So Sweet Justice

So Sweet Justice

Bob Taylor

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Copyright 2014 Bob Taylor.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

So Sweet Justice is a copyrighted work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences are the creation of the author or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, events, or places is entirely coincidental.

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ISBN: 978-1-4907-2258-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-2257-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-2259-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013923581

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Contents

Chapter 1   Hello, Viet-Nam

Chapter 2   Angela’s Decision

Chapter 3   Another Attack

Chapter 4   Duty Supersedes Passion

Chapter 5   A Glorious Introduction

Chapter 6   A New Duty Station

Chapter 7   A New Life Style

Chapter 8   Decision

Chapter 9   Rededication

Chapter 10   Hi, Jenn

Chapter 11   SOS

Chapter 12   The Surprise

Chapter 13   Major Confrontation

Chapter 14   Trouble in the Wings

Chapter 15   Another Shoe Drops

Chapter 16   Rotary Solution

Chapter 17   A Gift Accepted

Chapter 18   A New Fighting Style

Chapter 19   Anchors Aweigh, USMC Style

Chapter 20   Success on the Field

Chapter 21   The Hen Laid an Egg

Chapter 22   The Back Side

Chapter 23   Get Ready for Vic

Chapter 24   Colette’s Plan

Chapter 25   Grande Rendez-vous

Chapter 26   The Preparation

Chapter 27   The Assembly

Chapter 28   Abduction

Chapter 29   On Your Mark

Chapter 30   Get Set

Chapter 31   Go!

Chapter 32   The Seal

Other Books by Bob Taylor

A Few Good Memories

Tales from Marine Corps Boot Camp

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The Ghost of Homer Lusta

Brothers Two, Enlist to Save the South, Become Heroes by Default

Trafford Books, Kindle Books

Operation Hannibal

Never Abandon a Fallen Comrade

Kindle Books

Chapter 1

Hello, Viet-Nam

OK, birdmen! Mark the calendar. It’s 4 June 1969. Snowden and Monroe. You lucky dogs. You’re ready.

The tall Marine captain spoke excitedly and banged the flight schedule board with an open fist. Then, tempering his enthusiasm, he said. Hard to believe you tolerated this godforsaken Viet-Nam for a month now. You trained hard. By God, it’s time to earn your pay. He glanced at his fellow training officer. Agree, Vic?

Roger, Boss. Marine First Lieutenant Victor Tobias nodded the two fledglings a rewarding smile. Look good to me. I’d fly with guys on my wing; any day.

Yep. They’re good.

You know, Captain. I live to train new pilots. When I do that, I learn more than I teach.

No question, Vic. Gratifying.

Captain Warner Nichols, USMC, cuffed both newbies on the shoulder with a, Semper Fi, Marines. Just got your first attaboy. I’m looking for many more.

The greenhorns instinctively delivered a cheer to the roof, Thanks, Sir. We’re ready!

It’s after midnight, Jarheads. Get a beer and hit the sack. Warner shook the hands of the young and yet untested pilots. Big day tomorrow. Check the flight schedule. You’re both on it. Now, get out of here! Remember, I said a beer. Two at the most.

The four officers turned to leave. Abruptly, the Quonset hut door swung wide open, smashing the doorknob hard against the yellow pressboard bulkhead, punching a hole completely through. The four pilots hit the deck in a flash when a pocket-sized, dark, barefooted humanoid form burst in. It was maybe four feet tall, wearing an all-black outfit, halfway resembling a uniform, or even pajamas.

Brandishing an automatic weapon, the intruder waved aimlessly from side to side, up and down, firing wildly in all directions, foretelling a stern and grave story. Staccato bursts sprayed in all directions, discharging unseen projectiles against the dark gray filing cabinets, exploding dimmed incandescent lights, and shattering panes of glass. The captain and the three lieutenants jammed their bodies brutally against the wooden deck.

Get down! Now! Get over there! the captain yelled, shoving the new pilots’ heads hard onto the deck. He pointed toward a U-shaped array of gray metal filing cabinets. That way! Go, dammit! Stay low! Not knowing how many trespassers had entered, Nichols guided his students over the oily, grimy deck. In seconds, the four Marines had wormed inside a cave-like crevice, a haven perhaps, if only psychological, safe from the unyielding onslaught of deadly slugs still ricocheting around the room.

The captain’s heart pounded faster and harder, drowning the echo of the relentless gunfire. Each breath of the caustic odor of burnt cordite convinced him this was not a dream. He hugged the deck even tighter.

As swiftly as the prowler had charged in, he raced back into the night, still firing. In seconds, several shots, unmistakably from a Marine security patrol, rang out. The shooting died out. The captain cautiously untangled his seventy-three-inch frame from its cramped position inside the makeshift foxhole and vigilantly crawled out.

OK, you guys, said Warner. It’s over. Untangle. Marines won again. This time.

