by Joe Weber
With trembling hands, Brad switched on the radio and cupped it to his mouth. "Sleepy Two Five, Safari."
The noisy army truck slowed and rumbled to a stop on the side of the road.
"Sleepy Two Five, Safari. Copy?" Come on, guys.
"Safari," the speaker crackled, "you're weak, but readable. Say your posit and condition."
Brad watched two men get out of the truck to look at the burning wreckage of the MiG. God, please don't let them go down to investigate the crash site.
"I'm in the same location that I gave you before I went down." He leaned against a tree trunk and flicked a drop of blood off the bridge of his nose. He tried to slow his breathing before he spoke. "Approximately seven miles south of where the rivers meet. I'm on the east side of the river, near a large marshy area."
Austin cast a wary glance at the truck. A half-dozen NVA soldiers had struggled over the tailgate to join the two men from the cab.
"I'm okay . . . physically," Brad continued in a hushed voice, "but an army truck just stopped near the airplane. Also, there's a large convoy of trucks headed this way--traveling north to south."
"Copy that you're okay," Rudy Jimenez replied with a tone of confidence. Downed and frightened airmen needed to hear a strong, positive voice. "We estimate being over your position in--ah . . . twelve minutes."
Brad felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach. Twelve minutes sounded like an eternity, especially when he was facing death or torture and imprisonment. "Roger. When I have you in sight, I'll direct you to my position before I come out from under these trees."
"Okay, Safari." It was Mitchell's reassuring voice. "Take it easy .. . and give us a holler when you hear the helo."
Austin froze when the group of soldiers began walking toward the blazing fighter. "Will do, Sleepy. Thanks."
"Just stay put."
Brad clicked the mike twice and eased back into the foliage and branches. He watched the eight men disappear down the incline leading to the rice paddies. His intuition told him that the situation was ripe for disaster. The villagers would obviously tell the NVA regulars which way the pilot went, and, most important, that the airman was not Vietnamese.
He quickly glanced down the wide river and guessed that it was at least a quarter of a mile around the marshy recess to a wooded area next to the shoreline. I don't think it's a good idea to stay here.
"Sleepy, I've got company nearby--need to get away from the immediate vicinity. I'm going to head south, along the shore. The MiG is sending a plume of black smoke into the air, so you'll probably see it before I hear you."
"Roger that," Jimenez responded evenly. "We'll hit the river a couple of miles south of your position, then work north toward you."
"I'm on my way," Brad said as he stuffed the radio inside his flight suit, then hunched down and began running around the perimeter of the marshy cove.
Looking across a vast expanse of forested ridge lines, Chase Mitchell decided to drop into a valley leading to the flatlands west of the Black River. His eyes ranged over the sky and horizon, searching for enemy aircraft or signs of tracers.
The air-force and navy strike groups were exiting the area, but the threat of MiG activity was always present. The UH-34 would be no match for a fighter, especially one flown by a competent pilot.
"Rudy," Mitchell said after a long silence, "there's a major roadway that runs along the west side of the river."
Jimenez looked at the chart and tried to forget the rapidly dwindling fuel supply. "We better steer clear of it. It's a basic supply route that'll be crawling with guns."
"That's what I plan to do." Mitchell pointed when he caught a glimpse of the river in the distance. "We'll stay about a mile and a half west, as low and fast as we can go, then pop over the river when Austin hears us." He gave Rudy a questioning glance. "What do you think?"
Jimenez was skeptical, and it showed in his eyes. His legendary reputation as an air-force SAR pilot had been earned from a wealth of experience gained from many dramatic rescues.
Although Mitchell was senior to Jimenez, he respected his copilot's knowledge and judgment. "Rodeo, if you've got a better idea, now's the time to sing out."
Rudy studied the chart. "Chase, I think we'd be better off to cross the road and the river here." Jimenez pointed to a 4,200-foot peak on the east side of the river. "We can skirt along the edge, then shoot straight up the east side of the river. There aren't any roads, until we get close to Austin's position."
