Targets of Opportunity (1993) (44 page)

The searing heat from the blazing fire in the fuselage was steadily consuming the aircraft. Brad was beginning to feel the first effects of being cooked alive when he aligned the flaming aircraft with the rice paddy.

Dense smoke began to seep into the cockpit, filling the small space with an acrid smell. With his vision becoming blurred, he reached down to his left and grabbed the canopy jettison knob.

I'm going to roast in here! Brad's mind screamed as he jerked the semi-hot release knob.

The canopy slid backward a few inches before the wind blast ripped it from the railings. The heavy canopy slammed into the vertical fin and horizontal stabilizer, then plummeted toward the road that led to the river.

"This isn't looking good," Brad uttered as the MiG shook from the impact of the canopy. The intense heat was unbearable and the controls were becoming mushy.

"Just a few more seconds," he groaned as he fought the controls. The fighter was slowing and beginning to nibble on the edge of a stall. "I've got to hang on. . . ."

THE UH-34

Chase Mitchell concentrated on flying low and fast while Rudy Jimenez plotted their course to Austin's reported landing site. The engine was straining at full power while Elvin Crowder inspected his weapons and checked the rescue hoist. He was not comfortable with the idea of going into North Vietnam without their usual backup helicopter.

"Chase," Jimenez said over the intercom as he handed the pilot a folded chart, "what do you figure was the problem with the ejection seat?"

Mitchell glanced at the course line his copilot had drawn on the map and altered course five degrees to the right. "Beats me. It's old technology, but someone should have examined the firing system."

"Well," Rudy shook his head in disgust, "I guess it's all academic now."

"Yeah, but it doesn't change our job."

Jimenez looked at the fuel gauge. They would have only five to ten minutes to locate and rescue Austin when they reached his last known position. If they stayed any longer, the helicopter would most likely run out of fuel before they could reach Alpha-29. "I just hope he got down okay . . . and didn't bust his ass."

Mitchell eased the nose up to clear a ridge as he skimmed the tops of the trees. "I'll be relieved if he comes up on his survival radio."

Absorbed in his fuel-endurance calculations, Jimenez noted the time and turned to Mitchell. "I hope he's out in the boonies--away from civilization."

With a look of concern, Chase glanced at his friend. "Rudy, he's landing near the river, and that means lots of people in the area."

Jimenez studied the rugged landscape and nervously fingered his round-wheeled flight calculator. "I wish we had some North Vietnamese insignias to slap on the side of this bucket."

Brad pulled back the control stick and sailed over a walkway at the edge of the rice paddy. Focusing on his likely point of impact, he saw a number of farmers running in a frenzied attempt to escape the burning MiG.

"Easy . . . nice and easy . . . ," Brad coaxed as the MiG's belly caressed the water, skipped twice, then settled into the irrigated field with a huge splash.

Warm water shot through the engine-air intake and slammed into the blazing turbojet. The resultant explosion blew the tail off and partially extinguished the raging fire.

Austin was violently thrown into the instrument panel as the tailless MiG slid the length of the paddy, caromed over a narrow dike, then slewed sideways and struck another levee.

A tidal wave of water and mud showered Brad as the airplane careened to a stop against the embankment.

An eerie quiet suddenly settled over the paddy. Brad could hear voices, but they seemed to come from a distance. He opened his eyes and saw only blurred images in front of him. He wiped his face with a mud-splattered flight glove and shoved himself upright. There was a trace of blood on his glove and the forearm of his flight suit.

Jesus, Joseph and Mary, I'm still alive.

With a sense of urgency, he moved his eyes to view the cockpit. The sturdy MiG had survived the forced landing remarkably well. He cleared his head and ripped off the soaked gloves, then removed his helmet and tossed it onto the wing.

Reaching for the windshield bow, Brad attempted to hoist himself up. His legs would not cooperate with his mind.

Why can't I get up? Am I paralyzed from the waist down?

"You dumb shit!" he blurted as he snapped his seat restraints loose and scrambled over the side of the cockpit. He landed in the squishy mud next to the dike and took a quick look around the area.

The startled villagers were hurrying toward the burning MiG. Austin unsnapped his kneeboard and tossed it and the attached charts int
o t
he residual fire. Mechanically, he struggled clumsily out of the mire and forced himself to think like a Soviet instructor pilot. Be calm and take charge of the situation. He tried to recall the Russian phrases he had studied, but drew a complete blank.

ALPHA-29

Hollis Spencer had sent for the corpsman and then walked Hank Murray to his quarters in the hangar. Spencer knew that he had to keep the battered maintenance chief separated from the pilots until he could decide how to handle the crisis.

After explaining to Murray that he would be confined to his quarters for his own protection, Spencer rushed back to the Quonset hut.

When he entered the building, he could feel the growing animosity. Allison was desperately trying to contact the helicopter while Lex Blackwell wrapped Palmer's swollen and bleeding hand in gauze.

"Allison," Spencer said in a terse voice, "they're probably too low to pick up our signal. I'm sure they'll call us as soon as they can."

She nodded glumly and stared at the radio.

Nick tried to restrain himself, but gave in to frustration and anger. "Cap, we've got to stop playing games and get the search-and-rescue people involved . . . if we're going to get Austin out of there."

Spencer gritted his teeth and gave Palmer a stone-faced look. "Lieutenant, if you give me just half a reason, I'll place you under armed guard, so help me God."

Palmer bridled, and Blackwell stepped between the two men. "Nick," Lex said soothingly, "let's go outside and have a cigarette." Palmer glared at Spencer for a long moment, then rose and quietl y w alked to the door. It required all of his self-control to keep hi s c ontempt from overriding his better judgment.

