Frank Allen had much to do before the sun rose. He jotted down some notes to himself on his kneeboard. At least two Jolly Green helicopters should be on the scene. They would actually lift the men out. But Allen and his flight of Skyraiders would have to locate the downed crewmen and do whatever was necessary to make the area safe for helicopters. If need be, jets could be diverted from all over Southeast Asia to attack enemy positions.
Consulting the chart again, he rechecked the lines he had drawn from the ADF readings, and his TACAN bearing and range plots from Nakhon Phanom. The two ADF cuts intersected at a position only four miles from Devil 500's last known position, as reported by the airborne controller. But given the distances involved and the sensitivity of the equipment, he decided the agreement was merely coincidence. The two crewmen might be anywhere within ten miles of the two locations. He drew a ten-mile circle around both points and studied the chart under his red flashlight. Peaks up to 5800 feet and the villages of Sam Neua and Ban Na Yeung lay within the circle. He hoped the airmen had not gone down near the villages, for if the villagers had heard the crash they would be out in force at daylight, looking for parachutes and beating every bush.
The chart showed a road running west through Sam Neua toward the upper reaches of the Mekong and the Plain of Jars. One of the northern feeders to Ho's Trail, the dirt track wound through a valley that Frank Allen knew would be covered with dense vegetation and flanked with limestone karst ridges. A road meant men. Men and trucks and guns. He wrote the word "napalm" and underlined it.
Jake made the 2300 check-in call, but Tiger did not. Although the airborne controller had tried to encourage Grafton, when they had each signed off, Jake remained alone with his despair. Not only did he feel the danger of his and Cole's position, but he was completely exhausted from the exertions of the last hour.
The desire for water and a cigarette roused him. The water would have to wait, he decided, but he would have a smoke. He wiped his dirty hands on his thighs and felt his pockets for cigarettes. The half-full pack in his sleeve pocket was soggy and crushed. He discarded it, then thought it might dry out later and retrieved the pack. He found a new pack and a lighter in the lower left pocket of his G-suit. With trembling hands, he tore off the cellophane.
The smoke felt good filling his lungs, but when he exhaled, it sent needle-sharp pains through his nose. He blew the smoke out through his mouth, then greedily dragged in another lungful.
The smoke! What if the gooks smelled it? He almost stubbed out the cigarette before he decided his fears were exaggerated. He did, though, take out his revolver and hold it with his finger on the trigger, the muzzle pointing off into the total darkness that surrounded him. The only light came from the glow of his cigarette tip.
The heft and shape of the weapon helped to settle his nerves. The cool steel of the barrel, the gentle curve of the butt, the roughness of the wooden grips, the serrations on the hammer-all spoke of power and security. But against a squad armed with assault rifles, this was merely a popgun. It was nevertheless reassuring to hold.
He remembered the ring he had bought for Callie. He patted his left sleeve pocket and felt it there, thin and hard. He brought it out and fingered it to ensure that the stone was still in its setting. Returning the ring to his pocket, he pulled the zipper completely shut.
He smoked the cigarette and held the revolver and listened to the night sounds of the jungle. He tried to think. He had to hook up with Tiger and make him as comfortable as possible. At dawn when the Sandys came, he could direct them in. After the Sandys had pinpointed their position, they would wait for the Jolly Greens to arrive and pull them up to safety. Tiger would go up first in a litter while he waited on the ground. Then the chopper crew would lower a jungle penetrator for him, a bright-orange, projectile-shaped weight designed to pass through thick foliage. Okay, that is what has to be done. Now to make it happen.
With his penlight, he searched about him for a walking stick. He saw a likely looking sapling and hacked it off near the ground with his knife. Then he cut a length about six feet long. He heaved himself upright, supporting himself with the stick. After checking the compass under the penlight, he tottered off to the east.
