BAT-21 (13 page)

Hambleton sat shaking in his hole, trying to
regroup his shattered senses. Abandonment was one thing.
But why
the hell were they so intent on blowing him to kingdom come?
Slowly his eyes came into focus; the buzzing began to diminish in his
ears. He looked around, batting the dust out of his eyes. And then he
saw something that made his heart skip a beat.

A limb, blown from a nearby tree, had crashed down
beside his hole—right over the spot where he kept Chester's cage.
He jumped from his hole and tore at the tree limb. Beneath it was the
flattened cage. An irrational dread stole over him as he gently
picked up the little house and explored its contents.

Inside he could just make out the flattened,
squashed body of the caterpillar.

Then the distant drums commenced again, marching
inexorably toward him—this time from a third direction. As the
destruction rolled toward him, he stood up and shook his fist at
the black sky.
“You bastards! You bloody bastards! You killed my
friend! Goddamn you!"

Then he flung himself into his hole, the
incoherent sounds of his voice drowned in the roar and crash of bombs
exploding closer and closer.

In the command post briefing room, Colonel Walker
and Major Piccard were studying aerial reconnaissance photos of the
B-52 raid.

"Look at those bomb craters," said
Walker. "You got to hand it to those SAC bombardiers. They
stitched those bomb runs around Hambleton as neatly as you'd tat a
doily."

"Tat a doily, sir?"

Walker grunted. "I've got enough smart-assed
captains around here. I don't need any smart-assed majors."

Piccard wrapped a grin around his pipe stem. "Yes,
sir. That's a neat job of doily tatting if I ever saw one."

"Point is, Sam, how does it look? What have
the photo interpreters come up with?"

The intelligence officer stoked his pipe. "Among
other things we've certainly got a first for the
Guiness Book of
World Records
. First time a B-52 raid was ever used as a
diversion in an air-rescue attempt. Considering that the mission was
twofold—to try to convince the enemy that we've abandoned Hambleton
by making a massive air attack in his area and to try to cool things
down in a very hot sector—I'd say we almost certainly accomplished
at least the second objective.

"These pictures show that we created a hell
of a lot of confusion. And we hit several big gun emplacements,
destroyed the SAM site, and got some secondaries. Probably ammo
dumps." As Piccard talked, Captain Clark walked in, but Piccard
continued.

"And we might even have convinced the enemy
we've written off Hambleton."

"I don't know if we convinced the enemy we'd
given up our rescue attempts," said Clark, "but according
to Colonel Hambleton, we sure as hell convinced him."

Walker looked at Clark. "You just talked to
him?"

"Not exactly, sir. He did most of the
talking. Mentioned several times that we have a peculiar way of
trying to rescue old buddies."

"He didn't understand our strategy?"

"I think I finally got through to him. Did
the best I could without tipping off the gooks. What really ticked
him off was that his caterpillar was killed in the raid."

Walker looked narrowly at the pilot. "His
caterpillar
?"

"Yes. Colonel Ham had developed quite a
friendship with Chester. Since the first day."

"Let me get this straight. A caterpillar. In
the classic sense. A little furry worm."

"Yes, sir."

Walker looked at Piccard. "Sam, are you
thinking what I'm thinking?"

Piccard puffed on his pipe. "You're wondering
if the strain is getting to Hambleton? Is he beginning to show signs
of mental imbalance? I don't think so. Not necessarily, not simply
because he adopted a caterpillar. Remember, a hole in the ground can
hardly be considered a normal human habitat. Life suddenly becomes a
microcosm. A person can spend a good deal of time studying the
minutiae of life that normally he would never even notice. I once
debriefed a fighter pilot who had bailed out over an island in the
Pacific. Lived there for several months before being rescued. He had
made friends with a tarantula. It's not impossible that tarantula
might have helped preserve the pilot's sanity."

Walker grunted. "I'm only concerned with
Hambleton's well- being. He's got to stay r ational if we're to get
him out of there. Good God, it's been six days in that hole! It's
enough to make any man go off his trolley."

"Last night didn't help matters," added
Clark. "You know the hell he must have gone through during that
bombardment!"

