The Trash Haulers (7 page)

“More than a few,” Warren replied. They were quickly marshalled to an open revetment where a crew chief was waiting. Warren spun the Hercules around with its tail pointing into the revetment. “Scanner on the ramp,” he called. Stuffing the C-130 into a revetment without a tug was a well-practiced drill at Cam Ranh Bay, but this was a first time for Da Nang.

Flanders had already raised the rear door and lowered the loading ramp to the level position, opening up the rear of the cargo deck. “Clear in the rear.” Warren threw the inboard props into reverse and backed into the revetment. “Slow, slow, stop,” Flanders directed over the intercom.

Warren called for the engine shutdown checklist as a crew van drove up. A sergeant jumped out and waved for them to hurry. “Okay, folks,” Warren said. “I believe a sense of urgency is required here. Sergeant Hale, please top off the fuel at 20,000 pounds, and cock the bird for a quick engine start. Let’s go.” He led Bosko and Santos off the flight deck and out the crew entrance door. Hardy, Huckabee, and Slovack were in close trail. Much to every one’s surprise, Lynne Pender was the last one to climb into the waiting crew van. Warren gave the doctor his best grin. “Welcome to the war, Captain. What happened to the Golden Spirochete?”

“Fuck off,” she answered.

“Pun intended?” Santos quipped.

Hardy shot Warren his standard look of disapproval. “Maintaining good order, Captain?”

*

Quang Tri Province, South Vietnam

Kim-Ly spoke in an unusually loud voice, primarily for Dinh’s benefit, without referring to the clipboard she held in the crook of her arm. “Our loses were minimal as most of the cadre had time to respond to the Alarm Red. Unfortunately, six of our gallant comrades were caught in the open by the first attack. The second Air Pirate’s bombs fell harmlessly.”

“And what was destroyed?” Dinh demanded, more concerned about the loss of material.

Again, Kim-Ly spoke without consulting her notes. “Two-hundred litres of petrol, approximately one-hundred kilos of rations, two bicycles, and three Type 53 mortar tubes with forty-three projectiles.” The Chinese Type 53 mortar was based on the excellent Soviet BM-37, 82mm mortar. It was the “infantrymen’s artillery” and very effective in the hands of a trained crew. Because of its relatively light weight and portability, it was highly valued by the North Vietnamese. She waited for Dinh’s reaction.

Dinh drew himself up to his full five foot two inches. “That is unacceptable. General Dong has issued strict orders that those responsible for the loss of any crew-served weapon will be executed by hanging in front of the assembled comrades.”

“That will be difficult,” Kim-Ly replied, “but I’m sure we can arrange something.”

“And why should that be difficult?” Dinh demanded.

“Because those responsible were the six comrades caught in the open by the Air Pirate’s bombs. They were trying to carry the mortars to safety. I’m sure we can find one or two bodies that still have a head attached.”

Dinh turned to Tran. “This woman is insubordinate.”

“Is the truth insubordinate, Colonel?” Dinh didn’t answer. “How many wounded?”

“Again,” Kim-Ly answered without looking at her notes, “we were fortunate. Twenty-one with minor wounds and burns who can return to work. Only three have major wounds and will not survive.”

Tran made the decision he hated. “Hide them.”

For once, Dinh’s outrage came from his heart. “No! I will not allow that. They should be seen and honoured by the comrades for their sacrifice.”

Tran spoke in a low voice. “Colonel Dinh, we are on the move, pushing ahead rapidly, and our medical teams are well behind us. We cannot properly treat our badly wounded in the field. It is called triage and we must leave them to die. Please remember my men and women are simple people from the countryside, not the highly motivated principals, such as yourself, of Hanoi. The comrades can deal with the death they see, but it will destroy their morale to see wounded left unattended to die.”

“There is dignity in such sacrifice,” Dinh said.

