Targets of Opportunity (1993) (46 page)

After a couple of minutes, Crowder leaned over the mudsoaked pilot. "How ya' feelin'?"

Brad had to shout over the noise from the thrashing rotor blades. "Great," he grimaced from a sudden stab of pain. "Never felt better."

"Good," Crowder grinned for the first time Austin could remember, "because you look and smell like you crawled out of a benjo ditch."

Brad mustered a weak smile. "You guys are first on my Christmas list . . . thanks."

Crowder nodded and ran an experienced eye over the trickle of blood next to Austin's leg. The crew chief spoke briefly to Jimenez and then opened a first-aid kit. "Looks like you got a little scratch."

"Yeah," Brad replied in a tired, hoarse voice. "It's been one helluva day.

"I ain't much of a doc," Crowder grumbled as he extracted a dressing, "but I'll patch you up best I can."

The look in Brad's eyes showed his appreciation.

Rudy Jimenez forced the battle-scarred helicopter to ascend at it
s m
aximum rate of climb. He kept the helo close to the rising mountain s w hile he waited to gain enough altitude to head directly for Alpha-29.

He scanned the engine instruments and maintained a careful vigilance for any signs of trouble. If the MiG bases had been notified of the rescue effort, the fighter pilots would be searching for the American helicopter.

Jimenez glanced at Mitchell and saw that his color was gone. The cockpit floor was awash in dark blood and the pilot's half-closed eyes were fixed in a vacant stare. Chase Mitchell was dead, but Jimenez refused to accept the fact. Maybe the medics can help him when we get to Alpha-29.

He could taste the bile in his throat as he turned to a westerly heading. Since there was not a passageway between the cabin and cockpit, Mitchell would have to remain strapped into his seat. "Elvin, keep an eye out for MiGs."

"Will do, but it's gonna be easy to spot us."

"Say again."

"We're trailin' a thin stream of smoke. From the color, I reckon it's comin' from the engine."

Rudy shot a look at the engine-temperature and oil-pressure gauges. The cylinder-head temperature was slightly higher than normal, but the oil pressure remained unchanged. "We're looking good . . . at least for the moment."

Crowder leaned out of the hatch and watched the faint streak of oily smoke. "How's Mitch doin'?"

Jimenez looked at the fuel gauge and spoke softly. "Not so great. What's Austin's condition?"

"He'll make it, but he's got a nasty thigh wound. We'll have to get 'em medevacked as soon as we hit the ground."

If we have enough fuel to reach base, Jimenez thought with a calm fatalism. All of us may die before the day is over

Chapter
FORTY-TWO

ALPHA-29

A palpable tension hung in the air as Hollis Spencer slowly drummed his fingers on his desk. He looked around the room, then stared at the second hand on his wristwatch while it completed one full sweep. Letting the silence build, he stopped and methodically packed fresh tobacco into his pipe. At last, he snapped his lighter open, puffed repeatedly, and swiveled to face Allison.

"Let's give them a call."

Nick Palmer shared a glance with Lex Blackwell. They knew the odds were against a successful rescue deep in the heartland of Northern Vietnam. Their worst fear was that Brad Austin had been killed in the crash landing.

Allison slid her chair close to the radio and adjusted the volume control for the overhead speaker. "Sleepy Two Five, Blue Devil. Do you copy?"

The speaker suddenly crackled with a garbled static, but the message was sporadic and unintelligible. The random noise served as a ray of hope.

"Let's wait a few minutes," Spencer said with a rush of enthusiasm, "and try again."

Surprised by the distorted radio transmission, Rudy Jimene
z a
nswered the call while he nursed the helicopter higher. He would keep climbing and call Alpha-29 every thirty seconds until he could hear clearly.

He thought about calling in the blind, hoping someone at a higher altitude would relay his message. After careful consideration, he elected not to risk exposing the operation. Making contact with the base would bolster his morale, but it would not get them home any sooner.

