The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  “We’re okay in the rear, Mr. Tanner,” Collins said.

  “Controllability normal,” Perkins added. The XMSN OIL HOT warning light flashed on the Caution Lights Panel on the pedestal between the pilots. The transmission oil temperature was above 110 degrees Centigrade. Tanner checked the transmission oil pressure indicator. The needle was at thirty PSI and falling. They had taken a hit to the transmission located forward of the rotor mast and on top of the fuselage, just above their heads, when they were turning away from the river valley.

  “Get ’er on the ground ASAP,” Tanner said. If the transmission failed, they would have to auto rotate in. While always dicey, Perkins should be able to handle an autorotation.

  He didn’t have to and touched down on the edge of the parking ramp just as the transmission failed.

  “How about that?” Perkins breathed.

  The two pilots shut down the engine as the marines, Collins, and Myers piled out. The rotor was still spinning down when Perkins and Tanner joined them a safe distance away. Myers scratched the side of his neck as he surveyed the damage. He walked closer to get a better look at the transmission case. The forward part of the transmission fairing had been blown away and oil was seeping out of the side of the transmission case.

  “We got lucky on that one,” the crew chief said. “Looks like a single round barely grazed us and ricocheted off.”

  “The golden B-B,” Tanner allowed. “Talk about the luck of the Irish. Look at the way that groove is angled. The shell came up from the left and glanced off to our twelve o’clock. An inch farther forward and it would have gone straight and hit the rotors.”

  “Here comes the line chief,” Myers said.

  A Marine gunny sergeant drove up in an M151 MUTT, the latest variant of the venerable Jeep. The white U.S. Army stars and numbers had been hastily hand-painted over with a yellow USMC. The gunny crawled out and joined the two Marines. The corporal pulled himself to attention.

  “We got a casualty, Gunny.” He motioned at Tanner. “They came and got us.”

  “Appreciate that,” the gunny said. He cocked his head, surveying the damage to the transmission. He could repay the favour. “We got one of those. I’ll get maintenance on it. Should have you out of here in three or four hours.”

  “Much obliged,” Tanner said.

  The gunny’s eyes narrowed as he studied the transmission. “Where did you take the hit?”

  “About a half a mile west of the runway,” Tanner answered.

  “That’s our area. Looks like a fifty calibre.”

  “Friendly fire?” Tanner asked.

  “It happens a lot these days,” the gunny replied.

  *

  Nakhon Phanom, Thailand

  The crew were sitting on the Hercules’ ramp still eating lunch when Warren, Hardy, and Pender stepped through the crew entrance. The cargo deck had been made shipshape and hosed out. Santos’ survival vest was hanging from a hook, scrubbed clean of blood, and drying along with his flight suit. The aircraft smelled clean. Hardy looked around approvingly.

  “You’ve got a good crew,” he conceded. He pointed at the wet survival vest. “Where’s the weapon?” Control and accountability of firearms is critical in the Air Force scheme of things.

  “Knowing Sergeant Flanders,” Warren answered, “he has the revolver or locked it up.” He gestured to a padlocked footlocker tucked under the flight deck next to the radio rack. “Ask him.”

  “No need,” Hardy said.

  Flanders ambled up, carrying three brown paper sacks. “Lunch,” the loadmaster announced, passing them out. “Courtesy of the Roach Coach.”

  “And Colonel Sloan,” Warren added. “Time to kick the tires and light the fires.” He climbed onto the flight deck, suddenly very hungry. “Hey, Boz, you want the left seat for this one?”

  Bosko grinned. “Thought you would never ask.” The two pilots switched seats so Warren could play co-pilot.

  1300 HOURS

  Over Eastern Thailand

  The woman’s voice crackled with authority. “Roscoe Two-One, go around.” Bosko didn’t hesitate and firewalled the throttles as Warren acknowledged the control tower.

  “Ubon Tower, Roscoe Two-One on the go,” Warren radioed.

  “Report initial, runway Two-Three,” the controller radioed, kicking them out of the landing pattern and telling them to get back in line for landing. Then she relented, explaining the situation. “Inbound emergency, expect a delay.”

  Bosko circled to the left and rolled out, heading 030 degrees, levelled off, and pulled the throttles back. The airbase at Ubon, Thailand, was spread out to his left and he could see the fighters returning from a strike mission taxiing back into their open bunkers. “I thought they had all recovered,” he said.

