by Tom Wilson
Lucky was headed back. Returning to Takhli to finish his combat tour, and do it as a squadron commander. Not only that, when he'd been in Hawaii, he'd received a call from Flo, General Moss's spinster secretary, saying he was on the LC list. She'd said he owed her dinner, and Lucky had said "yes ma'am," One of Flo's favorites had been promoted, and she expected her due. Then she'd connected him with General Moss, who'd added his terse congratulations and said the promotion list wouldn't be released for a few days, "so act surprised when they tell you."
"Major?" A young brunette with shoulder-length hair, large blue eyes, rounded face, and pixie features sat beside him. She'd watched him curiously since seeing Linda embrace him at the airport. Her name was Penny Dwight, she'd told him after they'd been seated near the back of the C-47, and she was going to Takhli to be the wing commander's secretary. She didn't seem horrified as some women did when they saw his burns, simply took a long, critical look and acted as if it were normal for a guy to have no face to speak of.
She'd chattered a lot since they'd strapped into the aluminum bar and nylon-mesh seats that ran down each side of the old aircraft's interior. When she'd learned that Linda was his fiancée, she'd told him she'd once been engaged too, but she mentioned it no more and seemed to be suffering no trauma over whatever had happened. When she'd gotten the chance to come overseas, she said, she'd jumped at it. Lucky's first impression was that she was thrilled with the exotic assignment and seemed more than a bit naive and flighty. He wondered what she would become at Takhli. The place changed everyone who went there.
"You've been to Takhli," she said. "What's it like?" Her voice was breathless, as if Takhli were some kind of exotic place like Bali or Tahiti.
"It's in the central Thailand savanna. Hot and dusty. Rains a lot in the summer months like everywhere over here, but between rains there's a lot of heat. Should be cooling off some now, and we'll have a few months of drier weather."
"I've always thought of Siam as being all jungle."
"Mostly farmland in the central portions. There's dense forest to the west, in the Kwai River area over toward Burma, and in the far east, near the Mekong River, and south, down in the panhandle all the way to Malaysia, but not in the central and northern parts of the country. Just grassy savanna and farmland."
"Good. I'm deathly afraid of snakes."
He started to tell her that there were plenty of big snakes around Takhli, that the words "Ta Khli" meant "place of the king cobra," but he stopped himself. She'd be the first American female assigned. If he scared her off, the guys would never forgive him.
She turned in her web seat, craning her neck to look out the window. Kind of pretty, Lucky thought, if she'd change her hair (the long hair didn't go well with her rounded face) and stop slouching. Of course, he was accustomed to the meticulous way Linda carried and groomed herself, and the comparison was unfair. Anyway, the guys at Takhli would finally have an American female presence. He wondered if it wasn't the doing of their new wing commander.
"We'll be landing in twenty-five minutes," announced the burly loadmaster as he made his way back through the passengers.
1444L—Route Pack Five, North Vietnam
Captain Manny DeVera
He was free-falling, tumbling earthward from 20,000 feet plus, wondering if the chute would open at 12,000 as advertised. The silence seemed loud since he'd left the roar of the engine. He could hear only a slight rushing sound outside the helmet.
Through the long free-fall he kept the oxygen mask in place—at altitude life-sustaining oxygen was force-fed from a small green cylinder at his side. A mechanical, chirping sound came from behind as a tiny motor activated and extracted the pin that bound the parachute together. A couple of seconds later he felt a tug as the chute deployed, then a harsher jerk, and he swung in a tremendous arc.
"Whooo-eee," Manny yelled. "Ride 'em, cowboy." During the next wide swing to his left he pulled on his right risers. The swinging motion slowed.
Now below 12,000 feet, he'd no longer require oxygen, so he tugged at the right side of his mask and pulled the bayonet connector free. The fresh air was delicious.
He moved his limbs. They were sore from flailing, but he'd not been going fast in the spin, and except for a throbbing, obviously dislocated left shoulder, he was intact. The shoulder hurt with a mounting intensity that was difficult to ignore—but he was alive, and that was something.
