by Tom Wilson
The wind made a shrill sound as it rushed over the rent in the Plexiglas.
"Hell," said Benny, "I just saw the tailpipe-overheat light flicker." He throttled back a bit.
"We just went blind," said the Bear. "The Weasel gear just blew. No power."
"Kingfish four is at your seven o'clock. I'm jettisoning my bombs, lead."
"Roger. Let's head west and you look us over, four."
"Better head about two-ninety degrees," the Bear estimated. "We've got no radar warning gear, and there weren't any threats out that way."
Benny turned right twenty degrees to a heading of two-nine-zero.
"Anyway," muttered the Bear, "we know what that area's like on the ground."
"Shit, don't say that," said Benny.
"The gomers just had to give us that shot on our last mission to pack six," grumbled the Bear. "They keep pissing me off, I'll volunteer for another hundred."
"The tailpipe-overheat light just flickered again."
"C'mon baby, you can do it," said the Bear, patting the instrument panel.
They were ten miles from the Red River, and would cross it a few miles south of Yen Bai.
The aircraft lurched violently, then recovered. "We just had a granddaddy compressor stall," said Benny, his voice steady.
"Well, stop it," the Bear admonished, trying to joke. Hell, might as well, he told himself.
"Tailpipe-overheat lamp is flickering more now. I don't know if we're going to make it to the Red River, Bear."
"Sure we will." The Bear tried to keep worry from his voice. "She just needs a little care and attention. You make it back home, baby, and we'll help Sergeant Tiehl give you a wax job."
The engine roared wildly, calmed, then went into a cycle of roars and calms. It was like riding a wild bronc.
"You're belching a shitload of fire and smoke, Kingfish three."
"Ro-ger." Benny's voice was jolted by a wild buck.
"You got a chunk of upper fuselage missing a few feet behind the Bear's seat, with some wire hanging out like spaghetti," called Tiny.
"We're close, Benny. Red River's just ahead," said the Bear. He'd been unable to keep a quiver from his voice. He removed his sunglasses and put them, along with his cigarettes and lighter, into his g-suit's leg pocket, zippering them securely in place.
"Yeah," said Benny. "We can glide that far. We want to make it far as we can, though."
The engine went into a sustained, loud roar.
"I've lost throttle control," radioed Benny. "It went to a hundred percent all by itself," he said to the Bear.
Benny took advantage of the situation by pulling the nose upward, and they soared higher, through 12,000 feet. They crossed the Red River, still accelerating and climbing. Out to their right, several miles away, a few bundles of white flak blossomed over Yen Bai.
Tiny Bechler followed them up in their climb, now judiciously flying out a couple hundred yards, probably in case their airplane exploded. He went off the air for a minute to call Red Crown and ask them to alert the rescue forces. Sam Hall came on the air, added encouragement, and said he'd join them soon. His flight was twenty miles back, still crossing the valley.
"I've got a good feeling about this one, Benny. If we have to punch out, it's gonna be an easy pickup." The Bear stuffed his flying map into the other g-suit pocket, then secured it with the zipper.
"Me, too. You doing okay back there?" Benny was keeping his voice steady. The Bear was impressed; his own voice was shaky.
"No sweat."
"Solid tailpipe-overheat lamp now. This thing could come apart in the air, you know."
"Roger." The Bear remembered the guys talking about the way Tits Ringer's airplane had exploded. Such an exit would be quick, he consoled himself.
"You go ahead and punch out anytime you want."
"I'm gonna ride a little longer."
They were approaching the Black River.
"At this rate," joked the Bear, "we could make it all the way to Takhli."
The Thud heard him and showed its cantankerous self by belching and shuddering grandly. The airframe began to chatter and shake as the engine went through a series of tortured compression stalls. Then the engine quit, leaving a silence so total that the air whistling through the canopy crack was loud.
"I'm dead-sticking it," said Benny. "Trying to pick a good spot for us to punch out."
The Bear felt giddy with emotion. "Pick a good one. Maybe next to a bar down there?"
