The Trash Haulers (6 page)

Santos had the numbers. “One-hour fifty-minutes en route time. ETA, 1050 local time.” He couldn’t help himself. “Hey, the barber shop will be open, and we’ll miss the noon-time rush.”

*

Quang Tri Province, South Vietnam

The American crawled through the heavy foliage on the lower slope of the karst that rose two hundred feet above him. He inched his way forward, careful to maintain his camouflage, finding a break where he could see into the valley below him. A long line of porters snaked down the main trail in broad daylight. Most were in pairs with a pole slung between their shoulders, carrying a heavy bundle dangling from the middle of the pole, while the other porters pushed heavily laden bicycles. He focused his binoculars on the bicycles, trying to identify their cargo. It had to be important if they were moving in broad daylight. Finally, he caught a glimpse of the lettering on a wooded case. Mortars. A squad of ten soldiers moved past, also heavily laden. It had all the earmarks of an attack and there was only one target, the nearby Special Forces camp at Se Pang, less than three kilometres to the east.

He checked his watch. An air strike was scheduled to plaster the valley in forty-two minutes, and he had to rejoin his team hiding on top of the karst before the attack. It was a simple plan that called for a helicopter to dart in under the cover of the airstrike to pick up his six-man team while the North Vietnamese ducked for cover. It was gutsy, but it had worked very well in the past. His team was in position and hunkered down, waiting for the pickup, and, normally, he would have been with them. However, the totally unexpected heavy movement across the border demanded he take a look. He had seen all he needed but he had to return to his team. He froze as two North Vietnamese emerged from the underbrush and stopped less than twenty feet away. They had scrambled up the karst to watch the men and women moving along the trail.

Fortunately, their backs were to him and he was deep in the heavy foliage. He recognized the taller of the two, Colonel Tran San Quan, and forced his breathing to slow, worried that any movement, however slight, might give his position away. Tran was a well-known commodity in his life and he had a deep respect for the colonel. He studied the shorter, very corpulent colonel standing next to Tran, wondering who he was.

He strained to listen, hoping for a clue. Again, luck was with him and he had no trouble understanding Tran who spoke with a clear and precise voice, probably the result of his Parisian education. The short colonel was another story and slurred his words with a heavy accent the American had never heard. It was obvious that Tran deferred to the man but had little respect for him, another clue. Then he heard the name – Colonel Dinh. The name surprised the American for Dinh Hung Dung was infamous as a hatchet man for the regime in Hanoi and had no business being in Laos, unless he was going after Tran’s scalp.

That didn’t make sense as Tran was the best commander the North Vietnamese had in southern Laos. He gave a mental shrug. It was all above his pay grade but the presence of Dinh and the movement of supplies and men forward had to be reported soonest. However, radio silence was critical to his survival and he had to make the rendezvous with the helicopter, which would leave without him. It had happened before and he was perfectly capable of evading capture and walking out on his own.
Move
on!
the American mentally urged, not moving.

Dinh rewarded him for his patience. “Will you be in position in time?”

“We will be ready,” Tran assured him. “You can see for yourself how the cadre moves forward. They are dedicated and willing to make the sacrifices needed to defeat the Americans.”

“Which, I suspect, is why you brought me here,” Dinh replied.

“Come, we have more to see,” Tran told the older man. He pushed his way back into the undergrowth, hurrying back down the slope. Dinh was right behind him. They broke out onto a narrow footpath that ran parallel to the valley along the base of the karst where two women were waiting for them. Without a word, Tran motioned for a walkie-talkie, a leftover from the French at Dien Ben Phu, and hit the transmit button. “Send Captain Lam and a squad to me. Now.” He gave his position and broke the transmission. “We are being watched,” he explained. “There is an American above us.”

Dinh stared at him. “An American? How do you know?”

“I could smell him,” Tran replied. “Since he did not kill us, he is probably only an observer, here to monitor our activity. But he might be what the Americans call a forward air controller, which means we can expect an air attack.”

Dinh didn’t believe what he was hearing. “And you know all this simply because you smelled him? Ridiculous.” Another thought came to him. “And was it a coincidence that we were there at the same time as the American?”

“We were there because that is the best point to observe the valley and the terrain,” Tran replied. “Which, I suspect, is why he was there.”

“And you deliberately put me in danger?”

“No, of course not.” Tran pointed to the west. “Right now, our greatest danger is coming from that direction.” He thought for a moment. He closed his eyes, pulling into himself. The decision made, he keyed the walkie-talkie. “Initiate Alarm Red. Expect an air attack shortly.”

Dinh was furious. “Alarm Red? Doesn’t that mean everyone seeks cover? You have effectively cancelled the attack.”

