Phantom Leader Part 19

"Get your G.o.dd.a.m.n hands off the stick," he snapped. He held his dive and pickled the second bomb at 5,000 and junked off-target.

"Your first was a little short, Three, but your second was right on,"

Beaver Two Four transmitted.

"Roger," Court replied in as level a voice as he could summon. Then he spoke to Connert on the intercom.

"What in h.e.l.l you doing back there? You hit the pickle b.u.t.ton, then tried to pull back on the stick."

"Well, I thought you forgot or were hit or something, so I thought I should do it for you." Connert's voice was breezy and seemingly unconcerned.

"Christ Almighty!" Court exploded. "You thought ...

Look, from now on put your hands in your lap and shut up.

I'm going cold mike. I don't want to hear from you unless it's Mayday."

He snapped off the intercom switch that cut out their open microphones.

Now if either one wanted to talk, he had to press a b.u.t.ton on the throttle. He made the next pa.s.s without hearing from Connert.

"Nice bombs, Silver," Beaver Two Four said. He led the three airplanes through two more bomb pa.s.ses, then started them in on the low-level CBU and napalm runs. Connert had made no comments from the backseat and Court certainly hadn't asked for any. When Silver flight had exhausted its supply of napalm and CBU, Beaver Two Four had Silver Three One and Three Two make two strafing runs each. Court orbited high and dry, wis.h.i.+ng he had a gun.

Beaver Two Four was ecstatic as Silver flight checked out.

"Great job, guys," he said, ignoring proper radio procedure. "The guys on the ground have broken out and are back at the village perimeter.

They thank you much. Right now I have no BDA for you due to smoke and haze. But I'll give you one-hundred-percent ordnance within fifty meters of the target area. Good job. You're cleared off-target. Beaver Two Four out."

Morelli led the flight to Tan Son Nhut, where they split up and made single-s.h.i.+p GCAs in the worsening weather. After Court taxied in and shut down the engines of the big fighter, he hurriedly unstrapped and, without waiting for the crew chief to put up the ladder, crawled along the canopy rail to the backseat. Connert sat there, helmet on, still strapped in.

Court grabbed his chest strap and shook him.

"Listen, you son of a b.i.t.c.h," he grated, "you don't ever release a bomb or take control of an aircraft without instructions from the AC. You get the h.e.l.l out of this c.o.c.kpit and never climb in it again. I will never fly with you again."

The crew chief lieutenant moved the ladders in place and Court climbed down, Connert hadn't moved. He stared down at Court with wide and guileless eyes and a half-smile on his lips.

Court grabbed his gear and stomped over to the crew van that was waiting with Morelli and Jensen. They had seen the action and heard Court's words. He climbed in.

"Let's go," he snarled.

"What about Connert?" Morelli asked.

"Let the son of a b.i.t.c.h walk." The driver let the clutch out and the van moved down the flightline toward the operations building. A light rain dotted the windscreen. Court savagely pulled out his crumpled pack of Luckies and lit one.

"Why crawl to the back c.o.c.kpit?" Jensen asked. "Why not wait until he had climbed down?"

"Because I'd have broken his jaw," Court snapped. "With his helmet still on, I knew I couldn't hit him."

After the three pilots hung up their gear and debriefed, Dieter called Court into his office. Connert hadn't shown up yet.

"I'd like to turn you guys around right away, but it's too late to get some more F-100s down there. Things are popping at the Tacan station at Can Tho. The station just went off the air and the bad guys are attacking the radar site on the Army side of the base. Spooky will be on station all night, and we'll launch Skyspot from the alert pad when they can work them in. Between the fighting at Can Tho and Bien Hoa, we will be launching just about everything we have at first light tomorrow morning."

Dieter glanced at the scheduling board and the big clock mounted over it. It was almost six o'clock. "Court, get a good night's sleep and I'll launch you first thing in the morning."

"Mac, I got a problem. I need a new backseater. There's something wrong with that Connert guy." His face was hard. "I absolutely refuse to fly with him. Furthermore, I don't think he should fly with anybody."

"How did he get through the upgrade course?" Dieter asked.

"They must be d.a.m.n hard-up for F-4 frontseaters. He's so bad in the back, I'd hate to see what he is like up front.

Look, just give me one of your Hun jocks. I can check him out in the backseat in half an hour. All he needs is to handle the INS and the radar. I'll do all the rest."

"How about me?" Dieter said as they walked out of the office into the ops room.

"Sure," Court said. "I think it would be great to fly with YOU."

d.i.c.k Connert walked in the door to the ops room, a hurt look on his face. "Why don't you want to fly with me, Major Bannister?"

Court glanced around the operations section. The clerk and several other pilots had stopped what they were doing to watch what was happening. It wouldn't do to embarra.s.s a fellow officer in front of the troops.

"Let's just say I want to give Major Dieter the experience of flying in an F-4 backseat."

"Don't you think I'm good enough? Don't you think I can hack it?"

Connert's voice became shrill. "Just give me another flight, will you?

I'll prove to you how good I am. Just give me another chance. I'll show you what I can do."

"Connert, come here," Court said, and walked back into Dieter's office.