"I don't even want to think about it,"
said Walker. "I just want to concentrate on his recovery. We've
got to get him out of there!" He turned to the photos. "Sam,
what's your intelligence estimate? Did we cool things enough to try
another chopper rescue?"

Piccard burned another match in his meerschaum.
"The B- fifty-twos did a lot of damage, Colonel. But they didn't
wipe out all the enemy guns. The North Vietnamese dig in like moles.
Since Hambleton's down right smack in their staging area, they can
replace the guns almost as fast as we destroy them. And here's
another problem." Piccard tapped the photo with his pipe stem.
"See these little villages? To the west of Hambleton's position?
The photo interpreters have spotted antiaircraft batteries dug in
right in the middle of them. According to Hambleton's report, the gun
here in this village is the one that knocked down the Jolly Green
crew."

"The hell!"

"With all the civilians in the village,"
continued Piccard, "and the war watchers, as Hambleton calls
them, the Communist gun crews think they're pretty safe. They know
it's Air Force policy not to go in and slaughter a bunch of
civilians. So they sit there fat and happy, surrounded by villagers,
and knock off our planes as they come in."

Walker's jaw clenched. "All right, Sam,
you've analyzed the problem. Now let's address ourselves to the
solution. We can't get Hambleton out of there until we remove the
guns. And we can't remove the guns because they're buried in the
middle of a flock of civilians. Therefore it seems we have just one
solution. Remove the civilians."

"That would seem like a logical approach,"
said Clark. "But easier said than done."

"Not necessarily," said Walker. He
turned to a sergeant sitting at a nearby desk. "Sergeant
Galotti, get me Colonel Black on the phone."

The sergeant picked up the phone and started
dialing.

"Who is Colonel Black?" asked Clark.

Walker threw the answer over his shoulder as he
moved to the phone. "Black is the CO of the Bullshit Bombers."

"Bat Twenty-one from Birddog. Come in, Bat
Twenty-one.
Come in!”
Worry contorted Clark's face as he
wheeled the little 0-2 around and came in for another pass, jazzing
his throttles. It was his third run over the area and still no
contact.

Hambleton had always responded immediately to his
calls, as if he had been spring loaded to pounce on his radio the
second Clark revved his engine. But now there was no answer. Had
something gone wrong? Was he sick? Had he been... Clark gunned his
engine, sweeping in low, picking up scattered small-arms fire. Except
for the stray soldiers taking potshots at him, things appeared
fairly quiet in the hazy sunlight below. "Goddamn it, man! Bat
Twenty-one,
come in!
"

"Hello, Birddog. Bat Twenty-one still here."

Relief flooded over Clark as he heard the voice
from below. "Goddamn, Bat! You scared the bejesus outa me!"

"Sorry, Birddog. I had a priority call from
Mother Nature. Ever tried digging a latrine with a hunting knife?"

Clark grinned with relief. "Can't say as I
have."

"Ain't easy. I figured if I was going to be
around a while I'd add a few conveniences. Also I'm going to start
saving my corncobs."

"Outstanding. But we're hoping you won't need
'em. We're coming up with another plan."

"Another one? Hope it's a helluva lot better
than the one last night."

"It's quieter. Just hang in while we execute
it."

"You execute your plan. In the meantime I'll
try to keep from being executed by the gomers. I suppose it's a
secret."

"Naturally. Want to keep the gooks on their
toes."

"Understand."

"Need anything?"

"Next CARE package, you might include some
TR"

"Roger," chuckled Clark. Hambleton was
sounding more like himself again. "Birddog listening out."

Hambleton switched off his radio. He was feeling
better. His old Birddog buddy had not abandoned him. Nor had the Air
Force. They were still in there slugging. He felt like an orphan who
had just been repossessed by his family.

He had had lots of time to fill in Birddog's
necessarily sketchy reason for the bombardment last night. As
nightmarish as it had been, he felt he fathomed it now. It had been a
first. He had known of no other time when SAR had used a B-52 raid as
a diversionary tactic. B-52's did not come cheap. And whether or not
the gomers were convinced the Air Force had given up on him, or
squashed him like Chester, things were undoubtedly a hell of a lot
quieter.

