about surface
temperature, gradients, and winds aloft.  When he concluded, the Air
Force men thanked him and trooped back to their tent.

"Well, that cinches it," Shilleto said to the flight mechs and PJs who
were lying back on their cots, talking.  "We won't be flying tomorrow,
what with the battle damage and the bad weather."

"Sir, does that mean we can drink some more beer?" a flight mech asked.

"Well!," Shilleto said, caught off guard, "I, unh, suppose so.

"Look, guys," one of the PJs from the second ship said.  "You never know
what can happen in the morning.  Let's lay off." The Pj was a staff
sergeant and not the ranking NCO.  But he was already a legend in his
own time as a man who, when he went down the hoist, would not come up
without a survivor, alive or dead.  The men usually followed his lead;
they mumbled assent.

"Furthermore," the PJ said to the number-one PJ on Kelly and Shilleto's
helicopter, Jolly Green 22, "I'd like to swap with you, Stu, for
whatever flight we might have tomorrow."

"Sure thing, El C," the second PJ said.

The first PJ turned to Lieutenant Colonel Shilleto.  "That is, if it's
okay with you, Colonel."

Grateful that the PJ had taken him off the hook by putting down the
beer-drinking idea, Paul Shilleto gave his approval.

The PJ winked at Kelly.  "Okay with you, sir?"

"Absolutely," Captain Joe Kelly said to Staff Sergeant Manuel "Little
Cat" Dominguez.

0445 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 11 OCTOBER 1968

COORDINATES UH 512480

ROYALTY OF LAOS

Wolf Lochert made a thrashing movement in his sleep, then made a
powerful kick with his leg at an enemy in his feverish dream.  The
sudden motion woke him and he lay in bewildered silence while he tried
to reckon where he was.  His head throbbed and he had trouble
concentrating.  He finally figured out that his left hand was lying on
his chest and his right hand was ...  resting at his side on something
...  something hard,

with a cool and gritty surface.  He arched his back slightly and felt
his hips contact something rock hard.  Rock ...  yes.  Then he knew.  He
blinked the fuzziness from his eyes and turned his head to the right,
toward the rectangle of gray that marked the cave entrance in the false
dawn.  Full awareness returned.

"Tewa," he called out in a scratchy whisper.

"Oh, sor, Tewa is here." He started as he heard the Lao whisper in his
left ear.

:'Where bad fuckers?  You hear bad fuckers?"

"No hear bad fuckers.  See smoke bad fuckers.  Sor no sick?"

"Sor not sure, must move first." Wolf Lochert raised himself on both
elbows.  He ran his tongue around his dry lips and felt suddenly
parched.  "Water," he whispered.

"Sor fucked," Tewa said.  "Water gone-gone." He muttered something in
Lao as he searched for the words.  "Bag fucked.

Sor sleep bag.  Water gone-gone." He handed Wolf a limp condom.  In the
dark, Wolf stretched it and felt the tear with his fingers, then the
damp cave floor underneath.  He had somehow rolled over and broken the
thin bladder during the night.

"Scheiss," he muttered (Wolf, an ex-seminarian, was not one to use the
Lord's name in vain).  He continued his selfexamination.  Outside of a
throbbing head, a growling stomach, a dry mouth that smelled bad, an odd
feeling in his right leg, and the beginning of a terrible thirst, he
counted himself fit for duty.  He crawled toward the cave entrance, then
slowly inched forward until he could see the horizon over the jungle in
the dim light, but not so far that he could see the trees belowor be
seen from below.

There was an overcast of low clouds that hung gloomy and oppressive over
the jungle.  Wolf blinked and rubbed his eyes and saw a thin column of
smoke enter his view from below the mouth of the cave.  Odd, he said to
himself.  They usually build smokeless fires.  Then he realized they
were being chased by Pathet Lao, not North Vietnamese Army (NVA)
regulars, who were better disciplined and well-trained in jungle
warfare.  Then he remembered the sound of the antiaircraft fire he had
heard the evening before as the helicopter swept over.

The helicopter.  He pushed himself back into the cave and felt around
until he found the small radio, and crawled forward to the cave
entrance.  He turned the radio on and listened to the soft hiss that
revealed no voices.  He clicked the mike button twice but got no
response.  He made sure the antenna was exposed to the upper air but not
to the jungle below and tried a call in a quiet voice.

"This is Wolf on Guard, anybody read give me a call." He tried twice
more with no response.  He felt dizzy as he pushed back into the cave.
The light from outside was increasing and he made out the dim form of
Tewa and crawled next to him.

"Go there." Wolf pointed to the cave mouth.  "Stay low.

Listen for airplane.  Listen airplane.  You hear airplane, call me.  You
hear bad fuckers, you call me.  Chow cow chi baw?

Do you understand?"

"Sor, Tewa understand," Tewa replied in what sounded like a hurt voice.
He crawled to the mouth and lay flat, eyes alert to whatever lay
outside.  Wolf lowered himself down on his side, then rolled over on his
back.  He felt confusion again, and dizziness.  When he rolled over he
noticed again that his right leg did not function as it should.  In
seconds he was in a whirling doze that threatened to overcome him with
dizziness.

0500 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 11 OCTOBER 1968

NA KHANG, Lima Sn7E 36

ROYALTY OF LAOS

The soft ding-ding from his Seiko alarm watch awoke Little Cat Dominguez
from a light sleep.  It was dark inside the heavy terit, and humid from
the night air.  The sleep sounds and old-clothes smell of ten sleeping
men assailed his nostrils.  He sat up on his cot, swung his legs over
the side, and stretched, then reached down, picked up his boots and
jacket, and carefully walked to the cot of Hiram Bakke, the other PJ on
Jolly Green 22, and gently shook him awake.

"Time to go," he whispered.  While Bakke got up, Dominguez awoke Tech
Sergeant Dan Bernick, the flight mech for 22.  Minutes later the three
men stood by their seventeen-ton helicopter and started an exacting
inspection with their flashlights while the overcast above them slowly
brightened.  They had agreed the night before that, regardless of
Shilleto's pronouncements, they wanted 22 to be airworthy and ready for
today's mission to support the air strikes in North Vietnam.  Takeoff
time was less than two Hours away.

After thirty minutes of close inspection, the three men found eleven
holes, three more than spotted the night before.  Bernick pulled a ball
of twine from his tool kit and they did what crewmen on a shot-up
airplane do: they ran string from hole to hole, marking trajectories,
seeing who and what-but mostly who-had come closest to being hit.  Most
holes were in the boom and aft portion of the helicopter cabin, meaning
the enemy gunners had been relatively inexperienced and had not led the
moving craft enough when they pulled the trigger.

Bernick removed the left engine cowling when he discovered a hole in it.
He found pieces of the spent slug inside, but no engine damage.

"Okay," Bernick said, "let's crank it up." Bakke, wearing a helmet with
boom mike and a long cord to the intercom system, positioned himself
outside with an extinguisher as fire guard, while Dominguez was to
assist in the cockpit, then roam the interior with a portable
extinguisher.  In seconds Bernick had the engines rumbling and whining
into life.  Dominguez scrambled into the cabin and checked for fire and
hydraulic fuel leaks.

"Holy shit, Bernick," Bakke yelled over the intercom, "shut down number
two, she's smoking like a bitch."

"And we've got hydraulic fluid spraying all over the place in here,"
Dominguez said from the cabin.  Bernick shut down both engines, checked
there was no fire, and climbed from the front seat.  In the cabin he
looked at the hole in the hydraulic line Dominguez pointed out.  "I can
tape that easy," he said, then went outside to climb up and check the
number two engine.  "Come on up, give me a hand," he yelled.  The cloud
layer filtered dawn light.  A light mist had begun to envelop them with
feathers of wispy dampness.  The three men were on the right side
wrestling with the cowling when Captain Joe Kelly walked up.

"Masochists," he said.  "Didn't your mothers give you enough sense to
come in out of the rain?  Gather 'round, I have some news.  Just talked
to Compress, the Hanoi air strike is scrubbed for weather.  The
alternate targets are in the south and the boys from Da Nang will cover
them." He looked up at the helicopter looming large and menacing in the
gray dawn.  "It ain't beautiful but it shore does the job.  Let's fix it
for the flight back to Udorn.

We've got to hustle, because later on we'll get some of that same bad
weather in here."

It took another twenty minutes, but with Kelly at the controls and the
three men topside, Bernick found and fixed the oil leak feeding into the
hot section of the engine which had caused the white smoke.

"Now we fix bullet holes," Bernick said.  "You guys get me a half-dozen
beer cans and make sure they're not Black Label. They rust so much I
swear they're tin, not aluminum." He fished around in his big tool kit
as the two PJs brought the beer cans from the tent.  "Cut 'em and smooth
'em out," he said.  "Give me eleven two-inch-square pieces." The mist
turned to a light rain, so the men moved onto the rear ramp under the
shelter of the tail boom.  They cut with the shears Bernick provided and
tap-tapped the cans flat, then cut out the small pieces he wanted.

While they were doing that, the flight mech took from his kit a
medium-sized can and pried open the, top and began to stir a gooey,
silvery substance within.  "Good old Scotch-weld," he said.  "Good for
what ails a shot-up helio."

An hour later, using a makeshift ladder and much boosting up and holding
each other in place and sweating, they had all the holes patched with
pieces of Budweiser beer cans held in place by Scotch-weld.

"Now it won't sound like a whistling shit house," Bernick proclaimed as
he wiped the goop from his hands.  He took some wire and (duct) tape to
the punctured hydraulic line and soon pronounced it secure.

Kelly cut in the air under pressure from the accumulator to start the
auxiliary power plant.  Once the APP was wound up and screaming (it, was
a small turbine engine), he tapped its electrical power and hydraulic
pressure to start the engines.

HH-53Bs did not make battery-powered starts for the simple reason that
they had no batteries.  And if the accumulator air pressure was too low
to start the APP, some crewman had to man the air pump to bring the
accumulator back up to its proper pressure of 3,000 psi.

Kelly ran the engines up, pulled pitch to get light on the wheels, cut
the lift, and said he thought Jolly Green 22 to be flightworthy.

"Two burning and turning," said Bernick.  "She's ready-" Dan Bernick had
just agreed to the readiness of Jolly Green 22 by declaring both jet
engines healthy (two burning), the tail rotor blades (four) turning
properly, and the main rotors (six) rotating in balance and turning).

Kelly shut down the engines and secured the switches, then sat in the
cockpit with Staff Sergeant Manuel Dominguez while the other two men
went to grab a bit of crackers and jam from the breakfast C-rats.

"Together again," Kelly said.  "Red-Tagged Bastards Hang Together,
right?"

Dominguez was silent.

"Right, Dom?" Kelly asked.  "Red-Tagged Bastards Hang Together."

"Hey, Joe, I told you.  Never call me Dom."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that.  Old habits die hard."

Ever since Academy days, when Miss Barbara Westin's favorite nickname
for Manuel had been Dom, Dominguez could no longer tolerate the sound of
it.

"Just can't work up to 'Little Cat,' though," Joe Kelly said.

"Too much of a mouthful.  What's the matter with 'Manuel,' anyway?"

"Nothing.  I just haven't responded to it in years."

"There are other things you haven't responded to either, you know."

Kelly and Dominguez had both been in rescue squadrons for years, but
only in the last three months had they been in the same unit.  Kelly had
tried without success to get Dominguez to answer his concerned questions
about their days at the Academy.  At first Dominguez wouldn't even
respond to Kelly's overtures of friendliness.

"Let's go into town and get a beer," Kelly had said to him when they
first saw each other at Udorn, where their rescue squadron was based.

"No, sir, thank you, sir," Dominguez had responded, face and body stiff.

"Goddamn, Dom, come off it.  It's me-Joe, the old RedTagged Bastard."

"Sir, don't call me Dom." He had continued to stare off in the distance,
his face devoid of expression.

"Well, fuck you very much, old buddy," Kelly had said and grinned.  "I'm
just going to bug you until you turn back into the neat guy who was once
my roomie.  Don't you even want to hear what happened to TanakaT After a
few missions and more urging by Kelly, Dominguez had unbuttoned enough
to go drink beer with Joe, always in downtown Udorn.  They couldn't go
to each other's military clubs on the air base. Officers did not go to
NCO clubs and vice versa.  Dominguez had seemed genuinely interested in
Tanaka's career as a fighter pilot, happy to hear he was at Ubon, and
had been quite surprised that Joe Kelly had selected helicopters.  "I'll
tell you why someday," Kelly had replied.

"So I don't respond," Dominguez said to Kelly now as they sat in the
cockpit.  "Don't make a federal case out of it.  Manuel's okay, or even
El C does just fine."

"So I noticed," Kelly said.  He stared out the cockpit window for a few
seconds, then leaned back and put his elbow on the back of his seat.
"Barbara called me at the Academy once after you left.  Did you know
that?  She wanted to know if I heard from you, how you were.  Said she
was sorry you were gone, but her dad was delighted.  Said she might go
east for school, Vassar.  Or she might get married."

Dominguez was silent.

"What the fuck, Dom," Kelly said, his exasperation clear.

"You could at least be civilized about this shit.  You seemed so much in
love with her.  She finally got married, you know." He looked over at
his friend.  "Did you know she got married?"

Dominguez spoke in harsh tones.  "Look, Joe, we've been through this
before and each time you ask more questions.  I told you, I don't want
to hear about her, I don't want to talk about her."

"For Christ's sake, Dom--"

"And I told you not to call me Dom."

"Well, hell, it's the only time I get a rise out of you.  Why won't you
even tell me what the honor violation thing was all about?  We found out
you went to the honor representative, told him something so that he
convened a board on you, and blooie-you were gone."

"Dammit, Joe, you've got to get off my back.  Okay, maybe we are friends
again, but if you want to keep it that way, then don't ask me about the
Academy.  You copy?" Dominguez's dark eyes looked even darker and more
unfathomable with each word that he spoke.

Kelly threw up his hands.  "God, you Texans.  Bite the bullet and all
that shit." He sighed and made a small smile.  "Tell me, how many
missions will this make, the two of us together?"

"Twenty-two."

"And how many saves?"

"You know, dumbshit." Dominguez tried to smile.

"Yeah," Kelly said with obvious contentment in his voice, "I know.
Seven." He looked at Dominguez.  "Want to make it eight?"

"Try me."

"Well, we gotta flimflam Colonel Shilleto a bit, but I'd like to see if
we can get that fellow with the Wolf call sign to come up on Guard.  I
know just about where it was that we lost him.

The signal loss was so fast, without any fade at all, that it had to be
an obstruction like a mountain crest-"

"Or a cave," Dominguez said.

"Exactly.  And I've got a pretty good fix on the map and in my head
where it all took place.  We were headed almost due north when we lost
the signal.  I remember the karst shapes in front of me at the time,
they had sort of a triple peak and an odd-shaped valley.  If I can find
that headed south, there is a good chance we can raise them when we pass
over the ridge to the south of the peaks.  We'll make a little racket up
there and call him on Guard.  See if we can get an answer."

"Do you think Colonel Shilleto will keep his cool if we, you know, kind
of get into it?"

"Actually, in a nutshell, to be perfectly honest, no ...  well, hell,
that's not right.  Maybe he ...  shit, I dunno.  He is ready to DEROS."

DEROS was the acronym for Date Eligible to Return from Overseas.  The
date was the last day a military man served overseas and would be used
to count the time until his next tour.  In the Vietnam War, each man and
woman counted down the twelve months----except Marines, who had a
thirteen-month tour-to their DEROS.

"And a man ready to DEROS runs cautious," Kelly said.  "In his case,
real cautious."

"I flew with him earlier," Dominguez said.  "He used to be okay."

"I know.  But after a couple hairy ones in North Vietnam and that helo
that was shot from under him, he's ready to hang it up.  Shit, he's been
in Rescue off and on since Korea.  Got more saves than Billy Graham.
We'll work something out.  When I say 'look at the view,' you say you
saw something and want permission to fire.  I'll make sure I'm flying
and will do a quick 360.  Hose off a few more rounds and we'll see who
the noise brings up on the radio.  Let's try to ease into this thing,
keep the pulse rate low and steady."

"What about that 12.7 that hosed us yesterday?  We go too low, we'll
raise more than some guy on a radio.  That gun's effective as hell up to
3,300 feet."

"Trust me, Dom.  Trust me." Kelly laughed.  "Listen, I'm due some time
off pretty soon.  What say we make it to Bangkok together?"

"Fraternizing with enlisted is still off-limits, Joe."

"Come off it, El C.  You want to go or not?"

"Sure." Dominguez turned to look at his friend.  "Red-Tagged Bastards
Hang Together," he said.

0830 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 11 OCTOBER 1968

NA KHANG, LIMA SITE 36

ROYALTY OF LAos

The rain had let up.  At eight-thirty, Lieutenant Colonel Paul Shilleto
strode through the steamy mist to Jolly Green 22.  He had Bakke and
Bernick with him.  Kelly sat on the back ramp, munching the last of his
crackers and peanut butter and washing them down with water from his
canteen.  Dominguez had gone to get his flight gear from the other
helicopter.

"I hear she'll fly," Shilleto said in a cheerful voice to Kelly. "What
say we crank up and take her home?  I checked and the weather is just
fine once we get to Udorn.  Got thunderstorms due in here by noon,
though.  Sergeant Bernick talked to the maintenance officer and
convinced him we have an airworthy airplane.  We have one-time
permission to fly it back for repair

"Sure thing, Colonel," Kelly said and got to his feet.  The two officers
walked forward to begin the preflight with Bernick.

Shilleto personally inspected each of the eleven patch jobs.

"Excellent, excellent," he said to Bernick.  "That should get us home."

Dominguez walked up, carrying two C-ration boxes stacked on top of each
other.  They seemed very heavy and he was sweating from the load.

"You sure must like to eat that Army stuff," Shilleto said, smiling at
his little witticism.

"Ali, yes, sir," Dominguez said and hurried into the cabin through the
side door, where Bakke was preflighting his equipment.

After the preflight, and while Shilleto was still outside talking to
Bernick, Kelly walked up the ramp to where Dominguez had stowed the two
boxes in the cabin.

"Look," he said, "I know better.  Those aren't C-rats.  What you got in
those boxes, El C?"

Dominguez made a wry grin and opened the top box.  It was packed with a
dozen of the Mason jars HH-53 helicopter crew chiefs use to take fuel
samples.

"You plan on doing a lot of samples or something?  What the hell are
these for?" Kelly asked.

"These," Dominguez said, and opened the second box, which had twelve M26
hand grenades and several bandoliers of 7.62 ammunition.  "Pull the pin
on the grenade, hold the handle in place, stuff it in the jar, screw on
the cap, and you have a little something to drop on the bad guys." He
touched the ammo.  "I always carry a couple hundred extra rounds.  You
never know."

Kelly clapped him on the shoulder.  "Shit hot.  You're right, you never
know." He went to the cockpit and was surprised to see Lieutenant
Colonel Paul Shilleto sitting in the right seat of the machine.  He put
on his parachute and eased into the left seat.  Just the opposite with
fixed-wing aircraft, the pilot in command sits in the right seat in
helicopters, the copilot in the left.  All crew members wore parachutes,
but only the PJs and the flight mech had any real chance of a successful
bailout in an emergency.

"Joe," Shilleto said, "since this is my last flight, I'd like to be the
AC.  I'd like to handle everything-the radios, the navigation.  No
autopilot, just hand-fly the whole route."

"Hand-fly?" Kelly interrupted.  "You must be some kind of a masochist,
Colonel." The HH-53B was a notoriously difficult helicopter to hand-fly.
Pilots on cross-country flights engaged the automatic flight control
system that provided heading, altitude, and roll stability.  It was
simply too fatiguing to spend long Hours at the controls.  Best to save
your energy and freshness for ingress, pickup, and egress from
high-threat areas.

"Yes, hand-fly," Shilleto said.  "I'm going to some Pentagon staff job,
and who knows how long it will be before I ever fly a helicopter again.
Maybe never." He knew Kelly was on orders for the whole deployment and
that Kelly could designate who flew what position.

Kelly knew and understood what was going on in Shilleto's mind.  "Sure,
Colonel, go ahead.  It would be my pleasure to fly as your copilot."

Shilleto looked relieved, then bent to his duties.  He spread out the
chart he had made on his kneeboard.

Kelly looked over at Shilleto's map and could see the direct line he had
drawn to Udorn without any deviation.  The area he felt sure held the
survivors, though only ten minutes south of their takeoff location at
Lima 36, was several miles to the east of the line.

The two pilots and Bernick the flight mech went through the ENGINE START
and BEFORE TAKEOFF procedures.

"Number two oil temp is a little high, but everything else looks good to
me," Shilleto said.  "Let's launch."

Kelly and Bernick agreed, Shilleto got a release from Air America ops on
the radio, and they were airborne.

Shilleto followed the Air America instrument departure plan for
helicopters, and at 5,000 feet above the ground they broke through the
clouds that clustered over Lima Site 36.  Their altimeter registered
8,000 feet.  Beneath them and to the south were scattered small puffy
white clouds.

"Beautiful day," Shilleto hummed and fixed course for Udorn.

In minutes they were almost abeam the point where Kelly was sure the
survivors were hiding.

"Ah, sir," he began, "maybe we could just swing a bit east. Quite a view
over there.  Maybe we might hear something from those guys who called us
yesterday." He had surreptitiously switched the intercom so that the two
PJs and the flight mech could hear the conversation.

"No," Shilleto said.  "I specifically asked Compress about that.  We are
to bring this airplane straight back, no deviations.

They said they'd have somebody up there to check the whole thing out."
Maybe Paul Shilleto wasn't Rescue Crew Commander for this flight, but he
was a lieutenant colonel who knew an order when he heard one.

"Well, they don't know quite where to look," Kelly said, "and we do." He
hoped Dominguez would get the drift and act accordingly.  Since he
wasn't flying, Kelly couldn't make the 360-degree turn he had promised.

"Not with this bird, we don't.  You forget, we got shot up yesterday.
We've got patched-up holes and a damaged engine. And who knows, they
probably have even more guns there now. Besides, if you don't get a
shootdown off the ground right away, he's as good as captured.  No,
we're pressing on for the home drome."

They whirred on for thirty more seconds, then both pilots jerked at the
sound of a 7.62mm Gatling gun as it spun up and made a deep-throated
moan.

"For Christ's sake," Shilleto cried over the intercom.  "What was that
for?"

"Left gun, sir.  I wanted to test-fire my weapon.  Make sure it was
clear.  Thought it had a problem yesterday, sir," Dominguez responded.
Then the right gun and the aft gun opened up for a split second.

"Yes, sir," Bakke said on the intercom.  "Thought we'd check them all
out."

"Okay," Shilleto responded, "but you should have informed me first."

Kelly looked down and saw they were now due west of where he thought the
survivors were.  He recognized the triple peaks and the odd-shaped
valley.  The small white clouds looked like low flak bursts, he thought.
In a few seconds they would be past the karst ridge, and if the
survivors were still alive and free, their radio should be in range.

He verified he was receiving Guard Channel, then decided to hell with
what Paul Shilleto thought and switched his transmitter to Guard.

"Wolf, Wolf, if you read Jolly Green Two Two, come up on voice or
beeper.  Wolf, come up on voice or beeper."

"That won't do you any good," Shilleto said.  "No one will answer, and
if they do, we can't do anything about it anyhow."

At those words, all three guns fired a quick burst.

"Sor, sor, is shoot, is shoot," Tewa said as he shook Wolf Lochert.

"Shoot?" Lochert said as if from a great distance.  "Who's shooting at
us?"

"Sky gun is shoot.  Sky gun is shoot," Tewa said and pointed his finger
to the entrance of the cave.

Wolf blinked and through force of will brought his mind to bear on the
subject at hand, a sky gun.  The two words sounded melodic to his ear,
they had a nice rhythm and rolled off the tongue well, but what on earth
did they mean?  Then he heard the muted roar of the minigun and knew
what it meant: there was an American airplane of some kind in the local
area and he had to get their attention immediately.

"Radio," he said to Tewa.  "Give radio." His thirst was nearly
unbearable.  His tongue felt thick and he had trouble speaking.

Tewa placed the radio in Wolf's hand.  Wolf extended the antenna, placed
the transmit switch from OFF through VOICE to BEACON.  Instead of
transmitting words when the button was pushed, the little radio now sent
out a distinctive and continuous whooping sound over Guard Channel.  The
signal both drained the battery quickly and prevented other
transmissions on Guard.  To receive, Wolf would have to turn the switch
to VOICE.  He placed the radio on the floor of the cave by his side and
pushed it toward the entrance so the antenna was pointing out of the
opening.  He felt woozy and had to get the attention of the Americans,
and the automatic beeper was the fastest method until he could get his
thoughts collected.

The eerie whoop-whooping sound of the beacon in their headsets caused
Kelly and Shilleto to swing their heads and look sharply at each other.
Kelly had been alert for just that sort of signal while Shilleto piloted
the helicopter, and quickly switched on the direction-finding equipment.
The needle swung to their eight o'clock position.

"Sir," he said over the sound of the loud signal, "turn port.

They were still at 8,000 feet.

"Nothing doing." Shilleto stared straight ahead.

"Sir, it's a clear signal.  We've got to check it out."

"Not after what happened yesterday." Shilleto reached down and switched
off Guard Channel.  The abrupt silence after the unearthly sound was
startling.  "Anybody can switch to beacon on those radios," he said.
"They have captured a lot of them.

It's a flak trap, I tell you.  We didn't get those eleven holes from
friendly fire.  We're not going back.  This is a one-time ferry flight
to get this bird home.  We are not authorized to participate in any
rescue."

"At least I can verify the signal and take a fix," Kelly said as he
switched Guard Channel back on.  He cut the volume control so he could
barely hear the beacon.  The needle pointed unwaveringly back left to
the seven-thirty position.  Nuts, he said to himself.  Maybe the gomers
have captured the poor bastard and are using his radio.  He's got to
come up voice and prove he's okay.  He remembered the American's voice
and his call sign from the day before, and tried again.  He transmitted
on Guard.

"Wolf, Wolf, this is Jolly Green Two Two, come up voice.

Talk to me, man."

It was no good.  Guard Channel was blocked by the whooping beacon
transmitted by Wolf's radio.

"We're not going to do anything about it, I promise You'll Shilleto
said.

It was quiet and peaceful in the cave.  Wolf barely registered the sound
of the receding helicopter.  Something tugged at a corner of his mind.
There was something he should do.  The helicopter faded from his
hearing, and with it the insistent nagging.  He dozed, fitful and
restless.

Tewa knew he had to do something.  The helicopter was going away, headed
south, and would never, never come back.

He crawled over to the radio that lay inert on the rough floor of the
cave near the entrance.  He knew if you spoke into it, someone would
answer.  That is how it worked before.  He carefully pressed the button
and called many times for Chollie Gleen, with no response.  He had seen
Wolf work one of the switches, so he fingered it back and forth and
tried again.  No answer.  He didn't understand why it had worked
yesterday and not today.  He studied the switch positions, and next to
each the incomprehensible chicken scratches the Americans said were
words.  He decided to work the switch from sei to qwa, left to the
right, and stop and call from each position, then wait for an answer.
Nothing happened for him at the full left position, which was "OFF." He
would go to the next and try again.

In the helicopter, when Kelly heard the beeper signal stop, he
immediately pressed his transmit button and called Wolf.

Tewa turned the switch to the second position from the left and heard
the last part of the call.

" .  .  .  talk to me, Wolf."

Tewa jammed his finger onto the transmit button.  "Oh, Chollie Gleen,
you come now.  Sor sick.  You come now."

"Let me talk to sore," Kelly transmitted on the radio.

"I'm telling you, we are not going back," Shilleto said on the intercom.
"I don't care what he says."

"Make sore talk," Kelly transmitted again.

Tewa pushed back to Wolf Lochert and shook him.  "Sor, you talk.  Is
Chollie Gleen.  You talk Chollie Gleen." He shook Wolf again and tried
to hand him the radio.  Wolf barely stirred.

"We must talk to the American," Kelly said with urgency.

"Put the American on.  Put ...  the ...  American ...  on ...  the
radio." He unkeyed and waited.  Double-damn, triple-shit, he said to
himself, then tried again.  "Wolf, Wolf-talk to me, Wolf."

Through a haze, Wolf heard the tinny American voice.  When he rolled his
head toward the sound, Tewa held the radio to Wolf's lips and said, "Sor
talk.  Sor talk now." He pressed the transmit button.

"Anyone read Wolf, give me a call," Wolf said with difficulty.

Kelly was overjoyed.  "Wolf, Wolf," he said, "this is Jolly Two Two. Got
you three by.  Give me a hold-down." Kelly was telling Wolf he heard his
transmission clear but not loud.  Five by five for clarity and volume
was best; one by one was worst.

Wolf blinked several times in the gloom of the cave.  Holddown, what
was.  .  .  then he remembered.  "Fewa," he said.

"Press button.  Press button."

Tewa grinned and bobbed his head several times and pushed in the
transmit button and released it.

"Hold the button," Kelly said.  "Hold the button down, count to ten."

"You don't really believe that's an American survivor down there, do
you?" Shilleto asked.  "He wouldn't have all this much trouble talking."

"He might if he were injured or wounded," Kelly said.

Shilleto flew straight ahead and didn't answer.

"Look," Kelly said, "at least can't we do a 360 turn?  If not, we'll be
out of range soon and never get a good fix.  Just a 360.

It won't cause us any trouble."

"One turn," Shilleto rumbled and put the helicopter into a left-hand
turn.

"Wolf, give me a long count," Kelly said, and looked with anxious eyes
at the direction-finding equipment.

"Tewa." Wolf's whisper was raspy.  "Hold button down, keep pressing.
Talk to Jolly Green.  Talk to them, Tewa."

"Ah, Chollic Green, sor say talk you.  Tewa talk you.  Tewa is talk. You
talk Tewa?" He released the button.

As Shilleto turned the HH-53B through north, the homing needle pointed
straight ahead and Kelly could see the area where he was sure Wolf and
Tewa were hiding.

"Smoke, Tewa, give me smoke," he said.  "You have smoke grenade?  You
have smoke flare, Tewa?  Jolly Green must see smoke."

"The smoke won't do you any good, Kelly, we're not going in," Shilleto
said in a loud voice.

"Sir, it's your last -flight.  Why not end it with a rescue?  Think of
how much publicity you'd receive."

"Kelly, you're insulting.  All the years I've been in Rescue, I've never
done it for publicity."

"Sir, that's a human being down there.  You said yourself if a shootdown
isn't picked up right away, his chances are shit.

This guy has hung on.  He's all screwed-up but he's hung on.

Maybe Compress can't get someone here in time.  Maybe we're his last
chance."

In the cave, Wolf heard the voice on the radio ask for smoke.

Still lying flat, he pushed the day/night flare from his cargo pocket.
He rolled it toward the Hmoung.  "Tewa, make smoke.

Wolf cannot make smoke."

Tewa picked it up and edged to the opening of the cave.  He remembered
the one-hour course he had had when he became a bundle-kicker for Air
America on the rudiments of emergency rescue procedures and how to
generate smoke by pulling the proper tab on the cylinder.  He put his
finger through the ring tab, then looked back at Wolf with a worried
frown.  "If smoke, bad fucker shoot smoke."

Wolf digested the news and tried to clear his brain.  His tongue felt
terribly swollen in his mouth and his thoughts ran away from him like
scattering leaves in a wind.  He knew Tewa should release the smoke
because ...  because someone should know where they were.  If there was
too much ground fire for a pickup, well, he would just have to sleep on
that.  Maybe they would die.  That was all right, too.  He was so tired,
and his head felt so funny.  He started drifting.  From the far reaches
of his mind a small voice said maybe they would be captured.

CAPTURED.  An alarm as real and as loud as a firehouse gong sounded in
Wolf's brain, and all his fleeing thoughts returned.  He knew exactly
where they were and exactly what the problem was.  He gathered his
energy and rolled over to lie next to Tewa.

"No smoke," he said.  "Tewa right.  No smoke." He picked up the radio
and hit the transmit button.

"Jolly Green, this is Wolf.  We can't give you smoke.  There are enemy
forces deployed about a klick south of our position.  If we pop smoke,
they'll get a fix on us and ...  and they will be ready to hose you down
if you come in for a Pickup.  They can probably hear you right now just
like we can.  I don't see how we can do this today." He unkeyed.

"Scheiss, Tewa, we can't let that helicopter in here.  'We don't know
what's out there." Tewa looked wide-eyed and uncomprehending.

"Wolf, this is Jolly Green, we'll make the decision whether or not we
can make the pickup," the strong voice of Lieutenant Colonel Paul
Shilleto sounded over the radio.  He unkeyed and switched to intercom.
"Flight mech?  Pis?  You got any problem with our going in?"

"No, sir, not at all," they assured him.  Rescue men were up there to do
just that, rescue, not pass up perfectly good opportunities.  PJs
actually flipped coins to see who would be first down the hoist.

"What made you change your mind, boss?" Kelly asked in surprise.

"Hell, since he was going to turn down a pickup because we might be in
danger, I figured he was not only a real American but a brave one, one
we should see what we can do about."

He kept the nose of the helicopter pointed toward the source of the
signal.  "And look up there." He pointed northeast at a line of
thunderstorms.  "They're coming this way, may be here for days.  We've
got to move now." Shilleto punched his radio button.  "Wolf," he
transmitted, "we are homing in on your signal.  Hold your smoke.  Tell
us when we pass over your position."

Shilleto unkeyed and said to Kelly, "Call Cricket, see if there are any
A- Is in the area, we may have a full-blown SAR on our hands." Kelly saw
the light of challenge in Shilleto's eyes, and he seemed ten years
younger.

Buoyed by the confident voice and the possibility they might be rescued,
Wolf rogered the transmission.  His brain cleared and a new thought
occurred to him.

"Jolly Green," he said.  "I will go ahead and release some smoke.  If
they shoot at us, okay.  But I don't think they will.

I think they know where we are and don't want to give themselves away
and are waiting for you to come closer to start shooting.  Either way,
we'd be no worse off than before and you'd get a positive fix on us. You
copy?"

"Roger, copy," Shilleto said.  "We're ready.  Pop your smoke."

Shilleto glanced at Kelly.  "What does Cricket have for us?"

"A ration of shit," Kelly replied.  "They say we are to proceed as
planned and they will handle this whole thing."

Shilleto set his jaw.  "We'll see about that." His eyes flashed and his
haggard face looked joyfully animated.  He punched his mike button.

"Cricket, Jolly Green Two Two.  We found a target of enemy troops.  I
need some A-Is, and I'm damn well going to stay right here until you
provide them.  Either you provide them or we run out of gas and you got
to run a SAR on us.  You copy, Cricket?"

"Why, sure, Jolly Green," the Cricket controller said from his position
in a large radio capsule loaded in the back end of a C-130.  Thirteen
other men were in there with them at consoles, running the airborne
command post.  "I think we can get something up for you." He was a young
ROTC first lieutenant and was pretty sure he knew what Jolly Green Two
Two had in mind.  He had been required earlier to pass on the order for
22 to go home, but now he decided to go along with what he was sure was
a bit of a charade.  Laos was a fucked-up place, and anytime you had the
opportunity to unfuck it, he believed, particularly when it might save
an American, then he'd go along.

"Okay, Wolf," Shilleto said, "you hang on to that smoke until I tell
you.  We'll get a couple Sandys or Hobos in here and then we'll see what
we'll see."

"Roger," Wolf said, aware that the Jolly Green wanted the A-1 firepower
handy in case his smoke provoked any return fire.

Sandy and Hobo were the USAF call signs of the giant prop-driven Douglas
A-1 aircraft that carried four tons of ordnance under their wings (on
fifteen hardpoints-seven under each wing and one under the centerline of
the fuselage), had four forwafd-firing 20mm cannons, and enough gas to
stay on station for Hours.  Though certainly not in the jet fighter
class, the A-1 was preferred over the faster jets for close air support
because of its delivery accuracy and endurance.  US Navy pilots still
cackled over the shootdown of a MiG-17 in June 1965 by two A-1s from the
Midway.  They called the A-1s Spads.  The USAF had acquired fifty A-1s
from the Navy in the early sixties, expressly for use in Vietnam. The
TAC jet fighter boys had gritted their teeth, but had had to give in to
the request from the Air Commandos for the versatile prop aircraft.

Joe Kelly pointed out to Shilleto the half-mile-wide karst cliff where
he thought the two men were hiding.  There were too many crevices and
outcroppings on the cliff face for him to know which was the exact spot.
They orbited two miles south.

Eight minutes later two Sandys checked in.  Shilleto brought them
overhead, steered their eyes in the general direction of the cliff, and
had them orbit above them at 9,000 feet.

"Here's how it is, guys," Shilleto said to his crew.  "If we get a good
smoke, and if we can get the bad guys to reveal their position, and if
we can get the Sandys to wipe out the bad guys, we may have a pickup on
our hands.  You guys game to try?"

"Shit hot, Colonel," said the flight mech, Dan Bernick.

"Press on, sir," said PJ Two, Hiram Bakke.

"Let's get 'em," said Pi One, Manuel Dominguez.

Joe Kelly nodded his head in pleased assent.

."Pop the smoke, Wolf.  We're ready," Shilleto said.

Wolf Lochert did as he was told and flipped the belching baton out on
the ledge at the cave mouth.  Within seconds, thick red smoke billowed
up and away from the cliff, then became torn sheets in the shearing
vertical wind currents.

"I've got a good tally on your position, Wolf.  Hear anything?" Kelly
asked.

Wolf lay silent for a few minutes.  "Nothing," he said.  "Nothing at
all, but I know they're out there."

"Sandy, you ready to do your famous troll trick?" Shilleto asked Sandy
One, the leader of the flight.

"Roger that.  Two, orbit west and see what I stir up.  Lead's in west to
east, off south." He pulled up, hung on his prop for a second, then
lazily wheeled over and down, gaining airspeed, then pulled out to zoom
in on his run.  He made a long, low pass over the jungle parallel to the
cliff face.

"See anything, Two?" he asked as he pulled off short of the approaching
storms, the powerful 2,700-horsepower Wright radial engine roaring out
over the muted jungle.

"Negative," came the laconic reply.  "Want me to try it?' "Rodge, go
ahead," Sandy Lead said.  "Make it from the opposite direction."

"Wolf, you hear any shooting?" Shilleto asked.

"Not a round."

"Two's in, east to west." He dodged in front of the approaching
rainsquall and dove in on his run.

"Gotcha covered," Sandy Lead said.

Sandy Two made his pass as directed, and no one reported seeing or
hearing any ground fire.

"Nothing for it, gang," Shilleto said on the intercom.  "Let's give it
the old cathouse try." He would have to fly the big helicopter down to
less than two hundred feet above Wolf and Tewa, then have Bernick let
the penetrator down from the hoist to the ledge at the cave mouth so the
two men could strap themselves onto the device.  Then the Jolly had to
wait while the flight mech winched the two men up high enough to clear
the surrounding terrain before they could fly away.  Depending on
penetrator ground time, the entire sequence required the Jolly Green
helicopter to hover in one position as a perfectly still aerial target
for at least three minutes.  Shilleto punched up the UHF radio.

"Sandy, Jolly Green Two Two is going in.  Give me hover cover.  Wolf, be
ready.  I'll have the penetrator at your front door in about four
minutes.  If anybody shoots at us first time around, we'll pull off and
have the Sandys prep the area."

"Jolly Green, Wolf.  I think you should prep the area first.

There are enemy troops one klick due south of my location.  I saw the
campfire smoke at dawn."

"Wolf, they didn't shoot today, they may have moved. Besides, weather is
moving in.  Running out of time.  We've got to try a pickup.  Coming
down."

Lieutenant Colonel Paul Shilleto started the first move in an intricate
aerial ballet that required perfect timing from himself and the two
Sandy pilots.  Each Sandy A-1 had to weave a protective cover over the
moving helicopter, a protective cover that allowed them to keep the
helicopter in view while simultaneously scanning the terrain beneath the
helicopter, the prospective pickup site, and the surrounding region for
probable antiaircraft guns.  If one or more guns came up, the Sandys had
to crisscross each other's path and that of the Jolly Green helicopter
to suppress the fire.  Normally, the force was doubled: two helicopters
and four Sandys.

"Jolly Green Two Two, this is Cricket.  Ah, sir, Crown just called and
said you are not to attempt the pickup.  You are to show Sandy Lead
where the survivor is located, then depart the area.  Jolly, you copy
Cricket?" The young controller's voice was thick with dismay.

Shilleto looked at Kelly.  "You hear anything?" he asked.

SouthEast Asian (SEA) theater regulations prescribed that no ARRS
helicopter could attempt a rescue without full backup.

As courageous as the rescue crews were, some early spectacular failures
and losses had caused the clamping-down by higher headquarters of just
what constituted a rescue package.  To break the regulations was to
invite a grounding.  Occasionally, hard feelings had occurred over a
situation just like this, when a rescue by a USAF helicopter was
theoretically possible but had not been attempted.  In a couple of
cases, while a Jolly Green had hung back on orders, a lone Air America
Huey helicopter had sped in and rescued the downed crewmen.

"Did I hear anything?" Kelly said.  "No, I didn't hear any thing.  Damn
radio is acting up again."

"Sandy, you hear anything?" Shilleto asked.

"Ah, negative, Jolly.  Not unless you did." Sandy pilots had big ones,
great big ones, and were never eager to give up a mission.  The Cricket
controller wisely remained silent.

"All right, gentlemen, we are in to see what we can see Shilleto told
his crew and started down.  In the rear, PJ One, Dominguez, manned the
left gun, PJ Two, Bakke, manned the ramp gun, and Bernick, the flight
mech, took the right door gun.  over their flight suits each wore a
harness attached to what was called a gunner's strap, which could be
clipped onto one of many anchor spots within the cabin.  Each man wore
an olive-drab flight helmet with boom mike swung up to his lips. And
each man was equipped with a .38 in a shoulder holster and a bandolier
of ammunition.

Shilleto flew the HH-53B from east to west, barely ahead of the rain,
while the Sandys crisscrossed the area, searching and trolling for
ground fire.  As the helicopter went into hover, Bernick swung his
minigun back from the doorway to its stowed position against the forward
wall and started the penetrator down from its hoist above and outside
the door.  Facing the door, the hydraulic control handle to start and
stop the hoist was on the fuselage wall to the right.  The handle
pointed down like the large hand of a clock pointed at six.  Swinging
the handle up to nine o'clock lowered the penetrator, back to three
o'clock raised it.  The cable raised and lowered at 200 feet per minute
except for an automatic slowdown just before the full raised position.
Bernick pulled the handle forward with his right hand, hung partially
out the door, and put his gloved left hand on the cable to guide it.  He
wore a heavy linesman's glove. Because the HH-53B hovered in a 5-degree
nose-high attitude and the pilot could not see the cable or the
penetrator under him, the man at the hoist had to guide the pilot on the
intercom on where he should position himself

"Forward five, left five, forward two, that's it, that's it.  Hold.

Hold," Bernick said as he moved the hoist handle to keep the penetrator
moving.  Bernick had to yell because the rotor noise picked up by his
boom mike was nearly overpowering.

Because the ship was directly above his cave, Wolf could no longer see
it.  He eased forward on his elbows until his head cleared the mouth of
the cave, then rolled onto his back.  He looked up through a rush of
downwash air and saw the wide bottom of the rescue helicopter.  The
noise was deafening.  He saw the descending penetrator.  "Out here, come
out," he yelled to Tewa.  He started to crawl further out of the cave,
and his right leg was numb.  Must have gone to sleep, he told himself as
his thoughts focused on the imminent rescue.  He pulled himself forward
with His elbows and pushed with his left foot until he was clear of the
cave mouth and flat on the ledge.

Behind him, Tewa squeezed out of the cave and half-sat on the ledge as
the penetrator, looking like a giant plumb bob, came closer.  He
crouched as it came within reach, and reached out.  As he put his hands
up to grasp the device, he jerked backwards and slammed up against the
cliff face and started to slide down, as lifeless as a rag doll.

Wolf, lying on his back with his feet toward Tewa and the cave mouth,
could see the tiny Lao was going to slide off the ledge into the jungle
below.  He rolled toward the cliff, raised his good leg and, hooking the
toes of his boot around Tewa's waist, pulled his body crashing down on
his own.  He had to thrash his arms to keep the two of them from rolling
off the ledge.  At the same time, above the sound of the helicopter
blades and engines, he heard the popping and blam-blam of many guns and
saw chips and pieces of rock fly away from the cliff face.  One round
spanged off the metal penetrator.

"Abort, Abort, Abort," Bernick in the right door, guiding the cable,
yelled over the intercom.  At the same time, both Dominguez and Bakke
opened up with their miniguns at the jungle below.  "The penetrator is
clear," Bernick said.  "Abort."

-jolly, they're shooting at you," Sandy Lead called.

"Haul ass," Kelly ordered, but Shilleto didn't need any further words.
An "abort" call from any crew member was heeded instantly.  He was
lifting straight up to clear the penetrator from the Cliff and to get
over the opposite side of the karst ridge away from the guns- "Get that
penetrator up, check for damage," Kelly ordered the flight mech. Bernick
rotated the handle to Up.

Sandy Two again spoke urgently over the UHF radio.  "Jolly, they're
shooting at you."

"Roger, roger, don't we know it," Kelly replied.  "You see where they
are, Sandy?"

-That's affirmative," Sandy Lead said.  "I'm rolling in On them east to
west, will pull off South, I have you in sight, Jolly."

He paused for a second to see if anybody had anything else to say, then
said, -Sandy Two, set up random, use both sides of the ridge.  Keep
Jolly in sight and watch the thunderstorms."

He was telling his wingman he could roll in from any heading he wanted
to confuse the gunners, but had to keep everyone in sight, "You going to
try again, Jolly?"

Kelly looked over to ShilletO.  "What say?"

Shilleto was busy checking the stick, collective lever, RPM, rudder
pedals, and the engine instruments for damage.  He nodded his head.
"Probably.  Depends on what the Sandys bring up and how well they do.
Get a damage report."

"How does it look back there, Sergeant Bernick?" Kelly asked the flight
mech.  "Everybody okay?" lie scanned the engine and system gages.  They
appeared normal.

"No problems, Sir.  Hook is up and stowed.  Ship and crew fit and ready
to go."

"Jolly will hold north of the ridgeline," Shilleto told the Sandys.  He
turned to parallel the ridge for a last look before they dropped behind
it.  Sandy Two was in the middle of his run.  Two glistening cans of
napalm detached from beneath his wings and tumbled into the brush
between the karst and the jungle almost directly beneath the cave
entrance.  A wave of burning gel splashed down on the tiny blue-clad
figures running through the brush in the direction of the cliff.

Sandy Two pulled off sharply to the south as Lead rolled in from the
West.  "They're in the open," Two said, "trying to get to the cliff.
About twenty or thirty."

"Any big guns?" Kelly asked.  "Yesterday there was a 12.7 here."

"How do you know?" Sandy Lead asked.

"By the size of the holes in our bird," Kelly said.

"Ha ha," Lead said as he pickled off two 500-pound bombs into the trees
where the running men had retreated.  He hazarded a quick glance at the
ledge.

Kelly switched to Guard Channel.  "Wolf, do you read Jolly Two Two?
What's your status?" There was no answer, Kelly switched back to rescue
frequency.  "Sandy Lead," he called, "do you see anything around the
mouth of that cave?"

The A-1 jinked south, then pulled off to the northeast and passed east
of the karst as he climbed through 3,000 feet.  "Two guys on a ledge,"
he said.  "One seems to be moving, but not very well."

Wolf Lochert groaned in effort as he tried to slide feetfirst into the
cave, clutching Tewa's body to his own.  He had a hard time steering his
numb right leg.  His elbows felt raw and torn.

Bullets continued to hit the face of the cliff above his head, but
because he was flat on the ledge, the lip prevented the PL from getting
a clear shot.  Soon, he thought, they'll be close enough to lob a
grenade up here or fire a rocket-propelled grenade into the cave.

He felt a pain from his back and realized he had strapped on his AK-47
and it was digging into him and holding back his progress into the cave.
There was nothing he could do about it, he Slowly reasoned with
fragmented thoughts.  He had to get Tewa and himself into the cave.  His
tongue grew more thick and the throb in his head increased.  He stopped
moving and didn't notice Tewa's blood trickling onto his torn and dirty
shirt.

He heard the roaring of the first A-1 as it swept by, then he felt the
heat of the dropped napalm sweep over him like a wave of warm water.  He
thought he heard cries and screams from below, Then continious
concussive bomb blasts.

Sandy Lead rolled in and released two more bombs in a line from those
dropped by Sandy Two.  The four bombs and the two napalm had blunted the
attack.  The Sandys had a dozen more bombs and napalm and hundreds of
rounds of 20mm cannon shells remaining.

"Wolf, Wolf, this is Jolly Two Two on Guard.  Do you read?" Kelly tried
again.  Still no answer.  "What do you see, Sandy Lead?" he asked.
Shilleto kept the helicopter a mile above the ground north of the ridge
"They're still on the ledge but not moving.  I don't think they were hit
but can't tell for sure."

"How about the guns?  How about that 12.7?  Anybody still shooting?"

"I'll make a pass," Sandy Lead said, "Two, cover me.  See if anybody
shoots." Sandy Lead rolled in and flew from west to east at 500 feet
above the ground.  He saw bodies on the torn earth and jungle where the
bombs had hit, and he saw shrunken black figures where the napalm fire
still smoldered.  He looked down to his left at the karst ledge and saw
one of the two figures feebly kicking his leg.  Then he had to pull up
abruptly to avoid flying into the wall of rain enveloping the eastern
end of the karst ridge.

"Nobody shot at you as far as I can see," Sandy Two said.

"Okay, good," Sandy Lead transmitted.  "About the guys on the ledge. One
is still alive.  But I got to tell you something, Jolly.  They both seem
to be wearing civilian clothes and one could be Asian."

"Okay, that's okay," Kelly said to Shilleto, "that would square with
people on board an Air America airplane.  They run around in civvies all
the time."

Shilleto nodded.  He looked at the.  heavy squall line cast of the cave.
It was moving in rapidly.  "Okay, Sandy, we'll try again," he said.
"Coming around for another pass, north to south." He took the big
helicopter due south toward the ridgeline and started down.  "Okay,
gang," he said on the intercom, "we've only got one shot at this.  I'll
pop over the ridgeline and go into a hover facing west.  PJ One, stand
by to go down the hoist.

Watch yourself.  Get a positive ID from those guys.  We don't want to be
sucked in by any of those Russian advisers we hear about."

Dominguez rOgered and took off his parachute.

his equipment     He checked

wore 8 green mesh survival vest, two c  teens Of water and a knife on a
webbed belt, a .45   an Normally, automatic in a shoulder holster, and a
slung CAR  caliber 15.

there was no way to communicate with the helicopter except by hand
signals to the man On the hoist.  Kelly always made sure his PJs had a
survival radio so that in emergencies the PJ on the ground could
communicate directly with the pilot.  Although the PJ could talk into
the tiny radio, he could never hear the pilot speak because of the roar
of the rotor downwash.

Kelly stood in the door next to Bernick and looked down.

They were about eighty feet above the ridgeline and barely South of it.
Twenty feet down the cliff face from the ridgeline was the ledge.

Dominguez opened a seat and mounted it, and gave the signal for Bernick
to start the hoist motor and let him down.

Bernick kept up a steady chatter to Shilleto about where to position the
HH-53B.  VJ on the hoist, PJ started down, You're drifting back, forward
one, forward one, that's it, that's it.  Hold, hold.  PJ halfway down.
Hold steady."

Dominguez sat on One Of the unfolded petals, with one arm around the
shank of the penetrator.  He swept his eyes first to the survivors, then
to the surrounding territory for Probable enemy positions.

He had the best view of anybody on the helicopter, for he could see in
all directions plus up and down- Although this was his twenty-fifth time
down the hoist, his pulse rate was high and his   breathing rapidly- He
almost regretted wearing a helmet sso he could hear the slightest
Popping noise above the sound of the helicopter.

That meant someone was shooting at him.  He motioned with his free hand
to be let down further.  He didn't sense he was being shot at, and
riveted his eyes on the survivors below on the ledge.  He  saw two men,
both in civilian clothes, both very dirty and covered with blood, one
lying on top of the other.

Dominguez had heard the conversation about the civilian clothes and the
Asian.  He took the .45 from his shoulder holster and held it in his
light hand, pointed straight down at his side.

"Hey, you guys hear me?  Hey, you guys okay?  You understand English?
Talk to me, Move your hand.  Give me a signal."

The penetrator swayed slightly as he shifted his position and signaled
for Bernick to put him on the ledge a few feet away from, the two men. A
sudden wind current splattered raindrops on him.  He disengaged from the
penetrator and used both hands to keep the .45 pointed into the face of
the bottom man as he approached.  The man on top was definitely Asian.

, Dominguez said as he stood directly over the two men, the gun muzzle
two feet away from the nose of the dirty and unshaven face of the
Caucasian.  "Hey, I'm not touching anybody until I'm sure what's
happening here.  We gotta move.

Hey, you alive?  You American?  Talk to me."

Wolf Lochert heard the voice and felt the first raindrops on his parched
lips.  He forced open his eyes and looked up at the figure looming over
him.  His eyes focused on the gun are and a great surge of adrenaline
charged his brain and cleared his mind.  He looked at the man holding
the gun.

-Hey, yourself.  You're the Scheisskopf that ate all my Fritos."

With relief, Dominguez holstered his gun and took out his radio.  He
tried to keep his hands from trembling.  "It's okay down here.  (he is
American military," he told his helicopter.

He knelt by the two men.  The penetrator lay on the ledge, the vibrating
cable snaking in the wind up to the hovering ship.

"Anybody still shooting down here?" he asked Wolf.  He had to shout to
overcome the noise of the helicopter.

"Not after those A1s made their attacks.  Get this guy off me.  He's
unconscious and wounded.  I don't know how bad.

I need water." He spoke with effort against the downwash of air and
sound.

The ledge was too narrow for Dominguez to get to the side of the two
men.  He remained at Wolf's head, handed him a canteen, and slid
backwards toward the penetrator pulling Tewa off Wolf.  Freed, Wolf
drank heavily from the canteen, then rolled onto his belly and crawled
after them.  Dominguez stopped at the penetrator and signaled Bernick to
pull it up two feet from the ground.  He unfolded the remaining two
petal-shaped seats and pulled a Velcro fastener that opened a canvas
collar around the shank of the penetrator.  Three attached safety belts
dropped out, one for each seat.

"Can you make it on your own?" Dominguez called to Wolf Lochert.  He
wondered how long it would be before someone shot at them again.

"Yeah," Lochert said, and grimaced as he tried to push forward with his
legs, and found the right one still numb and lifeless.  He looked past
the struggling men and saw the rain mass moving closer.  He stopped
moving, exhausted.

Dominguez turned and checked Tewa for the severity of his wounds, He
found a hole in his left arm and chest where a bullet had gone through
the fleshy part of his upper arm and buried itself in his chest muscles.
Messy, but he saw no evidence of severed veins or arteries.  He could
dress them properly once on board the helicopter and clear of the area.
He rose to his knees and started to lug Tewa onto the penetrator.

The second he rose up and was above the lip of the ledge, chips and dust
rose from the cliff wall, something tugged at his pant leg, then he felt
a smashing jolt to his head, as if struck with a hammer, and fell into
blackness, his body limp as an empty gunnysack.

1130 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 11 OCTOBER 1968

COORDINATES 5124

ROYALTY OF LAOS

"PJ's down, the PJ is down," Bernick yelled into his boom mike"Whaddya
mean, down?" Kelly asked.  I thought he already went down the hoist to
the surface."

"in a calmer voice, "He's hit, the PJ's hit," Bernick said.

"Oh shit," Kelly said.  "Can you tell how bad?"

"Forward two, forward One, steady, hold," Bernick commanded Shilleto.
"No, I can't.  He's not moving.  One of the survivors has crawled to
him.  I think he's checking him out."

The helicopter was facing west to Place the hoist and penetrator on the
South side Of the ridge.  Neither pilot could see the approachirig rain
to their rear.  Shilleto fought the controls of the big ship as the
advance gusts from the storm buffeted the ship back and forth, trying to
weathervane the tail first one way then the Other.    ,See anything? Are
we being shot at?"

Bakke answered from the ramp gun.  "Can't see any fire from here, but I
tell You that storm is going to eat us in about five minutes."

"Roger, understand," Kelly said.  "Get on the left gun and tell me what
You see from there."

"Pilot, they're shooting plenty down there," Bernick said.  "I see dust
puffs and chips coming Off the wall just over their heads."

The left gun opened up with a throaty roar as the Gatling style minigun
spewed out thirty-three rounds of high-speed 7.62mm (.30 caliber) slugs
per second, "Yeah, they're shooting," Bakke he said on the intercom.  "I
can see the smoke and muzzle flashes.  I'm returning fire.

"Sandy, we got a problem," Kelly transmitted on the UHF. "They're
shooting back."

"I Got a tally, Jolly," Sandy Lead said in a deep, measured voice.  As
the rescue attempt progressed, his voice had deepened and his cadence
had slowed.  This was his forty-second rescue sortie.  "I'm in east to
west, just south of you, with CBU.  Two, Set UP for the same pass.  Make
it fast- That rain is as good as here."

Four slugs tore through the left side of the helicopter cabin

"Goddamnit, we just took rounds,"

He swung the barrel back and let loose a stream of bullets in the
direction from which he thought the burst had come,

Slant range between the guns on the ground and the guns in the air was
800 feet.  The wind was gusting from the east up to thirty-five knots.
Fourteen PL soldiers on the ground who had advanced into the napalmed
area closest to the ledge were shooting AK-47 assault rifles at the
hovering helicopter.  They were not aiming high enough to counter bullet
drop, nor were they compensating sufficiently for the wind.  Three other
PL soldiers were wrestling with a large 12.7 (.51 cal) gun that had been
blown down the hill by one of the bombs' Two PLs carrying
rocket-propelled grenade launchers, and r two helpers, were fighting
their way up the hill, past their dead and wounded comrades.  Between
the four of them, they had forty-four rounds of the high-explosive
grenades.  They had made their plans.  When they were within twenty
meters of the cliff, they would blast the wall with grenades that would
shower metal fragments on the men lying on the ledge below.

Bakke saw the advancing AK-47 gunners and triggered over 100 rounds
their way in a three-second burst.  One bullet took a man in the
stomach, sitting him down as if slugged with a baseball bat.  He went
down still firing and involuntarily raised the muzzle of his gun.  Two
rounds tore through the side of the helicopter.  One smoked up into the
roof and scattered pieces of lead as it splintered on a crosspiece.  The
other hit Bakke.

He went down hard, his left leg blown backwards with the sledgehammer
blow as the bullet entered his left thigh and severed an artery. Bernick
saw him go down.

"Bakke's hit," he shouted.  "We're taking fire back here."

"Hold on," Kelly yelled back.  "How bad is he hit?  What's happening to
Dominguez?  Are they on the hoist yet?  Can we start up?  There ain't no
second chance."

"Sir, too many questions.  You gotta come back here.  Things are turning
to shit and I need help." Bernick's voice was hurried and high-pitched,

"Go ahead," Shilleto said to Kelly and nodded his head toward the aft
cabin.

"Be right there," Kelly told Bernick.  He unstrapped, pulled out his
intercom plug, and prepared to climb from his seat when he looked over
at Shilleto.  The colonel was soaking wet.  Sweat was dripping from
under his helmet into his eyes.  Kelly pulled a sweat rag from a leg
pocket and wiped his brow the best he could.  "Thanks," Sbilleto
mouthed.  His lips looked thin and blue.

Kelly went into the cabin and plugged into an intercom line.

He bent over Bakke's body, which lay in a widening puddle of blood.  He
knelt down, turned Bakke faceup, and saw bright red blood pumping
rhythmically from under the left leg of his flight suit.  Bakke's eyes
were partially open and dazed.

His moan was lost in the roar of the engines and the rotor blast.  Kelly
pulled his K-Bar knife from its scabbard and cut open the cloth around
the wound, then tore the material down to Bakke's knee.  The wound was
half-dollar size and jagged.

Kelly stood and opened the latches on a first aid box strapped to the
side of the helicopter.  Moving quickly, he ripped open two compress
packages and took out the tourniquet kit.  He scrambled backto-backe,
pressed the compresses to the wound, fastened the tourniquet over the
compresses, and tugged it tight.

He twitched but did not look up as an AK-47 slug impacted the ceiling
above his head.  He pulled Bakke back to a litter, took off his helmet,
and strapped him in.  Bakke's eyes focused on him and he attempted a
smile.  Kelly squeezed his hand and moved over to the left gun.

He pointed the barrel down and fired three two-second bursts into the
general target area to let them know the gun was still active.  Then he
ran to the open ramp, trailing his black intercom cord like an umbilical
to the ship, and fired a quick burst with the ramp gun.  After that, he
ran to the open door by Bernick.  He waited until the flight mech gave
more maneuver instructions to Shilleto.  It was becoming increasingly
difficult to hold the hover in the path of the approaching storm.

"How is it down there?" he asked on the intercom when Bernick was
finished.  He had to hold the doorframe to keep his balance as the
helicopter dipped and swayed in the gusts.

"We got about three minutes, then we gotta GO," Bernick panted.  Kelly
braced himself in the doorway and looked down.

Below, Wolf Lochert groaned not with pain but with the mental energy
required to perform the tasks he had to perform or die.  Everything
seemed too large and unwieldy and the air was filled with blasting
sounds and was thick and stinging from the downrush of rotor wash and
the rainstorm was going to blow them off the ]edge and he had to get
everyone attached to that thing and get out of there and he didn't know
if he could do it at all.

He stopped moving and lay flat on his back.  Looking up, he saw a man
waving frantically from the helicopter door 100 feet above.  He blinked
and wondered what was happening.  Four bullets tore into the stone over
his head, showering his face with stinging fragments.  The shock caused
a wave of clarity to wash over his mind.

"Think, shithead," he yelled to himself.  "Think." Our Father, who art
in heaven, hallowed be ...  the radio.  That PJ talked into the radio.
He had one of his own, he knew he did.  He reached down with slow
deliberate hands and pulled his spare RT-10 from his right cargo pocket
and extended the antenna.

"Jolly Green, this is Wolf," he said into the dime-sized microphone
embedded in the radio face.  When he put the radio to his ear to listen
for a reply, he realized the noise from the hovering helicopter was too
loud to hear anything.

He saw the man in the open door point to his helmet and give him a
thumbs-up.  The man also pointed to his wrist and held up two fingers. A
spate of rain drummed on Wolf's face and he suddenly knew what he had to
do.  There was no time to check either of the other two men for wounds,
They might even be dead, he thought, but he would get them out of there.

"Okay," he said into the radio.  "Okay, now.  Here's what we do.  Can't
stand up, heavy fire from below.  Leave the plumb bob flat on the
ground.  I'll get all three of us strapped on and give you a signal.
Then it's up to you.  Give me two thumbs-up if you understand."

.  Kelly leaned out and gave Wolf two exaggerated thumbs-up signals.
"Get the penetrator to lay flat," he said to Bernick.

Bernick toggled out several feet of line.  The helicopter drifted.

"Forward one, steady, steady.  Hold," Bernick said on the intercom to
Shilleto.  When he was finished, the penetrator lay next to Dominguez's
body.

Kelly wanted to watch but knew   he had to get on the guns.

He ran back to the ramp gun and fired a burst, then to the left window
gun and began searching for targets.  He saw three AK-47s to their
shoulders men by a splintered tree, holding and firing so rapidly the
smoke from the gun muzzles made a white swirling ribbon.  He swung the
barrel toward them and had them in his sights.  He depressed the trigger
even before he saw the bullets impact in the charred grass and walked
them to the three men.  One fell down and the other two ducked behind a
fallen tree.  He saw two others kneel down with some kind of a long
shoulder weapon.  An M, he guessed.

"Paul, tell the Sandys we need more bombs and CBUs.  The PL are all over
the place," Kelly cried over the intercom.  From the aft cabin, Kelly
could talk on the intercom but not on the radio.  Shilleto relayed the
request on the UHF radio.

"Jolly, you're too close for me to drop bombs," Sandy Lead said.  "You'd
get hit by fragments.  We'll try CBU and strafe.

But that storm is here.  We'll maybe get two passes max.

Lead's in."

Summoning all his will, Wolf crawled to the penetrator.  It lay like a
three-pronged anchor on its side.  He shoved and pushed Dominguez, then
Tewa, over the extended seat petals and fumbled the safety belts about
them.  Both of the inert bodies were awkwardly draped over the
penetrator.  Wolf pulled himself in position and gave the thumbs-up to
Bernick in the door.

Bernick eased the handle back.  "Hook's coming up," he said to Shilleto
on the intercom.  "The civilian is giving the signal.

The PJ is not moving.  Back one, back one.  Steady.  That's it.  Hold."
Bernick delicately moved the hoist handle.  As the line tightened and
took up the slack, the penetrator began to straighten from its tilted
position on the ground.  Bernick took up more slack and the two bodies
flopped back and slid off the seats.  To raise the hook further would
cause the two men to fall completely off and out of the safety
harnesses.

"Oh shit," he said on the intercom.  "Pilot, we got a big problem.  The
civilian can't get Dominguez and the other guy strapped onto the seats."

Joe Kelly heard Bernick and came over to stand next to him in the door.
He looked down and saw the biggest of the three men struggling without
success to get the other two secure in their seats.  Their bodies kept
slipping out of his hands like grain sacks half-filled with buckshot. He
saw the first wisp of rain sweep under the helicopter and felt the cool
breeze behind it.

The helicopter buffeted and rocked abruptly.

"That's it," Shilleto said on the intercom.  "I've got to lift.

What's their progress?  We got to go.  Flight mech, as soon as you hoist
them clear of the ridge I'm moving this thing.  I'll take them out still
suspended.  Then we'll bring them up as we go.  Are we clear?"

Kelly could see they were not clear.  He looked up at the lever on the
hoist that would cut the cable and free the helicopter from its burden,
allowing it to speed away.  The cable cutter was there to free the
rescue helicopter from a snagged cable.  Such a disaster had happened.
In his mind's eye he could see the long wire falling down on top of the
men below, and the anguished look on the survivors' faces.  He had sworn
this would never happen to him, to leave a survivor behind.  He licked
his lips and shuddered.  Kelly's hands began shaking as he knew what he
should do.

When Kelly had first arrived in SEA and performed a few missions, he had
thought that something like this might occur someday, and now here it
was.  He had never told anyone what he had in mind because he was afraid
that if the occasion demanded, he wouldn't be up to it.  He had secured
a device called a descender from a Special Forces friend and carried it
in his flight bag.  The man had given him a few rudimentary instructions
on how to operate it and wasn't at all sure it would work on a metal
cable.  ARRS was working on a strap affair called the sky-genie, but it
wasn't in the field yet.

"Hold steady," Kelly cried into the intercom and ran forward to the
cockpit to get the descender from his flight bag.

"What are you doing?" Shilleto asked when he saw Kelly pull out a metal
mechanism that looked like a cross between a visegrip pliers and an
extra-heavy can opener with an eight-inch metal handle.  A D-ring
similar to a mountaineer's carabiner was snapped onto the middle of it.

