BAT-21 (4 page)

On the first pass he heard the rattle of the
little mines dumping nearby. Immediately the sound of small-arms fire
opened up around him. Completely ignoring the fusillade, the feisty
A-lE's darted low, making pass after pass. The drops were done with
precision and thoroughness. Not until he was encircled by a ring of
gravel beginning some distance from his hole did the pilots make
their last shrieking pass and head for home.

With the departure of the Sandys the hellish
racket was replaced by an eerie silence. Hambleton could distinguish
the high- pitched, excited voices of the Vietnamese rising above the
growl of the war machinery, but they were in the distance. He was now
protected by a ring of explosives. He felt a little more easy. Only
one small problem: The landmines were keeping the enemy out, but they
also restricted his own movements to an area perhaps a little more
than one square mile. This definitely could have drawbacks,
especially when the Jolly Greens arrived.

But on the positive side, his buddies knew exactly
where he was holed up. They knew exactly what they were doing and
there were a lot of them on high looking out for him. Somewhat
comforted by this thought, he again took stock of his situation.

He could see patches of low-lying fog still
clinging to the terrain. It would be a while before they burned off,
allowing the Jolly Greens to come in low with clear visibility. Best
he just stay put for the time being. Just dig in and make as little
movement as possible in case some searchers had gotten inside his
barrier before the mine seeding had been completed. He'd just lie
cool and look like forest.

He crawled into his hole. He unholstered his gun
and made sure it was handy. Then he removed his flight helmet in case
it might be spotted, and stuck it into the hole. He hadn't gone
through survival-training schools for nothing. He was subscribing
precisely to the tenets espoused.

His thoughts roamed to his most impressive
instructor back at the school in Clark Air Force Base in the
Philippines, trying to recapture all he had said.

The gnarled, tough Air Force sergeant had crushed
the skull of a live rattlesnake with his teeth, and skinned it as it
quivered.

Then he'd said, "Always remember. If you're
ever shot down in Nam you got two strikes against you when you try to
hide. Round eyes and white skin. You're gonna stand out like a piss
hole in the snow. So the first thing you wanna do is put on the black
mosquito netting that's in your survival vest. It'll cover up your
white features and it'll keep out mosquitoes and other insects. And
in the boondocks of Nam they got insects you wouldn't believe."

Hambleton shuddered inwardly as he recalled the
conclusion of the lecture. After demonstrating how to clean the
snake, the sergeant had diced it up in small pieces and passed the
tidbits around to the class. "Lotsa protein in snake," he
had said. "And most snakes are edible. Just don't get bit going
after a poisonous one. You may not be able to build a fire if you're
in hiding, but even raw they taste pretty good. Like chicken."
Hambleton had never been particularly attracted to the idea of eating
raw chicken, and hated snakes. He had politely refused the offering.
He was now hungry, but he was going to have to get a hell of a lot
hungrier before going off in search of snakes.

He reached into his vest and pulled out the
mosquito netting. Careful not to tear it, he pulled the hood over his
head and drew the net gauntlets up over the sleeves of his flying
suit. Then he settled back into his hole and piled leaves up over
him. Son of a gun. If Gwen could only see him now.

Gwen. He thought of his pretty wife. And how great
it would have been to see her again. He had had reservations at the
Erewan, the fabulous old luxury hotel with the old-world charm and
new- world plumbing. He had intended to blow his flight pay on the
great Bangkok restaurants, to go dancing, to make love, to play golf.
His mind went back to the last time they had played golf together.
Just the two of them at the Tucson National Golf Course. And he
thought of the time they had played at the Air Force base in Turkey
when he had shot a hole in one. Swept away by the magic of the
moment, he had picked Gwen up and swung her round and round, both of
them laughing like loons....

Gwen Hambleton had never been in better spirits.
She hummed to herself as she flew around in the living room of her
comfortable Tucson home, dusting and tidying up after the morning
coffee klatch with the girls. She still had a lot to do to get ready
for her trip. But being a well-organized Air Force wife, she had
prepared a checklist of all the things that had to be done, and as
she did each chore she checked it off.

