The Misty Pilots
One of the radio transmissions that the technicians happened to intercept detailed the death of an American pilot. The shootdown of a U.S. plane and the fate of the pilots were matters of the highest interest to Hanoi. North Vietnamese commanders were likely to relay this kind of information as rapidly as possible. So shortly after the crash of Misty 21 on March 18, a field commander eager to announce the accomplishment reported it over a communications radio. The U.S. operatives gathering the intercepts merely swept up the radio transmissions, which were then sent on to translators and other experts to be analyzed. It usually took several days to determine what kind of intelligence the intercepts contained. This one had some precise information. The North Vietnamese officer provided the serial number listed on the pilot's dog tag as verification. It belonged to Howard K. Williams. The intelligence analysts couldn't tell whether the North Vietnamese had discovered Howie's body in the wreckage of the aircraft, or someplace else. But the basic fact of his death seemed to be clear.
Telling anybody outside the reclusive intelligence community, however, was out of the question. If they were to report what they knew, questions would inevitably arise about how they knew it. That could lead to speculation about U.S. eavesdropping capabilities, which might somehow get back to the North Vietnamese, who might become more circumspect about their radio communications, which might jeopardize the whole effort.
There were inevitably circumstances in which intelligence held in American hands could significantly affect the lives of U.S. citizens. Resolving mysteries about the missing was one of them. From a military perspective, there was little difference between a troop who was killed and one who was missing. Either way he was no longer available to fight. But to family members and friends back home the distinction was enormous. It meant the difference between a life spent waiting and wondering and the ability to rage, grieve, and move on. No matter: National security was at stake, and that trumped any individual's emotional and psychological needs. The news of the pilot's death would have to remain secret.
So on March 20, two days after the shootdown, the Air Force officially declared Howard K. Williams to be MIA, missing in action. Since Rutan had known him best, he became the summary courts officer, responsible for packing up Howie's stuff, paying his bills, taking care of any unfinished business. It was a grim duty, but one that many pilots had undertaken. A couple of other pilots who had done the same thing for their own lost buddies warned him that the reaction of the family, racked with grief and anger, was sure to be negative. The government, and the huge military bureaucracy, were amorphous, unsatisfying targets for their anguish. The natural instinct was to find human beings to pin the blame on. Rutan would be in the cross hairs—a name and a face they could hold responsible for their pain and loss. It added to his guilt over the fate of his friend.
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