So what was she doing here in Korea at a forward MASH unit? Blinking back tears caused by the dust in her eyes, Rachel trotted beside Hall, who was quickening his stride in an effort to locate the surgeons. She wanted to press her hands against her ears. The heavy helmet on her head was creating an ache at the base of her neck.
There was no time to ponder or answer her own question. They found Lt. Joe Pensky and Capt. Bob Short at the administration tent, destroying the last of sensitive material, preventing it from falling into enemy hands.
“Leave it,” Hall ordered, making a curt gesture for them to follow him. “That last chopper said it will be here in ten minutes. Let’s get up to that pad. Now.”
Bob Short stared at Rachel after throwing the last of the files into a fifty-gallon drum they had used to destroy the documents. Flames licked above the rim, highlighting their sweaty, dirty faces.
“I thought you’d already left, Rachel.”
“The last chopper was at its weight limit.”
Short cursed, something he didn’t do often. “Dammit, Rachel—”
“Stow it, Bob,” Hall growled.
Rachel fell in alongside Hall as he trotted out of the tent and down a well-worn path between several tents. The past two months of her twenty-three years of life had been spent in Korea. She had come to love the peasant families who lived nearby. And more than anything, she loved her job as a surgery nurse. Emotion welled up in Rachel, and she fought back the tears and memories.
A mortar exploded fifty yards away. Rocks and dirt spewed through the dawn, pelting them. Hall lengthened his stride. Rachel stretched her long legs more fully. In an effort to control her panic, she recalled a strong childhood memory. When she was nine years old, she’d shot up like a bean sprout, taller than any girl in her class. She’d been thin and gangly, standing out like a sore thumb among her classmates. The girls called her a freak. The boys were afraid of her. Now, her five feet seven inches of height gave her longer than average legs for a woman, and she was able to keep up with the three men as they sprinted for the pad.
“I hear it!” Dr. Pensky yelled, jabbing a finger toward the gray and red sky. “The chopper! It’s coming!”
Rachel struggled to stay at Hall’s heels as they climbed the hill to the pad. Yes! She could hear the thick chop, chop, chop of the rotors beating against the heavy humid morning air. Jerking a look over her shoulder, she could see the North Korean infantry coming quickly behind their T-34 tanks. The clanking of the steel-treaded monsters dominated the air, sending a chill up her spine.
The group came to a halt, gasping for breath. The doctors hovered protectively around Rachel, shielding her from possible shrapnel or bullets. The warmth she felt toward the three men was like that of a sister for her big brothers. Rachel lifted her square chin skyward. There, in the distance, was their rescue helicopter. It was coming in low, in a twisting, turning pattern in order to present a tough target.
“Five more minutes and we’ll be out of this hell,” Pensky gasped, casting a wary glance toward the empty MASH unit.
“In ten minutes, the enemy’s gonna be here,” Short huffed.
“Come on, come on,” Joe muttered to the approaching helicopter.
All eyes trained on the U.S. Army aircraft. Rachel was still gasping for breath from the long, tortuous run. Suddenly, from behind them, the T-34 tanks started blasting away, their muzzles lifted skyward. The whistle of the shells shrieked across the hilly countryside. Rachel felt the concussions, automatically cringing, covering her head with her hands.
“Oh, my God!” Pensky shrieked.
A cry escaped Rachel as the helicopter was hit by a tank shell, becoming a blazing orange ball against the turgid crimson dawn. It tumbled wildly from the sky, crashing into the earth.
Hall cursed roundly. Rachel was pushed to the ground by Pensky. The next thing she heard was the sharp sting of North Korean orders being issued. Rachel’s eyes rounded. She looked up and saw her first North Korean—a lean man, barely her height, his pistol leveled at their little group. Dressed in a tan uniform edged in red piping, he gave them a triumphant look. His black eyes glittered with amusement as the rest of his platoon surrounded them.
“You are our prisoners,” he told them in halting, broken English.
Shock numbed Rachel. She shakily rose to her feet, gripping Pensky’s arm, staying hidden behind him. Several of the enemy soldiers rushed forward, separating them, roughly frisking them for weapons. One soldier shoved Rachel into the open. He reached out to frisk her.
