Matterhorn_ A Novel of the Vietnam War Part 42

It took a few minutes, but the crewman got the frequency and call sign and raised a bored bartender. After some initial confusion about who was calling for what, a voice came on the radio that the crewman had switched over to speaker mode. 'What the f.u.c.k's going on, Weaver?'

'Sir, I got the Twenty-Fourth Regiment's a.s.sistant Three here wondering why we're not flying. Over.'

'Tell the son of a b.i.t.c.h that we're not flying because those f.u.c.king clouds have rocks in them. Over.'

'Uh, sir, he's right here listening in. Over.'

There was a pause. 'Who is he? Over.'

'He's, uh, Captain Hawke, sir. Twenty-Fourth Marines' three shop. Over.'

'Captain? Put him on. Over.' The voice sounded confident.

Hawke was handed the crewman's earphones with their attached microphone. 'What the f.u.c.k is going on here, Captain? This is Major Major Reynolds.' Reynolds.'

Outranked, even if he really had been a captain. In for a penny, in for a pound. 'Sir, I have a company of Marines that need resupply and the weather's cleared. Colonel Mulvaney wants these birds flying right now.'

'Captain, the weather hasn't cleared. I'm looking at it right here, right now. And these birds aren't flying if we don't have the weather hold lifted by Group. I don't care what the f.u.c.k some grunt colonel thinks. I've got several million dollars worth of aircraft at risk here. Is that clear? Over.'

Hawke didn't answer. He'd heard the s.h.i.t about 'several million dollars worth of aircraft' before. He handed the headset back to the crewman and began running across the airstrip for the O-club. In three minutes he burst through the screen door, dripping with sweat because of the heat trapped by his poncho. Faces turned from drinks, dice games, and cards to look at him. It wasn't hard to spot the pilots. Four of them, all in flight suits, were at the same table. Just right for bridge.

He walked over to their table. 'Is one of you Major Reynolds?'

A rather overweight man with a florid face pushed back his chair and looked up at Hawke. 'I'm Major Reynolds.' Then in a mocking tone, 'Captain Hawke, I presume?'

'Sir, I can see the foothills. That's one klick of visibility.'

'And I can see about a hundred feet of those f.u.c.king hills, and that's a hundred feet of visibility-up,' Reynolds answered, pointing at the ceiling. 'And that's here at two hundred fifty feet above sea level. Your f.u.c.king company is at over five thousand feet above sea level. No f.u.c.king way, Captain. Not until we get VFR and a weather clear from MAG-39.'

'You don't know what it's like at five thousand feet unless you go there.'

'I don't need to go there to know what it's like. We had a weather bird out there an hour ago and it's souped in from here to f.u.c.king Burma.' He looked at his three comrades with a slight smile. 'We're in constant contact with Captain Bainford from First Battalion, and it's his guys up there, not yours. He's also got an enlisted forward air controller right on the spot. I think between us we'll get the job done'-he paused slightly-'when it's possible. Now just kindly let us do the flying, Captain.'

The sudden rage of the combat infantry veteran flashed through Hawke. His hand went to the b.u.t.t of his .45, but the pistol was hidden beneath his poncho. The fact that he would have to hike up the poncho to reach the weapon slowed him down just enough. For some reason, the image of Hippy, his M-60 cradled on his flak jacket, struggling through the bush on those ravaged feet, hit him. Breathe, he thought. He did. Then he thought again. Then he plunged.

'I'm not a captain and I'm not the a.s.sistant Three at Regiment. I'm Lieutenant Hawke, First Battalion S-3 Zulu and the former executive officer of Bravo Company. My guys are out of water and out of ammo and they're dying up there. They need help.' Eyebrows went up from all four of the pilots. 'I don't know f.u.c.k about flying, but I do know f.u.c.k about trying. You guys going to sit here playing cards or you going to try?'

There was a long moment of silence. The pilots knew better than Hawke what was being asked of them. Under these conditions, groping nearly blind just above the trees because that was the only airs.p.a.ce in which they could see, one slight error in navigation, one second of inattention, one slight temperature shift that turned clear air into impenetrable fog, and they would see the side of the mountain for about one second before it killed them and all the Marines on board.

