He remembered it well: less than thirty years earlier, flying an F4F-4 Wildcat fighter off USS Enterprise, an ensign, with all his hair—cut very short—and a brand-new wife, all piss-and-vinegar and three hundred hours under his belt. On the fourth of June, 1942, in the early afternoon, he’d spotted three Japanese “Val” dive bombers that ought to have followed the rest of the Hiryu air group to attack Yorktown but had gotten lost and headed towards his carrier by mistake. He’d killed two of them on his first surprise pass out of a cloud. The third had taken longer, but he could remember every glint of the sun off his target’s wings and the tracers from the gunner’s futile efforts to drive him off. Landing on his carrier forty minutes later, he’d claimed three kills before the incredulous eyes of his squadron commander—then had all three confirmed by gunsight cameras. Overnight, his “official” squadron coffee mug had changed from “Winny”—a nickname he’d despised—to “Dutch,” engraved into the porcelain with blood-red letters, a call sign he’d borne for the remainder of his career.
Four more combat cruises had added twelve additional kills to the side of his aircraft, and in due course he’d commanded a fighter squadron, then a carrier air wing, then a carrier, then a group, and then been Commander, Air Forces, U.S. Pacific Fleet, before assuming his current job. With luck a fleet command lay in his future, and that was as far as he’d ever been able to see. Maxwell’s office was in keeping with his station and experience. On the wall to the left of his large mahogany desk was the side plate from the F6F Hellcat he’d flown at Philippine Sea and off the coast of Japan. Fifteen rising-sun flags were painted on the deep blue background lest anyone forget that the Navy’s elder statesman of aviators had really done it once, and done it better than most. His old mug from the old Enterprise sat on his desk as well, no longer used for something so trivial as drinking coffee, and certainly not for pencils.
This near-culmination of his career should have been a matter of the utmost satisfaction to Maxwell, but instead his eyes fell upon the daily loss report from Yankee Station. Two A-7A Corsair light-attack bombers had been lost, and the notation said they were from the same ship and the same squadron.
“What’s the story on this?” Maxwell asked Rear Admiral Podulski.
“I checked,” Casimir replied. “Probably a midair. Anders was the element leader, his wingman, Robertson, was a new kid. Something went wrong but nobody saw what it was. No SAM call, and they were too high for flak.”
“ ’Chutes?”
“No.” Podulski shook his head. “The division leader saw the fireball. Just bits and pieces came out.”
“What were they in after?”
Cas’s face said it all. “A suspected truck park. The rest of the strike went in, hit the target, good bomb patterns, but no secondaries.”
“So the whole thing was a waste of time.” Maxwell closed his eyes, wondering what had gone wrong with the two aircraft, with the mission assignment, with his career, with his Navy, with his whole country.
“Not at all, Dutch. Somebody thought it was an important target.”
“Cas, it’s too early in the morning for that, okay?”
“Yes, sir. The CAG is investigating the incident and will probably take some token action. If you want an explanation, it’s probably that Robertson was a new kid, and he was nervous—second combat mission—and probably he thought he saw something, and probably he jinked too hard, but they were the trail element and nobody saw it. Hell, Dutch, we saw that sort of thing happen, too.”
Maxwell nodded. “What else?”
“An A-6 got shredded north of Haiphong—SAM—but they got it back to the boat all right. Pilot and B/N both get DFCs for that,” Podulski reported. “Otherwise a quiet day in the South China Sea. Nothing much in the Atlantic. Eastern Med, picking up some signs the Syrians are getting frisky with their new MiGs, but that’s not our problem yet. We have that meeting with Grumman tomorrow, and then it’s off to The Hill to talk with our worthy public servants about the F-14 program.”
“How do you like the numbers on the new fighter?”
“Part of me wishes we were young enough to qualify, Dutch.” Cas managed a smile. “But, Jesus, we used to build carriers for what one of these things is going to cost.”
“Progress, Cas.”