“Don’t you dare touch me!” Rachel rasped, and smacked the man’s hand, leaping back to avoid contact.
The violence of her feelings surprised her. Rachel stood tensely and lifted her chin at a defiant angle. A plan began to form in her mind. Just as soon as possible, she would speak to the three doctors about an escape attempt. Rachel wasn’t about to turn into a whimpering little girl begging for mercy. No, all they needed was a diversion of some kind in order to distract the enemy’s attention. Then they could make a bid for freedom.
“Hey, Chase, get your butt out of bed! Hit the flight line! We’ve got a scramble,” Buddy Dawson said, shaking his friend and squadron leader.
Capt. Chase Trayhern sat bolt upright in his creaky cot. Scramble! He heard the thin, high wail of the siren drifting across the makeshift air base at Taegu, screaming out to all pilots on duty to hit the deck running for their aircraft. Dawson, his wingman, was already pulling on his flight boots. They slept in their tan one-piece flight suits. Chase blinked, trying to shake off badly needed sleep.
Grunting, Chase threw his legs across the cot, automatically shoving his feet into his boots and lacing them with expert ease. “What have we got?”
“Dunno.” Dawson shoved off his cot, his red hair uncombed, and peered out the tent flap. It was still dark, but dawn was crawling up the horizon like a gray slug.
This was what Chase lived for. His squadron was the last to use propeller-driven P-51s, an exceptional fighter from World War II. His commander kept telling him that soon the squadron would be pulled off the line to receive jet training stateside. Diving for their tent opening, both men emerged and jogged down the dusty path, passing rows of tents that served as home for everyone based at Taegu.
Entering the operations tent, Chase squinted, the glare of light momentarily hurting his eyes. Lt. Col. Jake Hobson was grim. As a matter of fact, Chase thought, Hob looked as if he’d been up all night, something that happened frequently around Taegu.
“What’s happening, Hob?” Chase demanded, moving over to the map of the Pusan area.
“We’ve got big problems, Chase. A MASH unit near Yongchong just got captured. The Eighth ROK division plus an Australian battalion had their line broken. We’ve got North Koreans funneling into the area like fleas on a dog.” Hob jabbed his stubby index finger at the map of the Yongchong area. “Weather’s good. I want your squadron off the ground pronto. We believe three American doctors and a nurse have been captured.”
Eyes narrowing, Chase muttered in disbelief, “A woman?”
“Yes. The ROKs are telling us she’s Lieutenant Rachel McKenzie.” Hob’s jowly face became harsh. “You know what the enemy does to our men. I don’t even want to think what they might do to her.”
“War’s for men, not women,” Chase snorted. “I’ve always said we had no business bringing women into this war. I don’t care whether they’re nurses or not.”
Dawson came forward, putting a hand on Trayhern’s broad shoulder. “Take it easy, Chase. Hob, what do you want us to do?”
“The ROK division is in total disarray. They’re trying to regroup. I want your squadron to fly in to strafe and bomb a truck convoy of North Koreans heading back north. The ROKs believe they have the American prisoners. Maybe, with some low and slow fancy flying, you can give these people a chance to escape.” Hob’s gray eyes grew dark as he held Trayhern’s hard gaze. “Create a diversion for them, Chase. Create havoc. Maybe those Am
ericans will understand what we’re trying to do and make a break for freedom.”
Nodding, Chase wrote down the pertinent information. He’d been in Korea since the beginning of the war and knew the Pohang area by heart. “We’ll give it our best shot, Hob. What if they do escape? Do we have any marines in the area?”
“If they can break free, they’re still on their own. The U.N. troops are rallying and trying to stop the influx. The closest force is Australian. There’s no white knight on any horse coming to rescue them.”
“You’d better hope they know which way is south, then,” Chase griped. A woman! Of all things! He started to say it, but let it go. Time was of the essence.
Hob nodded wearily. Beneath the naked lightbulb, his thinning steel-gray hair took on a silvery cast, almost halolike. “They’d better be made out of tough stuff,” he agreed. “Get going, and good luck.”
