BAT-21 (18 page)

Right down the middle. "Now following
through," he muttered. "Hot damn, Hambone, Let's go!"

He started out. He headed into no-man's-land.
Softly, carefully, he planted each step. Feeling his way more
than seeing it, his breath locked in his chest for fear of making
noise, each footfall was an eternity. Praying that his rescuers had
the right fix on the gravel corridor, he crept painfully forward,
using protesting muscles and bones that had done little but soak up
dampness for a week. He had paced off enough putts to know his normal
stride was roughly a yard, and he counted steps as he went, stopping
often to check his compass.

His vision adapted to the darkness, yet he could
barely make out the scrubby brush. "Just keep watching that
brush, moving straight toward it," he kept telling himself over
and over, endeavoring to take his mind off the land mines. It
wasn't easy. Visions of the soldiers mangled by the insidious
explosives kept swimming through his head. True, the F-4's were good,
but there was no guarantee that they had destroyed all the mines in
the corridor. This damn fairway still might have some hidden traps in
it.

Stopping often, listening, sniffing the wind, he
spotted movement to the south. The soldiers had recovered from
the fierce attack earlier. They were now preparing to resume their
minesweeping. They were hundreds of yards away, but even so he
quickened his strides.

After thirty minutes of this he was tiring fast.
The unaccustomed exertion, the terrible strain of being on the
constant alert for gravel and gomers was taking its toll. He had to
rest soon. He counted off the approximate number of yards the first
hole should be just as he came to a fork of a path that ran off in
two directions. The clump of brush was exactly at the intersection.
He plopped into it, sat listening quietly for any signs of detection.
Then he clicked on his radio and whispered into it.

"Birddog from Bat Twenty-one. Estimate end of
first hole."

"Roger, Bat Twenty-one. You near a fork in
the fairway?"

"Affirmative."

"Congratulations. Hole in one. Didn't see any
explosions, so you musta stayed out of the sand traps. Now some of
these holes you'll be playing may not make sense to you. But there's
a reason for them. For one, we're trying to keep you out of soft
fairways. Golf-shoe divots would be a red flag. So watch 'em."

Hambleton clicked an acknowledgment.

"Ready for the next hole?"

He clicked his transmitter again.

"Roger. Next is hole number five at Davis
Monthan."

Hambleton thought for a moment. The fifth hole at
Davis Monthan Air Base went due east. About four hundred yards. Not a
difficult hole. He checked his compass, took a deep breath, and
started out on a heading of ninety degrees. He could just make out
the outlines of a grove of trees in the distance and he began
counting his strides.

His eyes were adjusting better to the night. He
could see a narrow path underfoot, small bushes to either side. He
was sure he was out of the gravel area by now, and this made him
breathe a little easier. Roughly forty minutes later, the number of
strides clicked off, he looked around him. There was the small copse
of trees several paces away. He made a dive for it.

He hadn't realized what poor shape he was in. He
sat for a moment, waiting for his lungs to catch up. Then he called
the FAC with his progress report.

"Outstanding," said Birddog. "Another
hole in one?"

"Would you believe four strokes?"

"Jack Nicklaus you ain't. But here's a chance
to improve your score. Next hole is number five at Shaw Air Force
Base."

"Roger. Number five at Shaw." While he
caught his breath, Hambleton concentrated. Number five at the air
base curved slightly to the northeast. He checked his compass, lining
up the hole. He checked it again, looking puzzled. That course would
take him toward the village to the east—a village that had been
heavily fortified. True, the last fighter attack had beat it up, but
this was the one with the guns that had knocked down the chopper. It
had better be deserted now. Birddog and the intelligence types must
know more about it than he did. Or had he made a miscalculation
playing one of his holes?

No. Birddog was monitoring his progress, and so
far he had been right on target. He would have been warned if he had
strayed. He had to play their game; Birddog was following his exact
position by triangulating the clicks of his radio. He just hoped to
hell the gomers weren't doing the same thing.

He started out on his third hole. It was taking
him toward that village! After pacing off two hundred yards, he had
to stop and rest. He wasn't getting very good mileage to an ear of
corn. He squatted in the middle of the path, studying the village.
Sure enough, the green at the end of this hole was right at the
village edge. But the next hole would probably veer around it.