“Yeah, we have so much of that.” Podulski grunted. “One other thing. Got a call from Pax River. Your friend may be back home. His boat’s at the dock, anyway.”
“You made me wait this long for it?”
“No sense rushing it. He’s a civilian, right? Probably sleeps till nine or ten.”
Maxwell grunted. “That must be nice. I’ll have to try it sometime.”
11
Fabrication
Five miles can be a long walk. It is always a long swim. It is a particularly long swim alone. It was an especially long swim alone and for the first time in weeks. That fact became clear to Kelly before the halfway point, but even though the water east of his island was shallow enough that he could stand in many places, he didn’t stop, didn’t allow himself to slacken off. He altered his stroke to punish his left side all the more, welcoming the pain as the messenger of progress. The water temperature was just about right, he told himself, cool enough that he didn’t overheat, and warm enough that it didn’t drain the energy from his body. Half a mile out from the island his pace began to slow, but he summoned the inner reservoir of whatever it was that a man drew on and gutted it out, building the pace up again until, when he touched the mud that marked the eastern side of Battery Island, he could barely move. Instantly his muscles began to tighten up, and Kelly had to force himself to stand and walk. It was then that he saw the helicopter. He’d heard one twice during his swim, but made no note of it. He had long experience with helicopters, and hearing them was as natural as the buzz of an insect. But having one land on his sandbar was not all that common, and he walked over towards it until a voice called him back towards the bunkers.
“Over here, Chief!”
Kelly turned. The voice was familiar, and on rubbing his eyes he saw the undress whites of a very senior naval officer—that fact made clear by the golden shoulder boards that sparkled in the late-morning sun.
“Admiral Maxwell!” Kelly was glad for the company, especially this man, but his lower legs were covered in mud from the walk out of the water. “I wish you’d called ahead, sir.”
“I tried, Kelly.” Maxwell came up to him and took his hand. “We’ve been calling here for a couple of days. Where the hell were you? Out on a job?” The Admiral was surprised at the instant change in the boy’s face.
“Not exactly.”
“Why don’t you go get washed off? I’ll go looking for a soda.” It was then that Maxwell saw the recent scars on Kelly’s back and neck. Jesus!
Their first meeting had been aboard USS Kitty Hawk, three years earlier, he as AirPac, Kelly as a very sick Bosun’s Mate First Class. It wasn’t the sort of thing a man in Maxwell’s position could forget. Kelly had gone in to rescue the flight crew of Nova One One, whose pilot had been Lieutenant, junior grade, Winslow Holland Maxwell III, USN. Two days of crawling about in an area that was just too hot for a rescue helicopter to go trolling, and he’d come out with Dutch 3rd, injured but alive, but Kelly had caught a vicious infection from the putrid water. And how, Maxwell still asked himself, how did you thank a man for saving your only son? So young he’d looked in the hospital bed, so much like his son, the same sort of defiant pride and shy intelligence. In a just world Kelly would have received the Medal of Honor for his solo mission up that brown river, but Maxwell hadn’t even wasted the paper. Sorry, Dutch, CINCPAC would have said, I’d like to go to bat for you on this, but it’s a waste of effort, just would look too, well, suspicious. And so he’d done what he could.
“Tell me about yourself.”
“Kelly, sir, John T., bosun’s mate first—”
“No.” Maxwell had interrupted him with a shake of the head. “No, I think you lo
ok more like a Chief Bosun’s Mate to me.”
Maxwell had stayed on Kitty Hawk for three more days, ostensibly to conduct a personal inspection of flight operations, but really to keep an eye on his wounded son and the young SEAL who’d rescued him. He’d been with Kelly for the telegram announcing the death of his father, a firefighter who’d had a heart attack on the job. And now, he realized, he’d arrived just after something else.
Kelly returned from his shower in a T-shirt and shorts, dragging a little physically, but with something tough and strong in his eyes.
“How far was that swim, John?”
“Just under five miles, sir.”
