Chapter Thirteen.

The little Citroën finally ran out of gas half a klick from the marked location on the map of Lima Site LS-144. Sandman and Stacey abandoned the plucky little car and trudged up the sticky, red clay track. It was hard going. The Lima site was at the top of a fairly steep rise… the main highway was down in the valley, and the track rose five hundred metres to the landing strip. The wet, red clay clung to their boots, and soon, they were both soaked with sweat. After half an hour of strenuous slogging up the rough incline, they finally reached the landing strip. Sandman had been correct when he had said that there wouldn't be much there. LS-144 was no more than a red clay strip cut out of the hilltop. The "facilities" consisted of one shed with a tin roof supported by four bamboo poles, and a ramshackle privy that was merely two planks over a deep, smelly pit. Sandman waved his hand around expansively.

'All the comforts of home!'

Stacey sighed. She'd been in some God-forsaken places, but this place was surely a good contender for the prize of "Bottom of the heap." The site was totally exposed to both the elements and the enemy. The only redeeming feature that she could see was that it was a real pain in the ass to reach from down in the valley, or from the surrounding wooded slopes. As she morosely surveyed the surrounding countryside, Sandman was attempting to raise someone… anyone, on the survival radio. He switched to the VOICE 283 position, pushed down the PRESS TO TALK button, and spoke.

'Raven Five Actual to Ridgerunner. Raven Five Actual to Ridgerunner, Over.'

Nothing! He walked to the edge of the landing strip and tried again.

'Raven Five Actual to Ridgerunner. Raven Five Actual to Ridgerunner, Over.'

Very faintly, a response came through.

"Raven Five, this is Ridgerunner Actual. QSY to Baker channel."

Sandman channelled the radio.

'Ridgerunner Actual; Raven Five. How do you read on Baker?'

"Five-square, Raven Five. The whole goddamn world and its dog listens in to the Guard channel. It may take the Dinks a while to pick up this frequency. You OK?'

Sandman pressed the button again.

'Raven Five. Yeah. I'm holed up at Lima One-Four-Four with Footloose-One. Sure as hell could do with an extraction.'

The radio crackled again. The battery was obviously draining power. Maybe it had gotten damaged in the crash of its previous owner.

"Raven Five. We'll despatch a Porter. ETA, One Hour. Pop Lime and Cherry to confirm on arrival. Out."

This meant that Sandman had to release a red and a green smoke grenade to identify himself to McCauley… or whoever was piloting the Porter. Once the pilot detected the smoke he would confirm what colour he saw. This prevented the enemy, if they were monitoring the radio, from popping the same colour that McCauley had specified to Sandman. In a further effort to fool the enemy, fruit names were sometimes used… as in this case; such as lemon for yellow, grape for purple; lime for green, and cherry for red. The radio went dead. Sandman turned to Stacey.

'McCauley is sending one of Vientiane's Porters to pick us up. We've got an hour to wait. Any ideas?'

She arched an eyebrow and gave him a wry grin.

'You just never give up, do you?'

Tom McCauley glanced down at the tactical pilotage map strapped to his thigh. Out here, there wasn't much to use as reference points once beyond the Mekong River. The Karst limestone ridges of Pha Khone Khen were over to the right; towering up to eight hundred-plus metres at their southern end. To the north; the mountainous, heavily wooded Chaine du Phu Pha Pet rose to more than one thousand-and-fifty metres. The safest approach would definitely be to follow Highway Eighty-one up through the Nam Ma Hoi river valley. Ahead, and slightly to the right; the shoulder of the Phou Nôkkôk Karst ridge rose sharply… to the left; the jagged Phou Faimai peak guarded the northern flank of the valley. McCauley had decided to pick up Sandman and Stacey himself, and was flying at four thousand feet. The valley was closing in ahead, leaving him little choice but to gain altitude and climb over the northern promontory of the Phou Nôkkôk Karst ridge. As he turned, he saw that there were three major Karst formations along the north side of the river valley. The valley was little more than three-quarters of a kilometre wide. Highway Eighty-one ran down the middle of the valley; crossing and crisscrossing the river. This presented two major problems to his flight plan.

