Phantom Leader Part 25

"Am I going to die?" she asked in a m.u.f.fled voice.

Wolf held her arms and pushed her upright. He figured that she was the reason the NVA had not brought their big mortar into play, or their RPGs. They knew a girl was in the house and wanted her alive.

"That, young lady," he said in a loud, authoritative voice, "is what's known as a dumb question. Now, do you want to sit there and let things happen to you? Or do you want to take control of yourself and be a part of what is happening?"

She straightened up and seemed to be responding, but before she could answer, a roaring cascade of sound erupted from the villa and a fusillade of bullets smashed into the front of the little house and tore through the door. Concrete and marble chips and dust flew about. Wolf hastily thrust Greta to the safety of the wall, telling her to stay down and out of the backbiast, and crawled back to his fighting position.

Rizzo and Polter were returning the fire, carefully squeezing off their shots. Wolf grabbed the RPG, quickly aimed and fired a round at the top of the roof wall. The blast took a chunk out of the wall and hurled cartwheeling bodies through the air. o yelled. He lowered his big machine "On the path," Rizz trees. Wolf quickly gun to hammer at the bases of the palm placed another round into the RPG. Furtive movement at the end of the path caught his eye. Suddenly more than twenty NVA emerged to run along the sides of the path, dodging and ducking, the lead men firing their AKs from the hip. They didn't throw grenades because the unreliable fusing could cause them to explode as they ran over them. They would wait until they were in position outside the house, then lob them in.

Wolf waited a second, until they were lined up, and fired the RPG round.

It didn't have time to arm and pa.s.sed through the first man Is stomach, hydraulically disintegrating him, and exploded against the hip of the next man in line.

Eight men behind them went down with fragments in their bodies. The wave of men behind screamed and yelled and ran over the bodies, continuing the attack. Several went down as Rizzo yarnmered the big gun, and Polter's M16 blammed and sent the tiny 5.56 rounds like supersonic bees into the enemy soldiers. The path became littered with g dozen continued the downed soldiers, but the remainin laced the charge. Wolf loaded the last RPG round and p weapon next to him. When the charging men were twenty feet from the door, he pushed the detonator, exploding the second Claymore into an ear-shattering roar.

The blast pistoned pellets and thermite down the path, ripping and dropping all but two men, whom Rizzo tore in half with his 60.

Wolf and Polter shot several wounded who were trying to bring their weapons to bear on them. Silence settled over the smoke-filled air. It was broken when Polter snapped off one last round into a feebly moving body.

At first the men didn't react to what carnage they had done. Then Rizzo let out a whoop, and Polter joined him.

The two men screamed and yelled victory cries and breathed deep of the gunsmoke. Wolf looked back at the girl through eyes wide with bloodl.u.s.t, breathing hard, nostrils dilated, lips pulled back over his teeth. She met his eyes and Stared back with a newfound awareness. Gone was the lost-little girl look, Her mouth was slightly open and she was panting.

Her hair had come loose and hung over her shoulders in blonde twists, damp with sweat and humidity. She blinked rapidly, and seemed to be trying to hide an emotion. She looked almost eager. She wet her lips.

"Are there more?"

Wolf nodded.

"Will they charge again, after ... what happened there?"

She nodded at the carnage on the path.

Wolf nodded.

"They do not use that, what? ... that mortar to destroy US." She looked at the villa, then back at Wolf. "They want me, is that it? They want me?"

Wolf shrugged. "Maybe."

She sat up straight and wiped her mouth. She looked distraught.

"Something has ... happened to me," she said, slowly. "I am not sure I like it, but something has happened. I feel very ... She searched for the word. "Angry. Yes, that is it. I am angry." She looked at the dwindling ammunition supply.

"There must be a way I can help you."

Wolf pushed the detonator of the last Claymore toward her. "Push this lever when I tell you."

"They would be very close then, would they not?"

"Yes, they would be very close."

