Those inside the gun hold that had bayonets attached them to their M-16s; those that didn’t grabbed wrenches, pipes, any heavy tool they could use as a club. They all now knew that it was going to come down to a primitive fight for survival.
Thirty seconds went by as the Bozo crew got ready. On a nod from Hunter, the gun crew chief finally yelled: “Open the doors!”
With an earsplitting screech, the two heavy rear doors swung open wide, revealing the hundreds of stunned attackers below.
What the attackers saw was a haphazard collection of gun crews and flight mechanics; some kneeling in classic forward-fire-stance, others standing behind them—their M-16’s level and ready….
Standing in the middle was a man in a pilot’s suit and a helmet.
“Fire!” someone screamed.
Instantly, Hunter and the Bozo crewmen opened up. A great roar of gunfire erupted. The first line of astonished attackers were blasted back, another wave took their place and they too were mowed down by the concentrated volley. A third line met the same deadly result. But the attackers were determined, fanatically so. Those surviving the fusillades streamed inside the hold of the plane. There they were met by more gunfire, the razor sharp points of the bayonets, and blunt pieces of steel.
Slashing and stabbing and butting, the fight inside the enormous hold escalated instantly into furious hand-to-hand combat. The screams of the dying were overpowering, and the deck was quickly slippery with blood. But no matter how many attackers were stabbed, bludgeoned, shot, or killed, more charged into the hold of the plane.
Hunter was up front, fighting madly—it had been years since he’d been in a battle like this. But this time the hand-to-hand struggle was so severe and so close that he was reduced to using his M-16 as a club. It was strange, he thought in a heartbeat. He had survived hundreds of hours of intense aerial combat—dogfighting against the most sophisticated fighters in the world. He never thought it would end this way—in the mud and the blood, out in the middle of nowhere.
But then a very odd thing happened.
The monsoon downpour suddenly stopped. And just as suddenly, a dozen bugles sounded out. The fury of the attackers instantly dissipated. In a semicontrolled retreat, the enemy soldiers quickly fought their way backward out of the hold of the airplane and jumped down to the tarmac below. Then they all turned tail and ran back across the open ground, eventually melting into the treeline in the distance. The carnage was suddenly over.
An unearthly silence finally descended upon the hold of the transport plane. It was as if everyone inside had been delivered from death by some unseen force.
A weary voice from amidst the astonished crew said it all.
“What the hell happened?” it asked.
Chapter Thirteen
IT TOOK ALMOST AN hour to wash the blood from the C-5’s cargo hold.
It was a disgusting job. Water from the plane’s engine cooling apparatus was rerouted into its fire extinguishing systems and sprayed on top of industrial strength disinfectant. The sudsy mixture turned a sickly bright pink as it mixed with the blood of the attackers on the floor and walls of the plane.
Removing the dead bodies of the attackers was even more stomach-churning. There were 74 of them alone inside the plane, another 122 blocking the rear cargo doors. The crew used lengths of pipe and ropes to push and drag the corpses off the airplane and away from the cargo doors. Miraculously, the Americans had suffered only twenty wounded.
Only when the hold was clean and the rear doors closed again did the crew collapse from sheer exhaustion.
All except Hunter. He was up on the C-5’s flight deck, frantically trying to get one of its radios working. Both primary radios and the two backups had been shot up either in the MiG attack or the ground battle. He tried every electronics trick he knew, but it was to no avail. All four were beyond repair.
It took a little doing, but he was able to get his long-range NightScope binoculars working. Hanging half way out of the busted front windshield, he scanned the immediate area around the crashed C-5. It was getting to be dusk, and everything was turning to shadow. There were no enemy soldiers in sight, but he could clearly see campfires burning in the hills which bordered the battered airbase on three sides.
Hunter turned towards the embattled fortifications which were about 100 yards off the end of the mud-stuck left wing. He wasn’t sure whether anyone was still left alive inside the pathetically ragged set of bunkers. He saw no flags, no manned defensive positions, no attempts to put out the fires still burning all around the fortifications.
