BAT-21 (3 page)

He turned to his survival vest. A search through
it proved much more productive than the one through the pockets of
his flying suit. The survival vest was just that: a vest that zipped
up the front and was worn over the flying suit, containing an
astonishing array of survival gear. It was issued to all flying
personnel—a mandatory item to be worn on combat missions. It had a
lot of pockets, which Hambleton explored one at a time, dumping their
contents into his lap.

When he finished he found his inventory contained
the following: the first-aid kit; survival radio with extra
batteries; tourniquet, which he hoped to God he wouldn't need; flares
for helping the rescue choppers spot him; folding plastic water bag—
empty; hunting knife; signal mirror; strobe light with infra-red
capacity; .38 revolver with 20 rounds of ammo; mosquito netting; a
compactly folded 2-foot-square rubber map of the country; a compass
small enough to be shoved up his rectum in the event of capture; and
insect repellant.

Looking at all this heaped in his lap, Hambleton
felt a strange sense of security. A hint of a grin touched the
corners of his mouth as he loaded the .38 and crammed the other
articles back into their pockets. Survival gear, he thought to
himself. Issued for survival. And this is one old poop who's by God
going to survive! This stuff might not outfit a bachelor's pad, but
it might come in damned handy in a foxhole. Speaking of which...

Locating a spot surrounded by the tallest
thickets, he unsheathed his knife and started digging in the
soft dirt. It took over an hour to scoop out enough earth to
accommodate his tall frame. He spread the dirt out over a large area,
covered it with leaves, and did his best in the dark to make it look
like the natural surroundings. Then he raked up a pile of leaves and
branches, put them near the hole, crawled in, and covered himself
with the shrubbery. Pillowing his head on his flying helmet, he
snuggled down.

All in all, things could be worse. Much worse.
Except for his finger, he had arrived in pretty good shape. He had
gone to at least three survival schools during his military career to
prepare him for just such an emergency. Now would be a good time to
put that learning to the test.

All his instructors had preached fundamentally the
same sermon—the old bromide that the main thing to fear was fear
itself. Rule out fear and, too, rule out panic. Panic had claimed
more victims trying to survive than had malnutrition. Men had
survived the most harrowing situations by keeping their heads. OK, he
would too.

Not that it would be all roses. He had been taught
he would have to use undergrowth, holes, burrows; the same habitat
that wild predators used to escape detection. He would obviously have
to be wary of the enemy. But there would also be snakes and poisonous
insects and other neighbors whose territorial imperative he would be
invading. Still, he could do it if he mastered panic.

The survival schools had maintained that the worst
thing about bailing out into a foreign, unfriendly environment was
the uncertainty, fear of the unknown. Brave men, oddly enough, were
sometimes less adaptable to adverse survival conditions than those
less brave. The idea was that the gutsy ones were used to being in
command of a situation; when they were thrust out of this position
they had trouble coping. The nonheroes often adapted more easily to
strange circumstances. Hambleton hadn't completely bought this
philosophy, but if it were true it was another point in his favor. He
thought of himself as anything but a hero. Grandstand plays weren't
his style. He'd rather run interference—one reason he was a
navigator instead of a pilot. He was a man of common clay, so to
speak, and quite content with his modest role in life.

The school solution for long-term survival was to
take one step at a time. Accomplish some task each day, no matter how
trivial. Something that would show progress, provide a feeling of
accomplishment, climb one more rung on the ladder to rescue.

Hambleton sighed. Of course all this was academic,
and it wouldn't apply to him. He would be rescued tomorrow. The Jolly
Greens would probably be coming in at daybreak. But it didn't hurt to
review the finer techniques of the art of survival. Besides, thinking
about it took his mind off his throbbing finger.

Another thing he had been taught was to be very
careful not to overemphasize the negative. Was he guilty of this?
Maybe he was being too concerned about the enemy. He hadn't actually
seen any of them. It was entirely possible the Communists had not
picked up his parachute beeper or the short radio transmission on
Guard channel. Thanks to the ground fog, his landing could have gone
undetected. And even if his chute had been found, it could just as
easily have been found by a villager more interested in profit than
in the Communist party. At a local flea market, the expensive nylon
could be used for barter.