Tran ignored him as Captain Lam and a squad of six men jogged up the path. Tran quickly explained the situation. “Captain Lam, there is an observer spying on us. He was hiding in the bush a hundred meters in that direction.” Tran pointed to where they had been. “But he may be moving, probably to the plateau on top of the ridge above us. He is not alone. Also, I expect an air attack shortly. If he is in radio contact, he may direct the bombs on his pursuers. We have seen this before and I expect to hear a helicopter once the attack starts. I want him alive. Be careful.” The young army captain acknowledged his orders and quickly led his men into the brush.

Dinh’s eyes narrowed as his head tilted slightly to the right. The pleasant scene of Tran shaking violently at the end of a hangman’s rope played in his mind’s eye.

*

The American scrambled over the edge of the karst and onto the plateau where his team was hidden. He didn’t hesitate and ran for the far side as an F-4 Phantom streaked overhead. He was certain that someone was trailing him and not far behind. He dove into the brush and rolled into a shallow depression where his team was waiting. “Glad you could join us, Captain,” one of the men said. The captain’s reply was drowned out as four five-hundred pound bombs rippled across the valley below them. A green and brown camouflaged helicopter appeared over the crest of the karst, on the side opposite the attack, and settled onto the clearing in front of the team. It was a Sikorsky HH-53, the fabled Super Jolly Green Giant search and rescue helicopter flown by the 56th Air Commando Wing out of Nakhon Phanom.

The six men broke from cover just as the clatter of AK-47s erupted from the far side of the plateau. The Jolly Green lifted into the air and spun, bringing its heavy machine gun to bear on the attackers while the men ran up the rear ramp. The helicopter backed over the edge of the karst, leaving a heavy trail of smoke in its wake.

0900 HOURS

I Corps, South Vietnam

Tanner squinted, scanning the terrain, trying to find a familiar landmark that pointed the way to Firebase Lonzo. Nothing. He pulled a chart out of the helmet bag, pinpointed the fuel dump and the firebase, glanced at his watch, and checked their compass heading and airspeed. He ran the numbers in his head, doing basic pilotage: fifteen minutes to go.

“Myers, Collins,” Tanner said, talking to the crew chief and medic in the back, “ever been to Lonzo?” Both replied in the negative.

“Okay, it’s a marine firebase on top of a karst formation.” Karsts are limestone mountain formations that rise high into the air with steep sides, numerous caves, sinkholes, and underground streams. “It’s about six hundred feet above a river valley that pretty well interdicts the North Vietnamese from moving west in that area. They need to take it out big time. We’ll be okay on the ground, but getting in and out might get a little sporting.”

“Sporting?” Perkins asked.

“Ground fire,” Tanner replied.

“Oh. That kind of sporting,” Perkins said. Tanner’s confidence in the young pilot went up a notch.

“You’ve got the controls,” Tanner said, telling Perkins to fly the aircraft.

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

Tanner twisted around and saw the waypoint he was looking for, a distinctive jagged hook-like peak at the end of a north-south karst formation. They were left of course but on time. “I’ve got the controls,” he told Perkins, again going through the routine. He gently increased the collective, gaining altitude. He checked his watch. “We’re seven minutes out, see if we’ve got radio contact on the FM.”

“Firebase Lonzo,” Perkins transmitted. “Dust Off Two-Seven, seven minutes out for a pickup. Say numbers.”

A scratchy voice answered. “Roger that, Dust Off. LZ is cold. We have one litter and two ambulatory. Be advised, heavy smoke is in the area.”

“Will call when we have you in sight,” Perkins radioed, breaking the transmission. “Where did the smoke come from?” he wondered.

“Probably the Gomers,” Tanner replied. “They like to hide in the smoke, but it should be well below us in the valley.”

“Will they be able to see us?” Perkins asked. “Maybe we can sneak in unobserved.”

“Don’t bet on it. They’ve got observers hiding above the smoke, probably on the side of a karst.”

“Clever devils,” Perkins groused. They flew in silence, studying the heavy jungle below them, looking for tell-tale signs of dust on the top of the canopy that indicated activity below. Nothing. “This is the farthest south I’ve been,” Perkins admitted.

“You definitely don’t want to go down around here,” Tanner cautioned.

Perkins pulled a face. “I think I knew that.”

Tanner was starting to like his co-pilot. But it was testing time. “We’re five out. I’ll take this one, you handle the radios.”

“Roger,” Perkins said. He keyed the FM radio. “Lonzo, Dust Off Two-Seven five minutes out for one litter and two ambulatories. Smoke out.”

The same voice was there, this time much stronger. “Smoke is out.” Ahead of them, yellow smoke marked the top of a very high karst formation.