Let's see. Newspaper canceled; milk canceled; post
office notified to hold the mail; night timer on the lamp set; ice
maker turned off; arrangements made with the neighbors next door to
water the plants; picked up traveler's checks at the bank, and
passport and shot records from the safe-deposit box; arrangements
made at the kennel for Pierre. Now if she only had her airline
tickets...

As if on cue the doorbell rang. Gwen answered it,
throwing open the door to admit a breathless young brunette. "Sylvia.
Great timing! I had just come to you on my checklist."

"Sorry I'm late, Gwen. You know our
Fly-the-Coop Travel Agency. I consider it a success if we get tickets
to travelers before their plane leaves. But here's yours, finally.''

She handed Gwen an airline ticket folder, then a
thick Manila envelope, adding "And here's a bunch of stuff I
scraped together on tours and things over there. Now don't forget to
see the royal barges. And the Buddha temples. And be sure to eat at
that fancy restaurant where they serve curry heartburn and the girls
dance with candles in their fingernails."

"Thanks, Sylvia. I'll try and work it all
in."

"How I envy you! Here I am in the travel
agency business and I haven't even been to Disneyland."

They talked a while, then Sylvia decided she
better get on her way. "Good-bye, Gwen. Have a marvelous time.
You deserve it. And give old handsome Hambone a great big kiss for
me. Tell him to come back home where he belongs."

"That I promise. And thanks again, Sylvia."

As Sylvia's little Mustang disappeared round a
corner, Gwen turned to go back in. Then her attention was caught by
another car coming down the street. It was a blue staff car. The
markings indicated it was from nearby Davis-Monthan Air Base.

Curious, she watched, her hand on the knob of the
screen door, wondering where it was headed. Then as it approached her
house and crunched to a stop, the curiosity was tinged by an
indefinable sense of dread. Unable to move, she leaned against the
screen door and watched several solemn people get out of the car and
approach her. There was Marge Wilson, her closest friend; then a
nurse; and... "Oh Lord, not that," she thought, the airline
tickets wadded in her hand. The base chaplain was with them.

Hambleton stared cross-eyed at a caterpillar
inching across the mosquito netting in front of his nose. He had
never seen a caterpillar from the underside before, and it fascinated
him. Amazing the way the little feet grabbed hold as the multicolored
worm undulated across the netting, getting a good purchase with the
front feet, drawing the rear feet up as it humped, then repeating the
process.

An absurd thought crossed Hambleton's mind. He and
this fuzzy little worm had something in common. Hambleton, too, was a
caterpillar, eligible to belong to the Caterpillar Club. Now that he
had punched out of an airplane he would be invited to join the
exclusive organization whose membership consisted of fliers who had
been saved by a parachute jump. The club had been so named because
the first parachutes were made of silk, which was made by
caterpillars. Maybe this little silk spinner would bring him good
luck. He suddenly felt a strange sense of kinship with the little
insect. He was definitely going to keep protective watch on his
fraternity brother.

Must be worse things than being a caterpillar.
They don't have to pay taxes. They don't have to worry about their
golf swing. And when they get bored all they have to do is push a
button and they turn into a butterfly and buzz off. Not a bad deal.

He wished to hell he could push a button and fly
away.

Speaking of which, where were the Jolly Greens? He
raised up to look over the foliage at the countryside around him. The
ground fog was all but burned off. They should be coming along any
minute. He got his flares out and mentally practiced lighting them.
He was ready.

He lay back, listening to the steady drone of the
heavy machinery pounding down the highway. Suddenly he jerked
upright. Good God! He hadn't reported that to Birddog! He had
been so concerned with getting gravel dropped to save his own skin
that he had completely ignored the intelligence report. Sure, there
was a good chance that the Air Force had already taken reconnaissance
photos of the area and was even now briefing crews on the targets of
opportunity.

But what if they hadn't? Much of the traveling was
probably done at night or under the fog cover, and the equipment was
heavily camouflaged. A pang of fear slammed him. Those big guns being
pulled south were antiaircraft guns! Big-bore and sophisticated,
probably 85- or 100-mm. The enemy had undoubtedly set some up to
guard the highway intersection—a vital supply lifeline. Maybe they
were just waiting for the first Jolly Green to hover into their
sights...

