“All right, I’ll do it.”
“I thought you might see it my way.”
“I want to take the distribution run to Saigon,” Mike said. “I want to give Mr. Chapel a ride back.”
“All right,” Todaro agreed. “I don’t know who we have scheduled for it but you can take the flight.”
“Thanks,” Mike said.
Half an hour later they took off over the roof of the DS shed. Mike kept the nose low to build up air speed, then pulled up on the collective to gain altitude. He leveled off at 2,500 and called Paris Control, the central flight controller at Tan Son Nhut.
“Paris Control, Gunslinger 501 out of Phu Loi for Tan Son Nhut, 2,500 in a UH-1B.”
“Gunslinger 501, squawk flash.”
Mike punched the squawk button on his transponder.
“Roger, Gunslinger 501, we have you. Be advised we have artillery in Tango-Papa and Charley- Charley coordinates, rounds at 7,500 feet.”
“Roger, Paris 501, out.”
Ernie looked through the window at the lush green jungle below them, split by the winding and shining Saigon River and interspersed with flooded rice paddies and fields of all colors from black through brown, yellow through green. Little villages sat clustered along the banks of the river or along the concrete ribbon that was Highway 13. Dozens of yellow-and-blue buses moved, antlike, along the highway, competing with the trucks and Jeeps for right of way. From up here, it seemed impossible that the peaceful-looking land they were flying over was at war.
Finally, the sprawling, teeming city of Saigon came into view, and Mike released the friction lock to lower the pitch. The blades began popping as they spilled air and the helicopter started a very gradual descent until they were about two hundred feet above a cluster of antennae and heading straight for the helicopter landing area.
“Paris Control, Gunslinger 501 over antenna farm,” Mike said.
“Gunslinger 501, clear to land at pilot’s discretion.”
Mike clicked his mike button twice in acknowledgment, then continued on down, terminating his approach about three feet off the ground. He hovered to set down on the landing pad indicated by one of the flight line personnel, then killed the engine.
“All right,” he said. “Where do you want to take me to feed me? Bear in mind I have to be back here in an hour and a half at the most.”
“There’s a Mexican place on base called the Casa Grande. It’s damned good. Want to try it?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Okay. This way, Pancho, follow,” Ernie said, mimicking the old Cisco Kid movies.
“Oh, Cisco,” Mike replied.
The Casa Grande was operated by the air force NCO club but was open to men and women of all ranks and all branches of service. It was long and narrow, with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths and authentic Mexican food.
“Mike,” Ernie asked as he lifted a taco to his mouth, “you really going to go through with that crazy mission?”
“If I don’t, that asshole will have Bailey and a bunch of kids try it,” Mike said. “It would be a slaughter.”
“You think you’ll have any better chance?”
“I’ve got enough sense to know that it can’t be done, so I don’t intend to do anything crazy,” Mike said. He sighed. “And if Todaro goes along, maybe he’ll see that, too, and call the shit off.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Ernie said. “I’ve known people like Todaro before.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Me too.” He smiled. “You want to go with me?”
“On this mission?” Ernie asked. “Are you crazy?”
“I just thought you might want to do a story on it, that’s all.”
“I’ll wait on the ground,” Ernie said. “You can tell me all about it when you get back.”
Left unsaid was what both of them thought, if he got back.
Chapter Eight
“I want you to fly in the five slot,” Todaro told Mike. Command was six, second-in-command was five. It was highly unusual for a warrant officer to fly as command or second-in-command. It was even more unusual if there were commissioned officers involved in the operation.
“You don’t think that’ll cause any trouble with the captains and lieutenants?” Mike asked.
“Captains Wilson and Bailey have agreed to go along with it,” Todaro said. “I don’t anticipate any trouble from the one or two lieutenants we’ll have. I imagine most of the element will be made up of warrants anyway. We do want our most experienced people.”
“That’s true,” Mike said. He looked at the map of Di Shau Valley. “What have you got worked up?”
