by Tom Wilson
The impact was hard but bearable, as if they'd hit into treetops. The chopper tilted onto its tail, and after a short pause Lucky could feel that they were plummeting.
Again he braced himself. The second impact was more severe, but was tempered by the crumpling of the tail section. The fuselage slowly fell forward and came to a jolting rest.
Silence . . . the smell of kerosene growing stronger.
Gotta get out.
Lucky kicked mightily and pushed his way from under the dead sergeant, then slithered across the floor.
The high-ranking officer looked dazed. His pistol had been wrenched from his grip, and he held his hands, fingers extended, before himself, eyes wide and staring at them with a numbed expression. Blood ran down, soaking one sleeve.
Lucky didn't pause to look further. He stood, fell, then stood again and studied the door latch.
The high-ranking pilot said something in a low mutter.
Lucky turned his back to the door and worked with his hands until the latch was pulled up and around. He shoved hard. The sliding door budged. He turned and pushed, then reared back and butted it with his shoulder. It moved again, was now several inches open.
It was enough.
He slithered through and tumbled out onto the ground.
They were in dense jungle.
He looked slowly about and finally found a piece of broken Plexiglas that looked sufficiently sharp for his needs. He turned and knelt, and picked it up with his bound hands.
"Lokee!" came an outraged shout from inside.
He hurried on shaky legs into the underbrush and away from the helicopter, not knowing which direction he was traveling and at least for the moment, not caring.
0715 Local—Ta Khoa Province, DRV
Air Regiment Commandant Quon
The enormity of what had happened grew. A Thunder plane had shot them down, and now . . . Lokee was escaping!
Quon released his seat belt, but he felt agonizing pain in his left arm when he tried to move forward. He examined and saw that a sharp, thin fragment of aluminum had been torn from the aft bulkhead and skewered his upper arm. The tip of it protruded from his bicep.
"Lokee!'' he shouted again. He wanted to follow the escaping prisoner, but he was pinned, for the jagged piece of metal was connected to the bulkhead. He stared at the wound, then braced and slowly forced himself forward until he was freed. Blood flowed down his arm, soaking his tunic sleeve, but he ignored it.
"Lokee!" he bellowed even louder. The smell of fuel was sharp in his nostrils.
The Russian copilot was moving about in the forward cabin, frantically trying to tend to the pilot, who'd been half-decapitated by a tree limb.
"He is dead," grumbled Quon in Russian. "Leave him. We must find the prisoner."
The copilot released the pilot's seat belt and shoulder harness and tried to pull him out of the seat.
"Leave him," repeated Quon as he pushed his way into the doorway opened by Lokee. He squeezed through the small space and dropped to the jungle floor, looking about warily.
"Lokee," he whispered.
The American was nowhere in sight. Which way had he gone?
The copilot had dragged his fellow Russian to the door and was outside, attempting to pull him through when a fire started at the crushed aft section of the helicopter.
"Get out of there, you fool!" shouted Quon. "It is burning!"
As fire spread toward the fuselage, the copilot backed away until he stood beside Quon. "He was a hero," the Russian said with a catch to his voice. "He brought us down alive."
"He is dead," Quon said simply.
"Will it explode?"
"The tank was ruptured, so it will only burn. Let us go now."
The co-pilot blinked and looked at Quon. "We should wait here to be rescued."
"No!" shrieked Quon. "We must find help, and then we must recapture the monster."
1830 Local—Officers' Club Dining Room, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Captain Billy Bowes
The others had finished eating and left. Billy was by himself in the dining room, waiting for No Hab to bring his hamburgers and idly contemplating whether to go downtown and get his ashes hauled by one of the bored Thai whores, or to tackle unfinished paperwork.
The paperwork's argument waned when he remembered it had been more than a month since he'd last visited the ladies of Ta Khli.
That argument solved, he looked about the dining room.
B. J. Parker was at the colonel's table across the room, speaking with Colonel Lyons.
They aren't so different after all, he thought. Then he wondered if, when you made full bull, they didn't cut off your balls.
