Eagle Station Part 4

Every PJ was a volunteer. Once selected for his maturity, physical condition, and potential, the would-be PJ was sent to jump training at Fort Benning, then off to scuba training. From there he was sent to Gunter Air Force Base in Alabama to be certified as a medical technician. After that, he went through four types of survival schools: desert in the Mohave Desert, swamp in the Florida Everglades, jungle on an island near Key West, and Arctic not too far from McCall, Idaho.

Finally, each PJ was trained to be an expert in small arms and hand-to-hand combat. When Little Cat had volunteered, so had 2,600 other young airmen. Sixteen had been selected, ten had won their maroon berets.

Manuel Dominguez had accomplished all these things since he had enlisted in the Air Force eight years ago in the early fall of 1960, four months after he had been dismissed from the United States Air Force Academy. He had returned to the small dairy farm his family owned two miles west of G.o.dley, Texas.

For three months he had labored on the farm, tackling any task he could find and throwing himself into the ch.o.r.es with silent fierceness. He had refused to sleep in the house and used a corner of the tack room next to the barn in which to live. His parents and older brother had been concerned, but left him alone to work out whatever burden was on his mind.

As Manuel Dominguez thumbed through the sports section, he noticed the Air Force Academy had narrowly beaten Colorado in baseball. He was almost over feeling a twinge every time he thought of his two years as a cadet. What hurt more than anything, and he had buried it as deep as pain would permit, was never again seeing the girl with the brown hair, Barbara Westin. He could almost get through a whole week without seeing in his mind the most beautiful girl in the world. When he did, he would pull her picture from his wallet and study her face until his chest hurt.

As for the reason for his dismissal from the Academy ... no, cut it out, he told himself. He'd promised himself not to go over all that again.

Why dig up the worst memories a man could have?

He was saved from further thought when a bulky man wearing jungle fatigues and carrying a tray sat across from him.

The man had a tough-looking, almost simian face, and was an Army lieutenant colonel. He had the CIB (Combat Infantryman Badge) and master parachute wings sewn in black thread on his left breast. On his right breast was the name LOCHERT, also sewn in black thread. Dominguez remembered now: Colonel Lochert was the man who had been hounded in the press about a so-called murder of a North Vietnamese double agent.

There had been a lot of bad publicity calling it an atrocity and demanding his head-until the defense had proven conclusively at the court-martial that Lochert had only been acting in self-defense.

After a curious appraisal of his tablemate, Little Cat Dominguez went back to his paper and decided it was time for some Fritos. He picked up the bag, opened it, and took out a few to munch absently. Head bent over the page, he became aware that the burly Lochert seemed to be sitting motionless and glaring at him over his own tray.

Maybe I'm munching too loud for him, Dominguez thought, and tried to chew softly. It was not an easy or satisfactory thing to do. h.e.l.l with it. This is a place to eat, I'm eating, at least I chew with my mouth closed. He grabbed a few more Fritos and continued chewing.

Then, to Dominguez's great surprise, Lochert reached into the Frito bag, took out some Frito chips and, glowering at Dominguez as if daring him to do anything, popped them into his mouth and started chewing.

Startled, only by exercising great control did Manuel Dominguez keep from making some smart-a.s.s remark about Army lieutenant colonels who were too cheap to buy their own Fritos and had to steal them from Air Force enlisted men. This guy is really goofy. Maybe he stood next to the cannon too many times.

instead, he stared Lochert in the eye, reached over, grabbed a handful of the chips, stuffed them in his mouth, and chewed as loudly as he could.

Lochert's face appeared to swell and his eyes bulged dangerously. He seemed about to speak, then did not. He reached for the Frito bag with both hands, ripped it open with a savage motion, crammed what was left of the chips in his mouth, and chewed with what Manuel Dominguez thought was a triumphal gleam in his eye. Still chewing, Lochert s.n.a.t.c.hed up his empty tray and stomped away from the table.

