Brandon Herrera’s Accidental Intel Coup
December 23, 1972, Tan Son Nhut Airbase, Saigon, Vietnam—a chaotic sprawl of jet engines, monsoon mud, and oppressive heat. Operation Linebacker II is in full swing, its fifth night of relentless bombing to cripple North Vietnam’s resolve. F-4 Phantoms and A-7 Corsairs roar off the tarmac, bound for Hanoi’s SAM-infested skies, while B-52s trudge in from Guam and Thailand. The campaign’s brutal—15 B-52s and 11 other aircraft will be lost by month’s end, with 43 airmen killed or captured. Tonight’s target: a suspected NVA supply depot near Vinh. The base buzzes with tension.
Sergeant Brandon Herrera, a walking paradox with a Bronze Star, Purple Heart, Army Commendation Medal, and Air Medal, trudges the perimeter, his beat-up AK-47 slung lazily over his shoulder. He’s on security detail, scanning for VC sappers itching to torch the fuel dumps. But his mind’s elsewhere—on Dolores, his donkey soulmate, reassigned to Da Nang to haul rice sacks. “Dolores, you fiery legend,” he mutters, scribbling on a soggy scrap of paper under a flickering guard post lamp. Private Rodriguez, a wiry smartass, snorts. “Writing sonnets to a donkey again, Herrera? You’re unhinged.” Brandon smirks. “She’s got more guts than you, compadre.”
He’s been a mess since Dolores left. Sleep’s a ghost, replaced by memories of her brays and that time she dropkicked a VC grenade into a river. Tonight, he spills his soul: “Dolores, my queen, I miss our wild rides—those chili powder traps, the musical ambushes that freaked out the brass. Saw a water buffalo today, swore it was you pulling a fast one. Gotta get you back, girl.” It’s a fever dream of a letter, sealed in an envelope labeled “Da Nang – URGENT” for a chopper pilot.
But chaos loves Brandon. Stumbling back to the barracks, half-dead from exhaustion, he trips over a sandbag. The envelope flies, skidding across the tarmac and under the intel shack’s door—a sweaty tin hut where officers decode NVA secrets. Captain Ellis, a paranoid caffeine addict, grabs it. “Urgent from Da Nang? Jackpot!” He rips it open, expecting gold. Instead, it’s Brandon’s donkey ramblings.
Ellis, wild-eyed, squints at the text. “Spicy encounters… musical ambushes… water buffalo disguise? This is NVA code!” His team, running on fumes, jumps in. “Chili powder traps—chemical weapons?” “Musical ambushes—jamming signals?” They twist “get you back” into a counteroffensive plan. By morning, they’ve concocted a report: the NVA are stockpiling supplies near Vinh, using decoys and weird tactics. It lands on the commander’s desk.
The brass, reeling from last night’s B-52 losses, bites. At 1900 hours, F-4s from Tan Son Nhut obliterate the Vinh site. It’s a real depot—trucks, ammo, fuel—now a smoking ruin. The NVA’s plans are gutted, and the strike’s a triumph. The intel team basks in unearned glory, ignoring their “source’s” absurdity.
Brandon’s oblivious, moping by the runway, wondering where his letter went. Rodriguez jogs up. “We torched an NVA stash thanks to some intel wizardry!” Brandon grunts, kissing Dolores’s photo. “Swell. I just want my donkey.”
A week later, December 29, with Linebacker II wrapping up, a grizzled colonel drags Brandon to a ceremony. The intel crew, too smug to confess their mistake, pushed for recognition. “Sergeant Herrera,” the colonel intones, pinning the Silver Star to his chest, “for gallantry in action against the enemy.” The citation mumbles about “unconventional intelligence aiding a critical strike.” Brandon blinks, dazed. “Groovy,” he mutters, saluting halfheartedly.
Rodriguez cackles as they leave. “You’re a freak show, Herrera, but it pays off.” Brandon grips the medal, staring at the Saigon dusk. “This one’s for you, Dolores. We’ll roll again.” In Da Nang, a donkey brays—maybe she gets it. Or maybe she’s just mad at the rice sacks. Either way, Brandon’s saga stumbles on, absurd as ever.
