The Fall of Camp A-555: The Vietnamese Army are one step closer to victory... (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 4)

by Eric Helm

  Anderson moved to Morrow. He set his weapon on the floor, jerked his knife from its scabbard and sliced through the rope, holding her left hand in place. He moved around and cut the other, but Morrow didn’t react. He leaned close and raised one of her eyelids. Her pupil constricted immediately.

  He walked around the desk and cut the rope around her ankles and then gently lifted her shoulders so that she was standing upright. Her eyes opened and she stared at him, but she didn’t seem to recognize him. There was a large black bruise on her stomach where it was obvious that she had been punched.

  She allowed him to walk her to the rear of the hootch where there was a bamboo sleeping mat on an elevated platform. He helped her kneel, letting her lie facedown. Then he examined the welts. She had been whipped with something that broke the skin easily. There were going to be scars from the beating.

  She moaned again and turned her head. “It hurts, Sam,” she said.

  He was surprised because he hadn’t realized that she was conscious enough to recognize him. He leaned close, touching her shoulder, and asked, “Are you badly hurt? Anything vital?”

  “I’m sick,” she said quietly. “I’m real sick.”

  Anderson stripped his fatigue jacket off and draped it over her, covering the worst of her wounds. He wasn’t sure that it was a good idea, but he couldn’t stand the thought of her lying there naked.

  “Robin,” he said. “Robin. I’ve got to leave you here. I have to help with the rest of the mission. I’ll leave one of the strikers.”

  She reached out with a hand, groped for him, but gave up. It was too great an effort. “Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Outside, he heard the firing die on the west wall. From far away he could hear the heavy beat of helicopter rotors indicating that the CH-47s were inbound with their loads.

  CHAPTER 19

  INSIDE U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES CAMP A-555

  Gerber raced from the team house to his own hootch. He found the trapdoor open. He crouched near it and then shone his flashlight down it but saw nothing and heard nothing. He sat on the edge of it and dropped down, landing carefully, but still heard nothing. He began scrambling forward, his weapon probing the darkness ahead of him. Seconds later he came to the command post, the sandbagged wall already collapsed.

  As he entered, he heard a muffled explosion from outside, and then he saw Fetterman staring at him.

  “Choppers inbound, Captain.”

  “Good. Team house secured. It wasn’t Westmoreland, it was Crinshaw. I didn’t take time to find out how he managed to get himself captured.”

  Fetterman shook his head in disbelief. “You had to rescue him?”

  “Sorry. It was too late by the time I realized who it was.”

  “Guess it couldn’t be helped,” he said. “I’ve got the firing controls. We could take out the whole bunker line, Captain. Blow them all.”

  “I know. There is some merit to the idea, but we wouldn’t get all the VC.”

  “We hold the redoubt?” asked Fetterman.

  “Washington and the strikers took the machine gun bunkers without firing a shot. Doesn’t seem to be any VC inside it now.”

  Fetterman nodded gravely.

  “Okay, Tony, you stay here with the firing controls.” He checked his watch. They had been on the ground for just under five minutes. “I’ll go join the strikers coming in by helicopter and direct the assault on the west wall.”

  “Yes, sir. Once I blow the bunkers, I’ll link up with the Mike Force. The firing controls still work. I just used them to knock down the fire control tower.”

  Gerber took the steps two at a time and crouched in the doorway, looking at the runway. The camp was brightening and the ground was now a dark gray, but he could pick out details. He could see a body lying near the helipad and could hear shooting in the west. It would only be a few minutes now.

  As he stared to the north, Gerber could barely make out the shapes of the CH-47 helicopters that were inbound. Lying in front of him was the remains of the fire control tower, dumped by the explosives that Fetterman had triggered. At the northern end of the runway was a single Huey helicopter, probably one of those used by Crinshaw. The other sat in the middle of the helipad. Across the runway and beyond the Vietnamese striker quarters, Gerber could see the flickering light of fires and the hint of smoke. The shooting over there began to taper off as Smith and Tyme again halted their attack.