The Thud had poor gliding characteristics, and with no engine to power them they began to rapidly lose altitude.
"We're through ten thousand feet," said Benny. The engine had quit at 14,000.
They were abeam the Black River.
"Kingfish three, you are burning, starting to torch. Get out!"
"Your turn, Bear," yelled Benny. "See you on the ground."
"It's been a superb show. We done good, babe."
The Bear rotated both ejection handles back. The canopy released on only one side and hung there.
The Bear shoved upward, hard. The canopy cocked up, then was swept away by the airflow. He drew a breath, pulled himself down into the seat, and squeezed the right handle. The familiar kick in the butt and rush of wind. He tumbled, still in the seat, grabbed it, and pushed it away.
He was falling through the air near the seat, still tumbling, the world gyrating beneath him. The chute would automatically open when it sensed the proper altitude.
Screw that waiting to see if it would open! He yanked the ripcord handle free from its clamps and smoothly pulled it.
He felt a jolt, then was swinging in a great arc under the billowing chute. He reached back, found and shut off the beeper, then found the loops in the risers and pulled, reconfiguring the chute.
Hell, a few more ejections and he'd be a pro.
He disconnected one side of his mask and let it dangle free, then looked around. Lush, green, tree-covered mountainside below. Farm fields off to his left and forward. The river out there just a mile or two. He was looking and moving eastward. He laboriously guided the chute around until he was facing west and spotted a parachute in the distance. He couldn't tell if Benny was moving in his chute, but it looked like it was being steered. Good.
He looked below again, now with his bearings about him. Straight ahead was west, his favorite direction; the mountainside was below, sloping away and trees ending at the edge of a large field. Off to his left, to the south, were rows of trees. An old rubber plantation? To his right and behind were forests and a few farm fields. To his left again. A group of buildings. Dots moved about. People! Surely they could see him, with the parachute billowing above and the bright-yellow raft dangling like a beacon. He fumbled at his g-suit to find the orange survival knife with its open-hook blade.
Benny was higher, heading toward the edge of the trees near the open field.
Closer to the ground now, he could see individual trees. He reached down with the knife's hook, cut the lanyard of the suspended life raft, and watched as it fell away. He stuffed the knife back into its pouch in the g-suit and snapped it secure.
Very close to the ground now and still over trees. A last look at Benny's position, then back down. Not so lucky this time as the last. He'd be landing in trees. At the last second he tried to steer for a small clearing he saw. Was halfway there when his legs hit a limb and he banged against a tree. He was stunned with sharp pain as his chute hung up and he was jerked to a rude stop. One testicle caught in the strap. He almost clawed his way up the risers as he readjusted the crotch strap.
He was hanging suspended more than ten feet from the ground. He tried to gingerly settle back into the parachute harness, groaned at the sharp pain, then held himself up and released the chest and leg straps. He slipped through slowly, awkwardly, holding to the straps with his hands. He dangled, holding onto the harness, then dropped.
The drop was only six feet or so, but the jolt hurt. He gingerly felt himself and groused about not s
teering the chute toward clearing sooner. He retrieved the survival kit and looked about.
The hillside was steep. He made his way down to a relatively flat area, waddling because of the sickening ache in his balls, then slowly knelt and went through the kit.
Last time he'd had the parachute panel to carry it all in, but this time the chute was hung in the tree. He tossed aside the bullshit things, like the desalinization kit and extra knife, added the pemmican bars, signal mirror, and compass to his bulging g-suit pockets and stuffed the first-aid kit and map into his vest.
No time for more. Civilization was too close at hand.
He pushed his helmet and the survival kit under a bush, paused to rub black dirt over his face to help with the telltale smell of soap—like Grandma Bowes's people had taught him—and sucked in the biggest breath possible. He exhaled, feeling lightheaded. He pulled on his sunglasses and somehow felt better about things.
He heard the roar of jet engines. Pulling out a radio, he selected TRANS/REC.
