Chapter One

Army gun ship pilot, Adam Harris, poured a cup of coffee and stood looking out the window through the early morning fog at his gun ship, parked some fifty feet from the building.  Visible but now and then in the swirling mist, the chopper seemed unreal ... a ghost machine.  The sun groped its way through the white shroud to cast strange shadows and bright spots across the parking ramp.  The eerie atmosphere only added to his foreboding.

A momentary hole in the fog allowed the sun to spotlight the painting on the side of his chopper, like an actor on stage, and he involuntarily shivered at the sight.  A Gatlin gun spewing fire protruded from the mouth of the tiger his crew chief had painted on the side of their ship.  Adam didn't mind the Gatlin gun, but the obviously dead, black-clad VC soldier dangling from the tiger's claws and dripping blood down the fuselage was a bit too much.  Being surrounded by fog made the picture even more grotesque.

Although he was an army ranger and had killed his share of the enemy, Adam was basically opposed to war and killing.  Back home in Texas, where everyone talked, usually lying, about the huge buck they killed last season, Adam didn't even hunt.  He never had an inclination to kill anything as beautiful as the deer that roamed thick all over the hill country north of San Antonio - beautiful animals, with no defense against the high powered, death-dealing rifles the hunters so meticulously cared for and bragged about.

He turned from the window and started for the recliner across the room, but stopped and looked down at Al Connelly, a replacement copilot, who had been with the unit but three months.  Connelly had never been told the fate that befell the man he'd replaced, and as Adam looked at the new man, he thought about Bill Bradley burning to death in his crashed chopper.

He had to quit dwelling on the people he'd lost.  It only added to his feeling that he wasn't going to make it.  With only three days until he'd leave all this killing and misery behind and go home to Gloria and Bobby, an unexplainable feeling of doom gnawed at his insides.  He knew his anxiety was only because he was so close to going home, but try as he might, Adam couldn't escape the feeling that something was going to happen to prevent his leaving this Godforsaken war behind.

Connelly lay on the leather sofa, another smelly cigar dangling from his fingers and dropping ashes on the floor.  A large, half-filled metal ashtray sat on his chest and tipped precariously to one side with each breath.

Although seemingly asleep, without opening his eyes, Connelly asked in his deep baritone southern drawl, "What's the matter, Major Harris?"

Adam had started for the recliner across the room, but turned back and said, "Those damned stinking cigars, for one thing."

"Sorry, Major."  Connelly reached over his head, put the ashtray on the end table and swung his size thirteen feet to the floor.

Adam sort of grimaced and slowly moved his head back and forth.  "Hell, Al, I'm just worried about getting out of here alive.  It's been too damned quiet.  Isn’t normal."

As Connelly ground the cigar out in the overcrowded ashtray, he smiled and said, "Aw, you'll make it, Major.  Like you say, it's been quiet.  It'll last another three days."  Then, Connelly laughed and said, "Man, I wish to hell I was going home in three days.  You know who our new commander's gonna be?"

"Sure don't.  You guys will give the man a break and go easy on him, won't you?"

Connelly spread his hands out in front of him palm up, with a devilish grin on his face.  "Hey, Major, what can I say.  Once an asshole, always an asshole.  And I'll bet my daddy's told me ten thousand times what an asshole I am."  He followed with a soft chuckle.

"You’re a turd, Connelly."  Adam couldn't help but smile at the big Alabama plowboy, as he continued his trip to the recliner.  His butt had barely reached the imitation leather when the siren on the end wall of the Quonset hut screamed to life.  "Dammit!  I knew it couldn't last!"  He slammed the coffee cup down on the table so hard hot coffee covered his hand, and the cup fell to the concrete floor, shattering into a hundred pieces.

Reaction to the siren had become so automatic after hearing it for three years, he bounded for the door with no further thought of home, or his wife and son.  Squeezing through the door of the Quonset hut as two other pilots reached it with him, Adam was all business, and the fear of not getting out of Vietnam alive disappeared.

