Flight of the Intruder jg-1

by Stephen Coonts

  “Devil,” the radio interrupted “we have three or four bad guys heading your way. They just ran across the road and apparently they’ve seen the chute.

  They’ll be there before we can make a pass. Better take cover if you can.

  “Roger,” Jake said softly into the mike. He coiled, dropped the radio, and searched the brush in all directions.

  “Get out of here,” Tiger Cole insisted. “I’m done for. Go! Get moving!”

  The revolver seemed to leap into Jake’s hand of its own volition. He scanned the trees in the direction of the road. The bombardier’s urgings resounded in his ears. He straightened up and backed away from Cole then turned and ran. He had not gone very far before he fell.

  Facedown in the undergrowth, he was overwhelmed with panic. He scrambled to his feet and lunge forward. Forty yards later he fell again. This time he stayed down.

  What are you doing? How will you ever live with this? The Spad driver was finished but Cole isn’t. You’re all he has to get him onto that chopper and out of here. He wants you to make it, even if it costs him his life. He’s kept the faith.

  The panic left him and he felt in its place a calmness. He was certain of one thing: he would rather die than leave Tiger Cole.

  He got to his feet and took out both weapons. He pulled back the slide on the automatic just enough to see the gleam of brass in the chamber, then he clicked the safety on. He placed it in his right hand with his thumb on the safety lever. He reviewed the times he had fired an automatic, remembering how quickly it could be brought into action if you slipped the safety off with your thumb as you squeezed the trigger.

  He held the .357 Magnum revolver in his left hand with the hammer down. Not yet.

  He crept back the way he had come. Then he glimpsed Tiger lying there, he moved behind a broad tree trunk and listened. He heard the wind rustling through the foliage overhead and, in the distance, the sounds Of piston and jet engines.

  Once more he was waiting for a deer in the Appalachian mountains, expectant, without fear.

  If he died here, he would lie near Frank Allen and Tiger Cole. If he survived, there would be Callie. He moved his right hand to the sleeve pocket and felt the hardness and promise of the ring. You’ll have to get closer if you’re going to have a chance. You’ll have to be close enough to kill them before they get their assault rifles into action. He waited with a calm fatalism, but his breathing was shallow.

  He held the automatic in his right hand and the magnum in his left. It would be very chancy. They were seasoned jungle fighters who would be alert for the unexpected; he was a warrior from the sky.

  He was distracted by the deep thunder of a Skyraider approaching low over the treetops. He glanced up and when he looked at Cole again, a man stood near him. Jake moved forward as the engine noise increased. The standing man, clad in black, his back toward Grafton, tilted his head toward the sky. Jake made out another figure, bending over Tiger. As the sound intensified, an assault rifle ripped a burst.

  The pilot flinched, then slowly relaxed. There was much to do before a bullet found him.

  With infinite patience he took another step.

  Through the foliage he discerned a third man lowering an AK-47 from his shoulder as the noise of the Skyraider faded. Then he scanned the jungle. None of the soldiers detected the pilot in a green flight suit in a world of green.

  All three of the soldiers crowded around the supine figure and talked excitedly in low tones. One of them leaned over and slapped Cole’s face, and the others laughed, sure of sanctuary now from the steel wrath of the warplanes.

  Three soldiers with automatic rifles. Are there any more. Careful, Grafton. If there’s a man you don’t see, you won’t get off a shot.

  He waited. He was still more than fifty feet away, too far to be sure of getting them all. One or two would not be enough. He would have to shoot if they tried to kill Tiger, but for now he waited.

  He examined their black cotton clothes and the dark bush hats they wore. Their only provisions were carried in belts around their waists.

  Very faintly he heard the radio. The three scrambled around in the ankle-high detritus of jungle floor. One of them picked up the radio triumphantly and held it out for the others to see.

  Jake moved forward one step, then another.

  Two men were clustered around the box and were partially obscured by the jungle. Grafton advanced two more steps.

  If they would only keep looking at the radio!

  He took another step. They were just forty feet away.

  He extended the automatic to arm’s length as shifted his weight for another step. The man in the middle, facing him, saw him at that instant. A look of surprise registered on the brown face as a slug from the .45 hit him square in the chest. His head snapped forward and the rimmed hat came off as he fell.

  The man on the right twisted and turned while trying to position his weapon.

  The pilot fired. Thinking he had scored a hit, he swung the .45 toward the falling fighter on his left and jerked off three fast shots as the man on the ground and rolled away amid flying debris kicked up by the bullets. Wait! Aim!

  The man kept rolling in the brush as Jake to careful aim with the pistol and fired again. The body jerked under the impact of the bullet and came to a stop, quivering.

