The team and its precious cargo moved quickly away from the ambush site. After a sprint up the incline, Becker counted his men as they moved up and over the ridge. They were seven now with the prisoner and moving fast, but tactically. In the middle of the small column, two Nungs were guiding, or rather carrying, the NVA prisoner. When they got over the ridge, the team stopped for a moment to get resettled but more importantly to listen. They could hear faint shouting from the direction they came, but no explosions. That meant their direction of movement was not evident yet as the enemy hadn’t reached the ambush site. Every moment counted at this point.
Becker gave the hand signal to move out. Although SOG teams, small as they were, carried more ordnance than an infantry company, they were never out of danger, being outnumbered and deep in enemy territory. The point man, armed with an XM177E2 assault rifle, took off. SOG’s beloved XM177, commonly known as the CAR-15, was a good rifle. Smaller and lighter than the M-16 and with few of its problems, it was a bit harder to control in full auto because of its shorter barrel and its higher cyclic rate. But most engagements with the enemy were at less than ten paces, so it really didn’t matter.
Becker also carried the CAR-15. Before he joined RT Cobra, he had opted to carry a suppressed Swedish “K” submachine gun on his first SOG missions. He was enamored of the weapon, which was a good design, but really he was thinking, it’s cool.
His first contact quickly disabused him of that notion. He realized that a quiet weapon firing 9mm Parabellum pistol ammunition was no match for a loud assault rifle firing rifle ammunition in a firefight. He was firing as fast as he could but he couldn’t get any respect firing a weapon nobody could hear. He quickly switched to a weapon with more firepower and that made more noise.
The point man followed an azimuth that would take them on a tangent to the pick-up point. Not wanting to aim directly towards their goal, they would change course directly for the LZ when they were within around 500 meters. The point was flanked slightly to his rear by a Nung with an ugly, cut-down Soviet RPD. The nasty, belt-fed machine gun could do a lot to dissuade anyone who made the mistake of getting in front of its barrel. The rest of the team followed in dispersed order with Jonas, the team’s One-One, armed with a sawed-off M-79 grenade launcher and a CAR-15, taking up the tail-gunner position.
As they neared the LZ, the buzz of an OV-10 Bronco filled the air. The OV-10 was their close-air support spotter aircraft and would stay above them until extraction.
Covey is up, Becker thought. But for once, the sound did not make him feel comfortable. He would be happier when he could hear the steady whop whop of the helos coming to pick them up. The team was moving quickly but carefully, each man’s senses on full alert, watching for movement or a change in pattern or color to the jungle all around them.
Becker would remember the next moments for the rest of his life.
Like a sudden hailstorm bursting from a clear sky, the firefight erupted at full force. Not with a single burst or a rising tide of rifle fire; it slammed full on into the team like a herd of crazed, wild boar. He saw a line of bright orange muzzle flashes ahead and heard the whining and thrashing of bullets that shredded the brush all around him. Following the team’s standard operating procedure, the point element returned fire on full-auto and each man peeled back from the front in turn as their ammunition ran out. Becker saw Tau, one of the lead Nungs, turn and fall face first into the dirt as a burst of rounds hit him in the back. His partner fired the last of his belt before he too turned and peeled back. He knelt and checked Tau briefly, then grabbed his harness and dragged him back to the rear.
Becker directed the team to a small rise in the ground where he thought they could defend themselves. All the while, Davis was yelling into his handset.
“This is a fucking Prairie Fire Emergency!”
It was not the best commo procedure but Davis wasn’t concerned with word choice at the moment.
Calling a Prairie Fire Emergency told the world a SOG team was in the deepest of shit and needed help immediately if not sooner. Becker switched on an URC-10 survival and emergency transmitter that would vector aircraft onto their position, stuffed it into his cargo pocket and continued firing his weapon from the hip. He emptied his one 30-round magazine, pulled a 20-round mag from the canteen cover serving as an ammo pouch on his left side and slammed it into the rifle. He had thirty-three magazines to go. He hadn’t started throwing grenades yet, but soon would.