"Okay," Kelly said on the intercom to Shilleto and Bernick.

He took a deep breath, not sure he could control his voice.  "I'm going
down the cable and strap those guys on proper."

"You're crazy," Shilleto said.  "Nobody can go down a bare cable.  Your
hands won't hold."

"With this, I can do it." Kelly shook the device at Shilleto, then ran
back to the door.  "Give me a pair of gloves," he ordered Bernick, who
tossed him a heavy pair of linesman's gloves.  "When I get down there
I'm going to get those guys in place, then give you the pumping signal
to start up.  Don't worry about me.  I'll still be attached with this
thing.  Just tell the Colonel we're clear and he'll lift up and get out
of here.  You can start the hoist up when you want, but get him moving
us out of here immediately.  I'll use my radio only if I have to."

He threw a glance over his shoulder out the left window.

"Colonel, tell those Sandys to dump everything they've got in one pass.
The storm is here and they won't be able to work anymore." He looked
back at the taut cable.  "Right two feet," he told Shilleto, who
complied while telling the Sandys what was happening and what he wanted
them to do with their remaining ordnance.  Kelly unplugged the intercom
cord from his helmet. He felt suddenly alone and cut off.  He bent and
snugged up his parachute harness straps.  The first rain swirled through
the cabin.

When the cable was slack, Kelly motioned for Bernick to pull it toward
him.  Bernick leaned out the door, snagged the cable, and pulled it
inside.  Kelly fitted the descender to the wire, closed the gripping
jaws, then snapped the carabiner onto the front of his parachute
harness, wishing he had just the harness and not the extra bulk of a
parachute he could not possibly use.

This was the moment he had thought about: a terrifying descent using a
method with which he had no experience and which had never been tried by
anyone in the rescue business.  He stood in the door and tried not to
look down.  He didn't know if the Pathet Lao were still shooting or not,
he only knew he had to go down the cable.  He stepped out of the door
into the buffeting rotor wash, which spun him around so he was looking
straight at Bernick.  The two men locked eyes.  The last thing Kelly saw
was Dan Bernick giving him a thumbs-up as he toggled the switch lowering
him from view.  He wrapped his legs around the cable.

The descender was stiff and slightly rusty.  Kelly had difficulty
opening and closing its jaws.  He jerked and dropped in fits and starts
as he manipulated the handle to open and close the jaws.  Once he fell
nearly ten feet in a free fall until he jerked to a stop that took his
breath away.  He resisted an almost overpowering urge just to hang there
and signal Bernick to lift away.  He continued and was halfway down
before he mastered the descent rate.  The noise and buffeting was as he
remembered in training, when he had played victim to see what a pickup
was like from the survivor's point of view.  He was thankful the cable
was anchored to the penetrator on the ground, otherwise he would
probably be spinning in addition to the buffeting.

Then he felt pain in his legs and thought he had been hit.  He looked
down and saw that the inside of his flight suit pant legs were shredded
and covered with dots of blood as they flapped like so many ragged
pennants.  He focused in on the cable and realized it was covered with
thousands of wire hairs from broken strands that were raking his legs
like tiny steel claws.  He unwrapped his legs and let them hang free.
Behind, he heard the roar of the quad 20mm cannons as a Sandy made a
firing pass.

Kelly heard a sharp explosion below and looked down to see a square-foot
portion of the rock face crumble away from the cliff and fall to one
side of the men on the ledge.  He was twenty feet above the men now and
almost touching the cliff below the ridgeline.  He saw another explosion
on the wall and looked down the karst slope to see two men with RPGs
standing up and preparing to fire again.  They looked like they were
aiming directly at him.  He felt a spasm in his stomach and a wild urge
to stop everything and urinate.  He saw one man's weapon fire and was
sure he could see the missile in flight as it arced up to the cliff and
detonated on the wall thirty feet west of him.

The roar was deafening, and he felt his body lightly peppered with stone
and metal fragments.  The rotor downwash and the wind from the rainstorm
had protected him from more serious impacts.

Kelly's heart leaped again as he saw the second man take aim.  He had
never felt so exposed and vulnerable in his life.

His bladder threatened to burst.  Behind the soldier, he saw the second
A-1 pull up from a pass as the last of its napalm cans splashed along
the base of the karst directly toward the RPG gunners and they
disappeared in the red inferno.  Kelly could feel the heat.  Then the
first of the rain was on him and the jungle and scrub karst were totally
concealed, so that the A-Is could make no more passes, but the enemy
could still see the cliff.

He was ten feet above the survivors when he heard the popping of
small-arms fire and looked down the karst and, Oh Jesus, there were
three soldiers shooting and preparing to throw grenades.  He released
the jaws in a spasm and fell heavily to the ledge below, next to the men
and the penetrator.

Stunned for a second, he lay still as he caught his breath.

With disgust he realized his bladder had let go.  He jerked as an object
arced through the air from below, struck the cliff face, then bounced
back over the ledge and exploded.  Kelly unsnapped his carabiner from
the descender.  Immediately, a second object, a grenade, hit the cliff
face and fell to the ]edge.

Kelly's whole body reacted in a blaze of motion as he rose to his knees
and scrambled after the grenade and brushed it over the cliff edge, then
fell flat before it exploded.  As he fell, he saw several soldiers below
aiming AK-47s and firing and preparing more grenades.  He ducked back
and pulled a 9mm Browning automatic from his shoulder holster and
without looking held it over the cliff edge and pulled the trigger in
rapid succession until the magazine was empty and the slide cocked back.
Another grenade arced over the edge and bounced off the cliff wall but
fell beyond the ledge and exploded just under the lip with a huge roar.
Kelly knew it was just a matter of time until they lobbed several
grenades that would come to rest on the ledge.

Kelly fumbled a new magazine into his Browning and was surprised the
weapon was wet.  He looked around and saw the rain was on him, then
heard an increase in noise and looked up and saw the helicopter had
descended to hover just above the ridgeline barely thirty feet over his
head, and Bernick was tossing objects out the side door.  They fell one
after the other to land below the ledge.  When loud booms began a
regular cadence, it registered with Kelly that Bernick was dropping
Dominguez's Mason jar bombs on the enemy soldiers.

He didn't dare look, for exposing himself to the fire and the fragments,
but there were no more grenades arcing up from below.  He felt an insane
desire to giggle.  Then he did giggle as he realized the rain would soak
his flight suit and hide the fact that he had peed in his pants.

He crawled over to the thickset American in a shredded white shirt who
lay next to the penetrator.  The other two, Dominguez and the Asian,
were sprawled over the device.

"Can you move?" Kelly yelled to the man.

"Not well.  Leg won't work," the man answered.  "Gimme that CAR-15," he
demanded, pointing at the weapon slung over Dominguez's back.

"No time, no time," Kelly said as he unstrapped them all and rose to his
knees and righted the penetrator with one hand while motioning Bernick
to take up the slack with the hoist.  When it was two feet above the
ground, he prepared to strap in the two unconscious men.  A dozen
bullets spanged the rock over his head and he dropped down.

"GIVE ME THE GUN," Wolf Lochert bellowed.

Lying flat, Kelly pulled it from Dominguez and slid it to him.

Lochert rolled to the edge and pointed the barrel down.

"When I fire, you stand up and hook up," he yelled, and started pulling
the trigger in short bursts.

Kelly scrambled to his feet and wrestled, first the small Asian, then
Dominguez, into the saddles and strapped them securely in place.  Then
he flopped down.  "Now you," he yelled at the other man.

Wolf Lochert back-crawled to the penetrator and rose on his good leg.
"Need help," he said.  He nestled up between the two bodies, but
couldn't brace himself well enough to hook his strap.

Kelly boosted him the rest of the way and helped him secure his belt.
The penetrator, free of the ground, swayed ponderously in the wind.
Kelly looked up at Bernick and gave him the "hoist-up" sign.  Bernick
frantically waved "no" and pointed to his own chest.

"Oh shit," Kelly yelled out loud as he realized he had not hooked
himself up and lunged for the cable but couldn't reach high enough to
snap the carabiner on the descender.  Without a second thought he
stepped up onto the big man's left leg and snapped the ring in place.
Immediately, the penetrator started up, and Kelly heard the blades
change pitch and tone as the HH-53 surged to take up the strain and
began to move.

For long agonizing seconds they hung in the air as they swung out beyond
the karst face and over the soldiers below.

Those that remained were shooting frantically at the four men on the
hoist.  Wolf Lochert hugged the penetrator with his left arm, leaned
over and back holding the CAR-15 like a pistol in his right hand, and
methodically fired short bursts into them.

Then the storm swept over them and they were alone in a world of
stinging rain and spinning vertigo.  The buffeting and noise were
appalling.  There was a moment where Kelly thought it was all over, when
it felt as if they were in free-fall, then with a lurch they were
hanging on a taut cable again.  It was as if the helicopter had plunged
ten feet before being recovered.

Kelly knew Shilleto was flying the helicopter on instruments in the
rainstorm.  A slight miscalculation either way and their swaying
pendulum of humanity would hit a cliff or the treetops, and pieces of
them would be ripped off, like the man whose foot had wedged in a tree
during an emergency extraction and been torn from his leg.  Kelly heard
that the man, a Special Forces soldier, had bled to death before he had
been winched into the helicopter.  He held the cable and looked down at
the three men seated and strapped to the penetrator.  The Asian was
still unconscious and slumped like empty clothes against the shank.

He was held in place by the belt under his arms and around his back. The
big Caucasian with the CAR-15 had slung the gun over one shoulder and
was helping hold Dominguez against the shank.  Dominguez seemed to be
moving his head, but Kelly couldn't be sure.  Then Kelly had to pull the
visor in his helmet down over his eyes because movement through the rain
made the drops sting like pellets from a BB gun.

Kelly sensed the penetrator was more upright, which meant they were
approaching the hoist.  Then the sound of the rotor was deafening and he
saw the bulk of the big ship looming in the clouds above him and then he
was level with the door and Bemick snapped a long safety strap onto his
harness and pulled him in.  Bernick toggled the penetrator up to the
door and the two of them pulled the three men in one by one and
stretched them out on the floor of the cabin.  Bernick began checking
their wounds, Dominguez first.  Kelly grabbed the unattached intercom
cord and plugged in.

"We're all aboard, Colonel," he said.

"You'd better ...  get up here ...  and take it, Joe," Paul Shilleto
said in barely audible words.

Alarmed, Kelly got up and went forward to the cockpit and climbed into
his seat on the left.  He put his hands on the controls and monitored
the instruments to maintain level flight band.

"Okay," he said, "I've got it." He was surprised his hands were so
steady.

He felt Shilleto release the controls and heard a loud groaning sigh
over his headset and saw from the corner of his eye that Shilleto had
slumped back in his seat, head rolling back and forth with the buffeting
of the helicopter.  His hands rose to his chest, then fell back into his
lap.

"Flight mech," Kelly said into his boom mike, "get up here soon as you
can.  I think the Colonel's been hit."

Kelly concentrated on turning the helicopter toward Udorn, then called
Cricket and told the controller what had happened.

"Roger, Jolly Green Two Two," Hillsboro responded.  "Understand you've
made the pickup and have wounded on board.

Where are you headed and are you declaring an emergency?"

Kelly had checked the gages and found the number two engine was running
hot.  There was no transmission warning light, meaning the most critical
piece of machinery to maintain flight was apparently not damaged.  Then
his eyes widened when he saw the failure warning light for the number
two (second stage) hydraulic flight control system was glowing amber.
The main system was functioning properly but if it failed without backup
the helicopter would plummet out of control.

"I'M headed for Udorn.  And yeah," Kelly said with reluctance, "I'm
declaring an emergency." All pilots hated to declare an emergency unless
the aircraft had obvious problems, like being on fire or a wing half
shot off.  For an HH-5313, any flight control problem was an emergency.

"Jolly Green Two Two, Udorn is closed due to severe thunderstorms.  The
whole area is in bad shape.  We'll put you in touch with Invert Radar,
they will vector you to Ubon.

NKP is closed.  You got enough fuel?"

"Roger," Kelly said.  "Okay on the fuel.  Going to Invert." He changed
frequency, identified himself to Invert, and received a vector and a7
promise of flight monitoring to Ubon Royal Thai Air Force Base.  He
settled on course.  He didn't dare take his hands from the controls to
check the slumped Shilleto.

Five long minutes passed before Bernick came forward to attend to Paul
Shilleto.  He bent over the man, opened his straps, and unzipped his
flight suit.  He found no wounds nor saw signs of blood.  When he took
off Shilleto's helmet he noticed the blue pallor on his face and around
his lips.  He grabbed his wrist to feel for a pulse.  After a moment he
slowly straightened.

"He's dead, sir," he said on the intercom to Kelly.  "Heart attack, I
think."

Captain Joe Kelly didn't fly the HH-53B above 150 feet once he was clear
of the battle zone, in case he had engine or control problems.  Unlike
fixed-wing pilots, helicopter pilots are not comfortable at high
altitudes.  Fixed-wing pilots love all the altitude they can get so they
can trade it for distance if they need to glide to a safe area.  In
combat, fixed-wing pilots also like a lot of altitude between them and
ground fire.  While that is true of helicopter pilots also, they get
nervous sometimes if they must fly too high when they are not being shot
at, particularly if they have a problem.  Helicopter pilots don't want
to trade anything for anything; the one thing they cannot gain or lose
if something goes wrong is time.  They do not want the excess time
necessary to descend from altitude if they have a problem.  Helicopters
are unique in that fashion-a problem usually means they have to get on
the ground immediately before something catastrophic happens, like a
rotor or gearbox failure.  There is no glide whatsoever in those cases.
It is a straight-down plunge.  When a gearbox breaks up, a helicopter
becomes a very inelegant projectile.  Helicopter pilots have a saying:
Never hover high when you can hover low; never hover when you can land ,
Kelly wanted to get on the ground now, even if he had to put it down in
some Thai rice paddy.

The weather was clear.  Invert handed him off to Lion Radar, who set him
up for approach and told him to call Ubon Tower on 236.6.  The Tower
cleared Jolly Green Two Two for approach and landing from any direction
to runway 23; altimeter 29.55, winds from the west at 5.  Kelly
manipulated the controls to fly forward into a rolling landing.  As soon
as the wheels touched, he gently lowered the collective and pulled off,
the power.  At an intersection he turned off the runway onto a ramp.
When he stopped, he was surrounded by crash-crew fire trucks who aimed
their foam turrets at the helicopter like cannons in battle.  Kelly shut
the engines down.  When cleared in by the fire chief, two blue
ambulances backed up to the right side door and two flight surgeons
carrying medical kits and several male nurses scrambled into the cabin.
They shooed Kelly and Bernick out of the craft.  In less than five
minutes they had the situation in hand and motioned for litters from the
ambulances.

Kelly and Bernick stood by the door and were surrounded by the colonels
who commanded the fighter wing, the base, and various other
organizations at Ubon.  The commander of the Ubon Rescue Detachment, a
sandy-haired lieutenant colonel, listened while Kelly told his story.
Kelly stopped in mid-sentence and they watched as the medics started to
remove the litters from the helicopter.

Bakke was first out.  His face was slack and he wore a sleepy morphine
smile.  A male nurse carried an IV jar that dripped liquid into his arm
through a tube.  Bernick moved anxiously alongside and accompanied him
into the ambulance.  Manuel Dominguez was on the next litter.  His
helmet was off and he wore a wide gauze bandage around his head.  His
eyes were swollen and black-and-blue and his gaze was cockeyed.  Joe
Kelly walked over to him and took his hand.

"Hey, El C, whaddya know?  How do you feel?"

"I feel terrible, like some mule done kicked me in the head."

Kelly looked up at the flight surgeon accompanying the litter.

The doctor said, "A 5.56 slug entered his helmet from behind and slid
halfway around the inside." He thumbed over his shoulder toward the
helicopter.  "You should get the helmet.  Keep it as a souvenir for
him."

"Will he be okay?" Kelly asked as they levered Dominguez into an
ambulance.

"Probably, but we've got to keep him under close observation for several
days.  Skin line torn all the way around, but we won't know about bones
until we X-ray." The flight surgeon climbed into the wagon.

Kelly turned and saw the stocky civilian on a litter.  An IV tube led to
his right arm.  He was accompanied by a nurse and a flight surgeon whose
USAF fatigues bore the name Russell.

The civilian held up his hand to stop the litter.  "I hear your name is
Kelly.  Mine's Lochert." Wolf Lochert held up a hairy paw.  "You did a
great job.  How'd you like to work for me?"

Kelly smiled and shook his hand.  "Well, thanks, Mister Lochert, but I'm
sort of employed as it is right now."

"I'm not a mister, I'm a Special Forces lieutenant colonel.

Come see me in the hospital." Wolf looked over and saw the next litter
being carried out with the tiny body of Tewa covered completely by a
blanket.  They placed the litter flat on the ramp.

Wolf looked mutely at the nurse.

"Sorry, sir.  He didn't make it.  He's been dead a long time.

Never knew what hit him.  He took one right through his heart."

"Awwr," Wolf said, and motioned to his bearers to carry him away.  He
looked pale and his eyes didn't seem to focus well.

Alarmed, Kelly looked at Doc Russell, who said, "Probably mild
concussion and some dehydration confusion." He stood back as Wolf
Lochert was loaded into the ambulance, which drove away.

The last litter out carried the body of Lieutenant Colonel Paul
Shilleto.  The bearers laid it on the ramp next to that of Tewa.

"Massive heart attack, died instantly," Doc Russell said.

Kelly remembered the lurch.  Bernick had told him on the flight back to
Ubon that during the rescue Colonel Shilleto had made a disturbing loud
groan on the intercom and seemed to have lost control for an instant.
"The bird sank ten feet or so," Bernick had said, "while you guys were
hanging on the wire.  I thought for sure he had been hit and we were
going in.

God, I thought we'd had it."

Kelly looked at Doc Russell.  "I don't think he died instantly.

He had to fly for at least another ten minutes before I was able to take
over."

Doctor Conrad Russell looked thoughtful and solemn.  "Then you had a
dead man flying your ship."

1030 Hours LOCAL, SATURDAY 12 OCTOBER 1968

OFFICER'S CLUB DINING Room,

8TH TACTICAL FIGHTER WING URON

ROYAL THAI AIR FORCE BASE

KINGDOM OF THAILAND

"Hard day at the office?" Doctor Conrad Russell inquired of Major Court
Bannister, who sat at a table in the Ubon Officer's Club dining room.
Russell took a chair across from him and picked up a menu.

"Normal-normal.  Excitement, terror, high blood pressure, lots of
laughs." Court tried to joke while behind his eyes he saw Beercan Two
Two explode on the night karst.  He wore a black flight suit with his
name and rank stitched in small white letters on the left breast.  His
hair was cut short and bleached nearly blond by the sun.  His face was
Nordic, eyes gray-blue.

The Phantom FACs, the sixteen-man flying unit Court Bannister commanded,
flew their F-4s only at night, which meant their days were reversed by
twelve Hours.  It was now 1830 (6:30 P.m.)  by the Phantoms' daily
clock, not early morning, and their working day was over.  Some of the
men had gone to the bar, others were working out at the base gym.

They felt elite, the Phantom FACs.  They said they supposed pilots were
okay, but they really wouldn't want their daughter to marry one.

Court had had his daily meeting with the wing commander and all the
other squadron commanders at 0730.  Now he was having shrimp-fried rice
for dinner.  There was the usual hum and buzz of conversation as
air-crew ordered breakfast from the Thai waitresses and talked among
themselves.  Doc Russell looked up as a waitress glided up to his side.
He ordered #5: Bacon (crisp), Eggs (poached), Toast (dry), Jam
(raspberry), Coffee (black).  The poached eggs usually arrived as
hard-boiled golf balls wobbling around on a saucer.

Doc Russell was a bit overweight, rotund in fact.  His round,
young-looking face vaguely resembled that of Baby Huey, the cartoon
character.  He wore standard Shade 45 USAF blue two-piece fatigues.  His
name, rank, and flight surgeon wings were embossed on a piece of leather
stitched to his left breast.

At Ubon, Doc Russell was doing what he loved best, serving as a flight
surgeon to combat fighter crews in the United States Air Force.

Court and Doc Russell had known each other since their time together at
Bien Hoa, South Vietnam, in 1966.  Bannister had been flying F-100s on
ground support missions; Russell had been the squadron's flight surgeon.
Court knew Russell was competent, hardworking, and, unlike many military
doctors, not in the service merely to pay off his medical schooling tab
picked up by the USAF, or for the varied experience that would take a
civilian ten years of general practice to acquire.  Those kind of MI)s
usually snickered at the servicemen they treated and could hardly wait
until they could get out and earn eighty grand a year and tell funny
stories about the nincompoops in uniform.

"You're not smoking anymore, I notice," Doc Russell said.

"Trying to quit.  Working out a little, too.  Weights, running."

Court pulled a Zippo with a rubber band wound around it from his
left-sleeve zippered pocket.  "Kept this for old time's sake."

"Makes your old doctor's heart happy," Doc Russell said He stared at his
greasy bacon and pushed it away.  "Maybe I should do a bit of the same."
He looked up.  "Better get over to the hospital," Doc Russell said.
"Admitted an old pal of yours last night from that shot-up Jolly Green
that recovered here."

Court looked up in worried anticipation.  "Wolf Lochert," Doc Russell
said, then added hurriedly when he saw the concern on Court's face, "But
he's going to be okay.  No wounds, just a mild concussion.  You can ride
back with me after your breakfast ...  ah, dinner."

Army Lieutenant Colonel Wolf Lochert occupied a bed in a tiny two-bed
room in one of the connected trailers that made up the Ubon hospital
complex.  The other bed was empty.  An IV rack stood in one corner.  It
had held, one after the other, the six bottles of 5-percent saline
solution that had been dripped into Wolf Lochert's veins.  While Doc
Russell studied Wolf's chart, Wolf smiled and shook hands as best he
could with Court Bannister.  They had known each other since 1966, when
Lochert had been on temporary duty with the III Corps Mike Force team
outside Bien Hoa Air Base.  Court had seen Wolf recently at a
celebration party following Wolf's court-martial acquittal.

Wolf told Court about his mission to survey the Lima Sites in Laos and
what had happened during and after the C-46 shootdown.  "Now I know why
you pilots never let a Jolly buy a drink," he rumbled.  "They're
magnificent."

"So you were on your way to Eagle Station," Court said.  He recounted
his experience three days before with the shot-up F-4.

He described his morning recce of the site after the attack as easy, all
was calm.

"No one shot at you?" Wolf asked.  "No big guns?"

"Didn't see a thing.  That doesn't mean there weren't small arms.  You
can't hear them, so you can't tell about that until you get some holes,
and we didn't have any holes.  The controller on the ground, Lima 14,
said all was quiet for the moment, but he thought that it was a probe
and there was more to come."

"Yeah," Wolf said.  "I read the report and I think there will be more."
He looked thoughtful.  "You know, there is a lot of hidden meaning
behind the fact the attackers withdrew so easily and that no one shot at
you.  Lost radio contact, you say, at the first moment.  Sounds like
taking out the radio antenna was intentional, not just a lucky round.
That point wasn't made

in the report.  No one thought to call you to see if you saw anything
unusual."

"That's normal," Court said.  "If I'd been a slow FAC, maybe they would
have." Slow FACs flew propeller airplanes, not jets.

"Here's what I think," Wolf said, elbowing himself to sit up.

"Eagle Station is probably the most important post in all of Laos to
help hit the targets in North Vietnam.  What greater coup than to knock
the site out to slow down the air strikes?"

"Is what you think an official evaluation?" Court asked.

Wolf barked a deep laugh.  "Not at all.  It's just a supposition at this
point.  I need more data before I can be sure."

"How soon are you going back to Vientiane?" Court asked him.

"This afternoon."

Doc Russell looked up sharply.  "Negative on that, Colonel.  You are
going to log a minimum of forty-eight Hours' observation right here in
this room on this air patch." Doc Russell made what he hoped was a
menacing face.  "What it is," he said to Court as much as to Wolf, "is a
mild concussion.

Pulse, respiration, and blood pressure are fine, which leads me to
believe there is no hemorrhage in the brain.  But there could be a slow
seepage from a ruptured blood vessel or capillary.

We check his vital signs every thirty minutes to see if there is any
dramatic change.  So he can't leave for two days."

Wolf barked a sharp laugh.  "I've already been in contact with Udorn.
They're sending an airplane down to pick me up at 1600 today.  That will
have given you"-he consulted his wristwatch--"nearly twenty-four Hours
to observe.  I've got work to do."

Doc Russell came to his bedside.  "Wolf, if you can climb out of bed,
close your eyes, and stand on your right foot for one minute, I'll
personally drive you to the flight line to catch that flight."

With a disdainful look, Wolf Lochert leapt from the bed, his green
hospital gown flapping around his legs, closed his eyes, lifted his left
leg, and promptly crashed back onto his bed.

Court and Doc Russell lifted his legs and straightened the grizzled
Lochert on the bed.  "What happened?" Lochert asked in a surprisingly
quiet voice.

"You just bought and paid for another couple days in here, old buddy,"
Court said.

"I've got to get out of here.  I've got to get up to that Eagle Station
and see what is going on.  That place is too important for me to be
fooling around in some hospital."

"Is it really all that important?" Doc Russell asked Court.

"Sure, just as important as the air war in North Vietnam," Court said.

Later, when Court told the Phantom FACs about Wolf and the Jollys in the
hospital, they made a unanimous decision.

They would host a party for the Jolly Greens (no combat air-crew member
ever let a Jolly buy a drink) and for the famous Special Forces soldier
Wolf Lochert (they knew his story; great job shivving that commie double
agent).  Since their heroes were all to be discharged from the hospital
in a few days and return to their respective units, the Phantoms decided
to set up a big celebration the night before they left.

Full Lieutenant of the United States Navy Rolly Grailson was placed in
charge, mainly because he was the Special Projects officer for the
Phantom FACs.  Grailson was on exchange duty with the USAF from the
carrier USS America, CV 66, where he had been flying F-4JS with VF-33,
the Tarsiers.  Grailson said he would have a long talk about making the
party memorable with Major Richard "Chef" Hostettler, the Wing
Intelligence Officer, who had the extra duty of Club Officer.

1230 Hours LOCAL, SUNDAY 13 OCTOBER 1968

HANOI CITY HOSPITAL

DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM

USAF Major Algernon A.  "Flak" Apple was the first black pilot shot down
over North Vietnam and captured.  He was also one of the first POWs to
make an escape from the Hoa Lo Prison, known as the Hanoi Hilton.  He
and his partner, Ted Frederick, had gone over the wall in the dead of
night in makeshift coolie clothes.  Their plan had been to make it to
the British Embassy and seek asylum and eventual repatriation.

They had been discovered at daybreak hiding in a cemetery.

Frederick had thrown away his chance of freedom by creating a diversion,
allowing Flak Apple to escape capture.  Flak had dashed through the
streets, bowling aside the early crowd as his costume unraveled, to the
doors of a Western embassy.  Instead of falling into the welcoming arms
of the British, however, he had been disdained and clearly unwelcome at
the French Consulate.  Over the protests of a French doctor, he had been
tossed back to the North Vietnamese soldiers.

There were now 451 American prisoners of war held in seven prisons in
North Vietnam.  Only a handful were not shot-down air-crew. Non-air-crew
members included Army soldiers and Marines and civilian workers captured
in South Vietnam and marched along the Ho Chi Minh Trail to captivity in
the North.

Most died along the way.

Most of the POWs had tumbled out of the skies into the hands of a
vengeful populace or searching North Vietnamese Army troops.  Not all of
those who reached the ground alive turned up in the prison system.  Many
were beaten to death where they fell, others succumbed to starvation and
beatings as they were made to run the gauntlet of villagers made wild by
the foaming harangues of communist political officers.  Very few evaded
capture for more than an hour or two, none escaped for more than a few
Hours.  Those that did escape from a prison camp faced the severest of
torture, which under the humane and lenient policy of the Democratic
Republic of Vietnam was called "punishment." Some of the escapees died
horribly from their "punishment." There was no attempt by the DRV to
keep within any of the Geneva Convention guidelines, because the
American POWs and the Thai POWs who were unlucky enough to be in Hanoi
were called war criminals and any day now could face trials for their
war crimes.

After Flak Apple's recapture, without preaching or preamble they hung
him from a meat-hook at Hoa.  Lo and started beating on him.  For three
days and nights they flayed him with whippy bamboo rods and lengths of
rawhide, and even a fan belt wielded by a Caucasian, a Cuban known as
Fidel.  Finally, when he was an unrecognizable length of raw bleeding
meat, when he had voided every possible bit of waste and moisture from
every orifice in his body, when he was so close to death his mouth hung
open and his dried-out tongue protruded, someone near the top of the
communist party hierarchy sent word down that the piece of reactionary
black filth was to be spared because he might prove to be of value. They
might have plans for him. In any event, they were sure the Westerners
finally knew he was alive, because his name had been given in a
broadcast of an interview conducted by that unmentionably ignorant
American named Robert Williams, who made his home in Cuba.

Williams had said, quite contrary to the fact of Flak Apple's obvious
wounds, that Apple was alive, happy, and being well treated by the
humane and lenient people of Vietnam.  And, most assuredly the Party
reasoned, the French would have told the American authorities that the
very same man had appeared one day at their doors in Hanoi demanding
asylum. However, the Americans, for some obtuse reason of their own, had
not seen fit to make public the details of criminal Apple's aborted
escape. The Party did not find it necessary to inform those below their
level that the criminal Frederick who had accompanied Apple had been
shot and severely wounded.  Later that day, Frederick had died without
uttering a word within minutes of the start of his beating.  His body
had been taken to the big mortuary in Hanoi, where the remains of
hundreds of American men lay awaiting opportune usage.  The Party
maintained flawless records of every American aircraft shot down and the
disposition of its crew.  They probed every crash site and bits of
wreckage for remains and pieces of map or ID cards and flight suits.
They correlated their information gathered on the scene with that sent
by spies from American military bases in South Vietnam and Thailand and
with the extremely useful packets containing newspaper articles and, in
some cases, high school and college yearbook information sent by
Americans who prided themselves on doing all they could to support the
just revolution by the peoples of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam
against the oppressive regime in the South.

Yes, the Party spelled out, they wanted criminal Apple not only alive,
but in a pliable and cooperative mood to meet with a special delegation
from the United States; a delegation that would arrive in Hanoi via
Bangkok very soon.  If all went well, that is, if Apple were so pliable
as to agree to an early release, then the prison personnel who
participated and helped bring about this progressive change in heart of
this black criminal would receive special treatment themselves.  In the
meantime, prison personnel were to provide a list of names of those
criminals who were proving cooperative, and who were perhaps even in
favor of the just struggle for peace against the imperialistic
oppressor.  In the past, he had found only two.

Flak's first awareness was a steady thrumming sound.  Hearing was his
first sense to transmit to his newly conscious brain.

He heard before he saw.  He listened to the sound for ...  Hours, maybe?
He didn't know.  He only knew he was not going to open his eyes to see
where he was, nor was he going to move to find out what he was.  He
didn't want to know if he was a slab of raw beef hung from a meat-hook
or that he was a dead man whose skin had been stretched across a frame.
He knew he wasn't alive, he simply couldn't be alive.  Not after the
centuries of pain and mindless drooling and screaming and being on fire
from within.  The torture straps, the ropes, the thuds, the blows, the
filthy rag stuffed in his mouth.  A kaleidoscope of purple and red and
black pain and muscles popping and shredded nerve endings ...  no one
could live through that.  Thrum, thrum.  The steady thrumming, it
suddenly became clear to him, was the big tube of humanity through which
all the blood flowed and the nutrients flowed as they were sucked out by
...  by ...  No, it was something else.  He knew what it was, and it
wasn't any big tube of humanity.  It was ...  OH GOD....  AAAHHHHHH,
AAAHHHHHH, AAAHHHHHH he screamed, as pain and reality and terror
returned in a torrent of agony and streaming hot wires running through
his nerves and fire melting his nerve endings.  It was rain, and he had
been tortured to insanity and death in the rain.

He howled like a dog when he felt the unmistakable touch of a human hand
on his arm.  "NOOOOOOOOO," he howled and tried to jerk away, but the
straps bound him.  "NOOOOOOO,

NOOOOOOOO  his scream faded as what little strength he possessed gave
out.  He still felt the touch.  He couldn't open his eyes.  He didn't
want to open his eyes.  He didn't want to see the sallow faces of Big
Ugh and Crazy Face and the others who had tortured him into mindless
screams until blessed oblivion had occurred.  He had one last breath. If
he screamed it out, he would be blessed and die.  "NOOOOOOOOOO."

A cool hand placed itself on his brow, then a cold cloth was brushed
across his sweat-soaked and torn face.  A quiet voice murmured liquid
tones in his ear.

It was a lie.  He was dead or they were just preparing him for more
torture, They did that, he knew.  They had splashed buckets of water on
him and fed him a banana and later, his own vomit and excrement.  He was
dead; or would be dead; he would die.  He willed himself to die.  He
could not take another second of pain.  They were going to torture him
again.  He was through.  "Dear God," he sobbed, "take me, TAKE ME,
TAAAKE MEEEE."

The cool cloth again, and the liquid tones.  The touch, soothing, the
cold cloth.  He refused to respond.  Then blackness folded into
blackness and he knew no more.

She looked at his torn face, slack in repose.  She had never seen such
deep brown skin or such wiry curls of hair.  She traced in wonder his
broad nose and lips with her fingers.  He lay naked on the white bed in
the hospital room the Party had assigned to him.  The body that had once
been big and robust was now shrunken and wasted.  There was hardly a
place unbruised or untorn.  White stripes of adhesive tape holding the
tubes in his arm and nose were his only covering.  The doctors had been
told to make him alive again, to make him eat and function and look
presentable, and, above all, to be pliable, to be kindly disposed toward
the North Vietnamese.  She thought that was an odd request, but one did
not question the Party.  She was assigned to be his constant companion,
to sleep on the bare cot in his room.

There were no others, she was told, who wanted to touch him, to feel his
body-this black criminal, this murderer of mothers.

But she was lucky, she had been chosen to be allowed to make a
contribution to the Party by making this black criminal well and pliant.
She herself, the product of a Senegalese Legionnaire and a Vietnamese
mother, her features so broad and her hair that refused to lie straight,
she herself, who was called Co Dust, had been allowed to serve the Party
when she returned from France with a nurse's license. Co Dust meant
unmarried girl so useless as to be made of dust.  She rinsed another
cloth and mopped his brow as the thrumming of the rain on the hospital's
tin roof provided a cover to the prayers in her heart of hearts.

For ten days now she had never left his side except to eat and bathe.
She had scrubbed and gone with him to the operating room twice; once to
repair what had been burst in his stomach, and once when they had to
rebreak his left arm and try to straighten it.  She marveled he was
still alive after the crash he had suffered, and then after the
incredibly crude surgery by a doctor who said he hated even touching
this black man.  She could tell the bent left arm would never be better
and was worried about His intestines.  The Party did not know it but she
had become a Christian in France and she prayed to the Almighty to give
her the strength and power to soothe and heal this man who had been
through so much.  He did not look like a murderer; he did not act like a
murderer.

He awoke a day later, more aware and alert than ever before.

Without moving or giving any indication he was conscious, he checked out
his senses, one by one.  The most prominent input was noise.  He heard
...  movement, both far and near.

Footsteps, small rattles, an occasional horn.  He felt ...  pain, yes,
but not electric or blinding pain, just a dull ache over most of his
body.  He wanted to be more specific about this.

It was important.  Perhaps he wasn't dead.  His hand rested on
something.  He carefully increased pressure with his finger, not enough
so that an observer would see a movement but enough to inform him of the
surface upon which his hand rested.  His hand was on his leg.  His leg
felt the pressure and so did his right forefinger.  Next, smell.  He
sampled what was passing through his nose and palate.  It was ...  sweet
alcohol and ...  hospital.

That was all he could think of the smell-the combination of peculiar
odors that spelled out hospital.  Then all the hospital smell vanished
as he smelled and almost tasted in the back of his throat the overlying
odor of the spice and nuoc mam of Vietnamese food.  Now all that was
left to sample was sight.

Did he dare open his eyes?  He reasoned he was in a hospital and he knew
he was in North Vietnam and he remembered all the details of being
beaten and why he was beaten, and was all this care just to make him
well enough and conscious enough to undergo further beating?  Would the
beating begin again once he was pronounced healed?  He had better be
very, very careful.

He lay for a long, long time, then, finally, he carefully lifted one
eyelid a fraction of a millimeter, just enough to admit light.

He decided he had to move the other eye in parallel coordination,
otherwise his effort to squint would produce a pronounced muscle
movement in his face and somebody might see that and punish him for it.
Carefully, carefully, he eased both eyes open just a slit, wary and
alert for motion that would mean pain.  But he saw no motion, only
light, and soon a form took shape and he concentrated and synapses
closed and he recognized ...  a girl.

This was not what he had expected.  Maybe everything before was merely a
bad dream, a nightmare.

She was so attuned to his every motion and movement and knew what his
hoarse cries had meant that she remained motionless while he
experimented with himself and his surroundings.

She knew he had to come to terms with the situation of his injuries and
capture in his own way and in his own time.  She sat motionless as his
brown eyes took her in, then roamed the room, then returned instantly to
her for a few seconds, then roamed again like a small child wanting to
explore but afraid to leave the comfort and safety of its mother.  He
finally fixated on her.  She glanced quickly at the door, then allowed a
small smile to creep to her lips and she slowly rose and walked to the
bed.

He saw the smile and the movement and watched her approach his side. She
looked so calm and real and ...  human.  He could see compassion in her
dark eyes.  A tear rolled down his cheek.

He tried to speak, but she put her finger to his lips and shook her
head.  He spoke regardless.

"Am I home?" he said in a plaintive voice.  "Am I home?"

Her own eyes suddenly glistened like black oil as she took his hand and
said quietly, in an accented voice close to his ear, "Ah, non, chart.  I
am so sorry.  You are not home." She took his hand and stroked it.

"How long have I been here?  What's wrong with me?  Is the war over?" He
struggled to get up.  She pushed him back down and checked the tubes in
place.  She put her head close to his.

"I am sorry, the war is not over.  You are in the Hanoi City Hospital.
You were sick, injured, and now you are getting ...

not sick." She could not think of the English word.  She had studied the
language in the lycie in France, but had had very little practice.  She
did not know if the Party knew she spoke English or not.  It didn't
matter, she would be careful.  She must keep some secrets from them.
They had told her to make him happy in whatever way she could.  Once he
was well and happy, the Party would deal with him about their
requirements.  She had been told she had very little time to prepare
him.

"Sleep and soon you will be strong and I will answer all your
questions." Co Dust stroked his brow until he fell asleep.  She looked
again at his body and the bruises and tears.  He is very fortunate, she
thought, to be alive after suffering such terrible injuries when he was
shot down.

1330 Hours LOCAL, SUNDAY 13 OCTOBER 1968

OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, DC

The thirty-sixth President of the United States, Lyndon Baines Johnson,
sat at the end of the conference table, sipping root beer from a glass
tumbler.  He looked up at the Air Force general standing near the table
and put the heavy tumbler down with a crash.

"I'm tired," he said in an angry voice.  "I'm tired of feeling rejected
by the American people.  I'm tired of waking up in the middle of the
night worrying about the war.  I'm tired of all these personal attacks
on me.  Do you understand?"

Johnson, a big man who wore wire-rim glasses, was dressed in a gray
pin-striped suit and red tie, coat unbuttoned and hanging loose.  His
heavy face looked tired and worn.  Scattered on the table were several
files and briefing books.

Across the table from him stood USAF Major General Albert G.  "Whitey"
Whisenand.  General Whisenand, a white-haired, portly man with burn
scars on his face, wore his Class A blues with ribbons and command pilot
wings.  As he studied the President it seemed to him that LBJ didn't
fill out his clothes as much as before.

"Well?" the President demanded.

"Yes, sir, I understand," General Whisenand said.

LBJ slapped his hand on the table.  "How could you?" he roared.  "You're
not President of the United States.  You're not the leader of the
Republic.  You're just another of those pissant generals who-" He
stopped in mid-sentence to rub his face and massaged his temples.

"Sorry, Whitey, gawddarnmit.  Didn't mean to flare up at you.

Your old President is tired-mighty tired."

Whitey Whisenand felt a wave of sorrow tinged with pity.

Sorrow that this vital man who had once leaped at political problems
with verve and talent had reduced himself to everincreasing isolation,
and pity because his overbearing arrogance had blunted his ability to
see the public as people who could not be swayed by mere bombast from a
former Texas senator, even if he was sitting in the White House.

In previous discussions seven months earlier, in March, LBJ had released
two bombshells to Whitey before he made them public.  One was that he
was going to stop all bombing north of the 20th parallel.  "It has to be
done," LBJ had said.  "Ever since that damned Tet Offensive, the
American people are upset over every little thing.  I know-if I stop
this bombing up there in North Veetnarn they'll be happy." The 20th
parallel was a few miles north of the DMZ, in a region called Route Pack
I by fliers, but considerably south of the Hanoi/Haiphong port area.
Whitey had had to work hard on the President to get him to allow
reconnaissance flights north of Pack I to track all the supplies
entering the Ho Chi Minh Trail pipeline.

The other bombshell was when LBJ had said he was not going to run for a
second term as President of the United States because he had to
prosecute the war.  Whitey had not been sure he had believed him.  At
the time, Whitey had thought LBJ was afraid he wouldn't get the
nomination, that Kennedy or McCarthy would gun him down.  Maybe even
Humphrey.  Then McCarthy had dropped out and Bobby Kennedy had been shot
dead by a deranged man in Los Angeles and Humphrey had become the
nominee.

LBJ slumped back and worked on his temples.  "Ah, what's the use?" After
a few moments he took his hands from his face and looked somewhere in
the distance beyond Whitey.  "Maybe you can't understand how tired I
am," he said, "and how all this gawdamm war business has affected me.
And the election, too.

There's a tie-in, you know.  There has to be.  I'm not going to let that
Nixon become President of the United States.  He wasn't even a good vice
president.

A strange look came over his face.  "I still have ways of having him
defeated.  You'll see."

1530 Hours LOCAL, SUNDAY 13 OCTOBER 1968

DOLLEY MADISON BOULEVARD

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

They were on the back porch, the October chill held at bay by the
brilliant sunlight.  Bird sounds trilled and fluttered through the
screened windows.  Whitey Whisenand sat on a white wicker chair enhanced
with dark green cushions.  A matching chair, sofa, and glass-topped
coffee table were in the ensemble.  Whitey wore old khaki pants and a
gray sweatshirt.  Part of the Washington Post was on his lap.  His wife,
Sal, stood at her gardening table in a light blue blouse and blue jeans.
She was tall, of regal bearing.  In contrast to her husband's head of
white hair, hers was a blue-black hue which she wore short, so it was
more manageable.  Sal was British by birth and American by marriage.

Whitey and Sal had grown used to Whitey's need to talk out his thoughts
at the end of each workday.  She was an astute woman, a product of the
British secret intelligence service in World War II, who easily grasped
the complexities of Washington politics.  Her questions and comments
helped her husband better formulate and organize his thoughts.  Whitey
had met her in the UK in 1944.  They had both worked in that red-brick
Victorian monstrosity, the Bletchley Park Intelligence Center in
Buckingham shire, northwest of London.  At the time, he had been an Army
Air Force captain trying to get back into Mustangs, and she was a Wren
decoding specialist in the Royal Navy.

Sal had newspaper spread on the table and was reporting some
rhododendron for the winter, although it was probably too late, as they
had already suffered a hard frost.  Some obscure gene from her
Anglo-Saxon background forced her to plant things.

She bent over to get another clay pot of wilted flowers.

"Such an awful year," she said, and stood up to face Whitey.

"The killing of Martin Luther King, as barbaric an act as could be
imagined.  And the riots afterward ...  well, I just thought the whole
country was doomed.  The Army having to be called out." She shuddered.
"I'll never, never forget those awful nights when Washington was
burning, the flames at night turning the sky red ...  smelling the smoke
all the way out here."

Whitey rubbed his face.  "There's a lot of confusion out there, and
hatred.  A lot of it directed at Johnson.  All he ever wanted was to be
loved and respected and he's getting just the opposite.

It's all too much for him."

"Poor man," Sal said.

Whitey snorted.  "Don't feel sorry for him.  Feel sorry for all those
American soldiers that are dead because of his waffling."

"But that hatred of LBJ doesn't mean they will vote for Nixon," Sal
said.

"Don't be too sure.  I think there'll be a backlash." He paused.

"And I think he's got something up his sleeve."

"Like what?"

"Our air strikes.  He's going to stop them all," Whitey said in a flat
voice.  "I'm sure of it.  He was asking questions just today about the
effects of no more raids north of the DMZ.  How I thought the South
Vietnamese would feel.  What I thought the North Vietnamese would do.
How the American public would react.  He never asked what the military
would feel, much less whether they should be in on his decision to stop
the strikes."

"And what did you tell him?"

I said I thought the South Vietnamese would feel betrayed, the North
Vietnamese would celebrate a victory, and the American public would feel
relieved because they never knew what was going on anyhow.  He seemed to
take that without too much difficulty, but when I said the American
military would see it as a retreat, he became very angry and said all we
generals like to do is-"

"Bomb, bomb, bomb," Sal finished for him.  "That's what he always says.
I don't care if he was in the Navy in World War Two, I think he hates
the military." Warming up to the subject, Sal shook a trowel at Whitey
as she spoke.  "Call it off?  Winston wouldn't have done it that way."

"No," Whitey said as he walked over and put his arm around his best pal,
"he wouldn't.  But there is more to this than that."

He stood back from her.  "I think he will announce his decision to stop
all the raids right before the election.  I think he will use the lives
of all those men to get the public to vote for Humphrey."

"Oh, Whitey, I can't believe that.  He wouldn't be that cynical-I'm
surprised that you are."

Whitey shook his head.  "Just wait, Sal.  I have a plan I want him to
listen to, but if he won't ...  then it's coming.  I can feel it in my
bones."

0700 Hours LOCAL, MONDAY 14 OCTOBER 1968

Thailand Office OF THE COMMANDER,

Thailand 8TH TACTICAL FIGHTER WING

UBON ROYAL THAI AIR FORCE BASE Kingdom OF THAILAND

Colonel Stanley D.  Bryce was the Wing Commander of the famed 8th
Tactical Fighter Wing, a position that historically (with one exception)
had led to promotion to brigadier general.

The one exception had been a commander who had mistakenly imposed
teetotalling at the Officer and NCO clubs, in the assumption that it was
good for men in combat.  "Stan the Man" Bryce conducted a daily ("That's
seven-days-a-week daily," he was quick to point out) meeting with his
four squadron commanders (all lieutenant colonels an or rt annister,
commander of the Phantom FACs.  The purpose of the meetings was to pass
information up and down the chain of command about any item that
affected combat operations.  Things that affected combat operations
ranged from available aircraft and air-crew s to morale and discipline
problems.

Bryce was a well-built man who stood six feet, with smooth black hair
combed flat, gray eyes, and broad shoulders.  He had a square and
pleasant face, his sharp eyes complementing an feelaggressive up-thrust
chin.  He was a former footballer from the University of Georgia, where
he had received his commission from the Air Force ROTC.  He sat behind
his desk, which displayed a large teak carving of command pilot wings
and his name.

Colonel Al Bravord, Bryce's Director of Operations for the 8th Tactical
Fighter Wing, sat quietly to one side on a red vinyl couch, smoking a
pipe.  He had white hair surrounding a bald pate like a monk's tonsure.
A former sergeant pilot who had had many fighter kills to his credit in
World War II and Korea, he had quiet and unassuming mannerisms, a
steel-trap mind, and eyes like a twenty-year-old sniper.

Both colonels and the five unit commanders wore flight suits.

Court's black flight suit matched that of the commander of the 497th
Night Owl squadron.

The meeting was almost finished.  All the happenings of the previous
twenty-four Hours had been gone over: who had been shot down, who had
been saved, what targets had been destroyed, what targets needed to be
restruck, how the maintenance, electronics, armament, and weapons people
were performing.  The meeting was an easy give-and-take until Bryce's
final question.

"Bannister, how many trucks have your Phantom FACs killed in the last
four weeks?"

Court consulted his notes.  "Sir, we've killed seventeen trucks in the
last four weeks." The Phantom FACs had been operational for eight
months.

"And how many sorties did your men fly during that time and how many
strikes did they put in?"

"We fly about thirty per week, so that's one hundred twenty in the last
four weeks, sir." He calculated rapidly.  "And we put in about seventy
night strikes."

"Your sortie-to-truck kill ratio is not very impressive," Bryce said.
"I'm getting pressure from 7th Air Force."

Seventh Air Force at Tan Son Nhut Air Base outside of Saigon in South
Vietnam was in a jumbled command chain combined with l3th Air Force in
the Philippines.  The two Air Force commands ran the out-country
(anything other than South Vietnam) air war and reported to CINCPAC
(Commander in feelChief, Pacific), a Navy admiral who answered to the
Department of Defense.

Up to 31 March 1968, the Department of Defense had been under the
stewardship of Robert Strange McNamara.  Until he had been replaced by
Clark Clifford, McNamara had run the DoD and the Vietnam War in an
incredibly personal and inept manner.  Whereas previous Secretaries of
Defense had expended their energies and talents ensuring a good
logistics base, adequate budget appropriations, and public support for
the military, McNamara had taken over operations as if he were the top
general of the combined armed forces.

Some said Jack Kennedy had created a monster when he had hired McNamara
and his whiz kids from the Ford Motor Company in 1961 to clean up the
defense procurement monolith that encouraged duplicate and costly
weapons.  It was a monster that maybe Kennedy could have controlled, but
President Lyndon Baines Johnson could not.  Only the top members of the
military knew that, for one year after JFK's assassination in November
1963, President Johnson had barely inquired as to the status of the
pending Vietnam conflict, much less given direction to McNamara-who had
felt free to do as he wished.

Ever a slave to the bottom line, McNamara had instituted a few needed
reforms.  They had been instituted, however, at the expense of a line of
communication and trust between the military and McNamara and his boys.
As one grizzled admiral had put it, "Better cholera than McNamara."

In a few deft strokes fueled by monumental ego, McNamara had replaced
the traditional steel links in the chain of command with telephone wire
and radio circuits and computer paper from which he demanded bottom-line
information.  How many bombs and bullets expended to ensure a body count
of enemy dead commensurate with good Ivy League management principles?

Bannister and the others at his level knew they had to produce
quantifiable results, which were given to them after each sortie as BDA,
Bomb Damage Assessment.  They would dutifully report their BDA to the
debriefing officer, who would enter it into the big DoD computer.  Not
being veterans of World War II or Korea, where the position of the front
line was more important than bean-counting, McNamara's men feelthought
this was how a war was run.

"No, sir," Court responded to Bryce's comment, "the truckkill count is
not impressive.  What is impressive is that truck traffic on the Trail
at night has just about come to a halt.  And since day strikes have
stopped the traffic flow during daylight Hours, that means the Trail is
almost bottled up.  Which fulfills one of the CINCPAC mission
requirements: stop the flow of traffic down the Ho Chi Minh Trail day
and night."

Al Bravord spoke up.  "I'll tell you what is impressive, Stan," he said,
looking at the Wing Commander.  "These lads have destroyed nearly four
hundred guns."

Bryce nodded.  "Bannister, how do you account for such a discrepancy,
destroying so many more guns than trucks?"

"First off, sir, to me, stopping the traffic flow is accomplishing our
mission.  I compare it to fighters defending a target.

Sure, they'd like to shoot down the attacking bombers, but their mission
is to ensure the targets are not destroyed.  If by attacking the bombers
they force them to jettison their ordnance before reaching the target
area, then they have saved the targets.  If they can shoot down some
bombers while accomplishing the mission, fine.  But the original mission
to protect the targets was achieved.  Our original mission is to stop
supply movement.

We're doing it.  As far as killing so many guns, we can see them when
they shoot far easier than we can see trucks, so it's relatively easy to
take them out."

"Do you think you can get more truck kills if you equip the Phantom FACs
with harder weapons?  Replace your marking rockets with bombs, for
example?" Bryce asked.

"No, sir, I don't.  First off, our job is to find the trucks, then call
in strike aircraft to kill them.  That's the whole mission and purpose
of the Phantom FACs.  We don't need bombs the strikers carry the bombs.
We need the marking rockets to show the strikers where their targets
are.  But there is something else I want to bring up.  We can't see the
trucks unless the night is exceptionally clear.  We need night eyeballs.
And the enemy isn't dumb.  Right now they hole up off the road when they
hear us coming down the Trail.  But they will soon start rolling again,
using more deceptive methods once they realize they aren't being
hammered so much.  Then the traffic will pick up

and the supplies will start getting through to South Vietnam again."

Bryce dismissed the other commanders and asked Court to stay behind.
Bravord remained on the couch.

"I know how hard you worked to get this unit going," Bryce said, "and
now you are telling me it may become ineffective."

"Yes, sir, it may." Court paused.  "I briefed exactly this subject a few
weeks ago to you and to Ops and Plans at 7th."

Bryce looked exasperated.  "It didn't take.  It's a big war.  Let's go
over it again.  What did you tell them?  What did you tell us?"

he corrected himself.

"I said the statistics of supplies moving down the Trail prove we have
cut traffic dramatically.  The flow is definitely less.

Then I said that if they wanted more night truck kills, we'd have to
have a way to see at night."

"Starlight scopes are too big?" Starlight scopes were electronic
light-amplifying devices that looked like fat telescopes.

"Too big, too clumsy, and they restrict vision too much.  Like trying to
look at the Trail through a toilet paper tube."

Bryce nodded.  "You're interested in the AC-130s we're getting, is that
it?"

"Yes, sir, Major Hostettler worked out a plan where we could suppress
flak for them as well as augment their firepower."

Dick Hostettler, as the wing intelligence officer, spent much of his
time with the wing weapons and tactics officers, devising new ways to
kill.  The AC-130 gunships were huge four-engined(turboprops with over
4,000 horsepower each) transports under modification to carry 7.62mm,
20mm, and 40mm guns firing from the left side of the fuselage.  Future
plans called for a 105min gun to be mounted in the plane.  The original
idea called for the big gunships to go out along the Trail and hunt
trucks.  They were being outfitted to carry radar, low-light-level TV,
infrared heat sensors, and a unit to detect the emanations from spark
plugs.

In his briefing to 7th earlier that year, Court had gotten wound up,
something young majors shouldn't do when talking to full bird colonels.
He had said he and his Phantom FACs were having trouble killing trucks.
He said they had dropped a lot of flares, called in a lot of strike
birds, dumped a lot of ordnance, caused a few secondary explosions, but
had few positive truck kills, although they had wiped out plenty of
guns.  He had said that their airplanes humming along the Trail dropping
flares gave the gomers plenty of advance warning to pull over and watch
the fighter pilots make little karst rocks out of big ones.  While Court
had gotten his point across, 7th was chock-full of men with more
experience and higher rank than Major Courtland Edm.  Bannister.  Men
who had their pet ways to win the war, and fast FACs on the Ho Chi Minh
Trail, day or night, wasn't one of them.  The only really high-ranking
man who had stopped in at Court's brief had been Major General Milton
Berzin, 7th AF Director of Operations.  He had done so because he had
played a role in getting the Phantom FACs set up in the first place and
was interested in any of their activities and their successes.  With him
had been his assistant, Colonel Tim Mayberry.

"I think you have a good idea there," Bryce said.  "Get down to Tan Son
Nhut and liaise with their advance party at 7th.  Take Hostettler if you
need him."

"Yes, sir," Court said and departed.

1030 Hours LOCAL, TUESDAY 15 OCTOBER 1968

HQ, 7TH AIR FORCE

TAN SON NHUT AIR BASE, SAIGON

REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM

Court landed his F-4D Phantom, with Major Dick Hostettler in the
backseat, on runway 25 Left, Tan Son Nhut Air Base.  He was directed by
Ground Control to park in the transient aircraft area.  He did so, shut
down, and was met by a blue flight-line van, which took the two men to
Base Operations.  From there they were picked up by a Motor Pool taxi.
Both men wore black flight suits.  Hostettler, standing 5'10' and
weighing a muscular 220, filled his like a guard on a football team
which he had been at West Point.  The taxi dropped them off at the large
7th Air Force Headquarters building.

Twenty-four Hours a day, 7th AF was a droning beehive of activity.  From
the big building came the command and control of 70,000 airmen and
pilots, and 1,500 airplanes on twenty bases in South Vietnam and
Thailand.  Additionally, 7th also had operational control over 400 more
airplanes based in the Philippines, Okinawa, and Guam.  Commander, 7th
AF, a four-star USAF general, worked directly as the deputy for air for
COMUSMACV, four-star Army General William Westmoreland.

Court and Hostettler found the small office of the advance AC-130 party,
Lieutenant Colonel Jack Nailor, in charge.  "I got your TWX," Nailor
said, referring to the message Court had sent about their visit.  He was
a dark-haired man with a thin angular face.  He looked tired.  "I'm damn
short of time but your thesis intrigues me.  You two really think
fighter aircraft can help a gunship kill trucks, do you?  Suppose you
show me how." He pointed to a small blackboard next to a map of
Southeast Asia.

Hostettler took some chalk and drew a squiggly line across the board.
Along the line he made several small rectangles at one-inch intervals.
"These are trucks along the Trail.  Show me the attack pattern your
gunship would fly."

Nailor drew a series of loops crossing the road, followed by a
three-quarter circle.  "We have three phases," he said.  "Search,
detect, attack.  In the search phase we use all our sensors to detect
heat, movement, metal, and/or spark plugs." He pointed to the loops.
"These are the search loops over the Trail.  Once we detect a target, we
set up for a firing pass." He pointed to the three-quarter circle and
explained the basic firing geometry for a side-firing gunship.

"Unlike you fighter guys, who must align the longitudinal axis of your
aircraft with the target and dive in a straight line toward the target,
we set up an orbit and shoot laterally from the gun ports on the left
side of our C-130." He smiled and paused for a moment.  "You might find
it interesting to know that the original idea came from missionaries in
South America trying to make contact with Indians.  They made pylon
turns over them and let down a bucketful of trinkets on a rope." In a
pylon turn the pilot maintains a constant ground reference point

off the low wing of his aircraft.  "What we do, instead of letting down
a bucket of goodies, we sight down the line and let down a stream of
lead.  The pilot looks through a gunsight out his left window and aligns
crosshairs on a digital display.  He tells the gunners which guns he
wants and presses the button on his control wheel.  He has his choice of
four 7.62mm miniguns or four 20mm M-61 Vulcan Gatlings, or both at the
same time.

We only have one C-130 test bird in the theater-we call it Gunship Two
because it's a follow-on to Spooky, the AC-47.

Later birds will have 40mm cannons instead of the 7.62 and maybe someday
a 105mm tube." He frowned.  "You probably know we've lost several of the
early Spookys on the Trail.  The threat got too high and they had no
night capability beyond what the pilot's eyeballs could do.  That's
another reason we have the C-130: besides carrying more and bigger guns,
all its sensors provide night vision.  And flying at night gives the
airplane a great measure of security from non-radar-directed guns."

"And that's where we Phantoms come in," Court said.  He drew several
wide circles above those of the gunship search and-attack patterns.  "We
can have one bird at a time orbiting your gunship and tuned to the same
radio channel.  You orbit from 8 to 10,000, we orbit from 15 to 18,000.
If anybody shoots at you, we see it and give a warning as well as roll
in on the gun.  You move to a safer area while we either take out the
gun or call in strike birds to take out the gun.  Secondly, and here is
the most important point, when you find a series of trucks, we augment
your firepower.  You shoot up a few and make some flamers, or you can
mark with tracers, or you can throw out a few of those burning logs that
make a good night beacon to show us where the trucks are.  Same as
before, we roll in or we call in strike birds to help you kill the
trucks."

Nailor grinned.  "You sound like you're begging, Bannister.

I've heard of your Phantom FACs.  New outfit, isn't it?  Running out of
a mission already?"

"Not exactly," Court flared.  "I just think if we work together we can
come up with a more efficient way to kill trucks." He tapped the map
next to the blackboard and pointed to the hydra-headed black band coming
from North Vietnam through the mountain passes of Mu Gia and Ban Karai
into Laos, then farther south in Laos to re-emerge into South Vietnam.
The areas the Ho Chi Minh Trail hydra passed through Laos were
code-named Steel Tiger and Tiger Hound.  "And there are going to be a
lot more of them.  Now that we can't hit north of the 20th parallel, the
trucks are going to have it pretty easy transiting North Vietnam from
Hanoi down to Laos and the Trail."

Hostettler broke in.  "Preliminary intell reports and aerial recce
photos show about a 50 percent increase in southbound truck traffic in
North Vietnam headed toward the Lao border."

He placed a staff study on a corner of Nailor's desk.  "All the details
and diagrams are in here."

Nailor checked a schedule board on the wall.  "The gunship is on a tight
test schedule.  It's really a breadboard model on which we try out the
new sensing equipment and guns.  Right now it's working the ground
support mission in 11 Corps.  After that we are scheduled to fly out of
Ubon for six weeks.  Some of the time is scheduled for fire control
harmonization flights on the Chandy bombing range, some of the time to
fly the Trail and see what we can see, all at night, of course.  I'll
try to work out something with the higher-ups to let you guys fly with
us and try out your plan.  I can't guarantee permission on this test
phase.  It would be a cinch to try later this fall or early next year
when we get all the birds in place.  I'll let you know soonest." He
picked up Hostettler's staff study.  "Meantime I'll study this and pass
it on to the 7th AF Directorate of Tactical Analysis."

"You have a call sign yet?" Court asked.

"Yeah-Spectre."

Court and Hostettler went back to the flight line, cranked up, and were
back at Ubon by 1700 Hours.

Enroute, Chef Hostettler said he and Grailson had had a long talk about
the bash for the Jollys and Wolf Lochert that was to take place that
very night.  Chef said they had prepared several colorful and, they
hoped, memorable events.  Court would see.

After they landed, Hostettler scurried off.  "Gotta hustle," he yelled
over his shoulder.  "The party starts in two Hours."

1330 Hours LOCAL, TUESDAY 15 OCTOBER 1968

SITUATION Room,

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, DC

On the first level of the White House basement, down a corridor past
uniformed civilian security guards, was a crowded room with a low
acoustical tile ceiling and no windows.  Called the Situation Room, it
was the nerve center that received all the processed communications and
reports from the Pentagon and other important agencies.  Clattering
teletypes labeled with major wire service logos spouted news and
intelligence from around the globe.  There were pneumatic tubes to send
and receive messages throughout the building, and a teletype hot line
for Moscow that operated via the secure Pentagon communications net.  On
the wall were four clocks with Washington, Saigon, GMT, and what was
called official Presidential time that President Lyndon Johnson kept
regardless of where he was.

The overhead lights were low; the information screens cast a green tinge
over the military and civilian duty officers.  Tiny colored action
lights were sprinkled over a map of the world on the far wall.  From
within the main room (the command post), and down a few steps was
another room with a long, highly polished oak conference table and pull
drapes on the walls that covered maps of current hot spots.  There was
an assortment of telephones, three of which were secure connections to
vital military installations.  Among the telephones was a direct line to
the Prime Minister of Great Britain.  Others went direct to American
embassies throughout the world.

The President walked in and sat at the conference table.

Major General Whitey Whisenand entered behind him, carrying his battered
USAAF issue briefcase.  He suddenly remembered to button the top button
of his tunic.  He had just come from his small office and, preoccupied
with the President's sudden demand to hear his plan, had forgotten to
check until just now.

The open top button of the four on his tunic was his way of showing he
was an old-time fighter pilot.  The tradition had started in World War
1, when the flamboyant fighter pilots in their wood-and-cloth crates had
found the high-buttoned collar of their uniforms too restricting and
took to leaving them open.  The tradition had been passed down to those
who now wore the blue Air Force single-breasted uniform tunic whose
collar ended in lapels that lay flat.  Whitey had another more permanent
manifestation that he had once worn the equipment of a jet pilot. During
the war in Korea he had crashed on takeoff when the engine in his F-80
had failed.  The resultant fire had burned his hands and the part of his
face not covered by his oxygen mask.  The white unburned area of his
face, in contrast to the rosy red burn marks, made him look as if he had
just removed his oxygen mask after a long flight.

The President sat heavily in his chair and looked up.  "Just tell me
something I can manage," he said in an exasperated voice, ready,
finally, to hear the plan Whitey Whisenand had put together.  "Like, how
do I stop the flow of supplies down Ho's Trail through Laos without
flattening Hanoi?  Or without, as your General LeMay once said, bombing
them back to the stone age?  I try to be nice to Ho Chi Minh and where
does it get me?"

Be nice to Ho Chi Minh?  Whitey mentally shook his head, then remembered
something he had studied recently.  He said to LBJ, "I want to quote
someone for you before I begin.  Clausewitz says the following in his
book On War: 'Kindhearted people might, of course, think there was some
ingenious way to disarm or defeat an enemy without too much bloodshed,
and might imagine this to be a true goal of the art of war.  Pleasant as
it sounds, it is a fallacy that must be exposed.  War is such a
dangerous business that the mistakes which come from kindness are the
very worst."'

LBJ waved his hand as if at a pesky gnat.  "All right, all right.

I don't need the thoughts of some long-dead German.  Just tell me how I
stop the flow of supplies."

"Mister President, you have always had the entire JCS to answer that
question.  Not to mention your Secretary of Defense."

The President fixed Whitey with a scornful look.  "Let me show you what
Mister McNamara wrote about bombing just before he left office.  You've
never seen such a load of horseshit." He pawed through a manila file
folder and handed Whitey a Department of Defense memorandum sheet.

The tragic and long drawn-out character of that conflict in South
Vietnam makes very tempting the prospect of replacing it with some new
kind of air campaign against North Vietnam.  But however tempting, such
an alternative seems to me completely illusory.  To pursue this
objective would not only be futile, but would involve risk to our
personnel and to our nation that I am unable to recommend.

Whitey made no comment.  Instead, he walked to one of the wall drapes.

Johnson made an exaggerated sigh.  "It won't do any good, but go ahead,
show me your plan."

Whitey pulled aside the drape to reveal the map of Southeast Asia he had
prepared.  He pointed first to the rail lines from China and the
seaports that funneled war materiel into the Hanoi area.

"We can stop the supplies coming into North Vietnam at these places.
About 15 percent comes down the rail lines, 85 percent from Haiphong
Harbor.  The supplies then must be delivered into South Vietnam to the
North Vietnamese Army and what is left of the Viet Cong.  The US Navy
and the South Vietnamese Navy under Operation Market Time have done a
fine job preventing the North from resupplying by sea their troops in
the South.  Nothing gets through their blockades.

Same thing at the DMZ, the Demilitarized Zone.  US and ARVN troops in
Eye Corps prevent direct overland resupply." Whitey made a small smile
and said, "And of course outside of a helicopter or two, there is no air
transport capability from North to South Vietnam."

"You've been telling me this for years," the President said.

"I only listen to you because ...  because your sincerity always
impresses me.  Damn few others around here I call sincere."

What could have been a grin crossed his face.  "You might be repetitive,
but you don't try to bullshit me." He waved his hand for Whitey to
continue.