It was a crying, fucking shame, what they were doing to Manny. Morale had been affected in all three squadrons, and the pilots thought of Colonel Parker in a new light. Before Manny's troubles, Parker had been regarded as one of them. A fighter jock who'd made it to colonel and wanted to go higher, and what the hell was so wrong with that? But now, no matter what he said about "all that pressure," B. J. Parker was the one bringing charges against DeVera.
Perhaps it would have cost Parker his career to go against the four-star's wishes, but that was part of being a leader. You supported your men first, then you worried about yourself. It could have been any one of them instead of Manny. Everyone had a bad bomb every now and then. No one was immune from flinching a little at bomb release when a flak burst went off beside the cockpit. Some threw a bomb more often than others, but no one got great bombs every time they dropped.
The guys who knew him said there weren't many better than Manny DeVera when it came to collecting the dime bets after a training mission on a bombing range. And everyone who knew him knew he was no conspirator. A few remembered he'd gone through a bad period, but he'd not been alone. And he'd come out of his nervous state to regain his place as one of the best gunners in the wing, which made him just that much more special. Manny'd been the one, for Christ's sake, to drop the goddam Canales des Rapides bridge.
"Join you for a minute, Captain?"
Billy emerged from his thoughts, looked up, and saw Parker standing before him with a serious look on his face.
He quickly stood. B. J. Parker cocked his head inquisitively.
"Oh—yes, sir," said Billy, remembering what Parker had asked, and at the same time wondering what the wing commander wanted.
Parker sat across from him and regarded the room for a moment as Billy cautiously retook his own seat.
"Heard you did okay up there today," said Parker.
"We got the helicopters on the ground. Major Foley counted ten of them."
"How about the one you went after?"
"I think I hit him, but I took my eyes away for a couple of seconds, and when I looked back, he was gone. Lieutenant Smith thinks he went down, but he could've landed."
Parker nodded. "I read the debriefing reports." He grew a pained expression. "Heard anything from the Supersonic Wetback?"
Billy bristled that Parker should use the term Manny reserved for friends.
"No, sir," he finally said.
After another pause Billy followed his impulse. "He's innocent, Colonel." Parker raised an eyebrow, surprised he'd spoken up. "Manny DeVera didn't do anything wrong. Hell, he was always harping at the rest of us to keep our bombs on the target."
"Yes, well . . . I was shown a piece of paper, solid evidence, that said he dropped on a restricted target."
"That's bullshit, sir. If it says that, the paper lies."
Parker frowned.
"Ask anyone in C-Flight. Manny DeVera might be a little wild at partying, but he's a straight arrow when it comes to flying and duty and being an Air Force officer."
"I thought so too. I've known him for a long time, you know. Since he was a lieutenant. But the evidence and"—Parker shook his head—"I'm getting a lot of pressure. . . ."
Billy suppressed more anger. A fucking excuse from a wing commander?
Parker
looked out at the room.
Might as well go all the way, thought Billy. "Did you know about the hassle between Captain DeVera and Colonel Lyons, sir?"
Parker looked as if he didn't want to talk more about it. "What hassle?"
Billy told him what he knew about Manny taking Lyons's girl from the club, and how Manny had reclaimed her after he'd beaten his problem.
Parker listened half-attentively, not interrupting but not seeming to be impressed.
Billy sucked a breath and told what he'd heard about the fight at the trailer.
"Captain DeVera hit the colonel?" asked B. J. Parker incredulously.
"Lyons either slapped or hit the girl, Colonel."
"She said Colonel Lyons slapped her?"
"Well she didn't come out and tell us that, but Lyons did something to her before Manny slugged him. She wanted to go to you with the story, but Manny told her not to."
Parker narrowed his eyes. "Did Captain DeVera tell you all this?" he asked, and Billy realized he was intimating that Manny had made excuses.
