Ghost War (26 page)

Ky checked his weapons delivery computer and then took a deep breath of stale oxygen. His life had been very easy since he’d become a pilot-for-hire for the Viet Minx. In his fourteen months on the job, he’d bombed a total of fifty-two targets—everything from bridges and military barracks to churches and orphanages—all successfully, all without a single hit on his airplane from ground fire, and never from defensive fighters. He’d been highly paid for his services, and with the upcoming Viet Minx offensive in the south, the promise of more wealth was just on the horizon.

Until then, it would be profitable milk runs like this one.

He signaled his wingman and nonchalantly put the Foxbat into a screaming dive. At 3,000 feet, his weapons computer began humming. He quickly fused the big, one-ton bomb and prepared to drop it right on the nose of the battered American airplane … when suddenly he heard another sound inside his cockpit.

It was a high-whining noise so intense, he thought one of his engines was failing.

That’s when he looked over at his wingman and saw him gyrating in his cockpit. Ky blinked for a instant, not quite believing what he was seeing. His wingman was bouncing around like a marionette being pulled madly by the strings. Then suddenly Ky could see the wingman’s cockpit filling up with a red mist, coating the canopy as well as the man’s face and upper body. Pieces of the wing-man’s canopy began to break away, and a plume of smoke burst from within the cockpit. It was all happening incredibly fast. In a heartbeat, his wingman’s airplane had become perforated with flaming, smoking holes.

Only then did Ky realize that his wingman was being attacked.

Ky immediately yanked up on his control column, and banked hard right. All thoughts of the bombing run were abandoned as he quickly snapped off his weapons delivery computer. Twisting in his seat, he strained to look back at his wingman and was startled to see the second Foxbat was totally engulfed in flames. Ky rolled over just in time to see the MiG-25 slam into the muddy ground of the base below.

Suddenly his radio headset was filled with the panicky voice of his brother-in-law, Ming, and his wingman.

“What has happened!” they were both yelling into their microphone.
“Where is the enemy?”

Ky didn’t know. He banked again and climbed up to 8,000 feet, all the while searching the sky around him, looking for the airplane that had so quickly and suddenly dispatched his wingman.

Ky was now close to panic himself.
Where had the attack
c
ome from?
None of the MiGs carried air defense radars or anything that elaborate; they had never had a use for them before. Nor did they carry any air-to-air missiles. And that’s why Ky was now so alarmed. Bombs he could deliver; dogfights he was totally unprepared for.

He banked hard right again, pure fright rising in his stomach as he continued to search the sky around him for the mysterious attacker. But the immediate airspace was totally clear. There was nothing but a few high clouds and the rays of the morning sun. There was no place for an aerial foe to hide up here.

He looked off to his left and found the two remaining MiGs riding about 100 feet off his wing.

“What shall we do, Ky?” Ming was calling over to him. “Shall we continue?”

Ky had no idea. They already had Dong’s money, and could probably steal it with no problem. But word would definitely get around that they had absconded with the funds and that would probably affect business. With the big offensive coming up soon, this would not be the prudent thing to do.

So Ky had to make a real business decision.

“We must continue,” he told the others. “Ming, you lead in. I will provide cover …”

He could sense Ming’s reluctance—but they had no choice. They couldn’t afford a bad reputation—not now.

He saw Ming finally turn his nose down and begin his attack dive on the American airplane, his wingman toddling behind, apprehension quite evident in the tentative maneuver.

Ky checked his altitude. He had drifted down to 7,500 feet. Banking slightly to the right, he watched the pair of MiGs timidly descend. The sky all around him was absolutely clear—there was no where an attacker could be. Ky started calming down. Possibly the attack on his wingman had been a one-hit affair and now whoever was responsible had left the area. If this was true, and they successfully completed the easy bombing job, that would mean all the more money for them; they would only have to split the pot three ways instead of four.

His spirits thus lightened, he put his MiG into an attack dive too. The sooner they could unleash their bombs, the sooner they could get back to base and divvy up their payment.

