Dawn of Valor (3 page)

Nodding, Chase wrote down the pertinent information. He’d been in Korea since the beginning of the war and knew the Pohang area by heart. “We’ll give it our best shot, Hob. What if they do escape? Do we have any marines in the area?”

“If they can break free, they’re still on their own. The U.N. troops are rallying and trying to stop the influx. The closest force is Australian. There’s no white knight on any horse coming to rescue them.”

“You’d better hope they know which way is south, then,” Chase griped. A woman! Of all things! He started to say it, but let it go. Time was of the essence.

Hob nodded wearily. Beneath the naked lightbulb, his thinning steel-gray hair took on a silvery cast, almost halolike. “They’d better be made out of tough stuff,” he agreed. “Get going, and good luck.”

“Yes, sir.” Chase turned and Dawson followed him out of the tent. The air reeked of cattle dung and aviation fuel. Down the flight line, the elegant Mustangs stood silhouetted against the reddish-gray dawn. Further down, a squadron of blunt-nosed F-80 jets lined up.

“What do you think?” asked Dawson, jogging easily at Chase’s side.

“About what?”

“That woman.”

Snorting, Chase saw his flight mechanic, Sergeant Owens, waiting for him beside his plane. “She’s in a lot of trouble—and causing
us
trouble. If only the three docs had been captured, I don’t think Hob would have been ordered to strike that convoy.”

Dawson shook his red head. “To think a woman’s been captured. Man, that’s gonna make headlines back in the hometown newspaper.”

“The
wrong
kind for the military,” Chase amended, throwing a salute to his sergeant. “That’s why we’re getting this mission.” He saw his other two pilots already on the line, and he threw them a thumbs-up. “Just keep close, Buddy. The small-arms fire could be heavy when we go in.”

“Or flak.”

Chase agreed with a nod. He stepped up to the sergeant who cared for the plane as carefully as if it were his child. Nodding to his crew chief, Chase climbed up onto the wing and then into the cockpit.

Owens helped him strap in, then gave him a final pat on the shoulder before leaving the wing of the plane. As Chase ran rapidly through the preflight checklist after pulling on his helmet, he found himself wondering about the woman. Rachel McKenzie.
Pretty name.
McKenzie sounded like a fighter’s name. He gave Owens a final thumbs-up before starting the powerful engine on the Mustang.
She’d better be a fighter.

Swiveling his head, he saw the other three P-51s starting up, the throaty roar of engines filling the dawn air. The planking of the airstrip popped and cracked as Chase trundled the P-51 at a high taxi speed toward the end of the runway. Even in the grayness of the dawn, he could see people stirring around the rows of olive-green tents in the distance. Taegu was a main center of men and materials, as well as a forward air base.

At the end of the airstrip was “Mount Bust-your-ass.” On a clear day, it was no problem missing the mountain. In fog or rain, the rocky pinnacle could be a pilot’s demise. You had to shove full throttle to gain enough momentum and then, at the end of the runway, pull up at a high angle of ascent to miss the mountain. Otherwise, it did just as its name implied.

Sliding the canopy shut, Chase flicked switches and turned dials. Behind him, all in a neat, orderly row, were his three other squadron mates in their respective Mustangs.

All dials and indicators showed the engine in good working condition. Releasing the brakes, Chase steered as the P-51 howled, hurling itself down the runway. His attention was drawn back to the mission—and the woman. What a hell of a fix she was in. Chase felt his stomach tighten painfully in an uncharacteristic expression of fear—for her.

As Chase eased the stick back, the P-51 lifted off, nosing confidently into the crimson and gray sky. Moving the stick to the right and applying a bit of right rudder, Chase saw each of his men take off without incident.

“Well, Rachel McKenzie, hope you’ve got what it takes to escape.” As the fighter gained altitude, heading toward Yongchong, Chase wondered what she looked like. What kind of a woman volunteered to come over to get shot at, bombed and mortared, much less captured? What kind?

Chapter Two

R
achel stood huddled with the doctors next to a tan transport truck. Her hands were tied in front of her with a thin leather thong that was cutting off her circulation, making her fingers numb. As a group, they’d been herded by soldiers to one side of the truck. Two soldiers scurried to change a flat tire on the lead truck, receiving a blistering tongue-lashing from the angry officer. For three hours they had sped north, deep into North Korean territory before the vehicle had an unexpected blowout.