  Jake swung back toward the man on his right, who was rising from the ground and struggling with his rifle Jake fired quickly and missed. The rifle barrel was coming level. He fired again and the rifle fell as the soldier collapsed.

  The man on the left, partly hidden by brush, was still moving, so Jake took several steps toward him, forcing himself to concentrate on the front sight as he steadied the automatic. He squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. It was empty. He dropped the automatic, grasped the

  .357 with both hands, and eared back the hammer.

  The man was on his back now, in the leaves. He was squirming.

  Jake moved sideways to get a better shot,. The man’s rifle flashed repeatedly as Jake tried to aim at the squirming figure. He squeezed the trigger just as something hammered into his head.

  His head was splitting with pain. His vision was blurred. He tried to move but the effort made the pain in his head unbearable.

  “Jake?”

  The sound was distorted and far away. “Jake?”

  The voice seemed closer. He reached out with his arm.

  “I’m behind you, Jake.”

  With great care, Jake turned over until he was looking up. The world was spinning and he felt as if he were falling, but gradually the spinning slowed.

  After a rest he tried to sit up. He fell back moaning.

  “Looks like a bullet clipped you on the temple, Jake. But you got the bastard.”

  The pilot rolled onto his left side. He gazed at the bombardier, eight feet or so away, his head turned toward Jake. Jake’s vision slowly came into focus, although Cole shimmered with every heartbeat.

  “I knew you’d be back, Grafton.”

  Slowly, slowly, Jake curled up and eased into a sitting position. He put both hands like a vise on the sides of his head.

  “You probably have a concussion from that bullet.”

  He let his gaze wander. The North VietNamese sprawled around him, their bodies slack, the life smashed out.

  So this is what it looks like.

  He crawled with glacial slowness toward the nearest body. The dead eyes were focused on a point far, away, beyond the ken of living men. This was the man he had shot. He moved closer. The soldier had traveled many roads, come many miles, seen many things, probably killed many people, and died here in the jungle with his friends. The smell of feces registered in spite of his clogged nostrils.

  The dead man’s sphynctor had relaxed. So, the smell of death is the smell of shit.

  Appropriate.

  He sat up straighter and waited for the spinning sensation to pass. The throbbing in his head and knee whirling nauseated him and he retched. The wo
rld settled down. He looked again at the dead. Already the bodies seemed to be returning to the earth. they were partly covered by leaves from the forest floor.

  Near him lay a rifle. They would need it if many North VietNamese came. He picked up the weapon and saw that it was on full automatic.

  Inside the action he could see cartridges waiting to be stripped into the barrel by the closing bolt.

  He turned the weapon upside down and leaves and dirt fell out of the open action.

  The pain in his head was subsiding to one hell of a headache. He braced the butt of the rifle on the ground and slowly climbed erect.

  “I thought you were dead. You going to make it?” Tiger asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why don’t you find that damn radio and ask those flyboys when they’re going to get us the hell outta here. If they dick around much longer, you’re going to have to kill a whole regiment.”

  Jake found the radio. Bending over very carefully, he retrieved it.

  He picked up the .357 with the same care and scanned the leaves for the Colt .45.

  “If you’re looking for the automatic, I think maybe you dropped it over there. Jesus, Jake, you looked like Wyatt Earp when you gunned those guys.

  Remind me to always call you ‘Sir.”‘ Jake picked up the .45 and keyed the mike. “I got the gomers. They’re dead. When does the chopper get here?”

  “What’s your service number?”

  He stared at the radio, trying to think. “I can’t fucking remember. Oh, Jesus! Come get us, you fucking bastards!”

  “What’s the finest automobile in the world?”

  “A ‘57 Chevy.

  “So you got those guys, huh? Way to go! The chopper’ll be here in five minutes. Now listen up. They’re going to lower a litter with a crewman and take your bombardier up first. You stay on the ground. Keep your head down until the jungle penetrator comes down, then hook on and we’ll jerk you and the crewman out, over.”

  “Okay. But no screwing around.”

  “There’s going to be a lot of fire and smoke, Devil Alpha. We think we got the big guns but there’re lots of folks down there with small arms. If there’s too much lead flying, the chopper might have to pull off for a while and leave you and the crewman on the ground. Don’t panic.”

  “Got it.” He lowered the radio and wiped blood from his left eye.

  “Now just sit tight and let me know when the choppers right over you.”

  “Yeah.

  He sat beside the bombardier and replaced the spent cartridge in the revolver with one from his survival vest, then put the gun in its holster. He got a full clip for the .45 from Cole’s vest and tossed the empty one away. Then he tucked the automatic into the top of his survival vest.

  With the rifle across his lap, he sat with his back against the rock Cole lay on and scanned the jungle around them and the canopy above. The pain in his head localized in his left temple, and it throbbed with every pulse beat.

