Targets of Opportunity

Chapter TWENTY-THREE

Brad sat next to the M-60 machine gun in the open cabin door of the helicopter. He glanced up at the winch mounted above the door. Brad studied the hook on the end of the cable and hoped that he would never have to use the rescue device.

Mitchell's usual crew chief, an irascible Air America veteran named Elvin Crowder, had elected to stay behind and inspect the MiG.

Austin adjusted his mind and body to the vibration and steady beat of the rotor blades as the UH-34 struggled to 6,000 feet. He relaxed, checked his seat belt, and looked out to the horizon.

Leaning forward, Brad let the slipstream fan his face. He studied the terrain, memorizing the details of the contour around the landing strip. When they flew over a wide valley leading to the elongated lowland that concealed their base, Brad calculated the distance between the peaks on each side.

Nick Palmer, sitting next to Brad, keyed his intercom switch. "Chase, let's go about ten or twelve miles south, and see if we can slip in from that direction if the weather turns sour."

"He's talking to Cap," Rudy Jimenez replied. "We don't want to go any farther south because of the Pathet Lao."

Brad adjusted his headset.

"Chase mentioned that, but he didn't elaborate," Palmer said, exchanging a look with Austin. "How about filling us in?"

"The Pathet Lao," Jimenez explained in a voice that vibrated in sync with the rotor blades, "has a large contingent of troops at San Neua."

The copilot turned the U H-34 to allow Brad and Nick a clear view to the south.

"At the bottom of that tall peak," Jimenez paused to speak to Mitchell, "on the far side, is an ammunition factory and training facility."

Austin and Palmer scrutinized the terrain below them, mentally forming a map in their minds. If they had to eject from the MiG close to Alpha-29, they wanted to be able to orient to the base.

Brad thought about how different the perspective would be if they were on the ground. "Any problem if we drop down and take a closer look at the approach to the runway?"

Chase Mitchell answered, having completed the radio check with Spencer. "We don't want to do that, because there's an estimated four thousand North Vietnamese regulars in this region."

"Yeah," Jimenez chimed in. "If you look straight out at three o'clock low — about a mile and a half — you can see a VC base camp."

Brad scanned the area and was unable to locate the campsite. "I don't see any signs of activity."

Palmer pointed at the encampment at the same time Jimenez spoke to them.

"It's along the east side of the grassy area," the copilot explained, "next to the small village."

The camp was now clearly evident to Austin. "I've got it, but I don't see anyone."

"That's because they can hear us," Jimenez advised. "They are masters at camouflage."

"This is 'Indian country,' " Mitchell informed them as he banked the helicopter to the left, "and we're right in the middle of the reservation."

Brad spied their runway in the distance. "Why haven't the VC or Pathet Lao attacked Alpha-29?"

"Who knows," Jimenez answered over the sound of the rotor blades. "From what I know of them, they're very enterprising and patient people. If they decide to attack our strip, they'll wait until we least expect it. "

"Rudy is right," Chase declared as he began a shallow descent. "They're watching the airstrip as we speak. I'm sure — for the time being — that our MiG has them confused."

Austin pulled his headset away from his ear, prompting Palmer to do the same.

"I don't think," Brad yelled over the rhythmic beating of the rotor blades, "that we're getting the whole picture from Cap Spencer."

Nick shrugged and nodded in agreement. "Chase, don't you think the Cong will report the MiG to their HQ?"

"In time, but they may think it's one of their own schemes to hit the Americans close to home."

"You have to remember," Jimenez laughed quietly, "that these guys are out in the boonies… and they'll probably be scratching their heads for a while."

"That may be true," Brad admitted with growing concern, "but they aren't stupid."

Nick and Brad continued to examine the mountains and valleys thick with vegetation. Mitchell maneuvered the helicopter to the same point where he had made his original approach to Alpha-29, then started a steep descent. He constantly turned the UH-34 while varying the rate of descent.

