by Joe Weber
Spencer observed the men. "You're only seeing half of them," he said out of the corner of his mouth.
Brad looked around. "You've got 'em up on each side of the ridges?" "That's right, and we've got charges and mines buried around the entire perimeter."
The beating rotor blades of an Air America UH-34 helicopter caught their attention. They turned to watch the former Marine Corps workhorse approach the airstrip.
"There's Mitchell and Jimenez," Allison announced, shielding the sun from her eyes. "The other helo will be here as soon as they replace a tail rotor. "
Brad watched the bulbous-nosed Sikorsky swing over the ridge line and drop precariously toward the airstrip. At the last second, the helicopter flared before touching down lightly at the intersection of the taxiway and runway.
The battle-scarred helicopter sat on two fat tires connected to struts on each side of the fuselage. The engine was mounted in the nose behind two clamshell doors, while the cockpit was perched above and behind the huge nose.
When Chase Mitchell killed the rumbling engine, Spencer turned to the trio. "After you get squared away, I'll give you an update on the operation."
"Cap," Brad said, darting a look at the helicopter. "I think Nick and I should take an aerial tour and get the lay of the land."
Spencer smiled. "That's already on the agenda."
Brad and Nick sat in the sweltering tent, contemplating their flight suits.
"To hell with it," Brad suddenly blurted, holding the garment at arm's length. "Hand me that survival knife."
Nick gave him a curious look and silently reached for the knife hanging on the end of his cot.
Brad placed his flight suit on the ground and sawed off the legs just above the knees.
"Very stylish." Nick laughed, watching Austin slice through the sleeves above the elbow.
"You can roast if you want," Brad slipped out of his unmodified flight suit, "but I'm not going to croak from heat prostration."
Nick remodeled his gear while Brad donned his creation.
When Palmer was similarly attired, Brad glanced at Nick's boots. "What the hell is that?" Austin laughed, staring at the exposed tops of Palmer's socks.
Nick looked down at his legs. "Haven't you ever seen argyle socks?" "In the Princeton colors, no less." Brad shook his head. "We better get over to the hut."
They left the entrance flaps open and walked to the operations center. When Brad and Nick entered the screen door, Jimenez and Mitchell burst out laughing.
Spencer and Allison looked up, then gave each other a disbelieving glance.
"Dashing," Allison declared. "Especially your fashion statement, Nick."
"Thank you," Palmer replied without a trace of embarrassment.
Mitchell examined the two pilots while they seated themselves at the planning table. He elbowed his copilot. "They certainly look like fighter jocks to me."
Allison and Cap Spencer joined the foursome.
"Gentlemen," Spencer began with a concerned look, "we originally planned to have you take off under the cover of darkness, but we're going to have to adapt to the timing of the strikes." He paused, displaying a small amount of irritation.
Brad tried to temper his sarcasm. "More politics from the hard-chargers in Washington?"
Spencer looked at the disgusted pilot for a long moment. "It's a combination of politics and secrecy. We're going to have to adhere to normal strike planning, so you'll have to stay low until you can pop up into the action."
"Cap," Austin continued, unable to conceal his worry, "there's a certain amount of lunacy in all this. If the warriors in Washington would let us flatten the MiG bases, we wouldn't have any MiGs to contend with . . . and we wouldn't be sitting out here."
Mitchell and Jimenez glanced in awe at the marine aviator.
Brad's impassioned statement prompted Spencer to sit back and fold his arms across his chest. "Captain Austin, you are free to leave at any time."
No one made a sound.
"No," Brad said firmly. "I want to be the first one up to bat." His jaw muscles were rigid. "But I want to know if I have full authority to operate anywhere I choose, including over the MiG sanctuaries."
Spencer appeared calm and collected. "When you depart from here, you are on your own."
"Good," Austin replied with a flat voice. "No rules of engagement--free to use our own ingenuity?"
"That's right."
Allison gave Brad a look of caution, then glanced at the chart in front of her.
"We've been given the go-ahead," Spencer informed the group, "to begin operations as soon as the MiG is ready, which Hank tells me will be tomorrow morning."