The sudden appearance of Bozo had definitely diverted the main attack on the base away from the bunkers—if there were any living souls in the fortifications, they at least owed the plane’s crew a vote of thanks. Yet no welcome wagon had appeared.
While there was always the chance of another attack, Hunter’s gut was telling him one was not imminent. The enemy’s sudden retreat still puzzled him; the only causal effect was the end of the monsoon rainstorm. Perhaps the attackers were using the downpour as a shield, or for some other reason—he didn’t know. In any case, their brutally crude method of human wave attacks didn’t lend itself to night operations.
Still, the gun commanders had already organized a well-armed sentry force, which would be dispersing to positions around the wrecked jet within the hour.
But Hunter couldn’t wait that long to find out what was going on, or where the hell they were.
He had to get some answers—quick.
Ten minutes later, Hunter and Ben dropped to the tarmac from Bozo’s port side hatch and quickly scrambled behind what was left of the crushed forward landing gear.
To their dismay, the massive airplane looked as bad outside as it did inside. The wounds suffered from the MiG attack had been bad enough. The tremendously severe damage inflicted upon the Galaxy by the massive human wave assault was beyond repair. There was no longer any question about it—the big C-5 would never fly again. They were stuck here—wherever “here” was.
In the drizzle that continued after the monsoon downpour, they could barely make out the large, fortified bunker, a hundred yards away. It looked like the most likely headquarters for this battered, lonely outpost and appeared to be the main target of the fanatical attackers before the C-5 arrived.
“We’ve got to start looking for some answers over there,” Hunter said to Ben, surveying the torn-up, muddy ground that separated them from the bunker. “You up for a little foot race?”
“Loser buys the first round,” Ben replied grimly.
They both tightened their gear belts and checked their weapon’s ammo loads.
“OK!” Hunter yelled, “Let’s go…”
They were both up and running a second later. But no sooner had they stepped out into the open, when Hunter’s sixth sense began to vibrate.
“Damn!” he yelled. “Incoming …”
In an instant, he yanked Ben down into a shallow trench next to the runway, covering both of them with thick mud in the process. In the distance up in the hills, he’d heard the distinctive boomp of heavy-mortar tubes being popped. Five seconds later, a trio of mortar shells came crashing down near the spot where they’d been before Hunter’s warning. The explosions rocked the earth all around them.
“Boy, these guys really don’t like us,” Ben said, wiping the mud from his face. “What’ll we do now?”
“We’ve got to keep going,” Hunter replied grimly. “Before they pop again.”
Once more, they jumped up and ran like hell towards the bunker. But just as suddenly, the muddy ground in front began to erupt in small geysers of wet dirt. They dove head first into a crater hole, the CRACK-ziiiingggs!!! of heavy-caliber rifle rounds zipping all around them. It didn’t take long to determine they were being fired on by high performance rifles located in the treetops 300 yards away.
“Snipers, too?” Ben wailed in disgust. “Man, I hate snipers.”
Hunter could only agree. “This
is going to be a real pain in the ass,” he said.
They had no choice but to keep moving. For the third time they jumped up and started running. Once again all hell broke loose as sniper fire zipped by them and mortar shells began exploding all around them. But running in a crouch, Hunter and Ben zigged and zagged to the other side of the pockmarked runway—just barely managing to dodge everything that was thrown at them. Skidding down into deep trench, they were finally out of sight and safe—for the moment anyway.
Quickly studying their surroundings, they realized that the ditch was actually part of a series of interconnecting trenches which served smaller fortifications leading up to the larger pockmarked bunker. But all of these smaller positions—gun nests surrounded by sandbags or earthworks—appeared to be abandoned. Crouching low under the streams of sniper bullets whizzing by overhead, Hunter and Ben followed the twists and turns through the defense line and made their way toward the large bunker.