  “That was one hell of a show,” Warren admitted. The four trash haulers had watched as eighteen F-4 Phantoms recovered from a mission over North Vietnam, coming down final in formations of two or four to land in a classical circling approach. The jets levelled off at 1200 feet above the ground before peeling off to the left one by one as they passed over the approach end of the runway. They circled to land, lowering their flaps and gear as they descended, and touched down at 2000 foot intervals. It was quick, efficient, and magnificent to watch. “Inbound traffic in sight,” Bosko said, “twelve o’clock.”

  “Got ‘em,” Warren said. Ahead, he could see the smoke trails of the two Phantoms on the approach. One of the smoke trails was normal, but the other jet was laying down heavy black smoke. Neither pilot said a word, fully understanding the Phantom had taken battle damage. The other jet was escorting him down, watching for flames or other problems. They watched as the Phantom lowered its tail hook to take the approach end barrier cable for a carrier-type arrestment.

  “Hydraulics probably out,” Warren allowed.

  Hardy climbed onto the flight deck and stood behind Warren’s seat. The flight engineer automatically handed him a spare headset, which Hardy quickly jammed over his close-cropped hair.

  “Thanks, Sergeant Hale,” Hardy said, taking in the situation. Then, “I hope he doesn’t close the runway.” The Phantom flying on the wing of the battle-damaged jet pulled up and away as the damaged jet touched down. It rolled about three hundred feet before its tail hook caught the cable at 150 knots, slamming it to an abrupt halt. Two fire trucks converged on the Phantom as the two canopies popped open and the pilot and backseater scampered to safety.

  “I think the runway is closed,” Bosko said, circling back to the right to keep watching the action on the runway. They rolled out on their original heading in time to see the escorting Phantom come down final at 380 knots. The F-4 pilot levelled off at two thousand feet and snapped a barrel roll as he flew past the tower.

  “Someone got a MiG,” Warren said.

  “The wing commander will not be a happy camper,” Hardy said. Victory rolls were forbidden in case the returning jet had taken battle damage the pilot was not aware of.

  “A kill is a kill,” Bosko said, deeply envious of the pilots flying the Phantoms.

  “Roger, that,” Hardy said, totally surprising them. “Now check that out, the runway is open.” The crash crews had pulled the damaged F-4 off the runway and a team was resetting the cable.

  “Roscoe Two-One,” the tower controller radioed, “report initial.” She had just reminded them the show was over and it was time to get back to business.

  “Let’s get this puppy on the ground,” Bosko said.

  *

  Ubon Air Base, Thailand

  A crew van was waiting when the Herk shut down engines on the parking ramp. A sergeant from ALCE clambered onto the flight deck and told them they had a load.

  “Not much, twenty Mark-24 flares for Cam Ranh.” The Mark-24 was the two million candle-power flare the C-130s flying Blind Bat missions dropped to light up the Ho Chi Minh trail at night. A flare was thirty-six inches long and weighed twenty-seven pounds, and, in the world of trash haulers, the twen
ty flares were a nothing load. “The flares are hazardous cargo,” the sergeant said. “We have to bump your passenger.”

  “The captain won’t like that,” Santos said. “She needs to get back to Cam Ranh.” Warren nodded, not saying anything. As soon as Hardy departed, he would file a flight plan and list her as a crewmember.

  “Why in hell are we shipping flares to Cam Ranh Bay?” Hardy wondered. “We need them here.” He thought for a moment. “I need to check it out. And for Christ’s sake, everyone get a haircut.” He looked embarrassed. “Look, it’s the only way I can get Colonel Mace off our back. He confuses haircuts and shoe polish with leadership.” Hardy had crossed the line criticizing Cam Ranh Bay’s wing commander. “Ah, fuck it. Relax and I’ll put Captain Pender on the crew list.” He spun around and climbed down the ladder to leave. He stopped and looked back. “Mark, you and your crew did good,” he said. “Real good.” Then he was gone.

  “Well, if that don’t beat all,” Bosko said.

  “Who would have thought,” Santos added. “He’s not brain dead after all.”

  “I’m gonna get a haircut,” Warren said.

  Bosko laughed. “Right behind you, boss.”

