The Trash Haulers (20 page)

“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.

Santos grunted an affirmative but kept working on a pre-comp for a third celestial fix. He stood up and stretched.

“A high roller will have to write the recommendation.”

“That would be Hardy,” Bosko said. “Do you think he’ll do it.”

“Twenty-four hours ago,” Santos replied, “I’d have said ‘fat chance.’ But now?” He thought for a moment. “Yeah, he would. I’ll ask him.”

*

Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

The soldier escorting Kim-Ly and Captain Lam gave the smouldering ZSU-23 a wide birth, worried that a high-explosive round might cook off. They all covered their noses at the smell of burning flesh. Small fires still burning in the underbrush gave off enough light to reveal the cave entrance. Kim-Ly spoke to the guard posted outside and handed him a note. They didn’t have to wait long for a young woman to escort them inside.

The woman immediately recognized Kim-Ly and, with tears in her eyes, motioned them into the cave. They were careful to step over the human wreckage lying on the floor, and Kim-Ly counted twenty-three wounded near the entrance alone. They found the alcove where Dinh was holding court and stood quietly against the side wall, waiting to be recognized. Major Cao saw them and whispered a warning in Dinh’s ear. Lam was holding his AK-47 across his chest.

“You do not bring weapons into my command post,” Dinh said. Cao drew his semi-automatic and held it at the ready against his chest, the butt resting in the palm of his left hand. Lam ejected the magazine without clearing the chamber and lowered the assault rifle, its muzzle pointed down. He tossed the magazine to Cao who quickly holstered his pistol. The two men exchanged studied looks.

“I do understand why you forgot,” Dinh said, willing to drop the point. There was no doubt that he was in control. “Your report.”

“We are destroyed,” Lam said.

“Nonsense,” Dinh snorted.

“You may go outside and see for yourself,” Lam said. His voice was flat, without emotion. “The Sergey and crew destroyed. The observation teams above us destroyed. All our mortar teams destroyed. My entire company killed or wounded. Over three hundred of the cadre killed or wounded.”

“And may I ask how this happened?” Dinh said, his voice sharp and on the edge of panic.

Kim-Ly answered. “We were caught in the open by the Air Pirates and could not hide from their bombs.”

“Nonsense!” Dinh roared, coming to his feet. He sat down, needing time to think. Cao handed him a note, giving him the break he needed. Dinh glanced at the note and looked up, genuinely shocked.

“Who gave you this?” Cao pointed at Kim-Ly. “This is treason!” Dinh shouted.

Kim-Ly nodded in agreement. “I gave my husband to the Bru so he might live.” She smiled. “I was surprised that they did not kill me.”

“A mistake that must be rectified,” Dinh said. He thought for a moment. “The comrades must be told why they failed. They must know of your dereliction of duty that caused so many of them to be sacrificed.” He liked the sound of his words. “Because of your treason, we have no choice but to fall back and regroup in the Binh Tram. There, you will be executed by hanging before the assembled cadre.” The more he envisioned the scene, the better he felt. “Captain Lam, you will carry out the execution.” He turned to Cao. “And you will give the order.”

“I cannot give that order,” Cao said.

Dinh’s eyes widened as Lam swung his AK-47 up and squeezed the trigger. A single shot rang out, driving everyone to the ground except Kim-Ly and Lam.

Cao was the first to react. He struggled to his knees and crawled over to the prostrate colonel. Dinh’s mouth was moving but no words came out. The single 7.62mm round had struck him in the chest, ripping his right lung out. Cao moved his right forefinger in front of Dinh’s eyes. Satisfied that he was still conscious, Cao stood up, his hands spread wide in peace.

“We have lost a valiant comrade-in-arms. His memory will be enshrined with the heroes of the War.” He looked down, smiling. “We will honour your sacrifice by burying you with our fallen comrades in an unmarked grave.”

Cao reached into his shirt pocket and handed Kim-Ly a folded piece of paper. “I received this message ten minutes ago. You are promoted to colonel and will assume command upon receipt of this message. May I inform General Dong that you are in command?”

