Ghost War (23 page)

It was a moonscape, apparently devoid of any kind of life.

But slowly, those defenders who had survived dug themselves out of the rubble. And once again, they struggled to rebuilt their defense lines and try to bury some of their dead, just as they had done so many times in the past.

But no sooner did the sun come up when the clouds of another monsoon began forming over the base.

Hunter, Ben, Geraci and Frost quickly made the dash back over to
Bozo.

They were certain the hours-long mortar barrage was actually a warm-up for a huge Minx ground attack.

As it turned out, they were right.

One hour later

The innocent splattering of the raindrops upon the fuselage of
Bozo
gave the crew just enough warning. They knew by now what the coming of the rains signified.

With well-rehearsed precision, positions inside the fortified aircraft were manned and weapons were loaded. The outside guards scrambled up the cargo door, which was then closed and locked. All lights were turned off. Loose ammunition was secured. Sandbag walls next to the bigger holes in the fuselage were checked and quickly reinforced where needed. Helmets and flak jackets were distributed, small arms loaded.

Then as the clouds opened up and the rain came down in earnest, the Americans waited for what they knew would soon come.

The sky became darker and darker. The visibility rapidly diminished with the increasing intensity of the rain. Within minutes, the clatter of the downpour was the only thing that could be heard inside their battered fortress.

The tension mounted. Each weapons’ commander had his finger on his activation button, each ammo feeder cradled the next rocket, shell, or bullet he would slam into the chamber. And they waited—ready for the another murderous onslaught. Ready for the command to fire.

Minutes went by, and still no attack. The anxiety level inside
Bozo
rose dramatically with each passing second. Where the hell are they, each man silently asked,
what the hell are they waiting for?

Suddenly, twenty-five magnesium flares burst overhead, lighting up the entire base in spite of the torrential downpour. Then came the screams. Then the bugles. Then hundreds of Viet Minx, charging from the treeline, bellowing at the top of their lungs, began to cross the 150 yards of the open marsh—heading right toward
Bozo.

A flurry of activity erupted inside the plane as heavy weapons were quickly rotated along the makeshift tracks to the port side—to fully meet the charge head-on.

“Get ready to fire!” called out the various gun commanders. “Eyes sharp. Weapons to on.”

The charging Viet Minx were getting closer and closer by the second—they were now just 100 yards away.

“Power up!” the gun commanders cried.

“Deflectors up!”

“Chamber rounds. Set fuses …”

“Seventy five yards.”

“Ready … FIRE!”

The six GE Gatling guns roared to life first, delivering a stream of 30-mm shells into the brunt of the attack, chewing through the mass of attacking Viet Minx with brutal mechanical horror. As the Gatlings raked back and forth across the front of the human wave, the five Mk-19 automatic grenade launchers, cranked down to their minimum elevation, were fired, blasting furiously into the enemy’s ranks just behind the first line. Five seconds later, the 120-mm Soltam and the two 105-mm Royal Ordnance field artillery pieces, now loaded with antipersonnel shells, opened up in tandem, their shells ripping through the third line of tightly-packed enemy soldiers, sending thousands of pieces of hot, screaming steel into the attackers.

But the Minx kept coming.

The sound inside
Bozo
quickly grew to a deafening roar. The disabled plane shuddered with each massive volley. The sandbag walls protecting the fuselage were being ripped to shreds by the hundreds of enemy AK-47 rounds, and within seconds, the bullets began to find their way through the C-5’s already perforated hull. Hails of them were now zinging around inside like deadly high-speed sparks.

The three 20-mm AA Guns then erupted, the fuses of their explosive shells set to go off five seconds after they left the muzzles. Their impact along the first Minx line added to the murderous slaughterhouse effect. Like before, it had become a battle of high technology versus sheer numbers and brute force.

But still, the Viet Minx kept coming.

Stationed at a gun post near the front of the battered plane, Hunter kept jamming clip after thirty-round clip into his M-16, knocking down scores of enemy attackers. But it was like trying to empty the ocean with a leaky bucket. As quickly as they were shot down, more Viet Minx replaced those who had fallen.

