Chapter Fourteen.

The Air America liveried, twin-engined Beech Baron came blasting down the narrow Gia Lach valley between the towering peaks of the Chu Mu - Chu Yang Sing range to the north-west of the Song Cai River valley that led down to Cam Rahn Bay; travelling at just under two hundred knots, at five hundred feet altitude. The three-hour flight down from Vientiane had been uneventful. No one had tried to take any pot-shots at them; the weather had been fine with no turbulence to speak of; and, all-in-all... it had been pretty damned boring. Mickey Romero... known by his allocated radio call-sign... "A.L.F"… "Alpha-Lima-Foxtrot"; which was universally agreed as really standing for "Annoying Little Fuck"... was the duty liaison pilot for today, and had kept Stacey and Sandman entertained during the flight by muttering and cursing at regular intervals during the flight about how he was just a fuckin' bus driver and hadn't signed up for this kind of shit.

Ahead; the South China Sea stretched away to the horizon like a huge, sapphire-blue, Persian carpet, as they flew out over the northern tip of the Cam Rahn bay, crossing the coast at Nha Trang, some ten kilometres north of Cam Rahn Bay Air Base. Mickey Romero banked the Baron over to starboard and flew a wide circle out over the Ocean as he joined the Air Base's landing pattern. Crossing the long protective seaward peninsula and natural inner and outer harbours; he lined up on Cam Ranh Bay Air Base's seven-thousand-foot concrete runway designated 02/20, and began his descent.

Descending over the long causeway that linked the seaward peninsula to the mainland, the Baron touched down with barely a squeal of tyres; and, completing its landing roll scarcely a quarter of the distance down the concrete ribbon; taxied off towards the ramp that had been constructed on the west side of the airfield to handle airlift operations. Stacey glanced at Sandman and smiled. Mickey Romero might well have been the most miserable jerk she'd ever had the misfortune to meet; but he was a real hot-shot pilot.

Mickey Romero brought the Baron to a standstill on the edge of the west ramp, well away from the parked-up C-141 Starlifters arrayed along the wide expanse of off-white concrete. Turning in his seat he pointed to the line of low buildings, about one hundred yards distant.

'There you go, guys; the 14th Aerial Port Squadron passenger terminal. The grunts call it "Freedom-Bird City." They go in the entrance at the beginning of their tour and come out the exit to board their "Freedom-Bird" at the end of their tour. The sooner I get to make that goddamned walk, the better, as far as I'm concerned.'

Sandman grinned.

'Yeah right! You know you love it here, you grumpy bastard.'

Mickey Romero snorted.

'Screw you Sandman. That's just the kinda remark to blow my street smarts. Now get the hell outta here and go enjoy yourselves. See ya when you get back.'

Sandman opened the cabin door on the starboard side and jumped down onto the ramp. As Stacey moved towards the door she paused, and turned back to Romero.

'Thanks for the ride, Mickey. Safe flight home.'

Romero nodded.

'Just watch yourself with that horny bastard, honey!'

She smiled.

'You think?'

And jumped down onto the concrete.

As the Baron taxied away, a Security Police jeep came howling across the ramp and pulled up beside them. A youngish Master sergeant stepped out of the vehicle and approached them holding a clipboard. He glanced at the signal flimsy attached to it.

'Lieutenants Mckenna and Shepard? We've gotten you a ride on that bird over there…'

He motioned towards a 62nd Military Airlift Wing Lockheed C-141 Starlifter parked up some sixty yards distant with refuelling hoses snaking up under her wings.

'She's due to fly out empty to Yokota Air Base in a few minutes, as soon as the refuelling is completed. You'd better go check in with the loadmaster around at the rear ramp.'

The loadmaster was a young First sergeant. As they walked up the right-hand auxiliary loading ramp extending from the main rear loading ramp which had been deployed to facilitate walk-on, walk-off foot traffic, under the big, open petal doors into the cavernous, empty fuselage lined with insulating panels and empty, red nylon webbing jump seats strung along each side; he came forward and studied the clipboard in his hand.

'Lieutenants Mckenna and Shepard? Welcome aboard.'

He motioned towards the front of the cargo deck where twelve airline-type seats were arranged in four blocks of three, facing towards the tail of the airplane. He grinned.

'If you don't mind; I suggest you make yourselves comfortable in the "Boeing seats"… that's what we call them. The flight to Yokota will take close on five hours. We're nearly twenty-five hundred miles out, and sitting in those damn jump seats is not the peachyist way to travel. Besides which; you'll be close to the crew entrance door. The flight line here can be a dangerous place. The Viet Cong are sneaky little bastards who choose when and where they want to fight, which means only when they have the military advantage of surprise. VC Sappers have been known to sneak onto the base at night, hunker down in a safe hiding place, and watch the surrounding movements during the following day with the intent to destroy our aircraft with grenades, bombs or even small-arms fire. It pays to be prepared.'

