Flight of the Intruder

TWENTY-FIVE

At the SAR Command Post at NKP, Frank Allen learned at 0015 that neither A-6 crewman had responded to the airborne controller’s midnight call.

It didn’t look good, and Allen paused in his efforts to organize and brief the rescue mission to weigh the difficulties.

The weather forecasters seemed optimistic about the possibility of the cloud cover breaking up in the area at dawn, but that was the only bright spot in a bad situation. In this area of steep limestone karst ridge and deep valleys, it would be relatively easy to pick up the downed airmen if they were high on a ridge. If they were low in the valley, though, the SAR forces might be exposed to heavy antiaircraft fire from guns sited on the high terrain.

The bombardier was seriously injured and the pilot no longer answered his radio. Allen wondered if he had been captured. He had told him to stay put, but of course the guy was probably wandering all over hell’s half acre looking for his buddy. He might have walked into an N V A camp or truck refueling dump near the highway. Maybe he had lost the radio or walked over a cliff.

Allen gave up imagining possible scenarios and dedicated his attention to the details that might help, details of ordnance and call signs and fuel and navigation checkpoints, details that would help handle options as events developed. The one certainly in his mind was to win the battle that was that he would need options to coming.

By five in the morning Allen was airborne. The ten Skyraiders-piston-engined holdovers in the age of jets,–flew north above the clouds; dark rifts had begun to appear in them. Each plane had four twenty millimeter guns in the wings. In addition, each carried two external fuel tanks, one under each wing, and a variety of ordnance that included 2.75-inch rockets, white phosphorus smoke rockets, and four 250-pound bombs equipped with thirty-six-inch extender-fuses, or daisy-cutters.

When they reached the holding fix, a point Allen had chosen and named “Alpha,” eight of the Skyraiders began to orbit at maximum endurance airspeed—the most fuel-efficient airspeed-while Allen and his wingman flew on toward the SAR area. Allen had decided to hold the bulk of his forces in reserve until he knew where the downed crewmen were and the extent of the enemy opposition.

The pink fingers of dawn edged over the eastern horizon. Frank Allen flipped on his master arm switch and checked the sighting dot on his gunsight glass. It was there, just as it should be. The stars retreated as the sky brightened. He checked the authentication questions he would ask the survivors if he could make contact. These personal questions, made up by each man and kept on file at SAR headquarters, helped determine that the respondents were who they said they were. N V A English-speakers had been known to try to lure in rescue aircraft. Or the survivors could be captured and be forced to talk on the radio. Only the correct response, as known by the man who wrote the question, would bring the helicopters in.

“Devil Five Oh Oh, Sandy One on Guard. Are you with us?” The question went out over the emergency frequency four or five times, as it had each hour of the night. There was no answer.

The waiting was harder now. The cloud tops were shot with red fire.

Allen glanced down through the gap in the clouds, wondering what would greet them on their descent.

How had the two airmen on the ground fared during the night? Would there be flak? He drummed his fingers on the canopy rail and whistled a nameless tune. The thunder of a Skyraider engine just above the trees woke Jake Grafton. He lay awake and listened to the receding throb. The darkness of the night had given way to a gray half-light. He fumbled for his radio and found the on-off switch. His first hasty transmission elicited only silence. After a second try, a voice boomed at him, “Devil Five Oh Oh, this is Sandy One. Give me thirty seconds of beeper if able, over. “Roger that.” Jake manipulated the controls with numb fingers.

“Copy your beeper. Come up on two eight two point oh, over.”

“WilcO.” Jake switched to the secondary emergency frequency. He heard, … and that parachute is about fifty yards north of the road.”

Jake pressed the transmit button, his words tumbled Out. “Sandy, this is Devil Five Oh Oh A phantom just went over me a moment ago. Right over me. God I’m sure glad you guys are here.”

A cheerful, confident voice answered. “Good morning, Devil Alpha. We’re glad to be here. Time for authentication questions. What is the finest automobile ever made?”

“A’57 Chevy.”

“And what color is the finest automobile ever made?”

“Blue.”