One of the Nungs rose up and fired his M-79 at a NVA soldier who was trying to storm their position on the hillock. The spinning 40-mm grenade probably armed itself just before it hit the running man in the chest. It exploded leaving nothing but two legs and a donut hole of black smoke where the soldier had been. There was a pause in the firing and then the cacophony quickly resumed as resolute and scared warriors exchanged Chicom-and Americanmade bullets in both directions. Branches and leaves tumbled down to the ground as they were cut off the trees by the fusillade of copper projectiles.
The key was to gain fire superiority in the opening moments of the contact. Initially, the NVA had it, but the team’s immediate response and faster reloading tipped the scales in their favor—at least temporarily. On top of their small green bastion the team was able to blunt the enemy’s main advance with grenades and a hail of full-auto fire. Becker knew they only had a few moments to overcome the odds and told Davis to get Covey to send some ordnance down on their position.
Covey requested smoke. A purple grenade was tossed. Covey said he could see two colors. The NVA had anticipated the wrong color, but it showed they were listening. Davis changed frequencies and told Covey the correct color. Covey responded with a brace of 2.75-inch rockets and the advice that he had arranged for some fast-movers to visit them.
Soon enough, a pair of Spads were on station and even more hell broke loose. Armed with a position and an azimuth, the A1-D Skyraiders went to work. First, with 20-mm cannon fire and then a couple of 500-pounders, they sought to dislodge the NVA or at least discourage them from pressing their attack home. It didn’t work.
When the NVA heard the Spads approach they would assault, trying to get as close as possible to the American position in order to avoid the ordnance. It was a death-dance. They’d charge and Becker’s team would blow them back. Over and over again. Dead NVA started to pile up in stacks in front of their position and actually provided the team some cover.
A third, then a fourth run was called for.
Covey warned Davis, “Keep your damn heads down. There’s gonna be a BBQ.”
Through the thick canopy, Becker watched as two metal MK47 canisters with pointed ends dropped from the Spad. As they began to tumble through the air he stuffed his head deep into the dirt. The blast wave pummeled their bodies and he felt a ferocious whoosh as the air was sucked into the inferno by the burning napalm. He also heard one short, cut-off scream of some poor wretch caught in the maelstrom. If you were hit with napalm, you either died quickly or wished you had. The thick, flaming jelly could not be put out unless completely suffocated in mud.
The NVA’s rate of fire dropped off completely and Becker sensed it was time to go. He had spotted a suitable alternate LZ on the map about 100 meters to the southeast and rallied the team to push through the jungle.
Davis reported their new destination to Covey and then yelled to Becker and the rest of the team, “Kingbees inbound. About five minutes out.”
It’s now or never.
“Let’s go! Move it, before Charlie gets his shit together.”
They ran. And they ran. Carrying Tau and dragging the prisoner along, the Nungs were at the front of the small column. Davis followed up with Becker just behind. Jonas paused to set out a pair of claymores and pulled the fuses. Timed for thirty seconds and one minute, the mines would greet Charlie and make him stop and debate the wisdom of continuing the chase.
Breaking through the last bit of brush with their bodies, the team crashed into the small clearing
just as the H-34 Sikorskys came into view, their big Wright Cyclone engines roaring like banshees. A couple of pen flares vectored the birds over their LZ. Becker respected the hell out of the “Kingbee” crews. Entirely Vietnamese, they flew into hell-holes as calmly as if it was their daily commute to work. Becker did a quick head count to confirm no one would get left behind. Now they just had to get out.
The LZ was too small for the birds to set down, so the crew of the first tossed out the 120-foot ropes to pull the team out. The prisoner, Davis and two Nungs went first. They rigged the sedated and heavily restrained prisoner into a STABO harness and clipped him into a line before hooking themselves up. With a line run through each man’s rig, they would fly together rather than flail about separately.