Holy Christ! What the hell was that, Captain?

Sappers. Charlie. Viet Cong. VC, for short. You name it. They wait for dark nights; like tonight. No moon. Then they hit us. They’re guerillas, terrorists, suicide squads. In other words, we’re their enemy and they don’t like us.

Damn, Sir.

They play suicide. Attack, knowing it’s their last day on earth. They don’t care. Do it for the love of their cause. Probably on coke or heroin, or some other local weed.

Christ a mighty, Boss. It’s scary.

Common, Sir? asked Monroe.

No, but once is too much. And mark my ever-loving words, you guys; their buddies will be back. And every time, it’s them or us. Remember that.

How about Security?

They’re good, but can’t stop ’em all. The gooks know every nook and cranny of this place. Some of the bastards turn out to be locals. They live here. Even sleep here. Some are hired by the Marines to work here. They come and go. Sometimes, when a raid is on tap, they don’t even go home. Just hang around until attack time.

Damn, Sir. Why?

This is their home. We’re invaders. We’re the bad guys.

Something tells me we’re lucky, Captain. Close. Gotta keep on our toes.

Bet your ass. Everybody carries a weapon, especially at night. And on a no-moon night like this, you really gotta watch your ass. That’s when they’re most likely to hit. Just like tonight. Now get out of here. Get some sleep. You’re both flying tomorrow. And I got an early meeting with the colonel. Be ready.

Aye, Sir.

Nichols made his way to his quarters. He opened the door and looked around. Could have guessed, he thought. Spotless. Everything was perfectly in place; clothes pressed; on hangars; bed made perfectly. Yep, Chi’s been on the job again. That loyal little fart, he kept thinking with genuine fondness. Been my houseboy since September. Never failed yet. Poor guy. Sometimes I wonder what’s in store for the little cuss, especially after the war.

Captain Warner Nichols, USMC, had reported for duty at the Da Nang Marine Corps Air Station a year before; 15 June 1968. He’d no sooner checked into his BOQ room that first night when a tiny Asian figure stormed in. Having been warned of the danger of night gook attacks, Warner drew his Combat Masterpiece .38 and nearly pulled the trigger.

Then he’d seen it was an unarmed kid and realized this was no threat. He shouldered his weapon and grabbed the boy’s shoulder. Hey, little guy. What’s going on? I almost shot you.

Thanking you not shoot Chi.

Who are you? What the hell are you doing here?

The youngster had nervously explained that he was Chi Tieu. Chi friend. Twelve year old. Not shoot Captain. Family live Hoi An. Ten clicks over big hill. Want work for Captain. Dollar week, he had said. He wanted to sign up another customer for his houseboy business. Wash clothes. Shine shoes. Iron uniform. Fix bed. Sweep deck. Make moneys and buy food for family. Dollar week.

Warner put him on trial. I’ll be your customer as long as you do a good job. What’s your name again? Chi is it?

Right on, Captain.

The kid never came off trial. For twelve months now, he had performed faultlessly. Clothes were always washed perfectly, uniforms were ironed without a single scorch mark, everything was always neatly folded and laid perfectly in place. The dollar a week salary was worth every penny. Being houseboy for more than twenty pilots kept him busy, but the kid handled it well.

Once Warner had been assigned to go to nearby Monkey Mountain for a meeting at the U.S. Air Force missile site. Its mission was to protect the Marine Air Station at Da Nang from North Viet-Namese ground and aerial attacks. Heavily guarded by Marine and Air Force security troops, it delivered a secondary benefit of a safe beach area for various kinds of recreation.

Chi go with Captain? asked Chi.

Sure. Just don’t get in the way. Those Air Force guys eat little boys.

Captain joke?

Yes, a joke. Hop in the jeep. Chi pulled out his little pad of blank paper and challenged Warner to a game of tic-tac-toe as they drove toward Monkey Mountain. Warner had become attached to the kid and spent a chorus of hours teaching English and the science of tic-tac-toe. In a few short weeks, Warner’s tutoring proved to be on target because the little fellow was becoming a master.

Can’t play while I’m driving, Chi.

OK. You drive. Chi say what mark. Chi mark paper.

He couldn’t say no, and as hard as it would be to recall which slots had been used, he went for the deal. As expected, this routine only produced wins for Chi and groans from Warner.

After the meeting with the Air Force, Chi had told Warner of a secret and hard to find cave nearby. Big hole in ground. No persons go, Captain. We go to see? Please?

Gotta meeting with the colonel, Chi.

Just three clicks that way, Captain. Chi show. My secret place.

Relenting, Warner had followed Chi’s directions. They stopped next to a little knoll covered by thick brush and vines. Nichols realized no one at the missile site or Da Nang could possibly find it without knowing its exact location.

Where is it, Chi?

Come. Chi show.

