BAT-21 (10 page)

He shook his head. Cool it. Pull yourself
together. He licked his parched lips. It must be the thirst that was
doing it. The godawful thirst. Without water men did crazy
things. Thought crazy thoughts...

In the distance, at the edge of the forest beyond
the villages, some kind of unintelligible activity was in progress.
Hambleton rubbed his bleary eyes and squinted through the haze of
late- afternoon sunlight. He could just make out tiny uniformed
figures milling about what appeared to be several Russian ZIL
two-and-a- half-ton cargo trucks hooked up to some odd-looking
trailers. But the distance, the shimmering dust-laden air, and the
lengthening shadows combined to frustrate his efforts to interpret
the scene.

Then, from the center of the group of men and
trucks, a dark slender shape began slowly to rise up toward the sky.
As its angle from the shadowy ground increased, its needlelike tip
caught a slanting shaft of sunlight. Hambleton's heart sank. Now he
understood, all too well.

The thing he was looking at, edged by the gold of
the dying sun, was the finned warhead of a SAM-2!

So that was that. Charley had raised the ante all
the way. Now the friendly aircraft on which Hambleton was so totally
dependent—the FACs, the fighter-bombers, the rescue
choppers—would not only have to fly through the fire storms thrown
up by conventional antiaircraft cannon and automatic weapons, they
would also have to face the deadliest threat to aircraft in the whole
theater of operations—the very weapon that had shot his own plane
down. Evidently tired of having the Air Force strike from the skies
with impunity—strafing their convoys, dropping mines, and
generally raising hell—the Communists were going to do
something about it. It was also evident that the gomers were more
determined than ever to get him before the Americans did.

The target-seeking missiles were far more
effective at shooting down aircraft than the antiaircraft guns that
ringed the area. Once a target was locked onto the SAM's
sophisticated tracking system, it required drastic evasion maneuvers
to outwit the homing missiles. It could be deadly if a plane's pilot
was unaware that he was a locked-on target, and in any circumstances,
it was a murderous threat to slow-moving helicopters. Hambleton knew
from his last intelligence briefing that there had been no SAM sites
reported in this specific area. The pilots would not be expecting
them. They could be knocked off like fish in a rain barrel. He had to
do something about it.

He checked in with Birddog, apprising him of what
was going on in short, cryptic messages. Birddog acknowledged,
surprised that the sophisticated Communist launching systems had been
set up so quickly in the move south.

"Got an idea," said Hambleton. "Have
all the birds flying in this area tonight monitor Guard channel. I'll
play Joe Namath."

"Wilco, quarterback. Birddog out."

Hambleton sat up on the edge of his hole, watching
the village and the surrounding woods. In the failing light he could
see the finned warheads of several more SAMs pointing up toward the

darkening sky. He wouldn't be getting much sleep
tonight. As each first-stage booster ignited he would be whispering
into his radio, "SAM! SAM! Vicinity DMZ!" Then Birddog
would pick it up and rebroadcast the message to all the planes in the
area, alerting them in time to take evasive action.

From his experience with SAM firing patterns
during his seven months of combat flying, Hambleton figured the North
Vietnamese would shoot one or two and that would be the show for the
evening. But on this night it was a whole new ball game. They kept
sending up missiles steadily for over two hours. He couldn't believe
it. After the first few he began counting as he gave the firing
warnings to Birddog. After twenty-five launches he lost track.

It was not until heavy clouds rolled in from the
sea, all but obscuring Hambleton's view of the launching site, that
the missile- men finally hung it up for the night. When it was
obvious the firings were over, Birddog checked in. "Nice show,
Bat. Either your warnings helped or the gooks are slipping. We didn't
lose a bird to the SAMs, and tonight they were thicker'n fleas on a
hound dog's butt."

Hambleton smiled grimly. "Good news."

"Call it a night. We'll be coming in tomorrow
morning as soon as the ground fog lifts. Need anything?"

"Getting low on cherries for the Manhattans."

"I'll make a stop at the deli. Birddog out."

Hambleton crawled into his hole, reached into his
larder, and produced an ear of corn. He ate it ravenously, cob and
all. Now if only he had a drink.

