Guidelines (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 8) Read online

  McMance hesitated and then looked at Christie.

  “If no one has any further questions,” said the general, “we’ll move on.”

  “I’ve seen no figures on how effective this Wild Weasel thing has been,” said Underwood.

  McMance had started back to his seat, but halted. “After implementation of the concept, our losses to enemy antiaircraft dropped off significantly. Prior to that, losses were running so high that it was becoming suicidal to attack the North.”

  “Captain Fallon,” said Christie, “do you want to tell us what happened two days ago.”

  “Yes, sir.” Fallon stood, but didn’t move away from his seat. Like McMance, he was tall and thin. Reduced body weight of the pilots and electronic warfare officers meant higher payloads. His hair was sandy blond and his face burned pink. He had light, washed-out eyes.

  Fallon’s voice was high and squeaky. He cleared his throat once and said, “The thing that bothers us is that there were missile launches from a standard SA-2 site, but no radar indications that we were being tracked. No indications that the site was active.”

  “My information,” said Underwood, “is that the Soviets are moving the radars and command vehicles off the sites. You wouldn’t get the radar detection indications if the radar vans have been moved.”

  “I understand that, sir,” said Fallon. “We’ve seen the North Vietnamese following that example. We just flood the whole area with aircraft and hit them when we get the radar detection. Besides, the jets being painted would get SAM lights. No, sir, we believe there has been a drastic change in the Soviet missile technology.”

  Underwood emitted a laugh that sounded like a bark. “That’s quite a conclusion based on a single raid.”

  “We saw launches off a SAM Two site and there were no radar indications. If they can do it again, we’ll have no defense against it. Their Triple A, designed to fire up to fifteen, twenty thousand feet and to use optical as well as radar sights, coupled to the Guideline with a range of up to ninety thousand feet will create a protective umbrella that we can’t penetrate. We can’t fly under it or over it. The air war suddenly evaporates.”

  “You’re being overly dramatic,” said Underwood.

  Christie slammed a hand to the tabletop. “Damn it! You don’t have to fly those missions, Underwood. You have no idea what it’s like flying into a wall of flack and missiles. If we can’t counter this threat, you’re going to see a reduction in the air war.”

  Underwood stared at the general for a moment and then looked to Cornett. “Sir, I think this is an overreaction to a perceived new threat. I don’t think we have a problem here except one created by the Air Force.”

  Cornett nodded his agreement and said, “General?”

  Christie turned his attention to Fallon. “Captain, can you make your case clearer for these men?”

  “Yes, sir. Up until two nights ago, we had no launches from a Guideline SAM site without a radar indication. Now that indication may have been fleeting. The operator turning on his radar, getting a blip and turning it right back off. No matter, because we picked up the warning indications. Two nights ago, we got no radar indications, but we did get missile launches from those sites.”

  “Does that make it clear, Underwood?” asked Christie.

  “No, sir, it doesn’t.”

  “Damn it, man,” snapped Cornett. “It means they’ve developed a new guidance system for their missiles and we have to come up with a way to counter it.”

  Underwood nodded, his eyes on the table. He looked like a little boy who had been reprimanded in school. All he said was, “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh,” said Cornett. “Now, are we certain that the launches came from an SA-2?”

  “From the site, yes,” said Fallon. “There is no question about it.”

  For the next hour they discussed the state of Soviet missile technology. The CIA representatives argued against a sudden improvement in the Soviets’ missile abilities and then pointed out that even if there had been one, it wouldn’t be given to the North Vietnamese.

  Maxwell listened to it all calmly, never speaking. When they all wound down, he said, “I’d like to add one thing. In May, 1960, Soviet missile technology took a giant leap forward when they knocked down a U-2. Totally unexpected. And not unlike the situation we find ourselves in now.”

  “Except the Soviets didn’t give that technology to an ally,” said Underwood.

  Maxwell ignored Underwood, looked at the general. “He’s right about it. They didn’t give it away, but they did use it to knock down the U-2, which told us something that we didn’t know. That they could do it. We have the same situation here. A sudden improvement in their technology.”