Jimenez watched the altimeter as the laboring helicopter struggled for every foot of altitude. He felt the tension that knotted his neck muscles.

"Blue Devil, Sleepy Two Five."

He listened to the sound of the engine and cast a hesitant glance at the oil-pressure gauge. His eyes were playing tricks on him, or were they? The indicator seemed immobilized, but he was sure it had been slightly higher the last time he looked at the pressure.

"Blue Devil, Sleepy radio check. How do you read?"

Finally, Allison's excited voice filled Rudy's earphones.

"Sleepy, we copy. Is Brad on board, and where are you?"

Jimenez gave Chase Mitchell a quick glance and felt his stomach tighten. Rudy could not admit to himself that he and the best friend he had ever had would never again go barhopping together.

"Blue Devil, we're a couple of miles southeast of Chieng Pan." Jimenez stared at the oil-pressure indicator. He was certain it had dropped a fraction of
. A n inch. "Austin is on board, and we have two wounded. We need the doc standing by, and the dollar-twenty-three ready to medevac. Copy?"

"Read you loud and clear. Stand by."

-Wilco.

The oil gauge had definitely moved. Jimenez could see the pressure dropping. He eased back on the throttle to try to conserve the precious fluid. He searched his chart for a reasonable place to make a forced landing. Rudy computed the time to Alpha-29 and concluded that it was his only choice. At the rate the pressure was dropping, it would be a close race between landing at the remote base and running out of oil short of the field.

"Sleepy, say nature of the injuries and your ETA."

"Austin has a gunshot wound to his thigh," Jimenez said, knowing how Allison felt about Brad, "and Chase has a severe neck wound. Rudy glanced at Mitchell once more. "Chase needs an immediate medevac."

"We're making preparations as we speak. Say your ETA. " Her voice was thin and cracked, but the emotional relief was clearly evident.

"I'd say eighteen to twenty minutes," Rudy estimated while he studied the engine instruments, "if this thing holds together that long."

"What's the problem?"

Jimenez raised his arm and wiped his cheek on the sleeve of his flight suit. "We've got an oil leak, and the engine temp is going out of sight. I'll keep you informed."

"Roger that," she replied in a hollow voice.

Watching each minute slowly drag by, Rudy decided that in the event of total engine failure, he would broadcast a Mayday call over an emergency frequency used by the Air America pilots. If he did not get a quick response, he would switch the frequency to 243.0 and send out a distress call. To hell with the goddamn MiG operation.

Nick Palmer rose from his chair a moment after he heard a loud swooshing sound. He and Lex Blackwell froze in place, then dove to the deck when machine-gun fire flayed the Quonset but and surrounding area.

"Get down!" Hollis Spencer exclaimed as he grasped Allison's arm and pulled her to the floor.

"Stay down!" Palmer ordered while he yanked the briefing table over on its side. "Over here--get behind the table and stay low!"

Blackwell quickly discarded his cumbersome arm sling and grabbed the nearest M-16, then belly-crawled to the entrance. He cautiously peered above the kick panel and ducked when a mortar shell made a hit on the hangar.

"Holy shit!" Lex gasped as he scrambled behind the tabletop. "They scored a direct hit on the hangar. We've gotta make it to the foxholes!"

"Not yet," Palmer shouted over the ear-splitting machine-gun fire. "Hang on a minute!"

Spencer waited for a lull in the fighting before he decided to venture from behind the desk. He crawled to the field security radio while Allison hurriedly snatched her rifle and rejoined the pilots.

"Nick, we better make a run for it," Blackwell declared as another hail of gunfire erupted.

"We can't go outside right now," Palmer shouted above the cracklin
g f
usillade of automatic-weapons fire. "They'll rip us apart before we get twenty feet!"

Their mouths turned dry while Spencer yelled into the Command Post radio. Gunnery Sergeant Salvador Rodriguez barked orders in return.

A series of thundering concussions pounded the operations building as mortar rounds rained on the hangar and adjacent sleeping quarters. Spencer cursed and tossed the handset down when a barrage of shells lashed the Quonset hut. He sprawled on the floor a second before a spray of shells riddled the wall.

