Part 17 (1/2)

He fixed his eyes on the water below. The 707 was banking and beginning its approach up the Saigon River. He watched the wakes of the river traffic. Then he saw the smoke rising from areas in Saigon, and a heavy pall over Cholon. He could see the VNAF helicopters and A- I s diving and swarming over the tops of buildings. Once over the air base, Court could see the watchtowers and fighting bunkers protecting all of the base except the southern and eastern perimeters that ab.u.t.ted metropolitan Saigon.

”You're in luck, folks,” the pilot announced over the PA system. ”The tower says it's safe to land. Yesterday we couldn't get in.”

Court scanned the area below. Numerous small villages in the opposite direction from Saigon made Tan Son Nhut International Airport awash in a sea of humanity. The base itself was huge and overflowing with workers.

In addition to 230 aircraft belonging to the VNAF, the USAF, and the Army, TSN housed the headquarters of the MACV (Military a.s.sistance Command, Vietnam), 7th Air Force, the South Vietnamese Joint General Staff compound, the headquarters of the VNAF including its induction center, and of course TSN was the hub airport for international and domestic civilian airlines. Some 25,000 military people lived and worked on the base, another 30,000 military and civilians reported in each day from quarters located off-base.

Dispersal of parked aircraft to protect them from mortar and rocket fire was impossible. Further, some aviation fuel tanks and bladders were within fifty feet of the base perimeter. Munitions storage was not much farther off. It was an easy base to attack.

The 707 straightened out and the landing gear came down, then a few degrees of flaps. The pilot made a turn into a steep approach and banged the big s.h.i.+p on the end of the runway.

As they taxied in, Court noted the increased activity. Helicopter guns.h.i.+ps were on patrol around the base perimeters, Security Policemen on foot and in vehicles patrolled the flight line, barricades were at the end of each row of revetments. Camouflaged F-100s waddling under the load of bombs moved down taxiways, RF-101 reconnaissance jets vied with them for s.p.a.ce. Tiny O-1 and O-2 FAC propeller planes with both USAF and VNAF markings mixed with C-123s and AC-47 guns.h.i.+ps big multiengined propeller aircraft-headed to and from the active runways.

In one revetment Court saw an F-4 with WP, the Udorn tail code, painted on its vertical stabilizer. Court felt his pulse increase. h.e.l.l, I guess I am glad to be back, he admitted to himself. A lot more than I thought.

An hour later he checked into the BOQ, changed into his khaki 1505 uniform, and caught a ride to 7th Air Force Headquarters. Tan Son Nhut was covered with armed men standing grimly behind barriers, and armored personnel carriers (APCs) grinding around corners and along ditches. The linoleum-covered halls of 7th Air Force Headquarters were alive with people scurrying back and forth with papers and briefcases in their hands. They all wore fatigues. Stacked along the hall and in the offices he pa.s.sed were steel helmets sitting on top of olive-drab flak jackets. He found Major General Milton Berzin's office.

”You're who?” the thin captain in fatigues said as he hung up one of the three phones on his desk outside the general's office. He stared at Court through red-rimmed eyes. His fatigues were rumpled, a stubble of beard was on his chin.

”Just a minute.” He picked up a ringing phone, identified himself, listened, and said the general was in the commander's office. He hung up and thumbed through a worn stenopad. ”Oh yeah, Bannister. Here you are. Christ, it's a madhouse around here.” He studied his notes. ”Look, Major, the general isn't here, he's in with the big boss. But, ah,” he thumbed through his notes again, ”you're supposed to give him some decision-I don't know what it is, maybe you do, and, let's see, oh yeah, you're supposed to fly some airplanes or something.” He looked past Court, jumped up, and dashed over to a colonel who was rapidly disappearing past the door. ”Colonel Mayberry,” he called. ”Colonel Mayberry. That Udorn pilot is here.” He turned to Court.

”Go with Colonel Mayberry,” he said and returned to his cluttered desk.

Colonel Tom Mayberry, a.s.sistant to the DO, took Court to his office one door down the hall. He was a stocky man with black hair. Command pilot wings were st.i.tched in white thread over his left pocket, big white colonel's eagles on his collar tips. He had a wide and pleasant face and heavy wrinkles around his eyes.

