Ghost War (44 page)

With the vast majority of the base personnel crowded into the mess hall, it was just a coincidence that one of the radar operators—a man named Vinh—just happened to be in the radar station when one of the air defense monitors began sounding its warning buzzer. He had gone to the station to retrieve a purse containing gold coins which he had hidden beneath one of the floor boards on the structure’s first floor. Barred from using IOUs because of payoff discrepancies in the past, Vinh needed to use his small gold reserve to get back into a hot game. So it was more out of curiosity than anything else that caused him to disengage the alarm and check the long-range radar screen. He saw a tiny blip had entered the radar net at coordinates which put it about forty miles east of Dong Ha.

Vinh studied the indication with slight but gathering interest. With so many disparate Minx units under the CapCom umbrella, violating air space and failing to request proper crossover rights were commonplace. But this blip was unlike anything he’d ever seen. It was barely visible, a faint blink of static moving right into the center of the radar net. This told Vinh that whatever kind of aircraft it was, it was moving incredibly fast and at an incredibly high altitude.

And heading on a course which would bring it right over Dong Ha itself.

Vinh made a quick notation into the log book, retrieved his gold purse and then walked out of the radar station. Staring up into the crystal clear morning sky, he squinted long enough to spot a very thin white contrail passing directly overhead. He studied the long trail of ice crystals and exhaust for a few moments; the aircraft leaving the wake was moving so fast, and was so high up, it was nearly invisible.

Vinh had to think for a moment. He couldn’t believe that this aircraft belonged to the Viet Minx or any of their allies.

Yet, what should he do about it? He was on strike.

Still, against his better judgment, he made a quick call to the next biggest Minx installation, the Long Dik railroad yards located about 55 miles to the west. He had a brief conversation with a junior radio officer there, telling him that an unidentified aircraft would be passing over their position with a few minutes time, Vinh hung up quickly, not bothering to wait for a reply.

Then, gold purse in hand, he headed back toward the mess hall.

It took another five minutes for the contrail high above him to finally fade away.

Long Dik Railroad Yards

There was a small crowd outside the administration building in the middle of the huge railroad marshalling center when the unidentified aircraft streaked over.

Most of the observers—Minx soldiers and civilian railway workers—could just barely make out the dark object riding the sky ahead of the long stream of white smoke. Even those with high-powered binoculars had a hard time focusing on the fast-moving, high-flying dark blue shape. Just about everyone agreed they’d never seen anything like it before.

The Minx officers amongst the crowd were quick to point out that what ever the aircraft was, it certainly was part of the bulging Minx arsenal, probably a secret craft of some kind, bought by CapCom to assist in the big offensive in the south. Why else would it be heading straight for Hanoi, some forty-five miles away?

But as the object finally faded from view, several of the Minx officers slipped into the administration building and quickly called the Viet Minx High Command headquarters in the capital city. Their message: alert your air defense units immediately. An unidentified aircraft is heading your way. And it is moving very fast.

Hanoi

There were three separate air defense systems protecting the myriad of Minx military installations in and around the city of Hanoi.

The first was made up of an infamous weapon: the SA-2 surface-to-air missile. This telephone-pole-with-fins missile was responsible for downing hundreds of American warplanes during the last Vietnam War. Under orders from CapCom, the Viet Minx High Command had bought up every SA-2 SAM on the world’s burgeoning arms black market. Now there were literally hundreds of these weapons ringing the center of Hanoi in three concentric circles, the furthest being twenty miles out, the innermost placed around the city limits themselves.

The second line of air defense was made up of aircraft based at Xa Ho Ha air field, located on the southwestern edge of the city. The sprawling air base supported no less than seven squadrons of MiG-25 Foxbat jet fighters, each containing at least eighteen combat aircraft. But, as with many Minx units charged with protecting the capital city, six of the squadrons at Xa Ho Ha had been deployed south to fight in the Big Offensive. It was hoped that the remaining squadron would be adequate to provide air cover for the capital.

