Long Range Patrol: A Novel of Vietnam (The Jim Hollister Trilogy Book 1)

by Dennis Foley

  Just as hard to face was the responsibility for the coordination of the supporting fires and the Air Force aircraft. Even though the pilots of at least half of the aircraft outranked him, he would be in operational control of their employment. He would decide when to execute all of the steps of the operation plans and, more important, what adjustments to make when things went sour.

  He looked at Captain Shelton and out and across at Iron Mike Taylor in the lead gunship. He was happy to have experienced pilots like them. At least he would be able to count on them to steer him out of harm’s way.

  “You watch the tree line for me. I’m going to try to keep my eye on all the aircraft and the team,” Captain Shaw said over the intercom while making eye contact with Hollister.

  Hollister nodded in acknowledgment.

  “And keep that list of preplanned fires in your fist. If I need to call for arty, I don’t want to have to go looking for it.”

  “We’re ready—on final,” Gladiator said over the intercom.

  Hollister thought that Shelton must have transmitted the same message over the radio because the gunships peeled off and started to circle the LZ in opposing directions—screaming across the treetops.

  Hollister looked out and below. The insert ship was just breaking over the leading edge of the LZ and starting its flare to slow and touch down. As it did, the chase ship continued to fly straight across the LZ a hundred feet above the insert ship. Reaching the far end of the LZ the pilot of the empty ship kicked it up and laid it over—hard right to double back and keep an eye on the insert ship which was down and skidding forward through the wet grass.

  “They’re down,” someone said over the intercom.

  Shaw reached up to throw the switch. Immediately Hollister and Shaw could hear the chopper cross talk.

  Spotting the movement on either side of the insert chopper, Shaw announced, “They’re out.”

  The C&C had reached a point at the far end of the LZ, but over five hundred feet above it. Captain Shelton made a wide, slipping left turn to put the C&C into a gentle left orbit which would allow him, Shaw, and Hollister to watch everything on the LZ.

  Below them, the grasses on the LZ were blowing and swirling violently under the downwash of the insert chopper blades. The team spread out as each man ran for the nearest point on the tree line to minimize his time in the open.

  “Comin’ up,” the insert pilot announced over the radio.

  Hollister watched the chase ship fall in several rotor disks behind the insert ship, to be in the best position to snatch any survivors if the insert ship took ground fire on the way out and had to put it into the trees.

  As the two slicks pulled out and up they gained airspeed and altitude to join the C&C in a long, lazy orbit around the LZ.

  The two gunships continued to orbit the landing zone, but widened their circle to see if they could spot any movement or draw any enemy fire from any VC outside the immediate perimeter of the clearing.

  Everyone was silent while they waited for Sergeant Davis to report the situation on the ground.

  While it looked pretty tame from the back of a Huey, there could be a small war going on and no one would know unless one of the LRPs called contact over the tactical frequency.

  “Three, this is Two-three. We are cold. I say again—cold insert. Over,” Davis said in hushed and labored breaths.

  Shaw turned to Hollister and smiled at the news, then responded to Davis’s message. “Okay, Two-three. We’re going on to the next LZ. We will be a holler away if you need us. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Davis said, still hushed.

  “Good hunting. Out.”

  Shaw reached up and switched the transmit switch off. “We ready to go to the next one?” he asked the pilots.

  Hollister heard Shelton click the mike button twice—a yes.

  Shaw switched the Operations radio back on and transmitted. “Quarterback, this is Three. Over.”

  A small voice answered. “This is Quarterback. Over.”

  “Three, Two-three is down and cold. We are going on to the next touch-and-go and then will be returning to your location to pick up One-two. Over.”

  The radio operator rogered Shaw’s transmission, and the chopper made a hard right as the five-ship flight got back into formation to make a fake insert on the third landing zone of the day.

  As they flew away, Hollister kept his eyes on the spot on the ground where he assumed Davis and Team 2-3 to be. He caught himself thinking about how they were doing and what they were starring to hear now that the chopper noises were fading.

  It was nearing noon when Hollister and Captain Shaw stepped out of the C&C chopper back at the LRP pad. They had inserted two teams, been back to refuel once, made four false inserts, and had reconned two possible landing zones for future inserts. Hollister’s legs felt rubbery and his throat was dry. The two powder-dry biscuits that he had for breakfast were just not adequate to keep him going all day. But it would be a while before he would get to eat. There was still plenty for him to do back in Operations.

  His own map in hand, Hollister cross-checked the locations of the inserted teams on the Operations map. It would prove very embarrassing for Operations to have the locations marked incorrectly when clearances for H&I fires were plotted or when a team called in a contact and the choppers flew out to the wrong location.

  Captain Shaw handed Hollister a fistful of papers. “Here, you need to go over all this and fill out the ones that need input.” They were intelligence updates, intelligence summaries, feeder reports for information collected throughout the Brigade, requests for map changes, and after-action report forms. Hollister looked back up at Shaw—puzzled and a little overwhelmed.

  Shaw smiled. “You thought maybe my job was all caviar, champagne, and riding to the rescue? You’ll soon find out that this ain’t all sex and battle streamers.”