Shaking his head, Dominguez watched him walk out of the snack bar and disappear into the crowd outside. G.o.d, but there are some weird ones in Vietnam, he thought. He bent back to his paper, read for another twenty minutes, checked his watch, and decided it was time to go. Standing up, he picked up his AWOL bag, put it on the chair he had just vacated, and reached for his spread-out paper to fold it. There, underneath, was the unopened bag of Fritos he had bought.

0830 Hours LOCAL, THURSDAY 10 OCTOBER 1968 REGIONAL REPORTING OFFICE (RRO) EMBa.s.sY OF THE UNITED STATES.

VIENTIANE, ROYALTY OF LAOS.

"So you're the famous Wolf Lochert," the man in civilian clothes stated.

"Yeah."

hey? And you're going to check our Lima Sites tell you, 85 is a real p.i.s.ser." Another man in casual civilian dress sat in a chair by the desk. They were in an office belonging to the RRO, Regional Reporting Office, the name which had been selected as a cover for the large CIA contingent stationed in Laos and attached to the emba.s.sy.

Wolfgang Xavier Lochert, a lieutenant colonel Army Special Forces, wore civilian clothes--almost all civilian clothes; his white s.h.i.+rt hung loose over his dark trousers, which didn't quite hide the Army issue jungle boots on his feet.

The man who spoke was not chief of logistics for Military Region but rather Jerm Powers who had Blue eyes from his blunt Nordic past regarded Lochert steadily. He had never liked Army men, especially Special Forces, since his days as an Air Force lieutenant when he had had the s.h.i.+t beat out of him and some of his men in a joint field exercise in South Carolina. He and four others had been on an escape and evasion training mission, when they had walked into a night ambush by a Special Forces team that had left them all hanging upside down by their belts around their ankles from pine trees. Now he was one of the scores of former military men on contract to the CIA. He wore a thick gold ID bracelet straight from Vilay Phone's, in downtown Vientiane.

Powers had graduated from the Air Force Academy on time in 1961 and gone into pilot training, He had lasted through the propeller portion, but run headlong into trouble in the jet phase. He simply could not get his mind ahead of the T-33 jet trainer. Unlike a propeller aircraft, which has instant power when the throttle is pushed forward, the T-33 gas turbine engine required several seconds to spool up to develop thrust, After nearly driving his T-33 into the ground several times on go-arounds in landing practice, because he could not plan ahead for the required thrust, Powers had been washed out.

Because of the education the USAF had provided Powers at the Academy, however, he owed the Air Force five years of active duty service. He'd performed in various capacities and wound up his last two years as an aide decamp to a lieu tenant general in the intelligence service in Was.h.i.+ngton, DC.

Contacts from that job had led to an interview with the Central Intelligence Agency at Langley, Virginia. His background and the background of his wife had checked out, he'd pa.s.sed the lie detector tests about his life-style (no hidden h.o.m.os.e.xuality, pederasty, money problems, drug taking, pot smoking, or ram pant adultery), and had quickly been hired to fill the gaping maw of the Indochina/Southeast Asia region.

Contract men like Powers were not merely out of military uniform and detached from their service to work with the Agency, like the sheep-dipped men at Eagle Station. They were fully and legally discharged from whatever civilian or military job they had ever held and had gone through almost-normal hiring procedures to work for the CIA.

They differed from career CIA officers in that they were on contract for a specific job for a specific period of time and were not in compet.i.tion for higher rank within the Agency. In this case, military-trained men were hired to help the friendly forces in Laos. The US had set this scheme in motion to help maintain the fiction that, since Laos was neutral, no US military forces were in that war-ravaged country running around the hills and mountains training the locals to fight the thousands of North Vietnamese soldiers who were also quite illegally in Laos. The North Vietnamese communists, of course, helped maintain the fiction by denying their soldiers were in neutralist Laos.

The CIA also had a contract with two flying companies called Air America and Continental Air Service Incorporated (CASI).

Each day, dozens of American civilian pilots flew light STOL (short takeoff and landing) aircraft and twin-engine cargo planes to resupply the Lima Sites where the friendlies maintained bases whose functions varied from that of large base camp to forward observation post. When the Air America and CASI crews delivered food, it was mostly bags of rice. The weapons and ammunition they delivered daily was called hard rice. The sites frequently came under attack.

