Proxy War (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 29), page 1
PROXY WAR
Vietnam: Ground Zero Series
Book Twenty-Nine
Eric Helm
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
EPILOGUE
ALSO BY ERIC HELM
GLOSSARY
PROLOGUE
Hidden deep in the bowels of the Pentagon, in a room with a vault-like door and access controlled by a senior NCO sitting at a desk and armed with a Colt .45 1911A1 ACP, was a select group of senior officers. The highest ranking of the men was the Army Chief of Staff, General William C. Westmoreland, who had been the senior officer and overall commander in Vietnam for several years. Next to him was Major General David Kincaid, a senior intelligence officer who was virtually unknown to anyone outside of the Army. Across the table was Major General Steven Walker, an expert in asymmetrical warfare who had been one of the first of the Green Berets and who had served three tours in Vietnam advising both the Army of the Republic of Vietnam and the local indigenous forces. The last man, and the lowest ranking of them, was Captain Leslie Newman, who was there as the classified briefing officer.
Newman, a young man who had just returned from Vietnam after a special mission into Laos, stood behind a lectern with a remote control for a slide projector in his left hand. He waited as the generals settled into their seats, plush high-backed chairs, poured themselves either coffee or water, and turned their attention to him. He was more than a little nervous because he had rarely been in any room with a general officer and certainly not alone in a room with three of the highest-ranking generals in the United States Army.
Westmoreland sat back in his chair, raised his glass almost as if it was a badge of rank and said, “You may begin, Captain.”
Newman hesitated, then gestured toward the screen where the first slide reinforced the importance of the briefing. He said, “Gentlemen, I guess I don’t need to mention that this briefing is classified at the highest levels and that nothing said in here is to be discussed outside the confines of a properly secured room or with those not cleared to hear it.”
With that, he pressed the button on the remote and the slide changed, showing a group of armed men in the distance. Although it was difficult to make out, given the poor quality of the photograph, it seemed that some of the men towered over the others. It was a group of European men with a group of either Vietnamese or Laotians, though their identity was almost impossible to make out.
“This photograph was taken by an Australian journalist and smuggled out of Laos several months ago. It seemed to suggest Caucasian men working with members of either the North Vietnamese Army in Laos, or members of the Laotian Army or a combination of both those organizations.”
Westmoreland looked at his watch and said, somewhat impatiently, “We know this. Move on.”
Newman changed the slide. It was an enlargement of part of the first photograph, but it was centered on one of the taller men. “Although we’ve lost some contrast, we were able to identify some of the decorations and rank insignia on the uniform. We had originally worried that the men might be defectors from the U.S. military, but that wasn’t the case. That man is a Russian.”
Kincaid interrupted. “We have known for a long time that there were Soviet advisors in North Vietnam. There is intelligence suggesting that Soviet fighter pilots have engaged in aerial combat with our Air Force and Navy pilots. We have recordings of the air-to-air chatter.”
“Yes, General,” said Newman. “We’ve ignored that, as has the U.N. and our allies. They have been afraid of widening the war which could escalate into a nuclear conflagration. We have avoided attacking the North Vietnamese ships in Haiphong Harbor because of the risk of sinking one of those ships.”
“Captain,” said Westmoreland, “we are not here for a history lesson.”
“Yes, General. I wanted to set the stage. I wanted to ensure that the point is not lost.”
“Then get on with it.”
“Certainly, General.” He clicked on the next slide. It was clearer — clear enough that the unit insignia worn by the Caucasian men could be identified.
Westmoreland asked, “Where did you get that picture?”
Walker spoke for the first time. “We put a team into Laos to investigate. HALO insertion. They then walked out, over the border into South Vietnam. They brought the pictures.”
“I hope that you decorated that team, General,” said Westmoreland.
“Of course.”
Newman clicked on the next slide and said, “We can see these Soviets, and it is clear that they are Soviets, are engaged in training the local troops. Change the location, the uniforms and you could be looking at our Special Forces training one of the indigenous populations in South Vietnam.”
“Yes, yes,” said Westmoreland.
“General, what we’re suggesting here is that the Soviets are training those people to engage in combat operations with our forces in South Vietnam.”
Westmoreland was about to ask about the importance of that when he realized what was being said. He held up a hand to stop Newman from continuing as he digested what he had just been told.
“They’re turning the tables on us. They are training a force to engage us in Southeast Asia.”
Newman nodded. “Yes, sir. They’re replacing the Viet Cong with another military force being trained in a neutral country to deploy in South Vietnam.”
Westmoreland stood up suddenly and said, “General Walker, I’d like to see you in my office. General Kincaid, I’ll want to know more about this.”
“Yes, General.”
“Captain Newman, that’ll be all. Thank you.”
