The Hot Pilots (35 page)

Yeah
, Robbie thought.
Considering the situation, it wouldn’t be a bad idea at all to be present when the Spad showed up in order to be able to do
a little fast-talking hard sell on Uncle Steve’s behalf
…

Meanwhile, Robbie’s Thud was no Spad, but he had his bird throttled down, and puttering along pretty damned low and slow as
he crisscrossed the patch of jungle where he’d seen Steve’s chute go in. The chute’s beeper had cut off—probably torn loose
and broken—as soon as Steve had hit the trees.

Robbie canted his port wing in order to study the wall of jungle where it met the clearing, but he saw nothing. He canted
starboard wing and looked toward the village about a half mile distant. People were running toward the jungle, but they were
too far away for Robbie to be able to make out if they were soldiers or civilians.

He considered buzzing over and using his cannon to slow them down. He didn’t much like the idea of shooting civilians, if
that’s who they turned out to be, but Robbie was prepared to do whatever it took to give Steve a chance of being rescued—

The shrill beeper echoing in his headphones filled Robbie with hope. He almost dropped his airplane into a stall as he came
around as tight as the stripes on a barber pole, frantic to get a good directional lock on the signal in case it abruptly
faded.

“Rio four, Rio four,” he radioed, once he had the signal pinpointed. “This is Rio three. If you read me, turn your beeper
off—”

The beeper shut down, and Robbie heard Steve saying softly, as if he were afraid of his voice carrying too far: “This is Rio
four. I read you loud and clear. I’m okay … I repeat, I’m okay … Think you could call me a taxi?”

“Rog, Four,” Robbie replied, grinning. “You’re a taxi.”

His uncle’s soft laughter coming through his headset sounded so clear and close it reminded him of the laughs they used to
have together huddled around the campfire during those hunting trips—Oh, they seemed so long ago …

“Three, I sure hope you can get me out of here …” Steve murmured.

“Four, we’ve got fighters, and a Spad on the way,” Robbie said encouragingly.

“They’d better hurry. I spotted a welcoming committee on its way out from the village on the way down.”

“Rog, Four. You stick in the jungle to hide, but don’t go too deep. You want to be able to get to the cleared area on the
double when that chopper gets here.”

“Rog.” A pause. “It’s tree city where I am. Where is the cleared area?”

“You got your compass?” Robbie asked.

“Rog.”

Robbie was just finishing giving Steve the coordinates he needed to get a fix on his own position in the jungle when Major
Wilson broke through his transmission.

“Rio three—Rio lead. We’re above you flying top cover. Negative MIGs.”

“Rog, boss, I’m on my way to meet that tanker,” Robbie said, giving Steve’s coordinates to the two newly arrived Thuds. Rio
two further relayed the directional fix on the rescue frequency to the Spad on its way in. As Robbie was pulling up to head
off toward where his tanker was waiting he remembered the hunting party coming from the village. “Boss, there’s enemy personnel
going into the jungle to try and capture Four. Use your cannon—”

“Negative,” Wilson said. “It’s too late. We see them fading into the jungle right now…”

“Oh, shit,” Robbie muttered fearfully. “Four, you monitoring the situation?”

There was no verbal reply, but just a sharp, crisp
click-click
. Robbie recognized the sound: Steve had pressed twice on his radio’s transmit button.

Yeah, Steve knew the score, all right
, Robbie thought. What’s more, the enemy had to have been awfully close by for Steve not to have wanted to risk being overheard
by replying verbally.

Hang in there, Uncle
, Robbie thought.
Just hang loose. We’ll get you out
…

“—Four, you monitoring the situation?”

Steve, hunched down in the elephant grass, immediately squelched the volume on his emergency radio as he heard the soft chitterings
of the enemy calling to each other. He studied the tangle of green all around him, wondering if it was his imagination, or
had he really seen movement in the jungle undergrowth?

He punched his radio’s transmit button twice to indicate to Robbie that he’d read his nephew’s last transmission, and then
began to retreat deeper into the jungle. As he ran he crouched low, ducking under hanging vines, using his compass. He did
not want to wander too far from the jungle’s edge…

He came upon a decent-looking hiding place: a shallow depression behind several fallen palm trees. He settled in, using some
of the yellowed palm fronds to cover himself. He drew his gun, a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson Military & Police Model 10,
with a four-inch barrel. He cocked its hammer. He pressed the squelched volume radio up against his ear, listening to the
whispery exchanges going on between the Thud drivers flying RESCAP. He waited to hear that the Spad had arrived.