“Smoke in sight,” Tanner said over the intercom.

“Smoke in sight,” Perkins radioed.

“LZ is cold,” Lonzo replied, telling the crew that the landing zone was not under attack and they could land.

That was what they wanted to hear and Tanner headed for the smoke that was on their nose. “Hold on,” Tanner said as he started to jink the helicopter with small random heading and altitude changes to discourage any gunners on the ground from tracking them. As if on cue, a short burst of tracers missed them wide and to the right.

“Tracers in daytime?” Perkins wondered.

“They’re shooting in the blind,” Myers, the crew chief, explained. “They use tracers so an observer can correct their aim.”

Lonzo was on the radio. “Dust Off Two-Seven, I do not have you in sight.”

Tanner slammed the helicopter down just as a line of tracers arced over them. He jinked a few more times before pulling up. A short burst of tracers followed them, again missing.

“I have more yellow smoke at our two o’clock,” Perkins said over the intercom, his voice amazingly calm. “On top of a karst, two miles, now at our three o’clock.” He keyed the FM radio. “Lonzo, pop more smoke and say colour.”

Almost immediately, green smoke erupted from the yellow smoke at their three o’clock position. “Green is out,” Lonzo replied.

“Got it,” Tanner said, as they turned away from the first karst still billowing yellow smoke. Now green smoke mixed in with the yellow, mimicking the real firebase. The North Vietnamese had set a very clever trap to lure a helicopter to the wrong karst and into a flak trap. “Those fuckers are good,” Tanner muttered. The top of the karst erupted in explosions as Firebase Lonzo walked an artillery barrage across the flak trap.

“Someone down there is having a very bad day,” Perkins said.

“Could have been us,” Tanner replied, concentrating on the approach. The marines had built the firebase at the end of a long limestone ridge that jutted into a river valley. Erosion had down cut through the ridge and broken the ridge into a series of peaks resembling jagged teeth, isolating the last peak that overlooked the river valley, which allowed the firebase to bring artillery to bear on any river traffic. It was an interdiction tactic that stretched back to when the ancient Hittites first smote the Egyptians, and only the weapons and logistics had changed.

Tanner slowed the Huey and touched down on the small clearing that served as a helipad for Firebase Lonzo. Helicopters had airlifted a company of marines onto the top of the karst, along with a battery of howitzers and heavy mortars, and kept it resupplied. It was only matter of seconds before they could expect incoming fire from the North Vietnamese in the valley below. Collins and Myers jumped out of the Huey and motioned two waiting Navy corpsmen to load up the litter patient. The two ambulatory wounded were right behind them. While Collins strapped the litter down, Myers and the corpsman helped the wounded marines on board. Within seconds, they were ready to go and Collins was back on the intercom. “We’ve got their wounded,” he said, echoing the words of Major Charles Kelly, the helicopter pilot who turned the helicopter ambulance service into the aggressive and highly effective Dust Off mission. Kelly was killed in action on July 1, 1964, after being warned off a hot LZ. He disregarded the warning and replied, “When I have your wounded.” That had set the standard ever since.

Tanner turned and gave the medic a thumbs up. The triumphant look on Collins’s face said it all; the reason they were there was on board. “Where do we find them?” Tanner murmured to himself as he lifted the Huey into the air and spun it around, heading for the edge of the karst. He cleared the rim and headed down, trading altitude for airspeed. Immediately, he jinked to the right, back to the left, then right again as they headed to the northeast.

“Collins, where to? Evans or Phu Bai?” Tanner asked. The Army relied on Battalion Aid Stations for emergency stabilizing surgery and then evacuation to a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, or MASH. Dust Off aircrews had learned through bitter experience that the first sixty minutes was critical.

“Camp Evans,” the medic answered.

“Got it,” Tanner replied. With a little luck, they could make Camp Evans fifteen miles north of Hue without refuelling and have their charges in good hands within the “Golden Hour.” From there, it was a short hop to their base at Phu Bai, twenty-five miles to the southeast.

“Have you ever seen them use fake smoke before?” Perkins asked.

“That’s a new one,” Tanner conceded. “They lured us right in. Luckily, you saw it. I didn’t have a clue. That was good thinking on calling for different coloured smoke. It got us going in the right direction and gave Lonzo a target. We need to brief Intel ASAP.”
And
the
CO
, he thought. Perkins had potential.

