The Last Flight Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Gregory P. Liefer

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  Print ISBN: 978-1-63158-097-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63158-098-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  PROLOGUE

  South Vietnam

  July 1972

  Death hung in the air thick as humidity from the monsoon rains. There was no odor, taste, or feel in the wind, only a heightened sense of foreboding, knowing evil was there, unseen, waiting for an opportunity.

  The four crewmen aboard the low flying helicopter were no strangers to death. Not anymore. Death was a constant companion, an invisible shadow lurking over their shoulder, reminding them of their mortality.

  For some men in battle, dying was an act of fate, a roll of the dice, or chance encounter, and for others a predetermined destiny unalterable by choice or events. A strong warrior dealt with death by choosing to ignore the surrounding darkness, accept the inevitable, and use the inherent fear as an advantage. The weakest let the thought of impending doom slowly eat away at their soul, amplifying the anxiety to an inescapable paranoia until the paranoia became worse than the enemy.

  That morning, a silencing overcast hovered over the jungle’s thick canopy, disturbed only by the sound of the lone helicopter skirting the high trees, the dark silhouette scarcely noticeable against a dense background of rain-soaked forest. Downwash from the spinning rotors shook the branches as a trail of swirling vapor quickly faded behind.

  The surrounding landscape, with fingers of mist hanging beneath the clouds, was beautiful yet ominous. Days of heavy downpour had cleansed the odor of old undergrowth and decay, enhancing the fresh, sweeter smell of lush foliage and masking any threats within.

  Sounds of the engine echoed off the hills, dulled by the thick humidity so the helicopter’s position was barely discernible.

  The two pilots sat in the cockpit scanning ahead for a break in the weather, their faces strained with intensity below the brow of their helmets. Their vision was sharp and focused, synchronized with anxious reflexes for a quick reaction on the controls. In spite of their ages, the dangers of battle were not foreign to them. Death and destruction was an almost daily experience.

  The door gunners in back gazed intently out the sides of the helicopter, their eyes conditioned for signs of movement. Poised in the open doors with hands resting on their M-60 machine guns and fingers close to the trigger, they were ready for a fight.

  Viet Cong and North Vietnamese regulars controlled the area near the Laotian border. Encountering hostile fire was a very real possibility. Enemy soldiers were more emboldened to shoot at a passing helicopter when the weather helped conceal their position, delaying a reaction from far more powerful aircraft. Retaliatory firepower from the Americans was deadly but was on the decline. For the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese, the long war was nearing a successful end. Shooting down another helicopter would only make the coming victory more gratifying.

  Gil Connor flew the helicopter from the right seat. He had a two-day’s growth of stubble, more noticeable from the contrast with his sun-darkened skin. His lean frame easily stretched across the cockpit, with his shoulders and head protruding above the side armor plating. Blue eyes, as hard as tempered steel, reflected his physical toughness and determination. Only twenty-four years old, he was on his second tour in South Vietnam.

  “You got us on the map?”

  In the opposite seat, Fred “Mac” McClellan stared intently between the map unfolded on his legs and the outside terrain. A tuft of dark hair was stuck against his forehead beneath his helmet, matching the thick mustache and heavily tanned face. He was busy keeping the map oriented with the helicopter’s heading, holding his finger on their position as they maneuvered over the jungle. They were off course. The territory was new for both of them, but he wasn’t concerned. Like Connor, he was young and experienced beyond his age.

  “Yeah, I got us.” He spoke without shifting his gaze. “Right in the middle of Indian Country. Sure hope the bad guys aren’t expecting us in this weather.”

  “Shit, Mister McClellan,” the door gunner, Jimmy Stanton, boasted over the open mike, “we’re ready. No different than shooting squirrels back on the farm in Iowa.”

  “Yeah, except squirrels can’t fight back,” Mac added with indifference.

  Jimmy smirked and shifted position behind his machine gun. “Not the squirrels where I’m from, Mister McClellan. They’re big and mean.”

  “You want big and mean?” Pedro Hernandez asked from the opposite gunner’s position. “We hunt rats in the projects of South Chicago. They can hold you down while they chew on your flesh.”

  The door gunners were positioned across from each other beside the open cargo doors. Stanton was on the left, facing out at a forward angle and sitting back from the drizzle, one arm resting on the breach of his machine gun and his legs braced against the gun mount. He was thin and wore a two-piece flight suit with the sleeves rolled up above his forearms. The helmet appeared too big for his head and a smoldering cigarette dangled from his lips. He kept his eyes on the jungle, a thin smile on his blemished face.

  Hernandez was more subdued. Older and soft spoken, his expression was more brooding, accentuated by his thick eyebrows and dark complexion. He wore the same style coffee colored flight suit and sat beside his gun in an almost identical position. Heavier than Stanton, but quick and agile, he was one of the best marksman in the company.