Stacey nodded.

'Good call, First sergeant. Thanks; we'll take your advice.'

As they moved forward towards the front of the cargo compartment; faint sounds of the refuelling hoses being disconnected penetrated the fuselage. Four lines of roller conveyor track along which the cargo pallets were manoeuvred, ran the length of the cargo deck floor and extended onto the cargo loading ramp. The interior was lit by a single row of downward-facing, overhead dome lights stretching along the centreline of the fuselage ceiling.

At the front of the cargo compartment, to the left of the four sets of seats which were arranged in blocks of three… one block to the left, and one to the right; with a further two blocks forward of the aft right-hand block; the left side of the front bulkhead had, of all things; a built-in drinks and ice dispenser; next to which, a three-rung box-ladder led up to the flight deck. The forward port-side entry door was eight feet of clear floor space away from the rearmost block of seats, and was fitted with a fold-down ladder. Stacey glanced at Sandman. The loadmaster had been correct. This was, by far the easiest way to get out if anything happened.

Settling into the rearmost block of seats on the right, they made themselves comfortable and fastened their seat belts whilst the thin whine of the auxiliary power unit which supplied air for the aircraft pneumatic systems and drove an AC generator to supply an alternate source of electrical power, diminished as the cargo compartment filled with the sounds of the various hydraulic and fuel boost pumps starting up. This was followed by the whine of hydraulic actuators as the flight crew wound the wing flaps; spoilers, and elevators out and in as they ran through their pre-fight check-lists.

The Loadmaster came forward and began his pre-flight briefing. They were to bring their seat backs to the full upright position. Oxygen masks were attached along the side of the aircraft. If there was a sudden change in cabin pressure, a warning horn would sound, and they should reach for the nearest oxygen mask container. The tab on the container was to be pulled and the yellow mask should be taken out. The yellow mask cup was to be placed over the nose and mouth and secured with the white headband. They should then continue to breathe normally. Their life vests were located behind the webbing of their seat, or in the seat pocket in front of them. He then demonstrated how to use the life vest, by pulling it over their head and placing the long straps around their waists. The buckle attached into the fitting at the bottom centre of the life vest, and the loose end was pulled until the strap was snug around the waist. The vest was properly adjusted when they could place a closed fist between the strap and the waist. In the event of the airplane ditching, the life vest was not to be inflated inside the airplane. After leaving the airplane, the vest was inflated by pulling down on the two red tabs on the front of the vest. It could also be inflated by blowing into the tubes located at both shoulders. Disposable earplugs were available if needed. The Emergency exits were outlined in yellow. Their primary ground emergency exit was the crew entrance door to their right.

The rising whine of the four Pratt & Whitney turbofans spooling up echoed through the cargo deck as the Loadmaster walked back down the fuselage to his ramp control panel and flicked a switch. The auxiliary load ramps retracted smoothly into the main ramp with a soft hum. He then closed the ramp and lowered the rear pressure bulkhead; checking that the restraining latches were engaged and secure. As he walked back, the engine noise increased and the airplane began to move. The loadmaster sat in one of the seats in front of Stacey and Sandman and glanced back at them as he strapped himself in. He grinned.

'OK; next stop. Yokota. I'll go bust out some coffee once we're airborne.'

They felt the sensation of the airplane turning to the left, followed by a slight jolt as the pilot applied the brakes. The whining roar of the turbofans increased as the throttles were advanced, and with a jerk, the Starlifter began its take-off run down the seven-thousand-foot concrete ribbon. They felt the acceleration begin to push them against their seat belts, and the vibration began to build; with the lines of pallet rollers jiggling and chinking in their housings along the length of the cargo floor. As the noise increased, they became aware of an imperceptible lifting of the nose of the airplane as the pilot approached his rotation point.

Suddenly, and without any warning, just as the nose wheel left the concrete; a line of holes punched through the side of the fuselage. Bullets were striking the airplane, sounding like large hailstones on a tin roof. Shreds of soundproofing material swirled around them as they instinctively ducked. The loadmaster shouted,

'Stand by!... This bird ain't going to fly… brace for abort!'

Then gasped as a stray bullet ricocheting around the cargo deck hit him in the shoulder.

