It was Lieutenant Johnson, looking through his own binoculars, who broke the silence.
“What do you make of it, Sergeant?” the new officer quizzed.
“I’m with Corporal Gonzales, sir. They are definitely NVA and at least platoon strength. Plus, I gotta real itchy feeling there’s more of them covering this bunch. And it’s not a recon mission, either. If it was, they would have taken the time to skirt that clearing rather than crossing it. Whatever they’re after, they must want it awfully…”
“They are tracking someone,” Chapo interrupted. “I can see him.”
“Where?” responded Micah.
“About 250 meters below the lead NVA, still in that low area. See the huge tree standing by itself in the middle? Look about thirty mils to the right and down the incline a bit.”
Micah scanned anxiously with the binoculars, trying to pick up what Gonzales was seeing.
The corporal swore softly under his breath. “Aw shit, Mikey. That looks like one of ours. Not a grunt, but definitely norteamericano.”
Templar caught the movement in the area Chapo was describing. It was not Marine jungle utes, or any other clothing pattern worn by American ground troops. It looked more like the coloring of some sort of flight suit.
“Navy or Marine Corps flight suit” said the lieutenant slowly, verifying what Micah had been thinking. “You know, I think I know who this guy might be.”
Johnson continued on. “Right before I moved up from Vandergrift, there was a briefing on an A4 that had gone down inside Laos. The plane was off the USS Hancock on Yankee Station and was attempting to bomb the same general area we’ll be going into.”
“Sir, when did this happen?” queried Micah.
“The bird went down around two weeks ago, evidently it broke apart in the air during a night mission. There was a search, but the pilot ended up being listed as missing and presumed dead” replied Johnson.
“Then maybe Lazarus has arisen, Lieutenant” said Micah, “because that’s the only thing that makes much sense right now. Whoever the man is, he’s probably been seeing the choppers coming and going from the firebase. He figures wherever there are choppers, he’ll find Americans.”
Gonzales cursed again under his breath, but this time more vehemently. “Mikey, I think they may have seen him. They are picking up the pace and angling toward his position.”
“Lieutenant, we’re going to have to move fast. What do you want to do?”
“Sergeant, I believe the operative word is ‘we,’” replied the second lieutenant. “You have a far better handle on the situation right now than I. What do you suggest?”
Micah thought for a moment. “Sir, I want to go get that man but I don’t want to have to cross the riverbed to do it. That’s nearly 200 meters of mostly open ground, and this could be bait to lure us out there and into a trap.”
Still studying the area through his binoculars, Micah continued verbalizing his thinking process as a plan took shape in his head. “Chapo, how much more distance do you think our guy can make before that NVA platoon catches up with him?”
“Well, Mikey” slowly calculated the stocky corporal, “I think it will all go down right at the riverbed. From what I am seeing now, he must be hearing them coming because he’s also moving faster.”
“I don’t think they want to kill our man as much as capture him,” Micah remarked thoughtfully. “But that will change quick if they think he’s going to be rescued. They see the choppers, same as he does. If I was in charge of that NVA unit, I’d have it set in my mind to go to the river’s edge, no further. They are as leery of that open ground as we are. My plan would go from capture to kill at that point.”
The lieutenant nodded in agreement. “I follow you so far, Sergeant.”
“Okay Lieutenant, then here is my suggestion. We have a range card already set up for that approach, with preplanned fire missions with our 81mortar section and Fox Battery back at Razor. Now, First Squad is already emplaced about 250 meters below us facing the river. We pull the M60 emplaced with Second Squad and some men from Third to reinforce the First. Still with me, sir?”
“Yes” responded Lieutenant Johnson. “Go on.”
“When our man breaks into the open at the river bed, we hit them with everything we’ve got. Direct weapons fire will engage from the reinforced First Squad, and the 81s at Razor will join in as well as what we can get from Fox Battery. We’ll start the mortars at the rear of the enemy positions and walk them in as close as we can, providing cover for him to get cross.”
“Do you think he’ll still come on at that time?” asked the lieutenant. “He’s likely to be plenty exhausted and disoriented as it is. When all that shooting breaks loose, he’ll be even more confused and hesitant.”
“Not if he sees a Marine on the other side, Lieutenant, waving him on.”
“And who would that Marine be, Sergeant?”
Micah put down his binoculars, rubbing his eyes for a moment. He looked at the lieutenant. “That Marine would be me, sir.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
In practiced fashion, the word was passed through the platoon as the Marines shifted about in near silence. Perched on the side of the river valley as they were, any errant sound could echo down and carry to the ears of the oncoming NVA.
Each man took a special care, as they became more aware of what was going on and what was at stake. It was all part of Marine Corps tradition, faithfully taught from the rigors of boot camp throughout generations of Leathernecks. You never leave your dead, your wounded or your equipment behind. And you never, ever abandoned any fellow American beyond the wire.
Second Squad’s M60 machine gun was moved down to a pre-dug spot with First Squad, the extra men emplaced, and the 81mm mortars readied up at Firebase Razor. The support fire from Fox Battery was iffy, they were on standby due to the possible need of extracting a force recon team further up the Da Krong. Whatever could be brought to bear would have to be enough.