  “Stay alert back there,” Connor said over the intercom. His voice was stern, yet reassuring at the same time.

  Hernandez glanced over his shoulder and nodded toward Stanton before replying. “Okay, sir. Nothing moving so far. How far we out?”

  Connor looked at Mac, who answered for him. “Fifteen, twenty minutes if we go direct. But that’s not happening in this weather.”

  “We’ll get there,” Connor added. “You see anything, tell us immediately.”

  “Roger. We’re ready.”

  “Yeah, we’re ready Mister Connor. Those gooks will think twice when us farm boys start firing.” Stanton grinned at his own comment, knowing Pedro had never set foot on a farm.

  Hernandez was used to Stanton’s bluster. Over the past several months, he learned to tolerate his demeanor, along with being grateful for his shooting skills, which nearly matched his own. Spotting and firing on the enemy was critical. The safety of the helicopter often depended on their timely accuracy.

  Hernandez was determined to survive his tour in Vietnam. Ensuring Stanton was at the top of his game was one way to make it happen. Being assigned as a member of Connor’s crew was another. Connor had a reputation as a maverick, but his flying skill was unmatched. He seemed adept at surviving the worst situations
.

  The visibility decreased to a few hundred yards as Connor followed an overflowing creek along a low drainage, forcing him to slow the helicopter and increasing the chance of becoming a target. He was about to turn around when Mac suddenly pointed through the windshield.

  “Over there. Looks like an opening.”

  Connor saw the contrast of lighter haze at the same time and banked the helicopter before Mac finished speaking. In less than a minute they were there, only to realize the opening was just a thin patch of clouds with some brief sunlight filtering through. Too close to the higher terrain, it was what pilots negatively referred to as a sucker hole. Connor reluctantly turned back toward the center of the valley.

  “At least this weather is keeping the VC’s head down,” Mac said as he glanced back inside. “Don’t imagine they enjoy this rain any more than we do.”

  Connor made a slight adjustment with the control stick between his legs, altering course a few degrees. “Maybe, or they’re using the weather to their advantage.”

  Poor flying conditions made it impossible for the Air Force to strike enemy positions accurately. The North Vietnamese were cunning and determined. Thirty years of war had taught them to exploit every advantage.

  Mac nodded his head. He knew Connor was right. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough, if we can get there. At least nothing is happening here.”

  Light drizzle, joined by heavier but sporadic rain showers, continued pelting the windshield. A narrow space cleared by the wiper blades provided the only relief. Navigation was difficult and keeping the helicopter over the desired route was impossible.

  Both pilots scanned intently ahead, searching for a clear passage. Connor was taut against the seat, bent forward slightly for a better view through the Plexiglas. His face was haggard from lack of sleep, hiding his rugged good looks, but his eyes remained sharp and focused, intent on the perils he knew were ahead.

  The mission was in jeopardy. For close to an hour, they had been flying only a few feet above the jungle, trying to stay out of the clouds and somehow reach the extraction point. Staying in the low valleys was the best option, but the varying directions were taking them further off course. Finding a way through the weather was becoming less likely and fuel for the return leg was decreasing with each passing minute.

  Sporadic breaks in the overcast were visible for a few seconds, only to close again from the shifting air currents as quickly as they appeared. The temporary patches of blue sky were enticing. They were also dangerous, baiting Connor toward terrain hiding on the other side.

  Passage over the smaller ridges was almost as hazardous. When the helicopter managed to sneak through, the next valley would be no different, and in a short time the clouds would close in behind, completely masking the hills. A quicker route was needed or they would have to abort.

  Heavier rain began falling again. Once more Connor slowed and followed the only route available, forcing the helicopter further away from their destination. The crew searched and hoped for another option.

  Ten miles away, near a wide river basin, a special operations assault team was converging on a clearing of waist-high elephant grass, surrounded by high jungle and bamboo. The soldiers of the Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol, or LRRP, had been on the move for the past seven days, monitoring enemy movements and setting ambushes. They were now on the run. A battalion of North Vietnamese was in close pursuit, trying to head off the six-man patrol before they reached the extraction point.

  The team had radioed for an emergency extraction the night before. They were told a rescue helicopter would be sent first thing in the morning, weather permitting. The forecast wasn’t good. Their only options were to dig in and fight or keep running and hope they could lose the enemy in the jungle. Neither option had much chance of success. One of the men was seriously wounded. The team was near exhaustion, and their ammunition supply was dwindling rapidly.

  Connor kept the helicopter only feet above the dense forest. The valley ahead looked no different from the one before, filled with the same dark jungle and falling rain. He maneuvered the helicopter over the middle of the basin, only turning to avoid lower clouds or high trees along their flight path. The moving wiper blades made seeing obstacles even harder. Twice the skids brushed against protruding limbs, forcing him to reduce speed. Visibility was shrinking and the narrow gap below the overcast was almost nonexistent.