30/1440L—Bach Mai Hospital, Hanoi DRV
Li Binh
"How are you this morning, husband?" she asked.
The apparition, swathed and swaddled in white, lay before her. They'd told her he was conscious and aware. The thing in there twitched.
She sat on the chair an orderly had put in place beside it.
He moved again, and she saw the eye flutter and try to open. There was one eye hole, a space at the nostrils, and a tiny hole at the mouth into which a tube was inserted. Other tubes ran from his groin and his arms.
"You are a hero, and General Giap himself has called attention to your brave actions at Bac Can. He spoke before the politburo about the bravery of the Tiger of Dien Bien Phu. Colonel-General Dung personally called me after a second meeting, to tell me that I must bear up well myself."
A movement of the eye. It was indeed open.
"General Dung also said to tell you that he has identified the perfidious traitor who allowed the damage to the steel mill. Lieutenant Colonel Nguy was brought before a tribunal and stripped of all rank and position."
The eye opened wider.
"I saw Colonel Nguy when they dragged him about Ba Dinh Square, a placard around his neck and his hands tied behind him. A disgraceful sight. To think that he has betrayed your trust so totally. General Dung said they will send him to the south as a private soldier."
Xuan spoke something unintelligible, and the croaking sound startled her.
"General Dung said you would be interested, and to make sure I told you about that."
The elevated hand trembled. The body with only one arm and one eye gave a great shudder. He had tried to move and now made a low moaning sound.
"The Russian, Gregarian, was also wounded, but not nearly as badly as you. Just a few burns, I believe. When he mends sufficiently, he will be returned to Russia. Many of his men who were with him were killed, and I have heard that he is in trouble with his people because he had guaranteed their safety."
She heard him speak again, but could understand only the word "Wisdom."
"The large radar there was damaged, but my nephew says it can be repaired. I believe some of the equipment from the control center is to be transported and set up at Phuc Yen airfield."
He spoke low. In protest?
"You will be happy to learn that your position is being filled by a most capable person, husband. My nephew is working hard to rebuild your fence of steel so the Americans will not be able to succeed again as they did at Thai Nguyen."
"Li Binh." Xuan Nha's words came in a weak hiss.
She bent down, closer to his lips, and was able to understand some of what he said.
"We can not stop . . . We can shoot . . . but . . . not stop them. Only you . . ." He moaned and took a breath. "Only you can . . . stop them."
The body shook again, and the eye fluttered then closed.
She thought about what he had said for a moment, then called the orderly. He edged her aside, then bent over and carefully examined him.
"Is he alive?" she asked. It did not matter to her. His continued presence would be a burden to deal with. She was the wife of a Hero of the Republic, and it would not matter if the hero was alive.
The orderly examined the patient closely, then stepped back to regard her. "He is unconscious, Madame Binh. It may be some time before he is awake again. It is like that with severe injuries, when the patient is heavily sedated. Do you wish for me to call you when he is conscious?"
She looked again, pondered, then shook her head. "I do not think so. If it looks as if he will recover, tell me."
She gathered her things and left without looking back.
30/1530L—Termite Hill, Near Black River, North Vietnam
Bear Stewart
The Bear watched from the edge of the forested mountainside. Heard nothing except the rumble of jets up above, couldn't see the slightest movement.
He was in a copse of squat trees abutting the field, a grassy expanse at least half a mile wide. Twenty yards out into the field a huge, abandoned termite mound rudely jutted ten feet upward.
He scurried out to the mound, flopped at its base, and lay still, then watched and listened for ten seconds more. He turned over and stared upward, to see another flight of Thuds arrive, this one from the west.
It was 1545. He'd been on the ground for an hour now.
More than half an hour since he'd spoken to Kingfish and Mallard flight. He'd told them he would make his way to the clearing. They'd said rescue would be arriving in an hour or so.
Benny hadn't checked in yet when he'd talked to Sam. He had switched off his emergency beeper, indicating that he was alive and functioning, but he hadn't checked in on the radio before the Bear had started down the hillside. That had concerned the Bear. Benny had landed somewhere in this general area, and the Bear had hoped to come across him.
