“We think it’s the ‘General Offensive and Uprising’ the North Vietnamese have been planning for years. It’s a biggy.”
“So they’re going to kick ass and take names,” Warren muttered.
“They’re going to try,” Slovack said. She looked at the crew entrance. “I think your passenger is here.” Lieutenant Colonel Stanley Hardy stepped through the open hatch, shot Warren a hard look, and motioned him to the flight deck.
“Lovely,” Warren grumbled under his breath. “Absolutely lovely. Excuse me.” He followed Hardy onto the flight deck, hoping everyone was still wearing their survival vests. Fortunately, they were.
“I’ve got to get to Ubon ASAP,” Hardy explained. “Blind Bat Zero-One was laying flares over the Sepong river ford last night just inside the Laotian border and caught five trucks in the open, all headed for South Vietnam. When they went in for a second run, they caught heavy triple A. The detachment commander, Colonel Robertson, was flying in the left seat and was wounded. I just got the word to assume command and need to get there before they launch tonight.”
Four months later, Blind Bat 01 would be shot down over the same area.
Warren had flown more Blind Bat missions than any other pilot in the 374th and knew how important the detachment commander was in coordinating the C-130 flare mission with Spectre, the AC130 gunship that was just coming on line. The Blind Bat pilots also had a wealth of operational knowledge that was proving invaluable for the gunship crews. “Ubon is not that far from NKP,” Warren said. “I’ll request a diversion when we’re airborne. We’ll get you there.”
“Make it happen,” Hardy said. He looked around for a headset. “And I want everyone’s survival vests zipped.”
Santos had overheard the entire conversation from the navigator’s station. “And fuck you very much,” he said over the intercom before Hardy could hear him.
Warren felt the navigator’s frustration but ignored him as he settled into the aircraft commander’s seat. He quickly strapped in and looked out his left forward quarter panel, searching for the loadmaster. Flanders was standing in front of the aircraft, tethered to a long communications cord. He gave Warren the start sign, indicating the props were clear. “Starting three,” Warren said. Mike Hale, the flight engineer, reached for the overhead panel and fed bleed air from the Gas Turbine Compressor, the auxiliary power unit embedded in the left wheel well beneath engine two, into the right inboard right engine on the other side of the aircraft. The big three-bladed prop spun up and the engine came on line with a roar. Flanders pointed to number four and Hale used bleed air from number three to start it. The flight engineer shut down the GTC and Flanders scrambled to button up its intake panel while number four spun up. Number four had barely come on speed when Flanders was back out in front, giving them the signal to crank number two engine.
They were a well-rehearsed team; number one was on line and they were ready to taxi out within minutes. Bosko called ground control for permission to taxi, and Flanders motioned them out of the revetment. Warren taxied the big cargo plane out and turned onto the taxi path. Flanders gave the aircraft one last look, looking for leaks and a cut tire. Satisfied they were good to go, he ran to the rear of the aircraft and scrambled on board.
Hardy had found a headset and was standing behind the co-pilot, watching the routine. “You’re rushing the checklist,” he said over the intercom, implying the engine start and taxi out was not safe.
“Strictly by the book,” Warren replied. He almost said that they had to be fast when things went critical in forward landing strips but thought better of it. “Please strap in so we can get this show on the road,” he said, effectively ordering the lieutenant colonel off the flight deck.
Hardy froze and his eye’s narrowed.
“So they’re going to kick ass and take names,” Warren muttered.
“They’re going to try,” Slovack said. She looked at the crew entrance. “I think your passenger is here.” Lieutenant Colonel Stanley Hardy stepped through the open hatch, shot Warren a hard look, and motioned him to the flight deck.
“Lovely,” Warren grumbled under his breath. “Absolutely lovely. Excuse me.” He followed Hardy onto the flight deck, hoping everyone was still wearing their survival vests. Fortunately, they were.
“I’ve got to get to Ubon ASAP,” Hardy explained. “Blind Bat Zero-One was laying flares over the Sepong river ford last night just inside the Laotian border and caught five trucks in the open, all headed for South Vietnam. When they went in for a second run, they caught heavy triple A. The detachment commander, Colonel Robertson, was flying in the left seat and was wounded. I just got the word to assume command and need to get there before they launch tonight.”
Four months later, Blind Bat 01 would be shot down over the same area.
Warren had flown more Blind Bat missions than any other pilot in the 374th and knew how important the detachment commander was in coordinating the C-130 flare mission with Spectre, the AC130 gunship that was just coming on line. The Blind Bat pilots also had a wealth of operational knowledge that was proving invaluable for the gunship crews. “Ubon is not that far from NKP,” Warren said. “I’ll request a diversion when we’re airborne. We’ll get you there.”
“Make it happen,” Hardy said. He looked around for a headset. “And I want everyone’s survival vests zipped.”
Santos had overheard the entire conversation from the navigator’s station. “And fuck you very much,” he said over the intercom before Hardy could hear him.
Warren felt the navigator’s frustration but ignored him as he settled into the aircraft commander’s seat. He quickly strapped in and looked out his left forward quarter panel, searching for the loadmaster. Flanders was standing in front of the aircraft, tethered to a long communications cord. He gave Warren the start sign, indicating the props were clear. “Starting three,” Warren said. Mike Hale, the flight engineer, reached for the overhead panel and fed bleed air from the Gas Turbine Compressor, the auxiliary power unit embedded in the left wheel well beneath engine two, into the right inboard right engine on the other side of the aircraft. The big three-bladed prop spun up and the engine came on line with a roar. Flanders pointed to number four and Hale used bleed air from number three to start it. The flight engineer shut down the GTC and Flanders scrambled to button up its intake panel while number four spun up. Number four had barely come on speed when Flanders was back out in front, giving them the signal to crank number two engine.
They were a well-rehearsed team; number one was on line and they were ready to taxi out within minutes. Bosko called ground control for permission to taxi, and Flanders motioned them out of the revetment. Warren taxied the big cargo plane out and turned onto the taxi path. Flanders gave the aircraft one last look, looking for leaks and a cut tire. Satisfied they were good to go, he ran to the rear of the aircraft and scrambled on board.
Hardy had found a headset and was standing behind the co-pilot, watching the routine. “You’re rushing the checklist,” he said over the intercom, implying the engine start and taxi out was not safe.
“Strictly by the book,” Warren replied. He almost said that they had to be fast when things went critical in forward landing strips but thought better of it. “Please strap in so we can get this show on the road,” he said, effectively ordering the lieutenant colonel off the flight deck.
Hardy froze and his eye’s narrowed.
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