Mercer did not know.
The medic finally leaned toward Beck and yelled something.
Beck turned toward the cockpit.
“He says they pulled east. He’s supposed to follow.”
“Alone?”
Beck looked back.
The medic was already stepping away.
Mercer swore.
“Get him in.”
Beck grabbed the medic’s arm.
The medic resisted.
Beck pointed toward the trees.
Then toward the Huey.
The discussion ended.
The medic climbed aboard.
Six passengers.
Five wounded.
One exhausted medic.
Mercer pulled power.
The Huey became light.
Then heavier.
For an instant it seemed reluctant to leave.
Hot air.
Fuel.
Men.
Altitude.
Everything mattered.
Mercer eased the aircraft forward.
The skids cleared the grass.
The Huey accelerated.
A few rounds came from somewhere behind them.
One struck metal.
Ortega fired.
The aircraft continued moving.
Mercer did not turn back.
The valley dropped away.
Nobody cheered.
Nobody said they had made it.
Experienced crews did not celebrate while still inside the problem.
Hale monitored the engine.
Beck checked the wounded.
The medic sat on the floor with his back against the cabin wall.
His chest was bare except for web gear because most of his undershirt was now tied to a branch somewhere in the valley.
He closed his eyes.
For the first time since the second approach began, Mercer looked at the fuel gauge without immediately looking away.
It was low.
They could make the nearest suitable field.
The main base was possible, but Mercer no longer liked possible.
He wanted certain.
He changed course slightly.
Hale understood.
“Closer strip?”
“Yeah.”
Nobody objected.
The sky behind them had turned orange along the high ridges.
The valley where they had landed disappeared into shadow.
Mercer felt his hands begin to relax around the controls.
Only then did he realize how tightly he had been holding them.
The medical team waiting at the strip met the helicopter before the rotor stopped.
The five wounded soldiers were removed one by one.
The medic stepped out last.
He turned toward the cockpit.
Mercer expected him to say something.
He did not.
The man simply touched two fingers to the front of his helmet.
Then he walked beside one of the stretchers.
Mercer watched him disappear.
He never learned whether the medic had been ordered to stay behind or had simply refused to leave his wounded men.
In later versions of the memory, Mercer sometimes thought the man had looked young.
Other times he remembered him as older.
Memory changed details.
The torn white cloth did not change.
Neither did the grass.
Neither did the hand rising briefly from what had looked like empty ground.
After refueling, Mercer flew back to the main base in darkness.
The mood inside the aircraft was different.
Ortega said almost nothing.
Beck examined the bullet damage.
Hale stared through the windshield.
Mercer concentrated on the instruments.
When they landed, a maintenance crew inspected the Huey under artificial light.
The damage was less serious than it had sounded in flight.
One round had entered near the left side and passed through sheet metal.
Another had struck farther back.
Nothing critical had been severed.
Beck seemed personally offended by the holes.
“Somebody shot my helicopter.”
Ortega smiled.
“They were probably aiming at you.”
“They missed.”
“They hit the helicopter.”
“That’s what I said.”
It was the kind of exchange crews used to make ordinary what could not be made ordinary.
Mercer climbed down.
His legs felt heavier than expected.
He walked toward operations.
Somebody asked how the pickup went.
Mercer said, “Got them.”
That was all.
No speech.
No explanation.
He did not mention the empty landing zone.
Not yet.
Later, after food and debriefing, Mercer opened his notebook.
Pilots kept information in different ways. Some recorded every detail. Others wrote only what regulations or operations required. Some relied on official logs and kept almost nothing personal.
Mercer’s fictional notebook was neither an official Army record nor a formal aircraft log.
It was his own.
Times.
Places.
Aircraft problems.