And beyond them, three more waves of Minx emerged from the treeline.

It was the biggest, most intense attack yet, Hunter quickly realized. The Minx were throwing everything at them
including
the kitchen sink. It was apparent that the thousands of bloodthirsty Minx coming right at
Bozo
had but one objective—to conquer and destroy this last stronghold.

And if they succeeded …

Hunter scrambled down from the flight deck, dodging a hail of enemy bullets coming through one of the fuselage’s bigger holes. He was headed for the LARS II.

Geraci was in charge of the Gatlings. He had to quickly split his command, ordering three of the guns to the opposite side of the hull to fight the Minx that had managed to get around to that side. Manpower was needed to move the guns, so Hunter pitched in. He and the crews went immediately into action, unhinging stress bolts, unlocking recoil brackets, pivoting the guns on their swivel pedestals. Rounds of enemy rifle and machine-pistol bullets were flying all around them. Suddenly there was an ear-splitting scream. Then another. Then another. Three of Geraci’s men were hit and hit bad. The wounded were taken from harm’s way as quickly as possible as Hunter and the rest of the crew continued to slide the guns across the wide belly of the plane on the makeshift rails to the opposite posts. Then, just efficiently, they secured the guns and redirected the overhead racks of belted ammo. The hours of endless drilling was paying off.

At once, the three repositioned Gatlings opened up, slicing through the ranks of the Minx that had circled around that side. More attackers rushed up to take the places of their fallen comrades and the fierce assault on the beleaguered C-5 continued unabated—but now on all sides. As Hunter resumed his arduous trek back toward the rocket launcher, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Geraci was firing one of the Gatlings practically single-handedly.

Round after round of .81-mm mortar shells began to rain down on and along the sides of
Bozo,
sending chunks of shrapnel ripping through the hull. More men were wounded. More mortar shells dropped and exploded. They had never undergone a combined attack this intense, this concentrated. Even the barrage all night paled by comparison. The plane was now shaking nonstop from the blasts and concussions. And the attack only increased in ferocity.

Hunter had to get to the LARS II—and fast.

He reached midfuselage when six mortar shells exploded at once, rocking the plane so violently that he was thrown to the deck. Hunter picked himself up and started on his way again, but then something made him stop short. Right in front of him, there was a man lying in a pool of blood. He turned him over. It was Frost.

“Hawk, old man.” The Canadian’s whisper was barely audible with the raging sound of guns firing and the screaming all around them. “Did they get the family jewels?”

Hunter studied his friend’s wounds. Frost’s right leg was a bloody mess; his left hand was also seriously torn up. Hunter unsheathed his K-bar knife and hurriedly slit open Frost’s trouser leg. A piece of shrapnel had ripped through the skin a few inches above the knee. But luckily it hadn’t severed the artery, and was too low to affect Frost’s equipment.

“Take it easy, Frostman,” Hunter told him. “You’ll be able to climb in the saddle again. Just stay put.”

“Got no choice, have I?” Frost replied through a tight smile.

More determined than ever to end this nightmare, Hunter scrambled down through the fuselage until he finally came to the LARS II.

The massive long-range rocket launcher was powered up and its crew ready for the command to fire. But on Hunter’s orders, the gunners quickly elevated its rocket tubes to an extremely high angle. Instead of having been depressed to ground level, the tubes were now pointing three degrees shy of straight up.

Hunter crouched next to the LARS control panel. Through a recently cut port hole on the right side, he saw that despite the enormous fusillade that continued to pour from the heavy guns, a main force of Minx was now swarming over
Bozo
’s first line of sandbag barriers—no more than thirty-five yards away. Like an army of crazed fire ants, they were coming from everywhere, heading for the airplane to devour it. And nothing was stopping them—not the Gatlings, not the grenade launchers, not the AA-guns, and not even the field artillery. During the Vietnam war, desperate commanders in similar situations had called in air strikes on themselves.

Now Hunter was about to do the same.

He knew the risk he was about to take. It was indeed a drastic measure. But he also knew that it was absolutely necessary. He took a deep breath and then checked the LARS firing mechanism again.

