The Trash Haulers (5 page)

Tanner had a visual on the fuel dump and could make out the black amoeba-like fuel bladder, the pump, and four small PSP landing pads, one in each quadrant. “Okay, let’s do this one by the numbers. We need five hundred pounds of fuel. In and out in five minutes. Can you make that happen?”

“Can do,” Myers promised.

Tanner headed for the nearest pad and gently set the Huey down. He kept the engine running for a hot refuel. Without a word, Myers pulled the release pin to Tanner’s chicken plate and slid it back before following Collins out of the aircraft. Collins closed the right door, exposing the fuel cap, as Myers ran for the pump. Collins quickly connected the grounding lines to the helicopter and refuelling hose as Myers hit the pump’s start switch, bringing it to life.

“You’ve got the controls,” Tanner told Perkins as he unstrapped.

“I’ve got the controls,” Perkins replied.

Tanner was out and running for the empty rocket tubes half-buried upright in the ground that served as relief tubes. He stood there, surprised by his bladder’s capacity. Finished, he sprinted for the helicopter and bailed into his seat, quickly strapping in. “I’ve got the controls.” Perkins was already unstrapped and jumped out, his turn to hit the relief tubes. He passed Collins, the medic, who was on the way back after his turn at the tubes. Tanner checked the fuel gauge. “Four hundred pounds,” he told the crew chief. They were almost full.

Myers backed off the flow and topped off without spilling a drop. Collins grabbed the nozzle and disconnected the grounding wires as Myers now ran for the relief tubes. Perkins and Collins were strapped in and ready to go when Myers made the dash back to the aircraft. He snapped Tanner’s chicken plate into place and bailed into the back. “Less than five minutes, Mr. Tanner,” he yelled as the shrill whistle of an incoming mortar echoed over the fuel dump.

Tanner lifted off and spun the helicopter away from the fuel dump, again running for safety. In itself, the refuelling was no big thing, but it had told Tanner all he needed to know about the crew of Dust Off 27 – they were a team he could take into hell, which he fully intended to do.

Three motor rounds walked across the fuel dump, sending a huge tower of fire and smoke into the sky. Tanner keyed the intercom. “Off hand, I’d say the shit has definitely hit the fan.”

0800 HOURS

I Corps, South Vietnam

Tanner held the Huey a few feet off the ground, running from the explosions walking across the fuel dump where they had been refuelling a few seconds ago. “Damn, that was a close one,” Perkins said. His youngish face was drained of colour and he struggled to match his pilot’s cool.

“All in a day’s work,” Tanner replied. From all outward appearances, it was just another routine mission as he turned to the southwest and climbed into the sky. They all knew it was anything but. Tanner altered course sixty degrees to the left to check on the refuelling dump behind them. A huge black plume of smoke reached into the blue sky and three bright flashes erupted on the ground, mute testimony to the accuracy of the mortar teams attacking the fuel dump. He altered course 120 degrees to the right so Perkins could see. “See if you can raise anyone on the VHF and relay the situation on the ground to Division,” he told the co-pilot.

Perkins fingers danced on the radio, cycling to the new frequency. “Dust Off Two-Seven transmitting in the blind. Be advised fuel dump Oscar Lima is under mortar attack and unusable at this time.” His voice was cool and matter-of-fact as Tanner altered course back to the southwest, heading for Firebase Lonzo for the med evac.

*

Cam Ranh Bay, South Vietnam

“Sergeant Flanders,” Warren called as he climbed down from the C-130’s flight deck, “we’re on hold. Another passenger is on the way.” Warren always called the loadmaster by his proper title and never called him ‘Flash’ like the rest of the crew.

“I’ll wait outside and get him on board soonest.” Flanders had learned from long experience that their passenger had to be a high roller to delay a scheduled take-off, but his job was to move cargo and passengers regardless of rank. He had earned his nickname for a good reason.

Warren sat down next to the two Intel captains on the red canvas jump seats that folded down from the side of the aircraft. “Welcome aboard,” he said. “I’m Mark Warren, the aircraft commander.” Ronald Huckabee and Judith Slovack introduced themselves. “I caught your briefing this morning,” Warren continued. “You’re good, really good, but I take it Colonel Mace didn’t like what you told him.”

The short and energetic Huckabee bounced to his feet. “It was the last straw in a small hay stack.” He paced back and forth. “It goes back to when Mace asked for a briefing on the Ho Chi Minh trail.”

“The trail is Huck’s area of expertise,” Slovack added. “He’s actually seen it.”