Then there was the fact that he had only a rough
idea where he had landed. Maybe he was in an area the enemy's
southbound push had not yet reached. Indeed, the mortar and
small-arms fire he had heard could have come from the South
Vietnamese. Maybe he wasn't even in enemy territory. Hell, maybe
there wasn't even anybody looking for him.

Pursuing this rationale, his spirits rose. At any
rate, he was alive. And so far, free. Which was a hell of a lot
better than having his head on a pike in some Communist camp. Or
maybe worse, being on his way to the Hanoi Hilton. Or, merciful God,
being one of his crewmates who had gone to fiery deaths hours before.

Cool it! Forget it! He had to think good things.
Think happy. Think about Gwen. Think about how you're going to love
her like she has never been loved in her life. Think about the
beautiful new golf course in Bangkok that—

He slapped his cheek. Whatever had been crawling
on it splattered unpleasantly. He reached into his vest for his
insect repellant and applied it to his exposed areas. Then he leaned
back in his hole and again tried to relax.

But now his stomach was growling. It was hungry!
He was hungry! And thirsty as hell! A ridiculous thought popped into
his head. This is Sunday night. Twofer night at the officer's club.
Two Manhattans for the price of one. And to celebrate this Easter
Sunday there would be a steak cookout at the club. He checked his
watch. Going on right now.

He sighed. He always splurged on Sunday dinner.
Steak, mushrooms, big baked potato with sour cream and chives—the
works. Chased by a liter of red Thai wine. Sometimes followed by a
cigar. At least a cigarette. God, he craved a cigarette!

He ran his tongue over his lips and grimaced at
the taste of the insect repellant.

It occurred to him that he had no higher priority
than getting some sleep, for he had to be fully alert for the pickup
in the morning. He would resort to a soporific of his own invention
that had never failed him before. He would compose a formal and
intensely boring military letter. Usually he was asleep before he
even got past the salutation.

But sleep was slower than usual in coming. He was
well into the explanation to the Air Force Inspector General about
how frustrating it was to try and survive with unbrushed, furry
teeth, before drowsiness began to overtake him. He was almost to the
recommendation that a toothbrush be included in every survival vest
when he finally succumbed to an uneasy, jerking slumber.

It was a strange noise in the early dawn that
brought Hambleton struggling up out of his fitful sleep. It was a
different sound from the sporadic din of the war around him.

It was the grumble of heavy machinery.

He opened his eyes and looked cautiously out of
his hole. Nothing was stirring within the periphery of his vision
save an odd- looking bird fighting a decisive battle with a worm.
Remnants of the night fog were being dissipated by the rays of the
early morning sun. Here, at least, the world seemed at peace, almost
idyllic. He could almost have been camping by one of his favorite
fishing streams in Arizona.

He wiggled his toes, clenched his fists, forced
circulation into cramped limbs. Surely in the protection of the
patchy mist he could risk investigating the source of that noise. For
as he listened, he was beginning to recognize the sound of trucks
among the throaty diesel roar of heavy machinery. Probably military
equipment. Were they friendly? If so his problems were over. And if
they were unfriendly he had to notify Birddog. Either way he had to
investigate.

Cautiously he climbed out of his hole. He
stretched on all fours like a hunting dog, then—realizing he might
have to find his hole again quickly—he oriented himself. Not far
from his nest was a fairly large tree with a distinctively gnarled
trunk. He made a mental note of it, then started off, furtively
creeping through the undergrowth in the direction of the noise.
Slowing as he neared the perimeter of his grove, he sank down on his
stomach and squirmed until he came to the last of the hedgerow. He
parted the foilage. What he saw made him draw in his breath.

In front of him was a broad highway humming with
military vehicles of every description. He didn't need to see their
markings to know this rolling stock hadn't been manufactured in
Detroit. It was mostly Russian equipment, bearing the strange
hieroglyphics of the North Vietnamese Army. And all of it was heading
south.

