Missing in action part 2, p.22
Missing in Action Part 2, page 22
Nobody replied. They’d come or they wouldn’t.
* * *
On the Forrestal, when the call came in, they’d been preparing for a routine mission, a strike on Hanoi they’d suited up ready for launch. The atmosphere in the briefing room crackled with tension. The combat operations officer instructed new pilots to launch after the main force had departed so that if they were hit, they’d have a better chance of ejecting into the sea. Like flyers all over the world, they were superstitious. Many stroked rabbits’ feet or palmed silver dollars as the briefing broke up and they waddled to cockpits in G-suits and harnesses. The aircraft were waiting for them. Once aboard, crews removed ordnance locking pins, armed ejection seats, locked canopies, and deck crews guided out the planes, engines rumbling on idle. The first aircraft were on the catapults, ready to launch. The Combat Information Centre passed the word, and in three seconds they rocketed from a standstill to one hundred and sixty knots. The noise on the deck was relentless.
They’d assembled a strike force composed of twenty bombers, sixteen A-4s and four F-8s, supported by two ‘Iron Hand’ flak-suppression aircraft. Once in the air, Crusader escorts took up positions outside the formation, choosing the flank most likely to meet incoming MiGs. An EA-6C aircraft flown by Major Vernon Watts and co-pilot Lieutenant James Laverne clawed for height but remained offshore, likewise a pair of airborne tankers. Two helicopters climbed into the air and flew patterns, ready to pick up any flier downed in the sea. The formation passed over an armada of North Vietnamese small craft, most of them fishing junks and sampans. They were there for a reason, to give early warning of an incoming raid, and as they approached Haiphong, they knew the enemy was ready and waiting.
They approached the coast at twenty thousand feet, engine whine muted by helmets and headsets. Pilots flicked switches to arm guns, bombs, and rockets. Almost over the target, they began a slow descent. In their headsets, they heard the high-pitched tone of the enemy’s Fansong radar, a warning that SAMs en route. They knew they were there, and radio silence could be broken.
Vernon Watts glanced out the port window of his EA-6C, looking for trouble in the guise of enemy fighters. MiGs. They still operated the older MiG-15s, but lately they’d seen increasing numbers of the more capable and better-armed MiG-21s. When the threat warning clamored again, he checked the radar screen. They were sending up clouds of missiles toward the incoming fighter-bombers, most of which were already maneuvering to present more difficult targets.
So far, nobody had been hit, but so far, they didn’t have a target. According to the message received on the Forrestal, some of their guys had sprung a bunch of MIAs from a prison camp, and they’d hijacked a Soviet cargo ship, the Godunov, to escape. They still were wary it could’ve been a trap. If so, the enemy would’ve assembled every air defense battery in the region and readied them to hit the Forrestal’s aircraft in a devastating cloud of missiles and heavy cannon fire. Watts and Laverne watched carefully for the first sign something was wrong. There’d be nothing, but so far, there was no green smoke.
Two Skyhawks bored in toward a battery that’d just launched a missile and launched CBU-100 Rockeye cluster bombs. They hit the target and exploded in a fury of bomblets that destroyed everything in a wide radius, eliminating the battery. Yet more missiles launched from further nearby batteries, and heavy caliber anti-aircraft cannon thundered up a hail of shells, but the main attack force was still further away, circling, awaiting the signal. So far, it hadn’t come.
* * *
The patrol boat headed toward the ship. Kowalski said they were sending messages in two languages, but he couldn’t understand either. Dao understood, and he joined him and translated the Vietnamese.
“They’re ordering us to heave to or they’ll fire on us. They must know who we are.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He looked up at the sky, crisscrossed with smoke from missile trails, but apart from the Skyhawks attacking the defensive batteries, there was no sign the main force was about to attack.
He looked at Tran. “Will they fire on us?”
He nodded. “Probably. We didn’t get clearance to leave the harbor, and standing orders are to stop and search every vessel that attempts to reach open sea.”
“Even though we’re a Soviet vessel?”
