Take Back the Night: A Novel of Vietnam (The Jim Hollister Trilogy Book 3)

by Dennis Foley

  Hollister let Thomas sit in the jump seat mounted closer to the open door. It gave Thomas the best view of the other aircraft and what was happening on the ground.

  On the approach to the LZ, Hollister quizzed Thomas on frequencies, call signs, and procedures. What if they took ground fire before inserting the team? What if the team was already on the ground? What if a chopper was downed? What if they took a casualty in one of the aircraft? What if they lost commo with the team?

  The questions went on for the entire trip until Thomas finally had to focus on preparing the team and the flight for the insert.

  Hollister watched Thomas give the okay to the gunships to look for LZ watchers in the trees. They flew ahead, dropping to treetop level. He looked back over his shoulder. The sun was just breaking the horizon and Hollister could see the troops inside Chastain’s chopper scooting to the open cargo doors in preparation for the insert.

  He looked back at Thomas. He had his map out, orienting it to the terrain below—whipping by at eighty-five knots.

  “Raider Three-Six. Looks clear,” came the words over the radio headset.

  Hollister looked up at Thomas to see if he had understood the gunship lead’s message. Thomas didn’t hesitate. “Okay, Three-Six. Roger your clearance. We will insert as soon as the slicks arrive—straight in.” Thomas then pulled his head back inside the chopper and talked to the back of Dale Tennant’s helmet. “Okay with you, Dale?”

  Tennant just raised his Nomex-gloved hand and gave Thomas a thumbs-up.

  “This is Campus Killer Three. We are clear for the insert. Two-Three, you set?”

  Chastain came back over the headsets. “Affirm. Two-Three is ready. Over.”

  “Roger,” Thomas said. “Here we go, folks. Let’s take a look,” he said over the intercom in the C & C.

  Hollister leaned out the left door to look at the landing zone coming up in front of them. From three hundred feet, it was hard to make it out over the rows of trees in his line of sight.

  Behind them, the chase and the insert ship peeled off to the left to make a large circle—killing time—while the C & C made a low-level pass over the LZ.

  Hollister thought the gunships were a little out of sync—both of them being at a point in their orbits where they were facing away from the LZ. He was tempted to say something over the radio, but stopped himself, leaving the show to Thomas to run. Instead, he just made an entry in his notebook. That done, he reached in his shirt pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it.

  Hollister exhaled the acrid smoke as the C & C descended to one hundred feet. They flew the long axis of the LZ, each man looking out—into the trees surrounding the clearing. No one spoke; everyone was alert for the slightest sound or flash of light that might tell them they were being watched or taking fire.

  At the end of the LZ, Tennant pulled the chopper up hard and to the left. “Looks clear to me.”

  “Same here,” Thomas said. He turned to look at Hollister.

  “It’s your call,” Hollister said.

  “Let ’em go on in, Dale,” Thomas said.

  Again, things went silent in the headsets. Hollister watched Thomas and then looked back out at the choppers. The C & C loitered at five hundred feet as the two slicks approached the LZ.

  Hollister was convinced the insert ship was being too cautious about his approach—exposing the chopper and the team to enemy fire for longer than necessary. He made another note to talk to Tennant about it.

  Finally, the slick flared, nose-high, to slow its airspeed. The chase slowed as much as it could and then flew over the top of the insert ship, as it touched down in the landing zone.

  Hollister watched the team dash from the right side of the chopper to the tree line. He wasn’t happy. They moved in two clumps—each of three men less than an arm’s length apart.

  He watched the insert ship. It seemed to hold too long on the ground and finally lifted up and struggled for forward motion to get out of the LZ. It had lost its momentum when the pilot let it settle onto the ground while the team unloaded. Before Hollister could make a note, Tennant broke in on the chopper intercom. “I got it. I’ll take care of it.”

  Hollister was getting to like the way Tennant did things. He was in charge and on top of everything his crews were doing.