Rachel discreetly looked around for possible escape routes, peeking from between the doctors. The convoy consisted of fifteen other trucks carrying mostly cargo and few troops. A number of tan-clad soldiers milled around, smoking and talking in low voices, waiting impatiently for the truck to be repaired. To be stalled on a road in the open was inviting attack, and the soldiers were nervous, constantly watching the sky for American jet fighters. The road was narrow and deeply rutted. It was impossible to pass the injured vehicle because the rocky hills rose steeply on either side.

Colonel Hall was looking around, too, and Rachel felt an eerie premonition crawl up the back of her neck. She sensed danger. Huge groves of trees dotted the steep hillsides, a perfect place to run for cover and hide. She saw the same thoughts flicker over Hall’s sober features.

Sudden Korean shouts jerked Rachel’s attention back to the convoy. The officer standing at the front of the broken truck screeched orders to his men, pointing angrily at the sky. Her gaze followed his gestures.

“Look!” she whispered excitedly to the doctors. “Planes!”

“Our planes,” Hall croaked in disbelief.

“Mustangs. Prop-driven Mustangs,” Short added unhappily. “Couldn’t they have sent jets?”

“At least they came,” Rachel whispered tautly. The military must know of their capture. Rachel’s heart lifted with inexplicable joy. They were coming to the rescue! She just knew it!

Hall nodded, watching the soldiers scurrying in all directions, setting up their weapons to fire at the oncoming planes. “They’re going to strafe. All right, all of you get ready. They aren’t watching us that closely. They want those planes. Run. Run in four different directions. Try to escape! Understand?”

Her heart pounding, Rachel nodded. Nervously she licked her lips. The droning sound of the Mustangs drew closer. Their captors ignored them, getting ready to fire at the fighters. Shouts from various officers filled the air. The sky was blindingly bright blue, the summer sun bearing down on them.

Twisting the leather bonds, Rachel worked them frantically, trying to force them to stretch. The gesture was futile. Within seconds, the Mustangs would begin their low-level attack. Her throat ached with tension as she stood stiffly against the truck, waiting. In moments, she could be dead. Or she might get a second chance and live long enough to escape.

As she stood, watching the first sleek silver fighter plane line up to begin its attack, Rachel had one regret. She had never fallen in love. If it was her time to die, she would never know the man who could make her heart swell with unaccountable joy and love. It was a bittersweet thought that left a chasm of sadness within her as she got ready to make a dash for the grove to the right of the trucks.

“Beginning strafing run,” Chase ordered his squadron over the radio. He kicked left rudder, sending the Mustang down on the deck. The altimeter unwound rapidly until he leveled off at two hundred feet. The throbbing growl of the engine deepened as he pulled back on the throttle, popping the air brakes. The fighter slowed considerably, and Chase aimed the nose down, lining up on the road. The stalled convoy appeared in the gun-sight mechanism.

“Okay, Rachel McKenzie, get your sweet rear out of there,” he muttered, thumbing the trigger located on the stick. The fighter shook, the roar of the fifty-caliber guns vibrating through the fuselage.

Geysers of debris exploded in a sewing-machine-like pattern through the center of each truck on the long, snaking dirt road. Chase felt satisfaction as one truck after another caught fire. Hundreds of troops were running and diving for cover. He saw the blinking of small arms and rifle fire up at him. The “thunk, thunk, thunk” of bullets striking the fuselage peppered his awareness. Yanking back on the stick at the end of the convoy, Chase nosed the fighter around for another run. Below him, the other three fighters were making their runs, tearing up the trucks, creating absolute havoc. Where were the Americans? Had they managed to flee?

“Run!” Hall cried. The first fighter roared over, shaking the ground beneath its path.

Rachel gulped back a cry, crawling beneath the truck and appearing on the other side of it. She paid no attention to the scrapes on her elbows or knees as she leaped upright, sprinting for the cover of the trees that stood fifty feet away.

Fifty feet. It was a lifetime to Rachel. Bullets chewed up the soil all around her; the cry of angry enemy soldiers filled the air, along with the shriek of the fighters swooping over her. Gasping, she slipped, her bound hands making her less balanced on the steep slope.
Get up! Get up!
Digging the toes of her boots into the rocky, dry soil, Rachel ran blindly toward the grove. Only twenty-five feet to go!