  The paperwork was followed by a quick cup of coffee, and then back in the chopper. That sortie was an aerial recon of landing zones and ambush sites with the leaders of the two teams that would be inserted next.

  All the while, Hollister kept his radio on the detachment tactical frequency to monitor the two teams already on the ground, which had both moved to lay-up points away from their LZs to wait for dark. After dark they would move to their ambush sites and set up. Hollister knew there were plenty of chances for them to get ambushed or compromised before they settled in for the evening. They wouldn’t leave his mind for a moment.

  Somehow, the day had gotten away from Hollister, a fact he realized when he watched the sun setting in the mountains.

  Back in Operations, he went over the list of notes he had taken. He could see that if he were going to keep flying the C&C, he would need more notebooks or at least a larger one. He decided that he would look for more rather than larger. His rationale was that if he lost a notebook, it would be best that it had the least amount of information in it.

  Two team leaders and Hollister then sat around a map of the AO and discussed the LZs that they had reconned, and routes to and from them. He let them describe how they wanted to get to and from their ambush sites. Both sergeants picked routes that were bounded by easily distinguishable terrain features, a great aid to night movement. Routes through distinctive terrain were easier than walking on a football field in the dark. And unique terrain allowed pilots to more quickly identify targets and friendly locations.

  Listening to the two team leaders, Hollister became comfortable with their terrain analysis and their selection of routes. They made good choices, which would minimize their exposure and reduce movement time.

  Hollister released the team leaders to go back to their hooches, where they would complete their patrol orders. Before they left, he made sure that he knew what time they would be giving their patrol orders to their teams. Hollister, one gun pilot, one slick pilot, and the Operations officer or NCO would sit in on the orders.

  Having everyone present for the patrol orders and the b
riefbacks helped to clear up the details that could easily get screwed up out in the bush. It also gave the pilots a chance to see the faces of the troops they would be lifting, get used to the voices they would hear over the radios, and generally be able to form a mental picture of just who was who and what jobs they had.

  “Hey, you gonna eat or are you just operating off of last night’s beer ration?”

  Hollister turned around. Captain Shaw was standing there, hands on his hips and a cheap cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Yessir. Food sounds good, even if it is Kendrick’s.”

  As they walked to the door, Shaw patted Hollister on the shoulder. “You’re going to have to pace yourself and get some food in you or you’ll find yourself coming up short out there in the dark some night.”

  As they sat in the corner of the mess hall, Shaw critiqued Hollister’s actions. He was generally satisfied that Hollister was on top of everything. That was ninety percent of the job. “If you don’t know what the hell is going on every minute, you can’t make the right decisions. If you get behind the power curve, you’ll get somebody killed.

  “This is no different than what you’ve been doing for the better part of a year. You ground-guided forty grunts all over Hell and back as a platoon leader, and as a platoon and team leader here you’ve made the tough decisions that make the difference.”

  Hollister pushed his tray away and lit a cigarette. “Yessir, but it seems different up there. It seems so easy to screw up.”

  “It’s a matter of confidence. The more you do it, the better you’ll get and the more comfortable you’ll feel. And I don’t have to tell you that those folks on the ground want to hear lots of comfortable in your voice.

  “If you sound like you got your head up your ass, you’ll get them rattled on the ground and they won’t help you do your job. So, even if you’re having trouble—don’t sound like it. There are plenty of folks up there with you that have a lot of experience. Need some advice—ask. They won’t let you down.”

  Theodore shook Hollister’s shoulder. “Sir? Lieutenant?” Hollister looked around and realized that he had fallen asleep on the desk in his hooch. “What is it, Theodore?”

  “Sir, Two-three’s got movement. Sergeant Marrietta sent me over to get you.”

  Hollister was still lacing his boots up as Sergeant Marrietta finished briefing him on the details. “They’ve been reporting movement on the east side of their position.” Marrietta grabbed a look at his watch. “And that makes it ’bout an hour and half now.”

  “Where’s Captain Shaw?”

  “Sir, he’s up at Brigade S-2 for a briefing. I sent the runner to get Captain Michaelson, too.”

  “Choppers?”

  “They’re on five minute standby. The crews are in the mess hall giving a hand-off briefing to the replacement crews. But they’re going to stay here until things quiet down or a pickup out at Two-three’s location.”

  Theodore burst through the tent doorway. “Sarge, Cap’n Michaelson’s over at the shower point. He’ll be here soon as he can get dried off.”

  Hollister turned back to Sergeant Marrietta. “What’s been happening—details?”

  Marrietta picked up the radio log clipboard from the RTO, flipped back to an earlier entry, and read, “Team Two-three reported that they were moving to their ambush site at 1945 hours.”

  Hollister looked at the situation map next to the radios. On the acetate overlay, bits of information had been added in grease pencil. Someone had marked the frequencies, call signs, the challenge and password, and the time for EENT—End Evening Nautical Twilight. It read 1841 hours—it was plenty dark down in the low spots along the stream banks where 2-3 was moving.

  Marrietta waited for Hollister to look back, and then continued, “At 2050 they reported reaching their objective area. At 2105 they reported site recon complete and that they were moving into their ambush position.”