“Wait.” Jake was breathing so quickly he had to force himself to slow down. “Devil Alpha, we have a parachute in sight about fifty yards north of a road. Are you near it?”

Nothingbut jungle. Miserably, Jake looked about him. Nothing visible, he replied, “I don’t know.”

“Ten seconds of beeper.”

“Well, give me another fifteen seconds and then sit tight and tell me when the plane comes back near you.”

“Roger. Jake listened above the pounding of his heart. The air was filled with the deep rumbles of the big piston engines, throaty and promising of freedom and safety.

The sounds seemed to come from all directions Mounting excitement made him want to get up and run. He waited, his ears straining to Pick Out the One engine that was louder than the rest. He grew more tense as the engine sound increased. Jake craned his head, trying to see through the forest, which rose almost two hundred feet above him. Impossible. He would see no blue sky through that leafy canopy.

“You’re getting closer, he shouted into the mike.

The machine was almost upon him. The engine noise swelled, crested, and washed over him- “Now,” he said. “You just went over my head.” He had not seen the plane.

The engine noise retreated rapidly. “Okay. Not your parachute. seems to be about forty yards or so west of you. Make that forty yards northwest. The chute 200 yards north of a road running east and west and the chute may be visible from the road. Is it your chute?” His mind leaped. “Christ!

It could be my BN’s Jake thought. Devil Bravo. Maybe.” He added the “maybe in memory of the night’s aimless wandering came back “Have you heard from Devil Bravo?”

“Negative.”

Jake was on his feet and checking his compass, which still hung from the cord around his neck.

“Sandy, that may be my bombardier’s chute. I’ going over there and check it out. My chute should be west of here someplace.”

He started hobbling southeast. Dear God, let Tiger be under that chute.

“Jake? Can you think of the name of our mutual friend from Texas?”

Texas? “Cowboy! Who the hell is this? Could it be Frank Allen?

“That’s the man! Now listen, Jake. You’re right beside a road and from the looks of it the gomers had been driving up and down it a good bit. No one’s shot at us yet, but they’re down there and they’re undoubtedly looking for you.”

Thoroughly frightened, Jake put the radio in his left hand and turned down the volume. He drew his revolver with his right.

“Watch your ass, Jake.”

“Okay,” he whispered.

He walked on. Finally he saw it, a sliver of white amid the foliage.

Thank God it wasn’t in the tops of the trees or the gomers would have horned in on it by now and Tiger would be hanging a hundred feet in the air. Jake stood motionless and listened. His heart was pounding and he was gasping for breath in the humid air. He heard leaves rustling but, it seemed, in response to a breeze in the treetops. His knee throbbed, He bent and touched it with the back of his hand, and fresh pain shot through him. Damn! He started to take a step then paused and checked the gun. He had unconsciously thumbed back the hammer. If he tripped, it could go off accidentally. He tucked the radio under his arm and used both thumbs to let the hammer down.

Even with the radio muffled under his arm, Jake could hear the pilots talking to each other. Apparently they had found the other chute. To him, the radio sounded as loud as a brass band. He knew the gomers were somewhere in the jungle around him, stalking him, and before a voice could come over the air like the crashing of cymbals, he turned off the set.

With the radio off and the drone of aircraft engines far away, the forest around Jake seemed ominously still. Spasms of shivering racked his body. He flexed his fingers around the butt of the revolver. As in an animal at bay, every sense was alert. He waited, and then finally took a step forward, toward the slash of white silk clashing against the green of the jungle. Look, listen, step … look … listen … step … look …

Tiger Cole lay on a boulder, about knee-high, on his back with his arms outstretched downward. His head was bare; his helmet was beside the rock.

Tangles of shroud line lay around and over him. He had landed near a stream in an area strewn with boulders and stones.

Cole’s eyes were closed and his lips parted. His face was mottled and swollen, apparently from insect bites. Jake touched his cheek. It was warm.

The chest was moving.

Dear God! He was alive!

He remembered the planes overhead and turned the radio back on. “I’ve found him and he’s alive but unconscious. We’re right here under this chute.”

