Robert Mason - Chickenhawk

“Of course,” I said. “But what does being able to take care of yourself have to do with surviving a Vietcong ambush?”

“If you knew McElroy, you’d know he’ll do just fine.” Rubenski’s scarred face brightened in a crooked smile. He once told me that he almost did not get into the army because of all the old fractures in his skull, part of the growing-up process in Chicago. “Listen to this plan,” he said. “McElroy’s plan.”

“Not the bank-job idea.”

“No. No measly bank job. That’s the point. McElroy has a mind.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Lake Tahoe.”

“Jesus.”

“Wait a minute, sir. Give me a chance.”

“You want to rob Lake Tahoe?”

“Just listen. Then tell me if you see any bad spots, okay?”

“Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere for a while.”

“The target is a casino at Tahoe. Now, McElroy has seen this, but he doesn’t know yet exactly how often each week they do it—collect the take from the machines and tables. We’d have to case the place for a while to get the times straight. Anyway, they collect all the loot in garden carts and haul it outside to an armored car. They got guards all around, but for a minute or so millions of dollars is just sittin’ there waiting to be scarfed up.”

“So all you have to do is walk past a bunch of guards—”

“Wait, sir, let me tell you,” Rubenski said eagerly. “We use gas, like we do here. Three of us wait in ambush and pop the gas when the loot is outside. Then, as we go into the gas to get the carts, you come in with a Huey and land on the road, in the smoke.”

“Me? How did I get into this plan?”

“It’s gotta be you, Mr. Mason. I’ve seen you do stuff like this a hundred times. See, that’s the genius of McElroy’s plan. We take the stuff we learn here and put it to good use back home. You see?”

“Yeah, I see you flying all over the place trying to figure out where to park a Huey-load of money without raising suspicion.”

“That’s the best part,” he continued. “When we drop the CS”—a vomit-inducing agent—“nobody is going to stick around who doesn’t have a mask. We also pop a bunch of smoke to cover the loading and the takeoff. We get off with everybody on board and head away low level. We fly for a hundred miles to a lake McElroy knows about. There’s a cabin there where we can stash the money and where we can stay for six months while things cool off.”

“Nobody’s going to notice a Huey parked out on the dock?”

“Oh, yeah. We take the Huey—stolen from the National Guard—out over the lake and ditch it. Then we hang around for six months thinking about how to spend over a million dollars each. Can you imagine?”

“It’s a classic plan all right.”

“I knew you’d like it.”

“I didn’t say I liked it; I said it was classic.”

The stars were bright enough to see a man running from ship to ship, a shadow. At the next ship we could hear him asking for Rubenski. Rubenski called that he was here, and jumped out to meet the shadow halfway.

Some people had died in the ambush. McElroy was one. Rubenski came back and sat in the pocket by his gun and cried. Choking sobs filled the Huey.

I stared out into the black night and shed tears for McElroy, too, and I didn’t even know him.

“I can’t believe anybody’d be dumb enough to walk into a tail rotor.”

“I know. And a grunt who’d been on a bunch of assaults, too.” We laughed.

It was funny now, on the back of the truck heading toward Qui Nhon. But last night, when we returned from Dog, a grunt had walked right into the spinning tail rotor of the ship in front of me. I almost resigned. It was too much. I could not stand the idea that somebody could get killed by a Huey after the same Huey just saved his life. I was pulling off my helmet as the ship whined down when I saw the guy rush around from the side door of the ship. Before I could even think of saying “Stop,” he was driven to the ground. The tail rotor had hit him on the head. Thud. Down.

I didn’t resign. There was a trick ending: The guy wasn’t dead. His helmet saved his life, leaving him with only a bad concussion and some cuts.

“The dumb fuck is probably on his way home right now,” said Kaiser.

“He deserves it,” said Connors. “Anybody that is still alive after that should get a medal and a plane ticket home.”

This truck ride was the first break in a month for the six of us. Other groups of pilots had got into Qui Nhon, and now it was our turn.

Whether by accident or plan, I was with the usual bunch, Connors, Banjo, Kaiser, Nate, and Resler. Farris was also with us—to make sure we came back.

The twenty-mile drive from the Rifle Range at Phu Cat to Qui Nhon took nearly two hours on a bumpy causeway through unending rice paddies. Every so often an island village punctuated the causeway.

“You’d think the fucking army could squeeze one fucking ride in a Huey for a bunch of its ace pilots,” said Connors.

“No ships available. Too many down for maintenance,” replied Farris, the army spokesman.

We parked the truck where the traffic got thick and hired a kid to watch it for us. Then we wandered down the street, looking to be entertained.

Connors was stopped by an MP. “Sorry, sir. You have to have your sleeves rolled above the elbow,” said the MP.

“What?” Connors said.

“Your sleeves, sir. You have to have them rolled up above the elbow.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, sir.”

Connors glared at the MP. We all did. None of us had our sleeves rolled up high enough.

“What if I like my sleeves just like they are?”

“Then I’ll be forced to arrest you, sir.”

“You would arrest me for not having my sleeves rolled up ?”

“Yes, sir. Those are my orders.”

“Tell me,” Connors said quietly. “Do you know that there’s a war going on?”

“Yes, sir. Of course I know there’s a war going on.”

“Then why the fuck do you care how high my sleeves are!”

The MP flinched. “I don’t care, sir. But if I don’t enforce the dress codes, I get my ass in a sling.”

“Ah. You get your ass in a sling if my sleeves aren’t rolled up above my elbow. Now you’re making sense.” Connors started rolling his sleeves. “See, gentlemen, it’s not this specialist’s personal perversion that makes him look for sleeve abuse during wartime; it’s the personal perversion of his rear-echelon boss.” Connors nodded grimly. “Right, Specialist?”

“That’s right, sir.”

Everybody looked pissed off, but we rolled our sleeves up.

“Damn. I keep forgetting that the army goes on like normal while we’re away,” Gary said, voicing our thoughts as we strolled down the bustling street.

While we were still in sight of the truck, Farris told us to meet him back there at 1600 hours, to which we reverently agreed.

Kaiser had been here before. “What we need to do first, gang, is to go get a steam bath so we won’t repel the lovelies.”

“Ah, the lovelies!” Connors swooned.

“You’ll need more than a steam bath, Connors,” said Banjo.

“I love the lovelies.”

“Like, plastic surgery,” Banjo continued.

I had always liked the idea of a steam bath, but it wasn’t what I expected. It was hot, way too hot to enjoy. I was forced to the floor, to breathe the mythical cooler air there, two minutes after I had closed the door to the steam room. This is fun? After two more minutes, when I was sure I was passing out, I practically crawled outside to the massage table.

A middle-aged Vietnamese man positioned me carefully on the table and began to wreak Oriental vengeance upon my Occidental body.