Chapter Eight.

Moving low and fast, Stacey was flying on heading Two-twenty, point-eight degrees South-west by West, across the Plaine des Jarres, heading for Long Tieng. Her eyes were continually flicking from the flight path horizon to her fuel instruments and back again willing the gauges not to move. Fuel pressure was normal, but the fuel contents gauge needle was creeping inexorably down the scale. The Huey was leaking fuel. When she had first noticed the gauge fluctuation, she had called for Natalie to check. While the main fuel cells were supposedly self-sealing, the UH-1H was not equipped with factory armour, and one of the enemy rounds must have penetrated something critical.

Natalie strapped on the "Monkey-harness"... the standard-fit door gunner's safety harness anchored to the cabin wall; slid back the cabin port door and stepped out onto the skid. With her vizor down against the slipstream she scrutinised the aft cabin fuselage and saw the faint purple haze of JP-4 trailing back along their flight path.

Hauling herself back in, she pulled the door closed, and glancing at the two pilots, smiled encouragingly and moved back to the cockpit. She plugged into the intercom and spoke to Stacey.

'We've taken a hit in the port fuel cell, babe We're leaving a purple trail way back across the sky; and the pilot of "Firefly Six" looks to be in bad shape. I guess he screwed his back up when he ejected. Should I pop him a Syrette?'

Stacey answered without taking her eyes from the horizon.

'No. if he has screwed his back, a morphine shot could do more harm than good. If we relieve the pain he might cause himself more damage than there already is, by moving around.'

Natalie nodded, and shut down the fuel boost pump for the severed line or whatever component had been damaged. The leakage appeared to diminish slightly.

'OK, babe. Now, what's the situation?'

As she spoke; the twenty-minute fuel caution light flashed on, with its brilliant orange glow lighting up the caution panel like the tilt light on a pinball table.

Stacey cursed under her breath According to the chart against the ground features, and their course line, they were about forty-five klicks out of Long Tieng, and the fuel-quantity gauge was creeping down towards two hundred pounds. It didn't take an Einstein to figure out that this bird would almost be running on fresh air when… and if, they actually managed to make it over Skyline ridge.

Natalie was checking the charts for alternatives. The two nearest, LS-15, Ban Na at twenty klicks north-west, was a twelve-hundred foot, graded earth strip which was little more than a drop-off Lima. The other was LS-72, Tha Tam Bleung, which was abandoned. There was nothing for it but to press on regardless. This was going to be awfully damned close.

Stacey brought the Huey into the stretch of highlands west of the Plaine des Jarres at one hundred and ten knots, with the fuel-quantity gauge flickering ominously between the two-point-seven and two-point-one marks on the dial. This quantity, in normal operating conditions, would last for about thirty-five minutes. Fuel pressure was still OK, but how long that would last was anyone's guess. The twenty-minute low fuel warning light had been glowing bright orange for about eight minutes now... they had two hundred and seventy pounds of fuel... just under forty gallons; and ten of those were unusable, according to the manual.

Natalie keyed her mike.

'Ok; so how are we doing, babe?'

Stacey shook her head as she hauled the Huey down through the gap between the six-thousand, four-hundred-foot peak above the abandoned Lima site L-72 out on her right quarter; and the sixty-three-hundred-foot promontory at the northern end of the Phou Phaxai range out to her left. She picked up the thin blue, shining thread of the Nam Pha River meandering along the bottom of the valley and pulled the airspeed down to a hundred and ten.

'Not good, Nat. Fuel loss is constant, by the look of the quantity gauge. Fuel pressure is still stable, but, my worry is that she will run dry as we are transiting to hover at the ramp; and a flame-out at any height won't do "Firefly Six's" back any good at all. This bird will drop like a goddamned brick and I won't be able to do the slightest damn thing about it.'

The ragged Karst outcrops to the north-east of the little ville of Ban Namngoua came into view. Stacey keyed her mike.

'Nat; get on the horn and push One-One-Nine, point-One. I've just had the first flicker on the fuel pressure, and we'll soon be running out of options.'

Natalie nodded and keyed her mike.

'That's a "Rog," babe.'

She switched to UHF Command Set and called Long Tieng.

'Twenty-Alpha approach. Footloose-One Actual. North-east inbound at two-six-fiver. Fuel critical. Two casualties. Request zero orbit transit, and clear west-end ramp. Over.'