As they moved along the trenches, it was obvious the gunposts had been poorly maintained. Gaps in the sandbagged walls from previous attacks had not been shored up. Discarded weapons, shell casings, and personal equipment were scattered everywhere. Six inches of stagnant water at the bottom of some of these trenches attested to the fact that no system of drainage had been initiated or maintained.
Then there were the skeletons.
The trenches were littered with them; they made for a ghastly sight. Apparently the fighting had been going on here for quite some time, and some of these soldiers had been killed and then buried where they fell. But the constant barrage had gruesomely unearthed them, again and again. At some point, Hunter figured, those who survived must have just given up on the burial details altogether. Outside the trenches was even worse. There were hundreds of skeletons of enemy soldiers snagged on the wire. No attempt had been made by the other side to bury their dead either.
They continued moving through the trenches. Suddenly Hunter stopped dead in his tracks.
“Wait,” he whispered urgently. “Listen.”
Ben froze.
“Do you hear that?” Hunter whispered.
Ben heard it a moment later. It sounded like voices. Muffled voices.
“Over there,” Hunter whispered, pointing his M-16 towards a crude hole dug into the side of the trench, the opening covered only by a tattered blanket.
He motioned for Ben to cover him. Then he silently moved over next to the opening and slipped out his K-Bar knife. Holding his M-16 level in his right hand, he drew back the blanket with the edge of his knife and poked the barrel through the opening.
Ben saw the astonishment on Hunter’s face, and soon learned why. Inside were three ragged soldiers, huddled in fear. They were not Asian like the attackers. In fact, they seemed to be European. And though their clothing was threadbare, filmy, and ragged, enough was left for Hunter and Ben to see that they were wearing a variation of the uniform of the legendary French Foreign Legion. These men were emaciated and pale, their faces utterly devoid of expression. Except for their eyes. They had that classic “1,000 yard stare,” the frightening gaze that comes with being faced with death every minute of the day.
“Americans,” Hunter told them, “We’re Americans.”
Each, in turn, slowly gave a weak smile. “Are you here to save us?” one asked wearily.
Hunter and Ben stared into the men’s faces. At one time, the Foreign Legion had been among the most-respected units in the French Army and indeed, the world. But these soldiers had been reduced to animals, living in holes, apparently unfed, barely armed, surviving moment to moment.
“Are you here … to save us?” the soldier asked again.
“Maybe,” Hunter finally answered.
He and Ben continued their journey through the trenches, passing many similar holes sheltering even more shattered soldiers. Not all of them were Legionnaires. Some wore tattered uniforms of black and orange camouflage, some green camos. There were some dressed in Belgian combat issue, others in the uniform of the Royal Peruvian army. There were even some in the uniform of the army of Morocco. It was quite a mix—obviously many were mercenaries. But they all had one thing in common: extreme combat fatigue.
The enemy gunners up on the ridges and in the jungle around the base continued to pepper the air with lead. It was obvious now that the attackers had the airfield covered on at least three sides. The constant crack of gunfire dictated they keep their heads down. But finally, Hunter and Ben made it to the main fortification.
Crouched on either side of the door frame, they could hear voices inside.
But these were not the weak haggard voices of emaciated soldiers. Rather, their tone sounded strong, forceful, determined.
They also sounded organized—another hopeful sign.
“It sounds like a briefing’s going on in there,” Ben whispered to Hunter.
“Let’s crash the party,” Hunter whispered back.
They slipped inside through the double layer of blackout material that hung in the doorway.
They were amazed at what they saw.
There was a briefing going on. And the contrast between the conditions of the trenches and the level of military professionalism inside this bunker was as different as night and day.
“Shhhhh …”
Startled, Hunter and Ben looked to their right to see a French Foreign Legion officer positioned by the door.
“The commander is speaking,” he said in a heavily accented whisper. “Please sit down and be quiet. He must not be disturbed.”
