On Glorious Wings

by Stephen Coonts

  I began to let the Vampire down slowly toward the oncoming coast, my mind feverishly working out how far behind schedule I was through the reduced speed. My watch told me forty-three minutes airborne. The coast of Norfolk had to be somewhere ahead of my nose, five miles below. I glanced up at the full moon, like a searchlight in the glittering sky, and thanked her for her presence.

  As the fighter slipped toward Norfolk the sense of loneliness gripped me tighter and tighter. All those things that had seemed so beautiful as I climbed away from the airfield in Lower Saxony now seemed my worst enemies. The stars were no longer impressive in their brilliance; I thought of their hostility, sparkling away there in the timeless, lost infinities of endless space. The night sky, its stratospheric temperature fixed, night and day alike, at an unchanging fifty-six degrees below zero, became in my mind a limitless prison creaking with the cold. Below me lay the worst of them all, the heavy brutality of the North Sea, waiting to swallow up me and my plane and bury us for endless eternity in a liquid black crypt where nothing moved nor would ever move again. And no one would ever know.

  At 15,000 feet and still diving, I began to realize that a fresh, and for me the last, enemy had entered the field. There was no ink-black sea three miles below me, no necklace of twinkling seaside lights somewhere up ahead. Far away, to right and left, ahead and no doubt behind me, the light of the moon reflected on a flat and endless sea of white. Perhaps only a hundred, two hundred feet thick, but enough. Enough to blot out all vision, enough to kill me. The East Anglian fog had moved in.

  LZ AMBUSH

  FROM THE DELTA

  by MARSHALL HARRISON

  The blood and insanity of the low-and-slow war over South Vietnam was the subject for this fine novel by Marshall Harrison, who, like the hero of the tale, Sam Brooks, served a tour as a Forward Air Controller. The mark of a good writer is his ability to make the characters live in our imagination; Harrison’s leap off the page.

  So here we go, into combat in a Cessna O–1 Bird Dog with some smoke rockets on the wing and a sack of smoke grenades in the back seat. The men who flew this war had big cojones, a fact which will become readily apparent.

  “OK, Blade Flight, this is Blackjack One One. I’ll want your bombs in pairs. We’re going to spread ’em on both sides of the LZ. I’m in for the mark now.”

  Sam brought the nose of his aircraft high above the horizon and stared at the wooded tree lines stretching along both sides of the bare red earth that would shortly receive the helicopters. The trees were a dull green, muted by the dust at the end of the dry season. He picked his spot and coordinated left aileron and rudder pressure to roll the aircraft onto its wing, then shoved the nose down toward the ground.

  The tree line quickly filled his windscreen and he risked a quick glance at the altimeter—eighteen hundred feet. He let the speed build up until the slipstream whistled loudly through the opened window. He pressed the firing button on the stick at fifteen hundred feet and heard, then saw, the rocket leave the wing, trailing a thin wisp of smoke from the ignited motor. At twelve hundred feet he began the dive recovery, ending with the aircraft in a hard, climbing turn. Sam glanced over his shoulder to find the white smoke ball billowing up from the trees. “There’s your first target, Blade Lead. Hit my smoke.”

  “Roger, Lead is in from the north, FAC and target in sight. I’ll be off target to the east.”

  Sam twisted his aircraft into a tight, level turn until he saw the sun glinting from the wings of the diving F-100 jet fighter-bomber. He quickly checked its run-in line, staying in the turn to keep the fighter on his nose. “You’re cleared in hot, Blade Lead,” Sam said.

  The two five-hundred-pound bombs fell cleanly from the wings of the attacking jet as it passed Sam. Twin condensation trails burbled from each wing tip as the fighter began its pull-out. The bombs, with drogue slabs extended to slow their flight, disappeared into the tree line, and near-simultaneous explosions cleared twin circular areas in the forest. The instantaneous fusing had caused the weapons to leave only shallow craters, but they did create havoc with the foliage.