With his free ear he tried to listen for the enemy. It was going to be tricky, all right. He could remain silent for now,
but when the Spad arrived he was going to have to signal, so that it could get a fresh directional fix, and then make verbal
contact to prove that he was still okay: When the enemy captured a downed pilot they sometimes used his emergency radio’s
beeper to lure the vulnerable Search and Rescue chopper into a trap. That was why the Spad had final say concerning whether
the chopper should come in. Usually the Spad driver required visual contact with the downed pilot. Steve could only hope that
the driver he got would be a bit more flexible concerning this particular situation.

The forest around him was as thick as if he’d gone down in the Amazon, but Steve figured that he was no more than one hundred
yards from the clearing. When the time came, after he’d convinced the Spad driver that he was savable, and the chopper was
close by, he was going to have to make it back to the clearing in order to be picked up.

The problem was that the enemy knew that, as well. Most likely that had fanned out in a long—and, he hoped, thin—line between
Steve and the jungle’s edge. Most likely their intent would be to intercept him when he made his run for it. If he could succeed
in breaking through their line the jungle would keep them from having a clear shot at him—

Until he reached the clearing. After that, he would just have to trust to his luck, and the guns of the airplanes flying low
cover…

And the chopper
would
come, he told himself firmly, even as he sweated and the palm fronds tickled his face, making him want to sneeze. Not
if
the chopper came, but
when
.

He could hear boots crunching grass. Snapping twigs. Gomer was sure conducting a noisy search …

Hell, why not?
Steve thought.
This is their turf. They don’t have to be quiet. I do
.

How long for the Spad to get here?
Steve wondered.
Maybe another fifteen, twenty minutes. How long until Robbie got back from refueling? Maybe another ten … Sure wish he’d hurry
up and get back
. For some dumb reason the thought of his nephew being close by comforted him …

He felt a tiny pinprick of fire on the inside of his wrist. He glanced at the spot. A bug—a reddish ant of some kind—had hooked
into him with curved mandibles. Steve, grimacing, plucked it away.

Another dart of fire, this time on the back of his neck. His fingers danced madly to find the bug before it bit again. He
glanced down and saw more ants crawling across his knees, exploring the tears in his flight suit.
Jesus Christ! The logs he was hiding behind must be their nest!

He suffered more stinging bites. The pain was maddening. He wanted to run from this place, but he couldn’t risk it: He could
end up running right into the enemy.

Grin and bear it
, he told himself as he tried without causing too much movement of the fronds camouflaging him to brush the bugs from his
body. It was no use. He was crouched up against the logs and the bugs within the rotting wood were swarming over him. He could
feel them in his hair, prowling the collar of his flight suit. He started to panic, thinking about what it would be like when
they found their way inside his clothes to his cock, his rectum—

Stop it! Stop thinking about it!
He clamped down on his imagination.
Deal with it. A few bug bites are nothing. You’ll live. The choice is yours. You can take this, and in a little while you’ll
be having yourself a nice hot shower and then a scotch on the rocks. Dinner will be steak cooked medium rare, and fries with
ketchup. Or you can move, and that decision will be the last one you’ll make as a free man for who knows how long
…

“Rio four, this is Three …” the radio murmured in his ear. Robbie was back! “Four, this is Three, do you read?”

Steve took the radio away from his ear and listened hard. The enemy seemed to have moved off. Either that, or they were playing
the same game he was: sitting quiet and listening for him to give himself away.

Fuck it
, Steve thought.
Got to take the chance
.

He pushed the transmit button and hissed, “Three—Four. I’m okay. Can’t talk. Enemy close.”

“Rog,” Robbie replied. “Spad will be here anytime now. Hang on.”

Steak medium rare, and fries with ketchup
, Steve kept repeating to himself silently as he huddled in his hole, the ants crawling and feasting on his flesh.
Steak and fries; a shower and a nice soft bed, not fish heads and rice and a filthy bamboo cage
—

He heard the North Vietnamese resuming their active search.

Please let that Spad get here soon!