"Here is what I think we should do, Mister President.  We take out the
SAM sites as required, we hit the MiG bases, and we cut the rail lines
and keep them cut.  But rather than mine Haiphong Harbor, I say we
should destroy the dredge that keeps it open.  The Red River that flows
into it deposits tons of silt every day.  Periodically, the silt must be
shifted and removed.  Without dredging, the harbor would be useless in a
matter of weeks.  Furthermore, the sunken dredge itself would help block
the harbor.  This would eliminate the risks to the Navy minelaying
aircraft as well as not damage ships that belong to nations that are
supposed to be friends of ours."

"You mean like Sweden and Great Britain," LBJ said in disgust.

It was an interesting anomaly.  British ships regularly offloaded
non-war supplies for the North Vietnamese; at the same time hundreds of
British males per year volunteered for the US Army to go fight in
Vietnam (due to immigration laws, few were accepted).  Just the opposite
pertained with the Swedes: while they off-loaded supplies in North
Vietnam, some American soldiers stationed in Germany with more of a
predilection for pot than patriotism deserted and found refuge in that
cold country which advertised itself as a warm safe-haven for Vietnam
War objectors.

Of course the Soviet Union and other East Bloc countries were the
biggest suppliers of North Vietnam.  They shipped in millions of tons of
supplies plus all the oil and petroleum products the communist North
Vietnamese war machine required.

"Yes, I do," Whitey replied.  "And there are three more proposals for
which I need approval."

LBJ slowly nodded for him to proceed.

"First is the destruction of a portion of the dikes around Hanoi."

"Oh, no!" LBJ roared.  "All those civilians would drown.  You told me
many times that was why we should not take out those damn dikes."

"Yes, sir, that's true.  I don't want the drownings.  What I do want is
to take certain dikes out in the dry season a month or so before the
rainy season would cause flooding."

"What the hell for?"

"Three reasons.  One is that the North Vietnamese have known all along
that we would not bomb the dikes, so they have put air defense centers,
antiaircraft guns, and petroleum tanks on the tops of the dikes-they are
thirty and forty feet across, you know.  They are military
installations, hence are legitimate targets that deserve to be
destroyed.  Secondly, they would have to put tens of thousands of
workers and soldiers on the job to repair the dikes before the rains.
This would further weaken the economy and slow the war effort in the
South.

Thirdly, such a decisive act would show the North Vietnamese we are
finally getting serious about bringing them to their knees and that
maybe next time we really would take the dikes out when there is water
behind them to flood Hanoi."

"You said you had three things you wanted approved.  What are the other
two?"

"Smash and capture the communist sanctuary camps in Cambodia while at
the same time we cut the Ho Chi Minh Trail in half by sending American
and Vietnamese troops straight across the Laotian panhandle to
Thailand."

"Invade Cambodia and invade Laos?  You're crazy.  They're both neutral
countries." LBJ tapped his finger on the table.

"You're crazy, all right.  You tell me you have a plan that not only
incorporates bombing, but the invasion by American boys of Cambodia and
Laos as well.  I don't know whether to laugh or to cry.  Both those
countries are neutral."

"Mister President, they are neutral in name only.  Sihanouk in Cambodia
is already complaining to us in secret communiques that he is unhappy
with the North Vietnamese occupation of the western part of his country.
Of course, he brought it on himself by letting them use that area, in
addition to his providing the port of Sihanoukville for them to run
supplies from the Gulf of Siam to South Vietnam.  Simultaneously, up
north, the Laotian Royalists and neutralists are unhappy with the North
Vietnamese occupation of the panhandle of their country-not to mention
the North Vietnamese holding the northeast section of Laos while trying
to capture the Plaine des Jarres."

"We have to respect their neutrality," the President interrupted.  "And
goddamn it, that's what I have been doing all along.  We've all those
damn treaties and things."

"Sir," Whitey began, "under the 1907 Hague Treaty

"Another damn treaty," LBJ interrupted.

"This is different," Whitey continued, unperturbed.  "Under the 1907
Hague Treaty, a neutral is a neutral only so long as it can maintain its
neutrality.  Neither Cambodia nor Laos is capable of doing that.  In
both cases our enemy, the communist forces from North Vietnam, are using
and holding territory in these so-called neutralist countries against
that country's will.

Under the rules of international law we have the right to pursue our
enemies into those countries.  It is time for us to go on the
offensive."

Whitey tried hard not to recite as if speaking to a dull-witted child.
He knew LBJ to be anything but dull-witted-until it came to making hard
decisions that might damage his reputation at home and abroad.  Then he
would do his best to compromise, to satisfy both sides while obtaining
some goal of his own.  At home he pushed his desire for both guns and
butter: win the Vietnam War, but don't raise taxes, while spending vast
sums on his Great Society social programs.  Abroad, LBJ wanted
acclamation as a great US president, not as a despot hell-bent on
pulverizing a small Asian nation.

"Have you talked to anyone on the JCS about this?"

"Yes, I have.  They are busy trying to figure out what the new Secretary
of Defense is like and right now don't want to make any waves."

The new SecDef, Clark Clifford, had queried the Department of Defense
for the status of the war in Vietnam and for whatever recommendations
the military might have for a conclusion.

Rumor had it he was unhappy with the slowness and lack of depth in the
response he was getting from military leaders.

Whitey pointed to the eastern Laotian panhandle.  "South Vietnam looks
like a bow and the Ho Chi Minh Trail running down eastern Laos is the
bowstring.  The Trail is literally the shortest distance from north to
south, and it bypasses all our troops by running through the
Laofian-Cambodian sanctuary."

He traced the east-west line he had drawn, extending the DMZ across the
thinnest part of the Laotian panhandle over to Thailand.  "Here, we cut
the supply trail." He pointed to the area of Cambodia called the
Parrot's Beak that jutted into the portion of South Vietnam near Saigon.
This was the southern end of the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

"Down here in Cambodia I suggest two days of concentrated air strikes
followed by a lightning ground attack by our troops to capture
high-ranking commanders and documents, to prove what Ho Chi Minh has
been up to in a so-called neutral country.

Maybe even send in some of our more critical journalists and TV crews to
record what we find."

President Johnson leaned forward on the conference table and studied the
wall map.  He began tapping a pencil against a yellow legal tablet in
front of him.  The only other noise in the room was the soft hiss from
the air vents.  He put the pencil down, leaned back, and regarded Whitey
Whisenand through tired, red-rimmed eyes.  He rubbed his face and
smoothed his forehead.

"No.  I cannot agree to those actions-and I'll tell you why.

But you must never tell the reason to anyone until I make it public." He
looked at Whitey for agreement.

After a pause, Whitey said, "I'm not sure I can agree to stipulations.
If my plan proves sound and you don't agree, I may want to--2'

"You may want to NOTHING," the President thundered.

"Now hear me out, dammit." He stood up abruptly, leaned forward, and
rested his fists on the conference table.  "I will not be here to see
what you propose, this plan of yours, to conclusion.

I do not want to start something I cannot finish.  I do not want to
start something that may go very, very badly and then have to turn it
over to someone else.  Do you understand?"

"Mister President, there is a good possibility that if you implement my
three-pronged attack with sudden resolve and fierceness, it would bring
the North Vietnamese to the negotiating table with far less
intransigence than they have shown up to now.  We are, after all, not
out to destroy North Vietnam.

We are out to prevent them from taking over South Vietnam by force.  And
because of these new tactics, the negotiations could lead to our
withdrawal and their withdrawal from South Vietnam.  It is something to
think about."

Lyndon Baines Johnson looked at Whitey Whisenand and snorted. "Something
to think about." He slammed his fist on the table.  "SOMETHING, TO THINK
ABOUT." He drew himself up to his full height, thrust his chest out.
"Whisemand, what in Gawd's green earth do you suppose I think about day
and night?  I think about THE GAWDDAMMED WAR, that's what I .think
about." He snorted again in derision.  "And you, you pissant general,
you have the nerve, THE NERVE, to tell YOUR PRESIDENT the gawddammed war
is SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT.  You disgust me."

Major General Albert G.  Whisenand, United States Air Force, stiffened,
his face a mask of cold indignation.  His two years of watching this man
ruin the American military surfaced as barely controllable bile.

"Mister President, if there is any disgust in this room, it is on my
part at you for your squandering of lives of our soldiers while you
pursue will-o'-the-wisp, half-baked military and economic plans without
having the slightest knowledge of what you are doing.  You are a
disaster as a Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces of the United
States.  I can no longer stay in your employ.  Effective immediately, I
resign from this position."

Johnson smashed his fist on the table.  "Whisenand, you don't know the
half of what goes on around here and you don't understand politics by
one piece of a sick cow's turd.

You who are such a bomb-happy general ...  let me tell you, I'm STOPPING
all bombing north of the DMZ.  You hear me?

No more strikes north of the Demilitarized Zone.  Now take that to your
precious Chairman, and while you're there tell him for me YOU'RE FIRED."

"Sir," Whitey spit out, "you don't understand.  I'm quitting YOU."

"No, Whisenand," Johnson roared, "you don't understand. Nobody quits me.
I'm firing you.  Now get out of here."

1930 Hours LOCAL, TUESDAY 15 OCTOBER 1968

THE OFFICER'S CLUB PATIO

UBON ROYAL THAI AIR FORCE BASE

KINGDOM OF THAILAND

The party was to kick off promptly at 1900 Hours when the seven off-duty
members of the Phantom FACs would appear at the hospital with a rented
Thai baht bus to pick up the men they planned to honor.  The bus was
then scheduled to tour the base to allow the honored guests to receive
accolades from the fighter squadrons.  It would pull up to the Officer's
Club promptly at 1930 and the festivities would begin.

The base commander had warned Hostettler about the huge soiree he was
hosting in the Officer's Club for the visiting congressional delegation
and the local Thai Ubon village dignitaries.  "Keep your people on the
patio and keep the noise and foul language down," the base commander had
ordered.  Base commanders had all the housekeeping duties on an air
base, thereby relieving the wing commander for operational concerns.

Base commanders in combat zones were generally known for their tactful
ability to allow shenanigans in the Officer and NCO clubs that would
automatically Provoke court-martial in the States.

Doc Russell, dressed in fatigues, had been prepping the honored guests
with mission whiskey at the hospital in the doctor's lounge since 1700.

"Say again about this mission whiskey, Doc," Joe Kelly asked.  Because
neither he nor Bernick had been wounded, they had reported back to Udorn
the previous Saturday, immediately after the weather had cleared up.
They had returned to Ubon two Hours ago on a courier flight to attend
the party and were to fly back to Udorn with Manuel Dominguez the next
day.

They both wore their bright-green Jolly Green Giant party suits and had
brought one for Dominguez.  An Air America plane would be in to get Wolf
Lochert at 0800 the following morning.  The number two PJ, Hiram Bakke,
was no longer at the Ubon hospital.  His severe leg wound had required
he be med-evaced to the big Army hospital in Saigon.

"Mission whiskey is, young man," said Lieutenant Colonel Conrad Russell,
MD, USAF, in a stentorian tone made rich by the whiskey, "the remnants
of an old Air Force tradition." He held up a tumbler full of Jack
Daniel's and examined the amber liquid against the light from the
window.  "Not bad," he said, and took a dainty sip-his sixteenth of the
past hour.  "Back in the big one, the one we won, I might add, and in
Korea, the one we tied, I might add, the hospital and clinics were
provided whiskey to equal one shot per pilot per day.  Supposed to be
dispensed in the intell rooms at postmission debriefs.  Help the
air-crew unwind after a mission.  We'd order it through the pharmacy,
just like any other medicine, in accordance with Air Force Reg 160-18.
Led to a lot of pleasant moments, it did.

Free, of course." He reached into his black doctor's bag and pulled out
the nearly empty fifth of Jack Daniel's.  "Let me top you off."

Joe Kelly held out one of the white coffee mugs Doc Russell had handed
out.  "Looks like it's no longer free and you're buying."

"It's no longer free and I'm buying.  It is my privilege and rare
pleasure to top you off, sir.  And you, sir, and you too, sir."

Doc Russell carefully filled the mugs of Kelly, Dominguez, and Bernick.
Wolf Lochert wasn't drinking.  He wore a cotton sport shirt and dark
pants he had purchased at the BX.  His folded green beret was tucked
under his belt.

"Gentlemen, a salute to warriors." Doc Russell tipped his mug.

"Warriors," the others said and sipped their whiskey.

"To Colonel Shilleto," Kelly said, and the men drank again.

Wolf took a deep draught from the Coca-Cola can he had in his fist.  He
rarely drank and was dangerous when he did.  He stood up.

"I owe my life to many people.  There have been other battles, other
places.  This time it started with a little guy named Tewa."

He tilted his Coke.  "To him." He didn't mention he had saved Tewa's
life when the C-46 had gone down.  The others held their drinks up.
"Tewa," they said, and drank.

Manuel "Little Cat" Dominguez looked like a disfavored sparring partner
of Cassius Clay.  Slitty eyes peered from an overripe eggplant face. His
head had been shaved following the circular bullet path, making what
hair he had remaining on top look like that of a rag doll.  Next to him
was his shot-up helmet Joe Kelly had brought back to him.  It had a big
red bow tied around it and a note saying:

To Little Cat Dominguez

This is your life.

Signed,

GOD

Wolf Lochert's grizzled face looked pale, but his voice was hearty when
he said to Dominguez, "Here, this is for you." He handed him a large bag
of Fritos he had purchased from the Base Exchange earlier.  Attached to
the bag was a note Wolf had printed on a hospital Rx memo:

TO MANUEL DOMINGUEZ, I OWE YOU FRITOS FOR LIFE.

SIGNED THIS FIFTEENTH DAY OF OCTOBER 1968,

WOLFGANG X.  LOCHERT

LTC,USASF

"I'm overwhelmed, Colonel," Dominguez said.  "Simply overwhelmed.  Thank
you." He popped the bag and offered Fritos all around.  Soon the small
lounge sounded like a herd of eight-footed elephants loose in a cracker
factory.

"And I have something for you," Wolf said to Joe Kelly.  He rummaged in
a brown paper bag and pulled out a 105mm howitzer shell lined with
glass.  Brazed to the shell was a carabiner, and snapped into the
carabiner was a Special Forces descender.

"This is so you can drink and descend ...  or descend and drink, or
whatever you want to do."

Kelly dumped his whiskey into the clanking apparatus and used both hands
to hold it to his mouth.  He lowered it and smacked his lips.  "Ahh,
good.  Fits just right," he said, beaming.

He tilted it toward Wolf and took another swig.  "You sure know how to
do it up right, Colonel.  Thanks." Kelly put the 105mm shell down and
reached into his leg pocket and pulled out something folded and held it
up.  "For you," he said to Tech Sergeant Dan Bernick and handed it over.
"For outstanding work on the hoist, I present you with the award of the
golden glove."

Dan Bernick unfolded a left-hand electrical linesman's glove that had
been painted a bright golden hue.  "Well, doggone, Captain, that's right
nice of you," he said and put the glove on.

Outside, raucous noise broke the serenity of the hospital area.

The anemic horn from the baht bus (so named because for the one-baht
coin-about 20 cents-a passenger could ride from the air base to the town
of Ubon) was joined by squawking sounds that could best be likened to
the slow strangling of a fat swan.

One sound, reminiscent of a flatulent duck intermixed with other less
identifiable sounds, became louder until it was outside the lounge.  The
door flew open and Lieutenant Rolly Grailson and Captain Donny Higgens
burst into the room.

Grailson tootled a child's tin horn while Higgens blew arpeggios on a
black Bakelite duck call.

"Gentlemen," Grailson announced, "yon chariot awaits your most exalted
and honored presence." Both men were dressed in their black party suits.

Party suits had become a widespread tradition in the Vietnam War.  It
was the perfect marriage between inventive fighter pilots and the
plethora of starving tailors in South Vietnam and Thailand.  Cut in the
pattern of the K-213 flight suit of the material and color of the
crewman's choice, each party suit displayed highly creative patches,
emblems, labels, badges, insignia, graffiti, and other memorabilia of
the wearer.  Each squadron had a color and design unique unto itself.
Party suits of the Phantom FACs were an unimaginative black with highly
imaginative white codpieces.  The overall effect was startling.

The codpieces were held in place by Velcro and could be removed if the
occasion demanded.  Phantom FAC Captain Tom Partin had thought of the
exotic costurnal addition and had immediately been given the sobriquet
Cod Piece Partin.

The men trooped out the door behind Grailson and Higgens.

As they approached the open-sided bus, Grailson held up a hand. "Trooops
...  halt.  We have for you a special surprise."

From a concealed spot on top of the bus, a barefoot figure clad in a
black flight suit but wearing the full black mask of a Ninja leaped to
the ground and started twirling and slicing a huge Samurai sword in
ever-decreasing arcs and circles around the astounded helicopter crewmen
while uttering wild "yahs" and "hahs." The Ninja singled out Dominguez
and quickly cut him from the crowd, then did the same with Joe Kelly,
who by now knew who was wearing the funny clothes and waving a fake
sword.

"Hah, yourself, you Ninja nincompoop," Joe Kelly said and leaped out to
do battle, waving a wooden pencil he plucked from his pocket.  The sword
whistled through the air, coming ever closer to fearless Joe Kelly, who
blithely waved his pencil sword, then moved in for the kill.  With a
blinding slash the Ninja neatly severed the pencil exactly two inches
from Kelly's outstretched fingers.

"Jesus Christ," the shaken Kelly said as he leapt back two feet in a
blinding move of his own that some thought even faster than the flashing
sword.

"Tanaka, you Jap bastard," Manuel Dominguez said and leapt to hug the
Ninja, who had stopped his war dance and was stuffing the giant sword in
its ornate curved scabbard.

The startled Ninja stepped backwards and tripped over the long scabbard,
tumbling the two men to the ground.

"Revenge, Tanaka, you Jap bastard," Kelly shrieked and grabbed and shook
a beer and sprayed it full into the eyes of the man wearing the Ninja
mask.

"I say, did someone call me?" Captain Kenichi Tanaka said in an affected
English accent from behind Kelly's back.

"What the hell?" Kelly said.  He swooped and pulled the mask from the
Ninja's head and stared into the eyes of a man he had never seen before.

"I say, you ruffians,' Tanaka said, "what are you doing spraying beer
all over my dear friend and fellow Phantom FAC, Mike Steffes, who just
this evening learned how to handle my authentic Samurai sword?"

"Just this evening?" Kelly gulped.

"Shit," Dominguez said and rolled over and pulled Tanaka's legs out from
under him and tried to stuff dirt in his ears.

Kelly thought that a splendid idea after being so badly abused, and he
helped the dirt on its journey with beer spray.

When it was all over the three men, soaked in beer and panting, stood up
and linked arms in a huddle and yelled out their RED-TAGGED BASTARD
calls to the cheers and applause of those watching.

When they calmed down, the men took their places on the baht bus, which
had open sides and seats facing forward.  The Phantom FACs handed each
man a cold Budweiser from a garbage can full of ice and beer.  When Wolf
Lochert turned down the offer, Donny Higgens blew a startled quack,
followed by ripples of duck laughter.  Wolf glared at him and took a
pull at his Coca-Cola.

Grailson took the wheel (the Thai driver sat behind him, a five-dollar
bill clutched in one hand and a cold beer in the other) and steered the
bus down to the flight line for a tour of the fighter squadrons.  Once
on the ramp, one Phantom FAC cranked up a hand siren while at the back
of the bus two others popped red smoke flares.  All the air-crew from
the squadrons came out to applaud and whistle as the bus drove slowly
by.

The sun was at the horizon as the bus pulled up to the patio behind the
Officer's Club.  The patio, the size of a tennis court, was a slab of
concrete covered by a wooden roof attached to the main club roof and
supported by wooden pillars.  It was open on all sides except where it
was connected to the Officer's Club, where a door opened onto the patio.

The fresh evening breeze began to cool the sweat-drenched men as they
stepped down from the bus, unloaded the garbage can full of beer, and
with exaggerated pig snorts fell upon the linen-covered table crowded
with Thai hors d'oeuvres arranged by the Club Officer, Major Dick "The
Chef" Hostcttler.  Grailson and Higgens played an unintelligible duet on
their musical instruments, the tin horn and the duck call.  Doc Russell
beamed his beatific Baby Huey smile and nodded around at all present.

He held his whiskey in an IV bottle and turned the tap when he needed
more.  Joe Kelly, Manuel Dominguez, and Dan Bernick were surrounded by
admiring Phantom FACs who were trying to teach them the words to "Brown,
Brown."

Wolf Lochert let a quarter-smile play across the right-hand corner of
his mouth.  He looked at the codpieces and the bizarre flight suits,
heard the cacophony, and rasped to Court Bannister and Tom Partin, "Good
to see troops enjoy themselves, but you flyboys are sorta strange." It
didn't occur to Wolf that the SF habit of sticking a wet thumb in a
buddy's ear as a form of greeting was anything remotely considered
bizarre.  The two pilots laughed as they walked over to where Dick
Hostetder was doing something to a large meaty object on a spit rotated
by a small Thai waiter.  The spit was braced over glowing charcoal in a
fifty-five-gallon drum cut in half down its length.

"Suckling pig," Hostettler said by way of explanation.  "All 112 pounds
of it." He dipped a paintbrush into a #10 can and basted the pig as it
twirled slowly.

Wolf took a sniff of the can and the pig.  "Not bad.  Garlic, pepper,
oil, vinegar ...  and something else."

"Rosemary and some fine-ground chili pepper," Hostettler said.

"I should have known," Court Bannister said.

Dick "The Chef" Hostettler was well known throughout the SEA fighter
pilot community as the Chili-Fart Briefer.  The title came from
Hostettler's deep-seated belief that hot chili made the world go around,
and that the briefings he gave pilots before their missions needed to be
humorous as well as point-making.

He started each day downing a giant bowl of hot chili.  At the daily
intelligence briefing for the combat crews, when he came to the part
where he had to point out where the enemy guns were, he used farts of
varying intensity to signify the caliber of the guns, starting with the
light 12.7mm all the way up through 37s, 57s, 85s, and the gigantic
100mm.  SAMs (Surface to Air Missiles) and enemy MiG fighters were
ripsnorters; that caused stage curtains to ripple.

Hostettler hummed as he basted the pig.  Its hooves had been cut off,
the hair removed, an apple added to its mouth.  The small Thai slowly
turning the handle had been on duty for the last six Hours.  It was
succulent pork at its best.

"That's a lot of pig," Hostettler said proudly to Court.  "But it's not
the pi&e de nsistance," he added, a sly look on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"Never you mind, you'll see soon enough."

"Not even a hint?" Partin asked.

"It's a grand tribute to the Jolly Greens is all I'll say." He squinted
at the sky.  "Pretty soon now," he said in a conspiratorial tone,
"before it gets too dark." He slapped the brush with an extra flourish.

Kelly, Tanaka, and Dominguez stood off to one side, getting
reacquainted.  Each vowed they wouldn't let so much time go by.

"Say, Ken," Kelly asked.  "How the hell did you know Steffes wouldn't
slice our ears off?"

"I didn't.  He just got that idea all by himself.  Saw too many
chop-socky movies, I guess."

"Why didn't you stop him?" Dominguez asked.

Tanaka took a sip of beer and burped politely.  "The wise bird does not
fly midst the petunia bush."

"There's no such thing as a petunia bush," Kelly said.

"Told you it was a wise bird, you dumb shit."

"Well, what are you doing here?" Kelly said.  "Last I heard you were an
IP at George and had a lodge up in ski country."

"All true," Tanaka said.  "I'm here on a six-month TDY to pass on some
of what we have and to learn what's new here. Particularly this
night-flying stuff.  We're not teaching much of that. Got to find out
how the troops in the field do it, don't you know?" The three Red-Tagged
Bastards drank more beer and got caught up on what each had been doing.

Music from the jukebox in by the bar was piped out to the patio.  The
loud twang of the Doors well into "Light My Fire" flowed and surrounded
the pilots.  Hostettler checked his watch.

It was 1925.  "Act One," he said.

Eight giggling Thai girls came running out onto the patio from the club,
trailing hundreds of green balloons on strings that floated and bobbed
behind them like daisies rocking in the breeze.  The girls tied the
tugging balloons to everything they could find: pillars, pilots'
zippers, pilots' fingers, handles on the barbecue barrel, and, with the
Thai equivalent of ooh-la-la's, codpieces.  Several balloons got loose
and huddled nervously under the slanted roof of the patio.

"You're quite the entrepreneur," Partin said to Hostettler.

The four men stood in a group at one end of the patio.

"And cook," Wolf said, nodding at the spitted pig.

"I'm kind of planning on getting out of the Air Force and putting my
magnificent talents to better use," Hostettler said.

"You are?" Court said in surprise.  "Whatever for?"

Dick Hostettler, USMA '54, took a long pull at his beer.

"It's like this: I can no longer contribute commensurate with my
talents."

"What do you mean?" Wolf Lochert said with a frown, eyeing Hostettler's
big West Point ring.  He firmly believed it was every American's
privilege and duty to serve his country, particularly an American who
had the benefit of an engineering degree from Hudson High at taxpayers'
expense.

"Here's how it is," Hostettler said.  "I'm a non-rated man in a rated
man's Air Force.  The pilots are the first-class citizens, navigators
are the second-class citizens, and we non-rated pukes are in the third
or worse class.  Here I am with an engineering degree from West Point, a
Master's in International Relations from Columbia, and my assignment out
of here is to study computerized administrative procedures at a
university in Texas.  If I can no longer perform the mission I'm good at
and the mission I love, which is the intelligence field, why stick
around?  Nothing doing. I'm getting out."

Court was silent.

"I think the Air Force has gotten too much into the people product
business," Hostettler continued.

"As opposed to what?" Court asked.

"As opposed to a mission' product.  What I mean is, the USAF seems bound
and determined to produce highly trained officers and airmen who have
great university degrees, terrific professional and technical school
certificates, and marvelous breadth of experience assignments.  That's
all well and good if the purpose of all that personnel management and
training is to ensure that mission accomplishment is the end product.

But that's not the way it is.  Ever since McNamara became Secretary of
Defense in '61, we're getting more and more into the concept of
producing managers, not leaders.  Managers, with the manager himself the
end goal, the product spit out of the factory, when all along the end
product should be successful accomplishment of the mission regardless of
the college level of the doers."

"Point well made.  So what will you do?" Court asked.

"I'm going to CIA."

"That makes sense," Partin said.  "You do have an intelligence
background."

"Intell has nothing to do with it," Hostettler said.  "I'm going because
I love to cook."

"Love to cook?" Wolf burst out.  "Cook what, commies?"

"Cook, as in cuisine.  I want to be a gourmet chef, and the Culinary
Institute of America up in Hyde Park, New York, has a two-year course
for just that very thing.  I've been interested in cooking since I was
camping out in Texas as a kid."

"Making all that chili, I'll bet," Court said.

"Yeah, and a few other things," Hostettler said.  He checked his watch.
"Almost time for Act Two." He motioned to two Thais by the walkway to
the club.  When they came over he put them to work setting up the plates
and slicing the roast pig.

"Chow's on," he called to the crowd and disappeared into the Officer's
Club.

"This is great," Joe Kelly said to Manuel Dominguez as they took their
plastic plates heaped with steaming pork and coleslaw to a picnic bench
at one side of the patio.  Both carried ice-cold Budweiser beer cans.

"That was a hell of a thing you did, Joe," Dominguez said.

"The last I knew I was on the ledge trying to get those guys hooked up,
the next thing I knew I woke up on board as we were flying back.  I owe
you a big one."

"Red-Tagged Bastards Hang Together." Kelly finished his beer and brought
two more.  "A big one, you say.  Okay, I'd like to collect right now."

"Sure, anything."

Kelly looked serious.  "Why in hell did you bail out of the Academy?"

Dominguez slammed his beer can down and glared at Kelly.

"You're really sticking it to me."

"What do you mean?  How can I be sticking it to you?"

"You're sticking it to me because ...  because it's so damn hard to talk
about." He stared outside the patio area, puffy eyes suddenly
glistening.  "Damn hard."

Kelly punched him lightly on the shoulder.  "RBHT, El C.

RBHT."

Dominguez put his fork down and took a long pull at his beer.

"Okay, I'll tell you." He took a long swallow of beer.  His mind flashed
back to the scene: drunken Cadet First Class Powers sitting on the floor
...  himself taking his pictures as Powers lay drunk and helpless, then
helping Powers to the bathroom and watching him become violently ill ...
then the final scene, in which he threatened Powers with exposing his
public drunkenness in uniform if he didn't back off from harassing his
friend and roommate, Ken Tanaka.

"Fuck you, I'll get that little Jap bastard," Powers had slurred.

Dominguez had patted his camera.  "You do, and these pictures will be on
the Commandant's desk in half a heartbeat."

Dominguez took another swallow of his beer and sighed.  "I caught Jerome
Powers drunk in uniform and took pictures of him.  I thought I had a
great way to get him off our backs, particularly yours, Ken."

"Jesus Christ," Kelly said in dawning awareness.  "Blackmail."

"Exactly," Manuel Dominguez said.  "Good old American blackmail." He
shook his head.  "Then I realized what I had done and turned myself in."

"But not him?" Tanaka said in surprise.

"No."

"Why not?" Kelly asked.

"I had had my chance and didn't use it at the time.  I just told the
committee I had seen a cadet drunk and didn't report him.

When they asked me who, I couldn't tell them.  I just couldn't.

That did it.  They voted me out." He slammed his can down on the table.
"Tell you what I did do before I left.  I got next to that asshole
Powers and told him I still had the pictures as proof, and though I was
leaving I could still nail him for the offense if he kept bugging you
guys.  He caved in.  Damn near cried.  Promised he'd leave you alone."

"Well, I'll be goddammed," Ken Tanaka said.  "I wondered why that weasel
never called me around again." He looked at Joe Kelly.  "We talked about
that a lot, didn't we?  Never could figure it out.  He seemed almost
afraid of us." Kelly nodded.

"So you turned yourself in to the Honor Committee." Kelly shook his
head.  "You are one rigid guy.  You gave away a hell of a lot."

"The whole world," Dominguez said and stared out beyond the patio. After
a moment he turned to Kelly.  "What would you have done?"

Kelly hesitated, then threw back his head and laughed.

Dominguez stiffened, a wave of hurt crossed his face, Joe Kelly reached
over and tapped his wrist.  "You know what Tanaka and I thought?  We
thought you had VD and didn't want Barbara to know."

Dominguez grinned.  "God, Kelly, that's rotten." He leaned forward.  "Do
you think it's too late?"

"For you and her?" Kelly looked at Dominguez with compassion.  "Yeah,
ElC, I think it's too late.  She's been married for five or six years."

"Who to?" He thought of her worn picture in his wallet.

"Jerome Powers."

It was nearly dark and Roily Grailson was setting up two long tables in
a row.  "Gather 'round, you nuggets," he yelled.

"I'm going to teach you what real carrier pilots do." He poured beer
over the tables.

"Shit, Roily, we already know how to do carrier landings," Higgens said
and blew a quack at him.   Carrier landings was a glorious stunt whereby
a pilot had to run directly at a long beer-soaked table, then belly-flop
and slide in the beer, to be caught by a rolled-up towel held by two men
on each side like a carrier deck's wire.  Since he was making like an
airplane, the pilot ran with his arms extended, making appropriate jet
noises.

"Wait a minute, nuggets," Grailson said.  "How many of you have made
night carrier landings in bad weather with a damaged aircraft and a
damaged carrier?"

The men looked at each other.  Night and bad weather?

Damaged?  They became attentive and eager.

Grailson spoke to one man, who immediately disappeared on an errand,
then he briefed their duties to the two men holding the "wire."

"Okay, Higgens," he called, 11 you're first.  Taxi on over here."

Higgens complied, and Grailson blindfolded him with a napkin,
positioning him ten feet to one side of the table on what he called
downwind.  "Right," Grailson said.  "I'm your GCA operator and LSO."
Ground Controlled Approach and Landing Signal Officer.  "Run like hell
and I'll tell you which way to turn.  When I yell 'cut,' you're in
position to land.  Trust me and just belly-flop on the table."

As LSO, Grailson had an important job: yelling "cut" too early would
belly-flop the nugget on the floor, maybe bashing his head on the
"fantail" of the "ship"; yell "Cut" too late and the nugget would crash
the "fantail" into his groin.

While talking, Grailson poured a shot of warm whiskey down the back of
Higgens' party suit and lit it with a match.  At the same time, a third
man with a seltzer bottle appeared by the two "wire" holders.

"Move!" Grailson yelled.

Higgens took off at full throttle and Grailson yelled, "Turn right 90
degrees, another 90-degree tight turn, okay, you're on final, left, a
little more left.  Slow down ...  that's too slow, you're stalling,
faster, faster." A fluttering cockscomb of cheery

flames trailed behind Higgens.  The man with the seltzer bottle sprayed
the dry portions of the table with lighter fluid and lit it off with a
whoosh.  When Higgens was five feet from the table edge, Grailson yelled
"CUT," and Higgens launched himself in the air.  He belly-flopped onto
the table, slid through the beer and flames, and was braked to a halt by
the "wire."

The "fireman" grabbed the seltzer bottle and shot it all over Higgens'
back, then on the table surface, where the lighter fluid was merrily
filling the air with the smell of burnt plastic.

Higgens stood up and whipped the blindfold off.  Only slightly rattled
about what had happened to him, he bowed.

"Bravo ...  shit hot," the crowd yelled.

"Okay, who's next?" Grailson inquired.

"NEXT?  ...  You outta your mind?  ...  Shove it, squid ...

Go piss up a rope, anchor-clanker, no more." Clearly, there were no
takers.  Looking greatly put out, Grailson grabbed a fresh beer.  The
crowd returned to its food and loud talk.

"Those squids are as nuts as you zoomies," Wolf Lochert said to Court
Bannister and Doc Russell.  They sat at a table, eating suckling pig
with greasy fingers.

"You should talk," Doc Russell said, "you who run around in the woods
eating snakes and preparing your knees to keep orthopedic surgeons in
clover for life." Doc Russell hoisted his IV bottle of whiskey.  "To
your knees."

Wolf tipped his cola can in response.  "Doc, you fixed me up good, so I
guess I can't complain." Wolf had unrolled his beret and put it on
jaunty and neat, cocked right, SF Vietnam flash to his left.

"A little rest, a little fluid, and you're ready to go pound yourself on
the head with hammers again," Doc Russell said.

"All you had was a mild concussion coupled with dehydration bordering on
severe.  But you had no fracture and no subdural bleeding.  All our
vital-sign checks on you indicated all was normal.  Your leg problem was
caused by the blow, just like a boxer who got slugged extra hard. You're
in excellent shape.

You fixed yourself up."

"Yah," Wolf said.  "I'm still dehydrated.  I need another Coke."

He looked around and saw only beer and liquor being dispensed.

"Going to the bar," he said over his shoulder.

"Wait-your hat-take it off," Court yelled after him, but it was too
late.  Wolf disappeared into the Club.

"HAT ON IN THE BAR.  HAT ON IN THE BAR." The cry was caught and echoed
throughout the bar as Wolf Lochert entered still wearing his green
beret.  He ordered a Coke from the grinning Thai bartender.

A burly lieutenant at one end of the bar clanged the big bell and, in
case this Army dummy didn't know the rules, chanted out the poem on the
plaque above the bell:

HE WHO ENTERS COVERED HERE

BUYS THE BAR A ROUND OF CHEER

Wolf made a sheepish grin.  "Oh, yeah, right." He pulled out a wad of
money and started laying bills on the bar.  He liked fighter pilots and
was happy to buy them a drink.  Many times CBU or napalm at the right
time had made his life more secure.

"Oh no, dads," said the big lieutenant, who did not put together what it
meant for a man in civilian clothes to be wearing a green beret.  "You
got to chin yourself before you have the privilege of buying us a
drink." He pointed to a brand-new chinning bar the lieutenant himself
had installed to show off his own substantial muscles.  "Right here,
dads."

"Aw, shut up, Tony," someone from the crowd shouted.

Ignoring the cry, the lieutenant grabbed the bar and did 20 two-handed
chin-ups in rapid succession, watching Wolf all the while.

Wolf stopped putting his money on the bar and walked over to stand under
the chinning bar.  While holding the lieutenant's eye, he made an
effortless leap, caught the bar with his right hand and, gazing directly
into the lieutenant's eyes, did 25 right-handed pull-ups, changed in
midair, and did 25 left-handed pull-ups.  He slowly let himself down to
the floor.

Still holding the lieutenant's widened eyes, he jumped back up, grabbed
the bar with both hands, wrenched it from its holder, dropped to the
floor, bent the bar into a horseshoe, and let it clang at the
lieutenant's feet,

Cheers and laughter rocked the bar.  "Shit hot ...  terrific ...

don't take that man's money..  ." Wolf got his Coke, left some money on
the bar, and went back out to the patio.

"What's all the ruckus?" Court asked.

"Some guy said something funny, I guess," Wolf Lochert said.

Doc Russell studied Court for a moment And snapped his fingers.  "Now I
know what it is," he said, sudden enlightenment on his face.

"Now you know what?" Court asked.

"I haven't seen you smoke for ...  I don't know how long.

You're doing great.  You really did quit, just like you said."

"Trying to."

"Congratulations." They resumed drinking.  There was a commotion to one
side.

Amid appropriate gongs and cries of silence, two ancient Thai men
dressed as Siamese warriors of King Mongkut's era were introduced to the
crowd.  They stood, tall and resplendent, armed with large knives and
spears.  They were soon surrounded by the Phantom FACs, who thought it
only fair the two warriors be treated to some alcoholic beverages to
show respect for their fellow comrades-in-arms, regardless of customs,
age, or culture.

After a period of uncertainty, the ancient warriors grinned and accepted
all drinks.  The festivities resumed.

Wolf Lochert took a swallow of a fresh Coke.  "Heard from Parker lately?
How is he?"

USAF Captain Toby Parker had been the man to spot Wolf Lochert's cutoff
patrol a few years back near Bien Hoa.  His prompt actions had saved
their lives.  Parker had been awarded the Air Force Cross for his
heroism and had been given a pilot training slot.  Currently, he flew
O-2 FAC aircraft out of a Da Nang squadron with the call sign Covey.

"Toby is just fine.  He'll be going to F-4 upgrade soon."

Court took a long pull at his beer.  "You going out to Eagle Station?"
he asked Wolf.

"It's my job.  I want to see what sort of defense and evacuation plan
they have.  Want to come along?"

"Sure, if I can get away, which I doubt.  Got a lot on my plate these
days.  What are you doing, putting together a task force?"

"That's exactly what I would like to do, but not for inspections.  As a
matter of fact, I'd like to put together a unit that, at all times, has
components for special operations under a single commander.  As it is
right now, we can't pull off any Special Forces movement using Air Force
people or Air Force equipment without requesting and justifying the
request far in advance through Army and Air Force channels.  Don't get
me wrong, your Air Commandos and TAC Airlift guys are doing a great job.
Same with the USAF Green Hornet helicopter people.  But lining them up
through the upper echelons is firneconsuming.  Not only does it take a
long time for approval, but everybody has to add their ideas.  We need a
way to put a package together overnight or sooner."

"You're looking for a degree of interservice cooperation that we have at
the operator level but not at DoD level," Court said.

He had barely finished his sentence when a series of explosions and
whistling noises split the air outside the patio.  Wolf Lochert hit the
deck, clawing for his social weapon from his ankle holster that wasn't
there; the Jolly Greens went down yelling "Incoming"; and the fighter
pilots stood around asking what in hell was happening.

"Somehow I have a hunch this is Chef Hostettler's Act Two," Doc Russell
said.  He pointed to the back of the patio.

"Check that."

Wolf crawled out from under the table, looking like a man who had just
hit his thumb with a hammer.  He and Court followed the Doc's gaze to
look at Roman candles and pinwheels erupting from a frame set up in the
adjoining open field.  The two Siamese warriors, walking with the
studied ponderousness Of those who have had a bit too much to drink,
were moving about with sticks of punk, igniting the fuzes.  Skyrockets
tore upwards and exploded in sonorous brilliance, cherry bombs tossed by
shadowy figures punctuated the air with sharp flashbangs, spinning
firewheels sprayed sparks in a widening circle.

All was noise and light.

A series of pops and bangs sounded within the patio, causing Wolf again
to reflexively crouch.  The partygoers had discovered that
hydrogen-filled balloons made marvelous flaming air bursts when ignited
with a cigarette or match.

"Nuke Hanoi ...  BLAM ...  Y-One yield ...  POP ...

Gotcha, Red Baron ...  BLAM BANG BLAM BANG BLAM ...  Hey, I just made
Ace ...  I'll bet they're full of Hostettler's chili gas ...  more,
more.  .."

As the last balloon burst, the crowd's attention was caught as a husky
Tarzan yell split the air and there was a motion of something massive
and ponderous over their heads.  Something very big from high in the
evening dark was plummeting their way.

Painted green, and wearing cardboard cutouts of the Jolly Green Giant's
pea-vine adornment, Chef Hostettler swooped down on the crowd standing
on a giant 5,000-pound lead wrecking ball swinging from the Lorain crane
used by the base engineers.  At the controls, happily pulling levers and
pushing buttons and singing "Anchors Away" at the top of his lungs, was
Navy Lieutenant Rolly Grailson.

The Volkswagen-sized lead ball pendulumed massively back and forth next
to the side of the patio.  The Jolly Green Giant stood on it, one arm
looped around the wire, waved, "Ho-HoHo-ed," and bellowed the tag line
of the "Valley of the Jolly Green Giant" song.

The Phantoms and the Jollys were ecstatic with pleasure over this fine
tribute to a great organization.  So pleased, in fact, they shook up
their beer cans and followed Chef Hostettler with foaming sprays of beer
that drenched the night air worse than a Milwaukee tavern when their
bowling team won.

Off to one side, the one-baht bus driven by Captain Donny Higgens drew
up next to the crane's control cab.  Higgens sat back in the driver's
seat, swilled a beer, and watched the Green Giant majestically whoosh
back and forth between the patio and the bus.  Inside the bus were
twenty-two barefoot Thai girls covered only by a light sarong.  Each
girl carried a thirty-six-inch anchovy and cheese pizza-one for every
member of the party.  This was to be Hostettler's greatest
accomplishment.  It would take top honors in any Command and Staff
College for planning, coordinating, directing, and controlling.  Here
was a culinary and entrepreneurial feat requiring great skill, cunning,
coordination, and highly selective bribery.

Higgens reclined further in the driver's seat, feet up on the instrument
panel, and drank more beer as he awaited the signal to bring the bus
close to the patio and open the doors to let the twenty-two merry girls
grab their hot pizzas and run into the crowd to dispense their favors.

The pendulum swung once again while Chef Hostettler HoHo-Ho-ed and
roared out that the Jolly Green Giant would now provide the second
course of the meal and signaled Higgens to move the bus into position as
he started on the upside of his swing.  At the same time he gave an okay
sign to Grailson in the cab of the crane to draw up the pendulum and
turn the crane away from the patio.  Grailson, tight and grinning with
pleasure at his efforts and with the acclaim the Jolly Green Giant was
receiving, pulled one lever too many, turned the wrong way, and lowered
the pendulum by two feet.

As Higgens brought the baht bus to the side of the patio, the bottom of
the giant pendulum neatly peeled back the top of it like a sardine can,
causing the panicked exit of twenty-two screaming, nearly naked brown
bodies jumping through windows and climbing over each other and mashing
the hot pizzas.  The Jolly Green Giant rode the ball to the top of its
swing, where it halted briefly next to the roof of the Club before
starting its inexorable downswing.  Chef Hostettler said, "Oh oh," and
stepped smartly onto the roof.  The pendulum started down and, with an
unstoppable motion gathering speed, it swooshed past the screaming brown
and now pizza-colored girls and removed quite precisely two of the
supporting pillars of the patio roof.  The wood snapped with satisfying
cracks and the roof structure groaned and slowly collapsed like an
elephant going to its knees with its rump still up in the air, as the
end attached to the Club roof creaked and acted like a hinge but did not
tear loose.  The terrified girls darted like a frightened school of
minnows into the only refuge they could find-the front door of the
Officer's Club.

"Save the booze," cried some of the pilots.  "Save the pork, save the
pork," cried others.  "Pork who?" asked the bewildered Higgens, who
staggered from the wrecked bus just in time to watch the patio roof come
down around his ears.  He crawled to a corner in the rubble and sat down
with his beer and duck

call.  "Pork who?" Quaaack?  "Pork who?" Quaack.

"I think that's 'whom,' old buddy," said Cod Piece Partin, taking a seat
on the floor next to him.  He hugged a small keg of beer, which he held
up to drink directly from the tap.

The two Thai warriors appeared upset with all the confusion, and
advanced shoulder-to-shoulder, aggressively holding their weapons in
front of themselves to vanquish whatever demons or foes were causing the
fracas.

The screaming girls who took refuge in the Officer's Club nearly fell
over each other trying to stop as they dashed into the large room full
of the American congressmen, their wives, local Thai dignitaries, and
the Wing Commander, Colonel Stanley D. Bryce.  The girls squealed and
turned and pushed back, trying to get out of such august company as fast
as they could.  Their thin garments were not holding up well.  Two big
Air Policemen came in the front door of the Club, blocking that exit.
The girls scampered through the rooms of the Club, diving out whatever
opening they could find, to the surprised delight of the Phantoms and
the Jolly Greens who had gathered their composure and their beers.
Delighted with this new performance, they took seats in and on the
wreckage and cheered for each little shrieking and squealing
pizza-covered girl-form that leapt from the windows and doors of the
Ubon Officer's Club and darted off every which way into the darkness
like frightened bunnies.

Faces of bug-eyed congressmen and their wives appeared in the windows,
taking in the disappearing rumps of the delectables, several of whose
sarongs had torn or, in one or two cases, been ripped off entirely.  In
scowling disbelief they surveyed the patio wreckage and the cheering
pilots.  They quickly jerked back as they heard the two warriors utter
war cries and saw them draw back their ancient arms and throw their
spears in the general direction of the huge crane looming in the dark
sky.

More slender bodies hurtled out of the windows, then cries of dismay
began from the audience perched on the wreckage.

"Wait ...  My gawd ...  I don't believe it ...  Do you see what I see?"
Sitters stood, standers peered closer.  Chef Hostettler stood on the
roof, fists to waist like a proper Jolly Green Giant, and stared down in
green disbelief.  Things were waggling where things shouldn't waggle.
Odd things were skittering and Littering where there shouldn't have been
odd things.

The darting brown bunnies weren't girls, they were lithe and
smooth-skinned katoys-female impersonators.

Someone had made a terrible mistake.

1030 Hours LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 16 OCTOBER 1968

OFFICE OF THE COMMANDER,

8TH TACTICAL FIGHTER WING

UBON ROYAL THAI AIR FORCE BASE

KINGDOM OF THAILAND

"Yes, sir-no, sir-no excuse, sir," were the only words Court Bannister
had uttered in the last twelve minutes to Colonel Stanley D.  Bryce,
Commander, 8th Tactical Fighter Wing, and (hopefully, in Stanley D.
Bryce's mind, anyhow) brigadier general selectee.

During that twelve minutes, Bryce had questioned Court's wisdom in
allowing his troops to participate in what was now known basewide as
Hostettler's Holocaust; the wisdom of the United States Air Force in
even allowing an officer's commission to be placed on someone such as
Court m.  Bannister;

his own wisdom in allowing Bannister into his wing to begin with; and
finally the wisdom of almighty God in saddling him with such a bunch of
juvenile delinquents masquerading as F-4 aircrewmen.  Stanley D.  Bryce
roamed his office, smacking his fist into his palm and glaring at the
object of his anger.

Court Bannister was taking all these fusillades by himself.

Chef Hostettler was in the hospital with a sprained ankle, suffered when
he fell off the Officer's Club roof because he had laughed too hard to
retain his footing.  "There will, by God," Colonel Stanley D.  Bryce had
thundered, "be a line-of-duty investigation about that Hostettler and
his ankle."

Nor was Lieutenant Colonel Conrad D.  Russell, MD, on the line in
Bryce's office to suffer the slings and arrows, since he was in jail in
the town of Ubon Ratchithani, along with such exalted participants in
Hostettler's Holocaust as Army Lieutenant Colonel Wolfgang X.  Lochert,
USAF Captain Joseph Kelly, USAF Technical Sergeant Manuel Dominguez,
Technical Sergeant Dan Bernick, and various members of the Phantom FACs
who had thought a midnight swim in the Mun River was just the ticket
after a hard evening at the club.

It wasn't the nocturnal swim that had upset the Thai city police so much
as the fact that the farangs (foreigners) had demolished a corner of the
wall around a Buddhist wat as they had run the borrowed baht bus into
the Mun River, where the bus had floated for eight seconds, then sunk
nosedown in the mud.  A wat is the complex containing Buddhist temples
and other buildings.

The commander of the Phantom FACs, USAF Major Courtland Esclaremonde de
Monts6gur Bannister, FV47028-6484, was not in the Ubon Ratchithani
slammer because he and Captain Thomas "Cod Piece" Partin had accompanied
Major Richard "The Chef" Hostettler to the hospital rather than motor
into town with the troops.

Stanley D.  Bryce was a big man, almost as tall as Court Bannister and
broader of shoulder.  He stood at 90 degrees to Court and bellowed into
his ear, "Do you know what California Congressman Nebals told me?  He
said I was just as culpable as the animals that wrecked the Club patio,
and that he held me personally responsible for the stress, mental
anguish, and offended sensibilities of his wife and the wives of the
other members of the congressional delegation.  Further, he said the
Thai Government plans a formal protest to the Department of State about
the naked, ah, Thai people in the Club, and about the damaged wat in
town.  This whole affair will seriously erode relations between the US
and Thailand and may cause revocation of certain measures of the Status
of Forces Agreement."

Bryce was breathing hard, and retreated around his desk to sit down.
Court remained at rigid attention.  Bryce continued. "I should relieve
you of command of the Phantoms, revoke your IP orders, and reassign you
as mess hall officer at Soc Trang." Soc Trang was the tiniest of USAF
bases in the steamy Delta of South Vietnam.  Its mess hall was a 10 x
20-foot tent.

"But I won't ...  for now, anyhow.  We're too shorthanded. But you fly
straight and level or that's exactly where you will wind up. You read
me, Major?"

"Yes, sir," Court said.

"My God," Bryce said.  "We just had the big River Rat bash with over
seventy pilots at Udorn, and except for some elephant shit in the
Officer's Club they didn't get into near the trouble you and your men
did."

"Yes, sir."

"Consider yourself lucky you're not getting an RBI."

"Yes, sir."

An RBI was a Reply By Indorsement letter from a commander to a
miscreant, who had to indorse that he had read the contents of the
letter chronicling the Indorser's misdeeds.

"What I want you to do is get the Legal Officer and go to the Thai
Police.  Straighten out that mess, pay the damages, get the men out of
jail.  There's a helicopter waiting for Kelly and his crew, and an Air
America Beech for that Green Beret.  Get them to their planes and get
them out of here, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Bryce looked at his watch.  "Then get back here.  At 1400 I want you to
report to Colonel Mayberry, who is here from 7th Air Force specifically
to see you.  He will be in the intell office."

"Yes, sir." Court remembered Mayberry as the man who worked for the
Director of Operations at 7th.  Oh shit, he thought.  I'm really in it
if I have to see him about all this.

"Dismissed," Bryce said.

"Yes, sir." Court saluted smartly, did an about-face, and marched from
his commander's office.

The door to Bryce's ante-office opened and Colonel Tim Mayberry stepped
in.  He was a thick-shouldered man with black hair, and wore Air Force
fatigues with command pilot wings stitched in white thread over the left
pocket, and big white colonel's eagles on the collar tips.  He had a
wide and amiable face and heavy wrinkles around his eyes.  He was
grinning.

"Good job, Stan," he said.  "I'll bet Bannister's going to walk mighty
softly around here for some time."

"Thought you'd find it interesting to listen in.  I just wish I could
hook him up with that asshole of a congressman, Nebals, and let him hear
Nebals freak out about what dregs, lechers, and murderers our military
men are today.  That would be the worst punishment I could think of for
Bannister and his crew.

Thank God for that guy from Michigan who was with them, Ford.  He said
he heard we lost a few this week.  Said he saw some combat himself in
the Pacific in the Big War.  He knows how guys act.  He'll keep a lid on
this back in DC."

"What about the Thais?" Mayberry asked.

"Yeah, well, that's another story, a bad one.  If Ambassador Martin
hears about the wat, we're dead."

"Think the Legal Officer can smooth things over?  Collect money from the
guys and pay remuneration or such?"

"Maybe he can with the monks from the wat, if we pay for the damage, and
to the owners of the bus, but if the mayor and the kha luang, the
province governor, decide to take it to Bangkok, then the Ambassador
will hear about it for sure."

"No way of stopping that from the Pentagon," Mayberry said.

"Then it's goodbye BG for you."

Bryce smiled.

"You don't seem all that worried."

Stan Bryce sighed.  "Funny thing, Tim, I'm really not.  It just doesn't
seem important anymore.  What's important are the guys here and the
miserable war they're trying to fight."

He got up and walked to the window overlooking the busy flight line.  "I
despise this war more than anything I've ever encountered ...

"The war, or the people running the war?"

"All of it.  The goddammed politicians that favor or oppose the war
based only on whether or not they'll get reelected, not what is best for
the country.  The goddammed people in this world who really believe the
North Vietnamese horseshit that they are an oppressed nation.  And those
are the same people who believe Ho Chi Minh is a real nationalist and
patriot, not a man who spent twenty years out of his country learning
how to lead it into slavery, and who killed tens of thousands of farmers
and landlords to consolidate his position to do it.  And goddammit, I
despise our chiefs in Washington for putting up with that mean, petty,
GI-killing micro-managing son of a bitch McNamara.  And that SOB Johnson
who let McNamara do it."

He was breathing hard.

"Easy, Stan.  You're pretty wound up."

"Let me tell you I'm wound up.  And any combat wing commander in this
fucked-up war who isn't wound up about the stupid ways and stupid
reasons for which his guys are getting killed doesn't deserve to be a
commander." Stan Bryce walked back to his desk.  "I'm not the same man I
was when I took over this wing last fall.  Yeah, I suppose I did see it
as a chance to make BG.  Most every other commander from here has.  But
now it's the troops I care about.  I want to take care of them, see them
through this."

Tim Mayberry coughed.  "Well, there is such a thing as the mission, you
know.  That is supposed to come before the troops."

Bryce sat down.  "I used to think I had to accomplish the mission at all
costs.  But you know, Tim, some of these missions are not worth the fuel
they consume, much less any crewman's life.  As far as I'm concerned
these guys are all heroes in a war that isn't allowed to have heroes.  I
don't really care if they get all bent out of shape at the Club.  They
don't get much and yet they deserve a lot.  If they can blow it all off
at the Club, I'm all for it.  You don't get rich in the military and you
don't learn how to get rich in the military.  Combine that with the shit
these guys go through, and a bit of a drunk now and then is little
enough compensation.  My only worry is that I might get fired, then
perhaps these guys will get some meathead as a commander who'll do
anything to make BG."

Stan Bryce sat back and made a definite effort to relax.

"What is it you want to see Bannister about?"

"Eagle Station."

1145 Hours LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 16 OCTOBER 1968

POLICE HEADQUARTERS, UBON RATCHITHANI

KINGDOM OF THAILAND

Colonel Tienchai Sumisupan had a look of quiet rage on his leathery
face.  He wore the dark green uniform of the Thai Special Forces.  Hands
on hips, his upper torso thrust forward aggressively, his eyes flashing
obsidian, at five foot ten inches he all but towered over the police
captain standing at nervous attention in front of him.  In the liquid
syllables of the Thai language, Colonel Tienchai informed the captain
that indeed the captain had done a superior job in apprehending the
American farangs and that he would undoubtedly be handsomely rewarded in
this life if not the next.  Colonel Tienchai then told the captain that
he should immediately release the prisoners and all the associated
paperwork to the colonel's control and that he, the colonel, would take
the matter on to proper prosecution.

Court Bannister stood quietly to one side, a thin major from the JAG
office next to him.  Both men had prudently decided to wear civilian
clothes.

With all deference, the Thai police captain politely inquired if the
esteemed Colonel Tienchai had the proper authority to resolve this
unfortunate occurrence.

Tienchai's liquid syllables suddenly became marbles poured on a tin roof
as he informed the captain that he, Colonel Tienchai Sumisupan, was not
only the head of the Thai Special Forces, he was also an aide to the
King of Thailand.  He pointed to the special badge on his uniform.

The police captain's face became the color of clay.  He stiffened and
barked commands to two other men in police uniform, who all but leaped
through the door to an adjoining room used for the Thai police court.

So far, Court did not have to become involved.  When he had arrived he
had found Colonel Tienchai already taking up the case of the imprisoned
farangs.  He was acting on behalf of a special friend, Tienchai had said
when Court had explained who he was and why he and the JAG were there.

In the courtroom, reposing in various positions on the benches and
chairs set up before the dais, were the sad remnants of the nocturnal
attack on the Buddhist wat and the Mun River.  Wolf Lochert sat tilted
back on one wooden chair, arms folded, feet propped on another chair.
Doc Russell lay flat on three chairs placed next to each other.  Some of
the men were asleep on the floor, others sat up against the wall.  All
except Wolf Lochert looked wan, hung over, and exceedingly contrite. The
two Thai police officers motioned them out and they filed into the main
office, Wolf in the lead.  He brightened when he saw Colonel Tienchai.

"Sawadee, Colonel Tienchai," Wolf said to him, and made the wye greeting
by placing his hands together as if in prayer and inclining his head.
Tienchai returned the greeting and the two men shook hands.  Tienchai
turned to Court.

"Your men are free to go.  I want to talk to your men, but not in here.
Put them on the bus.  I'll talk there."

As they walked out, Court told Wolf an Air America airplane was waiting
for him.  He led the group out into the bright sunlight and to a blue
USAF bus.  They walked with small steps and were very quiet.  When they
were seated, Tienchai came on board and stood in front of them.

"Gentlemen," he began, "the Thai government has the legal right to
declare you persona non grata and give you twenty-four Hours to get out
of Thailand.  However, Colonel Lochert here, a witness to the whole
scene, has interceded on your behalf It is fortunate indeed for you that
he and I have a long-standing acquaintance.  Earlier this morning he was
able to convince the police captain that it would be in the captain's
best interest to contact me." He kept a straight face as he spoke.  When
Donny Higgens made a motion as if to tootle on his duck call, Wolf
Lochert gave him a glare that could have bored through concrete.

Tienchai continued.  "Each of you will yield 4,000 baht to a disbursing
officer I will have at the Air Base tomorrow, to compensate for the bus
being dried out and the wat being fixed.  Whatever is left over will be
considered a contribution to the monks at the wat." At 20 baht to the
dollar, the fine for each man was $200.  "Each of you will also write a
short note to the monks at the Temple, apologizing for your actions.
Give them to the disbursing officer tomorrow."

Several of the men looked as if they wanted to speak to Colonel Tienchai
and perhaps thank him for his intervention.

Doc Russell cleared his throat and stood up from his seat on the bus.
"Sir," he began.

Colonel Tienchai held up his hand.  "I do not wish to hear anything from
you men.  You have insulted Thailand.  I do not wish to hear either
excuses or regrets.  The monks may forgive you, I do not." He motioned
to Court and Wolf Lochert to follow him off the bus.  "I'll drive you to
the air base," he said.

Court told the JAG to get the men back to the base and to see that the
three Jolly Greens were delivered to base operations, where the
helicopter crew to return them were waiting.

The three men climbed into Tienchai's jeep and followed the bus back to
the Air Base.  Court sat cramped in back.  As with most Thai Army jeeps
on civilian roads, the top was up to protect the occupants from the sun.

Wolf spoke as they pulled away from the police station.  "You may not
accept thanks from them, Tienchai, but you get mine, whether or not you
want them.  We spent a lot of time together at Lop Buri.  You taught me
many things.  I thank you."

The Thai colonel drove in silence for a while.  When he finally spoke,
his voice was jovial.  "My friend Wolfgang, we indeed go back.  Not just
Lop Buri.  You and I did terrible things one night in Fayetteville when
I was in training at Fort Bragg.

And you saved me from certain arrest by the sheriff for breaking both
arms of the man who insulted my skin color."

The gate guard saluted the three men as Tienchai drove onto the base.
They parked under a tree next to base operations on the flight line.
Tienchai rested an arm on the wheel and looked at Wolf.  "I tell you
this.  If those men had been tourists, they would be in jail for the
next five years.  We do not tolerate public drunkenness, and damage to a
wat is beyond comprehension." He sighed.  "But these are difficult
times.  Your men are doing difficult things.  Few in the world truly
understand what you Americans are doing here in Asia.  You are buying us
time to recognize the communists for what they are, and you are buying
us time to improve our economic bases.  We stand with you." Thailand had
been the first Asian country to send troops to support the UN in Korea
in 1951.  In South Vietnam they maintained the Black Panther Brigade of
Thai soldiers, which fought alongside US troops.

They said their goodbyes and promised to meet under better
circumstances.  Tienchai drove off.  Court and Wolf walked into the base
operations building, where the Jollys were ready to depart.  Lochert
threw a headlock on Joe Kelly and Manuel Dominguez before they could
move, and gently butted their heads together.

"You two men are warriors.  I needed you and you came."

He released them and slammed Bernick on the back.  "You, too," he said
with grave enthusiasm.  "You, too." Then they were gone.  In a great
thrash of blades and turbine noise, the big Jolly Green HH-53B took off.

Court walked Wolf to the twin-engined Beech that was to fly him to
Vientiane.  The pilot was in the cockpit.

"So you're going back to Eagle Station," Court said.

"I have to.  I've had some time to think about it and I don't like the
way the defenses are set up.  We have the high ground, granted, very
high ground.  Over a mile almost straight up.  But that karst ridge is
like a boat in the water.  You'd have to station a man every ten feet or
so all the way around just to see the boarders, much less repel them.
And"-he waved a finger"it is quite a setup for an airborne attack by
parachutists or helicopters.  Following that, it would be very difficult
to get reinforcements up there."

"What do they have in the way of a defending force?" Court asked.

"Not much.  The basic defense plan is for VP's men to see and stop them
somewhere along an encircling perimeter they have set up several
kilometers from the base of the karst."

"Why so far out?"

"Because there are villages out there and the defenders are from those
villages."

"No place else has ever had an airborne attack?"

"No.  You know, maybe it wouldn't be a parachute drop.

There are increasing reports of enemy helicopters being seen in Laos.
And Eagle Station is close to the North Vietnamese border, so they could
get over there fairly quick."

The pilot signaled and Wolf climbed on board.  In minutes the plane was
over the end of the runway, then droning off to the north.

1000 Hours LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 16 OCTOBER 1968

HANOI CITY HOSPITAL

DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM

"You do not have the luxury to tell us what to do," the man said to Co
Dust in Vietnamese.  His name was Thach and he was the liaison between
the Party and the head of the North Vietnamese prison system.  Forty
years old and slight, even for a Vietnamese, his features revealed a
great deal of Chinese ancestry, and his specialty was propaganda:
specifically, overseeing and directing the captured Americans'
English-speaking interrogators and manipulators.

Co Dust bowed her head in the proper fashion and did not answer. Moments
before, she had tried to tell Thach that the criminal Apple was not well
enough to talk to anybody, though she knew he was.

They sat in a small whitewashed room used by the doctors as a place to
rest.  There were several wooden straight-backed chairs and a long grimy
hardwood bench with deep scratches.

A window overlooked a courtyard full of patients in threadbare hospital
garments trying to take the sun.  Most were young men missing limbs,
their stumps swathed in yards of gray bandages.

"I have read the reports.  He is well enough." Thach switched to
English: "Soon, in a matter of days, you will take me to his bed and we
will talk about his release."

She kept her head bowed and gave no indication she understood his words.

"We know you speak English," Thach said.  "We know all about you and
your schooling in Paris.  You must cooperate with us or things will go
very badly." He had been picked for his liaison job because he spoke
English better than any of the prison interrogators.

"I don't care," she said.

"Not for you, oh no.  It would go very badly for the criminal Apple," he
continued imperturbably.  "Oh yes," he said to her when he detected a
slight motion in her shoulders.  "We know all about you.  We know how
you feel about him, how you stroke him and croon to him.  All this has
been reported and noted in your file.  You have soiled your Vietnamese
soul, but it is just possible you can redeem yourself, and maybe the
criminal as well, if you cooperate." He seemed to have forgotten she had
been instructed to do just that.  He pulled a pack of crumpled Gaulois
cigarettes from his tunic pocket and lit one with a sputtering match. He
blew the smoke toward the ceiling.  It was hot.  The window could not be
opened and the ceiling fan did not work.  The few doctors who staffed
the hospital never used the room.

He looked at her.  "Would you like the criminal to receive his freedom?"

She shrugged, but would not meet his eyes.

"Would you like for him to go home?  Would you like to see him go back
to his own people and"-he tilted his head toward the shabby
surroundings-"to an American hospital?"

She shrugged again, still looking at the floor.

"You can make this happen.  Would you like to know how you can make this
happen?" he said very gently.

She nodded.

"You must speak to me."

She looked up, but not directly at him.  "Yes, I would like this to
happen."

"And you will help?"

"Yes, I will help."

"For right now, I want you to go back to his side.  Talk to him, make
him laugh.  I will supply you with little gifts of chocolate and
bananas.  Tell him you stole them.  Make him dependent on you, but
afraid you might get caught and severely punished."

"How can this possibly help him get to his home?"

"You must prepare him for it.  And you must prepare him for a visit from
some people who will help him go home.  People who will take him home."

It had happened before.  Through his contacts with certain people in the
United States, Thach had arranged for American peace" organizations to
visit Hanoi.  A few months earlier, he had arranged visas for three
members of the Women's Strike for Peace. He smiled with pleasure for an
instant as he remembered beating an Air Force lieutenant named Carrigan
for weeks because they had pronounced him "wayward." He wrinkled his
nose as he thought of the group that had come to Hanoi with Tom Hayden
and Rennie Davis.  The four American girls in the entourage had smelled
so bad, he had had to chastise his Vietnamese serving women when they
looked with contempt at them and refused to serve them tea.  He almost
laughed over that American novelist-what was her name?-Mary McCarthy.

She had seemed so bewildered and vague about everything when she had met
with American prisoners.  He still puzzled over the motion that young
dolt of a seaman Hegdahl had made with his middle finger at Tom Hayden.

"Do you understand me?" he asked in a harsh tone.  "Will you obey me?"
He had not told her that the reason the criminal Apple had been so near
death when he had been brought into the hospital was from the beating he
had received while in the Hoa Lo prison.  He had been evasive when she
had asked why no other Americans had been brought to the hospital, by
saying perhaps they had not been wounded when their airplanes had been
shot down, as Apple had been.

"Yes," she said, "I will do this thing." Inside, she told herself she
would do it for the man himself, not for this skinny jackal.

"You must be prepared to ...  sacrifice your body if such a thing
becomes necessary.  You understand?  You must do whatever it takes to
prepare him." He thought for a moment.

It would be good to have the black man's spirit so compliant that he
would take advantage of a Vietnamese woman.  He could be manipulated
much easier if he had that on his mind.  "Yes, do that.  Make him
interested in you."