There were, however, many Americans stationed in Laos who were military men: they worked in or for the US Emba.s.sy and were either members of the DAO (the Defense Attache Office) or were Ravens, a flying unit. DAO members worked for the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA), whose mission was overtly to collect military intelligence (as opposed to the CIA, who operated covertly to collect military, political, economic, or any other kind of intelligence they were tasked to acquire). The DAO men, known as military attaches, in fact helped run the war in Laos. This was not what attaches did in other countries.

Ravens were Air Force lieutenants and captains, and the odd major or two, who flew light spotter planes, using the call sign Raven. Neither they nor the DAO personnel wore uniforms. The Ravens, in fact, living a sort of Terry-and-the-Pirates existence, went out of their way to look anything but military. n.o.body really questioned the use of civilian clothes. It seemed the thing to do, some guessed, mostly to confound the newsies who found their way into Laos to "expose" this not-so-tiny war in this tiny kingdom. Certainly, civvies would not confound the scores of Russians from the Soviet Emba.s.sy who also ran around in civvies and maintained dossiers on all the Americans. If nothing else, Laos was a hodgepodge of intrigue involving democracy versus communism.

On the map, the outline of Laos could be loosely compared to a frying pan with the handle pointed south. The pan portion bordered Burma to the west, China to the north, Thailand to the south, and North Vietnam to the east. The bulk of the pan was called the PDJ, which stood for the French words Plaine des Jarres (so named because ancient tribesmen buried their dead in giant above-ground earthen jars). The handle of the pan bordered North and South Vietnam to the east, Thailand to the west, and ended embedded in Cambodia to the south.

"Let me tell you about Laos," Powers said. "There are three Laotian factions here: the Royal Lao Government, which we call the RLG-these are the guys we are trying to help--the Neutralists; and the communists, who are called PL, which stands for Pathet Lao. Currently, the PL and the North Vietnamese Army occupy the northeast corner next to North Vietnam and are supplied by Hanoi. And, currently, the NVA occupies eastern Laos all the way down to Cambodia. In 1961, the PL, the Neuts, and the Royalists were fighting. North Vietnam decided it was a good time to put 6,000 of their soldiers in-country, so in 1962 President Kennedy sent 5,000 U.S. Marines to Thailand, which forced the commies to sign the Geneva Agreements. We signed, and so did Russia and North Vietnam.

The idea was to stop the fighting, make Laos neutral, and all foreigners were to haul a.s.s. After the Marines left, we s.h.i.+pped all 666 of our people out. The commies only s.h.i.+pped out forty of their thousands. In April '63 the fighting started again because the commies were using eastern Laos as a giant supply route into South Vietnam.

A route that bypa.s.sed the demilitarized zone which cut Vietnam in half.

That supply route is called the Ho Chi Minh Trail."

What a Scheisskopf, Wolf thought. He had been running teams of Special Forces men up and down the Trail for years. Further, as a Special Forces major he had been in Laos in the early sixties with Project White Star, training Hmoung tribesmen who lived in the Laotian highlands. He looked at the man sitting quietly in the corner who, on catching his glance, winked. He and Wolf knew each other from an operation earlier that year. He was Jim Polter, a slender, gray-eyed man with short-cropped dark hair, whose strong but pleasant face gave crinkly evidence of fom-tidable experience coupled with humor.

"Yup, the Ho Chi Minh Trail is important to the commies," Powers continued. "On any given day they have about 200 tons of supplies moving south, and they have about 300,000 road repair crews and gunners to keep things moving. In the northern part of Laos, the war is different. It's the reverse of what's going on in South Vietnam. Up here the PL and the NVA operate pretty much as a conventional force just like we do in South Vietnam. Like us, they control the population centers and get resupplied by road. Like the VC are in the south, up here the friendlies are the guerrillas. The fTiendlies are our little guys, the Meo under General Vang Pao. They fight the commies." The "little guys" that Powers referred to were the Hmoung tribesmen formed up by their leader, Vang Pao, to fight the North Vietnamese and the Pathet Lao. The US Government totally supported them with training, weaponry, food, and money.