“Roger.

Jake gently moved Cole’s head back and forth and massaged the cheeks.

“Hey, Tiger! Hey, Tiger! Wake up! It’s me, Jake.”

The eyelids flickered, then opened. Tiger gazed into the distance before bringing his eyes to rest on Jake’s face. Finally his eyes focused.

“Jake?”

“Yeah. I’m here, shipmate. The good guys have found us and the bad guys haven’t. You’re going to be okay.”

Jake unzipped Cole’s vest and took out one of his bottles, unscrewed the cap, and elevated the bottle to the bombardier’s head.

The back of Cole’s head felt pulpy. Grafton looked It was covered with blood. He looked again at the helmet at the base of the rock. It was broken almost in two, the helmet that had probably saved Cole’s life.

Jake trickled some of the water between the parted lips. Cole’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Jake poured more water into Cole’s mouth.

“Enough,” Cole spluttered.

“Where’re you hurt?”

“Back’s broken. Can’t move. Can’t see too good either. And I think I pass out once in a while.”

“Maybe it isn’t broken. Can you feel this?” Jake grasped the nearest hand.

“Yeah.”

Jake grasped Cole’s thigh. “This?”

“A little, but I can’t move.”

He put his hand on the bombardier’s forehead. Partly to wipe away the perspiration and partly just to touch him. A tear or two dropped down Jake’s cheek Through his own watery eyes, he saw that one of Cole’s Pupils was dilated.

“Get me off this fucking rock.”

“Moving you might kill you.”

“We all have to go sometime. Now get me off this fucking rock and lay me out in the leaves.”

Jake unsnapped Cole’s Parachute-release fittings an pulled away the tangles of shroud line. No, Cole’ spinal cord was still intact, and moving him might kill him or paralyze him for life. “You’re going to have to stay on that rock until the chopper crewman can help me get you into the litter.”

Cole cursed Jake, who ignored him and picked up the shroud lines and tried to pull the chute down. He tugged from several angles, even hanging on the lines with his feet off the ground in spite of the pain in his side. The chute was in the treetops to stay. The sky was visible through several open places in the forest canopy because, in this rocky terrain, the jungle foliage was thinner.

“I got us into a helluva fix this time, Tiger. We’re really in deep . ..” but Jake saw that Cole had passed out. Jake unzipped a pocket of his survival vest and found the only bandage he had left. He tore off the wrapper and placed the bandage under Cole’s head. At least it was softer and cleaner than the rock. He picked up Cole’s radio from the ground. He had apparently dropped it during the night-and turned it off to save the batteries. Then Jake checked in again with the Sandys.

That done, he turned his attention to Cole. “Wake up, Tiger, wake up! Come on, Virgil.” He sprinkled water on Cole’s face. Cole opened his eyes.

“Jake, what the hell? Are you baptizing me or is this the last sacrament?”

“You stay awake. It’s gonna take both of us to get our asses out of this one. Stay awake now. You’re not gonna die on me, you sonuvabitch.”

“No way. Hey, you have something on your neck. Looks like a leech.”

Something cold and slimy met his touch. Trying not to tear the creature in half, Jake pulled and felt a stab of pain as a piece of skin came with it.

He trembled with revulsion. If there was one, there were others. He quickly unzipped his survival vest and torso harness and felt himself frantically. He found another on his back, just above the shoulder blade, and ripped at it, tearing it apart. Two more were on his left arm. Three were attached to his legs just above his boot tops. They were fat, swollen with blood. When he had plucked them all off, he wiped his bloody hand on his thigh.

He inspected Cole and ran his hand down inside Cole’s clothing. He could find nothing. He began to unzip Cole’s gear.

“Don’t. I got enough blood to spare a little. Just let me lie here.”

Jake put on his torso harness and survival vest and made certain the pockets were zipped closed. He sat down near Cole’s head and put the revolver in his lap “I heard voices last night,” Cole whispered. “The gomers are around.”

