BAT-21 (19 page)

No attacking planes came in to interrupt the
reverie. Except for some far-off noise of troops—judged by
Hambleton to be the crews manning the mine detectors—all was quiet
on the northern front. Almost peaceful.

Evidently the gomers hadn't yet discovered fairway
one or worked their way through the mine field and found him missing.
If they had, the place would now be crawling with search parties. But
they would eventually get through, and the more distance he could put
between himself and his former homestead, the safer he would be. It
was time to shake a leg.

He crawled out from under the hay and sat a
moment, listening. His mouth tasted like a newspaper from the bottom
of a parakeet cage. God, he was thirsty! How long had it been since
his water ran out? He picked up a piece of straw and started chewing
it to get saliva going. He was so hungry he could have eaten a horse.
He patted his flat stomach. At least Gwen would be proud of him; he
could forget Weight Watchers for a hell of a long time. He checked
his watch again. Twelve-twenty. Time for his prearranged check-in
with Birddog. He flicked on his radio.

Birddog answered immediately. "How goes it,
Bat Twenty- one?"

"Tolerable. Thirsty and hungry. Stomach
thinks my throat's cut."

"Understand, Bat. We've got plans for that.
Ready to tee off?"

"Ball's all teed up."

"Outstanding. This time we'll play an
interesting hole. Abilene Country Club. Hole number four. Ring a
bell?"

Something surfaced through the fog in Hambleton's
mind and exploded like a skyrocket. "Ring a bell? You kidding?"

"Thought it might."

"I shot a hole in one on that hole."

"I know."

"There was a nice breeze coming in from the
west. Early morning. I used a number-five wood and—"

"Never mind." Birddog chuckled. "I
don't want to hear about it. I just want you to repeat it."

"Roger." How in hell did Birddog know
about his hole in one? Frank Ott? He hadn't been there. Who had been
with him that day? He racked his brain. Gwen? Who else had been
there? Wilson? Allison? Good Lord, they must have chased down every
old golf buddy he had! Bless 'em!

"Waiting, Bat. Or do you want me to play on
through?"

"Roger, Birddog. Teeing off now."

Enough ruminating. He had to concentrate on his
game. Number four at Abilene went due east, straight as an arrow, 195
yards. He took out his compass and sighted. The course would take him
through the outskirts of the village and into the darkness toward the
river. He felt a pang of fear. The first four holes had been through
known territory. He had spent a week in the security of his hole
studying the terrain. But now a whole new ball game. He was moving
out into the unknown, and had no idea of the situation beyond the
village.

Well, it was time to find out. Cautiously he left
the shed, scouting for every twig, branch, anything that might snap
underfoot and alert the nearby troops. On leopard's feet he
crouched along in the darkness, checking his compass heading,
counting his strides. He was coming to the end of the main road that
ran through the village, and the earth was turning softer. He sought
harder ground.

Must be careful of prints; stay on the beaten
path, the hard ground. Probaby the reason he had been routed through
the village instead of around it. Or maybe it was two reasons: The
main street would register no prints with its mess of foot and
vehicle tracks, and the village would be the last place anyone would
look for him if his empty hole had been found. Damned clever, those
Yankees back at the head shed.

He had clicked off a hundred yards. Time to rest a
spell, listen, and reconnoiter. There was a small hooch just up
ahead. He would make that and blend in with its fleeting shadows,
cast by the near-half moon. The hut had been gutted, its roof caved
in; it was obviously deserted. He sneaked up to the doorway and was
just on the verge of ducking in when a violent movement erupted in
the shadows.

A chicken came flopping out of the doorway,
clucking and scolding. Hambleton dropped to his knees, his pulse
banging. The scrawny bird emitted several more cackles and landed in
the street. Hambleton watched it, trying to get back to seminormalcy.
Good Christ! Enough to give a person apoplexy.

And then his fear was suddenly overtaken by
something stronger—hunger. God! Chicken! Meat! Food! Man, would it
taste good! Even if he had to eat it raw!