“Here are the air-recon photos,” Todaro said, opening a manila folder. “We’ve had Mohawks over the area several times. Now, look, do you see this stream? It winds through here, then goes right up into the valley here. I intend to come in on the deck, following the stream bed right up to the guns. They won’t even know we’re there until we’re in the valley.”
“But, Colonel, once we’re in the valley, we have nowhere to go except straight ahead, then up. We’ll be sitting ducks for at least twenty seconds.”
“Just twenty seconds,” Todaro said.
“Twenty seconds is an eternity when you’re in the hot seat. If you don’t know how long it can be, put your finger in a candle flame for twenty seconds.”
“Obviously a mission of this nature is not without its risks,” Todaro said. “But the plan already has approval. Brigade approved it this afternoon.”
“If that’s the way you want to do it, then that’s the way we’ll do it,” Mike said.
“Do you have another suggestion?”
“Yeah. Let the air force do it.”
“I have already told you, Mr. Carmack, this is an army mission and army aviation will take care of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Suddenly Todaro smiled and put his hand on Mike’s shoulder.
“Mike, we shouldn’t argue over this, you and me. Hell, I remember when you were a brand-new W-l right out of flight school and I was a green- assed second lieutenant. We were assigned to Board Six, remember?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We tied .30-caliber field-machine guns to the skids of H-13s and jury-rigged a trigger so we could fire them at barrels of sand. Everyone thought we were crazy to arm helicopters, but by God we kept at it. Now we’ve got whole companies of gunships and you should see some of the things on the drawing boards! Two-hundred-mile-an-hour helicopters with target acquisition lasers, guided missiles, rapid-firing cannon. It’s unbelievable what they have planned.”
“Yes, sir, I remember all that,” Mike said. “And if we had one of those super models now, I’d feel better about this mission. For all the impact we can have on those guns at Widow’s Peak, we may as well be flying those H-13s at Board Six.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Todaro said. “I’d hoped to have your full support on this mission.”
Mike ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “You’ve got it, Colonel,” he said. “I won’t say any more about it. By the way, what kind of ordinance are you taking?”
“I thought I’d take rockets.”
“A suggestion, sir?”
“What?”
“Put mini-guns on every other ship. Take them in as fire teams at staggered altitudes. The miniguns might keep Charley’s head down while the rockets are doing their job.”
Todaro rubbed his chin with his hand and looked at the photos for a long moment before he answered. “Yeah,” he finally agreed. “Yeah, that sounds like a pretty good idea at that. I may just do that.”
“I’ll see Dick and have him start his maintenance boys on the gun kits. They’ll be ready to go when we are,” Mike offered.
“Good, good,” Todaro said. He smiled broadly. “Cheer up, Mike. After this mission, your friend Ernie will really have something to write about.”
“Yes, sir,” Mike said.
“Well, what say we get started?�
�
Back in Saigon, Ernie received a surprise telephone call. The caller was Madam Mot and she asked Ernie if he would like to take her to Phu Cuong to visit an orphanage that she sponsored.
“Or do you wish to write only the bad things about us?” she added.
“No, of course I don’t want to write only the bad things,” Ernie answered.
“Good. Meet me at the Continental in one half hour,” she said, hanging up before Ernie could reply.
“What was that all about?” Ben Adams asked. Ben was with Associated Press and had dropped by CPI to visit.
“That was Madam Mot,” Ernie answered. “She wants me to take her to Phu Cuong.”
“Sure she does.” Ben chuckled. “And Madam Ky wants me to take her to Vung Tau. Okay, hide your stories from me, see if I give a damn.”
Ernie reached for his hat.
“Are you really going to leave? I mean, just like that?”
“Just like that,” Ernie said.
“Okay, just wait and see how I treat you when you come to visit me.”
“You didn’t come to visit, Ben, you came to borrow.”