Micah crouched with the leader for First Squad detailing his ad hoc plan, along with Lieutenant Johnson and Corporal Gonzales. Both had volunteered to go with him as close to the river bed as he dared. Micah had first protested, pointing out to the lieutenant that he was needed at the CP to coordinate what was about to occur.
In turn, the second lieutenant pointed out the Marines in his platoon knew their jobs better at present than he did, and if he was only going to be an observer he would rather do so at the tip of the spear. Micah found himself beginning to like and respect their new platoon commander. His unit could have done far worse than Amos A. Johnson.
As far as Corporal Gonzales, one of his many attributes was as a marksman with few peers. The former high school linebacker came from a very large and poor family living some distance out of town. As a young boy, what he managed to bring down with a single-shot .22 rifle often ended up on the dinner table or as bounty money on predators. The hard options of empty bellies or pockets had given Chapo Gonzales a deadly shooting eye, further sharpened and polished by the Marine Corps.
“You sure your segundo can run things up there on that OP?” asked Micah.
“I would not have volunteered if I had any doubts, Mikey. Besides, I need to keep an eye on you.” Gonzales flashed a broad grin of white, even teeth and lowered his voice as if not to tempt fate. “Remember, we’re short timers now. That Freedom Bird will be here soon.”
“Yeah, I know,” replied the sergeant. “Just want to make sure this Navy airedale gets a fair chance at his own freedom bird. If he’s been out there by himself dodging NVA for two weeks, he deserves it.”
“That he does” agreed Gonzales. “He is muy hombre to have made it this far.” The sergeant shook his head in agreement.
“Chapo, I won’t need the M14 on this deal,” Micah raised the big rifle and offered it up. “I want you to cover me with it.”
“Okay, Mikey, but you set the dope. It’s your rifle and you know it better.”
“What di
stance?” queried Micah, placing his fingers on the rear sight elevation knob.
Gonzales examined the area through the undergrowth and across the riverbed. “I figure about 400 meters.”
Micah nodded in agreement and ran the sights up. He studied the other side of the riverbed, figuring for wind drift and added a couple of clicks of left windage. Satisfied, he handed the heavy-hitting battle rifle to Gonzales along with his spare magazines.
“You want my Made by Mattel?” asked Chapo.
“Yeah, and the extra mags.” Gonzales dug out the twenty round magazines for his M16 and passed them over. By habit, each man checked their respective weapons. After doing so, Micah looked into the expectant eyes of the corporal.
“Tan listo?” asked Chapo.
“Listo, amigo” replied Micah, and they smiled sardonically at each other.
“Cuidado, Mikey. Remember, that freedom bird will be waiting for both of us” Gonzales said, and the two men shook hands. Micah turned and began making his way through the brush and to the retaining bank for the river.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Micah Templar had chosen his new position from above, picking out a point that offered plenty of cover and concealment. Better yet, there was a clear spot to its front where he could stand and attract the attention of someone on the opposite side. The idea that anyone, be they friendly or hostile, would be able to see him so easily had a chilling effect. This was really putting himself into the mouth of the cat.
But there was no time for second thoughts and Micah put his mind solely to what lie ahead. Cautiously, he moved forward on hands and knees to where he needed to be. Once situated he pulled out the binoculars taken from the OP, making certain the pieces of mosquito netting were secured over the lenses to veil any reflection. With them he began scanning the opposite tree line and nearby contours for the hunted aviator.
The minutes crawled by. From below, the sound of water flowing over rocks took away some of his listening ability. At one point he thought he heard something off in the distance, however he could not determine exactly what it was or even how far away. Micah strained both eyes and ears in that general direction but nothing else developed from it. Mentally, he slid back into the waiting phase.
Sometime later, he was scanning the opposite side for what seemed the thousandth time when he saw movement in the high brush above the river channel. It was the slight swaying of a branch, followed by some sort of stirring from behind the concealing undergrowth. Micah forced his eyes to look through the screen of leaves, branches, and tall grass to determine the source. There, if not for more than a fleeting moment, he caught a small segment of the green material that made up a naval flight suit.
The Marine sergeant continued to watch, and calculated the man was walking a quartering route down to the river. If he continued his general course, he should come into the open a bit upstream and on the opposite side from where Micah was proned out.
A minute or so later he saw movement coming through the edge of the brush line, as the man eased over to an outcropping where he could look both up and down the river valley.
Dark headed and of a slight build, he was indeed wearing a Navy flight suit, or what was left of one. The uniform was ripped and torn, and as filthy a piece of clothing as Micah had ever seen. It hung loosely on the shrunken frame of the downed aviator, who moved unsteadily with the all-encompassing weariness of days on end without enough sleep or food, and mixed with a near overwhelming desperation brought on by the constant presence of danger.
It was time for Micah to make his move.
He clambered to his feet and into the open, yelling as loud as he could and waving his arms about wildly.
“Come on, you glorified bus driver! The Marine Corps ain’t got all day!”
