BAT-21 (8 page)

He hoped it would be a lot better than yesterday.
During the daylight hours he had done little but monitor the hourly
reports from Birddog, receiving the latest weather sequences. All day
the ceiling had remained lower than a midget's ass. The Jolly Greens
didn't even get airborne, let alone attempt a rescue. But according
to the weather prophets, today was supposed to be better. The front
was supposed to move out.

At least he had accomplished something. He hadn't
just sat on his hands all day and soured himself with more self-pity.
In the best traditions of survival he had busied himself with an
objective. Maybe his project would not seem much of an accomplishment
to a lot of people, but again, not many people had spent three days
sitting in a hole, deep in enemy territory.

He reached out for his project and picked it up.
He removed the little thatched roof and checked on Chester. The
caterpillar seemed to be enjoying the little house Hambleton had
patiently woven for him from strips of corn husks. About the size of
a strawberry box, it had turned out quite well. At least its occupant
seemed to be thriving, not only protected from the elements, but also
from the gimlet-eyed birds.

Hambleton put in several fresh leaves and replaced
the roof. Yes, both he and Chester were going to survive. Make the
best of an unfortunate situation.

In the distance he heard again the clank-clank of
heavy tanks. It was going to be another busy day at the office. He
emerged from his hole and groped his way through the undergrowth to
his vantage point on the little knoll that overlooked the
intersection. The ground fog was thinning fast; being dissipated by
the morning sun. Hot damn! Maybe today would be rescue day.

Lying on his belly, he watched the tanks—T-54
heavies and PT-76 amphibious lights—coming down from the DMZ in a
long line. On reaching the intersection the monsters separated, some
going east, others west. He crawled back to his hole to notify
Birddog.

In a low voice he relayed the information to the
FAC. Then in a matter of minutes the F-4's came howling in overhead.
Very businesslike, he crossed his arms and waited for the surrounding
antiaircraft batteries to open up on the attacking jets. Now, almost
without thinking, he put on his helmet before the shrapnel from the
exploding AA shells rained down around him.

After the fighter attack had silenced the grumble
of the tanks, he again whispered to Birddog: "There ought to be
an easier way to make a living."

"What's the matter, Bat? Getting tired of
being the number- one duck in our shooting gallery?"

"Some of the fun has gone out of it."

"Why didn't you say so? We'll yank you out of
there."

"Wonderful idea."

"Get out your flares. The Jolly Greens are
coming. But first duck your head. We're gonna play you a little
tune."

"Roger." Hambleton knew what was coming.
They were going to bring in all the air power they could muster to
neutralize the area before the choppers came in. He dug into his hole
as far as he could and pulled Chester in after him.

Down they thundered. For fifteen minutes the air
around him sounded like the climax of the 1812 Overture gone amok.
Birddog was the conductor, leading the overture of death from the
podium of his tiny 0-2. Hambleton shut his eyes, clenched his jaws,
and placed his hands over his ears. But the thundering, earth-shaking
symphony of bombardment came in loud and clear. The whining F-105's
were the wind instruments, the C-130 gunships the snare drums, the
hurtling F-4's climaxing the overture with the cymbal crash of their
cluster bombs.

For a quarter of an hour that seemed like an
eternity Hambleton rolled with the shock waves, jumped with the
concussions, and spat dirt. Then it ended as quickly as it had
begun.

He shook the dust out of his hair, wiped the grit
from his eyes, and blinked. He was still in one piece. He looked
around him. All he could see was the dust and smoke of the aftermath.
He waited for things to settle and his ears to quit buzzing, then he
checked in with the orbiting FAC pilot.

"You play quite a tune, Birddog."

"It grows on you. You're gonna have to pull
in your welcome mat for a bit, Bat. Complications. Will get back to
you within the hour."

Frowning, Hambleton clicked an acknowledgment.
Complications? He hadn't liked the worried tone of Birddog's
usually upbeat voice. What the hell could be the complication? He
rose up and looked around him. There were several crackling fires but
nothing seemed to be moving. Nothing. As far as the eye could see.
Even the villages were quiescent.