  There was a noise to the right, and Gerber turned, aiming into it. He saw Bocker working his way toward him from the entrance of the commo bunker. Bocker slid to a stop and crouched.

  “Radios are out. It’ll take thirty minutes to fix them.”

  “Okay,” said Gerber. “Let’s help the strikers get on the ground.”

  The Chinook helicopters were now on their final approach, the roar of the twin turbines filling the air. As Gerber watched, a single line of tracers reached out for them. It was answered by a burst from the lead ship. Then it seemed that the entire west side of the camp erupted. Dozens, hundreds, of tracers lanced upward at the helicopters. The door gunners returned fire.

  Gerber watched helplessly because there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t see where the VC were hiding. They were screened by the hootches on the opposite side of the runway.

  “Captain,” shouted Bocker, standing.

  Gerber waved him down. “Take it easy. Relax. Let the choppers touch down before you move.”

  As Bocker dropped back, there was a loud popping near the rear of one of the choppers, and it began to pour smoke. The controlled descent ended as the chopper swung back and forth like a pendulum gone wild. It vibrated in the air and then suddenly plunged the last fifty feet to the ground. It hit, left side low, and the tires exploded like detonating grenades. The Chinook bounced, rocked up on the right side and slowly toppled over like a drunken ox. The rotor blades hit the ground and disintegrated into a cloud of splinters.

  The second aircraft landed farther down the runway, and as the wheels touched the PSP, the doors opened and the troops boiled out, sprinting for cover. Firing erupted all around them, some of it from the Vietnamese hootches.

  Gerber slapped at Bocker. “That’s it! Let’s go.” He was on his feet then, running around the side of the redoubt and out onto the runway.

  Fuel began to bubble from the ruptured tanks on the downed chopper. A door, now on the top of the fuselage, opened, and a man climbed out. He stood and reached down to grab a hand, but before he could do anything for the people inside, a bullet smashed into him, flipping him to the ground.

  The third and last of the Chinooks diverted to the left and landed on the open ground on the east side of the runway, using the other two helicopters for protection. Firing increased then, the tracers slamming into the aircraft. Flames began to lick at the downed craft as the ramp opened and the men trapped inside fought to get out.

  Gerber slid to a halt, reversed himself and ran back. He pointed at the east side of the runway and shouted, “Rally there! Rally there!”

  The two Chinooks lifted as one, leaving the men scrambling for cover. As one of them crossed the wires to the south, it was hit by an RPG-7. There was an explosion in the rear, high near the engines, and the aircraft dropped like a bird that had been shot. It hit the ground and exploded into a mushroom of orange flame and black smoke.

  “Jesus,” said someone.

  At that moment the Chinook on the runway burst into flames. Fire raced along the bottom, spreading on the JP-4 that had spilled on the PSP. The fire continued to the north until the Huey burst into flames from the spilled JP-4. From inside the aircraft there were screams from the trapped men, but there was nothing that could be done for them.

  Gerber found Kepler crouched with a group of strikers on the east side of the runway, using the bunkers and hootches there for protection as they fired into the west side of the camp. Gerber waved his men in that direction, trying to get them away from the burning aircraft.

/>   As he neared Kepler and his men, Gerber turned, sprinting across the runway, attacking the Vietnamese quarters. He ordered, “Follow me! Follow me!” He fired from the hip, shooting as fast as he could pull the trigger.

  Across the runway, he dived for cover, rolling close to the sandbags around a hootch. He could hear movement inside, but no one seemed to be shooting. Gerber grabbed a grenade, but before he pulled the pin, he realized that he couldn’t use it. He had no idea who was in the hootch. It could be strikers taken prisoner by the VC.

  Instead, he got to his feet, crouching so that his head wouldn’t be visible over the tops of the boards on the hootch. In the growing light of day, he could see shapes in the hootch but couldn’t identify them. He reached up, touched the handle on the screen door and jerked it open. In one fluid motion Gerber was through the door and rolling across the floor until he was up against the wall. He spun, his back protected now, and aimed. There were two strikers in the room, tied hand and foot, but no one to guard them.