“Is there dignity in screaming in pain and begging for your mother?” Tran asked. Dinh fell silent and motioned for his three aides to follow him outside. They needed to talk. Tran waited silently until the sound of the four men blundering down the steep hillside died away. He turned to Kim-Ly, standing close but not touching. He drew comfort from her musky scent. “Were those six men killed carrying mortars?”

“Of course not. There will be enough killing today without adding to it.”

*

They heard Dinh struggling up the hillside long before he burst into the command post. “How long has the captain been back?” he demanded.

Tran motioned at Lam. The young captain was bent over a chart with Kim-Ly talking quietly. “Less than five minutes, Colonel. Thank you for coming so quickly.” He stood and motioned for Dinh to join him by the chart. “Captain Lam, please give Colonel Dinh your combat report.”

The captain spoke quietly. “We tracked the American to this location.” He pointed to a small plateau on the top of a nearby karst. “There, he rendezvoused with his team. We were still manoeuvring into position when we heard the sound of the attacking jet fighters; two F-4C Phantoms, tail code FY.”

“Ah,” Tran said. “The 555th Tactical Fighter Squadron.”

“Is this detail important?” Dinh snapped. “Get to the cause of your failure.”

Tran wished Dinh would shut up and try to learn something. “It is imperative to know the enemy,” he intoned, repeating a basic truth of combat. “The 555th is the Triple Nickel, who normally fly combat air patrol seeking out MiGs. The fact that they are flying close air support indicates the Americans are over extended. Captain Lam, please continue.”

“It was a coordinated attack to provide protection for the helicopter to extract the Americans. It was the helicopter the Americans call the Jolly Green Giant. I counted six Americans boarding the helicopter.”

Dinh was beside himself with righteous anger. “You could not destroy six Americans and a helicopter? Are they supermen? Do they carry magical weapons?”

Without hesitation, the young captain replied, “We opened fire on the helicopter, revealing our position. The helicopter pivoted and brought its .50 calibre machine gun to bear, driving us to cover. However, we continued to return fire. The helicopter escaped over the edge of the plateau. It was trailing smoke.”

Dinh was triumphant. “So you did not fail and destroyed it.”

“I cannot report it destroyed,” Lam replied, “only that it appeared to be hit and was trailing smoke.”

“And what can we assume from this?” Dinh demanded.

Tran answered. “As it was a Jolly Green Giant, we can assume that it landed at its base at Nakhon Phanom in Thailand. As the good Colonel knows, Nakhon Phanom is the home of the 56th Air Commando Wing. We can assume they will send aircraft to attack.”

The reality of what they were up against finally reached Dinh. He sat down. “So we must take protective cover and postpone the attack on Se Pang.”

“Maybe not,” Kim-Ly replied. The men looked at her. “May I suggest that our main force take protective cover for now but continue to move our Sergey forward and into position. The Americans will understand that our objective is to destroy the Special Forces compound and will concentrate their defensive forces there. Our Sergey will be there, waiting for them.” The Sergey was a twin-barrel ZSU-23mm anti-aircraft autocannon that was feared by aircrews for good reason. Normally it was towed behind a vehicle, but this particular ZSU-23 was disassembled and carried on the backs of men. They needed time to get it into place and reassembled.

“Make it happen,” Tran said.

Reluctantly, Dinh agreed. “Please message General Dong of your decision.”

Kim-Ly nodded. But she would send two messages.

1000 HOURS

Da Nang Air Base, South Vietnam

The crew van slammed to a halt in front of the sandbag revetment that surrounded the low building which served as tactical operations. The seven officers piled out and ran inside. A harried-looking sergeant rushed them into a mission planning room where an intelligence officer, a lieutenant colonel wearing jungle fatigues, was bent over the flight-planning table. He looked up and grunted in approval when he saw Huckabee and Slovack. “I’ll be damned, someone with a clue.” He motioned them to gather around the table that was topped with a Plexiglas-covered map of Southeast Asia. “We’ve got a Jolly Green chopper out of Naked Fanny down near Ban Naphilang.” He pointed to a village in central Laos. “We need to extract the crew and you’re all we’ve got. I’m talking like immediate extraction fifteen minutes ago.” He spread out a much larger-scale chart. “They are on the east end of a dirt landing strip.”