He looked up and scanned the sky. The ground fog
had completely burned off and there were only a few puffy altocumulus
off to the east. Weather was perfect. If ever the Jolly Greens could
come in, this was the time. What was the holdup? Knowing the
blood-and-guts courage of the SAR rescue teams, it had to be
something serious. The guns dug into the villages? Even most of these
had been pinpointed and neutralized by the fighters. The weather was
CAVU and the opposition was hanging on the ropes. What were the
complications?

Damn, what he wouldn't give for a cigarette!

In the briefing room of the Korat Command Post
several wing staff officers were gathered around a table on which
were spread a series of aerial reconnaissance photos. Colonel Walker
looked up as Captain Dennis Clark walked in, wearing a flying suit
wet with perspiration.

"How's it going, Clark?"

"Hot, sir," said Clark.

"It's been one of those days. How was
Hambleton when you left him?"

"Confused and dejected."

Walker looked grim. "Hell of a note! We might
have yanked him out of there by this time if it hadn't happened. Does
he know about the OV-IO FAC that was shot down near his area?"

"No."

"Try to explain to him why the Jolly Greens
didn't go in to get him after the bombardment. If he knows they were
on another rescue mission, he'll understand."

"Wilco, sir. What's the latest?"

"We're still putting the pieces together.
Looks like the pilot went down with his plane. But the observer seems
to have gotten out okay. At least we got the area around him
sanitized. How did it look out there?"

Clark moved to the terrain map on the briefing
room wall. He pointed to a spot about four miles east of Hambleton's
position. "He's down in some trees right about here. The SAR
Sandys and our jets really clobbered the area around him, but it's
still too hot to get the Jolly Greens in. They tried three times."

Walker studied the area. "Christ, we can sure
pick some great spots to auger in! Smack in the middle of a
battleground. Is the area as hot as Hambleton's?"

"No. The observer is more isolated. Not as
close to a major arterial intersection as Colonel Hambleton is."

Walker shook his head. "This is going to take
some strategy. Now we've got two men down in the hottest spots of the
war. The staff is working on several ideas now. How about giving them
your latest eyewitness intelligence."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, Clark. One more thing. I just learned
that your orders came through. Assigning you back to the States."

"Yes, sir."

"Then why aren't you on your way out of
here?"

"Got a few odds and ends to clear up first,
Colonel. Then I'll start."

"Oh? I didn't know we were now running the
Air Force at the convenience of captains."

"No, sir. I've cleared it with my squadron
CO. I'm on leave."

Walker looked quizzically at the tall pilot. "Did
I understand you correctly? You're taking leave—here?"

"Yes, sir. Until, as I say, I get a few odds
and ends cleared up. Besides, I'm crazy about the mess hall."

Walker grunted. "I knew FAC pilots were all a
little shell- shocked. But you're ready for the rubber room."

"So my roommate keeps informing me."

"Going to F-one-elevens is a pretty choice
assignment. They won't keep it open for you if you don't make your
reporting date."

"I realize that."

"OK. You can stay on the mission. But,"
he looked narrowly at Clark, "I want you to get your crew rest.
According to the Ops reports you've almost been flying around the
clock."

"Not quite, sir. Been getting my beauty rest.
Catnaps while they refuel my plane, some here, some there."

"You heard me. I said crew rest. You've got
to stay sharp. Some isn't enough. A lot of those fog banks are
stuffed with large mountains. And I don't want another downed pilot
to worry about."

"Yes, sir." Clark excused himself and
went over to the staff officers huddled around the reconnaissance
photos.

Major Sam Piccard looked up and squinted through
the smoke of his meerschaum. "Hi, Denny. Understand you've had a
busy day. How goes it on the front lines?"

"Things could be better."

"They sure could. Did I ever tell you what
Mussolini said about war?"

"No, Sam, but I have a feeling you're going
to."

Piccard tamped his pipe. "War alone brings up
to its highest tension all human energy and puts the stamp of
nobility upon the peoples who have the courage to face it."

"That's beautiful."

"How does it feel to be noble and
courageous?"

"No wonder they shot Mussolini."

Piccard grinned. "You have a point."

"Before I give you my intelligence report,
answer me a question."

"Shoot."

"About that downed FAC observer. Who is he?
Has he been positively identified?"

