by Dennis Foley
The remainder of the insert package would take DeSantis’s to a landing zone near the eastern stream.
Hollister made one last call to Thomas in the C & C with Tennant and Gannon. “Three. This is Six. You okay?”
Thomas immediately responded. “Rog. We think we have it under control. We’re three minutes from touchdown for the first element. Over.”
“Okay,” Hollister said. “I’m going to pull high and out of your way. You need me—you call. Understand?”
“Will do,” Thomas said.
Hollister turned to Adams, who had already heard the conversation and needed no instruction. He nodded his head. The tiny helicopter screamed up without strain and put several hundred feet of separation between it and the others within a matter of seconds. The whisper of its rotors was masked by the sounds of the other aircraft and the firing to the south.
The choppers kept circling to the south, firing and dropping flares. Rat thought about how much he hated Dinh. He even considered starting a fire to bring the choppers. As he finished burying the last of the waste containers, he leaned back on his heels to prepare himself to go back underground. He took a deep breath to savor the fresh air. Suddenly he caught some movement on the northern horizon. More choppers, their lights out, flew low over the trees across the border to a point north of the tunnels.
Unlike the other choppers, they were not announcing their presence. They hugged the ground, and then most of them disappeared below his view. Rat considered telling Dinh and then decided not to. He quietly walked back to the tunnel.
At his new altitude, Hollister could see the tops of the slicks’ rotor disks approaching the first landing zone, and the prowling gunships.
The landing zone below Hollister was calm and dark. He hoped it would stay that way long enough for Deming and Chastain to get their teams in.
They had selected a large landing zone to allow the four choppers carrying the two heavy teams to land, discharge their loads, and take off without running out of space.
The advantage of a large LZ was maneuverability for the pilots. The disadvantage was it made the run to the nearest tree line longer for the Rangers, and it afforded plenty of uninterrupted visibility for any LZ watchers. What was more, its desirability as a landing zone also made it more likely to be mined or booby-trapped.
Hollister looked up toward Nui Ba Den—the Black Virgin Mountain—to orient himself and then looked out at the approaching choppers closing on the landing zone.
“You are zero one out,” Thomas said over the radio to the team leaders.
“Thirty seconds.
“Stand by,” Thomas finally said.
The formation consisted of four choppers in trail, with the two chase ships two hundred feet above and four hundred feet behind the insert ships. The Cobras were down in the large tree line, making opposing circles just where the trees became tall grasses.
Touchdown. Hollister let the breath escape from his chest as he strained to see the teams exiting the choppers. From the lead and the third chopper, he saw the large bundles that held the rubber boats bounce out onto the LZ.
Unlike a normal insert, half of each team ran out beyond the choppers’ rotor disks and set up a semicircle of security while the other half of each team picked up the heavy boat bundles to carry them off the LZ.
The choppers were up and out of the landing zone long before the first Ranger started for the tree line. Hollister could feel himself silently urging them to Move! Move! Move! while he watched them edge toward the trees with all the speed they could muster.
Thomas and the C & C kept on going with DeSantis’s insert package to the second landing zone.
The last Ranger left the landing zone, and it grew quiet over the radio net. Everyone was listening for their signal. Every eye in the nine choppers circling above the landing zone was focused on the fringe of the large tree line for any signs of small-arms fire.
Chastain was the first to speak. “Colorado in and cold. I say again—in and cold. Out.”
Almost over the top of Chastain’s transmission, Deming whispered his report. “Georgia. In and cold. In and cold. Out.”
“Move east,” Thomas said over the radio. “All aircraft are released to move east—now.”
The choppers peeled out of orbit and stretched into a staggered trail formation.
DeSantis’s team had its own slicks, a chase, and two gunships. Even before the choppers had inserted Deming and Chastain, Thomas was lining up DeSantis’s insert.
“One minute out,” Thomas announced over the tactical net.
Hollister caught Adams’s eye and pointed back toward the border.
“Yes, sir. We’ll be there before you know it.” He nosed over the loach and poured it on. The airspeed indicator on the instrument panel broke a hundred knots, and the wind and turbulence inside the chopper picked up.
“You are thirty seconds out,” Thomas said.
By that time Hollister and Adams were close enough to see DeSantis’s insert choppers—Rangers’ legs sticking out of both sides. DeSantis was standing out on the skid of the lead chopper, holding on to the bulkhead with one hand.
“Six. This is Three. They’re on short final,” Thomas said.
“I’m above and behind you. I copy. Good luck,” Hollister said. He turned to look back over his shoulder in the direction of Deming’s and Chastain’s teams. It was too far away for him to even see the landing zone. But he thought if any shooting started, he might just be able to see the tracers. As he hoped—it was still black.
“Coming out,” the lead pilot of the insert chopper announced. Then everything went silent again while they waited for DeSantis to get his team into the trees.