She licked her lips. "Do you ... do you have a gun for me?" Wolf pulled the 7.63 Mauser from his ankle holster and handed it to her. She took it and fitted her hand around the gun. She stared at the weapon for a long moment, as if seeing someone she didn't Ii ke. She pushed the b.u.t.ton to drop the magazine from the gun, caught it in her hand, the worked the slide and dry-fired a few times. Satisfied, she popped the magazine into the grip and jacked a round into the chamber. Wolf raised a bushy black eyebrow.

"You seem very familiar with weapons, like you've handled guns before."

She caught his expression. She had a new set to her face; a grim and determined expression had taken over. The little girl had been blown into oblivion.

"I am far more reliable and tough than you think. I have made up my mind. I can shoot, I will shoot." She waved the pistol. Wolf caught her hand and smiled.

"Just be careful who You shoot."

She put her hand on his and squeezed. "Wolfgang, I will help you."

She jerked as a flat crack echoed from the roof. Rizzo cried out and slumped over his M60 machine gun. Immediately a fusillade worse than before opened up from the villa, engulfing the little house in a torrent of lead.

Greta curled up and covered her head, and Wolf's heart leaped as he heard her moan. But he had to prepare. He checked that the last round was loaded into the RPG. He laid the weapon next to him, then checked his M 16 and laid that next to the RPG. Then he picked up the M79 grenade launcher and fitted a grenade in place. There were five rounds remaining. Wolf silently blessed the present Colonel Harry Rennagel, who had supplied such a variety of weapons.

Greta peeked from between her fingers and saw the wounded Rizzo. Then she felt the warmth between her legs and realized she had lost control of her bladder. "Mein Gott, " she spit out in disgust. She pulled her hands away, and with a look of determination on her face, swiftly scuttled across the open doorway to Rizzo's side.

Wolf caught the move. When he saw she was safe, he turned back to the fighting and, peering around the base of the doorway, saw a row of marksmen shooting from behind the roof wall. He quickly blooped three grenades in their midst as fast as he could load and pull the trigger.

One exploded by the helicopter and started a fire. He risked a and was pounding his chest.

quick glance at Rizzo and Greta. She had opened his shirt "He's. .h.i.t bad," Polter yelled over his shoulder as he squeezed off rounds. "Push his gun over here," he said to the "I cannot," she yelled. "He is dying." She bent to give him German girl.

mouth-to-mouth.

"If he's dying you can't help him. Give me the gun or we'll all die."

With reluctance she left the side of the dying doorgunner and awkwardly pushed and slid the heavy M60 over to Polter. He turned and handed her his M16. "Here, use this." He seized the machine gun and rested its barrel on the windowsill. He checked the cartridge belt, then opened fire' The gun bucked and yammered, and cut down the first two NVA soldiers trying to creep down the path. "Here they come again," he yelled.

Wolf waited until he had a clear target, then dropped two soldiers with his M 16. When the firing commenced anew from the top of the villa, he blooped another grenade onto the roof, silencing them.

Greta took the M 16 and went back to Rizzo. She pounded his heart, cupped his mouth, and blew into his lungs, then put her ear to his chest. She sat back slowly and arranged his shirt. She b.u.t.toned the b.u.t.tons and straightened the collar.

Seemingly oblivious to the racket going on about her, she made the sign of the cross and bowed her head for a moment, lips moving. Then she tugged and pulled the body from its firing position. She took the same p.r.o.ne position that Rizzo had, poked the snout of the M16 out the door, and fired at a movement down the path.

Wolf was busy shooting and only half aware of what she was doing. When she fired again, he glanced over in surprise.

She was all business. She held the rifle correctly and had positioned her body to take the most advantage of the cover the doorframe and wall provided. Her blonde hair had fallen over the right side of the stock as she sighted down the barrel. Her gun bucked slightly as she squeezed off two shots on semiauto. Wolf Lochert had never seen a more attractive picture. If "You said you didn't shoot," he called over. I "No. I before said I will not shoot. I did not say I could not shoot." She expertly fired two more rounds toward the i villa and looked across the doorway at him. Her eyes were bright with defiance, her jaw set. "My father is a major in the Landwehr. He insisted I learn."

"Well then, get shooting," Polter said in the lull, "they're going to try us again." He opened up with the last belt of ammunition for his machine gun.

