Targets of Opportunity

Chapter FORTY

When the first of the villagers reached the twisted and torn MiG, they stopped on the levee and gawked at the burning fighter plane. It ha d l eft a long trail of destruction through the paddies during its wild slide.

They turned to look at the pilot, expecting to see a fellow Vietnamese: The looks on their faces changed to surprise when they saw Austin, but no one showed the slightest hint of fear or aggression.

Brad calmed himself and glanced around. He needed to get away from the black smoke rising into the sky, but he had to act his part and move cautiously.

When the Vietnamese began chattering and walking toward him, Austin held up his hand.

"Stoy." Stop. His mind raced, hoping the heavy accent would convince the men and three teenage boys that he was indeed a Soviet pilot.

"Mi pravil'no yedem v krasnaya ploshchad?" Are we on the right road for Red Square? It was the best he could do under the circumstances, and he prayed that it was good enough. Hopefully, the strangers could tell the difference between English and Russian.

The blank looks on the villagers' faces reinforced Brad's decision to move out while he had the chance. He gently dabbed the cut over his right eyebrow and wiped the blood on his mud-splattered sleeve.

When the chattering continued, Austin waved his hand back and forth and pointed to himself "Kapitan Maksimov…" he grunted stiffly, "Aviatsii — Hanoi."

A few of the Vietnamese nodded while the others surveyed the pilot and the wreckage. The crash landing had stunned them, and now the magnitude of the damage to their crops was beginning to dawn on the farmers.

Sensing no immediate threat, Austin boldly walked through the middle of the Vietnamese and continued the length of the dike. With his adrenaline pumping, he leaped across a slit in the levee and started up an incline toward the road next to the small village.

When he reached the dirt strip, Brad shot a look up and down the road and nonchalantly strolled toward the cluster of trees on the opposite side.

He quickened his pace when he noticed a truck approaching from the direction of the convoy he had seen earlier. When he reached the trees, Austin squatted under the middle of the clump and quickly yanked out his survival radio.

With trembling hands, Brad switched on the radio and cupped it to his mouth. "Sleepy Two Five, Safari."

The noisy army truck slowed and rumbled to a stop on the side of the road.

"Sleepy Two Five, Safari. Copy?" Come on, guys.

"Safari," the speaker crackled, "you're weak, but readable. Say your posit and condition."

Brad watched two men get out of the truck to look at the burning wreckage of the MiG. God, please don't let them go down to investigate the crash site.

"I'm in the same location that I gave you before I went down." He leaned against a tree trunk and flicked a drop of blood off the bridge of his nose. He tried to slow his breathing before he spoke. "Approximately seven miles south of where the rivers meet. I'm on the east side of the river, near a large marshy area."

Austin cast a wary glance at the truck. A half-dozen NVA soldiers had struggled over the tailgate to join the two men from the cab.

"I'm okay… physically," Brad continued in a hushed voice, "but an army truck just stopped near the airplane. Also, there's a large convoy of trucks headed this way — traveling north to south."

"Copy that you're okay," Rudy Jimenez replied with a tone of confidence. Downed and frightened airmen needed to hear a strong, positive voice. "We estimate being over your position in — ah… twelve minutes."

Brad felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach. Twelve minutes sounded like an eternity, especially when he was facing death or torture and imprisonment. "Roger. When I have you in sight, I'll direct you to my position before I come out from under these trees."

"Okay, Safari." It was Mitchell's reassuring voice. "Take it easy.. and give us a holler when you hear the helo."

Austin froze when the group of soldiers began walking toward the blazing fighter. "Will do, Sleepy. Thanks."

"Just stay put."

Brad clicked the mike twice and eased back into the foliage and branches. He watched the eight men disappear down the incline leading to the rice paddies. His intuition told him that the situation was ripe for disaster. The villagers would obviously tell the NVA regulars which way the pilot went, and, most important, that the airman was not Vietnamese.

He quickly glanced down the wide river and guessed that it was at least a quarter of a mile around the marshy recess to a wooded area next to the shoreline. I don't think it's a good idea to stay here.

"Sleepy, I've got company nearby — need to get away from the immediate vicinity. I'm going to head south, along the shore. The MiG is sending a plume of black smoke into the air, so you'll probably see it before I hear you."

"Roger that," Jimenez responded evenly. "We'll hit the river a couple of miles south of your position, then work north toward you."

"I'm on my way," Brad said as he stuffed the radio inside his flight suit, then hunched down and began running around the perimeter of the marshy cove.

Looking across a vast expanse of forested ridge lines, Chase Mitchell decided to drop into a valley leading to the flatlands west of the Black River. His eyes ranged over the sky and horizon, searching for enemy aircraft or signs of tracers.

The air-force and navy strike groups were exiting the area, but the threat of MiG activity was always present. The UH-34 would be no match for a fighter, especially one flown by a competent pilot.

"Rudy," Mitchell said after a long silence, "there's a major roadway that runs along the west side of the river."

Jimenez looked at the chart and tried to forget the rapidly dwindling fuel supply. "We better steer clear of it. It's a basic supply route that'll be crawling with guns."

"That's what I plan to do." Mitchell pointed when he caught a glimpse of the river in the distance. "We'll stay about a mile and a half west, as low and fast as we can go, then pop over the river when Austin hears us." He gave Rudy a questioning glance. "What do you think?"

