The helicopter lurched violently, then dove to the left, “What the hell?” Flint was wide-eyed.
A reddish-orange flash trailed by a thick medium gray smoke whooshed by the open right sliding door and exploded overhead. Flint heard the sharp “plings” and “thuds” of blast fragments on the top of the Huey. He waited for the aircraft to go down.
The pilot and copilot were busy avoiding ground fire, checking their instruments and looking for a place to land, just in case. The strong smell of aviation fuel filled the windy cabin. Hot hydraulic fluid squirted on Flint’s back, shit, Flint keyed his helmet mike for intercom, “Hey! We’re losing fluid.” The pilot looked back and keying his intercom said, “I know sir, we’ve got to set down. Hold on for a rough one!”
The Huey’s turbines began to whine at a different frequency. The helicopter started to shake. “Hammer One, we’re hit and going down! I say again, we’re hit and going down! I’m about one klick to your south. I see a school playground. It looks like we may try to set down there!” Flint called into the mike.
About 100 feet off the ground the Huey’s tail rotor began to loose power. The aircraft began to spin, picking up speed as it dropped. They must have done a dozen 360s before they spun into the ground — the force of impact instantly stopped the spin on the skids, while the momentum on the top of the aircraft was still unabated. The Huey savagely twisted over, its rotor biting into the grass, then shattering into a thousand pieces. The helicopter was resting on its left side.
Colonel Flint’s left arm felt broken. He unbuckled himself with his right hand and fell six inches (thankfully no more) to the muddy grass beneath him. Pain shot through his arm. He pushed his legs underneath him. The copilot’s body looked lifeless and mangled. The pilot was trying to figure out how he could release himself and not fall into his copilot’s body or get tangled in his controls.
One of the aircrew released himself and nearly fell on Flint’s head. “Sorry sir! I didn’t see you!”
“Stuff it and get everyone out of here before we catch fire!”
Just when Flint didn’t think it could get worse, he heard the rapid pop, pop, pop of small arms fire. Worse yet, he heard a few rounds plink home on the airframe of the downed Huey.
Amazingly, up on the open door frame of what used to the right side of the aircraft, a young Marine was returning fire with his rifle. He yelled down into the now smoky shadows of the cabin, “I see about ten of them. There’s an RPG! I’ll cover! Get out of here, fast!”
Flint stood up. The pilot had just maneuvered out of his seat when a burst of heavy machine gun fire tore through the un-shattered half of the Plexiglas windshield and cut him down. The pilot’s blood spattered Flint. He had to blink a few times to see again. Unseen hands lifted him from the chopper. He made it to the blistering daylight and wished he had the cover of darkness as the rounds swished angrily overhead. He rolled to the left onto the engine cowling and then shimmied forward of the turbine intake and fell hard on his left side onto the ground. The bolt of pain from his arm almost forced consciousness from him. A lesser man in a similar situation may have surrendered to the blissfully unaware state, but Colonel Flint had lives to save.
He rolled onto his belly and took in a 180 sweep of the land. About 40 meters away there was a small schoolhouse and a church building. Neither area showed any signs of activity. He forced his pain into submission and stood up. “Marine! Throw me your weapon, now!”
The lance corporal firing out of the right door at the top of the aircraft fired three more rounds, he screamed “I got the guy with the RPG!” He then quickly peaked over the lip what was the top of the doorframe to draw a bead on the colonel. The rifle sailed smoothly into Flint’s right hand.
“A magazine, sir!” A 30-round magazine followed and hit the grass next to Flint’s feet.
Flint stuck the rifle through the shattered cockpit Plexiglas and began firing one round every two to three seconds at the tree line some 80 meters away. He aimed to keep up this suppressive fire until everyone was out of the helicopter. He thought of the rocket propelled grenade launcher, now probably on the ground less than a football field away. He could see everything; he’d either have to expose himself to enemy fire by moving more to the left or he’d have to pick up stakes and move to the rear of the aircraft where he could fire over the tail boom, using it as the missing support for his useless left arm. He pulled the rifle out of the tangled cockpit and bent down to grab the clip. Good thing too, because he noticed the M-16’s bolt was locked back — he was out of ammo. He was on his knees pushing the magazine release button when machine guns rounds smashed into the front of the aircraft just where he had been standing. Damn! That was close. It was easy to forget how young and disciplined you had to be to survive in combat. Move, move, always have to move — and in the right direction too. He slapped the new magazine home. While sitting on his butt with the rifle between his knees, he pulled the charging handle back and released it, hearing the satisfying “shlick!” of the bolt chambering a 5.56mm round into place.
He rolled over, got up and made his way to the tail. Behind him he heard a Marine hit the ground. He yelled over his shoulder, “Don’t return fire from the front of the aircraft. They’re aiming there. Try to make it to one of the buildings behind us and cover us from there. I’ll cover your movement. Go!”
Flint looked under the tail boom to get a view of the right half of the firefight. He saw the new RPG gunner on his knees setting up to fire. One of his compatriots was behind him. There was a flash and a puff of smoke. The man behind the RPG was cut down by the backblast and was holding his face and rolling on the ground. The round sailed over the downed helicopter and exploded harmlessly in the grass just in front of the church.
I see we’re dealing with amateurs here. Not that getting killed by an amateur made you any less dead than being killed by a professional. Flint put the rifle on the tail boom and fired once. He saw his round kick up a clod of dirt just in front of the RPG gunner who was struggling to put another grenade into the reusable launch tube. Up and to the left ought to do it. Flint squeezed the trigger. The M-16 kicked lightly and spit out a spent piece of brass. About 75 meters away the RPG gunner’s chest spouted red as he spun into the ground.
Now to find the machine gun. His peripheral vision caught two more Marines dropping to the earth to his left. Three out of the aircraft. How many were left alive in there?
His left cheek felt it before his eyes processed it. Heat. Intense, burning heat. The Huey was finally catching on fire. Flint yelled, “Any one in there?”
“Yes sir!” It was the lance corporal who tossed him his rifle, “Lopez is in here! I’m getting him out of here!”
“Get out now Marine! You’re on fire!”
“I can save him, sir!”
“Get out now!”
“I can’t hear you sir!”
The Huey was burning brighter now. The engine cowling Flint had slid down on only moments before was fully engulfed. He saw the machine gunners behind a fallen log just inside the tree line. They presented Flint with a six-inch high target. Bastards. He drew a bead, breathed out, and squeezed one round. The front of the log chipped up to reveal a lightly colored wood. A man behind the log slumped. Flint squeezed again. Another man fell. And again. The last of the trio was hit.
A deep concussive sound came from inside the Huey. Smoke was pouring out of the crew compartment. A limp body came into view. Flint screamed, “Not that side, it’s on fire!”