"No, sir. Manny didn't want to say anything that might hurt Miss Bell's reputation. I picked it up here and there." He related what the acting squadron commander had told him.
"But the major didn't actually see anyone hit anyone else?"
"No, sir, but . . ."
"You're sure all this isn't just rumor?"
"Yes, sir."
Parker looked as if he were struggling with a decision, and Billy became hopeful.
Then Parker shook his head. "You didn't give me anything to say that Manny DeVera didn't purposefully attack the wrong target. And nothing to verify that Colonel Lyons did anything wrong or was trying to get Captain DeVera."
"Don't you think it's awfully convenient that neither Major Lucky nor Colonel Encinos are here to question what Lyons is telling you, sir?"
Parker's mouth tightened.
"Manny DeVera was set up by Lyons, Colonel."
Parker's face was fixed in a hard expression. "You mean Colonel Lyons, I assume. That's a damned strong charge, Captain, considering you don't know what went on between them, and you don't have proof that DeVera didn't drop on an unauthorized target."
Parker rose to his feet stiffly, followed closely by Billy.
B.J.'s voice was crisp. "Some day, Captain, you'll learn you have to go with the evidence before you, and that you can't follow rumors and gut feelings."
Billy remained quiet. He'd already overstepped himself.
"Good evening," said B. J. Parker, and he strode from the dining room as if leaving something distasteful.
"Fuck," muttered Billy darkly.
But even if he'd gotten into trouble with Parker, he somehow felt good about what he'd done. Even if he hadn't listened, he'd told him what he and most of the other pilots thought.
And just maybe he'd planted a seed of doubt.
Billy wondered if he shouldn't have told Parker about his own transgressions, how he'd gone after the unauthorized targets and how he still felt no remorse about bombing them.
No Hab had arrived with his overcooked hamburgers before he made up his mind that it wouldn't help to throw himself on the fire that was beginning to engulf Manny DeVera.
He resolved to go downtown, find a good-looking LBFM, a little brown fucking machine, and try to screw his troubles away.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Western Mountains, North Vietnam
Major Lucky Anderson
He was lost, knew only that he was in forested mountains, that the strike planes flew on a path north of him, and that he was heading west toward Laos. He had no idea how far he'd have to travel. Each morning he watched for the Thuds and Phantoms on their way to the Red River Valley, so he could walk in the direction from which they came. He'd done that for the past two days, going toward Channel 97, call sign BRL, the TACAN navigation station which served as a checkpoint for the strike force. And . . . the CIA-sponsored tribesmen there.
He had nothing to shoot or capture animals with. He'd tried lying in wait to club jungle rats with his new walking staff, but they were far too wily to fall for it. He occasionally found and ate berries and sour fruit, and he'd once found eggs in a nest and had gulped down their viscous liquid. While that wasn't sufficient to maintain his strength, together with the boost the gomer meals had provided, it would have to be enough.
The critical question remained. How far must I go?
The thing he hated most was his lack of footwear, for with each step his feet became more raw. There were thorns and bristles, and worst of all, stinging bamboo, but even when he avoided those, the jungle provided a thousand other plants and stones to hurt his feet.
He'd tried wrapping his feet with the tough leaves of plants and tying them in place with vines, but he couldn't keep them on. Then he'd ripped the sleeves from his flight suit and worked with the piece of sharp Plexiglas to fashion bindings for his feet. That helped, but he knew they wouldn't last much longer, for they were already shredded.
He continued to travel ever westward, and even though his pace was slow, his feet continued to blister, swell, and suffer.
Day 60, 0715 Local
He waited, scanning the western sky for aircraft. Finally he saw them, still far out. A series of specks at first, then drawing closer and growing wings.
He drew a mental line down to the horizon and memorized prominent landmarks there, so when he awoke in the evening he'd know which direction to walk. With that done, he grasped the piece of Plexiglas and for the hundredth time rubbed the glossiest side onto the fabric of his flight suit. He held it up, noted the position of the morning sun, and moved it until he saw the reflection on a nearby tree. Very slowly, he steered the beam up toward the formation of aircraft.
