BAT-21 (20 page)

"How about his morale?"

"I'm sure it's worse than he lets on. He's
very thirsty. It's been a couple of days without water, and all that
exertion—it's telling."

"It's so damn frustrating!" Walker's
fist came down on the makeshift coffee table. "So goddamned
frustrating! There's that gutsy old fart out there in a pigsty dying
of thirst, and we can't do a damn thing about it!"

"Do you think we might risk a drop? Get a
CARE package to him?"

"We can't even do that! Just got word from
the snoopers that the Charleys are through the mine field. I think we
missed one.

Should have had Sandys keep dropping gravel. Now
soon as they discover their bird's flown the coop they'll pull out
all the stops to find him. If we dropped a CARE package now we would
pinpoint his exact position. We can't take that chance."

"No, if that's the case, we sure can't risk a
drop now."

"If he can only make it through the eighth
hole he's got a fighting chance. Does he know about the eighth hole?"

"I've only dared hint at it. Don't want to
clue in the enemy."

"Right. You can't be too careful over the
radio." Walker took a large swig, then looked over at Clark. "By
the way, are you a religious man, Denny?"

"Sort of. In my own weird fashion."

"Well, I am, Denny. In this business it
helps. You need everything you can get going for you. My padre is
Protestant. But I've also got that old rabble-rouser, Father O'Flynn,
working on this one. And I'd get a rabbi working on it too, if I
could find one."

"Excuse me, Captain," another voice
broke in. The men looked up at the sergeant in the doorway. "Your
plane is serviced. Ready to go."

"Thanks, Hank," said Clark, butting his
cigarette and taking a last slug of coffee. "Well, Colonel, back
to the links. If I never take up golf, you'll know the reason why.
See you later." He headed for the door.

"Just one thought, Denny."

"Yes, sir?"

"No matter who you worship or how, what about
pitchin' one in there for old Hambleton?"

"You're too late, Colonel."

"Too late?"

"Roger. I started that a week ago."

Hambleton checked his watch. About time to punch
in with Birddog. He crawled out from under the pig trough and sat up,
trying to peer through the darkness.

For the first time he really became aware of the
overpowering stench of the pigsty. When he had collapsed in it hours
earlier, he had been so numb his senses hadn't even registered the
odor. Maybe now, on the balance, he was slightly more alive than
dead.

He unzipped his flying suit down to his waist, and
pulled down the sleeve on the side of his injured shoulder. The wound
had stopped bleeding. It was not a deep cut, probably due to the
thick nylon webbing of his survival vest, which had helped deflect
the assailant's knife. For a while it had hurt like blazes, but now
it seemed to itch more than throb. He produced his First-aid kit and
dressed the wound as best he could.

Try as he might, he could not drive the horror of
the fifth hole from his mind. Actually killing a man face to face had
been the most terrifying thing he had ever done in his life. Who was
that guy? Who was it who had leaped on him from out of the darkness?
A North Vietnamese soldier, more than likely. But if so, where were
his comrades? Could he have been a lone soldier on patrol? Or, God
forbid, could he have been a fugitive like himself? Maybe a
sympathetic villager who had not elected to flee with the evacuees,
and who had stayed behind to harass the Communists, trying to live
off the land? It was this thought that got to him. It had been too
dark to make out the man's clothing.

The whole thing could have been a grim
coincidence—just two hungry, tired guys stalking the same chicken,
then colliding in the night. And he had killed the man, snuffed out a
human life. Sure, it had been self-defense. Had he not been the
quicker, the other would certainly have dispatched him, no question
about that. Yet somehow, none of this made it any easier.

On top of that, he had broken the key rule of
survival training. He had panicked. For the first time, he had
panicked. He had thrown rationality to the winds, had galloped off
like a wild fool, expending precious energy, becoming completely
disoriented. So much so that when he regained his composure, he had
had to retrace his steps to reorient himself. This was not only
inexcusable, but very risky.

