Cherubs 2

OTHER BOOKS BY MARC LIEBMAN

Cherubs 2

Big Mother 40

Render Harmless

Forgotten

Inner Look

Moscow Airlift

(to be published in March 2018)

The Vietnam Theater of Operations:

Cherubs and Angels and

Talking on the Radio

In military aviation, cherubs and angels are not esoteric references to mythical beings. They’re terms used to indicate altitude of an aircraft or helicopter. In U.S. Navy parlance, ‘angels’ refer to altitude units of one thousand feet, and ‘cherubs’ refer to altitudes below one thousand feet. If a naval aviator says he is at Angels 8 he is telling everyone listening on the frequency that his aircraft is at eight thousand feet. If he reports his altitude as Cherubs 2, those listening would know that his aircraft or helicopter is at two hundred feet.

At sea, day or night, en route altitudes for helicopters are five hundred feet or less, unless there is a reason to fly higher.

Radio communications is an area that appears to be repetitive, but there’s a reason for this. The structure was designed to ensure understanding, and by repeating what he or she is told, an aviator is signaling the directions are understood.

Call signs and numbers can be spoken in a variety of ways. The official way to speak the number five hundred is five zero zero. However, five oh oh and five double zero are often used. I’ve even heard five double donuts, which was further shortened to five double nuts!

During a combat rescue, there are four main elements: the survivor; the helicopter or helicopters tasked to pick up the survivor; the airplanes flying close air support; and the individual coordinating the rescue effort. So there are many people transmitting on the radio and keeping track of who is speaking to whom, about what, and who is supposed to do what can get very confusing. Maintaining situational awareness is a key and often-difficult task. In the book, I have tried to give readers a taste of what it is like, without putting in all the radio transmissions and acknowledgements.

Author’s Note

On the continuum of personal action in combat at one end there is reckless behavior which depending on the outcome, some call insane and others call courageous. Activities at this end of the continuum are easy to identify and are often immortalized in movies and legends and documented in medals and honors.

Moving toward the other end of the continuum, there is the more cautious, or, some might say, more rational behavior that avoids risk and danger whenever possible. It is at this end that we find a very fine line between caution and outright cowardice.

Most members of the military hope that no matter what we do, the C word—coward—is never associated with any action we take. I dare say many of us would rather die than be called a coward. We take pride in the shared knowledge that we didn’t let our fellow service members down. When needed, we came to their aid when they were in trouble and, most importantly, didn’t leave them behind when they were injured or dead.

Marc Liebman

November, 2014

Prologue

Monday, August 21st, 1967, 0945 Local Time, New York City

Derek Van der Jagt had not seen the outside of a jail cell in over a month, not since he had been arrested for his part in a liquor store robbery. Today he had been allowed to take a shower, even though it was not his day, because he was appearing in court. In the overcrowded jail, inmates were allowed a five-minute shower every third day. The showers weren’t bad, if you didn’t mind being watched by a guard and soaping down with five others. The worst part was the smell, a mix of moldy shower curtain and harsh disinfectant. Now he was sitting with his back to the wall, eyes closed, wondering what would come next. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit and ill-fitting sneakers and was handcuffed. A chain ran from the cuffs to a set of manacles around his ankles.

In June, Van der Jagt had graduated from high school. In July, he was in jail. He felt as if he was on a conveyor belt to prison with no chance of getting off.

Van der Jagt. Your turn. Let’s go! The words and the metallic sound of the holding cell gate being unlocked brought him to his feet.

He shuffled into the courtroom to the defendant’s table and sat beside his attorney, a middle-aged trial lawyer named John Bristol who occasionally did public defender’s work pro bono. Bristol was resplendent in a three piece, charcoal grey, pin-stripe suit. The 22-carat gold cuff links on his white shirt were visible when he sat down.

Derek looked around the room and didn’t see any friendly faces. Neither of his parents were there, but he didn’t expect them to show. They were working.

When Judge Eisemann looked up, he focused his attention on Derek. Before we begin this pre-trial hearing, I would like to have a short, off the record conversation with Mr. Van der Jagt. The results may change this young man’s life and save the State of New York the cost of a trial and possible incarceration. Mr. Van der Jagt, please stand.

After Derek struggled to his feet and made eye contact, Judge Eisemann continued.

Derek Van der Jagt, you have been indicted as an accessory to second degree manslaughter in which the owner of a liquor store was killed. The only reason I am taking this step is that you did not pull the trigger. In fact, you were not in the store when the murder took place, because you were sitting at the wheel of the getaway car. Both of your accomplices have stated that.

