Ghost War (21 page)

“Talk about reaching out and touching someone.” Hunter replied.

At that moment, they heard a stirring noise. Then, in the dim light thrown by a single kerosene lamp, they saw an old army cot against the far wall.

And on that cot was a very, very old man.

Hunter quietly approached the cot. He found the man barely breathing.

The old man looked up and saw Hunter leaning over him. His eyes went wide with amazement.

“You’ve … you’ve finally come?” he gasped in a mixture of relief and disbelief. Hunter nodded slowly.

“You’re here?” the old man cried, this time with more energy. A wide, creaky smile spread across his creased, tired face.

“I’ll be goddamned, you’ve finally come,” the old man went on, propping himself up on one elbow and shaking his head. Then he offered his bony hand.

“My name is Willy Rucker,
Colonel
Willy Rucker, Special Forces.”

Hunter shook the old man’s hand. “Hawk Hunter, Major, United American Forces. This is Captain Ben Wa.”

“I see my Montagnard friend was able to convince you to follow him,” Rucker said with a smile. “If it weren’t for him and his tribe, I would have perished long ago. They’ve looked after me all these years, especially now that I don’t get around too much anymore.” The colonel painfully shifted his position. “When he told me of ‘great wounded birds no longer able to fly’ battling the Viet Minx at Khe Sanh, my curiosity got the best of me. What’s the hell is going on down there?”

Starting with the buildup of the great airfleet, Hunter explained what brought them here. He described the MiG air battle, how they ended up at Khe Sanh, the dire circumstances of the beleaguered base, the condition of their two C-5s, the constant barrages and sniper fire. And the daily human wave assaults.

The old man nodded throughout—obviously he was in frequent contact with the Montagnards who apparently hated the Minx as much as they hated the Viet Cong. And Hunter’s story confirmed everything they had told him.

“But how did
you
get here, Colonel?” Ben asked.

The man cleared his raspy throat and began his story. He was a Green Beret—maybe the last one ever. At the height of the last Vietnam War, he had been attached as an observer to a secret governmental organization known as the Jason Group. Their mission was to develop high-tech sensing devices used to detect the movement of Viet Cong and North Vietnamese regulars crossing the so-called Demilitarized Zone which separated North and South Vietnam.

Some of these devices were quite bizarre, Rucker explained. One was called a “people sniffer.” It was capable of detecting the presence of humans by taking samples of the air and analyzing it for the elements of ammonia prevalent in human urine or sweat. Another device was aptly labeled “ROCKSID.” These were seismic devices made to look like small rocks that were dropped from helicopters or slow moving aircraft. When disturbed, they sent out a short, low-end radio signal, indicating some kind of troop or equipment movement. Other devices were more conventional: some could either sense ground vibrations or actually hear the enemy moving. Still others were camouflaged to look like small indigenous trees, branches, or even leaves.

As Colonel Rucker relayed all this information, Hunter saw a metamorphosis come over the old soldier. Instead of this effort draining the life from him, the elderly officer appeared to get stronger. As his story unfolded, the years of age seemed to amazingly shed rapidly from his face.

He continued his tale. At the height of the Vietnam war, he was part of the primary Jason group airdropped to place some of the far-out listening devices near what was considered at the time to be key NVA traffic points. As they made their way to the pickup point during one of these missions, they were ambushed. Most of Rucker’s unit was brutally wiped out by the Vietnamese Communists. Those that lived through the attack were taken prisoner—himself included. They were marched deep into what was then called Laos, and held at a prisoner of war camp.

The camp was basically self sufficient—the guards ate meat culled from hunting; the prisoners had to subsist on what they could grow in scratch gardens. Years passed. Some of the other prisoners died off. More years passed, and more prisoners died. And then the guards began to die off too. Rucker outlasted them all.

“I guess they forgot about their own people, too,” the old man said.

But his story was not over.

By the time the last guard died and he walked out of that camp, the Big Global War had already happened. The whole world had been turned upside down. Rucker no longer had a country to go home to. So he made his way here, to this cave, and single handedly rewired it so that he could monitor many of the decades-old listening systems, which were spread out all over the northern part of South Vietnam.