Connert followed him in. Dieter winked, stayed outside, and shut the door.

"Connert, I don't know where you came from and I don't care. You have no business being in an airplane . . . in any capacity, front or back seat. The minute you get to a squadron, someone will give you a check ride and you'll be out on your a.s.s. I really don't know how you got this far." He studied Connert's face. It was smooth and bland, his blue eyes as guileless as a baby's. There was something odd, then Court realized what it was. Connert had no lines around his eyes, under his eyes, around his mouth or on his cheeks. It was the face of a baby or a young priest. There were no sins or mistakes behind that face to give the evidence of experience so obvious in the faces of military pilots and race-car drivers.

"Why don't you like me, Major Bannister? What have I ever done to you?"

Court felt uneasy. He wasn't getting through to this man.

There was something about his att.i.tude and his rigid calmness.

"What cla.s.s were you in?" he asked on a hunch.

"What do you mean?"

"What pilot-training cla.s.s?" Court asked. Most pilots knew exactly what the question meant, unless it was in another context from a military-academy graduate.

Connert hesitated briefly. "Ah, sixty-four."

"Sixty-four what?" Court knew he was on to something.

That answer would have been appropriate for an academy man who had graduated in 1964, but not for a pilot-training cla.s.s. Several pilot-training cla.s.ses graduated each year.

They were identified by the year and a following letter or number to show when, within the twelve months of the year, they had graduated.

"Where did you graduate from?"

Connert raised his chin. "What's the purpose of all these questions?

You want to see my orders? I've got orders proving who I am. I don't need to answer all these questions."

"Let me see your ID card and your orders." Court's voice was hard as cold-rolled steel.

"What do you mean? Why should I show you that stufP" Connert's voice rose again.

Court strode to the door and threw it open. "Mac, get the OSI on this.

We've got an imposter on our hands." Court and Dieter had kept Connert in Dieter's office.

In twenty minutes two agents from the Office of Special Investigation arrived, read Connert his rights, and searched him.

"All he has is this, sir," an agent said, and handed Dieter a DD2AF ID card and a folded copy of some mimeographed orders. The card appeared legitimate. Court and Dieter examined the papers. They showed Richard Connert, AFSC 6244, was an F-4 pilot enroute from George Air Force Base to Udorn Air Force Base. The two men looked at each other.

"This is not a pilot's AFSC," Court said. "I don't know what it is, but it sure isn't for a pilot or a navigator." AFSC meant Air Force Specialty Code. It was the number identifier for all jobs in the USAF.

A fighter pilot was an II 15, a navigator in fighters was a 1555.

One of the agents spoke to Connert. He was very formal.

"Sir, please take us to your BOQ room. We would like to examine your belongings."

Connert's eyes grew round. He nodded his head. "Okay, okay. So I'm not a pilot." His face looked sincere and quite young. "Hey, I never meant to hurt anybody." He looked at Court. "Okay, so I'm not a pilot.

But I could have been."

His eyes grew narrow. "I certainly could have been a pilot."

He looked around at the men watching him, his face wrinkling like a small child about to cry. "You pilots think you're so d.a.m.n good." His voice rose. "You think you're so much better than me. You're just s.h.i.+t, that's what you are. You're just s.h.i.+t."

"Okay, let's go," an agent said and put his hand on Connert's arm.

Connert shook it loose and lunged for Court.

Court stepped back. The two agents grabbed Connert and bent his arms behind his back. "I'll get you for this, Bannister!" he screamed over his shoulder as they pushed him out.

"You'll see. I'll get you for this. You and all the other b.a.s.t.a.r.d pilots. You're arrogant a.s.sholes, that's what you are. a.s.sHOLES." The whites of his eyes shone.

The men watching were silent as Connert was led away.

"That's almost more than I care to watch," Dieter said finally. He looked at Court. "While you were talking in here, I got on the horn to Personnel. You're right, Connert is no pilot. He is a nonrated lieutenant who ran the F-4 simulator at George. He was on his way through here to set up a simulator at Udorn." He tapped Connert's mimeographed orders. "Easy enough to phony these up. Probably had a mimeograph in his office. Just forgot to enter a pilot's AFSC in place of his own. Otherwise we'd probably still think he was a pilot, albeit a p.i.s.s-poor one." He shook his head.

"That guy really has problems. He'll be mustered out d.a.m.n quick, probably under a Section eight."

Court laughed. "Dunno, Mac. Looks to me like he's a natural for your squadron."

He slipped the punch Dieter threw at his shoulder.

1045 HOURS LOCAL, THURSDAY 1 FEBRUARY 1968.

THE IMPERIAL CITY OF HUE REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM.

The imperial city of Hue 70 nautical miles to the south east of Quang Tri-normally 45 minutes flying time for the Huey piloted by Warrant Officer McClanahan. Bad weather, the white mist the French call crachin, spit mist, had forced them down at a friendly firebase for over two hours. Wolf Lochert used the time to study the contents of the large envelope handed him by Colonel Rennagel before takeoff. In clipped handwriting it stated: LOCHERT TO HUE ASAP. PROTECT U. S. NATIONALS. CONTACT NOMAD NEAR TAY.