He didn't want to maintain too much altitude; otherwise he might have to execute what was known as a beta descent with reverse pitch on the prop for a steep descent, to slow the airplane rapidly on final approach for landing at the Lima site. The actual implementation of this manoeuvre was no problem to an experienced pilot like himself. The problem was, the racket that the Porter would make during a beta descent could be heard from about five kilometres away, and would draw any enemy troops in the vicinity like moths to a candle flame. The second problem were the heat vortices from the road and surrounding rock formations. Even at this altitude, the rising heat was causing the Porter to bounce around as the hot updraughts caught her wide wings. This was, in airman's terms… "Moderate chop"; not particularly dangerous, but uncomfortable; especially in a fairly narrow valley. McCauley knew that he had to stay reasonably low. He hadn't seen any of the bad guys as yet; but you were a harder target at lower altitudes.

The Nam Ma Hoi river valley was beginning to widen and turn to the south-east. The ragged shoulder of Phou Xat peak drifted past the Porter's starboard wing as the highway crossed the river once again and straightened. Two small villes appeared in the distance. McCauley suddenly saw movement ahead… trucks! Jesus H. Christ! Bad guys! Heaving the stick over; he banked hard to port. The Karst ridge loomed large in his windshield. Full power! The Porter responded instantly. Even through his headset, the engine noise in the cramped cabin was deafening. Soaring over the ridge; the valley on the other side was at least fifteen-kilometres wide, buttressed to the east by a long range of steep-sided mountains. He glanced at the map. There! The two abandoned villes; Ban Thamtem to the north, and Ban Phônkho; a kilometre or so, to the south. That meant that the Lima was damn close… but then, so were the bad guys. Pushing the Porter into a hard starboard bank; McCauley glanced at the altimeter. Four and a half thousand feet; Dammit to hell! It would have to be a beta descent… and Sandman would have to be right on the money for popping smoke. Turning the Porter sharply back to port; McCauley keyed his command set.

'Ridgerunner Actual to any ordnance hauler in grid Victor Foxtrot Four-Seven. Interdiction required. Over.'

When Sandman popped smoke; his position would be as obvious as a neon billboard to the Dinks in the valley. McCauley needed a diversion, quick-smart, if he was to make a successful extraction. His headset crackled into life.

"Ridgerunner Actual… Calico Two, transiting north. Hauling one mean-shit, Sonofabitch Pave Pat. Pass coordinates; clear target, and confirm. Over."

McCauley hesitated. That call meant that a fast mover carrying one of the new BLU-72/B fuel-air explosive submunitions was heading in from the general direction of Paksane in the south. He'd heard of these weapons, but had never seen one deployed. They were extremely destructive incendiary bombs… sometimes compared to a baby-nuke; were filled with two thousand pounds of propylene oxide, and were dropped on a drogue chute. A small primary detonator released an aerosol cloud of propane vapour which spread and was then ignited by a secondary detonator, causing a massive, fireball blast and pressure wave out to at least three hundred metres. Everything within this area would be incinerated almost instantaneously; and all life extinguished by the crushing overpressure. McCauley knew he had to be precise with the coordinates. Consulting his map, he keyed the command set.

'Calico Two… Ridgerunner Actual. Co ordinates, Victor Foxtrot Two-Zero-Three, point four; Four-Four-Seven, point two. Expedite. Cleared Hot. Over.'

His headset crackled.

"Roger, Ridgerunner Actual. Calico Two inbound, Two-Zero-Niner. Haul ass outta there, man… right now!… ETA two mike; and my backseater is a real fuckin' hot-shot. Out."

