Chapter 15
Alone at last…
Murdock smiled sadly at the thought. Well, any screw-ups he made on the landing would only cost him his own life, and that, at least, was comforting. He'd run through a number of possible ways to land the bird—all of which, in his mind, ended in the same tragic conclusion—KA-BOOM.
He shrugged. Somehow, that image of a wacky explosion was funnier in the cartoons he used to watch as a kid and a lot less so in real life…go figure.
"Come on Murdock baby, think!" He glanced down at the fuel gauge. Yep, he was red-lining it for the ol' JP-4. "Ah, grandma said there'd be days like these…"
A decision had to be made, but before he did so, he made one last pass over the SF camp. He hadn't expected to see Hannibal and his men, but he hoped he would—just so he could confirm they were ok. He spotted BA's massive frame leaning heavily on a tiny figure beside him. Face and Hannibal stood nearby staring dumbly up at the Huey as it passed by.
Murdock grinned. Well, at least they were alright; that was reassuring.
And then the mortars started. He jerked instinctively at the cyclic stick, pulling away as the explosions rocked the camp. In his peripheral vision he could see the men below darting for cover.
He chanced another quick glance at the fuel gauge…
Shit. This was it. He'd stalled long enough. Would he make a run for it? See how far he could get from the camp before he had to set down and probably explode? Or would he try and make things a little easier on the SF units and see if he could land his bird on top of some of those Viet Cong bastards hiding in the shadows—which would also result in his fiery demise.
"Screw that…" He muttered eyeing the ground for another answer. Hell, he was as patriotic as the next guy, but that didn't mean he wanted to die right at that moment for his country—maybe someday, but not yet. Ok, maybe not even someday…wasn't serving enough?
As his gaze scanned the landscape below, a solution came to him. It wasn't elegant; it wasn't clever, and it wasn't any more reliable of a plan than any of the others he'd thought of, but it had one thing going for it…and that was that he absolutely didn't have one other damn choice any longer.
If he didn't land the bird now, before the fuel ran out, he'd have to do an autorotation—which normally wouldn't have bothered him, but he didn't like the idea of trying to pull it off with explosives on his skid. If the final flare wasn't perfect he'd hit the ground too hard, or he'd slide—either action likely to set off the grenades latched to the Huey.
Nope, this was doing to be a simple landing, and hopefully a soft one. Of course, this close to the camp, he'd have to scramble his ass out of the chopper before the Viet Cong found him. That was gonna be fun…
Having settled on a plan of action, he was starting to feel more confident…no matter how much of an impulsive, idiotic idea it was.
Sweat tickling his brow, he studied the rutted rice paddy below. It sure was one hell of a gamble.
If he managed to land the bird with the explosives lined up perfectly in one of the gullies plowed into the paddy, and if the Viet Cong didn't immediately shoot holes in him once he touched ground, there was still the possibility of the explosives going off as the Huey slowly sank into the soft soil—which was yet another reason for a quick escape. Shit; this was crazy!
With a loud whoop, Murdock set his plan into motion, bringing the chopper down over the rice field and setting her into a hover as he found his spot. The sudden, familiar tick-tick-tick echoed through the cockpit as bullet holes filled his Plexiglas windshield.
Damn; he quickly spun the bird around, so that her nose was facing the camp. Heart pounding, he eased her down.
"Please, oh, please, oh, please…be a good gal for Uncle Murdock…."
It took every ounce of restraint he had not to squeeze his eyes shut on the touchdown—not to flinch in anticipation of the pain that he was sure was to come. But, the landing was smooth, and no explosion sounded. Automatically, he found himself shutting the bird down, even as the sound of gunfire pinging off the back of the Huey increased.
It was surreal—like a bad night of drinking that only comes back in vague, hazy memories. Somehow, he was out of the chopper, on his hands and knees, pushing through the muddy waters. He tried to stand, but a pain flared through his right knee. What had he done? Was he shot? There wasn't time to stop; there wasn't time to check.
He fumbled on, misty sprays flying upwards as bullets dove into the water all around him. Just enough darkness had settled to somewhat veil his escape. If he would have held still, if he would have quit his splashing, then the bullets might have stopped. He knew this. He had been trained for this, but fear overrode that training.
He kept moving, the camp edging closer into view. For a brief moment, he wondered if the SF units would shoot him as he came barreling forward, but then he let the thought pass. He didn't care. He just had to get out of the field, away from the darkness and the…
BOOM.
Murdock sank to a crouch, glancing back across the field. With the light given off by the burning Huey, he could make out the silhouettes of the Viet Cong soldiers running through the dim evening. They were all heading toward the blazing chopper…away from him.
He held still, panting as he watched the flames. Slowly, he started to slog toward the camp again; no bullets sunk into the muddy waters around him this time though.
Reaching the end of the rice paddy, he staggered onto dry land. Pain shot through his knee with each step, but, upon inspection, he found no wound. He must have twisted it when he got out of the chopper. A dim memory of his belly flop into the murky water surfaced in his mind. That certainly hadn't been the most tactful move he'd ever made.