As if generated in the thought, a drop of water
splashed on his face.

He stifled a war whoop. RAIN! Bring 'er down,
David! He whipped out his rubber map, spread it out on a bush, then
foraged for his plastic water container. It wasn't just sprinkling
now, it was coming down in buckets. A squall had whipped the heavy,
humid air into a snarling black cloud that was lighting the heavens
with its electricity. The rain came down as if a giant hand had
pulled the plug in the sky.

Glory be to God! His prayers had been answered.
Quickly he scurried around, putting Chester's house into his hole,
then covering his lair with branches and fronds to keep it and his
survival gear as dry as possible. Then he attended his rain
collector.

The map was filling and funneling its contents
into the plastic water bottle. In a matter of minutes he was soaked
to the skin, but he could hardly have cared less. He raised his face
to the sky, mouth open, and let the delicious rainwater run in. He
stripped off his flying suit, then his shorts, shoes, and socks. Like
a man possessed he hopped around, letting the clean water cascade
down his filthy body.

He started laughing uncontrollably. It was raining
and he was wet and he would have fresh water to drink again. He wrung
out his flying suit, shorts, and socks and hung them over a bush to
collect more water, then he wrung them out again and again.

Finally, as quickly as it had appeared, the
grumbling cloud gathered up its wet skirts and moved on to the east.

Hambleton checked his container. It was more than
half full. Two and a half quarts of good, clean drinking water. He
put the jug to his mouth and took huge, ravenous gulps, until he
forced himself to stop. This liquid treasure might have to last him
longer than he cared to think about.

As a light breeze carried the lingering scud away,
he draped his flying suit over a bush to dry. He removed the leaves
and branches and jaybird naked, crawled back into his den.

He felt better than he had in a long while. The
stubble on his face didn't itch any more. The air smelled good and
fresh and clean. Even he smelled good. Food in his stomach and now
fresh water, a bath for the first time in days, clean clothes, and
tomorrow morning—rescue. By God, he was going to lick this thing.
His survival-school instructors were going to be proud of him. Hell,
he might even go on the road as a guest lecturer.

He pulled out Chester's house, and while the furry
worm tickled its way across his bare stomach, he replaced the cage's
floor with clean, fresh leaves. "If there's anything I can't
stand," he murmured to Chester, "it's a dirty housekeeper."

In the Pentagon the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs
of Staff leaned forward in his swivel chair and studied the face of
the colonel who was giving the intelligence briefing.

The Army colonel was glib, articulate, and had
polished his performance to a high gloss. When the events of the
Asian War during the last twenty-four hours had been covered, and
questions from the assembled military chiefs had been answered, the
colonel paused, cupped his hands over his pointer, and waited to be
dismissed. But the chairman was not quite ready to dismiss him.

"I don't understand," said Admiral
Moorer, "why it has taken so long to rescue Hambleton. It's
going on five days." He turned to the Air Force Chief of Staff.
"John, what the hell's wrong with our SAR?"

Air Force General John Ryan met his eyes.
"Admiral, the trouble isn't with our search and rescue units.
There are complicating factors. Foremost, as you know, has been
the weather. The monsoon season has created low-visibility ground fog
that has seriously hampered our Jolly Green rescue attempts.
Secondly, Hambleton is in a very hot sector; right now, one of the
hottest in Vietnam. He's holed up near the juncture of a main
arterial highway bringing in supplies from the north, and the enemy
has been able to repulse our choppers every time they were able to
get airborne."

"I understand all that. But I also know we've
got to get that man out of there. Along with Lieutenant Clark. What
the hell are we doing about it?"

"We're going to keep trying, Admiral. We have
a mission scheduled to pick up both the men as soon as the ground fog
lifts this morning, Vietnam time. The weather is forecast to be
good."

Moorer digested this. "What's the latest on
his physical condition?"

"He appears to be in comparatively good
shape," said Ryan. "It rained last night. He should have
fresh water."

"That's good." The admiral stroked his
chin and leaned back in his chair. "What a crazy setup. Here
we've got a navigator with a headful of secrets shot down in the
middle of an offensive, calling out targets for the fighters and
broadcasting SAM alerts. Now that's pretty weird, even for this war."