Jesus Christ! He was a fool! A selfish,
self-centered fool! Sitting around in a foxhole on his dead ass
feeling sorry for himself. He just might be the bait in a lethal trap
being set for the Jolly Greens. Goddamnit, he was supposed to be a
professional soldier! He had to get off his butt and warn them.

He pulled out his radio, switched it on, and
whispered into it. "Birddog from Bat Twenty-one."

The response was instantaneous. "Come in Bat
Twenty-one. Birddog here."

"Nearby intersection. Where Hollywood Freeway
joins the Santa Monica Freeway. Like Friday night rush hour. Many
drunks on the highway. Very dangerous. Advise Jolly Greens."

There was a pause then, "Roger, Bat. Your
report confirms big eye in the sky. Sending in the black and whites
in five minutes."

Hambleton breathed a sigh of relief. So the Air
Force reconnaissance photos had picked up the mass movement. And
now they were sending in Sandys to pave the way for the Jolly Greens.
"Roger, Birddog. I'll help you direct traffic."

"Understand, Bat. But keep your tail down."

Hambleton almost laughed. In a few minutes his
presence would be the least of the enemy's concern. He crawled out of
his hole and started furtively through the undergrowth. In a matter
of minutes he had reached a little knoll, the highest ground in the
confines of his sanctuary. From here, lying on his belly, he had a
clear view of the intersection.

Peeking from his grandstand seat he pulled out his
map and watched intently, studying the bumper-to-bumper traffic
coming down from the north. When they hit the east-west highway the
vehicles fanned out in both directions. There was no doubt this
intersection was one of the major staging areas of the big Communist
push.

He heard the drone of the FAC airplane coming in
low. Small- arms fire from the ground began banging as the little
Birddog came in on a zigzag course at treetop level. As it passed
overhead Hambleton saw the tail cones of two small rockets belch from
under its wings as the 0-2 pulled up, grabbing altitude. The two
missiles exploded smack in the center of the highways' intersection,
sending a bloom of white smoke blossoming over the converging
traffic.

Birddog had marked the target precisely.

Hambleton turned on his radio, adjusting the
volume down to a whisper so he could monitor the conversation going
upstairs. Since search and air-rescue (SAR) pilots tended speak a
jargon all their own, he supposed some of it would be unintelligible
to him, but it would at least give him a clue as to how the attack
was progressing.

"Birddog to all pilots. I've just marked the
target. Come in, Gumshoe."

"Roger," replied a low-pitched voice.
"We're overhead your position for pylon turn in forty seconds.
We have five hundred GPs retarded and twenty mike mike."

"Roger, Gumshoe," said Birddog. "Do
you have the target in sight?"

"Affirmative."

"Clobber that area. Be on alert for
explosives and secondaries. Maybe ammo trucks. Remember, we've got a
friendly down there. He'd probably appreciate it if you didn't blow
up his foxhole. Pinpoint your targets."

"Always do, Birddog. Area clear?"

"The ante's right. Put something in the pot."

"Coming down in trail formation. We'll
scramble our eggs first."

"Kindly keep an eye out for your friendly
FAC. I'm orbiting four thousand feet to the south."

"Roger. Have you in sight. We'll try not to
pluck any tail feathers."

"Outstanding. Birddog out."

The first Sandy came in on the deck so low its
black shadow snapped at its heels. It roared toward the target,
released its bombs, then whipped up into a sweeping climb as the
delayed-action ordnance exploded, sending visible shock waves
undulating over the terrain. Plane after plane came roaring down in
single file, each sowing its seeds of destruction. Hambleton watched
with pride the precision flying of the pilots.

And of the planes. Depickled from last war's
storage—the Cosmoline scraped from her engines and the cocoon
plastic from her epidermis—the reliable old Sandy was a Vietnam
legend. Her relatively slow speed staying power, and prop-whining
maneuverability gave her an edge on her new, mach-busting
sisters in ground-attack roles, and she was earning her spurs in yet
another war.