*

Over South Vietnam

The drone of the engines filled the flight deck as the Hercules levelled off and headed north, sixteen miles off the coast. Satisfied that all was well, Warren kicked back in his seat and closed his eyes to take a short break or even a quick nap, if he was lucky. It was a habit he had picked up from his first aircraft commander, a grizzled trash hauler with over 10,000 hours flying time, and it helped keep him rested and alert during a long crew duty day. The VHF radio blared in his headset. “Roscoe Two-One, Qui Nhon ALCE.” The Airlift Command Element at Qui Nhon was about half way between Cam Ranh Bay and Da Nang, and Warren figured they were being diverted into Ubon to drop Hardy off. As the lieutenant colonel was still playing co-pilot, Warren decided to let him handle the call.

“ALCE,” Hardy answered, “Roscoe Two-One. Go ahead.”

“Roscoe Two-One, you are diverted to Da Nang. Shut down engines and report into Tactical Operations Centre for tasking ASAP.”

“Copy all,” Hardy replied, not showing his frustration.

Warren gave Hardy top marks for sounding good on the radios. Warren ran his seat forward to take control and adjusted his headset. “That’s not the diversion I was expecting,” he said over the intercom. “Now it gets interesting.”

The flight engineer, Tech Sgt Mike Hale, looked worried. “Problems, sir?”

“I’m guessing the situation has gone critical,” Warren answered, taking a verbal jab at Hardy.

“We just do what we’re told,” Hardy said, salvaging what he could.

Warren ignored him and spoke to the loadmaster in the cargo compartment. “Sergeant Flanders, tell the passengers that we are diverting into Da Nang, and ask Captains Slovack and Huckabee to please come with us to Tac Ops.”

“Is that necessary?” Hardy asked.

“Sure is,” Warren replied. “Something is going down, and Huck and Judy are the only folks around here who seem to have a clue. I want their input.” Hardy stared straight ahead and didn’t reply. An inner voice told Warren to force the issue now. “Colonel Hardy, I would appreciate your coming along also.”

Hardy stared at him, not believing what he had just heard. “That’s not your call, Captain.”

“Sir, you’re on the passenger manifest, not the crew for this flight.” Every member on the crew knew that Warren had thrown the gauntlet, and he had done it in the open. Warren was the aircraft commander and the crew had been ordered to report to Tac Ops, most probably for special tasking, and as long as Warren was the aircraft commander, he, not Hardy, would make any decision regarding his crew and the C-130. However, as the C-130 detachment commander at Cam Ranh Bay, Hardy could always relieve Warren as aircraft commander, but that meant Hardy would have to take over from a captain who was regarded, with good reason, as the best pilot in the 374th. Further, Hardy was under orders to report to Ubon in Thailand, so he couldn’t stay with the aircraft. It would take a day or two to sort out the confusion and get the C-130 back hauling cargo with a new aircraft commander, and that wasn’t something Hardy wanted to explain to his wing commander on Okinawa.

“Good point,” Hardy replied, conceding the issue. “Time to let Lieutenant Bosko earn his pay.” Hardy took off his headset and ran the seat back, finished with playing co-pilot. The men were silent until the lieutenant colonel had climbed down the ladder and disappeared into the cargo compartment.

“I can hardly wait to see your next OER,” Santos said. An OER, or Officer’s Efficiency Report, was the annual evaluation that determined an officer’s suitability for promotion. “You’re toast.”

“What are they gonna do,” Warren replied. “Send me to Vietnam?”

Santos cracked a smile. “Da Nang in twenty-two minutes, 0950 local,” he said, giving them an ETA.

*

The VHF radio came alive. “Roscoe Two-One, Da Nang. Cleared for the approach, Runway Three-Five. Hostile fire in local area. Keep feet wet to a right hand base. Avoid all boat traffic.”

“Roscoe Two-One copies all,” Bosko replied.

“That makes sense,” Warren said. Da Nang’s tower had told them to stay over water and approach from the west and minimize their time over land before landing. “We’ll do it hot.” He turned onto the base leg as they descended and pushed up the throttles, touching 160 knots indicated airspeed. He sawed at the control yoke, jinking the big aircraft back and forth to discourage any gunner’s aim.

“Roscoe Two-One,” Da Nang tower radioed. “Cleared to land. Land long and taxi clear of the runway ASAP.”

“Cleared to land,” Bosko replied. “Landing long.” The two pilots were a well-rehearsed team and they came down final, with the C-130’s nose high in the air. Warren slammed the big bird onto the runway, throwing the props into reverse before the nose gear was down. “Shut down one and four,” he ordered as they taxied in.

*

Da Nang Air Base, South Vietnam

“Nice landing,” Bosko allowed as the outboard props spun down. “I’m guessing 1400 feet.”

“Captain Warren has done it in less than 1200,” Hale, the flight engineer said, primarily for Hardy’s benefit, who he knew was on headset and monitoring the approach and landing.

Santos stood behind the co-pilot’s seat and looked out the right window. “Sum’bitch! Check out the smoke. They took a few rockets.”