Long Tieng tower came in…

"Footloose-One Actual. Twenty-Alpha approach. Wind, one-niner-zero at twelve. ASL three-one-two-zero. Cleared straight in to touchdown. Crash team at standby."

Natalie replied.

'That's a Rog, Twenty Alpha. Transiting Skyline now. Standby.'

The crash crew watched apprehensively as the Huey came into sight over the crest of Skyline Ridge. They saw the thin purple plume of jet fuel hazing back from the port side of the bird, and ran for the crash truck. As they did so, the engine tone faltered, and then picked up again. The "Whup-whup-whup-whup" of its rotors sounded strained. The pilot must have the pitch wound right out on the limits.

Stacey was fighting to hold the bird steady. The fuel-quantity gauge was bouncing on the bottom pointer stop and the fuel pressure was creeping down. There would only be one bite at this particular cherry. With the fuel gauge bottoming out on its absolute zero setting, she pulled the Huey into a shuddery hover and executed a somewhat less than textbook touchdown. The skids ploughed down the West ramp just as the fuel pumps spat the last of the JP-4 out of the holed fuel lines and sucked the cells dry. Breathing a great sigh of relief, she twisted the throttle closed, and the blades wound down. She couldn't actually tell if the turbine had stopped due to her shut-down action, or if it was because it had completely run out of fuel. Whichever it was; there was no way she could have hovered long enough to make a tidy landing. Another thirty seconds or so would have made the difference between this safe touchdown and an in-flight flameout.

With everything switched off, Stacey and Natalie unbuckled their harnesses and climbed out onto the ramp. The crash crew were there; fire bottles at the ready, but with zero fuel and probably, zero fumes in the cells, they weren't really necessary. The meat wagon turned up to collect the two downed pilots and ferried them away, presumably over the hill to "Pop" Buell's hospital at Sam Thong.

As they began to check the chopper over, Sandman sauntered across. He wandered round the fuselage counting bullet holes. He returned and pushed his sunglasses up on his head.

'I make it forty-seven hits. Anybody been ventilated? And how in the hell did you manage to get this shot-up bird back?'

Stacey shook her head.

'Nope. Nobody was hit. We heard a few clangs on the armour but nothing touched either of us; and we just looked at our maps and we guessed. We estimated a heading and just counted off the grid squares.'

He grinned.

'Damn lucky. But you ain't gonna be flying this bird home any time soon, Baby-Girl. Apart from the fuel cell; you've collected two through the transmission. It's God's own wonder you didn't shake the mast off! Ladies, we are gonna have to seriously arm this bird up with some kick-ass shit for you if you figure to keep on jiggling your fannies at the Grim Reaper.'

Whilst Natalie returned to the cockpit to collect her flight gear, he held out his hand to Stacey. His palm contained a dog-tag chain, attached to which, was a silver Morgan Dollar coin. He grinned.

'Here, Baby-Girl. Take this as your lucky mascot. You keep this up and you just might need it to pay the Ferryman if you catch the "Golden B-B" when your luck runs out one of these days.'

She grinned as she accepted the mascot.

'Thanks Sandman… but it'll take more than a "Golden B-B" to stop me.'

He raised an eyebrow.

'Don't get too cute, Baby-Girl. Remember, your ass is mine… it ain't for those little Dink bastards to blow holes in.'

She laughed.

'You wish, Sandman… You wish!'

A week later, Stacey lined up the brand-new Cessna O-1 Bird Dog with the strip at Long Tieng, and committed to final approach. She had flown this little airplane up from Vientiane with Natalie in the back seat, to pick up her Huey, which the guys at L-20A had signalled was now fully repaired and airworthy; and the Bird Dog needed to be flown up there to replace one of the Ravens' ships that had been totalled on touchdown as it returned from a LAC mission, having gone "trolling for guns"… dipping low, and trying to draw ground fire to locate the enemy position. This, the pilot had succeeded in doing beyond his wildest aspirations. The ship was riddled with ground-fire, and had ground-looped in spectacular fashion, as the weakened undercarriage had collapsed when the wheels touched the runway at Long Tieng.

