by Tom Wilson
"You ever feel that way, Colonel?"
Buster Leska nodded. "I've been there. Is this friend of yours one of our combat pilots?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then it's a damned dangerous time for him to be getting emotionally involved."
"This lady's awfully worried about him. She gets sick every time he flies."
"I see."
"She loves him too," Manny added quickly.
"If she really feels that way, she knows a man has to do what he must."
"What if she asks him to—"
The wing commander's radio erupted with noise. Colonel Jerry Trimble's voice. "Eagle one, this is Eagle three. We've got a bird in trouble. Started losing hydraulic pressure on his way to the tanker. He'll be landing back here in ten."
Leska lurched to his feet and reached for his flight cap as he raised the radio. "Eagle one's on my way." The wing commander was halfway out the door and hurrying.
As Manny went through the outer office, he glanced at Penny Dwight. She regarded him somberly, following him closely with her large blue eyes. He went on outside, the lump still heavy in his throat.
Colonel Buster Leska
The talk with Manny was forgotten as Buster watched and listened to the unfolding drama from his pickup near the approach end of the runway.
Lieutenant Colonel Yank Donovan had noted the problem early and had reacted immediately, turning homeward as the Thud he was flying lost both the primary hydraulic system and the AC generator.
He'd slowed down, extended his ram air turbine, and done all the right things, but the Thud flew poorly with only the smattering of hydraulics supplied by the standby utility system.
Yank diverted to the jettison area and punched off his bombs, then entered a long, straight-in approach. He radioed that he thought his gear were all down—that he felt it—but was getting no indications.
Then Donovan lost his radio.
The Supervisor of Flying radioed several times—in the blind, for they didn't know if Donovan was receiving—for him to lower his tail hook in case he had to take the far end barrier. With loss of hydraulics, there could be only one application of brakes, and it was unlikely the Thud would be able to stop on its own. Donovan's wingman, who was glued to his side and giving hand signals, also relayed the instructions.
Buster watched for the ailing bird to appear in the northern sky; finally he saw two dark specks with wings.
Donovan's wingman radioed that they'd be continuing with the approach. Donovan had signaled that he'd land on the first pass.
A cable was stretched across the runway, lifted, and supported by donuts so the Thud's lowered arresting gear—or tailhook, as the Navy called it—could catch on and bring the bird to a halt, before going off the end. Unlike Navy birds, the Thud's tailhook was not strong enough to endure an approach-end engagement.
On the plus side, Yank Donovan was a superb pilot who had a much better chance than would a less experienced one. On the minus side, the wingman reported that the Thud looked to be only marginally controllable.
The specks grew larger as the two birds closed on the runway, flying in close formation. Just before Donovan touched down, the second Thud would pull up and away.
The tower operator radioed to other aircraft in the area that the runway was temporarily closed due to an emergency in progress. Buster found himself holding his breath in anticipation and forced himself to breath normally.
The crippled Thud dipped erratically toward the ground, and Buster couldn't help gritting his teeth and sucking a breath. The bird slowly pulled back up into position.
Closer now. He'd jettisoned the bombs, but kept the two wing-mounted, 450-gallon fuel tanks. If the gear collapsed, the big tanks would act as a cushion.
The tailhook was lowered. The descent looked good. The landing gear appeared okay, but there was no way to be sure they were locked into position.
The main gear kissed the concrete as the bird touched down at the 1,000 foot marker—the gear held as Yank deployed the drag chute then held down on the brakes—the aircraft slowed—suddenly the Thud veered toward a side of the runway—slewed more and created a shower of sparks from the right drop tank as the bird dropped onto its right side and went off the runway. After plowing up fifty feet of dirt, the airplane came to a halt, kneeling to the right, resting on the collapsed fuel tank. Then the left main gear very slowly folded, and the bird was cocked back, sitting on nosegear, two misshapen wing fuel tanks, and the aft fuselage.