Ducking and crawling around those vines seemed a bit perilous, but the boy had shot through the grimy brush-covered gap without slowing down. Once inside, the cave seemed dark, but it brightened as their night-vision clicked in.

Chi hide in cave when V.C. do war at Marines. I say Chi Hole.

How long have you owned Chi Hole?

Many day. VC no like Chi. VC say Chi no can work for Marines. Chi scared all time. Chi stay here. Play tic-tac-toe and no see VC. VC no see Chi. Chi no die.

How’d you find this place?

Nice lieutenant from other Marine boys come here. Bring pretty nurse to Chi Hole. Tell Chi watch for VC. Give Chi dollar. One day Marine boys go home. Chi no tell about Chi Hole. Now tell Captain. Chi let Captain go to Chi Hole. No tell farts at Air Force. Not good to Chi. Don’t give Chi food. They say go away.

Roger, little man. Gotta get back. We’ll come back again.

Play one game, Captain?

No. No more today. Later. Got work to do. Let’s go home.

For almost a year, Chi Hole had become a favorite escape for both, playing tic-tac-toe, eating box lunches from the mess hall, teaching Chi English. Enjoyable escapes.

After a short sleep night, Warner rapped on Lieutenant Colonel Summers’ office door. Come in, Nichols. What’s on your mind that a week in Manila won’t cure?

Thank you, Sir. Tobias and I had Snowden and Monroe up late last night. About the same time the damn sappers hit. Shot up the ready room pretty bad.

You ain’t kidding. I thought maybe you guys had a hell of a party and didn’t clean up.

Guess you could call it that, Sir. Monroe and Snowden learned a lesson about these damn sappers. Scared hell out of ’em. Maybe it’ll stick.

Hope so. How you coming with ’em?

Finished training. I’d like to switch both of ’em to active as of today.

Good. We can use ’em, the colonel said, pointing to his status board. We got more open slots now than warm bodies.

I know, Colonel. Another thing, Sir. It’s Tobias. A treasure. Couldn’t have done it so soon without him. Think we can change his rating too? He’s the best young pilot in the squadron.

I’ll buy that, Warner.

Been doing a hell of a job out there. He’s overdue for section leader. Good head on his shoulders. Maybe even jump him up to division leader, if regulations permit?

Can’t do that, Nichols. Gotta keep him flying section lead a couple months.

Ok with me, Colonel. He’s locked in on to the Skyhawk, top to bottom. Says the A-4 is his best friend. He’ll do a good job leading flights on boat hunts. Could help cut down on those midnight suicide attacks.

Good to have another keeper. Flight School must be turning out some supers.

He knows how to teach too. Flies my wing on most of our combat missions. I put him up front sometimes. I can almost see myself flying lead. He’s a fine Marine and a great pilot.

Do it, Warner. You’ve done a good job with those new boys, too. Just out of flight school and dumped out here less than a month later.

The gospel, Sir.

Yep, they don’t know when they’ll be blown to bits by a surface-to-air missile. SAMs are vicious. And those stray rounds from gook rifles. Or who knows when they’ll be in the wrong place when a sapper shows up. Get the top sergeant to write it up. The faster we get this war over, the faster you get back to South Carolina, and I get back to Virginia.

Before the day was over, VMA-143’s pilots buzzed with excitement as a new directive was posted onto the squadron ready room bulletin board:

MARINE ATTACK SQUADRON-143

MARINE AIRCRAFT GROUP-14

THIRD MARINE AIRCRAFT AIR WING

SOUTHEAST ASIA COMMAND

DA NANG, VIET-NAM

5 Jun 69: 1430

GS: byw

From: Commanding Officer

To: Operations Officer

Subj: Pilot Ratings, designation of

Ref(1): Section Leader GOP 55-78

Ref(2): Combat Rating GOP 55-102

The below named pilots will be guided in their performance by ref (1) and (2):

Section Leader: 1/LT Victor P TOBIAS

Combat Rating: 2/LT Eric SNOWDEN

Combat Rating: 2/LT Victor MONROE

Gerald Summers, Lt. Col., USMC, Commanding

At 0700 the next morning, Warner and the two new pilots assembled in the ready room for a tactical briefing. The captain began rehashing the tasks assigned to VMA-143, "Our primary mission is to destroy Viet Cong gunboats. Until a few months ago, VC guerrillas, sappers, we call ’em, would foot it down the Ho Chi Minh Trail from the north at night. Charlie had one thing in mind and that was to kill every American. The B-52s from Manila got busy with saturation bombing. They did a good job cutting off that inland trail.

Then frigging Charlie got smart. He started sending sappers in boats down the coast. They’d put out to sea from up north and work their way south. Sometimes they’d mix with a fishing fleet, trying to hide and make us think they were out catching sharks.