The Starlifter lurched, and its nose wheel thumped back down onto the concrete as it raced on down the runway. The engines on the port side didn't sound right. Holding on to each other and lifting their feet off the deck, Stacey and Sandman braced themselves for whatever might come next. What they didn't know, was that machine-gun fire had struck the cockpit, wounding the navigator and the pilot. Another line of holes punched through the fuselage and struck an engine bleed air line running along the overhead cargo compartment frame; rupturing it, and spilling hot engine bleed air into the cargo compartment, increasing the danger of fire and the real possibility of turning the inside of the airplane into an oven.

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Bleeding profusely, the loadmaster dragged himself from his seat and snatched at one of the fire extinguishers. The heat from the bleed air made the metal skin of the fire extinguishers too hot to touch. In spite of his injuries, he managed to get up into the cockpit to check on the rest of the crew and yelled at the navigator to open the cockpit windows whilst he removed the overhead escape hatch to clear the smoke. But, they were not yet out of the woods. The crew had managed to shut down both left-hand engines after the fire warning lights illuminated, but there was no hydraulic pressure to lower the flaps or engage any sort of symmetrical reverse thrust; and the airplane couldn't be slowed down in any way. It was still rolling at well over one hundred knots, when suddenly, there was a loud, harsh, grating noise as the Starlifter overran the end of the runway and hit the beach. The landing gear came up through the sides of the cargo compartment scattering shards of metal across the cargo bay. As the airplane bounced and slithered along; it ran out of beach and went into the Ocean, flat, with its left wing a little low. The airframe began breaking up on impact and the pieces were flung along the airplane's track for half a mile out to sea.

Stacey did not want to waken. It was warm here, warm, and safe, and comfortable. Her eyelids fluttered slowly, as she registered an incessant, steady beep-beep-beeping as she swam back up through the treacly darkness to consciousness. She slowly became aware of a dull pain in her left thigh. Something was horribly wrong... she was lying on some sort of litter. Shifting to try to sit upright; she felt a numbness in her lower body... most likely from pain meds; but her vision was swimming again and the irritating, incessant beep-beep-beeping became muffled as she fought the blackness that was trying to overwhelm her. A cool hand on her forehead brought her back from the depths. Looking up, she saw a pretty, young, U.S. Air Force flight nurse glance down at her as she checked the intravenous drip in Stacey's left arm. Stacey tried to sit up again, but the flight nurse gently pushed her back.

'Lie still, Ma'am, and rest. You can't sit up… you're wearing a body brace. Everything's OK now… you're safe.'

Stacey nodded and tried to clear her thoughts.

'Where the hell am I?... What happened?... and what's that goddamn beeping?'

The flight nurse smiled gently.

'Your transport was shot up by Viet Cong infiltrators as it was taking off from Cam Rahn. The airplane didn't gain flight, overran the runway into the Ocean, and broke up on impact with the water. You have a serious concussion, a fractured leg, and pelvis; and eighteen stitches in a deep shrapnel wound to your left thigh. You are aboard a 374th Airlift Wing C-9 Nightingale aeromedical airlift transport headed for the Military hospital at Da Nang. It's gonna take a lot more than a field hospital to put you back together again. As for the beeping… that's an Electrocardiogram monitoring a young Marine sergeant on the other side of the cabin.'

Stacey stared at her.

'What about the rest of the crew? What about my buddy, Lieutenant Alex Shepard who was on the flight with me?'

The young nurse gazed at her.

They only found you, and a young loadmaster alive... and he was in pretty bad shape. The bodies of the rest of the crew were recovered… but there was no one identified by the name of Lieutenant Shepard amongst them. He may have made it… he may have not. There is no way to tell without a body. I'm sorry to be so blunt Ma'am… but that's just the way it is.'

As the Nightingale whispered on across Vietnam; Stacey tried to familiarise herself with her surroundings and the situation in which she now found herself. She was lying on the left-hand side of the cabin with four other litter patients… all of whom looked to be in a much worse state than her. Across the central aisle, the other side of the cabin was fitted with rows of blue-upholstered, aft-facing, airline-style seats in which the "walking wounded" were seated… although, the ones she could see had some pretty horrendous wounds… if the bandages, drains, and dressings were anything to go by.

The modern jet’s air-conditioned coolness was a blessing; but the smell inside the aircraft was unforgettable: a pungent mixture of sweat, antiseptic, and draining wounds. The flight nurse came back down the aisle. She stopped by Stacey's litter and produced a hypodermic syringe. She smiled gently.

'The flight surgeon has decided that you need to sleep. It's only about a thirty minute flight; but, you'll need to be fully stabilised before they take you in to put you back together.'