Becker had heard the claymores detonate and was wondering when Charlie would appear when they announced themselves. A group had closed in on the LZ and chose the vulnerable moment of the helicopter’s hover to open fire. He could hear the rattle of the AKs and the slap of the rounds on metal over the roar of the engines and only hoped their aim was bad. He gave the thumbs up when the team was ready and the Vietnamese pilot pulled pitch to get out of the area quickly. He watched the four disappear over the trees and away towards safety.
Becker and Jonas opened up in the general direction of the enemy as the second bird flew over the LZ. After clipping the wounded Tau into the harness, the men hooked up and fired one of their remaining magazines on full auto into the forest. Then they were jerked up into the sky, crashing through the tree canopy as the pilot sought to get away as fast as possible. Checking each man and himself for injuries, Becker found that, with the exception of Tau, they had gotten away cleanly. There were a couple of small wounds that would need tending. Tau was still alive, his bleeding staunched by the combat dressings his comrades quickly applied, but he needed medical aid fast. The 80-knot wind at altitude was cold and the harness uncomfortable. They flew through the cool air towards their base camp as the sun started to set and the eastern sky darkened. Through his watering eyes, he could just see the other Sikorsky ahead with the rest of his team dangling below its belly.
Relatively speaking, it’s good to be alive.
After a long thirty minutes, he could make out the outlines of their camp and saw the first bird settle in to land. Soon enough it was their turn. The helicopter came to a hover and gently let its cargo touch down and unhook from the ropes. Then the ropes were dropped before the big bird flew off to its nesting place for the night.
After handing Tau off to the medics, Becker thought about how many cases of beer he owed the crews. Then he saw Frank Greener, the SOG sergeant major, walking towards him, distress evident on his face.
Becker met him and asked, “What’s happened?”
“Davis got hit bad on the exfil out.”
“How is he?” Becker knew Davis from his earlier tour with 5th Group, but this was only Davis’ second mission with SOG.
Greener shook his head, looking at the ground.
Becker knew what that meant. Davis was gone. Davis was a professional and well liked even after only a short time on the team. Beyond that, Becker was tired of losing men. SOG had the highest casualty rate in all of Vietnam.
Becker screamed and slammed his rucksack into the dirt. Everyone around the pad stopped and watched silently.
After a few seconds of wrestling with a loss he couldn’t let go of, he tucked it away into a closet deep inside his soul and said to Greener, “The only consolation is that we got a prisoner.”
Greener looked at Becker. “Saigon wanted a courier or an officer, but the one you grabbed was a warrant accompanying the battalion commander, who was evidently killed in the blast. The documents you grabbed with the prisoner confirm he was the mess officer for one of the camps on the main trail.”
“We lost a good man for a mess officer? What a fucking waste Sergeant Major! What a cluster fuck! They’re closing the project when we are needed most and we bleed out trying to fulfill missions that have no end!”
Greener let him vent then reached out and touched his arm.
“Fate has a strange way of settling the score if it’s any help. He had a rations roster along with what they will wring him out during interrogation. It lists the number of rations and what unit they were allocated to for the last six months. We will have an entire order of battle of the units operating and transiting this area along with their true numbers of personnel. It’s a treasure trove of intelligence that probably will save more casualties if we have to put more teams in the area. Doesn’t make up for Davis, but it is what it is. You guys will probably get an award for it in the end and Saigon will pat themselves on the back and bask in their success,” Greener said.
Becker struggled to hold his anger and anguish in check, “We don’t do this for medals, Goddamn it! My job is to keep my men alive, to bring them all home.”
The sergeant major replied softly, “Write up Davis for a Silver Star, I’ll make sure that he gets it. At least his family will have that.”
Becker nodded and picked up his rucksack, letting his anguish and grief sweep over him as he walked wearily towards his hootch.