”Heard a lot about you,” Mayberry said as they shook hands. ”We're up to our a.s.s around here. Hope you're not too hung over from your R-and-R. Gonna fly you right EMIL away. The VC have broken the Tet truce in a big way all over South Vietnam. Cities, villages, camps, bridges, air bases, all under attack. The Army is crying for air in Three and Four Corps and we can't even get an airplane off the runway at Bien Hoa. For the moment VC groundfire has four squadrons padlocked to their revetments up there. We're putting everything in the air we can from here and using everything from Phan Rang and the other air bases up the coast.” He offered Court a cigarette. They both lit up from Court's Zippo. Mayberry rubbed the stubble of his beard. ”I haven't hit the sack in the last forty-eight hours. Right now VNAF A-Is and helicopter guns.h.i.+ps are strafing and bombing within the city of Cholon and the outskirts of Saigon. We don't want to risk USAF or Navy fighters on those close-in attacks. There are hundreds of cameramen and newsmen in Saigon. Once they leave the bars, they act like ambulance chasing accident lawyers. They d.a.m.n near create traffic jams trying to get to the latest fire or explosion. I could just see the . tures of an F-100 or Army Huey guns.h.i.+p rolling in on Pic some building downtown Cholon.

And I already know the caption: 'They Had to Destroy It to Save It.”

h.e.l.l of a war when you have to arrange your battles and weaponry in accordance with what will play in Peoria. I wish to Christ these guys were in Hanoi. We'd win the war by noon on their first day up there.”

Mayberry took a drag on his cigarette.

”I've got to get off that subject. Gets me too riled up.” He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette.

”Okay, Bannister, here's the deal. The pilot of one of your Udorn F-4s delivered some cla.s.sified papers two days ago and is now in the hospital with some mortar fragments in his legs. So is his backseater. We are fresh Out Of Current operational F-4 jocks here, and the general thought of you and your LOCAL area experience in F-100s out of Bien Hoa. Knew you were just a few hours away in Singapore. Told me to chase you down.

We need to get every airplane we've got in the air for the next couple of days.” He took a short puff.

”So go on down to the 416th, draw some gear, get ready to fly. We found you a backseater. He's a pilot that was enroute to Udorn via a MAC flight that put in here. They had a delay taking off so we shanghaied him for you. Seems like a sharp kid. He's already at the squadron learning LOCAL area procedures.” Mayberry walked him to the door of his small office and back to the captain's desk. ”See that Bannister is signed in from leave,” he told him. ”Notify Colonel Bryce at Udorn where he is and get him some wheels to the 416th.”

”Oh G.o.d, it's Bannister, Court, one each,” Major Mac Dieter shouted across the operations room of the 416th Tactical Fighter Squadron. He stood by the scheduling board, where all the combat flights were posted.

”We wanted a real fighter pilot, not a two-holer bus driver. What's the Air Force coming to, anyhow?” Dieter, a rail-thin, balding man who wore a size ”38 Small” flight suit, threw up his hands in mock despair. He commanded the eighteen-plane F-100 squadron.

”Get off it, Dieter,” Court said as he walked up, ”I have my own airplane and it's got twice as many engines as yours do.”

”Yeah, and twice as many a.s.sholes on board, too.” The two men met at the operations counter and grasped each other's shoulders. They had been Section Commanders in A Wing at Squadron Officers School in the early sixties. They had enjoyed great rivalry in the soccer and flickerball games, but Court used to wipe him out spiking in volleyball.

”You're getting uglier by the day, Bannister.”

”You should talk, chrome dome.”

”I'm not bald. All the rest of you guys are hairy. When G.o.d made heads, he covered up the ones he didn't like.” He laughed and motioned to Court. ”Good to see you. It's been a few years since we wore the red pants at Maxwell.” Only faculty members at SOS wore red pants on the athletic fields.

”Come on back with me, we'll get you rigged up.”

He led Court past the ops counter to a room down the hall that had the sign ”Personal Equipment” over the door. Inside, a staff sergeant found Court a flight suit, boots, heavy socks, helmet, gloves, and a kneeboard. All but the helmet were new and stiff. The K-213 green flight suit was baggy and creased with lines from the clear plastic bag in which it had been packed. The staff sergeant produced a brand new G-suit. Court opened the package and worked the zippers a few times to loosen them up. The staff had Court put on the helmet. He produced a new oxygen mask, fitted and tightened it, then plugged the hose and the radio connector into a large test set. He moved the switches and lever supplying oxygen under pressure. Satisfied there were no leaks, he tested the microphone in Court's mask and the headsets in his helmet.