He fell often. Lifting his foot for the next step was a labor. He held on to the stick with both hands, bracing the penlight between the stick and his right hand. He pulled himself over uneven ground, picking his way through thick, resistant jungle. He forgot about the compass and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other. Leaden with fatigue, he took longer and longer to rise after each stumble. The penlight slipped to the jungle floor, but he didn't notice. He had only one thought in a mind encased in fatigue and pain: Find Tiger Cole.
After an eternity of wandering, Jake tripped and fell into a small brook, striking his broken nose on a stone. The pain cut through the fatigue, and the cold rushing water revived him. He drank-short gulps, taking deep breaths in between. When he was satiated, he rolled over on his back, still in the stream.
He had to go on. Find Tiger Cole. That was the only reason for his existence. He groped for the stick but could not put his hand on it. Summoning all his strength, he rolled over onto his stomach and began crawling. His nose seemed to bump up against every low-lying branch, and his knee found every rock.
Finally he could go no further. Exhaustion and pain overtook him, and he fell into a deep sleep.
The rain ceased two hours before dawn as the storm drifted across the mountains and down the valley of the Red River toward the sea. The saturated air continued to give up moisture. Drops of water condensed on leaves and branches and formed rivulets that channeled through the layers of vegetation, eventually descending to the jungle floor where the moisture soaked further into the rotting carpet. Of this Jake Grafton knew nothing. He lay where his body had failed him.
TWENTY-FIVE
At the SAR Command Post at NKP, Frank Allen learned at 0015 that neither A-6 crewman had responded to the airborne controller's midnight call. It didn't look good, and Allen paused in his efforts to organize and brief the rescue mission to -weigh the difficulties.
The weather forecasters seemed optimistic about the possibility of the cloud cover breaking up in the SAR area at dawn, but that was the only bright spot in a bad situation. In this area of steep limestone karst ridges and deep valleys, it would be relatively easy to pick up the downed airmen if they were high on a ridge. If they were low in the valley, though, the SAR forces might be exposed to heavy antiaircraft fire from guns sited on the high terrain.
The bombardier was seriously injured and the pilot no longer answered his radio. Allen wondered if he had been captured. He had told him to stay put, but of course the guy was probably wandering all over hell's half acre looking for his buddy. He might have walked into an NVA camp or truck refueling dump near the highway. Maybe he had lost the radio or walked over a cliff.
Allen gave up imagining possible scenarios and dedicated his attention to the details that might help, details of ordnance and call signs and fuel and navigation checkpoints, details that would give him options as events developed. The one certainty in his mind was that he would need options to win the battle that was coming.
By five in the morning Allen was airborne. The ten Skyraiders-piston-engined holdovers in the age of jets-flew north above the clouds; dark rifts had begun to appear in them. Each plane had four twentymillimeter guns in the wings. In addition, each carried two external fuel tanks, one under each wing, and a variety of ordnance that included 2.75-inch rockets, white phosphorus smoke rockets, and four 250-pound bombs equipped with thirty-six-inch extender-fuses, or daisy-cutters
When they reached the holding fix, a point Allen had chosen and named "Alpha," eight of the Skyraiders began to orbit at maximum endurance airspeed-the most fuel-efficient airspeed-while Allen and his wingman flew on toward the SAR area. Allen had decided to hold the bulk of his forces in reserve until he knew where the downed crewmen were and the extent of the enemy o
pposition.
The pink fingers of dawn edged over the eastern horizon. Frank Allen flipped on his master arm switch and checked the sighting dot on his gunsight glass. It was there, just as it should be. The stars retreated as the sky brightened. He checked the authentication questions he would ask the survivors if he could make contact. These personal questions, made up by each man and kept on file at SAR headquarters, helped determine that the respondents were who they said they were. NVA English-speakers had been known to try to lure in rescue aircraft. Or the survivors could be captured and be forced to talk on the radio. Only the correct response, as known by the man who wrote the question, would bring the helicopters in.
"Devil Five Oh Oh, Sandy One on Guard. Are you with us?" The question went out over the emergency frequency four or five times, as it had each hour of the night. There was no answer.