He glanced out to the south, There! A tiny dot trailing black smoke. Holy Shit! This blowlamp jock was really stoking it up! He stared ahead. How far was it to the fucking Lima? He had to be down before the fuel/air device detonated… otherwise the pressure wave would catch him like an autumn leaf and smash him into the terrain. The ground was rising fast; it was time to deploy a beta descent.

As he reached for the reverse pitch position, a cloud of red and green smoke billowed up from the top of the hill ahead. Sandman had popped smoke at just the right moment. Banging the power control lever through the detent, McCauley pushed forward on the stick and brought the Porter down onto the rough red clay strip. She stopped within thirty feet. Shoving the lever forward into normal pitch, he turned the airplane in her own length, hitting the brakes as she swung around. He threw open the door, leapt out and ran for the shed, yelling at Sandman and Stacey;

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'Get the fuck down! Cover your ears and keep your mouths open!'

Calico Two… an F-4 Phantom, came screaming down in a shallow dive over the Karst ridge to the south-west and pulled up into level flight. As they dived to the ground, a stubby, pointed cylinder dropped away from the pylon under its starboard wing, and the jet blasted away like a homesick angel, in a near-vertical climb as the Phantom jock pulled up hard and punched in the F-4's afterburners. The stubby cylinder swung down into the valley on a small parachute and disappeared from sight beyond the rim of the hill… then all hell broke loose.

They heard a colossal boom that was instantly swamped by a huge "Whumph" as a gargantuan, boiling, orange chrysanthemum of fire swelled up, and out of the valley. The ground shook as though an earthquake had struck, and a searing shock wave swept up the slope of the hill. As the mushrooming ball of fire rolled up into the sky, expanding and swelling at nightmarish speed; the air pressure dropped rapidly as the oxygen in the air was combusted in the seething conflagration. For a few moments, the drop in pressure was painful to their ears and throats and the Porter was lifted off the ground, briefly suspended on the shock wave, before crashing back down onto its sturdy undercarriage. They clung to the ground as a howling wind gusted over them caused by the surrounding air rushing in to replace the negative pressure vacuum. A seething, blackish-grey smoke cloud burgeoned up, darkening the sky over the obliterated valley.

Emerging from the safety of the rickety shed, they cautiously moved to the edge of the landing strip and stood in silent horror, aghast at the sight of what lay before them down in the valley. The two abandoned villes, the trucks, and the enemy troops had simply vanished in the raging inferno of destruction. The fireball had been constrained by the encompassing Karsts, which had concentrated its terrible destructive power into a considerably smaller area, and utterly destroyed all trace of habitation, and virtually all of the surrounding vegetation for half-a-kilometre in every direction. It was nothing less than a miniature, ash-choked hecatomb down there in what had once been a small, inconsequential river valley which was slowly beginning to be bathed in sunlight once more as the smoke cloud began to gradually dissipate amongst the ragged peaks of the surrounding Karst ridges.

Stacey stared at McCauley and Sandman. Even they looked shocked at the scale of destruction. They stood in silence for quite a while, struggling to take in the magnitude of what had just occurred. This new weapon made napalm look like a Fourth of July firecracker. McCauley was the first to speak.

'I think we're done here. Let's go!'

The Porter's engine was still running. As Stacey and Sandman climbed aboard, McCauley did a cursory check of the flying controls, and satisfied that the blast had not caused any visible damage, climbed into the front left seat. Stacey was in the front right seat and Sandman had taken the back seat above the two drop doors in the floor. McCauley pushed the throttle open for a max-power take off, bringing the engine up to full power and holding on the brakes with the stick way back. He released the brakes and seconds later they were airborne. He banked out over the annihilated valley and slowly climbed to cruising altitude, heading west. The eddying blackish-grey clouds were starting to disperse among the Karsts; clinging to the tops of the ridges like so many dirty dish towels.

