Part 10 (1/2)
The men busied themselves at the tasks. They cleaned up the paper, inventoried the guns and grenades, and set about cleaning their weapons and the ammunition. Toby took several boxes of 5.62 cartridges and started filling M16 20round magazines. He had filled four when Ryder noticed what he was doing.
”How many rounds did you put in each magazine, Captain?” he asked.
”Twenty. Why?”
”These magazines have weak springs. Any more than eighteen and they jam. Would you mind taking two out of each one?”
Toby did as he was told until the magazines were heavy and oiled with cartridges. In the supply room, the Vietnamese started sc.r.a.ping dirt from the bare wall with their trenching tools and filling sandbags and empty ammo boxes, which they pa.s.sed to the others, who placed them against the main door.
Toby eyed the cavity in the dirt wall as the men sc.r.a.ped.
”How about an escape tunnel?” he asked. No one answered.
The men filled every sack they could find and sat back. The air was heavy and damp. d.i.c.kson pulled out a pack of Camels and offered them around. ”No smoking,” Lopez said. He picked up the radio handset.
Spooky, s.p.u.n.ky here.”
”Hi, down there. This is Spooky, on station for the nation.
”Yeah. Can you shoot yet””
”Negative, s.p.u.n.ky. Solid undercast. We don't even see a glow anymore.
Sorry, guys.”
Lopez signed off.
Suddenly the whole bunker vibrated and groaned.
Streamers of fine dirt gushed from the ceiling.
”What in h.e.l.l is that?” d.i.c.kson yelled, springing to his feet.
”Oh Christ,” Ryder said, looking up, his lips drawn back.
”They got the tanks up there on top of us.”
”Now will you call the G.o.dd.a.m.n Marines?” d.i.c.kson cried.
”You bet your a.s.s,” Lopez said. ”Now you guys start that tunnel.” As Ryder scrambled to organize diggers and packers among the Americans and Vietnamese, Lopez picked up the microphone.
”Jacksonville, Jacksonville, this is s.p.u.n.ky. We got bad problems, you copy?”
”s.p.u.n.ky, Jack here. Go.”
”We're trapped in the bunker and they've got tanks making like can openers. We only have ten, twelve hours of air.
We need your troops, man. Fast. You copy?”
”s.p.u.n.ky, Jack. Good copy. We got some boys ready right now. Stand by one while I get the details. Jack out.”
Lopez looked at his new tunnel rats, frantically digging at the wall, grinned, and made an okay sign with his thumb and forefinger.
In five minutes Jacksonville called back, his voice hollow and slow.
'Go ahead,” Lopez told him.
:,Cougar says negative relief. Copy?”
”Negative relief!” Lopez exploded. ”What the f.u.c.k do you mean, negative relief?” He clutched the handset. ”Who the h.e.l.l is Cougar?” he muttered as he fumbled through a three-ring binder. 'He found the communication section of the emergency ops plan worked out with Colonel Lownds, the commander of the 26th Marine Regiment at Khe Sanh.
The diggers and packers stopped and listened, sweat gleaming on their bodies in the lantern light. Lopez read where Cougar was the commander of III MAF, the Marine Amphibious Force at Da Nang. He was a lieutenant general.
There was a long pause. An anguished voice came over the loudspeaker.
”Aw Gawd, like I said, negative relief. We ... we aren't allowed to launch. Cougar says we can't go.”
He stopped transmitting. He clicked on his transmitter, started to say something, then clicked off.
Lopez switched to the Spooky guns.h.i.+p frequency.
”Spooky, I need a patch to Green House Six,” he said.
”Coming up, s.p.u.n.ky.”
After a moment Green House was on the line.
”Roger, Green House,” Lopez said, ”we got a real problem here.” He outlined their air and tank situation. ”If we're not out of here by ten tomorrow, we're dead meat.”
”s.p.u.n.ky, Green House Six. Here is the situation. The weather is full down and forecast to remain so for twenty-four hours. Further, we have been denied air a.s.sets. Cougar a.s.sets are to handle the situation.
Right now this is his show.” Bull Dall's voice was heavy.
”His show!” Lopez shouted into the microphone. ”G.o.d almighty, we've got Americans dying here. Does COMUSMACV know about this?”
”Affirmative. I've been on the horn to him all day and half the night.”
The voice of Green House vibrated with anger.
”Hang on, I'm going down. . .” The bunker quivered under a m.u.f.fled explosion and the radio went dead. Lopez tried another radio. No answer.
”They got the antenna,” he said. There was momentary silence in the bunker, then, with m.u.f.fled curses the diggers went back to work. Toby helped pa.s.s the dirt out to the Vietnamese, who packed it by the door, Lopez drummed his fingers on the radio table, then started pa.s.sing sandbags.
Overhead, two tanks crisscrossed the bunker, working on the corners, stopping and spinning on a tread, diesels roaring, slowly grinding the bunker down.
1430 HOURS LOCAL, TUESDAY 30 JANUARY 1968.
ABOARD Am FORCE ONE ENROUTE TO BERGsTRom AFB, AusTIn, TEXAs ”How many times do I have to tell you that I want diet root beer on this f.u.c.king aircraft at all times?” The big man's voice boomed across the table at the man in the blue uniform standing at rigid attention. ”You hear me, Sergeant? I want an order sent out to all Air Force Bases: Stock root beer.”
”Yes, sir,” the staff sergeant said to Lyndon Baines Johnson, the thirty-sixth President of the United States. He took the President's empty root beer bottle and turned for the galley.