Frank Allen had a problem. He had not yet seen a sign of the North VietNamese, yet they must use the road frequently. If there were guns positioned on the steep karst ridges that ran east and west and towered several thousand feet up to the base of the cloud nothing that flew would be safe in this valley. No doubt the N V A were waiting for the helicopters to arrive before they showed themselves.

Allen banked the plane and thundered down the road again, hoping to draw fire or to spot a camoflaged flak site. No luck.

In a few minutes the sun would be high enough to shine down this east-west valley and muzzle flashes and tracers would not be so easy to see. Acutely aware how dangerous this was, he trolled across the rising ground for a mile on either side of the downed crew position. His wingman flew above and off to one side behind him, in position to attack enemy fire. But there was nothing.

It’s too quiet,” he told his wingman, Captain Bob “Pear” Bartlett, an excellent pilot on his first tour. “Let’s strafe the south side of the road and see what happens.”

“Okay.”

Frank flew toward the east. The sky was bright there, and the two Skyraiders, framed low against the bright sky, would make a tempting target.

Allen repeated to Grafton, who could hear their radio transmissions, their intentions, then lifted a wing and turned to go back down the road.

The red dot in his gunsight walked across the trees. When he reached an altitude of 1000 feet, he squeezed the trigger on the stick.

The Skyraider shuddered from the recoil of its twenty-millimeters as tracers floated down toward the jungle. He waggled the rudder as he kept the trigger down. After a one-second burst, he released the trigger and Pear fired a burst. On they went up the valley, firing alternately.

A squirt of tracer reached for them from the north side of the road. Both pilots saw it at the same time and jinked violently.

“Looks like a twenty-three nuke-mike under some kind of camouflage netting,” Pear Bartlett opined.

They made a turn just under the broken clouds at 400 feet above the jungle and started back down, Allen in the lead and Bartlett behind him and off to one side. Allen concentrated on the spot where the invisible gunner should be. Again the red dot in his gunsight paced across the jungle.

Now! He squeezed the trigger and his shots ripped into the forest.

From both sides of the road gunfire erupted, reaching for the lead plane.

“Pull up, Frank,” Bartlett shouted.

The instrument panel in front of Frank Allen exploded and a tremendous force smashed his left leg. But he kept his grip on the stick and tried to lift the nose of the plane. The canopy glass was disintegrating and pieces of the engine cowling were going by the cockpit as the machine shuddered under the impact of heavy shells. Oil poured back onto the windscreen, and he could no longer see forward.

Then he was out of the flak and floating across the top of the forest.

Only a few of the eighteen cylinders were still firing. Airspeed was bleeding off rapidly, and he was settling toward the trees. He slapped the emergency jettison button and his ordnance fell away. Automatically he glanced at the airspeed indicator, but where the instrument had been there was now a gaping hole where pieces of naked wire dangled.

He had no feeling at all in his left leg. When he tri to push on the rudder the plane did not respond.

It was time to go. He jerked the handle on the extraction system.

Nothing happened.

Sweet Jesus! He was too low to jump. No more than 300 feet over the trees now.

The road! Maybe he could put the old gal down on the road. She seemed to be mushing, running out of airspeed. He scanned the terrain on the left, trying to find the ribbon of bare earth.

There, parallel but too far. Oh, too far, too far.

He slapped the flap handle down and milked every ounce of lift as the flaps came creeping out.

He wasn’t going to make it. As the tops of the trees reached for the shattered plane, Frank Allen cut the switch and the engine died completely.

The trees caressed the ship; she bounced once, then settled in, Frank Allen was slammed violently forward in his seat, and his world went black.

When Jake Grafton first heard the word “strafe” over his radio, he lay down beside the bombardier relying on the boulder and nearby trees for protection. His knee hurt like hell.

Now, in the better light of day, he checked his revolver to see that it had ball cartridges-not flares in each of the cylinder chambers. Then he examined Tiger’s weapon, a Colt .45 automatic. He jacked the slide back all the way and chambered a round. He left the hammer back and thumbed the safety on.

When the rolling thunder of the Skyraider guns reached him, Jake buried his head in his arms. The big bullets could tear through trees and brush and ricochet off earth and rocks. The thumb-size slugs could split a man in half.