Spencer explained that Allison would coordinate their missions with the operations center in Vientiane. Ops would supply her with the coded times and Route Pack information for the air force and naval strike groups. The details of the missions would be transmitted to Alpha-29 two hours before the scheduled strikes.
Allison would know the exact route the air force F-105 Thunder-chiefs would fly, along with the points of land the navy aircraft would cross. She would trace the routes and times on an enlarged chart of northern Laos and North Vietnam. Brad and Nick would use the charts to position themselves close to the strike aircraft.
Spencer clarified how he would gather the information from the observers close to the MiG fields. When they transmitted their scrambled messages to the EC-121 Warning Star, the airborne radio operator would transmit the information to Alpha-29 in the same form. After the scrambled message was received by Spencer, he would transmit the data, in code, to the MiG.
The MiG call sign would be changed for each flight. Spencer would use a simple code for relaying the type of MiG and side number to Brad or Nick. Only the North Vietnamese MiGs sporting red stars on the nose would be reported to the orbiting Warning Star.
Allison handed the laminated code cards to Palmer and Austin. They studied it, admiring the simplicity. The random alphabetical letters corresponded to numbers from zero to nine , BETPQKDVFZ
2 6 8 1 7 3 5 9 0 4
while the MiG airfields had a letter to designate them:
Phuc Yen H Bai Thuong C
Kep J Kien An Y
Gia Lam M Hoa Lac W
Spencer waited a few seconds. "If I have a MiG-17, side number two five two eight, from Phuc Yen, you'll hear it transmitted like this."
He glanced at his code. "I'll first give you the side number, then the type of MiG, followed by the field of origin. Bravo, Delta, Bravo, Tango . . . Papa, Quebec . . . Hotel."
Brad followed the explanation. "Will we reply?"
"Yes, with your call sign," Spencer advised. "The only contact that you'll have, other than that, is a radio check before takeoff, and another shortly after you're airborne. Don't transmit anything else, unless it's an emergency."
Spencer looked at the Air America pilots. "Your call sign, Sleepy Two Five, will remain the same for every mission. I don't want these guys," he gestured toward Austin and Palmer, "to be confused if they have to abandon the aircraft. We'll have you airborne ten minutes after the MiG takes off "
Jimenez remembered a number of risky search-and-rescue missions he had flown. "Where are we supposed to orbit?"
Spencer slid his chart in front of the SAR pilots. "Right here," he pointed at a spot northeast of Muong Lat, "if the mission is around Hanoi or Hai Phong."
The pilots' eyes gave away their feelings.
"Or here," Spencer moved his finger, "over Thiet Tra, if they're going down by Thanh Hoa."
"Cap," Mitchell said with a pained expression, "we'll be over North Vietnam without any air support."
Austin gave Palmer a fleeting glance. Both questioned whether these guys were the red-hot, hard-charging helicopter pilots they appeared to be.
"You'll have air cover if you need it," Spencer assured them. "Allison will give you the call signs and radio frequencies of the SAR people. If you feel you need air cover, use your normal call sign to commun
icate with the SAR pilots. Operate just like any other Air America flight that needs assistance."
Allison gave them a reassuring look. "I'll have the frequencies and call signs for you before the first mission."
Mitchell considered the information. "Cap, it wouldn't be a problem if we had two choppers. At least we would have a way out if one of them went down."
Spencer gave him a distant look. "Chase, you've been in this business a long time. We never get everything we're promised," he said with resignation. "We're going to operate with one helo until the other one gets here."
"Okay." Mitchell shrugged, accepting the inevitable.
"Right now," Spencer slid his chair back, "I'd like for you and Rudy to take Brad and Nick for a familiarization ride around the local area." Mitchell and Jimenez exchanged concerned glances.
"Cap," Chase ground a cigarette in an ashtray, "the Pathet Lao have a stronghold about fifteen miles south of here. They're all over San Neua Province . . . and they've got a lot of firepower."
The message was not lost on Brad and Nick. They paid close attention to Spencer's reply.