Brad was startled by a pinging sound, then saw a ray of light appear above the door opening.

"Oh, shit," Jimenez yelled at the same instant, "we're taking fire!"

Mitchell swore, then dropped the nose of the UH-34. The helicopter plummeted down the side of a mountain as more rounds tore through the fuselage.

PZZING!

Jimenez flinched as a small-arms round ricocheted off the nose directly in front of the windshield. Another shell slammed into the side of the cockpit, ripping open a gaping hole. A half-second later, Mitchell and Jimenez were struck by flying debris when a section of the windshield burst inward.

Off balance, Austin unbuckled his seat belt and slammed into the forward cabin bulkhead. He grasped the machine gun and tried to aim at the muzzle flashes twinkling from the trees.

'You better strap your dumb ass in," Palmer exclaimed, bracing himself against the side of the cabin, "before you fall out of this son of a bitch!"

Realizing that it was impossible to aim and fire under the circumstances, Brad lurched sideways into a seat. He buckled himself in while Mitchell pulled out of the dive 400 feet above the valley. PZZINNNG!

Another round caromed off the clamshell doors that enclosed the engine. Two more shells pierced the compartment and penetrated the engine.

Brad and Nick could feel the helicopter start to vibrate. Dense black smoke began to fill the cabin as the engine shook violently, then surged and died.

Brad darted a quick glance at Palmer. "Holy shit!"

Nick's eyes reflected the terror that Austin felt. "We're gonna crash!"

Mitchell bottomed the pitch of the rotors, maintaining airspeed while he deftly maneuvered the powerless UH-34 toward Alpha-29. He could see that the autorotation was not going to stretch down the valley to the runway.

"Mayday! Mayday!" Mitchell frantically radioed to Alpha-29. "Sleepy Two Five is going down! We've taken a hit in the engine!" "We're goin' in!" Jimenez shouted over the intercom as the helicopter settled toward the thick jungle.

Brad could feel his heart pound. Like Palmer, he braced himself for the crash landing and said a silent prayer. God, let us live through it.

Hollis Spencer stared at the radio for a moment before he reacted. Hearing the Mayday call, Allison rushed into the compartment at the same time Spencer lunged for the microphone.

"Where are they?" she asked with a look of fear frozen on her face. "Chase," Spencer suddenly blurted, "say your position! Where are you?"

Rudy Jimenez answered. "We're about four klicks—"

Spencer tried again, then a third time, before he tossed down the mike. "They must be too low. Allison, get ahold of the CO of our security detail and tell him I want his best platoon up here on the double."

"Will do!" she answered, snatching the security walkie-talkie from the corner of Spencer's desk.

Cap leaped to his feet. "I'm going to see if I can spot any smoke," he said in a clipped voice as he rushed for the door.

Attempting to conceal her worry, Allison nodded while she called the security command post.

The belly of the helicopter settled closer and closer to the trees as the airspeed decayed. Mitchell pulled pitch, flaring from the autorotation at the last second. The forward speed had been rapidly reduced before the wheels skimmed the foliage, then began nicking the trees.

Streaming fuel, the helicopter suddenly quit flying and plunged through the trees. The rotors disintegrated as they chopped the tops off the branches, then flew like shrapnel.

The UH-34 yawed sideways, rolled thirty degrees, and slammed into the ground, knocking the wind out of Austin. Stunned, he gasped for breath and grabbed Palmer's arm. "Let's get out of here!"

Palmer clumsily unbuckled his seat belt and crawled on his hands and knees to the cabin door. The fuselage had been crushed by the severe impact, making the exit smaller.

Brad and Nick climbed out of the cabin door and mashed the foliage around them. Engulfed in gray smoke, they struggled over the twisted landing gear to the cockpit.

Smelling aviation gasoline, Brad moved rapidly to free Chase Mitchell. Jimenez had already extricated himself from the wreckage, and was working his way around the nose of the destroyed helicopter.

