affirmatives from the pilots of the designated gunships, which broke from the formation to begin
lowering, each of the copters carrying at least a dozen top-notch paramilitaries.
Javier’s pulse raced, the tasted scent of blood becoming the scent of the
kill
. As his and the other gunship zoomed in, he saw more clearly the Chor-7 chugging along, trying to put distance between itself
and the clearing that had to have been their pickup point.
He saw three men in that vehicle, through the Huey’s Plexiglas, but even from this distance, as the gunship maintained its
treetop-level approach, he knew that these were the men, or at least some of them, who had assaulted the communists.
Javier saw that the men in that Jeep down below were heavyset, heavily armed combatants in camou who did not flinch at the
sight of oncoming gunships.
He saw no sign of any other vehicles, the treetop fronds a billowing sea of harsh green stretching below to infinity in every
direction.
Javier saw the big black man at the M-60 machine gun in the rear of that vehicle swing around toward the two copters and open
fire when they were coming right down on the Chor-7.
Another man braced himself in the front passenger seat, firing away nonstop with a CAR-15.
The Chor-7’s driver upshifted, coaxing more power out of the fast-moving vehicle.
Javier could not hear that gunfire from the vehicle below through the sounds of his copter’s racket, but a projectile speared
a hole, spiderwebbing cracks inches from his head.
“Fire!”
he yelled into his headset microphone. “Destroy them!”
To his either side, the two Hueys began their paradoxically overweight yet graceful descent, the side hatches yanking open,
rifle-toting men inside priming themselves to hit the ground and close in to block off the roaring Chor-7.
We must kill them!
Javier’s mind screamed, wholly inflamed.
The pilot of Javier’s gunship, of the one zooming in three rotor lengths to his right, opened up each with their miniguns
and the 40mm cannons blamming, twin lines of evenly spaced explosions pulverizing the jungle.
For a moment it looked like the driver of that Chor-7 would outmaneuver the impacting cannon fire, but Javier had chosen to
fly with the best of his pilots.
The man next to him justified that faith, angling Javier’s gunship just so, then triggered another boom from the 40mm that
only barely missed the racing Chor-7 but hit close enough for a geysering eruption of flame, smoke, and earth that caught
the back end of the vehicle, the force of the blast lifting it and the men aboard into a nose-crunched forward somersault.
Twin gunships buzzed by over that sight and for a moment it was gone beneath Javier’s line of vision. The last thing he saw
as the Huey sped by was the Chor-7 flipping the three men aboard it airborne, catapulted into three different directions.
Hawkins hit the ground to come out of the roll in a loose-limbed somersault he had first perfected as a smart-ass kid busting
broncs for rodeo prize money in the Panhandle, before he was drafted, before Nam.
He righted himself, unleathering the .45 automatic holstered at his side, his CAR-15 lost somewhere in what remained of the
Chor-7.
The impacting cannon fire had heaved the vehicle end over end into a tree.
The Chor-7 presently rested at a crazed, crashed angle against the tree, smoke steaming from a punctured radiator, one wheel
stuck up in the air, looping unevenly, the rear axle busted apart at the middle.
Hawkins hit a combat crouch close to the ground, unsheathing his combat knife with his other hand. He viewed the sloping stretch
of trail around him.
The two Hueys had zapped by overhead. He allowed himself to momentarily forget about those. He focused his attention around
to where the third of these unmarked choppers rested its landing skids upon the clearing ground no more than twenty yards
from the treeline where Hawkins now stood.
Before that
lowering, each of the copters carrying at least a dozen top-notch paramilitaries.
Javier’s pulse raced, the tasted scent of blood becoming the scent of the
kill
. As his and the other gunship zoomed in, he saw more clearly the Chor-7 chugging along, trying to put distance between itself
and the clearing that had to have been their pickup point.
He saw three men in that vehicle, through the Huey’s Plexiglas, but even from this distance, as the gunship maintained its
treetop-level approach, he knew that these were the men, or at least some of them, who had assaulted the communists.
Javier saw that the men in that Jeep down below were heavyset, heavily armed combatants in camou who did not flinch at the
sight of oncoming gunships.
He saw no sign of any other vehicles, the treetop fronds a billowing sea of harsh green stretching below to infinity in every
direction.
Javier saw the big black man at the M-60 machine gun in the rear of that vehicle swing around toward the two copters and open
fire when they were coming right down on the Chor-7.
Another man braced himself in the front passenger seat, firing away nonstop with a CAR-15.
The Chor-7’s driver upshifted, coaxing more power out of the fast-moving vehicle.
Javier could not hear that gunfire from the vehicle below through the sounds of his copter’s racket, but a projectile speared
a hole, spiderwebbing cracks inches from his head.
“Fire!”
he yelled into his headset microphone. “Destroy them!”
To his either side, the two Hueys began their paradoxically overweight yet graceful descent, the side hatches yanking open,
rifle-toting men inside priming themselves to hit the ground and close in to block off the roaring Chor-7.
We must kill them!
Javier’s mind screamed, wholly inflamed.
The pilot of Javier’s gunship, of the one zooming in three rotor lengths to his right, opened up each with their miniguns
and the 40mm cannons blamming, twin lines of evenly spaced explosions pulverizing the jungle.
For a moment it looked like the driver of that Chor-7 would outmaneuver the impacting cannon fire, but Javier had chosen to
fly with the best of his pilots.
The man next to him justified that faith, angling Javier’s gunship just so, then triggered another boom from the 40mm that
only barely missed the racing Chor-7 but hit close enough for a geysering eruption of flame, smoke, and earth that caught
the back end of the vehicle, the force of the blast lifting it and the men aboard into a nose-crunched forward somersault.
Twin gunships buzzed by over that sight and for a moment it was gone beneath Javier’s line of vision. The last thing he saw
as the Huey sped by was the Chor-7 flipping the three men aboard it airborne, catapulted into three different directions.
Hawkins hit the ground to come out of the roll in a loose-limbed somersault he had first perfected as a smart-ass kid busting
broncs for rodeo prize money in the Panhandle, before he was drafted, before Nam.
He righted himself, unleathering the .45 automatic holstered at his side, his CAR-15 lost somewhere in what remained of the
Chor-7.
The impacting cannon fire had heaved the vehicle end over end into a tree.
The Chor-7 presently rested at a crazed, crashed angle against the tree, smoke steaming from a punctured radiator, one wheel
stuck up in the air, looping unevenly, the rear axle busted apart at the middle.
Hawkins hit a combat crouch close to the ground, unsheathing his combat knife with his other hand. He viewed the sloping stretch
of trail around him.
The two Hueys had zapped by overhead. He allowed himself to momentarily forget about those. He focused his attention around
to where the third of these unmarked choppers rested its landing skids upon the clearing ground no more than twenty yards
from the treeline where Hawkins now stood.
Before that
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