The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  ”Standby,” Moonbeam answered.

  Warren pressed it. If Moonbeam wouldn’t make a decision, he would. “Say status of Da Nang.”

  “Da Nang runway is closed for craters. Base currently under rocket attack.”

  “Say status of Qui Nhon.”

  “Radio contact lost. Base last reported taking heavy mortar fire.”

  “Fuck!” Warren roared, waking the sleeping men. He hit the transmit button. “Moonbeam, I repeat, Roscoe Two-One has six critical wounded on board who need immediate medical attention. Get us on the ground.”

  The controller’s voice changed. “Roscoe, I’m working it. Checking on Saigon. It’s the only option I’ve got.” Tan Son Nhut Air Base at Saigon was an hour and twenty minutes flying time away, but the Army’s 17th Field Hospital was a long ambulance ride from the air base. The controller was back. “Tan Son Nhut is open but status of ground transportation extremely questionable. Recommend Clark.” Clark Air Base was in the Philippines, 720 nautical miles away across the South China Sea.

  “We need something closer than that,” Warren replied.

  “Roscoe, it’s chaos on the ground here. Every hospital in-country is maxed out and calling for help. Clark is wide open and the hospital can take your wounded.”

  Warren turned in his seat and looked at Pender. “I think we better go to Clark.”

  “It’s two hours thirty minutes flying time,” Santos said. “But the hospital is only minutes away, and they’ll get first priority.”

  Pender shook her head in despair. “I’m going to lose them. Can we land somewhere and get some morphine?”

  Warren’s chin jerked up. He cursed himself for being a cretin. It was an easy decision. “Moonbeam, Roscoe Two-One is headed for Clark at this time. Will file a flight plan en route.”

  “Moonbeam copies all,” the controller replied. “And God speed.”

  “Track outbound 092 degrees on the Da Nang TACAN,” Santos said. “ETA Clark 0345 hours. We should get a tailwind above twenty grand.”

  Warren pushed the throttles up and started to climb. “Let’s try flight level two-one-zero.” Flight level 210 was twenty-one thousand feet on a standard altimeter setting of 29.92 inches of mercury. He turned to Pender who was staring at him. “We’ll keep it as low as we can to hold cabin pressurization below 3000 feet.”

  “It might help, but I doubt it.” Her voice was heavy with reproach and despair. She turned to go.

  Warren reached out and held her wrist. “Wait.” He ripped the first aid kit out of his survival vest and tore it open. He handed her a small tube that held a morphine injection. “We’ve got five more.” Bosko, Hale, and Santos did the same and handed her the small tubes. They all dropped their heavy survival vests to the deck, relieved to finally be free of the burden.

  Pender leaned forward and kissed Warren on the cheek. She rushed off the flight deck. Bosko grinned at Warren.

  “A little fraternizing there, Captain? What would the good Colonel Hardy say?”

  “Especially after all that skinny-dipping,” Santos added.

  “Civilians,” Warren moaned. “You can put ‘em in a uniform, dress ‘em up, but you can’t take ‘em out.”

  “Seriously, Captain,” Hale said, “you need to pursue that one. Think about it.”

  Warren did.

  *

  Over the South China Sea

  Warren pulled the throttles back, levelled off at 21,000 feet, and the crew went through a well-practiced routine. Lacking a high frequency long-range radio, Bosko established contact with a MAC flight that had an HF, and it relayed their flight plan to Manila Air Traffic Control. Santos plotted a level off fix using the bearing and distance off the Da Nang TACAN. He would plot another fix in twenty minutes while still in range. Just to be on the safe side, he constructed a fuel graph to monitor their consumption and asked Hale for a fuel reading.

  “We’re right at 10,200 pounds,” Hale replied. “Seems a little low.”

  Santos plotted the fuel reading on his graph. “Not a problem. That gives us two hundred pounds extra.”

  “Does that include reserve?” Warren asked.

  “Yep,” Santos replied. “Twenty minutes. So what’s the problem?”

  “Not sure,” Hale replied. “I figure we should have maybe five hundred pounds extra. We may have a fuel leak.”

  “Or we got a guzzler,” Bosko said.

  “Or bum gauges,” Santos added.