  “Then you see nothing inconsistent with their behavior in the past,” said Christie.

  “No, sir. I think we’d better investigate this further as quickly as possible.”

  Christie closed his folder. “Gentlemen, I think we’ve gone far enough for today. We’ll meet again tomorrow. At that time I’ll want recommendations to take up the chain of command.”

  Outside, as they walked to their Jeeps, Cornett pulled Maxwell to the side. He glanced right and left to make sure that no one was near him. Then he pulled off his sunglasses and stared straight into Maxwell’s eyes.

  “Jerry,” he said, and then stopped as the scream of a plane taking off drowned out everything he said. When it was airborne, he continued. “I want you to return to Saigon tonight. We’re not going to need you here for the rest of this.”

  “I didn’t contribute much to it today,” agreed Maxwell.

  “You weren’t ordered here to contribute to this discussion. I wanted you to listen in. I did that because you’ve been working with the Special Forces SOG in Saigon, and those guys always have answers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you can see where I’m going with this. Hell, we can’t put a CIA man into the North to look things over. He’d stick out like a sore thumb. And we don’t have anyone infiltrated into the Soviet delegation there. Besides we’ve no one trained to operate in the jungle…”

  “You want me to come up with someone to go into the North and look at one of these missile sites.”

  “Yes. You’ve got the people to do it. Some of those Sneaky Petes you work with would be perfect. Have them parachute in, take a look at one of the sites, steal a fucking guidance system if they have to, and then bug out. Answers everyone’s questions and gives us all the information we need to counter the threat.”

  “I don’t know about this,” said Maxwell.

  Again Cornett looked around, as if afraid that someone was going to sneak up to listen. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and slipped his sunglasses on. “Don’t bullshit me, Jerry. You’ve had people in the North before. Or if you haven’t, SOG has. They’ve been operating there for years. That’s not a problem and you know it.”

  “No,” said Maxwell shaking his head. “No, I guess it isn’t.”

  “Okay,” said Cornett. “What I want you to do is catch the first ride back to Saigon and set something up. I want those men on the ground in North Vietnam inside of forty-eight hours.”

  Now Maxwell laughed. “I can’t put something like that together that fast. The coordination, getting the men together and then into the field is impossible that quickly. Hell, it’ll take a week to work out the airlift.”

  “Jerry, you have your orders. I want an answer to this inside the week. We don’t have time to fuck around on it. I know that the President will be asking the DCI for some answers and I don’t want him to have to say that he doesn’t know. I want him to be able to hand the President a completed report on this so that he’ll see we have it wired.”

  Maxwell rubbed a hand through his hair. He looked at the ground and then up at a nearby palm. The sound of the jets on the airfield threatened to drown out their voices. The light breeze was more like the wind from a blast furnace.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Ma
xwell said. “I can put a team in there, I just don’t know if forty-eight hours is enough time.”

  “You can have whatever you need except extra time. Priorities will be arranged all the way. If you run into trouble, you call me and I’ll see to it that the roadblock disappears.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

  “And Jerry,” said Cornett, “we have to keep this discreet. The political situation in the States is volatile. We don’t want a lot of publicity on this.”

  “I understand,” said Maxwell. It was the same kind of directive that he worked under all the time.

  CHAPTER 2

  MICHELIN RUBBER PLANTATION NORTHWEST OF SAIGON, RVN

  U.S. Army Special Forces Master Sergeant Anthony B. Fetterman stood in the shade of the rubber trees, one hand on the rough bark, and watched the ARVN ranger trainees sweep through the bunkerline.

  Fetterman was a diminutive man with black, balding hair, dark, cold, hard eyes and a heritage that he claimed to be Aztec. The two hundred would-be graduates of the ARVN ranger school were having their final examination in the field with the American Special Forces.