The Mekong River looked darker in the early-evening light as McCauley approached Wattay Airport over the north-eastern part of Vientiane city. It was usually a reddish-brown colour, but tonight, it resembled a deep, burnt umber-coloured ribbon reflecting the countless lights of the restaurants and bars on "The Strip"… the waterfront along its northern bank. McCauley came in on down leg to the Wattay circuit following the Hong Xeng River to the north of the city outskirts. Stacey noticed that his chosen flight path stayed out over the paddy fields of Ban Nong Bouathong. The Porter felt odd. There was something not quite right with the way he was having to control her. He kept his feet off the rudder pedals and concentrated on making aileron turns. Had the porter indeed been damaged by the massive shock wave back at LS-144? McCauley switched to the Wattay tower frequency.

'Zero-eight control from Ridgerunner Actual. Echo approach. Over.'

Wattay tower responded.

"Ridgerunner Actual, Zero-eight. Confirm Echo approach request. Are you declaring an emergency? Over."

McCauley keyed his mike,

'Zero-eight control from Ridgerunner Actual. Confirm Emergency. Inbound, Two-Zero-point-Four; Five-hundred Mike. Minimal lateral stability and input. Request status red, short thump, south taxiway of threshold three-one. Over.'

Stacey glanced at him.

'Problem, boss?'

McCauley shrugged.

'Maybe. From the feel of her, the fin and rudder are fubared. Take a hold of the yoke and stay off the pedals. I might need your help to keep her straight with aileron inputs as we touch down.'

The radio squawked again.

"Ridgerunner Actual, Zero-eight. Confirm status red, short thump, south taxiway, threshold three-one. Crash team at standby. Good Luck. Out."

She could feel the slop in the directional stability of the Porter fluttering through the control yoke. There was definitely something loose at the tail. Somehow, they brought the airplane around in a wallowing bank to port and lined up on the taxiway. McCauley wound out the landing flaps as the Porter crabbed in over Ban Pak Thang village and the Nong Pakthang marshes. Threshold thirty-one taxiway dipped in the middle. If reverse pitch didn't stop the Porter in time, the upslope at the southern end would help to slow forward ground speed and maybe prevent her from rolling off the concrete and ground-looping. He glanced at Stacey.

'OK, get ready to hold her when I reach for the power lever.'

She nodded.

'OK, boss; I can feel the problem. I'm ready.'

He nodded.

'Right. Here we go.'

McCauley took his right hand from the yoke and reached down for the power lever. She felt the yoke tighten and the port wing began to drop. Heaving the right horn down she managed to bring the port wing up. McCauley was concentrating hard.

'We're going to have to maintain directional control with the ailerons. That means we have no choice but to come in hot… and it could get ugly. Sandman; you'd better get yourself into the brace position.'

With Sandman braced against the back of the co-pilot's seat, and Stacey with her arms braced on the yoke, fighting the controls with McCauley; the Porter skimmed the taxiway. Its wheels touched, screeched, and then gripped. McCauley didn't even have time to reach for the power control lever, as abruptly, the undercarriage collapsed on the starboard side, causing the plane to crash sideways, smashing the starboard wing into the concrete. The resulting spin was too much for the port wheel, which collapsed under the strain, sending the heavy plane into an uncontrollable slide. It slewed off the taxiway and ploughed across the grass; shuddering to a halt, nose-first into a drainage ditch.

Stacey sat, still clinging to the yoke horns. McCauley had said that she needed to keep the wings level. She opened her eyes, dazed and confused. She tried to get up but she was still buckled into her seat. The smell of acrid smoke was surrounding her. The world was hazy gray, and the engine was very quiet. She reached for the co-pilot's door-opening handle. Her stomach hurt like hell where the seatbelt buckle had dug into it, and her wrists were stiff, and difficult to move. McCauley shook her by the shoulder. His voice was calm, but with an urgent tone to it.

'Are you okay? We have to get out of the plane.'