Warren and Santos bent over the two charts, studying the location. “The strip has got maybe 2000 feet,” Warren said. “That’s doable.” He looked at his navigator. “Dave?”

“I can find it. Sixty-five nautical miles east-northeast of Savannakhet.” Savannakhet was the second largest town in Laos. He ran the numbers. “One hundred forty-five nautical miles from Da Nang, forty minutes flying time.”

“You need to get the crew and cargo to Naked Fanny ASAP,” the intelligence officer said.

“Fifteen minutes to NKP,” Santos said. “Piece of cake.”

Hardy shook his head. “Savannakhet is on the Mekong and might be in friendly hands, but the Ho Chi Minh trail is in the eastern part of the province.” He tapped the chart, his finger striking the village. “And Ban Naphilang is smack-dab in the middle of the trail.”

Huckabee stepped up to a big wall chart and found the village. “Negative, Colonel.” He used a wooden pointer to trace a mountain ridge that ran from the northwest to the southeast, cutting Laos in half. “This is the
Chaîne
Annamitique
mountains. The Ho Chi Minh trail is on the northern side of the mountains and Savannahket Province is to the south.” He pointed to a break in the mountain chain. “This is the Ban Nap pass. Ban Naphilang and the landing strip are on the southern side of the pass, more or less in neutral territory.”

Hardy wasn’t having any of it. “More or less? I’m not about to risk one of my C-130s on a ‘more or less’ just to salvage some cargo.”

“Is the cargo Heavy Hook?” Huckabee asked. The Intel officer answered with a nod.

“What the hell is Heavy Hook?” Hardy demanded.

Huckabee considered his answer. “It’s an intelligence gathering operation. They must have something.” The short and wiry officer stared at the floor, thinking. “Casualties?”

“Ten on board,” the Intel officer answered. “Two KIA, eight WIA, two seriously.”

“How long ago did they go down?” Warren asked.

“Approximately ninety minutes ago, definitely less than two hours.”

“The Gomers will get to them before we do,” Hardy snapped.

Huckabee ran the numbers, casting a time and distance problem against the capabilities of the North Vietnamese. “Assuming the Pathet Lao are talking to the North Vietnamese, which is always questionable, I’m guessing we’ve got an hour.” Huckabee looked at Warren, waiting for a decision.

“I can help,” Lynne said. Warren started to object, but she wasn’t having it. “I’m a trauma surgeon, and you’ve got a great first aid kit on board. Let me use it.”

Hardy was genuinely shocked. “Where did that come from?”

“Sergeant Flanders scrounged it up,” Bosko replied. Crew chiefs, flight engineers, and maintenance specialists often rat holed spare parts and critical items for quick fixes to keep their aircraft flying. The joke was that a good ‘scrounge’ was worth five supply officers, and a scrounge often contained ten to twenty thousand dollars’ worth of spare parts. While highly illegal, scrounges kept aircraft flying. Staff Sergeant Glen “Flash” Flanders had simply created a loadmaster’s version of a scrounge.

“In my Air Force a scrounge of any kind means a court martial,” Hardy said.

“Sir,” Bosko said, “do you have any idea how many wounded we’ve evacuated?” He was being respectful. “Sergeant Flanders scrounged up a first aid kit worth the name so we could save a few lives. It has made a difference.”

Warren made the decision. “If there’s wounded, we’re going.”

“Disapproved,” Hardy said.

“Sir,” Warren said, “may we speak outside?” Without waiting for an answer, he spun around and walked into the hall.

Hardy followed, closing the door behind them. “Well, Captain?”

