The soldiers crept foward, firing in short bursts. If they rushed the Americans, Austin and Lunsford would die quickly. Brad fired another six rounds, then reached for the second.38. Watching the North Vietnamese soldiers prepare to race toward them, Brad and Russ fired wildly over the edge of their concealment. They heard Jon O'Meara and Mario Russo give the Spad drivers the location to hit.
"Oh, mother of Jesus," Lunsford said, fumbling to reload. His hands were shaking so hard he could not load the rounds in the chambers.
Brad spotted the A-1 Skyraiders rolling in for their first pass. The four Spads, each carrying four 20mm guns, rocket pods, and two 500-pound bombs, plunged straight at the soldiers.
"Come on," Brad ordered when the first rockets and gunfire swept over the soldiers, "follow me!"
Limping, Lunsford felt a sharp pain in his right ankle as he raced after Brad. They ran across an open area to a small irrigation dike and stumbled through the muddy water. Both spread out on the far side, trying to catch their breath. They watched the A-1s pound their former position, then heard the sweet sounds of a navy Seasprite.
The helicopter hugged the tops of the distant trees as it raced toward them. As the pilot flared to land, a door gunner opened fire at the advancing soldiers.
Brad and Russ got up and charged for the Seasprite, leaping through the door before the pilot could land. As the helicopter turned and accelerated, Brad caught a glimpse of Jon O'Meara's Phantom climbing away in afterburner. It was a sight that he would never forget.
A medic helped them to a secure position, then gave Russ and Brad containers of water. Between gasps, they gulped the warm liquid.
"We made it," Russ shouted over the beating rotor blades. "Sweet Jesus, we made it. Thank you, God." He dropped the plastic water bottle next to his seat and clasped his hands in a silent prayer.
Brad sat motionless, drained of all energy. He sagged against the fuselage, enjoying the comforting vibrations flowing through the helicopter. He drank another four swallows of water, then closed his eyes and gave thanks that he was still alive.
The medic, who had seen that they were relatively unscathed, waited until the Seasprite was over water to offer the two men a cigarette. Both declined but shared a third container of water.
Closing his eyes again, Brad let his mind drift. He desperately wanted to enjoy an icy-cold beer, and go waterskiing.
Sensing a change in the pitch of the rotor blades, Brad swung around and looked forward through the cockpit. He saw the carrier steaming off the starboard side of the helicopter. He watched the white wake as the pilot slowed, then approached the side of the flight deck.
Once the Seasprite was stabilized at the same speed as the ship, the pilot eased over the flight deck and gently lowered the helicopter.
Russ and Brad waited until the bouncing, vibrating machine had been chocked and secured to the deck, then moved to the entrance. They thanked the two pilots and medic before jumping out of the door.
They were both shocked to see Jon O'Meara and Mario Russo waiting for them. The four men hugged each other in an emotional embrace. The bond of the brotherhood was readily apparent to everyone who witnessed the union.
Chapter 22
Brad walked into the quiet, antiseptically clean sick bay. Scary McCary was examining Russ Lunsford's swollen right ankle. Brad sat down in a chair next to McCary's cluttered desk and watched him manipulate Lunsford's foot.
"You're going to be just fine," the flight surgeon said, writing a paragraph in Lunsford's medical file. "You've got a severe sprain, but it will heal rapidly. I want you to stay off your feet for forty-eight hours, and use the crutches I'm going to get you."
Lunsford looked at Brad before he spoke. "Doc, if Austin flies, I fly."
McCary sat back in his chair and wearily removed his glasses. "I'm grounding both of you for a while."
Brad and Russ registered their surprise. "Why?" they said in unison.
McCary handed each of them a government-issue fountain pen. "Both of you sign your full names on the back of this lab report… right here."
Brad set down his pen. "I get the point, but we — "
"No," McCary said, again handing him the black pen. "Sign your name."
Lunsford wrote his name on the report and slid the paper to Austin. Brad attempted to neatly sign his name. His hand trembled uncontrollably.
McCary pulled out Brad's medical file and placed it next to Lunsford's file. "Compare your signatures when you first reported to the squadron with that scrawl you call writing."
Brad and Russ looked at the comparisons. The graphic difference was evident to both of them.
"Lunsford," McCary said, placing his glasses on, "deals with the tension — and it is cumulative — by getting it out of his system. He yells and swears to relieve the anxiety and fear."
McCary paused, tapping a pen against the edge of his desk. He looked at Brad, focusing on his eyes. "You, on the other hand, keep stuffing it down. The fear, the tension, the killing, your hostility toward the rules of engagement. All of it is shoved down, creating a tremendous amount of internal pressure."
Brad looked perplexed. "Doc, that is the nature of this business. We are not horticulturists."
McCary smiled and turned to their medical files. "Both of you are grounded because of stress. I will let you know when I feel you're ready to fly again." He opened his lower drawer and removed several small bottles of bourbon. "I want the two of you to go to your room and get drunk, cuss me… whatever you want to do. I'll see both of you in three days — Friday — at fifteen hundred."
"Yes, sir," Brad replied, accepting his fate. "May we see Nick?"
"Sure," McCary replied, then turned in his chair and motioned to a corpsman. The third class petty officer stepped inside the office. "Rinehart, get a pair of crutches for Lieutenant Lunsford."
"Yessir."
McCary turned back to Austin and Lunsford. "Kick Hutton's ass out when you leave. Palmer is heavily sedated and needs to rest, so you have five minutes."
Brad and Russ stood when the corpsman reappeared with the metal crutches.
McCary pulled back the green curtain separating his office from the ward. "He's in the room at the end of the compartment."
Lunsford hobbled along after Austin as they made their way between the rows of beds. When they reached Palmer's compartment, Brad quietly knocked on the side of the entrance, then pulled the curtain to the side.
Harry Hutton was sitting on a chair next to Palmer's bed. A freckle-faced corpsman was adjusting a bottle connected to an intravenous tube in the pilot's left arm.
Brad and Russ stepped inside and closed the curtain. They both noticed that Harry looked pale and drawn. Brad looked at Nick Palmer. The injured aviator opened his eyes, acknowledging their presence. They remained quiet until the corpsman left the room.
Moving next to his wingman, Brad gently grasped Palmer's left wrist. "Partner, you just about took the last ride on that one."
Palmer smiled weakly, speaking in a pained whisper. "I never… saw it coming."
"We didn't either," Lunsford said, leaning against the bulkhead. "Someone may have called it, but we sure as hell never heard anything during all the confusion."
Palmer looked up at Brad. "Harry said that you guys had to jump out."
"Yeah, I lost it," Brad replied, releasing Palmer's wrist. "McCary says that you are going to be as good as new when they get finished."
Palmer gave a slight nod. He started to speak, but fell silent when his eyelids drooped closed.
Harry stood quietly. "They're flying him to Japan as soon as he stabilizes."