by Joe Weber
He could taste the bile in his throat as he turned to a westerly heading. Since there was not a passageway between the cabin and cockpit, Mitchell would have to remain strapped into his seat. "Elvin, keep an eye out for MiGs."
"Will do, but it's gonna be easy to spot us."
"Say again."
"We're trailin' a thin stream of smoke. From the color, I reckon it's comin' from the engine."
Rudy shot a look at the engine-temperature and oil-pressure gauges. The cylinder-head temperature was slightly higher than normal, but the oil pressure remained unchanged. "We're looking good . . . at least for the moment."
Crowder leaned out of the hatch and watched the faint streak of oily smoke. "How's Mitch doin'?"
Jimenez looked at the fuel gauge and spoke softly. "Not so great. What's Austin's condition?"
"He'll make it, but he's got a nasty thigh wound. We'll have to get 'em medevacked as soon as we hit the ground."
If we have enough fuel to reach base, Jimenez thought with a calm fatalism. All of us may die before the day is over
Chapter FORTY-TWO
ALPHA-29
A palpable tension hung in the air as Hollis Spencer slowly drummed his fingers on his desk. He looked around the room, then stared at the second hand on his wristwatch while it completed one full sweep. Letting the silence build, he stopped and methodically packed fresh tobacco into his pipe. At last, he snapped his lighter open, puffed repeatedly, and swiveled to face Allison.
"Let's give them a call."
Nick Palmer shared a glance with Lex Blackwell. They knew the odds were against a successful rescue deep in the heartland of Northern Vietnam. Their worst fear was that Brad Austin had been killed in the crash landing.
Allison slid her chair close to the radio and adjusted the volume control for the overhead speaker. "Sleepy Two Five, Blue Devil. Do you copy?"
The speaker suddenly crackled with a garbled static, but the message was sporadic and unintelligible. The random noise served as a ray of hope.
"Let's wait a few minutes," Spencer said with a rush of enthusiasm, "and try again."
Surprised by the distorted radio transmission, Rudy Jimenez answered the call while he nursed the helicopter higher. He would keep climbing and call Alpha-29 every thirty seconds until he could hear clearly.
He thought about calling in the blind, hoping someone at a higher altitude would relay his message. After careful consideration, he elected not to risk exposing the operation. Making contact with the base would bolster his morale, but it would not get them home any sooner.
Jimenez watched the altimeter as the laboring helicopter struggled for every foot of altitude. He felt the tension that knotted his neck muscles.
"Blue Devil, Sleepy Two Five."
He listened to the sound of the engine and cast a hesitant glance at the oil-pressure gauge. His eyes were playing tricks on him, or were they? The indicator seemed immobilized, but he was sure it had been slightly higher the last time he looked at the pressure.
"Blue Devil, Sleepy radio check. How do you read?"
Finally, Allison's excited voice filled Rudy's earphones.
"Sleepy, we copy. Is Brad on board, and where are you?"
Jimenez gave Chase Mitchell a quick glance and felt his stomach tighten. Rudy could not admit to himself that he and the best friend he had ever had would never again go barhopping together.
"Blue Devil, we're a couple of miles southeast of Chieng Pan." Jimenez stared at the oil-pressure indicator. He was certain it had dropped a fraction of . A n inch. "Austin is on board, and we have two wounded. We need the doc standing by, and the dollar-twenty-three ready to medevac. Copy?"
"Read you loud and clear. Stand by."
-Wilco.
The oil gauge had definitely moved. Jimenez could see the pressure dropping. He eased back on the throttle to try to conserve the precious fluid. He searched his chart for a reasonable place to make a forced landing. Rudy computed the time to Alpha-29 and concluded that it was his only choice. At the rate the pressure was dropping, it would be a close race between landing at the remote base and running out of oil short of the field.
"Sleepy, say nature of the injuries and your ETA."
"Austin has a gunshot wound to his thigh," Jimenez said, knowing how Allison felt about Brad, "and Chase has a severe neck wound. Rudy glanced at Mitchell once more. "Chase needs an immediate medevac."