Like the others circling wide north of DeSantis’s landing zone, Hollister kept his eyes on the black ribbon of darkness created by the overhang of the tree branches. The shadows in an already dark morning were the only protection available to DeSantis. The stand of trees along the stream bank was only five meters wide and a thousand long. Once inside it, DeSantis had to wait until dusk to unpack and inflate the rubber boats, drag them into the streambed, and start paddling toward his objective.
“We’re down. It’s cold. I say again—cold,” DeSantis announced in a stage whisper.
Hollister felt himself relax into the seat. “Okay, Three. Let’s clear the air space around here and let those folks down there get to work.”
CHAPTER 26
RAT TRIED TO STRETCH the dull pain from his lower back. He looked up at the sun still high in the western sky and sighed. The sweat from his brow ran into his eyes and burned. When he tried to wipe it from his face, he only ground in the dirt on his arms.
“What is the matter with you? Do I have to take green bamboo to your back to get some work out of you?” Dinh yelled.
The others on the work party stopped what they were doing and looked at the angry sergeant as he charged up the trail toward Rat.
Dinh thrust his face into Rat’s. He pointed to the scars on Rat’s legs. “Do you forget so quickly? Do you want more of those to remind you of your lack of motivation and loyalty? Or are you just stupid?”
Rat didn’t respond. He knew no matter what he said, Dinh would still beat him. He braced himself and tried to put the pain out of his mind.
Dinh brought the end of the pick handle down on Rat’s shoulder, glancing off and down his back. Missing a square, solid blow only seemed to make him angrier. He raised the handle over his head again and swung even harder.
Rat raised his arm to deflect the blow. The pick handle broke through the flesh on his forearm and fractured the bone. He cried out in pain.
“Shut up! You are a woman. You cannot even take discipline like a man. Are there no men among your people?”
Rat bit down hard on his lip to keep from crying out more. The pain shot up his arm, and he grabbed for the wound to stop the bleeding. He could only look at Dinh with all the contempt he could muster. Striking back would only provoke Dinh t
o more savage beating. He collapsed on the trail in deference to the brutish sergeant.
“Now you have cost me one laborer—a worthless one, but a laborer.” Dinh waved his hand toward the trail. “We have to repair the damage to this roadway for our comrades. Now we will not finish before darkness. You will pay dearly for your indolence,” he said. “I promise you that.”
The work crew stayed well beyond dark and worked to repair the damage done by recent artillery and air strikes. Throughout the extra hours of work, Dinh kept reminding the others in the work crew they were working added hours because of Rat.
He also reminded them it would be dangerous for them to move back to the tunnels after dark. They would risk not seeing the signs to warn them of booby traps and mines at night. That, too, was because of Rat. They would have to move slowly, with extra caution; and that would get them back very late. They would be late to get to their underground hideout and late to eat. They would get very little sleep and be forced to get up earlier the next day to come back and finish their work. They could all thank the mountain man for not doing his share of the work.
The ashtray was made out of an old canteen cup that had lost its handle. Hollister looked into it and realized he had contributed all of its two-inch-deep contents. He picked it up and walked toward the door leading out of operations.
“Lemme get that for you, sir,” Sergeant Caulter said, getting up from his chair beside the radios.
“No. I put ’em there. I guess I can find a trash can.”
He stepped out into the midmorning sun. It momentarily blinded him after hours inside operations. He found a barrel they used to burn the classified trash and dumped the cigarette butts into it.
He was tired of waiting for something to go wrong. He knew the teams were laying up, waiting for nightfall to start their trips down the streams into the objectives.
“Captain, got some bad news for you.”
Hollister looked up to find Easy approaching. “What now?”
“Our friend, Valentine, is on his way over.”
“Shit. What’s he want?”
“He said he wanted to speak to you. I told him you were in a briefing,” Easy said. He kicked out at a small rock to test his leg. “You’re just going to hate what I heard.”
“Now what?”
“He’s been frocked. They pinned on his stars early,” Easy said.
“Wait a minute,” Hollister said, brightening. “That means he’s being reassigned. Province chief is only a colonel’s job.”
“Well, it doesn’t turn out that way. Seems they are reinventing the wheel at MACV, and he’s being made into a super adviser. They created a special zone consisting of most of the provinces in Three Corps that aren’t underwater. He’s the senior adviser, and the other colonels now report to him.”
“I s’pose you’re going to tell me he’s not moving out of Tay Ninh?”
“You’re psychic, sir.”
General Valentine walked toward operations. New stars were already sewn onto the collars of his fatigue shirt.
“Good morning, General,” Hollister said, throwing an obligatory salute.
“Hollister, let’s cut the crap. I have been asking your people for overlays and op orders since you got here, and all I get is incomplete and vague paperwork on your operations,” Valentine said.
“I’m sending you all I am cleared to send.” Hollister stretched the truth.
“Don’t argue with me, Hollister. Just get me and my people up to speed on what your goddamn teams are doing over there.” Valentine thrust his arm out and pointed toward the Cambodian border.
Hollister didn’t say anything.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Well, what are you going to do, mister?” Valentine asked, his face reddening and the creases around his mouth becoming more prominent.
