The Trash Haulers by Richard Herman Read Free Book Online Page B

the helicopter and refuelling hose as Myers hit the pump’s start switch, bringing it to life.
    “You’ve got the controls,” Tanner told Perkins as he unstrapped.
    “I’ve got the controls,” Perkins replied.
    Tanner was out and running for the empty rocket tubes half-buried upright in the ground that served as relief tubes. He stood there, surprised by his bladder’s capacity. Finished, he sprinted for the helicopter and bailed into his seat, quickly strapping in. “I’ve got the controls.” Perkins was already unstrapped and jumped out, his turn to hit the relief tubes. He passed Collins, the medic, who was on the way back after his turn at the tubes. Tanner checked the fuel gauge. “Four hundred pounds,” he told the crew chief. They were almost full.
    Myers backed off the flow and topped off without spilling a drop. Collins grabbed the nozzle and disconnected the grounding wires as Myers now ran for the relief tubes. Perkins and Collins were strapped in and ready to go when Myers made the dash back to the aircraft. He snapped Tanner’s chicken plate into place and bailed into the back. “Less than five minutes, Mr. Tanner,” he yelled as the shrill whistle of an incoming mortar echoed over the fuel dump.
    Tanner lifted off and spun the helicopter away from the fuel dump, again running for safety. In itself, the refuelling was no big thing, but it had told Tanner all he needed to know about the crew of Dust Off 27 – they were a team he could take into hell, which he fully intended to do.
    Three motor rounds walked across the fuel dump, sending a huge tower of fire and smoke into the sky. Tanner keyed the intercom. “Off hand, I’d say the shit has definitely hit the fan.”

 
    0800 HOURS
     
    I Corps, South Vietnam
    Tanner held the Huey a few feet off the ground, running from the explosions walking across the fuel dump where they had been refuelling a few seconds ago. “Damn, that was a close one,” Perkins said. His youngish face was drained of colour and he struggled to match his pilot’s cool.
    “All in a day’s work,” Tanner replied. From all outward appearances, it was just another routine mission as he turned to the southwest and climbed into the sky. They all knew it was anything but. Tanner altered course sixty degrees to the left to check on the refuelling dump behind them. A huge black plume of smoke reached into the blue sky and three bright flashes erupted on the ground, mute testimony to the accuracy of the mortar teams attacking the fuel dump. He altered course 120 degrees to the right so Perkins could see. “See if you can raise anyone on the VHF and relay the situation on the ground to Division,” he told the co-pilot.
    Perkins fingers danced on the radio, cycling to the new frequency. “Dust Off Two-Seven transmitting in the blind. Be advised fuel dump Oscar Lima is under mortar attack and unusable at this time.” His voice was cool and matter-of-fact as Tanner altered course back to the southwest, heading for Firebase Lonzo for the med evac.
    *
    Cam Ranh Bay, South Vietnam
    “Sergeant Flanders,” Warren called as he climbed down from the C-130’s flight deck, “we’re on hold. Another passenger is on the way.” Warren always called the loadmaster by his proper title and never called him ‘Flash’ like the rest of the crew.
    “I’ll wait outside and get him on board soonest.” Flanders had learned from long experience that their passenger had to be a high roller to delay a scheduled take-off, but his job was to move cargo and passengers regardless of rank. He had earned his nickname for a good reason.
    Warren sat down next to the two Intel captains on the red canvas jump seats that folded down from the side of the aircraft. “Welcome aboard,” he said. “I’m Mark Warren, the aircraft commander.” Ronald Huckabee and Judith Slovack introduced themselves. “I caught your briefing this morning,” Warren continued. “You’re good, really good, but I take it