“Good workout,” Maxwell observed, handing over a Coca-Cola for his host. “You better cool down some.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What happened to you? That mess on your shoulder is new.” Kelly told his story briefly, in the way of one warrior to another, for despite the difference in age and station they were of a kind, and for the second time Dutch Maxwell sat and listened like the surrogate father he had become.
“That’s a hard hit, John,” the Admiral observed quietly.
“Yes, sir.” Kelly didn’t know what else he was supposed to say, and looked down for a moment. “I never thanked you for the card ... when Tish died. That was good of you, sir. How’s your son doing?”
“Flying a 727 for Delta. I’m going to be a grandfather any day now,” the Admiral said with satisfaction, then he realized how cruel the addition might have seemed to this young, lonely man.
“Great!” Kelly managed a smile, grateful to hear something good, that something he’d done had come to a successful conclusion. “So what brings you out here, sir?”
“I want to go over something with you.” Maxwell opened his portfolio and unfolded the first of several maps on Kelly’s coffee table.
The younger man grunted. “Oh, yeah, I remember this place.” His eyes lingered on some symbols that were hand-sketched in. “Classified information here, sir.”
“Chief, what we’re going to talk about is very sensitive.”
Kelly turned to look around. Admirals always traveled around with aides, usually a shiny young lieutenant who would carry the official briefcase, show his boss where the head was, fuss over where the car was parked, and generally do the things beneath the dignity of a hardworking chief petty officer. Suddenly he realized that although the helicopter had its flight crew, now wandering around outside, Vice Admiral Maxwell was otherwise alone, and that was most unusual.
“Why me, sir?”
“You’re the only person in the country who’s seen this area from ground level.”
“And if we’re smart, we’ll keep it that way.” Kelly’s memories of the place were anything but pleasant. Looking at the two-dimensional map instantly brought bad three-dimensional recollections.
“How far did you go up the river, John?”
“About to here.” Kelly’s hand wandered across the map. “I missed your son on the first sweep so I doubled back and found him right about here.”
And that wasn’t bad, Maxwell thought, tantalizingly close to the objective. “This highway bridge is gone. Only took us sixteen missions, but it’s in the river now.”
“You know what that means, don’t you? They build a ford, probably, or a couple underwater bridges. You want advice on taking those out?”
“Waste of time. The objective is here.” Maxwell’s finger tapped a spot marked with red pen.
“That’s a long way to swim, sir. What is it?”
“Chief, when you retired you checked the box for being in the Fleet Reserve,” Maxwell said benignly.
“Hold on, sir!”
“Relax, son, I’m not recalling you.” Yet, Maxwell thought. “You had a top-secret clearance.”
“Yeah, we all did, because of—”
“This stuff is higher than TS, John.” And Maxwell explained why, pulling additional items from his portfolio.
“Those motherfuckers ... ” Kelly looked up from the recon photo. “You want to go in and get them out, like Song Tay?”
“What do you know about that?”
“Just what was in the open,” Kelly explained. “We talked it around the group. It sounded like a pretty slick job. Those Special Forces guys can be real clever when they work at it. But—”
“Yeah, but there was nobody home. This guy”—Maxwell tapped the photo—“is positively ID’d as an Air Force colonel. Kelly, you can never repeat this.”
“I understand that, sir. How do you plan to do it?”
“We’re not sure yet. You know something about the area, and we want your information to help look at alternatives.”
Kelly thought back. He’d spent fifty sleepless hours in the area. “It would be real hairy for a helo insertion. There’s a lot of triple-A there. The nice thing about Song Tay, it wasn’t close to anything, but this place is close enough to Haiphong, and you have these roads and stuff. This is a tough one, sir.”
“Nobody ever said it was going to be easy.”
“If you loop around here, you can use this ridgeline to mask your approach, but you have to hop the river somewhere ... here, and you run into that flak trap ... and that one’s even worse, ’cording to these notations.”
“Did SEALs plan air missions over there, Chief?” Maxwell asked, somewhat amused, only to be surprised at the reply.
