BAT-21 (17 page)

"I'm with you, Birddog. We have to do
something, even if it ain't too bright."

"Roger, Bat. We're working on a plan."

"I hope to hell it's a good one."

"When can you start?"

"Anytime. Just have to leave a note for the
milkman."

"Outstanding. I'll get back to you with the
plan. In the meantime get all the rest you can. You're gonna need
it."

"Roger. One thing, Birddog. Gotta travel at
night. No daylight or twilight."

"Understand, Bat. Be checking back soon.
Birddog out."

Hambleton had now committed himself. The die was
cast. He leaned back in his hole. Was this walking-out plan really
possible? Didn't matter! It was goddamn grim, but it seemed the best
deal.

What were the alternatives, anyway? Not much. Not
a big helluva lot. The land-mine protection—period. That was all.
No. He had made the right choice. Damned if he was going to stay in a
hole and rot.

He carefully made his way to his vantage point. He
looked out, studying the black terrain washed occasionally by the
light of the waxing moon peeking through high stratus clouds. Some
fog was creeping in on its belly, hugging the ground, but visibility
was a little better than usual. It was fairly quiet. Except for the
rumble of the traffic and the clank of tank treads on the highway, it
could have been his Arizona moon. Next to the village to the east he
could make out a small group of soldiers unloading something from a
blacked-out truck. Probably more mine detectors to replace those that
had been destroyed in the last attack.

Then he felt a surge of anxiety. Those land mines.
How could they get him through the gravel? Hell, how? Except for a
chopper or some great cherry picker that could reach across and pluck
him from his hole, there was just no other way. The very defense that
had kept the enemy at bay would surely keep him a prisoner in his
small reservation.

He shook himself, shivering despite the sweat.
Leave it to them! The powers back at the head shed must have
something in mind. Birddog said they were working on a plan. All he
could do

was trust them. But even so, if he was to get
through those mines, best he try and memorize the surrounding
terrain.

Directly to the west were rice paddies several
hundred feet square, surrounded by small ditches. Since the plowing
had been done only recently, no rice had been planted and there was
no water in the ditches. A narrow path ran along the top of the
slight buildup between the ditches of each paddy. Here and there on
the paths were small clumps of bushes, offering at least some
protection in case he had to dive into one.

The freshly plowed ground offered another problem
he had to remember. The imprint of his flying boots would be a dead
giveaway; not too many Vietnamese soldiers wore size twelve boots.
Anyone discovering his prints would know immediately the direction
in which he was walking, and would be about as difficult to follow as
a drunken bear. He was going to have to play it cool. Real cool.

And on the other side of the village, what lay
there? What formidable trap would he stumble into? Aside from the
gomers and the unfriendlies, what about snakes, poisonous insects,
and other predators that sought refuge in the same dens as he? And
what if...

Oh hell, he had to cool it! Cross one bridge at a
time. Make it through that mine field, then take on the other
problems as they come. One at a time.

Back in his hole, he began preparations for his
depature. He picked up his survival vest and took inventory. It would
be wise to travel as light as possible. First, the pen-gun flares.
They were small but they were also heavy; Birddog had told him they
probably wouldn't be needed, so out they went. There were a few bills
of Thai money. It was a good guess he wouldn't be doing a hell of a
lot of shopping on the way to the river. Ditch 'em. Same with oxygen
mask—not much use for an oxygen mask in the river, especially with
no oxygen. The helmet? That took a little more mental debate. It had
been good protection and had served as his pillow for a week. But it
was too heavy and conspicuous. With some hesitancy he elected to
leave it behind, too.

He would take his knife, revolver, first-aid kit,
radio, and the other type of flares, gloves, and boots. And of course
his eyeglasses. They had become a sort of fetish, a security blanket.
Somehow he felt that as long as he had his specs, he would somehow
muddle through. Besides, it wasn't cricket to hit anybody with
glasses on.

Everything that was to stay behind he stuffed
tightly into his helmet. He then put it in the bottom of the hole and
covered it with the dirt he had dug out, even going so far as to
transplant a small fern in the soft fill, so the spot would not be
marked in a day or two by dying foliage. Then with an leafy branch he
swept away his footprints, took one last long look at the spot in
which he had spent the longest week in his life, and with no small
sense of misgiving crawled to the edge of the clearing.

