Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double Read online

  It didn’t work. The slipstream had been keeping the flames away, but as soon as the pilot set it down he lost the slipstream effect and the fire was sucked back into the fuel cells. The tanks exploded in a great, greasy ball of fire.

  No one got out.

  “Son of a bitch,” Mike said softly and it was more of a prayer than an oath.

  Ernie leaned back against the stack of sandbags that surrounded the tent. He felt nauseous and he broke out in a sweat. He was still standing there a moment later when the med-evac helicopter landed near where the door gunner had fallen. He watched the medics lift the still form of the gunner into the chopper. Then the chopper lifted off and, nose down, started toward the First Field hospital in Saigon, twenty minutes away.

  Mike went into his tent and lay down on his bunk. Ernie followed him inside and sat on a chair near the table in the middle of the floor.

  “We have six people bunkin’ in here,” Mike said, as if answering a need to talk. “Four warrants and two lieutenants. The lieutenants are okay, though, so I don’t mind them being here. My best friend, John Rindell, sleeps in the bunk next to mine.” Mike sighed. “John and everyone else in here are on the mission you were supposed to go on.”

  Ernie knew that the helicopter that had just crashed had been on the same mission. Who was it? Was it Mike’s friend, John? It could have been. It didn’t matter who it was now, because they were all dead.

  Ernie looked up at the plethora of Playmate pictures that were tacked to the stained-plywood wall lockers. The beautiful girls—blondes, brunettes, and redheads—looked back at him with the same boobs and butts, and the same fixed smiles and blank eyes they had worn this morning. Smoke from the burning helicopter drifted through the tent, bringing with it the smell of the JP-4 fumes and the sickly-sweet odor of burned flesh, but the expressions on the faces of the Playmates didn’t change.

  “Mr. Carmack?”

  Ernie and Mike looked toward the end of the tent and saw Sergeant Pohl standing there. Ernie had spoken to Pohl just a few minutes earlier so he recognized him as the operations sergeant.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Cap’n Wilson has to get a reaction team up. The LZ is so hot they can’t get the insertion in. The colonel wants ever’ gun we got. We’ve only got four flyable right now and not enough pilots unless we use you.”

  “All right,” Mike said. He started getting dressed. “Who was it?” he asked.

  “Mr. Bostic,” Sergeant Pohl said. “Mr. Lumsden was flyin’ with him. Windom was the crew chief.”

  “What about the door gunner?”

  Sergeant Pohl shook his head. “He didn’t make it. He died on the way to Saigon.”

  “Who was it?”

  “It was Crowley.”

  “You knew him?” Ernie asked.

  “I knew all of them. Hell, there’s no one in the company I don’t know. Mr. Lumsden was new, a W-l right out of flight school. Bostic was a W-3 who’d been around a long time. I was on the bowling team with him in Germany.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ernie said.

  “That’s the way it happens sometimes. Listen, you want to go with me?” Mike asked Ernie.

  “Yeah, sure, if you don’t mind,” Ernie responded quickly.

  “Get ’im a flak vest and a brain bucket,” Mike told Sergeant Pohl. The brain bucket, Ernie knew, was a flight helmet.

  Five minutes later Ernie was at the pad. The UH-1C model helicopter squatted there, waiting for him. The “hog” was bristling with weapons. On pylons to either side, there were rocket tubes and, above each set of rocket tubes, one 7.62-mm machine gun. The machine gun was loaded with tracer ammunition and was used more for marking the target for the rockets than for the actual effect of the bullets.

  Mounted guns stood in each door. Albritton, the door gunner, was making certain the weapons were ready, while Smith, the crew chief, who also manned one of the door guns during flight, had just untied the blade and was bringing it around. Mr. Dobbins was sitting in the left seat, the co-pilot’s seat. He was already strapped in and going over the switches.

  “We’re carrying a passenger,” Mike said as he slid back the “chicken plate,” as the armored

  shield on his seat was called. “He’s Ernie Chapel, a newspaper reporter.”

  “You can ride there, Mr. Chapel,” Albritton invited, pointing to a forward-facing, red nylon jump seat that was right behind the two pilots.

  “Thanks,” Ernie said.

