Authors: Richard Herman
Flanders grabbed the long intercom extension cord and ran down the ramp.
“Boyle, button us up and turn out the lights. Raise the ramp to the horizontal.” He didn’t wait for an answer and ran around to the front of the Hercules, ready to start engines and marshal the aircraft onto the runway in the dark. He plugged the cord in and stepped clear of the props as GTC spun up. “Three’s clear,” he said, giving the flight deck clearance to start engines. Within moments, the engine was on line and he ran to the left wheel well to button up the GTC panel. It was a well-rehearsed drill and the other engines rapidly spun up in sequence.
“Ready to taxi,” Warren said. Now he had to trust the loadmaster to guide them to the runway. Flanders was close enough to see the soft red lights illuminating the flight deck, but everywhere else was pitch black.
“Sir,” a soft voice said behind Flanders. “I show you.” Flanders turned and saw a Bru standing a few feet away. The Montagnard turned and walked slowly towards the runway.
“Come left slowly,” Flanders said, following the mountain man. “Go straight. Turn right. Go straight. You’re almost to the runway. Hard right, keep it coming, you are on the runway. Go straight. Stop. You’re slightly left of the centreline.” He turned to thank the Montagnard, but he was gone.
“We need to back up,” Warren said. The entrance to the parking ramp was about two-hundred feet from the end of the runway. “We’re gonna need all the runway we can get.”
Flanders whipped the long intercom cord unplugging it and ran for the aft of the Hercules, careful to swing wide around the propellers. He skidded to a stop just before bumping into the fuselage. He scrambled onto the ramp, now able to see enough to plug into the intercom.
“Clear in the rear,” he said.
As if by magic, the Bru was back, standing by the ramp.
“Sir, I show.” He walked slowly backwards, angling to the centreline of the runway. Flanders spoke into the intercom and the Hercules slowly backed down the runway. The Bru held up his hands, and Flanders relayed the command to stop. They were positioned perfectly, the main gear at the very end of the runway with their tail over the rough dirt and low vegetation. The Bru stood at attention and gave the loadmaster the best salute he could manage. Flanders returned the salute, but the man was gone.
Flanders raised the ramp to the closed position. But left the cargo door up, against the underside of the fuselage. He felt his way forward and strapped into a jump seat next to Boyle.
“Good to go in the rear,” he said.
Warren squinted into the night, but his world was confined to the soft red sphere of light illuminating the flight deck. He keyed the radio.
“Blind Bat Zero-One. Roscoe Two-One ready to roll.”
Hardy answered. “Roscoe, hold. I’ve got a flight of two, three minutes out. Roll on my command.”
“What the hell,” Bosko said. “We‘re a sitting duck here. Let’s go.”
“We hold,” Warren said. “They’re gonna laydown some cover for us.” They listened as a flight of two F-4s checked in on Blind Bat’s frequency. On cue, a string of flares popped over the south side of the ridgeline and started drifting towards them. It seemed an eternity before the north slope of the ridge was illuminated. Hardy cleared the first F-4 in for the attack. Twenty-five seconds later a string of three Mk-82 bombs walked across the north slope.
“Roscoe, GO!” Hardy said. “Turn out to the right.”
Warren stepped on the brakes and firewalled the throttles. “Landing lights on,” he said, his voice loud and strained. Hale reached up and flicked the lights on just as Warren released the brakes. The runway stretched out on front of them.
The C-130 moved forward, accelerating faster than before in the cooler night air. Bosko called the airspeed. Then, “Rotate!”
But Warren held the nose down, using every inch of runway. At the last possible moment he hauled back on the yoke, lifting them sharply into the night.
“Landing lights off, gear up.” He jinked to the right and then back to the left as they climbed and the gear came up. No sooner had the gear clunked into the locks than he started to inch the flaps up, gaining all the airspeed he could coax out of engines. He was flying blind, relying on his instruments. “Dave, keep us out of the rocks.” They had always turned out to the left, flying over the south side of the river valley and the lower ridgeline. By turning out to the north, and into higher terrain, Hardy hoped to surprise any AAA gunner who might have survived the bombing.
“Clear in the rear,” Flanders called. The loadmaster had stood up immediately after take-off and was looking out the open cargo door and over the raised ramp, clearing their six o’clock.
Santos buried his head in the radar scope. “High terrain ahead, come left. Roll out. Clear on this heading.”
