BAT-21 (24 page)

"Hambleton has a strong will to survive. He's
got a lot to live for. If anyone can pull through, he will."

"That's what I keep telling him. But damn,
it's getting tough. Being up there with him night after night,
listening to his voice, always trying to be cheerful, knowing damned
well the hell he's going through. And there's not a damned thing I
can really do to help him."

"You've done plenty, Clark. A man couldn't
ask for a better guardian angel."

"Hell of a guardian angel! Sitting around on
my keester while a beat-up old geezer twice my age drags himself
through the mud by his teeth not fifty feet below my airplane."

"Don't blame yourself. No man could do more."

"Got to do more. For starters, I'm going to
see if we can't try another air drop. If we could sanitize the area
around him with Sandys, then maybe we could get a drop to him that he
could reach. Some food and water just might get him off his knees and
on to the last two holes."

Ott thought for a moment. "A calculated risk.
A drop would certainly pinpoint him. And since the enemy is searching
the area..."

"I've been thinking about that. One drop
would pinpoint. But how about a dozen drops?"

Ott's brows puckered. "A dozen drops?"

"Twelve. We'll make twelve drops. All will be
dummies but one. The one we'll drop over Hambleton will have a CARE
package. We'll spread the others all around the area. With a dozen
chutes opening all across the sky, the gooks will be running around
in circles."

Ott nodded. "Not a bad idea. An element of
risk, but not a bad idea."

"I think the element of risk is acceptable if
it will get food, water, first aid—and cigarettes—to him. It just
might be enough to help get our old navigator through."

"Very well. While you hit the sack I'll run
your idea by Colonel Walker."

"I'd appreciate it, sir. Best time to drop
will be around dusk, while it's still light enough for Hambleton to
spot it, yet getting dark so he can retrieve it."

"First rate. Good thinking, Clark."

Clark looked at Ott. There was something about the
man he had liked right from their first meeting. "Just routine.
Doesn't compare with that eighteen-hole caper you came up with."

"Huh! If it works. But I can't take the
credit. A lot of input went into that one. When we sent the word out
for Ham's old golfing buddies, you should have seen the duffers crawl
out of the woodwork begging to help. All over the world. There was
even a master sergeant who checked in from Australia. Said he used to
be Hambleton's caddy. With that kind of response it was no trick to
line up the holes we knew Hambone would be familiar with."

"Don't sell yourself short. It was a hell of
an idea."

"Let's not break an arm patting anyone on the
back until we've got our golfer safely in the clubhouse."

Clark nodded. "When it comes right down to
it, it's not a bad outfit, is it?"

"What's not a bad outfit?"

"The blooming Air Force."

"No. Not bad. At least it tries to take care
of its own."

Clark looked at the colonel. "Tell me, you're
an old friend of Hambleton's. I've spent a week and a half with the
guy, through hell and high water. But I've never met the man. What's
he like?"

"You mean that you've never even seen him?"
"No."

"Well, to answer your question—physically
he's not much out of the ordinary. A tall, lanky drink of cactus
juice. Has a tanned, lined face. Ham always looked to me like he'd be
more at home driving a farm tractor than navigating a sophisticated
flying machine. Has the look of a farmer."

"So he's not your typical, handsome Air Force
type—like me?"

"Handsome?" Ott chuckled. "You'd
hardly call Ham handsome. But inside, that's where the old
duffer shines. He's an honest, warm, sensitive, intelligent guy with
a nice, martini-dry sense of humor. A man's man, I guess, but women
like him too. I don't know

many men who've known Hambleton who wouldn't rate
him in the top box. Does that answer your question?"

"It helps. But the description you gave
hardly conjures the hero image."

"The hero image?"

"Affirmative. Win or lose, alive or
posthumously, Hambleton will come out of this fracas a highly
decorated man. He ignored his personal safety to transmit enemy
movements, and caused the destruction of a hell of a lot of gook
hardware. Calling off SAM launches to our aircraft certainly saved
some crew members. Just last night the fighters pickle-buttoned three
SAM sites that had been dug in and weren't visible in our reccy
photos. Hambleton had reported them when he was almost too weak to
talk. In my book, Colonel, that's a son-of-a-bitchin' hero."