A storm of bullets flew through the open doorway and window. Polter gave a cry and fell back, a look of shock in his eyes for an instant.

The M60 clattered to the floor. He shook his head, picked up his gun and resumed his firing position. A narrow stream of blood ran from his left bicep down his arm.

Screams and yells echoed from the base of the villa as a ma.s.s of the green-clad NVA soldiers charged down the path.

At the same time, many heads appeared on the villa roof, shooting from over the wall and from the jagged edges where chunks had been ripped out by Wolf's RPG.

Wolf blew out another piece of the wall with his last RPG round, then picked up the grenade launcher. He exploded a grenade at the feet of the closest NVA soldiers. They went down, but more hurtled through the smoke past their bodies, screaming and shooting.

Greta triggered shot after shot. "Easy," Wolf yelled across the open door to her. "Make each one count." She put her head down for a moment and drew a deep breath.

When she resumed firing, her shots were better paced and aimed. She was killing people.

Polter hammered out his last rounds. "I'm out of ammo," he yelled.

"Here," Wolf said, and threw him his M16 holding the last magazine. He turned and fired a grenade that stunned the charge but did not stop it.

He fired his last grenade, then began throwing the remaining frag grenades.

The smoke from the weapons obscured the path. Three soldiers broke into view and ran screaming toward the door.

Two had grenades in their hands ready to throw. Wolf slammed his hand down and detonated the last Claymore and thermite grenade into their faces. The explosion from the four-pound device was deafening. Smoke billowed back into the room, causing all three to cough and choke. The attacking soldiers were shredded, their grenades were blown back into the next rank, where they exploded killing two and wounding three. Still the others came.

"That's it," Polter yelled above the din. "I'm out." He grabbed the Ml 6 by the muzzle like a baseball bat. His eyes were wide and wild, blood traces ran down his left arm like open veins.

"Me too," Greta Sturm said, her voice almost lost in the roar of the battle. "I have no more to shoot in this gun." She picked up the Mauser and looked across at Wolf. Her face was strangely calm. "The last bullet is for me," he heard her say.

Wolf pitched his last grenade, then pulled out his K-Bar knife. He crouched and gathered his body beneath himself.

"Prepare to charge, " he bellowed. "I'm with you," Polter yelled back, and stood to one side of the window, ready to leap out and start swinging his rifle. Greta Sturm's face was contorted now. She pulled behind the wall and rose to her feet, the Mauser clutched in her hand.

She looked wild-eyed and disheveled. "Yes," she sang out. "We will charge."

They were ready, waiting only Wolfs final word. Suddenly a hail of fire ripped down the path from behind them.

Then so many mortar sh.e.l.ls exploded on the roof of the villa that it began to collapse, and a big explosion from inside the small house blew the kitchen wall in. Greta screamed. Concrete dust and smoke billowed from the kitchen, mingling with the battle smoke in the front room.

"Get down, get down. Don't move," Wolf commanded Polter and Greta.

Several figures wearing American-style combat fatigues scrambled through the hole in the villa wall that opened into the kitchen. Then they dashed into firing positions in the door and windows of the main room and sent volumes of M 16 fire sweeping along the path and the sides of the path, and up toward the ruined villa.

The leader turned to Wolf and gave him a broad smile.

"Hi," he said in perfect Fort Berming English. "I am Captain Tran Ngoc, commander of the Black Panthers. Sorry it took so long to get here."

0215 HOURS LOCAL, SAt.u.r.dAY 3 ]FEBRUARY 1968.

TAN SON NHUT AIRPORT REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM.

The alarm bell inside the alert trailer went off with a reverberating clang that snapped Court's head up from the dirty pillow before he was entirely awake. Fully garbed in flight clothes, including G-suit and survival vest, he swung his boot-clad feet to the floor and stood up.

The sudden movement made him slightly dizzy, causing bits of a sour dream to fade quickly. Across from him, his newly created backseater, Mac Dieter, jumped up from the GI cot where he had sprawled with his back against the wall, reading the latest issue of Stars and Stripes.