She nodded, and unbuckling her seatbelt, managed to open the door. It was surprising how close the ground was. Without its undercarriage, the distance from the Porter to the ground was little more than six inches. Fumes were curling out of the engine panels, but it seemed that the crash inertia switch had done its job in cutting all electrical power at the point of initial impact. There was no sign of fire. She turned, and saw Sandman studying the fin and rudder which were leaning at a drunken angle of about ten degrees from the vertical. He had obviously left the airplane from the large sliding, cargo door on the starboard side. McCauley strolled along the port side of the fuselage to where he was standing. Sandman studied him.

'Jesus H Christ! How the heck did we make it back in one piece, Tom? I figured that we'd bought the farm this time.'

McCauley shrugged, and motioned to Stacey.

'These PC6's are tough old birds… but I did have one of my best pilots riding shotgun for me. You should hang on to this one, Sandman. Without her we'd most likely have been spread all over the goddamned scenery!'

He glanced impassively at the mangled remains of the Porter's undercarriage.

'Hmm; not so tough as I thought. That must be the result of her hopping about back at LS-144 when the blast wave caught her… and, as for that…'

He nodded at the wrecked fin and rudder;

'We must have had the angels riding us home!'

Sandman nodded solemnly.

'You're sure as hell right about that one, Tom.'

He glanced back at Stacey who was sitting on the grass rubbing her wrists.

'And you're sure as hell right about Stacey, as well. She's definitely a keeper… for real!'

The Medical Officer across at the Wattay terminal nodded solemnly.

'You've sprained both wrists quite severely. There's nothing broken and no ligament damage; but you certainly won't be flying for a while, Lieutenant Mckenna.'

Stacey pulled a face.

'Dammit! Isn't that just typical!'

The M.O; Mack Sanders; raised an eyebrow.

'Considering you walked out of that wreck, I wouldn't go bitchin' too much about getting a little R and R if I were you, Lieutenant'

Stacey snorted, and jabbed her thumb skywards.

'But, my job's up there; not wasting time, goldbricking it down here.'

Mack Sanders sighed.

'OK; if you're not going to buy my judgement; then, I guess I'm gonna have to ground you for ten days. You're not gonna end up as a forty-foot, smoking hole in the ground on my watch, Lady.'

Stacey sighed.

'OK, Doc. I'll take it under advisement; but that doesn't mean I'm happy with it.'

He smiled.

'You don't have to be happy with it. You just have to be fit enough to fly… and at the moment… you just ain't strong enough to haul on a collective or a cyclic; and you, above all people, know that those damn Hueys have a real mean streak and will do their darndest to kill you if you give 'em half a chance.'

Sandman was waiting outside for her. He saw the look on her face and frowned.

'Well?'

She glowered at him.

'Grounded for ten days.'

He nodded, and a slow wry smile spread across his face.

'Well, ain't we a pair? That plexiglass spear from my crack-up has screwed my forearm muscle. I'm relegated to riding shotgun for at least a couple of months. Leaves us at a loose end, Baby-Girl. How are we going to pass the time?'

She raised an eyebrow.

'Godammit, Alex…you’ve got a one-track mind.'

He grinned.

'And aren't you glad about that?

She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

'That's not the point…'

Then she smiled.

'If you're gonna talk the talk, you'd better be damned sure you're ready to walk the walk, big boy!'

Tom McCauley looked up as Stacey and Sandman entered his office. He gave them a sympathetic grin.

'So; the Doc has benched you both? OK, you can both stand down for a while. Go have a vacation. Soak up some rays on a beach somewhere. The Company's options for R and R include Hong Kong, Tokyo, Manila, Bangkok; Taipei, Sydney, and Honolulu. Go figure out which one you fancy, and I'll arrange a flight down to Cam Ranh Bay Air Base where you can hitch a ride to wherever.'

Stacey opened her mouth to protest, but McCauley stopped her.

'Look Kid; don't argue. I'm not about to let either of you go flat-hatting out in Indian country if you're not both ten/ten. Besides which; your bird is still red-X'd down at Da Nang; and Sandman; you're in no shape to mark anything other than time, with a screwed arm.'