  By the way the Rangers staggered Hollister could tell they were running short of wind. Two of them fell behind and had to be helped by a third. It merited a note in Hollister’s notebook. He jotted down: More PT!

  Finally, the team disappeared into the trees. Now came the wait. Everyone knew the patrol leader was trying to get his team into a hasty defensive perimeter to determine if they had been seen or fired upon.

  After a very long pause, Chastain’s voice broke the radio silence. “This is Two-Three. Cold. Insert was cold. Charlie Mike. Over.”

  Thomas repeated Chastain’s message for clarity. “I understand cold. And you are continuing the mission. If it is affirm, do not reply. Out.”

  Thomas looked over at Hollister, who simply nodded his head—not bad.

  Back at Bien Hoa, Team 4-1, led by the platoon leader, Nathan Hill, was ready to be inserted on a mock ambush position nine miles from Chastain’s team. While the choppers went to refuel, Hollister ran into operations to check with Michaelson.

  “Your folks seem to be doing things right. But we wouldn’t know it back here. They aren’t reporting progress. If they want us to jump through our hoops—they’d better let us know what the hell is going on,” Michaelson said.

  “That it?” Hollister asked.

  “Nope. Four-One—bad radios, a bad battery, and the team leader didn’t have the alternate freqs.”

  “Shit,” Hollister said. “You think there’s any hope?”

  Michaelson laughed. “You remember our old detachment in the Airborne brigade?”

  Hollister smiled, remembering how screwed up they were when they were so new at it all. “Yes, sir. I get your point. Can you hang around a little longer?”

  “I shouldn’t. But I’ll see if I can con some more time out of Colonel Terry.”

  “Great. I need the help.”

  The second insert went well, but it took too long for Hollister. He made a point out of telling Thomas he had to work on shaving minutes. Sloppiness and extra flying always translated into lost blade time and more risk.

  It took almost fifteen minutes for the barrels to float free of the canal and start down the river into the killing zone Team 2-3 had set up.

  Hollister, Thomas, and Jack Donaldson circled high above and off to the east of the target area.

  Chastain called in a solid fire request.

  The first round hit the far bank of the river, beyond the drifting barrels. Chastain knew enough to start too far out and move his way rather than risk hitting his team.

  “He’s making adjustments—too small,” Donaldson yelled across the chopper to Hollister.

  Hollister looked down and saw the second round fall closer to the floating barrel, but still dozens of meters short.

  Chastain realized his mistake, made a bolder adjustment, and all waited.

  The next round hit, and Chastain gave the command to fire for effect to the fire direction center.

  The next six rounds hit at the same time—most in the water and one on the far bank.

  One round hit the water, detonated, and hurled a barrel up into the air. A cheer went up over the chopper intercom.

  Chastain called Thomas and said he wanted to end the fire mission and move to adjusting Cobra gunship fire onto the barrels before they drifted out of sight.

  The gunships rolled in; one high, one low.

  “We’re gonna make a dry pass to make sure we got the right barrels and the right river,” the lead pilot said, half kidding, but serious about knowing where he was shooting. By that time in the war, there had been so many accidental injuries and damage done by gunships, checking was overdone.

  The lead Cobra rolled out of orbit to just
above the water level and popped up its tail—picking up airspeed.

  Just about two hundred meters beyond the barrels, the gunship leader punched the power to the Cobra and came almost straight up and out of the river channel to an altitude of more than twelve hundred feet.

  “Looks good to me, Two-Three. Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Three, this is Two-Three. We’re going to begin the gun runs now.”

  “Don’t wait on us. Go,” Thomas said.

  “Okay, Two-Three. I have your target eyeballed. We’re gonna make a run apiece,” the gun leader said.

  “Roger,” Chastain replied.

  Everyone watched again.

  Hollister was bothered, knowing every face he could see from the circling C & C was watching the barrels. He grabbed his binoculars and looked down at the Ranger team on the ground. He could see the team members through the limited concealment they had—they were all watching the barrels.

  Another note for Hollister’s postoperation critique.

