very noisy arrival. And the trouble was, Grey and his tiny force had to remain static on the LZ for a good two hours before they could make themselves scarce. The Chinooks were going todrop them at 2400 hours, and at 0200 they were scheduled to fly in again with a further batch of men and machines. In the meantime the tiny advance force had to secure and hold the LZ, or at least give ample warning to the pilots that it had been compromised and to abort.
Grey felt the contents of his stomach lurching into his throat as the massive helo decelerated from speed, while at the same time the pilot lowered its rear end toward the earth. It was “flaring out” so as to touch down with its ramp on the desert sands, its wheels barely making contact, and keeping the rotors turning and burning. It would hang like that for a few seconds, then the wagons would clear away, and the aircraft would get airborne once more and head fast and low for safety.
As the Chinook lost altitude the first whips of choking dust came whirling through the open rear, the twin rotors blowing up a veritable sandstorm. Grey gave the signal to start the engines, and within seconds the hold was filled with the blue-gray smog of diesel fumes mixed with the dust. To their left and right the Chinook’s door gunners were sweeping the terrain below for hostile threat, but with the rotors kicking up a brownout of swirling sand they could barely see a thing.
A thud reverberated through the airframe as the pilot settled the giant machine ass-end onto the desert. No sooner had he done so than the loadie gave the “Go-go-go”—signaling with his gloved hand for the vehicles to get down the open ramp. Mucker went first, the quad exiting the helo like a bat out of hell. Grey’s wagon followed, with Moth inching it down the ramp and nosing it all but blind into the seething, dust-filled darkness.
As their rear wheels left the ramp and hit the desert with a thump, Grey tried to shout some kind of confirmation that they were gone, but the Chinook was already getting airborne again. The pitch of the rotors whined to a scream, and the aircraft rose, dipped its nose, and powered away. It roared into a banking turn, the pilot swinging the giant machine onto a southerly bearing before being swallowed up by the dark night.
Grey and his men hunched over their weapons, trying to shield themselves from the stinging rotor-driven sand and grit. There was no point in trying to move anywhere. Visibility was at zero and it was impossible to do anything other than ride out the storm.
They had to sit and wait until the air cleared enough to be able to see and move.
The first thing to become visible was the night sky, the brightest stars piercing the thinning halo of dust like pinpricks of molten gold. As the fine sand settled and pooled all about them, drifting to earth on the desert air, the strong, heady smell of burning aviation fuel faded into the background, as did the characteristic thwoop-thwoop-thwoop of the Chinook’s double rotors.
In its place was a deep and residing stillness such as few of the men had ever experienced, plus the empty, wild, earthy smell of the cold desert night. The terrain all around them was so utterly still and devoid of life that the gentle purr of the Pinkie’s engine sounded deafeningly loud, and as if it might carry for dozens of kilometers to any listening human ear.
Grey and Dude hunched behind their machine guns, scanning their arcs. The men on the other Pinkie, commanded by Scruff, were doing likewise. Grey felt certain there were alert enemy forces out there somewhere. He could feel it in his bones. Yet, his initial rapid scan revealed nothing. They had been dropped in dead-flat and open terrain, the darker shades indicating where patches of sharp black gravel lay between stretches of bare rock and lighter sand.
As soon as the air had cleared enough, Grey signaled Moth to move out. Scruff knew to fall into line behind as they pushed out
Grey felt the contents of his stomach lurching into his throat as the massive helo decelerated from speed, while at the same time the pilot lowered its rear end toward the earth. It was “flaring out” so as to touch down with its ramp on the desert sands, its wheels barely making contact, and keeping the rotors turning and burning. It would hang like that for a few seconds, then the wagons would clear away, and the aircraft would get airborne once more and head fast and low for safety.
As the Chinook lost altitude the first whips of choking dust came whirling through the open rear, the twin rotors blowing up a veritable sandstorm. Grey gave the signal to start the engines, and within seconds the hold was filled with the blue-gray smog of diesel fumes mixed with the dust. To their left and right the Chinook’s door gunners were sweeping the terrain below for hostile threat, but with the rotors kicking up a brownout of swirling sand they could barely see a thing.
A thud reverberated through the airframe as the pilot settled the giant machine ass-end onto the desert. No sooner had he done so than the loadie gave the “Go-go-go”—signaling with his gloved hand for the vehicles to get down the open ramp. Mucker went first, the quad exiting the helo like a bat out of hell. Grey’s wagon followed, with Moth inching it down the ramp and nosing it all but blind into the seething, dust-filled darkness.
As their rear wheels left the ramp and hit the desert with a thump, Grey tried to shout some kind of confirmation that they were gone, but the Chinook was already getting airborne again. The pitch of the rotors whined to a scream, and the aircraft rose, dipped its nose, and powered away. It roared into a banking turn, the pilot swinging the giant machine onto a southerly bearing before being swallowed up by the dark night.
Grey and his men hunched over their weapons, trying to shield themselves from the stinging rotor-driven sand and grit. There was no point in trying to move anywhere. Visibility was at zero and it was impossible to do anything other than ride out the storm.
They had to sit and wait until the air cleared enough to be able to see and move.
The first thing to become visible was the night sky, the brightest stars piercing the thinning halo of dust like pinpricks of molten gold. As the fine sand settled and pooled all about them, drifting to earth on the desert air, the strong, heady smell of burning aviation fuel faded into the background, as did the characteristic thwoop-thwoop-thwoop of the Chinook’s double rotors.
In its place was a deep and residing stillness such as few of the men had ever experienced, plus the empty, wild, earthy smell of the cold desert night. The terrain all around them was so utterly still and devoid of life that the gentle purr of the Pinkie’s engine sounded deafeningly loud, and as if it might carry for dozens of kilometers to any listening human ear.
Grey and Dude hunched behind their machine guns, scanning their arcs. The men on the other Pinkie, commanded by Scruff, were doing likewise. Grey felt certain there were alert enemy forces out there somewhere. He could feel it in his bones. Yet, his initial rapid scan revealed nothing. They had been dropped in dead-flat and open terrain, the darker shades indicating where patches of sharp black gravel lay between stretches of bare rock and lighter sand.
As soon as the air had cleared enough, Grey signaled Moth to move out. Scruff knew to fall into line behind as they pushed out
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