Targets of Opportunity

Chapter FORTY-ONE

Stumbling and weaving, Brad Austin blindly plunged into the dense undergrowth and fought his way through the branches and thickets. Ignoring the shells that ripped through the vegetation, he turned and fired another two rounds at his pursuers.

When they dropped to the ground, he crawled through the underbrush leading to the river. With his lungs heaving, Brad stopped to peer through the leaves. His hopes sank when he saw some of the soldiers moving to his left and right. They would soon have him surrounded.

In the distance, he heard the familiar beating sound of rotor blades. The helicopter was only seconds away. Oh, God, give me the strength to hang on.

He fired his last rounds at the infantrymen nearing the edge of the water, then dropped the revolver and groped clumsily for his survival radio.

"Chase, open up with the machine gun! I need cover fire along the riverbank!"

His plea was answered by three short, distinct bursts of fire across the water next to the shoreline. The trail of splashes turned to mud splatters as the rounds walked up the bank and through the men.

When the advancing soldiers stopped and began shouting at each other, Brad plunged toward the riverbank. He plowed through the thick foliage, dragging his leg and clutching the survival radio.

"I'm close to the water!" he gasped as a bullet ricocheted off a tree trunk in front of him. "Next to the shore — north edge of the trees!"

Brad heard the metallic voice from the radio, but he ignored it in his desperate attempt to reach safety. Another high-powered round whined past his head and exploded a leaf a foot away. My luck is going to run out.

Expending the last of his energy, Brad charged through the maze while he heard the staccato sounds of the M-60 raking the shoreline. He also heard someone scream in agony.

He dropped the radio and lowered his head, forging his way through the last of the obstacles. Suddenly free from the entanglement, Brad fell facedown on the muddy bank. He clawed his way toward the river and flinched when a row of geysers blasted across the water next to him.

Brad looked to his right and saw his tormentor disappear in a hail of machine-gun fire.

Above, the helicopter was slowing to a hover and the rescue sling was skimming the water. Brad crawled into the water and rose to his knees. He frantically waved his arms at the helo, but the crew had already spotted him.

Elvin Crowder continued to decimate the soldiers while Mitchell maneuvered the sling toward Austin. It dangled tantalizingly close, just out of reach.

Brad tried to get to his feet, then lunged at the horse collar. He missed and fell headlong into the water. He struggled to his knees and gagged when he swallowed a mouthful of water.

Rudy Jimenez was acting as a backup on the flight controls when the helicopter unexpectedly tilted steeply and slid sideways. The tips of the rotor blades nipped the water for a split second.

"Chase!" Jimenez gasped as he clutched the controls and righted the helo. "You 'kay?"

Mitchell groaned, then slumped in his harness as his arms went limp. A single hole in the windshield marked the entry point of the round that had struck the pilot in the neck.

"What's goin' on?" Crowder demanded while he continued to blaze away at the soldiers.

Rudy ignored the gunner and skillfully moved the rescue sling over Austin. "Grab it, Brad," he said to himself as another round hit the top of the windshield. "They're going to blow us out of the sky when we run out of ammo."

Movement to the left caught his eye. "Sonuvabitch," he swore out loud when he saw the convoy grinding to a halt.

When the machine guns mounted on the trucks commenced firing, Jimenez squeezed down in his seat and concentrated on flying smoothly.

The sling was skipping toward him, but Brad was blinded by the spray churned up by the rotor blades. When the harness bumped him, Austin frantically grabbed it and stuck his arm through the opening.

"Go!" he yelled into the gale-force wind, then grappled with the unwieldy horse collar. He felt himself being pulled through the water before he could get his head and other arm through the sling.

Sweet Jesus, I'm not going to make it! Brad clutched the sling in the crook of his right elbow and used his other hand to seize his wrist in a death grip. He closed his eyes and prayed for renewed strength.

Supporting the weight of his soaked flight suit, Brad strained when his body was yanked from the river. His feet bounced off the water a couple of times as the helicopter swiveled and gained speed.

He twirled precariously on the end of the winch line as the helo climbed and accelerated. I can't hang on forever.