It worried him. He had always been considered a
cool cat. As a navigator—a vital member of a flying crew—the
whole success of a mission often depended upon him. He was just
naturally expected to keep his head under pressure, to think soundly
and analytically no matter what the stresses. And in his whole career
he had never let the team down.

But now he had committed a flat-out, bald-assed
act of complete irrationality. There were extenuating circumstances,
but nothing—absolutely nothing—justified what he had done.
Especially when his very life depended on it. He had to get a
grip on himself. A good grip. So starting right now, he was going to
shape up!

He forced himself to concentrate. First, there was
the body. It would certainly be found at daylight, if not before. And
if the gomers had broken through the mine field and had discovered he
was gone, they would damn well put two and two together and start
combing the area. He was utterly pooped from the last two holes, but
he had to get the hell out of there. The more distance he could put
between him and that body, the better.

He repacked his first-aid kit, put it back in his
survival vest, and clicked on his radio. Birddog responded
immediately.

"How you doin', Bat Twenty-one?"

"I've felt better. The nap helped. Very
dehydrated."

"Understand. We're going to do something
about that. On this hole there's a refreshment stand. It's a short
hole, par three. Number four at Corona de Tucson. No problem for an
old pro."

He knew that course, south of Tucson, well.
"Refreshment stand?"

"You'll understand when you get there. Just
remember, you have to tap your own keg."

Oh, crap! Hambleton wiped his brow with a weary
hand. A refreshment stand on his eighth hole. Have to tap your own
keg. He was getting too tired to play this game of twenty questions
much longer.

"Roger, Birddog. Teeing off."

"Sorry about the condition of the green on
that last hole. But you'll like the next one."

"Roger. Bat out."

Hambleton took a bead on his compass and started,
counting his strides, finding it took a massive effort just to put
one foot ahead of the other. But he had two things going for him, two
reference ponts to help in his orientation: the lights of Dang Ha to
the north and those of Quang Tri to the southeast. Their reflections
in the overhanging clouds were somehow heartening, and he did not
have to squint at his compass in the dark so often.

He scuffed along for an eon, feeling the hard
ground, weaving like a drunk trying to pass a sobriety test. As he
walked the hole he noticed for the first time he seemed to be
suffering from some disfunction he could not identify. His body kept
tipping and falling backward; to compensate, he walked with his head
forward. It made him feel like an Arizona roadrunner, but at least he
kept his equilibrium.

For the last couple of days in his foxhole he had
noticed he was having trouble raising his head above ground level
when he was in a prone position. It had not alarmed him; he had
merely chalked it up to his inactivity. But now, struggling through
the darkness, the problem was giving him some concern. Could he have
a neck injury? A back injury? Had something snapped when he blasted
out of the airplane in his ejection seat? Well, to hell with it.
Whatever it was, the ailment would just have to wait, stay on the
back burner for the time being. He was too thirsty to care. He
couldn't even spit cotton.

Another fifty yards and he would be on the green.
The going was getting rough underfoot. He stopped to get his breath,
check his compass, and study the terrain. He was coming to a wooded
area dead ahead. The green of the eighth hole must be in the middle
of that grove. He started out again, struggling more and more to keep
his equilibrium. He was tripping, falling, getting up. He was
disgusted with himself for not being able to control his body as he
traversed the rough ground.

Finally he was in the woods, a banana grove dense
with thick banana leaves. He thrust through it, clicked off the
hundredth yard, then leaned against the trunk of a large banana plant
and slid to the ground. He looked around, his tired eyes trying to
penetrate the thick grove. So this was the hole with the refreshment
stand, right? Well, he had news for Birddog. The catering truck
hadn't shown up. There was no water here. There was nothing. Not even
bananas. Either it wasn't the growing season, or the crop had been
harvested.

He leaned his head against the tree and closed his
eyes. He wondered idly if Birddog had tricked him, had lied to him
just to keep him going, to click off one more yard, to push him to
try and make one more objective. Well, screw him. Hambleton was
pretty sure he'd never make it to the next hole, no matter what
Birddog did.