She motioned with the syringe.

'This is the good stuff… it'll also act as a pre-med.'

Stacey stared at the syringe.

'But what if I need to… you know… use the john?'

The Flight nurse smiled.

'All taken care of, Lieutenant. They gave you an enema and inserted a catheter whilst you were being patched up at Cam Rahn. You needn't worry about a thing.'

As the needle went in; Stacey was struggling to remember what had happened… and where was Sandman? As the soft blanket of the intravenous opiate snuggled around her, she recalled the awful, tearing crash as the fuselage of the Starlifter split wide open; the searing pain as a jagged shard of metal struck her leg; and Sandman tearing open the crew door in the side of the aircraft, and shoving her out into the water. Something hit her hard across the hips and then… nothing. As the throbbing, dull pain in her lower body succumbed to the pain med, she vaguely recalled coming to, and struggling in the water in a haze of her own, exhausted beyond the point of being able to tread water; bleeding from her leg where the piece of flying fuselage skin had sliced her open. She had been too focused on survival, too tired to even grasp what had happened next… except she remembered voices shouting in the distance and the feel of firm seashore beneath her feet before her legs gave out from under her and she collapsed face-down on the shingle with the wave foam swirling around her and tugging at her hair.

Stacey's aeromedical airlift transport flight was met at Da Nang by a Marine Corps ambulance and she was transported to the three-hundred-and-fifty-bed Naval Support Activity Hospital at Marble Mountain... the same hospital to which she had flown her crew chief Natalie Tamura after Natalie had been hit whilst they were rescuing Alex Shepard from his shot-down Raven earlier in the year.

She remained there until her injuries were evaluated and treated; and a decision was made as to where she would be hospitalised. Fitted with an orthopaedic cast that the surgical team had called a "hip spica cast" that extended from her navel to her knees; she was again transferred by ambulance to Da Nang and to the casualty staging unit. The air-conditioned modern medical facility was designed as a holding station for as much as twenty-four hours for patients awaiting transfer on aeromedical evacuation flights. Thirty-six hours later, she was aboard another C-141 Starlifter on an aeromedical evacuation flight to Vandenberg Air Force Base, California via Hickam at Pearl; and then on to Andrews.

The very day she flew out; an Air America Huey came blasting in across the Da Nang perimeter, and put down in a cloud of dust in the hospital compound. Before her turbine had fully spooled down and her rotors had stopped rotating, the pilot's door banged open; Tom McCauley jumped out, and, completely ignoring the large signs in the open covered outdoor triage beside the main walkway that shouted in large red letters: OFF LIMITS and USE OF CAMERAS PROHIBITED; stomped in and demanded to see the duty senior physician immediately. The young corpsman hesitated for a moment, until he saw the ID that McCauley flashed at him.

Lieutenant Colonel "Pappy" Hughes came hurrying into triage with flapping arms and white coat fluttering, to see what this peremptory newcomer wanted. Seeing McCauley His sombre expression broke into a grin. Clapping McCauley on the shoulder, he said,

'Tom! Good to see you. To what do we owe this pleasure?'

McCauley glanced around the triage.

'I heard one of mine was here… Lieutenant Mckenna. Her transport overshot Cam Rahn, and broke up on impact. They said she'd been medevac'd down here.'

"Pappy" Hughes nodded.

'Yeah, Stacey Mckenna. Spunky little lady. You've just missed her. She's been flown out en route for Vandenberg and then on to Andrews. She sustained a busted pelvis; spiral fractured left femur; lacerated left rectus femoris, and a concussion. She was really pissed when we fitted her up with a hip spica cast to immobilise her pelvis, but I gained a few brownie points when I re-sutured the laceration to her left thigh so that it would heal to little more than a pale line.'

McCauley sighed.

'Dammit, Pappy; she's one of my best chopper jocks. How long until she can fly again?'

"Pappy" Hughes shrugged.

'No way of telling, Tom. That'll be a decision for the guys at Andrews to make. We just try to put them back together here.'

McCauley nodded.

'Is there any news on her buddy… Lieutenant Shepard?'

"Pappy" Hughes shook his head.

'Nothing at all. They recovered the bird's crew with the exception of the navigator and Lieutenant Shepard. They've posted them both as MIA; they figure that both of them went down trapped in part of the fuselage.'

Thursday, 12th December. 1968.

Richard M. Helms; Director of Central Intelligence, sat in the office of Major General Philip W. Mallory, Commanding Officer of the Walter Reed Army Medical Center; the vast complex of rose-brick Georgian-style buildings at 6900 Georgia Avenue NW, Washington DC, and studied him over the top of the pressed together fingertips of his hands which were raised in a prayer-like attitude in front of him.