Still, it was funny, wasn't it? All that chaos and his worse injury had come from his own clumsy actions? He grinned, thinking off all the shit the guys could give him over that.
He was still smiling as he approached the camp. He'd made it…
But, the sudden stillness made him slow. Where were the guards? Hesitantly he entered, suddenly spotting a few faces, American, staring at him from a foxhole.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE?" A voice yelled. "GET YOUR ASS UNDER COVER!"
Murdock blinked. Under cover?
Another mortar suddenly exploded, reminding the pilot of the danger he'd forgotten. At first he started toward the foxhole with the men in it, but it soon became apparent there wasn't any room left. Especially with the guys already in there yelling 'Not here you stupid fuck, find somewhere else.'
With a quick pivot—which was hell on his bad knee—he spotted a freshly dug drainage ditch. Unfortunately, he quickly realized why no one had chosen this specific location for cover, as he dove in and found that, even lying flat on his belly, he was still half exposed. He held his breath, as if that somehow helped him duck lower and waited for the next mortar to drop.
It did…right on top of the guys in the foxhole. Murdock squeezed his eyes shut as dirt rained down on him. After the blast, the screaming came first—blood curdling, frantic shrieks of terror, but they soon gave way. Time had dulled the screams into low, frightened moans. Staying silent, Murdock kept his eyes closed, praying that it would all stop…the mortars, the sounds of the wounded...all of it.
And then, another mortar fell, but further away this time. Murdock pressed his face harder into the dirt. He was trembling, shaking worse than he ever had in his entire life and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Filled with agony, a lone voice suddenly called out. "Please…someone help me…help me…"
Tentatively, Murdock raised his head, staring over at the bloodied mess of fatigues dragging itself from the rubble. The sight of the grunt chilled him. How could anyone survive like that?
"Please…Lord…Please…" The man's voice trailed into sobs. "…I don't wanna die…not here…"
And with that, Murdock was up. It took his fear two paces to catch up with him—just long enough to keep him from turning back and diving into his tiny ditch once again.
Skidding to a halt beside the bloodied figure, Murdock gave a quiet gasp as he witnessed the wounds up close. There was no way this grunt was going to live, but, all the same, he couldn't be left in the open to die alone.
"I gotcha…" Murdock whispered, leaning down and scooping the man into his arms.
The grunt was light, but that wasn't surprising seeing as he had lost both legs and his right arm. His remaining arm, burned and bleeding, grasped Murdock tightly—startling the pilot slightly.
"Thank you…thank you…" The grunt whimpered; his dirt coated face was streaked with tears and blood.
Murdock said nothing, but, as another mortar landed not far off, he started to run. The man in his arms groaned weakly, that low noise being his only complaint against the frantic jostle he received.
Each stride brought a new stabbing pain flaring through his knee, but he ignored it. The mad dash felt like hours in Murdock's mind, but, in reality, it had probably only lasted seconds.
He burst in to the first building he could find, coming to a halt face to face with a startled SF sergeant. The guy was about a foot shorter than Murdock, but with a neck as thick as a tree trunk. He took a step back, his dark caterpillar of a mustache following the contour of his mouth as he scowled up at the captain.
"God-damn-it! You're lucky I didn't just shoot your nuts off…" The stalky sergeant shouted, his face flushing crimson, veins bulging in his neck. "Where the hell did you come from anyway?" The man's eyes shifted from Murdock to the bloodied mess he carried. "Ah shit…" the sergeant hissed before turning away, calling back to the other men in the room. "…they got Skip! This guy here just brought him in. He looks like shit."
"You asshole Artzen…" Skip groaned. "I'm not fuckin' dead…I can still hear you…"
Artzen spun around, wide eyed, staring down at Skip—who in turn was staring back at him.
"Ah," Artzen flashed a crooked grin. "You know that doesn't mean nothing. I always think you look like shit, kid…" He leaned forward, taking the injured man from Murdock. "Me and Doc will have you fixed up in no time, alright?"
No reply...
Artzen turned and started to make his way across the room toward the makeshift triage area, and Murdock stood, watching, listening to the explosions outside. He didn't know what to do. Without a chopper, he couldn't just fly away. He was grounded...trapped.
"Hey." Artzen paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "You're that crazy pilot from the Huey that was flying around, right?"
Murdock gave a dull nod. Crazy pilot? Check.
"Your unit is in the back. And once you get back there, find some cover, ok? Not like it will matter...this place takes one hit and we'll all be in the same boat as Skip," Artzen said, turning away again before he slowly started off; there was no need to hurry any longer as what was left of Skip dangled limply in his arms. At least the kid wasn't in pain any longer…
Murdock stood a moment longer, regaining control over his quivering stomach. He could taste the bile in his mouth, but he forced it down. Shaky, weak, he limped to the back in of the room in search of Hannibal and the others as the mortars continued to fall.