He heard the rippling cracks of the gomer’s twenty-three millimeter, and over his radio, the Sandy drivers talking about the gun. He lifted his head and tried to figure out where the gun was located, but the sounds bounced off the walls of the valley. He heard the throb of the piston engines, and a burst of fire that swelled in i intensity as more guns joined. Abruptly the fury subsided, and Jake’s ears picked up the muffled, irregular beat of a ruined engine.

Jake could feel his heart hammering, feel every throb of blood coursing through his temples and injured nose.

He heard the crash: a sickening smack, then the tortured, drawn-out agony of metal twisting and bending and tearing. The final silence, when it came, Was eerie.

The pilot looked around wildly. Where was the crash? Who had it been? Did the pilot get out?

The radio told him it had been Frank Allen, and Frank Allen rode it in.

Jake thought he should go and help him. Allen might be alive, trapped in the wreckage. But he was afraid to leave Cole. What if the North VietNamese came while he was gone?

Goddamnit! He pounded his fists on the ground and swore at his impotence.

They were trapped here, the N V A using them as bait for the Sandys and choppers. And it was all his fault. He should never have made that second bombing attempt. He should have run for the sea instead, He cursed himself and damned his o stupidity. He pulled his good leg up and hugged it, moaning softly.

Somewhere in Frank Allen’s world there was light-a bright familiar light.

He searched through his memory, but his mind seemed like an empty room.

He could hear a sound like a faucet dripping.

Oh, the light must be the sun. Yes, the sun. That must be a break in the clouds and the sun must be With great effort he made his eyes move. He was sitting in the cockpit but the instruments were not in their proper places. The gaping holes in the panel troubled him vaguely and he tried to sort things out.

Little by little, he arranged the jumbled images in his mind. His eyes moved again. The plane was sitting in red mud, an ugly slash through the jungle He tried move his hands, No good. He could not feel them.

He could not feel anything. So he had made it through the trees to the road.

Maybe that was why he was still alive. Why couldn’t he move?

He managed to tilt his head forward and look down. The bottom of the instrument panel almost touched the front of the seat. The control stick was jammed against the panel and badly twisted. His legs were trapped under the panel and blood oozed from his flight suit The panel was where his legs should have been.

His left arm was not in sight. It seemed to come down out of his shoulder all right, but then it made an abrupt turn behind the seat. The seat itself had been torn from its mountings. Well, at least his right hand and arm appeared to be in one piece. That was something.

The effort to move his right arm required more will and energy than he had.

His head sank back.

Something was dripping. What was it? Fuel leaking from a torn tank? Then he saw the red smear again. the glare shield on the top of the instrument panel. The metal was dented. By his head? His face did feel wet. The dripping continued. Curious, he rocked his head forward again. Now he saw it, a stain of blood on the front of his vest and drops coming from his chin. Yes, his helmet visor was gone, shattered probably.

His curiosity satisfied, his head sagged back and his mind wandered, thinking of this and that and nothing in particular. His eyes found the trees along the road and saw the yellow shafts where the sun illuminated the faint mist. The sunlight came across the top of the instrument panel through the hole where the windscreen had been and was warm on his face. Hadn’t he been flying with the sun at his back when he was hit? In the violence of the crash the machine must have spun around. He noted the fact and dismissed it, sleep seeming much more important.

No, he could not sleep. The gooks would be along here soon. But what could he do? He couldn’t think of any practical course, and his mind strayed off the problem. He watched an insect walk along the top of the instrument panel.

The gooks would be coming along this road. The problem was back and he worked on it. They would never try to get him out of this crumpled wreck, and under no circumstances could he do it himself. Perhaps the helicopter rescue crewmen could cut him out. Even as he contemplated it, he knew such an attempt would be fatal for anyone who tried it.

He made a supreme effort, using all the strength he could muster, and forced his right hand to move from its resting place on his lap down to the holster strapped to his thigh. He felt the butt of the pistol, hard and cold.

The work was very taxing so he rested again, eyes half closed against the glare of the sun. Too bad it had come to this. What would she say when she heard?