0300 HOURS

Over the South China Sea

Warren was dreaming. A sharp voice was shouting in his ear and an invisible hand was pushing him off a cliff. “Captain, wake up.” He struggled through a heavy fog, fighting his way to consciousness. A knife-like pain shot across his right shoulder blade, jolting him into semi-consciousness. Bosko was holding onto to his right forearm and leaning into him. It amused Warren that he could read the co-pilot’s watch. The second hand was passing 0259. He was awake.

“We got a problem,” Bosko said.

Warren forced the fog of sleep away. He automatically checked the time; it was six minutes past the hour. His eyes swept over the instrument and engine panels. They were flying straight and level at 25,000 feet, indicated airspeed 190 knots, and the engine instruments all in the green.
Must
be
a
fuel
problem
. “What ‘cha got, Boz?”

“We can’t raise anyone on the cargo deck,” Bosko said. “That’s not like Flanders. He’s always on headset.”

Warren glanced up at the pressure controller. The cabin altitude was holding steady at 4000 feet, which was better than expected.

“It’s been a hell of day,” he said. “He might be asleep.”

“That’s what I thought,” Bosko said. “But if he crashed, he’d have told us and Boyle would be on headset. It’s probably nothing, but considering what’s going on back there, I thought it best to check with you.”

Warren stifled a sigh. Bosko was just being a good co-pilot and given the fatigue they were all dealing with, it was best to take everything slow and deliberate. But it was much ado about nothing. Or was it?
Pay
attention
to
basics
first
. “Dave, how we doing on groundspeed and fuel?”

“I got a fix ten minutes ago. We’re okay. Ground speed 300 knots, ten knot tailwind. ETA Clark on the hour with seven minutes fuel reserve.”

Warren shifted that problem to a back burner and concentrated on the situation in the cargo compartment. If they had been hauling Vietnamese, he would have assumed VC had infiltrated the passengers and treated it as a hijacking. He would have ordered the crew to don their oxygen masks and then depressurize the aircraft. At their altitude, everyone would be unconscious from hypoxia in less than a minute. Then he would have put Santos on a walk-around oxygen bottle and sent him back to check – navigators being the most expendable. But they weren’t hauling Vietnamese. “Okay, let’s go take a peek and see what’s going on back there.”

“I got it,” Santos said. He stood up, understanding how it worked.

“Take a walk-around bottle in case of fumes,” Warren said. Santos plugged his oxygen mask into the portable bottle. “And get on headset,” Warren added, telling him the obvious. Santos eased himself down the ladder onto the cargo deck.

They waited. “Dave, you on headset?” Warren asked. Nothing. Again, they waited. “Dave, you up?”

Nothing. “What the ...” Bosko grumbled.

“Sergeant Hale, could we have an intercom problem with the cargo deck?” Warren asked.

The flight engineer shrugged. “It’s possible, but I never heard of it happening.”

“Maybe smoke and fumes knocked everyone out.” Bosko offered.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Hale said, “but why haven’t we been affected?”

“What the hell,” Warren muttered. He shifted mental gears and went into a deep defensive crouch. Something was definitely wrong, but whatever it was, it didn’t appear to be a safety of flight item. At least not yet. Hard experience had taught him not to ignore it. So who to send next and possibly into harm’s way? He only needed one pilot and the flight engineer to land the Hercules, so the choice was obvious. Or was it? He had a minor wound and Bosko was in better shape, more rested and alert. He made the decision. “Boz, you got the stick. I’ll check on the back.”

He grabbed the boom mike on his headset and pulled it back, followed by a cutting motion with his right hand, the signal to go cold mike and not speak over the intercom. Bosko and Hale understood and pushed their boom mikes back. Warren reached for his survival vest lying on the deck and unsnapped the Smith & Wesson revolver. He balanced it in right hand, wondering if he should holster the weapon and just wear the survival vest.

“Hide it in your boot,” Hale said, careful not to transmit over the intercom.

Warren quickly unzipped the right cuff of his flight suit and pulled the quick release zipper on the tongue of his boot half way down. He shoved the revolver into the top of his boot, surprised at how snug it fit.