Huckabee gave his partner a stern look. “Can’t talk about that ... need to know ... all that classified crap.” The young captain had been the interpreter on a Heavy Hook mission inserted on the Ho Chi Minh trail by helicopter. Their objective was to ‘collect human intelligence resources,’ a euphemism for old-fashioned kidnapping, and Huckabee’s job was to conduct the interrogation. The helicopter had launched out of Nakhon Phanom and the team spent four days in southern Laos observing the trail, finally capturing a courier with a pouch full of messages and orders. It was a gold mine of information, revealing more of the logistical structure than they ever suspected. Huckabee understood the value of what they had uncovered, but before they could extract the courier, a North Vietnamese patrol discovered them and they spent the next two days running for their lives.

The North Vietnamese were closing in on them when the courier was wounded. It was a stray shot, but not a fatal one. The team managed to slip away, carrying their prisoner. Huckabee knew it was only a matter of time before they were run down. Desperate, he hatched a plan to let the courier bleed out while he scratched out a note in Vietnamese, indicating the courier was defecting with the pouch to prove his good faith. But they had to leave the pouch behind, strapped to the body, to make it work. Luckily, it did and the patrol broke off, giving the Americans the chance they needed to escape. A helicopter extracted them the next day.

“Please forget what you just heard,” Huckabee told Warren.

“Heard what?” Warren said, playing the game.

Slovack gave him a grateful look. “Thank you,” she murmured, impressed that he did not carry the over-blown ego of so many pilots. She also noted that he did not wear a wedding ring. “Anyway,” she continued, hoping to make a connection, “Colonel Mace was totally bent out of shape by Huck’s briefing on the trail.” Slovack smiled. “You should have seen his face. He almost had a heart attack when Huck said the Binh Tram structure was a logistics marvel of organization and efficiency.”

“After that, it was just a matter of time until he got rid of us,” Huckabee added. “The briefing this morning was just the last straw.”

“So you’re on your way to Nakhon Phanom in Thailand,” Warren said. “I hear it’s considered a remote tour even for the Thai Air Force.”

“When the wing commander there heard Mace had sacked us, he asked for us by name,” Slovack explained. Nakhon Phanom was the home of the 56th Air Commando Wing. Special operations squadrons flying WW II-vintage attack aircraft, Sikorsky HH-3 ”Jolly Green Giant” rescue helicopters, and light visual reconnaissance aircraft made up the backbone of the wing. The A-1E and A-26K were superb at flying close air support and destroying trucks, and the Jolly Green Giant crews were legendary at rescuing downed airman. One of the more effective units monitoring the Ho Chi Minh trail were the Nail FACs, forward air controllers, who flew O-2s. The O-2 was the military version of the Cessna Skymaster, a twin-engine pusher-puller twin boom observation aircraft.

“The news Mace canned you certainly travelled fast,” Warren allowed.

“NCO’s do talk,” Slovack said. “And some colonels do listen.”

“At least those with a clue,” Warren said. “Too bad it isn’t someone in the Pentagon.” The two captains didn’t answer. Discretion was part of their job and they knew, by name, exactly who was not listening. “So what exactly are the Gomers up to today?”

Slovack answered. “We think it’s the ‘General Offensive and Uprising’ the North Vietnamese have been planning for years. It’s a biggy.”

“So they’re going to kick ass and take names,” Warren muttered.

“They’re going to try,” Slovack said. She looked at the crew entrance. “I think your passenger is here.” Lieutenant Colonel Stanley Hardy stepped through the open hatch, shot Warren a hard look, and motioned him to the flight deck.

“Lovely,” Warren grumbled under his breath. “Absolutely lovely. Excuse me.” He followed Hardy onto the flight deck, hoping everyone was still wearing their survival vests. Fortunately, they were.

“I’ve got to get to Ubon ASAP,” Hardy explained. “Blind Bat Zero-One was laying flares over the Sepong river ford last night just inside the Laotian border and caught five trucks in the open, all headed for South Vietnam. When they went in for a second run, they caught heavy triple A. The detachment commander, Colonel Robertson, was flying in the left seat and was wounded. I just got the word to assume command and need to get there before they launch tonight.”

Four months later, Blind Bat 01 would be shot down over the same area.

Warren had flown more Blind Bat missions than any other pilot in the 374th and knew how important the detachment commander was in coordinating the C-130 flare mission with Spectre, the AC130 gunship that was just coming on line. The Blind Bat pilots also had a wealth of operational knowledge that was proving invaluable for the gunship crews. “Ubon is not that far from NKP,” Warren said. “I’ll request a diversion when we’re airborne. We’ll get you there.”

“Make it happen,” Hardy said. He looked around for a headset. “And I want everyone’s survival vests zipped.”

Santos had overheard the entire conversation from the navigator’s station. “And fuck you very much,” he said over the intercom before Hardy could hear him.