The judge leaned forward. Assuming you are found guilty as an accomplice, I would be required by the New York Penal Code Section 125.25 to sentence you to a prison term of between fifteen and twenty-five years. That’s a long time, even for an eighteen-year-old. Do you understand the seriousness of the charge and the length of the possible sentence?

Van der Jagt spoke clearly, trying not to let his fear show. Yes, sir. I do. Bristol had told him to keep his answers short and to the point.

Good. I see that you graduated in the top ten percent of your high school class. Looking at your transcript, your grades could have gotten you into college. Why didn’t you apply?

Money. I didn’t have a job, and my parents couldn’t afford to send me to college.

Is this your first run-in with the law?

No, sir. I was arrested when I was sixteen for beating up a guy. He was pushing a boy around, so I got between them. He started the fight, and I finished it when I broke his jaw and knocked him out. The cops showed up and arrested me. There were a lot of witnesses who backed me up. I was later cleared in juvenile court, sir.

Judge Eisemann pursed his lips and took a deep breath. He’d talked to the school principal and two teachers about Van der Jagt. His mind raced back to 1940, when he’d stood before a judge for breaking and entering and attempted robbery. He had been told, Army, Navy, Marine Corps, or jail—pick one. He’d spent the next five years on a destroyer in the Pacific and had seen action in every major campaign, from Guadalcanal to dodging kamikazes off Okinawa. He’d started as a seaman and finished as a Chief Gunner’s Mate. After the war, he’d used the new G.I. Bill to go to college and law school. The military had saved his life, and he wanted to give others the same chance.

Young man, I am going to give you a choice that will, if you accept it, give you a second chance. If you accept it and meet the requirements, after a period of time, the court and police records of your arrest will be sealed and not available to anyone for the rest of your life. It will be as if all this never happened. Are you interested?

Van der Jagt didn’t hesitate. He’d had enough of jail. He responded with an emphatic Yes, sir.

Eisemann thought that lack of hesitation in the kid’s voice was a positive sign. Good. Here is the deal. If you agree to serve in the U.S. Armed Forces for six years, AND during your enlistment you do not have any, repeat, any disciplinary problems, then when the proper documentation is certified by the service, this court will expunge the records. In other words, go serve your country, do it honorably, and all this will go away. Are you with me so far?

Van der Jagt nodded. Yes, sir.

The judge continued. Sitting behind you in the courtroom is Petty Officer First Class James Bellamy, a recruiter from the Navy. When you leave this courtroom, the restraints will be removed. Petty Officer Bellamy will prepare and you will sign the enlistment papers for a six-year term. You’ll also sign a document that will go into your service record and into the court records outlining the conditions under which you have been released. You will get your civilian clothes back and be given a plane ticket and explicit instructions on how to get to boot camp. If you do not report on time, a warrant for your arrest will be issued immediately. When you are caught, you will be brought back to this courtroom and tried. Assuming you are found guilty, you will get the maximum I can give you. So it is up to you. Judge Eisemann’s gaze held the young man. Do I make myself clear?

Van der Jagt responded with another firm Yes, sir.

Excellent. Eisemann made a note and then looked back at the eighteen-year-old. Once at boot camp, you will join the next class and you are on your way. When your enlistment is up, you’ll bring or send by certified mail to this court a certified original of your separation papers, which must, and I repeat must, include an honorable discharge; or, if you decide to stay in the Navy, your re-enlistment papers. At that point, the court will begin the process and provide certification to you that the records have in fact been expunged. If, at the end of your enlistment, you need help, please call the clerk of this court. Are you willing to accept these terms?

Yes, sir. Absolutely.

Excellent. Let the record show that Derek Van der Jagt has decided to enlist in the United States Navy, and the matter of the State of New York versus Derek Van der Jagt has been put on hold pending completion of his first enlistment.

Chapter 1

The Centre

Monday, August 24th, 1970, 2246 Local Time, Moscow

The high-wing Antonov-12 cargo transport plane shut its engines off on Khodinka Airport’s vacant and unlit west ramp in front of a large, dull gray building known by those who worked there as The Centre.

Western intelligence officers on the other side of the Iron Curtain referred to the concrete structure by its initials, GRU. Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye was the headquarters of the Soviet military intelligence agency.

As the turboprop engines wound down, Major Pavel Mironov drove a small truck to the back of the airplane to meet its only passenger and the all-important cargo.

Good evening, Maxim. How was your flight?

Much too long. Nevertheless, we got here. I was able to sleep much of the way because of this.

Captain Maxim Goncharov, a computer engineer in the operational technical directorate of the GRU, pulled out the plug of an olive drab air mattress, which began to deflate with a sustained hiss.

It is American made; I got it in Hanoi. Along with earplugs, it makes long distance air travel on a military transport bearable.