At the base of the termite mound, the Bear laid out his treasures, like a surgeon preparing to operate: signal mirror, his .357 magnum revolver, three taped ammo pouches, two radios, two flares. Satisfied with his orderliness he hefted a radio, switched it on, and called for Mallard lead.
Sam Hall had left for the tanker to refuel, Hawk lead said. He was talking to Max Foley. The Bear flashed a two-ship element above with the signal mirror as he alternately listened and talked.
"You in contact with Alpha yet?" asked the Bear.
"Roger, Bravo," answered Max.
"See my flash?"
"Kingfish three, Bravo, this is Kingfish lead. I see your flash." It was Phil Yost.
The Bear knew a flutter of anger and thought if it hadn't been for Yost screwing up the SAM break, he might not be down here with his gonads swelling up the size of grapefruit. Then he realized that was silly. This was no time to be peeved. He'd have to wait until he got back to Takhli before he kicked Phil in the balls.
Hawk lead came back on. "Bravo, switch to three-two-one point eight. Alpha says it's your button three."
He did, making contact once again.
"Bravo, this—Alpha." Benny! The radio contact was broken up, but strong.
"I read you, Alpha," he said.
"I'm down—trees near—clearing." Benny wasn't far.
"Me too, buddy. You hear or see any people?"
"In the chute I—some buildings."
"South of us?"
"Roger. Maybe five—away—the south. I think I saw a—" Static.
The Bear figured Benny was a couple miles north of his termite mound. He carefully scanned the treeline but saw nothing.
"What's your condition, Alpha?" asked the Bear.
"Back hurts like—" More crackling static.
"Alpha, you still able to move?" asked Max.
"Not very fast. I—hung up—" Static, but the fighters could obviously understand him.
"You just sit down there and don't move, Alpha. Won't be long until the rescue people get here," said Max Foley.
The Bear thought about that and swore. He'd
gone down with two different pilots now, and both had been beat up by the ejection. He was hard on pilots.
Glenn and Benny. Two good people.
He remembered the screams and the keening sounds from the village and distractedly wondered if Glenn could be alive.
A good guy, Glenn.
"Sandies are less than half an hour out," radioed Hawk lead after a few minutes. "You guys get ready to work with them."
"Alpha!"
"Bravo!"
So far, so good. Better than last time, the Bear thought. There was no village around on this side of the Black River. The buildings south of them were worrisome, though. He hoped they housed only a few farmers.
By the time the Sandies arrived, Sam Hall was back, taking command, orbiting up there, and doling out confidence.
"You guys do a good job of getting outta there. I don't want to foot the whole bill for the party."
The Sandy lead pilot was an efficient one and spoke with authority. He tried to put Benny and the Bear on separate frequencies, which upset the Bear.
"Both of us together, Sandy lead," he said, adamant. He hadn't liked the separate frequencies before and didn't now. He wanted to be able to listen to his pilot, talk to him.
Sandy lead finally agreed.
The Bear felt he was getting to be an old hand at this. Sandy lead told them the Jolly Green helicopters were holding just twenty minutes away, waiting for the Sandies to declare the area clear of unfriendlies.
An A-1H Sandy buzzed closer. He heard the rattle of automatic guns. Groundfire. Not loud, but distinct. He kept listening, but heard nothing more.
The Bear cursed quietly. It had been too good to be true.
"There's a group of armed people moving in the trees south of you, Bravo."
He crawled up on the mound, holding the radio down low, and peered over cautiously. "I don't have 'em in sight."
"I only get glimpses, so I can't tell how many, but they're definitely armed. I saw a couple of muzzle-flashes from small arms."
"I could hear 'em, Sandy lead. Sounded like AK's."
"I'm bringing in the fighters. They'll be strafing about a mile south of you. Tell me if they get too close."
"Go to it," said the Bear, "and don't worry about close."
