Another was conscious but disoriented.
Beck had blood on one sleeve, though it was not his.
A round had passed through part of the left door structure without damaging anything essential.
Hale reported the gauges.
Fuel was becoming a concern.
Not an emergency.
A concern.
In aviation, Mercer had learned that concerns became emergencies when ignored.
The plan was simple.
Deliver the seven wounded.
Refuel if necessary.
Let another aircraft retrieve the remaining five if the tactical situation allowed.
Then the radio crackled.
The transmission broke apart under static.
Mercer caught only fragments.
Five remaining.
Movement near perimeter.
Need pickup.
Then silence.
Hale adjusted the radio.
“Say again.”
Nothing.
Another voice came through.
The gunships were approaching their own fuel limit.
They could make another pass or two.
Then they had to leave.
Mercer looked back toward the valley.
The helicopter continued away from it.
Hale understood the look.
“We can get these guys in, refuel, and—”
Mercer shook his head.
“Too long.”
“Fuel?”
“Enough if we don’t fool around.”
Hale looked at the gauge.
Then toward the valley.
Beck leaned forward from the cabin.
“What are we doing?”
Mercer answered without turning.
“Dropping these seven and going back.”
Beck stared at him for a second.
“All right.”
There was no speech.
No dramatic argument.
No declaration about duty.
The decision took perhaps ten seconds.
That was how many important decisions happened in the war.
Quietly.
Quickly.
Without anyone knowing whether they were brave or stupid until afterward.
The Huey reached the medical point and descended.
The wounded were removed.
Mercer stayed in the aircraft.
The engine kept running.
A ground crew approached, but Mercer signaled that they were leaving again.
Someone pointed toward the fuel area.
Mercer shook his head.
They did not have time.
Hale calculated again.
They had enough to return, make the pickup, and reach a safer location if nothing went badly wrong.
Nothing going badly wrong was a dangerous assumption in Vietnam.
Mercer lifted the Huey.
The gunship pilot called.
“You coming back?”
“Affirmative.”
A pause followed.
“Five?”
“Five.”
“We can cover one approach.”
“One is all I need.”
Neither pilot believed that sentence.
Mercer turned toward the valley.
The light had changed.
That was the first thing he noticed.
The bright afternoon glare had softened.
Long shadows extended from the high ground.
Haze thickened toward the west.
The valley looked darker now.
Mercer had flown enough late missions to respect how fast tropical daylight could disappear once the sun reached the hills.
The gunships joined him.
The lead pilot gave updated information.
The friendly force had pulled slightly away from the first landing zone.
Enemy movement had been reported on one side.
Nobody had clear visual contact with the five wounded men.
Mercer frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Last transmission said they were still at the pickup point.”
“Who’s with them?”
“Medic. Maybe one rifleman.”
“Maybe?”
“That’s what I have.”
The radio was silent for several seconds.
Mercer felt irritation rise.
Uncertainty was normal.
He still hated it.
A helicopter approaching a landing zone needed information.
Wind.
Obstacles.
Enemy position.
Ground condition.
Friendly location.
Instead, the most important piece of information was suddenly unclear.
Where were the men he was returning to collect?
The gunships made their pass.
Mercer descended behind them.
He expected smoke.
None appeared.
He expected somebody to stand.
Nobody did.
He expected movement.