“Yes, sir.” Chase turned and Dawson followed him out of the tent. The air reeked of cattle dung and aviation fuel. Down the flight line, the elegant Mustangs stood silhouetted against the reddish-gray dawn. Further down, a squadron of blunt-nosed F-80 jets lined up.
“What do you think?” asked Dawson, jogging easily at Chase’s side.
“About what?”
“That woman.”
Snorting, Chase saw his flight mechanic, Sergeant Owens, waiting for him beside his plane. “She’s in a lot of trouble—and causing us trouble. If only the three docs had been captured, I don’t think Hob would have been ordered to strike that convoy.”
Dawson shook his red head. “To think a woman’s been captured. Man, that’s gonna make headlines back in the hometown newspaper.”
“The wrong kind for the military,” Chase amended, throwing a salute to his sergeant. “That’s why we’re getting this mission.” He saw his other two pilots already on the line, and he threw them a thumbs-up. “Just keep close, Buddy. The small-arms fire could be heavy when we go in.”
“Or flak.”
Chase agreed with a nod. He stepped up to the sergeant who cared for the plane as carefully as if it were his child. Nodding to his crew chief, Chase climbed up onto the wing and then into the cockpit.
Owens helped him strap in, then gave him a final pat on the shoulder before leaving the wing of the plane. As Chase ran rapidly through the preflight checklist after pulling on his helmet, he found himself wondering about the woman. Rachel McKenzie. Pretty name. McKenzie sounded like a fighter’s name. He gave Owens a final thumbs-up before starting the powerful engine on the Mustang. She’d better be a fighter.
Swiveling his head, he saw the other three P-51s starting up, the throaty roar of engines filling the dawn air. The planking of the airstrip popped and cracked as Chase trundled the P-51 at a high taxi speed toward the end of the runway. Even in the grayness of the dawn, he could see people stirring around the rows of olive-green tents in the distance. Taegu was a main center of men and materials, as well as a forward air base.
At the end of the airstrip was “Mount Bust-your-ass.” On a clear day, it was no problem missing the mountain. In fog or rain, the rocky pinnacle could be a pilot’s demise. You had to shove full throttle to gain enough momentum and then, at the end of the runway, pull up at a high angle of ascent to miss the mountain. Otherwise, it did just as its name implied.
Sliding the canopy shut, Chase flicked switches and turned dials. Behind him, all in a neat, orderly row, were his three other squadron mates in their respective Mustangs.
All dials and indicators showed the engine in good working condition. Releasing the brakes, Chase steered as the P-51 howled, hurling itself down the runway. His attention was drawn back to the mission—and the woman. What a hell of a fix she was in. Chase felt his stomach tighten painfully in an uncharacteristic expression of fear—for her.
As Chase eased the stick back, the P-51 lifted off, nosing confidently into the crimson and gray sky. Moving the stick to the right and applying a bit of right rudder, Chase saw each of his men take off without incident.
“Well, Rachel McKenzie, hope you’ve got what it takes to escape.” As the fighter gained altitude, heading toward Yongchong, Chase wondered what she looked like. What kind of a woman volunteered to come over to get shot at, bombed and mortared, much less captured? What kind?
Chapter Two
Rachel stood huddled with the doctors next to a tan transport truck. Her hands were tied in front of her with a thin leather thong that was cutting off her circulation, making her fingers numb. As a group, they’d been herded by soldiers to one side of the truck. Two soldiers scurried to change a flat tire on the lead truck, receiving a blistering tongue-lashing from the angry officer. For three hours they had sped north, deep into North Korean territory before the vehicle had an unexpected blowout.
Rachel discreetly looked around for possible escape routes, peeking from between the doctors. The convoy consisted of fifteen other trucks carrying mostly cargo and few troops. A number of tan-clad soldiers milled around, smoking and talking in low voices, waiting impatiently for the truck to be repaired. To be stalled on a road in the open was inviting attack, and the soldiers were nervous, constantly watching the sky for American jet fighters. The road was narrow and deeply rutted. It was impossible to pass the injured vehicle because the rocky hills rose steeply on either side.
Colonel Hall was looking around, too, and Rachel felt an eerie premonition crawl up the back of her neck. She sensed danger. Huge groves of trees dotted the steep hillsides, a perfect place to run for cover and hide. She saw the same thoughts flicker over Hall’s sober features.