The waiting was harder now. The cloud tops were shot with red fire. Allen glanced down through the gaps in the clouds, wondering what would greet them on their descent.
How had the two airmen on the ground fared during the night? Would there be flak? He drummed his fingers on the canopy rail and whistled a nameless tune.
The thunder of a Skyraider engine just above the trees woke Jake Grafton. He lay awake and listened to the receding throb. The darkness of the night had given way to a gray half-light. He fumbled for his radio and found the on-off switch. His first hasty transmission elicited only silence. After a second try, a voice boomed at him, "Devil Five Oh Oh, this is Sandy One. Give me thirty seconds of beeper if able, over."
"Roger that." Jake manipulated the controls with numb fingers.
"Copy your beeper. Come up on two eight two point oh, over."
"Alai" Jake switched to the secondary emergency frequency. He heard, ". . . and that parachute is about fifty yards north of the road."
Jake pressed the transmit button, his words tumbling out. "Sandy, this is Devil Five Oh Oh Alpha. A Spad just went over me a moment ago. Right over me. God, I'm sure glad you guys are here."
A cheerful, confident voice answered. "Good morning, Devil Alpha. We're glad to be here. Time for authentication questions. What is the finest automobile ever made?"
"A '57 Chevy."
"And what color is the finest automobile ever made?"
"Blue."
”Wait."
Jake was breathing so quickly he had to force himself to slow down. "Devil Alpha, we have a parachute in sight about fifty yards north of a road. Are you near it?"
Jake looked about him. Nothing but jungle. MY, ble, he replied, "I don't know,"
"Well, give me another fifteen seconds of beeper, then sit tight and tell me when the next plane comes back near you.”
"Roger."
Jake listened above the pounding of his heart. The air was filled with the deep rumbles of the big piston englues, throaty and promising of freedom and safety. The sounds seemed to come from all directions.
Mounting excitement made him want to get up and run. He waited, his ears straining to pick out the one engine that was louder than the rest. He grew more tense as the engine sound increased. Jake craned his head, trying to see through the forest, which rose almost two hundred feet above him. Impossible. He would see no blue sky through that leafy canopy.
"You're getting closer," he shouted into the mile.
The machine was almost upon The engine noise swelled, crested, and washed over him. "Now," he savained. "You just went over my head." He had not seen the plane.
The engine noise retreated rapidly. "Okay. You seem to be about forty yards or so west of a parachute. Make that forty yards northwest. Me chute is about fifty yards north of a road running east and west and the chute may be visible from the road. Is it your chute?"
Jake's mind leaped. "Christ! It could be my BN's-Devil Bravo. Maybe." He added the "maybe" as memory of the night's aimless wandering came back. "Have you heard from Devil Bravo?"
"Negative."
Jake was on his feet and checking his compass, which still hung from the and around his neck.
"Sandy, that may be my bombardier's chute. I'm going over there and check it out. My chute should be west of here someplace."
He started hobbling southeast. Dear God, let Tiger be under that chute.
"Jake? Can you think of the name of our mutual friend from Texas?"
Texas? "Cowboy!" Who the hell is this? Could it be Frank Allen?
"That's the man! Now listen, Jake. You're right beside a road and from the looks of it the gomers have been driving up and down it a good bit. No one's shot at us yet, but they're down there and they're undoubtedly looking for you."
Thoroughly frightened, Jake put the radio in his left hand and turned down the volume. He drew his revolver with his right.
"Watch your ass, Jake."
"Okay," he whispered.
He walked on. Finally he saw it, a sliver of white amid the foliage. Thank God it wasn't in the tops of the trees or the gomers would have homed in on it by now. And Tiger would be hanging a hundred feet in the air. Jake stood motionless and listened. His heart was pounding and he was gasping for breath in the humid air. He heard leaves rustling but, it seemed, in response to a breeze in the treetops. His knee throbbed. He bent and touched it with the back of his hand, and fresh pain shot through him. Damn! He started to take a step, then paused and checked the gun. He had unconsciously thumbed back the hammer. If he tripped, it could go off accidentally. He tucked the radio under his arm and used both thumbs to let the hammer down.