  “Stay on top of it,” Warren said. “We can always divert into Cubi Point if we have to.” Cubi Point was the huge U.S. Naval base on Subic Bay on the western side of Luzon, the largest island in the Philippines, and thirty miles short of Clark. He pulled himself out of his seat. “Gonna go see how they’re doing in the back.”

  Three sets of eyes followed him as he climbed down to the main deck.

  “And to say ‘hello’ to a captain,” Santos said. They all nodded in agreement.

  Warren pushed through the canvas curtain separating the flight deck from the cargo compartment. He froze. It had been bad enough when he first saw the wounded marines arrive in the vague and uncertain shadows of night. But he was now in the harsh glow of full reality and was standing at the edge of hell. It was his aircraft and he was warehousing the wreckage of war. Every man was bloodied and bandaged and the smell was horrific in the confined space; a stench of disinfectant, blood, dirt, faeces, urine, sweat, and charred flesh. And standing in the middle of it all was Lynne Pender. He made his way past a moaning Marine, careful not to step in a pool of blood.

  Pender was bent over the North Vietnamese prisoner, stitching up the gash in his abdomen. She never looked up. “He’s critical and needs a shot of morphine.” He could hear the resignation in her voice.

  “You said there were five that needed morphine. We’ve got six survival vests, which means six shots.”

  “I only got one more from Sergeant Flanders. Boyle ignored me.”

  Warren whirled around, searching for the airman. He was stretched out on the ramp asleep, still wearing his survival vest.

  “Boyle, get your ass over here.” The airman sat up, confused. “I said, get over here!” Warren shouted, his voice carrying over the drone of the engines.

  Flanders joined them. He had flown with Warren for over a year and never heard him so angry. “Let me handle it, sir. What do you need doing?”

  Warren forced himself to calm down. He could protect Flanders if the sergeant beat the living hell out of Boyle, which he hoped would happen.

  “Captain Pender needs the morphine out of Boyle’s survival vest.”

  Now Flanders was angry. “I told the bastard to give her ...” his voice trailed off. Then, much more calmly, “Boyle, give me your first aid kit.”

  Boyle heard the menace in his tone and never hesitated. He handed the small kit over and pulled back. He watched as Flanders ripped it apart and handed the plastic tube to Warren, who handed it to Pender. Boyle made the obvious connection.

  “You gonna give it to the slopehead?”

  “Captain Pender is a doctor and will use it as she sees fit,” Flanders answered. He jammed the first aid kit into Boyle’s gut. Hard. “Take care of this.”

  Boyle staggered back, gasping for breath, his eyes filled with hate. “You never got dumped in a pile of shit.”

  “Nothing you didn’t fuckin’ deserve, asshole.”

  “Captain Warren,” Boyle protested, “he can’t talk to me like that.”

  “Like what,” Warren said. He joined Pender who was still working on the North Vietnamese. He studied the man’s face, now in full light, as she administered the injection. “I’ll be damned. That’s Colonel Tran.”

  “Colonel who?” Pender asked.

  “Colonel Tran Sang Quan, the commander of the logistical regiment in Laos. I saw his photo at the briefing at NKP. According to what I heard, he’s one of their best commanders. We got something here.” He made his way forward to the flight deck.

  Boyle
sat on a jump seat and hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together, his face drenched in sweat, and his eyes riveted on Warren’s back.

  The marine sitting next to Boyle snorted. “You think you got a problem? That fuckin’ Commie killed eight of my buddies, and the doctor is a fuckin’ bitch.” Boyle glanced at the marine’s name tag – Denlow.

  “Billy Bob Boyle,” he said, shaking the marine’s hand.

  Warren slipped into the left seat and pulled on his headset. He glanced at the TACAN readout – seventy-three nautical miles from Da Nang. That seemed low and he had expected them to be further down track, closer to ninety nautical miles. We’ve been climbing, and I’m dead tired.

  “Boz, can you raise Moonbeam on the VHF?” Bosko dialled in the frequency and made the call. Moonbeam answered immediately. “Moonbeam,” Warren transmitted, “be advised we have a North Vietnamese POW on board who matches the description of Colonel Tran Sang Quan. I believe Tran to be an extremely high-value prisoner. Please have Security Police meet the aircraft at Clark.”