A shrug. “They’ll be more careful, but they won’t hesitate to open fire if we refuse to stop.”
“Gimme the wheel. Is the engine at full speed?”
He returned a sly look. “I reduced to half speed because navigating this channel can be dangerous. Why do you wish to take the wheel?”
“Out of my way, Tran.” He pushed him aside, reached for the engine room telegraph, and pushed it to full speed. Lumbering toward the patrol boat, that’d slowed, waiting for them to stop. Confident they would stop. Who would dare disobey an order from the People’s Navy?
If they’d been on the bridge of the SS Godunov, they’d have the answer to that question.
Tran hopped up and down, gesticulating toward the boat, carried across the stream by the current so it was broadside on to the ship. “You must turn. You’re about to ram.”
“Is that a fact? Somebody get him out of my face.”
The heavy merchant ship plowed toward the patrol boat. The crew hadn’t realized his intention, not until it was too late. They ran to man the deck gun, a two-pounder, frantically rotating and elevating the barrel to fire a round at the Russian ship. Turbulence boiled the water at the stern as they made a last, desperate effort to get away. Too late. The boat was barely moving when the massive steel bows of the Godunov struck amidships.
They never stood a chance. Crewmen dived into the water to escape being run down and sucked under the huge vessel. Their boat broke in two. The front section stayed afloat for a short time, but the stern sustained too much damage, and it sunk instantly to the muddy bottom of the Cam River. The front end followed it a couple of minutes later. On board the Godunov they hardly noticed the impact. Heller stayed at the wheel, steering the ship. Heading for the open sea, and it wasn’t going to happen, not in this lifetime.
A People’s Navy frigate blocked their path, a ‘Mirka’ Class. Designed and built in the Soviet Union, the vessel was heavily armed with deck guns capable of blowing them out of the water. As well as arrays of missile launchers and torpedoes. Even at a distance, it wasn’t difficult to see that every gun and every missile was trained on them. He didn’t need to think. Put his hand on the engine room telegraph and ran down for ‘slow.’
“What now?” Anderson grunted, “It looks like we’re fucked.”
“It looks that way unless we get help mighty soon. Captain Kowalski, what’s happening on that radio?”
“The aircraft are in the air, but they won’t come close, not until they’re sure we are who we say we are, and not a trick. They passed on our details to MACV in Saigon, and they say they have to check them with the intelligence officer, Colonel Monaghan. They’re doing their best to contact him, but he’s not answering his door.”
Monaghan!
The useless bastard was probably in bed, sleeping off the night before. There was nothing he could do, nothing to persuade MACV to move any faster. Then he remembered the smoke. Green smoke, the signal to get them out.
“Tell them about the Mirka and tell them we’re sending up green smoke. This is our last chance. If they don’t come in now, we’re dead.”
Kowalski returned the Morse key and sent the message. They waited as the minutes slipped by, and with every minute, they closed with the frigate.
“They said we’re to stand by.”
“Fuck ‘em. Maria,” he searched for her at the rear of the bridge, clutching a flare in each hand.
“I’m here.”
“Make smoke, and it better be green.”
Chapter Twelve
The EA-6A was flying too high for Watts and Laverne to spot it. Taylor and Campbell were flying low in the F-4 Phantom.
“Green smoke, green smoke!” Campbell shouted, “The ship down there, the one they told us about.”
“I see it,” Taylor grunted, nudging the stick over a fraction to fly closer. Their orders were to remain offshore and not to engage until they had confirmation from Saigon. He’d never been impressed with the way MACV ran the war. In his opinion, a man needed to see for himself, and he nosed the heavy aircraft closer. Jinking abruptly as multiple streams of cannon fire spouted from a nearby battery.
It wasn’t enough to get them out of trouble. Other batteries had started to take an interest, and true to form the first missiles lifted off the launchers. The threat warning alarms came alive, and he threw the aircraft into a tight bank. He could’ve clawed for height and begun a long series of evasive maneuvers to shake them off, but he was an ornery Texan. Men from the Lone Star State had a long history of listening to authority and doing the opposite.