He pulled out his radio and waited for the message
from Birddog.

Captain Clark entered the command post, squinting
from the bright light and the blue haze of tobacco smoke that filled
the room. He strode over to a table near the podium that bore up
under a large coffee urn and a platter heaped with sandwiches. He
poured himself a cup of coffee, picked up a ham on rye, and moved
through the clusters of sweating staff officers to the wall map that
was the focus of attention for Walker and another bird colonel. The
other colonel was a stranger to Clark.

Walker acknowledged Clark's presence with a raise
of his brows, and pointed to the latest reconnaissance photo of
Hambleton's hiding place, which had been blown up to nearly wall-
sized proportions. The other colonel was working on the map, drawing
a zigzag course from Hambleton's dug-in position to the river. Clark
watched silently for a moment. When he had fnished wolfing down his
sandwich, Walker spoke up.

"Captain Clark, meet Colonel Ott."

"Glad to meet you, sir," said Clark.

"My pleasure, Captain," said Ott. "I
understand you're Hambleton's FAC."

"One of 'em, sir."

"Guardian angels more like it." said
Walker. "How is Hambleton?"

"Hard to tell, Colonel. He puts up a good
front. Still has his sense of humor. When I asked him if he wanted to
travel, he said all he had to do was leave a note for the milkman."

Ott grinned. "That sounds like the old
bastard."

"Colonel Ott is an old golfing buddy of
Hambleton's," said Walker. "He's come up with a plan to get
Hambleton to the river."

"Outstanding," said Clark. "He's
sitting on ready."

"I'm not too sure how outstanding the plan
is," said Walker. "But we've had the wing staff locked up
in this room since noon yesterday, when we got the word to stand down
another Jolly Green attempt. The staff has come up with some real
gems. We've considered everything from tunneling in to get him to
dropping a balloon and helium pack so he could float out. I won't
even tell you some of the others. It's been a long night."

"But you have come up with a plan?" said
Clark.

Walker rubbed his eyelids with the tips of his
fingers. "I guess you could call it a plan. It's pretty far out.
But the staff agrees it's worth a try. I just hope to God it works.
Frank, show Clark what we've come up with."

"Right," said Ott. "Clark, as
Colonel Walker just told you, I'm an old golfing buddy of
Hambleton's. We've played many a hole together. All over the world. I
don't know if anyone ever told you, but Hambleton's one of the best
golfers in the Air Force. Would you believe a five handicap? I hate
the SOB. Anyway, come up here to the map and I'll explain the
scheme."

Clark listened, studying the zigzag lines that had
been drawn in on the plastic overlay. When Ott finished, Clark closed
a mouth that had flopped open. Then he swallowed. "I think,
gentlemen, that is the goddamndest plan I've ever seen!"

Hambleton lay in the brush, half dozing, fighting
sleep lest he miss Birddog's call. For several hours he had lain
there. In another couple hours it would be dawn. Should he start back
to his hole, dig in before daylight came? Should he ... But there it
was! The sound of Birddog's engines. Praise Allah!

He tried to quell the tremor in his voice. "Bat
Twenty-one here, Birddog."

"Roger, Bat, QSY to Delta channel."

He switched his radio to D channel. "On
Delta."

"Roger, Bat. In case the gooks find this
discrete frequency, keep your transmissions short."

"Wilco."

"Ready to spread your wings?"

"Spirit's willing."

"Outstanding. Now you know your destination?"

"Affirmative."

"Rog. And we're going to get you there.
Understand you're quite a golfer."

Hambleton blinked, then stared at his radio. "Say
again, Birddog."

"Golf, Bat. Understand you play golf."

"Sure I play golf."

"And you've played a lot of the big courses."

What the hell was Birddog doing? "Know a lot
of courses. Yes."

"I hope you remember them."

"I do." He had always made it a point to
remember the courses and the holes. Like a good salesman, a golfer
has to know the territory.