Hunter shrugged to Ben, and the two found seats at the back of the bunker.
Before them a dozen lower-ranking officers were seated in rapt attention. At the front of the room was the apparent commander of the base. He was a thin, elderly man, dressed from head to toe in tiger camouflage with a red beret set at a jaunty angle. This was at one time the standard jungle issue for the French Foreign Legion.
This commander, a colonel, was in the middle of a detailed strategy session. A large, ancient-looking map stood on an easel behind him, and just out of sight from Hunter and Ben.
“Our position is here,” he said as he swung his pointer at a place on the map. “The Viet Minh is dug in along here.” He indicated a wide arc to the west. “Overall, the plan is to constrict our position to a point where it will be impenetrable. Several important steps must be taken to achieve that goal—and in a minimum amount of time. Now, my first order is for you, sir.” The colonel nodded his head towards an officer with a long scar running down the side of his face. “You are to reconfigure the heavy guns to these northwest and southwest points on our perimeter for maximum counterfire.” He indicated several precise positions on the map. “This has to be done by 0800 hours,” he went on. “Do you have any questions?”
“No, sir,” the scarred officer crisply replied.
The colonel continued on, using his pointer to indicate how, where, and when other defensive positions were to be shored up on the map. He gave orders for the airstrip to be cleared and repaired, to organize patrols to probe the enemy defenses, to establish ambush points, and to forage for potable water.
Sitting in the shadows in the back of the bunker, Hunter and Ben listened and observed as this colonel went down the line, giving detailed instruction to each of the officers before him. They were surprised by the thoroughness of the briefing and with the spirited élan of the presentation. For the first time since their arrival, their spirits began to rise.
But Hunter edged a little closer. Something wasn’t right here and he felt uneasy.
Then he saw why.
The chart the colonel was outlining his strategy on was a map of France. According to him, they were defending the city of Lyons.
Hunter and Ben just stared at each other.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Ben gasped.
Hunter could only shake his head. “It’s a cuckoo’s nest,” he replied bitterly. “These guys are just as nuts as the ones in the trenches
. They’re just better dressed.”
They’d seen enough. With little regard for courtesy, they got up and hastily left the bunker.
They stepped outside and immediately a barrage of shots was fired at them from the treeline three football-field-lengths away. Hunter yanked Ben into an adjacent slit trench, the stream of bullets striking exactly where they had been standing.
“These guys are really fucking bugging me,” Ben said through a mouthful of dirt.
Hunter could only agree. But his droughts were on the C-5 and the men of Bozo. It was becoming painfully obvious that to get out of this dire situation, whatever they had to do—whatever that could be—they would have to do on their own.
They inched their way out of the trench and scrambled to a bigger, deeper ditch.
“So where the hell are we, Hawk?” Ben asked wryly. “Dien Bien Phu?”
Hunter quietly scanned the surrounding ridges and mountains that poked out through the heavy mist. And then at the acres of ground up earth, discarded weapons and broken bodies. He just shook his head.
“We’re not at Dien Bien Phu, Ben,” he said grimly. “I think we’re at a place they once called Khe Sanh.”
It took them almost an hour to get back to Bozo—sniper bullets and mortar rounds following them the entire way.
Night and an even thicker fog had settled around the plane by this time. They found sentries posted in a defensive perimeter upon their return. And not surprisingly, the Bozo crew had already begun to fortify their position.
As usual, Hunter threw himself into the work and seemed to be everywhere. He reconfigured the positions of some of the big guns to provide firepower on both sides of the battered airplane. Then he handled an on-board acetylene torch in cutting some of the gunports on the starboard side of the plane. Once all the holes were cut, Hunter and the crews pushed and strained, moving several of the Gatlings and AA guns into position at their new placements and securing them to the main frame structures of the plane. Then began the arduous task of rearming the weapons.
Ghost War Page 10