# Fortunate Snoot Chapter 4

Fortunate Snoot
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Chapter 4
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Ten Hueys thundered through the clear blue sky in a rough V pattern, like a flock of belligerent turbine-powered geese. Half had red crosses, the others bristled with rocket pods and 7.62mm miniguns. A caveboy with no discernable face and a pterodactyl girl whose snoot protruded about a foot in front of her sat in a cockpit near the middle of the formation. A pink fluffy medic in aviators and a puffy-eyed purple triceratops sat behind them in the cabin.
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Fang held a commercial radio up to her mic. It was switched to the North Vietnamese Army propaganda station Radio Hanoi, and three of the four were uncontrollably giggling at the broadcast.
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“-mislead by your leaders! They have sadly misinformed you of the true facts of why you are here! To be exploded, bayoneted, torn into pieces for a lie, do you want this? The moment you land here, American servicedinos, the clock is ticking for you; we do not want you here, and you will die here. American servicecavemen, do you think the same capitalist imperialist dinos who laugh at you and call you ‘skinny’, do you think they care about you? Your cause-”
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Reed’s lazy drawl crackled over the headset, “Hey, they’re not wrong, this capitalist is building a Raptor-Jesus-damned carfe empire out here.”
Anon hit the mic. “Someone keeps colonising the dino nuggies from our MRE stash, wonder who that could be?”
“Just let your commanding officer worry about that, I’ll keep a close eye on those” Fang chimed in.
“More like a close snoot on them.”
Fang laughed and moved the radio back in position.
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“-when you sit alone at night in your stifling barracks surrounded by a countryful of men and women who hate you and have the true revolutionary fervour to remove you, when the bullet pierces you, will it have been worth it? Your time is up, GI Joe. Tick, tock.”
“Tick, tock,” echoed Fang and Anon, in the manner of a devout churchgoer saying amen, then burst into laughter again.
“Man, she never gets old,” said Reed.
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A recording of a truly awful Vietnamese soprano began playing, voice rising into an unearthly screech. Fang winced and switched over to the US-run Armed Forces Vietnam Network, which at least had decent taste in music. The UH-1 flew on through a warm blue sky over a brilliant green jungle.
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As they arrived at Soc Trang, the fact it was a great deal more spartan than Tan Son Nhut really hit home. The larger air base in Saigon had a mess hall, air conditioning, and even a bar. Soc Trang had a bunch of ramshackle huts with sandbags along all the walls, some still with shrapnel lodged in them or sporting burn marks.
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They stood to attention yet again and listened to yet another primer on what they were doing here. The group were now stationed much closer to the front. They would be able to support an increasingly strung out and scattered “frontline,” insofar as the current clusterfuck of a war even had one. They were replacing a group who’d been stationed there for a month straight. They were to give nothing less than 110%. They were to uphold the finest traditions of the airforce. They were representing their country. So on, and so on, and so on.
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After a boring half an hour in the hot sun they were dismissed, and left to settle into their lodgings. Trish flopped her bag down and left to go establish dominance amongst her fellow crew chiefs and specialist technicians, Fang was dragged away to another briefing, and Reed and Anon were left alone.
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“Hey man, got a couple of ‘business contacts’ to reach out to,” said Reed. “Want to come with?”
“What are you getting me into, Reed?” muttered Anon, before saying “no problem!” in a much louder and clearer voice.
“First one is a corporal assigned to perimeter guard duty here. We’ll go say hi, see if he can get his hands on some dope or whatever. Slowly build up the relationship with a couple of minor deals.” He passed a small rectangle to Anon.
“...Reed Import/Export business cards? Seriously? And in crayon?”
“Yeah man, marketing is the cornerstone of commerce,” explained Reed.
“The pink bicep holding an AK is a nice touch.”
“Thank you, Anon!”
“So’s the yellow and black ancap flag.”
“I knew you’d appreciate true art, bro.”
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Fang walked back from the briefing; a totally pointless one, since her crew wouldn’t be flying until tomorrow. Coming up through the gap between two of the dilapidated barracks, she saw a silhouette push itself off the wall in front of her.
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“A big shot police commissioner’s daughter, all the way out here?” a white-scaled orange-crested Dilophosaurus sneered. “What, daddy didn’t buy your way out? Or did you actually volunteer to be here?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” asked Fang, feeling more confused than angry.
“You’re Ripley Aaron’s kid, right? Volcano High, shitty emo-rock band, rebellious species-mixing boyfriend?” The Dilophosaurus grabbed her shoulder roughly. “That old asshole is the one in charge of rounding up draft dodgers for Caldera Bay. You’re gonna find that neither he nor you are real popular here.” He pushed past her roughly and rammed her into the side of the hut, face screwed up with disgust, then sauntered off.
Fang looked down at her muddy arm, the shock of the unexpected confrontation giving way to the pumping adrenaline of fight-or-flight. “Fuck you too, asshole!” she screamed at his back, and picked up a dirty discarded bottle from the ground to hurl. It exploded into shards on a beam behind him.
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Then more quietly as she leant against the wall and waited for the jitters to subside. “Dad?” she whispered.
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Trish clambered up onto Rosa’s heli. She reached down to grab the socket wrench from Rosa.
“Thanks for offering to help swap out the rotor assembly, mi amiga. I’m good at the heavy lifting, but these bolts… al diablo con esos.” Rosa crossed herself after the minor blasphemy.
“Hey, a woman who promises me a tail-rotor driveshaft with two thousand flight hours left gets whatever she wants,” Trish replied. Both dinos smiled the warm but predatory smile of two mothers providing for a pair of enormous metal babies.
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They attached the first rotor blade to a hand crane, beginning the first hour of the many they’d spend swapping out the rotor assembly.
Trish gossiped as she removed bolts. “Sooooo... I overheard some of the rotor specialists say that rustbucket Doctordoctor would be out for at least a week after they found a ding on her rotor yoke - inventory doesn’t have a spare. Might be worth checking out, see if we can arrange some early Christmas presents from the rubes.”
“Esos tontos. They would give up their mothers for a six pack of beer. That’s where your new driveshaft comes from.”
Trish gasped. “A six pack?” She shook her head in derision. “Like taking candy from a baby.”
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They worked on into the night. Trish sank herself into the gossiping, banter, and hard work. She could almost forget Rosa was on the same crew as Stella.
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