What's your next move?
Look around! He was indeed beyond the Red River, but only barely, descending toward a village in a crook of the wide stream. Gotta slip the chute, he decided.
First things first. The seat kit was hanging beneath him, and the raft was inflated and deployed on a long lanyard beneath that, like a bright-yellow banner saying, "Hey, guys, here's the Supersonic Wetback."
He had friends who'd successfully ejected from a Thud only to be crumped by the frigging seat pack when they hit the ground. Manny felt with his good right arm at one side of his butt, found the catch on the seat pack, and disconnected it. He reached around and—with more difficulty—found the second. The pack and raft dropped away.
Ignore the pain.
Another glance at the village far below. If he continued, he'd land smack in its middle.
He crawled up the risers a bit and tugged on a small red banner. Nylon cords slipped free, and panels at the rear of the chute became disconnected, reconfiguring it so the air would flow through and give him forward progress. Now the chute was steerable . . . you could go left or right if you pulled down on those risers, and faster forward if you selected both front ones. . . . Not fast enough, though . . . not nearly enough. He estimated he'd still land in one of the farmers' fields, short of the first densely foliated mountain ridge.
He decided to add more slippage to the chute so he could go faster. He crawled up the nylon straps again, hooked his useless left arm in the vee, and this time pulled very hard on the forward risers to increase the air flow out the rear. The chute began to take him faster toward the mountains. Maybe . . .
He needed even more distance—as much separation as possible. He was pulling hard, but it was difficult with the painful arm. Manny kicked up a leg, took a couple of stabs at it, and succeeded in catching his left foot over the left riser vee. He pulled down with the left leg and his right arm. The chute billowed and flapped, but he was really moving westward now, well past the first forested ridge and headed toward a second. He looked back and saw the yellow raft fall to earth, taking a mighty bounce in a field beside the village.
He'd slipped a half mile, enough to help baffle pursuers, but he wanted more.
Lower now, but not so low he couldn't continue to slip the parachute. He tugged down harder with the good arm and leg, until the chute flapped wildly and began to collapse, then he eased off just enough to refill it with air.
He sailed over a second ridgeline, which he'd estimated was almost two miles from the village. There were no roads or habitation he could see below him, but he didn't dare let up, relentlessly applying the pressure on the risers and traveling ever westward.
He was much lower when he skimmed over a third, lower ridge. A big swatch of what appeared to be elephant grass was dead ahead. He decided to steer for it.
1458L—HQ Seventh Air Force, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, South Vietnam
Lieutenant General Richard J. Moss
Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates was standing before him, wearing a frown, when Flo buzzed. "Colonel Leska on line two, General."
Moss picked up. "Shoot, Buster."
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was just informed of something you should know about. Captain Manny DeVera just went down in North Vietnam. He's on the list."
"Pearly just came in to tell me. We don't have a location on him yet. How about you?"
"Not yet, sir."
"I just advised the control center that I want a maximum effort in there to get him out. They've got the rescue people alerted and on their way in."
"
Thank you, sir."
Moss hung up, grim-faced.
"Perhaps we shouldn't allow the people we've got aboard the program to fly combat," Pearly offered.
Moss shook his head. "We need all the feedback we can get, so we can keep Gentleman Jim properly advised." He gave Pearly an unhappy look. "I've got a couple senators waiting for me to give 'em a rah-rah briefing on the air war. Don't hesitate to interrupt if you hear anything."
1504L—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Major Lucky Anderson
Halfway through the straight-in approach, with the gooney bird groaning and wheezing dramatically, the pilot announced that everyone should stay in place after they'd taxied in.
There was a ceremony of some sort being set up.
The goon touched down, then soared again before finally settling. The rear of the bird skittered as the tailwheel touched. The pilot turned off halfway down the runway. As he taxied past the endless rows of F-105 Thunderchiefs, Lucky found himself staring.