He was now passing through 5,000 feet; Ming and his wingman were at 3,000. The crashed American airplane was looming in his sights, illuminated in the early morning haze by the fires burning around it. Ky set his big 22-bomb for computer release again; he would try to put it smack on the nose of the big airplane, if Ming or his wingman didn’t hit it first.

He passed through the thin cover at 4,500 feet, and habitually tensed as his bomb run began in earnest.

Suddenly there was a flash of gray and silver off his left shoulder. Panicking once again, he jerked the Foxbat to the right and spun away. The dark form went by him with a
whoosh
, he was spinning away so fast, his eyeballs couldn’t adjust quick enough to see exactly what it was. It
was
big and gray and falling like a rock. He accelerated in his turn, his vision blurring as he foolishly kicked in his afterburner. All he wanted to do at this point was get away.

The next thing he knew, his Foxbat shuddered once from front to back. Ky nearly vomited—his stomach was turned inside out. He was certain that his airplane had been hit—but he was mistaken. The violence in the air was caused by Ming’s wingman’s airplane exploding more than 1,500 feet away from him. Ky strained his retinas to the limit and saw nothing but a huge fireball hurtling end over end into the ground below.

He was stunned. Obviously something had set off the man’s huge bombload, blowing him and his airplane to oblivion.

Suddenly Ky’s radio was filled with the high-pitched voice of his brother-in-law, screaming in panic for Ky to help him.

Ky had no intention of doing any such thing. He accelerated in his turn, twisting back up to 8,000 feet, where he had to level off or face blacking out from the high-energy acceleration. He recovered, but only after forcing some vomit that had come into his throat back down to his stomach. He turned the Foxbat over, Ming’s cries searing his ears.

“Help me, Ky! He is on me! Help …”

Ky looked to his left and saw Ming’s Foxbat, flying no more than 150 feet off the ground. He was twisting and turning, smoke pouring out of his tail pipes due to fuel overloading at low speed. Ky knew the Foxbat, a plane designed to fly fifteen miles high at three times the speed of sound, could not take the stress of such thick-air maneuvering.

“Please, Ky! For the family, please help me! He is on me!”

Ky watched Ming’s Foxbat as it flew above the ground clutter of fire and smoke, and at last he saw the gray mass in pursuit of his brother-in-law. Ky was astonished. The enemy was flying not a jet, but a propellar plane that must have been fifty years old!

Astounded, he watched the old prop plane, itself belching smoke and fuel traces, mimic Ming’s every panicky move, a pair of flames shooting out from its cockpit. Ky’s heart began racing. What kind of a devil is this? He had taken on four of the fastest airplanes on earth and had destroyed two and was about to add a third. It really wasn’t a difficult question to answer. The pilot of the prop plane had simply turned the Foxbat’s advantages of high speed at high altitude into the disadvantages of low speed at ass-scraping altitudes.

Ky watched, helpless to act, as Ming’s airplane, now down to 100 feet and falling, began intermittent stalling. There was no way he could get the lift needed to put the big Foxbat into an escape climb, no way he could accelerate the stalling engines to get away from his dogged pursuer. Like a cat following a helpless mouse, the chase around the thick air just above the muddy base continued with pathetic predictability.

“I cannot get away! Ky … kelp me!”

With shaking hands, Ky switched off his radio. A few seconds later, he saw the rear end of Ming’s Foxbat explode. Whether it was from the pursuing airplane’s fire or tailpipe overheating, he would never know. It made no difference—the big MiG-25 turned over and slammed into the ground in a huge ball of flame and smoke.

Ky turned his eyes away; his cowardice in the face of such a puny enemy was nauseating. He banked right and climbed to 10,000 feet, intent on getting back to Son Li, where he planned to steal Dong’s gold and escape. With such disgrace, he knew his days as a pilot-for-hire were over.

He increased throttles and shot off towards the air base, his hands trembling so much he could barely keep them on the jarring control stick.

Over the base in a matter of seconds, he just as quickly cut back his acceleration. Foregoing all landing formalities, he put the Foxbat into a steep dive, yanking the engines back to almost stall speed. Once lined up on the long runway, he dropped his gear and deployed his drag chute. A ground crew was standing by the edge of the strip, waiting for the four planes to return, and this only deepened Ky’s humiliation. He was intent on setting down, running inside the pilot ready house, taking the thirty bags of gold, getting back in the Foxbat and taking off again, for parts far away and unknown. If anyone stopped him, he’d use his sidearm to shoot them.

