The Trash Haulers (8 page)

1100 HOURS

Over Laos

Santos glanced at his watch and reduced the range to ten nautical miles on the APS-59 radar. The dark shadow of a no-return with a bright leading edge, the classical radar signature of a mountain range, split the top of the scope from left to right with a bright break in the middle. The navigator grunted in satisfaction. The
Chaîne
Annamitique
was on their nose and he had found the mountain pass where the Jolly Green had crashed. “Ban Nap Pass on the nose,” he announced over the intercom, playing with the receiver gain and tilt controls. Then he got lucky. A narrow, very straight dark line broke out of the bright ground clutter, the unmistakable radar signature of a runway. “The air patch is at your one o’clock, four miles.”

Warren and Bosko leaned forward in their seats, looking for the airstrip. “Got it,” they chorused in unison.

“Well, done,” Warren added. Now he had the helicopter in sight. “The Jolly Green is on the eastern end of the runway. Boz, see if you can raise them on Guard.”

The co-pilot dialled in 243 MHz on the UHF radio, the emergency channel. “Jolly Green, Roscoe transmitting in the blind. How copy?”

A scratchy voice came over the radio. “Roscoe, read you three-by. Be advised hostiles are in the area. Sit cold.”

Hardy was listening on the intercom. “What does that mean?”

“‘Sit cold’ means they’re not taking fire,” Warren explained.

Hardy shook his head, his voice heavy with condescension. “I know a flack trap when I hear it. Captain Bosko, have them authenticate.”

One of the documents that Santos signed for was a code wheel used for challenge and response. The navigator spun the code wheel that looked like a small circular slide rule. “Alpha Hotel authenticates as Bravo,” he said, reading from the code wheel.

Bosko hit the transmit button. “Jolly Green, authenticate Alpha Hotel.”

The radio blared at them. “The fuckin’ authenticator is on the fuckin’ helicopter, asshole!”

“Sounds like a good authentication to me,” Santos said.

Warren took over and radioed, “Jolly Green, pop smoke if area clear.” On cue, green smoke drifted over the downed helicopter. Warren made the decision. “Okay, folks, we’re going in hot on this one and landing to the west, right over the Jolly Green. Sergeant Flanders, raise the cargo door now. When the nose gear is planted on the runway, lower the ramp to the trail position and scan the rear. We’re backing up big time and I want everyone lying flat on the deck and not making like a target in a shooting gallery. Get us as close to the Jolly Green as you can.” He had to rely on Flanders to keep a safe distance if the helicopter exploded. “I want everyone in the rear to help get the wounded on board ASAP. Airman Boyle, you on headset?”

“Yeah, I hear you,” Boyle answered.

“Do a running count so you know who is on and off the aircraft,” Warren ordered. “When everyone is back on board, sweep the area and do a final head count. Sergeant Flanders will do the same and we don’t go until you both agree. There’s five of you back there and we’re picking up eight wounded and two KIA. So make sure there are fifteen bodies on board.”

“Make that sixteen,” Hardy said. “I’m helping.”

“Make it seventeen,” Santos added. He left it to Warren to tell him not to.

“Okay,” Warren said. “Let’s do it.” He turned onto a base leg with the short dirt runway at his ten o’clock position. The thin plume of green smoke from the downed helicopter still drifted lazily on the air, indicating the wind was calm. “Flaps twenty percent,” he called, slowing the aircraft to 120 knots. A lone figure emerged from the brush on the edge of the runway and popped another flare.

“Green smoke,” Bosko said. The figure disappeared back into the brush, taking cover.

“Gear down,” Warren called. Bosko reached for the gear handle with his left hand as Warren jinked the aircraft back and forth. The unmistakable whine of the main gear lowering echoed from the cargo deck. Now, the rumble of the nose gear added to the noise as it clunked into the down position.

“Three in the green,” Bosko called.

“Flaps fifty percent,” Warren said, his voice calm. They could have been on a routine landing into Okinawa. Again, Bosko lowered the big flaps.

“Turning final,” Warren said. “Flaps one-hundred percent.” The flaps were acting like a barn door, extending two-thirds of the length of the wing and hanging almost straight down. He played the throttles, slowing the Hercules and coming down final on a steep glide path with the nose high in the air. It was a masterful display of airmanship as he carried power down final, hanging the big aircraft on its props, slowing to a near power-on stall.