“Break left!” Flanders called from the rear. “Triple A!” Warren jinked left, then left again as they climbed, now able to see a line of tracers reaching out for them from the far side of the river. The solid line of tracers waved back in forth in the night as the gunner tried to chase the C-130 down. Flanders’ call had saved them.
“Hot damn!” Flanders shouted, still looking out the back. “They just laid a string of six Mark-82s over the fucker!” Hardy had coordinated the covering attack for their take-off and called in the second F-4 before the ZSU started to fire, allowing the pilot to place the pipper in his bombsight over the muzzle flash. The Phantom nailed it. “Nothing but hot hair and smokin’ eyeballs down there now.” He calmed and added a more restrained, “Clear in the rear.”
“We’re clear all terrain,” Santos said. “Heading 125 degrees.” He checked his watch. It was 0045 hours, local time. “Chu Lai at 0112.” He double-checked his work. “Correction on the ETA. Make it twenty-two past the hour.”
“Rear door closed,” Warren said. “Give the folks some light back there so they can take care of things.” The lights came on as they climbed into the night.
Warren keyed the radio. “Blind Bat Zero-One. Roscoe Two-One is clear and proceeding to Chu Lai.”
“Copy all,” Hardy replied. Then, “Roscoe, well done.”
Over South Vietnam
Bosko dialled in the airborne command post’s radio frequency and tried to check in. But it was chaos and he couldn’t break into the stream of transmissions. He cycled through three backup frequencies before finally capturing the controller’s attention and telling Moonbeam they were airborne. The answer was chilling. “Roscoe Two-One, Moonbeam. Be advised Chu Lai is down due to rockets, mortars, and intruders. Expect a diversion.”
“I would think so,” Santos said over the intercom. He noted the time on his flight log. It was exactly 0100 hours, and they had been airborne fifteen minutes.
“Roscoe Two-One copies,” Bosko answered. “Standing by this freq.” He shook his head. “Jesus H. Christ, we can’t catch a break.”
Santos ran possible alternates through his mental calculus. “Expect a divert into Qui Nhon. The Army’s got a field hospital there.” He was already working on a new heading and estimated en route time.
“The 85th Evac is at Qui Nhon,” Warren added. “They could also send us into Da Nang. The Air Force hospital there could take us.” He thought for a moment. “Dave, let’s go feet wet and hold over the South China Sea.”
“Roger that,” Santos said. “Fly 060 degrees and we’ll coast out in two minutes. Once feet wet, we can head south and hold near Da Nang.”
Bosko turned the autopilot to the new heading. “How far off the coast do you want to hold?”
“Ten nautical miles will keep us clear,” Warren answered.
“Altitude?” Bosko asked.
“Sixteen thou should do it,” Warren replied. “We need to check for pressurization.” It was time to find out if they had patched all the holes in the fuselage or if they still had unseen battle damage. “Try to hold three thousand feet cabin altitude.” Hale reached for the overhead air conditioning control panel and set the cabin pressure controller as they levelled off at 16,000 feet. “Sergeant Flanders,” Warren asked, “How’s the heat back there.”
“We could stand a little more,” the loadmaster replied.
Hale turned the temperature rheostat up, his eyes rooted on the pressure controller. “Cabin pressure holding,” he finally said.
“You can turn the heat down,” Flanders said. Getting the temperature right on the cargo deck always took some adjusting.
“Hey,” Bosko said, “we finally got a break, for what it’s worth.”
Silence ruled the flight deck as they headed south towards Da Nang. Warren glanced at Bosko whose chin was slumped down on his chest. He was asleep. He checked Santos and Hale, not surprised that both were asleep. He tuned in the Da Nang TACAN for the bearing and distance to the air base. He entered a racetrack holding pattern east of the air base on the 090 degree radial at ten nautical miles, well over the South China Sea. He felt a soft touch on his left shoulder and turned to see Pender standing behind him. She leaned next to his ear so as not to wake the sleeping men. He felt the warmth of her face next to his. “How long before we land?” she asked.
“Not sure. Problems. Chu Lai is under attack and down. We’re waiting for a divert. How’s it going in the rear?”
“We need to get them to a field hospital. Tanner is coming out from under the morphine and in pain, I’ve got four critical who also need morphine, and I don’t think the North Vietnamese is going to make it unless we get him into surgery very soon.”
“I’ll work on it,” Warren promised. He motioned for her to put on a headset. She did and he keyed the radio.