  There were three other gunships here, and their crews were getting them ready as well. The flight leader would be Captain Bailey.

  “Did you have time to pre-flight, Dob?” Mike asked his co-pilot.

  “Yeah,” Dobbins answered.

  Smith waited until Mike was in his seat. Then he slid the chicken plate forward, so that Mike was sitting in, and wrapped with, armor plating. Mike put on his APH-5 and plugged in the cord, then flipped on the battery, the start-gen, and the aux fuel pump. He rolled up the throttle, then beeped down the auto fuel-control switch, and keyed the intercom. Ernie could hear the pre-start conversation through his own flight helmet.

  “Smitty, you standing fireguard?”

  “Yes, sir,” Smitty answered. Smitty was standing outside the ship, but he had an extra-long mike cord that allowed him to move around while still being in contact with the rest of the crew.

  “Clear,” Mike said. He pulled the starter trigger, which was located under the collective, and Ernie could hear the snap of the igniters in his earphones as the turbine started turning over.

  Mike monitored the N1 and N2 gauge, holding his hand over the starter switch, ready to abort if he got a hung or hot start. When it reached thirteen percent, he moved his hand away.

  “Gunslinger Lead, this is Two,” he called. “I have a good start.”

  “Three with a start.”

  “Four, I have a start.”

  “Flight up,” Bailey said, and the four helicopters lifted off the pads, then queued out over Tent City and headed for the LZ.

  The sky was such a brilliant blue that, even through the flight visor, Ernie had to squint. Below them rolled little shrub-covered hills and valleys of elephant grass. They passed over little villages that were no more than clusters of houses gathered at the edges of rice paddies.

  Then, fifteen minutes later, Ernie saw Dobbins point out a dozen orbiting helicopters.

  “Gunslinger Six, this is Gunslinger Lead. I have four hogs. Where do you want us?” Bailey called Gunslinger as the four gunships approached the LZ.

  “Hello, Gunslinger Lead. This was supposed to be a soft LZ, but we took some pretty heavy fire from the trees near those three hootches down there. You think you can do something about it?”

  “Roger,” Gunslinger Lead answered.

  Ernie looked down toward the trees Gunslinger Six had mentioned, and he saw that the hootches were right in the middle. It seemed impossible to fire into the trees without hitting the houses as well. Evidently, Mike had the same thought.

  “Gunslinger Lead, those hootches are right there,” Mike said.

  “Torch them,” Gunslinger Lead said easily.

  “Hey, Mike, what is that?” Dobbins asked, pointing to little black puffs that were erupting

  near them. Mike looked in the direction Dobbins pointed where a brilliant flash appeared, to be replaced immediately by one of the little black puffs.

  “Air bursts!” Mike said. “Son of a bitch! We’ve got air bursts! Gunslinger Lead, do you observe alpha-alpha?”

  “Affirmative,” Gunslinger Lead answered. “We’ll deploy in teams of two and approach the target on the deck.”

  Captain Bailey and three slot broke out, leaving Mike, who was in two slot, and the helicopter in four slot to be the second team. They dropped down to a few feet above the trees, then started toward their target. Mike and his wingman were one hundred yards behind the first two, and that perspective allowed Mike’s crew to see the flash of the anti-aircraft gu
n when it opened up on the first element.

  “Dob!” Mike called, pointing. “Do you see it?”

  Dobbins, who had the gunsight on his side of the ship, nodded, then put the target in his sight. He fired the machine guns first, and Ernie saw the tracer rounds zipping in on target.

  “You’re on target!” Mike shouted. “Give it to ’em!”

  Dobbins fired a salvo of rockets, and a few seconds later the gun pit went up in a cloud of exploding dirt, gun parts, and smoke.

  “All right!” Mike shouted.

  Ernie held on to the side of his seat as Mike jerked the helicopter into a violent side flare. He felt his stomach come up to his throat and he gasped in quick, hot fear. The heavy hog shuddered under the maneuver, but the wisdom of the sudden change of flight path was immediately proven by the bright green shower of tracer rounds that slipped through the sky where the aircraft would have been in but a second more had Mike not taken evasive action.