Rudy handed the chart to the pilot. "The area is sparsely populated, so I wouldn't expect much in the way of small-arms fire . . . if some gomers recognize us. The closer we get to the water, the more people we're going to overfly."
Mitchell looked down at the chart and thought about the plan, then nodded in agreement. "Makes sense to me."
"Elvin," Mitchell cautioned, "keep an eye out. We're going to cross the river and go for a quick snatch. If he's in an open area, I'll go into a hover and you yank his ass aboard. If we have to use the winch, let me know as soon as he's in the sling. We'll drag him to a safe area before we hoist him up. Got it?"
Crowder rested a gnarled hand on the M-60 machine gun and scanned the sky. "I've been doin' this shit," he growled over the intercom, "since your mother was a virgin."
Jimenez rolled his eyes to Mitchell. "Why do we put up with that shitbird?"
"Because," Chase gave him a tense grin, "he's saved our asses a couple of times."
Brad kept up a steady pace as he doggedly splashed through the shallows of the marshland. He leaped over a rotting log and tripped , then caught himself before he sprawled face-first in the muck. He paused, thinking that he had heard the beat of helicopter rotor blades. He listened intently, but the only distinguishable sound was a jet engine high overhead. He started running again.
Without warning, a shrill whistle stopped him in his tracks. Austin glanced over his shoulder and felt a chill run down his spine. A lone soldier was standing on the lip of the road. He was holding a whistle to his mouth and motioning for Brad to come to him.
Overwhelmed with raw panic, Austin started to reach for his revolver, then stopped to weigh his chances of reaching the trees near the river. The longer he hesitated, the more suspicious the soldier would become.
An insidious feeling of doubt began to creep into Brad's mind. His confidence in masquerading as a Soviet pilot was quickly evaporating. What if there was a Russian adviser in the group?
When the other seven men gathered on the road, Brad made a split-second decision to run and take his chances. He bolted forward and raced toward the nearest trees.
Austin heard muffled shouts as he scrambled up a small rise and tumbled down a steep, water-filled ravine. He sloshed across the ditch and crawled out as shots rang through the air. The North Vietnamese had finally cornered the culprit who had inflicted so much damage during the time he had flown the mysterious MiG.
Stumbling blindly toward the treeline, Brad was suddenly spun around and knocked to the ground. The round from the AK-47 had torn through the side of his right upper thigh. The hunters had their quarry at bay.
"There it is," Rudy Jimenez gestured wildly. "I see the smoke!" The dark cloud had risen at an angle and was spreading horizontally with the wind.
Mitchell made a slight course correction. "Yeah, I've got it." He hit his mike switch. "Safari, we have the smoke. Give us a sit rep." He wanted a situation report before they attempted the rescue.
After a long moment, Mitchell tried again. "Brad, if you hear me, click your transmitter. We're almost there."
Silence.
"This doesn't look good," Jimenez muttered as he caught sight of the line of army vehicles in the distance. "I've got the convoy. They're almost to the downed MiG."
Mitchell banked the helicopter toward the water. "Rudy, do you see any power lines over the river?"
Both pilots strained to see any indication of towers along the shorelines. An unseen power line could send the U H-34 cras
hing into the river.
"No, just some small boats up ahead."
Chase Mitchell gripped the collective tighter and keyed the radio. "Brad, we need to know your location."
The radio remained quiet.
Austin heard the radio calls while he fumbled for his revolver. The searing pain in his thigh had changed to a dull numbness as the enemy troops approached. If he died here, it would only be after he had used every means to resist. If he lived, Leigh Ann would be waiting for him.
He moved his bleeding leg and felt that it would support him. The bullet had ripped through the fleshy part of his thigh, but it had not hit the bone.
Fueled by adrenaline and cold fear, Brad shoved himself to a sitting position, aimed at the center of the group of soldiers, then fired two rounds.
He was amazed when one of the men staggered sideways and collapsed. When the soldier hit the ground, his assault rifle discharged a wild burst of fire. A dumb-luck shot from the revolver, accompanied by the spray of rifle shells, had sent the infantrymen diving for cover.