“Pan-pan, pan-pan, pan-pan.” The call was second only to a Mayday and used to clear the frequency and declare they needed to land for the safety of someone on board. It worked. “Moonbeam, Roscoe Two-One requests immediate clearance to nearest field hospital. We have wounded on board requiring immediate attention.”
”Standby,” Moonbeam answered.
Warren pressed it. If Moonbeam wouldn’t make a decision, he would. “Say status of Da Nang.”
“Da Nang runway is closed for craters. Base currently under rocket attack.”
“Say status of Qui Nhon.”
“Radio contact lost. Base last reported taking heavy mortar fire.”
“Fuck!” Warren roared, waking the sleeping men. He hit the transmit button. “Moonbeam, I repeat, Roscoe Two-One has six critical wounded on board who need immediate medical attention. Get us on the ground.”
The controller’s voice changed. “Roscoe, I’m working it. Checking on Saigon. It’s the only option I’ve got.” Tan Son Nhut Air Base at Saigon was an hour and twenty minutes flying time away, but the Army’s 17th Field Hospital was a long ambulance ride from the air base. The controller was back. “Tan Son Nhut is open but status of ground transportation extremely questionable. Recommend Clark.” Clark Air Base was in the Philippines, 720 nautical miles away across the South China Sea.
“We need something closer than that,” Warren replied.
“Roscoe, it’s chaos on the ground here. Every hospital in-country is maxed out and calling for help. Clark is wide open and the hospital can take your wounded.”
Warren turned in his seat and looked at Pender. “I think we better go to Clark.”
“It’s two hours thirty minutes flying time,” Santos said. “But the hospital is only minutes away, and they’ll get first priority.”
Pender shook her head in despair. “I’m going to lose them. Can we land somewhere and get some morphine?”
Warren’s chin jerked up. He cursed himself for being a cretin. It was an easy decision. “Moonbeam, Roscoe Two-One is headed for Clark at this time. Will file a flight plan en route.”
“Moonbeam copies all,” the controller replied. “And God speed.”
“Track outbound 092 degrees on the Da Nang TACAN,” Santos said. “ETA Clark 0345 hours. We should get a tailwind above twenty grand.”
Warren pushed the throttles up and started to climb. “Let’s try flight level two-one-zero.” Flight level 210 was twenty-one thousand feet on a standard altimeter setting of 29.92 inches of mercury. He turned to Pender who was staring at him. “We’ll keep it as low as we can to hold cabin pressurization below 3000 feet.”
“It might help, but I doubt it.” Her voice was heavy with reproach and despair. She turned to go.
Warren reached out and held her wrist. “Wait.” He ripped the first aid kit out of his survival vest and tore it open. He handed her a small tube that held a morphine injection. “We’ve got five more.” Bosko, Hale, and Santos did the same and handed her the small tubes. They all dropped their heavy survival vests to the deck, relieved to finally be free of the burden.
Pender leaned forward and kissed Warren on the cheek. She rushed off the flight deck. Bosko grinned at Warren.
“A little fraternizing there, Captain? What would the good Colonel Hardy say?”
“Especially after all that skinny-dipping,” Santos added.
“Civilians,” Warren moaned. “You can put ‘em in a uniform, dress ‘em up, but you can’t take ‘em out.”
“Seriously, Captain,” Hale said, “you need to pursue that one. Think about it.”
Warren did.
*
Over the South China Sea
Warren pulled the throttles back, levelled off at 21,000 feet, and the crew went through a well-practiced routine. Lacking a high frequency long-range radio, Bosko established contact with a MAC flight that had an HF, and it relayed their flight plan to Manila Air Traffic Control. Santos plotted a level off fix using the bearing and distance off the Da Nang TACAN. He would plot another fix in twenty minutes while still in range. Just to be on the safe side, he constructed a fuel graph to monitor their consumption and asked Hale for a fuel reading.
“We’re right at 10,200 pounds,” Hale replied. “Seems a little low.”
Santos plotted the fuel reading on his graph. “Not a problem. That gives us two hundred pounds extra.”
“Does that include reserve?” Warren asked.
“Yep,” Santos replied. “Twenty minutes. So what’s the problem?”
“Not sure,” Hale replied. “I figure we should have maybe five hundred pounds extra. We may have a fuel leak.”
“Or we got a guzzler,” Bosko said.
“Or bum gauges,” Santos added.
“Stay on top of it,” Warren said. “We can always divert into Cubi Point if we have to.” Cubi Point was the huge U.S. Naval base on Subic Bay on the western side of Luzon, the largest island in the Philippines, and thirty miles short of Clark. He pulled himself out of his seat. “Gonna go see how they’re doing in the back.”