"That's Hmoung, not Meo, Powers," Wolf said. "Meo is a Laotian word, means barbarian. The French used it. We don't.

Got it? They're Hmoung, that's their word for 'the people."'

With a look of infinite distaste at the lecture which he had just received, Jerome Powers rose and flung up a drop cloth revealing a military map of Laos. Scores of colored pins dotted the surface. He waved his hand at the black pins. "We have 187 Lima Sites, 110 of which have airstrips. Most of them are bare-bones sites, but some are full-sized military bases for Vang Pao-we call him VP-and his army. His base is here at Long Tieng. And some"--he pointed to Eagle Station in the northeast portion of the Laotian pan-"have special gear on them for the flyboys." He winked. "You know, the ones who fly north and east of here."

"Didn't one of those sites get overrun?" Wolf asked Powers.

"Yeah," Powers answered. "Site 61 at Ban That Si. It was a Tacan site, no bombing radar."

Wolf shook his head and looked at Powers. "How come you didn't mention that to me?"

"Not in my area. It's in a different MR."

Wolf fixed Powers with a hard stare. "What exactly is your job here?"

Powers put his hands on his hips, "My job is to run the war in MR. Who are U." Jim Polter coughed lightly. "That is," Powers said without looking at Polter, "my job is to recruit and to supply our guys and the little guys in MR 11. Without me, no war. And"he made a leering smile-"the chief of MR 11 is on leave in Bangkok, so I'm in charge now."

"And that's why you're in this office, Wolf," Jim Polter said.

"You were sent up here to tour the eastern Lima Sites and to inspect the defenses, particularly Lima Site 85, Eagle Station.

It's one of our most important sites. We want you to make sure VP and his men are putting into practice some of the stuff the SF has been teaching them down in Thailand."

"Why me?" Wolf asked.

Polter laughed. "My request. Hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" Wolf said. "No, I don't mind. Happy to get out of Saigon. More than you know."

"I expect so," Polter said dryly. He knew all about the courtmartial.

There were other soldiers that could have performed the on-site inspections, but Polter figured, quite correctly, that Wolf Lochert needed a break from the United States Army and MACV (Military Advisory Command, Vietnam).

"Here's the latest report on Lima Site 85," Powers said and handed Wolf a file. "Just a minor affair, really."

For several minutes Wolf studied the papers and the attached map. He looked up. "I think it was a probe, and that there will be a full-scale attack very soon." He put the file back on Powers's desk.

"And I say it was an errant local PL commander who hadn't gotten the word to stay away from the site," Powers said.

"What do you mean?" Wolf asked. "Stay away from the site?"

"There's a lot out there you don't know about, Lochert, and Site 85 is one of them. They stay away-"

"Who are 'they'?" Lochert interrupted.

"The PL, the Pathet Lao. They stay away for a couple of reasons. One is they probably get paid off from the opium poppy farmers, and secondly, they know the site is well defended and we can have as many of VP's troops and all the air strikes we want up there in less than a day."

"Paid off? Less than a day? I'm here to check Lima Site defenses and this one sounds like a real Maginot Line and you sound like Maginot himself. What if the NVA replace the PL? And what if the site is overrun, what kind of an evacuation plan do you have for the men?"

"We have a plan not only to pull the men out, but to bring the equipment out if there is time or destroy it if there isn't.

But none of that will be necessary. We consider the site well defended by VP's troops."

"Would they fight to the last man?"

"Well, no. Why should they? This isn't a piece of real estate we need to hold forever."

Wolf tapped the file. "You consider it vital, yet you don't think it worth holding? Sounds like you don't know what you want or how important that place really is."

Powers frowned. "Well, maybe you'd just better get on out there, then."

... that's exactly what I intend to do. I think there are NVA around that site, not just PL." Wolf stood up. "Tell me," he asked in a pleasant voice, "where do you fit into my inspections, Mister Powers?"