The third line of air defense was made up of thousands of antiaircraft artillery guns. These guns were everywhere the SAMs weren’t. They were located on just about every high building, hilltop and even in some trees, surrounding and within the city. These weapons were of all calibers and in many cases had radar-controlled aiming devices and time-fused, high-fragmentation shells. They were spread out all over Greater Hanoi, and were especially thick around high-priority Minx installations including the extensive barracks and troop processing center north of the city, the enormous communications facility off to the city’s west, and of course, the huge Xa Ho Ha air base.

But like many of the other Minx installations around Hanoi, a number of the AAA units were involved in a work stoppage. Some hadn’t been paid in as much as three months—the majority hadn’t received payouts for six weeks. The guns at these installations stood locked and sealed, their crews idle, their pay officers waiting in line at Minx High Command Headquarters to air their troops’ grievances.

One of the AAA units that
was
getting paid—proof that the High Command was selectively compensating some units—was the 4518th Aerial Battery Company. It was no coincidence that this AAA unit was based the furthest out from Hanoi. Its string of six gun sites twenty-two miles due east from the city limits served as a tripwire for the inner defense sites. If an aerial intruder was bent on entering Hanoi’s airspace from due east, they would be engaged by the 4518th Aerial Battery Company first.

It was 0900 hours when the 4518th got a hasty flash message directly from Minx High Command in Hanoi. They were to turn on their engagement radars and set them to the highest altitude possible. In most cases, this was 62,500 feet. They were told to look for anything flying near that altitude, possibly some kind of high speed jet or even an incoming missile.

But after three minutes of searching, the radar operators at the 4518th found nothing anywhere near that high altitude. When the Minx High Command was informed of this, they ordered the radar operators to search the skies around 40,000 to 45,000 feet. Again, after a few minutes of intense scanning, the radar operators could find nothing.

The third anxious flash message to the 4518th batteries ordered all of the gun crews out of their bunkers and to their gun posts. They were told to search the skies visually, at the same time loading their guns for possible action. Within seconds the highly trained, recently paid crews were pouring out of their revetments and manning their AAA weapons. Many were equipped with high-powered binoculars and they used these to scan all quadrants of the sky around them.

Still, they found nothing.

Not right away, anyway.

It was about twelve miles away, coming over the jungle due east of them, when the members of 4518th’s Battery #6 first spotted it. It was a huge aircraft, painted all black, with a long snout and strangely cranked wings. It was flying so low, the exhaust from its powerful engines was setting the tops of the trees on fire.

The crew at Battery #6 ably loaded their gun and prepared to fire. But the black jet was moving so fast and so low, it was on them even before they got their elevation down low enough to hit it. It roared overhead, so close to the ground, the searing exhaust made their uniforms smolder. The noise from its jets was so loud, it made their ears bleed. Several of the gunners began vomiting, the sudden assault on all their senses being so massive it caused an instantaneous, acute nausea.

And then, just like that, it was gone. Streaking over the western horizon like the angel of death vengefully looking for more victims—and heading right for Hanoi.

Hunter was sweating.

The leather straps holding his helmet to his chin were sopped with perspiration, shrinking the leather and causing it to tighten around his neck. The sweat was running so freely inside his spacesuit, it was seeping through his speed-johns and soaking his skin beneath. Even his hands were wet with perspiration, running down his wrists and into his leather flight gloves. The only part of his body to remain relatively dry were his feet.

It was not anxiety or fear or even apprehension which had soaked Hunter through. Rather it started with the eyeball-busting plunge he had made from 65,000 feet to just 150 feet off the ground in less than 45 seconds. The heat built up in the dizzying dive men combined with the heat generated by air resistance in the sluggish atmosphere so close to the earth. This caused the temperature inside the SR-71’s cockpit to soar to 110 degrees, with no sign of letting up.

But Hunter didn’t mind the discomfort. It was necessary if he was to complete this rather feverish mission. The plunge from twelve miles up had been necessary: he knew that Minx air defense systems would be searching for him at high altitude as soon as he passed over Dong Ha and Long Dik. This meant he had to get down on the deck so quick, they wouldn’t have time to react, and thus allow him to complete his recon run relatively unhindered.