Warner reminded the pilots that Marine OV-10 observation planes fly support from high above the South China Sea. Their call sign is Eagle Eye. They wait and watch. When they see boats, they call us. We go out and bust ass. You’ve learned well. You’re ready. So we’re ready to go bust boats, right?

Yes, Sir, they said in unison, as excitement showed in the light beaming from their eyes. Warner knew he had the right officers, the right pilots, the right warriors.

Our secondary mission, but just as important, is close-air ground support. They need us. You’ll probably be supporting some of your grunt buddies from Basic School. By golly, do your job well.

We use napalm, Sir? asked Snowden.

Affirmative. The VC don’t have armor or big guns. If we catch ’em in the open we can wipe ’em out in droves with napalm. Every one we get is one that won’t get us or our brothers.

Sounds simple, said Monroe.

Maybe. Maybe not as much as you’d think. Nothing ever is. You’ll see. We can’t always catch ’em in the open. Sly bastards, they are. They hide in the jungle for weeks and live off the land. They’re masters at camouflage.

Can we spot ’em from overhead?

"No, but Eagle Eye can. When Eagle sees ’em, they call us. We come in low; ten, twenty feet or so over the deck. Eagle guides us. Then BAM! Right up their gazoongas.

Something else. A reminder about midnight gook attacks. Remember?

Yes, Sir. What’re they after? It’s suicide.

Flight line, planes, fuel dump, people. Anything, including our minds. They cause a ruckus and play psychological warfare. They come to die. They don’t care because that’ll put ’em in heaven, a heaven loaded with cocaine, stocked with young virgins, all waiting at the gates to give warriors an eternity of pleasure. That’s what makes ’em so dangerous.

Damn, Sir. You told us about every part of the base except the medical facility. What about it?

Security’s got the hospital area pretty well protected. Sappers never hit it; not yet anyway. We don’t need that. Keep your fingers crossed. Think about it. Doctors. Corpsmen. Nurses. Yep, I said nurses. Can’t imagine that. That we don’t need.

Damn sure don’t.

That’s about it, gents. Almost 1100. Head to chow and get back shortly. Check the schedule board.

At 1300, Warner, Tobias, and the new pilots, Monroe and Snowden, waited on standby in VMA-143’s ready room, dressed in flight gear and draped in apprehension. They played a couple of table tennis matches. Nervousness brought that to a halt. Nothing would happen until they heard from Eagle Eye, so again they settled into games: cribbage, poker, or anything that might help pass a nervous wait.

Where you from, Sir? Somebody said South Carolina.

Lived there all my life. Then college. After that, the Marines. Once I wanted to go back there to live.

You going for twenty, Sir?

Most likely. Maybe even more. I had wanted to take over our family business. That’s out the window.

Why, Sir?

My family had an unfortunate accident three years ago. My mom and dad died in a late night automobile crash. They were coming home from a visit to Mom’s sister in Greenville. Drunk driver hit ’em. Head on. Remember that story, Vic?

Yes, Sir, Captain. You told me. So sad. I’m sorry.

Thank God Beth, my sister, and I have each other. She was a teenager then. It hit her really hard when I left for the Corps. She likes to keep up by mail, but I don’t write nearly enough. Tell ’em your story, Vic.

Like so many families, said Vic. My dad seldom writes. Maybe two letters in my life. Mom about twice a month. I like mail. Just can’t write. They keep wanting to know if I found a nice girl yet. Frankly, Boss, I never had time for a real girl friend. Takes time. One day I will.

Sure you will.

They say there’s a person for everyone, Boss.

Vic, as I’ve said before, I think you and Beth might like writing to one another. Make ’Nam easier to bear.

Been meaning to.

I told her about you. She loves to write and to get letters. I think she’d like to strike up with a pen pal. You need some mail, Partner.

I’d love it. I’ll do it.

The ready room door opened slowly. A pretty nurse in a spotless, white uniform, wearing the epaulets of a U.S. Navy Medical Corps lieutenant, stepped in. She stood, frozen for a minute, looking at the four pilots. With her 35mm Argus C-3 camera in hand, flap open, she seemed ready to snap a picture that might win Life Magazine’s picture of the year for 1969.

Warner stood. Angela Robbins. What’re you doing over here bothering the working class? Slumming?

Slumming. What else? I’m off today. She walked over, kissed his cheek, touched his hand, and squeezed it three quick times. Certainly you remember this. she said.

Sure do. And I love you, too, Warner said as he reciprocated her squeezes. This brought catcalls and jokes from the pilots.

You’re lucky, Angela, said Vic. You’ll be out of this hellhole in another month.

Maybe so, said Angela. Warner, let’s walk out to the flight line. I want a picture of you climbing in your beloved Skyhawk. I promised Daddy and Mama I’d send them an action shot of my future husband going on a mission.

Warner smiled. OK, let’s go, he said. "We’ll fake the mission part.