Hawke made one last desperate stab. 'Marines are in trouble. You afraid to help them?'

A younger first lieutenant pushed back his chair. 'That f.u.c.king does it,' he said. He slapped his cards down and stood up. Hawke feared that he'd pushed too hard. But the pilot looked over at his bridge partner, obviously his copilot. 'What do you think, Nickels?'

'f.u.c.k.' Nickels threw his cards on the table, faceup, and rose to his feet, followed by the first lieutenant.

'Well, Major?' the lieutenant asked. 'I believe we've been called chickens.h.i.t.'

The florid man sighed and threw his cards onto the table. He rose from his chair, calling out to no one in particular, 'Anyone got a f.u.c.king jeep? I don't feel like walking to my own funeral.'

And that was the true origin of the story, which later made the rounds of the Twenty-Fourth Marine Regiment and the Fifth Marine Division, that a grunt lieutenant had walked into the regimental O-club and pulled his pistol on four zoomies and threatened to kill them if they didn't fly the mission to save his old outfit.

The story that made its way around Marine Air Group 39 and the Fifth Marine Air Wing was that four pilots disobeyed a weather hold to snake their way up a 7,000-foot mountain with only thirty or forty feet between their wheels and the trees in a driving monsoon rain to rescue a Marine company that was surrounded by an NVA regiment.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

FAC-man picked up the radio calls from the two birds long before they could be heard. He was amazed. It didn't seem possible for a chopper to find them. He had just told Bainford the ceiling height, and Bainford had told him they'd have to wait, that it was too dangerous to fly.

Mellas ran crouching behind FAC-man up to the LZ, where they both piled into a nearby hole. A single sniper round pa.s.sed over their heads. 'I don't know what the f.u.c.k's going on, sir, but we got two birds down in the valley trying to find us. They say they got reinforcements and ammo. Captain Bainford told me they were all on weather hold.' Just then the radio hissed.

FAC-man listened. 'That's a neg, sir. Still can't hear you. Over.'

He and Mellas sat silently. Mellas motioned for FAC-man's radio and switched quickly to the company frequency. Pallack answered.

'This is Five Actual,' Mellas said. 'Tell everyone we have a bird trying to find us. I want total silence. Over.' Soon the entire perimeter was quiet, everyone waiting in the fog, not wanting to hope.

After a few minutes Mellas saw FAC-man tense, look to the south, and pull out his compa.s.s. Mellas's ears were so damaged by the recent combat that he heard nothing except a high-pitched ringing that seemed to have settled permanently inside his head. 'Magpie, Magpie, this is Big John Bravo. I have rotor noise bearing one seven niner. I repeat, bearing one seven niner degrees.' FAC-man looked at Mellas, then shook one clenched fist in excitement. He was grinning. Something came over the radio. 'That's affirmative, sir.' There was another pause. 'Magpie, this is Big John Bravo FAC. We have about'-he squinted, looking up at the clouds-'forty feet.' Then he hung his head. Mellas realized that by telling the truth, FAC-man might doom the company because the choppers would turn around, but that not telling the truth might doom the choppers. He caught FAC-man's eye and gave an understanding nod. The FAC-man smiled and looked up at the sky again. 'There it is, sir,' he said quietly.

Then FAC-man tensed again, sighted on his compa.s.s, and keyed his handset. 'Magpie, I have rotor noise now bearing one eight five. Over.'

In his mind's eye, Mellas watched the choppers moving westward past the spot where FAC-man had first heard their rotor noise, then turning north to try to come back. That would probably put them just west of the Laotian border. If they could get up to alt.i.tude and stay on their northward course, they'd miss the hills to their south. But they would probably overfly Helicopter Hill and Matterhorn in the clouds. If they stuck close to the ground, they could crash into either hill. Mellas hoped fervently that they were flat-hatting across the top of the jungle.

'You're good, Magpie. I still have you bearing one eight five degrees. Stand by for my mark.'

There was another intense interval, this time filled with the steady drone of rotor blades augmented by the whine of turbine engines. Then, just above them, obscured by fog, two choppers flashed across the sky. FAC-man jumped to his feet and shouted into the handset, 'Mark! Mark!'