Stacey had thoroughly enjoyed her "flip" up to LS-20A in the little light-grey-painted airplane with the broad red band painted from wing-tip to wing-tip across the upper surface of the wing. It was a beautiful morning; visibility was 10/10, and the Bird Dog really was a fun airplane to fly... simple, rugged, stable, and forgiving. You just had to trim her up and then you only needed to use the rudder to steer her. She could reach a hundred and thirty knots in an emergency, but the normal cruising speed was around a hundred and twenty. McCauley had said that the only down-side was if you had to taxi on PSP planking. The tail wheel just fitted into the holes and made for a real bumpy ride!

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Out over the Nong Sa valley, she had climbed to ten thousand feet and decided to see just how nimble this little ship was. Who knows? One day she might be called upon to fly tacticals in one of these. She told Natalie to hang on and put the Bird Dog into a vertical bank, and then pulled through several four-G turns as though she was avoiding enemy tracer rounds. Next, she shoved the stick over and forward, and took the Bird Dog down in steep, descending turn to about a hundred and fifty feet, as though she was about to fire white phosphorous smoke rockets to mark a target. She heard Natalie gasp,

'Oh, Shit!... Where's the goddamned puke-bag?'

As she eased the stick forward to gain airspeed, then hauled back in a steep climbing turn to clear a rising promontory that appeared on the edge of the valley. Laughing; Stacey keyed mike and spoke,

'Sorry, hun… you'll just have to suck it up for now. I'll can the cute flying from here on in. We'll soon be there.'

Natalie's response wasn't particularly ladylike.

Heading in from the south-west; The Bird Dog cleared the Phou Xang and Pha Hoi mountains and lined up on base leg approach to Long Tieng. Ahead, the three steep Karst formations at the eastern end of the runway appeared. Turning gently onto final approach, with the Karsts on her starboard quarter; Stacey brought the Bird Dog down, and, easing the stick back; flared out until the wings lost lift, and the wheels touched down in a perfect three-point landing.

She rolled out to the Ravens' ramp, and toed the rudder brake pedals to bring the little airplane a gentle standstill. A quick check across the instrument panel, and she shut down. As the prop jerked to a standstill she unbuckled her harness, opened the cabin door, and climbed out, followed by Natalie. As the humidity hit them like an open oven door, the hot manifold ticked and tinkled in the comparative silence.

Reaching back into the cabin, Stacey collected the airplane's logbook, filled in the details of her flight, and walked with Natalie across the ramp to the Ravens' flight office. Opening the office door she was confronted by Sandman lounging in a battered leather, Eames-style office chair, with his cowboy boot-shod feet resting on the desk. He glanced up from the dog-eared copy of Playboy magazine that he was flipping through and gave a broad grin.

'Well, damn me if it ain't that pretty little Footloose-One and her equally pretty little crew chief… Natalie, isn't it?'

Stacey grinned.

'Still the hot-shot, smooth-talking bastard then, Sandman?'

Sandman laughed loudly.

'Sure am, Baby-Girl. Was that you bringing that spanking new "Bug Smasher" in?'

She nodded.

'Yep, sure was. What a beautiful little bird she is.'

Sandman gave her an ironic grin.

'Yeah, but she ain't so beautiful when she's out taking care of Raven business. Then, she's the toughest little dog in the fight, the eyes in the sky, and the lynchpin of the hunter-killer team that heaps some serious shit on the bad guys' heads. Speaking of which, Baby-Girl; I guess you're up here to pick up your bird? We brought some of the best spanner jocks out from Udorn to fix her up. We've also given her some teeth. Remember I said about the cobra that went down over the hill? Well, we've door-mounted the minigun on the port-side Sagami mount that Tom McCauley kept in the bird when she was transferred to him from Udorn. The extra weight of the installation will mean that you won't be able to carry quite as much in the way of rice drops or hard rice, seeing as how this is a serious, ass-kick chunk of hardware. You'll be hauling sixty-six pounds of gun and close on six hundred pounds of ammo… that's two, four-thousand-rounds magazines… enough to let you lay some serious grief on those little Dink bastards'

He turned to Natalie.

'Honey, seeing as how you'll be handling "Puff," you need to know that the fire-rate is variable. It lays down two thousand rounds-per-minute at a practical maximum and four thousand rounds-per-minute if you really want kick-ass suppressive capabilities. A three-second hosing is the best deal. Keep it at that and you won't risk cooking off the barrels. There's a burst limit of six seconds, and then the barrels start to cook.'