"We're making preparations as we speak. Say your ETA. " Her voice was thin and cracked, but the emotional relief was clearly evident.
"I'd say eighteen to twenty minutes," Rudy estimated while he studied the engine instruments, "if this thing holds together that long."
"What's the problem?"
Jimenez raised his arm and wiped his cheek on the sleeve of his flight suit. "We've got an oil leak, and the engine temp is going out of sight. I'll keep you informed."
"Roger that," she replied in a hollow voice.
Watching each minute slowly drag by, Rudy decided that in the event of total engine failure, he would broadcast a Mayday call over an emergency frequency used by the Air America pilots. If he did not get a quick response, he would switch the frequency to 243.0 and send out a distress call. To hell with the goddamn MiG operation.
Nick Palmer rose from his chair a moment after he heard a loud swooshing sound. He and Lex Blackwell froze in place, then dove to the deck when machine-gun fire flayed the Quonset but and surrounding area.
"Get down!" Hollis Spencer exclaimed as he grasped Allison's arm and pulled her to the floor.
"Stay down!" Palmer ordered while he yanked the briefing table over on its side. "Over here--get behind the table and stay low!"
Blackwell quickly discarded his cumbersome arm sling and grabbed the nearest M-16, then belly-crawled to the entrance. He cautiously peered above the kick panel and ducked when a mortar shell made a hit on the hangar.
"Holy shit!" Lex gasped as he scrambled behind the tabletop. "They scored a direct hit on the hangar. We've gotta make it to the foxholes!"
"Not yet," Palmer shouted over the ear-splitting machine-gun fire. "Hang on a minute!"
Spencer waited for a lull in the fighting before he decided to venture from behind the desk. He crawled to the field security radio while Allison hurriedly snatched her rifle and rejoined the pilots.
"Nick, we better make a run for it," Blackwell declared as another hail of gunfire erupted.
"We can't go outside right now," Palmer shouted above the crackling fusillade of automatic-weapons fire. "They'll rip us apart before we get twenty feet!"
Their mouths turned dry while Spencer yelled into the Command Post radio. Gunnery Sergeant Salvador Rodriguez barked orders in return.
A series of thundering concussions pounded the operations building as mortar rounds rained on the hangar and adjacent sleeping quarters. Spencer cursed and tossed the handset down when a barrage of shells lashed the Quonset hut. He sprawled on the floor a second before a spray of shells riddled the wall.
"The CO--Gunny Rodriguez says we have to withdraw!" Spencer flinched when two rounds smashed into his desk. "We're being overrun!"
Smelling the stench of his damp flight suit, Brad Austin closed his eyes and captured a mental image of Leigh Ann. How was he going to be able to contact her? Maybe the C-123 pilots would do him a favor and tell her where he had been taken for medical treatment.
An unexpected shudder ran the length of the fuselage. Brad suddenly opened his eyes and let his questioning glance slide to Elvin Crowder. He could tell by the tormented look on the crew chiefs face that something was wrong.
Before Austin could speak, another solid vibration ran through the airframe. His adrenaline, which had slowly begun to ebb, shot through his system with renewed vigor. What the hell is happening?
Brad gestured to Crowder when another tremble convulsed through the helicopter.
"What's wrong?"
The grizzled gunner reached for the overhead and leaned down. "We
're losin' oil at a perty fair clip."
Crowder moved to the open hatch and peeked out to see if the UH-34 was still emitting white smoke. The telltale vapor had completely disappeared. He stepped back to Brad.
"The engine is probably dry, 'cause we ain't trailin' no more smoke."
Austin silently nodded. The forced landing and harrowing rescue had left him badly shaken. Now, after surviving that ordeal, he had to face the possibility of another forced landing. Without a second helicopter, Brad knew their chances of being rescued before they were captured were nonexistent.
He cringed inwardly, remembering a downed air-force pilot who had had his rescue helicopter shot out from under him. He and the SAR crew had been plucked from certain imprisonment by a gutsy Air America pilot.
A succession of tremors wracked the helicopter, marking the final minutes of flight.
Brad struggled to sit up, pushing himself upright by sheer will. "How much longer . . . to the field?"