He and Mellas watched the choppers disappear. The Marines on the hill were silent. Everyone listened to the whining engines and the clattering of the choppers' blades clawing at thin mountain air during the sharp turn. FAC-man yelled compa.s.s bearings and ran to the center of the LZ at the same time. 'I got you at zero three zero.' He'd pause. 'Zero three five.' He'd wait. 'Zero three five, holding. Yes sir. That's it, sir, a ridge bearing roughly zero niner zero. It's just to our Echo about one hundred feet below us.'

Finally a huge fuselage loomed out of the clouds, belly exposed as the pilot brought it up, rear wheels down, fighting its way, engines firing full-on to hold the steady descent. Then it bounced in and the new replacements were rushing, falling, stumbling, and crawling for the sides of the LZ as the air erupted in automatic weapons and machine-gun fire from both Matterhorn and the finger to the north. Mellas had his compa.s.s out and coolly took a bearing on the sound of the machine gun on the north finger. He found the spot on his map. 'Got you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' he said.

The first chopper lifted off, and the second one piled in right behind it. Again, dark figures hurtled from the rear ramp, stumbling under immense weight, falling, crawling, and scrambling for safety. Then, to Mellas's amazement and joy, one of the figures stood up on the landing zone and raised his right arm in the hawk power sign. Mellas also stood up, yelling jubilantly. 'G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Hawke, over here. Over here.'

Hawke turned and, weighted down with ammunition and water, ran jerkily toward Mellas. Mellas's heart sang as Hawke collapsed into the hole. Marines on the hill risked getting killed to run over to Hawke, laughing, shouting, slapping him on the back.

Then the mortar sh.e.l.ls came slamming down again.

During a lull in the sh.e.l.ling Mellas ran across the LZ and jumped into the hole Hawke was digging for himself. Mellas took out his K-bar and started stabbing at the hard clay, helping Hawke dig, unable to suppress a broad smile.

'So what the f.u.c.k are you doing here?'

'I got bored,' Hawke said.

'Ah, I think you got sentimental.'

'So I'm a bored sentimentalist.' Hawke grunted and tossed another shovelful of clay.

Again they heard tubing. They went down low in the shallow hole. The sh.e.l.ls shook the ground beneath them and black smoke irritated their nostrils. The explosions jolted them, and their eyes ached from the pressure waves.

'Nice f.u.c.king place you've got here,' Hawke said. He threw more shovelfuls of dirt, then said, 'f.u.c.k it. Deep enough.' He jabbed the shovel into the earth and curled back into the hole.

'Hey, Hawke,' Mellas said. 'You got any water? I'm dying of f.u.c.king thirst.'

Hawke pulled a canteen from its pouch. 'Well, I'll be f.u.c.ked,' he said. He showed the canteen to Mellas. There was a small shrapnel hole in it.

'Better than a hole in your f.u.c.king a.s.s.'

'Yeah, but it was the one with the Rootin' Tootin' Raspberry.'

He handed Mellas the half-empty canteen. Mellas took a long drink, gulping it down, wanting to swim in its tart sweetness. He finally stopped, smiling, with a contented sigh. 'I always was a Baron von Lemon fan, but Rootin' Tootin' Raspberry will certainly do.'

'Well, Baron von Lemon is very hard to get this year,' Hawke said.

Another explosion hit, only fifteen feet from their hole, followed by four more. Mellas felt as if he were in a heavy black bag being beaten with unseen clubs. Smoke replaced oxygen. They couldn't talk. They endured.

Then the explosions shifted to another part of the hill. Hawke calmly took out his tin-can cup and a small chunk of C-4 and started making coffee. He looked up at Mellas, who was watching him intently. 'It's the ever-flowing source of all that's good and the cure of all ills,' Hawke said. He lit the ball of C-4 and brought the water to a boil. When the coffee was ready he gave the cup to Mellas.

Mellas took a sip. Then he closed his eyes and took another. He sighed and handed the steaming coffee back to Hawke. 'When's Delta getting here to relieve us?' Mellas asked.

'f.u.c.ked if I know. Do I look like-'

'A G.o.dd.a.m.ned fortune-teller?' Mellas said. 'No, but you're supposed to be the Three Zulu, whatever the f.u.c.k that is.'