  “Hold on,” the navigator called, looking out over the ramp. “We got company, ALCE mobile.” A pickup with a heavy array of antennas slammed to a stop and Hardy jumped out, running for the C-130. Warren met him at the crew entrance.

  “We got an emergency airlift out of Chu Lai for Se Pang,” Hardy said. “A platoon of marines plus equipment. Go.”

  “What about the flares?” Warren asked.

  “Get ‘em to Cam Ranh Bay as soon as you can. They’re flying a Blind Bat mission out of Cam Ranh tonight and need more flares. The situation has really gone critical.” Hardy paused for a moment. “Huck and Judy had it absolutely right. Take care.” He spun around and ran for the pickup.

  Warren shook his head in wonder, not really understanding the lieutenant colonel.

  “Who would have thought,” he muttered. Then, “Sergeant Flanders, you good to go in the rear?”

  “Cargo secure,” the loadmaster replied.

  “Let’s crank ‘em,” Warren ordered. He turned to Pender who was standing behind Flanders. “Chu Lai is a marine base on the coast near Da Nang. Just under an hour’s flying time from here. We’re picking up about fifty grunts to reinforce Se Pang before heading for the barn at Cam Ranh. The situation is deep serious and it’s gonna get interesting. You can come along or catch a hop out of here. Your call.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Pender said.

  “Hey, Boz,” Warren said, “you want the left seat for this one?”

  Bosko grinned. “Thought you would never ask.”

  Bosko rushed the checklist and called for a midfield take-off. They were airborne four minutes later.

  “Sixteen minutes on the ground,” Santos said over the intercom as he brought the paperwork up to date. “Are we going for a new Guinness Book of Records?”

  1400 HOURS

  Over South Vietnam

  The four big props beat at the air slightly out of phase and filled the flight deck with a pulsating echo. Warren played with the synchrophase control knob on the right-side console in a vain attempt to synchronize the props and smooth out the sound but with no success.

  “It’s okay, Captain,” the flight engineer, said. “They should reset on engine start.”

  “Chu Lai on the nose at 130 miles,” Santos said. He ran the distance against their groundspeed and added five minutes for approach and landing. “On the ground in thirty minutes.”

  “Roger that,” Bosko said, anxious to end the endless beat. He pushed the throttles up and nosed the Hercules over, trading altitude for airspeed. “In a hurry to get on the ground?” Santos asked. Bosko gave a little nod. At best, they would land five minutes early. But based on what he had heard at Nakhon Phanom, it could be a critical five minutes.

  “What do you make of Hardy?” Santos asked, changing the subject.

  Warren thought for a moment. “Beats me. One thing’s for sure, he’s a good pilot and can fly the Herk.”

  “And he’s got balls,” Santos added. “You should have seen him at Ban Nap.”

  “The man is a study in contradictions,” Bosko said.

  “My dad saw it all the time in the diplomatic corps,” Santos said. “You get promoted by playing the game. He had to butter up ambassadors, mostly political appointees, who didn’t have a clue but made large campaign contributions. We’re talking a total lack of situational awareness and incompetence that bordered on the dangerous. He had to play one game with them, and then protect the staff so they could do the real work. Hardy might be playing the same game, keeping the colonels happy and then making sure we can do our job. It’s a balancing act.”

  “Sounds like a double standard to me,” Hale said.

  Santos laughed. “My dad used to say that if there wasn’t a double standard, there wouldn’t be any standards.” Warren humphed, not sure if it was total nonsense or if he had just heard a basic truth about the Air Force. “Which gets us to Billy Bob Boyle,” Santos said.

  Warren made a cutting motion across his throat, silencing the navigator. “Sergeant Flanders, is Boyle on headset?”

  “Negative,” the loadmaster replied. “Sound asleep.”

  “Hardy did mention court-martial,” Santos said. “For the record, the bastard totally freaked out.”

  “He’s just a nineteen year-old kid,” Warren said, willing to cut him a break.

  “Kid or not,” Flanders said, “we’re talking one big yellow streak.”

  “I didn’t see it,” Warren said, not sure what to do, but anxious to drop the subject. He made a mental note to talk to his commander on Okinawa. But he sensed Hardy would have to press charges as he was the senior officer who witnessed it. “Time to get this puppy on the ground.”