  Moonbeam gave the standard answer. “Roscoe Two-One, standby.”

  “Sum’bitch,” Santos muttered. “Is ‘standby’ the only word they know?”

  Another voice came over the radio. “Roscoe Two-One, mission commander. If correct, you have an extremely high-value POW. Say his current condition.”

  “Tran is badly wounded, survival doubtful. The doctor on board has stabilized his bleeding at the present time.”

  “Roscoe, advise the doctor to keep Tran alive at all costs. Repeat, at all costs.”

  “What the fuck,” Bosko said. “Does that mean at the expense of our guys?”

  Warren hit the transmit button. “Moonbeam, does ‘at all costs’ mean at the expense of our wounded.”

  “Roscoe, I repeat. Keep the prisoner alive at all costs.”

  “Moonbeam, Roscoe Two-One copies all.” Warren ripped off his headset and threw it in his lap. “What the hell?”

  A hard silence captured the men. Santos finally spoke. “Captain Warren, my father often butted heads with the embassy’s CIA station chief over intelligence. There is always a price to be paid, and not necessarily in money, for getting good intelligence.”

  “And what exactly does that mean?” Warren asked. But he knew the answer.

  “Hold on for a second,” Santos replied. “I need to get a fix.” Bosko read the radial they were on and the distance from the TACAN station on the DME, or distance measuring equipment. Santos quickly plotted it on his chart and measured the distance they had travelled since levelling off. They had flown thirty-five miles in ten minutes. “We got a problem,” Santos said.

  “That’s par for the course,” Warren muttered. “What now?”

  “Our ground speed is 210 knots. It should be around 280 to 290. We got at least a seventy-knot headwind.” He didn’t have to explain what that meant – they didn’t have enough fuel.

  Warren worked through a mental fog of fatigue. “Get another fix in ten minutes. The TACAN will still be locked on.”

  “I don’t think so,” Bosko said. The TACAN had broken lock and the mileage counter and bearing needle were spinning. “We just lost the TACAN.” He recycled the frequency and waited to hear the identifier. Nothing. “No signal,” Bosko announced. “It’s off the air. A mortar or rocket hit, maybe.”

  “Sum’bitch,” Santos moaned. “We cannot catch a break. Some one really pissed off the gods.” He shifted into high gear and went to work. “Sergeant Hale, can you rig the step for the sextant.” The sextant mount was mounted on the overhead immediately behind the flight engineer, too high even for Santos to reach without a step stool.

  “Can do,” Hale replied. “I can rig the sextant, if you want.” The Kollsman D-1 Sextant had a short periscopic barrel that extended the sextant lens through the top of the fuselage and eliminated the need for a bubble astrodome. It was a delicate and sophisticated instrument that took special care.

  Santos was bent over a form scratching in numbers, pre-computing a three-star celestial shot. “Appreciate that. Take a look and see if we got an overcast.”

  “Will do,” Hale answered. He looked through the eyepiece. “Clear as a bell,” he said.

  “How good is your celestial?” Warren asked. Navigators only used celestial navigation for long overwater legs, which they seldom flew.

  “If no turbulence, good to a half mile,” Santos answered. While not as accurate as a TACAN fix, it was close enough. Two minutes later, he jumped onto the step and started shooting the first star. It took him eight minutes to accurately determine the elevation of three stars and plot the three lines of position on a chart, forming a tight triangle. He measured the distance flown between the two fixes. “Fuck me in the heart!” he roared. He took a deep breath. “We still got a sixty-knot headwind.”

  “Recheck your numbers,” Warren said.

  0200 HOURS

  Over the South China Sea

  Santos double-checked his work and plotted the numbers on the fuel graph. He passed it to the pilots and the flight engineer. “We can make Clark if we do a long-range descent,” Santos told them. A long-range descent traded altitude for airspeed and fuel.

  “But we’ll land with no reserve,” Bosko added.

  “That’s cutting it too close,” Warren replied. “Figure we do a long-range descent with a straight-in approach and landing into Cubi Point. How much fuel will that gain us?”

  Again, Santos ran the numbers and plotted them on the fuel graph. He passed it forward. “That should gain us maybe 1500 pounds, assuming we don’t have a fuel leak.”