Pavel Mironov had graduated college as a mechanical engineer. After impressing his first boss in the GRU, he had been sent off to get an advanced degree in electrical engineering. He had been examining Western electrical equipment for over ten years when he was tapped for this assignment.

Let’s get our new toy off to the lab, Mironov said, as he hopped onto the airplane’s cargo ramp. So what exactly is this...and is it intact?

"This, my friend, is the KY-7 American encryption device.

Our Vietnamese comrades assured me they included all the attachments and cables that go with it. I have the manual on how to operate it in my briefcase. When I was not sleeping on the plane, I read it." The two men slid the crate onto the back of the truck.

Maxim, how did the Vietnamese get this?

They overran the headquarters of a South Vietnamese army division and it was sitting on a table in their command center. The North Vietnamese were smart enough not to blow it up. I was told that it took three months to bring it up the trail to Hanoi. And they considered that a fast trip!

Three months? But it’s only eight hundred kilometers!

Yeah. At first four men carried it through the jungle on a pallet. Then the case was strapped to the back of a bicycle, and the rider walked along the edge of the Ho Chi Minh trail. Once they got the KY-7 north of the demilitarized zone, they put it on a truck. A senior officer realized what they had and assigned a squad of soldiers and two intelligence officers to get it to Hanoi. They were bombed several times along the way, but, lucky for us, they arrived with the KY-7 undamaged. It is in the original shipping case the Americans provided. Our own embassy built this wooden crate to conceal the markings. Once we get it out of the box, the handles will make the KY-7 easy to move around.

Goncharov tossed his briefcase into the cab and got into the passenger seat.

And the Vietnamese sold it to us? Mironov assumed their allies didn’t just give it to the GRU out of the goodness of their hearts.

Sold may not be the right word; traded might be better, Maxim replied as Pavel drove toward The Centre’s entrance. Anyway, we have it now. An embassy colonel by the name of Rokossovsky told me that in the greater scheme of things, the machine didn’t cost that much, but the Vietnamese did extract a stiff price. He was pretty sure that the Vietnamese talked to the North Koreans, who told them of our trip to Wonsan to examine the encryption equipment on the American spy ship, the Pueblo. That conversation probably increased the price.

Maxim, tell me the most important thing: does it work?

Yes. I hooked it up and ran it while I was in Hanoi. I fed in one of the key cards I brought with me, along with information from one of the tapes we recorded from American radio transmissions before we agreed to take it. So, yes, it does work.

Good. The head of the Operational Technical Directorate will be pleased. All of a sudden, we’re very popular. I’ve had inquiries from several officers in the Fifth Directorate anxious to know if we can provide timely, operational intelligence. While you were gone, the admiral who runs the Fleet Intelligence Directorate wanted to know how long we thought it might take to test the machine and start producing decrypted messages. And of course, we have our fellow officers in the Ninth Directorate who want to understand western technology and examine our little machine. I wanted to tell them all to fuck off, but instead I told them that we have to test it out, make sure it works, try a few messages, and then run small batches before we can report.

As Pavel spoke, the two men hoisted the crate and struggled down the corridor towards their small workshop.

And let me guess, they all want results now, and the more senior the officer is, the less patience he has.

Maxim, there is hope for you. You understand our problem.

So the pressure is on. What else is new? At least it didn’t come with threats.

Well, threats were implied but not stated. They can send us to the Gulag at any time. Mironov chocked open the door to their lab. Sometime later this week, we are supposed to get a series of recorded messages that we are to run through the machine. In that package, there will be a series of code keys that we match to the dates on the messages that were recorded. If they match, we’ll get lots of good information. If not, we have to figure out why not. We can start testing in the morning.

Tuesday, August 25th, 1970, 0700 Local Time, Moscow

When Pavel Gronchov entered his five-digit code in the cipher lock to the lab, he was surprised to see Major Mironov sitting next to the machine with the manual open. Maxim, how long have you been here?

About an hour. Just long enough to brew some tea and unpack the machine. It came with a small printer. It is just as well because the big teletype printer we are supposed to get still has not arrived.

I’m not surprised.

Maxim, go get some tea and then let’s start with the check-out procedure. The manual is quite detailed on what we need to do. We can use the keys you brought with you to Hanoi to check it out.

When the first batch of taped messages and code keys arrived that afternoon, a day early, Pavel signed for the box and turned to his comrade. Ah, Maxim, I often marvel at the efficiency of our Socialist economy! We get the material provided by an American spy before we get the printer our procurement people promised months ago. I was told it would be here today. The Ninth Directorate has been telling me that for a week. Still, no machine!