Then he pushed the activator button.

Thirty six rockets streaked up into the darkness of the monsoon rain. Quickly reaching the apex of their arc, they slowly turned and then began falling back to earth.

Suddenly, a stunned silence fell over the battlefield as the attacking Minx froze in their tracks, watching with awe as the giant rockets lit up the sky and then began to streak back toward them.

One gigantic scream of sheer panic rose up as the Minx realized the rockets were coming right at them. Many tried to run, but it was no use. They were too tightly packed together, and there was no place they could go.

Then the rockets hit.

One after the other, the 110-mm high explosive warheads came crashing down—right into the clamoring mass of Viet Minx attackers. And not thirty yards away from
Bozo.

The effect of the monstrous rocket barrage was devastating. The tremendous series of powerful explosions went right through the thousands of the attackers. Immense geysers of earth, water, debris, and Minx soldiers were thrown high into the air. Chunks of screaming, hot shrapnel tore through the flesh of the attackers, concussions sucked the air from their lungs. The killing field turned into a bloody charnel house as hundreds of the enemy were obliterated and many more were severely wounded.

But the explosions also took a great toll on the C-5. The entire length of the fuselage was further battered and weakened by the blasts. The hull was seriously ripped up by the shrapnel, the port-side wing shredded, and fires were raging on several areas of the fuselage, in defiance of the monsoon rains that continued to pour down.

But those inside had survived, despite having called down, in effect, a massive missile strike on themselves.

The Gatlings managed to continue to fire, as did the artillery and the AA guns. But the back of the enemy charge was broken. Some of the Viet Minx field commanders tried to rally their men to continue to the attack, but there wasn’t enough of them left that could carry the charge effectively. Now the brutal assault turned into a panicked, all-out retreat. Many enemy soldiers were cut down as they ran away. Others simply threw down their arms and fled. Within two minutes of the LARS barrage, the shooting had stopped.

Five minutes after that, the rain began to let up.

Hours L

L
IEUTENANT TWANT COULDN’T BREATHE.

He was sucking in dirt and debris even as he was digging furiously outward. As a warrior, he wasn’t supposed to be afraid to die—but that applied only to battles. Not being buried alive.

Twang had watched the entire attack on the heavily armed airplane from his spider hole.

Only twenty-five yards from the perimeter of the base and 125 yards away from the plane itself, he had practically been in the thick of the battle. The concussions from the explosions all around him had been horrific. Dozens of his Minx comrades had unknowingly charged over his camouflaged hole. But as the battle raged all around, it was only the dead ones that fell in upon him. He’d been forced to push out as many as seven mangled corpses, men who had been in the rear lines and sliced up by the short-fused AA fire. Throughout the entire battle, Twang knew that if just one shell out of the thousands expended had landed on top of him, he would have disappeared in a bloody mist. But he had been lucky. He’d watched in horror as the rockets roared out of the airplane and soared straight up into the sky. Then they came back down. Right at him. And that’s when everything went black.

He never knew what hit him—only that it knocked him cold, and raised a bump the size of a small fist on the top of his head. When he finally came to, he thought he’d been killed and was waking up inside his own coffin.

But then he came to his senses.

He’d spent the past half hour madly pushing his way through the dirt and debris that had collapsed on top of his hole. His stomach was twisted with the fear of being entombed alive; his brain was reeling from the concussion on the top of his skull. But somehow, someway, he finally broke through to the top.

He gasped for air. It tasted of cordite and the stench of burned, dead bodies. But he sucked it in greedily, still shaking. Still alive.

Now self-exhumed. Twang peered over the edge of his hole. He couldn’t believe it—it was already nighttime. He’d been unconscious for hours! Several small fires were still burning from the attack and they illuminated the immediate area. It was a grisly landscape. Bodies were sprawled everywhere. Even worse, parts of bodies were also strewn about. Smoke was still rising from the hundreds of shell hole craters, and an eerie, low fog covered the entire battlefield. And in the glow, he saw, flying over the center of the fuselage of the battered plane that repulsed the attack, a tattered, yet furling American flag.