He dived, plunging toward the ground at over six hundred knots. He pulled out of the dive at treetop level, skimming the buildings so close they could’ve reached up and touched the roof shingles. One missile followed them, and this time Campbell didn’t stay quiet. “Skipper, incoming missile locked on.”
“I got it.”
He went to afterburners, guzzling precious fuel to escape the missile, climbed, dived, barrel rolled and tried everything. None of it worked, and he was flying at treetop level when the missile bored in toward them. This time, there was no maneuver he hadn’t tried, save one. Timing was critical, and at the last second, he jerked back on the stick. Still on afterburners, the Phantom pointed the nose upward, too fast for the missile to keep lock. It found an alternative target. A big, fat, juicy quad-barrel cannon.
They left a massive explosion blazing in their rear. Campbell looked back and chuckled. “Poor bastards down there got their own missile stuffed down their throats.”
“Poor bastards? Not in this lifetime, they were trying to shoot us down. Down in Texas we’re not friendly with people shooting at us. They tend to get a whupping.”
“Missile lock!” Campbell shouted as the threat alarms issued their eerie wail.
“I’m on it.”
The next few minutes Taylor threw the aircraft around the sky, even loosing off a pair of missiles when a target in the shape of a mobile launcher presented itself, moving along a road. Wherever it was going, he didn’t make it, but things were getting hot. He headed south, away from Haiphong to escape increasing numbers of defense batteries coming online. When they were clear, he altered course to make another pass over the coastline. The ship that’d put up the green smoke was in trouble. Four North Vietnamese patrol boats had surrounded it, and although the Godunov was still moving through the water, it’d slowed. Within minutes, the enemy would board, and those men on the ship would be dead meat.
“Any word from the Forrestal?” he asked Campbell, knowing the answer. If they’d transmitted the order to escort the ship out by attacking the enemy, he would’ve heard it in his headset.
“Nothing. Jesus, Skipper, if those’re our guys down there, why aren’t we helping them?”
“They’re waiting for confirmation from MACV, that’s why.”
“We had confirmation. The green smoke, the signal to get them out. What the fuck more do they want? Those guys are gonna die.”
It took him less than a second to make up his mind. Maybe it was the way he was brought up. ‘If it feels right to you, that’s good enough.’ It felt right.
“Send to the Forrestal. Positive identification. Repeat, positive identification. Attacking now, send in the cavalry.”
He was bearing down on the first patrol boat, finger on the fire button, ready to cut loose with a missile when the order came through.
“All units, all units. You’re clear to attack. A ship is trying to reach the open sea, the SS Godunov. Our guys are on board, and the enemy is trying to prevent it from getting away. Make sure they don’t succeed.”
“Let’s go get ‘em,” Taylor snarled as he released an AIM-7 Sparrow air-to-air missile. Intended for air-to-air combat, the Sparrow homed onto enemy radar, and the radar antennas rotating on the superstructure of each vessel were enough to guide it to the target. The missile struck the boat, throwing up a jet of smoke and flame. It immediately began to sink, but they were already searching for the next target. The Phantom carried four Sparrows, and Taylor expertly guided the powerful fighter, weaving a series of intricate patterns designed to throw incoming fire off target, while one by one he used up his remaining three missiles to destroy the other boats.
They weren’t done, not by a long way. Shore batteries had opened fire, and they flew through a maelstrom, a lead-filled sky. The Phantom sustained several hits, none of them critical, but both men were aware they couldn’t take much more of this punishment. Yet they were anxious to drop the remaining bombs on the hardpoints. It wouldn’t seem right to bring them back to the carrier unused. The incoming fire had intensified, and he searched for the nearest target to start whittling down the enemy defenses.
“We can’t do this on our own,” Campbell grunted from the back seat.
“No need. Look to the south-east.”
They were on the way, swarms of fighter-bombers, Skyhawks, Crusaders, A-6 bombers, and the EA-6A flying overhead began issuing a stream of orders. They overthrew the target, dropping their remaining ordnance and reluctantly, Taylor pointed the nose to the southeast, back toward the carrier. They were running low on fuel, so they had no choice. Even if it did mean missing the fun.