His crew chief, Master Sergeant Ronnie Beckner, usually stayed close to their ship when they came on alert and. had just finished his routine fuel and armaments check when the siren sounded.  By the time Adam and his copilot leaped through the big side door and ran forward to the cockpit, Beckner had the powerful turbine engines fired up and was slipping out of the pilot's seat.

Adam slipped his helmet on, plugged the radio cord in and yelled, "We got gunners aboard, Beck?"

"Roger!"

He looked at his copilot and said, "One more time, Larry.  Get us off the ground."  Punching in the radio frequency for operations, Adam tried not to let his disgust show as he asked, "Whataya got, Ops?  And how deep is this white shit?"

"Dog Company, 71st Battalion, has itself pinned down up by Phu Loc.  They're surrounded and need a path cleared.  It’s only ground fog, Major.  Half a K deep."

As the man at operations spoke, all four gunships in Adam's flight lifted off the tarmac and turned to the Northwest, toward Phu Loc.

Rising above the soft white blanket, Adam called, "You have coordinates, OPS?"

"Roger, rescue.  Block six, grid eleven.  Good luck, Major."

Adam had already released the radio button when he shook his head and said in a definitely disgusted tone, "Yeah, sure."  He glanced out the side window at the white mist below and, in a barely audible tone said, "Three lousy damned days."

While Larry Foster handled the big SK-11, Adam pulled the map for block six from its holder and put his finger on grid eleven.  He was familiar with the area.  Holding the map where Larry could see it, the copilot moved his head up and down in acknowledgment.  They were twenty minutes from the target.  He hit the button for the intercom and repeated, "One more time, partner."

Larry grinned slightly and nodded.

After ten minute’s flight toward the target, Adam switched the radio frequency to ground operations and said, "Dog Company, this is air rescue.  Do you read me?"

The voice screamed, "Where the hell are you?  We're getting cut to pieces.  How soon'll you be here?"

"Ten minutes.  You have flares out?"

"Yeah!  All over the damned place!  Hurry, for Christ's sake!  We're badly outnumbered and they're wipin' us out!"

"We're pushing it as hard as it'll go.  Who am I speaking to?"  Adam made a deliberate effort to speak calmly.  He could imagine what it must be like to be surrounded and waiting for help, but dammit, he couldn't help getting tired of everyone expecting miracles.  The machines would only fly so fast, and he and his flight were never called in until it was, many times, too late.

"Captain Murphy, company commander." 

Adam heard the terrible strain in Murphy's voice and wished they were closer.  He was well aware the poor son of a bitch was probably in a hopeless situation without their help.  He and his flight members had made dozens of these runs.

"Hang on, Captain.  We have it firewalled.  We'll be there as soon as possible."  Adam had a look of deep concern on his face, having heard steady automatic weapons fire and the sound of mortar explosions on the radio.  The trapped men were really catching hell.  And, he knew the enemy was aware of what the flares meant and would try to cut the American troops to pieces before the gun ships arrived.  Then, they'd take a few potshots at the choppers and run like hell, back into the jungle.

He swore under his breath.  This was the worst kind of mission.  Not only were the choppers sitting ducks if they flew slow enough to pinpoint and destroy the enemy, but he dreaded firing their weapons so close to his own people.  He hoped the Captain had marked their boundary well.  It was hard to tell friend from foe in the jungle - especially from a helicopter moving over a hundred miles an hour at treetop level.

Adam stared ahead, searching for the flares and spotted the Americans pinned down in an open area of short brush.  He knew the surrounding jungle would be filled with the enemy.

Inside, he screamed, "My God, let me get back this one last time!"  But he forced himself to remain calm, as he called to the other gun ships, "Arm your weapons, gentlemen.  Number two east, number three south, number four take the west.  We'll cover the north.  Keep it low and fast.  Don't give the bastards anything to shoot at."  He was thankful the fog had disappeared between the base and the target.