Never mind. Are you ready to see if we go to the Gulag, or become Heroes of the Soviet Union? Maxim Gronchov was used to Pavel’s gallows humor, and not-so-politically-correct opinions, which he shared privately, not publicly. Such remarks could be dangerous. However, he was sure their supervisors didn’t want to send such a talented engineer to Siberia.

I am. Let’s do it. The cover letter says this was one day’s worth of messages from Commander, Pacific Fleet to the Commander, U.S. Naval Forces Vietnam.

Thirty minutes later, the small printer stopped.

This is too easy! Gronchov looked at the pile of decrypted messages. My God, this is gold. We would never be able to decode these messages with our own computers. The GRU must have an American traitor giving them the code keys. I wonder how fast they can get us the information. These messages are from May.

Gronchov wondered if they contained any information that would still be useful after three months.

Chapter 2

First Mission

Monday, October 5th, 1970, 1522 Local Time,

225 Nautical Miles West of Hanoi

Mac MacIntosh sat in what had been the navigator’s seat of the twin engine Douglas B-66, before the former bomber was converted to an electronic warfare aircraft and designated an EB-66.

From his seat, he could look forward over the pilot’s right shoulder. Next to him was the senior electronic warfare officer and behind him, there were two more electronic warfare officers sitting next to each other. These men sat in downward firing ejection seats in a windowless, pressurized compartment dimly lit by red dome lights.

General Lester MacIntosh, the new commander of the Thirteenth Air Force, was forbidden to fly over North Vietnam, but he wanted to see what his aircrews were facing, so he’d hitched a ride. Supposedly the airplane would be over Laos and not enter North Vietnamese airspace, but there were no signposts and the only navigational aids were back in Thailand, more than one hundred and fifty miles to their rear.

He’d flown his last combat mission in F-84 fighter-bombers during the Korean War. He wanted to see if electronic warfare had changed the fundamentals of tactical airpower. His gut told him EW—as it was often called—had not affected the basics.

As the EB-66 flew in its prescribed racetrack pattern, he could see the green, tree-covered mountains of northwestern North Vietnam. He was thinking that he’d spent way too many years in billets that were good for his career. It may have helped him get promoted to general, but they’d kept him away from flying with front line Air Force squadrons.

Where’s the strike package? asked MacIntosh.

He was trying to recall details from the briefing. He couldn’t even remember the pilot’s name. He was struggling to keep up and he was uneasy, because his brain and combat experience were telling him his lack of situational awareness was usually fatal.

The pilot turned his head slightly as he keyed his mike. General, North Vietnam is about twenty miles at our ten o’clock and we’re about to turn east. That’s when the fun starts.

MacIntosh was unfamiliar with the equipment in front of him. Any gook radars up yet?

No, sir. They’re pretty cagey. They won’t turn them on until the Thuds, I mean the F-105s and the F-4s, get in range. We’ll see the missile radars first because our gear is more sensitive and often the radars emit signals in their warm-up mode. Once they start looking for targets, the guys in the back get pretty busy.

Do they ever shoot missiles at us?

All the time. We even get the occasional burst of flak, particularly when orbiting the trail. They only shoot the SA-2s at us when we venture deeper into North Vietnam to get our transmitters closer to the radar to improve the effectiveness of our jamming.

MacIntosh knew the trail was the North Vietnamese’s logistics supply line. The U.S. referred to it as the Ho Chi Minh Trail, which was actually a misnomer. In reality, it was a network of asphalt-surfaced roads and wide trails mostly on the Laotian side of the border that allowed the North Vietnamese to keep its army in South Vietnam well supplied.

They told me when I said I wanted to go flying with you that these were always milk runs.

Sir, whoever told you that lied. If you wanted a milk run, you should have flown with the EC-121s or the tankers, but even they get shot at every so often. I’ve brought back two birds with engine failures and dodged missiles on almost every mission. The EB-66 is pretty heavy and doesn’t like to fly on one engine, so if an engine does fail it is a long, extended glide back. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it. If not, we get to punch out. A least we have ejection seats, unlike the Navy versions. The guys in the back go down and those of us in front go up!

The pilot held up his hand while he listened to chatter on the radio. The navigator was halfway through answering when MacIntosh heard an unfamiliar screeching in the headset.

This is ECMO 1. We’re targeted. Fan Son radar strobe at six o’clock. Launch confirmed. The calm voice came from the most senior electronic warfare officer sitting in the ejection seat next to MacIntosh. He was known as ECMO-1.

Rattlesnake 76, Jingo 55, multiple missile launches at your six. Break hard right now. We’re rolling in on the launch site now. Jingo 55 was the flight leader of four F-105F Wild Weasel aircraft accompanying the EB-66, whose call sign for this mission was Rattlesnake 76.

