The Trash Haulers by Richard Herman Page B

asked. The Intel officer answered with a nod.
    “What the hell is Heavy Hook?” Hardy demanded.
    Huckabee considered his answer. “It’s an intelligence gathering operation. They must have something.” The short and wiry officer stared at the floor, thinking. “Casualties?”
    “Ten on board,” the Intel officer answered. “Two KIA, eight WIA, two seriously.”
    “How long ago did they go down?” Warren asked.
    “Approximately ninety minutes ago, definitely less than two hours.”
    “The Gomers will get to them before we do,” Hardy snapped.
    Huckabee ran the numbers, casting a time and distance problem against the capabilities of the North Vietnamese. “Assuming the Pathet Lao are talking to the North Vietnamese, which is always questionable, I’m guessing we’ve got an hour.” Huckabee looked at Warren, waiting for a decision.
    “I can help,” Lynne said. Warren started to object, but she wasn’t having it. “I’m a trauma surgeon, and you’ve got a great first aid kit on board. Let me use it.”
    Hardy was genuinely shocked. “Where did that come from?”
    “Sergeant Flanders scrounged it up,” Bosko replied. Crew chiefs, flight engineers, and maintenance specialists often rat holed spare parts and critical items for quick fixes to keep their aircraft flying. The joke was that a good ‘scrounge’ was worth five supply officers, and a scrounge often contained ten to twenty thousand dollars’ worth of spare parts. While highly illegal, scrounges kept aircraft flying. Staff Sergeant Glen “Flash” Flanders had simply created a loadmaster’s version of a scrounge.
    “In my Air Force a scrounge of any kind means a court martial,” Hardy said.
    “Sir,” Bosko said, “do you have any idea how many wounded we’ve evacuated?” He was being respectful. “Sergeant Flanders scrounged up a first aid kit worth the name so we could save a few lives. It has made a difference.”
    Warren made the decision. “If there’s wounded, we’re going.”
    “Disapproved,” Hardy said.
    “Sir,” Warren said, “may we speak outside?” Without waiting for an answer, he spun around and walked into the hall.
    Hardy followed, closing the door behind them. “Well, Captain?”
    “Sir, we don’t abandon wounded in the field. As long as I’m the aircraft commander, we’re going. Otherwise, relieve me.”
    Hardy stared at him – hard. He quickly ran two possible scenarios through his mental abacus of command. Both involved him standing in front of their wing commander in Okinawa as he explained what happened. “Okay, you got it, Captain.”
    Warren pushed at the door, but it was blocked by Santos and Bosko who had their ears glued to the other side. “Let’s go,” Warren called. He made a show of checking his watch. “Gear up on the hour.” He spun around and headed for the entrance. Slovack, Bosko, Santos, and Huckabee were right behind him.
    Pender brushed past Hardy. “Are you coming?” Hardy shook his head. “Pity,” she murmured, her eyes full of contempt. Hardy froze at her look. He was a man who worried about his image, especially to senior officers, and had deliberately flown into danger on Blind Bat night flare missions risking his life and his crew to prove his bravery. Yet, Lynne Pender had taken his measure and found him wanting. It cut deep for she was an outsider. He had to prove her wrong.
    “Yeah, I had better go along and keep my troops out of trouble.”
    “Captain Warren can do that, Colonel.”
    Suddenly, Hardy hated Warren for the way others trusted and followed him. “I’m not what you think,” he said, leading the way outside.
    “Yes, you are,” the doctor said to his back.
    *
    Quang Tri Province, South Vietnam
    The radio operator pressed his left hand against his headphone as he jotted down the alpha-numeric message. Finished, he ripped off the sweaty headset, dried his hands, and reached for the decode book. He found the current page, quickly decoded the message,