“No more than usual. You are getting all your people need to know, and most of our operations are on a need-to-know basis. Anything more than that violates security SOP and may jeopardize the safety of my people.”
“What the hell does that mean, Captain?” Valentine raised his voice, emphasizing the word captain to remind Hollister of the difference in their ranks. “Are you implying there is a security leak in my organization?”
Hollister locked onto Valentine’s gaze. “Giving an overlay to a Viet unit is like running mimeographs for every VC within five hundred miles. I don’t want to be the guinea pig to find out just where the leaks are in your organization, General.”
“Mister, you have crossed a line. You’ve not heard the end of this. I’m going to have your tail. You have been a smart-ass since Benning. Don’t you know you are not the only officer in this goddamn war? I think it’s time we drop you down a peg or two.”
Valentine spun on his heel and stepped back to the jeep that brought him from the airstrip. “Take me to my chopper—now!” he yelled at the driver.
Hollister turned around and saw Easy standing in the doorway of the orderly room.
“Thought I’d pretty much weaned you of thumbing your nose at assholes. Guess I was wrong.”
“Guess I better call Michaelson and let him know shit is rolling downhill.”
“Bad news doesn’t get better with age.”
“Team Alabama called in movement on the trail east of their position,” Sergeant Caulter said.
Hollister snapped out of something between a daydream and outright sleeping. “What was it?” He got up from the uncomfortable folding chair next to the operations radios.
“They weren’t close enough to see, but they heard it. They think it was a work party moving from north to south.”
“How’d they know?”
“Said they heard what sounded like tools clanking together. Y’know—shovels?”
“He say how many?”
“Several voices—they estimate six to eight,” Caulter said, reading the notes in the radio log in operations.
Hollister walked to the situation map. He located DeSantis’s position, identified by the code name Alabama.
“Okay. I got it. Let Captain Tennant and the other two teams know, and keep the pilots close to their choppers ’til I say otherwise.”
While Caulter put the word out, Hollister sat down and studied the map once again. He needed to see it when he closed his eyes. The fact that he had three large teams on the ground inside a circle not more than five miles in diameter made him much more aware of the demands on his concentration.
Having multiple teams on the ground in a small area meant more consideration had to be given to every decision because it had an impact on more than one team. He no longer had the freedom to support a team in trouble or in contact without regard for the safety of friendlies outside the tiny perimeter of a six-man team. He had to juggle the needs and the vulnerabilities of all the teams. That made everything more complicated and put the responsibility on Hollister to be more surgical.
“I need some coffee. If anything happens you can find me in the mess hall,” Hollister said.
“Captain. I must thank you,” Jrae said, seeing Hollister sitting in the corner of the mess hall.
He looked up from his notes and saw Jrae standing on the other side of the table, a pot of coffee for the orderly room in her hands.
“… for the blankets.”
“Blankets? Oh, yeah—blankets. I thought we might be able to find something in the supply room for you. I asked Easy to see what we could do.”
“You are very kind,” Jrae said.
“My pleasure. I can’t expect you to work all day if you can’t sleep at night.”
“In my life I don’t know many Americans. But the Americans I know have always been kind to me,” Jrae said.
“I hope that continues.” He watched her turn and walk out the door. He realized how much he liked her. He had come to admire her dignity and her reserve. He also felt her sadness and her isolation.
Hollister knew if he was going to squeeze in a s
hower he had to do it before dark. It would be then that the teams on the ground would start moving, and the chance of contact would increase.
He took off his shirt and boots and realized how much the tops of his feet hurt from the long hours of being laced into canvas jungle boots. He took off his trousers and caught sight of his own shadow painted against the wall in the shower enclosure. He had lost even more weight since arriving in Vietnam. He was surprised at how visible the loss was in the outline of his shadow. He felt his ribs, poking out above his equally prominent hip bones.
Hollister pulled the small, tin hand mirror from his shaving kit and looked at his face. He looked awful. The sockets under his eyes had hollowed and darkened. His skin had lost most of the color it had taken on while he was at Benning and Bragg. He saw a level of strain he had never seen. He looked much older.
“Sir,” a voice whispered.
Hollister woke up, unsure of where he was. He shook his head to clear the fog and realized he had fallen asleep in a chair in the corner of operations.
“What?”
“You asked me to tell you when all three teams are in the water,” Loomis said.
“Any problems?” Hollister asked, rubbing his eyes and searching for a cigarette.
“No sir. DeSantis’s was the last team to call in to tell us they’re moving.”
“What time is it?” Hollister looked at his watch and didn’t wait for Loomis to answer. “Twenty-three thirty? What the hell took so long?”
“Lieutenant Deming’s team called in that they had found trip wires, and I passed that on to the others—”
“And that slowed everyone down.”
“To a crawl.”
“Okay. Let’s continue the mission.”
“That means wait, right?”
“Right. And I hate it,” Hollister said.
“Join Juliet Company—live a life of excitement and adventure,” Loomis said, spoofing the reputation of the Rangers.
Hollister furrowed his brow. “Don’t you have something to do?”