Austin unlatched Mitchell's harness release and spoke to the groggy pilot. "We've got to get you out of here… before this thing goes up in flames."

Chase mumbled and leaned toward the cockpit entrance. Brad noticed a bullet hole in the shattered sliding window, then tugged Mitchell free of his seat. Palmer grabbed the pilot's legs and helped Brad carry him clear of the smoldering wreckage. Rudy Jimenez blazed a trail for them until the foursome was well clear of the helicopter.

Exhausted by the heat and humidity, Brad and Nick gently lowered Chase to the ground and sagged to the grass with Rudy Jimenez. Brad noticed that both helo pilots had various scratches and cuts on their faces and arms.

"Chase," Brad began slowly, catching his breath, "are you okay? Can you talk?"

Mitchell moved his arms and legs, then inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly. "Nice landing, huh?"

A slanted smile crossed Rudy's face. "Yeah, the lucky bastard is okay, as usual."

Brad and Nick gave the copilot a curious look.

"We've gone about…" Jimenez paused to count, "five weeks since the last crash."

Palmer laughed nervously and rolled on his back. "That certainly bolsters my confidence."

They rested for a minute while their initial shock subsided. Mitchell propped himself up and leaned against a tree. He had a steady trickle of blood from his nose, but otherwise appeared to be okay.

Nick looked at Brad. "Should we get the machine gun out of the helo?"

"No," Mitchell cautioned, glancing up through the jungle canopy. The telltale smoke from the crashed helicopter was rising straight into the sky. "The bastards who shot us down are on their way here… you can count on it."

Brad patted the .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver in his shoulder holster. "We need to get the hell out of here, and our little cap pistols are all we've got."

Austin moved closer to the helicopter pilots. "How far are we from the runway?"

Mitchell rubbed his neck muscles. "About two miles — maybe a little farther," he responded, shifting his gaze to Jimenez, "wouldn't you say, Rodeo?"

"At least, from my perspective."

The helicopter suddenly burst into flames, sending black clouds of smoke rising through the dense foliage.

"Let's move out," Brad ordered, glancing at the flattened and burning UH-34, "before we have company."

Austin swiftly rose to his feet. "Chase, you and Rudy take the lead. We don't have any idea what you were seeing when you went down."

Brad handed Jimenez his survival knife and the copilot began the arduous task of chopping his way through the undergrowth. After negotiating two hundred yards of jungle, the pilots were exhausted.

"Shit," Palmer swore under his breath as they again moved forward through the dense growth. "I wish I hadn't cut the legs off my goddamn flight suit."

Brad suddenly stopped. "Rudy, hold it! Stop!"

Ashen-faced, Jimenez stopped in his tracks and turned. "What's wrong?"

"I just remembered what Cap told me," Brad said evenly. "The airfield is surrounded by mines. Take it real easy and slow… and maybe we can make voice contact with the security troops.

"I feel a lot better now," Jimenez replied with a touch of sarcasm. "You're the goddamn marine, so why don't you come up here and lead us to the runway?"

"I'll be happy to," Brad answered firmly, "since we've got the general direction established."

After twenty-five minutes, Palmer heard a sound. "Brad," he whispered loudly. "Stop!"

Austin motioned for everyone to hit the ground. He sheathed the survival knife and drew his revolver.

Belly-crawling through the thick tangle, Austin reached a small clearing on slightly higher ground from which he could scan the immediate area. Nothing.

Brad's scratched legs were beginning to bleed, and he could feel the sting of a mosquito bite. A ground beetle crawled across his neck, but he forced himself to ignore it.

Austin stiffened at the sound of voices. The conversation was muffled, but clearly audible and growing closer. He waited, clutching the Smith & Wesson while he strained to hear the words.

With a growing sense of apprehension, Brad caught a slight movement to his right. He cautiously looked and froze in terror. A dark snake, three feet in length, slithered toward him.