  The first pass was minigun fire. It started a hundred feet short of the first barrel and popped the surface of the water every few inches and then sliced right through the barrel.

  Before the first chopper had turned its tail to the target, the second Cobra began its gun run, pooping out 40mm grenades until one of them hit the first barrel and two hit the second barrel.

  Again, a cheer went up over the radio. Hollister looked at Thomas and they both shared a smile. You just couldn’t keep Americans from cheering a good shot, a good basket, or a touchdown.

  “Enough?” asked the lead gunship pilot as his wingman finished a second successful pass.

  “Roger. You sunk both of them,” Chastain said. “Thanks. Good shooting.”

  “We aim to please,” the pilot said.

  “You got anything else you want done?” Thomas asked.

  “Yeah,” Hollister said. “Let’s go by Team Four-One. They’ve been far too quiet for me.”

  The guns, slicks, and the C & C broke out of their orbit and followed Tennant’s C & C to the west, toward Team 4-1’s position.

  “Four-One, this is Three. If your sitrep is negative, give me two squelch breaks.”

  There was a long pause, and then Sergeant Iverson broke squelch. Once, then again.

  Hollister exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath a bit too long.

  CHAPTER 19

  “WHAT YOU HAVE IN mind?” Hollister asked Thomas—yelling over the wind in the chopper’s cargo compartment.

  “We hadn’t planned on leaving them on the ground long. They are such a new team together, I want them to have one in and one out under their belt together before I give them anything more complicated to do,” Thomas said over the intercom.

  “Campus Killer Four-One, this is Three. We are pulling your sister element in about two zero, and then we will be ready for you. Is there any reason you might not be ready for extraction in four-five mikes?”

  Lieutenant Hill clicked the squelch once—negative.

  Thomas squeezed the transmit button. “Roger, negative, Four-One. I want you to Charlie Mike, and we will be in the area until we—”

  Tennant’s gloved hand came up to get attention in the backseat. “I got a fucking chip light up here folks.”

  Tennant pushed forward on the cyclic and pulled up on the collective—next to his seat. The Huey began to gain altitude.

  “What do you think?” Thomas asked.

  “Can’t tell much. Could just be crap in the oil.”

  “Oh, that’s not bad. Is it?”

  “Could be this fucker is ready to self-destruct and lose its mastery over gravity.”

  “That’s bad?”

  “Only if you are with any other aviator. We specialize in excitement. Lemme turn some dials, press some buttons, and twist some knobs up here.”

  “That’ll fix it?” Thomas asked.

  “No. Probably not. But it will look impressive to you guys in the back,” Tennant said.

  Hollister knew Tennant was doing all he could do to resolve the problem. It could be just a stray flake of metal in the turbine engine. Or it could be a bad chip detector light, or it really could be an important warning that the turbine was about to give out on them.

  Thomas seemed to look at Hollister for a sign of hopefulness. Hollister simply shrugged and checked to make sure his seat belt was snugly fastened across his lap.

  “What do you do now?” Hollister asked Thomas.

  “I, ah … better wait until Dale sorts this out before I do anything serious with the teams on the ground.”

  “You better get on the horn and let Campus Killer Control know you might be making an unscheduled landing out here. Set up a backup crew of slicks and guns to cover you or cover the teams on the ground. You could suddenly find yourself with three extractions and a chopper recovery to do before dark.”

  Thomas shook his head like he knew everything Hollister said was absolutely right and he should have been able to answer right off.

  He started to explain when Hollister cut him off. “Hey … Get this to Michaelson, now! We can talk later.”

  Hollister watched the white square on the instrument panel flicker on, then off, not giving any indication if it was a real problem. His eyes shifted to the altimeter. He had never been able to reconcile in his mind that the higher you are in a chopper when you get in trouble—the safer you are. Still, he had to trust what he had learned. The altimeter read nineteen hundred feet.

  “Somebody up front got the numbers for some good shit-kickin’ music?” one of the door gunners asked over the intercom.