“I’m out of ideas but if you hear shots or shouting, dump pressurization.”

“Why not right now?” Hale asked, thinking anti-hijacking tactics.

“I don’t think we’re dealing with a hijacking,” Warren replied, “and I’m not sure what depressurization would do to the wounded. I’m guessing fumes of some sort, so get on oxygen.”

“Got it, sir,” Bosko said, reaching for his oxygen mask. Hale did the same as Warren climbed down from the flight deck.

Warren pushed through the heavy canvas fire curtains that opened onto the cargo deck. He half expected to be hit with heavy fumes, but the cargo compartment was quiet and bathed in a dim light. He paused, letting his eyes adjust to the low light. He looked around for the intercom extension cord and a headset. He couldn’t find it. At the aft end of the compartment, he could clearly see Pender bent over the last litter – Tran. He made his way aft, checking on the marines as he moved down the compartment. All seemed quiet, but where were Santos and Flanders? He reached the first of the litters that were stacked three high down the center of the compartment. Again, all was quiet. He moved down the right side of the compartment, not able to fully see the wounded marines on the other side of the litters. But from what he could see, everything was normal. Pender looked up, her face etched with worry.

“Mark,” she said, shaking her head and pointing towards him. He felt a sharp jab in his back.

“Don’t move.” It was Boyle.

“What the hell?” Warren said. He started to turn around only to have three short, very hard punches pound at his back, driving him to his knees.

“I said, don’t fuckin’ move, Cap’n, or are you just fuckin’ stupid.” It wasn’t a question.

Warren turned his head slightly towards the voice. Boyle was standing over him holding a Smith & Wesson and wearing a headset. He had overheard everything they had said on the flight deck. The airman slowly cocked the revolver and aimed at Warren’s forehead.

“I was beginning to think you’d never show up.”

“What’s going on, Boyle?”

The airman’s face twisted into a deadly rage. “It’s fuckin’ Sergeant Hale or fuckin’ Sergeant Flanders, but it’s Boyle, just fuckin’ Boyle.” Beads of sweat cascaded down his cheeks and neck. The top of his T-shirt and flight suit were drenched.

An inner voice warned Warren not to move. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fuckin’ fine, which your good buddy over there ain’t gonna be.” He pointed the revolver at Tran. His words were slurred as he rocked back and forth.

“Man, you got a fever. At least let the doc check your temperature and give you some aspirin.”

“That ain’t gonna happen, Cap’n Asshole. You must think I’m fuckin’ stupid or somethin’. That bitch ain’t gonna slip me a mickey.” He glared at Warren in triumph. “You got that, Cap’n Asshole?”

“Are you going to shoot me?”

Boyle looked at him contemptuously. “I ain’t that stupid. I need you to land the plane.”

“I can do that. We land at ...” he slowly looked at his watch, checking the time. “Touchdown in forty-five minutes at Clark.”

“We ain’t going to Clark.” Again, that look of triumph. “We’re going to Hainan.”

Warren couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Hainan was a large island in the South China Sea located 150 nautical miles north of Da Nang. It was also part of the People’s Republic of China’s southernmost territory, Guangdong Province. “We don’t have enough gas to get there.”

“You’re fuckin’ lying, Cap’n Asshole.”

“Check with Santos, he’s the navigator.”

Boyle rocked back and forth. “I’ll do that.”

“Where is he?” Warren asked. “Is he okay?” Boyle waived his revolver over the litters, towards the left side of the aircraft. Warren stood up to get a better view. Santos and Flanders were seated side-by-side in a jump seat, their wrists tied in front of them. A marine was standing over them, also holding a revolver.

“Why Hainan?” Warren asked. He needed time to work the problem.

“We’re fuckin’ defecting, me and Denlow there.” He jerked his head toward the marine standing over Flanders and Santos. “Remember him? He’s the guy that stood up to you two assholes after you dunked me in shit. If I got a fever, it’s because of you assholes.”