He spoke.

'So, Phil; I'm getting priority request signals from our asset in the "Other" Theatre concerning our young officer in your care. What is Lieutenant Mckenna's status? Will she be able to walk again?'

Mallory nodded.

'Yes, Director… but not for quite some time... and I guess she won't be flying any time soon… if ever.'

The Director of Central Intelligence sighed heavily.

'But you will try?'

Mallory spread his hands in a futile gesture.

'Unfortunately, I can't, personally. I already have too many patients.'

Helms frowned.

'Can't you make an exception for me?'

'No; it's just not possible... But let me tell you what I can do. I can refer you to my best intern: Alicia Burgess. She's easily my equal in the field. In fact I've recommended her for a John Hopkins University fellowship in neurology down in Baltimore. She might be able to help.'

Mallory scribbled on a piece of paper and gave it to his old friend who folded it carefully into his jacket pocket. Helms nodded.

'Thank you. I guess this is something.'

He stood up, shook Mallory's hand, and left. After he had gone, Mallory shook his head. He thought about the girl that Helms was referring to. He had only seen her X-Rays; there was no way of predicting how the type of injuries she had sustained would progress; but he knew Helms always worried about his field agents; and the CIA always looked after its own. Stacey had been in the Walter Reed Army Medical Center for something approaching five weeks. For the majority of that time, she had been mostly kept sedated. In her more lucid moments she had started to cultivate a friendship with her attending physician, Dr. Alicia Burgess, MD.

On the morning of New Year's Eve, 1969; Alicia Burgess came into her room. The pretty, auburn-haired doctor smiled and said,

'Good morning Stacey, How are you feeling today?'

Stacey grunted.

'Lousy; when are you going to get this goddamned cast off of me... and how about getting this crappy catheter out?'

Alicia Burgess smiled.

'Soon, don't worry. Are you feeling any pain?'

Stacey sniffed.

'You've got me doped up on the good stuff all the time. It's hard to feel anything. Any good news for me yet, doc?'

Alicia Burgess gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

'We won't know for sure until later today when the results from your last tests come in.'

Stacey nodded

'Can you at least give me your best guess in advance?'

Alicia Burgess shook her head.

'I can't tell you what I don't know myself, Stacey. You were in a nasty accident. Some things might be still be touch and go.'

'What the hell is that supposed to mean...?'

Stacey never finished the question, because Alicia Burgess's pager beeped urgently.

'Sorry Stacey; gotta go. See you later.'

'OK, Doc.'

Now it was Alicia Burgess's turn to snort.

'For Chrissakes, Stacey! I must have told you a hundred times, my name is Alicia!'

A few hours later Alicia Burgess came back into Stacey's room with an armful of papers. She looked at Stacey, and spoke quietly to her.

'Stacey, your results are in,'

Her tone was serious and authoritative.

Stacey sighed,

'About time. Well?'

Alicia Burgess took a deep breath.

'Stacey…'

Stacey stared at her.

'For Chrissakes, stop pussy-footing around Alicia. Spill it.'

Alicia Burgess studied the notes then looked up. Her expression was sombre.

'The procedure was mostly successful, but you suffered some spinal damage that we could not repair without risking causing greater harm.'

'What the fuck's that supposed to mean, Doc? Just say it!'

'I don't think you'll ever fly a chopper again, Stacey... or anything else for that matter. You just won't pass the medical board. I'm so sorry.'

'What?'

Stacey's disbelieving tone matched her shocked expression.

Alicia Burgess avoided Stacey's eyes.

'I said...'

Stacey managed a faint shrug.

'No need to repeat it, I heard you the first time. Does that mean that I'll be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life? If so… I'd rather have not survived that crash.'

Alicia Burgess attempted a supportive smile... and failed completely.

'Don't say that. Don't ever say that again. All things considered, you are lucky to be alive right now. Besides, the paralysis is only partial. You can use crutches easily.'

Stacey stared at her.

'Yeah, some real peachy luck. Alicia; can you please leave me alone?'

'OK. Call if you need anything.'

After Alicia Burgess left, Stacey cried. She cried for the two loves of her life... flying, and Alex Shepard. Both had been torn away from her in one brief moment of time… a real shitty trick for Lady Luck to play. She had been one of the bright young things of the CIA, the protégée of Air America's Vientiane operations controller, Tom McCauley; and chopper jock extraordinaire; and now she would have to adjust to an entirely different lifestyle... alone.