Tucker's Last Stand Read Free

shouldn’t be on it in the first place, but then they shouldn’t be in South Vietnam, the way I figure it—”
    They were distracted by the sound of the helicopter approaching. The rotors were deafening as the large OH-13 Sioux began to squat down. It had reached a hovering station only a few feet above the ground when they heard the shot coming from the bushy ravine below. One of the pilots slumped in the cockpit. Montana snapped orders even as his own rifle began to spit fire into the densest bush to the right of the plane.
    â€œ Cover cover cover move your ass Binh !”
    The three natives were on their stomachs firing. Blackford had only his pistol. He leaned over and shouted to Montana.
    â€œ We’ll have to run for it .” Montana needed no instructions in guerrilla technique. He slapped Binh on the shoulder. “Tell your men to continue firing, you run into the chopper with Mr. Oakes. Resume firing when you get there. Tell the other guys to begin running when we pick up your covering fire.”
    Montana, Binh, and Oakes ran the fifty yards, then crouched beside the helicopter, firing into the ravine. The two guides rushed forward. The second one was stopped by a bullet a dozen yards before reaching the chopper. Blackford started back to fetch him and was floored by Tucker Montana’s heavy fist. “You mind your business goddamnit, Oakes. Get in the chopper.” Montana himself, crouching his huge frame, went back and dragged the wounded guide back, as if he were light as a child. Binh was firing now from the open window of the helicopter. Blackford fired, and then pulled up the wounded guide as Montana shouted to the pilot to take off. The helicopter rose quickly and Blackford reached over the cockpit seat to help the copilot, whose head was far over, the chin thrust down, the flying helmet on his lap, where the man had put it just before a bullet entered his right temple. Blackford turned to the pilot on the left. “You want me on the controls, Jeff?”
    â€œNahr,” he said. “I can handle it. Just check the radio signals for me.” He handed Blackford his clipboard. Blackford studied it. He stretched over the copilot to adjust the radio to the frequency for Checkpoint Alpha at Savannakhet. Then he took a knife from his belt and cut away his rolled-up sleeve. With the strip of cloth he bound the wound of the dead flyer. The bullet had entered one temple and come out the other. He found himself thinking, oddly, sadly, Well, at least we were firing in the right direction. After binding the wound he leaned back in the second row of seats. In the rear cabin, Binh tended to the shattered knee of his guide. Suddenly, at two thousand feet of altitude, the air was cool. “Welcome to Vietnam, Mr. Oakes,” said Tucker Montana.

2
    April 5, 1964
    Aboard the Yai-Bi-Kih
    En route to Cincinnati, Ohio
    The senator stretched his legs and set his heels on the edge of the empty seat opposite him in his chartered 727 jet. He rested his sunburned hands on the table as he read over the text of the speech he would give that night in Cincinnati. The airplane had passed through the turbulence and now no motion was felt, except for the quiet purring of the engines. His young speech writer, Fred Anderson, sat on his right, making notes on the carbon copy where the senator indicated, as he read out loud, minor changes he wanted—“Not ‘President LBJ.’ President Johnson.”
    â€œHow about, ‘My predecessor, President Johnson’?” Freddy asked with a smile.
    Goldwater released a quick grin, going back to the text. Goldwater continued reading in a monotone, interrupting himself from time to time to comment on the speech, or on something a passage he was reading reminded him of, and Fred Anderson knew through experience when such interruptions were an invitation to counter-remarks by him or when he was simply supposed to listen. Or when, catching