Thach could see no expression on her face.  He told her she was excused
and had two whole weeks to prepare the criminal for his visitors and
eventual release into their hands.  After she walked out, he decided
when it was over he would take the wench himself, then denounce her for
having slept with the enemy.

He went down the stairs to the small Lada sedan in front of the hospital
and was driven to Party Headquarters.  As he filled out his report, he
wondered if he would have as much success with this criminal Apple as he
had had with the three men he had released in February.  Black, Matheny,
and Norris Overly had returned to the United States without causing any
problems with the press or the people.  They had been conditioned.  He
had seen to it they had been singled out for special treatment.

Thach was also proud of how he worked things with journalists.  It had
always gone well with all of them.  He had arranged for selected
journalists from communist countries, as well as Harrison Salisbury from
The New York Times, to see for themselves what damage the Yankee Air
Pirates were doing to peaceful Hanoi.  He was particularly fond of
quoting what Salisbury had written: "One can see that United States
planes are dropping an enormous weight of explosives on purely civilian
targets."

He studied Algernon A.  Apple's dossier.  Admittedly , it would be a
coup if he could bring this big man to heel.  The first black man in the
North Vietnamese prison system to be released would be particularly
savory, since he was also a criminal who had tried to escape.  It all
depended on how Co Dust did her job.  Based on the negative results of
the beatings, he did not think that criminal Apple was a man to give in
merely to threats of more beatings.  Thach snapped his tongue against
his teeth in disgust.

Those imbeciles at the Hoa Lo prison, particularly that cretin the
American criminals called Bug, would have killed Apple like they had
Frederick, out of sheer vindictiveness over his escape.  Did they not
know these criminals were worth more alive than dead?  Choi oi, he
shrugged, a few more or less of the white race would not make any
difference.  It was the Negro race that could make a enormous difference
on the propaganda front.  If only he could get him to perform.

He picked up the second dossier on his desk and thumbed through the
articles about the Peace and Power to the People

Party that Alexander Torpin and a woman named Becky Blinn had founded in
San Francisco.  Torpin and the Party were doing well.  The Blinn woman
was not.  She had died of a drug overdose in an alley and her body,
which had been savaged by dogs, had not been found for days.  He
thoughtfully tapped the picture of Torpin, a powerful black man in a
dashiki.  He had thought of asking him to come to Hanoi but had decided
it would be too risky.  Better he stay in place and work for the Party.
Besides, Torpin was a pragmatic man.  Were he to see how things truly
were in Hanoi, he might become disenchanted.  Better he stay convinced
that North Vietnam was the worker's paradise and that Hanoi was being
indiscriminately carpet-bombed by American pilots.  He would ask too
many questions and demand too many answers.  He was a hard one to
control.  But Torpin and Blinn, before she had become so drug-dependent,
had landed a big fish indeed.

He permitted a small smile to play across his lips when he opened the
third dossier, the one containing information on the big fish.  Now this
one was not hard to control.  Here was a journalist who showed promise
in many ways.  He picked up the photograph and studied the wide smile of
Shawn Bannister on the cover of an American tabloid.  On the cover next
to Shawn was a shot of his half-brother, Court Bannister, in full jet
pilot gear.  The lurid headlines screamed out, ONE KILLS THEM; ONE SPIES
FOR THEM, and detailed the story of the two men.

Late the previous fall, Shawn had been apprehended by the OSI, the
Office of Special Investigation of the USAF, for gathering data on the
F-4s flying from Ubon.  Shawn had claimed, successfully, that he was
just a newsie acting as a guest writer for the Nan Dan newspaper
published in Hanoi.  Bomb loads, tail numbers, battle damage on return,
call signs he had heard on his little radio in his room overlooking the
Ubon runway were all newsworthy items, he had said.  The international
press had picked up the small article about the case in the Bangkok
Post, and it had spread over the world with lurid headlines.

Other articles by Shawn Bannister as Vietnam War correspondent for the
California Sun were in the folder.  One detailed how Shawn had flown
with his brother on a combat mission arranged by an Air Force Public
Affairs Officer, who had thought the USAF would reap favorable prose.
The opposite had happened: Shawn had said his brother was a murderer who
napalmed a civilian bus (the "bus" Shawn claimed to have seen had
actually been a shot-up M-1 13 personnel carrier captured by the Viet
Cong).  Another widely acclaimed article by Shawn was of his visit with
a Viet Cong colonel in the tunnel system beneath Saigon.  Shawn had
written quite explicitly that the Viet Cong would be the victors in
their civil war against the puppet Saigon government run by US
imperialists.  Shawn had been promised a Hanoi trip by his Saigon
mentor, Nguyen Tri, if his articles reflected the truth as Hanoi saw it.

Thach sat back and mused how Shawn Bannister had been brought along
nicely, not only by Torpin in San Francisco, but by Nguyen Tri in Saigon
and Huynh Va Ba in Czechoslovakia and Cuba.  Two other Americans had
been in Czechoslovakia, too, Bernadine Dohm and Tom Hayden, as Huynh Va
Ba had told them what they could do for the revolution.  And Thach
needed the help, for he knew he was part of a complicated plan that
required the meshing of many schedules and the cooperation of all
concerned.

One of the Americans at the Czechoslovakia meeting had explained at
length about the election process in the United States.  He had said the
voting public was very subjective and easily swayed by events at the
last minute.  Therefore, incidents occurring just prior to the upcoming
election on the fourth of November, if powerful enough, could possibly
be very decisive and influential on the outcome.  When asked what could
do this and why, the American had replied that anything to put America
and American troops in Vietnam in a bad light would influence the voters
to vote for whichever candidate said he would immediately pull the
United States out of Vietnam.  Was there such a man in the election?
Yes, he was told, Hubert Humphrey was the man.  Richard Nixon, his
opposition, could not be trusted to end the war.

Thach had been given the task to ensure cooperation from the first black
American pilot POW.  Coupled with something very important about to
happen in Laos, Thach had heard, the American POW's actions could be
influential.  The plan would result in both a propaganda coup and a
vital military victory.

Thach looked more closely at the photograph of Shawn Bannister, amazed
that a man who looked so vacuous behind that showy smile would come to
Hanoi.  Nguyen Tri's promise was being kept.

The final article in the dossier was from a California magazine.  Thach
picked it up.  The magazine had resurrected an old movie publicity photo
of Court in cowboy regalia, from his brief foray into the movies, and
placed it next to one of him in his uniform.  Underneath was a cropped
shot of a bearded man wearing a tuxedo and bow tie.

HOUNDED OUT BY JEALOUS MOVIE STAR BOSS, SAYS AIR FORCE CAPTAIN

Courtland Bannister, movie star son of famed Sam Bannister, hounded him
out of the Air Force, said former Air Force captain Richard Connert at a
Sacramento fund-raiser for Shawn Bannister, brother of Courtland and son
of Sam. Connert, deputy campaign manager for Shawn Bannister's bid for a
state assemblyman's seat, said Courtland Bannister was "a tyrannical
killer who harassed and tormented me until I had to resign from the Air
Force to preserve my sanity."

Air Force Major Court Bannister would not respond to queries for his
side of the story.  USAF public affairs officers when contacted at the
Pentagon would say only that Connert had been let go "for the good of
the service."

A former Air Force sergeant said that Connert "was about the weirdest
officer I have ever known, and I've known some weirdies.  I was in a
fighter squadron at Tan Son Nhut when he was assigned as an F-4
backseater right at the beginning of Tet, when all airplanes were
pressed into service.  According to Major Bannister-and I heard him say
this to the Ops officer-Connert did everything wrong in the backseat he
could.  They finally realized he wasn't a pilot.  Turns out he was a
non-rated F-4 simulator instructor who had dummied up orders as a pilot.
That's the last I heard of the guy until he got into some sort of
politics."

Thach closed the file.  These Americans, he thought, they are so
divided.  They need a central government to tell them what to think and
do, as we have here.  It is so much more simple.

1400 Hours LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 16 OCTOBER 1968

INTELLIGENCE Room, HEADQUARTERS, 8TH TACTICAL FIGHTER WING

UBON ROYAL THAI AIR FORCE BASE

KINGDOM OF THAILAND

"Major Bannister reporting as ordered, sir." Court Bannister stood in
front of Colonel Tim Mayberry.  Court wore his black flight suit,
Mayberry was dressed in USAF fatigues.

Mayberry offered his hand.  "Relax.  Smoke?" He held out a pack of
Luckys.

"No, thanks, sir.  Trying to quit."

"I did, once," Mayberry said and lit up.  "For a couple years. Got back
on it down at 7th."

"Yes, sir."

"Quite a party you gentlemen had."

"Yes, sir."

"That's not what I'm here to talk about."

Court looked surprised.

Mayberry walked to the big map on the wall and pointed to an area in
northeastern Laos.  "I want to talk about Eagle Station, also known as
Lima Site 85."

Court nodded, even more surprised.

"You've seen it from the air.  I want you and the Phantom FACs to take a
special interest in that place.  We have the day FACs keeping an eye on
it, but we need night coverage as well.  Not everybody agrees with me,
but I think Eagle Station is of special interest to the North
Vietnamese.  I think it's quite obvious.  They need a big coup.  Tet
failed miserably, even though the press would have the world believe
otherwise.  It is my belief that General Giap wants to capture Eagle for
two reasons.  One is to put the radar out of business, the other is to
hold up the men they capture to the world press as violators of the 1962
Geneva Convention." He stopped and lit another cigarette.  "Too bad
you're not cleared for SI," he said through the smoke as he exhaled.

"No way, Colonel.  I wouldn't take it if it were offered."

No combat pilot wanted a Special Intelligence (SI) clearance unless he
didn't want to fly combat.  Holding one meant the recipient was privy to
extremely sensitive material produced by SIGINT (Signal Intelligence)
systems, which normally come from ground-based and aircraft collection
systems.  Owning the clearance meant you were forbidden to be in any
kind of a position where you might be captured by an enemy.  Even
visiting East Berlin was forbidden.  Wing commanders, who had to know
certain things their squadron people were not cleared for, always had an
SSO, a Special Security Officer, who handled cryptography for him, and
upon orders of the wing commander gave him only what he could bear as a
combat pilot who might be captured and tortured.

Mayberry debated how to word his idea.  "I want you to visit Eagle
Station and I want to give you some, um, information that would be of
use in your visit.  Let's just classify it as speculation on my part.
Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Court said.  He decided to wait and see what Mayberry had to
say before bringing up Wolf Lochert's connections and plans for Eagle
Station.

"I think Russian special forces men are in on the deal, Mayberry said.
"I think they are in Laos on training mission straining themselves, not
the Pathet Lao.  And I think an attack on Eagle is a natural for them,
and not just for Giap's reasons to shut it down and display the
prisoners.  I think the Russians find this a great opportunity to
capture an easily transportable, highly secret US radar station, the
TSQ-81.  Or at least the Klystron tube that powers the radar.  We, ah,
understand they really want this thing." He made a derisive sound. "They
just haven't pieced together that the principle is the reverse of radar
bomb scoring system that's been unclassified for years.

Mayberry put out his cigarette.  "Here's what I want you to do at Site
85.  Familiarize yourself with the entire Eagle radar complex and how to
defend it from the air at night without radio communications."

"I know a system we used to defend the SF camps in South Vietnam.  It's
called Flaming Arrow."

"Good.  I'm familiar with it.  Set it up.  They're all technicians there
and don't know a damn thing about defensive measures ."

"Colonel," Court began.  "Do you know an Army LTC named Wolf Lochert?
Wolfgang X.  Lochert?"

Mayberry thought for a moment.  "Wasn't he the man who beat a
court-martial for killing that VC double agent?"

"That's the one.  Know anything more about him, say in relation to what
we are talking about?"

"Can't say that I do."

"I saw him off barely an hour ago on his way to Vientiane. He's on loan
from MACSOG in Saigon to some spook in AID up at the American Embassy in
Laos.  His job is to look into Lima Site defenses. He's taken particular
interest in Eagle up there at 85, He thinks it I s a natural for an
airborne assault-by helicopters."

Mayberry threw back his head and laughed.  "'Tis a small, small world.
I've been reading our AIRA's reports of what must be Lochert's
activities up there and of Lochert's conclusions.  The AIRA is merely
passing them on without stating whether he believes what Lochert says to
be true or not.  He didn't ID Lochert by name, and what you say is news
to me, especially about the helicopters.  The AIRA never mentioned the
possibility."

"Maybe Lochert didn't think of it at the time.  Maybe he did since he
left there and I'm the first person he told."

"Maybe.  So, Can your number two man run Phantom FACs while you're gone
for a few days?  And do you think you can hook up with Lochert to visit
the Eagle with him?"

"Yes, sir, on both counts."

"Then get with it.  I'll square things with Stan Bryce."

"Yes, sir."

1430 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 18 OCTOBER 1968

SUB-COMMITTEE OF THE CENTRAL WAR PLANNING COMMITTEE

HANOI, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM

"Comrade Thach, what have you to report?" the Committee Chairman, an old
man with a wispy beard, asked.  Only those who commanded special respect
grew beards in Vietnam.  It was time for Thach to brief current results
on his part of the plan called Cuoc Chien Tranh Gay Gac-Valiant
Struggle.  The Committee body sat at a long table in front of tall
windows letting in the gray light of a low overcast day.  Each man had
one pencil and a thin notepad in front of him.  In the center were paper
drinking cups and plastic water bottles.  Most of them smoked.  Thach
lit a People's Cigarette.  It would not do for the Committee to see him
smoke French Gaulois cigarettes, although he was sure every member did
when they were not in public.  He used to be very glad when the sky was
filled with an overcast, for that meant the Air Pirates would not
strike.  Now, since that fool Johnson had panicked and told his pilots
not to strike north of the 20th parallel, he would gladly trade the low
clouds for a high sun.  The city was once more learning how to relax.

Thach had been surprised when he had first entered the building to see a
man he recognized to be from the Soviet Embassy.  He did not know his
name, only that he was with the GRU, the military intelligence office.
Political people from the Embassy were frequent visitors on Party
matters of one sort or another, but the GRU men were usually at the War
Department, not Committee meetings.  Thach looked up at the Chairman and
began to speak.

"Comrades, the American visitors are in place in the city of Bangkok and
await only our word.  I have taken great pains to see that the
International Control Commission is aware of the trip and has told the
American Air Pirates to provide safe passage for their flight to
Vientiane, thence here to Gia Lam."

He shuffled his papers.

"Yes, yes, comrade," the old Chairman said in a creaking voice.  "You
have told us that before.  We must have a positive date for them to
arrive.  Why do you not give us that date?  Is it because you do not
have results with the criminal Apple?"

"Comrades, it will be soon now.  He is coming along.  This is too
important a thing to take a chance."

"Comrade Thach, you had better take something if you wish to continue in
your post as liaison officer with Hoa Lo.  There are certain perquisites
that you would be reluctant to give up.

And I speak not of just the sedan and driver and the condiments you are
given to hand out as favors." His voice suddenly crackled like old
parchment.  "I speak of your very freedom, comrade.

If you do not produce the criminal Apple with his desire to return to
his country, you will take his place in a cell of your own.  Or perhaps
take a long walk to the South from which no one returns.  The time is
growing short.  The necessary men are in position in Laos.  We must have
that press conference or the overall plan will fail.  Timing is crucial
in this."

A much-shakcn Thach returned to the Hanoi Hospital and pulled Co Dust
into the empty room, wrinkling the sleeve of her white uniform with his
nervous grip.  "It was not for nothing that you were placed in his room.
So why is nothing happening?"

"He ...  he is a very strong man.  He knows his own mind."

She did not look at him.  She sat hunched over, staring at the floor, as
she thought of what to tell this man to put him off for another day. She
raised her head and looked out the window.

"You must tell me more."

"I don't have to tell you anything except what to do." He spun her
around and slapped her hard twice before she could react.

She thought quickly and kept her composure.  "I did not explain myself
well," she said with great dignity.  "He, the criminal Apple, will ask
many questions.  He will ask that if someone is coming who is a friend
and who wishes to take him home, he must at least know who that friend
is.  He will say that is a reasonable request so he does not become
surprised and upset to see a stranger.  Please, it will be important to
him to know these things."

"Will it sway him to what we want?"

She hesitated.  "Yes, it might." She had gained a day, maybe two.  "He
would want to know who is coming, what they do.

He would want to know if they are sent by his government.  He would have
many questions."

Thach was silent for long moments.  "All right, then.  I will return."
He faced her with a snarl.  "I will see him, and talk to him.  There
must be no further delay." Thach stormed out. That the pressure was on
him by the Committee, there was no doubt.  But why?  he wondered.  They
knew these things took time.  It was common to put an American criminal
in leg irons for months or solitary confinement for years to get them to
sign a statement or make a broadcast.  Why the intense pressure to
adhere to such a short time schedule?  What did they have in mind?  Did
it have anything to do with the Soviet GRU man?

That had to be it.  They were always impatient, and setting the kind of
schedules that were so alien to the Vietnamese way.  If they would just
supply the war matdriel and technicians and dispense with the advice.
And the Chairman had mentioned Laos.  Thach knew it was not his to
question the grand scheme of things, but secretly he could wonder.
Little bits of information always helped him advance in the Party.

Co Dust went immediately to her post in Flak Apple's hospital room.  His
eyes lit up when she entered and moved to his side.  She took his hand
and felt for his pulse.  It was a secret between them.  She would hold
his hand while pretending to take his pulse.  Then they would squeeze
each other in slow tempo.  She had not intended to develop real feelings
for him, but, unbidden, they had been creeping slowly into her
consciousness.

"Hello, Princess," he said.  She had been teaching him a few simple
words in Vietnamese, and when he had found out she was known as
Unmarried Girl of Dust, he had immediately started calling her Princess.

"Bonjour, Roi Noir," she answered and checked his body with a practiced
eye.  They had ceased the intubation and IVs a few days back when he had
proved he could sit up and take nourishment by himself.  The antibiotics
and the salve that had been delivered by the Quakers from the United
States to North Vietnam were performing well, and he was healing fast
externally. Internally, his intestines were sore and she was afraid
there might be an infection.  She took his temperature and pulse and
entered them on the chart.

She called him Roi Noir, Black King.  "If I am to be a princess, then
you must be a king," she had said.  "A great black king." They had
talked, slowly at first because he did not believe she was anything but
yet another instrument of torture.

After she had calmed and cooled him many times when he had yelled and
screamed in the night, Flak had become convinced she wanted to help him.
Although she had carefully brought up the subject of visitors and his
possible repatriation, she had not gone into any details when he pressed
for more information.  Thach had told her it was a move by his
government to interview sick and lame POWs, with a view toward taking
them home.  She had kept him on just enough drugs so he wouldn't
question her too deeply, because she really didn't know any details.  He
seemed so vulnerable, she must protect him as long as she could.
Yesterday she had started easing him off the drugs.

Today she would have to tell him what was really happening.

"You have wondered why you are getting special treatment?" she started,
and was surprised when he rose to his elbows.

"Special treatment?  What do you mean?" Flak was suddenly very
concerned.  Paragraph III of the Code of Conduct very specifically
pointed out that no POW was to accept parole or special favors from the
enemy.  "You told me I was getting the same treatment as every American
in this hospital was getting."

She took his hand and put her head very close to his.  "I ... I lied to
you.  There are no other Americans in this hospital."

"What?" His voice rose alarmingly.

"Shh, oh please, you must be quiet!  I think they listen to us, maybe
even see us.  I did it for you.  I lied to them, too.  They think you
are aware what is about to happen.  That even maybe you approve."

"About to happen?  What is about to happen?"

"Two Americans are coming to Hanoi.  I do not know who they are, but I
am told they want you to return to America with them.  The Party here
wants very much this to happen.  There is a man, he will be here today
to talk to you.  He is very powerful in the Party.  His name is Thach
and he can help you go home."

Flak Apple lay back.  He spoke with difficulty.  "Princess, listen.
You've been very good to me and I appreciate that, but you have just
given me devastating news.  You must understand this.  I cannot accept
special treatment that the others don't get.

And I certainly can't go home until we all go."

"But you are badly wounded.  Surely under the Geneva Convention-"

"Geneva Convention," he snorted.  "Where have you been? You don't expect
these monsters to torture one day and follow the Geneva Convention the
next?"

She drew back.  "Monsters?  They are monsters, my people? That is a
harsh thing to say."

He took her hand.  "I am sorry to make you feel bad, but my body did not
get this way falling down a flight of stairs.

Those monsters in Hoa Lo tortured me and practically everybody else over
there that wouldn't make broadcasts or sign statements."

"Broadcasts?  Statements?  Torture?  I do not understand what you are
telling me."

He explained to her in detail what had been done to him.  He started
with the straps that bent his shoulders back in a V, and his torso
forward so grotesquely his toes were in his mouth; he progressed to
being hung upside down and beaten with rods for three days; and ended
with the water hose inserted in his rectum and his stomach beaten until
something burst.

She looked ill.  Everything he said matched with the tears and bruises
on his body.

"I ...  had heard things.  I didn't want to listen, to believe."

Her face was a study of anguish.  "There has been talk, quiet talk
behind closed doors here at the hospital.  Pilots have died here.  We
were told their bodies were torn upon jumping from their aircraft or in
the crash.  But nurses experienced in these things would look strangely
and say these young men were injured not from crashes but from other
things.  They would never go beyond that.  They were afraid to say any
more." She squeezed his hand.  "If there was only some way I could help
you." When the words came out she realized how deeply she felt toward
this man and she was surprised.  There had been a man in France, a
Frenchman who had taught her many things that a young woman from Vietnam
would not-should not-know.

"Help me?" His grip tightened and a strange light came into his eyes.
"Yes, there is a way you can help me." He pulled her head closer.  "You
say they can hear us in here?" She nodded and he continued whispering
into her ear.  "Do you really want to help me?" She nodded again, and
snuggled her face against his throat and shoulder.

"Can you hear me?" he whispered.

She nodded.

"I want to escape."

She struggled to sit up, but he pressed her tightly against his chest.
"You cannot do that," she murmured into his throat.

"Yes, I can, and you can help me.  I don't know how yet, but you can.
Will you help me?"

An idea was forming in his mind, involving the two Americans that
supposedly were coming to interview him.  They were Americans, they
would help a fellow American.  That was what his country was based on.
That was what his mother had always taught him.  That was what he
believed.  One American always helped another --- especially when they
were overseas in some God-forsaken country and one was in trouble.  God,
wasn't America a great country and weren't Americans the greatest people
in the world?  He knew they were.

He thought for a while and tried to get his priorities straight.

It wasn't easy-his mind was still fuzzy from the drugs and as bruised by
the beatings as his body.  The slightest sound or rattle, and he would
leap and jerk almost uncontrollably.  He fought to keep the torture
memories from his mind, for to let even the slightest bad thought
surface was to bring on trembling and acrid sweat.  To keep free from
unwanted thoughts, he conjured up an evenly burning candle and
concentrated on the flame to the exclusion of all else, until he felt
ready to continue whatever thought process he had in his mind at the
time.  Other times he multiplied numbers to great amounts but had
difficulty concentrating.  The candle flame was best.  Finally he had a
plan of sorts laid out.

"You must prepare yourself.  Very soon I will need you to make some
contacts for me in the prison at Hoa Lo.  I will make a plan and let you
know what I need." He seized heihand and spoke with deep fervor.  "I
will escape."

2030 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 18 OCTOBER 1968

PHANTOM FAC OPERATIONS,

8TH TACTICAL FIGHTER WING

UBON ROYAL THAI AIR FORCE BASE

KINGDOM OF THAILAND

Court met with his operations officer, Captain Howie Joseph, and the
instructor assigned to Ubon on temporary duty from George AFB, Captain
Ken Tanaka, and told them he'd be away for a few days, running around
the boonies in Laos.

"In civilian clothes?" Tanaka asked.

"Yup," Court answered.  "No American military in Laos allowed.  Over
Laos, yes.  On the ground, no."

"No problem on the schedule, boss," Joseph said.  "It will be a little
tight, but we can cover the missions.  I'll just hold Tanaka here from
his four-day R & R in Bangkok for a while.

You going to tell us what's going on up there?"

Court told them what he knew and said he didn't think he'd be gone more
than three days.  "The reason I have you here," he said to Tanaka, "is
because you have seen Eagle Station at low level in the daytime.  Now I
want you to get familiar with it at night.  See how to get in from any
direction if the weather is bad, see what the best laydown patterns are
for some of our more accurate weapons like CBU, napalm, and 20 mike-mike
strafe. I'll get word back to you when I'm up there, and on a frequency
we can talk, and I'll show you what Flaming Arrow is."

"Flaming Arrow?" Tanaka echoed.

"I can see you haven't had a tour in South Vietnam," Court said with a
grin.  "Flaming Arrow is when you have a friendly camp that has lost its
radios and is about to be overrun by the bad guys.  The men in the camp
have already rigged LIP 1I ten-foot plank and some boards shaped like a
big flat arrow.

It's mounted a few feet off the ground on a pipe so it can be swiveled
to point in any direction.  Nailed to the top of the arrow are a bunch
of cans stuffed with oil-soaked rags.

When the bad guys are climbing the wire and there is air support
available but no way to talk to them, the guys light the arrow up and
point it in the direction they want.  The fighters lay down everything
they have at a prearranged distance beyond the tip of the arrow."

"Simple enough.  We can do that," Tanaka said.

Court looked to Joseph.  "Meanwhile, Howie, I want you to start
scheduling the dusk and dawn patrollers to take a look at Eagle while
there is still light.  Then you, Ken, start showing the guys the place
at night."

"Shit oh dear," Tanaka said.  "That means I have to ride in the black
pit." He meant the backseat of the F-4, from which forward vision was
nil in the daytime, minus nil at night.

"The very place," Court said.  "You're a combat night IP now, I checked
you out.  Start IP-ing."

1145 Hours LOCAL, SUNDAY 20 OCTOBER 1968

EAGLE STATION AT LIMA SITE 85

ROYALTY OF LAOS

Landing a turboprop Pilatus Porter airplane uphill is not an easy task,
yet Air America pilots in Laos had reduced it to the humdrum.  In
weather where the mists and clouds cut off mountaintops, the pilots
could snake their planes from a well Romp known bush to a favorite rock
to a tree they knew, then finally smash onto the ground with a great
roaring of reverse propeller.  If the ground was dry, a great dust cloud
would envelop the plane.

Court Bannister sat in the right seat as pilot Dave Little dropped the
flaps and slowed the Porter to 35 knots in preparation for landing at
the dirt clearing at Eagle Station.  Wolf Lochert sat in the rear,
wearing a new T- IO backpack parachute.

If the parachute bothered Little, he made no comment.  Court tried to
appear nonchalant as Dave Little slammed onto the short strip, so steep
and narrow it looked like a Tahoe ski run in the summertime.

Fighter pilots have a natural aversion to being in a small plane that
someone else is flying close to the ground in dangerous conditions.
Unless he had flown with the light-plane pilot many times before and
trusted his abilities, a fighter pilot was always convinced he could fly
the plane better, thereby taking his own destiny into his own hands.
Most fighter pilots believed in the statement of Saint-Exupdry's friend
Guy Mermoz: "It's worth it, it's worth the final smashup." But if there
was to be a final smashup, they did not want it at someone else's hands.

Court was no different, but all he said to Dave Little as the dust
cleared was, "Good job."

Bob Pearson waved to them from the edge of the clearing.  A husky,
cowlicked, blond twenty-five-year-old with a clear face, Pearson wore
old khaki trousers cut off at the knees, thongs, and no shirt.  He
looked like he had just come from the surf at Malibu, except that he
carried an M14 carbine.  Two Hmoung soldiers trailed behind him.  They
also carried M14s.  Off to one side stood a solid dark-headed man in
civilian clothes.

Court and Wolf climbed down from the Porter and reached in for their
bags.  Dave Little waved and said he had some rounds to make.  Court
looked up at the low clouds.  "Good luck," he said to the pilot.  "It's
no sweat," Little replied and gunned the plane around and took off
downhill.

Wolf unzipped his bag, pulled out an AK-47, took off his parachute and
put it in the bag.  He and Court picked up their gear and walked to the
shade, where the USAF controller stood.  (Ground scope dopes were
officially called weapons

controllers-probably in the attempt to make them feel like steely-eyed
killers.)

Both Court and Wolf wore dark cotton pants, light guayabera sport
shirts, and combat boots.  They had bought the clothes at the Ubon PX.
Wolf's combat boots were a "gift" from a supply sergeant who said all he
wanted was to be able to say, "Why sure, I know Wolf Lochert." Court
wore a green mesh survival vest over his sport shirt, and a 9mm Browning
automatic in a shoulder holster.

"So you're Phantom Zero One," Pearson said to Court and extended his
hand.

"And you're Eagle One Four." They shook and Court introduced Wolf
Lochert.

"And this is Mister Sam," Pearson said as the dark-headed man walked
over.  He was a thin man who wore khaki pants gathered at the waist and
a dark green sport shirt.  They shook hands.

Pearson pointed to the two Hmoung.  "These are my buddies, Lee and Loo.
They're the local kato champs." Kato was a cross between volleyball and
soccer.  The two small men, barely as tall as their M14s, nodded shyly.
They had the bodies and faces of twelve-year-olds and the wise eyes of
jungle cats.  They took up front and rear positions as Pearson and
Mister Sam led Court and Wolf up a trail to the radar site.

As they climbed, the vegetation thinned until the path was barren as a
mesa.  The radar bubbles were the first things they saw of Eagle
Station, then the radio antennas.  Long wires, whips, blades, and
log-periodic that looked like a TV antenna on any roof in a city.  The
first sound they heard was the muffled throaty purring from the buried
exhaust of a big generator.  Pearson led them into an air-conditioned
van, opened a small refrigerator, pulled out a Coke for everyone, and
started his, brief.

"Victor Tango told me why you're here and I want to tell you, I'm damn
glad to see you.  I get the feeling we are, if not abandoned, at least
forgotten out here.  Victor Tango only thinks we are well defended."

"What about the Hmoung soldiers up here?  The ones you met us with?"
Wolf asked.  "Who do they belong to?"

Pearson nodded at Mister Sam.  He looked to be in his late thirties and
had dark, sad eyes rimmed by many lines.  Mister Sam spoke quietly.

"This peak has two layers.  The one 600 feet below where the airstrip
and my command post are located, and the Hmoung garrison up on this
level, where the radar and Tacan equipment is situated.  This level is
not sawed-off and flat.  It has many ups and downs and is like a piece
of jungle elevated straight up, although without the triple canopy.  It
has many trees and a lot of bushes, vines, and huge plants.  There are
maybe 200 people up here, and only sixty do I consider as good fighting
men.  Their boss is Major Hak.  If he thinks he'll win, he'll fight.

Otherwise, the phi is bad and no one goes out.  Phi means spirit.

They are animists and believe there is a spirit in everything rocks,
trees, streams, everything.  My job is to run the airstrip and keep
Major Hak informed of what the big boys at Victor Tango want.  I can't
force him to do anything.  All I can do is gently hint he might not get
any more American supplies and weapons if he doesn't perform."

Pearson brought out a 1:50,000 map and handed it to Mister Sam, who
spread it out.  He showed them where the Site 85 karst mountain, with
Major Hak's village, Poo Pah Tee, and Eagle Station, was located.  He
pointed to the tiny village of Muong Yat at the base of the karst. "This
is where the LAD-C is," he said.  "The Local Area Defense Commander,
Colonel Bunth.  Hak supposedly works for him.  Bunth is a Hmoung who
works for, after a fashion, General Vang Pao.  He has about 800 people,
of which maybe 200 are good fighters.  He is supposed to get from one to
twenty-four Hours' notice of an enemy concentration or buildup, and he
is supposed to tell us and Victor Tango what he sees.  Then we call in
air strikes under what we are told is our 'Self-Defense Plan." If the
enemy get past him and try to climb this mountain, then it's up to Major
Hak's boys to fight them off."

Mister Sam pointed to a spot on the map where a piece of the topography
of Site 85 showed a graduated descent instead of the sheer cliffs that
marked all the other sides.  "This is the climbing side.  The only way
you can get up here.  Bunth has the overall responsibility for this
wedge of territory from the base of the climbing side out to his village
and beyond.  It is his job to see no enemy gets in that wedge to make an
attack." He swept his hand in a wide circle around Site 85.  "We want to
keep the PL and the NVA out of this twelve-kilometer perimeter.  That
way, even if they don't attack, they can't lob mortars or use artillery.

If they do, Bunth spots them and calls us for air strikes."

In a surprise move, Pearson snorted and smashed his fist down on the
map.  "It's a useless crock of shit!  Call in air strikes?  Do you know
the only way we can put in an air strike is to use secure radio? Neither
the strike birds nor the FACs have them.  That means we have to talk to
an ABCCC, who will relay to the FAC, who will talk to the fighters.

Not only that, we have yet to talk to the LAD-C, Colonel Bunth.  We
don't even know what frequency he is on.  So how the hell can he tell us
there is a problem and how the hell can we call in air strikes?  And
these guys up here, they're kids.  Kids, maybe twelve, fourteen years
old.  All they do is play kato."

Wolf studied the maps, then spoke in a soothing tone.  "I'll go down
there and find out what they have going for themselves.

Radios, weapons, experience, plans.  I'll find out and come back up here
and help you work out a plan."

"We're technicians, not soldiers.  Just find me a way to know if there
is going to be an attack, then we'll work out an evacuation plan,"
Pearson said, "because we sure as hell can't defend this place!"

"No evac plan?" Court said.

Pearson shook his head.  "Not much more than walk to the nearest corner
and whistle for a taxi," he said with disgust.

"Okay, we'll work on that too," Wolf said.  "Let me have a couple of
your kid soldiers to show me the way and I'll get going."

"When will you be back?" Court asked.

Wolf looked again at the map and at his watch.  "Tomorrow before dark or
I'll call in."

"We've got an inspector down there right now," Mister Sam said.  "A DEA
guy." DEA, the Drug Enforcement Agency, had men in the field trying to
track and stop the flow of drugs through Cambodia and Laos into South
Vietnam.

Wolf's eyebrows went up.  "Powers never told me that."

"Powers is not too swift sometimes.  Not always up on things.

That's why he's an assistant."

"Well, Powers is in charge now, his boss is in Bangkok on leave," Wolf
said.  "Where is the DEA guy?"

"Here, at Bunth's place." Mister Sam pointed to Muong Yat, eight
kilometers southwest of Site 85.

"What is he inspecting?"

"Opium traffic."

"Does he know I'm coming?" Wolf asked.

"Not yet.  I'll tell him on the Agency's net," Mister Sam said.

"Did Jim Polter know he was there?" Wolf asked.

"The AID guy?  No reason for him to know," Mister Sam said.

"I'll get started then," Wolf said.  Jim Polter in Vientiane had helped
him get new gear before this trip: jungle fatigues, a harness, and the
necessary weapons and equipment for a jungle trek.  Polter had also
scrounged up a survival radio from the Assistant Air Attach6.  Wolf
stripped and, clad only in combat boots, heavy wool socks, Randall
knife, and Mauser, he put on the heavy fatigues, webbed belt with two
canteens he had filled in Vientiane, harness, grenades, flashlight,
K-Bar knife taped upside down.  Court handed him his floppy jungle hat.

"Got a Prick-25 so we can stay in touch?" Wolf asked.  The
battery-powered radio was about the size of five cigarette cartons
stacked on top of each other.  Pearson found one for him.

They established working and backup frequencies, and tactical call signs
of "Wolf,"

"Eagle" for Pearson, and "Maple" for Mister Sam.

"What kind of a leader is Bunth?" Wolf asked Mister Sam.

"Far below what Vang Pao usually has working for him.  But he has been
the chief in this area a long time and refused to let any but his locals
do the defending, so VP had to put him in charge.  We sent him out for a
lot of training.  Some of it took. But I think he has been on the take
from smugglers and maybe even the PL.  He does like his gifts of money
and booze.  I don't really trust him but what can you do?"

"Kill him."

Mister Sam made a dry laugh.  "He has no good number two and his people
would never accept a new leader supplied by VP from another tribe."

"Why haven't you found and developed a good number two?"

"I should tell you it's above my pay grade, but the fact is any young
man that looks good down there sooner or later mysteriously doesn't
return from a patrol."

"Anyone in particular that Bunth always sends on those types of
patrols?"

"Matter of fact, yes," Mister Sam said with approval.  "A shifty-eye
named Touby.  He's a brother of one of Bunth's wives.  Big scar on left
cheek.  He is the village Curer." The Hmoung believed a Curer was a man
or woman given magical powers by spirits living within them.  Curers had
the power to heal, to determine the meaning of signs, to communicate
with spirits.  They were paid fees by their clients.

"Does Bunth send out many patrols?" "Not as many as I'd like."

"Pearson said you don't have radio contact with him."

"We gave him three PRC-25s, but he always says he loses the frequency
card.  We try to change the numbers every day but it doesn't work out.
Probably sold the radios."

Wolf looked at Pearson.  "Can you spare another '25?  With half a dozen
batteries?"

Pearson said he could and brought them out.

"I'll see what I can do," Wolf said.

"What about frequencies?" Mister Sam asked.

"I'll see what I can do there, too.  What can I promise him if he
cooperates?  Money?  Weapons?"

"No, we don't want to give him any more weapons.  He doesn't deserve or
use what he's got.  Maybe he sells them.

But I can get him more rice.  Lots of rice."

"An extra ten or twenty kilos per day?"

"Sure."

They walked out and Pearson called Lee and Loo.  Wolf spoke to them in
pidgin Hmoung and they both made wide grins and bobbed their heads.
Mister Sam nodded approvingly.

"What did you say?" Court asked.

"I said we were only going down to inspect, not to fight,

and that at the appropriate time I would provide a roast pig party."
Wolf said goodbye to the three men, picked up his AK, and with a nod he
and the two Hmoung disappeared down the back trail.  Pearson shook his
head.  "Hey," he said to Court, "when that Wolf changed clothes, you
notice he didn't wear any underwear?  How come?"

Court laughed.  He remembered his few days the year before in the
Laotian wilds after he had been shot down, and the incredible humidity.
His own skivvies had disintegrated in less than forty-eight Hours.
"Because it rots off."

Mister Sam said he was going back to his CP by the runway, and walked
off.

Pearson led the way back into his combination office and sleeping
quarters in the van.  He pulled two sodas from the tiny refrigerator.
"So," he said to Court, "tell me how you and the United States Air Force
are going to save the world."

It was an hour before dark when Wolf and the two Hmoung reached the
bottom of the karst ridge.  Going down, Wolf was glad he had had
extensive mountain-climbing experience with the Special Forces.  He was
bulky and had trouble keeping up with the nimble Loo and Lee, who
skipped from rock to rock and ledge to ledge like mountain goats.  At
the bottom, he stopped and looked back up the steep sides.  Before they
had landed, he had had the Porter pilot make a few turns around the
karst, and his descent now confirmed his belief that the near-vertical
sides made for a rough assault.  The trail they had just descended was
easy enough to booby-trap and defend.  They stood at the bottom in a
well-trampled clearing that extended out the length of a football field
to the two-canopy jungle.

Wolf studied his map, took a bearing with his compass toward the road
numbered 602 by the French two decades before, and struck out across the
clearing.  At the jungle edge he saw several paths, one leading in the
general direction of 602.

He motioned to Lee and Loo and plunged down that path.

For the rest of that day and until past noon of the next, Wolf Lochert
roamed the perimeter defenses of Site 85 in general and the Eagle
Station karst mountain in particular.  He met several patrols, was
stopped by two command posts, and radioed his location to Eagle and
Maple.  Then he headed toward the village of Muong Yat.  Muong meant
village in Hmoung.  As was customary, Lee and Loo went ahead to arrange
the protocol of the visit with the village chieftain. He was the LAD-C
that Pearson had called Colonel Bunth.  Wolf was squatting under a tree,
rifle at the ready, when they returned.

"Wolf not go village Yat," said Lee.

Wolf stood up.  "Why not?"

Lee looked uncomfortable.  "Bunth he say nothing why."

"Do you know why?"

"Bangpee." Maybe.

"What bad happen Wolf go village now?"

Lee giggled nervously and dug a bare toe into the dirt.  Loo spoke up.

"Mercan.  Bunth say no another Mercan in village."

"The American there told Bunth to keep other Americans out?  Is that
it?"

Lee nodded.

Wolf sat down and turned on the PRC-25.  Mister Sam had said he would
maintain a listening watch, and in five minutes Wolf had contact with
him.  He had to be careful how he talked in the clear.

"Did you tell the inspector I would visit his location?" he asked.

"Affirmative."

"He say anything about not wanting me to visit his location?"

"Negative."

"I'll be out one more night.  Copy?"

"Copy.

"Maple, Wolf, thanks.  Out."

Wolf stowed the radio and stood up.  He pulled out a roll of kip and
handed several of the thin bills to Lee.  "You go village Yat, buy pig,
pay old woman to start roast over fire.  Make peace with local phi.  Buy
palm beer.  Set it all out.  Tell people man who make party will arrive
later.  Understand?"

Both men bobbed their heads and grinned.

"Most important," Wolf continued, "listen well, ask questions.  I want
to know if anything unusual is happening.  Not just information on
Pathet Lao or North Vietnamese Army, but anything else unusual or
different.  Can you do that for me?"

"Can do," Loo said, proud of his English, and made a thumbsup sign.

The two Hmoung went back up the trail to Muong Yat.  When they were out
of sight, Wolf found a concealed spot well off the trail and sat with
his back against a tree.  He loosened his gear, drank from his canteen,
and reviewed what he was going to do.

That DEA dope-hunter doesn't want me in his turf Why?  Ifhe he is in the
middle of delicate negotiations, why didn't he walk back and tell me?
It's not that for.  What is he scared of?  That I might find out
something he doesn't want me to know?  Wolf looked at his watch.  Two
Hours until dark.  Once the boon gets going and there is a lot of noise,
I'll just recce some.  He sharpened his stiletto until he heard village
sounds grow louder.  The boon was beginning.  He stood up, adjusted his
gear, checked his map and compass, and began to circle the village.

He found the paths that led to water and to other villages.

He saw the small open areas where the tribesman slashed, then burned the
grass so they could plant crops and edible tubers.  He saw no poppy
fields.  From a hidden vantage point he watched the village and movement
of the people.  Unlike Laotian villagers, who raised their houses on
stilts, the Hmoung did not.  He saw the village chieftain's longhouse.
Next to it was what he figured to be the thatch structure used by the
DEA inspector.  Like a ghostly bear, he made his circle of the village
and, just at dusk, returned to where he had started and made himself
comfortable.  He didn't expect an attack, but he did lay an almost
invisible wire on a small perimeter around his spot and attach it to a
finger on his left hand.  He sat against a tree with his AK in his lap
and programmed himself for a light nap of one hour's duration.  The last
he heard before he fell asleep were the soft sounds of flutes and gongs
from the village, signaling readiness for the boon.

Thirty minutes later, when it was quite dark, a twitch on the wire
jotted his body like a massive electrical charge.  Adrenaline surged
throughout his body and into his brain bringing him to instant physical
and mental alertness.  Without making a sound, he rolled to a crouch,
put his rifle down, and pulled out his Randall stiletto.  He figured it
was probably the advance guard or point man of a patrol, but he didn't
know if the patrol was friendly or enemy.  If it looked like he was to
be discovered, he wanted to examine and, if necessary, kill him
silently.

The faintest of moonlight filtered through the high trees, illuminating
vague tree forms but no definitive shapes.  He heard the lightest of
movement, as if a mouse sought its burrow, then the slow compression of
leaves.  He cocked an ear and thought he could hear breathing.  He
cupped his ear and slowly moved his head, like a radar antenna homing in
on the direction of the sound.  Barely perceptible in the air was the
smell of a human who used bug repellent.  It was not, he knew from
experience, an Asian.  From the corner of his eye, he caught movement
advancing toward his tree.  His muscles tensed; almost without conscious
thought or signal from his brain he curled his hand, stopped his
breathing, and, when the man was in position, rose up from behind.
Silently cupping the man's mouth with his left hand, he pulled the head
back to stretch the throat while simultaneously placing his knee in the
man's back, bending his body into a tight backward bow.  In the same
silent and fluid motion, he placed his blade against the exposed throat.

His mouth was next to the man's ear.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

The man went slack and shook his head and made a mumbling noise deep in
his throat.

"Quiet, now.  Who are you?" He released the pressure of two of his
fingers over the man's mouth.

"James Perrit, DEA," the man said and coughed.  "Let me go.  You're
choking me."

Wolf pulled him back to the tree and down to a sitting position.  He
could barely see him in the darkness.

"Just what are you doing out here?" he asked, trying to keep his voice
low.

"I was just taking a walk.  I heard you were out here someplace and I
thought maybe I could see you and tell you to stay out of the village
while I'm there.  I didn't expect you to jump me." The man spoke in a
hoarse whisper.  "My glasses are gone.

Help me find my glasses."

"Don't run around the jungle after dark.  Why didn't you want me in the
village?"

"These are very skittish people.  I'm having a hard time getting their
attention.  I didn't want anybody else around to complicate things."
Perrit groped around until he found his glasses.

"I think it's dumb of your company to send you out alone."

"We don't have enough men over here."

Wolf stood up.  "Let's go," he rumbled.  "Regardless of how you feel, I
got work to do." He padded off into the darkness without another word or
gesture.  Perrit stumbled through the darkness to keep up with him.

The flickering fires illuminated the figures of Wolf Lochert and James
Perrit as they walked with stiff steps into the main clearing of the
village Yat.  Wolf stopped and studied Perrit.

He looked about thirty-five, slender, brown hair, horn-rimmed glasses.
He wore a dark green safari suit.

"I've got work to do too, you know," Perrit said.  "I'll be in my
hootch." He walked to the thatch hut next to the chief's longhouse.

Wolf caught his bearings and headed for Lee and Loo, who stood next to a
fire pit where a pig was roasting.  Scores of small brown men, some
naked except for loincloths, others in various portions of rough
military jungle fatigues, sat or stood around the clearing, chatting
among themselves in the glottal stops and tones of the Hmoung language.

"Come see Colonel Bunth.  He wait you," Loo said, and led the way to the
opening to the longhouse.  Inside, under a kerosene lantern hanging from
a roof support, sat Bunth and the dozen or so members of his family on
mats.  Out of the corner of his eye Wolf noticed a man with a scar on
his left cheek.  From the yoga-like way he sat, Wolf knew him to be
Touby.  Thin smoke rose from a charcoal brazier.  Bunth and the two
older women were puffing on long pipes, sending up a sweet thick white
smoke into the close air.  Wolf placed his rucksack and AK-47 at his
side, muzzle away from Bunth, sat on his ankles, and stared at the coals
in the brazier.  After a long silence, Bunth spoke.

"Why you make boon for the people of village Yat?" Bunth spoke the
advanced English of one who had spent many months in training at the
Special Forces camp at Lop Buri in Thailand.

Wolf raised his head.  1 make party for the brave warriors of Bunth and
their families to display my appreciation and the appreciation of my
government for their fierceness and loyalty in battle."

"Who are you?"

"A soldier.  A simple soldier who does what he can."

"You have a name?"

"I am called Wolf."

"I have never seen a wolf.  It is said to be a cunning and dangerous
animal."

Wolf lowered his eyes and did not speak.

"Are you a wolf?"

After a short pause, Wolf spoke in a low voice.  "Only to my enemies."

The man with the scar rattled off a few words.  Bunth nodded without
answering and spoke to Wolf.

"Do you have something for me?"

Wolf nodded to Lee, who handed him the radio from his back, which he put
on the earth in front of him.  Wolf took the spare batteries from his
ruck and placed them next to the radio.  He looked at Bunth.

"Mister Sam said you are a brave man who patrols his territory well."
Inside, Wolf thought fleetingly of his vow, made years before, never to
lie.

Bunth nodded, pleased.  He said something very quickly to one of the
women in the longhouse.  She came forward with a wrist-thick tube of
bamboo full of liquid.  A bamboo straw stuck up from the liquid.

Wolf forced a smile to his face and murmured sounds of appreciation.  He
knew what was expected of him.  One tube was handed to him, and he
sucked and slurped loudly from the straws.  He did not like to drink
alcohol because it made him nearly uncontrollable and he did not like to
lose control of himself.  When he was finished, he smacked his lips and
said, "Ahhhh," as was expected.

When Bunth sipped it was the signal for the others to be given tubes of
the beer, which was made from fermented palm.

Bunth, as the headman of the village Yat, was the current chief of the
Yat clan that had migrated generations before down from China.  When the
local soil was exhausted, it was up to him to determine where to move
next.  Hmoung preferred to live at high altitudes.  Wolf knew there had
to be a good reason for Bunth to have moved his village to this low
terrain.

"Your patrols are good," Wolf repeated.  He patted the PRC25 and leaned
forward.  "There are numbers you like?"

"Every man has numbers he live by," Bunth replied.

"That is wise." He sipped his palm beer.  "Maybe if you use your numbers
for this radio to talk to Mister Sam you will receive more rice."
Bunth's eyes flickered.  He nodded in understanding.

"You are clever man," he said.

Wolf dug a small, green-covered Army field notebook and a pencil from a
pocket and handed them to him.  Bunth wrote a few numbers down and
handed the book back.  Wolf read three sets of five numbers.  He put a
period after the first two digits of each set.

"Let's use the first four numbers in each set," he said.  "Primary,
secondary, tertiary."

Bunth nodded.  He had been taught radio frequency rank order at Lop
Buri.

Wolf felt he had control of the situation enough to risk a command.
"Call Mister Sam when the sun goes down and when the sun comes up."

Bunth stared at the PRC-25 and did not answer.  From his sitting
position Wolf picked up the radio and batteries and placed them in front
of Bunth.

"For every time you call twice each day, Mister Sam will add five kilos
of rice to your ration."

Bunth looked up.  "Not five, no.  Give ten more each day.

Plane drop rice maybe every ten day.  Send hundred more kilo each drop."

Wolf nodded.  Bunth had doubled the load but he had left room for
bargaining.  "Yes, that is possible.  Mister Sam will add ten more kilo
each day you call two times, once at the morning sun, once at the
evening sun." It was silent in the longhouse save for the sipping
noises.  Wolf spoke again.

"You can tell Mister Sam of your brave patrols.  He would be most
interested.  One patrol in the night.  You can tell him of that in the
morning.  One patrol in the day.  You can tell him of that in the
evening."

"You do not like my beer?" Bunth asked, unwilling to agree.

Wolf took a long sip and the level in his bamboo tube was immediately
brought to the top by a wife.

"Ahhh, good." Wolf smacked, and wiped his lips.  He was beginning to
feel dizziness and the onset of nausea.  He knew what he had to do.  He
spoke with Bunth of inconsequential things for a few minutes, then
excused himself and went outside into the bush and stuck his finger down
his throat.  While it was perfectly acceptable to be ill from the
liquid, it was not acceptable to refuse more until the party was over.
When he returned he was handed his tube, freshly filled with palm beer.
He sipped and smacked and sipped some more.  Then he spoke.

"You understand there must be something to speak of when you contact
Mister Sam,"

Bunth studied his beer.

"Something of consequence."

Bunth said something in rapid Hmoung, causing the others to laugh.

"Something of what your brave soldiers see on the patrols.

He wants to know if there are enemy soldiers moving toward Poo Pah Tee.
Where they are, how many, what direction they are moving.  Mister Sam is
only interested in what you see, not who you kill.  It is not necessary
to fight yet."

"You think we cannot fight?" Bunth responded quickly in a thin voice.

."No, I do not think that.  I know Bunth and his men are good fighters.
But for now Bunth and his men should act as the creeping tiger stalking
his prey, not being seen, not giving his position away.  Report what you
see twice a day and Mister Sam will give you ten kilos for each day you
report two times on your radio."

The man with the scar spoke again.  Bunth answered, then nodded to Wolf.

The deal was done.

Cradling his rifle, Wolf walked out to the area where the boon was in
progress.  Lee and Loo fired off some rapid-fire words, and the Hmoung
sitting around the fire pit made "ahh" sounds through toothy smiles.  He
took the offered bamboo tube of palm beer and accepted a dripping slice
of pig on a banana leaf.  He sat down and made a big show of eating and
pretending to drink.  For a while he spoke with Lee and Loo, then he
went to the thatch hut next to the longhouse of Bunth and went in the
open door.

The light from a kerosene lamp turned low barely illuminated the face of
James Perrit, who was sitting cross-legged on a straw mat eating
C-rations from a tin.  Placed on the mat next to him were a .45, two
caliber .38 revolvers, and a Swedish K assault rifle.  A rucksack and a
PRC-25 radio were in one corner.  He was barefoot.  A pair of combat
boots with brown socks draped over them stood next to the radio.  Behind
the boots was a rolled-up sleeping bag.  Wolf waved a hand at him.

"Do you know how many airstrips there are in Laos?" Perrit asked without
preamble.  His voice was thin and official, as if quizzing a
subordinate.

"Over a thousand," Wolf replied, amused at the man's intensity.

"Twelve fifty-six, to be exact," Perrit said.  "Can you believe that?
And do you know that nearly every one of them can be used to fly dope in
or out?  Did you know that?"

Wolf stared at the man and did not answer.  He had dealt with DEA men on
other occasions and found that some were obsessed almost beyond reason
with their job to stop the flow of raw opium from Asia.

Perrit snorted.  "I told all this to the Air AttacM.  When I asked him
how much radar he had to cover all the strips, he told me there wasn't
any.  Can you believe that?  I asked him what he was going to do about
it and all he did was laugh.  Can you believe that?  I don't know how
you people out here expect us to do our jobs if we don't get at least
minimal cooperation from all agencies.  Just minimal." He sighed and
seemed to wind down.  "I've got a message to send."

Wolf hazarded a guess.  "About Touby?"

"Yes.

Wolf sat with his gun across his knees and did not speak.

The evening air was cool and clear but humid.  The soft flute and tocsin
bell sounds floated on the light breeze that wafted smells of roast pig
and sweet tobacco.

"How many days have you been here?" Wolf asked.

"Three."

"So what have you found?"

"I think Bunth or somebody out here is a big opium producer and
transporter."

"Or somebody?"

"Touby, maybe."

"The one with the scar?  The Curer?"

"Yes, that's the one.  Why are you here?" Perrit asked.

"Didn't Mister Sam tell you?  I'm here to see what level of competence
Bunth and his people have in protecting Eagle Station."

"So what do you think?"

"Right now, not much," Wolf said.  "Just a few Hours ago I made a
complete turn about this village and was not discovered.

Bunth is supposed to protect the climbing approach side to Eagle Station
out to a radius of twelve kilometers.  At best, he has to find and stop
attacks.  At the very least he must provide a warning system.  I don't
see how he can perform any of those missions if his people can't even
find someone prowling about their village in broad daylight."

"Do you expect an attack?"

"Sure, although I'm not certain the Agency men in Vientiane think so."

"You mean the station chief?"

No.  Some minor functionary with a big head named Jerome Powers doesn't
think that last attack here amounts to much.  He said it was done by an
errant local PL commander who hadn't gotten the word to stay away from
the site.  He thinks the PL leave the entire site-Eagle Station
included-alone because they probably get paid off from the poppy
farmers, and because they think the site is well defended and can get
full troop and air support in a matter of Hours.  Funny, he didn't
mention Bunth as one of those who might be running dope and paying
bribes."

"I'll tell you what I think," Perrit said.  "I think Bunth is paying off
the Pathet Lao so he can move opium.  Powers didn't mention it because
at the time he didn't know.  He's not really in my loop.  Now that I'm
out here, I find enough evidence to believe Bunth is doing that, but
until now I haven't reported this suspicion.  I am just now ready to
send the message to Vientiane, telling of my suspicions of Touby and his
control over Bunth and the paying off of the Pathet Lao.  But I don't
think that has anything to do with whether Site 85 will be climbed and
Eagle Station attacked or not.  It's the North Vietnamese who want the
site taken out.  They can't stop the PL collecting dope-smuggling
fees-maybe they even encourage it-but they can probably attack anyplace
they wish at any time they wish.  I wonder if Bunth would let the NVA go
through his sector without reporting them."

"No," Wolf said, "because that would mean he would get on the wrong side
of General Vang Pao and the United States government, from which he gets
funds and supplies.  I think he would put up a token battle to make it
look as if he were seriously fighting.  But in the final analysis that's
all that Eagle Station really needs, the warning.  Hak's men can defend
the climbing approach and air strikes can do the rest."

"What do you think of Touby?" Perrit asked.  "I've told you what I
thought."

"I agree with you.  He's more in control of Bunth than meets the eye.
Very savvy and shifty-looking to be a Curer.  They usually appear more
mystical and serene than he does.  He has great control over Bunth, more
than a Curer should have.  Political control, certainly, maybe military
as well.  Mister Sam thinks Touby kills or causes to have killed any
promising number-two man to replace Bunth."

"Why does he exercise such control?  Is it just his nature or is there
some other reason?" Perrit asked.

"I hope to find out," Wolf said and looked out over the village.  The
male villagers were sitting in an elongated oval around the big fire
pit.  Many had weapons and other fighting gear next to them.  All were
tearing into chunks of meat and drinking palm beer.  A few old men
played flutes and softly tapped the tocsins.

"Stay here for a while," he said.  "I'll go see if the seeds I planted
are bearing any fruit." He stood up and, rifle in one hand, walked to
the edge of the firelight.  Loo saw him and came over.

"They thank you," he said, "and want to know why you do such a good
thing."

"Tell them it is because they are brave and fierce warriors."

Wolf added a few more compliments as Loo translated.  The men made
collective "ah" sounds and nodded their heads.

"They say you are animal-man to walk always with your weapon in your
hand."  "Animal-man?"

"One who has weapon a part of his body, like teeth of tiger or poison of
snake.  Your weapon is a part of you." He looked up at Wolf.  "They like
you.  Come with me, they have something for you."

Wolf walked with him to the center of the oval by the fire pit.  Several
of the men started tying strings around his left wrist in the eternal
gesture of Hmoung friendship.  Each string meant good luck and
happiness.  They chanted as they tied the small strings in the bacci
ceremony.

When it was over, and Wolf expressed his gratitude, he drew Loo aside.

"Have you any information for me?"

Loo nodded.  "They say for the last many days and weeks, strange men
appear like magic.  The men talk and give much kip."

"What kind of men?"

"White-skinned men."

"American?"

"I do not know, but they do not talk as you talk."

"French?"

"Not French."

"They give kip.  What for, yafin?  For opium?"

Loo scratched his head.  "It is difficult to know.  One cannot say why
they give kip.  It is not for yafin.  They do not take any with them
when they go."

"Who do they give the kip to?" "The Curer."

A

Wolf looked up, as a smiling Bunth stepped from the longhouse to survey
the festivities in the village.  He was clearly outlined in the
firelight and seemed pleased with the boon.  After a few moments a
scowling Touby walked out and spoke into his ear.  Bunth stopped
smiling.  He spoke to Touby, who responded in harsh tones.  After a
moment Bunth turned toward the fire and raised his hands.

"It is over, " he said.  "Go to your houses.

With barely perceptible hesitation the villagers melted into the
darkness outside the firelight and returned to their houses.

In minutes the square was deserted.  Lee and Loo arranged themselves on
the ground next to the fire pit.  The light from the fire pit waned, as
a woman swept dirt over the coals.  Wolf sat for a while with Lee and
Loo, then walked back to the DEA man's hut.  When it's over, he thought,
like a curtain pulled down.

The village was dark, sleep sounds came from the open thatch huts.  Wolf
entered Perrit's hut and saw his form on the sleeping bag, arm tucked
under his head as if asleep.  Wolf turned up the lamp and noticed that
Perrit lay on his side in a strangely loose way.  He knelt down, turned
him over, and felt for a pulse at his neck.  Perrit's mouth was slack,
his eyes half opened.  There was nothing, just the cooling skin of a
recently dead man.  He made a cursory examination and found no blood or
signs of wounds.  He sat back on his heels and thought about what he had
found.  Maybe a heart attack.  There is nothing I can do now.  It's too
late, he's already cold.  I'll call Mister Sam and have him get an
evacuation helicopter here in the morning.

Wolf had seen death many times before and had learned not to react in
any but a perfunctory manner.

He straightened out Perrit's body, opened the dead man's sleeping bag,
rolled him into it, and zipped it closed.  He carried the heavy sagging
bag to the side and laid it next to the wall.

Then he squatted by his PRC-25 radio, turned it on, picked up the
handset, and called Maple several times.  He knew he maintained a
listening watch.  There was no answer.  He tried a few more times, then
twisted one of the knobs to listen for the hiss of a frequency change.
There was no sound, so he changed the battery.  Still no sound.

He reached over for Perrit's PRC-25.  When he had the same negative
results, he looked at the back of each set, then pulled the batteries
off.  He grunted in surprise.  Both radios had one of the battery
contacts pinched off.  With the battery in place, it would be
unnoticeable.  He put the radio down and snatched up Perrit's Swedish-K.
The magazine was gone and no round jumped out when he pulled back the
bolt.  The cylinders of the revolvers and .45 were empty.  Wolf pulled
over his harness and rucksack, The magazine pouches were empty and his
grenades were missing.

Okay, Wolf said to himself.  We have a bit of a problem here.  Someone
wants me unarmed and cut off.  He checked the twenty-round magazine of
his AK-47 and then the Mauser 7.63 strapped to his ankle.  He slapped
the stiletto on the other ankle to ensure it was in place.  Then he
glanced over at the bulky sleeping bag.  He went over and quickly
unzipped the bag, stripped Perrit and examined his bare body.  He found
it when he lifted Perrit's left arm: a small drop of dried blood under
Perrit's arm between two ribs near the top of his rib cage.

Wolf rubbed the dot away to reveal a tiny puncture mark.  He drew his
breath in.  Someone had punctured Perrit's heart with a hard, thin wire.
It had gone through to his chest cavity and entered the heart.  Wolf sat
back on his heels, thinking about the old trick that fooled dull-witted
coroners into believing the person had died of a heart attack or a
stroke.

Let's see, Wolf thought.  They've broken the radios, taken the
ammunition, and killed Perrit.  I'd better gel out of herebut not
immediately-could stumble into all sorts of traps in the dark.  For some
reason they made all three incidents not easily recognizable.  Perrit
looked asleep and I shouldn't have noticed otherwise until morning. They
could have smashed or stolen the radios, stolen the guns, killed Perrit
outright and ambushed me-but they didn't.

Wolf sat on the floor and leaned against his rucksack.  The light from
the lantern shadow-painted Comanche warrior designs on his face.  He
pondered who "they" might be.  Not Bunth or Touby--too, sophisticated
for them.  And I don't see why the NVA would go to this much trouble-or
the Chinese.  They're in Laos, but as road builders and guerrilla
advisers- They don't get into clever tricky stuff like this.  It's got
to be Spetsnaz.  I'll bet it was a Sov team in the area, on training
missions either to train themselves or to train the NVA or PL.  Or for
all three reasons. Everything done here could be performed by any
average Spetsnaz team.

But why?  he asked himself.  For what reason?  Whatever the reason, I
found out they murdered Perrit earlier than they expected.  They didn't
think I would be on to his death as a murder until morning-or maybe
never.  He frowned in thought.

It was as if all they needed was to buy a few Hours to do something.

He leaned back and shut his eyes.  He thought about using the village
radios but doubted that they would let him.  Bunth or Touby might not
have done this, he thought, but I think they're in on it-it rea sn't ma
muc sense-an ma that's the key.  He opened his eyes and sat forward,
flipped the cloth covering back, and looked at his watch.  One o'clock.
It would be daylight in about five and a half Hours.  He decided to talk
to Lee and Loo.

He squatted outside the opening for several minutes to accustom his eyes
to the darkness and to listen and catalog the sounds of the village.
There was no moon.  Sleep murmurs from one side, a thumping of wooden
boards as someone turned over on their pallet, a cough, frog sounds from
the jungle.  He heard the passage of jet fighters, some very close to
the top of the karst.

Soon, as his eyes made out distinct forms in the starlit village, he
distinguished the individual sounds of relaxed breathing.  He smelled
the old smoke from the fire pit and the vinegary odor of palm beer.  He
looked around, then slowly rose to his feet and walked very carefully to
the two forms sleeping by the fire pit.  He quietly woke them and asked
if they had heard anything from anybody about the strange men being
close tonight.

Yes, they said, they'd seen a little motion in the dark they hadn't
thought was normal, around the longhouse of Bunth.

When Wolf asked if it could also have been near the hut of the mei-mei,
the American, they said yes it was possible, but they could not say if
the strange men were involved.  Wolf brought them to the door of the hut
and told them to be on guard and to keep one man awake at all times.  He
sat nearby against a tree.

He heard the faint clatter at three o'clock in the morning and
recognized the whopping sound for what it was ...  a helicopter getting
airborne.  Twenty minutes later he saw a shape that could have been
Touby enter the longhouse.

He drifted off and woke while it was still dark, packed up his gear, and
took Perrit's identification.  After a healthy intake of water and some
crackers, he left as the village was first stirring under a cool and
vague dawn.  Lee and Loo fell in with him.  He noticed the absence of
guards and security outposts along the way.  They refilled their
canteens at a small stream and added purifier tablets.  At first the
going was easy, the trail clear and wide, as the daylight turned from
dawn gray to morning blue.

He walked with an easy, distance-consuming stride.  He didn't feel good
about leaving Perrit back there but figured he'd send a helicopter for
his body.

He was surprised he could depart the village so easily, and thought
about the helicopter he had heard take off.  He guessed it was a pickup
for the people who had killed Perrit.  Maybe, he thought, they heard
Perrit transmitting, weren't sure if it was about them or not, so they
made a quick decision to take him out and cripple the radios and hope I
wouldn't discover what had happened.  Probably had to meet that
helicopter or be left behind.  That trick with the wire is right out of
the Spetsnaz and KGB wetwork manual.  I think they were running out of
time and didn't want to get delayed.  It was probably more important to
get on that helicopter and get out of here than it was to kill me.  He
stopped for a rest in the shade of a large limestone outcropping.  Lee
and Loo took up guard positions.

Wolf removed his floppy-brimmed hat and wiped his brow with an olive
drab bandana.

If it is the Sovs, Wolf continued thinking, then it would be the first
time they've been active enough in Laos to be spotted None have ever
been seen or even suspected in this part of Asia.  So if they're here,
it'sfor a special reason, a very special reason, to risk so much time in
and around one small village.

He rested a few more minutes, then resumed the climb.

They passed several fighting positions filled with alert and well-armed
men from Major Hak's village.  He saw they had radios and were probably
keeping Hak and Mister Sam advised of the American's approach up the
steep path.  It was shortly after the noon hour when he reached Mister
Sam's hut and reported to Vientiane on the Collins HF radio, using the
scrambler device.  A helicopter was promised in three Hours to extract
him and go down to get Perrit's body.  When he was finished, Court came
down -from Pearson sraar site.

Wolf told him about Perrit and his belief that Spetsnaz was in the area.

"Spetsnaz?  Don't know much about them.  Why not China?

They supply a lot of aid to North Vietnam."

"China is not all that easy to work with.  Besides, while the North
Viets want Chinese war materials," Wolf said, "they don't want Chinese
soldiers running around pulling off operations in Vietnam or
Vietnamese-controlled territory.  The people and the language the men
describe to me mean Russian.  And Russian means Spetsnaz."