  “Before descent checklist,” Bosko said.

  Warren read off each item as the crew configured the C-130. The descent went smoothly and Bosko levelled off over the South China Sea. Warren called the tower as Bosko turned inbound to the Marine base.

  “Roscoe Two-One,” the tower radioed, “cleared for the approach to Runway Three-One Right.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Bosko moaned. “That’s the old PSP runway next to the beach. All we need is a cut tire.” The pierced steel planking matting left over from World War Two was infamous for cutting tires on landing and take-off. The co-pilot flew a right hand pattern to stay over water as long as possible before turning onto the base leg. “There’s the problem,” Bosko said. “Looks like they’re working on the main runway.”

  Santos stood behind Warren and scanned the concrete runway with a pair of expensive binoculars he kept in his navigation bag.

  “They’re filling in craters. Small stuff. I’m guessing mortar attack.”

  “Roger on the mortars,” Bosko said. “Before landing checklist.” He turned short final and lined up slightly right of centreline in an attempt to keep the landing gear off the most worn parts of the PSP where a break in the metal might cut a tire.

  *

  Chu Lai, Vietnam

  “Nice landing, Lieutenant,” Santos said as they taxied onto the small parking ramp. Bosko stopped parallel to the runway with the beach and clear blue water on their left.

  “Nice beach,” Santos said. “Do we have time for a skinny dip?”

  “Not with a female on board,” Warren told the navigator.

  “I don’t think you have anything I haven’t seen before,” Lynne Pender said over the intercom.

  Warren blushed. “You might have warned us you were on headset.” He wondered if she had overheard them discussing Boyle. “Okay, cock this puppy for a quick engine start.” Bosko read the engine quick-start checklist, positioning switches for fast start, and keeping the Gas Turbine Compressor, the auxiliary power unit located in the left gear well, on line.

  “I’m getting bad vibes,” Warr
en warned. “Everybody hang tight. Where the hell are the marines?” His inner Klaxon was starting to chime. He didn’t know why he was feeling antsy, but long experience had taught him to honour the warning. “If anyone needs to hit the latrine, there’s a slit trench over by the beach.” He pointed to a low structure built around a few boards over a trench. A five-foot high vee-shaped wall provided a modicum of modesty for any beach goers.

  “Captain Pender needs to use it first,” the loadmaster said over the intercom.

  “Keep tabs on anyone deplaning in case we need to beat feet and get the hell out of Dodge,” Warren said. His inner Klaxon kept building, pounding at him with the same pulsating rhythm of the out of phase props. “Come on.” He hated the waiting, but that was part of a trash hauler’s existence.

  Bosko keyed the radio and called the tower. “Chu Lai, Roscoe Two-One. Any word on our passengers?”

  “Negative, Roscoe.”

  “Lovely,” Warren muttered. He leaned forward in his seat and surveyed the area in front of the aircraft, but the rear hemisphere was a huge blind spot that bothered him. Again, he didn’t know why, but he didn’t question it.

  “Scanner in the top hatch,” he ordered. The forward escape hatch was located in the overhead at the back of the flight deck with a ladder bolted to the aft bulkhead.

  Santos grabbed his binoculars, quickly climbed the ladder, and swept the area in time to see a puff of smoke billow up on the far side of the concrete runway, well over a mile away. The dull boom of a mortar round echoed over him. Two more puffs of smoke erupted, this time on the near side of the runway, marching towards them.

  “Incoming!” he shouted. “Coming our way!”

  “Starting three,” Warren shouted, ordering an engine start. A fourth explosion echoed over them, much closer. Warren knew they didn’t have enough time to bring at least one engine on line and move out of the way, much less start all four and take-off. There was no doubt in his mind that the big Hercules was the target.

  “Shut ‘em down. Evacuate! Evacuate!” He ripped the number three throttle full aft as Hale’s hands flew over the overhead instrument panel, cutting all power on the aircraft. Santos swung down from the top hatch and jumped off the flight deck, bolting through the crew entrance. Bosko was right behind him. Hale was next off the flight deck, and Warren was the last off. He paused before exiting the aircraft and scanned the big cargo compartment. It was empty. He ducked out the crew entrance and sprinted for the sand dunes next to the beach, thirty yards away. Two more mortars exploded behind him.