“Oh, yeah, I did, didn’t I? What about it? Can I use your Johnny Mathis tapes tonight? I’m tellin’ you, this kid is one good-looking round eye, the kind that you need to loosen up with the two Johnnys—Johnny Mathis and Johnny Walker.”
“Take it,” Ernie said. “But I refuse to be held responsible for the consequences.”
“Thanks. I’ll give you a complete report. Oh, and do tell me all about Madam Mot, will you?”
Ernie checked out a Jeep from the press pool and drove over to the Continental Hotel. The Continental was an example of one of the fine blends of culture in the city. It occupied a busy corner in the heart of Saigon and an open veranda afforded customers the luxury of sitting quietly over a drink or a meal while they watched the people of the city pass by. Overhead fans turned briskly while white-jacketed waiters darted about carrying gin-and-tonics and other cooling drinks balanced on serving trays.
Ernie parked in front of the hotel and pulled the locking chain through the steering wheel to secure the Jeep. An old man shuffled by, long wisps of white hair protruding from his chin to form a beard that waved in the gentle breeze. He clasped his palms together and dipped his hands several times in a position of respect. Ernie returned the gesture.
Ernie chose a table to wait for Madam Mot. He would have preferred a table right at the entrance, but it was occupied by a man he recognized as the Minister of Imports. The Minister of Imports was reading a newspaper and the fat, sausagelike fingers of both hands were adorned with diamond rings. A gold Rolex was on one wrist. Rolls of flesh from his thick neck lay in layers across the silk collar of his expensive suit.
Ernie took a seat, ordered a beer, and waited. A few moments later a taxi pulled to a stop at the curb and Ernie watched as a woman sitting in the shadows of the back seat passed money across to the driver. When she stepped out of the car, Ernie recognized her as Madam Mot. He walked over to meet her.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Have you a car?”
“A Jeep,” Ernie said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Heavens, no. I think riding in a Jeep is great fun.”
Ernie led her over to the Jeep. Then when she was seated, he walked around to his side to unlock the chain.
“You say we are going to an orphanage?”
“Yes, at Phu Cuong,” Madam Mot said. “It’s near Phu Loi.”
“I know.”
“Mr. Carmack is at Phu Loi, isn’t he?” Madam Mot asked.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you can go see him…deliver a message for me.”
“Deliver a message for you?”
“Yes. Tell him my sister has a house in My Tho. I will meet him there this Sunday.”
Ernie looked surprised as he started the Jeep. She smiled at him.
“Didn’t Mr. Carmack tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“We have been intimate.”
Ernie coughed. “No,” he said. “He didn’t tell me.”
“I would have thought he would have spread it everywhere by now,” she said matter-of-factly.
The drive to Phu Cuong was quite pleasant once they crossed the river and the congestion of Saigon was behind them. Highway 13 wound through lush green fields and quiet little villages. Brilliant splashes of color lined the road where flowers grew in profusion.
Phu Cuong sat on a bend in the river about fifteen miles north of Saigon. It supplied fish to the markets of all nearby hamlets and the fishmongers of the hamlets came to town every day to buy. They walked along the bank of the river and poked through the catch, which, when laid out, stretched for almost a quarter of a mile.
To the American, the smell was very strong, but to the Phu Cuong resident, the smell was just part of the excitement. The market was the center of great activity. In addition to the customers and vendors, there were also the passengers of the bus line and the ferry service, both of which used the market as a terminal.
The orphanage to which they went was badly understaffed and overpopulated. Ernie followed Madam Mot around the grounds while she visited with the children and conducted business with the director. She introduced him to everyone and he recorded their names so that when he wrote the story their names would be correct.
As Ernie walked around he became the center of attention to every child in the institution. They laughed and shouted to one another and pulled at the hair on his arms. To the children, most Americans were soldiers they saw driving by in Jeeps, trucks, or personnel carriers. In Ernie, they had the opportunity to look at an American, a Mỹ, up close, and they were taking every advantage to do so.