Lucky had practiced different ways of signaling rescue aircraft in all three of the Air Force survival courses he'd attended. Mostly he'd used mirrors designed for the task, but the instructors had also encouraged the pilots to learn how to make do with other materials, such as pieces of shiny metal and Plexiglas. The glare had seemed bright enough when he'd tried it the previous day on other formations of aircraft, even though there'd been no response. He'd decided to use it whenever he saw an American aircraft, because just maybe . . .
He continued to sweep the reflected light methodically across the formation of fighters, hoping someone up there was looking and would see the recurring flashes.
When they'd passed by, Lucky replaced the glass into the pocket of his flight suit, then began looking for a good hiding place for the day. He settled on a small thicket on the hillside.
Monday, October 9th, 0722 Local—Route Pack Five, North Vietnam
Captain Billy Bowes
The flashing first caught his attention when it came from a position on the ground far ahead of the gaggle and continued as they approached. When Billy called their attention to it, several others agreed that someone was down there trying to contact them. There was a cadence to the flashes, indicating they were man-made.
As they passed, Billy wrote down the coordinates shown in the counter of his Doppler nav system. While the Dopplers were often inaccurate, he'd updated as they'd passed over BRL TACAN station on the border, and there hadn't been time for it to wander too far off course.
They were not likely to have the luxury of the TACAN station for much longer. Intell reported BRL was about to come under attack, that the previous evening a sizable group of Pathet Lao troops had approached the mesa on which it was located. C-47 gunships had been called in to support the station by spraying the area with their miniguns, and several fighter strikes had bombed near the base of the mesa, but the attackers were well hidden in thick forests. Intell felt it was only a matter of time before the Pathet Lao took the site.
If it-was a downed pilot flashing them from the ground, he hoped to hell he wasn't headed toward the TACAN station.
A thought glimmered. Could it be Lucky down there?
Fuel permitting, Billy decided that on their way
out Red Dog flight would try to find the coordinates and see if the flashes reappeared.
"We've got some weather up ahead," called B. J. Parker, who was strike force lead. "We'll swing north around it."
Parker had been cool toward him this morning, but he'd expected that and didn't regret what he'd said to him. Someone had to speak up for Manny, for Christ's sake.
Billy could see towering clouds in the distance and wondered if there would be more in the target area. They were bound for the Bac Giang bridge, east of Hanoi. Henry Horn's bombs had knocked a span down two weeks before, but it had since been repaired. Henry had volunteered to fly this mission, although it was his ninety-seventh, saying he didn't want to leave unfinished business behind.
The 355th wing had now heavily damaged or destroyed six different bridges and had gone back to batter the Doumer bridge three times. They'd come to regard the Doumer as the easiest of the lot, because it was so large. Now it was the small ones they disliked.
The gomers were resourceful at patching up badly damaged bridges. Still, when they went to bomb the rail sidings and truck parks north of Hanoi, they found them filled to overflowing with bottlenecked supplies, so they were obviously having effect.
They were slowly paralyzing the bastards by attacking their bridges, thought Billy.
He glanced at the coordinates he'd written on his kneepad, thinking for another moment about Lucky and how he'd knocked down the Doumer that first time. Then he slowly scanned the skies about them, looking for MiGs. It was time to go to work.
The Red River slowly crawled beneath his aircraft, and they passed into pack six.
0731 Local—North of Bac Giang, Route Pack Six
The flak was heavy, 57mm and 85mm tracking all about the individual aircraft as they dived. Billy eyed it carefully and decided to delay his dive for a couple more seconds so he could hook back toward the target and attack from the south.
Red Dog was last on target, and thus far the bridge was still standing. They were diving from 16,000 feet. High, but not so high they couldn't see the target.
His RHAW system began to chatter, and a powerful SAM strobe pointed toward Haiphong. Then, for the second time on the mission, the LAUNCH light illuminated.