  There had been reports of VC operating in the vicinity of Dau Tieng. The Saigon government wanted the ARVN, with the help of the Special Forces, to search for enemy activity.

  Fetterman was out there, as was Captain MacKenzie K. Gerber, to evaluate the unit and to coordinate assistance if the rangers happened to find more of the enemy than they expected. He waited as three men explored a bunker, two standing outside it, on either side of the entrance, while the third man dived into it. When the man reappeared, shaking his head, Fetterman relaxed and moved toward the Special Forces captain, checking his watch.

  “I make it two more hours,” said Fetterman. He wiped the sweat on his face with his sleeve.

  Gerber nodded but didn’t speak. He was a career officer, and on the promotion list for major. Gerber was a tall, well-muscled man with brown hair and blue eyes. At the moment he looked hot and miserable, the sweat turning his jungle fatigues black under the arms and down the back. He held his M-16 by the rear sight mount, which looked like a luggage handle. At first his attention was on Fetterman and then he glanced at the ARVN rangers as they filtered through the rubber trees.

  Unlike the jungle and forests that surrounded the plantation, this was a well-manicured area that looked like an overgrown orchard. The trees were evenly spaced, planted in rows with a thin ground cover. It was almost like a park inside the plantation.

  Finally he said, “Let’s get them out of here and move toward the west and the base there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fetterman said. Resignedly he turned and stepped closer to the Vietnamese officer who had attached himself to the RTO. Fetterman had cautioned the man three times that the enemy liked to shoot the people with the radio man, figuring they’d get the officers, but the ARVN wouldn’t listen.

  Almost as if to prove his point, a single shot rang out in the distance. There was a muffled pop and a snap as the round passed overhead. Fetterman dived to the right, twisting around, looking for the source. A number of the men were standing upright as if they hadn’t figured out what was going on. One of them was pointing to the north.

  “Hit the dirt!” Fetterman shouted.

  There was a second shot and a scream of pain. One of the rangers grabbed his shoulder as he fell to the ground. He spun, rocking from side to side, his right hand against his left shoulder. Blood was welling between his fingers as he continued to scream.

  A ripple of firing broke out, the rattling of M-16 rifles. The men had scattered, taking up positions behind the trees, along the sides of the bunkers, or on the ground with nothing between them and the enemy. Some of them fired their weapon by holding it around the trunk of the tree and squeezing the trigger without looking for a target.

  Fetterman crawled to his left, where the wounded man was still screaming. He grabbed the man and held him down. With his free hand, he peeled the ARVN’s fingers from the wound. It was a clean shot through the shoulder, and the blood was washing it. Fetterman shook out a bandage from his first-aid kit and pressed it to the wound and then let the man grab it again, holding the gauze in place.

  In the meantime, Gerber had worked his way to the RTO and the ARVN ranger commander. The ARVN CO was crouched behind a bunker, his hands holding his helmet tightly to his head. Although he couldn’t see the man’s face, Gerber was certain that he had his eyes closed.

  “Dai uy,” Gerber said. “You’d better organize your response. You have a sniper, two men at most out there.”

  “We shoot and they run,” the CO said without looking up. He remained frozen in place.

  “They won’t run away. They’ll wait and then shoot someone else the first chance they get.”

  “We shoot and they run,” he repeated.

  “Dai uy,” said Gerber. “It’s your responsibility to get the men up and moving.”

  This time the man didn’t speak. Gerber stared at him for a moment. Around him the Vietnamese were still shooting in ill coordinated and ragged volleys. Bullets were snapping through the thick green leaves of the rubber trees, and slamming into the trunks.

  Off to the right, one of the Vietnamese NCOs was suddenly on his feet. Shouting at his men, he pointed deeper into the trees. He ran to one man, jerked him to his feet and shoved him toward the enemy position.

  Gerber took a final look at the officer who hadn’t moved or spoken since the last fusillade, then leaped up. He raced toward the Vietnamese sergeant and dropped to the ground near him. Gerber wasn’t going to say a word to him, unless he did something stupid.