Everyone, make sure you’re harnesses are locked. Rolling and turning now. The pilot rolled the twin engine jet into a sixty-degree bank and shoved the throttles forward to the stops as he pulled two g’s. MacIntosh was pushed down in the seat and felt his cheeks sag under the oxygen mask.

Pilot, ECMO 1, jamming now. The speaker’s voice sounded strained; the crew members in the first row of seats experienced about a half a g more than the pilot did, while the back row was pulling a full g more.

The radar warning system showed two strobes. Jingo 55, we’re showing two missiles coming up at us. Any more?

This is Jingo 55, I saw three going up at Rattlesnake.

Shit, MacIntosh thought, where are they? Why do we only show two and they see three? MacIntosh’s feet came off the floor as the pilot shoved the nose down and rolled the aircraft. Crew, I can see one... now two missiles going stupid. Are there any more?

Pilot, ECMO 1, if there are, we don’t show them. We jammed their telemetry pretty bad and they could never lock on us after launch. I think the tapes will show that they shot four missiles at us.

Shit.

The pilot pulled the nose up and the EB-66 climbed back to its assigned racetrack pattern altitude of 33,000 feet.

Two-and-a-half hours later, the general left the crew of Rattlesnake 76 in the debriefing room and headed to the office occupied by Colonel Wilson, Thirteenth Air Force’s intelligence officer.

The full-bird colonel came to attention when the lieutenant general walked into his office with oxygen mask lines around his face. Sir, how did your flight go?

The general ignored the question.

Colonel Wilson, you need to figure out how the North Vietnamese get so many fucking missiles. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were expecting us and knew our route as well as we did. They fired four just at my plane, and at times there were so many missiles incoming, it looked like a Fourth of July fireworks show!

Sir, the Soviets ship them in by the boatload. Literally. The Navy takes pictures of the ships and the docks every day and counts the crates containing the missiles. Next, we count them as they are trucked to the launch site. Our guess is that we see about seventy or eighty per cent of them on the road. We bomb those that we find, count what we think we destroy, and then adjust the inventory. It’s been the best way we’ve come up with to determine how many they have on hand. But it’s not perfect and we really don’t know what they are holding in reserve, explained Wilson.

Well, they fired a whole boatload at us today. If that’s the rate of expenditure, they have to have another source.

Sir, there is a rail line that comes down from Mengzi and crosses the border here. Wilson pointed to a thin cross-hatched line on the chart on his wall.

Then about ten miles south, there is a marshaling yard at Ha Giang. Our rules of engagement don’t allow us to attack it. Imagery shows the yard is always full on the Vietnamese side of the border. Then there is another rail line that comes down from Nanning and crosses into North Vietnam about fifty miles northwest of Hanoi.

Show me. MacIntosh had arrived in Europe in mid-1944, had flown P-47s, and was one of many pilots who’d shut down the German rail transportation system by shooting up locomotives and any rolling stock they could find.

Wilson pulled a folder out of the bottom drawer of his four- drawer safe. Sir, these were taken by either drones or RF-101s. You can see that the Ha Giang yard is full of all kinds of rolling stock— boxcars, flat beds and even some tank cars. The flat beds often have artillery pieces of various types on them that they get from the Chinese, but we haven’t a clue what is in the box cars.

Find out.

Yes, sir. I’ll try.

If you can’t, let’s find someone who can.

Same Day, 2046 Local Time, on the U.S.S. Sterett

The clammy, humid smell of the Gulf of Tonkin was the first thing to hit Lieutenant Junior Grade Josh Haman in the face when he walked down the cargo ramp of the C-2.

The acrid combination of rotting vegetation, salty sea air, warm cooking grease from the base operations canteen, and burnt jet fuel assaulted his sense of smell. Then the heat and humidity condensed on his Ray-Ban sunglasses, making it impossible to see until it was wiped off. It also turned his starched khakis to soft, damp, wrinkled cotton.

Josh’s mind and senses were still reeling. A week ago, after returning from a two-week jungle survival school, he had been told he was not going to fly the HH-3A in which he was trained. After that bit of information, he had been rushed through a ten flight, twenty hour familiarization course in the HH-2C, which weighed just over 12,000 pounds on take off and had a rotor diameter of only forty feet, compared to the HH-3A’s design take off weight of 19,000 pounds and rotor diameter of fifty-five feet.

Half of the twenty flight hours Josh flew in the H-2 were focused on using the three-barreled mini-gun, installed by the squadron with help from technical representatives from Kaman, the helicopter’s manufacturer, and GE, the maker of the gun.

The rest of the time had been spent in the Cubi Point Naval Air Station traffic pattern doing approaches to a hover and in a hover, sliding the HH-2C left and right and forward and back around a square at ten feet off the ground.