  By now Captain Bailey and his wingman had come around for a second pass and one of their rockets found an ammo dump. Secondary explosions erupted almost immediately and then began spreading out, following the trail of ammunition stores until soon smoke and fire covered a large portion of the area. The hootches completely disappeared, showing that they were full of ammunition.

  “Son of a bitch!” Mike said. “We’ve got good intelligence, don’t we? I thought this was supposed to be a soft LZ. Looks like another artichoke production to me.”

  “Whoever’s making the wisecracks, knock it off,” Gunslinger Six’s voice said. Ernie knew that Gunslinger Six was Colonel Todaro, the owner of the private shower Mike had used. Ernie could still smell the faint perfume of the colonel’s cologne, and he smiled as he thought about it.

  “Gunslinger flight, stay on station until we’ve made the insertion,” Gunslinger Six ordered.

  “Roger,” Bailey said. “Two, report to me when we get back.”

  Mike clicked the transmitter button twice. He twisted in his seat and smiled broadly at Ernie. “How’d you like it?” Mike asked.

  “I was impressed,” Ernie replied. He laughed nervously. “I was scared shitless, but I was impressed.”

  “That’s what you call the old pucker factor,” Mike said.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of the puckered butthole,” Ernie answered.

  “There are a million stories in this hell they call a war,” Mike intoned. “This is one of them.” He laughed. “Think that would make a good opening paragraph?”

  “I’ll tell you what, Mike,” Ernie replied. “If you won’t try to write my story, I won’t try to fly your helicopter.”

  “Roger on that shit,” Mike replied, jerking his thumb up.

  “Hey, Chief, I heard Cap’n Bailey ask you to report to him when you get back. Is he gonna get part of your ass?” Smitty asked.

  “If he is, he’s going to have to stand in line,” Mike replied easily.

  Chapter Two

  Mike killed the engine and remained in his seat filling out the dash-twelve of the logbook while the blades and gyros coasted down. Albritton unloaded the ammo chutes, then cleared and secured the guns and rocket tubes, while Smitty stood with the blade tie-down spanner in his hand, waiting for the blades to stop. Dob was carrying the vests and helmets over to a nearby Jeep. Captain Bailey walked over from his helicopter to Mike’s.

  “Oh-oh,” Dob said. “Here comes Bailey.”

  Mike closed the logbook, then stepped out of the helicopter to wait for Bailey. Mike was six feet two and heavy enough that he had to work to meet the weight requirements for the flight physical. He had dark hair and brown eyes, which he kept under glasses most of the time since his eyes were so sensitive to the sun. Captain Bailey, on the other hand, was about five feet five, so when he approached Mike he had to look up at him. Bailey saw Ernie standing on the pad by the helicopter. “Who’s this?”

  “Ernie Chapel,” Ernie said, sticking out his hand. “I’m with CPI. Mr. Carmack was good enough to allow me to come along with him.”

  “You got clearance?”

  “Oh, indeed I do, Captain. I have a letter from USARV,” Ernie said, pulling a letter from his shirt pocket. His shirt was wet with sweat and plastered against his skin by the flak vest he wore.

  “Okay,” Bailey said, waving it aside without even looking.

  “What you want to see me about, Captain?” Mike asked.

  Bailey turned to Mike. “Come on, Mike, you know the order about ethnic slurs,” he said.

  “Ethnic slurs? What ethnic slurs?”

  “The artichoke thing,” Bailey explained. “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t think Colonel Todaro doesn’t know what it refers to.”

  “Why, Captain, I have no idea what you are talking about,” Mike said innocently.

  “In a pig’s ass, you don’t. You’re referring to the fact that Colonel Todaro is an Italian.”

  “Is that so? I thought he was an American.”

  “Of course he is,” Bailey replied. “But he is of Italian ancestry.”

  “Now that you mention it, I believe his name does end with a vowel,” Mike said.

  Captain Bailey sighed and continued. “Colonel Todaro feels that as artichokes are distinctively Italian, this constant reference to an artichoke production every time there is a screw-up is somehow a slur against him.”

  “Tell me, Captain, what fruit or vegetable could we use? We couldn’t use kraut, I don’t suppose, or pineapple, or chili pepper, or lime. What about passion fruit? Could we use passion fruit? No, we better not, Major Alain might think we are referring to him.”