Jimenez was skeptical, and it showed in his eyes. His legendary reputation as an air-force SAR pilot had been earned from a wealth of experience gained from many dramatic rescues.

Although Mitchell was senior to Jimenez, he respected his copilot's knowledge and judgment. "Rodeo, if you've got a better idea, now's the time to sing out."

Rudy studied the chart. "Chase, I think we'd be better off to cross the road and the river here." Jimenez pointed to a 4,200-foot peak on the east side of the river. "We can skirt along the edge, then shoot straight up the east side of the river. There aren't any roads, until we get close to Austin's position."

Rudy handed the chart to the pilot. "The area is sparsely populated, so I wouldn't expect much in the way of small-arms fire… if some gomers recognize us. The closer we get to the water, the more people we're going to overfly."

Mitchell looked down at the chart and thought about the plan, then nodded in agreement. "Makes sense to me."

"Elvin," Mitchell cautioned, "keep an eye out. We're going to cross the river and go for a quick snatch. If he's in an open area, I'll go into a hover and you yank his ass aboard. If we have to use the winch, let me know as soon as he's in the sling. We'll drag him to a safe area before we hoist him up. Got it?"

Crowder rested a gnarled hand on the M-60 machine gun and scanned the sky. "I've been doin' this shit," he growled over the intercom, "since your mother was a virgin."

Jimenez rolled his eyes to Mitchell. "Why do we put up with that shitbird?"

"Because," Chase gave him a tense grin, "he's saved our asses a couple of times."

Brad kept up a steady pace as he doggedly splashed through the shallows of the marshland. He leaped over a rotting log and tripped, then caught himself before he sprawled face-first in the muck. He paused, thinking that he had heard the beat of helicopter rotor blades. He listened intently, but the only distinguishable sound was a jet engine high overhead. He started running again.

Without warning, a shrill whistle stopped him in his tracks. Austin glanced over his shoulder and felt a chill run down his spine. A lone soldier was standing on the lip of the road. He was holding a whistle to his mouth and motioning for Brad to come to him.

Overwhelmed with raw panic, Austin started to reach for his revolver, then stopped to weigh his chances of reaching the trees near the river. The longer he hesitated, the more suspicious the soldier would become.

An insidious feeling of doubt began to creep into Brad's mind. His confidence in masquerading as a Soviet pilot was quickly evaporating. What if there was a Russian adviser in the group?

When the other seven men gathered on the road, Brad made a split-second decision to run and take his chances. He bolted forward and raced toward the nearest trees.

Austin heard muffled shouts as he scrambled up a small rise and tumbled down a steep, water-filled ravine. He sloshed across the ditch and crawled out as shots rang through the air. The North Vietnamese had finally cornered the culprit who had inflicted so much damage during the time he had flown the mysterious MiG.

Stumbling blindly toward the treeline, Brad was suddenly spun around and knocked to the ground. The round from the AK-47 had torn through the side of his right upper thigh. The hunters had their quarry at bay.

"There it is," Rudy Jimenez gestured wildly. "I see the smoke!" The dark cloud had risen at an angle and was spreading horizontally with the wind.

Mitchell made a slight course correction. "Yeah, I've got it." He hit his mike switch. "Safari, we have the smoke. Give us a sit rep." He wanted a situation report before they attempted the rescue.

After a long moment, Mitchell tried again. "Brad, if you hear me, click your transmitter. We're almost there."

Silence.

"This doesn't look good," Jimenez muttered as he caught sight of the line of army vehicles in the distance. "I've got the convoy. They're almost to the downed MiG."

Mitchell banked the helicopter toward the water. "Rudy, do you see any power lines over the river?"

Both pilots strained to see any indication of towers along the shorelines. An unseen power line could send the U H-34 crashing into the river.

"No, just some small boats up ahead."

Chase Mitchell gripped the collective tighter and keyed the radio. "Brad, we need to know your location."

The radio remained quiet.

Austin heard the radio calls while he fumbled for his revolver. The searing pain in his thigh had changed to a dull numbness as the enemy troops approached. If he died here, it would only be after he had used every means to resist. If he lived, Leigh Ann would be waiting for him.

He moved his bleeding leg and felt that it would support him. The bullet had ripped through the fleshy part of his thigh, but it had not hit the bone.

Fueled by adrenaline and cold fear, Brad shoved himself to a sitting position, aimed at the center of the group of soldiers, then fired two rounds.

He was amazed when one of the men staggered sideways and collapsed. When the soldier hit the ground, his assault rifle discharged a wild burst of fire. A dumb-luck shot from the revolver, accompanied by the spray of rifle shells, had sent the infantrymen diving for cover.

Seizing the moment, Brad scrambled to his feet and awkwardly limped toward the foliage near the trees. A volley of shots rang out, and he waited for a bullet to find him.

"Try him again — keep trying!". Chase Mitchell ordered while he concentrated on flying ten feet above the water. "We've gotta make a decision, Rudy… before we get sucked into an ambush."

"Brad," Jimenez pleaded with an emotional intensity in his voice, "we're almost there. Say your position. Repeat, say your position!"

Recalling the time he had been lured into a North Vietnamese trap during a SAR mission, Jimenez was cautious but determined to go above and beyond their duty.

"Chase, they may have captured him," Rudy said sadly, "but we owe it to him to go in — to find out."

Mitchell knew Jimenez was right. They would never be able to live with the guilt if they aborted this close to the downed pilot. "We're going in."