Eight hours ago, with his logbook showing he had a whopping three hundred and twenty-one hours of flight time in the Navy, he’d boarded a Grumman C-2 cargo plane in the Philippines that brought him to Cam Ranh Bay in South Vietnam.

Four hours later, after depositing his gear and a hurried meal in the officers’ mess, he was standing on the helicopter deck of the eight thousand ton guided missile destroyer, pre-flighting a helicopter with a flashlight for his first mission. Night flying in the H-2 was not included in the twenty hours training he’d gotten in Cubi. Between the training command and the H-3 syllabus, his logbook showed that he had seventy-five hours of night flying time.

On the flight deck, Josh enjoyed the fresh smell of the gulf and a gentle warm breeze made by the ship moving through the water at an economical twelve knots. It was different from the characteristic odor of a ship he remembered from his cruises as a Navy ROTC midshipman. That aroma, composed of seawater used for flushing, urine, and chlorine, along with food and machinery smells, was instantly recognizable.

All ships have the same ingredients, but the recipe is different, so each ship has its own scent. As soon as you leave the ship, it is gone; but when you enter the first hatch, it hits you with an immediacy that tells you that you are back.

Josh was stuffing the flashlight back into his helmet bag lying on the co-pilot’s seat when he heard a voice behind him.

Ready to go? It was the helicopter aircraft commander and Helicopter Combat Support Squadron Detachment 104 officer-in-charge, Lieutenant Steve Higgins. Annapolis graduate, class of 1966 and don’t you forget it. How many chains?

Yes, sir. Four chains, two on each main mount. The helicopter is up. I didn’t find anything on the preflight, Josh replied calmly enough, but internally his mind gibbered. Shit, who knows what I missed? I've completed all of fifteen pre-flights of an HH-2C in my life, all of which were in daylight. The squadron commanding officer signed a letter waiving the minimum number of hours needed to qualify me as a co-pilot. I had just twenty, and the NATOPS manual says you need at least thirty. So what the fuck do I know? Shit, two weeks ago, I learned those in the know referred to helicopter detachments on board ships as dets and supposedly, one only used the full word in official correspondence. Yet, people in the squadron used the words det and detachment in the same sentence. So, that’s what I’ll do.

Where are the air crewmen?

Sitting on the other side of the helo’s cabin, sir.

Good, let’s mount up.

Josh tracked the checklist items as they worked their way to engine start.

I’ll let the ship know that we’re ready. Higgins keyed the radio, Battle Torch, this is Clementine 26, ready to start engines, then rotated the mike switch up to the intercom position. They’ll either respond by radio or announce it on the loudspeaker. If they do that, the plane captain will hear it and give us the signal to start by pointing his wand at the number one engine and waving his wand in a tight circle.

Josh nodded his head enough to be seen, rather than touching the cyclic to use the intercom. He remembered that Higgins had told him Battle Torch was the call sign of the Sterett.

Clementine Two Six, this is Battle Torch, you are cleared to start engines. Report when ready for take off.

O.K., here goes. Higgins engaged the starter motor as he spoke. Starting number one. He pointed in the general direction of the gauge showing the percent engine rpm increasing. Gas generator is at eighteen percent.

Josh watched as the oil pressure and exhaust gas temperature gauges indicated a normal start. Gauges are good and the engine is at eighty-eight percent, he reported.

Starting number two. Higgins didn’t wait for the plane captain to move with his hand-held fire extinguisher from the right side to the left before starting the second engine.

In seconds, Josh saw the needles on the gauges of both engines aligned, indicating everything was good to go for rotor engagement. Temps and pressures are normal. Ready to engage. Engines are in the fly position.

Higgins stuck his hand out the door and twirled it in a circle. The enlisted man with the fire extinguisher responded by waving his light wand in a circle over his head. Engaging. Higgins reached up and released the rotor brake. The HH-2C rocked back and forth as the rotor blades picked up speed.

Seconds later Josh reported, Rotor rpm is at one hundred and two percent.

Take off checklist.

Josh read off the six items on a placard on the instrument panel. Take off checklist complete, except for removing the chocks and chains. We’re ready to go. Do you want to let the ship know?

You do it, Lieutenant Higgins replied shortly. Your job is communication, navigation, and shooting the gun. I’ll fly.

Josh keyed the mike. Battle Torch, Clementine 26 is ready for take off.

Clementine 26, this is Battle Torch, you are cleared for take off. Wind is thirty degrees port at one-five. Altimeter is 29.94. Contact Red Crown on 315.3 when able.

Battle Torch, this is Clementine 26, roger. Good night, Josh replied.