  “Maybe you oughta search the bodies. Maybe they got documents.”

  “Fuck it.”

  “If we don’t get picked up soon, there’ll be more of ‘em along. This place must be crawling with ‘em. If the gomers catch us near these bodies, we’ll be a long time dying.

  “They ain’t gonna get us.” The rifle felt heavy on his thighs.

  “We’ll get out of here. Frank Allen died to get us out.”

  “Is that why you came back?”

  Jake remembered what Callie had said after he told her about Morgan-it seemed so long ago-you did what you could do, you can’t do more than that.

  You kept the faith. He tried to find the words to an Cole. “I had to. Frank Allen didn’t run out on us and Morgan didn’t. You and I did a lousy job of trying to win the war by ourselves. But you stood by me.”

  “I’m glad we flew together,” Cole said. “Listen! ” The background buzz of piston engines was swelling in volume. Jake lay flat.

  The fires of hell erupted along the road. Napalm with a roar as the air rushed in to feed the jellied gasoline. Black, noxious smoke drifted through the trees.

  After several minutes the Skyraiders made another run. The pale gray smoke of white phosphorus wafted between the tall tree trunks, dark columns forever hidden from the light.

  Then Jake heard the sound he had been waiting for. Above the throb of piston engines at full throttle came the wail of jet engines pulsated by beating rotors. He searched the foliage above for signs of rotor wash. A calm voice said over the radio, “Okay, I have the parachute in sight.”

  “They’re right under that chute.”

  The beat of the rotors and the scream of the engines intensified.

  Salvation was arriving with a roar.

  Jake glimpsed the swaying mass of green metal floating above the wildly agitated foliage. A hurricane of wind engulfed him, and leaves and twigs flew through the air. He shouted into the radio, “We’re here! We’re here! You’re right overhead. Stop!”

  The helicopter hung suspended above him. Jake was on his feet, moving excitedly, unable to contain his elation.

  A helmeted man, part of his face obscured by his visor, rode the litter down. The air was thick with leaves and dirt, and it was hard to see. In the charged air, Jake had to push to breathe. He kept his eyes half shut, looking out through his lashes, screening the grit in the air. When the litter touched the ground, Grafton, who had crouched down against the wind storm, moved forward and helped the crewman unhook it and carry it across to Cole. Jake screamed into his ear, “His back is broken.”

  “I know.” The crewman’s head swiveled left and right, taking in the three bodies. “What the hell? . . .”

  They reached Cole and the crewman bent over him and checked his eyes. He motioned for Jake to take Cole’s legs. Together the two lifted the helpless man just enough to swing him into the litter. Jake was still trying to fasten the lower restraint straps when the crewman finished his and came to help.

  The crewman pointed at the hook on the end of the cable. Jake brought it over and they snapped all four of the suspension eyes to it. They moved away and the crewman spoke into his hand-held radio.

  Jake saw Tiger Cole looking at him. Tears ran down the man’s cheeks. Jake squeezed his hand fleetingly the slack went out of the cable. The litter came off the ground, swung slightly, then moved upward and disappeared into the churning foliage above.

  Unable to contain his euphoria any longer, Jake threw his arms around the crewman and hugged him with all his strength. The crewman hugged back vigorously.

  “We’re gonna make it,” he yelled into Jake’s ear. Jake Grafton nodded joyfully and squeezed the man again. Now the crewman led him to the jungle penetrator and clipped the snap-link on Jake’s torso harness to the cable at the top of the device and then hooked himself on. He spoke into his radio, and both men were swept off the ground.

  As they went upward through the branches, the noise and fury increased.

  Then, incredibly, all sound seem to soften, leaving a dull ache and a distant roaring in Jake’s ears. Without his helmet to protect his ears, he was going deaf.

  As they cleared the treetops, the helicopter began to move forward, dragging Jake and the crewman with it. He could glimpse heavy black smoke and fire in the slashes where the napalm had struck. As the smoke thinned Jake saw the jungle stretching up the hillside giving up its moisture in wisps of rising mist that looked ethereal in the horizontal rays of the morning sun. Souls wending their way to heaven, Jake thought.

  The moving air fanned and cooled his face.

  Jake saw that the crewman was watching him and laughing. When the hoist operator pulled them into the helicopter, their hands were locked together.

  End

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STEPHEN COONTS graduated from West Virginia University in 1968 with a degree in political science and a commission in the Navy. From 1971-1973, Mr. Coonts flew carrier-based A-6 bombers against targets in North and South
Vietnam and in Laos. He accumulated sixteen hundred hours in the Intruder and earned a number of Navy commendations, including the Distinguished Flying Cross.

  Mr. Coonts, a former attorney, now resides in Boulder, Colorado.

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