  “Will that help?” Thomas asked.

  “Can’t hurt to have Johnny Cash or Buck Owens pulling for you,” Dale Tennant said.

  The light suddenly went on and stayed on. Hollister saw it, Tennant saw it, and before Thomas could turn to see what Hollister was looking at, the warning tone sounded in the headsets as the master caution light and the RPM limit lights filled the instrument panel with alarm.

  Hollister saw the RPM needles split—indicating the rotor RPM was up but they had just lost engine RPM. Hollister caught Tennant’s reactions. He slammed the collective lever to the floor—taking all of the lifting pitch out of the rotor blades.

  “Hold on back there!” Tennant said, a sudden rise in tone in his voice.

  Hollister called back to Tay Ninh. “Control, this is Six. We’re putting the Charlie Charlie down. How ’bout taking over the control of the deployed elements until we can get back in the air in the chase?”

  “Roger,” Michaelson’s radio operator replied.

  Hollister and Thomas leaned out the left door of the chopper trying to help Tennant select a safe emergency landing zone as the chopper began to fall from its orbit.

  “Are we anywhere near the team?” Tennant asked.

  “Yeah. They’re about five hundred meters north,” Hollister said.

  Tennant nodded and leaned back to look down through the chin bubble. “I don’t think I want to go down anywhere near them. If someone starts shooting at the chopper or from it—they’ll be more problem than help.”

  “Let ’em know,” Hollister said to Thomas.

  “Four-One, this is Three. You monitor our situation?” Thomas asked.

  Lieutenant Hill answered. “Roger. Standing by for instructions. Over.”

  “Good. Hold what you got,” Thomas said.

  While they spoke, Hollister watched the altimeter unscrew at a rate he felt was just too fast for a falling chopper to survive at the bottom. His mind filled with random fears. He’d been in a falling chopper before. But then he didn’t have time to think about it.

  He tried to tell himself Dale Tennant was experienced. He’d get them safely on the ground. But what about the enemy situation? They were in bad-guy territory. And just as likely to land safely as run into an enemy element that could kill or capture them all before they stepped free of the chopper.

  Hollister placed his rifle acro
ss his knees, then picked up his claymore bag and looped the strap around his neck.

  The altimeter passed through three hundred feet, the vertical speed indicator maxed out on the descent side of the dial. Hollister grabbed one more look out the open doorway at the trees quickly coming level with the falling chopper. He looked back in time to see Tennant yank the collective up under his left arm and straighten out his leg, using a pedal to compensate for the torque thrown into the rotor blade.

  The chopper seemed to shudder to a halt in midair. The sudden downward thrust of the wildly spinning rotor blade created an instant cushion of air only feet before the skids would collide with the ground.

  Hollister held his breath as the chopper lost its cushion again, dropping with a sharp jerk to the ground. The aircraft lunged to the right and then rocked back to the left. He hoped it was a sign of uneven terrain and not something more dangerous like collapsing skids. If they collapsed, there was every reason for him to expect the blades to strike the ground and turn the chopper into a wildly bucking machine—bent on self-destruction.

  But the chopper stopped rocking. The blades kept spinning as Tennant kept the pitch pulled into them, causing them to quickly slow.

  “Out! Out! Out!” someone yelled over the intercom.

  Before the second warning, Hollister and Thomas were rolling away from it. Trying to get as much distance between them and the chopper as they could.

  Hollister finally dropped to the ground, against a small tree trunk, and looked back at the chopper. Smoke came from the access panel below the rotor head. The crew of the chopper was clear of the aircraft—all except Tennant, who was walking around the chopper looking for damage, a small fire extinguisher in his hand.

  Wiping the paddy water from his face, Hollister looked for the other choppers. The chase ship was in a low orbit waiting for some sign.

  “I’m going to pull the radios and machine guns and then wave the chase in to pick us up,” Tennant yelled to the passengers and crew. “Anybody hurt?”

  Hollister shook his head. “Shit! I hope I never have to do that again.”