  “Lead’s off to the east,” the pilot grunted, fighting hard against the heavy g forces of the pullout.

  “Good bombs, Lead,” said Sam, already switching his attention to the other aircraft. “Blade Two, put yours about a hundred meters south of Lead’s craters.”

  “Rog. Blade Two is in hot from the west. FAC and target in sight.”

  Sam eyed the roll-in of the sleek jet before he responded. “You’re cleared in hot, Blade Two.”

  Two more explosions killed another hundred years of tree growth. Sam had shoved the nose of the Bird Dog down toward the smoldering jungle before Blade Two began his recovery. He leveled at five hundred feet, alternately kicking the rudders and moving the stick back and forth to prevent becoming a stable target for any potential gunners as he searched for movement beneath the trees. He didn’t see a thing. He shoved the throttle full forward to begin a maximum climb back to a safer altitude. Just because he didn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  Methodically, he worked the ordnance of the fighters along the dense growth surrounding the landing zone. Blade Flight was the second set of attack aircraft he’d used prepping the area for the helicopter assault, now already airborne. Smoke from the bombs and dust was beginning to obscure the clearing. Sam was satisfied with the bomb pattern he had laid around the LZ. He glanced at each wing to confirm he’d used all four of his marking rockets to put in the two flights of fighters, then lowered the aircraft’s nose for a last assessment run.

  The trees had been tumbled aside like giant matchsticks and he saw nothing moving among them. The area was far from pristine, however. The last pair of bombs had uncovered several irregularly spaced rectangular holes that he instantly recognized as reinforced bunkers. Sam hadn’t a clue as to whether they were or had been occupied, for he could see no casualties. It was something for the helicopter gunships to check out before the main force went in.

  “Blade Lead, this is Blackjack One One. Your BDA will have to be incomplete until we get some troops on the ground, but I’m going to give you a hundred percent of your ordnance in the target area. Looks like Blade Two uncovered some bunkers with his last bombs. I’ll forward anything the crunchies turn up. You’re cleared out of the area. See ya later.”

  “Roger, Blackjack. Thanks, and take care of yourself. Blade Two, let’s go to company frequency.”

  “Two. Rog.”

  As soon as the two F-100s left Sam’s radio frequency he heard another pilot calling him. This voice had the curious, vibrating quality readily identifiable as coming from a helicopter. “Blackjack One One,” it warbled, “this is Red Lead.”

  “Go, Red Lead. Blackjack One One here.”

  “Rog. First stick is about five minutes out. What’s the situation?”

  “Red Lead, Blackjack. I’ve put in two sets of fighters along either side of the LZ. Negative movement seen. However, the last bombs uncovered bunkers on the eastern approach to the LZ. I can see five of them but they extend back under the trees. There’s no confirmation as to whether they’re occupied. You might want to send your gunnies on ahead to check ’em out before you come in.”

  “Roger that, Blackjack. That’s what we’ll do. Pink Lead, you want to take your gun elements on in and do like the man says while we do a slow three-sixty turn out here?”

  “Roger that,” a new voice said over the radio. “Let’s go, Pinks.”

  Sam picked up the flight of four gunships as they approached from the south, then slammed into a tight turn in front of them and aimed for the bunker area. He’d been watching the bunkers from altitude and had almost convinced himself that they were old and no longer used. He descended to five hundred feet and flew directly at the bunkers visible in the blast-cleared area. He reached behind him and unhooked a smoke grenade from the wire behind his seat, pulling the pin but keeping the tongue depressed. When he was in the proper posi
tion, he straightened his arm out the window and released it. Leaning outside he watched the purple smoke trail to the ground and land squarely on the target area. “Pink Lead, this is Blackjack. Smoke’s away.”

  “Rog. Pink Lead has Goofy Grape.”

  “That’s it.”

  “We’re on our way toward it.”