“… Hang on,” Robbie transmitted, flying a low orbit.

“Spad is here,” Wilson radioed. He and his wingman were flying top cover to protect the Search and Rescue airplane from any
MIGs that might decide to drop by.

“Rog,” Robbie replied happily as he pulled back on his stick to join in flying top cover. “Four, you copy? Spad is here.”

“Rog,” Steve whispered. He sounded near the breaking point. Robbie wondered how close the enemy was.

“Hi, Rio four,” the Spad driver called out brightly. “Mountie here. You know why they call me Mountie? ‘Cause I always get
my man …”

“Mountie—Four.” Steve laughed thinly. “Don’t let me ruin your record, pal …”

“No way, Four,” Mountie reassured. “Okay. Turn your beeper on.”

Robbie watched from his vantage point high in the sky as the Spad driver racked his little prop-driven relic around in a corkscrew
in order to get his directional steer on Steve. Robbie began to feel optimistic. Everything about the Spad driver, his friendly
patter and the way he handled his bird, led Robbie to think that this guy knew his business.

“Four—Mountie. Okay, pal, I got a real good fix. Shut off your beeper.”

“Mountie, this is Rio three,” Robbie interrupted. “You bringing in a chopper?”

“Chopper was waiting just outside the area. Already called it in on my second radio. You copying, Four?”

Click-Click
.

“Mountie—Three,” Robbie addressed the Spad driver. “You know the situation? There’s enemy in the woods looking for him.”

“Rog, Three,” Mountie replied. “Four? You copy?”

Click-Click
.

“I’m sorry, pal, but I need a verbal reply,” Mountie said. “I need to know you’re still okay so that I can keep that chopper
coming …”

“
I’m here. I’m okay
—” Steve hissed. “They’re right on top of me …”

“Rog. Chopper E.T.A. is five minutes,” Mountie tried again to reassure Steve.

Robbie glanced toward the village. “A couple of trucks coming from the village,” he muttered.

“Fuck!” Mountie swore savagely. “This sucks totally. By all rights I should cancel this—”

“Don’t sweat those trucks!” Robbie implored, arming his cannon and banking his Thud around toward the village. “I’ll take
care of them.”

“All right! Listen up, Four. I’ve got the chopper on my other radio. E.T.A. three minutes. Move out to the clearing! Move
out!”

“
Move out!
”

Steve, huddled beneath the palm fronds with his radio pressed against his ear, didn’t dare move so much as his finger on the
transmit button. There was an enemy soldier standing on the opposite side of the logs. The soldier was facing in Steve’s direction.
Steve was hiding literally under the guy’s nose.

The soldier was maybe five feet eight inches tall. He looked like he weighed all of one hundred thirty pounds, soaking wet.
He was wearing black pajamas, and a pith helmet. He wore a thin mustache, its ragged ends curling over his protruding upper
lip. Across his chest in “present arms” position was an automatic rifle with a shoulder sling, a wooden stock, and a curved,
banana-style, ammo clip.
Soviet-manufactured, AK assault rifle
, Steve thought.

“Four, do you read?” Mountie was demanding harshly in Steve’s ear. “Move out!”

Got to do it
, Steve thought.
Can’t wait for this guy to move on. Got to make my break for it now. I’ve got to reply to Mountie’s transmission, else he’ll
think I’m done for and call off the chopper
—

His cocked .38 was clutched tightly in his hand.
Got to take this guy out with one shot, and then make tracks
.

He wondered how close the other soldiers were. It didn’t matter. It was now or never.

Steve sprang up, scattering the palm fronds. The startled enemy soldier involuntarily stepped back. The rest of it happened
in seeming slow motion. The soldier was bringing around his rifle as Steve lunged forward, blocking the rifle’s barrel with
his left arm, almost dropping his radio in the process. He jammed the .38’s barrel deep into the fleshy area underneath the
soldier’s jaw, and pulled the trigger. The .38 boomed, and blood, brains, hair, and bits of skull exited the top of the enemy
soldier’s pith helmet. As the soldier twisted, the front blade sight on the revolver’s barrel caught in the man’s helmet chin
strap. The gun was torn from Steve’s sweaty fingers as the dead soldier crumpled. The revolver tumbled, disappearing into
some weeds.