Thai Horse

Ltd., 61—63 Uxbridge Road, Ealing, London W5 5SA, in

Australia by Transworld Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.,

15—23 Helles Avenue, Moorebank, NSW 2170, and in New

Zealand by Transworld Publishers (N.2.) Ltd., Cnr. Moselle

and Waipareira Avenues, Henderson, Auckland.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Cox & Wyman Ltd., Reading, Berks.

To four treasured friends: my agent, Owen Laster, my editor, Peter Gerhers, my adviser, Buddy Harris, and, as always, to the love of my life, Virginia

Some men go skimming over the years of existence to sink gently into a placid grave, ignorant of life to the last, without ever having been made to see all it may contain of perfidy, of violence, and of terror.

—JOSEPH CONRAD

VIETNAM

1972

BLACK PONY DOWN

He hardly felt the hit, but he heard it. The muffled roar shook the stick slightly, and he looked out to see the end of his right wing shatter and flake away. A moment later the familiar and frightening sound of .50 caliber shells rattled the fuselage behind him as the bullets ripped the twin- engine OV-1O. Suddenly the plane began to yaw, then it made a wrenching slip in the opposite direction. The plane dipped slightly toward the good wing and dropped a hundred feet. Cody was fighting the aircraft, trying to get it stable. He pressed the radio button: ‘Mayday’..

Mayday. . . this is Chilidog one to Corkscrew. I’m hit and out of control. . .

The voice was remarkably calm, almost resigned. The only hint of trouble was in the timbre of his voice. It was shaking from the violent action of the plane, like a stereo with too much bass.

They were too low to bail out. Cod y always played it like that, treetop-level stuff. ‘Get down .where you can see the whites of their eyes,’ he would tell his men. From under the umbrella of green foliage, deadly ground fire chewed at the twin-engine assault plane. Fifty-calibers rattled the fuselage.

‘Brace yourself,’ he told his gunner. There was no response. Cody turned in the cockpit and looked back. Rossiter was slumped in the seat, his canopy riddled, his face shot away. But Cody lad no time to feel sorry for the youngster, he was losing the plane. The jungle catapulted toward him. Two hundred yards in front of him was the river an d on the other side of the river was freedom. He knew he’d never make

Before HQ could answer, the pilot was back on.

‘This is Chilidog one . . . half mile north of checkpoint Charlie . . . I’m down to five hundred feet . .

The radio operator answered immediately.

‘Chilidog one, can you make it across the river?’

‘. - . trying . .

The radio operator switched bands and called Rescue. ‘Rescue, this is Corkscrew. I have a Black Pony going in half mile north of checkpoint Charlie, a couple of hundred yards into Indian country . . . Do you read?’

The answer came immediately. ‘Corkscrew, this is Rescue . . . we hear him . . . Got a Huey on the way . .

‘Chilidog one, we have a Huey in the area. Can you stay aloft to the river?’

‘Negative . . . I’m going in . .

The transmission ended suddenly.

‘Shit, we’re losing him,’ the radio operator muttered. He turned to his assistant. ‘Get the Skipper over here fast, Wicker.’

‘On it,’ the assistant, a ruddy-faced seaman first, snapped back and snatched up the phone.

The plane suddenly jerked again - The stick was useless. Cody was trying to get it under control with the rudder pedals, but that, too, was futile. The ship went up on its good wing and then slowly began to roll. The green