Doggedly he got back on his feet and walked on,
crouching low, clicking off his yards. At what he considered the
green of his third hole there was a good-sized clump of bushes in a
paddy slightly off to his left. He got down on his hands and knees
and crawled to it, so as not to make any tracks in the soft ground.
Inside he sat quietly for a moment, listening. Strange. Not a sound.
This was eerie. Was everyone asleep, or had the bulk of the soldiers
moved south with the war? So far this had been easy. Maybe too easy.

He checked in with Birddog.

"Roger, Bat. How are you holding up?"

"Dark down here. Keep losing my balls."

"Don't lose your balls now. Gonna need 'em.
Ready for your fourth hole?"

"Just about."

"Roger. Remember the fourteenth at the
Masters?"

How could anyone forget that hole? It was one
always shown on television during the Masters tournament. Many a time
Hambleton had sat, beer in hand, nose glued to the tube, watching the
tournament play. The fourteenth hole, especially, was a tough one.
"Remember it well, Birddog. It's mean. Lots of traps."

"Roger. Remember that. Lots of traps."

Hambleton conjured the course in his mind's eye.
Hole number fourteen at the Augusta National Golf Club goes—let's
see—east by northeast. With a slight dogleg to the left. He'd have
to watch that, make sure of his compass headings. Par-four hole, over
four hundred yards. Four twenty, to be exact. He sighted in with his
compass. What the hell? It went smack through the village!

Had Birddog goofed this time? Damn, it would be
nice if he could discuss the village with Birddog. But that was out.
It could be a direct tip-off to any gomer who might be monitoring.

"Birddog, confirm. Fourteenth hole at the
Masters?"

There was a pause, while Birddog obviously
rechecked his chart. "That is affirmative. Again, beware of the
traps."

So it was right. The planners had evidently meant
for him to go right through the village. But why? It would be just as
easy to circumvent it. Go around it on either side. Longer, yes, but
it should be considerably safer. Unless there was something on both
sides of the village.

Well, they should know. They had their
intelligence. And he had seen the photo planes flying many passes
over his hole, often at altitudes so high they were scarcely visible
to the naked eye. But with the advanced state of the art of photo
reconnaissance, altitude was no problem. He himself had seen a
flight-line photo of his base taken from more than six miles up. With
its high resolution and fine grain, the photo had been magnified to
the point where it was possible to tell the winning hand in a group
of maintenance men playing poker near one of the hangars. Yes, the
photo-analysis experts must have studied the reccy photos, and
together with their other intelligence data, they would know more
about the terrain than he did.

Still, you never underestimated the gomers. These
were mainly North Vietnamese Regulars, a tough, hard-hitting, shrewd,
well-trained bunch. They were masters in the art of camouflage. He
had seen enemy soldiers dressed so deceivingly in their foliage that
they looked more like a bush than a bush did. And some camouflage
could not be detected, even with infrared cameras. Like the gun that
had shot down the chopper. And the...

Oh hell, on with Birddog's ball game. There was
only room for one quarterback on a team. Trust them. He was tired,
enervated, and dehydrated. At this point he could screw anything up.
He just had to listen to Birddog upstairs. Besides, he had old Frank
Ott playing in this twosome, and Ott wouldn't let him down.

But just in case, he whispered into his radio:
"One thing, Birddog. If the course becomes crowded it may not be
possible to use the radio. If I get caught in a sand trap I'll use
the beeper, but no words. If I can't blast out of the trap I'll give
you a long beep before destroying my radio."

"Roger, Bat Twenty-one." Birddog's voice
was subdued.

Destroying the radio! Asinine! God knows, the
gomers had plenty they had captured from downed flyers. But damned if
he was going to make another contribution—add to their list of
frequencies used by the Air Force.. He'd play the rule of conduct:
Resist capture and destroy your radio.

For a quarter of an hour Hambleton sat and watched
the village, alert for any sound. There was none. No movement at all.
Not even the oink of a pig or the crowing of a rooster. No fires, no
smell of food cooking. Tombstone. Silent City.

