The Last Flight Read online

  Both door gunners acknowledged. A devout Catholic, Pedro gave the sign of the cross and said a silent prayer. Jimmy rubbed his good luck charm, a piece of shrapnel retrieved from the seat frame on his first mission, now fastened as a piece of jewelry around his neck.

  Five minutes passed before they were over the eastern edge of the wide river basin. There was no discernible difference in weather. Clouds effectively masked the lower terrain, obscuring any visible reference.

  “Dancer Eight, we’re nearing your location. Do not have you in sight. Any breaks visible in the overcast, over?” Mac waited for a response with his hand on the radio selector.

  “Negative, Windrunner. I’m at seven point five, well above you. Are you receiving Bootlegger?”

  Bootlegger was the LRRP team’s call sign. They were using a tactical frequency and the helicopter’s FM radio had been picking up static transmissions since climbing through the overcast. The chatter became clearer with each passing mile.

  “Affirmative, Dancer. If we can find a way down, I’ll talk to them directly.” Mac was looking ahead to where the FAC should be circling. He pointed when he saw a flash of sunlight off the metal wing.

  “We have you in sight now. Estimate two minutes to your location.”

  “Roger that, Windrunner.” The steady hum of the Cessna’s engines could be heard in the background. “Still no breaks visible … wait! I have a small opening out my left wing,” the FAC continued. “The river is directly below. I’m turning toward the opening now.”

  Connor watched the Cessna change course and turned the helicopter in the same direction. “This is it guys. We’ve got enough fuel for one try.”

  Mac gave Connor a thumbs up and informed Dancer of their intentions. The FAC acknowledged and relayed to Bootlegger. Sounds of weapon fire were noticeable over the patrol’s radio.

  The hole in the clouds was the size of a football field, just big enough for what he intended. Connor dove through in a tight spiral, keeping his orientation over the muddy river until the helicopter was barely above the trees along the riverbank. He leveled and turned on the heading Mac gave him, searching the jungle.

  “Dancer, we’re through. We’ll talk with Bootlegger direct.”

  Mac felt an adrenaline rush as they neared the LZ. He could feel his heart pounding. Connor was no different. The intensity in each of their expressions was obvious.

  “Bootlegger, we’re a mile out. What’s your status?” There was no immediate response and Connor exchanged a worried look with Mac.

  “Bootlegger, do you copy, over?”

  Mac was about to try again when a different voice answered.

  “This is Bootlegger. The LZ is hot! I repeat, the LZ is hot! Land as close to the smoke as you can. Popping green smoke now. Do you confirm?”

  They saw the smoke billowing near the edge of the jungle. Connor turned the helicopter away for a few seconds before banking hard over a small drainage, shielding their path into the LZ. He followed the rising terrain in a shallow climb, staying a leg’s length above the jungle canopy.

  The sound of the beating rotor blades gave away their position in advance. Small arms fire erupted from a narrow ridge below the clearing. Heavy caliber tracers joined in, barely missing behind the tail boom as the helicopter cleared the trees. Jimmy immediately returned fire from the left side, raking the perimeter where muzzle flashes were visible. He stopped firing short of the swirling smoke, unable to see the position of the recon team.

  “Mac, stay on the controls with me. Watch the gauges. I’m going in hot.”

  “I’m with you. Power looks good,” Mac replied. The pitch in his voice was higher with anticipation.

  Connor brought the helicopter in fast. At the last second he flared and kicked in left pedal, swinging the nose so both M-60s could concentrate forward on the area of enemy fire. He landed with a slight jolt as Pedro opened up from his side.

  Mac quickly moved his hands from the controls and grabbed a short-barreled assault rifle he kept by his seat, sticking the muzzle out the window and firing a series of short bursts. He felt vulnerable on the ground. The small caliber weapon wasn’t as effective as the heavier machine guns in back, but helping with suppressive fire was better than doing nothing.