Seizing the moment, Brad scrambled to his feet and awkwardly limped toward the foliage near the trees. A volley of shots rang out, and he waited for a bullet to find him.
"Try him again--keep trying!". Chase Mitchell ordered while he concentrated on flying ten feet above the water. "We've gotta make a decision, Rudy . . . before we get sucked into an ambush."
"Brad," Jimenez pleaded with an emotional intensity in his voice, "we're almost there. Say your position. Repeat, say your position!"
Recalling the time he had been lured into a North Vietnamese trap during a SAR mission, Jimenez was cautious but determined to go above and beyond their duty.
"Chase, they may have captured him," Rudy said sadly, "but we owe it to him to go in--to find out."
Mitchell knew Jimenez was right. They would never be able to live with the guilt if they aborted this close to the downed pilot. "We're going in."
Chapter FORTY-ONE
Stumbling and weaving, Brad Austin blindly plunged into the dense undergrowth and fought his way through the branches and thickets. Ignoring the shells that ripped through the vegetation, he turned and fired another two rounds at his pursuers.
When they dropped to the ground, he crawled through the underbrush leading to the river. With his lungs heaving, Brad stopped to peer through the leaves. His hopes sank when he saw some of the soldiers moving to his left and right. They would soon have him surrounded.
In the distance, he heard the familiar beating sound of rotor blades. The helicopter was only seconds away. Oh, God, give me the strength to hang on.
He fired his last rounds at the infantrymen nearing the edge of the water, then dropped the revolver and groped clumsily for his survival radio.
"Chase, open up with the machine gun! I need cover fire along the riverbank!"
His plea was answered by three short, distinct bursts of fire across the water next to the shoreline. The trail of splashes turned to mud splatters as the rounds walked up the bank and through the men.
When the advancing soldiers stopped and began shouting at each other, Brad plunged toward the riverbank. He plowed through the thick foliage, dragging his leg and clutching the survival radio.
"I'm close to the water!" he gasped as a bullet ricocheted off a tree trunk in front of him. "Next to the shore--north edge of the trees!"
Brad heard the metallic voice from the radio, but he ignored it in his desperate attempt to reach safety. Another high-powered round whined past his head and exploded a leaf a foot away. My luck is going to run out.
Expending the last of his energy, Brad charged through the maze while he heard the staccato sounds of the M-60 raking the shoreline. He also heard someone scream in agony.
He dropped the radio and lowered his head, forging his way through the last of the obstacles. Suddenly free from the entanglement, Brad fell facedown on the muddy bank. He clawed his way toward the river and flinched when a row of geysers blasted across the water next to him.
Brad looked to his right and saw his tormentor disappear in a hail of machine-gun fire.
Above, the helicopter was slowing to a hover and the rescue sling was skimming the water. Brad crawled into the water and rose to his knees. He frantically waved his arms at the helo, but the crew had already spotted him.
Elvin Crowder continued to decimate the soldiers while Mitchell maneuvered the sling toward Austin. It dangled tantalizingly close, just out of reach.
Brad tried to get to his feet, then lunged at the horse collar. He missed and fell headlong into the water. He struggled to his knees and gagged when he swallowed a mouthful of water.
Rudy Jimenez was acting as a backup on the flight controls when the helicopter unexpectedly tilted steeply and slid sideways. The tips of the rotor blades nipped the water for a split second.
"Chase!" Jimenez gasped as he clutched the controls and righted the helo. "You 'kay?"
Mitchell groaned, then slumped in his harness as his arms went limp. A single hole in the windshield marked the entry point of the round that had struck the pilot in the neck.
"What's goin' on?" Crowder demanded while he continued to blaze away at the soldiers.
Rudy ignored the gunner and skillfully moved the rescue sling over Austin. "Grab it, Brad," he said to himself as another round hit the top of the windshield. "They're going to blow us out of the sky when we run out of ammo."
Movement to the left caught his eye. "Sonuvabitch," he swore out loud when he saw the convoy grinding to a halt.
When the machine guns mounted on the trucks commenced firing, Jimenez squeezed down in his seat and concentrated on flying smoothly.