  Sam climbed up to two thousand feet to be sure he was out of everyone’s way. The four gunships fell into a line astern, split into two elements as they approached the smoke, then began a counterclockwise wheel above the exposed bunkers. The leader dipped his nose and unleashed a high-explosive rocket toward the bunkers. There was no return fire or movement.

  “Red Lead, this is Pink Lead,” the gunship leader called the troop-carrying slicks’ commander. “We’ve found the bunkers but it looks like nobody’s home. I think it ought to be OK to bring ’em on in.”

  “Red Lead. Roger that.”

  Sam sat high and watched the first stick of slicks approach the barren LZ. They carried the elements of two companies of the 45th Ranger Battalion, one of the better fighting forces in the delta. Another stick of Hueys would be a couple of minutes behind the leader. A third would follow the second element. After they disgorged their initial loads, the birds would return to Soc Trang for the remainder of the troops. Things looked routine to Sam as the first stick approached the LZ. He opened his canteen and took a long drink of tepid water, shuddering at its chemical afterbite, then rescrewed the top and placed the canteen on the floor. Slightly bored now that his part in the operation was presumably completed, he rested his chin in his hand, arm propped on the window’s ledge, and watched the show.

  The four helicopters began to slow for their approach. A germ of uneasiness crept into Sam’s mind as the leader disappeared into a red dust cloud kicked up by its own rotor. With true formation integrity the remainder of the slick flight followed their leader into the red murk.

  “Red Flight, this is Red Lead! Abort! Abort! I’m instruments in the dust! Go around! Go arou—” His transmission was cut abruptly as the second Huey crashed down through his canopy, its skid breaking the air commander’s neck and nearly severing the copilot’s head from his body. Vietnamese Rangers tumbled from the opened doors, falling to their deaths beneath the flailing metal carcasses of the helicopters. Red Three and Four added to the carnage when they delayed an instant too long in responding to their flight commander’s order to abort the landing. They unknowingly revenged his death by slamming unseen into Red Two. Sam watched in horrified silence as shards of blade, metal, and human body parts were tossed high above the red dust. He pressed the transmit button for the radio but found he couldn’t speak, so he released it.

  “Jesus Christ! Green and Purple Leaders, this is Pink Lead. Abort! I say again! Abort the approach!”

  The next two sticks of troop carriers had arrived over the LZ but now broke away to circle aimlessly, their landing aborted by the gunship commander.

  As the dust slowly cleared, the pattern of events became sickeningly clear. Red Two had landed squarely atop his leader’s ship, and Three and Four had smashed onto it in turn. Two of the helicopters burned brightly, and Rangers were scattered about in the red dust as if sown by a giant hand. Some scrubbed angel wings into the loose dust; others lay very still.

  The gunship commander took control. “Green Leader and Purple Leader, this is Pink Lead. All of Red Flight has dinged on the LZ, but I think it was because of the viz and not because the LZ’s hot. Come on in but stay well clear of the center where Red Flight is down. It’s a damned dust bowl there. You should be all right if Green takes the far right side and Purple the left. I say again, it’s a cold LZ and Green Flight takes the extreme right, Purple the left.”

  The two sticks of helicopters touched down almost simultaneously at opposite sides of the wide LZ. The dust was still thick but nothing like Red Flight had tried to penetrate. The pilots gave each other more help by separating their individual touchdown points by a considerable distance. As they disgorged their troops another voice began to yell over the tactical net.

  “Pink Lead! Pink Lead! This is Jolly Six! We’re taking fire from the bunkers east of the LZ, back up into the tree line. We’re taking fire from the bunkers to the east of the LZ.”

  “Jolly Six, Pink Lead. I heard you the first time” came the voice of the gunship leader. He sounded as though there could be few surprises left for him anywhere. A routine insertion had turned into tragedy right in front of him, and now this.

  “Where’s the heaviest source of fire, Jolly Six?” the gun team leader asked the American adviser on the ground with the Rangers.

  “All along the eastern tree line, well back into the trees. There’s also some from the northeast that’s pretty heavy as well.”