Crowder shrugged and opened a pouch of chewing tobacco. "Don't much matter, if the motor ain't runnin'."
Reaching for a loose M-16, Nick Palmer flipped off the safety and inched toward the screened door. A deafening explosion knocked him backward into Blackwell, Allison, and Spencer.
With their ears ringing, the foursome stared through the dust at a cavernous hole in the wall. They could see the twinkle of muzzle flashes as the Pathet Lao boxed the compound with a curtain of red-hot steel.
"We've got to make our way," Lex shouted above the explosions and chaos, "to the one-twenty-three."
Palmer and Spencer looked through the smoldering hole in the wall. The cargo pilots had already started one engine and were taxiing toward the runway. Nick watched while the individual fire teams from the perimeter safety unit made an orderly retreat toward the C-123.
The twin-engine transport, which was configured to carry sixty-one passengers, would be overloaded if the majority of the evacuating personnel boarded the aircraft.
"Let's make our move," Spencer said boldly, and raised to one knee, "while we still have some cover fire from our troops."
Allison turned and looked at him with wide-eyed contempt. "We can't leave until the helo lands. You can't leave them here to die."
Palmer interrupted Spencer's reply. "Allison, we'll work our way toward the airplane--using the foxholes--and hope the helo gets here before the cargo plane takes off "
She was outraged as fire flashed in her eyes. "Nick, of all the people I would have thought--"
"Goddamnit, Allison," Palmer blurted in frustration, "we can't sacrifice an entire plane packed with human beings for four people. They'll have to find another place to set down."
"Allison," Spencer said hastily, "we can't afford the risk of having everyone annihilated. We've got to get on the plane while we can."
She gave him a defiant look and crawled toward the communications room.
With a knot tied in his stomach, Rudy Jimenez watched the cylinder-head temperature peg at the top of the scale. The oil pressure registered zero, and he could smell the hot engine as the helicopter began to shake.
Come on, sweetheart . . . don't give up yet.
He left the power set, fearing any abrupt change might cause an immediate engine failure. He watched the altimeter begin to unwind as the screaming engine ground itself to pieces.
Something flashed in the distance and caught his attention. Smoke was rising from the general area of Alpha-29. Jimenez was about to call the airfield when Allison's voice exploded in his headphones.
"Rudy, we're under attack! How far away are you?"
"Five minutes, if the engine holds together." He could feel the vibrations becoming more violent. "We won't be able to provide any cover fire."
"We're being overrun--everyone is evacuating the base," Allison yelled over the crackle of gunfire. "Land next to the cargo plane!"
Jimenez was horrified. If the UH-34 held together long enough to reach the airfield, would he be forced to land in the middle of the enemy troops?
He started a shallow descent to gain some speed. -I've got the field in sight."
"Hurry, Rudy! We can't hold on much longer!"
The odor of the overheated engine was beginning to sting his nostrils. "We're almost there!"
"I'm signing off, Rudy," Allison exclaimed, and crawled back to the overturned table. She stared Spencer in the eye. "Cap, we aren't leaving them."
Nick Palmer swung around at the same time another mortar round exploded next to the building. "It may not be our choice to make." She gave him a quizzical look. "What do you mean?"
Nick saw Lex Blackwell glance at him. "Allison, when the last person the pilots can see is on that airplane, they're going to be shoving the throttles through the instrument panel . . . trust me."
"He's right," Lex added, and flattened himself on the floor when a round ricocheted through the room. "They aren't gonna be takin' roll call."
Chapter FORTY-THREE
Brad studied the Spartan interior of the lumbering helicopter, noting that everything was buzzing from the continuous vibration. The shaking fuselage was even rattling the machine gun and ammunition belt. If the engine blows, I hope this thing can autorotate.
He watched Elvin Crowder speak into his lip mike. The crew chief swore over the loud banging and turned to Austin.
"They're retreatin' from the strip."
Brad experienced a pang of fear. It seemed that somehow they were not destined to make it to safety. "Our security troops are pulling out?"