Adam knew all about one of the enemy's favorite tactics.  Pin the American ground forces down in the open, surrounded by jungle, then, when medevac choppers or gun ships came to the rescue, they were exposed in the open and made perfect targets for their little shoulder fired surface to air missiles.  He had personally seen twenty choppers go down during his three years in Nam.  The thing feared most by all the pilots and crews was getting nailed by a SAM.  The VC and NVA had thousands of them all over the country, and it took but one of the mean little rockets to send you home in a plastic bag, if you got home at all.

Every chopper lost in Adam's unit had been lost to SAMs.  Adam was the oldest surviving pilot in the entire squadron, without being sent home dead or with some major body part missing.  How could he help but feel he was living on borrowed time?  Every crew chief and gunner in the unit wanted to fly with him, believing he was somehow charmed, because he'd survived so long.  He'd never gone down due to enemy fire or mechanical problems.

Adam thought there must be thousands of the enemy in the edge of the jungle from the staccato of small arms fire hitting their craft, as they flew over the American troops.  He heard the rapid splat-splat-splat of bullets shattering against the sides and belly of the chopper, and a dozen telltale white spots appeared on the bulletproof plastic of the windshield and side windows.  The craft was designed to ward off small arms fire, but there was always the chance a lucky shot could come in through the open doorway on either side and hit something vital.  And, of course, the gunners stood in the open doors.  Even though they wore bulletproof vests and leg guards, a lucky shot could still penetrate their protection.

A gunner manned a Gatlin gun on either side of the deadliest flying machine in the army's arsenal and, as Adam crisscrossed the jungle north of the friendly troops, the gunners turned the surrounding brush into a compost heap.

One by one, the other choppers called to say they had expended their munitions and were heading back to base.

Immediately after firing the last of his high explosive air-to-ground rockets into the jungle, Adam jerked the ship around toward the south and called the company commander. 

"Dog Company, I hope we got a lot of 'em off your back.  You should have a way out now, but we gotta leave it with you.  We're out of bullets.  Good luck."

Captain Murphy pleaded,  "Look, I've got some badly wounded people here.  Can you drop down and pick some of them up?  It'll be too late by the time medevac gets here."

"Damn, Captain, we're sitting ducks.  This machine is too big a target at such close range."

Murphy's voice echoed his dejection.  "I understand.  We'll have to stick it out here.  They'll never make it overland.  Thanks for your help."

Sonofabitch.  How the hell can I just fly away?  Adam remembered part of his Ranger Motto:  "I will never leave a fellow ranger behind."  He yanked the chopper around again and yelled, "Where the hell you want me to set down?  You got thirty seconds."

"Do you see the yellow flare?"

"Roger."  Without further conversation, Adam swung the big helicopter to the left, dropped to within a foot of the ground, hovered, and yelled, "Larry, get back there and get as many people on board as you can.  Do it quick."

He used all his skill to hold the chopper steady, barely touching the ground, as his copilot, gunners and crew chief helped the people on the ground start loading the wounded.  They had three people on board and two more just outside the door when the mortar shell or rocket hit.

Adam suddenly found himself in a world of screaming, screeching metal - a whirling, bouncing ball of smoke and flame.  He was slammed rapidly one way, then another.  The explosion threw the chopper violently on its side, and the whirling rotors bounced it wildly across the ground, as they were, in turn, ripped off. 

When his ship came to rest, Adam was dazed and disoriented.  It took him several seconds to realize what had happened.  He felt something sticky on his forehead and rubbed it with his hand.  Though his sight was impaired from his head being slammed about, Adam was startled by the crimson color on his hand.  As he gasped for air in the smoke-filled cockpit, he heard his crew chief screaming out in pain and fear.

"Oh, my God!  I'm on fire, Major!  Don't let me burn, Major!  Help me!  Please, God, help me.  I'm burning!  I can't move."  He screamed even louder, "Help me!  I don't wanna burn!"  Then, his crew chief emitted a scream Adam would remember the rest of his life.

