‘Then let’s do it.’ Clark hung up the headphones and turned to the Special Forces captain. He and his eleven Green Berets sat on the metal deck — armed to the teeth. They had M-60 machine-guns, Squad Automatic Weapons, and Dragon anti-tank missiles. Their M-16s had all the bells and whistles — M-279 grenade launchers, long sniper scopes, and shortened barrels with side-mounted flashlights.
The helicopter banked steeply and accelerated.
‘We’re going into the valley!’ Clark informed the captain. Without being told, the men all swung into action. They had unloaded their weapons on boarding. They now worked their weapons’ bolts. Twelve rifles and machine-guns clacked in unison. Once they were all satisfied that the mechanisms were in order, they extracted black magazines and long belts of brass. All were reverently loaded into chambers by man wearing intense looks. They called out, ‘Weapon safed!’ and had them checked by their buddy.
Belatedly Clark remembered his own rifle. He hadn’t taken the precautions of his security team. It was loaded with a round chambered but on ‘Safe.’ All he needed was to flick the switch and fire.
They were low now. The Blackhawk’s nose was pitched forward and its engine roared at full military power. Only the loudest shouts could be heard at any distance. Most of the talking among the Green Berets was done by hand. Pointing at men. A sentence spoken in gestures. A point, a point, a splitting of fingers. Two hands curled back-to-back in a swimming motion. A curt nod of acknowledgment. A thumbs-up in reply from the machine-gunner. It was quick, efficient and calm. A team in every sense of the word.
Clark felt a growing sense of selfishness at their mission. What could he possibly do to help the men in that valley? They had no slack left in them. They held no reserve upon which he could call. It was the height of arrogance to imagine they’d even give a shit about his visit. He recalled his days in Vietnam as a platoon leader. How much he hated seeing the battalion commander’s helicopter. How he’d felt when men in clean uniforms climbed out.
Once he was trying to retake a hill. They were under murderous fire from an old French anti-aircraft gun. The same man who’d ordered him off the hill — and then to take it back — stepped out of his Huey. His backslapping tour of frightened draftees pushed Clark right up to the edge. His helpful suggestions almost brought an end to the exhausted young lieutenant’s military career. A rifle butt into the man’s double chin was Nate’s favorite fantasy. The metal baseplate of the M-16 to the bridge of the man’s nose a close second. Clark gritted his teeth at the memory even now.
Nate was on the verge of countermanding his order to land when they eased into an LZ. He could see the rotors’ downdraft flatten purple smoke into the rocky clearing. The door slid open twenty feet from the ground. Noise and wind rushed in. They pitched and rolled as their own rotors’ turbulence danced off the ground below. A thudding wheels-down left them suddenly still.
The Green Berets quickly poured through the opening. By the time Clark got to the door, the Special Forces captain was shouting at a stretcher bearer. The medic held the front end of a folding litter — stooped under the gale of the rotors. The pilot left the engine rewed high and remained strapped in the restraints of his seat.
F/A-18s streaked by overhead. Clark was momentarily stunned into inaction by the concussion of nearby bomb blasts. The stretcher bearers were turned away from the helicopter. The captain grabbed Clark’s elbow and led him to the shelter of nearby rocks. Small arms fire crackled a few hundred meters away. Acrid smoke hung low in the valley.
The small cleared area on which Nate’s helicopter sat was surrounded by wounded men. More streamed in from both directions and were deposited in the swirling dirt. The less seriously injured helped the outnumbered medics with those clinging to life. They held IV bags in the air. Oxygen masks on the faces of men thrashing wildly about in pain. Large compresses over massive chest wounds which were quickly saturated with dark crimson stains. Some of the walking wounded even lay on the ground giving blood. The tubes in their arms didn’t flow into bags. They went straight into the arms of their comrades.
Clark had landed not in the front lines to rally the defenders. But in the rear where the consequences of his decisions were made manifest. His decision to go to the valley, he decided, was equal parts folly and hubris. His visit would do nothing more than distract the frantic efforts of brave men. Clark’s chopper even prevented the landing of medevacs.
‘All right!’ he shouted over the noise to the Special Forces captain. ‘Not much I can do here! Let’s board that Blackhawk and get back to Khabarovsk!’ They rose and took a step or two before the rocks behind them spat dust. Clark looked at the smooth stone where they’d sheltered. There was a scar made by a bullet not yet spent. He’d avoided being maimed or killed by mere fractions of a second.
‘Let’s go, sir!’ shouted the captain. He pushed the dazed Nate in the small of the back. They jogged onto the LZ. The boundaries of the clearing looked like a disaster area. Men were laid every which way. Side-to-side, foot-to-head — a jumbled and disorganized mass. The chopper’s blades kicked up a steady breeze of dust and dirt. Many men lay propped on elbows watching Clark.
He crawled onto the deck of the Blackhawk. He’d never felt like a coward in his entire life… until then. But he knew that he couldn’t stay there. It wasn’t his fear of reprimand from Dekker. It wasn’t even his fear of capture. He had to leave because he could only do harm, not good. These men weren’t in need of aggressive leadership. They were fighting with all their might for their lives. Giving the full measure of their courage just in surviving.
Clark waited alone in the door of the helicopter. He felt old and tired. His memories had faded and dimmed. But they came flooding back to him. Helicopters. The dead and the dying. Fucking senseless Goddamn tragedy.
Outside, the Special Forces team shouted at the captain. The highly disciplined soldiers engaged in a heated debate with their leader. The captain reluctantly came up to the door. ‘General Clark, are you goin’ straight back to Khabarovsk?’ The twelve men all faced Nate. Clark nodded. ‘Then, sir, my men wanta stay here!’ Clark’s thoughts just then were muddled. He opened his mouth to ask why. But he stopped himself. He looked over his shoulder at the makeshift aid station.
He remembered. He remembered what bound such men to their fates. To Nate, the ranks of wounded around the LZ were silent accusers. But to the Green Berets they were soldiers who’d kept their bargain. They had honored the pact they’d made with their country, their comrades, and themselves. They had done it — they had fought — and they bore wounds to attest to the fulfillment of their commitment.
The growing lump in Clark’s throat prevented him from replying. What special words of encouragement or thanks were due the men gathered at the door of the helicopter? Their only benefit would’ve been to Nate. ‘We’ll take wounded back with us!’ he finally replied. He sat back against the far wall as medics and Green Berets loaded the litters. He wallowed in the sudden realization that all his beliefs about command were illusions. What he did — what he said — made little difference. His army fought because its soldiers were the finest of men. Its backbone of field officers and veteran NCOs held it all together. His only contribution was to stick pins on a map in places like Birobidzhan airbase and Tangyuan Valley.
The terribly wounded soldiers were laid on the bare metal floor because the stretchers were needed in the valley. Most of the men were dying, that much Clark could quickly tell. A lucky few who were lightly wounded came along to give aid to the seriously injured. The helicopter was quickly crowded with close to twenty moaning, crying men. Clark kept retreating till he was jammed tight into the rear corner of the cabin. Some of the men were barely conscious but were propped in sitting positions along the walls to make more room.