“I had to do something, just to stay sane,” Rucker told them. “For years I took notes of the activity all around—troop movements mostly. I figured out what they had, which direction they were headed. I knew that there was no one I could relay it to—no one was interested anymore. But it was my duty, and until I was told otherwise, I did my job. I had to …”

“We know that feeling,” Hunter said.

“But then all the activity stopped,” Rucker continued. “For years there was nothing. Maybe some peasants here or there, but as far as any troop movements, I was getting a big blank.” Excitedly, the old man got up from the cot and began pacing back and forth. He was now full of energy.

“Then, about a year or so ago, I suddenly started to pick up heavy activity again. I’m talking major duty—tanks, supply columns, thousands of troops—all sneaking south, just like before. I even went down and took a look for myself. The odd thing was, after all those years, they looked like old
NVA
.”

“They’re called the Viet Minx,” Hunter told him. “Different name, but same screwy expansionist ideas.”

“Tell me about it,” the Green Beret replied with a nod. He shuffled over to a small chest, opened it, took out a large knapsack. This contained a device which looked like a combination all-band radio and radar screen.

“This is the Jason Transcoder Module.” Rucker explained. “With it you can monitor just about all of our old listening devices.” He looked up at them. “You look like smart boys,” he said with a crinkly smile. “You should be able to figure out how to use it.”

He then retrieved a stack of hand drawn maps. He selected a couple dozen and handed them to Hunter.

“And if you’re stuck at Khe Sanh, then you better have these,” the old man said. “I’ve noticed an increase in activity near there.”

Hunter studied the maps. One indicated precisely where a particular field of listening devices had been planted; another detailed the trails to take to get there.

“I hope all this helps,” the old man said.

Ben looked at the elderly soldier. He might have been 100 years old or even older. “But won’t you need this stuff, to continue your mission?” he asked.

The old man smiled. “Don’t you think it’s time I started to collect my pension?”

Suddenly he exhaled violently, as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. His body began to shake from a horrible coughing spasm. He couldn’t speak—he could hardly breathe. Hunter and Ben carefully led him back to the cot.

The old man tried to regain his breathing—but couldn’t. He looked up at Hunter, the years of solitude and depravation instantly returning.

“I’m glad … someone finally … came for me,” he managed to gasp. “I knew they wouldn’t forget me…. Tell them I stayed with the mission.” With that he closed his eyes.

Hunter was stunned. He shook the old man, and then checked his breathing, but it was too late. Ben quickly began CPR but to no avail. The man was dead.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ben said. “Talk about flaming out. No wonder the native wanted us to get up here so quick. He knew he was close to checking out.”

Hunter nodded sadly and pulled the blanket up over the man’s face.

“Another ghost,” he said quietly.

It was unforgiving, primitive terrain. Impenetrable jungle, vertical cliffs, swamps. Quicksand. If you got lost, you stayed lost.

And then you died.

But using one of the dog-eared, hand-drawn maps given to them by the old man, Hunter and Ben were able to follow the slightest of trails through the thick forest, paths that led them around insurmountable rock formations and brought them to shallow crossings of otherwise unfordable rivers, all the while taking turns carrying the heavy sack containing the Jason Group’s transcoder module. They were grateful for the map’s accuracy and appreciated the care the old man had taken to create it. The scale was perfect, and the landmarks were clearly and exactly noted. As was their destination—just six miles north of Khe Sanh.

But the going was tough. Often they had to deftly skirt Minx positions or stop and sit tight as a Minx convoy passed by. But two hours after leaving the old man to be buried by the Montagnards, they finally reached their destination.

They silently crept forward until they came to the edge of a clearing.

That’s when Hunter and Ben saw the airfield.

It was a single runway job, 5,000 feet of asphalt cutting through a cleared field of about 100 acres and surrounded by dense jungle forest. There were three Quonset-style buildings by the runway and a modest wooden tower which functioned as the air traffic control center. Two small fuel tanks anchored the southern end of the base; a water tower stood nearby. At the far end, there was a large erection of some kind, covered by camouflaged netting. Undoubtably, this was where the small base’s aircraft were kept.