Crouching in the shadows by the doorway, he
watched and waited. The bird was strutting along, pecking at the
gravel in the ditch on his side of the road, its long neck jerking
spasmodically, coming closer. As it neared, in the dim light
Hambleton saw his chicken turn into a rooster—a tall, strutting,
skinny bird, its comb hanging oddly down over one eye. It would be
tough as shoe leather. Never mind. He was a hell of a lot tougher. He
brought out his knife, and poised to spring.

Come on! That's it! Just a little closer! He had
to make his first strike count. He would dispatch it quickly,
unerringly. He had to keep the noise to an absolute minimum.

He sprang! But as he did, another shadow also
hurtled out of the darkness. Hambleton, launching his flying tackle
on the bird, felt rather than saw the human figure erupt from the
hooch. It was on a collision course. The rooster took off squawking
bloody murder as Hambleton wrestled with the body that had slammed
into him. Then his eye caught the glint of a knife in the moonlight,
and he felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder.

Hambleton broke away and sprang to his feet, his
adrenaline pumping power into tired limbs. He crouched, knife in
hand. The figure sprang at him again, blade raised high. Hambleton
thrust out his own and plunged forward, aiming directly at the upper
midsection of the charging body. He connected. Even in the darkness
he could see the look of surprise on the slant-eyed face as the
leaping form suddenly froze in midflight. There was a muffled
"ooooff!" and then the raised hand, still clutching the
knife, slowly fell.

For a moment they were face to face, Hambleton
swimming in the reek of fish oil coming from a mouth inches from his
nostrils. Then, almost in slow motion, the body slid down Hambleton's
rigid torso and came to rest in a crumpled heap at his feet.

Frozen in shock, Hambleton stared in mute horror
at the figure on the ground. A wave of nausea engulfed him. And then,
panic! His brain reeling, he looked around wildly. He spun and raced
headlong down the road, succumbing to the irrational hope that
distance would ameliorate the terror.

On he raced, panic propelling a body that had
already suffered too much abuse, muscles protesting their strain,
lungs rebelling with terrible chest pains. On he plowed, stumbling,
falling, rolling over in the dust, only to remount shaking limbs to
take him away—far away—from the unspeakable horror.

"Stop it! Stop it! You can't blow it now.
You can't blow it now. Calm down. Calm down."

He staggered on, slowing, his body wracking.
Completely spent, he stopped, sagging to his knees. He rolled over on
his back, spread-eagled, and lay still as the panic ebbed. All he
could hear then was the rasping noise of his lungs, the pounding of
his heart in his ears. For some reason images of Gwen were dancing in
his overwrought brain.

He looked up at the sky, his eyes trying to bring
the moon into focus.

Gwen Hambleton bent down and recovered her golf
ball from the cup. "Marge, would you believe a six on that
hole?"

Marge smiled. "Let's see. A six divided by
two is a three. We are making progress."

"Just put down the six."

"Six it is." Marge put the scorecard in
her pocket and picked up her clubs. Together they strode toward the
tee-off position for the next hole. "You're not sorry you came,
are you, Gwen?"

"No, Marge. I'm glad I came. It's good to get
out of the house."

"Beats clawing the wallpaper."

"Marge, do you believe in ESP?"

Marge turned to look at her friend. "I guess
I'm not a believer. Not much of an occult nut, as far as that goes.
But like everyone else, I have had strange things happen. Why do you
ask?"

"Oh, nothing. I shouldn't even bring it up."

"Nonsense. Bring it up. Let's kick it
around."

"Well, I know this sounds crazy. But on that
last hole we just played—oh, never mind. It's silly."

"Nothing's silly between friends." She
patted Gwen's hand. "Tell Mama Wilson all about it."

"You'll laugh."

"So I'll laugh."

"All right. It was back there. When my ball
sliced into the sand trap. While I was setting up for the next shot,
I could have sworn I heard Gene calling me. From the woods near the
hole. It was almost like he was in some kind of trouble."

"Really?"

Gwen nodded. "It was so real! I actually
found myself calling to him. It was like he needed help."

Marge mulled this. "Has it happened before?"

"Yes, it's happened before."

"And did it turn out to be anything serious?"

"Not really, no."