After Blackwell followed Nick outside, Allison eyed her boss with a glimmer of displeasure. "Cap, what are you going to do about Murray?"

"Allison," he replied in an exhausted manner, "I'll deal with that after we know about Austin." He slumped in his chair and reached for his pipe. "First things first."

She tried unsuccessfully to conceal her irritation. "Are you going to chalk it up to fierce loyalty, or are you going to call it what it is .. . attempted murder?"

Spencer knew what was appropriate, but he needed time to sort through all the possible ramifications. He felt in his heart that he was through, and hoped that all of them could escape unharmed from the operation.

"I'll take care of it," he responded sadly, knowing that he could not keep Murray's incident under wraps for long.

Chapter
FORTY

When the first of the villagers reached the twisted and torn MiG, the
y s
topped on the levee and gawked at the burning fighter plane. It ha d l eft a long trail of destruction through the paddies during its wild slide.

They turned to look at the pilot, expecting to see a fellow Vietnamese: The looks on their faces changed to surprise when they saw Austin, but no one showed the slightest hint of fear or aggression.

Brad calmed himself and glanced around. He needed to get away from the black smoke rising into the sky, but he had to act his part and move cautiously.

When the Vietnamese began chattering and walking toward him, Austin held up his hand.

"Stoy." Stop. His mind raced, hoping the heavy accent would convince the men and three teenage boys that he was indeed a Soviet pilot.

"Mi pravil'no yedem v krasnaya ploshchad?" Are we on the right road for Red Square? It was the best he could do under the circumstances, and he prayed that it was good enough. Hopefully, the strangers could tell the difference between English and Russian.

The blank looks on the villagers' faces reinforced Brad's decision to move out while he had the chance. He gently dabbed the cut over his right eyebrow and wiped the blood on his mud-splattered sleeve.

When the chattering continued, Austin waved his hand back and forth and pointed to himself "Kapitan Maksimov . . ." he grunted stiffly, "Aviatsii--Hanoi."

A few of the Vietnamese nodded while the others surveyed the pilot and the wreckage. The crash landing had stunned them, and now the magnitude of the damage to their crops was beginning to dawn on the farmers.

Sensing no immediate threat, Austin boldly walked through the middle of the Vietnamese and continued the length of the dike. With his adrenaline pumping, he leaped across a slit in the levee and started up an incline toward the road next to the small village.

When he reached the dirt strip, Brad shot a look up and down the road and nonchalantly strolled toward the cluster of trees on the opposite side.

He quickened his pace when he noticed a truck approaching from the direction of the convoy he had seen earlier. When he reached the trees, Austin squatted under the middle of the clump and quickly yanked out his survival radio.

With trembling hands, Brad switched on the radio and cupped it to his mouth. "Sleepy Two Five, Safari."

The noisy army truck slowed and rumbled to a stop on the side of the road.

"Sleepy Two Five, Safari. Copy?" Come on, guys.

"Safari," the speaker crackled, "you're weak, but readable. Say your posit and condition."

Brad watched two men get out of the truck to look at the burning wreckage of the MiG. God, please don't let them go down to investigate the crash site.

"I'm in the same location that I gave you before I went down." He leaned against a tree trunk and flicked a drop of blood off the bridge of his nose. He tried to slow his breathing before he spoke. "Approximately seven miles south of where the rivers meet. I'm on the east side of the river, near a large marshy area."

Austin cast a wary glance at the truck. A half-dozen NVA soldiers had struggled over the tailgate to join the two men from the cab.

"I'm okay . . . physically," Brad continued in a hushed voice, "but an army truck just stopped near the airplane. Also, there's a large convoy of trucks headed this way--traveling north to south."

"Copy that you're okay," Rudy Jimenez replied with a tone of confidence. Downed and frightened airmen needed to hear a strong, positive voice. "We estimate being over your position in--ah . . . twelve minutes."

Brad felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach. Twelve minute
s s
ounded like an eternity, especially when he was facing death or torture and imprisonment. "Roger. When I have you in sight, I'll direct you to my position before I come out from under these trees."

"Okay, Safari." It was Mitchell's reassuring voice. "Take it easy .. . and give us a holler when you hear the helo."

Austin froze when the group of soldiers began walking toward the blazing fighter. "Will do, Sleepy. Thanks."

"Just stay put."

Brad clicked the mike twice and eased back into the foliage and branches. He watched the eight men disappear down the incline leading to the rice paddies. His intuition told him that the situation was ripe for disaster. The villagers would obviously tell the NVA regulars which way the pilot went, and, most important, that the airman was not Vietnamese.

He quickly glanced down the wide river and guessed that it was at least a quarter of a mile around the marshy recess to a wooded area next to the shoreline. I don't think it's a good idea to stay here.

"Sleepy, I've got company nearby--need to get away from the immediate vicinity. I'm going to head south, along the shore. The MiG is sending a plume of black smoke into the air, so you'll probably see it before I hear you."

"Roger that," Jimenez responded evenly. "We'll hit the river a couple of miles south of your position, then work north toward you."

"I'm on my way," Brad said as he stuffed the radio inside his flight suit, then hunched down and began running around the perimeter of the marshy cove.

Looking across a vast expanse of forested ridge lines, Chase Mitchell decided to drop into a valley leading to the flatlands west of the Black River. His eyes ranged over the sky and horizon, searching for enemy aircraft or signs of tracers.

The air-force and navy strike groups were exiting the area, but the threat of MiG activity was always present. The UH-34 would be no match for a fighter, especially one flown by a competent pilot.

"Rudy," Mitchell said after a long silence, "there's a major roadway that runs along the west side of the river."

Jimenez looked at the chart and tried to forget the rapidly dwindling fuel supply. "We better steer clear of it. It's a basic supply route that'll be crawling with guns."