Stacey studied him.

'What about the spent brass? I hear tell that loose cartridge cases rolling around on the floor could be sucked out of the open doors and backwards into the tail-rotor.'

Sandman nodded.

'Yeah, that has been known to happen; but mainly with hand-held weapons. We've channelled the spent brass down an ejection control dump tube in the floor, so they'll drop out below the skids well away from rotor-wash effect. So, d'you want to go see her?'

Stacey nodded.

'Yes, let's go do it, Sandman.'

As Sandman sent the jeep bouncing along the rough track beside the runway he yelled to Natalie;

'The minigun we've fitted is a GAU-2/A, which the guys from Udorn modded with the first pattern spade grips housing the triggers, and is now fitted with cross-hair sights. The barrel cluster rotation is counter-clockwise viewed from the breech end with a real short spin-up time. You can lay down two thousand rounds-per-minute with left trigger pushed and four thousand rounds-per-minute with both triggers squeezed. It was originally rated at six thousand rounds-per-minute as fitted to the Cobra gunship, but your bird just can't carry that much ammo. What we've done is to fit a rheostat into the electric supply circuit which is wound back to reduce the power. We could have changed the gearing to do the same thing but we hadn't got the spares we needed, out here; so we winged it and came up with the same result.'

Natalie grinned.

'So, if I wind up the rheostat to full, I'll still get six thousand?'

Sandman nodded.

'Yeah; but you lay anything more than three seconds at that rate and you'll cook her off… then, I'll have to come and whup your pretty little butt!'

She smiled, provocatively.

'You think? Cute guy as well as a Hot-shot, then?'

Sandman laughed and yelled back,

'You'd better believe it, Honey!'

Stacey's Huey sat on the north ramp with her nose pointing towards Skyline Ridge. One of the Long Tieng tankers was parked up next to her with its pump running and the thick snake of the fuel hose plugged into the pressure refuelling port as the chopper's cells were topped off. The pungent smell of JP-4 jet fuel hung in the humid air as Sandman brought the jeep to a skidding, dust-wreathed standstill on the port side of the chopper.

Vaulting out of the driving seat, he strode across to the Huey and slid back the cabin door to reveal the menacing compact shape of the minigun attached to the Sagami mount… a skeleton frame mount that swivelled out and away from a fixed position at the rear of the cabin doorway to facilitate loading. This mount was designed for the M60 automatic machine gun, but in this case the GAU-2A minigun had been adroitly modified to fit by Long Tieng's skilful Ravens' engineers. The weapon was belt-fed through stainless flex-chutes snaking from two ammo boxes fastened to the rear of the cabin floor against the aft bulkhead.

Natalie stood alongside him with her hands on her hips.

'Damn! That's a mean-looking Sonofabitch!'

Sandman laughed.

'Yeah! It sounds like a very loud Pneumatic riveter... or death personified to the bad guys. It lays down suppressive fire like you wouldn't believe! If you ever have to carry out a dust-off in a hot LZ, just bead in on the little Dink bastards, press the triggers and "BRRRRRRRRRRP"… they get a real doozie of a shitstorm; a goddamned hosing of red fire with a four-to-one mix of ball-tracer that sure as hell will keep them pinned down.'

He grinned, and added…

'That’s why they call the spooky gunships "Puff the Magic Dragon" over in 'Nam. The red tracer makes them look as though they're breathing fire when they engage Charlie. The flames and tracer bullets coming from the gunship are so awesome that the Viet Cong called the old Gooney Birds, "Dragon ships" when they first got hit by them, and from that, came the American nickname, "Puff the Magic Dragon." Our GIs and Marines said it looked like a Fourth of July fireworks display whenever Puff was orbiting the target at night. It looked like a red stream of light coming from the heavens, like Hell leaking fire.

Now; they were laying down suppressive fire at a rate of eighteen thousand rounds-per-minute. Your best with this baby is four thousand… six at a push; but that's more than enough to put the shits up the bandits in the tree line. When you bead this baby in on those little bastards, and there's no place to run… and no place to hide.'