10
Becker made his way back to Bergmann’s office at the end of the day. In between writing his after-action report and planning the next week’s training, he had been thinking about the mission. Smuggling people out of East Berlin had been done before. Tunnels had been dug, walls climbed, and canals swum, but the quickest and easiest method was by vehicle. A few had made it, but most civilians who attempted it had been caught; the East German guards were methodical in their searches. Although it was once a good option, crashing through the vehicle barriers was now out of the question because they had been improved and hardened over the years. That left Allied diplomatic or military vehicles, which could not be searched. In the old days, some of the guys from the unit brought relatives, friends, and acquaintances out in the trunk of their car. That got harder when the Berlin Commander cracked down on the practice and the MPs started to search all returning cars.
But if sanctioned by headquarters, it could still be done. That was the plan he offered Bergmann.
“First, we need more background. Who is the target, where is he, what kind of security is involved?”
“We’ll get that once we take on the mission. Only then will we be read in on the specifics.”
“Everything is dependent on the intel, but basically it comes down to whether the snatch site is complex or simple. If we’re talking a prison or something, the manpower requirements go up exponentially, as does the risk. If it’s a snatch off the street, it’s easier. We could put several small teams into the target area. One in civvies to do the snatch, a watch team, a transport team to get the prisoner to another location for a vehicle swap, and a team who would carry him into the West hidden in an official vehicle. Timing will be tricky. If the East Germans are alerted, they could close down all the checkpoints and that could lead to problems. We could take him to the American Embassy, but the logistics of keeping and then exfiltrating him from the compound get really complicated quickly. That’s not to mention the chances of compromise shoot up the more people get involved.”
Bergmann was leaning back in his chair taking in what Becker was suggesting. “I had similar thoughts, so we’re on the same track. But we need more target info, like who exactly are we dealing with.” He paused for a moment and continued, “We have a rendezvous this evening, so grab your coat and meet me downstairs.”
Outside the back door, Bergmann said, “We’re going to meet the Chief of Base downtown.”
They hopped into Bergmann’s BMW 2002tii. With a twist of the key, the turbocharged motor sparked into life with a low growl. The car’s power was evident as Bergmann steered out of the compound and sped down the cobblestones for the Steglitz district. After fifteen minutes of demonstrating the handling of the little Bimmer, he parked it on a residential side street. They continued on foot to the Rathaus Stegl
itz U-Bahn station.
The underground stations were probably the only places in West Berlin that were dirty all the time. The few beggars in Germany seemed to hang around them and the odor of whatever they left behind, either trash or human excrement, hung in the air as Bergmann and Becker descended underground. Becker noted how his boss slipped through the crowds in the station as naturally as a local. But then, he was a native German and spoke the language without any indication that he had spent the better part of his life in America.
The U-Bahn trains were a complete contrast to the stations: their crews kept them spotless and Becker especially enjoyed observing his fellow passengers interact. Germans, especially Berliners, could either be very polite or extremely rude. The determining factor seemed to lie in their assessment of whom they were dealing with. If you appeared to be beneath their station, a Gastarbeiter—a foreign worker—for example, rude was the order of the day. If you looked like an upstanding citizen, the opposite was true. But the subway was a great equalizer although few well-to-do Berliners used it; they preferred their Mercedes to get around.
After eight stops, Becker and Bergmann left the train and climbed out of the Kurfürstendamm station into the cold night air and headed west towards Uhlandstraße. Bergmann led the way while Becker was content to observe, always watching for the pickpockets that infested the crowded sidewalks.
Bergmann stopped under a dimly lit canopied doorway and turned to Becker. “We’re here.” Becker read the shield on the door which said simply Der Bojar.
“Russian or Bulgarian?” Becker said, shifting into German.
“White Russian to be exact, but they don’t discriminate over political views. The owner is a friend of the Chief and keeps watch on the folks from the diplomatic community who come here. Russians mostly, the Ossis don’t seem to like the decor.”
A Question of Time Page 7