  “If we do have a leak,” Hale said, “it’s showing up as high fuel consumption, which you’ve factored in.”

  It all came down on Warren. He had to weigh the trade-offs balancing safety against time in order to get his precious cargo on the ground where they could be cared for as quickly as possible. He was dealing with too many unknowns; the aircraft had taken battle damage and had high fuel consumption. Hell, he though, I’ve taken battle damage and I’m still flying. It wasn’t a rational comparison, but for some reason, it increased his faith in the Hercules. He made a decision and kicked the can down the road.

  “For now, press ahead for Clark. Boz, contact Moonbeam and see if there’s a field we can divert to for fuel and pick up some medical help. Dave, get another fix in twenty minutes and let’s see what’s happening with the ground speed.”

  Bosko worked the radios while Santos updated their DR position and pre-computed a second three-star celestial fix. After repeated radio calls, Bosko finally got through. The situation was still bad, and only Tan Son Nhut and Cam Ranh Bay were open. Then, “Roscoe Two-One, Moonbeam. Be advised Tan Son Nhut is down for mortars and Cam Ranh’s main runway is closed.” The controller on Moonbeam lost it. “Roscoe, I’m trying, for God’s sake, I am. But a jet just pranged at Cam Ranh. Really bad news everywhere. We’re headed to hell in a hand basket.”

  Another voice came on frequency. “Roscoe Two-One, Moonbeam. Disregard all. Proceed on course for now. Will advise if situation changes.”

  “Copy all,” Bosko replied, breaking contact. “We’ll be out of radio range before that happens,” he muttered to himself.

  Santos finished pre-computing the celestial fix and kicked back in his seat. He took a drink of water and closed his eyes for a moment. Why the high headwind? It doesn’t make sense. His eye’s snapped open. Their ground speed had increased ten knots between fixes. Were they flying out of whatever pressure system they were caught in? He scanned his instruments, looking for any clue. He glanced at the outside temperature gauge. “Sum’bitch!” he roared.

  Warren, Bosko, and Hale twisted in their seats as one, looking at the navigator. “What’s up?” Warren asked.

  Santos pointed at the temperature gauge like a man possessed. “It’s too fuckin’ warm! The outside air temp is zero, it should be around minus twenty or twenty-five Celsius.”


  Bosko was confused. “So?’

  “We’re caught under an inversion layer. I’m guessing a warmer high pressure system has overrun a cooler low pressure system and reinforced the winds aloft.”

  “So what do we do about it?” Bosko asked.

  “We climb out of it,” Santos said.

  “Altitude?” Warren asked, reaching for the autopilot altitude control.

  “Try flight level two-five-zero,” Santos said. They needed to stay as low as possible to maintain a low cabin pressurization. The navigator stood, his eyes fixed on the temperature gauge as they climbed. He suppressed a chuckle when the temperature took a sharp drop. “Yes!” he said, pumping his fist in triumph. “Minus thirty-one degrees.”

  Warren levelled off at 25,000 feet. Santos waited for their airspeed to stabilize and leaped onto the step to shoot a second celestial fix. He finished the shot and quickly sat down to resolve the readings and plot them on his chart. He stepped on the intercom switch under his right foot, trying to sound as cool as possible. “Groundspeed 260. And that was during a climb. I’ll get another fix in twenty minutes, but I’m guessing we’re out of it.”

  “Well done,” Warren said. “How we doing on fuel.”

  Again, Santos and Hale went through the drill, and Santos plotted the results on the fuel graph. “We’re okay for Clark, but we’ll cut the reserve in half.”

  Warren felt the heavy weight that had been bearing down on him start to yield. “That’s why they call it reserve fuel,” he said.

  “Clark at 0400,” Santos said, announcing their new ETA.

  Warren glanced at his watch. It was exactly 0232. “We finally caught a break,” he announced. He reached for his water bottle and took a long pull. He felt unbelievably weary and his right shoulder ached. “Boz, I’m gonna catch a little shut-eye.”

  “I got it,” Bosko replied. He glanced at his aircraft commander. Warren was sound asleep.

  “The Captain deserves the Air Force Cross,” Hale said. The Air Force Cross was the Air Force’s second highest award for valour, exceeded only by the Medal of Honour.