The instrument panel in front of Frank Allen exploded and a tremendous force smashed his left leg. But he kept his grip on the stick and tried to lift the nose of the plane. The canopy glass was disintegrating and pieces of the engine cowling were going by the cockpit as the machine shuddered under the impact of heavy shells. Oil poured back onto the windscreen, and he could no longer see forward.
Then he was out of the flak and floating across the top of the forest.
Only a few of the eighteen cylinders were still firing. Airspeed was bleeding off rapidly, and he was settling toward the trees. He slapped the emergency jettison button and his ordnance fell away. Automatically he glanced at the airspeed indicator, but where the instrument had been there was now a gaping hole where pieces of naked wire dangled.
He had no feeling at all in his left leg. When he tri to push on the rudder the plane did not respond.
It was time to go. He jerked the handle on the extraction system.
Nothing happened.
Sweet Jesus! He was too low to jump. No more than 300 feet over the trees now.
The road! Maybe he could put the old gal down on the road. She seemed to be mushing, running out of airspeed. He scanned the terrain on the left, trying to find the ribbon of bare earth.
There, parallel but too far. Oh, too far, too far.
He slapped the flap handle down and milked every ounce of lift as the flaps came creeping out.
He wasn’t going to make it. As the tops of the trees reached for the shattered plane, Frank Allen cut the switch and the engine died completely.
The trees caressed the ship; she bounced once, then settled in, Frank Allen was slammed violently forward in his seat, and his world went black.
When Jake Grafton first heard the word “strafe” over his radio, he lay down beside the bombardier relying on the boulder and nearby trees for protection. His knee hurt like hell.
Now, in the better light of day, he checked his revolver to see that it had ball cartridges-not flares in each of the cylinder chambers. Then he examined Tiger’s weapon, a Colt .45 automatic. He jacked the slide back all the way and chambered a round. He left the hammer back and thumbed the safety on.
When the rolling thunder of the Skyraider guns reached him, Jake buried his head in his arms. The big bullets could tear through trees and brush and ricochet off earth and rocks. The thumb-size slugs could split a man in half.
He heard the rippling cracks of the gomer’s twenty-three millimeter, and over his radio, the Sandy drivers talking about the gun. He lifted his head and tried to figure out where the gun was located, but the sounds bounced off the walls of the valley. He heard the throb of the piston engines, and a burst of fire that swelled in i intensity as more guns joined. Abruptly the fury subsided, and Jake’s ears picked up the muffled, irregular beat of a ruined engine.
Jake could feel his heart hammering, feel every throb of blood coursing through his temples and injured nose.
He heard the crash: a sickening smack, then the tortured, drawn-out agony of metal twisting and bending and tearing. The final silence, when it came, Was eerie.
The pilot looked around wildly. Where was the crash? Who had it been? Did the pilot get out?
The radio told him it had been Frank Allen, and Frank Allen rode it in.
Jake thought he should go and help him. Allen might be alive, trapped in the wreckage. But he was afraid to leave Cole. What if the North VietNamese came while he was gone?
Goddamnit! He pounded his fists on the ground and swore at his impotence.
They were trapped here, the N V A using them as bait for the Sandys and choppers. And it was all his fault. He should never have made that second bombing attempt. He should have run for the sea instead, He cursed himself and damned his o stupidity. He pulled his good leg up and hugged it, moaning softly.
Somewhere in Frank Allen’s world there was light-a bright familiar light.
He searched through his memory, but his mind seemed like an empty room.
He could hear a sound like a faucet dripping.
Oh, the light must be the sun. Yes, the sun. That must be a break in the clouds and the sun must be With great effort he made his eyes move. He was sitting in the cockpit but the instruments were not in their proper places. The gaping holes in the panel troubled him vaguely and he tried to sort things out.
Little by little, he arranged the jumbled images in his mind. His eyes moved again. The plane was sitting in red mud, an ugly slash through the jungle He tried move his hands, No good. He could not feel them.
He could not feel anything. So he had made it through the trees to the road.
Maybe that was why he was still alive. Why couldn’t he move?
He managed to tilt his head forward and look down. The bottom of the instrument panel almost touched the front of the seat. The control stick was jammed against the panel and badly twisted. His legs were trapped under the panel and blood oozed from his flight suit The panel was where his legs should have been.
His left arm was not in sight. It seemed to come down out of his shoulder all right, but then it made an abrupt turn behind the seat. The seat itself had been torn from its mountings. Well, at least his right hand and arm appeared to be in one piece. That was something.
The effort to move his right arm required more will and energy than he had.
His head sank back.
Something was dripping. What was it? Fuel leaking from a torn tank? Then he saw the red smear again. the glare shield on the top of the instrument panel. The metal was dented. By his head? His face did feel wet. The dripping continued. Curious, he rocked his head forward again. Now he saw it, a stain of blood on the front of his vest and drops coming from his chin. Yes, his helmet visor was gone, shattered probably.
His curiosity satisfied, his head sagged back and his mind wandered, thinking of this and that and nothing in particular. His eyes found the trees along the road and saw the yellow shafts where the sun illuminated the faint mist. The sunlight came across the top of the instrument panel through the hole where the windscreen had been and was warm on his face. Hadn’t he been flying with the sun at his back when he was hit? In the violence of the crash the machine must have spun around. He noted the fact and dismissed it, sleep seeming much more important.
No, he could not sleep. The gooks would be along here soon. But what could he do? He couldn’t think of any practical course, and his mind strayed off the problem. He watched an insect walk along the top of the instrument panel.
The gooks would be coming along this road. The problem was back and he worked on it. They would never try to get him out of this crumpled wreck, and under no circumstances could he do it himself. Perhaps the helicopter rescue crewmen could cut him out. Even as he contemplated it, he knew such an attempt would be fatal for anyone who tried it.
He made a supreme effort, using all the strength he could muster, and forced his right hand to move from its resting place on his lap down to the holster strapped to his thigh. He felt the butt of the pistol, hard and cold.
The work was very taxing so he rested again, eyes half closed against the glare of the sun. Too bad it had come to this. What would she say when she heard?
It had been so good. Why had she left him?
The pain started,now. It felt as if he had a knife between his shoulder blades. The pain would probably get worse.
Gritting his teeth, he forced his right hand to pull the pistol from its holster and rested it in his lap. He could do no more. Moving his shoulder increased the agony in his back and left arm. Perspiration trickled into his eyes and mouth. He tasted the salt.
Oh, he could really feel it now searing jolts of pain knifing their way through his consciousness.
With each passing minute he hurt a little more.
He blinked the perspiration from his eyes and tried to call up memories, tried to think of the things that he had loved. But it was difficult to keep the images in view. Something was moving on the edge of the road, deep in the shadows where the rising sun had not penetrated. His eyes perceived the motion but could not focus on the hidden figure. Slowly and stealthily, a slight figure in dark clothing stepped into the sun. The figure carried a rifle, pointed at Frank Allen.
The Pilot followed the man with his eyes. Oriental seemed tall, far too tall. The perspective was wrong. Oh