He saw the outline of the city of Hanoi ahead of him now. It looked as dreary and monolithic as he had been led to believe. At seven miles out, he banked to his right, and soon found himself roaring over a number of truck parks packed with military vehicles. Beyond these marshalling areas, he came upon a vast barracks and troop processing area.

A bank to the left found him just fifty feet above an enormous farm of satellite dishes and microwave antennas servicing a large communications complex located nearby.

A further turn to the left and he was able to skirt the far edge of the huge Xa Ha Ho air base. He could tell by the recent tiremarks on the base’s main runway that a number of aircraft had taken off recently but had not returned. Hunter correctly guessed that these planes had been redeployed south to take part in the big Minx offensive.

But it was only when he banked thirty degrees to the left again when he began the cameras inside his nonsecone to whirring. Set on sideways angle fix, all six cameras captured, with reassuring mechanical efficiency, footage of the interior of Hanoi city itself, precisely the intelligence Hunter needed.

It took all of fifteen seconds, and when it was over, Hunter couldn’t help but smile with the knowledge that he had gotten what he came for.

As he streaked out over Hanoi’s city limits, he shut down the cameras and then put the SR-71 into a bone-crunching climb, rocketing straight up until he was out of sight from the ground.

He was passing through 65,000 feet in less than forty-five seconds. It was now imperative that he get back to Da Nang as quickly as possible. He had to send an urgent message to General Jones in Washington, requesting that he track down two individuals back in America who held the key to the ultimate success of Hunter’s idea. At that moment, finding these two men was the most important thing in the world.

Leveling off at 70,000 feet, The Wingman buried the throttles of the big spy plane. The two ramjets exploding in a burst of pure hypersonic power, he turned south and headed for home.

Boston

24 hours later

T
HE BLUE, HEAVILY ARMED
Huey helicopter touched down at what was once known as Logan International Airport.

No sooner had it landed when six soldiers of the First American Airborne Division jumped out, their M-16s at the ready. Behind them a lone, smaller figure, was easing out of the chopper’s passenger bay with a minimum of dramatic flair.

It was Yaz. He’d been sent to Boston by General Jones, handed a mission which, as unlikely as it seemed, might very well turn the tide in the war raging between the Americans and the Viet Minx half a world away.

There was little time for formalities with the officers of the Boston Militia, the group that ran the airport. Yaz and his men were looking for a particular airplane that was scheduled, he had learned, to leave Boston at any minute, its destination lying across the Atlantic.

Several jeeploads of Boston militiamen appeared as soon as the Huey set down, and Yaz quickly identified himself as a member of the United American Armed Forces Command Staff on a mission for the commander-in-chief himself. The soldiers demeanor instantly changed from understandable caution to alert compliance. Yaz explained they must find the target airplane and board it immediately. A quick check with their commander told the militiamen to assist Yaz and his men in everyway possible.

Though still functioning as a viable international airport, things at Logan were not run in the structurally compliant way as the old days. Planes landed and took off, almost at will, their only restraints being those mandated by safe operation. The control tower—which actually served more as a fuel broker—was in limited contact with most of the arriving airplanes, but few of the departing ones. This meant that Yaz and the militiamen would have to fan out across the huge airfield and look for the target airplane themselves.

Yaz checked the time. It was 1950 hours, and night was falling. The deep blue airport lights were blazing, giving the place an eerie look. Perched on the front seat of the lead militia jeep, he strained his eyes to see through the gathering darkness, looking for what had been described to him as the “strangest” Boeing 707 he’d ever seen.

As it turned out, he got lucky right away.

There was a 707 waiting in line on the airport’s S6 runway, the strip favored by airplanes heading for Europe. The airplane was painted in dark purple and no windows save for the ones on the cockpit. The most unusual thing about the airplane—what had gotten Yaz’s attention right away—was the nose had been custom-painted to look like, of all things, a dolphin.