“Sir, 3rd SOG was always short of officers. They kept getting shot up. I was the group operations officer for two months, and we all knew how to plan insertions. We had to, that was the most dangerous part of most missions. Don’t take this wrong, sir, but even enlisted men know how to think.”
Maxwell bristled a little. “I never said they didn’t.”
Kelly managed a grin. “Not all officers are as enlightened as you are, sir.” He looked back down at the map. “You plan this sort of thing backwards. You start with what do you need on the objective, then you backtrack to find out how you get it all there.”
“Save that for later. Tell me about the river valley,” Maxwell ordered.
Fifty hours, Kelly remembered, picked up from Danang by helo, deposited aboard the submarine USS Skate, which then had moved Kelly right into the surprisingly deep estuary of that damned stinking river, fighting his way up against the current behind an electrically powered sea-scooter, which was still there, probably, unless some fisherman had snagged a line on it, staying underwater until his air tanks gave out, and he remembered how frightening it was not to be able to hide under the rippled surface. When he couldn’t do that, when it had been too dangerous to move, hiding under weeds on the bank, watching traffic move on the river road, hearing the ripping thunder of the flak batteries on the hilltops, wondering what some 37mm fire could do to him if some North Vietnamese boy scout stumbled across him and let his father know. And now this flag officer was asking him how to risk the lives of other men in the same place, trusting him, much as Pam had, to know what to do. That sudden thought chilled the retired chief bosun’s mate.
“It’s not a really nice place, sir. I mean, your son saw a lot of it, too.”
“Not from your perspective,” Maxwell pointed out.
And that was true, Kelly remembered. Little Dutch had bellied up in a nice thick place, using his radio only on alternate hours, waiting for Snake to come and fetch him while he nursed a broken leg in silent agony, and listened to the same triple-A batteries that had splashed his A-6 hammer the sky at other men trying to take out the same bridge that his own bombs had missed. Fifty hours, Kelly remembered, no rest, no sleep, just fear and the mission.
“How much time, sir?”
“We’re not sure. Honestly, I’m not sure if we can get the mission green-lighted. When we have a plan, then we can present it. When it’s approved, we can assemble assets, and train, and execute.”
“Weather considerations?” Kelly asked.
“The mission has to go in the fall, this fall, or maybe it’ll never go.”
>
“You say these guys will never come back unless we get them?”
“No other reason for them to set this place up in the way they did,” Maxwell replied.
“Admiral, I’m pretty good, but I’m just an enlisted guy, remember?”
“You’re the only person who’s been close to the place.” The Admiral collected the photographs and the maps. He handed Kelly a fresh set of the latter. “You turned down OCS three times. I’d like to know why, John.”
“You want the truth? It would have meant going back. I pushed my luck enough.”
Maxwell accepted that at face value, silently wishing that his best source of local information had accumulated the rank to match his expertise, but Maxwell also remembered flying combat missions off the old Enterprise with enlisted pilots, at least one of whom had displayed enough savvy to be an air-group commander, and he knew that the best helicopter pilots around were probably the instant Warrant Officers the Army ran through Fort Rucker. This wasn’t the time for a wardroom mentality.
“One mistake from Song Tay,” Kelly said after a moment.
“What’s that?”
“They probably overtrained. After a certain period of time, you’re just dulling the edge. Pick the right people, and a couple of weeks, max, will handle it. Go further than that and you’re just doing embroidery.”
“You’re not the first person to say that,” Maxwell assured him.
“Will this be a SEAL job?”
“We’re not sure yet. Kelly, I can give you two weeks while we work on other aspects of the mission.”
“How do I get in touch, sir?”
Maxwell dropped a Pentagon pass on the table. “No phones, no mail, it’s all face-to-face contact.”
Kelly stood and walked him out to the helicopter. As soon as the Admiral came into view, the flight crew started lighting up the turbine engines on the SH-2 SeaSprite. He grabbed the Admiral’s arm as the rotor started turning.
“Was the Song Tay job burned?”