Lesser Gods (9 page)
Now, according to my new memories, I was in the middle of a flight that I had trained hard for, battling to keep the people of South Vietnam free — though as of late I was beginning to have doubts about this later point, wondering if it was more propaganda than fact, drilled into us by our commanders and an American culture still reeling from Korea.
I pushed those thoughts from my mind, guiding my gunship northward, hugging the muddy river below us so the rumble of our rotors was masked by the heavy jungle foliage hurtling by below. As we approached the bend in the river, I strained at the control column to keep the aircraft on its winding course over the water. Black clouds to the west silently flashed lightning, hinting at the fast-approaching monsoon season.
“We’re nearing the target,” my gunner, “Stan the Man” announced over the comm. “About one click away. You take the rockets and I’ll keep the gun?”
“Sounds good,” I replied, keying in the rockets on the green control panel in front of me. “I’ve armed our weapons systems. You have the 20 mill. I’ll keep the rockets. Ready to rock and roll?”
“Roger that.”
I switched from intercom to radio to warn the grunts that had called for air support. “Little Red, we’re about on top of you. We’re coming in from the north. Please advise on position of the enemy. Over.”
My earphones crackled from the distant lightning and then the voice of the green lieutenant on the ground came through. “We’re reading you, Big Bad. We’re in the valley, gooks on our southeast side along the tree row.”
“You far enough back we won’t crisp you? Over.”
“Roger that, Little Red. We won’t be among the crispy critters. Hit anything in the grove, it’s up to its eyeballs in gooks right now.”
“Can and will, Little Red.” I switched to intercom. “Stan, you got the position of the Cong?”
“Roger,” my gunner replied. “In my sights.”
I pulled upward on the collective pitch lever, lifting us over the palms along the bank of the river to head for the squad that was pinned down. I couldn’t see the Cong, but could hear the pings of small arms bullets glancing from the armor on the chopper’s underbelly.
The armor offered some protection, but I knew it wasn’t complete and had seen one pilot fly back to base with a neat but serious hole in his butt from an AK bullet that had made it through the armor. Any one of the projectiles might easily do some serious damage if we didn’t suppress the fire. I strained my eyes, trying to spot a muzzle flash.
“There’s the squad at six o’clock,” Stan yelled over the intercom as we careened toward the valley. “Right on the money.”
“Rake the tree row while we descend,” I told Stan. “Let’s see if we can scare some suckers into the open.”
“Got ‘em.” Bullets thumped from the 20 mm cannon mounted to the underside of the nose and the deck vibrated under my boots. Stan directed the bursts, tracers from the shells streaking through the hot air before pounding the ground below.
I shoved the column forward, continuing our mad charge earthward.
“There!” Stan yelled over the intercom. “There’s a group heading out the back of the row.”
“Got ‘em,” I said, kicking the right rudder pedal to bring us around. I waited until we were lined up, then thumbed the button on my control stick, sending a rocket hissing out its tube. The projectile rode its plume of fire, leaving a white cloud in its wake before exploding into a cloud of shrapnel that tore three Vietcong into ribbons before they fell to the earth.
“There’s another knot at three o’clock,” Stan warned.
“See ‘em,” I answered, kicking the chopper around again through a giddy turn that made my stomach lurch.
The muzzle flashes of the rifles indicated they were firing at us. The faint pinging of bullets off our armor warned a few were actually hitting their mark. So far we’d lucked out. No red warning lights on my board.
Stan turned his automatic weapon toward the group, blasting them with a string of thumping discharges. The shells smashed into the earth in front of the four, ripping holes and throwing clods that gyrated into the air. Then the shells connected with two of the guerrillas, exploding them into a mist of flesh and bone, casting body parts in every direction.
“Hold your fire a minute so we don’t hit our guys,” I yelled, bringing the chopper back around for another run at the tree row. “I’m going in low so we won’t take so much ground fire.” I kicked his left rudder pedal and climbed above the other trees, then descended on the other side. I got a glimpse of US soldiers firing at the tree row, with several in the squad having fallen.
There was a renewed clang of bullets snapping against the underside of our chopper.
“More ground fire,” Stan yelled needlessly. “From the east end of the tree row. I can take them if you bring us around.”
I threw the Cobra toward the end of the tree row, going in low. When we were nearly there, I shoved the control column forward so we rushed the area where the muzzle flashes came from.
“Look out!” Stan yelled. “Pull up, pull up. It’s a trap.”
His warning came too late. We plowed into the thick steel cable the Cong had strung between the trees. I cursed myself for allowing us to be lured into their trap.
The rotor blades whipped into the cable and wire that had been invisible to us just a moment before. The strands quickly wound around the main blades, causing us to lose lift.
As the slack of the cable vanished, the line slashed along the nose of our aircraft before slashing into the cabin ahead of me, decapitating Stan before snagging on the frame and then glancing upward just inches above my canopy as the cable was reeled in, strangling the main rotor.