  The NCO ran to another of the Vietnamese and snatched the M-79 grenade launcher out of his hands. He screamed at the soldier who then surrendered the spare ammo for the weapon. The man refused to get to his feet.

  Gerber shook his head and mumbled, “This is the best they’ve got?”

  The NCO was up and moving from one tree to the next. He stopped, shouted a command. The firing, which had been tapering off, suddenly started up again. A couple of the soldiers pointed their weapons at the sky and pulled the triggers, firing on full auto until the bolts locked back, their rifles empty.

  Others were shooting into the trees, firing short bursts and reloading as necessary. The Vietnamese NCO began to move again, dodging from tree to tree. Leaping to cover, he rolled right, and then clawed his way forward.

  Gerber followed him, watching his every move. He was grinning, thinking of Captain Minh, the camp commander when Gerber had been assigned to Camp A-555 on his first tour. Minh had been the same kind of self-starter. A soldier’s soldier in anyone’s army. There were so few of them that it was a pleasure to find one.

  The NCO slid into a depression, broke open the M-79 and dropped a round into it. He flipped up the sight, worked it up and down and then sighted on where he suspected the enemy sniper was hiding. He pulled the trigger and waited to see where the round hit. He ducked, his eyes on the enemy position. There was a dull thump and a tiny cloud of black smoke at the base of a tree.

  As the NCO fired two more times, Gerber ran toward the wounded man. Fetterman had dragged him to cover behind one of the trees and had dressed the wound. He now held his canteen to the man’s lips, letting him drink.

  “How bad?” asked Gerber.

  “Through and through. I think the shoulder is pretty torn up, but he’s not in danger of dying right now.”

  “Medevac?”

  “I’m not thrilled with that idea, Captain. It could be a trap to get us to bring in a chopper and give someone else a shot at it. Could be what they had in mind.”

  “Yeah,” said Gerber. “Get the Vietnamese medic on this guy and then you get a sweep going to the west, toward the LZ there. I’ll be checking on that NCO. See what he does next.”

  Fetterman grinned. “Since these guys are still in school, I say they flunk.”

  Gerber turned and ran back, dodging around the rubber trees. He dropped to t
he ground behind the NCO, who had stopped firing his M-79 and was watching the field in front of him. There was the pop and crack of weapons as the troops fired single shots now. A few of the Vietnamese fired tracers, bright burning rubies that bounced across the ground. None of the fire was incoming.

  Finally the NCO got to his feet, jogged to the right and fell next to a man with an M-16. The sergeant took the rifle, leaving the soldier with the grenade launcher and spare ammo. Then, on his feet again, he pointed to several men, gesturing that they should move forward. Together, the line of infantry advanced, half of them covering, while the others sprinted among the trees. When the forward line had moved twenty or thirty yards, they fell into firing positions so that the men behind could move up.

  They continued that maneuver for a couple of minutes. Gerber followed behind the rear guard, watching them carefully, but offered no advice or help. As he approached there was a burst of rifle fire. A single staccato ripping of M-16 ammo followed it. Everyone dived for cover and shooting broke out along the line.

  The Vietnamese NCO was on his feet suddenly, shouting at his men. He ran forward, hurdled a small bush and disappeared behind it. A second later there was a long burst from an M-16, two return shots from an AK-47 and then complete silence. The sergeant suddenly reappeared, the AK held over his head like a trophy.

  The Vietnamese rangers lost the little discipline they had. A dozen of them leaped to their feet, running forward toward the sergeant. They were screaming wildly, like rebel soldiers storming the Yankee lines. Gerber followed, yelling at them to watch their security, watch for booby traps, but no one was listening.

  From the trees came a shot, followed by four more, all from M-16s. Gerber arrived in time to see two of the Vietnamese rangers firing their weapons into the heads of the dead sniper and his spotter, splattering their blood and brains over the soft decaying ground.

  “Cease fire!” ordered Gerber. He snapped his fingers at the NCO who was standing off to the side.