Bosko called the airspeed. “Ninety-five knots, ninety, eighty-five, eighty ...” The main gear slammed down just before the aircraft stalled. Warren raked the throttles aft and lifted them over the detent, throwing the props in reverse. The nose gear slammed down. “Practicing for a carrier landing, Captain?” Bosko asked, mostly for Hardy’s benefit, but there was admiration in his voice.

*

Ban Nap, Laos

“Ramp in the trail position,” Flanders said over the intercom. “Everyone is down on the deck. Clear in the rear.” The veteran loadmaster could have been at the bar with a beer in his hand and discussing the weather. They backed up, leaving a cloud of dust behind them.

“Anyone in sight?” Warren asked.

“Negative,” Flanders answered. “Getting a lot of smoke and flames from the Jolly Green. I can’t see a thing now. Stop.” The nose came up as Warren applied a little too much pressure to the top of the rudder pedals, dragging the Hercules to a stop. The nose slammed back down and Warren lifted the throttles into the flight idle position, ready for a quick run up and take-off.

“Ramp is down,” Flanders called as he lowered the ramp to the ground for a quick exit.

“We’re taking gunfire!” Boyle yelled over the intercom.

“Negative on the gunfire,” Flanders shouted. “It’s ammo on the Jolly Green cooking off. Two rounds – small calibre. Too much smoke. We need visibility.”

Warren cracked the two outboard throttles, creating a wind and blowing the smoke away. “Got ‘em!” Flanders shouted. “Someone is waving at us from the brush.”

“Go get ‘em,” Warren ordered, his voice amazingly calm. He prayed that no more ammunition would ignite on the helicopter.

Hardy shouted, “Go! Go! Go!” Pender led the way down the ramp, surprising them by her quick reaction and burst of speed. The doctor could run. Huckabee and Slovack followed her into the brush.

Boyle didn’t move and just stood on the ramp, staring at the burning helicopter.

Flanders took three quick steps and closed on Boyle. He ripped off the airman’s headset as he hit the off-switch on his, going cold mike. He gave the tall and gangly nineteen-year-old a hard jab in his left shoulder. “Do your job,” he growled, “or I’ll jam your head up your fuckin’ ass.” Flanders ran down the ramp and followed Hardy and Santos.

Pender was back, staggering under the weight of a wounded soldier. Flanders helped her carry him up the ramp. Huckabee and Slovack were right behind, working as a team and carrying a badly wounded para-rescue crewman. Hardy emerged out of the brush with a huge man across his back in a fireman’s carry. He ran up the ramp and gently lowered the soldier to the floor. Without a word, he ran back, passing Santos who was helping the limping flight engineer from the Jolly Green. “I need a tourniquet,” the navigator shouted. Another small-calibre round from the Jolly Green cooked off but only Boyle dove for cover.

Flanders opened the foot locker holding his first aid and looked at Pender. “I need big compresses,” she shouted. Flanders threw her a packet with two of the big wrap-around bandages. Hardy lumbered up the ramp, carrying another soldier.

“That’s five,” Flanders shouted. He found a tourniquet and tossed it towards Santos. But the navigator was already gone, running for all he was worth down the ramp. Flanders didn’t hesitate and moved over to the wounded man, deftly applying the tourniquet to his left leg, stopping the flow of blood gushing from a jagged cut.

Huckabee and Slovack, still working as a team, carried an unconscious pilot up the ramp. “That’s six,” Flanders called. He looked for Boyle but couldn’t find him. Hardy came up the ramp carrying the second pilot in his arms like a baby. “That’s seven,” Flanders called.

“Make it eight,” Santos yelled. Blood cascaded down the front of his flight suit as he gently lowered a soldier to the deck. He looked at Pender. “Captain, he’s conscious but pretty bad.”

“We got ‘em all!” Boyle shouted over the noise and confusion. He was crouched down under the flight deck beside the radio rack that held three black boxes. Huckabee and Slovack ignored him and ran back to the helicopter. Hardy followed them.