Even with the radio muffled under his arm, Jake could hear the pilots talking to each other. Apparently they had found the other chute. To him, the radio sounded as loud as a brass band. He knew the gomer onlers were somewhere in the jungle around him, stalking him, and before a voice could come over the air hikke the crashing of cymbals, he turned off the set
Thhh the radio off and the drone of aircraft engines far away, the forest around Jake seemed ominously still. Spasms of shivering racked his body. He flexed his fingers around the butt of the revolver. As in an animal at bay, every sense was alert. He waited, and then fially took a step forward, toward the slash of white silk clashing against the green of the jungle. Look, listen, step ... look ... listen ... step ... look
Tiger Cole lay on a boulder, about knee-high, on his back with his arms outstretched downward. His head was bare; his helmet was beside the rock. Tangles of shroud line lay around and over hirs He had landed near a stream in an area strewn with boulders and stones.
Cole's eyes were closed and his lips parted. His face was mottled and swollen, apparently from insect bites. Jake touched his cheek. It was warm. The chest was moving.
Dear God! He was alive!
Ile remembered the planes overhead and turned the radio back on. "I've found him and he's alive but unconscious. We're right here under this chute."
"Roger."
Jake gently moved Cole's head back and forth and massaged the cheeks. "Hey, Tiger! Hey, Tiger! Wake up! It's me, Jake."
The eyelids flickered, then opened. Tiger gazed into the distance before bringing his eyes to rest on Jake's
face. Finally his eyes focused.
"Jake?"
"Yeah. I'm here, shipmate. The good guys have found us and the bad guys haven't. You're going to be okay." Jake unzipped Cole's vest and took out one of his bottles, unscrewed the cap, and elevated the bom
bardier's head.
The back of Cole's head felt pulpy. Grafton looked.
It was covered with blood. He looked again at the helmet at the base of the rock. It was broken almost in two, the helmet that had probably saved Cole's life. Jake trickled some of the water between the parted lips. Cole's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Jake poured more water into Cole's mouth.
”Enough," Cole spluttered.
"Where're you hurt?"
"Back's broken. Can't move. Can't see too good, either. And I think I pass out once in a while." "Maybe it isn't broken. Can you feel this?" Jake gras
ped the near hand.
"Yeah."
Jake grasped Cole's thigh. "This?"
"A little, but I can't move.”
He put his hand on the bombardier's forehead, partly to wipe away the perspiration and partly just to touch hint A tear or two dropped down Jake's cheeks.
Through his own watery eyes, he saw that one of Cole's pupils was dilated.
"Get me off this fucking rock." "Moving you might kill you."
"We all have to go sometime. Now get me off this fucking rock and lay me out in the leaves."
Jake unsnapped Cole's parachute-release fittings and pulled away the tangles of shroud line. No, Cole's spinal cord was still intact, and moving him might kill him or paralyze him for life. "You're going to have to stay on that rock until the chopper crewman can help me get you into the litter."
Cole cursed Jake, who ignored him and picked up the shroud lines and tried to pull the chute down. He tugged from several angles, even hanging on the lines with his feet off the ground in spite of the pain in his side. The chute was in the treetops to stay. The sky was visible through several open places in the forest canopy because, in this rocky terrain, the jungle foliage was thinner.
"I got us into a helluva fix this time, Tiger. We're really in deep . . ." but Jake saw that Cole had passed out. Jake unzipped a pocket of his survival vest and found the only bandage he had left. He tore off the wrapper and placed the bandage under Cole's head. At least it was softer and cleaner than the rock. He picked up Cole's radio from the ground-Cole had apparently dropped it during the night-and turned it off to save the batteries. Then Jake checked in again with the Sandys.
That done, he turned his attention to Cole. "Wake up, Tiger, wake up! Come on, Virgil." He sprinkled water on Cole's face. Cole opened his eyes.
Flight of the Intruder Page 35