  Three hurrying figures in camouflage fatigues emerged from the smoke. The one in front carried another soldier across his shoulders, struggling with the weight. His face was heavy with exhaustion, streaked with sweat and camouflage paint, and his wet uniform was slick with mud. Ammo pouches and a smoke grenade hung from the straps of his web gear.

  The arms of the carried soldier dangled lifelessly toward the ground. His fatigue shirt was open, soaked with blood, his eyes unmoving.

  Immediately behind, the other two soldiers supported each other as they hurried toward the helicopter. Both were wounded. One limped with a bandaged thigh and the other had a bloody arm hanging weakly at his side. Half-empty rucksacks bounced on their backs as they moved. An assault rifle was slung around one man’s neck and the other was carrying an identical weapon in his hand.

  All three reached the helicopter about the same time. The unmoving soldier’s body was quickly laid on the floor against the rear seats. He was dead. The others took up position on each side of the helicopter and began laying down return fire.

  Connor counted the seconds. Twenty had passed since landing and the wait was taking too long. The helicopter could be damaged by enemy fire any moment. He silently cursed the delay but refused to leave even as rounds began pelting the fuselage. Three successive thwacks, distinguishable above the whine of the engine and the rattle of automatic fire, reverberated with a hollow echo.

  “Keep firing. They’re zeroing in on us.”

  Connor’s voice was surprisingly calm, hiding the urge to yell over the intercom. He checked the engine gauges, relieved they were showing normal indications. His breathing quickening between each burst as he listened to the steady fire from the gunners.

  The last two soldiers emerged from the dissipating smoke thirty yards away. They were running and firing behind them at the same time. The closest carried a radio with the antenna hooked over his shoulder. He turned long enough to fire a grenade through the green haze before running even harder. Only a few feet behind, the other man fired rapid bursts from an M-60 machine gun cradled at his side. A belt of ammo was draped over one arm with the metal links extending up and around his neck. The barrel glowed from the heat, steam rising from the metal surface.

  Mac stopped firing, afraid he might hit the soldiers when the M-60s in back became silent.

  “Pedro’s hit.” The voice was Jimmy’s, higher pitched and without the usual bravado.

  Connor turned in his seat, knowing what he would see and cursed. “Jimmy, get back on the gun!”

  Stanton hesitated, not with fear, but with concern for his friend.

  “Get back on the gun, now!” Connor ordered. “The others will take care of him.”

  Pedro’s gun was already firing again as one of the recon soldiers took his place. Jimmy joined in a second later.

  More rounds hit the helicopter. On the edge of the tree line, a squad of enemy soldiers emerged and ran toward them, firing wildly.

  Mac saw them and reloaded. “Jimmy! A hundred yards out on the tree line, your side. Redirect your fire!”

  Jimmy’s gun jammed as he shifted in the doorway. He hurried to clear the weapon but kept looking up toward the approaching enemy. Only Mac’s and the recon soldier’s smaller automatics were firing in their direction. The rounds seemed to have no effect.

  Suddenly, two bright flashes erupted directly in front of the enemy soldiers. They dove for the ground, seeking protection from the new threat.

  Just then, a voice broke over the radio. “Looks like you boys could use some help.” The FAC sounded jubilant as his small Cessna swooped in over the clearing before banking hard left over the jungle. “I’ve got a few more white phosphorous rockets that might keep their heads in t
he dirt.”

  Connor answered immediately. “Put them on the same target. Buy us another minute and the drinks are on me.”

  “Got them in sight, Windrunner. I’m coming in low and fast from your seven o’clock. Sure as hell hope this ruse works again.”

  The marker rockets, nonfatal but frightening all the same, hit in the middle of the enemy combatants, seconds before the Cessna roared over their heads.

  The soldiers stayed glued to the ground, unaware the rockets were virtually harmless against troops in the open.

  “Yeehaw! That should tighten their assholes. I suggest you boys get out of Dodge before the rest of the Injuns show up.”

  A dirty haze billowed from the minor explosions and spread with the breeze as the last two members of the LRRP team reached the helicopter. The first dove inside, rolling to the opposite door where he continued firing. The last was pulled in by the others and began yelling. “Go, go! We’re all clear.”