  Marrietta flipped the page on the clipboard. “They reported closing on the ambush site at 2155.”

  He traced his finger down the page until he found the next entry. “And at 2200 they sent their first sitrep. At that time it was negative.

  “Then at 2210 they reported movement two hundred meters west of their killing zone. It was along the trail on the near bank of the stream—closer to them.”

  “Was it coming from the direction they had just come from?”

  Marrietta shook his head. “No, sir. They moved into position from the northeast.”

  “Any more?”

  “Yessir. They have reported unidentified noise approaching them twice since then. And that whoever it was was not at all concerned about how much noise they were making.”

  “If they are making lots of noise, they must be deaf. How could anyone be working in that area and not know that we put someone down there this morning?”

  The squelch on the table-mounted radio broke. “Quarterback, this is Two-three,” a hushed but excited voice said.

  Hollister picked up the pork-chop mike. “This is Two-six. What you got? Over.”

  “Movement getting closer. My guess is that they’ll come up on the stream bank. It’ll put ’em between me and my demo. We’ve got Claymores covering the area, but no real fields of fire.”

  Hollister closed his eyes and thought over the options. They couldn’t trigger an ambush on an unknown force outside the killing zone. If they had to cut out, it would be bad to leave the demolitions that were in place along the waterline. He would have to make the call before Michaelson or Shaw returned.

  He pressed the button on the mike. “It gets too flaky, you blow it all and head for your PZ.” Then he had a thought. “Stand by one. Break. One-two this is Two-six. Are you moving? Press two for yes, one for no.”

  Hollister let up on the transmit button, and the aggravating hissing noise of the radio spilled from the small speaker. After what seemed too long, there was a break in the squelch and not a second.

  That ruled out a map error where one of the teams might be moving near the other. Hollister continued, “Thanks, One-two. Hang tough. Out. Break. Two-three, this is Two-six. Just give me two for yes … you got any more movement?”

  The squelch broke twice.

  “Okay, partner. You suck it up. We’re going to launch an extraction ship. I’ll be in the air in five. Do what you have to.”

  The squelch broke two more times, letting everyone in the Operations tent know that Davis agreed and understood. Hollister turned around and almost ran over Captain Michaelson, who had been standing behind him during the entire radio traffic.

  Michaelson adjusted his web gear and pointed to the doorway. “What are we waiting for, Ranger?”

  CHAPTER 19

  IT FELT LIKE THEY were slicing through cooler layers of air as the chopper gained altitude on the way to 2-3’s location. Knowing that it was only going to get colder before the evening ended, Hollister rolled down his sleeves and buttoned the top button on his fatigue shirt.

  Looking out into the black outside the chopper, he felt the muscles in his gut start to tighten. It was unusually quiet in his headset, so he leaned back to look up into the overhead switch box to see what channels Captain Michaelson was monitoring.

  Just then Michaelson leaned forward and transmitted a message as if he could see Davis’s men out in the inky night. “Two-three, this is Six. We are en route to your location. Give me two breaks if you can hear me. One if negative. Over.”

  The squelch broke twice.

  “You still got movement?”

  Twice again.

  “Can you talk?”

  Once.

  “Okay. You get your shit together. We’re zero—” Michaelson looked over his shoulder at the peter pilot, who raised his left hand and four fingers. “We are zero four out of your location. I want to yank you out of your primary PZ. You copy? Over.”

  Two breaks.

  “If you need to blow your Claymores, do it. If you don’t, wait. But blow everything on the way to th
e PZ. Don’t try to disarm anything. Hold on tight, Ranger. We’re inbound.”

  Two breaks.

  Hollister stared out into the darkness, looking for the small river. Finally he picked up the white slate color of the water and followed it to a tributary junction that identified a precise point on the ground. He snapped on his red filtered flashlight and oriented his map to the terrain.

  The team was just inside the wooded foothills on the margin of the rice fields. Hollister tapped Michaelson on the sleeve and pointed at the area.

  Michaelson had not been on the recons or the insert, so it was the first time he had seen the area. He looked closely at his own map to burn the control measures marked on his map into his head.

  Without warning, the night chopper sounds were broken by Sergeant Davis yelling over the handset. Everyone stiffened at the sound of the first syllable. If he was speaking above a whisper, it was because they were under fire.

  “Six, this is Two-three. We’re being probed. We are taking no fire, but we’ve popped two Claymores.” His voice transmission stopped abruptly and they heard the distinctive sounds of more Claymores detonating, and automatic weapons fire. Everyone in the chopper listened as the squelch broke once more, but only firing and grenade and Claymore detonations could be heard—no voice.

  Hollister hit Michaelson on the arm and pointed out into the black where small fireballs and red tracers lit up the stream bank.

  “Base, this is Six. Contact! I say again, Two-three has contact!” Michaelson said into the helmet mike. “Break, Two-three—okay now, tell me what you need.”

  The firing stopped and for a long moment the radio was too silent.

  Nothing. In the C&C they all strained for any sounds over the radio while they watched the spot on the ground for more shooting. No radio transmission usually meant the worst. Hollister’s stomach cramped up as he tried to push the thought of another wiped-out team from his mind.