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
Chapter FORTY-TWO
A palpable tension hung in the air as Hollis Spencer slowly drummed his fingers on his desk. He looked around the room, then stared at the second hand on his wristwatch while it completed one full sweep. Letting the silence build, he stopped and methodically packed fresh tobacco into his pipe. At last, he snapped his lighter open, puffed repeatedly, and swiveled to face Allison.
"Let's give them a call."
Nick Palmer shared a glance with Lex Blackwell. They knew the odds were against a successful rescue deep in the heartland of Northern Vietnam. Their worst fear was that Brad Austin had been killed in the crash landing.
Allison slid her chair close to the radio and adjusted the volume control for the overhead speaker. "Sleepy Two Five, Blue Devil. Do you copy?"
The speaker suddenly crackled with a garbled static, but the message was sporadic and unintelligible. The random noise served as a ray of hope.
"Let's wait a few minutes," Spencer said with a rush of enthusiasm, "and try again."
Surprised by the distorted radio transmission, Rudy Jimenez answered the call while he nursed the helicopter higher. He would keep climbing and call Alpha-29 every thirty seconds until he could hear clearly.
He thought about calling in the blind, hoping someone at a higher altitude would relay his message. After careful consideration, he elected not to risk exposing the operation. Making contact with the base would bolster his morale, but it would not get them home any sooner.
Jimenez watched the altimeter as the laboring helicopter struggled for every foot of altitude. He felt the tension that knotted his neck muscles.
"Blue Devil, Sleepy Two Five."
He listened to the sound of the engine and cast a hesitant glance at the oil-pressure gauge. His eyes were playing tricks on him, or were they? The indicator seemed immobilized, but he was sure it had been slightly higher the last time he looked at the pressure.
"Blue Devil, Sleepy radio check. How do you read?"
Finally, Allison's excited voice filled Rudy's earphones.
"Sleepy, we copy. Is Brad on board, and where are you?"
Jimenez gave Chase Mitchell a quick glance and felt his stomach tighten. Rudy could not admit to himself that he and the best friend he had ever had would never again go barhopping together.
"Blue Devil, we're a couple of miles southeast of Chieng Pan." Jimenez stared at the oil-pressure indicator. He was certain it had dropped a fraction of. A n inch. "Austin is on board, and we have two wounded. We need the doc standing by, and the dollar-twenty-three ready to medevac. Copy?"
"Read you loud and clear. Stand by."
— Wilco.
The oil gauge had definitely moved. Jimenez could see the pressure dropping. He eased back on the throttle to try to conserve the precious fluid. He searched his chart for a reasonable place to make a forced landing. Rudy computed the time to Alpha-29 and concluded that it was his only choice. At the rate the pressure was dropping, it would be a close race between landing at the remote base and running out of oil short of the field.
"Sleepy, say nature of the injuries and your ETA."
"Austin has a gunshot wound to his thigh," Jimenez said, knowing how Allison felt about Brad, "and Chase has a severe neck wound. Rudy glanced at Mitchell once more. "Chase needs an immediate medevac."
"We're making preparations as we speak. Say your ETA. " Her voice was thin and cracked, but the emotional relief was clearly evident.
"I'd say eighteen to twenty minutes," Rudy estimated while he studied the engine instruments, "if this thing holds together that long."
"What's the problem?"
Jimenez raised his arm and wiped his cheek on the sleeve of his flight suit. "We've got an oil leak, and the engine temp is going out of sight. I'll keep you informed."
"Roger that," she replied in a hollow voice.
Watching each minute slowly drag by, Rudy decided that in the event of total engine failure, he would broadcast a Mayday call over an emergency frequency used by the Air America pilots. If he did not get a quick response, he would switch the frequency to 243.0 and send out a distress call. To hell with the goddamn MiG operation.
Nick Palmer rose from his chair a moment after he heard a loud swooshing sound. He and Lex Blackwell froze in place, then dove to the deck when machine-gun fire flayed the Quonset but and surrounding area.
"Get down!" Hollis Spencer exclaimed as he grasped Allison's arm and pulled her to the floor.
"Stay down!" Palmer ordered while he yanked the briefing table over on its side. "Over here — get behind the table and stay low!"