Sudden Korean shouts jerked Rachel’s attention back to the convoy. The officer standing at the front of the broken truck screeched orders to his men, pointing angrily at the sky. Her gaze followed his gestures.
“Look!” she whispered excitedly to the doctors. “Planes!”
“Our planes,” Hall croaked in disbelief.
“Mustangs. Prop-driven Mustangs,” Short added unhappily. “Couldn’t they have sent jets?”
“At least they came,” Rachel whispered tautly. The military must know of their capture. Rachel’s heart lifted with inexplicable joy. They were coming to the rescue! She just knew it!
Hall nodded, watching the soldiers scurrying in all directions, setting up their weapons to fire at the oncoming planes. “They’re going to strafe. All right, all of you get ready. They aren’t watching us that closely. They want those planes. Run. Run in four different directions. Try to escape! Understand?”
Her heart pounding, Rachel nodded. Nervously she licked her lips. The droning sound of the Mustangs drew closer. Their captors ignored them, getting ready to fire at the fighters. Shouts from various officers filled the air. The sky was blindingly bright blue, the summer sun bearing down on them.
Twisting the leather bonds, Rachel worked them frantically, trying to force them to stretch. The gesture was futile. Within seconds, the Mustangs would begin their low-level attack. Her throat ached with tension as she stood stiffly against the truck, waiting. In moments, she could be dead. Or she might get a second chance and live long enough to escape.
As she stood, watching the first sleek silver fighter plane line up to begin its attack, Rachel had one regret. She had never fallen in love. If it was her time to die, she would never know the man who could make her heart swell with unaccountable joy and love. It was a bittersweet thought that left a chasm of sadness within her as she got ready to make a dash for the grove to the right of the trucks.
“Beginning strafing run,” Chase ordered his squadron over the radio. He kicked left rudder, sending the Mustang down on the deck. The altimeter unwound rapidly until he leveled off at two hundred feet. The throbbing growl of the engine deepened as he pulled back on the throttle, popping the air brakes. The fighter slowed considerably, and Chase aimed the nose down, lining up on the road. The stalled convoy appeared in the gun-sight mechanism.
“Okay, Rachel McKenzie, get your sweet rear out of there,” h
e muttered, thumbing the trigger located on the stick. The fighter shook, the roar of the fifty-caliber guns vibrating through the fuselage.
Geysers of debris exploded in a sewing-machine-like pattern through the center of each truck on the long, snaking dirt road. Chase felt satisfaction as one truck after another caught fire. Hundreds of troops were running and diving for cover. He saw the blinking of small arms and rifle fire up at him. The “thunk, thunk, thunk” of bullets striking the fuselage peppered his awareness. Yanking back on the stick at the end of the convoy, Chase nosed the fighter around for another run. Below him, the other three fighters were making their runs, tearing up the trucks, creating absolute havoc. Where were the Americans? Had they managed to flee?
“Run!” Hall cried. The first fighter roared over, shaking the ground beneath its path.
Rachel gulped back a cry, crawling beneath the truck and appearing on the other side of it. She paid no attention to the scrapes on her elbows or knees as she leaped upright, sprinting for the cover of the trees that stood fifty feet away.
Fifty feet. It was a lifetime to Rachel. Bullets chewed up the soil all around her; the cry of angry enemy soldiers filled the air, along with the shriek of the fighters swooping over her. Gasping, she slipped, her bound hands making her less balanced on the steep slope. Get up! Get up! Digging the toes of her boots into the rocky, dry soil, Rachel ran blindly toward the grove. Only twenty-five feet to go!
Rachel heard sharpened cries in Korean aimed in her direction. Risking a look across her shoulder, she saw the commanding officer gesturing wildly at her, bellowing orders. He aimed his pistol. Adrenaline surged through Rachel and she lunged forward, falling into a thick wall of scratchy brush. Flailing wildly, she tore through the brush to the other side. Pieces of tree bark splintered and flew all around her. Landing hard on her hands and knees, Rachel lurched to her feet, keeping low. The officer was trying to kill her!
Dawn of Valor Page 2