His eyes followed the road as it swung in from the
left. There was another road coming down from the north, joining the
east- west road at a busy intersection. Then he realized where he
was. He remembered it instantly from his navigational charts. He was
close, much too close, to the major intersection where Highway 561
came down from the north to intersect 8B, running east and west. This
would be a major branch-off route for the Communist armies heading
south. He had managed to bail out directly over one of the busiest
intersections of the Communist supply routes!

As if watching a military review, he studied the
paraphernalia parading by in front of him: camouflaged tanks, trucks,
heavy guns, truckloads of troops—the growling sinews of mechanized
war. As they thundered by, churning a cloud of dust that mixed with
the ground fog, a group of soldiers standing at the side of the road
caught Hambleton's attention. Curious, he watched them, almost amused
by their animated gesticulations.

And then he was no longer amused. Some of the
gesticulation had evolved into finger pointing—at times in his
direction. Suddenly, as if in response to a command, the group
split up and started fanning out, leaving one soldier standing by the
side of the road. Abruptly Hambleton's bemused curiosity changed to
acute shock.

The soldier left behind was standing beside a
small mountain of nylon.

It was his parachute!

Hambleton groaned inwardly. There was no longer
any doubt about which side of the lines he had chuted into. Nor was
there any question as to whether his bail-out had been detected. The
enemy must know the general area in which he was hiding. Now there
would be an all-out, intensive effort to find him.

Hambleton squirmed back into the protection of the
undergrowth, and crouching low, sprinted back toward his
hideout. He spotted the tree with the gnarled trunk and quickly homed
in on his hole. Flopping into it, he fumbled for his radio and
clicked it on. "Birddog from Bat Twenty-one," he whispered
breathlessly.

"Come in, Bat Twenty-one."

Thank God Birddog was already in the air.
"Patrols. Coming this way."

"Roger, Bat. We'll drop some gravel. Blink
your mirror."

"Wilco. Stand by." Hambleton searched
through the pockets of his survival vest until he unearthed the small
rectangular mirror with the hole in the center. Searching the sky, he
spotted the little plane circling high above him and to the south. He
took a bead on the plane through the hole in the mirror, and flashed
the reflection of the low-slung sun at the high-flying airplane three
times.

Presently, "Roger, Bat Twenty-one. Position
marked. Birddog out."

Hambleton hoped to hell no one else had seen the
flickering mirror that marked his position. He covered the mirrored
surface with the palm of his hand to shield any flash and replaced it
in his vest. Nothing to do now but wait.

And pray a lot.

He didn't have long to wait. Within minutes came
the drone of a flight of A-1E airplanes. Called Sandy, the Douglas
A-1E was the oldest combat airplane in the Air Force's inventory.
Prop driven (and, in most configurations, a single seater), it had
been the Navy's standard dive-bomber in the years following World War
II. Miraculously, it was still proving its worth a quarter of a
century later in the jet-age combat of Vietnam. Now manned mainly by
pilots of the Search and Air-Rescue teams, this long-range, highly
maneuverable plane was often employed in providing cover for downed
airmen. For an antique it carried a potent sting.

The Sandy pilots roared in, noisy as hell. Their
arrival was not supposed to be a secret. If the enemy knew an area
was seeded with gravel they avoided it like the plague. And rightly
so. Gravel was a little Marquis de Sade touch introduced in the
Vietnam War.

A tiny, innocent-looking explosive about the size
of a lemon, it was a mine released in large numbers from low-flying
aircraft. Dropped in a frozen state, it hit the ground and, upon
thawing, armed itself and sent out a web of feelers in all
directions, like the tentacles of an octopus. Brushing one of the
feelers might not prove fatal, but the explosion could neatly
separate a person from an arm or leg. Further refinements to the tiny
mine sometimes included its camouflage in the form of dog feces, a
form employed with considerable success in keeping invaders off the
Ho Chi Minh trail.