"Say again who or what they are."

"Spetsialnoye Nazranie.  That means 'forces at designation."' "Strange
way to put it."

"What it means," Wolf said, "is that they go in before a raid or an
attack or even before a war starts so that they're there when the main
force arrives.  their job is sabotage, killing important people, and
generally wiping out command and control centers, all the while trying
to create panic and disruption of the populace.  They are trained in the
customs, language, and may even wear the uniforms of the country they
work in.  Many members of the Soviet sporting teams that travel and
compete around the world are Spetsnaz members."

:'What are they doing in Laos?" Court asked.

"Training, I'd say," Wolf replied.  "No better place to run around and
teach and practice tactics than a moderately safe combat zone.  Some
Spetsnaz commander bucking for promotion probably decided taking out
Eagle Station would be good for his career." Wolf stretched and yawned.
"What is your impression of Pearson and the Station layout?"

"These Air Force men are not soldiers.  Sure, they've qualified in M-16s
and .38s on the range, but they've never been shot at, never have gone
through basic infantry training.  They're radar technicians and that's
all.  They can't be considered part of a defending force.  If the place
is going to fall, they must be evacuated well ahead of time.  Mister Sam
brought up Hak and some of his men.  I taught them the Flaming Arrow
trick but made the point it was last-ditch stuff.  They showed me the
best places and we built two.  My guys checked in with F-4s and we spent
most of yesterday and last night getting them familiar with the area. We
lit the arrows last night and arranged the construction until they said
they were just right.

They're ready to go."

Wolf nodded.  He told them what he had seen below in Muong Yat, how he
didn't trust Bunth or Touby, and about the helicopter he had heard.

"Glad you heard that helio," Court said.  "For a couple weeks my guys
have been saying they had seen funny, flitting shadows down low around
this area and Mu Gia Pass.  When one suggested helicopters to a visiting
Intell debriefer from 7th Air Force, he was patted on the head and said
to keep looking for guns, that no enemy helicopters had ever come into
Laos since 1962."

Wolf nodded.  "What I want to do now," he said to Mister Sam, "is go to
Hak's village and see how his defenses are lined up."

"They are about as good as you'll find.  C'mon, I'll take you there."

They returned from the inspection just before the Air America helicopter
clattered into the helipad to pick them up.  Wolf told Mister Sam that
outside of a shortage of mortar tubes, he was satisfied Hak's plans were
good, and Hak himself seemed like a true warrior, not just talk and
subterfuge like B with and Touby.

Court shook hands with Pearson.  Mister Sam said he would radio VTT when
they were off the ground and inbound for Vientiane.

He raised a hand in farewell as the Huey helicopter lifted off.

The helicopter crew was well briefed.  The pilot buzzed the Muong Yat
village, while Court and the crew chief pitched out a few double-bagged
sacks of rice to prepare the villagers for their unexpected arrival,
then they landed in a clearing.  The pilot kept the blades turning.

The crew chief, a ropy-looking Hmoung, pulled out a body bag.  Wolf took
a packet from his survival kit, then led the way to the hut.  The
villagers didn't seem as friendly as before, and most looked away as if
the three men didn't exist.

"They have been told bad things about us," Wolf said.

"Maybe they don't believe what they hear, but they must act as if they
do," Court said.

When they reached the hut and walked in, it was empty.

"What is it you would do now?" the Hmoung crew chief asked.

"We buy him back," Wolf said with disgust.  From past experience with
Lao bandits and a few undisciplined Hmoungs, he knew what to do.  The
bandit's way of life revolved around larceny, and deals that could be
betrayed if it meant an additional profit.

He led them out and to the opening to the longhouse.  In the dim
interior they could just make out Bunth and Touby sitting cross-legged
on mats.  Bunth was smoking a pipe, from which the thick, ropy smell of
opium rose in overpowering waves.

"Help me talk, translate for me," Wolf said to the Hmoung crew chief.

Court nodded in greeting as Wolf made the appropriate salutations, then
used the crew chief to ask where the body of their friend was.

"He is one with the spirits," Bunth said in a dreamlike state.

"You have buried him?" Wolf asked.

"He is one with the spirits."

"There are those who would want to have him back, to prepare him for his
journey to the other side."

Bunth smoked and remained silent.  Touby studied some items of magic he
had in a small animal-skin bag.

"There are those who would reward you for your very excellent care of
him."

Bunth looked up.  "That is only to be expected.  He must be a very
important and rich man to send a helicopter for him."

At that point Wolf opened the negotiations.  In ten minutes they settled
on an ounce of gold, worth about $40.  Touby spoke a few words to two
men outside the rear of the longhouse.

In moments they produced the sleeping bag.  Touby's eyes flickered when
Wolf unzipped it and steeled himself to look inside.

"There seems to be some mistake," he said, and held open the flap.  The
decomposed but unmistakable features of an elderly villager gaped at
them.

"It is regrettable," Touby said without looking at the body.

"Perhaps one could be persuaded to make a better search for that rich
man."

"Perhaps the rice drops and the ammunition drops that fatten this
village cannot be persuaded to continue," Wolf added in a reasonable
voice.

Touby's body tightened in anger.  "Go with them," he hissed, waving at
the two Hmoung, who straightened up from the sleeping bag and stepped
out of the longhouse.

Wolf and Court followed them out of the longhouse and to a nearby
thatched hut, where they stood at each side of the opening.  The crew
chief stayed outside when they entered and found Perrit's body.  It had
been stripped bare.

1845 Hours LOCAL, MONDAY 21 OCTOBER 1968

AMERICAN HOUSING AREA, VEFNTIANE

ROYALTY OF LAOS

They landed at Vientiane just before dusk.  Jim Polter and two DEA men
met the helicopter.  The two men took Perrit's body and said they would
debrief Court and Wolf at the Embassy.

Jim Polter drove them there in his jeep and said to come by his office
when they were finished and to plan to spend the night at his villa.  He
would arrange a plane to get Court back to Ubon tomorrow.

The DEA men were competent and professional.  They took Wolf's
statements without comment until Court told them what Wolf had had to go
through and what he had had to pay to get the body back.

"We can't refund you, I'm afraid," the heavier of the two men said.

"The hell we can't," the younger man said and took two twenty-dollar
bills from his pocket and handed them to Wolf.

Unlike in South Vietnam, Americans stationed in Laos could deal in
dollars, not military scrip.  "Listen," he said, "you did a hell of a
job.  Most people would just have left him there.  James Penit was,
well, really into his work.  He could be abrasive.

Thanks for the debrief and we will continue to track Bunth and Touby."

"You got anything at all on unusual activity in that area other than
dope traffic and the commies?" Wolf asked.

"Like what?" the older man said.

"Like Russians."

The older man laughed.  "You're nuts.  Nothing like that in Laos."

"Try the Agency," the younger man said.  "That's more their line of
work."

"No point in seeing them," Wolf said as they strode down the hall.
"Mister Sam has told them all we know.  Although I might see if the boss
of that Scheisskopf Powers is back.  He's the one I was supposed to meet
in the first place." He entered the office.

A comely brown-haired woman standing by the empty desk said Mister
Powers and his boss were in Bangkok for an unspecified period on Company
business.  She eyed Court with obvious approval and seemed about to
speak as they walked out and headed for Jim Polter's office.

Polter had a visitor, a firm and sturdy blonde wearing a tan skirt and
light blue blouse.  Her eyes widened as she saw them.

"Vulfgang," she said in surprise.

Wolf Lochert snorted in recognition.  His mouth moved from a glad smile
to a heavy frown.  He had met Greta Sturm earlier in the year, when he
had rescued her and Jim Polter from the roof of a CIA safe house that
had no longer been safe in Hue, South Vietnam.  She had been a nurse
with the German Maltese Cross mission.  At first reluctant to shoot at
the attacking North Vietnamese, she had later proved to be cool and
capable with an M- 16.  Afterward, quite taken, Wolf had talked at
length with her, and revealed a reflective and gentle side of himself
not seen since the days before he had left the Maryknoll Seminary to
become a soldier.  She had told him she would leave the mission and get
a job as a nurse in Saigon to be near him, to be his girlfriend, but
when Wolf had gone to her apartment shortly afterward, she had not been
there, and the neighbors, who worked at the German Embassy, had not
seemed to know her very well or where she had gone.  He was disappointed
and bitter that she hadn't tried to see him.

"Just what are you doing here?" he sputtered.

She looked like a doe trapped in a hunter's spotlight.  "Not here," she
said, and moved swiftly into the hall.  Wolf followed her.  Court eyed
Polter, who winked and stayed behind.

In the hall she reached for his hand but he jerked away.

"Wolfgang, I know you must be angry.  You must think I lied to you." She
spoke in a low, urgent voice.  "I know I said we would see each other,
then I was not available." Without makeup, her face looked like that of
a young Teutonic boy with a firm chin.

"What are you doing here?" he repeated.

She licked her lips.  "I am here on business.  I work as an
administrative nurse for the Agency for International Development.  They
sent me here with some studies." She wrung her hands.  "Oh, I didn't
want us to meet like this.  I was afraid this would happen.  Why didn't
Jim tell me you were here?"

"You weren't in Saigon when I went to see you," he persisted.

"You never told me you were coming." Her gray, wide-set eyes looked
worried and she seemed happy and flustered at the same time.  There were
dark circles under her eyes.  For the first time Wolf noticed how thin
she was compared to the last time he had seen her.  Greta spoke.
"Please-I must talk to you.  I must explain."

Jim Polter walked up with Court.  "C'mon, you two, quittin' time," he
said with a grin.  "I'm taking you over to my place for dinner." He
grabbed them both by the arm and urged them out the Embassy door.  No
one noticed the brown-haired woman from Powers' office who watched from
down the hall.  She allowed a knowing smile to cross her face as she
made plans to undertake a little seduction that night.

Polter drove them in a jeep to his rather sumptuous villa in the
American compound called KM6.

"Yes," he said, only slightly embarrassed as they entered through wide
doors into the polished, teak-floored hallway of his one-story
American-style rambler, "it is like back home, isn't it?" The house was
in a peaceful neighborhood with other ramblers.  There were manicured
lawns, a few pools, concrete driveways leading up to garages, a few kids
playing, bikes lying on the grass. Typical American suburbia in
Vientiane, Laos.

Many of the Embassy and AID people lived in these surroundings.  Their
younger grade-school-aged children went to the International School in
Vientiane.  High-school-aged children went to the International School
in Bangkok.  Those college age kids who were actually in college were in
Switzerland, taking advantage of the AID tuition and travel benefits.
Most, however, were flitting about the world in grassy attempts to find
themselves.

Polter showed the two men to the guest room.  Polter offered Greta a
room because, he said, they would probably be up talking well past
curfew.  She nodded but didn't reply.

After cleaning up, they sat in Polter's air-conditioned, teaklined
study, and were served drinks while they discussed the results of the
last few days.  Court was wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts, a tank top,
and thongs.  His tanned body was fit and trim.  Wolf had put on civilian
khaki pants and a short-sleeved sport shirt that accentuated the ridged
muscles and dark hair of his forearms.  Court and Polter had beer in
thermal mugs so chilled that ice crystals had formed in the foam.  Greta
and Wolf had iced tea.

Wolf outlined his findings, saying he was quite sure Touby was in charge
of Bunth and his men, and that he was playing both sides of the war, as
well as the opium smugglers.  Polter agreed and said small indicators in
the past supported the theory.  At dusk he brought them to the brick
patio in the rear and put steaks on the gas grill while a servant
hovered and replenished drinks.  A large, curved pool, as fresh and
immaculate as if it had just been constructed that afternoon from a
picture in a garden magazine, stretched out to the tall trees and thick
foliage around the patio.  They settled in lawn chairs about a round
white metal table with a center hole for an umbrella; muted classical
music came from two waterproof speakers under the eaves on each side of
the patio.  They were discussing life in Laos in general and in
Vientiane in particular.

Jim Polter had just told them a Russian Embassy was there, and that
occasional contact was made with the Russians on the streets and at the
occasional functions attended by all of the diplomats in Vientiane.

"We kind of have fun with the Sovs, bait the attachds with phony
stories, kiddy stuff like that.  Years ago, before they stopped coming
in to Wattay, we used to get drunk with the pilots who were flying stuff
in for the PL." He got up to attend the grill as the sun set and a
servant fit the Tiki torches.  Greta looked imploringly at Wolf, who
finally got the message and asked if she wanted to look at the flowers
at the other end of the pool.  Court sipped his beer and tried not to
smile as they walked away.

They sat on a cement bench in a small flower garden that gave them
partial concealment from the grill and the house.

She took his big hand in hers.

"Wolfgang, if I hurt you, I am so sorry, so very sorry."

He remained quiet.

"Please," she said, "I did not handle it well.  I know that. The battle,
the fight, the deaths ...  you being so, so fierce and gentle at the
same time .  .  ." She trailed off.

He shook his head.  "I told you so much.  You seemed so ... defenseless.
Then you shot so well.  You put on quite a show.  I should have known.
The villa, after all, belonged to the Agency's man in Hue."

Her eyes widened.  "You think I am with the CIA?" There had been a
bloody firefight during the escape.  Greta Sturm had said she was a
nurse and could not, would not, shoot a weapon, but when things had been
at their worst, and a man with an M-16 had been killed next to her, she
had picked up the weapon and proven to be a very good shot, quite cool
under fire.

"it was quite a show."

"It wasn't a show.  Oh no, I was afraid.  I was very much afraid.  I was
not sure I could do it.  I was not sure I could kill."

"All that about you being a nurse and your father not wanting you to be
a doctor.  And your joining the Maltese Aid Society to get away from
him.  That wasn't true-was it?"

"Stop it," she said.  "Stop it.  It is true, all of it.  Why don't you
believe me?"

"Then why have you avoided me?"

She calmed down.  "Because ...  because you are a soldier, a warrior."

"You knew that when we met and when we saw each other once at Tan Son
Nhut."

"Yes, but ...  but ...  this is difficult ...  if I were to lose you ...
maybe I thought if I didn't see you ever again, then there would be no
pain if ...  if--2' "If I got my tail shot off."

She wrung her hands.  "Oh, I did miss you and I am glad to see you.  So
very glad."

Wolf turned to her.  The torchlight framed her face.  He shook his
massive head.  "We talked so much.  I told you so many things about
myself."

"Were they true?"

"Yes."

"Do you regret it?"

He thought for a moment.  "I suppose not."

"Suppose?  Why suppose?"

He inhaled a deep breath.  "I have never revealed so much of myself to
anyone, and when I could not find you I thought maybe ...  maybe I had
scared you away."

She took his big hand in hers.  "Oh, Liebchen, you could never scare me.
You are so gentle.  I am so sorry for what I did.  I promise, I will not
again hide."

He took her hand.  "You look very nice," he said in a soft voice.

These were the most romantic words Special Forces Lieutenant Colonel
Wolfgang X.  Lochert had ever said to a woman in his life.  Greta Sturm
was the first woman seriously to attract his attention since his
infatuation with a leggy dancer named Charmaine years ago.  When he had
watched Greta in the fierce battle at the Hue villa, calmly firing
three-round bursts from an M- 16, dirt smudge on her forehead, blonde
hair falling over the stock as she took aim, he had thought he had never
seen a more attractive woman.

"No, I don't." She took her hand away.  "I look terrible.  I'm worried
and all tired out."

"Well, you've lost weight."

"Mein Gott, Vulfgang.  You do not know how to compliment a woman, do
you?  Lost weight, ach." She laughed and tossed her head.  "Yes, I've
lost weight.  I work too hard.  I can't help it."

"Tell me why you are really here in Vientiane."

She smiled.  "You are only being nice to me to learn why I am here."

"Perhaps."

"I am here delivering some papers."

Wolf made a small sound in his throat, which she interpreted as a snort
of derision.  "You don't think a woman should be out here?"

"Hold on, there.  I didn't say anything of the sort."

"You had better not.  Your precious Army doesn't see fit to use women in
anything but typing jobs.  At least AID lets us get out in the field
once in a while."

Wolf gave her what he hoped was his most sincere smile.

"That they do," he said.  "Delivering papers."

"You think I'm just a courier?  Well, I am not.  These papers are the
results of my studies on health care for children in South Vietnam and
Laos."

"What did you find?"

"South Vietnam-some care.  Very little in Laos, outside of the Tom
Dooley foundation."

They sat silently fora moment.  "Wolfgang," she whispered into his ear.
"Regardless of what you think about me, I am glad to see you.  I mean
it, I do want to see you in Saigon." In the darkness, she turned and
kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"We will see each other," he said quietly.

Jim called that chow was about to be served.  They went back and talked
with Court for a few moments, when they heard the sound of the front
door being opened by the houseboy, then the slap of sandals on the teak
floor.  The brown-haired girl from Powers' office stepped through the
French doors onto the patio.  She wore a brightly colored summer frock.
The men rose.

Her brown eyes grew large in exaggerated surprise.  "Oh, Jim, you have
company," she said breathlessly.  "I'll come back."

She swept her eyes around and looked long at Wolf and Court.

A half-smile formed on her lips.  "Well," she said with a lilt, maybe I
will stay."

"Hello, Babs, drag it in and I'll wet it down with the usual," Jim
Polter said, and kissed her on the cheek.  She curtsied in return.

"Greta, gentlemen-I present Barbara Powers.  Call her Babs, but don't
call her anything or talk to her until she has had at least two sips of
one of my fainous Vientiane coolers." Polter moved to the liquor table
and quickly mixed cassis and soda over shaved ice in a tall glass.  He
added a cherry and handed it to her.  She took two long pulls.

"Lifesaving.  Absolutely lifesaving," she said.  She put the drink on
the table and offered her hand to Wolf, who happened to be closest.

"Hi-I'm Babs.  Say, you are a brute, aren't you?" She looked at him with
frank admiration.

"Wolfgang Lochert," Wolf said and shook her hand.

"Wolfgang?" She lifted an eyebrow.

Lochert cocked his head.  "Wolf, then."

"Right.  You look like a Wolf, all savage." She stood nearly an inch
taller than the stocky man.  She turned and offered her hand to the
seated Greta Sturm.

"Babs," she said.

"Greta Sturm." Greta made no effort to smile or rise up from her chair.
She reached up and pumped once, Continental-style.

Powers' eyes swept from Greta to Wolf and back.  She turned to Court and
offered her hand.

"I'm Court Bannister," he said before she could give her name.

"I know," she replied.  She stood prettily, but Court noticed her eyes
did not crinkle in accompaniment.  Instead, they looked directly into
his own for just an instant longer than normal.

He noticed fine lines that aged an otherwise young face.  He guessed her
at less than thirty, but how much he couldn't say.

"Gentlerneri, please.  Be seated," she said airily and sat on a metal
chair next to the table.  She picked up her glass and quickly drained
it.  Jim Polter took it from her and mixed another.

"Babs works at the Embassy," he said as he handed it to her.

"Ambassador Plenipotentiary, I think."

"Powers?" Wolf said to her.

"Powers," she agreed.  "Sister to Jer Powers.  You know him, don't you?
The great Jerome Powers?" She took a long drink of her cooler.

"You do kid, don't you, Babs," Jim Polter said with a strained smile.
"Actually, gang, Babs is Mrs.  Barbara Powers-Jerome's wife."

"His little wifey," she said in a cloying falsetto.

Things had not gone as Barbara Westin Powers had dreamed and planned
that Colorado summer nearly ten years ago.  The first part had been
successful-the part where she had toyed with that young Dominguez.
Driving him nearly wild while she used him to tantalize Jer Powers had
worked as she had anticipated.  Powers had taken the bait, but the hook
had been set by her father, who had been so relieved she was no longer
dating out of her race that he would have done anything his little girl
wanted.  First, he'd thrown the biggest and most sumptuous coming-out
party seen at the Broadmoor Hotel since gold mining days.  Then, as the
time had passed and Powers had seen more of her, Mister Westin had had a
man-to-man talk with him and said that were he by some chance to become
his son-in-law, a percentage of the dealership would be theirs to do
with as they pleased and, further, a thirty-year zero-interest loan up
to $ 1 00,000 would be available when it became time to buy a house.
Naturally, his-and-her Ford Thunderbirds would be wedding presents.
Barbara Westin became Mrs.  Jerome T. Powers after her one and only year
at Vassar (she decided she could afford a year to see what it was like),
where she discovered good bourbon and bad boys.  It was there she
adopted the nickname Babs, because Barbara sounded too provincial.  She
had tried to get the girls to call her Buffy, but it never took.

Sometimes now she thought, God, what did I do to deserve this?  I can't
divorce that pig and still live a halfway decent life.  By a halfway
decent life, Babs Westin Powers meant a life where she did not have to
work, but could have enough money to enjoy a nice house, a new car every
two years or so, and plenty of clothes and jewelry to wear while
visiting friends and touring exotic vacation spots and meeting many
different men.  Daddy would cut her off.  He was very old-fashioned and
believed in monogamy.  He could have trampy girlfriends, she thought,
and he had, ever since Mommy was gone, but she had to be Miss Goody
Two-Shoes or at least appear to be.  Jerk Jerome's family had enough
money to supplement his income by $500 a month, and Daddy had delivered
as promised, so she hadn't lived too badly ...  so far.  Jerk Jerome was
certainly making more money with the CIA once he had cut loose from the
Air Force after his service commitment had been up.  And he couldn't
fly-too bad: something might have happened and there was the $100,000
life insurance policy.

And he had not been a good administrative officer.  Couldn't take orders
or something.  So he had gotten out as soon as he could and found an
immediate job with the Agency, which was desperately seeking young men
with a college degree and military experience.  Jerome had found himself
the third Air Force Academy graduate hired by them and had done
surprisingly well in training.  After a short time in the States, they
had been extremely pleased to be posted to an embassy right off. Pleased
until they arrived at dusty, Oriental boorntown Vientiane.  Even a nifty
ranch-style house and shopping trips to Bangkok hadn't brightened the
absolutely dull day-to-day existence for a bright young (I'm not even
thirty and look twenty) Embassy Wife.

There had been a few men, all but one in Bangkok.  A quick liaison with
a CASI pilot had occurred once at Jim Polter's, but that, she had
decided, was too risky.  Besides, she thought maybe the other wives
looked at her funny.  Too risky, that is, until now-Court Bannister.

To Babs Westin Powers, Court Bannister was a catch.  Handsome, rich,
well-known, not married.  What a pair they would make.  She knew she
could make the break from her dumb, dull, desultory existence married to
a man who didn't know how to fuck, fight, or frolic.  (She loved that
phrase.  The CASI pilot had taught it to her.)  And Court Bannister
could do all three, she was sure, because she knew about him.  Her
favorite reading material, the tabloids, the society pages, the
Hollywood magazines, kept her well abreast of what was going on in that
exciting world of what they called the jet set.  She had a pretty good
idea of what he was like ...  and what he liked.  After all, he was the
son of Sam Bannister and everyone knew Sam liked his women.  And Court
was a fighter pilot and everyone knew they liked their women.

"What do you do at the Embassy?" Greta said, studying her.

"Nothing much," she said, pulling herself back.  "Just some typing in
the political section.  Look in at Jer's office.  Keeps me busy." She
took another swallow.  "Keeps me off the streets and out of the bars."

"Must be wery tiring," Greta said, cursing herself for letting her
accent slip.  It happened sometimes when she was tired or upset.

"Not too," Babs said as she accepted a fresh cooler from Polter.  He
quickly refreshed the others' glasses and Court's Budweiser and said he
had to tend to the grill.  Wolf glanced over and saw there was just the
right amount of steaks, as if Polter had known Babs, or someone, would
be joining them.

Babs Powers turned back to Court and fixed him with her eyes.  "What
brings you to Vientiane, Court?"

He almost smiled at the intensity of her gaze, for he thought he knew
what it meant.  He had been brought up around movie stars, starlets, and
sycophants all his life.  He knew a comehither gesture when he saw it.

"Tourism, ruins, Plaine des Jarres, cultural activities.  The usual." He
could feel the beer.

"Hmm, yes, the usual.  How were things out there with the dear old
natives?"

"Revolting."

"Yes, I'll bet they were." She finished her cooler and looked up at him
with a slight smile curved barely short of mocking.

She absently thanked Jim Polter as he handed her her third cooler.  Wolf
and Greta walked over to the pool and sat on the diving board, talking
quietly.  Jim busied himself with the steaks.  Babs took a sip while
holding Court's eyes.

"Do you come this way often?" she asked.

"Offhand-no." Court drained the beer from his mug and was handed another
by a houseboy.

"Pity," she said, her eyes admiring his body.  She leaned forward and
reached over to tap his bare knee.  "You keep in shape, don't you?"

I try." He couldn't help noticing her own figure, the almost too
muscular calves of her legs, the smooth curve of flank under the silk.

"You obviously indulge in a lot of exercise yourself."

"Oh, I do." She made a mirthless smile, reminding Court of the cartoon
cat about to devour the canary.

"Food's on, chow down," Polter sang out from the grill.  "Eat now or
forever hold your peace."

"How do you spell that, James?" Babs asked.

Polter guffawed and said, "Now, now, girl, be nice." He signaled the
houseboy, who brought wooden platters for the steaks.  Wolf and Greta
came over and they sat around a picnic table under an arbor by the pool.

"Goodness, Jim," Babs said, I didn't expect to be fed.  I just popped in
to say hello and see who all your charming guests were.  We get so few
interesting vistors around here.  This is a dreary, dusty village."

"I guess you'll just have to take Earthquake's steak," Polter said, and
flopped the biggest of the steaks on her plate.  Wolf nodded in
comprehension and appreciation.

"Earthquake McGoon?" Court said.

"What on earth are you talking about?" said Babs.

Polter explained.  Jim McGovern, nicknamed Earthquake McGoon, after Al
Capp's character in his Li'l Abner cartoon strip, had been a heavyset
pilot-a very heavyset pilot-from the Midwest who'd wound up flying C- 1
19 twin-boom cargo ships for CAT or Flying Tigers in 1954.  He'd been
shot down air-dropping badly needed supplies to de Lattre's beleaguered
French soldiers at Dien Bien Phu weeks before it had been overrun by the
Viet Minh in March of 1954.  He'd almost landed his crippled ship onto a
sandbar in the nearby river.  When he'd seen he couldn't make it, he'd
calmly radioed, "Looks like this is it, son." None of his fellow pilots
and friends at Vientiane really believed he was dead.  He had survived
one crash and was too legendary not to survive another.  Someday he
would emerge from the jungle and demand his steak and his drinks.

,.Monte Banks at the Purple Porpoise was so sure Earthquake was coming
back he had his big Papasan chair mounted on sort of a stage and
wouldn't let anybody sit in it," Polter finished.

Jim made the toast, "To Earthquake," and they all drank.  A Bach quartet
sounded from the speakers.  Jim broke out a strong red Burgundy and
poured for Babs, Court, and himself.  Wolf and Greta stayed with iced
tea.  The houseboy lit Tiki torches around the pool as the purple dusk
turned darker.  They spoke of life in Vientiane: the influx of newsmen
trying to dig up stories of the war in Laos, the latest Dooley Dollies
who had come in to replace the volunteer stewardesses who had taught
English and nursed for the Tom Dooley Foundation, and the antics of the
Air America and Continental Air Service pilots.

I wouldn't know about that," Babs said.  I make it a point never to date
pilots.  From around here," she added, swinging her eyes back to Court.

"You must have very many ...  friends," Greta said, trying to hold her
eyes wide and innocent.

"Well, I do represent the American Embassy, you know.  I'm paid to make
friends," Babs replied with scarcely a glance in Greta's direction.

"Yes, I bet you are," Greta said in as near a snarl as possible without
violating the laws of civility.  "Your husband-you are married, are you
not?  Your husband-what does he do?"

Jim Polter interrupted the interchange with some innocuous comments
about the weather.  Court and Wolf stretched out a conversation about
the National Football League until dinner was over.  Greta barely
maintained control of her seething disposition while Babs cheerily
traded remarks with Jim about Asian versus American sunsets.

It was well after nine and totally black under an overcast sky when they
moved from the patio to the study.  Greta said she was too weary for
words and said she would take Jim up on his offer for a room.  She bade
goodnight.  Wolf hemmed and hawed around until he too said goodnight and
followed her down the long hall.  Babs made a lewd grin when they heard
him knock quietly on Greta's door.

"Well, how was Lima Site 85, home of your channing Eagle Station?" Babs
said with a wide smile to Court.

Court looked at Jim Polter.  "What did you say she did at the Embassy?"

Polter laughed.

"What makes you think I know what you're talking about?" Court said.

"Come off it, Court," she said.  "Everybody knows what everybody else
does around here.  Nothing's classified."

"The hell you say.  Maybe everybody who is anybody knows what happens to
someone who is somebody-but I'm not somebody.  I'm just passing
through."

"You don't just pass through Vientiane.  You're either going someplace
in Laos or coming from someplace in Laos." She turned to Jim.  "Isn't
that true?"

He held his palms up.  "How would I know?  I just labor here."

He put down his napkin and stood up.  "I've got an early git-go tomorrow
aye-ern," he said to her, "so I'm packing it in.  You know where the
booze is, Court.  Come to think of it, so do you, Babs.  Make yourselves
to home.  Night."

They said goodnight in chorus as he walked out.

Court poured them both a Drambuie from Jim's well-stocked cabinet.  He
eyed Babs.  "What makes you think I know anything about-what did you
call it?  Lima Bean 85?"

"Get off it, Court.  I know exactly why you're here."

"Well, you are married to a man in the business.  I suppose he keeps you
informed.  Where is he tonight?"

She ignored his question.  "I specialize in interesting people.

I try to find out as much as I can about them before I meet them."

"Hell of a hobby.  You should be a spook." One of the houseboys cleared
the table.  He accidentally knocked a glass off the edge, but Court
caught it before it hit the hard floor.

"Nice catch," she said.  "What else can you do with your hands?"

He sat back.  "Babs, if you will excuse me for asking, why do you come
on so-"

"Forward?" She sipped her wine and looked at him over the rim of the
crystal.  "I thought all you Hollywood types liked i . that kind of
woman."

"I'm not a Hollywood type.  I haven't lived there more than five years
in my life, and that was over ten years ago."

"Well, you were acting.  I did see you at the movies."

"Years ago, when I was young and dumb.  I was an extra for gunsmoke and
horseshit, sand and sex."

"Well, maybe it was your father I saw so much." She recited: "'Silk
Screen Sam, the ladies' man.  If he can't get in, no one can."' It was a
rhyme that had been around since 1938, when young Sam Bannister had been
the bachelor idol of young movie fans throughout the world.  "Is that
what they say about you, too, Court?  Do you want to get in?"

Court tossed his napkin onto the table.  He got up and walked out to the
patio.  One Tiki torch cast a faint glow over the patio and pool.  He
had to get away from this woman.

"You could be more friendly, you know," she said as she followed him out
into the night air.

Court didn't turn around, then was startled by a splash.  He turned to
see the dark form of Barbara Powers stroking quietly in the dark water
of the pool.  He recognized her dress, -lying in a careless heap on a
deck chair, her shoes underneath.  Something white and filmy hung from
the back.  He sat down in a wicker chair near the pool rim and watched
her swim almost to his feet.  She was attractive, and it had been a long
time.

"Come on in," she said in a throaty voice.  "The water is, as they say,
fine."

Court shook his head.  "I think not." He could see the Vshaped shadow of
the cleavage between her trim breasts.  Her dark hair hung seal-sleek
down her back.  She reached out and lightly ran her fingers over the top
of his bare foot.  Despite himself, he felt the blood rising within him.
He saw himself dropping his shorts and plunging in and taking this girl
underwater.  He almost shivered at the thought.

"I think I'll stay out," he said, his mind finally made up.

"Cold?"

"No, chicken."

"Court Bannister?  Chicken?  I don't believe it." In one fluid motion,
twisted in midair, she hoisted herself out of the water and sat lightly
on the edge of the pool.  The torch flickered golden on her curves.

"Babs," he said.  "I'm taken." He tried to talk lightly and did best he
could to keep eye contact with her, and not let his eyes roam over the
secret valleys and mounds.

"Surely you're not married?"

"No, just ...  taken." He thought about the letter in his room.

She rose to her feet and sauntered over to pick up her dress, then stood
hipshot and made a little sound of derision.  "Well, you don't leave me
much, do you?  All that beautiful body simply wasting away.  How utterly
ridiculous" Embarrassed now, she dressed quickly and left Jim Polter's
patio and rambler house without another word.  Damn, she thought.  Why
had she come on so strong?  She wondered how she could arrange to get
another chance at Court Bannister.

Court watched her leave, then stripped off his tank top, dropped his
Bermudas and made a running dive in the pool and let himself knife into
the cool depths.  He made several laps of the pool as quietly as he
could, trying to tire himself.

After ten minutes he emerged and walked slowly in the Asian darkness to
his room.  "Taken," he had said, and it was true.

Our love is here to stay, he hummed in tuneless repetition, as he
thought of Sue Boyle, the one girl who had held his attention for more
than a week or two.  It was, let's see now, over a year since they had
been together.  Court had met Susan Boyle on his return from his first
tour in Vietnam.  She had been a sun-brown Manhattan Beach girl with
sleek lines who was flying as a stewardess for American Airlines.  She
had had a leonine mane of hair and liked to laugh.  He pictured her tall
legginess and shoulder-length blonde hair, her wide smile and deep blue
eyes, her magnificent breasts.

He fumbled on the low light by his bed and pulled her letter from the
photo case he carried in his gear.

Got to see you, she wrote.  Too lonesome for words.  Miss your kisses,
your strong arms, your beautiful body, and your ...  oh, you know.  Got
some time off due and thought I'd use one of my hard-earned passes to
come over your way and make some passes of my own.  Oh Court, I miss you
so much.  I know this is kind of hurry-up, but please try to come down
to Bangkok and see me.  If you can't, maybe I can take the train or an
elephant, or however they travel in Thailand, up to Ubon to see you.  If
I don't get bumped (Pan Am), I should arrive around the 23rd of October.
Love, love, love, desperate to see you.  Hope you don't mind the short
notice.  Your Susan.

He had wired her to meet him at the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok, where he
would arrange a suite.  No, Babs; Powers would not tempt him tonight.

He held the letter for a long time and thought about his sunny
California girl with the long blonde hair and the deep blue eyes, who
walked and talked with such special assurance and regal bearing.  He
studied her picture in the small brass folding case he carried.  She
stood poised and sleek on the foredeck of a large sailboat, holding the
sheets with one hand and waving with the other, hair streaming in the
wind, eyes alive and sparkling, her smile infectious and full.  To my
very own, was written on it, and the signature, Your Susan.

The last time they'd been together she had put him off when he'd pressed
her to marry him.  That had been in Singapore.

Had she changed her mind?  What if she was here to say she was ready to
get married?  Now he wasn't certain if he would go through with it.

He knew he could get away from Ubon for a few days.  He was the boss of
his own outfit and they scheduled themselves as they desired and he was
overdue for a break.

He crossed his legs and put his arms behind his head, thought of the
song they'd sung when they were together in Singapore, Gibraltar may
tumble, the Rockies mayfall.  .  .  , and fell asleep.

"Oh, Wolfgang, you are so strong ...  ahh." She enfolded him, her strong
legs gripping. "Greta," Wolf said later, as the dawn broke.

"Yes, lover."

"I've been thinking."

"Yes, lover."

"That Swedish K that Perrit carried.  The bolt clacks.  The NVA and VC
hears that in a firefight and knows only Americans use them.  Don't you
ever carry one.  Get a clean AK-47, they won't know who you are."

"Yes, lover."

Jim Polter got everybody out of bed at six in the morning by the simple
expedient of frying bacon and eggs and turning Sousa marches up to
maximum volume on his Akai stereo.  One by one his guests dressed and
stepped through the French doors onto the patio.

"The Beech for Ubon takes off at 0730 on the dot," he told them as he
poured strong coffee.  The brilliant sun promised to scorch the brick
once it cleared the palm trees.

Wolf and Greta were quick to thank Jim for his hospitality.

Greta had an unmistakable glow that had not been there the night before.
Wolf was his usual bulky, quiet self.  Court was not.  He drew Polter
aside.

"Mat was a setup, Jim."

"No-honestly.  She was just checking you out.  Little Babs can smell a
new cock in town from a mile away."

"Good God, man, she's married!  Does her husband know about her?"

"Can't help but know, but does nothing about it.  I heard he spends his
off-duty time at LuLu's." Lulu's was a well-known brothel, which
specialized in French love-making.

"You sure you didn't aim her at me just to see what would happen?"

"No, I swear.  Nothing happened?"

"Nothing."

"Historic first.  It'll ruin her reputation."

"Pity."

2030 Hours LOCAL, MONDAY 21 OCTOBER 1968

DOLLEY MADISON BOULEVARD

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

The telephone rang and Sal answered.  It was John Duchane, an old Army
Air Corps chum of Whitey's who was now the owner and chief executive
officer of the American Transport Company.  He and Whitey belonged to a
monthly poker group that Whitey rarely had time to attend.

"Heard you were retiring," Duchane said when Whitey

got on the line.  "Damn well time, too."

"And good to talk to you, John," Whitey said dryly.  "Sony I missed the
game last week."

"That's not why I called.  Since you will be without a job come fairly
soon, I have a proposition for you."

In 1946, with $9,500 in squirrelled-away WWII poker winnings, a
persuasive and compelling personality, and a $30,000 line of credit from
the Bank of Southern Arizona, Duchane had started his company, ATC, with
two surplus C-46 aircraft that he had bought for $8,500 each.  By 1960,
ATC and its subsidiary companies had a net worth of 4.25 million
dollars.

When the Vietnam War got in full swing in 1965, he was already supplying
transportation and selling surplus airplanes back to the government.

He would not, however, sell back his beloved twin-engined B-26,
Excalibur, upon which he had lavished $210,000 to turn it into a plush,
fast, executive aircraft.  He had deliberately left the warning placard
on the modernized instrument panel that said DO NOT OPEN BOMB-BAY DOORS
ABOVE 425 KNOTS.  (The bomb-bay doors were now welded shut to hold the
flooring of what he called his executive suite.)

Duchane had approached Whitey with a job proposition five years earlier,
when Whitey's time as a two-star general had been up.  Generals were
selected for three stars by being uniquely qualified for a specific
three-star position.  Nothing had existed for Albert G.  Whisenand at
that time, so he had been due to be involuntarily retired from the
United States Air Force.  His job had been to screen targets for air
strikes emanating from the unwieldy chain of command for Vietnam.  Then,
in 1966, Lyndon Baines Johnson had picked him to serve as the Special
Advisor for Air Support on LBJ's National Security Council.

With LBJ soon to be out of office, John Duchane was sure he could
finally hire his old friend.

"Whitey, it's not like before, when I needed you to run ATC while I
looked into expansions.  Now I really need you to run the whole
conglomerate while I run around the world and salvage old war birds. I'm
sort of retiring.  Those old planes are fun to fly, plus there's a lot
of money to be made fixing them up and selling them.  Listen, here's my
offer: $200,000 per year, a staffed chateau on the Potomac, a limo with
chauffeur, and you can fly Excalibur once in a while."

Whitey chuckled.  "Make it $300,000, keep the chateau and the limo, let
me fly Excalibur as much as I want, and I might be interested."

"Agreed," Duchane said without hesitation.  He needed this man.

They set the timeline-early fall-when Whitey should know about his
future in the United States Air Force, and hung up.

Whitey returned to the couch and told Sal of the offer.

"A chateau on the Potomac?  A chauffeured limousine?  Why, my dear, you
would make a fine country squire."

Whitey chuckled.  "But we wouldn't own either.  Further, I'd have to pay
taxes on the use of both as if they were straight salary, and the IRS
would calculate some astronomical sum that would drain my base pay.
Maybe someday we'll buy our own chateau and limo.  In the meantime I
like this house and the Olds."

Sal sat forward, her eyes gleaming.  "It would be nice for you to have a
job where you would be home more.  Are you seriously considering taking
up John's offer?  I do like him, you know."

Whitey sat back.  "Yes, if things go the way I suspect, I would
seriously consider taking the position." His eyes sparkled.  "Mainly
because I want to fly Excalibur."

1530 Hours LOCAL, WEDNESDAY 23 OCTOBER 1968

ORIENTAL HOTEL

BANGKOK, KiNGDOM OF THAILAND

The white Mercedes limousine pulled up at the wide entrance of the old
colonial hotel.  A doorman clad in ancient Siamese warrior costume
opened the door with a flourish and smiled as Court Bannister stepped
out.

"Welcome, sir.  May I help you with your baggage?" Court indicated the
trunk that the uniformed driver had already opened.

The doorman went back and inspected with dismay the battered USAF B-4
bag Court used to carry what few civilian clothes he had.  It wasn't
what the doon-nan had expected from the plush-carpeted trunk of a new
Mercedes firno.  He noted with puzzlement that the Thai driver was
remarkably obsequious to this tall farang, who must have paid much money
in advance.

He looked a bit rough, but he couldn't be an American military man. They
didn't make enough money to stay at the Oriental.

Maybe he was an oil worker from the Mideast come to Bangkok to throw his
money around during a few weeks' vacation.

Probably not.  Those men usually stayed down around Patpong and hung
around the dark noisy bars where all the naked girls danced.  This big
blond man might just be someone important

after all.  Maybe he actually owned a construction company.

The doorman was one of five men paid handsomely to greet the arriving
guests in their best manner, but they made even more money from tips the
farangs so lavishly passed out.  He prided himself on being a good judge
of character-who would tip well and who would not.  This man would not.
Therefore, he was surprised when the manager himself and the gracious
lady from Public Relations greeted the farang with great deference and
told him his friend was already in residence and waiting for him.  The
doorman turned the B-4 bag over to an elegantly dressed bellhop and
resumed his post in front of the wide doors.

The manager personally escorted Court up the elevator to a suite on the
top floor.  The manager cited the cable he had received from Terry Holt
of Bannister Enterprises in Hollywood, detailing Court's desires for a
two-room suite with a view of the Chao Phya River and said he hoped the
suite would suffice.  A $10,000 wire transfer had been sent by Holt to
ensure compliance.  The bellhop followed, toting the battered bag.

Each room had its own terrace with trees and lounge tables and chairs
that overlooked the bustling Chao Phya River.  Longnosed river taxis and
fat boat-buses vied with barges piled high with goods as they plowed up
and down the wide, sun-sparkling river, making it a broad street of
aquatic commerce.

But Court paid no attention to the view.  He had eyes only for Susan
Boyle, in the middle of the suite, waiting for him.

When they were alone, she threw her arms around him and they kissed and
nuzzled and she murmured into his neck, "Oh Court, I can't believe we're
finally together." His hands were firm and flat around her waist, and he
pressed her close and hugged her.

She smelled of girl and an elusive cologne.

They stood in the middle of her room.  She skipped over to the door to
the patio and drew the curtains and shed clothes on the way back.  "Come
on, oh come on, I've dreamed of this for so long.  I just can't wait."
He stripped and followed her to the bed.  She tore the bedclothing off
and pulled him down on her and wrapped her arms around him for a long
kiss.  She had set in low music on the room radio in anticipation of his
arrival.

When they finished making love, he fell asleep in her arms.

She lay awake for long moments before falling into fitful sleep.

That evening they had drinks at the hotel bar and dinner on the
candlelit wooden tables at Nick's Number One.  They ate slowly and
savored each bite.  She stroked his hand.

"You're so quiet all of a sudden," she said.

"Memories.  Some good ones and some bad." He had just had a momentary
thought of the F-4 that had fallen in the night at Eagle Station.  Then
his face darkened and his eyes went frosty as he remembered another man
who was close to him and was now in the living hell of a POW camp.

"Here's to Flak Apple," he said and held up his water glass.

Algernon A.  "Flak" Apple and Court had formed a friendship back at
Edwards Air Force Base in California when Court had been a student in
the test pilot school and Flak an instructor.

Later they had flown against MiGs together from Ubon.  They had been on
the same mission when Flak had been blasted out of the air.  Court had
taken Flak's loss personally, thinking perhaps he could have done
something to have prevented it.

A few months later a confused and highly exploitive radio broadcast from
an expatriate American living in Cuba had said that Major Apple was
alive and in good shape, and although a war criminal of the worst type,
he was being treated humanely by the Democratic Republic of Vietnam.
That was the first anybody knew Flak was still alive.

They drank the water.  If Flak and the other POWs couldn't have booze,
then it was only fair to toast them with water.

Court shook his head.  "Memories.  Oh God.  I need some new ones." He
brightened.  "And you're just the young lady to help me build some."
They touched their wine glasses and drank deeply.  "Let's press on," he
said.

"Remember when we first met?" Susan asked.

"How can I forget?  It was on the American Airlines MAC contract flight
from Saigon to Los Angeles.  You sat on my armrest.  You smelled so
good, I thought I'd attack you right there."

"I wish you would have."

"Oh yeah." Court laughed.  "You couldn't even remember my name.  You
gave me that big line about simply adoring my movies."

"I did not," she said and flipped a piece of pineapple at him.

"Yes, you did.  Then you said we'd meet at Donkin's for a beer sometime.
We did, and here we are."

"Yes," she said, "here we are." She looked at him with troubled eyes
that she quickly cleared up.  She put her hand on top of his.  "Come on,
fighter pilot," she said softly, "let's get on with it."

They roamed Bangkok in a rented Tuk-Tuk, an open-air three-wheeler with
a two-stroke engine that made a nasal tuktuk sound.  Their driver knew
all the spots where Americans went for their nightlife.  They danced
first at the Cat's Eye, then the An An room, to the best brass bands and
popular American and British singers the Philippines could imitate. They
sweated and laughed as they danced the Monkey and the Frug and the Swim.
She taught him the Mashed Potato and they inhaled all the tall gin
drinks they could order.  In the Tuk-Tuk, they sang verses of "Our Love
Is Here to Stay" to each other as the driver careened over sidewalks and
curbs to avoid the dense traffic roaming the street at two in the
morning.

Exhausted and tight at three, they ate Chinese food at the open-air
stalls near the hotel.  They clowned with the awkward chopsticks and
drank quarts of Singha beer.  Toward the end of the meal he presented
her with a tiny gold Risis horse that stood stately, head cocked and
alert, into a breeze that fanned his golden mane.  They called it
Stately Horse.  He had bought it earlier that evening from a vendor when
she had been in the ladies' room at one of the clubs.  Their Chinese
waiter admired the exquisite horse.  He liked the two happy Americans
and joked with them and showed them how the right hand over the left was
a Chinese sign for hello, but slapping the palm over a cupped hand was a
vile insult.

Finally, just before dawn, they left the bar at the hotel, where they
had been sipping plain iced tea both to cool down and sober up.

Arm in arm, they walked out as the Thai bartender gratefully shut the
bar and pocketed the hundred dollars' worth of baht thefarang had bribed
him with to stay open.  They strolled off,

crooning about how the Rockies may crumble but their love was here to
stay.

The next day was spent doing more touristing.  The day after that, their
last, was declared as health day.  They ate well and exercised and swam
lap after lap in the pool.  They went to the Siam Intercontinental and
played volleyball behind the west wing with some airline people and
three Thud drivers down from Korat.  He stood back and watched her walk
across the lawn when they were through.  Her stride was long and sturdy.

She wore white shorts, no jewelry, and a vivid blue blouse that
accentuated her striking blue eyes.  In the early evening they lay
together on the bed in his room, her head on his chest as the sun went
down.  The next day she had a late flight out, three in the afternoon;
he had to catch the five P.M.  C-130 courier to Ubon.

He deliberately hadn't talked of marriage as he had in Singapore.  At
that time he had had dreams of resigning from the Air Force, marrying
Susan, and settling down.  Not only had she seemed against the whole
idea, but when he had been recalled to fight in the Tet Offensive, he
could hardly wait to get back in the cockpit and resume combat.  But
that was then and this was now.  He needed this girl the rest of his
life.  This was the one.  All the rest were just practice: learning what
was real inside himself and what was not.  It was now time to talk, he
judged.

"I'm glad you arranged to be here," he said, his voice deep and serious.
"I've got to tell you something."

She was suddenly wary.  "Shhh.  This isn't the time to talk."

"Yes, it is.  I've got to tell you a few things about me."

"Court.  .  ." She stood up.

He looked at her naked body.  This handsome, lithe, and sleek female,
this best of the very best.  "God, but you are put together so well I
can't believe you're mine now and forever.  Our love is here to stay."

"Court, please .  .

"Just listen, will you?  No harm in that?" What the devil is she so
antsy about every time I try to talk serious with her?

"Just listen.  I think you know I'm not your basic nine-to-five kind of
guy.  I'm not the standard consumer with three kids, two cars, one wife,
and a mortgage.  I guess I'm still a kid who'll never grow up, a Peter
Pan who really flies.  I can't do the diapers-and-dentist,
lawnmowing-and-retirement program for some airline. Once I thought that
was what I wanted.  But I'm a fighter pilot, and I know I wouldn't make
it.  I do what I do because it's difficult and challenging work and I
thrive on it.

When I do it good I feel a satisfaction no engineering or airline job
could ever provide."

She kissed him briefly.  "I know all that, silly."

"But I still want you to marry me.  .  ."

"Oh damn," she said and bolted out of the bed to stand by the sliding
doors, clutching her arms around her body.

Outside, thunder riffed over the city and a warm rain fell.

Sporadic gusts of wind brushed the trees and bushes on the patio and
flung rain against the glass.

"What do you mean, 'Oh damn'?" He arose from the bed and put his arms
around her.  "That's a hell of a thing to say to a guy who's proposing
to you."

She turned suddenly into his arms and kissed him, at first lightly, then
deeply and hungrily, her hair streaming down her back.  "Court, oh God,
Court, I love you so much.  Hold me." Her voice was husky and he could
feel her body shaking.

He stroked her back.  "Hey there, hey now-I didn't mean to make you
cry." He held her at arm's length and looked deep into her eyes.  "You
say you love me so much, but you won't marry me."

She looked away.  "It would never work."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you.  Just hold me, will you?  Please?"

He picked up the perfect body and bore her to his bed.

Gray light outlined the drapes drawn over the patio doors as he awoke
with a start.  Something was wrong.  He raised up, braced on his elbows.
Her side was empty.  There was an envelope lying on the pillow.  He
fumbled on the side table for his watch.  It was eight-thirty.  She must
be packing.  He quickly put on his pants and a shirt and ran across the
living room to her bedroom.  It was raining.  Moisture was heavy on the
windows.

The hard rain drummed on the roof and plants.  Her door was open, a
maid's cart outside.  He burst into the room.

"Susan," he called.  "Susan!" The maid looked at him in surprise as he
ran into the bathroom, then looked into the closet.  It was empty.  Her
clothes were gone and the bathroom gleamed white, without a trace of her
personal things.  He stood in the center of the room for a long moment,
then threw open the sliding doors to the patio and ran back to his room
through the blowing rain.  In his room he tore open the envelope on the
bed.  Her handwriting was even and large, with wide loops and whorls.
The stationery was from the Oriental Hotel.  It was dated at five
o'clock that morning.

Beloved Court, My Forever Man, My Dearest Heart:

I know it isn'tfair to do this to you, and I am the worst chicken fink
in the world for running out on you.  But I'll just have to tell you
right upfront so you won't holler for a taxi or steal a bike and try to
pedal out to the airport.

The truth is, I lied to you.  Oh my dear, I just had to. My plane
doesn't leave at three in the afternoon, it leaves at eight in the
morning.  Maybe it's already taken off by the time you read this.  I was
so hoping you wouldn't do what you always say you do-double-check.  But
then, why should you double-check my takeoff time?  You would take my
word for it, wouldn't you?  You old dear.  Good old shambling trusting
Court, the wonderful man I love so dearly and so deeply.  The Supreme
Court. I can just hear you: "If she loves me so much, why the lie?"

And oh, my dear, our love is here to stay.

But I'm not here to stay.  And that's why I lied.  It seems there is
this funny little thing that is running around inside of me.  There are
words like carcinoma and lymph glands involved.  And nonoperative and
terminal.  Well, maybe it's not so little.  It's in there, this black
thing.  I know it and I hate it.  I thought I could exorcise it out of
existence by sheer willpower.  If I hated it enough and loved you I
enough, it simply would cease to exist.  The doctors tell me it doesn't
work that way.

The doctors also tell me that with a sort of chemical therapy and maybe
some radiation, I could hang around a bit longer. "How much longer?" sez
I "A couple of months.  Maybe a year," sez they.  "Of course your hair
will fall out and your face will puff up and your arms swell from edema,
" they added. "No, thank you, " I said, and decided to make this last
flight to Asia and be with you in this wonderful crazy place called
Bangkok Oh Court, it was good, wasn't it?  You were so good to me.  And
I was mean to you a few times, wasn't I had to be.  I'm so sorry, but I
had to be.  You were getting too close to what I wanted to say only in
this letter. So now I'm doing what you always say a good fighter pilot
does: he plans his course, double-checks, and presses on.  I've planned
my course and, oh, my dear, how do I say this-I must fly alone.  You
cannot come with me.  And you can't follow me.  You see, I told you
another lie. I'm not returning to work Or to my apartment, I gave it up
just before I left.  I don't need it anymore.  American Airlines is just
great.  They are footing the bill for a clinic, actually it's called a
hospice, where people go to ...  to leave this mortal coil, I think is
how the hard put it. (Mortal coil?  Sounds like an odd type of mattress.
I can still laugh, and so must you.  Oh yes.)  Anyhow, you cannot find
out where I am.  Oh, I suppose with your father's connections you could,
but I beg you not to.  I want to do this my way.  Like Garbo, I vant to
be alone. So, my sweet man, there you have my little story.  I thought
about this so much, then I decided I simply could not tell you before. I
wanted this, our last time, to be our best time.  There is no second
act, this was the whole play. You had all of me, the perfect me.  No
flaws, no ...  other things. That's what I wanted.  And it was good,
wasn't it? And I am being a good fighter pilot, aren't I? Fly high and
fast, my beloved.  And once in a while, when you see the right cloud,
think of the girl who loves you so much, Your Susan

He sat perfectly still, the paper clutched in his hand, then slowly
doubled over onto the bed, where he could still smell her fragrance.  He
gathered the sheets and pillows into his arms and sank his head deep
into them.

At last he arose.  He stood staring out at the rain, now streaming down
the long panes and into the room where he had left the door open.  He
had to leave this place and leave it right now.  There was too much
here, too much.  He quickly threw on his flight suit without showering
or shaving, stuffed his civilian clothes into his B-4 bag, and walked
into the bathroom for his Dop Kit.  Next to it stood Stately Horse.  His
eyes stung as he carefully wrapped it in tissue and placed it in his
kit.  In the bedroom he held Susan's letter for a long time in his hand,
then painstakingly folded it and put it into his pocket.  The rain
lashed the windows.  He walked erect as a robot to the elevator and
pressed the button.  At the lobby desk he carefully checked out and
engaged a hotel limousine to drive him to the military side of Don Wang,
where he could catch the courier to Ubon.

Goodbye, any Susan.  I loved you so much, more than I ever told - you. I
will need you for a long, long time.  I will need YOU forever.

1530 Hours LOCAL, MONDAY 28 OCTOBER 1968

BAMBOO BAR, MONTIEN HOTEL

BANGKOK, KINGDOM OF THAILAND

It was just past the peak of a sunny day, before the afternoon
thunderstorm washed the Bangkok streets.  Shawn Bannister and Richard
Connert sat drinking gin and tonics at a table far to the rear in the
cool dimness of the Bamboo Bar.  They both wore tan safari suits and
were on their third round of drinks.

From a distance, the two men were similar in appearance: blond hair,
youthful faces, slender builds.  Closer inspection showed Shawn
Bannister's face to have more lines, and his shoulders and waist to be
thicker than Connert's.  They both looked to be in their mid-to-late
twenties.

"I don't believe it," Connert said.  "You went where?  Brata what?"

"Bratislava," Shawn said.  "In Czechoslovakia.  And, later, in Cuba."

"How come you didn't tell any of us before we came here?"

Shawn leaned back with a superior look on his face.  "Well, no one
really had the need to know.  Certain things had to be arranged, certain
contacts made.  Secrecy was the word.  Didn't want the pigs to get on to
what I was doing.  We were'-he leaned forward-"working out ways to
assist them in their war

against the United States of Amerika, with a-"

"Oh, wow.  That's really cool.  And then there's this trip."

Connert drained the rest of his glass and looked pointedly at the
waiter, who leaped to bring fresh drinks for the two men.

Connert took a deep swallow.  "Speaking of which, you said you were
going to tell me more-why I'm here and all that."

Shawn leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial voice.

"What would you say if I told you I arranged for the two of us to go to
Hanoi?"

"To Hanoi?  The two of us?  Hey, that's terrific.  I thought I was just
coming to Bangkok to kind of introduce you to the Orient 'cause ...  you
know ...  I'd sort of been here before and all that.  The two of us?
Groovy.  Will we see the prisoners of war?"

"They're not prisoners, they're criminals, you got that?

Criminals.  You call them prisoners up there and we're both in trouble."

"Yeah, well, sure, but ...  but what am I supposed to do up there?"

"You were at George Air Force Base, weren't you?"

"Sure, you knew that."

"And you know all about F-4s, don't you." Shawn said it as a statement,
not a question.

"Sure.  I flew them, you know."

Shawn Bannister tried to keep the contempt from his face.

The only F-4 this guy ever flew was that simulator thing.  But that was
all right.  It was useful to have Connert claim he had been a combat
fighter pilot, even if it was a sham.  He looked at his campaign
manager.

"We're going to Hanoi to bring an F-4 pilot home, but we're not sure he
really appreciates the opportunity he has.  His name is Al Apple.  He's
an Air Force major."

"We?  I thought nobody but you and me was in on this."

"Look, there are a few others.  I didn't exactly go on those trips by
myself, you know.  We did meet some people."

Connert was wide-eyed with enthusiasm.  "Yeah-now I got it!  You and
Bernadine and Tom were all gone at the same time."

Shawn leaned forward.  "Listen," he said in a conspiratorial tone. "That
stuff is real secret, like classified.  We don't want just anybody to
know about this trip.  Like, the pigs might get on to it, and maybe
we're going places we're not supposed to."

"Okay, Shawn, okay.  Whatever you say."

Shawn dug into his breast pocket.  "Here, I got something for you." He
pulled out two solid aluminum rings and handed one to Connert.  It was
lightweight and dull in appearance.  "One for you, one for me."

Connert examined his ring.  "What's this for?"

"A little gift from our friends up north.  They're made from shot-down
aircraft."

"Shot-down American aircraft?" Something flickered in Connert's eyes.

"Yeah, sure," Shawn said.  "Are there any other kind doing the bombing
up there?  Here, put it on." He slid his own onto a finger of his left
hand.

Connert tried the ring on several fingers.  "It's too small," he said
and slipped the ring into a pocket.  He looked at Shawn with fathomless
blue eyes.  "Exactly what is it I can do for you up there?"

"What I want you to do is help me talk to Apple.  You know about F-4s
and pilots.  Convince him that it's better for him to come home.  He's a
real patriotic guy and we want him to know he can serve his country a
lot better in the good old USA than in some stinky prison in North
Vietnam."

"Well, yeah, sure, but why us?  I mean, what makes you think the North
Viets will-"

"Don't call them Viets.  They are Vietnamese or comrades not Viets."

"Okay, sure.  So what makes you think they will simply let a prisoner
...  unh, criminal, go away with us?  What's so special about us?"

"That's why I was in Bratislava and Cuba, to hammer out those details.
Look, I can't tell you everything, but leave it be that I and some other
SDS-ers have a special deal with the Viet Cong and the big wheels up in
Hanoi.  They like us, they like me.  I used to write great things about
them.  I used to write the truth." SDS was the Students for a Democratic
Society.

"What do you mean, special deal?" Connert asked.

"The deal is that some of us can get visas to go up there and see the
criminals and try to bring them home.  It's already happened.  Just last
August three Air Force criminals were released to one of our groups,
three more before that in February."

The August group had included a USAF major, an Ace from Korea named Jim
Low, who had told his captors right from the start that he didn't intend
to go through any torture and would do whatever they wanted.  He had
been given an early release in what the POWs called the Fink Release
Program.

"Wow, that's really cool," Connert said.  "But I still don't know what
you want me to do."

"It's easy.  Like I said.  You were in the Air Force, you know what
fighter pilots think and how they talk.  What you do is get Apple
talking and tell him it's okay to come home, it's okay to leave the, ah,
other people there.  In fact, he'd be doing them a favor by coming home.
You follow me?"

"Not exactly.  How would he be doing them a favor?"

"By speaking out against the war.  Then the war is over sooner and all
the guys get to come home."

Connert looked thoughtful.  "You really believe that?"

"Look, Richard.  What difference does it make whether I believe it or
not?  The important thing is the Viet Cong and those people in Hanoi do.
That's why we get to go up there."

"Yeah," Connert persisted.  "If you don't believe it, why are you doing
it, going up there and all that?"

Shawn fixed him with a steady gaze.  "You want me to get elected, don't
you?"

Connert nodded.

"Well, this is a big step.  If it works I get lots of favorable
publicity and that translates into votes.  If it doesn't work, I still
get lots of publicity.  But we've got to move.  We have to be in Hanoi
by tomorrow-"

"Tomorrow?" Connert interrupted.  "How come you didn't tell me?"

"Because, goddamn it, timing and secrecy are everything.

This isn't just you and me going to Hanoi, you know.  There are a lot
more things tied into all of this.  Other things have to happen also.
We're after a big scoop, a big prize.  One that'll not only help get me
elected, but that'll help win the war."

"Win it?  For whom?"

"For the Viet Cong.  Who the hell do you think I mean?"

Connert looked at him, then suddenly dug his handkerchief from his
pocket and sneezed.

1030 Hours LOCAL, TUESDAY 29 OCTOBER 1968

WATTAY AIRPORT

VIENTIANE, ROYALTY OF LAOS

The two Laotians were waiting for them when Shawn Bannister and Richard
Connert stepped down from the Thai Airways DC-3 twin-prop airliner.

"Welcome, Mister Gentlemen, to our poor country," said the taller of the
two in French-accented English.  "So pleased you could make this trip.
You must be very tired.  Come for refreshments before the next portion
of your journey." The two Lao wore short-sleeved white shirts and baggy
black pants.  The two Americans wore safari suits.  Each carried a small
bag.  Connert had the sniffles and kept using a handkerchief he carried
in his hand.

They were led to a small, hot and stuffy room in a shed next to a
nondescript hangar.  The Americans accepted warm orange soda and sat on
straight-backed chairs while the tall Lao told them of the importance of
their trip and the fine cooperation between the Pathet Lao and the
Democratic Republic of Vietnam.  He explained that the next portion of
their trip would be on an International Control Commission (ICC)
airplane that would fly them directly to the Gia Lam Airport outside
Hanoi.  He kept up the one-sided dialogue until a Caucasian man entered
the small room.  The man carried a black bag from which he took a big
Nikon 35mm camera and a tripod.

"If you please," the Lao said, "to stand up and everybody shake hands
and smile.  This is a very important event." He urged Shawn and Connert
to stand between him and his companion while the Caucasian photographer
took several photos

with and without flash.  He also took several close-ups of the two
Americans.

"Who are you with?" Shawn asked with a smile and stuck out his hand as
the photographer was stowing his equipment.

When there was no answer he asked again, but the man mumbled something
between a grunt and a hiccup and went out the door.

"Mister Gentlemen, it is time to go now.  If you please." The Lao
motioned to the door.

"Wait a minute," Connert said.  "I thought we were going to get some
publicity here.  Who was that guy?  Where are the other photographers
and reporters?"

"Hold it, Richard.  I don't know who that guy was either, but part of
the deal is no publicity until a certain date.  The second of November,
I think."

"Why?" he asked into his handkerchief.

"It just is.  They have our trip and Apple's release tied in to
something else, something important that's supposed to happen real soon.
I'll get first crack at it, but they won't tell me anything in advance."

"Please to go now," the tall Lao insisted.  "Your airplane is here."

"My God, I don't believe it," Connert said when they saw the ICC
airplane taxiing across the apron to the small terminal building.  It
was a four-engined World War II B-17 bomber converted to carry
passengers, called a Boeing 307.

Minutes later the airplane was airborne, the gear slowly retracting into
the nacelles beneath the inboard engines.  Inside, small airline seats
lining a narrow aisle held members of the ICC: a turbaned Sikh, a
scowling Pole, and a smiling Canadian.

Shawn and Connert spoke little as the B-17 climbed to 9,000 and set
course northeast to Hanoi.  The decrease in pressure bothered Connert
and he kept sniffing and blotting with his handkerchief.  It was worse
on the letdown.

"Level off, level off," Connert screamed as the B-17 descended through
6,000 feet.  "My ears.  Oh God, make him level off."

"For God's sake, Richard, shut up!" Shawn said with great exasperation.

The Canadian went to the cockpit and spoke to the pilot, who leveled the
big plane and sent his copilot back to see what was wrong.  Connert told
him it was an ear block.

"Here," the copilot, a big Canadian, said.  "Shut your mouth, hold your
nose-and blow.  It's called the Valsalva maneuver."

Connert gave his thanks when his ears cleared, and the plane continued
its descent into Gia Lam.

Thach met the two Americans as they walked into the shabby terminal that
serviced Gia Lam International Airport.  It was an attractive French
design, but the concrete was now cracked and the flower beds were empty.
It was as if the North Vietnamese communists didn't want to show a
bright or cheery face to the world travelers who alighted at their only
civilian airport in use.

A group of thin Vietnamese came in from a Russian Aeroflot 11yushin
transport.

Thach walked up to them and spoke without preamble.  "You may come with
me, misters, there is no need," he said as he waved a hand at the
customs and immigration counter.  He offered a limp hand to Shawn.

"Mister Shawn, I am Thach." Shawn shook and introduced Richard Cofinert.

"Yes, misters.  I am most pleased you are here and able to help us in
our struggle." He led them to his Lada sedan.

Shawn and Connert were all eyes as Thach drove from the airport toward
Hanoi.  They drove by an abandoned church, then out to the main road,
which was ragged and full of potholes that Thach said were called "hen's
nests" in Vietnamese.  People were busy in the fields harvesting rice.
They would lay the grain sheaves in the roads, where what few vehicles
there were ran over them, shucking the rice kernels from the husk.  Some
of the bundles were quite large, and the Lada bounced and swayed when
Thach tried to avoid them.  They crossed the Paul Dourner Bridge and
drove into the main section of downtown Hanoi.  Outside of wrecked rail
yards the city looked shabby but untouched by what the protestors had
called carpet-bombing.

The streets were lined with what looked like oversized manhole covers
that rested on concrete cylinders buried upright in the ground.  Thach
said they were personal air raid shelters.  He drove them to the Victory
Hotel, where he took them directly to a small room overlooking the
street.  A ceiling fan stirred the air over the two small beds separated
by a thin wooden nightstand.  Upon a chest of drawers in front of a
bust-sized smoky mirror hanging from a nail was a carafe of water and
two glasses resting on a lacquer tray.  A wooden chair was under a
narrow desk, and a vinyl lounge chair was next to the window.

Thach said the bath was down the hall to the right.