Whilst Sandman and Natalie were discussing the weaponry, Stacey was walking around the Huey observing the repairs that had been carried out by the Long Tieng engineers. She was surprised to see that there were only a few visible patches riveted over bullet holes. It seemed that they had re-skinned entire sections of the Huey's fuselage. Sandman had counted forty-seven separate bullet holes in the airframe when they had landed at Long Tieng a week previously; but now, she could only locate eight patches. As she was studying the starboard side of the tail boom, Tex, the other Raven pilot ambled across from the café. He touched a finger to his greasy, sweat-stained Stetson and grinned.

'Howdy, Ma'am. Nice job Huh? They stuck in a new set of fuel cells and re-built the transmission. You were lucky there. Two hits went straight through the ring gear casing; one of which bounced down and hit the input drive quill. That could easily have lost you your tail rotor. It's The Lord's own luck that you managed to get back at all.'

Stacey nodded.

'Yes, I can believe that. She felt vague on the torque pedals for the last ten or so klicks.'

Tex pushed his Stetson back on his head.

'Vague? It's a wonder you could keep her straight at all. How in the hell did you manage to get back from way out across the PDJ?'

Stacey smiled.

'No beacons out there Tex. We just kept the bird wound out low and hot, and chased the grids on the tactical map on a guessed heading from the gyro magnetic compass.'

Tex grinned.

'Real seat of the pants flying. Outstanding! You'll do, Honey. You can come SAR for me any time when I finally catch the Golden B-B!'

Stacey smiled at the big pilot. He had just paid her the highest compliment that any Raven pilot was ever likely to do. It would seem that she was now accepted into the Long Tieng club… at least, by this big, ambling buccaneer.

Sandman and Natalie strolled back across the north ramp to where they were talking. Sandman grinned.

'OK, Baby-Girl; I've given the Lady the low-down on the piece. You're now packing some serious shit to lay grief on those little Dink sonsofbitches; but remember, you can only lay it on them from your port side; and you can only drop and pick up from the starboard door due to the position of the flex-chutes.'

Stacey nodded.

'No sweat, Sandman. I can always yaw the bird around her vertical axis using pedal input.'

He grinned again.

'Damn! Tom McCauley wasn't shitting me when he said you were right on the money. I've only seen that done once or twice in a hot LZ. Most of the guys are straight in-straight out, low and hot, with no lateral component at all.'

Stacey shrugged.

'Well, I don't figure on having to do too many Angel runs. My guess is that most of our flying time will be rice-drops and ferrying passengers.'

Sandman regarded her with something approaching a pitying look.

'Don't count on it, Baby-Girl. It's never that easy up here; as you found out in spades, last time.'

She nodded.

'I know; but you've got to stay optimistic.'

She glanced at her aviator's wristwatch and scanned the sky. Ten-past-three. Sun-down in Vientiane was around five-thirty. She turned to Natalie.

'Time to saddle up. Let's go.'

Turning back to Sandman and Tex; she gave each of them a big hug.

'Thanks of everything, guys. You take care out there.'

Sandman gave a wry grin.

'We always do, Baby-Girl. We'll be seeing you.'

They stepped back as Stacey and Natalie climbed aboard the Huey, strapped in, and began the pre-flight checks. With all complete; Stacey raised her thumb to Sandman, who raised his hand with a rotating gesture of his index finger. She pressed the start switch. With a rising whine, the turbine began to spool up as the instruments came alive in the cockpit, and the rotor blades began their lazy, counter-clockwise rotation. Pressures were climbing into the green as the rotors began biting into the heavy, humid air. The turbine whine increased to a howl and the strobing shadows began flickering across the instrument panel. Natalie switched on radios and headsets as the Gas Producer RPM needle settled into normal limits. Rotor wash was beginning to scour the ramp as Sandman and Tex turned away from the lashing dust.

Stacey increased power and collective; and lifted off in a cloud of stinging red dust. She achieved hover and scanned the instruments. Everything in the green. OK. Time to head home. She applied right pedal; pulled up on the collective and put on a little forward cyclic. The Huey broke ground effect in a great billow of dust and achieved effective transitional lift. As the Huey lifted out over the scattering of buildings to the east side of the ramp, she eased the pedal back to neutral and the Huey settled into longitudinal trim for a long climb out along the lower southern slopes of Skyline Ridge.