Blinded and choked by the thick smoke rapidly filling the cockpit, Adam desperately worked with the clasp on his safety harness, trying to free himself from his seat.  With the chopper resting on its side, it was nearly impossible to release the harness with his weight hanging on it.  When the latch finally let go, he crashed down against the copilot's seat.  Larry lay lifeless against the other side of the cockpit, his wounds so grievous, there was little doubt he was beyond being helped.  His body had been thrown all the way back into the cockpit by the force of the blast.  Adam cried out, "Oh, my God," at the sight of his friend’s mutilated body.  The left side of Larry's head was nonexistent, and a gaping hole in his left side oozed entrails.  Adam was transfixed for a moment, knowing this thing couldn't be Larry.

Even though confused, scared to death, and struggling to recover his senses, Adam wondered at the pictures of Gloria and Bobby passing through his mind in slow motion.  He saw Gloria on their wedding day.  Then, he was opening the door for her the day they brought their new baby home from the hospital.  He saw his own picture in the paper, scoring the winning touchdown that brought his high school the state championship. 

Adam wondered, Is this dying?  No, by God, I'm not dead yet.  I've got to get out of here.  He was suddenly totally aware of where he was and what had happened.  My God, I've got to get Beckner out.

He struggled to pull the bent metal from the short passageway to the rear of the ship, but realized it was hopeless.  And, his hands were severely burned on the hot metal for his effort.  Adam knew if he didn't get out of the burning machine quickly, there would be no going home, ever.  And, Sergeant Beckner no longer screamed.

Making his way back into the cockpit, tears mixing with the blood from the cut on his forehead and running down his face, Adam said aloud, "My God, Beck, I'm sorry.  I'm sorry, Larry."

He groped for the handle of the pilot's emergency exit door.  Coughing uncontrollably, as he pushed the door up and to the rear, Adam struggled to hoist himself through the opening.  Skin from his burned hands stuck to the hot metal of the chopper's belly, as he slid downward and hit the ground.

Yelling in pain, as he landed on his back, Adam rolled over, got to his feet and scrambled away from the fiercely burning machine and toward the jungle, a football field away.  He ran as fast and as low as he could, barely noticing the bullets whizzing all about him, his quest for safety in the brush was so intense.  All the while, he repeated aloud in a frightened voice, "Don't worry, Gloria.  I'm gonna make it."

Fire reached the fuel tank, and the gun ship disintegrated in a violent explosion.  The concussion from the blast knocked Adam to the ground, and he felt the heat sear the back of his neck.  Then, he felt the pain in his thigh, where a piece of his ship had passed through. Groaning with pain, he looked down at his leg, half expecting it to look like Larry's head.  But there was only a small hole in his flight suit with a slightly larger circle of blood surrounding it.  He whispered in a strained voice, "Don't quit now, Adam."

Crawling and dragging his wounded leg through the tall grass and into the brush, he rolled over on his back and reached for the forty-five automatic on his hip.  The holster was empty.  All he got for the effort was a stabbing pain that ran from his burned hand all the way up his arm to the shoulder.  His face screwed up into a tortured grimace, as he fought to stifle a scream.  The smell of burned flesh filled his nostrils - the smell of his own hands and neck.

Rolling back onto his stomach, Adam lay listening intently, tears flooding down his face, trying not to cry out from the pain.  The jungle had suddenly become silent, save the roar from his burning gun ship.  The only other detectable sound was a distant moaning of some other wounded soul.

Raising up on his elbows, he got to his knees, managed to get his helmet off, then got to his feet and leaned against a tree.  Adam lowered the top of his flight suit and removed his tee shirt.  He used it to wipe the blood from his face and out of his eyes, then tied it around his bleeding leg as tightly as his injured hands would allow.  Slipping his arms back into his flight suit, he shook his head, trying to think clearly.  Fear caused his breath to come in short gasps, as he thought, My God, what am I going to do?  The American troops.  I've got to find the Americans.  Which the hell way did they go? 