  Gerber used his knife to free them. He leaned close and whispered, “Where are the others?”

  One of the men pointed at the rear of the hootch.

  “Guards?”

  “They run when helicopters land.”

  Gerber pulled his pistol and handed it to the striker. He gave his knife to the other. “You clear this hootch and then get out to the runway. You move to the east then, but keep down.”

  He worked his way through the hootch and kicked open the rear door. Outside, he could see a couple of his men pinned down by a deadly fire coming from a hootch. Gerber ducked back, pulled a grenade and then leaped out. He took two running steps and then dived for the sandbags around the hootch, rolling up against them. He shot a glance at his men, who ducked back, waiting for Gerber to act.

  Gerber jerked the pin from the grenade and looked up at the door. It was hanging by the top hinge. Gerber let the spoon fly, counted to three and threw the grenade in the door. He could hear men scrambling around, and someone screamed. A moment later the grenade detonated. As the smoke and dust boiled out of the hootch, the men who had been pinned down were up and running. They disappeared inside; there was a flurry of shots and then a momentary silence.

  As that happened, Gerber heard the roar of C-130 engines and looked up to see the Mike Force tumbling into the air, hundreds of parachutes blossoming in the morning sky. Tracers began to weave up, spreading through the formation. At that instant it seemed that the eastern bunker line exploded as Fetterman triggered the charges hidden there.

  As soon as he had received word that the C-130s were inbound, Fetterman had dragged his control panel to the doorway of the bunker. The machine gun in the command bunker on the east wall opened fire, a line of ruby-colored tracers aimed at the men swinging under the chutes. Fetterman touched a switch, and the bunker exploded into a cloud of dust and debris.

  He hit the controls and blew up the bunkers flanking it to provide a huge gap in the defenses for the men of the Mike Force. As he watched, someone began shooting from another of the bunkers. Fetterman smiled, touched the control and watched as the bunker disappeared and the firing died away.

  Each time firing began, Fetterman stopped it. Finally he gave up and hit the controls that destroyed the whole east side of the camp. Flaming debris rained down, setting hootches, bunkers and equipment on fire.

  Fetterman watched as dazed VC scrambled from the ruined bunkers. One of them, finally clear of the rubble, stood upright, a rifle clutched in one hand. Blood ran from his ears, nose, mouth and eyes. Finally he fell backward and didn’t move.

  As Novak touched the ground, he hit the quick release on his chest and felt the parachute harness drop away. He crouched, watching as the Mike Force landed all around him. He had seen the bunker line blow up — an inspiring sight as the lines of tracers reached out and then ended in a flash of orange light quickly obscured by dust and smoke. Novak lifted his M-60 over his head so that the strikers could see him. Then, on his feet, he ran forward, through gaps in the wire caused by the explosions. Behind him the Mike Force rallied and ran, firing at the remains of the bunkers, but there seemed to be nothing in return.

  Novak ran through the pungi moat and leaped up onto the smoking remains of the command bunker. As the strikers joined him, he shouted, “Half you men head north. The rest follow me.”

  Novak dropped into the compound and turned south, running past the entrance to the redoubt, past an ammo bunker that was burning and past a couple of mortar pits. He fell to the ground behind a low wall of sandbags and surveyed the camp near him. He saw people moving among the Tai hootches, many of them carrying AK-47s and SKSs. Novak aimed and fired, dropping two of the VC. Others began shooting at him, and he ducked, forcing his face into the dirt as the rounds whined over his head.

  Firing erupted behind him. He turned and looked. The Mike Force had formed a skirmish line that was anchored by the bunker line on the east and the mortar pits on the west. The men crouched behind the available cover: sandbagged walls, overturned fifty-five-gallon drums and wreckage of destroyed jeeps and trucks.

  The few VC who had been in the open were cut down, their bodies sprawling in the dirt. Firing came from the hootches. It was uncoordinated and ill planned.

  Novak returned fire, moved to get up, but firing became heavier. Rounds tore into the ground around him, ripping into the sandbags and lancing overhead. Novak dropped flat again, struggled to grab a grenade. He rolled on his back and then tossed the grenade at the Tai hootches. He heard it explode, but the firing from the enemy didn’t taper.