He loved the heavy fighters. Every airplane had its unique personality. In his mind the Thud was an iron lady who fiercely protected her pilots. She was rock steady, and you could make tiny corrections that were impossible in other fighters. Tough, she'd suffer terrible damage without complaint. He'd seen birds come home with missing vertical stabilizers and others with large portions of wings or aft sections shot away. Even when mortally hit, she'd try to get her pilots to safety before going down. She couldn't turn on a dime, but she was extremely fast at low altitudes, and if you wanted to get away from anything in the sky, all you had to do was stroke afterburner and angle the nose down. If she'd been human, she'd be a perfect mate for the warriors who flew her. She was big mama, and tried her damnedest to take care of her men.
The C-47 taxied up in front of base operations, and the left engine was shut down so the passengers could safely deplane. While the prop clattered to a stop, the rear passenger's door opened, and a tall, easygoing captain in a flight suit peered inside. He looked past Lucky and discovered his target. A grin grew on his face as he brushed unruly hair into place with his hand.
"Miss Dwight?"
The new secretary unbuckled, looking unsure, and made her way toward the door on still-shaky legs. Lucky was curious as to how she'd fare among the mob of horny fighter jocks, crew chiefs, and other womanless men at Takhli.
"I'm Captain Dusty Fields, ma'am. We have a little reception for you," the captain said, taking her hand to help her down.
There were throngs of men waiting in front of base operations. Penny Dwight emerged from the goon and stepped onto the tarmac, and looked startled when they began to cheer. Happy fighter pilots tossed flowers in her path as she walked onto a long red carpet. Crew chiefs and muscular load crews bowed in exaggerated poses. Burly line chiefs gawked.
Lucky pulled his sage-green hang-up bag from beneath the web seat.
The loadmaster was standing near the door, frowning at the antics of the men outside. "Act like they've never seen a woman before," he said.
"She's the first round-eye to be stationed here," Lucky explained, watching the procession, which now included two happy noncoms holding umbrellas over her head to shield her from the sun. Lavish garlands of flowers were placed around her neck by grinning fighter jocks.
Lucky deplaned, glanced about to orient himself, then started across the ramp toward the 354th TFS, the squadron he'd been assigned to before he'd been shot down. A blue pickup pulled up beside him, and Colonel George Armaugh, the wing Deputy for Operations, nodded to him.
"Welcome back, Colonel."
Lucky shifted his bag to his left hand and saluted with his right. "Colonel?" He acted surprised at the rank, as General Moss had told him to do.
"You're on the LC list. Congratulations."
"Thank you, sir."
"Jump in and I'll drive you."
Lucky nodded toward the 354th squadron building, which was not far. "I'm just going over there."
"Things have changed. You're getting the 333rd squadron."
"Oh?"
"And the new wing commander wants to talk to you. You know Buster Leska?"
"Don't really know him, but we've met." Lucky placed his bag in the back of the pickup and crawled into the passenger's seat.
Armaugh drove slowly down the flight line. "We just got word that four birds went down on the alpha strike this afternoon. Two of 'em were ours."
Lucky grimaced.
"A Wild Weasel crew was shot down in pack six, with no chance of rescue, and a D-model made it out to the edge of pack five. Dunno if we can get him out either. It'll be close, according to how far he made it, I'd say."
"No position yet?"
"Somewhere near Yen Bai. That's all we know so far."
"That makes it doubtful. Who was it?"
"The Supersonic Wetback."
Lucky's jaw tightened. Manny DeVera had worked for him. He was a friend.
He stared bleakly out the window, then looked about "I thought we were going to the wing commander's office."
"He's on his way to the command post, trying to find out more about the shoot-downs. He knew DeVera in Europe and thinks highly of him. One of the first things he did when he took over was name him to replace Max Foley as wing weapons officer."
"I'll be darned."
"Manny's doing a good job," Armaugh said. He drove out of the aircraft parking zone, crossed the street, and pulled to a stop before the command-post door. "I've gotta go out and monitor things while the birds recover. I'll talk to you later so you can tell me how it went with Colonel Leska, and I'll give you my pitch about what I expect from my squadron commanders."