For the first time in his life, Adam knew real, immediate fear.  It was the first time he'd been on the ground, with the enemy shooting at him, and he didn't have so much as a slingshot to fight back.  He stared at the nearly impenetrable jungle, wondering if he should try to sneak away slowly, or run like hell.  Panic made the decision, and he crashed headlong through the brush in the direction he thought was south, hoping to catch up with the American infantry.  His throat and mouth burned fiercely, and he found it difficult to breathe.

He ran right into the waiting arms of the young NVA soldier.  There was no escape.  Adam stared at the small figure with the Ak47 just a few feet in front of him.  He looked to be no more than fourteen or fifteen years old.  There was as much fear in the eyes and shaking hands of the young soldier as Adam felt.  For a split second, he glanced to the side, considering diving into the brush in an attempt to escape, but it was hopeless.  It would be suicide.

The child soldier jabbered rapidly and indicated Adam should put his hands in the air.  Slowly raising his arms over his head, he grimaced in pain.  The boy moved warily closer, the AK47 tucked against his shoulder, and pointed directly at Adam's chest.  He didn't see or hear the other enemy soldier sneak up from behind and hit him in the back of the head with the butt of his weapon.

***

He awakened to intense pain, lying in the back of a truck, bouncing along a rough dirt road through the jungle.  Bound hand and foot and gagged, his mouth and throat burned fiercely from thirst and the damage done by the scorching, acrid smoke inside the gun ship.  Adam had never imagined such excruciating pain, and wished he'd remained unconscious.  When he opened his eyes, a fuzzy blur of green jungle raced by overhead.  The steel floor slammed him in the ribs each time the truck hit a hole in the road.  Then, he became aware of the pain in his hands.  Thousands of nerve-ends had been damaged.

When he tried to move to a sitting position against the side of the truck, one of two NVA guards kicked him viciously in the face.  The savage attack broke his nose, and blood spurted from his battered lips.  The other guard laughed and ground his foot into Adam's bound, severely burned hands.  Once more, he slipped into the welcome, merciful black world of unawareness.

***

Barely alive after three days in the back of the truck without food or water, Adam was just cognizant of being dragged for some distance and thrown on the ground in darkness.

He had no way to know how many hours or days elapsed before his subconscious will to live once more awakened his tortured mind.  As his senses fought to come alive again, he became aware of the stench of urine and dirt.  His opening eyes were greeted by blackness.  The hard-packed dirt scraped against his face when he tried to move.  He lay perfectly still, listening for a sound, trying to figure out where he was.  Total silence.  Am I dead?

Adam rolled over on his back, his eyes finally beginning to adjust to the darkness.  The outline of two small cans on the dirt drew his attention.  His fever-wracked body seemed to move on its own, to a position close to the cans.  He gripped one between his badly swollen hands and gulped the water down.  Then he drank the cold, thin rice and fish soup.

Using his elbows and forearms to drag himself, he managed to struggle to a sitting position against the wall.  The effort totally exhausted him.  Every time his hands came in contact with anything, the pain was unbearable.  He rested his elbows on his knees, his hands separated in front of him, and tried to get his thinking processes working again.  Where am I?  What happened?  I flew out on a mission and something happened to the chopper.  Then...

He looked around the four walls and made out the outline of a door.  He was inside some kind of very small room.  Except for a faint bit of light coming through a narrow slot close to the top of the door, it was totally dark.

Tears streamed down his face, and he sobbed loudly as he remembered the wife and son he was supposed to go home to.  "Oh, Gloria.  My God."  His feverish body shook with great sobs, as he tried to piece together what had happened.  There was the chopper spinning across the ground, a fire, Ronnie Beckner's screams, the NVA soldier, the hard steel bed of the truck. 

My God, I'm a ... prisoner!