The sling was skipping toward him, but Brad was blinded by the spray churned up by the rotor blades. When the harness bumped him, Austin frantically grabbed it and stuck his arm through the opening.
"Go!" he yelled into the gale-force wind, then grappled with the unwieldy horse collar. He felt himself being pulled through the water before he could get his head and other arm through the sling.
Sweet Jesus, I'm not going to make it! Brad clutched the sling in the crook of his right elbow and used his other hand to seize his wrist in a death grip. He closed his eyes and prayed for renewed strength.
Supporting the weight of his soaked flight suit, Brad strained when his body was yanked from the river. His feet bounced off the water a couple of times as the helicopter swiveled and gained speed.
He twirled precariously on the end of the winch line as the helo climbed and accelerated. I can't hang on forever.
"Is he secured?" Jimenez barked over the intercom. He could not afford to climb too high or go too fast if Austin was not securely in the sling.
Elvin Crowder braced himself against the cabin door and leaned into the wind. "Shit no. He's only got one arm through the collar."
Jimenez swore under his breath and searched for a relatively safe place to make a quick landing. He glanced at Mitchell and thought he detected a tentative movement.
"Chase, can you hear me?"
The only response from the wounded pilot was a slight flicker of his eyelids.
"Is Mitch hit?" Crowder snapped.
"Yes," Jimenez answered bitterly. "I'm going to land just ahead--about a mile--and get Austin aboard."
"You better make it now," Crowder said with a touch of sarcasm, " 'cause our boy is about to take a big dive."
Brad alternated between thanking God for watching over him, and calculating his chances for survival if he lost his grip. The throbbing pain in his thigh had diminished to an unpleasant tingling sensation.
He found if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could hear and see Leigh Ann laughing on the beach at Waikiki. It seemed like a hundred years ago.
A moment later, Brad felt the helicopter begin to slow. He opened his eyes and saw that he was descending toward a partly submerged bank of mud extending out from the shoreline.
When the helo finally hovered above the sha
llow water, Brad let go of the collar from a height of three feet and fell backward in the deep mud.
He staggered to his feet and plodded unsteadily toward the helicopter. The UH-34 moved sideways and hovered, with the main tires barely touching the mudflat.
Austin lowered his head into the windblast and trudged forward a few more feet before he felt Elvin Crowder grab his arm. The crew chief helped Brad to the open hatch and boosted him inside.
With a visceral sense of relief, Brad collapsed in a heap while Jimenez pulled pitch and sucked the wheels out of the quagmire.
After a couple of minutes, Crowder leaned over the mudsoaked pilot. "How ya' feelin'?"
Brad had to shout over the noise from the thrashing rotor blades. "Great," he grimaced from a sudden stab of pain. "Never felt better."
"Good," Crowder grinned for the first time Austin could remember, "because you look and smell like you crawled out of a benjo ditch."
Brad mustered a weak smile. "You guys are first on my Christmas list . . . thanks."
Crowder nodded and ran an experienced eye over the trickle of blood next to Austin's leg. The crew chief spoke briefly to Jimenez and then opened a first-aid kit. "Looks like you got a little scratch."
"Yeah," Brad replied in a tired, hoarse voice. "It's been one helluva day.
"I ain't much of a doc," Crowder grumbled as he extracted a dressing, "but I'll patch you up best I can."
The look in Brad's eyes showed his appreciation.
Rudy Jimenez forced the battle-scarred helicopter to ascend at its maximum rate of climb. He kept the helo close to the rising mountain s w hile he waited to gain enough altitude to head directly for Alpha-29.
He scanned the engine instruments and maintained a careful vigilance for any signs of trouble. If the MiG bases had been notified of the rescue effort, the fighter pilots would be searching for the American helicopter.
Jimenez glanced at Mitchell and saw that his color was gone. The cockpit floor was awash in dark blood and the pilot's half-closed eyes were fixed in a vacant stare. Chase Mitchell was dead, but Jimenez refused to accept the fact. Maybe the medics can help him when we get to Alpha-29.