He brought a piece of corn up from his cellar,
stripped it, and started eating. Things were so tranquil he decided
to sit up on the edge of his hole and have his snack—look around
and get some sun.

He did so, and as he perched on the edge of his
hole munching, a movement on the outskirts of the nearest village
caught his eye. A cluster of soldiers was gathered around a lone
two-and-a-half-ton truck. They were taking something out of it.
Curious, he hunkered down and crawled along on his stomach to the
edge of the woods. He peeked through the cover, and then his morale
plummeted as he recognized the equipment that was being removed from
the truck.

Mine detectors!

Now it was just a matter of time before the only
barrier between him and the enemy would be wiped out. He groaned.
While the Air Force had deftly been dealing the cards, the Commies
had quietly been cornering all the aces.

Again the feeling of utter hopelessness surged
over him. Gripping his half-eaten cob in his teeth, he crawled back
toward his hole to notify Birddog.

Gwen Hambleton looked at her friend. "Marge,
I really don't think I should. Something tells me I should be here,
near the phone—"

"Nonsense! That's exactly what you need to
get away from. You've been sitting by that phone day and night now
for nearly a week. You need to get away."

"But what if something should happen? What if
they should need to get word to me?"

"Look! Ham's ten thousand miles away. He's
got the whole Air Force looking after him. Now just what could you do
if he did have a problem?"

Gwen nodded. "You're right. Maybe it would be
good for me to get away for a few hours."

"You know it would. Besides," she
grinned at Gwen, "I don't have to remind you that you have an
obligation to the Davis Monthan Women's Golf Association. The
tournament starts next week. If we don't get to Phoenix and pick up
those golf trophies we're going to have to face the wrath of thirty
women. A fate worse than death."

Gwen returned her friend's smile. "I'll get
ready. Be with you in a jiffy. There's iced tea in the fridge."

"I'll find it. Scoot."

Marge was pouring herself a glass of iced tea when
the phone rang. It was a man's voice, identifying the caller as being
from the Air Force Casualty Center in San Antonio. He asked for Mrs.
Hambleton.

"She can't come to the phone just now. This
is Marge Wilson, a close friend. May I take a message?"

The man politely agreed. As he talked, the color
slowly drained from Marge's face. When the message had been delivered
she asked several questions, thanked him, and hung up. Then Gwen came
into the room.

"I hope I've got everything. I seem to be
about as organized as a Chinese fire...." Her eyes fell on Marge
sitting stiffly at the bar, her face ashen. "Marge? What is it?"

"There was a phone call from the casualty
center. Honey, you'd better sit down."

"It's not...."

"No, Ham's all right. Ham's all right. They
tried to send a rescue helicopter in to pick him up. It was hit. No
survivors. But Ham wasn't in it. He's okay."

"Dear God in heaven!"

Gwen collapsed on a barstool as Marge tried to
comfort her. "I know this is a terrible shock. But don't let it
get to you. The casualty officer said they'll keep trying. They're
still in communication with Ham. They'll get him out."

Gwen fumbled into her purse, pulled out a
handkerchief. She dabbed at her tears. "I know they will. But
right now I'm not thinking of Gene." She looked up at Marge, her
face contorted. "I'm thinking of the men in that helicopter..
.and their families. It's all so horrible!"

It was midafternoon. Dog tired from having been up
most of the night, Hambleton had tried to take a nap in the warm sun,
but had given up. Every time he was about to nod off there would be
another explosion. The soldiers manning the detectors had kept right
at their assignment. Every time they detected a land mine they would
destroy it. Sleeping had been impossible. He had finally crawled to
his vantage point overlooking the paddies, and was now watching the
soldiers as they nibbled away at the outside perimeter of his Maginot
Line.

From time to time a Sandy would wheel down out of
the sun, strafe the area, and—with a howl—disappear back up into
the clouds. It was a delaying tactic at best. At the first sound of
impending attack, the soldiers would run for cover, then once the
plane was gone they would return to their mine-sweeping operation
as though nothing had happened. In the course of the afternoon, two
more loads of gravel had been dropped. They added to the frustration
of the enemy but did little toward solving the long-range problem.