CHAPTER 1
Major MacKenzie K. Gerber, U.S. Army Special Forces and known as Mack to his friends and a few of his enemies, sat in the semi-airconditioned office in a single-story building in Nha Trang, Republic of Vietnam. He sat behind a battered desk that had an actual bullet hole in it, though it was from an American-made M-16 and not a Chicom-made AK-47. He was wearing jungle fatigues with the sleeves rolled to the halfway point between his shoulder and elbow and he was sipping on a warm Pepsi from a can. With his feet propped on the lowest drawer, he was reading the weekly incident report that had been handed to him by Sergeant Major Anthony B. Fetterman, also a member of the Army Special Forces and assigned to the same office as Gerber.
Fetterman was an older soldier; in his late forties, he was smaller than the average NCO, but Gerber had never met anyone tougher or more dangerous than Fetterman. He had been a paratrooper in World War Two and had combat experience in both Korea and Vietnam. The sleeves of his jungle fatigues were buttoned at the wrist because, for some reason, he had become concerned about skin cancer caused by exposure to the blazing tropical sun.
Like Gerber, he was drinking a Pepsi from a can and didn’t care that it was warm. He waited for Gerber to finish the incident report and then asked, “What’d you think of it?”
“New A Team at Song Be seems to be having some trouble.”
“I wouldn’t say that sporadic mortar attacks are much trouble.”
“I see that they’re reporting limited damage and no casualties. More harassment than enemy action,” said Gerber.
Fetterman shrugged and set the can on the corner of Gerber’s desk. “You think we should go take a look?”
“Well, that would get us out of here and into the field.”
Now Fetterman grinned. “But here we have an all-night generator, movies, clubs that have actual food, and nurses. There are none of those things in the field or at Song Be.”
Gerber raised an eyebrow and said, “Nurses … or nurse?”
“I don’t know what the problem is, Major. I can look at a nurse or two.”
“Does this nurse or two have a name?”
“I’m not sure that I understand this interrogation, Major.”
“I am following the finest traditions of leadership here. I’m taking an interest in the welfare of the soldiers assigned to my unit.”
Fetterman looked as if he was deep in thought and then said, “I would believe that a nurse is safer than a reporter. The nurse would be inclined to help while the reporter is only interested in gathering information that will ultimately harm us.”
“Aren’t we moving into a personal arena here, one that is far above your pay grade?”
“I was just suggesting a difference in the occupational outlooks for various vocations that could affect our missions,” Fetterman replied.
“But the question remains, Sergeant Major. Does the nurse have a name?”
Hoping to change the subject, Fetterman asked, “Did you see the report from Johnny’s team?”
“Indeed I did but I wonder, now that he’s a captain with his own team, if we shouldn’t refer to him as John or Captain Bromhead,”
“It might be interesting to visit young Captain Bromhead, which also gets us out of here.”
Gerber took a long pull at his Pepsi and tossed the now empty can into the waste basket, also known throughout the Army as the circular file. “I think Johnny —”
“You mean Captain Bromhead?” interrupted Fetterman.
“I dislike being interrupted, especially when you’re right. I think Captain Bromhead is capable of handling his team. We trained him well. I’d like to see how this new guy is handling his team at Song Be. We can always visit Bromhead later.”
“When would you like to go?”
Gerber looked at his watch. “Well, there is no sense in going this afternoon. We can have a good meal, get a good night’s sleep and head out in the morning.”
Fetterman nodded. “Mode of travel?”
“C-123? There are flights down toward Saigon and Cu Chi or maybe Tay Ninh,” said Gerber. “We might be able to arrange something.”
“Can they land a C-123 at Song Be?” asked Fetterman.
“They’ve got a good runway outside the camp. That shouldn’t be a problem and if not, then we can catch a helicopter from one of those places to Song Be.”
Now Fetterman smiled cautiously. “We going to tell them we’re coming or are we just going to drop in on them?”
“Nope. We’re not on an inspection tour. We’re just going to check out the situation and see if there is something we can do for them. We’ll just show up and see what we can see.”
“Are you going to arrange the flight?”
“I’ll go over to operations and see what’s scheduled. Once I know that, I’ll let you know when to be there. Of course, I need to know where you’ll be.”
“Nice try, Major,” said Fetterman. “Just wake me in the morning in time to catch the flight.”
Gerber dropped his feet to the floor. “I say we call it a day. I’ll leave a message with the CQ for you, giving you the flight time.”
“And where will you be?” asked Fetterman.
“Unlike you, I won’t be chasing wild women and probably drinking intoxicating beverages.”
Fetterman laughed. “Are you ill?”
“No, I’m just a little tired and figured that one night of good sleep is worth it.” With that he stood up. “See you in the morning.”
There was no rule about the wearing of civilian clothing after duty hours. Fetterman, having fallen in love with Hawaiian shirts, had bought six before he had deployed to Vietnam. He found them comfortable and perfect for the stifling humidity that was accompanied by the high temperatures of Vietnam. He found the loudest of them that contained bright reds, greens with splashes of yellow. If nothing else, he would stand out in a crowd.