'It's nothing. And if I was Delta Company I'd never get my a.s.s up here.'

'You came,' Mellas said, suddenly serious.

Hawke's brief pause acknowledged Mellas's thanks. 'Yeah,' he said quietly, 'but I'm crazy. I couldn't f.u.c.king stand it any more.'

'That bad, huh?' Mellas said.

'Oh, h.e.l.l,' Hawke said. 'I don't know. A consummate politician like you might even like it back there.' He tried to smile.

'It'd beat humping,' Mellas said. 'I'm out here freezing my nuts off in a jungle and dying of thirst in a monsoon.'

Hawke looked up at the sky. 'The Six and the Three are saying you abandoned your packs. That's why you're cold and ran out of water and food. Then you fell asleep on the lines last night.'

'They can't be serious,' Mellas said slowly.

''Fraid so. Simpson was talking about relieving Fitch again.'

Mellas stood up and shouted, 'What the f.u.c.k's the matter with him? What the f.u.c.k's the matter with everybody? These guys only fought a f.u.c.king week with no sleeping gear, no food, no water, and that f.u.c.king a.s.shole thinks thinks they were sleeping. We're the ones who should be insane, not that drunken b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' A sh.e.l.l exploded, but Mellas no longer cared if it hit him or not. they were sleeping. We're the ones who should be insane, not that drunken b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' A sh.e.l.l exploded, but Mellas no longer cared if it hit him or not.

'Sit down before you get f.u.c.king blown away,' Hawke said, pulling at him.

Mellas sat down. He wanted to strike out at someone. 'It's a f.u.c.king blatant lie. Our LP took the first hit, just like in the books. No one was asleep. I f.u.c.king guarantee.'

'You took more casualties overall than you got confirmed.'

'What does he want us to do? Send out another squad or two and have them killed counting dead gooks so it'll even up his G.o.dd.a.m.ned reports to division?'

'I don't know what he wants, Mel. I just know what he says.' Hawke was playing with a stick and he paused to flick some mud with it. 'You all right?' he asked. 'I mean personally?'

'Yeah,' Mellas answered. 'I got some metal in my a.s.s and hands but you can't tell it from the jungle rot.'

'I don't mean that way. I mean about Ba.s.s and Janc and all.'

'I'll get over it.' Mellas looked away from Hawke, up into the blank and now nearly dark sky.

'I doubt it.'

'How the f.u.c.k do you know?'

'I just know,' he said.

'How's Mallory?' Mellas asked, changing the subject.

'Diddy-bopping around. Waiting for his court-martial. Waiting to go to the f.u.c.king dentist. That'll probably be in six months or so.'

'How long did he stay in the box?'

'I got him out about three hours after you left,' Hawke added.

'Thanks.'

'Don't mention it. I just hope you have to be his G.o.dd.a.m.ned character witness, not me.'

'You have any trouble?'

'I just told the snuffy on guard I was taking over. Blakely ranted and raved about going behind his back, making him look bad, making Ca.s.sidy look bad, the Marine Corps, military justice, you name it. Then he went to the O-club.'

They both laughed. Then Mellas remembered Hawke, boots shined, notebook out, trying to look good at the battalion briefing. He looked down at the mud. 'Hawke, I know what it took. Thank you. He's n.o.body you want on your bad side.' Then he grinned. 'Especially since you turned into a lifer.'

'Next time do your own G.o.dd.a.m.ned rescuing, that's all I ask,' Hawke said, a little sharply.

'They going to throw the book at him?' Mellas asked. He was trying to figure out why Hawke was angry.

'He pulled a G.o.dd.a.m.ned pistol on a f.u.c.king Navy officer who's screaming his f.u.c.king head off.'

'It was f.u.c.king empty.'

'It's still a f.u.c.king pistol,' Hawke said. 'You've already been out here too long. Ordinary people think pistols are dangerous. They don't stop to look if there's a magazine in it or not and laugh at the joke. The doctor's p.i.s.sed and he wants Mallory's a.s.s. And he'll get it. Several years' worth.'

'Maybe Mallory was out here too long, too,' Mellas fired back. 'The f.u.c.king Navy doctors were the ones that kept sending him back.'