DISCLAIMER: The Young Riders is the creation of Ed Spielman, and the property of Ogiens/Kane productions in association with MGM/UA television. This Story is created for entertainment purposes only, no infringement intended. Not to be copied without permission from the author.
WARNING: This Story contains an alternative Universe theme, if this type of story is not to your liking or will somehow offend you please return to Tall Tales and choose another Story.
Dark Chocolate coloured eyes peered out over the lush rainforest as it flashed by beneath the huge chopper ferrying them on their latest mission. Dark Eyes that had seen too much too early. Flying at what would be an alarming rate to a person who hadn’t been on a military chopper every other day for the last two years. Flying so low, the skids almost skimmed the jungle canopy, he watched the verdant green trees flashing by. Casting his gaze out across the patchwork of soggy rice paddies and lush clumps of elephant grass, completing the never ending landscape that was Vietnam.
Dragging his attention back from the neverending green landscape, he cast his eyes around the belly of the huey he was seated in, and looked at his companions. The eight of them had managed to achieve something no other Long Range Recon Patrol squad in this Vietnam Conflict had been able to achieve – they had survived two years ‘incountry’ without loss. None of them understood how they had managed to achieve this feat but he had a feeling their luck was about to change. This morning they had been saddled with a greenhorn reporter and his cameraman, just to make their lives that little bit more interesting. As if Vietnam itself wasn’t enough of a challenge.
He watched them as they prepared themselves mentally for the mission they were about to tackle head on, as they did all their missions, his intuitive gaze not missing a detail of their mental preparations.
Their OIC was seated on the other side of the chopper, his back to the pilot. Lt Sam Cain, a rugged yet handsome man, was older than the rest of the men in his squad. A career soldier, he was good at his job, and cared for his men. Perhaps that was why they were always willing to put their lives on the line for him. They knew that no matter what the cost he would not leave his men.
Seated next to the LT was the squad hot head PFC Jimmy Hickock, his long brown hair tied back with a slim leather thong. He sat with his helmet pushed back on his head and cradled his precious M60 Machine Gun in his lap, his extra ammo on belts criss crossed across his chest. Two old fashioned six shooters were worn gunfighter low on his hips, just as his namesake would have worn them. His eyes closed as he contemplated their fate this day.
The Squad joker sat on Hicocks side absentmindedly cleaning his M16. As he sat there damp tendrils of his blonde shoulder length hair were held back from his face by the webbing beneath his helmet. Cody was a couple of years younger than the rest of the team, but his ability as a sniper and sharpshooter was yet to be matched by anyone in the battalion. Besides the squad was formed in training and they had forged a bond that no-one, not even command, was about to break.
The reporter was seated beside Cody, McCloud his name was, his fatigues crisp and new, his wire rimmed glasses perched on his nose. A tiny frail looking man, who they all knew would not cope with the jungle warfare they had to know to survive. The whole squad knew that they would have to carry him as well as his cameraman but Captain Hunter was determined that he would go with their squad, so now they had no choice but to accept it.
The cameraman was slightly larger than McCloud and was sitting cross legged beside him, his camera cradled in his lap, listening intently to the words that McCloud was saying to him, both of them gesturing animatedly with their hands, defining what they wanted to do. He shrugged his shoulders almost absently. He realised that they were here to do a job so he harboured no ill feeling towards them not like some of them.
Seated opposite Lt Cain, PFC Noah Dixon. The squad radio man was one who most resented the media being with them. The only black man in the squad carried a chip on his shoulder that weighed heavier than his pack or the M19 he held. He wore his colour like a badge with everyone but the rest of the squad.
The second in charge of the squad, their Sergeant sat watching his men, quietly playing his harmonica. He was a quiet and somehow gentle man in the midst of the chaos that made this war what it was. He was perhaps the best soldier of the lot of them but felt less compelled to prove himself as the others did. As did the others, he carried a weapon of his own choosing, his a Remington870 shotgun, as well as his standard issue M16.
That left one other person in the squad beside him. His best friend, PFC Ike McSwain, map reader extraordinaire and squad medic. Ike was the only one who had seen action here before coming to the squad. Traumatised deeply by a tragic firefight that wiped out his whole squad, he never spoke, but was a natural at map reading and was a part of their little family, so everybody accepted his lack of speech. His helmet covering a bald head he sat checking the medical supplies in his pack.
He glanced down at his own gear making sure that he had his everpresent Indian knife in its sheath on his boot. He reached back and tied the bandanna he wore around his forehead tighter then slipped his helmet onto his head, watching as the door gunners took sharper notice of their surroundings. They watched as Kid and Sam gesticulated at each other across the chopper, their shorthand gestures being read by everyone. The hair on the back of every neck standing on end as they realised that the chopper was descending to their LZ and the start of yet another fight. The camera was rolling…. and McCloud watching the faces intently as it did. The voice of their regular pilot Lt Hack Wilkins calling good luck to each of them rang in their ears as they leapt from the hovering chopper and went to meet their fate.
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