"We are very poor here, misters," Thach explained.  "We conserve all our
resources for the just struggle against the imperialists.  We are very
sorry, but electricity is not available from ten of the clock at night
until six of the clock in the morning." By now Connert was sniffling and
coughing.  "Sorry," he said many times as Shawn looked at him in
aggravation.

"We will have a small chat," Thach said, "before you see the criminal
Apple."

"How is his attitude?" Shawn asked.  "Does he want to go home?"

Thacb regarded him through slitted eyes.  "It is important that you and
your friend convince him such a move is in his best interest."

"Me?  I thought you would have him ready.  I thought we were only here
to ...  to talk to him a little bit, then just accompany him home."

"Oh no, Mister Shawn.  There is more.  You must be very convincing.  You
and Mister Richard can do this thing, can you not?  It will be very
beneficial to you to do this thing."

"Beneficial?  What do you mean by that?" Shawn said and shot a look of
annoyance at Connert when he sneezed.

"You have an election process, do you not?" Thach reminded him.  "A
success here would give you much favorable publicity."

"Well, in any case I'm supposed to get a good story on something else up
here too.  I was promised."

"Promised, Mister ShawnT'Although Thach showed no emotion on his face,
his tone was an unmistakable combination of sarcastic disbelief and
menace.

"Yes, promised by Huynh Va.  Ba when we met in Cuba."

"Mister Shawn, Huynh is a messenger, a courier.  A man without stature.
He cannot make promises.  Here in Hanoi I can make you promises.  If you
convince the air criminal Apple to return with you, I will promise you
to be the first witness to a very important event.  Very important.  An
event that will show just how criminal the imperialists are in our
neighboring country of Laos.  You have but four days to accomplish this
task, for you must be ready to leave with the air criminal on the second
day of November."

"Wait a minute-2' Shawn said in desperation.

"We have no minutes to spare.  I suggest we go now to the hospital where
the air criminal is receiving the most excellent of treatment.  There
you first will meet someone, then you will talk to him."

1745 Hours LOCAL, TUESDAY 29 OCTOBER 1968

HANOI CITY HOSPITAL

HANOI, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM

Thach drove through pedestrian-clogged streets to the rear of the gray
concrete Hanoi hospital and led them to the small doctors' lounge.
Connert sneezed several times and blew his nose.  Thach left them for a
moment and returned with Co Dust.

"Tell these men," he ordered her, "of the air criminal Apple and what of
his attitude to return with his countrymen."

Shawn noticed that even when she began to speak, Co Dust never looked
up.  He thought she looked very petite and attractive in her white
uniform.

"He is a man who ...  who knows his own mind," she began in a low voice.

"What does that mean?" Shawn asked.

"It means he ...  he does not wish to ...  to leave just yet."

Thach rattled off some angry words in Vietnamese to her and yanked her
by the arm out the door.

"God," Connert said, "what was that all about?"

"I think she's in big trouble," Shawn said, his face spoiled by a heavy
frown.

Flak Apple was startled as the door to his room was flung open and
crashed against the wall.  Thach stomped into the room, dragging Co Dust
by one arm.  He spun her around to face Flak.

"There will be no more games," he raged.  "Too much time has gone by-TOO
MUCH." In a quick motion he lifted her long white skirt and pinched her
genitals through her panties with clawlike fingers.  She stifled a
shriek and sank to her knees, sobbing.  "You have accomplished NOTHING,"
Thach yelled and struck her face.

"You sonabitch, I'll KILL you," Flak screamed and struggled to sit up.
He felt an incredible pain as his abrupt movement tore something within
him.  A slow red stain started in the wide bandages around his
midsection.

"No," Thach spat as he reached down to punch Co Dust in the breast.
"Only I kill here.  And this one will die slow and hard and in front of
you as you are chained to a wall unless you agree to cooperate." He sank
his fingers into Co Dust's left breast and twisted until she screamed
anew.

"Stop, stop," Flak cried and pounded the bed with his good hand, his
agonized eyes on the sobbing Co Dust.

"You will cooperate, then?" Thach asked in a voice suddenly grown quiet.

"Yes, sonabitch," Flak gasped.  "Just take your fucking hands off her."
He hardly felt his own pain.

Thach helped Co Dust to her feet and led her gently to a chair by the
window.  She bit her lip and wouldn't look anywhere but out the window.

"Let us talk," Tbach said to Flak as he approached the bed.

Twenty minutes later Thach returned to the lounge and apologized to
Shawn and Connert.

"Things are difficult today.  I do not believe that criminal Apple is
well enough for a meeting.  He needs, ah, continued medication.  We will
return soon.  Perhaps tomorrow he will be ready to see you."

Thach pointed at the table.  "Misters, please to have some soda." Thach
bustled about pouring the sticky yellow orange soda into thick scarred
glasses.  "You perhaps will visit with me certain places here in Hanoi.
I will show you where the hospitals are bombed and where the schools are
bombed.  I want to show you the museum where we celebrate the 5,000
airplanes of the imperialist air force we have shot down."

" Yes," Shawn said.  "I would like that.  Will the press be there?"

Thach thought quickly.  "Yes, of course.  Perhaps you would like to say
a few words to them at the completion of your tour.

A few words about what you have seen?"

"Yes, that will be fine."

"Fine, then, misters.  I will take you to your hotel now."

1330 Hours LOCAL, THURSDAY 31 OCTOBER 1968

BRIEFING Room, 8TH TACTICAL FIGHTER WING

UBON ROYAL THAI AIR FORCE BASE

KINGDOM OF THAILAND

"Eagle Station is becoming quite the hot spot, gentlemen," said Major
Richard Hostettler.  He stood in front of the 8th TFW Wing Commander,
Colonel Stan Bryce, the four fighter squadron commanders, the commander
and ops officer of the men flying the AC-130 Spectre gunship, the
commander of the Wolf FACs, and Major Court Bannister, commander of the
Phantom FACs.  Each commander had his operations officer with him.  Ken
Tanaka, filling in for Howie Joseph, sat next to Court.

"This is about as unusual a frag as we are going to get in the war,"
Hostettler began.  "It's about a raid that may never take place on a
place that doesn't exist by people that aren't there.  Ya got that?"

He pulled out a large map of Laos on a roller board from the wings of
the stage and pointed to the high karst region west of Sam Neue.  "We've
got intelligence reports from sources so classified ya gotta burn them
before ya read 'cm.  What they say is this: The bad guys want to snuff
Eagle Station.  It's a big Thorn in the side of the Hanoi eastern air
defense ring because it lets you guys in to bomb Pack Six when the
weather is real crappy and all that. They say the attack is imminent."

"What about evacuation of the American personnel?" Colonel Bryce asked.
"Is that in the mill?"

"Funny you should ask that, Colonel.  The way I hear it is that the
Ambassador doesn't want to pull any of the troops out of there until the
last minute.  Seems the Agency guys say there are plenty of defenses,
and there probably won't be a serious attack anyhow, so why get
everybody all het up?"

"Then who says there is an attack coming?" Court asked.

He noted Hostettler was not mentioning any of the other more classified
reasons for why Eagle Station was the focus of such attention.

"Like I told ya, I can't tell ya.  But 7th is impressed enough to order
us to put some birds on alert and some on CAP for the next few days to
see what develops.  Ya know what I think I think the AIRA up there said
air power can save the day, and 7th is out to prove him right."
Hostettler moved out from behind the podium and put his hands on his
hips and let out a moderately loud fart.  Life could be crude in a
combat zone.

"Oh, come on, Dick," one of the squadron commanders said.

"They don't have big guns up there yet.  Or do they?"

Richard Hostettler, the famous chili-fart briefer, was barely warmed up.

"Not any AAA guns, because the Trail doesn't swing over that way, but we
are starting to get reports of some artillery rounds impacting close to
Eagle Station.  You gentlemen will most likely be called upon to take
them out."

He finished his briefing and gave way to the newly assigned weather
officer, a young first lieutenant dressed in 1505 khakis who was clearly
nervous on this, his first briefing.  He assembled some notes, then
pulled out a weather chart of Southeast Asia.  He cleared his throat and
spoke in a high-pitched nervous voice.

"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 landmass 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, Dick?"

"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," Dick 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 altitudes, 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
compass 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 knob were stacked boxes to denote
supplies, a truck, and stick figures to represent humans.  The next knob
dialed in the distance in meters.  "You rotate the knobs 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, Dick," 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 glass 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 glass.  "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 God," 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 hoarse 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 God," 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 damn 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."

"Damn 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.

Incumbent 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 associated with the intelligence community in one
way or another, so it was fairly safe to talk almost on a classified
level.

"What's up?" Whitey asked Dick 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."

"Damn, 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 assembled 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."

"Dick, 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 scrap 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 snatched 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.  Goddamm these bastards. 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 God, 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
God's sake.  This is Court's dipshit 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
surreptitiously 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 ass.
Doing you and these commies a great service.  God, 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."

"Can all of the POWs leave with me?" That Connert is some ...  oh my
God, oh my God ...  he's flashing code at me.

Flak felt as if an electric shock were surging through his body, and he
suddenly got goose bumps as thrill after thrill went up his spine.  He
had to restrain himself from shouting.  He tried to collect his thoughts
and listen carefully to the sniffles and coughs that Connert was
wheezing into his tissue and handkerchief.  He watched Connert's body
motions as well as he could without attracting attention to what he was
doing.

HI FLAC U OLD CELL RAT ...  HOW THEY HANGING ...  YOUR DOG QUEENIE
MISSES U AND THE SKINS ARE DOING TERRIBLE THIS YEAR ...  FLAC ...

FLAC ...  U READ ...

Flak suddenly lowered his head, as he knew his face was lighting up, and
tears of joy sprang to his eyes.  He didn't want Thach to catch on.  Oh
dear God.  Right infront of these commie bastards.  He's real, he's from
home, he knows about Queenie and the Skins.

Every combat aircrewman had to write out for the Intelligence people an
authentication file with a few easily remembered facts known only to
them.  These could then be used to authenticate the crewman to determine
if he had been compromised in a rescue situation.  They would usually
list a favorite car or dog or sports team.  I've got to keep this
conversation going-I've got to stall.  Can this guy Connert read my
flash?

He raised his head and started to talk.

"Go home, you say-yes, well, let's talk about that." As Flak spoke he
nervously started to rub his face and massage his fingers.

YES YES YES I READ, he flashed.

Shawn shot a triumphant smile at Thach.  "What we can do," he said to
Flak, "is walk out of here anytime we want."

"You mean I can get up and go out the door with you whenever we want to
go out the door?"

"Yes, yes, that's exactly what I mean."

"Right out that door over there?" DO YOU READ ME, he flashed.

"Yes, yes.  That very door."

"Well, do I get any clothes to wear?  I can't very well go out like
this, can I?"

"Yes, goddamnit, you'll get clothes." This guy is so thick, Shawn said
to himself.

"Well, what kind of clothes?" DO YOU READ ME.

"Clothes clothes.  How the fuck would I know?" Shawn turned to Thach.
"For God's sake, you got clothes, don't you?"

"Yes, I have clothes for Algernon Apple when he is ready to go." Thach
beamed as much as a man who never smiles can beam, and said, "I will
have the press conference for him now."

"Good, good," Shawn said and fluffed out his hair with his fingers and
wished he'd thought to bring a pocket mirror.  You never know when
someone will take a picture.

"You will prepare to read this statement," Thach said as he handed a
piece of paper to Flak and walked to the open door.

Flak took the paper and read the words to himself.

"I Algernon Apple of the United States Air Force confess to
indiscriminately bombing the peaceful peasants and children of the
Democratic Republic of Vietnam.  I am very sorry for my crimes and I
repent my awful crimes. I ask for my release under the humane and
lenient policy of Ho Chi Minh."

Three heavyset Caucasian men came in the room at Thach's bidding.  Two
carried still cameras and tape recorders, the third held an electric
newsreel camera plugged into a battery pack on his belt.  They set up
their gear and Flak heard the camera whir and the shutters click as the
men warmed up their equipment.

I READ YOU, Connert flashed.

STALL.  WHEN THEY ROLL FILM U TRY FLASH CODE ON FILM ...  NAME N TORTURE
...  WE TRY GET FILM FOR OUR USE ...

Flak didn't know why Connert wanted him to do it, but he flashed AA
APPLE and the words TORTURED TO BE HERE over and over as he stalled the
proceedings with inane

talk.

"You sure you got enough light in here?  Maybe I should stand over by
the window?  You want me to stand by the window?  Where you guys from,
anyway?  You speak English?

Hi, what's your name?" Flak wondered what the hell he meant by "for our
own use" as he babbled on and on.

SORRY YUR ESCAPE WENT SOUR, Connert flashed.

THEY BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF ME ...  CILLED FREDERIC I THINC, Flak answered
as the cameras clicked and whiffed, totally oblivious to the coded
conversation taking place.  A C replaced a K in the code matrix.

Shawn Bannister looked at Flak in amazement and decided he needed to get
in the footage too.  After all, this was just a ploy to get some good
voter-grabbing material, he told himself.

But what is with this Apple idiot?  First he wouldn't talk at all, now
he won't shut up.

HOW YUR PHYSICAL CONDITION, Connert asked.

THEY GAVE ME SUNDAY SPECIAL ...  DAMN NEAR DIED ...  THEN PUT GIRL TO
GET ME GO HOME OR AT LEAST GO FRONT OF CAMERA BY TWO NOV TO DENOUNCE
WAR...

Shawn stepped over and grabbed Flak's hand and shook it.

"On behalf of the United States of America," he said, "I am very proud
to congratulate you on your momentous decision to return home to help
win the war."

THEY TELL U WHAT SO IMPORT BOUT TWO NOV ...

NO ...  WHO THE L R U ANYHOW ...  HOW U NO HOW TO FLASH ...

Flak deftly pulled from Shawn's hand and mumbled something Thach
couldn't hear.

"I'm A BLUE MAILMAN ...  Connert flashed.

Flak was so excited he had to work hard not to leap about the room in
spasms of joy.  All his pains and aches disappeared under the rush of
adrenaline from contact with a real live American military man.  After
one of his survival schools had been completed, Flak had stayed on for a
special course taught to air-crew who were going into combat where the
danger of being shot down was high.  The men had been taught they might
receive clandestine communications from select persons who would
identify themselves as mailmen.  As an extra identifier, a color code
was added to denote the mailman's service: blue for Air Force, green for
Army, gold for the Navy, and red for the Marines.  Civilian mailmen were
white.  Flak was taught that mailmen were strictly communicators, but
package carriers were guides and rescuers who were trained to get a
prisoner out under the worst possible conditions.

U GOT A CALLSIGN...

DANCER ...

U GOT ANY MAIL...

MUCH ...

"Excuse me, what did you say?" Shawn asked Flak.

"Eat shit, hippie prick," Flak mumbled under his breath.

WHO FOR ...

EVERYBODY BUT MOST IMPORTANT FOR SROS ...

SROs were the senior ranking officers in each of the compounds.  They
had the duty and responsibility to take command the best way they could.
If they were slammed into solitary which they often were-the next man
would step up to take his place in the clandestine POW command network.

"I am not a hippie.  We need to discuss what you must do," Shawn said to
Flak.

When Flak continued fidgeting but did not answer, Thach spoke up from
behind the photographers.  "Perhaps Algernon Apple's nurse can help to
sit down and relax." He thrust Co Dust forward.  She took Flak by the
hand and led him back to his chair.

SHE TRIES HELP ME, Flak flashed.  I WANT ESCAPE ... CAN U HELP ...

NO ...  U CANT ESCAPE...  NOT NOW ...  U MUST DELIVER MY MESSAGES...

WHAT SHOULD I DO RIGHT NOW ...

STALL ...  I GOT MESSAGES TO PASS ...

Flak took the paper with his prepared speech and spent long moments
smoothing it out.  He found his motions a fine way to flash to Connert.
"Unh, this is what you want me to read?" he said to Thach.

Embarrassed, Thach said, "Of course, they are your words."

Flak continued to smooth the paper.

R ...  GO AHEAD WITH MSGS ...  he flashed.  R was POW shorthand for
Roger, meaning yes or go ahead.

NO ESCAPE ATTEMPTS WITHOUT PERMISSION FROM SRO R ...

DESIRED BUT NOT MANDATORY THAT NO ESCAPES ATTEMPTED WITHOUT OUTSIDE HELP
...  SRO TO USE THIS AS DECISION FACTOR

ONE SONIC BOOM WHEN NO STRIKE ON MEANS RESCUE ATTEMPT WITHIN WEEC AT
CAMP THAT GETS THREE BURNER BANGS DURING NEXT STRIKE

R ...  Flak was so thrilled over the news he almost dropped the paper.
To his knowledge there had been no outside communication ever before on
the subject of a rescue attempt.  His fingers trembled on the paper so
much that Thach glared at him.

"Okay," Flak said when he settled himself down.  "Here's what I have to
say."

EVERYONE ON FLOOR WHEN RESCUE IN EFFECT ... NO MOVE TIL HEAR AMERICAN
VOICE...

GIVE FOLLOWING TO MORALE OFFICER...  EVERY MAN PROMOTED HIS DUE DATE ...

WHAT ABOUT LEAVES N PASSES...

HA HA ...  U GOT ALL THIS ...

YEAH BUT GOT TO TALC NOW...  Flak pretended to read from the paper.  "I
am United States Air Force Major Algernon A.  Apple and I want to tell
you-"

DON'T PO 'EM. ...  U R ONLY CONTACT ...  U GOT TO DELIVER THE MAIL ...

" .  .  .  and I want to tell you ...  to tell you that we receive food
here and...  and we receive CAREFUL...

" .  .  .  and we receive, unh, food and goodies and, unh, Ho Chi Minh
is the leader here."

One of the photographers said something in a language that Flak did not
understand, and all three men laughed.

"Well," Shawn said, "is that all you have to say?  What are your views
on the war, Algernon?"

MY views on the war, you hippie prick, are that we should shoot you,
nuke Hanoi, and make a parking lot out of Moscow.

And nobody calls me Algernon and gets away with it.

CAREFUL ...  U R ONLY GUY TO DELIVER MAIL ...

"It is a long and dangerous war and I hope it will be over soon and I am
sorry so many people have died.  I really am sorry." Flak almost bit his
tongue off.

"Do you have a message for the American people?" Shawn asked.

You bet I do.  Tell them to get off their dead ass and invade this
place.  "I think the American people should take the appropriate action
to end this dreadful conflict."

"What exactly do you mean by 'appropriate action,' Algernon?"

Nukes, invasion, the usual, you prick.  "Prayer.  Yes, prayer.

The American people should go to church and pray for peace."

Connert made some frantic flashs.  HEY I NEED MORE ...

STALL ...  I GOT QUESTIONS FOR YOU ...

Thach rose and stood in front of Flak.  "seat is enough," he said with
barely concealed rage.  The interview had not gone the way his superiors
had told him it must go, and he was angry and worried about his future.
He needed a favorable event by tomorrow, the second of November.  He
nodded to Co Dust and told her in Vietnamese to take Flak to his room.

"Wait," Flak said.  "I have more to say." Thach turned and studied Flak,
a wary look on his face.

WE NEED ...  Connert started.

While he spoke, Flak tried to keep his concentration on Connert's coughs
and sniffles and his hand movements without appearing to.  "I want
everyone to know, to be aware of what I feel." The newsmen had puzzled
looks on their faces.

...  TO NO ALL CAMP LOCATIONS AND ALL POW NAMES ...

IMPOSSIBLE ...  Flak flashed.  Like many of the POWs, Flak had spent
time memorizing name, rank, and service of as many POWs as were in the
collective memory of those about him.  As prisoners returned from
various camps, they fed into the POW memory where they had been.  The
different camps had names based on the first prisoner's impressions: in
Hanoi was the Plantation, the Zoo, Alcatraz, and Hoa Lo Prison, known as
the Hanoi Hilton.  Up and down the Red River were scattered six other
camps.  It was rumored there might be a camp up on the border between
North Vietnam and Red China, but if there was, no one had returned from
it.

DO BEST U CAN...

GOT TO THINC...  WRITE IT DOWN ...  PASS TO U ...

Flak tried another meaningless statement.  "I feel this is a long war
that should come to a satisfactory conclusion." He noticed Thach had a
look of impatience that would soon erupt.

DO WHAT U CAN ...  ARRANGE MEETING TOMORROW ...

Flak let his knees buckle and staggered to a chair.  "I'm not well.
Maybe I should go home."

Shawn shot a look of triumph at Connert.

"Tomorrow," Flak said.  "We'll talk tomorrow." He looked up at Thach.
"You will let these journalists back in tomorrow, won't you?" Co Dust
went to his side.

Thach bit his lip.  His gaze flicked to the newsmen.  His indecision
whether or not he could trust Flak Apple was clear on his face.  "Yes,"
he said finally.  He thanked the photographers stiffly and suggested
they come back tomorrow at the same time.  He again told Co Dust to take
Flak to his room.  When they were gone, he turned to Shawn and Connert.

"He was not himself today," he said.

"Will you actually bring him back tomorrow?" Shawn asked.

"He will be here."

"Did you hear what he said?  Do you think he really will depart with
us?"

Thach hesitated.  "It would be a very good thing," he said slowly.
"Come, I will take you to your hotel." He wondered at the strange look
on the face of the man called Connert.  It was almost exultation.  He
held the door for them.

"By God," Shawn said to Connert as they walked out, "there was no point
in bringing you along.  You never did talk to Apple."

"No," Connert said and sneezed, "I guess I didn't."

"Jesus," Shawn said, "can't you do something about that fucking cold?"

Connert shrugged his shoulders.  "No, I guess I can't."

After she helped him into bed, Flak grabbed the wrist of Co Dust.  "I
need paper and a pen," he whispered into her ear.

"Maybe I can bring those things in a few days," she said.

"No, today.  I must have them as soon as possible.  Immediately." All
thoughts of escape were out of his mind now.  He had a mission to
perform ...  the corps, the names.

She returned as quickly as she could.  Her footsteps were noiseless on
the bare concrete as moans and other horrid sounds echoed through the
rough halls.  Her gray cotton uniform matched those of the other nurses,
who tried desperately to work in the crowded conditions while hopelessly
understaffed.  Those close to her station eyed her with mistrust because
her only duty now was to be with the black American.  She rounded the
last corner to the American's room and gasped in surprise as Thach
appeared from nowhere.

"Where have you been, wretch?  And what have you there?"

He grabbed the coarse notebook and pen from her trembling hands.

"It ...  they are for him.  He-he wants to write."

"A confession?"

"Yes, that's it.  A confession.  He did not like the one you gave him."

"I will go with you." He pulled her along the hall and into Flak's room,
startling him.

"You want to write a confession?" Thach said in an even voice.

Flak quickly glanced at the writing materials in Co Dust's hands and
understood the anguish in her dark eyes.  "Yes," he said.

"Write then.  I will wait.  You can read it tomorrow at the news
conference."

"I don't know what to say."

"You know exactly what to say.  We have discussed it many times," Thach
flared, then got hold of himself.  "It is an easy task," he said in a
soft voice.  "Make it natural, like a conversation.  Start from the
beginning.  You do not have to say you always had these repentant
thoughts.  Tell them it was only after your leader King was killed that
you----2'

"King?  Martin Luther King?  Killed?  What do you mean?"

Flak's face was filled with disbelief.

"He was murdered by Johnson's killers."

Flak relaxed.  "Well, that's so much bullshit." LBJ might do insane
things about the war, Flak thought, but he didn't run about murdering
people.

"Your Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis in the state of
Tennessee on the fourth day of April this year.  He was shot by a white
man."

Flak's whole body flamed.  "You're lying.  This is a trick.

That could never happen."

Thach realized this man had been out of contact from all news, even camp
propaganda broadcasts, since his escape attempt last March.  "And Robert
Kennedy was shot to death in Los Angeles two months later," Thach said
with mock sorrow.

Flak frantically looked to Co Dust for confirmation.  "It's not true, is
it?  Ah, God, tell me it's not true," he said, his voice torn with an
anguish deeper than anything he had ever experienced.

Co Dust looked up and into his pain-filled eyes and nodded slowly.

Flak clenched his fists.  Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, it's true.  My country, oh
God.  What's happening there?  What?  What?  What?

He took a deep breath and struggled to control himself.  He stared at
the ceiling a long time before he spoke.  "Okay, give me the pen and
paper.  I'll write.  But you have to leave the room.  You make me too
nervous."

Thach stood up.  "Are you sure you will write a confession?"

"I will write a confession," Flak said through clenched teeth.

Thach strode up to Co Dust, grabbed the paper and pen, and threw them at
Flak.  Then he slapped the stunned girl's face with a loud crack and
said over his shoulder, "You must write confession for tomorrow or you
know what will happen to her." He went out the door.

She stood by his bed, head bowed, hands limp at her sides.

Flak reached for her hand and caressed it, a look of anguish on his
face.

"He is an animal, a crazy animal," he said.  She didn't speak.

He squeezed her hands.  "Princess, is it true?  Is it really true?"

"Yes, they are dead." He could barely hear her words.  "They are both
dead.  You Americans.  .."

Flak lay back and put his hands over his face.  "Ah God," he sobbed.
"Why?  Why?  Ah God." He rocked from side to side.

"It doesn't get any worse than this." His voice cracked with emotion.

She went down the hall for a wet cloth and put it on his forehead. After
a few moments he calmed and sat up.

"Okay, I'll write.  You bet I'll write.  Give me that paper.

He struggled to sit up and she helped him position himself to write and
gave him the pad and pen.  He started.  After a few minutes he swore and
changed positions.  It still didn't work.

His bent arms and shoulders didn't allow his hands and fingers to
manipulate the pen.

"Here," he said, and handed her the tablet and pen.  "You write for me.
I'll dictate.  But write real small, as small as you can."

She wondered why but did as he asked as he started dictating in a
strained voice.

0930 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 1 NOVEMBER 1968

EAGLE STATION AT LIMA SITE 85

ROYALTY OF LAOS

The pilot dodged among the wispy clouds, plopped his highwinged Porter
down on the short strip, and reversed pitch on his big propeller,
blowing huge clouds of dust forward of the plane.  He taxied over to
where Mister Sam and Wolf Lochert stood by the operations shack.  The
ceiling was low, heat and humidity high.  Dust devils swirled across the
short strip as a birthing thunderstorm to the west sent out exploratory
winds.

"You always draw the shit details?" Mister Sam said as he shook hands
with Court Bannister.

"No bad remarks," Wolf growled.  "This man is a warrior."

"I'm not complaining," Mister Sam said.  "Glad to have you back,
Bannister." All three wore safari suits.  Court wore his green survival
vest over his.

"We've got other visitors," Mister Sam said as they trudged up the hill
to Pearson's office shack in the Eagle Station complex, "but they're
being picked up this afternoon by a Company helicopter.  This place is a
regular Grand Central Station."

Armed and grinning Hmoungs stood outside the door like palace guards.
They made head bobs in salute as the men entered the small wooden
building.

Bob Pearson and Al Verbell greeted them and watched as Court pulled maps
from his B-4 bag.  "Never thought we'd see you here again, Major,"
Pearson said as he helped Court spread them out.

"I admit I'd rather defend this place from the air than from the
ground," Court said.  "Here's what I've got.  The intell people think
this place is going to be hit within days if not Hours.  They think
Hanoi has had it with your Tacan, but mostly because of the bombing
directions your radar provides.  Now, for some reason they have
indications this site is going to be struck by a main-force outfit and
captured soon-very soon, maybe tomorrow." He held up his hand at the
exclamations.  "Not everybody believes that, but because our intell
officer, Dick Hostettler, does, then I do." Court went on to explain
about the ground self-FACing that was to be done at the site and that
he, Court, would handle the radio with the fighters.

"Between the Wolf FACs in the day and Spectre and the Phantom FACs at
night I think we've got it covered," he finished.

"Well, shit," Pearson said.  "If I had thought the bad guys were going
to get so pissed off, I'd of stayed in Poughkeepsie."

He made a face.  "Ah well, some guys just can't take a joke." He got up.
"Come out here, there's something I want to show you."

They followed him out to the steep cliff.  "Look at this," he said and
stepped into a small notch in the cliff hidden behind scrub bushes.
Hammered deep into the rock were spikes that had a half-dozen heavy
nylon straps attached to them.  Each strap was neatly coiled and
attached to a parachute harness.

"These are 3,000-pound test straps.  They are just the right length to
let us over the cliff to hang under the outcropping and then swing into
a limestone cave.  It's kind of our last-ditch defensive maneuver.  A
place to hide.  I've got provisions and a radio down there."

"Let's hope we don't have to use it," Court said.

"Roger that," Pearson said.  He led them through the rest of the radar
and radio compound.  He finished the tour at a newly constructed bunker
sunk well into the ground and covered with heavy logs and layers of
dirt.  "There's radios and food and water in there," Pearson said with
pride.  "Had a hell of a time getting those logs cut and carried up the
trail."

"All my recommendations were followed, I see," Wolf said as he looked
with pleasure at the bunker and mortar pits, the machine gun sites, and
the carefully laid-out positions with clear and interlocking fields of
fire.  Court noted with approval that the two separate Flaming Arrow
pits he had helped build had fresh oil-soaked rags in the cans.

"It's damn near impossible for anybody to scale those cliffs and get up
here," Mister Sam said.  "We've got trip wires, booby traps, and flares
on all the scalable trails."

"What about Bunth and Touby down below?" Wolf asked.

"They act pretty military these days and draw their rations without
giving us any problems.  I think you shook them up bad," Mister Sam
said.

"Maybe so, but how are their defenses?  Can the PL or the NVA get
through their perimeter?"

"Probably a concentrated force could, but I've been too shorthanded to
check.  I don't have anyone to send down there, and your report is as
current as I'm going to get.  That's why I've concentrated in keeping
the approaches up the karst to this place so heavily guarded.  If things
really turn to shit, all we need is enough time to put the evacuation
plan in effect and get the technicians out of here.  The equipment is
expendable, nothing classified about it.  The plan is just to leave for
a while if we can't hold the station, then return when the bad guys go
away.  But don't sweat it.  They can surround the base but they can't
climb this mountain."

In the distance they could see a rainsquall rapidly approaching the
site.  They walked across to the village of Poo Pah Tee, perched on top
of the karst.  Several of the women were washing clothes in tin tubs, a
gift of the USAF; others were tending gardens.  Chickens lazily clucked
and pecked the bare earth for the minutiae of the bug world.  Men
wearing parts of camouflaged fatigues made their way up and down the
dirt paths and between the thatched huts on errands only they knew.

"What about these tribesmen?" Wolf asked as they walked down the dirt
paths between the thatch huts.  "Would they be evacuated also?"

"Well, there's no plan for that at this time," Mister Sam said.

"Why the hell not?" Court asked.  "If they're here to defend you, seems
to me they should get the same protection you do."

"Doesn't work that way, Major," said Jerome Powers as he stepped out of
the door of the village supply hut.  "These people are well paid to stay
here and defend their own property ...

property they would lose if we didn't give them the means to defend it."

"You mean property nobody would want if we didn't have military
equipment up here," Wolf said.  "What are you doing here, Powers?"

"He's part of the visiting team," Mister Sam said.

"And I'm the other half," Barbara Powers said as she stepped from the
supply hut.  She wore a nicely tailored green jumpsuit and carried a
large tan over-the-shoulder bag.  "And a cheery hello to you, Major
Courtland Bannister."

"Team for what?" Wolf snapped.

"Basically, it was sort of a last-minute thing," Babs said.

"I got this fabulous idea that since I am married to one of the
important men in the Embassy, and since I work in the Embassy, I should
get out and see what's going on in the villages.  Jerome was a perfect
darling and agreed to show me around."

Perfect darling squirmed and made deprecating motions with his hands.
"Well, actually I had a supply run to make and no reason why ...  I
mean, there was a seat open on the helicopter."

Court thought perfect darling looked like a man caught with his fly open
in a girls' school.  "Do you normally take your wife on a field trip?"
he asked.

"Well, unh, no.  You see---"

Wolf Lochert looked at Powers with contempt.  "You better get your butts
out of here right now before this place gets hit.

Didn't you get the warning?  This place is due for imminent attack. Call
up your bird, get it in here early, get moving."

"Just a minute there, Colonel," Powers said.  "You can't talk like that
to me, I'm a civilian with a higher rank than you-"

"You're a civilian Scheisskopf who's out here on a boondoggle-" Wolf
never finished his sentence because the first bomb impacted with a blast
that sent dirt and rocks flying over the south end of Poo Pah Tee and
the concussion smashed into their eardrums.  Within seconds the moan of
a hand-cranked siren split the moisture-laden air.  The male villagers
scurried about grabbing their weapons and running to their fighting
positions; the women scooped up their children and ran into their flimsy
huts.

"Back to the bunker," Wolf yelled.

"What is it?" Powers yelled as he ran.

There had been no characteristic express-train sound from an incoming
artillery shell before the blast.  Court heard the sound of a piston
engine overhead and looked up to see an airplane he had seen only a few
times in an aircraft recognition book.

It was a six-passenger single-engined biplane that looked like a
DeHavilland Beaver with two wings.

"We're being bombed," Court said in surprise as they darted into the
bunker, "by one of the oldest airplanes in the Soviet inventory."

1030 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 1 NOVEMBER 1968

EAGLE STATION AT LIMA SITE 85

ROYALTY OF LAOS

"What the hell is it?" Powers demanded.

"A Colt, the AN-2," Court replied.  "It's got fabric control surfaces,"
he said in amused wonder.  He stood in the doorway and watched the
ancient airplane come around for another pass.

Soon an object split from the airplane and fell dartlike toward the
radar dome.

"That's no bomb," Wolf said.  "It's too small."

"Looks more like a shell," Mister Sam said as the projectile hit the
ground and exploded too far away from the radar dome to cause any
damage.  Court saw that the clouds were so low where the plane was
turning to come in for another pass that it would have to clear a
ridgeline at less than 100 feet.

"You got any automatic weapons in here?" he asked Mister Sam as he moved
away from the doorway.  "Let's get 'em out.

I think we can hose that bastard from the ridge."

Mister Sam rushed inside and back out with three AK-47 assault rifles.
He gave one to Court and one to Wolf as they ran up the hill.

"Hey, how about me?" Powers yelled.  "I wanna shoot, too, you know."

"Guard the women and children, asshole," Mister Sam yelled over his
shoulder.  Mister Sam flung Wolf and Court a bandolier as they flopped
down on the shale and rocks of the ridge.

"These have tracers," Mister Sam said.  The tip of every fifth round was
green in the Russian style and made of a material that would burn bright
green as it flew through the air.  Snicks and clacks sounded as they
charged their weapons.

"The only way he can make it back here," Court said, "is between those
two clouds-and they're moving in fast and low."

The biplane made a right turn and headed toward the ridge.

They lined up their guns and waited till it drew closer.

"Almost zero deflection," Court said.  They did not have to calculate a
long and difficult angle by which to lead the aircraft as they fired.

"Hot shit.  He'll be lower than fifty feet if he wants to stay out of
those clouds," Mister Sam said with glee.  "I don't think he even sees
us."

The plane bored in on a line that would place it a few feet to one side.
The three men had nothing to fear.  The plane didn't carry any guns with
which to strafe them, and the bombing with whatever they dropped had
been pitiful.  Its top speed was no more than 120 knots.  They opened up
when the Colt was 100 feet in front and to their left.

At first the tracers were behind, then quickly converged on the
brown-painted plane.  As it flew closer they could see the goggled pilot
stare out at them in surprise when the tracers swarmed all over the
cockpit.  The engine coughed and belched a fireball, then the plane
trailed black smoke as the left wing went down, and with a loud thump
the aircraft crashed into a small rise.  There was no fire.

The men and the villagers ran to the wreckage.  There were two men
pinned in the torn metal.  One was obviously dead.

"This guy might be alive," Wolf said as he tore pieces of the airplane
from the man's body.  He pulled the small figure out and wiped away the
blood.

"Viet," he exclaimed.  What are you doing here?  "Where are you from? he
asked in Vietnamese.

The man's face was a twisted mask of pain and incomprehension.

His eyes were wandering, with huge pupils.  He repeated words over and
over through a nearly crushed throat.

He spasmed, and as he did so, blood erupted from his mouth and he went
slack.

"What did he say?" Mister Sam asked.

"Sounded like he said 'Brave Fight or 'Valiant Struggle,' as if it were
the name of some operation," Wolf said as he sat back and wiped his
hands on a bandana he jerked from a rear pocket.

"Guess he thought he was a hero," Mister Sam said.  "What's written on
here?" He pulled a paper from a clip attached to the right thigh of the
pilot's coveralls.

"It's a pilot's flight card," Court said, recognizing the general
format.  "The numbers and headings show he came from some place in North
Vietnam." He examined the map.  "About five klicks over the border."

Wolf studied the paper.  "And these letters mean he was scouting for
artillery placement.  He was only supposed to be a forward artillery
observer, to place shells as they landed.  I guess he wanted to get in
on the act and drop something of his own.  Cost him a lot."

Court poked around the wreckage.  "Look at this," he said.

"That tube out of the bottom of the aircraft.  It's crushed, but those
are 120mm.  mortar shells in a rack next to it.  They were trying to
bomb us by sliding shells down the tube."

The sound of a rushing express train filled the air.  "Incoming," Wolf
yelled.  "Take cover." The three men flung themselves to the ground as
an explosion from the tiny airstrip shot red dirt and debris high into
the air.

"Let's make it for the bunker," Wolf yelled.  "Those are 133mm
high-explosive shells." They got up and dashed into the low, sandbagged
structure.

The bunker was small but complete.  Pearson had set up phone lines and a
Motorola radio circuit with the radar van.

A Mark 128 radio pallet rested on a wooden table.  The diverse radios
provided long-range contact with Vientiane and 7th Air Force commanders,
and local contact with ground troops and airplanes overhead.  An outside
generator provided power for the radios and the lights.  Fans in hidden
ventilators moved the air.

"Where's Pearson?" Court asked.

"Gone back to the radar van," Barbara Powers answered, her face flushed.
"Said for me to stay here.  Said I'd be safer." Her eyes were bright and
her pupils enlarged.  She licked her lips.

"What a lark.  We're being shelled, aren't we?" She clutched her large
shoulder purse under one arm.  Her green jumpsuit was wrinkled and
smudged.

Another crash sounded from outside.

"Yeah," Wolf said with disgust.

Court couldn't tell whether it was disgust at Barbara being at Eagle
Station or at the incoming shells.  He decided it was both.

Mister Sam called Pearson on the landline and switched on the voice box
so the others could hear the report.  "Eagle, this is Maple.  What's
your situation?"

"Small problem here," Pearson's voice crackled from the box.  "Our radar
and the TACAN are okay but we've lost our radios.  Can't talk to
anybody.  Guess you'll have to take over from down there.  Call Cricket
and tell them what's happening and get some fighters in here." Two loud
explosions punctuated his words.  "What about that airplane that was
dropping bombs?

Think there will be another one?" Pearson asked.

"Can't say," Mister Sam said.  "You got the radar, you tell us if one is
inbound.  I think this guy was supposed to be an artillery spotter."

"Glad he couldn't make it," Pearson said.  "So what do we do now?  Even
if no one is spotting, those are real shells dropping on us.  Even
randomly, one could connect."

"I'll call Victor Tango to get the evacuation plan cranked up," Mister
Sam said, "but I don't think we'll need it.  I'll get reports from Hak
and Bunth and see if they have any ground contact.  Meanwhile I'll put
Bannister in touch with Cricket and let him find out what the fighter
and weather situation is." He rang off and handed Court the microphone
for the UHF radio.

Court pressed the mike button.  "Cricket, Phantom Zero One on
Primary......  Primary" was aviation shorthand for the major frequency
of the day.

"Phantom Zero One, Cricket, gotcha loud and clear," the voice came back
promptly.  "Didn't know you were airborne."

"I'm not, I'm on the ground at Eagle Station.  We're under artillery
attack and there'll probably be a ground attack later tonight.  What's
the fighter and Spectre status?" A shell blasted in the distance.

"Phantom, we've got plenty of fighters, and Spectre can be overhead in
thirty minutes, but we've had reports of a solid overcast covering your
position.  Best we can do until it clears is use the fighters on Skyspot
and maybe Spectre on a beacon."

He meant the fighters could drop on the directions from the Eagle
Station Skyspot radar and Court could direct Spectre to fire through the
overcast using his hand-held beacon.

"Good idea, Cricket," Court said into the microphone, "but right now we
don't know where the big gun is that's lobbing the shells on us.  Once
we get a fix we'll let you know and put some ordnance in." A crash
sounded closer to the bunker.

"We'd better find it darrm quick." He signed off.

"I just got Bunth and Hak on the horn," Mister Sam said.

"Here's the situation.  Bunth says his men are spread out on a circular
perimeter that radiates out twelve kilometers from here.

Unfortunately, the gun has a firing range of 15 klicks.  He says that
his men in the east quadrant know the gun is somewhere out there because
they hear the boom and then the sound of the shell as it goes overhead.
They calculate it's somewhere between 080 degrees and 100 degrees from
us."

Court looked at his map.  There were heavy karst ridges and jungle in
that direction.  "Depending on the weather, I can get Spectre down there
after dark to look for muzzle flashes.  In the meantime can they get a
better location on the gun?  Maybe even mount a ground attack?"

"Okay, set the Spectre support up," Mister Sam said.  "I'll see if I can
goose Bunth into a more active search mode, but I doubt he'll attack
anything more dangerous than a wounded water buffalo.  I talked to Major
Hak.  His men are all primed and cocked for movement up the trail.
They're ready to fight.  As yet they haven't seen or heard a thing
except the artillery."

The shells were falling at two-minute intervals and so far had not hit
anything vital.

"I made contact with Victor Tango," Mister Sam said to Jerome and
Barbara Powers.  "Your helicopter is inbound to pick you up.  Should be
here in thirty minutes or so." He looked pointedly at Powers.  "They
said they had never authorized your wife on this trip and never would
under any circumstances."

Barbara Powers looked at her husband.  "Well, duckie, you lied to me,
didn't you?  Big man, said you could do anything you wanted.  God." She
threw her hands up in .  disgust.  "Anybody got a drink around this
dump?" Jerome Powers grabbed her roughly by an arm.  "Shut up.  Just
shut up." She shook loose and walked back to a corner, where she dug
into her large bag.

Mister Sam glanced after her and rolled his eyes.  He said to Court and
Wolf, "You guys want to haul ass, now's your chance."

"After you," Wolf said with mock gravity.

"I wouldn't miss this for anything," Court replied.

"Well, you know I'd love to stay," Powers said, "but there's no one to
run the office, so I've got to get back." Babs made a disparaging sound
from her corner.

"Last chance, gentlemen," Mister Sam continued.  "Victor Tango told me
the Ambassador is not actuating the evacuation plan, because he doesn't
think the threat is high enough.  He does promise to have the standard
Jolly Green alert bird at Lima Site 36 keep a listening watch on HF for
us in case we need him."

"Fair enough," Court said.

"Well, nobody has asked me whether or not I want to go," Babs Powers
said as she walked over to the group.  "And the answer is-I don't want
to.  This is the most excitement I've had in years." Her breath had the
faintly sweet smell of a good gin.

"You have no choice, Mrs.  Powers," Wolf Lochert said in soothing tones
that surprised everyone.

"Oh, yes I do, Colonel.  You can't order me around."

"Can't order you, but I can lift and toss you into the helicopter," Wolf
said as smoothly as before.

"We'll see about that," she snapped.

"You can't talk to my wife like that," Jerome Powers said in a
high-pitched voice.

Wolf gave him a withering glance and Powers took his wife back to the
corner.

Court looked around the bunker and found a PRC-25 FM radio.  "I'm going
out and take a look."

"We'll go out and take a look," Wolf said, grabbing his AK-47.

"Keep us informed," Mister Sam said.  Another shell impacted in the
distance.

"Court," Barbara Powers said as she walked up to him, "take care of that
magnificent body." She swayed slightly and put her hands on the lapels
of his safari suit.

"Madam," he said, and pulled her hands away, "you have the wrong man."

"I'm not a madam," she exclaimed.

"To me you are," Court said.

"By God, you'll pay for that," Jerome Powers said.  "When we get back
I'll have you up on charges."

Court ignored him and followed a chuckling Wolf Lochert out the door.

Outside, they found themselves in dense fog that had rolled in.  "This
karst sticks up so high we're in the clouds," Court said.  "I wonder
what the ceiling is down below."

They jogged at an easy pace through the mist around the complex,
checking damages and the fighting positions of Hak's men.  At two-minute
intervals they heard the express-train rush of another shell and took
cover.

"Those shells are not very effective with only one tube and no one to
spot for them," Wolf said.  They crossed to the village of Poo Pah Tee,
where the people were out walking, unconcerned, about their business.
They found Major Hak at one of his mortar pits that doubled as a forward
observation post looking out over the surrounding jungle to the east.
The mist was an impenetrable wall.

Major Hak greeted them with a broad smile.  "We can see nothing, they
can see nothing." A shell crashed into the eastern hill well below them.
Then the sound of machine gun fire came up from the northern side, where
the trail from the jungle floor rose up to Poo Pah Tee.  Immediately
after the shooting, some rapid-fire Hmoung syllables sounded on Hak's
radio.  He listened intently and snapped a few comments in return.

"They say enemy soldiers come up trail, they fight now," he said calmly.

The battle sounds of shots and bursts of automatic weapons were muted in
the mist and fog.  Several explosions that Wolf said were hand grenades
rolled up heavy and thick from below.

A 133mm.  shell crashed behind them toward the radar site.

"Hey," Mister Sam said on Court's radio, "that was pretty close. Pearson
said fragments sprayed the radar van.  I'm telling him to shut down and
move his men in here."

Firing started from a section of the trail leading to the village.

Hak took the report on his radio and said his troops were engaging
another attacking force.  He turned and gave information to the mortar
crew.  They rotated and cranked the barrel to a predetermined elevation
and started dropping mortar shells into it.  The whumpf of their
departure was followed seconds later by the muffled bang of their
impact.  Court and Wolf stayed a few more minutes while Hak fed the
corrections he received on his radio to the mortar men.  Soon he grinned
at a report coming back from them and said, "We kill mak-mak bad guy
down trail."

Court and Wolf headed back to the command bunker.  It was hot and
crowded.  "Man," Pearson said, "this is a twelve-man bunker.  It isn't
geared for all"-he counted rapidly----twenty-three of us." The
technicians from the radar site sat on the dirt floor with their backs
to the walls.  There wasn't another inch of wall space available. Jerome
and Barbara Powers had a section to themselves.  Court saw her return a
silver flask to her bag.

Wolf checked about the sandbagged room and noted that Mister Sam had
done a professional job in setting up the facility.

"I've got food and water for all of us for a week," the CIA man said,
"and more ammo than we can possibly use, mainly because there aren't any
gunports to fire from."

A loud boom sounded close by, jarring sand loose from the roof.

"Where is our helicopter?" Powers said to no one in particular.  Babs
shot him a contemptuous glance.

Mister Sam turned from his HF radio.  "Just talked to Victor Tango. They
say no pickup helicopter.  Weather is too sour

and it'll be dark out there damn quick." Another crash outside dislodged
a cascade from the roof.

"That's twice in a row they came close," Mister Sam said.

"That's not coincidence.  I think somebody's spotting for them now."

"So do I," Wolf said.  "Bannister, let's go take a look."

For the second time both men went out the door.  In addition to his
PRC-25 radio, Court carried one of Mister Sam's AK-47s and ammo and
grenades.  Wolf was equally armed.

"First thing we do," Wolf said over his shoulder as he ran in a crouch
to the closest underbrush, "we get away from the lucrative targets."

Court followed him until they both lay prone under scrub bushes next to
a rock formation.  The two-minute interval between the shells remained
the same, but they were landing with more accuracy.  Court eased up the
side of the largest rock to look at the airstrip.  The cloud-fog had
lifted.

"Can't get anything in there but a helicopter until we fix those holes,"
he said.  A roaring noise sounded and he ducked down.

The shell landed near the radar bubble, puncturing it with tiny holes
from rock splinters.

Wolf rose next to him.  "We need to find the highest place a spotter can
be to see where the shells land." He looked around.

"Over there." He nudged Court and pointed to a pile of shale and karst
500 feet away at the far end of the plateau, away from the village and
the radar site.

"Oh, damn-look," Court said, pointing at the command bunker.  Babs
Powers had come out the door and was walking in weaving strides across
the open area to where Court and Wolf were crouched.  Her bag was
clutched under her arm.

Court checked his watch.  Another shell was due any second.

He stood up.  "Go back, go back," he shouted.

She smiled and waved.  "Wondered where you were," she said gaily. "Whee,
isn't this fum?"

The rush of the express train started and, without trying to call or
wave, because she probably wouldn't respond in time, Court sprinted out
and scooped her up and ran back to the rock basin where he and Wolf had
crouched.  He was barely two feet short of the sanctuary when the shell
impacted where she had been standing and the concussion blew them in a
heap at Wolf's feet. They sat up and brushed off.

"So thaaaat's what it's like to be shelled," Babs said after a moment in
that falsely gay voice one usually gets the first time one has just
escaped death on a battlefield.

Court and Wolf ignored her and gazed intently at the rock pile.

"I think he's in there," Wolf said.  The ground was flat and open on
their left side back to the command bunker and the radar complex.  To
the right was scrub and rock formations.  He grabbed his AK and said,
"I'll try to flank him.  You shoot at him, keep his head down.  Won't be
able to spot the shells very good if you do that and maybe I can sneak
up on him." With a wave he was gone.

Court lay prone at the base of the rocks and sighted his rifle around
the right side.  He fired off a three-round burst and watched with
satisfaction the dust spurt high from the rocks at the position of the
spotter.  Not bad for 500 feet, he told himself

Babs lay behind the rocks at his feet.  "Hey," she said and tugged at
his pant leg.  "What's going on?  What are you shooting at?  May I look?
May I?" She had the open flask in one hand.

"God damn," Court said and shook his leg as if at a pesky fly as he
fired another burst.  "Missed." He turned his head back to look at her.
"Goddamn it, woman, keep your hands off me.

This is real, not some Embassy movie." He snatched the flask from her
and threw it under a bush.

With his head bent, he didn't see the quick movement from the rock pile
as a figure in camouflage clothing darted down from the rocks into the
scrub on the side away from where Wolf Lochert would appear.  When Court
turned back he fired another burst at the top of the rocks.  He watched
for Wolf to appear at the base, and planned to fire many bursts at the
top as Wolf started to climb.

He saw a cautious movement where he expected Wolf to appear, and quickly
fired several bursts into the rocks as a signal to Wolf to begin his
ascent.  Wolf crept from the brush and started up the incline, climbing
easily, AK at the ready in his right hand.  In a movement almost too
quick for Court to , the camouflaged figure to the right of the rocks
stood up and shot Wolf in the right side as he climbed, and just as
quickly dropped down again into the bush.  Nearly too surprised to
shoot, Court managed to get off the rest of the magazine of the AK as he
sprang to his feet and ran in a zigzag pattern toward the rock pile,
then punched off the empty magazine as he ran and clawed out another
from a pouch and rammed it into position.  As he ran, he fired three-
and four-round bursts from the hip at the last place in the bush he had
seen the figure.

He swept his eyes up to the limp form of Wolf, who had slid down into
the dust at the base of the pile.  He looked back to where the figure
had been.  He kept up the constant bursts-still angry at himself to do
anything but attack and kill the one who had shot Wolf.

It was his fault.  He was so enraged at the girl that if she were to
somehow show herself in front of him, he would have shot her too.  Now
he was in grenade range, and he clawed for one from his vest, but it was
too hard to dislodge, then he was almost on top of the position, and
before he could think of what else to do, he was there and at his feet
convulsing and bleeding from the mouth was a small bare-chested man
wearing tiger suit pants.  The man looked up through eyes squinted in
pain and blood from a head wound that dripped into the channel made by
the scar on his left cheek.  It was Touby the Curer.

Around his neck was a strap holding the binoculars he used to spot
artillery.  At his side was an ancient Chinese radio on which he called
in corrections.

In a rage, Court shot him in the forehead and ran up to Wolf's body at
the foot of the rock pile as another shell thundered in.

He flung himself over the inert man and shielded him from falling dirt
and rocks.  He lay stunned for a second in the following silence.

"Get your knee out of my back," Wolf said in a voice muffled by Court's
body.

"Oh God, you're okay," Court said and rolled off.

"And don't swear, either." The two men sat up.  "You get him?" Wolf
asked.

..Yeah.  It was Touby."

"Figures."

"Where are you hit?" Court asked.

"I'm not.  That guy was so close I had to fake being hit until I could
figure something out.  The fall stunned me for a while, and my leg is
still acting up." He examined his body.  "Gimme a hand and we'll get
back to the bunker."

"We've got about thirty seconds," Court said, checking his watch.

"What about the girl?" Wolf asked.

"Leave her out here.  She's the one got you shot." Court almost meant
what he said.  He pulled one of Wolf's arms around his shoulders and
helped him hobble across the compound.

"How so?"

"Got me looking at her when I should have been looking at you." They
drew near the brush pile and rocks where Court had left Babs.  "Move
it," he yelled as they passed by.  "Let's go." There was no answer.  "Oh
hell," Court said.

Mister Sam opened the door of the bunker and Court passed the groggy
Wolf off to him.  "Where's that dipshit broad?" Mister Sam asked.

"I got to go back.  I think she's been hit," Court said.

"You got about two seconds," the CIA man warned over his shoulder as he
helped Wolf into the dark mouth of the bunker.

Court sprinted to the brush and flung himself flat next to the rocks as
the next shell arrived with a bang that shredded the mist.  Babs lay as
if asleep at the base of the rocks.  When the dirt and rocks from the
explosion subsided, he rose to his knees and looked at her body for
wounds.  She was covered with fine dust, but there was no blood.  He
shook her shoulder.

"Babs?  Babs?  You okay?" When she didn't answer he put his arms under
her body and scooped her up and poised himself ready to run to the
bunker.  She opened an eye.

"Don't be in such a hurry, lover," she said, her breath sour.

"Why don't we just stay like this for a year or two?"

In answer Court sprinted the distance to the bunker and all but threw
her into the door held open by Mister Sam.  She caught her balance and
stopped next to the radio table.  Court pointed his finger at her and
said, "Goddammit, stay away from me." He felt his face flame when
several of Pearson's men snickered.  He turned to Mister Sam and asked,
"What's the latest?"

"Notwithstanding that Bunth's man was calling in artillery on us or that
Bunth himself no longer answers our radio calls, we have good reports
from all over, namely good old Major Hak.

He says none of the bad guys are making it up the karst."

A voice crackled on the UHF loudspeaker.  "Eagle Station, this is
Spectre Two Two, you copy?"

Court answered the call.  "Spectre, this is Eagle Station.  Glad you
could make the party.  The weather's clobbered for the moment here at
the site.  I don't know how it is to the east.

Check that for us, will you?  We got a big gun over there and we want
you to kill it.  Copy?" All activity ceased in the bunker as the words
crackled through the air.

"Spec Two Two copies.  Go secure and give me some numbers."

Court switched in the voice scrambler and gave Spectre 22 the estimated
azimuth and range of the gun.  Spectre called back in a few minutes.

"Eagle, I think we can do you some good.  There are plenty of clear
areas in the clouds over here.  We'll just drive around and keep an eye
out for muzzle flashes."

"Roger.  They're firing about every two minutes." A heavy boom outside
sifted dirt from the bunker roof.  "They're still at it," Court said.

A few minutes later Spectre came back on the air.  "Ho, ho, and ho.
Think we got a fix on your little problem.  We got to stay to the east
of them so they don't know we're here and stop firing.  Will keep you
advised."

There was silence in the bunker as they listened to the running report
from the man called the table navigator on board the big C-130 Spectre
gunship.  He was an Air Force navigator who sat at a console and
coordinated all the external sensor inputs with the fire control system
to present the pilot with the best firing data available.  Inputs
included infrared, low-light-level TV (LLLTV),.radar, and a device
called Black Crow that detected the ignition coils from piston engines.
He also handled communications with the ground commanders.

"Looking good, here, loooking gooood.  I think we've got a fix.  Firing
now, firing.  Loooking goood." There was a pause, then, "Got him, oh
boy, look at him cook off.  Hey, Eagle, scratch one big gun.  What did
you say?  133 mil?  Well, you can just take that tube from the NVA
inventory.  Man, is it cooking off.  Beautiful."

Court told the listeners that "cooking off" referred to the ammunition
that exploded in the heat of whatever fire Spectre had started.

"Let old Spectre know if you have any more problems.  The Saigon wheels
say we're to be on station just for you guys until relieved by another
Spec.  Copy?"

Court said he copied, then relayed the good news to Cricket.

"Roger, Eagle Station.  Be advised, we have launched the pickup
helicopter.  Have your passengers standing by in four zero minutes."

"Sounds good, let's move it," Mister Sam said.  He got up from the table
where he had been working the radio, talking to Major Hak.  He stretched
and yawned.  "Hak says he's not having any trouble with the PL that are
trying to climb the trail.

Been knocking them off like flies.  Says his own casualties are very
light.  Looks like we've cleaned house today.  Maybe now they'll leave
us alone."

Thirty minutes later Court and Wolf, carrying AK-47s, escorted Powers
and his wife to the helipad.  There had been no shell impacts on Eagle
Station since Spectre Two Two had reported knocking out the gun.  The
firing from Hak's defenders down the side of the karst had grown
sporadic and finally quit.

The radar station was fully manned and back on the air.  The weather had
improved.

They stood in a group and heard the whop-whop of the approaching Huey
UH- I B helicopter.  Court estimated visibility was now up to five miles
and the cloud ceiling over their heads at about 200 feet.  It was
growing dark.  He looked at his watch.

Official sunset was in fifteen minutes, but the thick low clouds
overhead prevented the last rays of the sun from reaching the top of the
karst.  He looked down at the approaching Air America helicopter.  It
flew in the clear below the level of the clouds and below the level of
the helipad.

"Well, really, genil ...  gentlemen," Babs Powers slurred, "I don't want
you to feel I am running out on you.  Unlike duckie here, I'd love to
stay."

Both Court and Wolf remained silent, and Jerome Powers took a step to
one side as if to distance himself from his wife.

As the helicopter came closer, Court ignited a smoke grenade and threw
it by the helipad to help the pilot determine wind direction.  The red
smoke rose almost straight up in the still air.

The blade sound changed slightly at a half-mile distance as the
helicopter pilot started the climb for the landing site.  When it was at
100 feet above the helipad and 1,000 feet horizontal from the steep edge
of the karst, Court could make out the forms of the pilot and copilot
staring at the landing site as they prepared to touch down.

Suddenly a whoosh sounded and a small rocket trailing red fire and thick
gray smoke rose from below the edge of the karst and struck the
helicopter directly in the big exhaust tube that extended from the
engine mounted on top.  Instantly, the turbine exploded and the
helicopter broke in half in a ball of flame and pieces plummeted to the
ground 5,000 feet below the lip of the karst.  The big overhead blades
had torn loose and spun off at crazy angles.  Forward momentum carried
larger pieces of the helicopter smashing into the top of the karst short
of the helipad.

"Oh my God," Jerome Powers said, his face a twisted mask.

"Oh God, what happened?  Why did it blow up?  What's going to happen to
us?"

Court and Wolf unslung their rifles and ran past the helipad to the edge
of the karst and climbed out to an overhang to try to look down at the
fallen wreckage.

"I've never seen any missiles like that," Court said in shocked but
professional tones to Wolf.

"I think I know what it was," Wolf replied.  "Don't get out too far,
there's somebody down there that doesn't like us.  We got some real
problems coming up from whoever fired that rocket.  I don't think
they're out there just to shoot down helicopters."

They stopped near the edge of the downward-sloping rock outcropping the
size of a tennis court, which was covered with loose shale and rugged
bushes growing from the cracks.  "Go back to the bunker," Wolf said.
"Tell them what's going on.

Take those civilians with you.  Get Mister Sam to rally Hak and some men
and get a perimeter set up around the Station.

Get hold of Cricket, tell 'em we got a problem and we'll tell more once
we know more.  Then you grab a couple Prick 25s plus all the ammo,
grenades, and Claymores you can carry and come on back.  I'll stay here
and try to dope out what the force level is down there and who it is."

"Who do you think is down there?"

"Don't want to get you all upset, but I think they speak Russian."

1400 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 1 NOVEMBER 1968

Sub-Committee OF THE CENTRAL WAR PLANNING COMMITTEE

HANoi, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM

The Chairman spoke to the GRU man in passable Russian.  He did not know
the GRU man spoke flawless Vietnamese.

"Our reports are that the attack for the capture and display of the
Americans at that Eagle Station in Laos goes well.  Valiant Struggle is
advancing to culmination as we have planned."

"I beg to differ, Comrade Chairman," the GRU man said in brisk tones.
"My sources have just this day told me the attack on the radar site is
not going well at all.  They tell me that one of your pilots, instead of
directing artillery, was playing at attacking the site himself.  And
that your men attacking the site are easily being thrown back.  Is it
that you are quite sure your plan will succeed?"

The Chairman stared slightly to the left of the GRU man, with
expressionless eyes, and did not answer.

"I have a Spetsnaz team standing by.  They await only my command to have
that site securely in our hands within one hour of their arrival.  This
can be done easily by the time you originally desired."

The Chairman swung his head to regard the speaker with hooded eyes.  "We
are succeeding.  There is no need for what you suggest." He turned to
his aide and nodded.  The aide walked to the wooden door, opened it, and
beckoned to the man outside.  'Mach entered and took the one chair
across the table from the committee members. With a small sound the
Chairman cleared his throat and spoke.

"Comrade Thach, this is our final coordination meeting for Valiant
Struggle.  Everything we have planned must happen tomorrow.  You assured
us of a successful news conference for tomorrow.  What have you to
report?" The Committee Chairman quizzed 'Mach in a thin voice that cut
to the marrow of Thach's confidence.  The other members remained silent
and frozen-faced.  The GRU man sat in his place at the far end.  No one
was smoking.

Thach saw on the table in front of the Chairman the most dreaded article
used to ensure quavering fear in the core of the most stalwart Party
member.  It was a worn khaki canvas pouch with four cylindrical
compartments.  It was worn slung over a soldier's shoulder and was used
to carry four large mortar shells in the field.  First, as a warning,
any committee member who did not uphold communist party standards or who
committed any transgression would be shown the pouch.  Then, if he made
no improvement, he would be silently handed the pouch.  The guilty one
knew he was then to report to a certain section of the 559th
Transportation Battalion, where he would be issued four mortar shells
and a pair of sandals made from old truck tires and be told to join the
next supply column walking down the Ho Chi Minh Trail to deliver
supplies to the communist forces in South Vietnam.  Of those who had set
out on the journey, none had returned.

"Comrade Chairman, today went very well."

"I heard there was confusion."

"Comrade Chairman, there was some.  I am not certain he will depart with
the Americans tomorrow."

The Chairman remained silent as he stared at Thach.  "Then tell me
exactly what will happen tomorrow." His voice was a razor blade drawn
across steel.

"Comrade Chairman, the criminal Apple will read a confession in front of
the cameras that he deliberately bombed innocent people and hospitals."

"He was to read the confession today and depart tomorrow."

"I realize that.  He did not.  But he is now in possession of
information that is quite detrimental to his country and to his spirit.
He assures me he will read a confession tomorrow.  He even wants to
write it himself.  In it he may ask for leniency."

"Is he rational?  Is he unmarked?  Is he ill?"

"Comrade Chairman, he is in presentable health.  We have told the
American delegation he has suffered injuries from his crashed aircraft."

"Do they believe you?"

"It is of little consequence.  They desire to believe and that is
sufficient.  The cameramen are from our sister countries and realize
what the situation requires."

The Chairman looked around the table.  "I will attend the press
conference tomorrow.  I want to be present when he reads his confession.
If he asks for leniency, I want to be there to grant it to him in front
of the cameras." He flicked his hand.

"You are dismissed, Comrade Thach."

As Thach walked out, a man from the War Office, wearing the red tabs of
a colonel on his thin khaki uniform, entered clutching a folder to his
chest.  He had obviously been waiting and looked harassed and nervous.
He stared at the Chairman, who tilted his chin in signal to approach.
The colonel bent and whispered into his ear.

"It does not go well," he said.

The Chairman looked up and caught the eye of the GRU man, who did not
look away in time.  The Chairman saw a fleeting look of smug
satisfaction on the Russian's face.

1730 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 1 NOVEMBER 1968

SUB-COMMITTEE OF THE CENTRAL WAR PLANNING COMMITTEE

HANOI, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM

The phone on the Chairman's desk rang once with shrill insistence.  It
was French-style, black and old-fashioned.  The Chair man picked up the
receiver and listened to a hurried message from the colonel in the War
Office.  With a hiss of exasperation he hung up, dialed the Russian
Embassy, waited an interminable time to be connected, and made an
immediate appointment with the GRU man.  Moments later, he sat in the
rear as the driver of the black Peugeot sedan threaded through the
bicycle and foot traffic toward the diplomatic area of Hanoi.  The
afternoon sun was hidden behind clouds and the heat was not as crushing
as it had been earlier in the day.  He had heard Americans had air
conditioners in their cars but he did not believe it possible.

The units were simply too big and cumbersome and required too much
electricity.  He sometimes wished he had one in his office, but no one
else did, not even Ho Chi Minh.

They drove down the tree-lined streets, where the only villas Ek being
kept up were those of the diplomats.  They pulled up at the high green
wall topped with barbed wire that surrounded the Russian Embassy, where
the Chairman was admitted through the thick gate by an armed Russian in
baggy civilian clothes.

He walked under a huge willow tree thrusting up through the gravel that
covered the entire walled-in complex.  He was met at the door to the
villa, which was tightly shuttered, and led to a small meeting room.

They never take you to their offices, he thought to himself, but then we
do not either.  The room had a small table and four chairs.  The man who
led him in turned on the overhead light, then punched a big button on a
ceramic circuit breaker, and an air conditioner started to wheeze from
high on the wall.  It was rusty, but he recognized some letters he
believed to be Czech.  His intelligence specialists had told him the
Russians were not authorized air conditioners but got them by trading
cases of vodka with members of the Eastern Bloc embassies.

The GRU man made him wait five minutes before he walked in with the air
of a harassed official forced to deal with petty problems.  It hadn't
always been this way.  This was only the second time the Chairman had
had to visit the Embassy, and how different this time was from the
first.  Then they had wanted a mutual treaty signed and he had been
given all honors.  Now he was treated like an unwelcome supplicant.
These Russians were like all foreigners; no, they were worse.  They were
over bearing and ponderously arrogant, as if only they had all the
answers.

"You are here because of the attack on the American radar station," the
GRU man began.  "There is little to be gained talking about it, comrade.
Your forces were not up to the task.

Mine are.  As you probably now know, I instructed my Spetsnaz to finish
the task.  What did you wish to see me about?"

The Chairman steeled himself not to get up and walk out.  "I must have
your assurance that your men are instructed not only to capture as many
Americans alive as possible, but to bring them here immediately."

The GRU man regarded the Vietnamese with barely concealed dislike. Alive
and in Hanoi, he thought to himself.