LOC AIRFIELD ON FOX MIKE 48. 32 OR 45. 52 FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

With the notes were a 1:50,000 map of Hue City and the surrounding area, and a small area-study booklet outlining the past history and current inhabitants of Hue. He read of its cultural and religious heritage, its great walls, lush gar dens, flowing moats, tree-lined streets. In the Buddhist myth, Hue was the lotus flower growing from the mud. Hue represented serenity and peace in the middle of a terrible war.

Wolf tucked the notes and map inside a cargo pocket of his fatigues and opened the parachute bag at his feet. Inside were three Claymore mines, their convex face reading "This Side Toward The Enemy," a half-dozen M26 fragmentation and thermite grenades, several day-night smoke flares, and I an Air Force survival radio. A roll of black electrician's tape brought a thin smile to Wolf's lips. Considerate man, that Colonel Rennagel, he thought. He knows about taping thermite to Claymores.

Didn't even ask for a receipt.

He zipped the bag shut and looked over at Lopez, who was asleep, his brown face slack in repose. Wolf saw his fingers twitch and his body jerk slightly as he fought the Viet t Cong of his dream. You should be on extended R-and-R, i Wolf thought, not off to more combat. He turned away and stared out the open door of the helicopter. He wondered who Nomad was. And who were the U.S. nationals-the term for American civilians. Obviously civilians, not military, they could be Federal employees, newsmen, workers at a charitable organization. Anything but tourists.

Lang Tri had been rough. Wolf felt grimy, bone-weary, and a little sick in his heart. He was all too familiar with this afteraction state of mind. The coming-down from an adrenaline high, the need for sleep, the need for time to himself in a quiet area to reset his mind and body, to recharge his mind i and spirits away from killing, away from the ability to a.s.sess a threat and kill it in a heartbeat. To kill with no crippling regrets or remorse. To kill without wondering what the man he had just killed was like as a child of ten. Such thoughts had to be dealt with later, after the fight. Thoughts that if allowed to surface on the battlefield brought inattention and sure death.

Yet later, in a secure area after the battle, when it was physically safe to ponder, it was not mentally safe. If it had been a particularly bad time, the thoughts that came sometimes required alcohol to handle.

Wolf fought within himself not to drink. It was something he could not handle. Years earlier as a second lieutenant in Korea, after his first battle when he had killed, after he was in a rear area at a makes.h.i.+ft company beer bar, he had let his thoughts wander. He hadn't known any better. It had led to disaster. A monstrous drunk: raging, throwing, punching, finally subdued by anxious friends who had had to put him in chains and hide him from the Military Police. He had had another incident in Germany as a captain. From those incidents he had learned he had to reset and recharge without alcohol that inner part of himself that was the engine of his very being before it spun in furious rage faster and faster until it flew apart in bellowing disintegration.

And now, here in Vietnam, it was different, worse. Now it was a two-part fury that went beyond the killing sickness.

The fury was aimed at those in suits who squandered the lives of American men without a plan. Men who wore exquisite ties and spoke in precise terms of expendables, and in vague terms of goals. And his fury was aimed at those who went barefoot and wore beads, those who trivialized and scorned the efforts of men far better than they. Men who through centuries of conflict had always answered the call of their leaders. Rightly or wrongly, Wolf and those like him believed, and, as young men, had gone to do battle with the enemies of their country. So it had always been. Men of the Roman legions, Confucian foot soldiers, Rommel's tankers, in the Pacific Iowa boys not old enough to vote manning their pompoms against other young men hurling themselves at the s.h.i.+ps in kamikaze trances. n.o.ble young men, losing blood and ideals while gaining bravery and cynicism in battle.

Wolfgang Xavier Lochert loved these men. As much as he despised those who sent them to war, he loved them. Even the young black-haired soldiers from North Vietnam who gave their all to save their country from what their leaders told them was imperialistic slavery, But now was not the time for any of this. He was a fighting machine. Later, later.

Now he must rest. There was nothing he could do, he reasoned, until he talked to Nomad.

Wolf told McClanahan to wake him in ten minutes, leaned his head back against the seat sling, and tried to doze.

The second he closed his eyes, explosions and fireb.a.l.l.s from Lang Tri, the cries of the wounded, and the whop of chopper blades roared across his mind. Wolf knew how to quiet himself, how to leave one action behind and how to prepare for the next. He had learned to do it in minutes. He put his mind back in the chapel of the seminary where he had studied as a youth. It was cool there, and held the tranquillity of the heavens.

"Heavenly Father," he began, "here I am once again, prostrate before You. I beg You for strength, humility, understanding." Peace came behind his eyes as he began, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name Twenty minutes later, when Warrant Officer McClanahan told the door gunner to awaken Wolf carefully, he was amazed at how relaxed and refreshed the burly man looked compared to the devastation on his face an hour earlier.

Wolf became instantly alert. He tapped Lopez awake. The weather had lifted enough to resume the flight to Hue.

McClanahan started the Huey and pulled it into the air. The gunner handed Wolf a spare helmet with boom microphone and plugged it into the intercom.

"We're ten minutes out, Colonel," McClanahan said a few minutes later.