"There you are. I'll have to confess it's
happened to me too. I've bolted up in the night, out of a deep sleep,
just knowing Dick was in some kind of trouble." She smiled at
her friend. "Maybe it's just part of being married to a man in a
hazardous profession. This crazy flying business. Perhaps living with
constant danger, as we do, brings a man and wife closer together."

Gwen fumbled in her golf bag for a Kleenex. "It's
this crazy war. This insanity." She looked into Marge's eyes. "I
haven't told anyone about this. But yesterday I got some hate mail. A
terrible letter, saying they were glad my husband was shot down. That
it served him right for being over there. As if Gene were responsible
for the whole thing."

"Oh, my God!"

"I just don't understand. Gene's one of the
most gentle people on this earth. He'll shoo a fly out the door
before he'll swat it. And to be called those horrible names—"

"Who sent the letter?"

"It was unsigned, of course. Postmarked San
Francisco."

"Gwen, dear, don't you even think about it.
Tear that letter up. Don't give it a second thought."

"I've already destroyed the letter. I just
wish I could erase it from my mind."

Marge shook her head. "It's so unreal. I've
been reading in the papers about widows and wives of POWs getting
this kind of mail.

What kind of depraved mind would dream up that
kind of hate campaign?"

"I'm sorry I mentioned it. I didn't mean to
bring it up." She dabbed at her eyes. "It's just that we
were talking about Gene and this funny feeling I had about him."
She stood, stuffing the Kleenex into her pocket. "We won't let
it spoil your morning."

"We won't let it spoil our morning."

As they picked up their clubs, Marge turned to
Gwen. "About that ESP. When you said you felt as if Gene were
right there with you. Do you know what I'm thinking?"

"What?"

"ESP can work both ways, so I'm told."

Gwen brightened. "That is a comforting
thought. Gene and I have always been very close. Yes. That is a happy
thought."

"Good," said Marge smiling. "Now,
let's play golf."

In the flight-line maintenance shack, Captain
Clark poured himself a cup of coffee and plunked down on the decrepit
divan. He was just lighting a cigarette when Colonel Walker strode
in. Clark started to rise. "Morning, Colonel."

"Keep your seat. Mind if I grab a cup of
coffee and join you?"

"Be my guest."

Walker crossed over to the coffee bar, returned
with a cup and sat down beside Clark. He looked at his watch. "Four
a.m. That's what I love about the Air Force. The good hours."

Clark poked back a spring that had popped up
through a cushion of the ancient divan. "Not to mention the
luxury."

"Enjoying your leave?"

"Having a ball."

"Great spot for a vacation." He cast a
glance at the FAC pilot. "You getting your crew rest, Clark?"

"Yes, sir. I've been sacking out during the
day. When Colonel Hambleton holes up."

Walker grunted. "Just got a sketchy report
from Apache Control about Hambleton. How about filling me in?"

Clark took a deep drag from his cigarette. "He's
going to turn my hair white. Really scared hell out of me on the
fifth hole."

"The fifth. The one past the village."

"Right. For a full hour after he was supposed
to complete the

hole I couldn't raise him. It was really getting
ulcer time. That's when I notified Apache Control.''

"Go on."

"Then I finally got an acknowledment from
him. He seemed to be real spooked—quiet and subdued for the first
time. Like somebody had just kicked him in the solar plexus. Wasn't
like the old duffer at all."

"So he had a problem on that hole. Could you
make out what happened?"

"It was pretty sketchy because of radio
security. He said he'd had a run-in with another player. The other
player lost."

"You think he might have bumped into the
enemy? Had a fight?"

"That's my guess."

"Any injuries?"

"Said he picked up a flesh wound. Nothing
serious."

"That poor bastard!"

Clark sighed. "He's had more than his share.
That's for sure."

"Where is he now?"

"Just finished the seventh. The green on that
one is the pigpen behind a deserted farmhouse. He's hiding under a
slop trough."

"A slop trough?"

"I presume that's what he meant. Where the
oink-oink imbibe, as he put it. Said he preferred it to the compost
pile."

"Jesus Christ! Some choice."

"Ain't it."

Walker sipped on his coffee. "How's his
physical condition?"

"Frankly, Colonel, I'm worried. He's sounding
beat. He still tries to cover it up with a little bravado, but the
voice is weak."