Pender bent over the last man Santos had carried on board. The lower part of his back was a gaping hole and part of his spine was missing. Without a fully equipped operating room, he would bleed out in less than ten minutes and be in great pain. Her face hardened as she made the decision. She pulled a small plastic tube out of her blouse jacket and uncapped a morphine injection. She jabbed it into his left bicep. “Stay with him,” she told Santos. “Call me if he regains consciousness.” She turned to the pilot Hardy had brought on board.

Huckabee and Slovack, both breathing hard, stumbled up the ramp carrying the remains of a soldier. A single bullet had blown away half his face. “Over there,” Flanders called, pointing to the forward bulkhead that formed the aft of the flight deck, two feet away from the crouching Boyle. Hardy was the last to board, again carrying a man like a baby. But this one had no legs. Flanders motioned him forward to the other KIA. Hardy gently lowered the body and stood, his face a mask.

“Boyle!” Flanders bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Head count!”

“We got ‘em all!” the airman answered.

“What’s the fuckin’ number!” No answer. “Count ‘em!” Boyle stood up but didn’t move.

Hardy walked to the rear of the aircraft, pointing as he counted. “Sergeant Flanders, I count seventeen souls on board.”

The loadmaster spoke into his boom mike. “I count seventeen. We’re good to go. Ramp coming up.” He raised the ramp as Warren ran the engines up. “Grab someone and hang on!” Flanders shouted as the aircraft started to move. Only Boyle made an attempt to strap into one of the canvas jump seats that lined the side of the cargo compartment. The others followed Flanders lead and grabbed the uniform of one of the wounded with one hand while holding on to anything they could find with the other. Santos threw his body over a pilot, pinning him to the floor. He grabbed a D-ring embedded in the deck and held on as Warren released the brakes.

The Hercules leaped forward as its props cut into the air. Warren held it on the ground until the last moment and pulled back on the yoke. The nose gear came up and they climbed steeply into the sky. A single 9mm round penetrated the ramp and rolled harmlessly on the deck, coming to rest against one of the bodies. They would never know where it came from. “Heading three-zero-two,” Santos bellowed, still the navigator. Flanders relayed the compass heading to the flight deck over the intercom and gave the navigator a thumbs up. Warren eased the yoke forward, decreasing the steep climb-out angle as the gear and flaps came up. Pender immediately went to work on one of the wounded.

Hardy knelt in front of her. “We’ll radio ahead and have the crash wagons waiting.” She gave him a brief nod and never looked up as she clamped a set of forceps over a gaping wound, stopping the flow of blood. Hardy made his away forward as Santos rose up on all fours, the front of his flight suit and survival vest were soaked with blood. Judy Slovack bandaged the head of one of the soldiers while Huckabee spoke to the huge American Hardy had carried on board. The intelligence officer pulled a small spiral notebook out of his chest pocket and made notes as they talked.

Boyle sat on a jump seat and stared at his boots, not moving.

Flanders pressed his headset to his head, listening to the radio traffic. “We’ll be on the ground in fifteen minutes,” he called. He handed Santos a towel and bent over the soldier the navigator was sitting with. Flanders stared at the lifeless soldier and shook his head. “I’ll take it from here, Captain.” Santos staggered to his feet and shed his survival vest that was still dripping with blood. He headed for the flight deck, forever a changed man. Huckabee followed him up the ladder.

“Captain Warren,” Huckabee said. “I debriefed the team leader and need to get to Intel ASAP when we’re on the ground. And I do mean ASAP.”

Warren understood and keyed the radio, calling Nakhon Phanom. “Invert, Roscoe Two-One. Have transport waiting when we land.”

“Roscoe Two-One, we’re very busy here. Expect a delay.” The implication was clear; trash haulers had low priority.

Hardy was on the navigator’s headset. “Let me handle this one.” He hit the radio transmit button. “Invert, be advised Roscoe Two-One has a code three on board with critical business. I’ll let you explain why he was delayed. Please log this request with your initials.”

The radio crackled. “Transport will be waiting, sir.”

Warren and Bosko stared at Hardy, not believing what they had heard. A code three was the VIP designation of a very high-ranking passenger in the military pantheon that ranked just below the trinity of President, Vice President, and cabinet secretary. “Colonel,” Warren protested, “they’ll think we have a four-star on board, which we ain’t got. The wing commander at Naked Fanny is probably wetting his pants as we speak. He is gonna be one pissed-off colonel.”