Crowder checked his sidearm. "Everyone is jumpin' in the plane and haulin' ass." His face reflected a degree of disdain. "If they cut and run 'fore we get there, I'm gonna do some serious ass-kickin'."
A new rhythm to the vibrations developed into uncontrollable shaking. A moment later, the screaming engine thrashed itself apart in a series of violent explosions.
Jimenez immediately reacted to the loud explosions and pushed the collective down to neutralize the rotor-blade pitch angle. With the pitch flat, the main rotor blades would aerodynamically continue to spin during the emergency descent. The autorotating blades would provide the pilot with some degree of control during the descent and flare to land.
If the collective was held in the normal flying position after an engine failure, the rotor blades would rapidly slow and fold upward. At that point, the helicopter would have the same flying characteristics as a bowling ball.
Brad felt the deck cant downward at the same time he heard the sound of the wind whipping around the cabin door. He let his head sag for a moment, then gripped the sides of the bulkhead in preparation for an emergency landing. The irony of two crash landings in one day consumed him while the helicopter autorotated toward Alpha-29.
"Is everyone ready?" Nick Palmer asked when the withdrawing security men momentarily halted the advancing Pathet Lao forces. The C-123 was on the runway and a number of the CIA troops were making a stand thirty yards from the transport.
Spencer glanced at Allison, who was crouched beside him next to the shattered door. "Wait until I reach the first foxhole before you run for it. We'll give you as much cover fire as we can . . . so don't hesitate."
She nodded and inched toward the door. "There's no time like the present."
A thunderclap of noise shook the building and knocked a clipboard off Spencer's desk.
"Here goes," Lex Blackwell muttered, and charged through the hole in the wall. Spencer waited a few seconds and dashed through the opening.
"Go!" Nick told Allison when the small-arms fire began to decrease.
She rose and darted through the door while Palmer poured a long burst of fire into a line of enemy soldiers crossing the stream.
When Allison disappeared into the ground near the tents, Nick sprinted toward the foxholes in the midst of another mortar attack. Twelve feet from the first hole, Palmer was blown off his feet by an explosion that nearly leveled the Quonset hut.
Rudy Jimenez tightly gripped the collec
tive and breathed deeply. He talked to the helicopter, coaxing as much distance as he could from the silent machine.
"Elvin, when we land, I'll get Chase out," Jimenez looked at Mitchell's lifeless body, "and you take care of Austin."
"Are we gonna make the strip?"
"It'll be close," Rudy answered calmly. "Man the gun and give us everything you've got."
"I'm locked on it now."
From his current altitude, Jimenez was unsure if he could reach the airfield. He ignored the streaks of tracers in his path and concentrated on stretching the autorotation as far as possible. Come on, baby. You can do it. . . .
A blazing streak of fire ripped chunks of dirt into the air as Palmer tumbled into the foxhole. He landed on top of Blackwell, knocking both of them on their backs.
Lex scrambled to his knees and looked at Nick. "Are you okay, partner?"
Palmer groaned, then blinked his eyes and swallowed hard. "I can't hear you."
After checking Nick for wounds, Blackwell grabbed him by the shoulders and helped him to a sitting position.
The gunfire was continuous as the security teams slowly backed toward the C-123.
Lex sneaked a glance over the rim of their shelter. "You've still got all your parts, but your rifle is about twenty feet out in the boonies."
Unsteady and dazed, Palmer propped himself on one knee and carefully rose to peer above the pit. "There they are," he shouted, pointing to the descending helicopter.
"Cap," Blackwell yelled to the adjacent foxhole. "Are you and Allison ready to go?"
"Yes," Spencer shouted over the gunfire and booming concussions that buffeted the compound. "We've got the helo in sight!"
"Let's wait--" Lex ducked when a round blew dirt across the top of his head. "Let's wait until the helo hits the ground--then go for it!" "Okay," Spencer hollered above the din of noise.
Nick shook his head in an attempt to clear the ringing sound. He gingerly cast a glance over the embankment, then snatched Blackwell's M-16 out of his hand.
"What the--"
Palmer opened fire, killing two men clad in black near the remains of the hangar. When they dropped their AK-47s, Nick noticed something else. "Oh, God . . ."