A blade hacked like a giant machete through a treetop on my right, sending shuddering vibrations through the hull as the chopper wobbled through the air. I slapped down the collective pitch lever to slow the speed of the rotors, hoping they wouldn’t come apart.
After that I fought the nightmare of twisting blades and groaning metal, trying to bring the chopper to earth in one piece, even though it was an impossible task. The ground rushed toward us. We crashed with a scream of steel, snapping tree limbs slowing the last 20 feet of our descent.
I was unconscious for a few moments. I awakened to see Stan trying to pull me out of my cockpit. “Come on buddy,” he said. “The Cong are comin’ and this thing’s about to blow.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. “I thought you were… dead.”
“The cable only knocked my helmet off — gave me a shiner. Lucky I hadn’t buckled the strap on my helmet or I’d for sure have lost my second most important appendage. Now get up. Can’t lift you out on my own, big guy.”
I released my harness and pushed with my legs. In a moment I tumbled clear of the wreckage and was back on my feet. Then we were scrambling toward the American line, bullets cracking above our heads. We stumbled down a narrow path, racing toward the American patrol — or so I hoped. I wasn’t too sure about my directions anymore.
Without warning two Cong, dressed in black pajamas and armed with SKS rifles, jumped from the brush ahead of us.
Stan and I drew our revolvers as we dived into the underbrush; the same instant the semiauto fire erupted ahead of us, kicking up plumes of damp earth in the path where we’d been.
We crashed through the foliage, heads low, as our opponents fired blindly into the scrub.
“Buddy, if we stay here we’ll be dead meat,” Stan told me as we dropped down to avoid the heavy fire now erupting from both directions. “I’ve got an idea.”
“What’s the plan?” I asked.
“You ready to call an end to this game?”
For a moment I was confused. “Game?”
“Don’t fade out now. We’re in the middle of a SupeR-G game, remember? If we keep playing, I know we’re going to be deader than dead.”
The humid smells, heat, and noise of the environment argued this was real. I had memories clear back to my childhood in Alabama. Then I vaguely remembered another life, a goggled, motionless body sitting in a chair, his head full of jet, somewhere far in the future in a drab world not nearly as alive as the one I was in now.
I became conscious of where I was. And I had a hunch. “The only person I know of that could get out of the middle of a jet game would be Huntington. You’re Huntington, right?”
“Do you want out or do you want to die.”
The Vietcong were closer now. I was getting desperate. “Yeah, sure, I want out,” I yelled. “Get us out of here.” Dying in the middle of a jet game wasn’t my idea of fun. I was ready to grasp at any straw no matter how far-fetched. When I can see the white in the eyes of guys with SKSs, I’ll snatch at straws.
“I don’t know how you know my name’s Huntington,” he said. “But I plan on finding out.”
I didn’t tell him it was more a lucky guess than deductive reasoning on my part. Now I wondered if my mistake would cost me my life. Would he get suspicious and just leave me here to die?
As if he’d read my mind, he said, “If I were smart I’d leave you behind with the Cong to die. Or maybe just plug you myself. Any reason I should trust you?”
“Would I tell you the truth if I wanted you dead?”
Huntington replied with a grin. “Hang on, I’ll get you out with me.”
Abruptly everything went black and I felt myself falling.
For what seemed a lifetime, my brain raced without any constraints like an engine being revved to full RPM while its gear train sat in neutral. And while in this state, I recalled the strange news article I’d seen earlier in the day about people at the mall who had thought they’d been chased by a helicopter gunship.
Was there — could there — be any connection to what I’d just experienced? Had we just caused another stampede somewhere?
I dismissed it from my mind, instead wondering how Huntington had been able to initiate my jump from the SupeR-G. Because leaving a game in progress was supposed to be impossible when a person was on jet.
Yet, I was obviously out of the Vietnam SupeR-G, headed for Huntington-only-knew where.
Helicopter attack may be mass hysteria
Hanoi, New China - Hanoi police officials are at a loss to explain reports of an antique helicopter that circled a downtown parking lot, spraying the area with machine gun fire and rockets. Despite hundreds of witnesses to the event, there were no casualties or damage, according to official sources.
“At first we thought perhaps it was a gang war,” said Comdr. John Wang, head of special investigations. “However now we’re leaning toward a classic case of mass hysteria. Our police psychologists believe this may have been triggered by the recent release of the surround-D remake of Apocalypse Now.
Although no one was hurt by actual rocket or gunfire, one elderly man died of heart failure, according to officials. Makers of the new version of the movie classic were unavailable for comment.
Click here for full story
Click here for 3-D/hardwired version
See exciting scenes from the all-new, surround view version of
Apocalypse Now
staring Michael Kaine II (
Impress Files
) and Harnold Shwarzen Kegger IV (remakes of
Terminator, Terminator II, Terminator III, Terminator IV, Terminator V, Mary Has Two Dandy Daddies
, etc., Etc.)