"Chase," Cap responded with a look of understanding, "I'm not going to pretend there aren't risks, but I want Nick and Brad to know the details of the area. It could save their lives if they have to come in under the weather."
"Okay," Mitchell said with a skeptical look, and turned to Brad and Nick. "I hope you boys brought your flak jackets.'
Chapter TWENTY-THREE
Brad sat next to the M-60 machine gun in the open cabin door of the helicopter. He glanced up at the winch mounted above the door. Brad studied the hook on the end of the cable and hoped that he would never have to use the rescue device.
Mitchell's usual crew chief, an irascible Air America veteran named Elvin Crowder, had elected to stay behind and inspect the MiG.
Austin adjusted his mind and body to the vibration and steady beat of the rotor blades as the UH-34 struggled to 6,000 feet. He relaxed, checked his seat belt, and looked out to the horizon.
Leaning forward, Brad let the slipstream fan his face. He studied the terrain, memorizing the details of the contour around the landing strip. When they flew over a wide valley leading to the elongated lowland that concealed their base, Brad calculated the distance between the peaks on each side.
Nick Palmer, sitting next to Brad, keyed his intercom switch. "Chase, let's go about ten or twelve miles south, and see if we can slip in from that direction if the weather turns sour."
"He's talking to Cap," Rudy Jimenez replied. "We don't want to go any farther south because of the Pathet Lao."
Brad adjusted his headset.
"Chase mentioned that, but he didn't elaborate," Palmer said, exchanging a look with Austin. "How about filling us in?"
"The Pathet Lao," Jimenez explained in a voice that vibrated in sync with the rotor blades, "has a large contingent of troops at San Neua."
The copilot turned the U H-34 to allow Brad and Nick a clear view to the south.
"At the bottom of that tall peak," Jimenez paused to speak to Mitchell, "on the far side, is an ammunition factory and training facility."
Austin and Palmer scrutinized the terrain below them, mentally forming a map in their minds. If they had to eject from the MiG close to Alpha-29, they wanted to be able to orient to the base.
Brad thought about how different the perspective would be if they were on the ground. "Any problem if we drop down and take a closer look at the approach to the runway?"
Chase Mitchell answered, having completed the radio check with Spencer. "We don't want to do that, because there's an estimated four thousand North Vietnamese regulars in this region."
"Yeah," Jimenez chimed in. "If you look straight out at three o'clock low--about a mile and a half--you can see a VC base camp."
Brad scanned the area and was unable to locate the campsite. "I don't see any signs of activity."
Palmer pointed at the encampment at the same time Jimenez spoke to them.
"It's along the east side of the grassy area," the copilot explained, "next to the small village."
The camp was now clearly evident to Austin. "I've got it, but I don't see anyone."
"That's because they can hear us," Jimenez advised. "They are masters at camouflage."
"This is 'Indian country,' " Mitchell informed them as he banked the helicopter to the left, "and we're right in the middle of the reservation."
Brad spied their runway in the distance. "Why haven't the VC or Pathet Lao attacked Alpha-29?"
"Who knows," Jimenez answered over the sound of the rotor blades. "From what I know of them, they're very enterprising and patient people. If they decide to attack our strip, they'll wait until we least expect it. "
"Rudy is right," Chase declared as he began a shallow descent. "They're watching the airstrip as we speak. I'm sure--for the time being--that our MiG has them confused."
Austin pulled his headset away from his ear, prompting Palmer to do the same.
"I don't think," Brad yelled over the rhythmic beating of the rotor blades, "that we're getting the whole picture from Cap Spencer."
Nick shrugged and nodded in agreement. "Chase, don't you think the Cong will report the MiG to their HQ?"
"In time, but they may think it's one of their own schemes to hit the Americans close to home."
"You have to remember," Jimenez laughed quietly, "that these guys are out in the boonies . . . and they'll probably be scratching their heads for a while."
"That may be true," Brad admitted with growing concern, "but they aren't stupid."
Nick and Brad continued to examine the mountains and valleys thick with vegetation. Mitchell maneuvered the helicopter to the same point where he had made his original approach to Alpha-29, then started a steep descent. He constantly turned the UH-34 while varying the rate of descent.