  The needle on the fuel gauge seemed to drop faster with each passing minute. Connor flew as if they were in a giant maze, turning one way, then another, each time being drawn further away from their destination or being forced to turn back by a wall of clouds. He became frustrated, knowing they were the LRRP team’s only hope.

  Connor was ten months into his second tour. The mission schedule was winding down, and he looked forward to returning home. Death had become routine for him. He was no longer shocked by the horrors of war and the lack of emotion was beginning to affect his subconscious. Suppressing his emotions was a daily occurrence, at least while he was awake. The dead only haunted him in his dreams.

  Thoughts of his family were pushed aside for fear they would distract him. His survival depended on staying focused. Only at night and when he wasn’t preoccupied with flying did he think of his wife and kids. His last thoughts were always of them before drifting into a restless sleep. They gave him strength to awaken another morning.

  Two weeks remained on Mac’s tour before he returned stateside. With so few days remaining, flying another combat mission wasn’t a requirement, but he volunteered anyway. He and Connor were good friends, both seasoned pilots who had flown together before. When the assigned copilot for the mission became ill, Mac readily took his place. He knew what was at stake and relished the thought of flying with his friend one more time.

  “Mac, you still have us on the map?” Connor’s calm voice hid his concern.

  “I won’t get us lost,” Mac answered. “Running out of fuel is a bigger concern.”

  He ran a finger along the sides of his mustache then stretched his neck from side to side. “Damn. I still show us about ten miles out.”

  Connor hesitated a moment, looking out his side window before banking hard to the right, reversing course. “We need to try something else.”

  Mac’s face remained expressionless except for a slightly raised eyebrow. He knew Connor would push as far as they could without giving up. He was confident in his friend’s ability and his own, but their diminishing fuel was a concern.

  “You want to fill me in, Gil?”

  “We won’t make the extraction dodging this shit weather. There was another thin break in the overcast about a mile back, right in the middle of the valley. If the opening’s still there, we can try to climb through and get above this scud.”

  Mac looked down at his map, then back at Connor. “Okay, but what then? We still need a clear hole to get back down. Unless you want to abort and head back to base. I’m tired of poking around in this crap.”

  “And abandon the LRRP team?”

  “I don’t want to any more than you, but we might not have a choice.” Mac looked at Connor with a steady gaze, his voice blunt with concern.

  The fuel gauge was nearing the turnaround point. They had a half hour to find the landing zone, pick up the reconnaissance team, and fly direct to the nearest refueling site. Counting on the weather to cooperate seemed a foolish gamble, but giving up was something neither of them wanted to consider.

  Connor had already weighed the options. “I think my plan will work. If we can’t find a large hole near the extraction point, we’ll head back and refuel. Maybe the weather will improve by then.”

  His last statement sounded hollow. They all knew the reconnaissance team didn’t have a chance without them arriving soon. Six brave men would be killed or captured if they aborted the mission.

  The weather, as if hearing their predicament, suddenly changed. A break materialized in the overcast and Connor pulled back sharply on the cyclic, c
limbing rapidly through the narrow opening, too small even for the helicopter. The abrupt maneuver was a calculated risk, one he was willing to take.

  The rotors caught the vaporous mass of air, pulling the cloud closer around the helicopter. The visibility faded into nothingness, with only the flight instruments guiding Connor on the controls. Edgy voices in back announced a loss of all outside references.

  Mac spoke without emotion as he watched the gauges. “Heading looks good. Another thousand feet and we’ll be above the hills.”

  Connor fought a brief sense of vertigo and kept the helicopter in a steady climb through the overcast. Any attempt to turn or descend now could be fatal.

  Two minutes and nearly four thousand feet later, the helicopter broke clear of the cloud layer. A blanket of pillowed cotton stretched below as far as they could see. The only acknowledgment was Mac’s brief smile, cut short by Connor’s calm voice.

  “Get the FAC on the radio. Ask him if he can see any breaks we can descend through in his area.”

  Radio contact with the FAC had been sporadic. High terrain interfered with communication close to the ground. At their present altitude, the signal would be loud and clear.

  The FAC, short for Forward Air Controller, was flying a small twin-engine Cessna somewhere over the jungle near the extraction point. He, or another one like him, had been in radio contact with the LRRP team for the previous twelve hours.

  Mac pressed his transmit button, first noting the time on the clock. He figured the river basin would take them a little over seven minutes to reach. Their fuel reserve would be stretched to the limit.

  The FAC responded immediately, his slight Texas drawl scratchy after several hours in the air. He explained the team was already in position on the west side of the landing zone and taking sporadic fire. A large enemy force was close behind.

  Connor pulled in maximum torque, increasing airspeed to the red line. “Jimmy, Pedro, keep a sharp look out. I need a hole to descend through in a few minutes. If we get through the overcast, stay alert on the guns. The LZ is going to be hot.”