He was imagining things again. Dehydrated as he
was, his ears were gurgling. He shook his head to clear it, but the
noise persisted. Hold it. If it was a flight of fancy, it sure as
hell seemed

real. He placed his ear hard against the banana
tree. There it was again.

Hambone, you stupid ox! You have to tap your own
keg! Of course! He was leaning against a keg of the sweetest water in
the world. Anybody who had ever attended snake school knew that.

He whipped out his knife, the lesson of survival
school filtering through his benumbed brain. In a banana tree the
water flows up the trunk early in the morning and runs down to the
ground at night. He had actually heard the water running. He stabbed
his knife up to its hilt into the soft trunk three times, and pulled
out a long triangular plug. Out spurted a small stream of water. He
flopped down on his back, his mouth under the hole, and gulped like a
beached flounder.

Sweet mother of Jesus, did that taste good! Clean,
cool nectar of the heavens, cascading down his parched throat,
splashing on his dirty face. Never had anything tasted so good. He
drank long and hard, almost feeling the life-giving liquid being
absorbed by parched tissues and dusty glands, flowing through his
dehydrated body. It even seemed to rejuvenate his thinking processes.
He plugged the hole, reached into his first-aid kit for his salt
pills, took two, and drank some more.

When the water gave out he went to another plant,
tapped it like a keg, and wet his handkerchief from the dribbling
spring. He zipped down his flying suit and gave himself a fraternity
bath. He wiped the sweat and filth from his body with the cool, wet
cloth. It was Nirvana. Alfardaws. Glathsheim. A slice of pure heaven.

In the middle of his ablution the buzzing of
Birddog overhead signaled a transmission. He reached for his radio
and punched the button. "Birddog from Bat Twenty-one. Why does
the phone always ring when you're taking a bath?"

"Hey, Bat! You sound in good spirits. Found
the bar?"

"Affirmative, Birddog. Nothing like several
good belts to lubricate a man's spirits."

"Outstanding. Don't think we have enough time
before daylight to play another hole. How about digging in there for
the day?"

"Roger. May, never leave."

Birddog chuckled. "Man, it's good to hear you
feeling better. We'll finish the ninth tomorrow and start the back
nine." There was a pause, then, "We're gonna make it, Bat."

"Never doubted it," Hambleton lied.

"Sleep tight. Birddog out."

"Good night, Birddog."

Hambleton finished his bath and dressed. Then he
took his knife and quietly hacked off a dozen large banana leaves.
With half of them he made himself a nest on the ground near a large
banana plant. Then he crawled in and pulled the remaining fronds over
on top of him. When he had arranged his comforter, not even his nose
stuck out. If anyone found him during the day, it would be because
they stepped on him.

As he relaxed, a fleeting thought crossed his
mind. He shut his eyes, his body tensing. Banana plants were often
the habitat of scorpions, spiders and centipedes. He could be sharing
his home with any number of antisocial insects. Then he grunted and
sighed. What the hell. If they didn't like him, they could damn well
leave.

Very quickly after that a tidal wave of total
fatigue rolled over him. Soon he was spinning down and down. And then
came oblivion, the very depths of sleep.

Campbell walked into the BOQ bathroom where Dennis
Clark was taking a shower.

Clark wiped the soap out of one eye, pulled back
the shower curtain, and peeked out. "What say, moneybags?"

"You just get up?"

"Roger."

Clark stepped out and grabbed a towel. "Nothing
like a hot shower to put the world back on an even keel. Wish to hell
I could wrap one up and drop it to Hambleton. After ten days, God,
what he probably wouldn't give for a hot bath!"

Must be getting pretty ripe. How's he doing,
roomie?"

"Holding in there. Holed in on the eight
green. At least he's got water. Spirits were pretty good early this
morning."

"Gotta hand it to that old boy. But it's not
the best deal for a senior citizen."

"No, nor for a junior citizen. We haven't
been able to yank Lieutenant Clark out, either. Gooks are gettin'
downright nasty."

"How come it's taken so long? Thought the SAR
types grabbed up shot-down aircrews before their chutes hit the
ground."