Now.  that is a joke.  Bring them here, then someone from the other side
who knows Spetsnaz was in there will be exhibited to journalists, maybe
even Western journalists.  This cannot be allowed to happen.  Once our
men have the Klystron tube, they will kill all survivors and depart.  If
they decide one is an engineer and knows the electronics of the tube,
and if all goes well, they will take him alive, but certainly not
deliver him to Hanoi and these monkeys.  He will be taken to that
special camp in Siberia where the other engineers are.  He leaned
forward and tried to assume an earnest expression as he recited his
lie'.

"Of course we will bring them here.  It is what was agreed for your
forces to accomplish.  We are proud to help our allies in their
struggle." Allies, hah.  Inscrutable savages.

The Vietnamese had no expression.  "Tell me, what went wrongs We had
carefully conditioned two men from the other side.  Were they found
out?" It was a question the Chairman preferred not to ask, but he had to
have this man's response for the Committee.  It would be interesting to
see how it compared with what his informers had told him.

The GRU man almost laughed.  What went wrong, he said to himself, was
exactly what we planned to go wrong.  Those Bunth and Touby idiots did
just what we knew they would do just as we had programmed them to do.
They were not fighters, they were grasping dope peddlers who paid
allegiance only to themselves.  "We have no reports as yet," he replied
solemnly.

"Yes," the Chairman said.  "I understand." I understand you have lied to
me, the Chairman thought.  He arose and they went through the departure
amenities.

The GRU man watched him go.  We will have our Klystron tube, he said to
himself as he returned to his tiny cubicle of an office, and no one will
be the wiser.  At least we left them their dope production and delivery
channels.

He tapped his tooth as he thought about the possible capture of a radar
engineer from the site.  The GRU man was well versed on American POWs.
And detainees-as they called the hundreds of World War II American
airmen who had crash-landed in Soviet territory.  Those men were held
incommunicado in Kazakhstan until the end of the war.  These days,
because Kazakhstan was too well known, the special POWs from Korea and
Vietnam were in a highly secure camp in Siberia where they could be
exploited at leisure.  Unlike the detainees, the POWs would never be
released.  But they had to be highly skilled before, being selected for
the camp.  Merely piloting an airplane was not enough.  A candidate had
to have had special electronic warfare or nuclear delivery and targeting
experience.

Too bad the Strategic Air Command B-52s only fly over South Vietnam,
where we cannot get at them, he thought.  They have special crewmen who
would be highly useful to the technicians in the Siberian camp.  He
nodded to himself.  Few within the USSR government even knew such a
place existed.  The GRU man felt content.  His plan was working.

The Chairman's driver opened the door of the ancient French sedan for
him.  He climbed in, barely aware of the surroundings as he thought of
the conversation he had just had.  Those fools do not lie well.  We have
accomplished our goals.  The radar site is shut down, we will soon have
three captured Americans, our poppy production is untouched The Soviets
will now be blamed if anything goes wrong, and we have photographs oj'
Soviet men in uniform in Laos.  Clandestine release of those pictures to
the Western press would cause great condemnation to fall upon the
Russians.  Unless they agree to providing us with better weaponry for
our struggle."

2015 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 1 NOVEMBER 1968

EAGLE STATION AT LIMA SITE 85

ROYALTY OF LAOS

Court Bannister climbed back to where Jerome and Babs Powers were
huddled next to Mister Sam's wooden operations shack.

This was ground combat, something he wasn't trained for, but he knew he
had the best man in the business running the show, and he would do
anything Wolf told him.

"What's going on?" Powers yelled.  "Why didn't you stay here with us? We
don't have any guns."

"Get a move on," Court said.  "Back to the bunker."

"But what about our helicopter?" Powers said, on the verge of hysteria.
"We're supposed to leave.  Maybe there's another."

"Maybe," Court said, "but not for a while.  Let's go now."

"Come on, Jer.  Do like the man says," Babs Powers said and walked to
where Court stood in the gathering darkness.  Slowly, as if reluctant to
leave a place of known safety, Jerome Powers joined them.  Court urged
them into a trot up to the bunker.

"What is going on?" Mister Sam said as they entered.

Quickly Court briefed him on what had happened, then grabbed the
microphone and, using his Phantom call sign, called Cricket, who
answered on the first call, and they went secure-voice.

"Cricket, we got a big problem down here.  An unknown force is on the
south face of the karst.  They just shot down the Air America helicopter
with some kind of a surface-to-air missile.

No survivors.  One of our guys is down there now trying to get a line on
who's doing the shooting.  He thinks they're Russian.

We need Spectre ASAP and have the Phantom FACs standing by for cover
tonight.  Copy?"

Cricket said they copied and asked Court for the eight-digit map
coordinates of the enemy force.  Court read off the numbers, then asked
what the weather report for the night was.

"Not too good, Phantom.  We've got buildups to 35,000 feet, scattered
thunderstorms, ceiling running about 5 to 6,000 feet, visibility zip
when it's dark." Although the ceiling was a mile above the jungle
surrounding the karst, Eagle Station once again jutted into the low
clouds.

"We can give you some Skyspot birds," Cricket said over the loudspeaker,
"if you can keep your radar on the air.  And we just got word from 7th
we can give you Spectre coverage all night."

"Sounds good," Court transmitted.

"Ah, Phantom, there is a bit of a problem.  We can't clear any birds in
until we have permission from Victor Tango, and if we get it then we
have to pass that through 7th for final approval."

"What do you mean, 'if' we get the approval?"

"Well, sometimes it has been denied because of friendlies in the area."

"How the hell does he know?" Court asked.

Mister Sam walked over.  "Let it go," he said.  "I'll explain it to
YOU."

"Okay," Court said into the microphone, "do what you can as fast as you
can.  Meanwhile I'm taking a Fox Mike radio and going back out to the
attack site.  I'll call you from there and tell you what's going on."
Cricket gave Court the primary and secondary FM frequencies and they
signed off.

"What the hell is all that 'permission' stuff?" Court all but yelled at
Mister Sam.

"Take it easy.  We've got some pretty tough rules of engagement out here
and--"

Court cut him off with an impatient gesture.  "Okay, okay.  I gotta get
back to Wolf.  Do what you can." He made hasty communications
arrangements with Mister Sam and put Pearson and Verbell to work helping
him pack ammunition, radios, and the other equipment that Wolf wanted
into canvas bags.  He set both radios to the frequency Mister Sam had
given him for contact, using the call sign of "Maple."

"I want to go with you," Pearson said.

"You got any infantry training?" Court asked as he strapped on water
canteens and shouldered the bags.

"Not any more than you."

Court gave him an appreciative glance.  "Look, you guys stay here.  Do
what Mister Sam tells you.  I have a hunch you'll get your chance."

"I've got some of Hak's men waiting for you," Mister Sam said.  "Lead
them back to where Wolf is."

Court went out the bunker door and found a squad of Hak's men, with M-
l6s, crouched to the side of the structure.  He could barely see them in
the gloom.  Heavy firing and the crump of mortars came from the hehpad.
Court handed each of two men a sack of ammo, waved for them and the
others to follow, and moved as quickly as he could toward where he had
left Wolf.

He tried to stay low in the grass as he neared the spot, but had trouble
in the dark and had to feel his way.  He stood up to get his bearings
and a burst from his left sent him diving for cover.  A man behind him
cried out and dropped like an empty sack.  Court jerked when a loud
burst of answering fire from Hak's men cracked over his head.  He rolled
over on his back and wiped the sweat from his face on the bandana he
pulled from his safari suit.  He could barely make out the forms of
Hak's men crouched behind him.  He saw two of them crawling and dragging
a body back to the rear.  In minutes it would be pitch black and he knew
he had to get the radio and supplies to Wolf before that or he would
never find him.  Another burst of fire from the helipad snapped over
their heads.  This was not a situation for which the Air Force had
prepared him.

"Any of you speak English?" he asked in a low voice.

The only answer he got was a few words of Hmoung.

"Spread out," he said, and waved his arms to each side.

"Move forward, find"-he remembered the Hmoung words"find Animal-Man." He
repeated the name twice more and pointed with his finger in the
direction he thought Wolf to be.  He kept one sack by himself and
pointed to the other, then forward while repeating Animal-Man.  A
tribesman Court guessed was in charge seemed to understand.  He rattled
off a few words and three of his remaining six men scrambled forward
into the darkness, one of them dragging the sack of supplies and a
radio.  The firing became sporadic as the area became pitch black.

Court lay on his side and slapped at a bug crawling on his face.  He
felt sticky and sweat-soaked.  Now there was no noise toward the
helipad.  By feel he pulled the radio from the bag and turned it on.  He
cupped the telephone-like headset to his mouth.

"Maple," he said in a voice barely above a whisper, "this is Phantom. Do
you read?" Maybe I'm not trained for this, he thought as he wished for a
reply, but I damn near enjoy it.  If I wasn't a fighter pilot I'd
probably be in Special Forces.

"Phantom, this is Maple.  What's the situation?"

Another burst went over Court's head.  He heard a rustling in the grass
at his feet and a Hmoung crawled next to him and said a few words he
could not understand.  Court keyed the radio.

"The situation is we haven't made contact with Wolf yet and we are
pinned down.  I've got a guy here I don't understand.  Get someone to
start talking Hmoung and I'll hand him the headset.

Have him ask my guy what he's trying to say, then relay to me."

He gave the handset to the Hmoung.  There was much talking back and
forth, then Mister Sam spoke to Court.

"Ah, now don't get all pissed about this, but, heh heh, they say you are
not a soldier.  That you go through the bushes like a three-legged water
buffalo and would you please return to the bunker so they can get about
their business."

"They said all that?" Court asked in chagrin.  Me?  Special Forces?

"Actually, a bit more, but best we let it go."

"Well, hell.  I'm staying here.  I already sent out some of them with
the supplies and radio for Wolf, and I haven't heard from him yet.  So
tell them to go ahead out there and find where supplies are and get them
to Wolf" All right, so I'm only a pilot, but I'll do what we do
best-press on.

Mister Sam acknowledged, spoke a few words to the Hmoung, and came back
on to Court.

"No word from Victor Tango yet.  They said they are studying the problem
but feel we can handle it ourselves.  They say there are absolutely no
Russians around here and quit trying to make things worse by saying
there are.  So, ah, sorry 'bout that."

"Who the hell is the real enemy around here?" Court shot back and signed
off.  He checked his area and realized with a start that all the Hmoung
were gone.  It also occurred to him he had been doing a lot of talking
on the radio and that his voice had been rather loud.

I better get my ass out of here, he said to himself and started crawling
in the direction of the helipad.  A burst of fire passed over the area
he had just vacated.  It was awkward moving with his AK-47, radio, and
bag of water and ammunition.

He crawled as quietly as he could until he came to an area where the
grass stopped.  He flattened to look around but it was pitch black and
he saw nothing.  He reached out to touch the clear area and felt what he
guessed was the dirt surface of the helipad.  His mouth felt dry and he
took the canteen from his belt and swallowed several times.  He heard
the whump of a mortar, then, with a loud pop, a small parachute opened
and a mortar flare illuminated the battle area in a sickly yellow light
as it drifted earthward trailing a thick stream of smoke.

It oscillated in its parachute, causing shadows on the ground to move
black fingers to and fro.

He saw two figures at the far end of the helipad who were dressed
differently and much larger than the Hmoung.  They moved swiftly and he
could see they would be upon him in seconds if they stayed moving in the
same direction.  He eased the AK forward, fumbled the big safety lever
to what he hoped was full auto and carefully sighted along the barrel at
the moving men.  They wore dark camouflaged clothes, had thin packs on
their backs, and carried what he thought to be AK-47s at port arms as
they ran.  They had small caps on their heads and wore some kind of
masks or goggles.  His heart started thudding.

There was no doubt they would be upon him, and he pulled the trigger as
the flare hit the ground.  He saw one man go down, then all went black
as the flares burned out.

Then he was so stunned by the terrific light given off by the muzzle
flash of his weapon that he released the trigger.  Instantly, the man
fired back and Court realized he had compromised his position.  He
scuttled backwards in the grass, then got to his feet and started
running what he hoped was parallel to the edge of the pad.  He quickly
slowed because it was so black he was afraid he might slam into a rock
or fall into a hole.  He slowed, then stopped and crouched down.  it was
only then he realized he had left behind the bag with the extra
ammunition and the radio.  He flattened himself on the ground and tried
to think.

Okay, okay, calm down.  He rolled over on his back and realized a light
drizzle had begun.  The adrenaline surge through his body was decreasing
and he felt his heart slow its heavy thumping.  The picture of the two
men he had seen impressed itself in his mind.  One man had definitely
gone down, but the other had been still running.  With a shock he
realized what the goggles they wore meant: they had to be night-vision
devices.

With them, the wearer could see in the dark if there was any faint light
to be gathered and amplified.  Court looked about.

He figured the overcast prevented starlight and the fine mist would coat
the lenses.  For the moment they were as blind as he was.

He jerked as a shriek pierced the blackness.  It came, Court thought,
from the area he had just fled, or beyond, maybe across the helipad.  He
was disoriented and wasn't sure.  The shriek sounded again.  He felt his
stomach contract and a spasm in his bowels as the shriek became a hoarse
scream and died off in a burbling groan.  He thought he heard Hmoung
syllables in the groan.  Then several shots sounded and he heard a man
yelling guttural words that he knew were not Hnioung.  Another flare
popped over the helipad and was so absorbed in the mist the light was as
dim as in the hour before dawn.  But it was adequate for Court to get
oriented.  He lay on his back in the tall wet grass and raised his head
just enough to look around.

He could barely make out some of the antennas and Mister Sam's shack,
but was able to triangulate his position as away from the helipad and in
a grassy area that butted up to a shale pile.  He could see he had
curved away from the open area as he had run. There were figures by
Mister Sam's shack and a strange form against the wall of the shack,
There was a struggle among the standing figures, then they pushed
something else against the wall.  Another loud shriek split the air and
Court realized what was happening.  The camouflaged men had thrown ropes
around the feet of two Hmoung they had captured and were hanging them
upside down from the bamboo rafters that protruded from under the roof.
One figure was still.  As he watched, two of the men worked over the
second figure with something in their hands and he heard the man shriek
again and again.  As he did, several of the big soldiers faced outward,
weapons at the ready.  In seconds they began firing at small figures,
Hnioung, Court knew, that ran toward them, screaming like madmen and
firing weapons from the hip.  Just before the flare died, Court saw all
of the Hmoung cut down and he realized what the camouflaged men had
done.  They had baited a trap with screams and goaded Hak's men into an
uncoordinated wild charge that had ended in death.

It was black again, but in the brief light Court knew where he was and
where his radio and ammunition were hidden.  He wondered if Wolf had
received his supplies before the Hinoung had been cut down or captured.
He wasn't sure whether to try to make it back to the bunker or find his
supplies and look for Wolf.

A panicked voice inside said to go back to the bunker.

Nothing you can do out here-you aren't trained for this.  Get back there
and call in some air support.  That's what you do best.  Get back to the
bunker.  He took a deep breath and tried to rationalize what he really
should do.  The other voice in his mind said he was a fighter pilot and
fighter pilots don't quit and that the hardest decision was invariably
the correct decision.

Thoughts tumbled through his mind.

Oh shit, I don't want any part of this, now I know what scared truly is.
Wolf's dead.  If not, he can take care of himself I'll never find those
supplies in the dark, or those other guys will find me and I'll wind up
hanging on the wall.  Maybe I should just stay here and wait for
daylight.  Maybe this will be all over by then.  Yeah, and turn my wings
in while I'm at it.  Bannister, don't be an asshole.  Maybe I'm not
infantry-trained, but I am a fucking combat pilot--and this is combat,
so I ain't got no excuse.  Press the fuck on.

He fixed in his mind where the supplies were and started to crawl in
that direction.  Dragging his rifle was awkward.

Then, clear as a movie in his mind, he saw a training film demonstrating
that a crawling soldier was supposed to cradle the gun in his arms.  He
shifted the weapon and resumed his crawl.  it occurred to him there had
been no shots and no sounds since the Hmoungs had been cut down.  He
figured the invading force was headed for the radar site and would
probably leave a holding force at or around the helipad.  He moved as
slowly as he could to avoid noise.  The wet grass slid across his face
and had a sharp vinegary smell.  He moved several feet, then stopped to
listen.  He repeated that several times until he came to the edge of the
grass and realized he had veered back to the helipad.  He thought about
the man he had shot.  Maybe he was still out there and had a pair of the
night goggles.  Then he dismissed the thought.  These were obviously
elite forces, and they would never leave a known wounded or dead
companion just to lie there.  He would be brought to a central point.
The thought struck him that maybe the helipad was the central point.

Maybe a helicopter would come in to lift the force out when their job
was done.  He crawled toward the center.

He estimated he was halfway to where the body should be when the thought
struck him that if a mortar flare went off now he would be as obvious as
a mouse on a billiard table.

He scuttled faster along the ground and then realized he didn't have a
good fix on the body.  Then he realized he no longer had a fix on the
edge of the pad where his gear was located.  He stifled an urge to jump
to his feet and start running, running in any direction.  Then he
smelled something.  It was an odd mixture ...  then he knew he smelled
the dead man.  It was a mixture of excrement and blood and came from
close by.  He swung his head back and forth until he had the strongest
scent and started in that direction.  The smell got worse and then he
realized he was within a few feet of the corpse.  For an instant it was
as if he could feel the warmth of the body on his cheek.

He put his hand out and felt a booted foot.

Lying flat, his rifle on the ground next to him, Court fumbled with the
body, feeling clothes and belts, and a harness, then he realized his
hand had come away sticky with blood, and the stench from the man's
voided bowels was overpowering, and he was afraid he would retch and
throw up but he held on and continued working his way up the corpse.  He
got to the face and found that the goggles had slid up the man's
forehead.  He reached to take the goggles and almost cried out loud as a
hand grasped his wrist in a grip of iron.

He snorted in desperate fear and rolled away and the hand let go, then
he heard a gagging noise that sounded terribly loud in the night air.
His heart had resumed its chest-thudding gallop and be was afraid the
man would scream and his companions would come and find him and kill
him.  Without a conscious decision, Court's survival instincts took
control and he rolled over, found the man's neck, and strangled him.

When it was over he lay panting for an instant next to the body of the
man he just killed.  With a surge he rolled back, fumbled in the dark,
and snatched the heavy goggles and tried to slide them over his head and
found they were attached by a wire to what he surmised was a battery
pack.  He freed the battery from the man's harness, pulled the eyepieces
into place, and saw absolutely nothing.  He slowly moved his head to see
all around his position, and found if he tilted his head back he could
see a faint greenish glow in one direction.  He dropped the goggles to
his neck and looked in that direction.  The drizzle had stopped and the
best he could tell was that there was a slight break in the low overcast
and faint starlight was causing some illumination.  He pulled the
goggles into place and by craning his neck and looking almost sideways,
he could just make out the edge of the helipad where he thought Wolf
Lochert had gone.  Then he heard the cough of a mortar leaving its tube
and knew he had scant seconds to clear the pad before the flare opened
up.  He sprang to his feet and took off in the direction of the green
glow.  When he reached the tall grass he ran in several feet, then flung
himself to the ground just as the pop of the opening flare sounded and
the yellow light flooded the area.

Court lay still for a moment, then rolled over on his back.

was then he realized he had left his gun at the side of the man.  Not
trained isn't the word, he said to himself.  Dumb. Stupid motherfucker
is more like it.  He lay back and felt a terrible lethargy start to
creep over his body as if some foreign substance were replacing his
blood.  His legs felt like lead and he knew he couldn't raise his arms.
His brain fogged and he thought he would just sleep for a little while
and he would feel much better.  He mused over whether the lethargy was
caused by the letdown after the adrenaline high or the realization that
he was doomed and might as well accept the inevitable. He closed his
eyes for an instant, then snapped wildly awake as he heard the hissing
of the burning magnesium in the flare.  He looked up and saw that the
flare dangling under its parachute would drop right on top of him if he
stayed where he was.

Is this where I am to die?  Some obscure dot on a map in a country few
people have even heard or Someplace where I have no control?  Used to
the positiveness of flying an aircraft that always had something
functioning a pilot could use, Court felt totally helpless.  He felt
like a bug in the bottom of a bowl that someone was toying with.  Some
absurd being was letting him climb up the sides to freedom, then shaking
the bowl so he would slide back to the bottom.

He almost laughed.

The flare grew larger and was almost burned out.

Christ, man, get hold of yourself.

Okay, fighter pilot, move it, move it.  There's always one last trick,
one last maneuver, one last hope.  Move it.  He grew alert again,
galvanized, and crawled off in the grass, still toward the direction in
which he thought Wolf Lochert had gone.  When he was sure he was clear
of the flare, he stopped and hastily pulled the goggles up to his eyes
to get a fast look around before the flare went out.  He sat up and
cautiously raised his head.  He looked slowly in all directions.  Seeing
through the lenses was like looking at a murky green world through two
long tubes.

There was no depth of field and no peripheral vision.  The two forms
were still dangling by Mister Sam's shack, and he could see green blobs
making their way up the path toward the radar buildings.  He swung his
head farther toward the rock pile and saw a green blob near the top that
appeared to move.  With a a hiss in the wet grass, the flare fell to the
ground him and the night was black once more.

He kept his eyes in the direction of the rock pile and saw the faintest
of a green gauze blob that could possibly be a man.  He noticed the man
never fired a weapon.  If he had, his goggles would have lit up with an
unholy green light caused by the muzzle flash.  He crept slowly toward
the area, then realized there was no way he could approach Wolf-if the
blob was Wolf-without his head being shot off as a potential attacker.

Firing broke out toward the radar buts.  Court swung his head around and
by the light generated by the muzzle flashes he could see several of the
armed intruders dashing toward the bunker.  Nothing I can do from here,
he said to himself and pushed on toward the man he hoped was Wolf.  The
firing created enough noise so that he didn't have to move as cautiously
and was able to cover ground faster.  He sensed the mass of the rock
pile the same time he saw it in his goggles and took refuge in a crevice
between two rocks.

It was now or never.  He took a deep breath and cupped a hand around his
mouth.

"Wolf," he called softly.  "Wolf.  Do you hear me?"

There was no answer.  The rocks prevented him from seeing up to where he
thought his friend was crouched.

He waited a few more seconds and was ready to try again when his world
suddenly turned upside down and he was on the ground with a hand over
his mouth and an arm around his throat.  He was pinned so quickly and so
expertly he couldn't cry for help or move an arm or hand to get at the
attacker behind him.  The goggles were ripped from his head in the
struggle.  He braced his feet against the rock and tried to buck and
shove backwards to bash the man who had him against the other rock.  The
man was braced, and it was like trying to move the rock itself.  Then he
became aware that the man was talking very quietly in his ear.  He lay
slack and gasping through fingers that slowly released pressure so he
could gulp in more air.

"Hey, that's better, jetjockey.  Maybe now you quit squirming we can get
on with it."

"Oh God-Wolf."

"You said that so nice I think it was more a prayer than a

wear," Wolf whispered and released him completely.  They

in the shelter of the rocks but could not see each other.

"How did you know I was here?  How did you know it was me?" Court asked.

"I smelled you."

"What?  How?"

"Your soap, your after-shave."

"How could you smell me from up there?"

"Up where?"

"Up on the rocks.  That's where you were, weren't you?"

"No," Wolf said and tensed.  "How did you know someone is up there?"

"These," Court said and fumbled around until he found the night vision
goggles.  He found the wire had separated from the battery.  "They won't
work now, the wire is broken.  I can maybe fix it if we need them."

"How did you get them?"

"From one of the attackers."

"How?"

In a whispery voice Court told him the story of the man he had wounded
then strangled.

"Umph.  Tough duty ...  for a jet jockey.  Do you know you just killed
one of the Russian Spetsnaz troops?  If they ever find you and know you
did, you would not have an enjoyable episode." Wolf moved.  "These glass
things, they any good?"

"Only if there is some residual light.  Starlight is enough."

Court looked around.  To the west the break in the overcast had
increased, causing the faintest of glow to his naked eye.

"The light is a bit better.  We can use these now."

"If you could see what you thought was me up there, and those guys all
have these glasses, then he could probably see you.

Court felt his blood run cold.  "Then he knows we're here."

In the dark he started tracing the wire from the set and from the
battery to where they had broken.

"Yeah," Wolf said.  "He's probably a stay-behind with a radio to keep an
eye on his buddies' rear."

"And on the helipad, maybe." Court used his teeth and thumbnail in an
attempt to strip the wires by feel, without much luck.

"Any of those Hmoung find you?" Court asked.  "You get the radio or
ammo?"

"Never saw 'em."

The shooting up the hill near the radar buildings and bunker stopped.

"You think they've overrun the place?" Court asked in the darkness.

Wolf didn't answer.  Instead he grabbed Court's shoulder and whispered
in his ear.  "Get that thing fixed in a hurry.  I think we've got
company."

Court heard a faint scrape of equipment against a rock.

His fingers trembled and he tried to steady them to pick at the wires.

"He's close, very close," Wolf whispered in his ear.  "And I can't see."
He felt around.  "Where's your gun?"

"Out there with that guy I killed." He had an idea.  "Give me your
knife."

"You're nuts," Wolf whispered.  "I wouldn't turn you loose against that
guy with a howitzer, much less a knife."

"Very funny.  Give it to me.  I need to strip the Wires."

Wolf moved very slowly and by feel handed him his knife.

Court placed a wire against the blade and rubbed back and forth.

He heard the sound again.  "He can't see us from the angle I last saw
him," he whispered.

"I know," Wolf replied.  "That's why he's out looking for you.  Probably
doesn't know there's two of us.  Probably only spotted you as you dove
into these rocks.  That's why he didn't shoot earlier."

A loud explosion ripped the night with concussion and noise.

It was muffled and contained by large rocks to one side of their
position.

"Hurry," Wolf said.  "That was a grenade.  He's probing by fire.

Court felt what he hoped was the bare copper strands on both wires. "Put
them on," he told Wolf.  "I'll have them bare in a second, but I need to
be next to you to hold them together.  No time to splice."

Court felt Wolf grab the goggles and fumble them on his head.
"Everything will look green," he told him and pressed the wires
together.  Instantly Wolf rose to a crouch.  The wires tugged in Court's
hand and he rose with him.  He felt Wolf rear back and heave something
over the rocks with his left hand.

As soon as what he had tossed clattered off to the side, Wolf stood all
the way up, swung his head from side to side like a searching radar
beam, then suddenly fired a burst from his AK.  Court heard a cry and
the crash of a heavily loaded body falling among the rocks.

"Come on, easy now," Wolf said, and led Court to where the fallen
soldier lay.  Court let go of Wolf's wires and felt around in the dark
until he found the man's goggles and battery pack and put them on.  When
he could see, he said, "This isn't where I first saw him.  He was higher
up.  Maybe he's got some equipment up there we can use."

By touch alone, Wolf started to strip the man's body of grenades and
AK-47 ammo pouches.  He felt around the field pack and found a
sharp-edged folding shovel, which he pulled loose and tucked under his
belt in the small of his back.  "Okay," he said, "you got the eyeballs.
Go up there and bring down whatever we can use."

The clearing to the west still provided enough light as Court edged his
way along the rocks and carefully climbed to where he thought the man
had come from.  As he gained the location, heavy firing broke out up at
the site.  He found some tins of water, what he thought was a radio in a
backpack, more ammunition, and a bundle of what seemed like tent and
camouflage material.  He gathered everything up except the tenting and
carefully worked his way down the rocks to Wolf.

"Here's our first order of business," he said to Wolf, handing him a
water tin.  By feel alone Wolf produced his Randall stiletto and
punctured the tin and both men drank heavily.

"Look what I found while you were gone," Wolf said.  He produced a small
radio that Court could tell by feel was an RT-10 survival radio.  "Was
in one of his pockets.  Probably the one Perrit had," Wolf continued.

Court was ecstatic.  He snapped out the antenna and turned the set knob
by feel to Transmit/Receive, the only operable frequency used for
emergencies by aircrewmen.

"Eagle, Eagle," he transmitted, "this is Phantom.  You read?"

There was no answer, and Court tried again.  This time Moonbeam, the
ABCCC C- 1 30 on night orbit, answered.

"Phantom, this is Moonbewn.  Got you weak but clear.  What's going on
down there?  We're working Eagle on Fox Mike, said all his UHF and VHF
antennas were blown down.  He said you all are under attack and that you
were missing, along with some Army guy.  He's inside some kind of a
bunker and doesn't know who's doing what."

"Moonbeam," Court transmitted, "the site is under attack by Caucasians
who speak Russian.  Now you tell that to MACV.

Tell them we need air support, and if we can't have any, we need to be
gotten out of here.  We won't have any kind of a count until daylight,
but I think we've been hit bad."

Court asked Wolf what he thought was going on, while they waited for an
answer from 7th Air Force in Saigon.

"What's going on is exactly what I told those Scheisskopfs in Vientiane
would go on: the bloody Spetsnaz are working us over and in a very
professional way.  No handful of Hak's men are going to stop these guys.
We need outside help, big outside help."

"Phantom, Moonbeam."

"Go ahead."

"Yes, sir.  Ali, 7th said that given the weather circumstances he'd
rather not risk any aircraft in your area, at least not before daylight.
You copy?"

"Moonbeam, Phantom copies.  Moonbeam, you in contact with any Phantom
FACs right now?"

"As a matter of fact we are, Phantom Leader," the Moonbeam controller
said with conspiratorial pride in his voice.

"Phantom Leader," a new voice broke in on Guard Channel, "this is
Phantom Zero Three.  We're holding over Delta 36 at this time.  We read
you weak but clear." Delta was the coded reference for a geographical
area in Laos.

All US military and civilian aircraft have a second receiver to monitor
the emergency channels of 243.0 on URF and 121.5 on VHF and can switch
their transmitters to talk on that frequency.

Phantom Zero Three, although on another mission, could hear the traffic
between Court on the ground and the controller airborne in the ABCCC.
Every other plane within the 200-mile radio range monitoring Guard
Channel could also hear the transmissions.  Normally, emergency
transmissions were soon switched to another channel once contact was
made, to leave Guard Channel free for other problems.  Court could not
do this because his survival radio had only the one emergency channel.

Court recognized the voice of Phantom Zero Three as that of Ken Tanaka.
Normally Phantoms did not hold over Delta 36.

Their mission was to patrol the Ho Chi Minh Trail at night for trucks
and guns.

"Hey, Zero Three," Court transmitted, "what's your mission?"

"Night Rescap escort," Tanaka said.

Wolf was listening to the exchange.  "What's that?" he asked.

"Something is going on over North Vietnam, and we have some Jolly Green
rescue helicopters on alert at Lima 36.  The Phantoms will be initial
escort in case they have to go in after a shootdown." Delta 36 and Lima
36 were the same place.

"We need a little Rescap here ourselves," Wolf grunted.

"Copy," Court said to Tanaka.  "You got to stay where you are.  Any
other Phantom up tonight?"

"Roger, boss," a new voice came up on the radio.  "This is Zero Two.
Just happen to be in your local area with nothing to do.  Weather is
Delta Sierra on the Trail." Phantom Zero Two was Howie Joseph, Court's
operations officer, the number two man in the Phantom FACs.  Delta
Sierra was pilot talk for "dog shit."

"How much playtime you got, Zero Two?" Court asked how much fuel the
pilot had, translated into flying time.

"About an hour, then off to the tank." The Phantom FACs would
aerial-refuel from KC-135 tankers orbiting just across the fence in Thai
airspace.

"Keep monitoring this freq, Zero Two.  I may have something for you." He
turned the radio off and put it in his pocket.  The firing was heavier
from the bunker complex.

"We gotta get your Prick-25," Wolf said.  "We gotta talk to the bunker."

Court pulled the goggles up.  "I can see the general area well enough to
go get it."

"Go ahead, I'll cover you."

"How?  You can't see."

"Simple, anybody shoots at you, I shoot at the muzzle flash, then move
my position."

"Oh, good deal." Court adjusted the glasses and crawled off into the
grass.  He found it quicker to skirt the edge of the helipad, and in
seconds was picking up his radio and the bag of ammunition.  As an
afterthought he detoured out to the middle of the pad to get the rifle
he had left by the dead man.  When he arrived where he was sure the man
had gone down, he found nothing: no body, no gun.  He had a terrible
feeling of being watched.  He kept the radio and the bag and moved
quickly back to the rock sanctuary where he had left Wolf and slid in
between the two boulders.  Wolf wasn't there.

2345 Hours LOCAL, FRIDAY 1 NOVEMBER 1968

EAGLE STATION AT LIMA SITE 85

ROYALTY OF LAos

Wolf was missing.  Court drew back as if struck by a snake.

The two events could only mean one thing: some Spetsnaz had returned for
whatever reason, and, wearing the goggles, had found their dead
companion and somehow found Wolf.  They were probably still in the area.
His stomach gave a half-twist as he remembered Wolf's words about what
they would do to a man who killed one of their own.  His mouth went dry
and he desperately wished he had never, ever gone out of the safety of
the bunker into the night.  He backed up from that and wished he had
never, ever accepted the TDY to Ea-le Station; but maybe he never should
have joined the military.  He almost grinned at the absurdity of this
line of reasoning.  He had had it before and recognized it for what it
was: his body's attempt to tell his brain that he was in serious trouble
and that if he had only done something different at an earlier time this
terrible situation would not have arisen.

Even in the split second these thoughts were flashing through Court's
mind, he knew he had to get away from the position.

He looked up the rock pile and decided that was the best place to be:
take the high ground.  At least that's what all the movie lines said to
do.  Oh God, if only this were a movie.  He felt around for the water
tin, which he had decided he'd better have, and found it near the
folding shovel.  He stuffed both in the bag, shouldered the radio, and
started the laborious slow climb to the top, trying to shake off the
feeling of doom that was weighing him down.

As he worked his way up, he remembered that Wolf had pulled the shovel
from the second dead man's pack and, he was sure, had tucked it into his
belt behind his back.  Finding it now, he reasoned, meant that Wolf had
felt or seen what was coming and had slowly eased the shovel from his
belt into a rudimentary hiding place.  Maybe Wolf wasn't dead, he
thought.

Once on top he lay flat and scanned the area through the goggles.  He
saw movement near Mister Sam's hut and saw what he interpreted to be two
men doing something to a third.

Oh God, that's Wolf, he thought.  They've got him and they're going to
do the same thing they did to the Hmoung.  I've got to help him-but how
without a gun?

Court rummaged through the bag and found what felt like hand grenades,
the water tin, and a few flares.  There were boxes of what he was sure
was ammunition for the AKs and nothing else.  Hand grenades and a
shovel.  How to do this?  In the dark, he picked up the shovel and
hefted it.  It felt balanced and menacing in his hand as if it were an
ancient warrior's weapon and not just a tool with which to dig dirt.  He
took stock.  With the goggles he had night vision, with the grenades he
had a relatively long-distance weapon, and with the shovel he had a
close-in fighting tool.

His tongue felt thick and he realized he was terribly thirsty.

His own sweat was now so much a part of him that he had almost forgotten
he was soaked.  He used the shovel to open the water tin and was
surprised how easily the sharp steel of the blade cut the metal.  He
took long swallows, paused for breath, and took more.  Then he rechecked
the goggles, shoved grenades in his pockets, and started back down the
rock pile.

He had to keep swinging his head to keep oriented as he peered through
the tubes.  He plotted his course so as to not be seen by anyone farther
up the path toward the radar complex.

The firing was intermittent up the hill, and he tried to use the noise
to mask his footsteps and movements over the rocks.  Soon he was in the
grass and had to lie flat to crawl up to the hut.  He found he could not
quietly drag the radio with him and had to leave it behind.  Then, as he
got closer, he could see what was going on among the three blobs.  Two
of them were shoving and pummeling a third.  Court guessed the two
Spetsnaz men, who wore their goggles, were toying with Wolf, who could
not see.

At one point Wolf caught hold of one man's arm when he came too close,
but the other circled behind and banged something off Wolf's head.  The
goggle resolution wasn't good enough to see what they were hitting him
with, but Court could hear the smacks and Wolf's grunts as the blows
landed.

Jesus Christ.  I can't just jump in there swinging a shoveL These guys
are masters at this.

Then he had an idea.  A sudden flash of light amplified through the
goggles might blind them enough so that he could step in and jerk their
battery wires out.  Then he would be the man with sight in the kingdom
of the blind.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out two grenades.
He couldn't remember the timing interval between releasing the spoon and
the detonation, thought the hell with it, put one in each hand, held
them to his mouth one after the other, and pulled the pins with his
teeth ' He flung one to the left of the three men and one to the right
and lay flat on the ground and closed his eyes.

When the explosions sounded, he leapt to his feet, held his goggles in
place with his left hand and the shovel in his right, and ran to the
area.  He was astounded by the residual light left from the burning
powder and bits of sparkle that clung to the grass where the grenades
had detonated.  The increased light made the resolution very clear, but
all he could see was one figure, bent over, the bulk of which made him
sure it was Wolf.

He knew he had about a half a second to find the men and disable them
when he saw they had each dropped to the ground and were pulling
sidearms from their holsters.  The resolution was now so good he could
see the lines of the goggles and the wires running down their backs to
the battery packs.  One man had pulled his off.  Court made it to the
man who still wore his and chopped wildly with his shovel at wires on
his back.  The shovel buried itself in the man's back with a chopping
grinding sound and wedged tight in his spinal structure.  Court couldn't
pull it loose. The man gave a hoarse scream and bent back like a bow.

Court heard the blast of a pistol close behind and dropped to the
ground.  As he hit, his night goggles jarred loose and he couldn't see.
From the direction of the shot he realized it was probably the second
Spetsnaz, shooting at sound only.  As he fumbled the goggles back on he
heard a rushing of steps across the earth, then a heavy thump, and
regained vision in time to see Wolf Lochert fling himself on a man in
the grass holding a pistol.  Court scrambled over to help, but as he did
he saw Wolf's hands close on the pistol and force it to the man's
stomach and squeeze so hard the gun went off and the man went limp.

"Oh my God, Wolf, you're okay," Court gasped out as he slid to the earth
next to the two men.

"Christ almighty," Wolf said between pants and gasps.  "I've told you
not to swear." He sat up and felt the man's throat.

"He's dead.  What about the other one?"

"I chopped him in the back with the shovel.  I couldn't get it out."

"See if he's alive."

Court went to the body.  "He's dead," he said in a voice far too even.

"Get his guns," Wolf ordered.  Got to keep this guy from thinking too
much, he told himself "Hell, man-you done great," he said.  "I guess you
got your eyeballs on.  Let's get the radios, get under cover, and find
out what the hell is going on." He searched the man by feel for weapons,
found his pistol, and put it in his pocket.  Then he stripped the
rucksack from the body.

"Wolf, you're swearing."

"I am not, goddammit.  Give me the bag."

Court handed it to him and saw him place the contents, along with a
heavy device, into the Russian rucksack.  "It's a Russian mine," he
explained.  When he was finished he said, "Okay, lead me-and move it.
Back to the high ground."

Using the goggles, Court got them back to the top of the rock pile.  He
gave them to Wolf to look around while he got on the FM radio and called
the bunker.

"Eagle, Phantom, you read on Fox Mike?" "Do we ever.  Thought you'd had
it."

"What's the situation?" Court asked.  He recognized Pearson's voice.

"They're hammering on the door but we ain't opening.  All our antennas
are down and I think the radar station is gone.

We haven't heard a word from the guys up there for the last thirty
minutes.  Hak's men are holding but he says they're being whittled down
pretty fast.  Says these guys can see in the dark.

Know anything about that?"

"Yeah.  They got night-vision goggles." Court was speaking as quietly as
he could into the headset.

"God help us.  Anything we can do about getting some airpower in here?"

Court almost chuckled.  Here he was with two radios and the blackest
night he'd ever experienced.  "Pilots don't have goggles, and you said
your radar is down.  Doesn't look good until daylight.  Anyhow, the
ceiling and visibility are zip." He thought for a moment.  "You say you
got contact with Hak.  Can you relay some instructions for me?"

There was a pause.  "Mister Sam says affirmative.  What you gotin mind?"

"Might just try some Flaming Arrow.  Who knows what Spectre or the
Phantom FACs can do if I light one."

"You got a map?  I'll give you some cords."

"Negative," Court said.  "We've got to assume the bad guys are
monitoring our transmissions, anyhow.  Get the info from Hak where the
bad guys are relative to the arrows and I'll see what I can do.  Get his
guys to talk in slang Hmoung or very fast so the bad guys can't catch
it."

"Rog.  We'll get right on it." The radio went dead.

"Here's how I see it," Wolf said.  "There's twenty-five, maybe thirty
guys here.  There's no doubt in my mind they are Spetsnaz.  Although I
couldn't see their faces, I felt their bodies and heard them talk.  They
definitely were Caucasians and they were speaking Russian.  They're not
advisers, because there is no way advisers could come up that cliff,
then be able to fight so well.  These guys are in peak condition and
well trained.  There has to be some cosmic reason why they want to take
this site to risk being caught here.  It's my feeling they want to grab
this place intact. Notice there are no big satchel charge explosions.

Just small arms and a grenade or two.  They can't be here just to take
out the site.  Too much of an international risk.  The PL can put this
place off the air sooner or later if they really worked at it.  Maybe
these guys want prisoners or the equipment."

"The equipment is pretty run-of-the-mill," Court said.  "Nothing very
high-powered or classified about it.  They have comparable stuff, so
there's no reason to try to capture ours."

"Then they must be after prisoners ...  but there isn't anybody special
here."

"Mister Sam is special.  But the Agency has their guys at many places.
Then there are the technicians and radar operators-but if the equipment
isn't classified, why capture them?"

Wolf chuckled.  "Well, there's you and me."

"And Powers and his wife, for that matter.  But this thing was set up
long before anyone knew we'd be here."

"Yeah.  Well," Wolf said, "on to business before we wind up with a case
of dead or an extended TDY to a gulag.  Here's the situation.  This rock
pile, the helipad, and the bunker form a lopsided triangle, with the
bunker being at the north end of the triangle.  A trail leads north from
the bunker to Hak's village.

One arrow is outside the bunker, the other is by Hak's village and sort
of guards where the easy trail from below tops out.  One of the Spetsnaz
units is up the trail from the helipad toward the bunker.  From what I
can tell by the goggles, they seem to be moving freely in the radar site
compound but are still attacking the bunker.  I hear other firing
farther away toward the village, but I don't know what the situation is.
See if Eagle has any info yet."

Court made contact with Eagle, who handed the mike over to Maple.
"Here's what I have from Hak," Mister Sam said.  "He reports a blocking
force on the trail that keeps him and his men pinned in the village.
They don't seem to be advancing, but he can't get his men out to come
down here to relieve us.  He thinks he could point the north arrow at
them and light it off.  Best I can tell about the guys outside our door
is that they are south of us.  Our arrow is between this bunker and
them, but we can't get out of here to light it off.  Any suggestions?"

"Stand by," Court said.  "You heard all this," he said to Wolf.

What's your thought?"

"More convinced than ever they want prisoners.  If not, they'd try to
take Hak's village as well as blow up the bunker."

"If that's the case, they probably would want to extract everyone at
daylight."

"By helicopter right from this pad," Wolf said.

"So the guy up here and those below were supposed to hold the pad."

"Exactly.  And they are dead and not checking in on their radio net, so
maybe we'll get some visitors to see what went wrong."

Court could feel Wolf swing around and survey the area toward the
bunker.  "Ay-yup," Wolf said, "and here some of them come this very
minute."

"How many?"

:'Four.  Let's get busy."

"Busy?  One gun, one pistol, one set of goggles, a few grenades,
outnumbered two-to-one and you want to get busy?

Wake me when it's over."

"I have an equalizer," Wolf said.  "Found it with those two guys we took
out at the hut."

"I'm awake and ready to play."

"You're getting pretty smartass for a guy who was coming apart a little
while ago," Wolf said with approval.

"Just your basic fighter pilot," Court said.

" Okay, basic fighter pilot, here's what I want us to do.  We gotta take
out those four guys, then hit the guys attacking the bunker."

"Supposing," Court said, "we bypass those guys, flank the baddies at the
bunker, and light up the arrow."

"Great," Wolf said, "but what good will a lit-up arrow do?

We ain't got no air."

"If I can get Spectre on the radio and get him to go into orbit
overhead, maybe his infrared detectors can pick up the arrow."

"Say, what about that hand-held beacon you were so proud of?" Wolf
asked.

"It's back at the bunker."

"Get them to use it."

"Can't.  The antenna has to be in the clear, and they can't exactly
stick it out a window."

"Okay, let's see if you can contact Spectre before we move," Wolf said.

Court pulled out the RT-10.  "Spectre, this is Phantom Zero One on
Guard.  If you read, come up four and a half bucks on Fox Mike." Court
used the simple dollars and cents slang code to tell the orbiting
gunship to call on 45.0 megacycles, which Court could receive on his
PRC-25.

"Well, hello down there, Zero One.  This is your friendly Spectre Two
Four on station.  Two Two has RTBed.  How you read?" The deep voice of
the table navigator was reassuring to Court.  He felt like he was among
his own once more.

"Your Item Roger and NOD all tweaked up?" Court asked.

The infrared and the NOD Night Observation Device were sensors Spectre
used to gather all available heat on the infrared band to locate
targets.

"Big fat roger on that.  What you got?"

"Do you think you can pick up a flaming arrow through the clouds?"

"If you mean what I think you mean," the deep voice said, we probably
can get some sort of a trace if the clouds aren't too thick and if there
isn't any rain.  Lousy resolution, though."

"Roger, Spec.  Stand by this frequency and we'll try to get a fire going
for you."

"What we need now is to get to the arrow, swing it into position, and
light it," Wolf said.

"Simple enough.  I'll just stroll over and do that little thing.

Got a match?"

"You're coming along, Bannister.  Might make a Special Forces man out of
you yet.  And you have a point.  We need something to light the rags.
All I have is a thermite grenade.

You got matches or a lighter?"

Court patted his pockets.  "Yes," he said in relief when he felt his
rubberband-covered Zippo in his right pocket.  He silently thanked his
SF buddy Joe Lopez who had taught him the trick at Bien Hoa so his
lighter wouldn't slip out of his pocket.

"Thought you quit smoking," Wolf said.

"I did, but I still carry something to light ladies' cigarettes."

"Will it work first time?"

"It better.  With all those guys out there I won't get much of a second
chance."

"We won't have much of a first chance unless we get those guys in the
bunker to help us.  We need a diversion.  Anything to keep the attention
of the Spetsnaz while we sneak by and get to the arrow.  Once the
arrow's lit, that ship has to fire within seconds or we'll be shot up
and overrun."

"Diversion," Court mused.  He looked up.  "Notice you can see better?
Take those goggles off and look around.  That break in the clouds to the
west is bigger.  I may be able to bring in one hell of a diversion." He
pulled out the RT-10.

"Phantom Zero Two, Phantom Leader on Guard," Court transmitted to
Captain Howie Joseph.  "You still on station?"

"Roger, boss, but I've only got twenty minutes more of playtime.  Less
if I have to let down."

Court knew what he meant.  As long as Joseph kept the big jet at
altitude in an orbit with its engines throttled back, he saved fuel.  If
he had to come down to low level, the engines would gulp much more fuel
and he would have to break off earlier.

"What I need won't take much, but you will have to come down."

"Well, I am assigned to a Rescap.  Can't really break away."

A new voice cut in: "Phantom Zero Two, this is Moonbeam.

I'll get your replacement up so you can go off station ten mikes early,
copy?"

"Roger, roger," Howie Joseph said with glee in his voice.

"You heard the man, boss," he transmitted to Court.  "Tell me what you
want and I'll do it in ten."

"I'll need some of your rockets and maybe some strafe.  You got a fix on
my location?"

"Same place you said you were going?"

"That's affirm.  When I call, I'll want it high up on the west face,
near the top but not over the top.  Under no circumstances over the top.
Copy?"

"West face, high but not on top.  What's the weather like down there?"

"Lousy everywhere but to the west.  There's a sucker hole over there
that I hope will stay open until we need you.  Note that Spectre will be
orbiting east."

"How about ground fire?"

"Don't want to scare you, but a hand-held missile of some kind shot down
a helicopter a few Hours back.  I think it was IR-guided, so just pull
up into the clouds after you fire."

The moist clouds would throw off the missile's heat-seeking guidance
system by diffusing the heat from the attacking jet's tailpipe.

"Roger, copy.  Standing by." If Howie Joseph had any fear of a missile,
it didn't appear in his voice.

"Ah, Phantom Zero One, this is Moonbeam.  Can you come up Fox Mike?"

Court changed radios and called back.  Moonbeam answered.

"Didn't want to clutter up Guard any more than we had to.

Got a question for you from Seventh.  Sorry 'bout that, know you're
busy.  They want to know who are the attackers and what is their Order
of Battle?"

Court told them it was thirty or so Spetsnaz.

"Spet-who?"

Court spelled it out phonetically.  There was a pause, then Moonbeam
came back on.  "Unh, Phantom, we got a phone patch for you from Seventh.
Some, ah, Oh Seven wants to talk to you." Oh Seven was part of a
numbering system denoting an officer's rank.  Oh One was a second
lieutenant, six grades higher was a brigadier general: an Oh Seven.

"Go," Court said.

A very faint and garbled voice came through the headset.

"Phantom, this is Blue Chip.  Do you read?" Blue Chip was the call sign
for the air support command post run by 7di Air Force.

On instinct Court did not answer.  Blue Chip called twice more, then
said, "Phantom, this is Blue Chip transmitting in the blind.  You are
not to engage foreign nationals, repeat, you are not to engage foreign
nationals.  Under no circumstances are you to engage or cause casualties
to foreign nationals.  This is Blue Chip at 2015 Zulu Hours, 2 November
1968." Foreign nationals was the current euphemism for, Court guessed,
Russians.

Wolf gave a low whistle.  "Is that how your generals operate a war?"

Even in the humid night, Court felt his face flame.  He couldn't tell if
it was from anger or embarrassment.  A little of each, he decided.  He
realized he had to make some response, then decided no response was
best, as if he had not received the message.

"Phantom, this is Moonbeam.  Did you copy the message?"

"It was pretty garbled, Moonbeam," Court waffled.

"Blue Chip wants to know if you copied or not."

"Tell them ...  tell them I copied but will act as required to save the
mission."

There was a pause, then Moonbeam came back on.  "They want your
initials, Phantom."

"Charley Baker."

Another pause.  "They're happy now."

"What was that all about?" Wolf asked.

"A little game of CYA--Cover Your Ass.  Some brigadier will sleep better
tonight knowing he's carrying out regulations."

Wolf made a faint snort.  "Okay," he said, "time to go.  It'll take us
at least ten minutes to get up to those guys.  It's critical for you to
get the noise in to their west so we can slip by on their east."

Although the faint starlight from the cloud break to the west gave
overall form, it was much too dark to make out substance.

Wolf kept the night goggles on and led Court down the side of the rock
pile.  He carried his AK-47 and wore the rucksack he had taken from the
dead Russian.  They walked in a crouch, Court's hands on the pack on
Wolf's back.  Each step was done almost in cadence, to help Court put
his feet where Wolf had put his and to avoid noise.  Court carried the
PRC-25 on his back and the RT-10 in his pocket.  They kept the firing to
their left and stayed off the path as they headed north.  Twice Wolf
eased them to a halt and they crouched down and waited for a movement to
their left to subside.  When they were almost abreast of the firing,
Wolf veered behind a limestone outcropping.

"Now," he said, "put your man to work."

Court pulled out the RT-10 and called Phantom Zero Two.

"Okay," he told him, "put four Willy Petes below the ridge, west side."

For his night mission Howie Joseph had turned all the instrument lights
off in the front cockpit of the big F-4D Phantom jet he was flying.  The
lights were simply too bright even when turned to "dim," and destroyed
the pilot's night vision.  Howie had the red-filtered cockpit lamp
attached to a swivel over his right elbow at its lowest setting.  The
soft glow barely illuritinated the attitude indicator that showed Howie
the position of his airplane relative to the horizon: diving, climbing,
banking.

He could not read his airspeed or altitude.  He relied on his GIB--Guy
in Back-for that information.  He reached around the control stick to a
panel and by feel selected the proper switches to fire his Willy Pete
rockets.  Willy Pete was pilot slang for the white phosphorus head of
the rocket that exploded in a blinding white flash and issued huge
volumes of thick smoke to mark targets for fighters to strike.  His GIB
was First Lieutenant John Martin.

"Got that Eagle Station on your scope, John?" Howie was asking if Martin
had broken out the mile-high karst on his ground radar screen.  Howie
had a repeater scope up front but kept it off to protect his night
vision.

"Got it.  One o'clock for ten."

They were ten miles south of the karst.  Howie turned northwest until he
was in position to roll in west to east and fire his rockets at the west
face.  They were three miles above the ground in the night sky, flitting
in and out of clouds that were black shadows against starlight made dim
by a high, thin overcast.

"Thirty-degree dive," Howie alerted Martin on the intercom.

"I'll pickle at eight thou."

"Pickle" was slang left over from World War II bombardiers, meaning to
push the button that released the ordnance.  A good bombardier, it was
said, could put a bomb in a pickle barrel.

"Rodg," Martin answered.  His job now was to monitor the situation and
call out the dive angle, airspeed, and altitudes as his frontseater made
his pass.

"Zero Two's in, west to east, rockets," Howie transmitted to Court in
the stylized cadence of a combat pilot.  "Wish I could say 'FAC in
sight,"' he added.  That was a normal call for a day-strike pilot to let
his FAC know he wouldn't be overrun.

Tonight it was Howie's attempt at humor, for he knew his boss was in
deep shit without a stepladder.  He heard the two clicks in his headset
as Court punched his mike button in the standard abbreviated response
that meant "I understand."

"Altitude 12 thou, airspeed 425 and increasing, dive angle 25 and
increasing."

"Unh, huh." Howie Joseph concentrated on trying to pierce the black
night in front of him, to break out the bulk of the huge karst piece
into which he wanted to slam his rockets.

"Going through 10, you got 450 and 30 degrees.  Looking good."

"Unh, huh." Howie strained against his harness as his plane plunged
through the black clouds, now in a cloud, now in the clear.  "God-
DAMN," he said to himself.  Where is thatfrapping mountain?  Something
niggled in his mind.  He had forgotten something.  This was not the
normal sequence for him to strike a target.  Normally he was either the
FAC or the strike pilot.

Tonight he was a little of each, but something had been left out of the
ritual.  Some piece of information.

"Eight thou," John Martin said.  "Pickle and pull, pickle and pull."

"Shit-don't see it yet," Howie Joseph breathed into his mask.  He held
the dive.  "Give me another 500." Those were his last words.  His last
thought in the split second when the black karst appeared in front of
his airplane and when he reflexively jerked the stick full back in his
lap was the absolutely clear revelation that they had never gotten an
altimeter setting for their descent below orbit altitude.

The 50,000-pound airplane slammed into the karst in a nosehigh attitude,
driving the white-hot engines into the remaining 8,000 pounds of JP-4
fuel, causing a blinding flash and a rolling, boiling red fireball that
lit up the entire karst ridge as it climbed skyward borne on its own
heat.  The high tail section of the F-4 broke off at impact and whistled
and spun though the air up the slope and over the top and cracked into
the rock surface in the radar compound.

"Oh GOD," Court Bannister yowled in agony.

"Move it," Wolf barked and grabbed Court by the sleeve and pulled him
running and stumbling to the safety of the sandbagged Flaming Arrow pit.
He had jerked the goggles down to his neck the instant they had bloomed
in the green incandescence caused by the fireball which lit the terrain
for the time Wolf needed to make the run.  He had had time to note the
position of several of the Spetsnaz troops as he ran behind them while
they all looked up to the horrid rising sun in the west.  As the
fireball climbed and faded, Wolf had time to swing the arrow toward the
enemy, pull an oil-soaked rag from the nearest can, tear it in two, hand
half to Court, and say, "Time to light up."

Almost in a trance, Court put down the radio he had clutched in his hand
and reached in his pocket and pulled out the lighter.

Darkness lit only by the fire down the slope settled on the pit, but he
still saw in his mind the roaring flame that meant the death of two of
his men.  Mechanically he held the lighter out, flipped open the top,
and was about to spin the wheel when he stopped.  Reality had suddenly
replaced tragedy.

"Wait," he said to Wolf.  "No point in lighting this thing and calling
attention to ourselves until we get Spectre set up." He had his mind
back on business.

"Right-Ao it," Wolf said over his shoulder.  Court could just make out
Wolf's form as he lay prone behind the sandbags, aiming his rifle in the
direction of the firing   Flames below the lip of the cliff illuminated
the low clouds to the west, which acted as a soft backdrop to the scene.
"We don't have much time.  I think they're getting ready to rush the
bunker," Wolf called.

Court unslung the PRC-25 radio from his back, turned it on, and called
Spectre 24.

"My God, man, what happened down there?" the table nav responded.  "I've
got more IR light than Times Square."

"Spectre, relay to Moonbeam that Phantom Zero Two impacted with the
ground at 0315 Hours local with no survivors."

"Wilco," a sober voice acknowledged.

"And, Spectre, have you got a clear read on the easternmost fire?" Court
had put the crash of Phantom 02 out of his mind and dealt with the
problems at hand.

"Affirmative, but it's not consistent."

"That's okay.  I'm going to light a Flaming Arrow about 200 meters east
of that flame.  Hose down the area from fifty meters in front of the
Arrow westerly to the other flame.  Copy?"

"Roger," Spectre said.  "Good copy." He repeated the instructions.

"I'll have the arrow lit in two secs," Court said and flicked a flame to
his lighter and torched off the rag he held.  He could easily see the
whole arrow as he moved quickly from can to can, igniting the rags
within.  He heard Wolf fire three shots.

"They're onto us now," he called out.  "Get those guys shooting,
Schnell."

"Okay, Spectre, have at it.  We'll take all you got."

Before he could reply, a new voice cut in.  "Phantom, Spectre, this is
Moonbeam senior controller, do not fire.  Repeat, do not fire.  You are
not cleared by Blue Chip."

0330 Hours LOCAL, SATURDAY 2 NOVEMBER 1968

EAGLE STATION AT LIMA SITE 85

ROYALTY OF LAOS

"What's going on?" Wolf yelled back to Court.  "We need that firepower
now."

"What do you mean?" Court roared into the handset to the Moonbeam
controller.  "Not cleared?  Jesus Christ, man, we're under attack here.
Give us Spectre or we're dead meat."

"You got to answer some questions," the senior controller said, his
voice less certain.  "It's for the ROE.  Do you have a TIC?"

"ROE, TIC.  Jesus Christ, YES, for God's sake, yes."

There was a man in the Blue Chip command post, it was theorized, whose
sole job it was to conjure up acronyms.  ROE for Rules of Engagement and
TIC for Troops in Contact were a couple he had done just for warmup one
day before breakfast.

"Are American lives and/or property in danger?"

"Jesus Christ, YES, you numbnuts.  Will you give Spectre permission to
shoot?"

"What are your initials?"

Wolf was firing steadily now.  Court had to duck down as bullets
whistled over the rim of the pit.  He had the crazy urge to run about
and put out the telltale flames in the cans with his hands.  If Spectre
couldn't shoot, the flaming arrow worked in reverse, putting him and
Wolf under fire from Spetznaz.

"Shoot, goddamn it, shoot."

"Your initials?"

"Charlie Baker, you asshole," Court thundered into the hand set.

"Stand by."

"Get that thing from the ruck," Wolf yelled.  "The mine. Open it up.
Hurry."

Court tore into the rucksack and jerked out a black metal container the
size of four cigarette cartons.  He fumbled until he found a key like a
Spam can and peeled back the top, which opened with a hiss of air.  He
took out a convex plastic device, some wire, and a small plunger.  The
plunger spun a tiny generator to send a charge of electricity down the
wire to detonate the mine.

"Hook up the wires, then hold the plunger and give me the mine," Wolf
said between bursts.

Court did as he was told in the flickering light.  Wolf took the mine,
yelled at Court to hold tight to the plunger while the wires unwound,
fired a long burst, then heaved the mine in the direction of the enemy.
"Push on that thing when I tell you," he yelled at Court.  He leaned
back to his AK-47 and fired a long burst.  "Scheiss," he yelled.  "Here
they come.  Push the plunger."

The flickering flames from the arrow accentuated the sweat and grime on
his face and the deep furrows of his brow.  "Push it NOW," he bellowed.

"Phantom, this is Moonbeam senior controller relaying for Blue Chip, do
you read?"

Court ducked as more bullets flew over the edge of the pit and jammed
down on the plunger.  Nothing happened.  He frantically pulled it up and
slammed it down twice more.  There was no answering explosion.  He
checked that he had wound the wires correctly around the posts.  He had.

"Phantom, do you read Moonbeam?"

"Yes, yes, goddamn it.  Tell Spectre to fire." Court snatched at the
handset, his voice ragged with tension and frustration.

"Spectre, do you read Moonbeam?"

"Jesus Christ, YES.  Can we shoot or not?"

"Spectre, this is the Moonbeam senior controller.  Blue Chip clears you
to--2'

Court didn't hear another word as the 20 and 40mm rounds moaned down
through the clouds and thudded and hammered and exploded in the terrain
where the SpetsnaZ attacking the bunker were hidden.  Court heard faint
screams and yells through the pandemonium, then the sound of Wolf's
weapon firing burst after burst.  He crawled to the edge of the pit and
peered over the sandbag edge.  Backlit by the flames of the burning
Phantom and the reflecting clouds, it looked like a scene from Dante's
Inferno as the smaller 20mm cannon shells detonated in white sparkles
and the larger 40mm shells boomed and exploded into three-foot orange
fireballs.  Figures and pieces of figures were jumbling and tumbling in
the air along with pieces of rock and earth as the sweeping guns churned
men and dirt into red-brown clots.

"Beautiful," Court shouted into the handset.  "You're right on them,
Spec, keep it coming.  Beautiful." His blood was pumping and he felt an
exhilarated rush as his body and mind came together in the exuberant
realization they might just escape annihilation on this Laotian
mountaintop.  And he had successfully put the crashing death of his two
men out of his mind.

For five more minutes the torrent of death washed the enemy enclave.

Wolf fired out and inserted a fresh magazine into his AK-47.

He sighted down the barrel but didn't fire.  He got slowly to his knees,
sighting carefully beyond the sandbags, then sat back on his heels. "All
right," he said, "all right.  That's enough.  Turn it off."

"Hold fire," Court ordered Spectre.  "Hold high and dry.

You guys done good, real good," he said, falling into the ungrammatical
phrases combat men use to congratulate each other.

"This is Gunship Charley, at your service," a new voice said on Court's
radio.  "You ask, we bash.  You call fast, we haul ass.

Have guns, will travel.  We got lots of playtime and we'll just hang
around till daylight."

Court thanked what he suspected was the aircraft commander of the huge
four-engined plane.  Prior to this, neither he nor Court had ever seen
what incredible destruction and death their weapons caused below their
flight path.  This was Court's first time to see war from the ground.

Through slitted eyes Wolf saw the elation on Court's face in the
flickering light.  He wondered how long it would last as they made their
way through the carnage to the bunker.  "Come on ' " he said.  "Let's
move it." They climbed out of the pit and stood on the rim, quite safe
now.  Silence hung humid and heavy over the area that moments ago had
yielded thunder and screams in the crescendo of battle.  There were no
moans, for there were no intact throats.  Throats and lungs were long
separated and shredded.  The cans on the flaming affow behind them made
small pops and clicks as the heat source in each slowly burned out.  The
flames from Howie Joseph and John Martin's funeral pyre were lowering.

They picked their way to the bunker door.  Court saw here an arm, there
a leg draped in looping wetness, a headless bulk in a shredded uniform
blouse, broken weapons, smoking holes.

He felt the heartiness of victorious battle drain quickly.  It's so
quiet, so silent.

Inside the bunker was pandemonium: hoarse yells and hysterical laughs as
the men surrounded Court and Wolf and pounded them on the back, spouting
half-sentences of relief and joy.  "We were dead...  God, what noise ...
what took you so long...  helluva job...  heard the whole thing on our
Fox Mike...  Who are those people out here?  Are there any more?"

"Take it easy, guys," Pearson said, drawing his men back.

Wolf and Court stood with the two Powerses.  Mister Sam drew them back
to a corner, where they grouped around the edge of the rough wooden
table that held the radios.  Babs Powers looked bright-eyed, almost
feverish, Court thought, and wondered if all the action had sobered her
up.  He made his report to Moonbeam on the bunker's Fox Mike.  When he
gave the details of Phantom 02's crash, they promised that Phantom 03
would be on call when his Rescap orbit time was completed over Lima Site
36.

"There's more out there, aren't there?" Powers said, facing Court and
Wolf, preempting anything Mister Sam might want to say.  "Why didn't you
get them all?  What's the matter, chicken?"

"Jesus Christ," Mister Sam said, "these guys were out there getting the
fucking job done and you were in here drinking coffee."

Powers whirled on him.  "How dare you talk that way to me?

Listen, you, I'm the ranking civilian in here and your job is to protect
us-"

"You're the ranking idiot, who's got no business even being here,"
Mister Sam said.

"Jer, do shut up," Babs Powers said in a weary voice.

"He's right on one thing," Court said, trying to be conciliatory. "There
are more out there."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Powers said scornfully as he
turned to Court and tapped his chest with a forefinger.

"And where is our mighty Air Force now?  Why, one of you dummies flew
right into this mountain.  A little higher and he'd have killed us all."

In a flash of red rage, Court became suddenly and irreversibly involved.
He slammed his right fist into Jerome Powers' mouth, knocking him back
against the table, where he slipped to the floor.

There was shocked silence in the bunker.  Enlisted menwhether or not
they are sheep-dipped and called technicianswere not used to seeing an
Air Force officer deck a civilian wheel, even if the wheel was the
all-time asshole of the universe.  One hidden-in-the-crowd man found his
voice.

"Good on ya, mate," he said in a phony Australian accent, "served the
little bugger right."

"You're going to pay for this, Bannister, oh, how you're going to pay,"
Powers said from his position on the floor.

He found a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood from his cut lip.  Babs
knelt next to him and took the handkerchief away and blotted the blood
for him.  "Next time, ducks," she said, "use your brains, not your
balls." She helped him to his feet.  He eyed Court as if planning to
punch him but didn't move.

"Let's figure out what to do next," Mister Sam said with a barely
concealed grin on his face.  "All is not lost."

Bob Pearson joined the group.  "Is it clear enough out there for me to
get back to the radar van to see what happened?  We haven't had contact
with them for a while.  Verbell would have checked in by now."

"You got maybe five minutes," Wolf said, "before the part of the
contingent that held Hak's troops away will be here.  They're going to
want to know what happened to their buddies."

"We'll be back in two," Pearson said, nodded at a buck sergeant, and
they slipped out the bunker door.

"Here's how I see it," Wolf said.  "I'd say there's fifteen or so more
of those guys by Hak's village, and they are going to come back here to
open this place up like a Spam can when they see what happened to their
buddies." He looked at Mister Sam.  "Does Hak have any men left who can
engage?"

Mister Sam shook his head.  "We're lucky he can still talk on the radio.
He said the bad guys pinned them all in the village, then hosed off a
round or two every few seconds to keep their heads down.  He has maybe
ten effectives.  They're armed but low on ammo."

"How about the men on the north slope trail?  They still holding off the
PL from below?"