Give the signal to pull the chocks and chains. Remember to count the tie-down chains. I don’t want to have to try to lift the ship out of the water. It’ll ruin all our day.

Josh winced at Higgins' reference to what happens when one or more of the tie-downs are not removed and the helicopter tries to take off. The videos he’d seen in San Diego made his stomach churn because they were horribly graphic. Failure to remove a tie-down before attempting a take off usually resulted in a crash of some sort, followed by a violent explosion as the helicopter came apart. The chances of survival were not good.

He watched as the plane captain and his assistant each held up two chains; they handed the red-flagged pins from the landing gear to one of the air crewman in the HH-2C’s cabin. I’ve got four tie-down chains, and the two pins are aboard.

The plane captain swung his flashlight wand over his head in a circle and then pointed to the port side of the ship.

Good. We got a green light. That’s the light on top of the hangar, if you didn’t know. They can either turn it on or tell us by radio or both. In any case, we’re cleared to take off. Lifting now.

The dull red deck lighting that flooded the cockpit gave way to total darkness outside as the HH-2C pulled up and away from the Sterett. Once they got to two hundred feet and the gear was up, Josh pulled the chart from its position between his armored seat and the center console. Sir, we should head about two-two-zero to get to our assigned orbit. I’ll switch the radio to the strike frequency.

Heading two-two-zero, level at two hundred feet so we will stay under the North Vietnamese radar. Call Red Crown.

Higgins' head was focused on the instruments as he rolled the helicopter out on the new heading and added enough power so the helicopter accelerated to the best range cruising speed of ninety knots.

Josh clicked the mike twice. Red Crown, this is Clementine 26, level cherubs 2, en route to assigned orbit, over.

Roger, Clementine 26, this is Red Crown. Hammer 703 has control if we need your services and is on this frequency. Ident.

Josh pushed the button on the control box of the device known as the Identification, friend or foe, or IFF for short. The official nomenclature was the AN/APX-76 transponder. Josh saw a yellow light flash, which meant that the system was being interrogated.

Clementine 26, this is Hammer 703, radar contact about five miles south southwest of Battle Torch.

Josh rogered the call. He looked down at the chart and noted that their assigned orbit was four miles off the coast and ten miles north of the North Vietnamese port of Vinh. A feeling of pride flashed through his mind as he thought that the radio exchange had sounded cool and professional, as if he knew what he was doing! The nervousness he’d felt before the flight had dissipated as he focused on trying to do his job.

"So what the fuck is in the bags you brought on board the Sterett?" Higgins’ tone was more curious than accusatory.

My B-4 bag had all my uniforms and civilian clothes, and the parachute bag had my survival vest, spare flight suits and shoes. Why?

You had over a hundred pounds of stuff. Who told you to bring all that shit?

The squadron admin officer in Cubi.

That’s bullshit. All you need out here are working khakis and at least three flight suits. We don’t pull into any ports other than Cubi, so you don’t need any civilian clothes. It is okay to have some civvies with you, just in case, but most of the time, you really don’t need them.

I’ll know next time.

Neither spoke until Josh looked at the clock. They’d flown almost twenty minutes in silence at ninety knots. Steve, we’re entering the area where we need to orbit.

Good. Let Red Crown know and I’ll start a north-south orbit with three minute legs and right turns, which will keep us well off the coast. It will also keep us out of sight and mind of the North Vietnamese gunners on the coast, who tend to be very trigger happy.

Josh clicked the intercom twice and looked down at the transponder to make sure the right codes were still set. The yellow light blinked several times, telling them at least one friendly radar was interrogating their IFF equipment. Red Crown, Clementine 26, on station, one hour to bingo, over.

Clementine 26, Hammer 703, roger, radar contact. Copy sixty minutes of playtime.

Now we wait and hope that no one gets bagged, said Higgins.

A flash off in the distance to his left caught Josh’s eye. Higgins swore.

Those are SA-2 Guideline surface-to-air missiles. You may see the flashes of the shells from the eighty-five millimeter anti-aircraft guns, and if the planes are below ten thousand feet, you’ll see the streams of tracer from the fifty-sevens and maybe the thirty-seven millimeter guns as well. Get much closer and it gets really evil in a hurry. What you don’t see are the twenty-three millimeter guns and the twelve point sevens, which are the real danger to us.

Josh watched as a dozen more SA-2s headed skyward. Every so often, he would see a bright flash high up in the sky, and he wondered if the missile was exploding on command from the ground or near an airplane.

We only have the one UHF radio and can listen to only one frequency. Some guys like to listen to the strike frequency. I prefer to stay on the channel given to us by the airborne controller. It’s quieter, and if they need us, they’ll call, Higgins commented.

