“Rog, Sandy.”
The two planes passed low over the clearing. The white-phosphorus smoke rockets went off with a whoosh. The smoke billowed up.
“Cardinal, we're going out now to meet the Jolly Green. They'll be her in a few minutes. Sit tight.”
He saw the two Sandies disappear over the treetops.
He listened. And watched.
He strained to see into the distant sky, willing the HH-53 helicopter to appear.
And he heard it, the distinctive whop, whop, whop, whop of the big chopper. The Jolly Green…
“Cardinal Three.” It was a new voice on the radio. “This is Jolly Green. We're coming in pretty good. We know where you are. Pop a red smoke.”
“Rog, Jolly Green. Smoke.”
He pulled the end of his smoke flare. A dense cloud of orange smoke drifted up on the wind.
“Rog, Cardinal. We got your smoke.”
He could see the chopper coming in over the jungle edge about 100 yards from him.
“Cardinal. Jolly,” the radio sputtered. “Hold with it. We're coming in.”
The hovering chopper moved closer to his smoke. It started to descend.
Suddenly, from the jungle edge, a din of small-arms fire erupted. And machine-gun fire. The rescue helicopter banked sharply and pulled up with a roar of power, pursued by intensive ground fire. The Gomers had been waiting.
“Shit!” the radio spat. “The bastards are playing games again. We got to get out. Too much damned firepower down there.” There was a pause, filled with static and anxiety. Then — urgently: “Cardinal. Sandy. Hold on for a few more minutes. We'll have to soften the bastards up.”
Oh, sweet Jesus — more eternal minutes.
“Rog, Sandy,” he said bleakly. He looked up at the Jolly Green hovering and dancing out of the range of the Gomer groundfire. “I'll—”
Suddenly a bullet slammed into the ground inches from his knee. He jumped. Another — and another.
“Sandy! Sandy!” he shouted. “I'm under fire! I've got to take cover.” His eyes flew over the area. “That hillock,” he rasped. “With the brush. I'll make for it.” He caught his breath. He hoped the adrenalin surging through him didn't garble the transmission. “The one nearest the smoke,” he finished.
Bent low, clutching his pistol in one hand, his radio in the other, be began a broken-field run toward the clump of jungle brush. He was almost there. He veered sharply around a stand of thick grass. He stepped into a small, hidden hole and his left foot buckled under him. He crashed to the ground. He managed to hold on to his pistol, but his radio went flying from his grip into the grass. He did not see where it landed. He got up. Bullets were reaching for him, getting closer. Desperately his eyes searched for the radio, his only link with his rescuers. He did not see it. A bullet hissed through the tall grass close to his head — the whispering sound of death. He ducked. He ran on. His foot shot waves of pain through him with every step. He heard the whoosh of a rocket being fired by one of the Sandies. Almost at once it exploded into its jungle-edge target with an ear-rending blast. The force of the sledgehammer detonation struck him in the back and slammed him forward as he dove into the brush on the hillock. The machine-gun fire stopped.
But the small-arms fire was all around him.
He stared into the tall grass. He knew what was coming. It was not long. From the jungle edge he could see the furtive dark shapes of the North Vietnamese troops making their move toward him.
Anxiously he glanced up. In the distance over the jungle the two Sandies were banking, turning to hurtle toward the clearing.
He thought he saw movement in the grass. He fired. Answering rifle fire rattled though the foliage around him. Despair flooded him. He was hopelessly pinned down. Alone. How long could he expect to hold off the infiltrating enemy — with only a .38? His nerves were stretched to their ultimate tautness.
The Sandies came roaring low overhead, strafing the ground with a hail of 20-mm, explosive and incendiary cannon shells. Rockets thudded into the jungle to explode in fiery destruction. Again the Sandies wheeled and came streaking back, pounding a continuous stream of fire down upon the enemy troops.
But still the Gomers were inexorably closing in on him. Another few minutes?
Hell — there were none left.
He'd had it.
Suddenly a powerful whirring sound captured his awareness. The Jolly Green was whirling down from above, coming fast, headed straight for his cover. He could make out a figure standing crouched in the doorway — and he saw the gunner spraying the grass below with machine-gun fire. The chopper came to within fifty — thirty — ten feet above him. Abruptly it pulled up, banked steeply and came to a hovering stop for a bare moment. A man leaped out and crashed into the brush behind him. In the same instant the chopper shot away, fleeing a hail of small-arms fire.
The man came thrashing through the brush. He shrugged out of a pair of M-16 automatic rifles slung over his shoulder. He threw one to Tom.
“Here, old cock, use this!” He hit the ground next to Tom. “Better'n that popgun.” He fired into the tall grass. “The Sandies'll have the Gomers cleaned out in a few minutes. You and I can hold the fuckers off that long.” He fired again. “Name's Paul.”
Side by side they lay in the dirt, firing at any movement in the grass, listening to the enemy bullets rusting through the brush, probing for them.
And all around them raged the battle…
Gradually the Gomer fire died down — until only sporadic shots met the strafing Sandies, and the troops closing in on the two men seemed to have withdrawn.
Once more the Jolly Green descended toward the clearing. Quickly it came to rest on the ground near the brush-covered hillock. Tom and Paul broke cover and zigzagged toward the chopper, dodging scattered fire.
Rough hands hauled them aboard, and the Jolly Green lurched up into the air and whirled away out over the jungle — passing over Tom's blazing Corsair on the ground as it flared up in a dying burst of pyrotechnics.
Not until Tom sat huddled on the floor of the chopper, staring at the man who'd risked his life to save him, did he realize he'd fouled his pants.
It was a simple realization. It mattered not at all…
He focused on Randi. “You know most of it already,” he said quietly. But he knew she didn't. “Paul was the leader of a Combat Mobility Team in Nam. He put his neck on the block for me. He didn't have to. Got me out of a tight situation.” He looked away. “He'll tell you about it. Someday.”
“Why is he transferring to Edwards?” Randi asked.
“Being in charge of Security Operations gives him a chance to be promoted to major.”
“I hope he makes it.”
“He will. He's damned good.”
Randi sighed. “I suppose so.” She glanced at her husband. “You think he liked Judy?”
“You can bet on it.”
“Wouldn't it be fun — if they got serious?”
Tom laughed. “Paul? Serious? You must be joshing.”
“Well — I think she'd make a lovely Air Force wife,” Randi said.
There was a strangely wistful tone in her vice.
4
The house occupied by Randi and Tom Darby on Doolittle Drive in Housing Area G was only a few minutes’ drive from the Officers Club. It was a pleasant one-story contemporary building with two large trees on the front lawn. A faint light could be seen coming from a window in the rear bedroom.
Randi was lying, her back to the empty side of the bed, staring into the semi-darkness of the room. Only the little lamp on the nightstand on Tom's side was on. She lay perfectly still. Waiting. She heard her husband come into the room; she felt the bed sag as he sat down on it, heard the familiar, faint squeak. Oh, God — she knew how she would react. She knew she could not help it.