"Negative.  Hak said the PL withdrew when that Phantom crashed."

"I don't suppose there's any reason to think Bunth might send some
people up to help us."

"Wolf, you've got to be an incurable optimist even to ask that question.
Forget it.  He won't even answer us on the radio."

Wolf turned to Court.  "Okay, flyboy, what you got for US?" "Once we get
the word from Pearson about who or what's left in the radar van, I say
use Spectre all night.  If this bunker is as well-built as Wolf wanted,
we can take 20mm and 40mm hits without any damage.  Use Spec to shoot
until daylight, then get some strike flights in here and an evac bird to
get the Powerses out of here." Court did not look at either Jerome or
Babs Powers when he spoke.  He referred to them as if they were merely
cargo that needed to be transported from one location to another.

"You might consult us about that," Jerome Powers said, a petulant look
on his face.

"You want to stay here?" Mister Sam asked.

"Well, under the circumstances I think not.  But you should check with
me first before making any plans."

"Consider yourself checked," Mister Sam said.

Men near the bunker door opened it at Pearson's signal.  He and the buck
sergeant came in looking tense and worried.  Their USAF fatigues were
dirty and torn.  Court noticed almost with amusement that they wore
steel helmets.  It seemed the Air Force sometimes found it necessary to
issue steel helmets and sometimes even flak vests and M-16s to its
people, but never really trained them in how to use them properly in
combat.

"We didn't find either one of them," Bob Pearson said.  "But I think I
know what happened and where they are." His face looked drawn.  Mister
Sam handed him a water bottle and he drank deeply.  "The Spetsnaz, or
whoever, broke in there by blowing the door off its hinges, not by
blowing the van up, which would have been easy from underneath.  When I
got there, nobody was inside, no bodies, no blood, no fired rounds or
bullet holes-nothing except this."

He took out a radar operator's plastic card with a compass imprinted on
it.  It was called a "handy-dandy" and was used to help track blips on
his scope.  The word "straps" was scrawled on it in grease pencil, as if
written in haste.

"I think," Pearson said, "Verbell knew they were coming and knew he
couldn't get back here.  I think he took Evans to the slings and they
let themselves down to the caves."

"Nothing we can do about them now," Wolf said.  "We'll go after them in
the morning."

"No," Pearson said in agitation.  "I've got to go look for them now.  I
think they're in the straps and need some help." Before anyone could
stop him, he grabbed an M-16 and bolted out the door.

Court jumped to his feet to go after him.  "Hold on," Wolf said.  "Just
hold on.  We'll go out together real soon, once it's first light.  No
sense in everybody running around in the dark around those cliffs."

Court sat back.  Thirty minutes passed as he and Wolf tried to relax.
The other men settled down and tried to sleep .  The Powers retired to a
corner.  Then the bunker shook as a blast sounded at the barricaded
front door.

"They're here," Wolf said, opening his eyes.

"God, what about Pearson?" Court asked.

Wolf shrugged.  "He was a good man, went out after his troops.  Get
Spectre to fire on us, otherwise those guys are going to blast in here
and we'll all be wiped out."

Court tried to put Pearson out of his mind as he picked up the handset
and made contact with Spectre on the PRC-25.

"Fire on your position?" the table nav said.  "No sweat, I've got it in
the computer, but you gotta be crazy ...  or want the Medal." Spectre's
black humor came from the unwritten law that if you fell on an enemy
grenade or called in artillery or air upon yourself, then you were a
candidate for a Medal of Honor.

A posthumous presentation was almost always guaranteed.

Court saw Pearson again and again in his mind as the young surfer who
had met their plane in what seemed a long time ago.

He snapped back to what he had to do.

"Neither.  Shoot, goddamnit.  We're overrun and well protected.  It
would take a direct hit by a 1,000-pound bomb to blow us away."

Spectre was quick.  Court wasn't through talking before the 20 and 40mm.
cannon shells rained on the earth and rock covering the buried bunker
and the immediate area.  The rapid sharp detonations of the 20mm shells
made it sound as if they were in the middle of a giant popcorn machine,
and the sharp wham, whant, wham of the 40s rattled everyone's teeth and
caused dirt to fall from the wooden shoring above their heads.

The concussion made -them feel as if little puffs of air were slamming
into their bodies.  Soon the smell of cordite permeated the air.  No one
spoke, and they all sat on the floor with their mouths slightly open to
absorb the concussion.

After two minutes the heavy fire stopped and the voice of the table
navigator came over the loudspeaker.

"Phantom, this is Spectre.  It's not that we're out of ammo, but can you
tell us if we are doing any good out there?  Are we hitting where you
want?  Are there any more left?  Can you give us a quick recce?" Wolf
nodded and Court told Spectre to stand by while they went out to look
around.

He and Wolf stood by the door and listened for outside sounds.  "You
sure you want to go back out there, flyboy?" Wolf asked.  "This is way
out of your MOS." MOS was the Army's acronym for Military Occupational
Specialty.  JOB would have worked just as well.

"No, I don't want to go out there, but you can't go by yourself." Court
grabbed the RT-10 survival radio and the Spectre hand beacon and stuffed
them into his pockets.

"You're a real walking command post," Wolf said.  He punched Court
lightly on the arm, nodded to the two airmen handling the door, and the
two of them stepped into the light lock, closed the door, then opened
the outer door and crept into the night.  They carried AK-47s and Wolf
had a PRC-25 on his back.

After they were gone, Mister Sam arose, lit a Coleman stove, and put a
tin can full of water on the surface.  "Coffee, anyone?"

Jerome Powers sat as if in a trance.  His mouth hung open, eyes
unfocused.  Babs sat next to him, not touching him, hugging her drawn-up
knees to her chest.  Her eyes drooped in fatigue as the effects of the
liquor wore off.  She stirred and rubbed her eyes.  They felt grainy and
red.  She bet she looked a mess.  She felt in her purse, then remembered
that Court had thrown her flask away.  She pulled out a comb and a
compact mirror and gave her hair a swipe.  In the dim light of the
kerosene lantern she saw some of the troops look at her with what she
hoped was sexual desire, but down deep, in the cellar of her mind, she
was afraid their glances were more of curiosity or even dislike.

She thought about Court Bannister.  Play your hand cautiously, she
thought.  He would come around.  She had never had trouble getting a man
to do what she wanted before, and he was no different.  A sharp
explosion outside snapped her eyes open.

"Does that answer your question?" Wolf said as he and Court peered into
a smoking depression where Wolf had just flung a hand grenade.

"Yeah.  Now I know what probe by fire means."

"So there was no one in there.  Next time there might be."

The fires were out, but first light put a vague gray behind the black
masses that made up the Eagle Station complex.

They made a quick check of the radar van and found it empty, as Pearson
had said.

"Where did he go?" Court asked the dawn sky.

"Let's check the straps," Wolf said and started toward the top of the
cliff face where the lowering straps were concealed.

"Maybe we can find something out." They reached the spot and saw the
straps were unreeled and hanging over the edge.

"Something wrong," Wolf said.  "There's no tension on them."

He pulled at one and it came up easily in his hands.  The line had been
cleanly severed.  Court pulled up the other two lines and found the same
thing.  Wolf looked at the tracks in the dirt near the cliff and by the
rocks, where the straps were secure.

"Somebody's got those guys," he said, pointing at the strange boot
patterns.  "I think the bad guys just got themselves a couple new POWs.
Maybe Pearson is alive." He turned.  "C'mon, we don't have time to look
further.  We better get back."

They hadn't gone three steps when the sudden yammering of a Kalashnikov
assault rifle up the trail toward Hak's village split the dawn quiet.
There were shouts and more shots, then a rapid exchange of automatic
weapons fire.  Some of the bullets zinged down the trail and smacked
into rocks and bushes by them.

"Well, somebody's still alive up there," Wolf said as they flung
themselves behind a rock.  He pulled the handset from its holder and
asked Maple what he had heard from Hak.

"He said the enemy had not fully disengaged.  When he started down the
trail to us, a rear guard or something like that opened up on him.  He
doesn't have a count of how many. And he hasn't heard from his troops
guarding the climbing trail on the north face, but he heard some
shooting down there."

"I think there are Spets still alive up here and maybe more coming up
the trail," Wolf told him.  "Any contact with Bunth?"

"Nothing," Mister Sam radioed back.

Wolf handed the handset to Court.  "Get Spectre on this.  Have them zero
in but stand by till we sort it out."

"Spectre 24, this is Phantom.  We got another fire mission for you."

"Stand by, Phantom," the worried voice of the table nav said.

"I think we're under attack by a MiG."

0545 Hours Local, SATURDAY 2 NOVEMBER 1968

EAGLE STATION AT Lima SITE 85

ROYALTY OF LAos

Court didn't waste a second when he heard Spectre say their big gunship
was under MiG attack.  He pulled out his survival radio and called
Phantom 03, who he knew was orbiting over Lima Site 36.  Ken Tanaka
answered.

"Phantom Leader, this is Zero Three, go."

"You want a MiG, get on over here."

"Hey, hey, on my way.  Orbit time is over, the mission was scrubbed.  Me
and the Jollys have been released."

Wolf looked up from his prone position behind a rock and pushed his
floppy hat back.  There was enough light for Court to see his craggy
features.  "A MiG?  Is that all you flyboys think of, shooting down
MiGs?"

"If you beetle-crunchers want nothing but friendlies overhead,
somebody's gotta get the MiGs.  That's what we do."

A short burst cracked over their heads.  "I think they're headed our
way," Court said and ducked.

"A real Dick Tracy," Wolf said and cackled spasmodically in a sound that
reminded Court of a stick being dragged along a wooden fence.  They had
both been up for many Hours and were getting giddy.

Court thought about what Tanaka had said about there being no current
mission for the Jolly Greens.  He called Moonbeam.

"Go ahead, Phantom," Moonbeam replied.

"Understand you got a spare Jolly at Lima 36-that affirm?"

"Yes.  But listen, Phantom, you're not a command post down there.  You
can't be running this show, you know."

"Moonbeam, in case you've forgotten, this is Eagle Station, and I am the
commander and we have self-FAC, Skyspot, and on-orbit authority at all
times.  You copy that?"

Court was reaching and he knew it.  He was the ranking Air Force officer
on Eagle Station, but that didn't mean he was in command.  Further,
although the station had self-FAC and Skyspot authority, that was in
effect only when the airplanes were fragged to them by Blue Chip, the
7th Air Force command post.  The men at Eagle Station could not generate
the assets, and certainly not the targets for the Skyspot missions.

And "on-orbit-authority" was a phrase he had pulled from his test-pilot
days at Edwards Air Force Base.  It had no basis in reality here, but
Court hoped to keep the ABCCC at bay until he could get the job done
from the ground.

"I'll have to check with Blue Chip," the controller said, "and the
Rescue Control Center."

"You have a Mayday situation down there, don't you?" Ken Tanaka
transmitted his question.

"That's affirmative," Court answered.  "MiGs in the air, bad guys on the
ground, and two evacuees to be pulled out."

"I'll relay that to the Jolly Green that's just lifting off to return to
its home base.  It's fully mission-capable.  We'll see what he can do.
Meanwhile I'm one mike from your position.

I'm going over to Spectre Primary."

It was light now at 35,000 feet, where Ken Tanaka flew.

The bright sun was above the horizon, shining bright new rays down on
the jumbled cloud pattern that covered the green jungle and karst
mountains of Laos.  He lowered the nose of' his F-4D Phantom fighter and
told Matt Henry, his GIB, to sweep ahead with his radar.  As the plane
gained airspeed he switched to the proper frequency and contacted
Spectre.

"You sure you're under MiG attack?" Tanaka asked.  There had been only a
half-dozen cases in the last three years of MiGs

attacking US aircraft over Laos.  For whatever their reasons, North
Vietnamese policy was to leave the airspace free.

"Listen," Gunship Charlie, the Spectre pilot, panted to Tanaka, "the
delta-winged sumbitch has already made one pass using guns, and if it
ain't a MiG I'll kiss your radorne.  He made the mistake of making a
highside pass at me from the port and I threw my left wing up and fired
everything I had at him.  Didn't hit shit, but the muzzle flashes must
have scared him off, but now he's behind someplace and I ain't got no
tail gunner." In fact.  he did.  Staff Sergeant Bill Beddor, a scanner,
was at that very moment in the prone position with an M- 1 6 on the open
rear ramp door, quite determined to be the first Spectre crew member to
shoot down a MiG.  He was attached to the gunship by a long strap from
his parachute harness.

"Contact, twelve o'clock low for six," Matt Henry said from the
backseat.  Ken Tanaka looked down at his repeater scope and saw the
large and small blips that could only be the AC-130 gunship and the
smaller fighter.

"You sure he was shooting?" Tanaka asked the Spectre pilot.

It could be a Navy or Marine A-4 fighter buzzing the gunship.

A dumb but not unheard-of maneuver.

Well, if he wasn't shooting, he's got headlights that spit cherry balls
that me and all my crew saw," Gunship Charlie rasped back.  As the
aircraft commander he had to make all the split-second decisions, and
this was no time to use his table nav as a go-between.  The table nav's
detection and fire control devices were air-to-ground-oriented, hence
useless against MiGs.  Charlie kept his ship in a right-hand orbit to
keep his guns on the side the MiG might attack.  "I'm at base plus
three," he added.  The base altitude code for the day was 5,000 feet,
which meant the gunship was holding 8,000 feet.

Tanaka looked up and saw the silver MiG hang in the sky far above the
orbiting AC-130 gunship.  "Has he got a wingman?" he asked Spectre.

"Not that I can see, but my visibility isn't a that good."

Ken Tanaka scanned the sky.  It would be very strange if that MiG was
out here without a wingman.  At minimum, it was standard fighter
doctrine always to travel in pairs.

"You got any other paints?" he asked Matt Henry.

"Negatron," Henry said, elated at the prospect of being the first GIB to
be in on a MiG kill over Laos-or, for himself, to get a MiG under any
circumstance.  "Got a lock on," he said.

"You're cleared for missiles."

"Negative," Tanaka said.  "They're too close.  This has got to be guns."
Tanaka's airplane carried an assortment of radar guided and heat-seeking
missiles, either of which could lock on to the big four-engined AC-130 a
lot easier than the tiny MiG.  Tanaka intended to use the 20mm cannon
slung under the belly of his fighter to ensure there was no mistake.  He
was excited.  This was every fighter pilot's dream: fight a MiG and
shoot him down.  Especially good if with guns.

As Tanaka's fighter screamed on down and passed through 25,000 feet at a
speed of 600 knots, he assessed the situation.  He was coming in at the
rear of the MiG, which he estimated was two miles beneath him at 15,000
feet, ready to make another pass at Spectre in his orbit at 8,000.
Tanaka had to slow down or he would overshoot the MiG.  He throttled
back to decrease airspeed.  He was surprised the MiG didn't have a
wingman, and he knew North Vietnamese radar coverage did not extend this
far west into Laos.

"Strange, strange," he said to Henry.  "But I'm not going to look a gift
bear in the mouth." His gunsight pipper was on the MiG, and the
electronic range ring circling the pipper said he was at 6,000 feet from
the tail of the enemy plane.

"Six thou range and 100 knots overtake," Henry said.

"Boards coming out." Tanaka pushed the button on his throttle that
extended the two huge metal speed brakes, also called speed boards in
the early F-86 days, into the slipstream.  In less than two seconds,
fifty knots bled off and Tanaka pulled the boards back up.

"Piece of cake," Tanaka hummed as he settled in to apply all his
thousands of Hours of study and flying time learning and teaching
fighter tactics to this one pass.  "Piece a fucking cake."

At 1,200 feet the MiG loomed in his sights and he started firing his
cannon and saw a few sparkles on the empennage Of the silver fighter as
the API (Armor Piercing Incendiary) shells impacted.  Immediately the
MiG rolled into a vertical left bank and pulled so many Gs in his turn
into Tanaka that white streamers of water condensation trailed back from
his wingtips.

The turn was an attempt to force Tanaka to overshoot so the MiG pilot
could then reverse his turn and be on Tanaka's tail.

But two things were working against him.  For one, Tanaka was a highly
experienced fighter pilot who instantly converted his speed into
altitude and prepared for another pass; for another, the MiG had
sustained hits in the engine that suddenly reduced his speed.  A thin
line of smoke trailed from the tailpipe.

The MiG pilot, Duy Ui Tran Van Quoc, was an experienced captain who had
been told his mission was so important that he had to go without a
wingman.  And it was strongly hinted that he was not to come back unless
the Yankee gunship was down in flames.  He looked down at his engine
instruments and saw the temperature and pressure gages that said his
engine would soon quit or explode.  Quoc tilted his head over his
shoulder and saw the Phantom fighter poised against the high clouds,
ready to roll in for the kill.  Then he looked over and saw the giant
black four-engined gunship and knew what he had to do.

He had been trained in Russia, where the ram tactic was known and
taught.  It had not been taught to Soviet pilots since the Great
Patriotic War, but had been taught to third-world pilots who passed
through the Russian schools.

"Look out, Spec, he's making a direct pass at you from your nine,"
Tanaka warned as he rolled in.  The MiG was boring in on Spectre
directly from his nine o'clock position.

"Yeah, and his headlights are blinking at me," Gunship Charlie said.
Charles L.  Branski was a burly man, and he hau ed back on the big
control yoke with ease as he kept his head turned left, staring at the
attacking MiG.  He handled the bank angle while his copilot used the
rudders to keep the turn coordinated.

"He's smoking, he's slowing down," Tanaka said.."I think he's gonna ram
and I can't get to him in time."

Still in the left turn, Gunship Charlie pushed the nose of the big ship
down, and the MiG followed.  He pulled back on the yoke to raise the
nose, and the MiG had enough forward speed to do the same.  There was no
doubt, the MiG had the residual momentum, even if its engine quit, to
ram Spectre.

"All guns on the line," Gunship Charlie Branski yelled on the intercom,
and rolled out of his turn for a second, giving the MiG an easy shot at
them.  Two of the MiG's 27mm shells ripped through the top of the
fuselage of the gunship, sending slivers into the pressurization lines
and the delicate computer.  Ignoring the impacts, Branski rolled in
right aileron to raise the left wing and pushed left rudder to keep the
big nose from swinging to the right and, in this cross-controlled
position, fired everything he had at the approaching MiG.

The steady roar of the 20mm Gaffing guns combined with the slam-slam of
the twin 40mm cannon created a din in the aft cabin of the big gunship
the crewmen were used to.  What they were not used to was the guns
firing in anything but a left bank.  Gunship Charlie Branski had to keep
the left wing up, not down, to fire at the approaching MiG.  The Fire
Control System he used was not equipped to solve the geometry of an
approaching fighter, nor the calculus of the changing speeds.

Empty casings spewed out of the guns in such a way as soon to cause a
jam.  The gunners had to brace themselves in an entirely new manner. One
fell backwards and shattered his elbow.  Staff Sergeant Bill Beddor
grabbed his M-16 and wedged himself' into position and hammered away at
the approaching fighter.

The table nav told Branski there were no injuries from the 27mm shell
impacts and, as far as he could tell, no system damage.

Tanaka put in his burners and streaked toward the attacking MiG.  He
could see the first bit of flame from the enemy's tail, but it was
obvious there was no damage to the flight control system, and forward
momentum would carry the North Vietnamese plane into the side of the
gunship.  He saw the MiG was not firing: either out of ammunition or the
engine damage was enough to take out the system that enabled the guns to
shoot.

Looking through the gunsight superimposed on his left-hand window,
Gunship Charlie Branski saw the tracers of his guns converge far behind
the MiG that loomed larger in size each second.  The guns were
harmonized far beyond the 1,000 feet through which the fighter was now
flying.  Branski had about three seconds in which to do something, and
he did it.  He sawed and yanked the rudder pedals and control yoke in an
abrupt and rough gyration that made the nose of the giant plane describe
a figure eight in the air.  Performing that violent maneuver forced the
guns on the left side to depart from the neat lines of fire and spray a
wild pattern of shells directly into the path of the MiG.

At 200 feet from the AC-] 30, Duy Ui Tran Van Quoc and his MiG-21PF
became a giant fireball, raining parts that instantly slid from view
behind the AC-130.

"I got him, I got him!" Beddor screamed into the intercom.

"My God," Ken Tanaka said in awe as he yanked his Phantom out of the way
of the MiG parts.

"What's going on up there?" Court Bannister asked on FM from beneath the
thin cloud layer over his position.  "When you gentlemen are through
playing around, I would appreciate some firepower down here."

"Glad to oblige, Phantom," Gunship Charlie Branski said, trying to keep
his voice as deep and cool as possible considering he was the only C-130
pilot in the world who had ever shot a MiG down with his airplane. "Just
tell us where you need the lead."

Court pulled out the hand-held beacon and turned it on.  "You got my
flash on your scope?" He asked.  The table nav said he had the plume
loud and clear on his scope.

"Good," Court said.  "Stand by while I get things sorted out down here."
He pointed the nose of the beacon down the trail from which the shooting
had come.  "What's their distance from us?" he asked Wolf.

"Try 200 meters.  Don't want to fire into Hak's village."

Court dialed in 200 meters, moved a knob to the position that indicated
troops, and cleared Spectre to shoot.  Instantly a dozen shells rained
down.  Suddenly a voice from the impact area screamed, "Don't shoot, God
almighty, we're friendly!"

The accent was pure Midwest American.  Before Court could react and tell
Spectre to hold fire, the guns stopped shooting and the table nav came
on the line.

"Phantom, Spectre Two Four.  Got some bad news.  Our computer just went
tits up.  We can't shoot another round.  Pilot says we will have a
replacement Spectre but not for another hour or so."

"Okay, okay, Spec," Court said.

"Hey," Ken Tanaka transmitted, "I've got Willy Petes and 20 mike-mike if
need be, and I can call in all the fighters you need."

Court scanned the weather.  Dawn gray had given way to a sullen overcast
that had few breaks.  "Just go on high orbit and throttle back," he told
Tanaka.  "The weather is Delta Sierra.

Call me when you find out about getting a Jolly Green in here."

He turned his attention to Wolf, who was sighting down the trail over
the muzzle of his AK-47.

"Hey, thanks," the hidden voice said.  "Don't shoot me, now. I'm coming
along the trail."

"Who are you?" Wolf bellowed in the sudden jungle silence.

"Lieutenant John Green, Air Force.  I just escaped.  I need help.  Don't
shoot."

"Advance slowly-very slowly," Wolf yelled at the disembodied voice.

The morning air hung cool and humid.  Court saw a figure detach itself
from the shadows of the bushes along the path and with careful steps
advance toward where they lay.  He wore a USAF flight suit and had his
hands up.  "Hey, gosh, where are you?" he asked in a boyish voice. "Boy,
am I glad you're here."

Court could see him clearly now: young, clean-cut face, shock of blond
hair, wary but pleased look on his face.  Court was about to speak to
him when Wolf shot him between the eyes.

"Wolf-what in hell-"

"What in hell, nothing," Wolf snarled back.  "That man was Spetsnaz. The
flight suit was clean, his face was clean, and he was wearing boots.  No
POW is allowed to keep his boots.  And look at that thing strapped to
his back.  Court saw something on the back of the fallen man.  "Watch
this," Wolf said and fired a round into the pack, which exploded with an
enormous roar.

There was a shocked silence, then a furious hail of fire came down the
trail to smack into the rocks and zing off in moaning ricochets.  A loud
explosion against the rocks in front sent chips and dirt flying into the
air.

"RPG," Wolf mumbled, meaning they were firing rocket propelled grenades
at them.  He leaned around the rock to fire a burst up the trail.
Another RPG burst behind them and one farther back by the bunker.  "We
gotta move back," Wolf said.

"We've got problems.  Get that fighter in here with whatever he's got."
He fired another burst and drew back.  "Let's move it," he said, rising
to a crouch.

Behind the protection of the rocks, a stunned Court Bannister followed
him to the mouth of the protective area in front of the bunker, where
they flopped down behind the sandbags.  He still had trouble believing
what he had seen.

"We're in trouble now," Wolf said.  "Get that fighter in here and tell
him to call for more." As he spoke, the outer door of the bunker opened
and Mister Sam ran out carrying an AK and threw himself next to the two
men.

"Bad news.  That dumb broad stuck her head out the door, I guess to see
what you guys were doing, and a fragment caught her in the leg.  She's
got a piece of bone sticking out and is bleeding bad from an artery.
We've stopped the flow, but she's got to be evacced immediately."

Court put the image of the round dot appearing between the blond man's
eyes and his body evaporating in the explosion out of his mind and
called Tanaka on the RT.

"Got to have that Jolly in here immediately," he said to him.

"Fighters as soon as you can get them, and rockets and strafe now-right
now."

"The Jolly's inbound, Boss, and I've got fighters on call, but I'll tell
you the weather is bad-bad.  Low ceiling in layers up to five thou, one
or two miles viz, but there are a few sucker holes.  I can maybe slip in
down there and see what I can do."

Tanaka's voice was calm.

"There, shoot up there," Wolf said, pointing up the trail to figures
crouching and running.  Both Court and Mister Sam blasted away with
their AKs.  The figures slowed, melted off to one side, then started a
steady cadence of fire at the bunker.

"They're sending out flankers and there's nothing we can do about it,"
Wolf said.  "What about Hak's men?" he asked Mister Sam.

"We lost contact about the time you guys went out.  I think he's been
overrun."

"Eagle Station, Eagle Station-this is Jolly Green Three Two on Fox Mike.
Do you read?"

"Jolly Green, this is Phantom Zero One at Eagle Station. Read you loud
and clear.  We've got   two to go, one badly wounded and bleeding."

"How's the weather and is there any ground fire?"

"Inbound weather reported bad.  You've got Phantom Zero Three overhead
for a pilot report.  The helipad is clear down here-no ground fire
yet-but the approaches are clobbered."

"Hate to say this, Eagle, but we might just not be able to get to you
guys."

0615 Hours LOCAL, SATURDAY 2 NOVEMBER 1968

HANOI CITY HOSPITAL

HANOI, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM

It was dawn by the time he had finished dictating to her.  It had been
painful and he had had to stop and rest and think it through many times.
He was exhausted and wasn't sure how he would present himself at the
press conference.  Finally, he had fallen into a nightmare-ridden sleep
and had awakened covered in sweat, trembling.  The girl had fallen
asleep in the wooden chair in the far corner.  He looked at her troubled
face.  Even in sleep, when her face should be relaxed as a child's, she
wore a wary look as if any moment something terrible would happen and
she would have to wake and face it.  He cringed inwardly as the awful
realization of what he had heard yesterday about King and Kennedy
surfaced in his memory.  He didn't know what hurt more, his body or his
spirit.  He decided his body would heal someday, but he wasn't sure
about his spirit.

He looked down at himself.  His hospital garb, a thin gray poncho-like
garment, given to him fresh yesterday before the conference, was now
damp with his sweat and stained with yellow and red liquid that oozed
from sores in his body.  He pictured the awful comparison between this
room and a cell at Hoa Lo.  As backward and dirty and rough as this
hospital room was, it was heaven compared to the sweat and stink and
fear of solitary in black cells where rats and cockroaches slipped
through the ooze and feasted on human flesh.  He knew he would not be
returning to this room and this bed ever again.

He remembered then what she had done and turned suddenly and pulled the
papers she had written for him from beneath the tick-filled mattress. He
admired the neat small printing she had made with the curlicues and
extra lines of a European hand.  He folded them nervously, again and
again.  When he was done, he looked over at her.

"Princess," he called softly.  "Hey, Princess." Her eyes opened and she
had a momentary look of terror until she realized where she was and who
was calling to her.  She arose silently and went to his side.

He gave her the papers.  "You must get this to one of the Americans." He
described Connert.  "Put them in your hand.

I will get him to shake hands with you.  Give it to him then.

Be very careful."

"Yes," she said so softly he had to strain to hear her words.

She tried to conceal the papers in her right hand.  "They are too
thick." She looked up and made a tiny smile at the crestfallen look on
Flak's face.  "But I know what to do." She rose.  "Wait," she said and
ghosted out the door.  In a moment she returned holding a glossy
magazine called Soviet Life.  "They give them to us.  I like to read
English."

"Do you believe what you read?"

"Russia is a beautiful country.  I would like to visit someday."

"So is America."

"We see such bad pictures.  It does not look nice."

"They only show you the bad parts.  Come visit us someday."

"You could show me your country.  That would be nice." She smoothed the
pages and put them in the magazine.

He leaned on her to get up from the bed.  "There is one last thing," he
said as he took her hands and kissed the palms.  "I wish we had made
love."

Her hands folded around his face.  "Yes, my black king, mon roi noir, I
too wish we had made love."

They kissed, tentatively at first, then deep and thrusting.

Finally they pushed apart.

"I ...  have never kissed like that before," she said.  "I only heard
about it ...  in France."

He held her close for a moment before he spoke.  "I think it's time."

She glanced at the position of the sun through the window.

Yes, it is time." She looked almost serene.

"It is going to be very bad for you when they take me away."

She nodded and looked up from her normal downcast view and gave him a
small smile.  "I am not afraid.  It will be worse for you.

"If only I could get you away from here," he said.

She put her fingers to his lips.  "That is not to be.  What is to be is
now.  We must go." She put her arm around his waist and he hobbled
through the door.

Richard Connert arched his back and tried to keep his hands from
trembling.  God, he had worked so hard to get to this point.

He had literally sacrificed his Air Force career to get to Hanoi and
communicate with the POWs.  There had been long sessions in the Air
Force intelligence community, trying to decide the best way to get
messages to and from them.  Originally, crude codes had been used in
family letters to the men and they had tried the same in return.  The
method was excruciatingly slow, as few words could be incorporated in
each short letter and there was no assurance it reached the POW.  The
Navy had used a simple invisible ink to one of its men, Stockdale, and
in broad hints in the letter from his wife, Sybil, he had been told
about it and how to bring it out.

In joint sessions with the other services they had thought of ejecting a
man in from the backseat of a fighter during a raid to carry in
messages.  But what kind of messages do you carry in?  "Hang on, guys"?
What was needed was a two-way street: messages in and messages out. When
the ejection idea had been rejected as too risky and pointless, the
Marines had said they thought it was nifty and they would probably do
just that.

Connert had heard no more about that project.  He didn't know if the
Marines, acting on their own, had done it or not.  Then the joint
committee had buckled down and started teaching Project Mailman in
special adjuncts to survival schools.  That at least was a method of
teaching air-crew how to identify mailmen, but no one had any idea how
to get a mailman in and back out.  Finally someone had talked about the
peace groups going to Hanoi.  If we could just get a guy in and out with
them, he had said.  So Project Combat Dancer began.  Combat was a prefix
word used before a mission-title word.

Richard Connert and eight other men from the OSI had been identified as
likely prospects and given a chance to volunteer.

Like the others, he had been trained and filtered back into the Air
Force to develop the legend he had invented in training.

Each man had had to develop his own legend to include how he would get
out of the service and infiltrate the organization he thought stood a
good chance of getting to Hanoi.  Once submitted for approval, the
legend would be accepted, rejected, or modified by a board in the
basement of the Pentagon.

Connert's had been as a F-4 simulator instructor-he had actually served
in that capacity for a few months at George Air Force Base-who would be
transferred to Vietnam, where he would go visibly bonkers.  Connert used
to grin a lot to himself after his discharge.  He had had a ball
discomforting his frontseater on some missions in South Vietnam.  After
great study, he had picked Shawn Bannister as the star protestor to
which he would hook his red wagon and, by an interesting turn, it was
Shawn's half-brother, Courtland, with whom he had flown.  it hadn't been
planned that way, but when the opportunity had presented itself at Tan
Son Nhut during the Tet Offensive, Connert couldn't resist the irony of
the situation.

Court had needed a backseater for a few days, and Connert was available.
He had done things in the rear cockpit just short of disastrous, but
enough to drive Court Bannister to ground him and find out he was,
according to his legend, a non-rated man acting as a pilot.  That had
earned him the discharge and notoriety he had sought.  Though not an Air
Force-rated pilot, Connert had flown with the base Aero Club as a hobby
and earned a private pilot's rating.  That experience plus his training
in the F-4 simulator had allowed him to pretend to be a pilot

more dangerous than he really had been in the backseat of the F-4.  His
pilot's license had also given him the edge over all the other
volunteers.

He had not had much trouble getting into Shawn Bannister's campaign
headquarters.  Once out of the Air Force, he had grown a beard, joined
the Vietnam Veterans Against the War, and been loud and vociferous in
the front ranks of protest groups.  With those credentials and a real
college degree he had easily been accepted into Bannister's group.  His
roommate, Michael LaNew, had tried another method, but so far had been
unsuccessful in getting to Vietnam in any capacity.

Connert put his hand in his pocket and touched the ring made from a
shot-down American airplane.  We'll get 'em for you, buddy.  We'll get
the motherfuckers.  He looked at Flak Apple on the stage.  God, what
that man has been through, he thought

as he began flashing.

The bright lights on tripods were powered from the operating room
circuit.  They blinded Flak when he stood next to the raised platform
Thach had caused to be constructed.  He decided not to shield his eyes,
but to appear unmoved by the lights.

There was a curtain forming a wing where he could see Thach standing
next to Co Dust but those in the audience could not.

In front, he saw, there were more journalists and photographers than
before.  They were standing around, waiting, he supposed, for someone to
tell them to be seated on the rows of folding chairs.  Flak stood as
straight and tall as he could without the pain doubling him over.  He
searched for and finally found .  Dancer, the Blue Mailman.  He watched
Dancer's hand and fingers and listened to his coughs.  It would be hard.
He would have to use blinks and nods in addition to his hands.  He
wasn't sure Dancer would be able to read him.

WHAT R U GOING TO DO ...  Dancer asked.

IS KING DEAD...

YES ...

AND KENNEDY...

YES ...  WHAT R U GOING TO DO ...

READ MY CONFESSION...

DO U HAVE THE LIST...

GET MAGAZINE FROM GIRL ...

Connert could see no girl.  Perhaps she was behind the curtain and would
be whisked out at the completion of the interview.

Shawn Bannister sat down impatiently, muttering about how soon was the
show going to start.  Connert remained standing and suddenly spoke out.

"Say, what's behind that curtain?  How do we know he isn't going to be
signaled from back there?"

"You crazy?" Shawn hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

All the newsmen ignored him, except the Japanese, who put their camera
on him.  The East Bloc people had been admonished to film only what was
acceptable propaganda.  Although the Japanese had been warned to do that
and follow the Party line, they nonetheless did exactly as they wished.

"I think we should be allowed to see what is behind the curtain,"
Connert said to the audience in general.  All but one ignored him.  This
was not supposed to be part of the program.

"Sit down," Shawn said and tugged at his pant leg.

"Yes," the Japanese newsman said.  "What is back there, please?" Connert
sat down.

There was a fluttering of the curtain, then it was pulled back on the
wire from which it hung.  Trying to appear calm, Thach spoke.

"All we have here is the nurse for the patient Apple.  He is a sick man
and the lenient and humane policy of Ho Chi Minh provides him with a
nurse when even our own people are suffering."

Co Dust stood straight and tried not to blink in the light.  She
nervously twisted a rolled-up magazine in her hands.

Connert walked rapidly toward her as he pulled a steno notebook and a
pencil from his pocket and started a series of rapid-fire questions he
hoped would complicate and confuse the situation.

"Do you speak English?  Are you his nurse?  How do you feel about having
to attend an American war criminal?  What are you reading?  It's in
English.  Is it an American magazine?"

He took the magazine quickly from her nerveless fingers and rapidly
glanced at the cover.  "Oh, this is about Russia.  Is it good?  I must
read this!" He covered it with his notebook.

"Please, Mister." Thach inserted himself between Connert and Co Dust.
"Please to be seated.  We must begin." Connert allowed himself to be led
off and returned to sit next to Shawn Bannister, who rattled off words
in a low and furious voice.

"Goddammit, Connert, you're crazy!  Give that to me." He snatched the
magazine from Connert's hands.  "I'll give it back to them so they don't
think we're completely nuts." He looked up as Thach led Flak Apple to
the stage.  Connert's face drained as he realized Shawn Bannister would
probably open the magazine and discover the list.

The Committee Chairman sat motionless and took in the lights and
cameras.  He studied the black man who stood before them.  He allowed
himself one small movement of his upper lip in satisfaction.  it was
going just as had been planned in Bratislava.  It had taken hard work
and some anxious moments, but it was working out.  Valiant Struggle, as
conceived by the American in Bratislava and put into effect by his men,
was proving worth the effort.  The resultant publicity and photos of a
black American imperialist renouncing his country in Hanoi, coupled with
the fail of the clandestine site exposing the American military
imperialists in Laos, would, he had been told by the American, assure
election of the proper man in the United States.  He did not understand,
he admitted to himself, how these elections worked.  They seemed such a
waste of effort to attain a dubious outcome.  Better to know what is
best for the people and give it to them by force, if necessary, until
they are reeducated about their duties to the State.  The proper man,
that Horn-free, needed help against that reactionary Nik-shun.  That man
Horn-free had said he would crawl on his knees to Hanoi to free the air
pirate prisoners.  He almost smiled.  He would give him that chance.

Flak tried not to look at Connert and the magazine.  He had heard that
the young seaman Doug Hegdahl had been ordered out on early release by
SRO Navy Commander Dick Stratton with the POW names, but so far hadn't
made it, so maybe here was the chance for this vital information to
reach America.

He looked out over the assembled newsmen.  He saw several that looked
East Bloc and some Japanese.  One smiling man he knew to be Wilfred
Burchett, a card-carrying communist from Australia.  He was not popular
among his countrymen.

The POWs called him Willful Bullshit because he frequently broadcast
propaganda to them and sometimes met with them in an effort to get them
to do the same.

Flak flash/fidgeted as long as he could and figured he'd better start
talking.  He had done all that he could.  It was up to Dancer to get the
magazine to the proper people.

Thach led Flak by the arm and mounted the stage and told the audience to
be seated.  After the cameras were readied and coughs and scraping of
chairs died, he said, "The man Apple has something he wishes to confess
to you." The cameras quickly rotated a few degrees back to Flak, who
stood as straight as he could.

"Yes.  I wish to confess," he said.

The Chairman shifted imperceptibly in his chair.  This was what he had
been waiting for.  The first half of Valiant Struggle was about to
culminate.

0730 Hours LOCAL, SATURDAY 2 NOVEMBER 1968

EAGLE STATION AT LIMA SITE 85

ROYALTY OF LAos

Aboard Jolly Green 32, Joe Kelly turned to his copilot, a new captain
from Udorn.  "Doesn't look good, does it?" he said on the intercom.

"Wanna try it?"

"Sure, if the rest of the crew does."

"How 'bout it, guys?" Kelly said to the two PJs and the crew chief. They
exchanged a few words, then said in unison, "Press on, oh fearless
leader."

Kelly smiled at their new malapropism, took a bearing on the Udorn
TaCan, and started to descend.  His hands and feet were busy as he
spiraled the big ship down through the clouds two miles west of the
Eagle karst.  At two thousand feet he broke out in the clear beneath the
clouds and flew back to the Eagle karst. It thrust up into the clouds
like the top of a skyscraper on a bad day in New York.  He circled the
karst.  There were no breaks.

"Phantom, this is Jolly.  Can you bring your survivors down the karst?
It's clear down here and we can make an easy pickup."

"Negative, Jolly," Court replied.  "We're under fire from the side where
the down trail is located."

"Phantom, this is Spectre," Gunship Charlie Branski broke in.  "Maybe we
can help.  if you put that beacon on minimum distance and lay it in the
middle of the helipad, we can maybe vector the Jolly down on top of it.
Our fire control system is out but our radar is okay.  You copy?"

"Roger, can do," Court said.

"We're game," Joe Kelly answered.

"Get on with it, then," Branski said.

"I've got to get the beacon to the helipad," Court said to Wolf, who was
busy shooting.

"I heard."

"Can you cover me?"

"They've got that pad zeroed in like they got us zeroed in.

We need some air support in here or we're dead." He said it so calmly,
Court asked him if he was sure.

"Dead sure.  They're gonna charge any time and we're gone."

Court looked around and spotted the Flaming Arrow pit.

"You have any thermite grenades?" he asked Mister Sam, who said he did.
"Spectre, Phantom.  If I light up the Arrow, can you vector Phantom Zero
Three in for a napalm run?"

There was a pause while Branski checked with his crew.

"Roger that," he answered.  The infrared detection system still worked.

"I need at least five," Court said to Mister Sam.

"Got 'em," Mister Sam said, patting his ammo satchel.

"Zero Three, you ready for a napalm run?" Court asked Tanaka.

"Sure.  Only one small problem.  Ain't got no napalm and there's no way
I can put a strike fighter in there."

"You got Willy Petes and fuel in your drop tanks?"

"Affirmative ...  ah ha, good boy.  Can do," Tanaka said with obvious
excitement in his voice.  He realized Court wanted him to fire his white
phosphorous marking rockets to provide hot flames to ignite the fuel
from the drop tanks that would burst when they smashed into the ground.

"You're Flaming Arrow-qualified, aren't you?" a voice from the ABCCC
broke in.

"I will be on my first pass," Tanaka replied.

Court raised up and looked at the Flaming Arrow platform.

It hung askew, shredded and torn by fragments.  He lay flat and said to
Wolf and Mister Sam, "We gotta toss these out to make a V pointing at
those guys.  I'm in the middle, I'll throw long, you throw short." They
agreed and each man took a grenade.

Court checked that the Spectre table nav and Tanaka were ready, and on
his count they pulled the pins and tossed the grenades.  They roared and
threw up great flashes of illumination and white smoke.

In seconds Tanaka's jet flashed across the karst.  Eight loud bangs
sounded on top of each other as he rippled off his remaining rockets.
From under his wings the two fuel tanks tumbled to the ground, and a
burst of fire erupted from the 20mm gun he carried under the belly of
the airplanes In a roar of engines, he was gone in the clouds.  They
could smell the diesel fumes of the JP-4 jet fuel.

Nothing happened.  The shooting had slackened slightly as the jet roared
overhead, then resumed.  Court thought he saw figures gathering for a
charge.

"Here they come!" Mister Sam yelled.

"What's going on down there?" Joe Kelly yelled on the radio.

Court was too busy shooting to answer.  Then a wisp of black smoke
appeared at one edge of the jungle, then another, and a third, then with
a gigantic whoosh the entire jungle went up in red flames that boiled
hundreds of feet into the air, burning into the clouds.  The reflected
heat made the three men press into the earth, gasping and covering their
heads.  There were loud screams from the inferno that died off
immediately.  Two human torches staggered out and fell in ghastly heaps.
The wet jungle could not sustain the blaze, but it had been enough.
There was nothing living where the fuel had sprayed and ignited.  They
lay still for several minutes as it burned out.

The three men climbed to their feet, too awed at what they saw to speak.
Although the heavier leaves and palm fronds were too wet to burn, the
heat had dried and curled them and all the small underbrush and grass
was blackened cinders.  What had been a green and impenetrable jungle
was now a black and brown shriveled horror.  On the far side they saw
Hak's men start toward them, pointing their rifles and sweeping aside
the cinders, looking for survivors.  There were none.  Mister Sam went
to the bunker to get the two Powerses.  Court called Tanaka.

"It worked-my God, but it worked!"

"Shit hot," Tanaka said.  "But now I got to make it to the tank before I
flame out.  I don't want to see how far I can fly on no fuel."

Joe Kelly came up on the radio.  "Tanaka, is that you, you sorry son of
a bitch?"

"Kelly, you bastard, I've saved your dumb ass again.  Remember, green
sparrows never wear pants.  Red-Tagged Bastards Hang Together, Ta ta,
off to the tank." And he was gone.

Court put the beacon in the helipad and called Spectre, who said they
had a good fix.  Minutes later Jolly Green 32 clattered out of the sky
and touched down with a great whir and buzzing.

One Pi jumped out while the other and the crew chief manned the guns.

Court turned to help Mister Sam and Wolf carry Babs Powers on an
improvised poncho litter.  She looked pale and thin.  Her leg was bound
with blood-soaked bandages.  Jerome Powers looked pale and distraught
and seemingly oblivious to his wife's presence and condition.  The PJ
ran up and helped them steer the litter to the door of the big
helicopter.  He was dressed in camouflaged fatigues and wore a dark
helmet with boom mike.

He stooped to take a quick look at the patient.  Court saw his face
twist in sudden comprehension and pain.  On his helmet was painted his
name: Dominguez.

"Barbara, oh Barbara," Dominguez breathed to himself, so low no one
heard him in the noise of the helicopter.  He carefully took her hand in
his and looked at her with anguished devotion.

He had removed her picture from his wallet and started carrying it in a
plastic case in the flight-suit pocket over his heart.  This was the
young Barbara Westin he saw now.

"You the helicopter guy?" she shrieked, not recognizing Dominguez.
"Goddamnit, what took you so long?  Get me out of this shit hole." She
jerked her hand free.

"Come on, get a move on," Jerome Powers yelled.  Dominguez looked up in
sudden recognition and was flooded for an instant with the conflicting
memories of a teenager seriously in love.

But only for an instant.

"Shut up and get out of the way," Dominguez ordered.

Powers did not get a clear view of his face.

"See here .  .  ." Powers started, but Court cut him off and gave him an
impatient push.  "Get a move on, asshole."

They moved the stretcher to the door of the helicopter, where PJ Two and
crew chief Dan Bernick reached down to bring it aboard.  Powers fussed
and climbed in after his wife.

Manuel Dominguez turned to Court and Wolf.  He had a dazed look on his
face, and an odd half-smile.  Her face has changed.  That's no longer
the girl in the photo.

"You okay?" Court asked.

"Yeah.  Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am." His dazed look was rapidly
changing to amusement.  "I just saw what I used to think was the most
beautiful girl in the world," he said wryly.

He started to laugh as he swung aboard, and was roaring above the noise
of the blades when the helicopter lifted off.

Soon, bits of a torn-up photograph fluttered from the door.

0&30 Hours ]LOCAL, SATURDAY 2 NOVEMBER 1968

HANOI CITY HOSPITAL

HANOI, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM

Flak Apple ignored the hot pokers of pain as he straightened his back
and stood tall in front of the newsmen.  It was all over now.

He had done what he could for his fellow POWs.  Dancer had to take it
from there.  Now it was his time, time for his feelings and thoughts.
The tension and strain of his prisoner predicament

was being overridden by his sickness over the killing of King and
Kennedy.  He blinked in the lights and tried to focus on the faces of
the newsmen, to make eye contact, but no one outside of the Japanese and
Connert would hold his gaze.  The Japanese looked friendly, even
sympathetic.  Connert looked like a man about to explode.

"Yes, I have a confession," he began as cameras whiffed and shutters
clicked.  I confess to being a black man brought up in the United
States.  I confess to seeing and hearing some people say black men
cannot function well and black men cannot contribute to the United
States.  I confess to a pain that penetrates deeper than I ever thought
possible when I heard Reverend Martin Luther King had been shot and
killed by a white man.

I have seen the news articles from American papers presented to us that
show pictures of American students and professors and congressmen waving
the Viet Cong flag and saying this is a bad war and the United States is
wrong and Ho Chi Minh is right.  I confess to thinking long and deep
about those things right here in Hanoi."

Things were going so well that Thach risked a glance at the Chairman,
who sat in the back row.  His earlier frown had disappeared.  The
Chairman's normally inscrutable expression was almost benign.  Behind
him, Thach noticed the Chairman's aide from the War Office entering. Far
from inscrutable, he looked to be bursting with information.

"And I have one final confession-the most important confession of all,"
Flak continued.

Connert suddenly had a suspicion of what was to come and jumped to his
feet.

"Just a minute!" he shouted.  "Just a minute.  How are you going to
protect this man?  How do we know he will remain alive after his
confession?  He looks very sick.  You said yourselves he has a nurse. He
is, after all, one of your most important prisoners.  Can you guarantee
after this confession that he will be alive a year from now? Alive and
available for us to meet with him a year from now?  the whole world is
watching.

Can you guarantee this?"

Thach looked at the Chairman, who nodded almost imperceptibly.  "Yes, we
can guarantee that.  He is, after all, departing with you," Thach said.
When Connert sat down, he deftly pulled the magazine from the hands of
the speechless Shawn Bannister.  At last he had the POW list.

Flak looked almost pained at the exchange.  This was something he had
not expected.  He had made up his mind during the night about what he
was going to say, and was quite prepared to take the consequences by
himself.  Help from any quarter was a surprise.  He continued as he had
planned.

"I have been told I can leave Hanoi for the United States if I make a
sincere confession.  Therefore, my final and most important confession
is ...  that I am an American fighting man and I believe in God and my
country and that if America has ills we will cure them by ourselves.  I
will not leave Hanoi without my fellow American prisoners."

There was shocked silence.  Connert resisted the impulse to stand up and
cheer.  He worked very hard at keeping his face straight.  "Well,
Jeesus," was all Shawn Bannister said.  He and Connert were immediately
hustled out of the room.

When the room was cleared, the Chairman threw the mortar pouch in
Thach's face and signaled to an aide, who marched him out the door.
Thach's biggest regret was that he could not ravage that Co Dust whore
and leave her dying in her own treacherous blood.  The Chairman then
told the guards to return the criminal Apple to a cell in Hoa Lo and to
allow the nurse Co Dust to return to her duties.

The colonel with the War Office finally approached the Chairman.  "It
has failed.  Our troops, the troops of our Laotian comrades, and the
special forces of the Soviets have all failed.

We have no prisoners.  The site the Americans call Eagle Station remains
in their hands." In silence, the Chairman departed the hospital.

The Chairman sat back in his Peugeot as the driver fought the hen's-nest
potholes.  He was well satisfied.  That idiot Thach was finally removed.
It was obvious, the Chairman knew, that the black man would never do in
public what they had to beat out of him in private.  Thach should have
known that.  No matter, the film of the black man boasting would never
get out.  All the journalists present were sympathetic to the cause of
freedom in North Vietnam and would not release anything that would
jeopardize that concept.  And the Chairman was satisfied that the
arrogant GRU man had been shown that his vaunted Spetsnaz was not as
invincible as he had boasted.  The Chairman did not care about the radar
site.  The bombing was over.  That long-nosed pig Johnson had assured
the world of that.  It would have been interesting to capture Americans
for display in Laos, but that was not to be.

The Most important event of all had Occurred exactly as he had planned.
That idiot Touby had been killed, as he had hoped.  Now Bunth could run
all the poppy products down to the American pigs in South Vietnam
without that grasping Touby taking nearly half for himself.  He almost
smiled.  Every American GI who gave in to his product was one less his
forces had to face.

The Chairman thought about the American election.  His sources assured
him that man Hum-free would be elected.  That would be nice.  The
Chairman would like to see him crawl on his knees to Hanoi.

2200 Hours LOCAL, TUESDAY 5 NOVEMBER 1968

DOLLEY MADISON BOULEVARD

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

It had been a hectic weekend.  Political pundits had never seen such
dramatic events.  On Friday, Americans were convinced peace was at hand.
On Saturday, South Vietnam backed out of the peace negotiations.  Sunday
was a quiet day of reflection.  Then Monday had dawned on the United
States, with the astounding poll results taken by Louis Harris that
Hubert Horatio Humphrey was ahead of Richard Milhouse Nixon by 43 to 40.
Less than two weeks before, the same Harris poll had placed Nixon over
Humphrey by 9 points, at 44 to 36.

But today was election day and polls meant nothing.  Gut feelings would
out when the curtain was drawn at the polling booth and 73,000,000
Americans pulled the handle for the man of their choice.  When it was
all over, Richard Nixon had beat Hubert Humphrey by a mere 500,000
votes, 43.4 percent to 42.7 percent.  Yet that was four times as much as
the 112,881 votes by which Jack Kennedy had beat Nixon for president in
1960.  George Wallace, with ex-SAC General Curtis LeMay as his running
mate, had garnered nearly 14 percent of the votes.

Despite the intense controversy, only 61 percent of the voting public
had turned out.

Nixon remained in Suite 35H of the Waldorf in New York until 11:30
Wednesday morning, when Humphrey telephoned to concede defeat.  That
evening he telephoned Whitey Whisenand.

"It's for you," Sal said.  "Do you know a Chapin, Dwight Chapin?"

Whitey took the call on the extension in the library.  He and Sal had
been pleased with the election results, and the idea of having a
Republican Commander in Chief for at least the next four years.

"General Whisenand-good evening, sir.  I am Dwight Chapin, one of the
president-elect's aides.  Mister Nixon would like to speak to you, sir."

Whitey decided it was no joke and waited for Nixon to come on the line.

"Are you there?" Chapin asked.

"Yes.  Put him on."

"Ah, no.  I mean he wants to speak to you here in New York.

Would you come up here at your earliest convenience, say, tomorrow?"

Though taken aback, Whitey agreed and was told to show himself at the
security desk at the president-elect's transition headquarters at the
Hotel Pierre in New York.

Clean-cut young men monitored security cameras in the reception area
just off the elevator on the 39th floor.  One of the most clean-cut and
youngest greeted Whitey and said he was Dwight Chapin.  He looked as if
he wanted to ask Whitey to bare the contents of his old leather
briefcase, then decided against it.

He escorted Whitey to a living room in the suite overlooking Fifth
Avenue and brought him coffee.  After ten minutes Richard Nixon walked
in.  He wore a dark suit and appeared to Whitey to have just shaved. His
face was clear and jovial.  He carried a yellow legal pad with many
scribbled notes.

"Ah, General, what a pleasure, sir.  Be seated, be seated."

Chapin brought coffee without being asked.  Nixon sat on a silk sofa
with his back to a window.

"I am," he said, "preparing to build a new government.  I want to be
perfectly frank with you.  We met only briefly when I was vice president
for General Eisenhower, but I remember quite well your insistence with
General Ridgeway we not involve American forces on the ground with the
French at Dien Bien Phu.  I am aware also of how you stood up to Johnson
and McNamara to stop them from picking air-strike targets in North
Vietnam at their Tuesday lunches.  And I know why you have resigned from
the Air Force.  You are a man of integrity." He sipped his coffee
incessantly.  He continued.

"Now, I want you to know how I feel, and what my aims and goals are. I
have little or no confidence in the State Department.  The Foreign
Service didn't see fit to include me in their briefings when I was vice
president.  Unlike Johnson, I intend to run foreign policy from the
White House.  And I do not intend to let those Ivy League liberals from
the CIA figure in my plans for foreign policy.  Also, unlike Johnson, I
do not intend to ignore the military while making tactical decisions for
them.  I do intend to rely on your experience and what you have to say."
He wet his lips.  "Now then, my plan for the Vietnam War is threefold.
First, I want the military to turn over combat responsibility to the
South Vietnamese.

There must be a training, a phase-in period, to accomplish this.  During
this time I want us to provide air and logistical support.  In the
second phase, I want us to help the South Vietnamese develop their own
support capabilities, factories and the like, with our training. Lastly,
US forces would revert to only an advisory role, as when we started over
there in 1961.

Throughout this plan, which Mel Laird calls Vietnamization, I will
gradually reduce the amount of our forces in Southeast Asia." He
regarded Whitey.  "If you are at odds with these ideas, I wish to hear
you say so now, For if you are, I would like for you to take a few days
and tell me what it might be you would change."

Whitey leaned back.  "Mister President, I am no longer in the Air Force,
hence not privy to inner council happenings.  I am not qualified to say
one way or another on Vietnamization except perhaps to ask if you have
consulted the Vietnamese."

"Not to the extent I will once in office."

"Mister President, there is something of the utmost importance I wish to
bring to your attention.  You did not mention it in your campaign,
therefore I feel you must be made aware of a most serious problem."

Nixon looked puzzled and waved him to continue.  Whitey dug into his
briefcase and produced his most current "black. board."

MIA/KIA ---EQ_W AIRCRAFT

USAF 452 240 1054

USN 253 132 448

USMC 81 20 247

USA 179 59 544(Helios) TOTAL 965 451 2291

Nixon frowned an instant, then lit up.  "Oh, yes, I've heard about your
famous board and how you won't let the Commander in Chief forget his men
for an instant.  Very commendable.

I shall want you to keep that up for me."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I no longer work for the government."

Nixon gave a short laugh.  "I have already spoken to our mutual friend
John Duchane, and he informs me he will be happy to see you once more in
government service and will certainly hold your job for you should you
decide to return to the military."

Nixon leaned forward.  "I would like to recall you as a lieutenant
general, effective my inaugural Day the twentieth of next January."

At that moment one of the men White had noticed earlier in the hall
entered the room without knocking.  Whitey guessed he was in response to
a pressed button.

"Oh, yes, General," Nixon said in his deep halting voice, "this is Bob
Haldeman." A green-eyed slender man with a crew cut stood before them.

Whitey had read up on Nixon's aides and future chief of staff.  H.  R.
"Bob" Haldeman, a former very tough Los Angeles advertising executive,
was the keeper of the gates.  He controlled all access to the
president-elect.  He had said in private to close friends that he was
Nixon's "no-man," that Nixon had to have an SOB in his entourage, and he
was it.  He was going to be a very important staffer in the White House.
Staffers did not require Senate approval, nor did they have to answer to
Congress, as did presidential Cabinet appointees.

"Bob, this is the Air Force officer I told you about.  The one who stood
up to, ah, Johnson about his targeting missions, and McNamara about the
Stennis Committee."

Haldeman shook hands with a firm, dry grasp.

"Sir," Haldeman said to Nixon, "your call to Henry Kissinger is ready
now."

"I'll take it in the other room," Nixon said and rose and said to
Whitey, "I'll be back.  I have something for you to do.  In the meantime
Bob here will tell you how we do things around here.

And Bob, fix the General up with a direct phone line from, ah, his house
to my office here, will you?" He walked out the door.

"Here is the deal," Haldeman said without warmth or preamble.  "I don't
want any end runs."

Whitey raised an eyebrow without answering.

"No end runs," Haldeman continued in a crisp voice.  "That means no
papers go to the President without passing through a staffer, and no
conversations with the President without a staffer present."

"Staffer?" Whitey said, thinking that this young man was rather full of
himself and wondering if this was his personal policy or if he had been
so advised by Nixon himself.

"I am the chief of staff.  There are others.  Dwight Chapin works for
me.  John Ehrlichman, he, ah, works here too.  But not for me.  With me,
actually, even though I am the one who brought him on board." He
pronounced the words with some asperity.  "There are others.  You will
get to know them." He got up from the edge of his desk and sat on the
leather chair behind it.  "Now, I'm not sure just what your job was over
there," Haldeman continued.  "Special assistant to the NSC for air power
or special assistant to the President for air power, or something like
that.  Here you will be assistant to the President, no special
attached."

"If I accept," Whitey said.

"If.?  You mean there is some doubt?"

Whitey looked at him.  Work with a man like this?  -most definitely
there is some doubt."

"Even if you are promoted?" Haldeman looked startled.

"Even if I am promoted."

The President walked back in.  "Kissinger will be here tomorrow," he
said to Haldeman, who nodded and left the room,

"Now, then," Nixon said.  "I would like you to perform almost the same
duties for me as you have for President Johnson.  That is, you will be
my special liaison with the Department of Defense.

I have a first task for you."

Whitey took a deep breath, ready to say "no." He had made up his mind.
There was nothing Richard Nixon could offer him that would induce him to
return to active duty.  Of course, the President could always recall him
involuntarily, but he doubted if Nixon would do that.  There was nothing
he could offer to induce him to return.  He already saw himself at the
controls of Excalibur.  Nixon spoke.

"I want you to devote your time to determining how we can rescue
American prisoners of war."

1530 Hours LOCAL, TUESDAY 5 NOVEMBER 1, 1968

WATTAY AiRPORT

ROYALTY OF LAOS

Court Bannister and Wolf Lochert climbed down from the Pilatus Porter
and reached in for their equipment bags and AK-47s.  They were both
dirty, bloody, caked with old sweat, and staggering from lack of sleep.
They shouldered the bags and silently walked to the Air America flight
operations shack.

Their pilot, red-haired Dave Little, gunned the big turbo and taxied
down the ramp to load for another run, his eighth of the day.

Inside the ops shack they dropped their gear and got a Coke and a beer
from the makeshift snack bar, then stood in front of the floor fan to
cool off.  Court drained his beer, got another, and finished half before
he spoke.

I don't get it.  How can we win and still lose at the same time?"

Wolf grunted.  They walked to a small wooden table and sat down.  I
don't know how they pulled it off unless all that fighting at the top
was a cover for it." He thought for a few minutes, then told Court about
the Spetsnaz code.  "They will die just to die," he said.  "Their
training goes on forever.  It is so brutal and dangerous that it changes
the man from whatever he was before to a highly trained animal,
contemptuous of life.  They don't die for Rodina, the motherland, or for
communism, or for any way of life.  They don't even sacrifice themselves
for each other. They have no friends and form no friendships.  When they
die, they die to show their contempt for whatever is around them.

They use death to prove they don't care about existence."

"Whatever the reason, they got away with three of our men and that big
radar tube."

After the battle was over and the Jolly Green had lifted off with the
Powerses, Mister Sam had gathered together the survivors for roll call
and to determine the extent of the damage.

Pearson, Verbell, and a young technician were missing.  When they had
gone to the rocks where the severed harness straps hung and had had more
time to look around, they had found strange rappelling gear hidden next
to the rocks.  They had lowered themselves down to the limestone caves
and found footprints mixed with blood scuffled in the dirt.  More
rappelling gear hung from the cave down the side of the cliff to a wide
ledge several hundred feet below.

"They made the snatch here and were picked up by a helicopter down
there," Wolf had reasoned.

When they had returned to the radar van, the technicians had said the
big Klystron tube had been taken from the TSQ-81 radar set, and that was
really strange, because there was nothing special about the tube.  They
were even available on the surplus market in the States.

Court and Wolf drank in silence.  Jim Polter was scheduled to pick them
up in a few minutes.  Court was struggling to subdue thoughts both ugly
and lonely.  He had just shot and strangled men, chopped one with a
shovel, lost the girl he loved to cancer and his operations officer to a
karst mountain.

Wolf, with a warrior's consummate wisdom, surmised what Court was going
through.  He looked at him with gentle eyes, knowing what he was going
to say, while true, was not enough.

"Time, my friend, time."

Shawn Bannister and Richard Connert stepped down from the ICC plane with
several East Bloc journalists and were taken to the one-story cement
civilian terminal.  The trip had been very hot and extremely bumpy. They
had been whisked from the disastrous interview with Flak Apple and held
almost under guard for three days until the ICC plane was due out.

Whatever the big event was they had promised Shawn he could cover was
never mentioned.  And they never saw Thach again, but some thin-faced
Vietnamese had taken them once more to the shoot-down museum and to
several sites they said American air pirates had wantonly destroyed.
Outside of a five-minute propaganda broadcast he had made for Radio
Hanoi, Shawn had shown no interest, and Connert was desperate to get to
US soil with the magazine from Flak.  Both men elbowed their way to the
Thai Airways counter to purchase tickets for Bangkok and were told they
would depart in a few Hours.  The two men bought beers and sat under the
slowly turning ceiling fan.

"I'm still not sure you did the right thing, Connert," Shawn said for
the tenth time on the trip.  "Pushing those guys so hard for another
visit to that awful place." Shawn had made up his mind never to go back
to Hanoi.

"I had to make it look real, didn't I?  After all, we had a lot of
cameras focused on us.  As the only Americans, we had to show some
concern for one of our countrymen, particularly a black one.  You are
going after votes, you know, and black votes count just as much as
white."

"I suppose you're right." Shawn had never really thought about the
hundreds of Americans held in Hanoi.

"And it might just guarantee us a trip back next year."

"Hmmm, maybe." Shawn Bannister had no intention of ever returning to
this hell hole of Southeast Asia for any reason, votes or no votes.  He
stood up and paced in anxiety and boredom.  "Look, I can't stand this.
Let's get a rickshaw or whatever they have for a ride into the town.  I
hear Vilay Phone's is a good place to buy gold."

Jim Polter picked up Court and Wolf in his jeep and headed for town,
saying he had to make one stop, then they would go to his villa for some
refreshments.  He said he had been told the Powerses were in Bangkok,
where Babs was being attended to in the 5th Field Hospital.  He had been
well briefed by Mister Sam's radio report, but listened with awe to Wolf
and Court's detailed report.

"Hell of a deal," he said when they were finished.  He drove down the
road toward Vientiane.  The air was cool and humid under an overcast.
The smell of the sewage by the road was pronounced.  "Now let me tell
you about a certain broadcast from Hanoi," he said.  "Better bite down
on something, Courtyour half-bro really did a number on the United
States.  Here's a transcript." He produced a paper from a breast pocket
that Court took and read as they bounced along.

"I am Shawn Bannister, broadcasting to you from war torn but courageous
Hanoi in the Democratic Republic of Vietnam.  As an American, I am
ashamed of what my so-called countrymen are doing to this small
defenseless nation in an attempt to take over and exploit Vietnam, just
as the colonialist French did.  American Navy, Air Force, and Marine
flyers are making deliberate terror raids on hospitals and schools in a
genocidal attempt to subdue these gentle people.  If you are an American
soldier in South Vietnam or a sailor at sea or an airman, lay down your
arms and convince your officers that what they are doing is criminal and
they will be held accountable.  I and the peace-loving people of the
Democratic Republic of Vietnam urge you to accept peace as your goal.
This is Shawn Bannister, speaking to you from Hanoi in the Democratic
Republic of Vietnam."

Court's face flamed red when he finished reading, and he crumpled the
paper in his fist.

"Hang on," Polter said as he spun the wheel of the jeep.  "I got to pick
up something at the jeweler's." He wheeled in front of Vilay Phone's and
stopped, as Shawn Bannister and Richard Connert, arms laden with gifts
wrapped in brown paper, walked from the shop.

Totally forgetting his legend, Connert's face lit up as he recognized
Court Bannister.  Connert had just returned from an extremely hazardous
combat mission and was ready for the accolades of his warrior
contemporaries.  But it was not to be, of course.

Court, his face a raging mask, shouldered by him and grabbed his
half-brother, sending his packages flying.  Before Shawn could say a
word, Court had him in a headlock and jammed the wadded-up Hanoi
broadcast into his mouth.  Connert stood by, helpless to move.  He
wanted to cheer, but couldn't make a sound.

"Here, you sorry son of a bitch," Court said, and twisted quickly and
flung Shawn into Connert, who staggered back into the wall, regained his
balance, and eased Shawn to his feet.

Polter led a furious Court to the jeep, saying he'd pick up his package
some other time.  Wolf Lochert sat there shaking his head as they drove
off.

Connert watched them go.  For the first time it truly dawned on him how
much he had given up to infiltrate the Movement.  He would never, ever
forget the look of scorn on Court Bannister's face.  He tried to compose
a look of concern as he turned to Shawn Bannister.  Maybe someday he
would be able to tell both Bannisters what his true mission had been. He
would like to see Court's expression change, see the recognition on his
face of a fellow warrior.  And Shawn's face, too.  Oh yes, that would be
priceless.

Meanwhile Connert knew he would have to continue in his role, content
with the expression on another man's face: the one instantaneous look of
pure joy he had received from Flak Apple, when Apple realized his
country had sent someone in to contact him and his fellow POWs.  And he
knew that expression made it all worthwhile.

Whistling silently to himself, he took Shawn's arm, nodded agreement to
whatever Shawn was muttering, and walked off down the street.