"Roger, copy three souls," the SAR crew chief answered. "We've got room for you."
Off to the east, I could see the air battle still raging. The fighters circled and danced in the sky, the Tomcats using their greater power against the MiGs' more maneuverable form. I saw another hit, but couldn't tell who it was. Please, God ― not one of ours. I offered up the silent prayer, as contrite at that moment as I ever had been in my life.
Somehow, I'd always envisioned the war stopping when I left it. I knew it wasn't true, at least on an intellectual level. The flights who replaced me while I went to plug and suck on the tanker or back to Jefferson to rearm still continued the battle. Although it seems like you're at the center of the universe when you're in the cockpit, it really isn't so, as the battle off to my east was now making patently clear to me.
I saw one of the small figures break off in hot pursuit and head our direction. Gator was watching too. I heard him say, "Oh, no. No, not that."
My only excuse for what I said next was that I'd just come out of air combat, been ejected from an aircraft, half drowned, and wasn't thinking straight. It didn't make sense, not even as I said it, but I said it anyway.
"They're not gonna strafe us."
Gator shot me a look of sheer, hellish disgust. "Maybe not at first." He gestured with his good arm toward the helo. "They're after the Angel first."
It was simply no match-up. The MiG came no closer than two miles, circled for a moment, then fired two missiles at the CH-46. The helo dove for the water, trying desperately to shake the missiles among the clutter of waves, but the sea state was simply too light. I'd never seen a helo move that fast, or that nimbly. Their pilot did a helluva job.
It wasn't good enough. The first missile hit dead on, shattering the canopy, then plowing part of the way into the fuselage before exploding into a fireball. The second missile detonated upon hitting the suspended shrapnel in the air, creating a secondary explosion that was completely unnecessary. The crew had died in the first moments of impact.
"No!" I was trying to stand now, shaking on my feet in the fragile life boat and lifting one hand at the air and shaking it. "No, you bastards."
I felt a hand on my back, and something yanked me down hard. I lost my balance, fell half out of the raft. My head was submerged in the cold water, and it must have cleared my brain. I grabbed for the side of the raft to keep from falling out, and in the process lost my gun. Two hands hauled me back into the raft and tossed me across to the other side. I sputtered, choked, then puked over the edge.
The Vietnamese pilot was awake ― and clearly had been for some time. I clenched my right hand reflexively, felt the absence of the pistol as keenly as I'd ever noted a loss before.
Our eyes met ― his black, battered from his own ejection and colder than the water. No blinking, just staring. I broke the gaze first and looked down in his left hand. A pistol, not an American one.
"Oh, Bird Dog," I heard Gator say softly. "Jesus, Bird Dog."
The Vietnamese whirled on him, pointing the gun in his direction. He made a motion, clearly indicated that Gator should move to my end of the raft. He did so, dragging himself and his crumpled arm painfully down the length. As soon as he was within arm's reach, I grabbed him and pulled him up toward me. "Just hold still, buddy. They'll be back."
Gator groaned, now past the point of having a coherent discussion.
In the far end of the raft, the Vietnamese settled down, seated, but with the gun pointed implacably in our direction.
We just sat like that for a long time, staring at each other. I checked Gator over, did what I could to make him more comfortable. There was nothing I could use on the boat to splint his arm except the oar, and the gook had gotten hold of that.
The other fellow pulled out his own version of a SAR radio and spoke briefly into it. My heart sank as someone answered. It took them about thirty minutes, but the patrol boat finally found us. We saw them well before they saw us, and our not-so-good friend guided them straight in on us.
They took him aboard first. Then two of them climbed down in the raft to hand Gator up. They went pretty easy with him once they saw he was injured. I saw Gator start to scream at one point when his arm joggled the wrong way, and the guy we fished out of the ocean said something in a nasty tone of voice to them. I don't speak Vietnamese, but I could guess what it was by the expression on their faces.
Something else struck me odd about the entire exchange. Our good old buddy in the water, the one I'd been so tempted to drown, looked like he might be something a little bit more than your average fighter pilot. There were no insignia on his uniform, nothing to give away his rank ― a standard precaution when flying combat patrols ― but I could tell from the way the rest of the men on the boat reacted to him that he might be somebody special. Maybe real special. I should have drowned him when I had the chance.
But for what it was worth, it got Gator fairly decent treatment. The fact that I'd fished him out of the water to begin with seemed to count for something.
It took us two hours to get to shore, a rolling, gut-puking journey in what looked like a converted fishing vessel. It must have had no draft whatsoever ― we bobbed around even in the mild seas like a cork with a trout on the other end.
Finally, we pulled into a naval base and pulled up to the pier. Once again, my buddy departed the boat first. That clued me in too ― last on, first off is the rule for senior officers. He stood on the pier, a bedraggled, soaked, and exhausted figure, with something burning inside of him that kept him upright and snapping out orders. A stretcher was waiting for Gator, and two men who looked to be the Vietnamese equivalent of medics were at his side immediately. Not a routine evolution from the looks of it ― I expected our friend's extended conversation on the ship-to-shore radio had something to do with it.
Nobody paid much attention to me, other than a tough-looking guy patting me down real thoroughly. He took away my knife and my radio. He left me with a chocolate bar and my plastic bottle of water.
Finally, old Fred ― and that's how I was beginning to think of him, because I was tired of thinking of him as a gook or simply that guy ― motioned to both of us. We marched off to an ambulance and a panel truck. They tried to pull me away from Gator's side and stuff me in the truck, and I protested vigorously.
"You are American?" The words in English surprised me, and I spun around to see a small, delicately made Vietnamese woman looking up at me. She smiled. "I am the translator," she said carefully, her words precise and accented. "You are American?"
I nodded. "Lieutenant Commander Curt Robinson, 78322-9872. United States Navy."
She nodded, as though she'd expected nothing more. "And your friend?"
"Commander Gator Cummings, United States Navy. I don't know his Social Security number."
Again she nodded, an odd, cryptic expression on her face. "I have some questions to ask you."
"I don't answer questions."
"They are very easy."
I shook my head in the negative. "No questions. And I go with him." I pointed to Gator, who was being loaded into the ambulance.
It was her turn to shake her head, and a frown appeared on her face. "You had General Hue in your boat," she began, and pointed at Fred. He was standing off to the side and watching this all with a cynical expression on his face.
"A general?"
"Yes. He has ordered for us to take care of you in light of that fact. And your friend. But your friend must go to the hospital, and you will go to…" She struggled with the phrase for a moment, then came up with it. "A holding facility."