"Wars don't usually make much sense, Admiral,
especially this one," said Ryan.

"No. But every time I think of that
fifty-three-year-old navigator dug into the mud out there, I
think there must be some hope. It's as if he were trying to win the
war all by himself."

"I guess," said the Air Force Chief of
Staff, "Hambleton thinks it's important."

Hambleton awoke from four hours of the best sleep
he had had since being shot down. He had been dreaming of a squadron
clambake he and Gwen had attended during a golf outing the clams and
lobsters steaming from the pots, dipped in melted butter ... the
flagons of cold beer...

He wiped melted butter from his lips and stirred
himself. It was beginning to turn light. Ground fog licked the
terrain, touching everything with moist fingers. Over to the
east he could hear the voices of the villagers preparing for a new
day. He would give anything to be able to understand their language.
The odor of their cooking began to drift his way, reminding him of
his dream.

Never mind. Today was the day of his deliverance.
As soon as the fog burned off he was going to be taken away from all
this. To the land of juicy steaks and eggs and cold beer. And
cigarettes. Man, would a cigarette go great! Briefly he wondered how
dried cornsilk wrapped in corn husks would burn. Behind the barn in
Illinois he had once smoked grapevine.

Forget it! He'd soon be having a Marlboro.

He put a few more leaves into Chester's cage, then
crawled out of his hole. Having forgotten his nudity, he was shocked
to look down and see the incongruous picture of himself stark naked,
except for his veil of mosquito netting. He grinned. Like a bride at
a nudist wedding. Well, not exactly a bride. Crawling around on all
fours, he gathered up his laundry. It was damp, but it smelled a lot
better. He took the clothes back to his hole. It was when he was
starting to slip into his shorts that he noticed the marks on his
body.

Peculiar. It was the first time he had been out of
his flying suit, and he hadn't seen them before. He had been
suffering some discomfort, but he had chalked it up to the stiffness
of inactivity and sleeping on the damp ground. There were little
black spots scattered over his body, mostly concentrated on his right
leg and side. Some seemed to be infected. He investigated one on his
right bicep. He squeezed it, and to his surprise out popped a little
piece of metal.

So that was it. Flak. Picked up when the SAM
missile had exploded on impact with his plane. Tiny pieces of pot
metal. The Commies and their damned cheap pot-metal missiles. No
goddamn class! He spent the better part of an hour squeezing the
small sores, removing the pieces of shrapnel, and dressing them with
disinfectant. After patching all the festers he could reach, he
donned his shorts and flying suit. Then he put on his socks and
shoes.

OK. He was ready. He even smelled presentable. The
thick fog was being reduced to a thin wisp by the rays of the early
morning sun. The weather forecasters were right. It wouldn't be long
now until the visibility was CFB (clear as a frapping bell) and the
Jolly Greens would be clattering in.

He would probably have time for a bite to eat. He
produced his last ear of corn, broke it in half, rewrapped one half
in its husks and began eating the other half, chasing it down with
gulps from his jug. Ah, nothing like starting the day off with a good
breakfast.

As he slowly munched the cob, he could hear the
activity of planes to the south and the booming of bombs and
antiaircraft guns in the distance. With the big enemy push on, the
war seemed to be moving to the south. He knew of a highway bridge
that crossed the Song Cam Lo River several clicks to the southwest.
This was probably the target his buddies were concentrating on,
trying to slow up the rapid advance of the Communists.

The action had also brought out the curious war
watchers from the villages. They lined the roads, chattering,
pointing at the planes barely visible in the distance, shouting in
their high-pitched

voices as the bombs fell. Nothing, Hambleton
thought, like putting on a little show for the folks. Beats the hell
out of television.

Several hours into daylight the fog had completely
dissipated. Some of the big guns had been silenced by the attacking
fighters, but still Birddog had made no mention of the Jolly Greens.
Hambleton hadn't mentioned them either, for he knew the Air Force had
its hands full. Besides trying to stem one of the biggest attacks of
the war, they now had two downed airmen they had to retrieve.
Troubles enough without having to listen to nagging from a guy in a
hole.