Three sets of eyes followed him as he climbed down to the main deck.
“And to say ‘hello’ to a captain,” Santos said. They all nodded in agreement.
Warren pushed through the canvas curtain separating the flight deck from the cargo compartment. He froze. It had been bad enough when he first saw the wounded marines arrive in the vague and uncertain shadows of night. But he was now in the harsh glow of full reality and was standing at the edge of hell. It was his aircraft and he was warehousing the wreckage of war. Every man was bloodied and bandaged and the smell was horrific in the confined space; a stench of disinfectant, blood, dirt, faeces, urine, sweat, and charred flesh. And standing in the middle of it all was Lynne Pender. He made his way past a moaning Marine, careful not to step in a pool of blood.
Pender was bent over the North Vietnamese prisoner, stitching up the gash in his abdomen. She never looked up. “He’s critical and needs a shot of morphine.” He could hear the resignation in her voice.
“You said there were five that needed morphine. We’ve got six survival vests, which means six shots.”
“I only got one more from Sergeant Flanders. Boyle ignored me.”
Warren whirled around, searching for the airman. He was stretched out on the ramp asleep, still wearing his survival vest.
“Boyle, get your ass over here.” The airman sat up, confused. “I said, get over here!” Warren shouted, his voice carrying over the drone of the engines.
Flanders joined them. He had flown with Warren for over a year and never heard him so angry. “Let me handle it, sir. What do you need doing?”
Warren forced himself to calm down. He could protect Flanders if the sergeant beat the living hell out of Boyle, which he hoped would happen.
“Captain Pender needs the morphine out of Boyle’s survival vest.”
Now Flanders was angry. “I told the bastard to give her ...” his voice trailed off. Then, much more calmly, “Boyle, give me your first aid kit.”
Boyle heard the menace in his tone and never hesitated. He handed the small kit over and pulled back. He watched as Flanders ripped it apart and handed the plastic tube to Warren, who handed it to Pender. Boyle made the obvious connection.
“You gonna give it to the slopehead?”
“Captain Pender is a doctor and will use it as she sees fit,” Flanders answered. He jammed the first aid kit into Boyle’s gut. Hard. “Take care of this.”
Boyle staggered back, gasping for breath, his eyes filled with hate. “You never got dumped in a pile of shit.”
“Nothing you didn’t fuckin’ deserve, asshole.”
“Captain Warren,” Boyle protested, “he can’t talk to me like that.”
“Like what,” Warren said. He joined Pender who was still working on the North Vietnamese. He studied the man’s face, now in full light, as she administered the injection. “I’ll be damned. That’s Colonel Tran.”
“Colonel who?” Pender asked.
“Colonel Tran Sang Quan, the commander of the logistical regiment in Laos. I saw his photo at the briefing at NKP. According to what I heard, he’s one of their best commanders. We got something here.” He made his way forward to the flight deck.
Boyle sat on a jump seat and hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together, his face drenched in sweat, and his eyes riveted on Warren’s back.
The marine sitting next to Boyle snorted. “You think you got a problem? That fuckin’ Commie killed eight of my buddies, and the doctor is a fuckin’ bitch.” Boyle glanced at the marine’s name tag – Denlow.
“Billy Bob Boyle,” he said, shaking the marine’s hand.
Warren slipped into the left seat and pulled on his headset. He glanced at the TACAN readout – seventy-three nautical miles from Da Nang. That seemed low and he had expected them to be further down track, closer to ninety nautical miles.
We’ve
been
climbing
,
and
I’m
dead
tired
.
“Boz, can you raise Moonbeam on the VHF?” Bosko dialled in the frequency and made the call. Moonbeam answered immediately. “Moonbeam,” Warren transmitted, “be advised we have a North Vietnamese POW on board who matches the description of Colonel Tran Sang Quan. I believe Tran to be an extremely high-value prisoner. Please have Security Police meet the aircraft at Clark.”
Moonbeam gave the standard answer. “Roscoe Two-One, standby.”
“Sum’bitch,” Santos muttered. “Is ‘standby’ the only word they know?”
Another voice came over the radio. “Roscoe Two-One, mission commander. If correct, you have an extremely high-value POW. Say his current condition.”
“Tran is badly wounded, survival doubtful. The doctor on board has stabilized his bleeding at the present time.”