Firetrucks rushed alongside. Men in asbestos suits hurried into positions around the aircraft. The rescue chopper hovered low overhead. One truck began to spray a mist of water over the bird to cool it, while two others gushed fire-retardant foam onto the tanks and the trail of fuel the Thud's fuel tanks had left in their paths.
A fireman hurried up the angled left wing, slipped once in the foam, and knelt beside the cockpit. He peered in, then turned and gave a terse hand signal.
"Pilot's alive," came the radio call from the fire truck.
Buster drove closer as the canopy was opened. He parked near one of the fire trucks and waited.
Yank was a bit slow emerging, so the rescue fireman encouraged him, and he came out abruptly, yelling hoarsely. Rescue people were taught to get the pilot out as quickly as possible. The best way to help him along was to place hard thumbs under both armpits and gouge upwards. It was painful, but if the pilot was conscious, it worked.
Buster laughed, listening to Yank Donovan's bellows of outrage as he hurried past the rescue man and scrambled, half sliding, down the wing.
"Over here," Buster called out.
Donovan walked to the pickup, glaring back at the firemen, smelling of the pungent odors of fuel and chemical foam.
"Just doing his job," Buster said cheerfully.
"Wish he'd do it less vigorously," Yank said, dolefully rubbing his armpits.
"You did good work up there."
"Almost lost it on final."
"I saw."
They watched as a maintenance crew arrived and a chief master sergeant began to yell at his men, then at the emergency crews, to tell them to back away from the damn thing because he had to bring the cherry picker over, move it, and fix it.
Other aircraft were holding and waiting to land. The tower estimated the first ones could begin their letdown in twenty minutes.
"Jump in," Buster told his squadron commander. "I'll give you a ride."
He liked happy endings to emergencies.
After he'd deposited Yank at his squadron, Buster returned to his office. With his morning meetings canceled due to the emergency, he had an hour to himself.
He'd gotten through to Carolyn on the phone again that morning. Things remained disturbing at home; their son was still swallowed up somewhere by the counterculture. While they both knew that the war was splitting families across America, it was difficult to believe it was happening to them. Neither could accept it, but they had no alternative.
A notice had arrived in the mail, reclassifying Marcus's draft status and ordering him to report for a preinduction physical. Carolyn told him that quietly, and Buster knew she was numbed by it all. She was not only fearful that their son had become lost to them, but also by the alternative, that he might return and be sent off to fight in an increasingly thankless war.
There'd been yet another call from Marcus two days earlier, and he'd sounded even more sure that he was doing the right thing. Buster had tried to tell her that Mark had made his choice and was legally responsible for his decisions. They had to let go. While the course of action was painful, he knew it was the only one he'd be able to live with. With his wife it was not nearly so black-and-white.
Carrie, he'd wanted to say. America's been sending our youth out to fight for democracy for almost two hundred years. I love Mark dearly, but I can't agree that it is the right of every individual to judge the right and wrong of a particular conflict after the shooting's begun. Then it comes down to supporting
your fellow citizens . . . today just as it has in every other war.
He had, of course, said none of that. He often found it hard to comprehend, himself.
He'd been dismayed when Carolyn said something. Perhaps it was more the gist of all her words, rather than the single announcement. But he perceived that she was being torn . . . forced to choose between husband and son.
Is it really so wrong, she asked, that our son doesn't want to kill?
Her voice had been sad, but he'd discerned that she was withdrawing somehow—pulling away from him—drawn by her intense love for the child she'd borne.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Thursday, February 15th, 0045 Local—Over Northeastern, Laos
Sergeant Black
"You guys ready back here?" asked the contractor loadmaster.
"Yeah," Black told him, gritting his teeth and telling himself never again. He intensely disliked this kind of flying, and even more so when he was uncomfortable with the aircrew's ability.
"You get the go code from Buffalo Soldier yet?" he asked.
"We were having trouble with our HF radio last time I checked. I'll ask again." The loadmaster went forward to the flight-crew compartment.