  Connor was already pulling in power. Some of the team popped smoke canisters and tossed them as far as they could out the sides. Thick colors of red and yellow mixed with the last of the green, providing a psychedelic display of swirling fog that helped mask their position.

  The enemy, now congregated in large numbers around the LZ, began firing blindly at the sound of the departing helicopter. The smoke shielded the location but also prevented the door gunners from returning accurate fire.

  In seconds the haze dissipated in the swirling wind from the rotor blades. Connor swung the tail sharply, dumping the nose and accelerating a few feet above the wet grass. He pulled back at the last moment to clear the trees, not wanting the helicopter silhouetted against the sky longer than necessary.

  “Dancer, we’re clear, departing north. We sure appreciate that rocket run. Perfect timing.”

  “Don’t mention it, partner. I was getting bored doing circles. Glad I could help.”

  The North Vietnamese were familiar with the tactics used by the American military. The enemy commander knew a helicopter would be used for extracting the reconnaissance patrol. Once his forces closed on the LZ, he directed troops around the perimeter to set up an ambush position.

  They were assembling a heavy caliber machine gun when the helicopter arrived. A minute later the weapon aimed low and missed as the silhouette rose over the trees. Only a last second burst was possible before the helicopter completely disappeared off the side of the hill.

  The gun crew cursed themselves for not being faster, convinced by the fading sound of the engine that their bullets had been ineffective. Most of the bullets only sliced through air, but three managed to hit their target. One round embedded in the protective armor around Mac’s seat. Another passed through the small Plexiglas side-window before exiting out the windshield. The third was far more deadly.

  The metal-jacketed bullet deflected off the doorframe and splintered, penetrating Mac’s helmet above his left temple. He slumped forward. A stream of blood rolled down his forehead and nose, staining his shirt. Only the shoulder harness stopped him from falling against the controls.

  Connor saw his friend shift noticeably forward. He thought Mac was reaching for something before realizing the movement was involuntary.

  “Mac’s hit! Jimmy, pull his seat back. See if you can help him.”

  Reaching over with his left hand, Connor tried pulling Mac into a sitting position. He couldn’t move him. “Mac, can you hear me? Mac? Goddamn it! Shit! Stay with me. Stay with me, buddy.”

  There was no response. Jimmy pulled the seat back on the rails and pulled Mac’s helmet off. A quarter size hole of broken scalp was visible. His head was bleeding profusely and his eyes were glazed, but he was alive.

  “He’s breathing but not conscious. Man, he’s hurt bad,” Jimmy announced anxiously.

  Connor’s methodical training took over. He held back his anger, fighting emotions of remorse and blame for letting Mac come along on the mission. He took several deep breaths before advising Dancer of their status, letting him know their fuel situation, the number of injured, and their intention to proceed direct to the nearest hospital.

  He asked Dancer to relay the information and thanked him again, but the words were barren. Completing the mission, the adrenaline rush, the euphoria of invincibility—they were all meaningless. He suppressed his emotion, but the guilt was there, lingering and festering, eating deeper into his gut.

  The FAC was unaware of the personal turmoil in the helicopter. As far as he was concerned, the mission was a success, although at a price. There was always a price. Still, he was satisfied. There would be more to come, of that he was sure.

  Dancer climbed through the overcast and leveled at seven thousand feet. He was hungry after several hours in the air. He enjoyed a pinch of chewing tobacco now and then to suppress his hunger, but after repeatedly spilling his spit cup he decided to leave the habit on the ground.

  Instead, he reached into a bright olive-green helmet bag beside his seat, retrieving a candy bar. The wrapper was wadded and tossed aside, hitting the corner of his helmet bag. Sewn on the pocket of the bag was a unit insignia in the shape of a shield. Depicted on the shield were a small airplane above a jungle landscape and an apparition of an angel with open wings. The word Guardians was stitched in white above contrasting colors of green, gold, and maroon, framed by the name 56th Support Squadron around the bottom.

