Kamigami passed the sniper rifle back, and the radioman handed him a headset so he could monitor the action. Below him, the jungle twinkled with flashes as the CBU bomblets exploded. The second A-10 crossed the flight path of the escaping Hog at thirty degrees, smoke rolling back from its nose. The loud, burring growl of the Hog’s cannon echoed over the jungle, punctuated by the bomblets going off.
More mortars walked across the ridge, driving Kamigami’s men down. He keyed his radio. “Keep the smoke coming,” he ordered. Without the smoke rounds from his team’s fifty-one-millimeter mortar marking the jungle, an A-10 might drop a friendly round on Maggot. Over the din he heard Bag radio Red, the second helicopter, and tell it to move farther to the west, using the ridgeline as protective cover.
For the next twelve minutes Kamigami watched the four Hogs of Basher flight work the area over. The aircraft stayed low, circling to the west, using the karst formation for masking. On each run two aircraft would pop out from behind the ridge using shooter-cover tactics. The lead jet would drop ordnance while his wingman flew cover, discouraging anyone who might want to shoot back. It was an effective tactic and suppressed the enemy mortars that were pounding the ridge. Finally the last A-10 was off and heading for home. An eerie silence descended over the carnage below him. It looked as if a giant had stomped across the jungle, crushing the foliage flat with huge boots. Here and there he saw smoke billowing up.
Kamigami crawled out of the crevice and stood up as the big Aerospatiale helicopter carrying Tel and his team of shooters popped up over the western side of the ridge and hovered over a flat, open area. Sixteen men jumped out. The four shooters left on board pushed out equipment bags before the pilot spun the aircraft around and moved away. Kamigami saw Tel giving him a thumbs-up from the doorway just as the helicopter dropped out of sight.
Maggot lay on the ground, his arms wrapped over his head. It took a moment for the silence to register — the bombing had stopped. He rose up on his elbows and shook his head as a raging thirst coursed through his body. But his water bottle was dry. He came to his feet, still unsteady from the pounding his body had taken from the repeated concussions of exploding ordnance. He keyed his survival radio. “Bag, I’m up and moving.”
The relief in Bag’s voice was obvious. “I’m sending a Jolly Green in now.” Jolly Green was a holdover from the past, when SAR helicopters were called Jolly Green Giants.
Maggot was feeling better. “Tell the Hogs they missed. I still got my balls.”
“Will do,” Bag replied.
Maggot checked his compass and pushed ahead, moving as fast as he could. An insect worked its way up the back of his neck and burrowed under his helmet. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he ripped off the helmet and brushed the insect away. He tossed his helmet into the brush. He took a few more steps and stumbled into the clearing. For a moment he stood there, breathing deeply and savoring the rain that was starting to fall. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth. Then he mashed the button on his survival radio that keyed the beacon, still looking skyward and drinking in the rain. In the distance he heard the distinctive beat of a helicopter, and he pulled out his pen flare gun. He cocked it and, holding it at arm’s length, fired it skyward. The beating of the helicopter grew louder, and he sank to his knees, unbelievably tired.
The screech of an incoming artillery round echoed over the clearing. Automatically, he looked toward the sound. A puff of smoke and flames flashed on top of the ridgeline. Another round echoed over him. “Ah, shit,” he moaned to himself. Now he could see the Super Puma as it moved over the clearing and settled to the earth. He ran for it, and two sets of hands pulled him into the open door. He looked up into Tel’s smiling face. “We’ve got to quit meeting like this,” he said.
Tel only grinned and strapped him into a jump seat as the pilot lifted off. Tel went forward and stood between the pilots, listening on the radio. He shot Maggot a very worried look as the pilot dropped the helicopter down to treetop level and they raced for safety around the northern end of the karst formation. Through the open door on the other side of the helicopter, Maggot saw two more flashes erupt on top of the ridgeline. Tel pointed out the copilot’s quarter panel, shouting something he couldn’t understand. Then he saw it — the smoldering wreckage of a helicopter on the edge of the ridgeline.
Twenty-four
This is a win? Pontowski thought. He was sitting with Colonel Sun at the back of the small room in the hardened aircraft shelter the AVG used for its operations center as Bag went through the postmission debrief. The pilot’s flight suit was still damp with sweat and his body racked with fatigue, but he kept at it, covering everything that had gone right on the mission and ferreting out what had gone wrong. You did good, Pontowski told himself, giving all the pilots high marks for Maggot’s rescue. Unfortunately, the two Singapore helicopter pilots were not used to the way Americans debriefed a mission, and were very reluctant to join in. But Pontowski had to know what had happened. He waited for the right moment. It came when Bag opened a fresh water bottle and took a long swig.
“That was a fine piece of flying,” he told the two helicopter pilots. “Very aggressive, with perfect timing. And we honor your fallen comrades.” Tel was sitting behind the two and leaned forward, translating in case they missed his meaning. The two pilots nodded in acknowledgment. “But there is one thing I don’t understand,” Pontowski continued. “Why did General Kamigami insert his team on top of the ridgeline?” The two pilots shook their heads.
“Perhaps,” Tel ventured, “he wanted to draw attention away from Colonel Stuart by presenting a new threat.”
The helicopter aircraft commander said, “When we were inbound to pick up Colonel Stuart, I heard the general call for Gold to come in for a pickup. But he waved them off when the artillery barrage started.”
“So no one was picked up before the helicopter crashed?” Colonel Sun asked.
“I don’t think so,” the pilot answered. “When we flew past, I didn’t see any movement on the ground.”
“I can confirm that,” Maggot said from the doorway. Everyone turned toward the pilot. He was freshly showered and in a clean flight suit after being checked by Doc Ryan. “I think an artillery round got them.” He walked over to the helicopter pilots. “Thank you.” He extended his hand in friendship. “You saved my worthless ass.” The two men stood, shaking his hand in turn.
“Where did the artillery come from?” Colonel Sun asked.
“I saw three tanks moving down the LOC when I came on station,” Bag answered. “PT-76s.” The PT-76 was a Soviet-built light amphibious tank. “They sport a seventy-five-millimeter cannon, but I couldn’t go after them with all those refugees.”
“Old but effective,” Pontowski said in a low voice.
“I believe,” Tel said, “the PLA is equipped with the Type 63, a much improved version of the PT-76 produced in China. It has an eighty-five-millimeter cannon.” He ducked his head, embarrassed for speaking out.