They'd spent the past two and a half hours in an Air South C-123, the smaller, two-engined look-alike of the C-130 Hercules. The C-123, not nearly as reliable or capable as its bigger brother, continuously shuddered and shook. It was deafeningly noisy, and this one's right engine periodically belched blue flame from its exhaust.
Flying with Air Force's Special Ops people was scary because they liked to get down low and skim the treetops in the pitch-black of night. The same was true of major CIA contractors like Bird and Son. But they were pros, and Black believed they knew what they were doing. This Air South pilot flew a lot higher, and while Black wasn't as worried about smacking into the side of a mountain, the bird's flight path was not nearly as stealthy. That fact was compounded by the belief among Special Forces teams that some of the smaller contractors' crews knew where they were only when they could see the ground. At night they'd sometimes give you a jump light when they thought they were in the vicinity of the drop zone. That was a generalization, and perhaps without merit, but it didn't make Black feel any better.
To make matters worse, they'd be jumping under an almost full moon, so if they were dropped near a village, even with their dark chutes there was the possibility of being seen. Black wished to hell they'd used a chopper to transport them, so he could look over the pilot's shoulder and make sure of where they were. Or that they'd been dropped in by a Special Ops crew. But since no helicopters or SOF or Air America or Bird and Son aircraft were available, here they were.
The loadmaster came out of the crew compartment and started back toward him.
The first recon team, code name Banjo, was to have jumped in an hour earlier and immediately radio in their success code. Buffalo Soldier was to advise Vientiane Control, who would relay word to the C-123 crew. Hotdog was to jump only after the first team was inserted and moving out toward the observation post at Yankee 54.
Black hoped they'd get the go-ahead. He didn't want to remain in the shuddering C-123 longer than was absolutely necessary.
The loadmaster knelt close so he could shout over the roar of the noisy engines. "The navigator still can't get the fuckin' HF radio to work. Aircraft commander says it's up to you. He don't wanna go any farther if it's an abort."
Shit! Black glanced at Hotdog, then back to the loadmaster. "How long until we're there?"
"We're fifty miles out."
"Dammit, how long?"
"Maybe fifteen minutes."
Black looked at the Hotdogs again. They were honed and ready. But without a go code . . . "Have they heard from the other aircraft? I mean, was the other team even dropped?"
The contractor's brows knit. He obviously hadn't asked.
"Fuck!" Black shrugged out of the parachute harness and went forward, lurching with the wild motions of the aircraft.
The copilot knew no more than the crew chief. "The damn HF radio quit on us. We've got no way of talking to Vientiane without it."
"How about the other airplane? Can you find out if the other team jumped?"
"We're supposed to stay off the VHF."
"It's important."
"We're probably out of radio range."
"It's damned important."
The captain nodded to the copilot, who spoke into his mike, trying to raise the other C-123. On his third attempt, he raised an answer and spoke a few words, then turned back toward the captain and nodded. Banjo had made their jump.
"Well?" asked the aircraft captain.
Black considered odds. Banjo was a hotshot recon team with good men and several insertions behind them. It was unlikely they'd have problems. He hated to screw up an op because of a fucked-up HF radio.
"We'll jump," he finally said. "You just make damned sure you drop us out at the DZ."
The aircraft captain glared angrily. "You do your job and don't worry about ours, okay, Sarge? You got a problem with that, we'll abort right now."
The navigator leaned toward them from his console and shouted, "I've got us twenty-three nautical miles out. We'll be at the DZ in about eight or nine minutes."
About? Black shook his head grimly as he started back.
Black checked his equipment again as he buckled into the chute, then sat staring at the loadmaster, who was speaking with the flight crew on intercom. He turned to Black and nodded at the flickering red light on the jump console.
The Hotdogs rose to their feet, lined up and hooked up, and shuffled toward the rear of the bird. The lieutenant was first, Black last, the other two sandwiched in between. The loadmaster eyeballed them without checking them over, speaking into his headset mike.
As a motor whined and the cargo ramp started to drop, Black looked at the jump lights. He liked Hotdog to go out fast, one right after the next, so they'd have minimum separation.