“You can go now,” Madam Mot said. “I’ll keep myself occupied right here until you return.”
“They’re comin’ back!” someone shouted. And Ernie, who had been sitting in the pilots’ lounge, hurried out toward the landing pads.
Ernie could feel the beat of the engines and blades of the approaching helicopters, and he looked north as they approached. There was something wrong! He looked toward Sergeant Pohl with an expression of confusion on his face.
“I thought you told me thirteen ships went out.”
“Yes, sir, that’s what I have on my board,” Pohl said. “Thirteen.”
“Well, has one element already landed?”
“No, sir,” Pohl answered.
“But there are only five in this group. I wonder why they’re coming back in two groups.”
“Beats the hell out of me, Mr. Chapel,” Pohl said. “I’m only the operations sergeant. I don’t know why the hell anyone does anything over here.”
The Hueys approached in a single file over the 605th DS shed, then broke left for the final approach to the landing pads. Ernie watched them as they hovered by. To the casual observer, each helicopter looked exactly alike, but there was a slightly different personality to each ship and Ernie had already learned to identify the one flown by Mike Carmack. He saw it…but he didn’t see Rindell’s aircraft.
“They must’ve broken up into two elements,” Pohl said. “Captain Bailey isn’t with them; he must be in command of the second group.”
“Yeah,” Ernie said. “I guess that’s where Rindell is.”
The five Hueys sat down lightly on the pads and the pilots killed the engines. Now the whine was replaced by the swooshing noise of the rotors as they began spinning down. The gunners and crew chiefs hopped out, began opening the doors and sliding back the chicken plates. Ernie saw Mike get out and walk slowly toward him.
“Where’s the other group?” Ernie asked when Mike was close enough.
Mike looked up at Ernie. “What other group?” he asked. A sudden knot formed in Ernie’s stomach. He felt a dizzying wave of nausea. “My God, Mike! You don’t mean this is all that’s coming back?”
“Yeah,” Mike said quietly. “John Rindell’s dead. So is Peters, Walls, Throgmor
ton…three- fourths of the men in my tent. We lost eight ships today. I don’t know how many were killed.”
“What…what happened?”
“You know what it would be like if you put a bird in a food blender? That’s what it was like today. I’m not surprised we lost eight, ships. I’m surprised that five of us came back.”
“What about the guns you went after?”
“We didn’t even come close.”
“I’m sorry, Mike,” Ernie said. It was a weak statement, but under the circumstances, it was all he could come up with.
“I’m going to get drunk,” Mike said. “Not at the pilots’ lounge; there’s not enough liquor there. I’m going to the club. Care to come along?”
“The club isn’t even open, is it?”
“We’ll open it,” Mike promised. He started straight for the club, followed closely by the quiet, solemn-faced pilots from the other ships. Only Todaro remained behind; he had not emerged from his helicopter.
Ernie watched Mike and the others walk slowly toward the club; he looked back toward the helicopters. By now every blade was still and the crew chiefs were tying down the ships. The ground crews for the helicopters that hadn’t yet returned were standing around in shocked silence.
Ernie stood on the perforated steel planking alone, looking toward Todaro’s ship. He knew that Todaro had insisted upon this mission, despite protests from Mike and everyone else with any experience.
“Get out of that helicopter, you son of a bitch,” he said under his breath. “You’ve got to get out of there sometime. You can’t stay there the rest of the day.”
Finally, Ernie decided to walk over there. As he got closer he could see the damage it and the other helicopters had sustained. There were dozens of holes in the tail cone and blades. The others had the same degree of damage. It would be several days before they were patched well enough to fly again.
Ernie stood about fifty feet away, looking at Todaro. Todaro just sat there with a strange, almost detached expression on his face. Finally, he noticed Ernie looking at him, and, as his chicken plate had already been pulled back, he got out.
“What happened, Colonel?” Ernie asked.
Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double Page 7