Warren felt the navigator’s frustration but ignored him as he settled into the aircraft commander’s seat. He quickly strapped in and looked out his left forward quarter panel, searching for the loadmaster. Flanders was standing in front of the aircraft, tethered to a long communications cord. He gave Warren the start sign, indicating the props were clear. “Starting three,” Warren said. Mike Hale, the flight engineer, reached for the overhead panel and fed bleed air from the Gas Turbine Compressor, the auxiliary power unit embedded in the left wheel well beneath engine two, into the right inboard right engine on the other side of the aircraft. The big three-bladed prop spun up and the engine came on line with a roar. Flanders pointed to number four and Hale used bleed air from number three to start it. The flight engineer shut down the GTC and Flanders scrambled to button up its intake panel while number four spun up. Number four had barely come on speed when Flanders was back out in front, giving them the signal to crank number two engine.

They were a well-rehearsed team; number one was on line and they were ready to taxi out within minutes. Bosko called ground control for permission to taxi, and Flanders motioned them out of the revetment. Warren taxied the big cargo plane out and turned onto the taxi path. Flanders gave the aircraft one last look, looking for leaks and a cut tire. Satisfied they were good to go, he ran to the rear of the aircraft and scrambled on board.

Hardy had found a headset and was standing behind the co-pilot, watching the routine. “You’re rushing the checklist,” he said over the intercom, implying the engine start and taxi out was not safe.

“Strictly by the book,” Warren replied. He almost said that they had to be fast when things went critical in forward landing strips but thought better of it. “Please strap in so we can get this show on the road,” he said, effectively ordering the lieutenant colonel off the flight deck.

Hardy froze and his eye’s narrowed. “I’ll play co-pilot on this one. Lieutenant Bosko, if you’d be so kind to move.” As detachment commander, he had the authority to move crewmembers around.

“You’re the boss,” Warren said. He hit the brakes and stopped on the taxiway until they two men switched places. Bosko gave Warren a warning look and disappeared into the cargo compartment.

Flanders checked in from the cargo compartment. “Lieutenant Bosko is strapped in. We’re good to go in the rear.” Warren released the brakes and nudged the inboard throttles up, taxiing on two and three. He played with the four throttles, varying the rpm and power as they taxied out. The long-bladed props responded with a definite beat; Dah-da, dah-da-da-da-da-da. The Hercules was humming the Colonel Bogey March.

“Strangle that,” Hardy ordered. He was on a roll. “And I was not impressed with Sergeant Flanders’s passenger briefing. I seriously doubt that our passengers are fully cognizant of all relevant safety procedures.” Hardy prided himself on his clear diction that sounded like a formal report.

“They’re ready for the test,” Flanders replied over the intercom, adding a belated “sir”.

Hale shot Warren a wry grin. They waited while Hardy ran through the checklist. “Before take-off checklist complete,” he finally said.

“Let’s go,” Warren said. Hardy just looked at him. “Call for take-off clearance,” Warren added.

The tower cleared then to taxi into position on runway 02 Right and to hold. Cam Ranh Bay was located on the northern end of the peninsula that formed the bay and the parallel runways cut across the narrowest part, separating the main base from the mainland. They were taking off to the north, with the bay and the mainland on their left, the base on their right, and the beach and open water straight ahead. Then, “Roscoe Two-One, cleared for take-off.” Warren advanced the throttles and the props dug into the air. Without a cargo, the Hercules accelerated quickly, touching eighty knots just after passing the thousand-foot marker. Warren held it on the ground as the weight came off the nose gear.

“Lift-off,” Hardy called.

Warren still held it on the ground, gaining speed before pulling back on the yoke, lifting the nose up sharply. “Gear up,” he called.

Hardy’s left hand reached for the gear handle on the instrument panel and flicked the handle to the up position. “Small arms fire!” the tower radioed. “Departure end of the runway! Mainland side!” Warren didn’t hesitate and he wracked the big bird into a hard right turn, turning away from the mainland and cutting across the main base, heading for open water. He looked across the cockpit and out the windows on Hardy’s right side. Certain they were clear of the ground and accelerating, he steepened the bank, dropping the right wing even lower and hardening up the turn, away from the threat.

“Roll out!” Hardy shouted.

Warren held the turn for another three seconds before rolling out, now ninety degrees from the runway heading. He headed for open water and safety. “Flaps up,” he called. “Okay troops, check for battle damage.” Warren called for the checklist and they cleaned up the airplane, still climbing over open water. Warren ran a controllability check and breathed in relief as the big bird responded normally.

Flanders was back on the intercom, “Okay in the rear.”

“All systems good,” Hale, the flight engineer, said.

Warren relaxed and turned on course, heading to the north, still over water. “All things considered, let’s stay offshore as long as possible.”

“Exactly what type of take-off was that?” Hardy demanded.

“A safe one, Colonel.”

“I don’t need any smart-ass replies,” Hardy shot back.

“We can talk about it on the ground,” Warren said. “Navigator, ETA for NKP.”