From a refrigerator he took two baby bottles full of frozen water for Court to fit into his harness. After a functioning parachute, water and a survival radio were the two most important items a pilot needed if shot down.

”Okay, Major, if you'll just sign here, you're ready to go.”

Court signed AF Form 538, Personal Equipment and Clothing Record.

Dieter took Court to the flight-planning room. It was dominated by a large Ping-Pong-sized table covered by a heavy sheet of clear plastic that overlay a 1:250,000 aeronautical chart of South Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos. Pictures and charts of F-100 weapons and delivery data lined the walls. Two pilots were leaning over the table, plotting flight routes on hand-held c.o.c.kpit maps. Dieter led Court over to a third man, a thin captain whose wings on his name tag showed he was a pilot.

”You know this guy?” Dieter said, ”He has some F-4 time.”

”Court Bannister,” Court said and stuck out his hand.

d.i.c.k Connert.” The pilot shook Court's hand and gave him a broad smile.

”I'm very glad to meet you. I just finished the F-4 upgrade course at George. Although I'm a pilot, I guess I don't mind flying in the backseat of the Air Force's leading MiG killer.”

Court studied him. His face was youthful and clear of lines or wrinkles. He had sand-colored hair, neatly cut and combed. His flight suit was form-fitted and clean. His black boots were polished to a high gloss. He carried a flight bag with patches from all of the training squadrons at George Air Force Base.

Dieter then introduced them to the two captains, Jim Morelli, the flight lead, and Joe Jensen, his wingman for the flight.

”Since we schedule flights composed of three F-100s for each mission, you will be flying with these two guys,” Dieter said. ”I think it best always to fly with the same two while you are here, so you all can learn how to adapt to each other's procedures and airspeeds.” Court's F-4 was several tons heavier than the F-100, had twice the thrust from its two engines, and could carry nearly three times as much ordnance. Flying dissimilar airplanes in the same patter' would require some adjustments.

”Everything we are doing these days is close air support for American and ARVN troops here in South Vietnam.”

The Army of the Republic of Vietnam was referred to by p.r.o.nouncing its acronym, ARVN. ”As always, Court, everything is under the control of an airborne forward air controller, the FAC. He uses his FM radio to talk to the ground troops who need help. He establishes their exact location, the position of the enemy, and what kind of ordnance is best for the target. When you check in with your lineup and mission number, he'll give you all the target information, the terrain alt.i.tude, wind direction, altimeter setting, and the heading to a safe bailout area if you get hit and can still control your airplane. He will clear you in on every pa.s.s.” Dieter turned to d.i.c.k Connert.

”I don't know if you ever worked with a FAC before, but no pilot drops anything or fires a single round from his cannon without clearance from the FAC on every single pa.s.s. When he clears you, he'll say 'hot' if you're cleared in to drop, or 'dry' if you are not. If you have radio failure, you orbit high and dry until the flight finishes the mission, then joins up on you to take you home.” Cormert nodded, an eager smile on his face. ”Yes, I know all about that,” he said.

Dieter continued.

”The call sign of the FACs here in the Saigon and Bien Hoa area of Three Corps is Copperhead. Those in Four Corps down around Can Tho are Beaver. They'll be flying 0-Is or 0-2s.”

The O-1, smaller than the O-2, was a single-engined, highwing two-seater Cessna. The O-2s were replacing the O-1s.

So far over 100 O-1s had been shot down.

Court briefly thought of Toby Parker. He had won his Air Force Cross as a nonpilot flying an O-1 from the backseat when his pilot had been killed trying to rescue a Special Forces unit near Loc Ninh. His pilot, Phil Travers, Copperhead 03, had flown from Bien Hoa that day.

Dieter excused himself, saying he had to get back to his SEEL real job as an airplane dispatcher, and turned the briefing over to Jim Morelli.

”Things haven't changed much since you flew Huns up at Bien Hoa, Major Bannister. Still no formation takeoffs. You will be Silver Three Three, the number-three man in Silver flight. Joe and I will make single-s.h.i.+p takeoffs at fifteen second intervals. Since the F-4 accelerates so much faster than the F-100, you'd better use twenty or even more if it looks like you'd run over him. I'll come out of burner and hold three eighty knots indicated airspeed until you and Joe join up. Usually I'd hold three-fifty, but I don't want you waddling around out there.”