For the merest fraction of the following moment, it was as if the second hand on Father Time stood still. The haggard man in the filthy flight suit stared incredulously at the waving Marine sergeant, using language that only a leatherneck would direct towards a commissioned officer of the United States Navy. The missing A4 driver recoiled in that split second, and Micah’s heart sank to the bottom of his jungle boots at the prospect of the aviator running back into the underbrush.
But the man stopped himself in mid motion, glancing quickly up and down the river valley one final time. Then he was scrambling, slipping and sliding down the embankment, moving as quickly as the terrain and his dilapidated condition would allow.
Micah crouched down and started to yell again, but several things happened almost simultaneously that stifled whatever words were coming through his throat. The angry crack of a supersonic bullet whizzed by his left ear, so close he could feel the heat as it passed.
The crack was followed almost immediately by the heavy report of a rifle from directly across the valley, which was in turn answered by the unmistakable sound of his own M14 from above and behind. A tan uniformed body covered with leaves and small branches fell through the opposite brush line and off the edge of the embankment, accompanied by the long silhouette of a scoped Mosin Nagant. Micah suddenly realized that an NVA sniper had been watching the whole show up to this juncture, and decided it was the time to take his shot.
In the fraction of the second when the sergeant crouched, the NVA soldier missed. But Chapo hadn’t.
The moment after his M14 went off and the body of the enemy sniper landed in the river bed, the jungle behind Micah exploded into a maelstrom of weapons fire, sweeping the opposite tree line to his front. Small explosions created by an M79 blooper gun were intermixed with the controlled bursts of the recently re-emplaced M60 and the sharper, higher pitched staccatos of M16s. A few LAAW rounds streaked by, impacting targeted points above the embankment on the enemy’s side. He could also hear the occasional boom of his M14, as it sought out and dealt with perceived threats from across the way.
And there were a lot of them. The sound of small arms fire began to pick up on the opposite side. Some of those rounds were directed at him, and the impacts in his general area sent him scurrying off the open mound and into the background of tangled growth and overhang.
He shouldered Chapo’s M16 and began firing at anything across the river that might have something to do with hiding an enemy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Navy aviator still coming, moving as quickly as he could across the starkly naked gravel and rock bed of the Da Krong.
Micah grimaced as he watched the man struggle on gamely. He himself had emplaced First Squad above this section of the river, as it offered a wide swath of open ground making for easily defendable real estate. But now it was working against them, and against this one man who had come so far and was now so close.
Templar yelled encouragement at the aviator again, but his words were mostly drowned out amid the whoosh of incoming mortar rounds and the attending explosions behind the opposing brush line. After the first few landed, there was the briefest pause for an adjustment of fire. Then a deadly mixture of high explosive and white phosphorous rounds began to fall like biblical fiery hailstones on to the targeted area, and hopefully upon the heads of the NVA troops it concealed.
The fleeing aviator was now almost half way; walking, jogging, stumbling and sometimes scrambling on all fours when he tripped and fell. It was if he was moving in slow motion, and with every fiber in his mind and body Micah was willing him across the open area more swiftly.
But in reality, the downed Navy pilot was moving still slower, as nearly two weeks of exposure and near starvation was leaving him sapped of any sort of reserve strength. Even with the occasional enemy round impacting around his legs and feet, the man simply could not go any faster.
Taking another chance, Micah rolled to his right and crawled over several feet. He popped up from there, cupping his hands and yelling at the aviator again. “C’mon swabbie! This ain’t Happy Hour at the O-Club! Haul Ass!!”
The officer in the flight suit halted for another split second and looked directly at Micah before pressi
ng on. He was close enough now that Micah could distinctly see his disheveled hair standing up at odd angles, as well as the two week’s growth of scraggly beard framing his grimy, sweat stained face. Micah could also see his dark, intelligent eyes, burning with the internal fire of a man who just won’t quit.
He was at the river’s edge now, staggering directly toward Micah’s position. Keeping his eyes locked on the Marine sergeant, the emaciated aviator continued to come on as enemy rounds struck all about. The cover fire from Micah’s side of the river had reached a deafening crescendo and the supporting mortar rounds were marching down to the embankment itself. Any closer and there was the real chance of one ending up in the aviator’s hip pocket.
Yet it seemed that even through all this, the enemy fire was picking up in intensity. Micah looked on as the naval officer waded into the waist deep river without pause, still glaring at the Marine sergeant. He was not much more than 30 meters away now. Then Micah watched with horror as the man’s body suddenly pitched into the water below, taking those fiery eyes with it.
There are times when a man does things by instinct that he might never consider if he had time to think about his actions. Often enough, it is the wrong thing to do as the animalistic drive for personal survival frequently trumps all else. But in the case of Marine Sergeant Micah Templar along the banks of the Da Krong River, that same instinct overpowered him in whole and propelled him forward.
He did not know why, or even what he was going to do if he reached the other man’s side, but a supremely fierce desire to help and defend another launched him out of the undergrowth and into the water below. He found himself screaming with a strange, primal rage and fury that only those who have been to the edge of that particular abyss of the mind can ever understand.
The Uvalde Raider Page 27