  Major Alain was the Battalion S-3 officer who flew only the safest, most routine flights, yet his name came out on the air medal orders so often that many suspected he added his name to the dash-twelves when they were turned in. Major Alain was universally hated by all the pilots and he didn’t help his cause any with his irritating, almost old-maidish, effeminate personality.

  Despite himself, Bailey laughed. He shook his head.

  “All right, consider yourself reprimanded,” he said. “On the other hand, we have two ships ready to go down to Field Maintenance. You and Rindell are up. You want to take them? You’ll probably have to remain overnight in Saigon. The two replacement ships won’t be ready until tomorrow morning.”

  Mike looked at Bailey and smiled from ear to ear.

  “Are you serious? John and I can RON in Saigon?”

  “Of course, if you wanted to, I think there’s a supply convoy returning late this afternoon. You could probably ride back with it if you didn’t want to stay,” Bailey said.

  “No! No, we’ll stay there!” Mike said. “You’re not shitting me? John and I can spend the night in Saigon?”

  “That’s the way it works,” Bailey said. “You take the ships down tonight so the crew chiefs can get all the inspection plates and panels opened before the 56th will receive them. Tomorrow morning you pick up the two they are turning out.”

  “Right!” Mike said. “Captain, I could kiss you.”

  Bailey smiled. “Careful,” he said. “You might make Alain jealous.”

  “Say…uh…Mike,” Ernie called. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like to ride back to Saigon with you. A twenty-minute flight is a hell of a lot nicer than a two-hour drive.”

  “Yeah, safer, too.” Mike grinned. “Every time I make that trip in a Jeep I keep a puckered asshole the whole way, just waitin’ for some son of a bitch to jump out from behind the next bush with an AK-47.”

  “What’ll we do first?” Mike asked as he, Ernie, and John met in front of the two helicopters they had just landed in front of the 56th Transportation Company hangars. The blades were still turning slowly but the crew chiefs, anxious to get their part done so they, too, would have some free time, were already pulling off doors, cowling, and inspection panels.

  “What do you mean, what’ll we do first?” John replied, rubbing his crotch. “Seems to me like the question he
re is: What’ll we do second? Women! I want women!”

  John was six feet tall, slimly built, blond hair and blue eyes, with a bushy mustache. In addition to the warrant officer’s bar and wings on his hat, he was also wearing a button with a picture of a glaring vulture. The vulture was saying: Patience my ass, I want to kill.

  “Careful, John,” Mike said. “I hear that a lot of the women here have some sort of rash that’s contagious. Isn’t that right, Ernie?”

  “That’s what they say,” Ernie said. “Of course, I wouldn’t know about that. I’m the clean-living type. What do you say I buy you guys dinner at the My Kahn?”

  “Shit! You make that much money being a reporter?” Mike asked. “I mean, to just throw it around like that?”

  “Not really, but I do have an expense account,” Ernie said. “And you did help me get my story today. I can charge it off.”

  “That expense account cover a steam and cream?” John asked.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him, Ernie,” Mike said. “He’s been in the field so long that he’s forgotten how to behave in polite society. On behalf of both of us, I accept your kind invitation to dine. I’ll be responsible for him. You do want to eat in a nice restaurant, don’t you, John, instead of a mess tent?”

  “Argh! Food!” John suddenly shouted, throwing his arms in the air. “Real food! Lead me to it! Argh! Argh!”

  “Jeezuz! You’ll probably have to cut his meat,” Ernie said.

  Fifteen minutes later, the three men were riding in a little blue-and-yellow Renault taxi down Cong Ly.

  The driver weaved expertly in between military trucks, smoking, sputtering cyclos, bicycles, and swiftly moving Mercedes, without ever once touching the brakes. Finally, he pulled to a screeching stop in front of the big white houseboat that was the My Kahn restaurant.

  The restaurant was ringed with sandbags and concertina wire, and two guards stood near the gangplank, protection against the terrorist bombers who had already struck there three times. A white-jacketed waiter escorted the three Americans to a table near the rail on the river side of the boat. The upstairs part of the restaurant was open on all sides and cooled by a breeze that came off the river. The breeze was strong with river smells, but Ernie and the others were immune to practically all smells now, so that didn’t bother them at all.