Although there were officers’ clubs and NCO clubs and enlisted clubs, the Special Forces had one open to all military personnel regardless of rank. The only requirement was to have earned a Green Beret, though that rule was sometimes bent for helicopter pilots who had pulled a team from a near fatal encounter, or medical personnel who had saved a life or two. The club wasn’t overly exclusive, but you did have to earn your way through the doors one way or another.
Fetterman entered and was immediately hit by the cold air of an overactive air-conditioning system. After the heat outside, it was downright chilly in the club. He walked past the racks for weapons, which were not allowed in the main part of the club. Fetterman wasn’t carrying a rifle but he did have a personal 9mm automatic tucked in a holster inside the waistline of his khaki pants and was hidden by the tails of his shirt. Fetterman just couldn’t surrender all his weapons even if the rules required it. His philosophy being that it was better to have a weapon and not need it than to not have it and need it.
This attitude was developed during Tet in 1969. Although not covered with the same enthusiasm as the attacks a year earlier, there had been widespread engagements throughout South Vietnam. There had been a large spike in casualties, but that had dropped off in the days following Tet. The media was too busy searching for horror stories of American atrocities rather than the assaults on American and South Vietnamese installations.
Fetterman had been in Saigon, his M-16, locked in a rack at his camp. He had been in Saigon for a briefing that provided no real information when one of the attacks had been launched. He was seated in a briefing room when he heard shooting outside. Unlike some of those who were stationed in Saigon, who thought of themselves as safe, he understood the danger. Rather than sitting there, looking at the others, Fetterman had pushed himself out of his chair and walked to the door.
One of the senior officers had said, “Where are you going, Fetterman?”
“I thought I would see what is happening out there.”
“There is no need for that. We have MPs guarding the entrance.”
Fetterman, pulling his pistol from the small of his back where it had been hidden, said, “Yes, sir. I saw them when I came in.”
“Then you know there is no reason for you to leave this room.”
Another of the officers said, “That weapon is illegal. Carrying a concealed weapon is against Army regulations.”
Fetterman ignored them both and opened the door. He stepped into the hallway and saw the guard kneeling against the wall, his rifle pointing down the corridor. The MP was a young Spec Four who probably had less than two years of service and probably only a few months in Vietnam. He might have never fired his weapon at another human being.
Fetterman asked, “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know. There’s shooting out there, but I don’t see anything.”
“Stay here and don’t let anyone get close to the door who isn’t in uniform. I’m going to check this out. Make sure of your target before you shoot.”
The man looked up at Fetterman and nodded.
Fetterman then walked slowly down the corridor, his back against the wall and his eyes on the end of the hall. Through the glass doors, he could see two MPs, crouched down, their weapons pointing at the empty parking lot. As he reached the door, one of the MPs opened fire on full auto. Fetterman couldn’t see what he was shooting at and didn’t like the way the soldier was burning through his ammo. He probably didn’t have more than two or three spare magazines, meaning he had fewer than a hundred rounds.
When he reached the door, he took cover on one side, against the wall and looked out. He could see no threat, but heard firing off to the right, out of his line of sight. He didn’t really want to enter a firefight with only a pistol and two spare magazines in his pocket. He needed an M-16, even if it wasn’t one that he had zeroed.
A stray round shattered the glass of one of the doors. Fetterman had no idea where it had come from. He only knew that it hadn’t been aimed at him. It was the classic golden BB. A round fired that finds a target by luck rather than skill.
He dropped to one knee and then saw three men dressed in black pajamas running across the parking lot. He was about to shout at the MPs, when one of them turned and engaged the enemy. Two went down and the third turned to run.
“That stopped them,” shouted the MP. He sounded like the runner who had just scored an improbable touchdown. He hadn’t expected the result, but he had engaged anyway.
“Can you see anyone else?” shouted Fetterman.
They both shot a glance back at him. “No. Just those three guys, but there’s a hell of a lot shooting out here.
Fetterman stepped through the remains of the glass door and knelt behind one of the decorative plants. It was in a large pot that provided both protection and cover. “Who else is around here?”
“Our platoon has deployed, and I think they’re engaged off to the right. We were told to protect this entrance.”
That had satisfied Fetterman for the moment. He had no real authority here, other than the six strips sewn to his sleeve. He said, “I’m going to pull back now.” He had thought about giving them instructions, but it seemed that both knew what they were doing. At least they were smart enough to remain under cover while keeping an eye on the area around them.
He slipped back down the hall to where the young Spec Four had been waiting. He asked, “What’s going on out there?”
“Harassment,” said Fetterman. “I think the MPs have it covered.”
When he entered the conference room, he saw that everyone was sitting right where they had been when he left. He was surprised by that. He would have thought that some of the officers would want to take charge. He supposed it was the difference between a combat veteran and the guys who had spent their careers out of the combat arena and behind a desk.