Steve, wouldn’t you want to know what’s happening so you can anticipate things by breaking out of the orbit and heading toward the guy in the parachute? You don’t need to wait for a beeper to tell you someone has punched out before you start closing the distance. The HH-3A instructors drilled into our heads the faster you got to the survivor, the greater the chance you can pick him up. The longer he’s on the ground, the greater the chance he’ll be captured. I think I’d listen to the strike frequency, but you’re the aircraft commander and this is my first mission. What do I know? I need to listen and learn. Some day I may have my own crew, and it will be my decision.

As if sensing his thoughts, Higgins asked, How much training time did they give you in the Charlie?

Josh knew Higgins was referring to their helicopter’s official designation, HH-2C. Just over twenty hours. I took all three NATOPs tests and managed to pass them on the first try with scores I am not proud of, but I passed. I got about ten hours in the helicopter and proved I could take off, land, hover over a spot and fly it on instruments. The rest of the time, I played with the mini-gun.

How’d that go?

I got pretty good with the gun. The trick is to fire short, two or three second bursts, and walk the tracers into the target. This way you don’t have to worry too much about lead and lag or overheating the barrel. Everything I was shooting at was stationary and it was all daylight. I got zero night hours, and never fired the gun at night.

I’d prefer that we never have to use it. Higgins rolled the helicopter into a fifteen degree bank and held it for one hundred and eighty degrees of turn before rolling out on a southerly heading. How long were you waiting at Cam Ranh Bay?

Five hours. I got there about ten. The guy in the passenger terminal had no idea you were coming to pick me up and wanted to send me to the transient BOQ. The guys in Cubi said you’d be there between twelve and one.

I knew you were coming, but not the day or time. We’ve been restricted to daylight logistics operations until you got here, since we can’t fly at night with just one pilot. We can do rescues during the day, but it is dicey for one guy.

Det 1 at Cubi gave me a copy of the message sent out two days ago saying when I would arrive. Didn’t you get it?

"I never saw it. I flew in to get the mail for the Sterett, which is sorted by around two, and you were there."

Josh didn’t say anything. Somehow, he didn’t believe Higgins. How could the detachment officer-in-charge not know when his new co-pilot would arrive, the one who would enable them to fly missions day and night? Something didn’t add up.

Did you sample the cuisine at the greasy spoon in the terminal building? Higgins asked as he started his next turn.

Yup. I’ve had worse. Josh looked at the instrument panel. "We’re down to fifteen hundred pounds of fuel. We need five hundred to get home, plus two hundred for a reserve, which means as of this moment we can fly about ten, fifteen minutes to a survivor and hover for about five before we have to head back to the Sterett."

Tell them we have ten minutes left. We won’t have enough fuel to go get someone unless he lands right by us. I don’t like to trundle around out here in the dark with my low fuel warning light on.

Josh used two clicks of the mike to acknowledge his aircraft commander’s wish and spoke into the radio before asking, So what happened to my predecessor? All I was told was that he fell and broke his leg. I don’t even know his name.

"Jim Vickers had been out here for six months. I was going to recommend that we make him a HAC, but he tripped and fell down a ladder on the Sterett. It was a spiral fracture and the ship’s doc sent him to the Marine hospital in Quang Tri. They put some screws in his shin and sent him back to the States."

Ouch.

Yeah… It was ugly…. So rather than find someone who was already qualified as a 2P in the H-2, I’m guessing they decided to train you as his replacement.

It was a complete surprise, Josh explained. I had just come back from my one-week vacation in the jungle, followed by a five-day stay in the Navy’s version of a North Vietnamese POW camp, when they told me I was going to learn to fly the H-2 and was leaving in a week. With that, the ops officer tossed a NATOPS manual on the table and said, start studying, your first hop is right after lunch.

So now you are a happy member of Det 104.

The radio cut in. Clementine 26, Hammer 703. You’re cleared to return to Battle Torch.

Hammer, Clementine 26, roger. The radio call saved Josh from lying about how much fuel they had left.

Tuesday, October 6th, 1970, 0737 Local Time,

on the U.S.S. Sterett

ADJC (Aviation Jet Engine Mechanic) Chief Petty Officer Slaughter refilled his bright white coffee mug, the one with the Sterett’s crest emblazoned on one side, before he pulled a folded, hand-addressed, business-size envelope from the shirt pocket of his grease-stained khakis. No amount of washing would ever remove the embedded grease; it only made the splotches lighter.

He was sitting on the only stool in the detachment’s maintenance space. The stool’s position on the side of the compartment let him lean back against the bulkhead. An IBM Selectric typewriter was pushed off to the side and covered with a