"Outstanding. Because we're about to play a
brisk eighteen holes."

That did it. Hambleton stared at his radio in
disbelief. Was he dreaming all this? The FAC pilot was crazy. Too
much strain, weird things happen to pilots who jazz their throttles
too much. "Play a golf game?"

"Affirmative. With your old golf crony,
Colonel Frank Ott."

Frank Ott! That old scoundrel! What the hell? He
wasn't even in the theater!

"Do you read, Bat?"

"I read." I'm going to play eighteen
holes with Frank Ott. I'll get my clubs."

"Sooner you tee off the better. Maybe we can
get several holes in before daylight. Let me know when you're ready."

Hambleton's eyeballs beseeched the heavens for
assistance. Good God! It was obvious the young pilot had really
flipped.

"Our first hole is number one at Tucson
National."

Wait a minute. Birddog's voice didn't sound crazy.
"You say I'm to tee off on hole number one of the Tucson
National Golf Course."

"Roger. Before you start be damned sure you
line your shot up properly. Very bad traps on this hole."

"Stand by, Birddog. Discussing this shot with
my caddy."

"Take your time, Bat."

"Roger." Now let's see, he had to go at
this thing analytically. He was supposed to get to the river. If he
could float down it a ways, he'd get out of this flrefight furnace.
And to get to the Suwannee he was going to play eighteen holes of
golf. And the first hole was to be the number-one hole at Tucson
National. Now why number one at Tucson?

He thought back to the beautiful course out
northwest of the city. There it lay, a robe of green on the lap of
those purple-pink mountains. He had played the course a hundred times
with old Frank Ott. But why the course at Tucson? And why number-one
hole?

Wait! That hole was long and straight. And it was
several hundred yards in length—430 yards, to be exact. And with
sand traps. Why not the seventh hole? It was about the same length.
Why not ... and then it hit him. Direction! That was it, direction!
Number one at Tucson goes southeast! And southeast was roughly in the
direction of the river. Goddamn! That's it! Birddog wasn't crazy. He
was brilliant!

What a plan! Probably inspired by Frank Ott or
another of his old golfing cronies. This was the code they would use
so as not to tip off the enemy. A gomer would no more know the
direction of the first hole at Tucson National than Hambleton would
know the route of a Vietcong sampan race.

His yo-yo spirits climbed up the string. Thank God
he was a navigator. It was second nature for him to know directions.
He even wore a small compass on a string around his neck when he
played golf. And there were a good half-dozen courses he could sit
down right now and draw from memory, give or take a few degrees on
the lay of the holes. "Birddog from Bat Twenty-one. Ready to tee
off."

There was a marked lilt in Birddog's response.
"From the sound of your voice, I think you know what we're
trying to do."

"I think I do."

"Outstanding. One word of caution. Be sure of
hole number one. It will take you through the gravel. The last F-4
strike chopped a narrow corridor through the tulip field."

"Roger."

There was a pause, then, "Good luck, Bat
Twenty-one."

"Thanks, Birddog. Teeing off now."

"Fore!" came back the crisp reply.

Hambleton stood erect behind one of the trees that
bordered his refuge. A gamut of emotions rippled through him: fear at
leaving his sanctuary; elation at starting off on a positive project
that just might lead to freedom; a touch of euphoria as he stood
erect, acting like a human being instead of the stalked animal he had
been for the past seven days.

He looked around. The moon had been blocked out by
high clouds, and the terrain in front of him was india ink, dabbled
with gray spots of fog. Only an orange glow in the southwest intruded
on the darkness, marking the long wooden bridges that planes had set
afire the night before. It was an eerie, foreboding yet enticing
netherworld.

He pulled out his compass. He knew the bearing of
the first hole and he understood Birddog's confirming hint about the
tulip field. In the darkness he barely made out the heading of 135
degrees southeast. Sighting along it, he fixed on the shadowy outline
of a distant clump of brush. He took his golfer's stance—a small,
incongruous smile playing his lips—and flexed his body. There was
stiffness in every muscle, but he concentrated on his form ... feet
just so ... keep that arm straight ... then he swung back an
imaginary club and whacked the invisible ball.