"The CO--Gunny Rodriguez says we have to withdraw!" Spencer flinched when two rounds smashed into his desk. "We're being overrun!"

Smelling the stench of his damp flight suit, Brad Austin closed his eyes and captured a mental image of Leigh Ann. How was he going to be able to contact her? Maybe the C-123 pilots would do him a favor and tell her where he had been taken for medical treatment.

An unexpected shudder ran the length of the fuselage. Brad suddenly opened his eyes and let his questioning glance slide to Elvin Crowder. He could tell by the tormented look on the crew chiefs face that something was wrong.

Before Austin could speak, another solid vibration ran through the airframe. His adrenaline, which had slowly begun to ebb, shot through his system with renewed vigor. What the hell is happening?

Brad gestured to Crowder when another tremble convulsed through the helicopter.

"What's wrong?"

The grizzled gunner reached for the overhead and leaned down. "We're losin' oil at a perty fair clip."

Crowder moved to the open hatch and peeked out to see if the UH-34 was still emitting white smoke. The telltale vapor had completely disappeared. He stepped back to Brad.

"The engine is probably dry, 'cause we ain't trailin' no more smoke."

Austin silently nodded. The forced landing and harrowing rescue had left him badly shaken. Now, after surviving that ordeal, he had to face the possibility of another forced landing. Without a second helicopter, Brad knew their chances of being rescued before they were captured were nonexistent.

He cringed inwardly, remembering a downed air-force pilot who had had his rescue helicopter shot out from under him. He and the SAR crew had been plucked from certain imprisonment by a gutsy Air America pilot.

A succession of tremors wracked the helicopter, marking the final minutes of flight.

Brad struggled to sit up, pushing himself upright by sheer will. "How much longer . . . to the field?"

Crowder shrugged and opened a pouch of chewing tobacco. "Don't much matter, if the motor ain't runnin'."

Reaching for a loose M-16, Nick Palmer flipped off the safety and inched toward the screened door. A deafening explosion knocked him backward into Blackwell, Allison, and Spencer.

With their ears ringing, the foursome stared through the dust at a cavernous hole in the wall. They could see the twinkle of muzzle flashes as the Pathet Lao boxed the compound with a curtain of red-hot steel.

"We've got to make our way," Lex shouted above the explosions and chaos, "to the one-twenty-three."

Palmer and Spencer looked through the smoldering hole in the wall. The cargo pilots had already started one engine and were taxiing toward the runway. Nick watched while the individual fire teams from the perimeter safety unit made an orderly retreat toward the C-123.

The twin-engine transport, which was configured to carry sixty-one passengers, would be overloaded if the majority of the evacuating personnel boarded the aircraft.

"Let's make our move," Spencer said boldly, and raised to one knee, "while we still have some cover fire from our troops."

Allison turned and looked at him with wide-eyed contempt. "We can't leave until the helo lands. You can't leave them here to die."

Palmer interrupted Spencer's reply. "Allison, we'll work our way toward the airplane--using the foxholes--and hope the helo gets here before the cargo plane takes off "

She was outraged as fire flashed in her eyes. "Nick, of all the people I would have thought--"

"Goddamnit, Allison," Palmer blurted in frustration, "we can't sacrifice an entire plane packed with human beings for four people. They'll have to find another place to set down."

"Allison," Spencer said hastily, "we can't afford the risk of having everyone annihilated. We've got to get on the plane while we can."

She gave him a defiant look and crawled toward the communications room.

With a knot tied in his stomach, Rudy Jimenez watched the cylinder-head temperature peg at the top of the scale. The oil pressure registered zero, and he could smell the hot engine as the helicopter began to shake.

Come on, sweetheart . . . don't give up yet.

He left the power set, fearing any abrupt change might cause an immediate engine failure. He watched the altimeter begin to unwind as the screaming engine ground itself to pieces.