The overhead fluorescent pulsed merciless light evenly throughout the trailer. The other two cots were empty. None had bedding. The blue-and-white striped pillows and thin mattresses were soiled and worn from the heavy use made of them by combat-clad fighter pilots on alert duty. Although sleeping was allowed on alert, the conditions did not encourage it. The alarm ended abruptly as Court plucked up the red phone from its cradle on the wooden desk.

"Alert trailer," he croaked, voice muzzy and raw from too many late-night cigarettes. He had flown three times the day before and felt like he had been in an automobile wreck. He blinked his eyes and listened intently and scribbled vector and radio-frequency information on his mission card. Dieter, a dutiful GIB, copied what Court wrote on his own card.

Seconds later the two men were running through the rain to the F-4, black and looming in the night, a scant fifty feet from the trailer. The armament officer had done better this time finding the proper racks.

Sixteen 500-pound bombs under the wings glistened blunt and lethal.

Ponchoed ground crews were already responding to the outside repeater alarm.

The a.s.sistant crew chiefs raced into the revetment to uncover and flip switches on the big yellow APUs (Auxiliary Power Units) cart, causing it to whine into life.

The crew chief punched the canopy-open switch on the fuselage of the plane, then hung a ladder just in time for the two men to climb up.

Court seated himself and flicked on the battery power switch, bathing the c.o.c.kpit in red light. Each chief scrambled up behind Court and Dieter and helped him fasten his harness and leg-restraining garters.

Their helmets were already plugged into the oxygen hoses and radio systems. Rain splashed on each c.o.c.kpit side rail and slid into the c.o.c.kpit with deceptive and unnoticed ease onto the electrical side panels. A final slam on the shoulder by his chief and each pilot hit the switch to lower his canopy after the chief scrambled down and removed the ladder.

From below, Court's crew chief watched him move, outlined in red, in the c.o.c.kpit as he positioned switches. Court checked in with Dieter and the crew chief, who had plugged into the intercom from outside. He told the chief to give him power. The chief opened the air valve, causing the umbilical hose to jump and whip once like an alive thing as it stiffened.

Inside, Court punched the start b.u.t.ton on the left panel, watched the engine revolutions climb on the RPM gage, punched the ignition b.u.t.ton at 10 percent, and slid the throttle forward to idle. He completed the start on the right engine and turned on the UHF radio to the ground-control channel and was cleared to taxi to the arming area near the active runway. "Altimeter twenty-nine seventy-eight, winds two niner zero at twelve, gusting twenty, ceiling broken at five hundred feet, overcast at eight hundred, tops reported at twenty-two thousand,"

Ground Control reported. Dieter called that all the checks were complete in the backseat.

After getting his bombs checked, Court called the tower.

"Tan Son Nhut, Skyspot Tango number one for the active."

"Skyspot Tango, you are cleared on and off runway two seven. Contact Tan Son Nhut Departure Control on 245.5 after takeoff. Skyspot read back."

Court repeated the clearance and taxied onto the runway.

"Roger, Skyspot Tango," the tower said, "there is no reported traffic.

You are cleared for takeoff, and you may go to Departure Control at this time. Have a good flight, sir."

During the daytime high-traffic volume, such courteous and comradely frivolities were not in order. Night in Vietnam changes a lot of things.

The men in Tan Son Nhut tower watched the Phantom blast off the rain-slick runway, afterburner flames streaming and vaporizing rain, until they winked out in the low black scud. The ripping sound of the burners softly vibrated the front pane of gla.s.s. The tower man who was at the Departure Control position held his microphone, ready for Skyspot Tango to check in.

"Tan Son Nhut Departure, Skyspot Tango."

"Skyspot Tango, Tan Son Nhut Departure has you loud and clear. Vector zero four five degrees. Climb to and maintain flight level two seven zero. Contact Paris on 254.6."

"Roger, zero four five to two seven zero. Paris on 254.6."

"Skyspot, that's roger," he transmitted, then turned to the man next to him. "There goes Sam Bannister's kid," he said.

"Go on, you're kidding. The guy with all the MiGs?

What's he doing down here? Thought he was in Thailand someplace."