“Sir, we don’t abandon wounded in the field. As long as I’m the aircraft commander, we’re going. Otherwise, relieve me.”

Hardy stared at him – hard. He quickly ran two possible scenarios through his mental abacus of command. Both involved him standing in front of their wing commander in Okinawa as he explained what happened. “Okay, you got it, Captain.”

Warren pushed at the door, but it was blocked by Santos and Bosko who had their ears glued to the other side. “Let’s go,” Warren called. He made a show of checking his watch. “Gear up on the hour.” He spun around and headed for the entrance. Slovack, Bosko, Santos, and Huckabee were right behind him.

Pender brushed past Hardy. “Are you coming?” Hardy shook his head. “Pity,” she murmured, her eyes full of contempt. Hardy froze at her look. He was a man who worried about his image, especially to senior officers, and had deliberately flown into danger on Blind Bat night flare missions risking his life and his crew to prove his bravery. Yet, Lynne Pender had taken his measure and found him wanting. It cut deep for she was an outsider. He had to prove her wrong.

“Yeah, I had better go along and keep my troops out of trouble.”

“Captain Warren can do that, Colonel.”

Suddenly, Hardy hated Warren for the way others trusted and followed him. “I’m not what you think,” he said, leading the way outside.

“Yes, you are,” the doctor said to his back.

*

Quang Tri Province, South Vietnam

The radio operator pressed his left hand against his headphone as he jotted down the alpha-numeric message. Finished, he ripped off the sweaty headset, dried his hands, and reached for the decode book. He found the current page, quickly decoded the message, and handed it to Tran.

“Very good, Comrade Nguyen,” Tran said. The young soldier beamed at the compliment and made a mental promise to do it quicker, and as correct, next time. Tran read the message twice to be sure he had the right location. He had never heard of it. He stepped to the chart on the map table and handed the message to Kim-Ly. She found the village first.

“Colonel Dinh,” Tran called softly. “This is of extreme interest.” Dinh joined them at the map table, still holding a cup of tea. Tran pointed at the village Kim-Ly had circled with a pencil. “The Pathet Lao report a Jolly Green Giant helicopter crashed at an airstrip two kilometres north of the village of Ban Naphilang.”

For once, Dinh understood what he was seeing. “The Pathet Lao are in marginal control of the area. But is it the same helicopter?”

“The time and place are too coincidental,” Tran replied. “I think we can safely assume it is the same helicopter.”

“And what do you recommend?” Dinh said, his voice low and toneless.

“We ask our Pathet Lao comrades to destroy the helicopter and proceed with the attack.”

“Yes, do that,” Dinh said.

“I will send the message,” Kim-Ly said.

Dinh studied the chart. “And have you delayed too long to attack when I wanted?”

“We will move forward,” Tran promised.

“I will tolerate no more delays,” Dinh warned.

Kim-Ly decided she would send a second message as soon as Dinh left the command post.

“Colonel Dinh,” Tran said, “we must move forward with our comrades.”

Dinh almost ordered his chief-of-staff, Major Cao, to go forward while he returned to the Binh Tram in Laos, but thought better of it. Cao was a very well-connected politburo hack, the scion of a prominent Hanoi family, and Dinh knew he must not appear cowardly. And there was something about the woman that worried him. Better that Cao stay behind and keep an eye on her.

*

I Corps, South Vietnam

“I can’t stop the bleeding,” Hal Collins, the medic, shouted over the intercom. “We gotta get on the ground ASAP.”

Tanner twisted around in his seat to check on his wounded. Collins was bent over his litter patient, applying pressure to the marine’s chest. Tanner quickly checked the fuel gauge and ran the numbers; they had 120 pounds of fuel remaining for thirteen minutes flying time. He glanced at the radio compass and VOR: on course and twenty miles to go to Camp Evans. “Collins, I don’t think we can make Evans. We gotta land for fuel.”