  Suddenly there was a roar like a demon right from hell, and a stream of fire engulfed the VC position. Novak looked to the left and saw Fetterman standing in the middle of the skirmish line, a flamethrower strapped to his back. When someone shot at him from another of the hootches, he turned the weapon on that target, sending flames nearly fifty feet into the air.

  There was a scramble from the hootches as the VC tried to get clear. In the growing light, they became easy targets for the Mike Force strikers. The firing increased until it was a steady roar. Very little of it was incoming.

  Novak got to his feet and ran over to Fetterman.

  “Thought you could use a little help, sir,” said Fetterman. “How was that?”

  “Goddamned near perfect,” said Novak happily.

  “Think maybe you better clear the hootches?” asked Fetterman.

  Novak nodded and waved his men forward. They avoided the burning structures, kicking in the doors of those behind them. They used grenades and rifles as they entered, sweeping the VC in front of them, driving them back to the south as the plan called for. Around them they could hear the crackling and popping of the fires as they slowly spread from hootch to hootch, helped by a breeze that had sprung up.

  On the west side of the camp, Gerber led a group of strikers in an assault on the command bunker there. They rushed over the open ground, the bullets of the VC defenders whipping around them. Gerber jumped to the rear of the bunker, pulled a grenade and jerked the pin. He leaned around and threw the grenade into the bunker, ducking back as it detonated.

  Before he could move, a group of the enemy rushed him. Gerber leaped to his feet, his weapon out in front of him as if there was a bayonet on the end. Two of the strikers tried to shoot into the enemy, but they were there too quickly. Both were pushed to the ground. Gerber heard the grunts and screams of the men, and then he was busy fighting for his life.

  He stepped forward to meet the thrust of a Viet Cong weapon. With his own rifle he pushed the enemy’s to the side and then pulled the trigger. The VC took three rounds in the stomach.

  Gerber stepped back, turning to the left so that he could meet the threat there. He shot three of the VC, clubbed a fourth and whirled to the right. He watched one of the strikers smash the butt of his rifle into the face of an enemy, continuing the motion so that he could hit the man next to him.

  Gerber dropped to one knee, firing at the VC h
e could see around him. Some were fleeing for the protection of bunkers on the south wall. Others were trying to gain the hootches that had already been cleared. As they ran toward them, firing erupted, cutting them down.

  Now it was the enemy’s turn. They had been fighting a defensive action, trying to hold on to what they had captured. Now they were on the offensive, trying to get out before they were killed.

  Two dozen Viet Cong realized that they would soon die if they didn’t get away. They fled from bunkers, running straight for Gerber and his strikers. One of the striker NCOs leaped to the top of a bunker, shouting at his men, and then fell as he was shot again and again. Suddenly all the strikers rushed the VC and became mixed with them, wading in swinging their rifles as if they were baseball bats. There was some shooting, sporadic shots that toppled one of the men.

  Gerber followed them, wishing he still had his knife and pistol. He watched a couple of the strikers go down, the VC attacking them. He used his rifle, shooting rapidly, killing the enemy soldiers.

  One of the strikers was screaming, the words unintelligible, lost in the sound of the hammering machine guns, the bursting of grenades and the cries of the wounded and dying. Gerber retreated toward one of the hootches and opened fire on another group of running Viet Cong.

  He emptied his weapon, dropped the magazine clear and slammed another one home. He fired a couple of shots, but the VC had disappeared. Gerber lowered his weapon and looked at the damage. A half-dozen hootches around him were on fire. Most of the bunker line was a smoking ruin. There were weapons and bodies scattered everywhere. But the firing was tapering, slowing as the enemy’s coordination disintegrated.

  He saw a dozen, maybe more, VC leap from a bunker on the southern side of the west wall and scramble for safety in the rice fields and elephant grass. Gerber knew that Smith and Tyme and the blocking force were there. He waited, listening, and heard no shooting. He stood up and looked just as the blockers opened up. The VC died in a hail of bullets.