"He has. A lieutenant. Name of Clark. You
don't have any relatives flying over here?"

"None that I know of."

"You'd be in good company if your were
related to this one. His first name's Mark."

"Not Mark Clark? The son of—"

"That's right."

Hambleton was lying on his stomach on his
observation knoll making mental notes of the enemy's troop movements
on the highway when he heard the buzzing of the FAC plane overhead.
He snapped on his radio.

In terse, guarded language the pilot informed him
of the reason for the aborted rescue attempt. If not cheered,
Hambleton was at least relieved. It was one thing to think his
rescuers had abandoned him. It was another to learn that they had
been given an alternate, priority mission in an attempt to aid a
downed fellow airman.

"Hang in, Bat," said Birddog. "We're
lining up our ducks at the head shed. A plan is being worked out.
Weather's supposed to hold good. It won't be long now."

"Roger, Birddog. And thanks." Feeling
much better, Hambleton clicked off his radio. Best he return to his
hole and condense his enemy-movement report to transmit to Birddog.
He rolled over on his back to tuck his radio into the front pocket of
his flying suit. Then, the sun feeling warm on his face, he relaxed
for a moment in preparation for his journey back to the hole.

Suddenly he froze. What in hell was that?
Cautiously he turned his head in the direction of the noise.

His blood turned to ice.

Standing not fifteen feet away was a little
Vietnamese boy!

Hambleton blinked in shock. The kid looked about
ten years of age, dirty, gaunt, shabbily dressed—his eyes the size
of sake cups.

Jesus Christ! Where did that kid come from? What
the hell should he do? Make a break and run like hell? No. Not in
bright daylight. The smart thing to do was just lie there and play
dead. He shut his eyes and tried to look like a convincing corpse.

The boy must have detected some motion in the
underbrush and come over to investigate. But how did he get through
the mine field? Just luck, making like Tiny Tim? Or because God rides
in the hip pockets of children?

Hambleton cracked his lids. God, the kid wasn't
alone! A large black dog was bounding around near him. Now he not
only had a kid watching him, but also a dog that was going to start
barking and bring every gomer in Vietnam.

Sighting Hambleton, the dog stopped short. His
tail came almost to a point, stiff as a poker. He sniffed the wind,
then looked curiously up at his master. Talking low to the dog, the
boy approached, stepping softly through the brush.

Hambleton did his best to simulate rigor mortis.
He tried to ignore an insect crossing his cheek, praying that not a
muscle would twitch. He knew he had to play dead damn well, or soon
he might be.

Then the two were upon him. The lad, carrying a
stick, gingerly poked Hambleton's chest. The dog started sniffing at
his heels, slowly working up his body. Hambleton watched the boy
through slitted lids. He did not dare breathe as the lad reached for
the zipper of his pocket that contained his radio.

His radio!

Dear God, he couldn't part with that! Not his
lifeline to the FAC pilot and survival. If the boy started to take
it, what should he do? Attack the kid? Throttle him? Impossible. Take
him hostage? Also impossible. He had enough trouble trying to take
care of himself. Then, what?

Sniffing Hambleton's head, the dog suddenly
started to growl. A low, ominous rale issued from his throat, and he
bared his fangs inches above Hambleton's face. Hambleton felt a
splatter of drool drop on his cheek. Sweet Jesus! Was he about to be
attacked?

The boy muttered a low Vietnamese command to the
mongrel. Reproached, the dog pulled back, but his fangs did not
retract. Had the beast detected life in the corpse and was warning
his master? Or was the canine just hankering for fresh meat? Whatever
it was, the dog's actions had caused the boy to pull back his hand.
Then, strangely, the boy straightened up and turned around, issuing
orders to the dog. Reluctantly, mongrel heeded master, and the two
started off at a lively clip to disappear in the tall brush.

Hambleton lay still, immobile, waiting for the
tremors of shock to subside. What had all that been about? Had the
kid sensed he was alive? Would he report him? Send the soldiers
looking for him? Or would the boy—no stranger to dead bodies in the
war zone— merely pass him off as an uninteresting incident? After
three days in a stinking flying suit he probably smelled like a
corpse.