"The reason you are checking in with Powers," Polter broke in, "is that he is the a.s.sistant to the guy who has a handle on who is doing what out there, who you should see once you're out there--2'

"And the man on Lima Site 85 is Mister Sam," Powers broke in. "He runs the CP and the Meo ... unh, Hmoung garrison.

Counting wives and kids, there are about 200. But he'll just tell you the same thing I am."

"Which is?" Wolf said.

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit, that there is no real problem up there."

"Swear one more time, Scheisskopf, and I'll break your arm," Wolf flared.

"He doesn't like swearing," Polter said to Powers in a conciliatory voice.

Polter turned to Wolf and changed the subject. "Jerome will rig you up with whatever gear you need as well as transportation to the Lima Sites."

"I've got my own rig," Wolf growled. It was an implied insult that he didn't carry enough of his own gear at any given time to be ready to go into the field.

Still riled, Powers opened a door to a supply room next to his office.

"I'll bet you don't have one of these," he said, and held up a metal object about the size of a half-carton of cigarettes.

It was an RT- IO air-crew survival radio.

"I've got two," Wolf barked.

"Or one of these," Powers said, pointing to a PRC-25 FM field radio.

"Yeah, one of those too. What is this, some sort of a one-up game show?"

"How about a weapon?" Powers asked.

Polter laughed. "Give up, Jerome. Wolf Lochert was snapping caps in combat before you knew which end of the gun the bullet came out."

In Point of fact, Wolf Lochert carried his Randall stiletto in one ankle holster and his 7.63 Mauser "social" weapon in the other. He had two bags with him on this trip: a duffel bag with field gear, harnesses, and fatigues, and a parachute bag with his USAF backpack T-10 parachute modified with a four-line cut for better steering control. He also carried a 7.62 AK-47 a.s.sault rifle, "Well, I know he doesn't have one of these," Powers said and handed Wolf a small booklet.

Wolf took it. "No, I don't," he said, and thumbed through it. It was t.i.tled Air field Site List, Laos, dated October 1968. it listed all 187 Lima Sites and broke out the I 10 with airstrips.

The index gave all the codes for radio beacons, fuel available, runway headings, slope, elevation, length and width, and the UTM coordinates of each site. It also gave status codes such as OPN meaning open for all aircraft, or UNF meaning it was in unfriendly hands. The primary VHF frequency was 119.1 for each site. The company radio was 118.1, with 121.5 for emergencies. For really long distance, the HF radio was used on frequency 5568 at night, 8765 during the day.

"Keep that," Powers said. "It may come in handy." He dug out a paper from a folder and handed it to Wolf. "Here is your schedule for today."

Wolf scanned the list of meetings. Political/Military ... Military a.s.sistance Advisory Group ... Consular... Defense Attache ... Aid for International Development... Raven Ops ... Air America Ops ...

Scheiss, this would take all day.

And it did. it was late in the afternoon by the time Polter and Lochert finished the round of briefings. Polter drove Wolf in the jeep to Wattay Airport. Enroute they pa.s.sed the famous Vertical Runway, a tall Arc de Triomphe structure made from concrete that had been given to the RLG by the United States to expand the runway at Wattay. The King kept the monument under constant construction because a soothsayer in his court had told him that to stop would be the end of his life.

At Wattay, they walked out to one of Air America's C-46s s.h.i.+mmering in the sun on the concrete ramp. Three men stood in the shade under the left wing and watched them approach. A fourth man busied himself preflighting the twin-engined cargo airplane with the tail number 715.

Polter introduced Wolf to the pilot, the copilot, and to a young Lao he called a bundle-kicker, whose job, he explained, was to toss out the cargo as the s.h.i.+ps made low pa.s.ses over the Lima Sites.

"We've got to kick out some rice up in the hills at Xieng Khoung, then we'll get you to Lima 85," the pilot said. He wore dark gray trousers and a short-sleeved gray sport s.h.i.+rt with the four stripes of a captain on his shoulder epaulets.

The Lao, about five-two, Wolf judged, made a toothy grin at Wolf, thumbed his own chest, and said, "Is Tewa."