He was down to 120 knots and floating in at 35 feet. Suddenly he felt the rear end of the MiG buck—first once, then again, very violently. The next thing he knew, his canopy was falling apart and the wind was hitting him in the face with the force of hurricane. He twisted around in his seat and was absolutely astonished to see the strange propeller plane was right on his tail!

Ky immediately wet his pants, then he froze—there was nothing he could do. He was already committed to landing—his gear was locked, his chute was deployed. If he hit his engines now, they would explode—just like Ming’s.

The bullets hit him a second later. The first barrage shattered his control panel and whatever was left of his canopy; the second penetrated the back of his skull, splitting his crash helmet in two and exiting his mouth. He slumped over onto the control stick, bloody pieces of his insides gushing out from his lips.

He tried to scream but couldn’t. The plane jerked to the right, its nose now plummeting towards the pilot ready house, the same place where the bags of gold were.

The Foxbat hit the concrete structure two seconds later. In the instant before death, all Ky heard were Ming’s dying screams, echoing in his ear.

I
T TOOK MORE THAN
five minutes for the aides to wake Dong.

There was an empty brandy flask beside the commander’s bed, and this, the aide was sure, was the overwhelming factor in Dong’s deep sleep.

Finally the man stirred.

“A thousand pardons, Excellency,” the aide began telling a sleepy-eyed Dong. “But there is an officer here to see you. He says it is urgent.”

Dong wiped some of the sleep for his eyes. “Who is he?” he asked wearily. “What does he want?”

The aide bit his lip for a moment. “He didn’t give his name,” he finally replied. “But he did say that CapCom had sent him.”

Dong froze. Hearing the very word “CapCom” was akin to driving a stake through his heart. And he had good reason to worry. No representative from CapCom ever called on any Minx field bearing good news.

Dong quickly climbed into his green camos and poured his swelled feet into his tight leather boots. He walked quickly from his bedroom to his office, his head aching with a brandy hangover. He had consumed more than a liter of the stuff the night before, a necessary booster after his decision to hire the MiGs. Now it felt as if his eyes were about to pop out of his skull.

He had no sooner sat down at his desk, when the main door to his mobile HQ, burst open. A tall, dark man strode in, a squad of heavily armed soldiers right behind him. Dong was outraged.

“How dare you come in here and …” he began to protest.

But the man simply raised his large hand and shut Dong off.

“You are in no position to speak to me like that, Dong,” the man said in French, their common language.

Dong studied him. He was not Asian, rather he looked Middle Eastern, maybe Arab. He was wearing an all-black combat utility uniform of a style Dong had never seen before. His soldiers, who were Asian, were similarly attired and carrying extended-fire, battlefield Uzis.

Dong was fuming now. “I am the commander here and …”

But once again the man simply waved Dong silent.

“Correction,” the man said. “You are no longer the commander here. I am.”

Dong was stunned. The man walked over to his desk, his boots squeaking on Dong’s finely polished office floor. He threw a document on the desk.

“Read it at your leisure, Dong,” the man said. “But I will tell you its most salient point: I am here on orders from CapCom to relieve you of this command.”

Dong felt his whole world crashing in on him.

“But why?” was all he could offer by way of protest.

“‘Why?’” the man asked with a laugh. “Because your performance against a small, insignificant enemy has been dismal. Because you alone are responsible for delaying the greater offensives in the south. Because you are a disgrace to your uniform, and an embarrassment to CapCom. Shall I go on?”

Dong stared at the man for ten long seconds. While the chance of this sort of thing happening had crossed his mind more than once, Dong had one last card to play. “Are you aware that I paid a crack fighter bomber unit to conduct an air strike against the enemy at Khe Sanh? And that I expect very positive results from this strike to reach me very soon?”

The man discourteously sat on the edge of Dong’s huge desk. “That air strike has already happened,” he told the ex-commander. “And it was a dismal failure.”