Ott grunted. "You're right. Odd, isn't it?
Hambleton would be the last guy in the world to ever consider himself
a hero." He scanned the face of the young pilot. "I've told
you a bit about Hambleton. Now would you return the favor?"

"If I can."

"You can. Tell me about yourself. You.
Captain Dennis Clark."

Clark grinned. "We can't be that hard up for
conversation."

"Not conversation. Information. I'd like to
know why you're doing this. Every man in this theater is counting the
hours until he can go home—escape this lunatic asylum. You've
finished your tour, got your orders, yet here you are volunteering to
risk your butt every night for someone you don't even know. Why?"

Clark picked up his coffee cup and stood. "Another
cup of Drano, Colonel?"

"No thanks. Go ahead."

Clark went to the coffee urn and came back with a
filled cup. "If we ever run out of napalm, we can drop this on
the women and children."

"How about answering my question?"

"Your question."

"You trying to be some kind of hero too,
Clark?"

Clark shot him a cold look. "A hero, Colonel?
Horse hockey!"

"Then what?"

Clark lit another cigarette. "To be honest, I
don't know. My roommate says I got some kind of hang-up about my
father. Campbell is sort of a Freudian fruitcake. He majored in
psychology at college, and every time I lie down he tries to analyze
me."

"What about your father?"

"My father's dead. Cancer."

"I'm sorry."

"No sweat."

"How did you get along with him?"

Clark smiled. "You're beginning to sound like
my roommate. My father and I got along great until I started college.
Then things sorta came unglued. I got all involved in a campus
radical group, smoked pot, fooled around with drugs, became an
activist in the antiwar movement, finally got kicked out of school
and blew a four- year scholarship. Naturally I had a falling-out with
my parents."

"Not exactly atypical."

"Yeah. I wasn't exactly alone. But I came
home one night to get my clothes. I was going to live in a commune
with my girl friend. Dad and I had a scene. To show you what class I
had, I ended up spitting in his face. He never spoke to me again.
Died a week later."

“1 see.”

"A thing like that can shake a young troop
up. It really jerked my head around. I did an about-face, joined the
Air Force, and became a pilot."

"I assume Campbell has it all figured out.
Hambleton has replaced your father, and subconsciously you're trying
to atone for your sins by helping the old duffer out now. That about
it?"

"Pretty close."

"Do you think there's anything to it?"

Clark shrugged. "Hell, to be perfectly
honest, I don't know. When Campbell first mentioned his theory, I
threw him in the shower. I'd never even thought you had to have a
reason for helping somebody out. As far as Hambleton was concerned,
we had a problem. Hambleton was on third. I was up at bat. What's so
unusual about making a little sacrifice to bring a man home?"

"Nothing."

"I don't think so either. That's why I don't
understand why everybody's making such a big deal out of it."

"No big deal. It's just that these days, when
antiheroes are so popular, I guess people tend to get suspicious of
anyone who's distinguishing himself."

"Hell's fire, I'm just doing the job I was
trained to do. Isn't that what the Air Force is all about?"

"I like to think so."

"Then why does it matter what a person's
motives are? Maybe I just like doing my job. Does it really matter as
long as the job gets done?"

"No. It doesn't matter."

Clark snuffed out his cigarette and looked at his
watch. "Campbell should be out of the room by now. If you'll
excuse me, Colonel, I'll go log some shut-eye. Get ready for
tonight's mission."

"Clark, may I say just one more thing? To
terminate our little chat?"

"Be my guest."

"A man's motives, like a funny joke, should
never be dissected. You end up with a handful of smoke. But I know
damn well there's an old bull stuck down there in the mud who's
mighty thankful for your performance. Regardless of how or why it's
motivated. And I wouldn't be surprised if there was a gent named
Clark orbiting around upstairs somewhere who's mighty damn proud of
his son."

Clark grinned at the colonel. "May I add one
word to that?"

"Shoot."

