Free The Trash Haulers by Richard Herman Page B

Warren said. Da Nang’s tower had told them to stay over water and approach from the west and minimize their time over land before landing. “We’ll do it hot.” He turned onto the base leg as they descended and pushed up the throttles, touching 160 knots indicated airspeed. He sawed at the control yoke, jinking the big aircraft back and forth to discourage any gunner’s aim.
    “Roscoe Two-One,” Da Nang tower radioed. “Cleared to land. Land long and taxi clear of the runway ASAP.”
    “Cleared to land,” Bosko replied. “Landing long.” The two pilots were a well-rehearsed team and they came down final, with the C-130’s nose high in the air. Warren slammed the big bird onto the runway, throwing the props into reverse before the nose gear was down. “Shut down one and four,” he ordered as they taxied in.
    *
    Da Nang Air Base, South Vietnam
    “Nice landing,” Bosko allowed as the outboard props spun down. “I’m guessing 1400 feet.”
    “Captain Warren has done it in less than 1200,” Hale, the flight engineer said, primarily for Hardy’s benefit, who he knew was on headset and monitoring the approach and landing.
    Santos stood behind the co-pilot’s seat and looked out the right window. “Sum’bitch! Check out the smoke. They took a few rockets.”
    “More than a few,” Warren replied. They were quickly marshalled to an open revetment where a crew chief was waiting. Warren spun the Hercules around with its tail pointing into the revetment. “Scanner on the ramp,” he called. Stuffing the C-130 into a revetment without a tug was a well-practiced drill at Cam Ranh Bay, but this was a first time for Da Nang.
    Flanders had already raised the rear door and lowered the loading ramp to the level position, opening up the rear of the cargo deck. “Clear in the rear.” Warren threw the inboard props into reverse and backed into the revetment. “Slow, slow, stop,” Flanders directed over the intercom.
    Warren called for the engine shutdown checklist as a crew van drove up. A sergeant jumped out and waved for them to hurry. “Okay, folks,” Warren said. “I believe a sense of urgency is required here. Sergeant Hale, please top off the fuel at 20,000 pounds, and cock the bird for a quick engine start. Let’s go.” He led Bosko and Santos off the flight deck and out the crew entrance door. Hardy, Huckabee, and Slovack were in close trail. Much to every one’s surprise, Lynne Pender was the last one to climb into the waiting crew van. Warren gave the doctor his best grin. “Welcome to the war, Captain. What happened to the Golden Spirochete?”
    “Fuck off,” she answered.
    “Pun intended?” Santos quipped.
    Hardy shot Warren his standard look of disapproval. “Maintaining good order, Captain?”
    *
    Quang Tri Province, South Vietnam
    Kim-Ly spoke in an unusually loud voice, primarily for Dinh’s benefit, without referring to the clipboard she held in the crook of her arm. “Our loses were minimal as most of the cadre had time to respond to the Alarm Red. Unfortunately, six of our gallant comrades were caught in the open by the first attack. The second Air Pirate’s bombs fell harmlessly.”
    “And what was destroyed?” Dinh demanded, more concerned about the loss of material.
    Again, Kim-Ly spoke without consulting her notes. “Two-hundred litres of petrol, approximately one-hundred kilos of rations, two bicycles, and three Type 53 mortar tubes with forty-three projectiles.” The Chinese Type 53 mortar was based on the excellent Soviet BM-37, 82mm mortar. It was the “infantrymen’s artillery” and very effective in the hands of a trained crew. Because of its relatively light weight and portability, it was highly valued by the North Vietnamese. She waited for Dinh’s reaction.
    Dinh drew himself up to his full five foot two inches. “That is unacceptable. General Dong has issued strict orders that those responsible for the loss of any crew-served weapon will be executed by hanging