Lucky pulled his bag out of the back, then deposited it at the guarded command-post entrance before he went inside to look for the wingco. He found the chalk-white-haired colonel sitting alone in his position at the rear of the command center, staring at the status boards.
Leska noticed him and waved him over. "Captain DeVera's down," he said evenly.
"I just heard." Lucky sat beside him, wondering at his level of concern. A lot of good fighter jocks were being shot down.
"They've got the rescue effort holding in there until the fighters make radio contact and get a positive position. Two Sandys and two choppers."
Lucky fished a fat cigar from his pocket and popped it into his mouth, a habit he'd acquired long before. He didn't smoke the things, just mouthed and chewed on them when he wanted to think hard on a subject.
Leska nodded at one of the operations sergeants in the front of the room. "He's got Sandy Control at Udorn on the line. No word about Manny's status so far." He turned to Lucky. "I guess you got to know the rescue folks pretty well yourself."
"Enough to have great respect for 'em. Manny went down near Yen Bai?"
"Just southwest from there. Yank Donovan's running the rescue effort. He relayed word that they hadn't seen unfriendlies in the immediate area."
Donovan hadn't yet arrived at Takhli when he'd been shot down, but Lucky knew him. He was a superb pilot, but a difficult man to like. "Yank's good," he finally said.
Leska gave him a questioning look.
"Got an ego a mile wide." Lucky regretted the criticism as soon as the words were out, so he quickly added, "But he's good in the air."
They sat through five minutes of inactivity with no new word about the rescue.
"You're getting the 333rd squadron," Leska said idly.
"That's what Colonel Armaugh just told me. They're a good bunch of guys."
"I've been flying with them—watching over 'em while you were off in Hawaii and they were without a commander. That'll make 'em double happy to see you arrive."
"Thanks."
They sat quietly, waiting for word about the rescue attempt. And Lucky continued to wonder at the level of concern the wing commander was showing over one of his pilots.
1519L—Route Pack Five, North Vietnam
Captain Manny DeVera
He couldn't believe his e
yes! It wasn't a field of nice, yielding elephant grass as he'd thought. Instead it was a big patch of the tallest bamboo Manny had ever seen, fifty or sixty feet high and each stalk up to eight inches in diameter. He held his legs tightly together as he dropped through their tops, and felt fortunate he wasn't skewered like a chunk of goat on a kabob spit.
The chute caught up on one of the things, and just as he started to relax, it slipped and let him fall to the ground, hard, where his right foot crumped and his butt slammed down so mightily onto his heel that he wanted to yell.
He paused for a hurtful, breathless second and did yell. "Jesus!" he bellowed. Then Manny remembered Sister Lucia's admonishments, as well as the deep shit he was presently in. He quickly crossed himself and muttered how sorry he was about speaking the name in vain. He sure as hell didn't need to piss off the big guy.
As he switched off the emergency beeper and unlatched from the parachute, he tried to peer about, but could see only the thick bamboo stalks. Pain coursed through him from the dislocated shoulder, fiery stinging from the injured tail—hurting so badly that he almost puked,
Nothing he could do about the ass-bone. Gotta do something about the shoulder. Manny knelt and dropped his arm onto the ground, whimpering as it hit, then tried to grasp the base of one of the smaller bamboo stalks. The hand was numb and wouldn't function.
He found a vee of two shoots and wedged the hand firmly, stepped down hard on it with his left boot, blew out a breath, and very slowly stood, pulling hard.
Oh God! He continued pulling. The pain eased some as the arm stretched, then the thing popped back into place and he screamed in agony. After taking another apprehensive breath and tugging one last time, he staggered, and stood stock-still, puffing. The arm still throbbed, but nothing like before. Feeling began to return. He found he could flex his fingers and move his hand.
Manny heard the drone of jets overhead and immediately fumbled in a survival vest pocket for a hand-held radio. You didn't make it far enough, his mind said soberly. No way they'll come in this far to pick you up.