Rachel heard sharpened cries in Korean aimed in her direction. Risking a look across her shoulder, she saw the commanding officer gesturing wildly at her, bellowing orders. He aimed his pistol. Adrenaline surged through Rachel and she lunged forward, falling into a thick wall of scratchy brush. Flailing wildly, she tore through the brush to the other side. Pieces of tree bark splintered and flew all around her. Landing hard on her hands and knees, Rachel lurched to her feet, keeping low. The officer was trying to kill her!

Sweat trickled into her eyes, her black hair matted against her brow as she struggled to her feet and ran harder than ever. Weaving between the bushes within the grove, Rachel worked her way toward the top of the hill, half a mile away. If she could just make it over that crest, maybe she could lose them and regain her freedom. Below, she heard the American fighters roaring over again in a second attack. If they could keep the enemy engaged, she could escape!

Keep moving, keep moving, Rachel McKenzie! Don’t you dare slow down!
Her lungs felt as if they were on fire, each breath torn from her mouth in a ragged gulp. Tripping, falling, getting back to her feet, Rachel weaved drunkenly through the grove. The rocky hill sported parched strands of yellowed grass, mute testament to the lack of water. Her thighs were cramping from the sheer exertion of her efforts. It didn’t matter. Rachel crouched instinctively when one of the fighters roared only feet overhead.

Her eyes widening, Rachel saw greasy black smoke trailing the Mustang as it sank below the hill, obviously in trouble. She could hear the engine sputtering and coughing.
Oh, no!
One of the Americans had been hit trying to help them! Tears jammed into her eyes. She scrambled up the hill, the rocks cutting viciously at her palms and fingers.

The crown of the hill became Rachel’s goal. Within minutes, she’d crested it and was running in long, uneven strides down the other side. Above her, she saw the silver Mustang struggling to gain some altitude, more black smoke pouring from the engine and tongues of fire spurting from beneath the cowling.

Everywhere Rachel looked, thick groves of trees dotted the rocky hills. Gasps of air exploded from her mouth as she forced herself to continue to run down the hill, heading toward the valley below lined with trees and heavy brush. At any moment that officer could be sending out a patrol to track her down. She owed these brave pilots more than that.

New determination flowed into Rachel as she slipped into the grove of trees at the bottom of the valley. Looking back, she saw no one following her. Not yet. Lifting her eyes skyward, she saw that the fighter definitely was in trouble, and so was the pilot. Halting, her legs shaking with weariness, Rachel leaned heavily against a tree, watching the drama unfold before her eyes.

The fighter was barely maintaining five thousand feet. Suddenly the engine quit. Rachel drew a sharp breath, stifling a cry. She saw the canopy pop open and tumble off. The pilot leaped from the plane. Her bound hands flew to her mouth. Just as he made his jump, the fighter rolled in the same direction, out of control. The pilot’s helmeted head smashed into the tail section of the plane and his body went limp just as the parachute opened.

“My God,” Rachel muttered, already beginning a slow trot in the direction of where the pilot would land. Even from this distance, she could see he was a big man, his arms and legs hanging lifeless, silhouetted against the brilliant blue of the sky.

Her legs were rubbery from exertion, but Rachel doggedly trotted down into the valley, always keeping an eye on the white parachute swinging lazily from side to side in the afternoon breeze. The North Koreans had probably seen the plane go down. Were they aware that the pilot ejected?

Rachel leaped across a dry streambed. She spotted a thin outcrop of rock near the bank. By this time, the pilot and parachute had come down somewhere beyond the grove of trees. She knew the approximate area where he’d landed, about a mile ahead of her. Bending down, Rachel placed her leather bound wrists against the rock, rubbing them back and forth.

After several minutes, the rock sliced through the leather, freeing her hands. Rubbing her numb bluish wrists, Rachel forced herself to stand. Her legs were beginning to cramp again. Disregarding the pain, she trotted along the creek bed. The pilot was down. Was he dead? If he had survived the terrible collision with his aircraft, he’d be badly injured. Her mind racing, Rachel felt helpless. Even if he had survived, she had no medical supplies to help him.