It had been so good. Why had she left him?

The pain started,now. It felt as if he had a knife between his shoulder blades. The pain would probably get worse.

Gritting his teeth, he forced his right hand to pull the pistol from its holster and rested it in his lap. He could do no more. Moving his shoulder increased the agony in his back and left arm. Perspiration trickled into his eyes and mouth. He tasted the salt.

Oh, he could really feel it now searing jolts of pain knifing their way through his consciousness.

With each passing minute he hurt a little more.

He blinked the perspiration from his eyes and tried to call up memories, tried to think of the things that he had loved. But it was difficult to keep the images in view. Something was moving on the edge of the road, deep in the shadows where the rising sun had not penetrated. His eyes perceived the motion but could not focus on the hidden figure. Slowly and stealthily, a slight figure in dark clothing stepped into the sun. The figure carried a rifle, pointed at Frank Allen.

The Pilot followed the man with his eyes. Oriental seemed tall, far too tall. The perspective was wrong. Oh yes, the aircraft fuselage was lying on the ground instead of sitting on its landing gear.

Engine noise broke the silence. The soldier checked the sky, ready to run, then apparently changed his mind and resumed his slow pace toward the cockpit. Now Frank could see his eyes. Finally he stepped on the stump of the left wing and gazed through the shattered canopy at the trapped man. A grin exposed yellow, broken teeth.

The pistol in Frank’s lap exploded and the man fell backward with a look of wide-eyed astonishment.

The pistol was gone. The weapon’s recoil had been too much for his weak grasp. He waited for the soldier to rise. Every breath hurt now.

Maybe the soldier was dead.

Frank tilted his head forward and looked for the pistol. It must have gone down through the narrow gap between the seat and the right-side panel.

There was less than a half-inch clearance between the front of the seat and the forward panel.

You silly shit, Frank. You should have shot yourself!

He heard several Skyraiders sweep over with their engines at full throttle and the distant roar of twenty-three millimeters. In a moment he heard the muffled whoosh of napalm lighting off.

The radio! His emergency radio was in his vest. He got his good hand up to his vest and tugged at the zipper. He was so weak he could not move it.

Unable to keep his hand elevated he sat back and listened to the thudding of his heart. Finally he tried again. This time he managed to open the zipper and reach the radio.

Tears were flowing into his eyes from the pain. He ground his teeth together and tried to blink away the tears.

God! It hurt so much!

His breathing was shallow and rapid and every heave of his chest seemed to grind something down inside him.

Unable to lift the radio to his lips, he squeezed the mike and tried to speak. “Sandy One.” It came out a hoarse whisper, and the effort sent another flaming spear through him.

“Sandy One, are you okay? Are you out of the cockpit?”

Steeling himself, he squeezed the transmit button and lifted the radio a few inches toward his lips. “No.”

He breathed again. “I’m trapped, and I’m finished.”

“Hang tough, Frank. The Jolly Greens will be here in about half an hour. We’re going to hose the area, then we’ll get you out.

Keep the faith.” Tears coursed down Frank Allen’s cheeks. Bartlett was a terrible liar. He can’t call in the Jollys until this valley is worked over good. It could take hours.

“I can’t make it, Bob…. Help me now.”

“You’ve got to hang in there, Frank. We’ll keep them off you until the Jollys arrive.”

“I’d do it myself, Bob … but I can’t. Christ Bob … I’d do the same for you …. The exertion cost him too much. His hand fell back into his lap.

He was biting his lip now and blood from that wound mixed with the blood still trickling down from his forehead.

A low moan tore itself loose from deep inside him and escaped his lips.

Oh God! Jesus I have sinned. Ha Mary Mother of God Oh Jesus I am torn apart and you’ll died for me and I confess my sins and beg your forgiveness and Hail Mary Mother of God stop the pain …

He heard the roar of a big radial engine over his screams, and he saw the Skyraider just above the sun. He saw the sun shimmer on the prop arc, and he saw the twinkles of the muzzle flashes on the front of the wings. Then the darkness came.