Brad was startled by a pinging sound, then saw a ray of light appear above the door opening.
"Oh, shit," Jimenez yelled at the same instant, "we're taking fire!"
Mitchell swore, then dropped the nose of the UH-34. The helicopter plummeted down the side of a mountain as more rounds tore through the fuselage.
PZZING!
Jimenez flinched as a small-arms round ricocheted off the nose directly in front of the windshield. Another shell slammed into the side of the cockpit, ripping open a gaping hole. A half-second later, Mitchell and Jimenez were struck by flying debris when a section of the windshield burst inward.
Off balance, Austin unbuckled his seat belt and slammed into the forward cabin bulkhead. He grasped the machine gun and tried to aim at the muzzle flashes twinkling from the trees.
'You better strap your dumb ass in," Palmer exclaimed, bracing himself against the side of the cabin, "before you fall out of this son of a bitch!"
Realizing that it was impossible to aim and fire under the circumstances, Brad lurched sideways into a seat. He buckled himself in while Mitchell pulled out of the dive 400 feet above the valley. PZZINNNG!
Another round caromed off the clamshell doors that enclosed the engine. Two more shells pierced the compartment and penetrated the engine.
Brad and Nick could feel the helicopter start to vibrate. Dense black smoke began to fill the cabin as the engine shook violently, then surged and died.
Brad darted a quick glance at Palmer. "Holy shit!"
Nick's eyes reflected the terror that Austin felt. "We're gonna crash!"
Mitchell bottomed the pitch of the rotors, maintaining airspeed while he deftly maneuvered the powerless UH-34 toward Alpha-29. He could see that the autorotation was not going to stretch down the valley to the runway.
"Mayday! Mayday!" Mitchell frantically radioed to Alpha-29. "Sleepy Two Five is going down! We've taken a hit in the engine!" "We're goin' in!" Jimenez shouted over the intercom as the helicopter settled toward the thick jungle.
Brad could feel his heart pound. Like Palmer, he braced himself for the crash landing and said a silent
prayer. God, let us live through it.
Hollis Spencer stared at the radio for a moment before he reacted. Hearing the Mayday call, Allison rushed into the compartment at the same time Spencer lunged for the microphone.
"Where are they?" she asked with a look of fear frozen on her face. "Chase," Spencer suddenly blurted, "say your position! Where are you?"
Rudy Jimenez answered. "We're about four klicks--"
Spencer tried again, then a third time, before he tossed down the mike. "They must be too low. Allison, get ahold of the CO of our security detail and tell him I want his best platoon up here on the double."
"Will do!" she answered, snatching the security walkie-talkie from the corner of Spencer's desk.
Cap leaped to his feet. "I'm going to see if I can spot any smoke," he said in a clipped voice as he rushed for the door.
Attempting to conceal her worry, Allison nodded while she called the security command post.
The belly of the helicopter settled closer and closer to the trees as the airspeed decayed. Mitchell pulled pitch, flaring from the autorotation at the last second. The forward speed had been rapidly reduced before the wheels skimmed the foliage, then began nicking the trees.
Streaming fuel, the helicopter suddenly quit flying and plunged through the trees. The rotors disintegrated as they chopped the tops off the branches, then flew like shrapnel.
The UH-34 yawed sideways, rolled thirty degrees, and slammed into the ground, knocking the wind out of Austin. Stunned, he gasped for breath and grabbed Palmer's arm. "Let's get out of here!"
Palmer clumsily unbuckled his seat belt and crawled on his hands and knees to the cabin door. The fuselage had been crushed by the severe impact, making the exit smaller.
Brad and Nick climbed out of the cabin door and mashed the foliage around them. Engulfed in gray smoke, they struggled over the twisted landing gear to the cockpit.
Smelling aviation gasoline, Brad moved rapidly to free Chase Mitchell. Jimenez had already extricated himself from the wreckage, and was working his way around the nose of the destroyed helicopter.
Austin unlatched Mitchell's harness release and spoke to the groggy pilot. "We've got to get you out of here . . . before this thing goes up in flames."