The ramp was down and air churned about the wide exit.
They waited expectantly.
Green light.
0127L
Hotdog was assembled in a small clearing on an elevation with a view in all directions. Black held a small flashlight as he and the lieutenant knelt over a chart and compass to pinpoint their position, which appeared not at all like their designated DZ.
He looked out at the moonlit shape of the mountain they'd skinnied down two and a half months earlier, and read the bearing, then mentally adjusted for compass variation. One-four-oh degrees to the mountain. He drew a pencil line on the map, turned and went through the same procedure for a peak to the west, then another to the east. When he'd finished, he stared at the result. They were somewhere within the small triangle made by the three lines. The lieutenant placed a finger on a knoll, and Black grunted his agreement. They were twenty-odd kilometers southwest of their designated drop area, only seven kilometers west of the enemy-held airstrip at Ban Sao Si and four kilometers east of a smaller village.
He didn't have time for the curse he wanted to mouth about the CIA's hired help. There was a likelihood the enemy had heard the aircraft. There was also a distinct possibility that their chutes had been seen emerging from the noisy, too-high C-123.
Black studied the map to fix features in his mind, then refolded and put it away. Without further contemplation he rose and motioned northeastward.
They'd travel a bit before burying harnesses and chutes, continue directly to Yankee 54, and join up with Banjo on the mountain looming behind Ban Sao Si. It would be a quicker trek than anticipated, for they were much closer than planned. It would also be more dangerous. They were definitely in Indian country.
After half an hour he estimated they'd come two kilometers, so they stopped at a mountain stream, cut a single panel out of each parachute, and buried the remainder. Not much farther along their beeline route, the Hotdog on point held them up and led them around the perimeter of an encampment of soldier
s. They began to climb. This mountain was not nearly as steep as the one at Yankee 21, but the foliage was dense. At 0345 hours they cautiously approached the lookout post three fourths of the way up the mountain, and Black waited while the Hotdogs searched for unfriendlies, and for Banjo.
As anticipated, being so early, they found no one. They were alone at Yankee 54.
The lieutenant told Black in a disgusted tone that the militia soldiers they'd passed had been sloppy and inattentive.
"I like my enemies sloppy and inattentive," Black responded in Viet. He was burrowing a cubbyhole in the underbrush at one side of the clearing and lining it with his parachute panel to keep out insects. Finally satisfied, he sat back and looked at the lieutenant in the moonlight.
"Banjo team should be coming in. Tell the men to be alert."
"They know."
"It is good to be back at work," Black said without thinking, then wondered about his sanity at making the comment.
The lieutenant understood. "Yes," he said, searching about the periphery of the clearing for a sleeping place of his own, "but it will be better when we get to Ha Wa Eee."
A week earlier, after the failed mission to rescue the woman, the lieutenant had confided that he was tired of war. Black thought about that as he crept into his hole, pulled his People's Army issue rucksack into position, then tucked the nylon parachute and mosquito netting into place. He lowered his head onto the rucksack, cleared his mind, and a moment later was asleep.
A hiss awoke him, and it took a moment to gain his bearings. It was late, already 0640, and the small mountain clearing was bathed in the glow of morning sunlight. Black fussed at himself for being drowsy as he eased upright. He heard sounds of a helicopter in the near distance.
He nodded his appreciation to the Hotdog who'd awakened him, then carefully emerged from his hidden sleeping place.
There was no sign of Banjo team. The lieutenant was perched cross-legged on a rock at the top of the small clearing, looking through binoculars. He continued his observation for a moment longer, until the sounds of the chopper blades stopped, then raised an eyebrow at Black.
Black took the binoculars, adjusted fingerwheels, and stared at the large, six-bladed helicopter resting at one side of the narrow dirt strip below. Men were walking about it, pointing and shouting instructions as a swarm of others pushed it closer to the trees and covered it with netting. He could also see the outline of a small propeller-driven observation plane nestled into the foliage.