“I don’t think he’ll make it if we do, Mr. Tanner.”

Perkins tapped Tanner on the shoulder and pointed at his one o’clock position. Two Hueys were taking off from a fuel dump. Automatically, Perkins cycled the FM searching for a clear channel, but every frequency was jammed.

Tanner made the decision. They could always land short of Camp Evans for fuel starvation, but that would be a death sentence for the marine. Better to take a few extra minutes to refuel and chance he could hold on. “We’ll take on a partial load, minimum time on the ground.” He headed for the fuel dump as another Huey cut in from his left, a quarter mile in front. As they approached, he could see three Hueys on the ground, refuelling. The Huey that had cut in front of them was out of fuel and autogyroed in for a hard landing. There would be no minimum time on the ground. On their nose, a pillar of smoke was rising to the sky. It was Camp Evans. He checked the fuel gauge again and headed for the smoke. “We’re outta options and going for it,” he told his crew. “It’s gonna be close but I think we can make it.” He slowed to ninety knots as he slowly descended, going for maximum range. Another glance at the fuel gauge. The needle was bouncing off empty. “Okay, where’s the landing pad?” Every eye searched for the red cross.

“Three o’clock,” Perkins called.

“Got it,” Tanner replied. He slowed to forty knots as they descended through 1500 feet. He lowered the collective and pulled back on the cyclic, balancing the Huey as he made a textbook descent and landing. The fuel gauge needle was dead.

The medics were waiting for them and quickly off loaded the wounded marines. Collins sat in the open door and watched them carry the litter into a nearby tent. “He’s still alive,” he said. They had done their job.

“Well,” Tanner said, “we’re not going anywhere until we get a browser here.”

“I’ll see what I can round up,” Myers said.

Perkins snorted. “Given the confusion around here, good luck.” The crew chief ran for the tents.

“I need to round up some fatigues,” Tanner said, deciding it was time to at least look Army. Flying in shorts and a T-shirt was not recommended if they experienced a fire. He pulled on his fatigue cap and ambled into the tent complex, looking for a Quartermaster sergeant.

*

“What the hell is that?” Perkins asked when he saw Tanner.

The pilot looked down at the flight suit he was wearing. “Beats me,” he said. “The corporal said it was some new material called Nomex, and they got a box of flight suits for field testing. They have no idea how they wound up here, and they just want to get rid of ‘em. Feels kinda funny.”

Perkins pinched the material around Tanner’s wrist and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “Feels like it’s pretty warm. Does it breath?”

“So far, not bad,” Tanner conceded. He glanced at Collins and Myers who were sprawled out in the shade of a nearby tent. “How we doing on fuel?”

“Topped up and good to go,” Myers said.

“Let’s go,” Tanner said. “Time to earn our pay.” Collins and Myers jumped up and they were airborne three minutes later, headed for their base at Phu Bai, twenty-five miles to the southeast.

Again, Perkins tried to establish radio contact, but jamming and heavy transmission traffic defeated any chance of getting through. “No joy,” Perkins said, conceding defeat. He scanned the horizon in front of them. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, barely audible over the intercom. “Is that Hue?” All he could see was heavy smoke and flames rising above the ancient walled capital. “One hell of a fight going on down there.”

Tanner diverted to the east, angling towards the South China Sea, eight miles to the east, and staying well clear of Hue. He overflew a convoy of olive-drab Deuce-and-a-Halves headed for the beleaguered city before turning back on course. He knew the area like his own backyard. “Home plate on the nose at six miles,” he said.

Perkins played with the radio and called their company ops. “Ops Shack, Ops Shack. Dust Off Two-Seven, six miles north. Any trade?”

A familiar voice answered. “Glad you’re back, Two-Seven. We have more trade at Lonzo. Can you cover it?”

Perkins glanced at Tanner who gave him a thumbs up. “Two-Seven headed for Firebase Lonzo,” Perkins radioed.