Warren was now certain that Boyle was irrational from a high fever. Given incubation times, Boyle had probably picked up a virus days before, and not because of the latrine incident at Chu Lai. But that was beyond Boyle and Warren needed time to think.
Keep
him
talking
. He nodded in understanding.

“Private Denlow is a good man. We know that.”

Boyle was caught off guard. “It was his idea to go to Hainan. We can trade the C-130 and every fuckin’ asshole on board for political asylum.”

“If they don’t shoot us down first,” Warren said.

Boyle grinned wickedly. “You won’t let that happen, right?”

Warren slumped his shoulders, a sign of surrender. But the pieces were coming together. He did a mental count, locating every weapon on board. He hoped Boyle and Denlow hadn’t bothered.

“Okay, but tell me one thing, why defect? Why do you need political asylum?”

Boyle sneered. “Because me and Denlow are gonna dump that fuckin’ Commie bastard overboard.”

Warren knew enough. “We got to depressurize the aircraft to do that. That means we have to descend first. We don’t have enough fuel to climb back up.”

“Jesus Christ, you must think we’re dumb or somethin’ stupid. We thought of that. You descend over water coming into land, and we lower the ramp. That’s when we jettison the bastard.”

Warren nodded. “What about all the wounded?”

“The Chinese will take care of ‘em and trade ‘em with the good old U-S-of-A.” He snorted. “Fuckin’ politicians.”

“Okay, that all makes sense. I think I can make it happen.”

“Damn right you can make it happen, Cap’n Asshole.” He flipped the finger at Pender. “Or she goes out with the fuckin’ Commie.”

Warren shifted gears. “Can you check my back? I can feel blood. You may have opened my wound.” He turned around facing Pender, and gave her a questioning look. She nodded, indicating she had heard everything. He felt Boyle’s fingers probing his wound.

“Yeah, it’s bleeding.”

“Can the doc check it out?” He was careful to avoid using any rank.

A long silence answered him. Then, “Yeah. But don’t try anything stupid.” Boyle motioned for Pender to join them. She did. “Check out Cap’n Asshole here and make sure he’s not bleeding. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Warren turned to face Boyle and felt her fingers on his back. “Ouch!” He half turned towards her and looked at her feet. “That hurts. You’ll need a fire extinguisher to kill the pain.”

“Now you know how it feels,” Boyle said. He laughed.

“On Denlow,” Warren whispered, still looking at Pender. She gave a little nod.

“He needs a fresh bandage,” Pender said.

“Get one,” Boyle ordered, now confident that he was in full command. She hurried to the rear of the Hercules. She was almost at the fire extinguisher just aft of the right parachute door when Warren abruptly sat down on the deck.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” Warren said, bending over and holding his head between his knees. He sensed Boyle leaning over him. He looked up and around Boyle’s knees. Pender was moving around the back of Tran’s litter and headed for Santos and Flanders. Her left hand was down and at her side, holding the fire extinguisher.

“Private Denlow,” she called. “Please hand me the first aid kit on the wall above Sergeant Flanders head.” She stopped six feet short.

Denlow turned to the sound of her voice. “Don’t move, bitch.”

She froze as the marine reached for the first aid kit. He ripped it off the fuselage and turned to toss it to her, only to meet a stream of fire retardant in his face. At the same moment, Flanders came out of his seat and threw his shoulder into Denlow, driving him against the litters in the center of the aircraft. Denlow shrieked a profanity and raised his revolver to pistol whip Flanders. A hand reached up from the litter and grabbed Denlow’s arm, pulling him back. It was Tanner. Denlow kicked Flanders back as he twisted free. He smashed the revolver into the side of Tanner’s face.

Pender rushed forward, swinging the fire extinguisher like a club. “Not my wounded!” She bashed Denlow on his right temple, dropping him like a rock.

Boyle was slow to react before he pushed Warren to the floor. He gave the pilot a vicious kick in the ribs. He turned towards Pender and raised his revolver but couldn’t get a clear shot because of the litters between them. He moved forward as Warren rolled on the floor and drew the revolver out of his boot. Boyle now had a clear shot at Pender and raised his Smith & Wesson.