"Bullshit."

It was dusk. The molten gold of the sun was
gilding the horizon. Hambleton took off his mosquito netting and
stuffed it into the pocket of his flying suit. It took a supreme
effort to activate his sleeping bones and muscles and unite them in
the common cause to sit up. He poked his head out of the bushes and
scanned the river. Except for the buzzing of insects and a nearby
croaking of a bullfrog, all was quiet.

The Sandy should be coming along any minute now
with the CARE package. He had had mixed feelings when the FAC pilot
told him they were going to try another drop. It would sure as hell
give away his position. But he hadn't had the strength to argue. If
it came, fine. But it would have to fall right on top of him or he
wouldn't have the energy to retrieve it. And if it fell on top of
him, it would be followed by a platoon of gomers. But it didn't
really matter. He didn't feel as if he had a chance in hell of making
another two holes anyway.

Nevertheless, he found his interest mounting as
the drone of an airplane started reverberating across the river. He
mounted trembling legs and stood in the shadows of a tree to watch.
There were three airplanes coming out of the sun, low.

My Lord, it took a lot of machinery to drop one
CARE package. Then he saw the drop, the nylon-bud blossoming out on
down the river. Christ on a crutch! The canister was dropping way the
hell and gone beyond him. He could barely see it, let alone retrieve
it. What happened? Birddog knew precisely where he was; he had made a
triangulation from his radio beeps before he had dug in for the day.
It wasn't like the Sandy pilots to—hold it! Another chute! It was
dropping at least half a click west of the river. And—holy
Toledo—another one. And another! What the hell was going on? Must
be a dozen chutes billowing all over the sky—but not one anywhere
near reach. The planes disappeared as Hambleton scratched his head in
wonderment. Well, so much for the resupply mission.

Suddenly there was an ear-rattling roar as a lone
plane blasted up from the hill directly behind him. The pilot came in
so low Hambleton instinctively ducked as the plane thundered
overhead. Then he spotted the silver canister swinging from the
chute. It was on a trajectory directly toward him.

So that was it! The old dazzle-'em-with-footwork
ploy. They were using the other chutes as red herrings to confuse the
enemy. God love 'em! He shot the disappearing plane a clenched-fist
salute as it droned out of sight, rocking its wings.

The canister floated over his head toward the top
of a small hill behind him, ripped a big leaf from a banana tree and
disappeared from sight. It shouldn't be too hard to find. It was
still too light to climb the hill, but as soon as the sun disappeared
he would try.

The thought of that package up there was almost
unbearable. Before half an hour had passed, he convinced himself
there was enough heavy coverage on the hillside. He could keep hidden
as he traveled up for it. Besides, he couldn't wait longer. It would
soon be night and he would have to get back to the river and move on.

He studied the best course to take up the small
hill, then he set out. Pulling the weight of his body inch by inch,
he started the ascent. It was a small but steep incline. Crawling on
his hands and knees, grabbing bushes and undergrowth, he pulled
himself along with all his strength. Nearly halfway up, one bush he
grabbed came out with its roots, and he went sliding, rolling back
down the incline. Again he tried. Again he almost reached the top,
actually glimpsing the chute. Then a rock let go under his footing,
sending him again sprawling, crashing down through the underbrush.

Three times he tried it, but always the slope
proved to be a rampart he could not conquer. Three times he slid and
tumbled back to level ground. It had taken an hour of perseverance,
but he had no choice but to give up. He had too little energy despite
his determination; willpower was not enough. There was nothing to do
but drag himself back to his hole.

He lay there panting, staring unbelieving at the
top of the small knoll. What was he to do? The little hill might as
well be Mount Everest. That earthen clump held his sustenance; the
cornucopia that could provide fresh water, food, energy—possibly
even life itself.

If he had been fit he could have figured out some
way to get that canister. But he was not fit. Clear thinking,
inspiration, and physical stamina had abandoned him. His only
companions now were fatigue and pain. It was all he could do to plant
one foot ahead of the other, let alone scale that hill. And if there
were any gomers in the immediate area they would be coming in after
the canister.