* * *
They watched the show from the bridge of the Godunov. It was a spectacular display of firepower, each side vying to defeat the other. One by one, the shore batteries went silent, hit by swarms of missiles and cannon fire. A frigate, another Mirka, steamed toward them at speed. Until it gauged the enemy's strength and stayed back, engaging the American aircraft at too great a distance for their guns and missiles to be effective.
Heller moved the engine room telegraph back to full. The ship picked up speed and reached the open sea. They began to leave the huge battle engulfing eastern Haiphong, leaving much of it a smoking ruin. A dozen aircraft flew close escort overhead, not taking any chances. He looked for Ripley.
“How about you take the wheel for a time? I need some fresh air.”
“Be glad to. I’ve never steered one of these things, what’s it like?”
“Built in the Soviet Union.”
He grinned. “That bad.”
He left the bridge and climbed down to the deck. Vien followed him, joining him at the rail. He stared around them, looking for threats, but the aircraft flying overhead seemed to have deterred the enemy from getting too close. They’d still be unsure about attacking a Russian vessel, in case they killed a Russian crew and incurred the wrath of the Soviet Union. They had to know the ship was in enemy hands, yet they’d still hesitate before making an all-out attempt to sink it.
She slipped her arm through his, and he felt the warmth of her body.
“Do you think we’re gonna make it?”
“It’s looking good.”
“Yes. I still can’t believe we’ve got this far.” She paused, thinking, “But it’s a pity about Quan.”
“A pity he turned traitor? Or a pity you’ve lost your ticket to the good life?”
“I hate him for betraying his country. But even though I’d lose most of my wealth and privileges, I’d still like to see him dead. Do you remember? You promised me you’d kill him.”
He reminded her he’d promised to put a bullet into Quan if he got him into his sights, but so far he hadn’t, and now he was unlikely to. They stood in companionable silence. He was thinking about things. About his next move. He’d had it with the military. How could a man fight this war when he couldn’t trust either the men in command or the men he commanded? Cruz had deserted him in the field, and that was unforgivable. The other men were unhappy, but his job as an officer was to persuade them to keep going and complete the mission.
If this was a regular infantry unit, such a problem officer wouldn’t have lasted long. On a dark night, a grenade rolled into his tent, or a bullet would come from nowhere. Problem solved. That wasn’t the way he worked. He was a soldier, proud to serve, proud to wear the American uniform. Now his tour was almost up, and he wasn’t sure whether to go home or to remain in Vietnam as a civilian contractor, like those employed by the CIA. Back in the U.S., he didn’t have much to go home for. He’d made the Army his home, but he felt the Army had let him down. Maybe another outfit would be different. Besides, they said the pay was better. Much better.
“What’re you thinking?”
He looked at her. “The future, where I go next.”
“I’d like to think there was room in that future for me.”
“Vien, it’s not that simple. Where girls are concerned, I’m not a lucky guy. They always wind up dead. I wish it was different, but it isn’t.”
She smiled. “Are you planning to live the rest of your life as a monk?”
“No. It’s just, I dunno.”
“I won’t give up on you, Heller. I’ve got news for you. I like having you around.”
Stay away, if you know what’s good for you.
He wondered if he was wrong. It had just been bad luck, bad karma. For a moment, he was tempted to see things differently. He glanced at her, and she’d never looked prettier, despite the soiled peasant clothing, the face streaked with grime, the hair greasy and lank. That was on the outside, and he’d got to know how she was on the inside. Got to like what she was on the inside.
He was still wrapped up in his thoughts when he spotted a movement three meters away. A guy climbing over the rail from where the boarding stair was lashed to the side. It happened fast, the shock of recognizing a North Vietnamese uniform. A senior officer, his face screwed up with intense hatred, mad eyes reddened and blazing with fury. As if he was a dark, sea spirit that’d risen from the deep, but this was no sea spirit. The automatic he clutched was real, solid metal, and the barrel pointed at Heller.