  “I’ve got you, Jolly Six. Pinks, we’re going to work out in the eastern tree line, starting where those bunkers are. Ah, Blackjack, do you think you could scare up some more TACAIR if we need it?”

  “Rog, Pink Lead. I’ll get some cranking,” said Sam, watching the horror show unfold beneath him. Some of the small figures flung about by the helicopters’ crash had gotten to their feet and were wandering aimlessly in circles; then they began to fall over again. Then Sam saw the bright sparkle of automatic weapons beneath the gloom of the tree line. The addled and injured ARVN Rangers were an easy target.

  Sam switched his radio selector to his control room and placed an immediate request for additional fighters. He should be able to draw on the air assets of any preplanned strike in the delta, if the system operated properly. Should no fighters be immediately available, the Direct Air Support Center would forward the request to the Tactical Operations Center in Saigon, which would authorize birds from the alert pads at Tan Son Nhut and Bien Hoa. Unfortunately, that could take half an hour, and Sam didn’t think the friendlies had that long. More and more of them were playing dead.

  The helicopter gunships went right for the Viet Cong’s throat and paid for it. Pink Two went in for the attack; it burst into a large ball of orange flame and fell into the trees, severing large branches all the way to the ground. The remnant burned for a while, then exploded, sending a greasy plume of black smoke drifting over the tree line, obscuring the target area for the remaining gunships. Where had all those dinks come from? Sam wondered.

  “Blackjack One One, this is Blackjack Control.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Roger. You’ve got a pair of A-1s coming up. ETA in zero five. Load is snake and nape.”

  “Thank you,” said Sam. Nape was napalm, the soapy gaseous mixture that ignited on contact with the ground to spew along the flight direction of the aircraft, searing everything in its path. It also deprived any air breathers in its vicinity of oxygen. Bombs and nape were a lethal mixture.

  “Control, this is One One. What’s their call sign?”

  “One One, call sign of the A-1 flight is Ramrod.”

  Sam stayed at altitude above the carnage and watched the three remaining gunships attack the tree line. Green tracer fire from the trees met each pass. The enemy troops had obviously rushed forward after the last of the bomb explosions to engage the infantry and helicopters they’d known would be coming. It was not the first LZ prep that this VC commander had seen. He obviously knew the pattern well, and Sam was forced to admire his ingenuity. The man had kept his troops well back until the most significant danger had passed, then pressed in close to his adversary for protection against air and artillery attacks while he inflicted maximum damage. Sam suspected that the enemy commander was prepared for a quick disengagement as well. He’d have to remember that when the fighters arrived.

  Another gunship limped out of the fight to the south, a victim of the concentrated fire they were receiving on each pass. The fourth and last stick of troop-carrying slicks approached the LZ as far to the west as they could get from the ground fire. The door gunners raked the trees, their red tracers licking into the gloom in search of the enemy gunners.

&
nbsp; Doubt was creeping unbidden into Sam’s thoughts. Could he have prevented this? Should he have placed the bombs differently? He shook his head to clear his thoughts. No, he’d done it right. He’d put the ordnance where logic said to put it and if he’d missed the enemy it had been because they’d been lucky or better at this business than he.

  The Rangers scrambled into a defensive perimeter around the mangled remains of Red Flight. The fire had spread to all of the broken helicopters and the troops worked hurriedly to pull the bodies from them. The two remaining gunships were still doggedly making firing passes against the tree line. Sam hoped the gunship leader was still there. He had to quickly find the most productive area in which to expend the approaching fighters.

  “Pink Lead, this is Blackjack. I’ve got a pair of A-1s inbound. ETA in about two. Can you use them?”

  “Hell, yes! We’re getting the shit shot out of us. If you see where we’re working, you can put them in anyplace in the trees. I don’t know what we’ve got ahold of, but it sure ain’t no VC local force platoon, like they briefed. You’d best tell your Spad drivers that there’s a pair of fifties down there that are real good.”