  The FAC consumed the candy bar in a few, quick bites before wiping his mouth. He reached forward and tuned the navigation receiver, then made a slight turn correction to maintain course.

  He smiled. “Time to put the horse in the barn.” The words were a local expression he picked up as a kid in West Texas. In thirty minutes he would be drinking a cold beer at the officer’s club.

  Connor didn’t waste time looking for a hole to climb through. Not with Mac’s condition and the other wounded on board. He flew over the center of the river before pulling up in steep, direct climb through the clouds. They emerged into the bright sunlight, and he turned and headed away from the border, a place where the war wasn’t even supposed to exist.

  No one spoke during the flight back, each of them absorbed with personal relief and regret. Thoughts of home would come later, in solitude, when memories of battle and blood and lost friends could be pushed aside, if only for a moment.

  Twenty minutes later they touched down. Mac was dead. The head injury was too severe. He died in transit, a faint wheeze of air his only goodbye before passing away. His body was carefully covered with a poncho and positioned beside the dead recon soldier.

  Three of the five surviving team members were wounded, as well as Pedro. His injury was enough for an early ticket home. The bullet tore a jagged hole in his upper thigh, damaging muscle tissue and barely missing a major artery. A thick scar and lingering limp would be a permanent reminder of the war.

  Connor sat in the helicopter after the blades coasted to a stop. Stanton and the soldiers left after the wounded and dead had been evacuated by medical personnel. No words were necessary. They respected his desire to be alone.

  A light rain began to fall again. He thought of all the past missions, of fallen friends, and blood and fear and crippled bodies, of better times, and finally of his family back home. He rested with his head against the seat, eyes open, staring into the emptiness of a lead sky.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Alaska

  August 2005

  The twin-engine commuter plane lifted off the small runway, using almost all the distance before slowly raising its nose skyward. Painted white with a thin maroon stripe along the fuselage, the aircraft ascended in a slow turn to the northwest. In the distance lay the snow-capped peaks of the Alaska Range.

  Noise from the turboprop engines quickly subsided, leaving only a fading silhouette visible in the morning light. In a short time the outline was completely gone, lost against a background of lavender sky.

  A crew of two pilots and a full load of nineteen passengers and cargo, incl
uding two sled dogs, were on board. Departure from the Gulkana Airport was exactly on time. Arrival at the Fairbanks International Airport, two hundred miles away, was estimated at fifty minutes after takeoff.

  Captain Scott Sanders, thirty-two years old, medium height with almond colored hair and a receding hairline, sat in the left cockpit seat. He was content with allowing his energetic first officer to fly the aircraft.

  Sanders had been piloting twin-engine commuters with Northern Mountain Air for nearly five years. Another three years were spent flying single-engine bush planes. After eight years of flying, he had finally accumulated enough flight hours to be considered by one of the major airlines. He had been anxious for over a week, waiting for a response to any of his recently submitted resumes.

  First Officer Ken Illiamin was new with the company. His prior experience consisted of mostly charter flights for a small air service. In his mid-twenties, tall and lanky with a thin face, he had a propensity for telling stories. His comedic talent aside, he eventually planned to establish his own flying business. Alaska’s expanding economy and proposed gas pipeline were strong enticements. A lucrative aviation career was a realistic goal he was determined to fulfill.

  In the cabin, four of the passengers were young girls, twelve to fourteen years of age, returning home after placing second in a regional swimming tournament. They were busy chatting and gesturing out the windows at the passing scenery.

  All the girls except one appeared to have stepped from the pages of a teen magazine. Expensive clothes and makeup were attempts at appearing older than their actual age. The youngest was the most mature. She wore no makeup, and her clothes were fashionable yet modest. Freckles and a ponytail portrayed a subtle innocence only partially hiding the wisdom of someone much older.

  The girls were accompanied by their swimming coach, a slender, waxy-haired woman in her late twenties, wearing a light blue jogging outfit with the team name stenciled on the jacket. Athletic and plain looking, she conveyed an air of self-importance disguising an inner frailty.