The first tint of dawn was beginning to brush the
horizon. OK, it was time to get a move on. He couldn't waste any more
valuable time. This would be a most critical hole. Maybe win or lose
the game. Remember, keep your head down and watch your swing. Follow
through. Now let's get on with the game.

"Birddog from Bat Twenty-one. Teeing off on
the fourth now."

"Roger, Bat Twenty-one."

In the Pentagon the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs
of Staff put down his ball-point. "Hold it. Just a minute,
Colonel. Would you please run that by again."

The intelligence officer stopped in the middle of
his prepared briefing. "Yes, sir. From what point, sir?"

"A few sentences back. Did I understand you
to say that Hambleton is getting to the river
by playing golf?
"

"Yes, Admiral. I had it verified. It's true."

"Would you mind expanding on that?"

"Actually, the idea came out of a skull
session at the 388th Wing. It was approved by Seventh Air Force. An
imaginary eighteen-hole golf course was overlaid on the latest
reconnaissance photo strip of Hambleton's area. It was designed to
provide the safest route around enemy camps, gun emplacements and
unfriendly villages. The first nine holes get him to the Song
Cam Lo River. The back nine he'll make floating down the river."

"I don't believe it," said the Chairman.

"It's true, sir. As of dawn, Vietnam time,
Hambleton completed the first four holes without incident. He's
now resting up until darkness so he can continue the game."

"I assume the FAC pilot is feeding him the
information."

"Yes, sir. Hole by hole. It's very doubtful
the North Vietnamese can understand golf language, even if they do
pick up the radio frequency being used."

Admiral Moorer turned to the Air Force Chief of
Staff. "John, that's the damnedest thing I've ever heard! Who
wrote the ops plan, Alfred Hitchcock?"

General Ryan grinned. "When the idea began to
jell, some of Hambleton's old golfing partners were contacted. They
all contributed. Besides his golf buddies at Tucson and Vietnam, they
also contacted a friend of his in Hawaii and Colonel Don Buchholz
here at the Pentagon. It seems Hambleton is quite a golfer."

Moorer shook his head. "He'd better be!
Damned clever. Let's get a copy of that course. I want to follow his
progress personally."

"Copy's on the way, sir" said the
intelligence officer.

"Good. And let's clamp a tight security on
this one. If it works, we might be able to use it again."

"Yes, sir."

Moorer sighed. "Why not a crazy golf game in
the middle of a lunatic war? Makes sense to me."

Hambleton checked his watch. A little past
midnight. It would soon be time. He stretched quietly, arching the
stiffness from his back. It had been a restless day with not much
sleep.

Things could be so quiet at night and so lively
during the day. Last night on his trip through the village—his
fourth hole—the gutted buildings could have been a deserted movie
set of plaster and chicken wire. He had not seen a soul. Only one
small incident had marred his progress: He had stumbled over
something in the dark that had turned out to be a dead pig. Even this
buoyed his spirits. If there had been anyone around, the pig would
surely have been roasting over some village fire instead of rotting
in the street.

He had clicked off the yardage of the Masters'
fourteenth hole, and found himself near a shed at the outskirts of
the village. It was here he now lay, under a pile of hay, waiting for
the blanket of darkness to hide his next movements.

Although the night had been tomb quiet, the day
had been something else. He could still hear the rumble of war
equipment heading south on the nearby highway. About noon he had
awakened with a start to the smell of Vietcong cooking and the
pleasant aroma of tea wafting his way from a nearby hooch that was by
then occupied by a dozen soldiers. Perhaps a crew that manned one of
the mobile antiaircraft guns just being brought in. Thank God, he had
thought, the Air Force had voted against bringing in any more Jolly
Greens. They would have been reduced to scrap metal by all the
artillery the Vietcong had dug in hereabouts.

As dusk had turned into evening and evening into
night, the village had again quieted. The evening meals over, the
soldiers could be heard laughing and talking for a while. But with
few lamps, no electric lights, and little to do, they soon turned in,
and one by one the camp fires flickered out. Rales of snoring then
replaced the chatter.