"Is he secured?" Jimenez barked over the intercom. He could not afford to climb too high or go too fast if Austin was not securely in the sling.

Elvin Crowder braced himself against the cabin door and leaned into the wind. "Shit no. He's only got one arm through the collar."

Jimenez swore under his breath and searched for a relatively safe place to make a quick landing. He glanced at Mitchell and thought he detected a tentative movement.

"Chase, can you hear me?"

The only response from the wounded pilot was a slight flicker of his eyelids.

"Is Mitch hit?" Crowder snapped.

"Yes," Jimenez answered bitterly. "I'm going to land just ahead — about a mile — and get Austin aboard."

"You better make it now," Crowder said with a touch of sarcasm, " 'cause our boy is about to take a big dive."

Brad alternated between thanking God for watching over him, and calculating his chances for survival if he lost his grip. The throbbing pain in his thigh had diminished to an unpleasant tingling sensation.

He found if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could hear and see Leigh Ann laughing on the beach at Waikiki. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

A moment later, Brad felt the helicopter begin to slow. He opened his eyes and saw that he was descending toward a partly submerged bank of mud extending out from the shoreline.

When the helo finally hovered above the shallow water, Brad let go of the collar from a height of three feet and fell backward in the deep mud.

He staggered to his feet and plodded unsteadily toward the helicopter. The UH-34 moved sideways and hovered, with the main tires barely touching the mudflat.

Austin lowered his head into the windblast and trudged forward a few more feet before he felt Elvin Crowder grab his arm. The crew chief helped Brad to the open hatch and boosted him inside.

With a visceral sense of relief, Brad collapsed in a heap while Jimenez pulled pitch and sucked the wheels out of the quagmire.

After a couple of minutes, Crowder leaned over the mudsoaked pilot. "How ya' feelin'?"

Brad had to shout over the noise from the thrashing rotor blades. "Great," he grimaced from a sudden stab of pain. "Never felt better."

"Good," Crowder grinned for the first time Austin could remember, "because you look and smell like you crawled out of a benjo ditch."

Brad mustered a weak smile. "You guys are first on my Christmas list… thanks."

Crowder nodded and ran an experienced eye over the trickle of blood next to Austin's leg. The crew chief spoke briefly to Jimenez and then opened a first-aid kit. "Looks like you got a little scratch."

"Yeah," Brad replied in a tired, hoarse voice. "It's been one helluva day.

"I ain't much of a doc," Crowder grumbled as he extracted a dressing, "but I'll patch you up best I can."

The look in Brad's eyes showed his appreciation.

Rudy Jimenez forced the battle-scarred helicopter to ascend at its maximum rate of climb. He kept the helo close to the rising mountain s w hile he waited to gain enough altitude to head directly for Alpha-29.

He scanned the engine instruments and maintained a careful vigilance for any signs of trouble. If the MiG bases had been notified of the rescue effort, the fighter pilots would be searching for the American helicopter.

Jimenez glanced at Mitchell and saw that his color was gone. The cockpit floor was awash in dark blood and the pilot's half-closed eyes were fixed in a vacant stare. Chase Mitchell was dead, but Jimenez refused to accept the fact. Maybe the medics can help him when we get to Alpha-29.

He could taste the bile in his throat as he turned to a westerly heading. Since there was not a passageway between the cabin and cockpit, Mitchell would have to remain strapped into his seat. "Elvin, keep an eye out for MiGs."

"Will do, but it's gonna be easy to spot us."

"Say again."

"We're trailin' a thin stream of smoke. From the color, I reckon it's comin' from the engine."

Rudy shot a look at the engine-temperature and oil-pressure gauges. The cylinder-head temperature was slightly higher than normal, but the oil pressure remained unchanged. "We're looking good… at least for the moment."

Crowder leaned out of the hatch and watched the faint streak of oily smoke. "How's Mitch doin'?"

Jimenez looked at the fuel gauge and spoke softly. "Not so great. What's Austin's condition?"

"He'll make it, but he's got a nasty thigh wound. We'll have to get 'em medevacked as soon as we hit the ground."

If we have enough fuel to reach base, Jimenez thought with a calm fatalism. All of us may die before the day is over