But Hunter noticed right away that something was wrong with this picture. The base was about six miles due north of Khe Sanh—this placed it in a fairly volatile area. Yet the personnel here were anything but combat ready. They could clearly see ground support people lounging around the base’s grassy infield. Some were playing Ping-Pong on one of the several tables set up near the control tower. Others appeared to be playing cards or maybe dice. And even though the base was obviously well-stocked with fuel and ammunition, they could see no guards on duty, no defense positions manned or weapons ready. Not even a perimeter wire surrounding the place.

Hunter slipped out his binoculars and focused on the edge of the field that was covered by a maze of camouflage netting.

That’s when he saw them.

There were four of them, all the same model; all MiG-25 Foxbats.

These were the same kind of MiGs they’d encountered first over the Gulf of Tonkin. Built in the mid-sixties, the MiG-25 was designed as a high-altitude interceptor. With a speed approaching Mach 3.2, it was able to reach heights of more than 80,000 feet. Hunter flipped up the power of the binoculars to take a closer look at what they were carrying under their wings. His worst fears were confirmed.

Instead of being armed with its usual complement of air-to-air missiles, these particular fighters had been converted to a ground attack role. The armaments bolted underwing of each of them attested to that gloomy fact—three 550 lb. GP bombs, two 1,100 lb FAB-500 GP bombs, and an array of AS-7 Kerry air-to-surface missiles. He handed the glasses to Ben.

“Fucktheduck,” Ben whispered as he scanned the jets parked under the netting. “This is the first time I’ve seen Foxes rigged for ground attack. You’d think they’d be too damned fast.”

“They are,” Hunter replied. “But let’s face it, these Minx guys are nothing if not unpredictable.”

Ben handed the glasses back to Hunter. “I just don’t get it,” he said. “These guys have four kick-ass airplanes, no more than ten klicks away from us—and they don’t use them? How come?”

Hunter could only shake his head. “The same reason they do
all
the screwy things they do, I guess …”

But deep down, Hunter’s psyche was telling him it was only a matter of time before the four jet fighters came into play. And he knew he’d better be prepared when they did.

He nudged Ben and they began inching their way from the edge of the clearing and into the bush.

They had to get back to the base.

Khe Sanh

F
ROST’S HANDS WERE BLEEDING.

His fingernails were split and ragged, his knuckles gashed and stiff. He’d lifted so many sandbags that he’d developed dozens of water blisters, especially on his thumbs and forefingers. With each sandbag, a blister would break and start bleeding, only to be covered up by an even larger blister.

It was getting close to midnight. Frost and the ten men in his group had been busting ass for almost five hours now, building the northwest corner of the fifteen-foot high, six-sandbag-deep wall which was slowly growing around the outside of
NJ104.

More than eighty men were at work on this massive project now. Once completed, the wall would shield the battered C-5’s fuselage and engines from most mortar blasts; a roof being constructed with corrugated tin and planking copped from destroyed Legion bunkers would help protect it from direct hits.

To the casual observer, it might have appeared that the enormous sandbag and tin cocoon was being built too late.
NJ104
was literally a wreck. It had been three times battered; first, in the MiG battle, then in its subsequent pancake crash, and finally in its painful, asphalt-scraping, wing-twisting towing from one end of the runway to the other. Now, its right wing was hanging by less than a dozen bolts. Its tail section was on the verge of collapse, and its cockpit and flight deck were absolutely riddled with cannon holes. Its two outer engines had already fallen off; a third—the inner right engine—was drooping very low. So in many ways,
NJ104
looked to be in worse shape than
Bozo.

But in many ways,
NJ104
was more important than
Bozo
, despite that airship’s massive weaponry. For the wrecked Galaxy once flown by the New Jersey combat engineers held the key to survival for the base defenders. Without it, they were surely doomed to die here in the mud of Khe Sanh.

It was ironic, then, that there were no weapons anywhere on
NJ104
’s sandbag barrier, nor on its protective roof. In fact, there were no weapons at all on the enclosed airplane. The idea was not to have any gunfire coming from the sheltered C-5. This way it was hoped the Minx would bypass it when they attacked.