Brad involuntarily recoiled and started crawling backward. He instinctively pointed the revolver at the reptile, then stopped himself from pulling the trigger. He felt a knot in his chest as he reached for the survival knife.

The snake momentarily stopped, eyeing Brad before continuing to advance toward him. Austin forced himself to be patient, waiting until the black snake was almost within his reach. Brad lunged forward, driving the sharp blade through the snake and into the soil. Pinned to the ground, the reptile violently thrashed back and forth while Brad crawled away.

The voices he had heard were closer now, and the men were moving rapidly. Austin could hear the sound of a machete as it sliced through the vegetation.

Brad cautiously rose and saw a shadowy form wearing a camouflaged helmet. Brad hesitated, thinking the small man was walking the point for a CIA security squad. Surely they had seen the black smoke and were heading toward the downed helicopter.

Austin started to hail the soldier at the same moment that he recognized the AK-47 assault rifle. The man was a scout for a Pathet Lao or NVA patrol.

Paralyzed for the moment, Brad searched for an escape route, then realized there was no way to avoid the scout.

With his legs spread out awkwardly, Austin gripped his revolver in both hands and aimed for the man's chest. With his heart pounding, Brad waited for a clear shot. How many soldiers were in the patrol?

He inhaled slowly, held his breath, and gently squeezed the trigger twice. The soldier stumbled backward in wide-eyed astonishment, twisted around, and staggered against a tree.

The two gunshots set off a scene of mass confusion. Amid the screaming and yelling, Brad jumped up and raced back to the other pilots.

"This way!" Austin pointed as a dozen shots rang through the air. "Head straight through there and keep moving!"

Petrified, Nick paused. "What are you going to do?"

"Move it!" Brad ordered as Jimenez and Mitchell thrashed into the deep foliage. "I'll catch up!"

Austin turned to fire another round and heard shooting in the distance. He could distinguish sporadic rifle fire between the bursts from at least two machine guns.

When four soldiers reached their fallen comrade, Brad braced himself and fired two rounds at the group. Not waiting to see the results, Austin chased after the other pilots.

With his lungs heaving, Brad plunged through the tangled jungle. He tried to estimate the distance to the airfield, but his mind kept focusing on the fact that they had to traverse a mine field to reach the runway.

Fighting an insidious feeling of panic, Brad stumbled and fell. He yanked his spare rounds of .38-caliber ammunition out of his chest pocket, reloaded his revolver, and scrambled to his feet.

Brad could hear the thrashing and yelling behind him as he lunged forward. Cut and bleeding, Austin smashed his way through the foliage. His eyes burned from salty perspiration and his lungs were on fire.

A stream of gunfire erupted, ripping through the trees next to him. Fragments of leaves fell on Brad as he tripped over Rudy Jimenez and sprawled on his stomach.

"We're going to stick together!" Nick shouted, firing in unison with Chase Mitchell. Jimenez boldly went to his knees and fired at the enemy.

Unable to speak, Brad crawled around and aimed at their pursuers. Time seemed to slow while Austin carefully made each round count. His instinct for survival won out over the growing panic.

Brad saw three brown faces maneuvering to flank the outnumbered and outgunned pilots. The staccato sound of machine-gun fire startled Austin. Recognizing the familiar sound of an M-60, Brad squeezed off two rounds at the advancing men. One of the soldiers jerked backward and started screaming.

A fusillade of gunfire erupted as Brad again pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He frantically reached for the last few rounds in his pocket while Nick and Chase fired at the main cluster of men.

"They're retreating!" Jimenez exclaimed, firing the last of his ammunition. "They're—"

His statement was interrupted by a burst of gunfire that shredded the trees and foliage next to them.

"Those are our guys!" Brad shouted, and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Cease fire! Cease fire!"

Another short burst slammed into the trees, showering debris over them.

"Goddamnit, we're Americans!" Austin yelled at the top of his lungs. "Cease fire!"

The pilots heard the same order in the distance.

Chase twisted around to face Brad and Nick. "That's Spencer… thank God."