The Trash Haulers Read Online Free PDF

point.
    “That’s Firebase Lonzo,” Tanner said. He turned to the southwest and climbed to two thousand feet. “Ever been there before?” Perkins said he had never been that far into the highlands. “It can get real sporting,” Tanner told him. He glanced at the fuel gauge and mentally calculated the flying time to the firebase: just over an hour. “We need to refuel first.”
    They headed for the nearest fuel dump as Perkins keyed the FM radio, calling for clearance to refuel. “Dust Off Two-Seven, five minutes out.”
    The voice that answered was hurried, on the edge of panic. “Dust Off Two-Seven, we are taking mortar rounds and are hot.”
    “Not the best of news,” Tanner grumbled. He hit the transmit button. “Say nearest dump.” The voice replied with an eight digit code.
    This time, Perkins wrote it down. He spun the decode wheel and plotted the coordinates on his chart. He groaned. “It’s fifty miles away.” He glanced at the fuel gauge. “It’s gonna be tight. Isn’t there anything closer?”
    “There were yesterday,” Tanner replied. “But they’re smoking holes today.”
    *
    Cam Ranh Bay, South Vietnam
    “The sun’s been up forty-five minutes and it’s already too damn hot,” Steve Bosko moaned, climbing down from the shuttle bus. It was a short ride from wing headquarters to the C-130 operations shack, but the co-pilot’s flight suit was damp and his face flushed.
    “And this from a southern boy,” Warren said, ragging on him. “It’s air conditioned inside.” He held the door for Bosko.
    Dave Santos, their navigator, was standing at the waist-high scheduling counter collecting the paperwork. The captain standing behind the counter looked up and grinned. “So you get to take the golden spirochete to Naked Fanny.” Naked Fanny was the nickname for the airbase at Nakhon Phanom in Thailand. “Haemorrhoid Hardy said to make it happen today. You got a passenger. No cargo.”
    “Lovely,” Warren replied. “Any cargo out of Naked Fanny?”
    “Situation normal; unknown. Check with ALCE. Be flexible.” ALCE, short for Air Lift Command Element, was the small detachment located at each airbase that managed the movement of logistics and personnel. After landing, pilots checked in for their next assignment while their aircraft was offloaded. Over all, it was a fairly efficient system, but when things went wrong aircraft were scattered haphazardly to hell and back.
    “What’s our call sign for today?” Warren asked.
    The captain opened the small safe behind the desk and pulled out a two-inch thick paperbound book stamped SECRET that listed the call signs for each aircraft. The names changed daily, supposedly to deny the enemy vital intelligence. However, many claimed it only confused the aircrews, especially in the heat of combat. The captain found the right page for their unit, the 374th. “Today, you are Roscoe Two-One.”
    Santos slapped his forehead. “We get to fly and die as a Roscoe? What comedian came up with that one? This war is so fucked up. Hell, if I had a draft card, I’d burn it.”
    “You’ll have to get in line,” the captain muttered. He gave them the tail number of their aircraft. “You’ve got 56-469 today.”
    “Shit-oh-dear,” Santos moaned. “First, we get the Golden Spirochete, then Roscoed, now sixty-nined. We are totally screwed.” The Hercules they were assigned to fly had a bad reputation thanks to a series of minor incidents, none serious.
    “Pun intended?” Warren asked. He changed the subject. “We heard the VC are kicking butt and taking names. Any word?”
    “Intel is clueless, as usual,” the captain replied. “Hardy said not to worry, they’ve shot their wad and it’s business as usual. I don’t know why, but he ordered everyone to wear a survival vest today. Covering his ass, I guess.” He checked their paperwork. “Okay, you’re good to go. It’s now 0712 local, call it 0715. See you in twelve.” The last was a reminder