BAT-21 (21 page)

"Not Air Rescue's fault. They're itching to
go in again. But the Commies have attacked on four fronts. For your
information, moneybags, this is a balls-out invasion. The nastys
decided on a quick, massive attack to crush the South Vietnamese
before they can develop their military machine. Believe me, the
Commies are loaded for bear. They ain't kidding around."

"Well, from where this peace monger sits, I'd
say the black hats are succeeding."

"At this point yes. They're putting on the
pressure, HARD. It's never taken this long to yank out a downed
airman. I think both Hambleton and Clark are setting some kind of
record for time on the ground. It's been ten days now for Hambleton,
and the Air- Rescue gents are having a coronary. They don't like it.
They've pulled out a couple thousand downed fliers in this brouhaha
already. Sometimes I think the SAR gents have the only mission in
this fouled-up war that makes any sense."

"You're not forgetting the finance officer."

"No. I'm not forgetting the finance officer."

Campbell flopped down on the bed and stretched
out. "So what else do you think would make sense?"

"All I'm saying is take off the shackles and
let us do the job right."

"What shackles?"

"Case in point." Clark pulled on his
flying boots. "Just last week one of our Thud pilots was on
patrol. He saw a couple gook tanks heading south, so he peeled off
and went down after them. Went through a lot of flak, but shot them
up pretty good. He landed back at his base, expecting at least one
atta-boy for a job well done. What did he get? He got a
one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar fine for violating FAA regulations
because he strayed from an air corridor."

"You're kidding."

Clark raised his right hand. "As God is my
witness! Here we are, fighting an all-out enemy offensive. They're
coming down in droves, rolling over the poor damned South Vietnamese,
throwing everything at us but the kitchen sink. One of our throttle
jocks goes in to help, and he's fined by the FAA for his trouble. Our
FAA! Now does that sort of give you a clue about how we're fighting
this war?"

"All right, already. I'm with you, roomie.
But in the final analysis, has there ever been a war that was really
intelligent?"

Clark rose and put on his survival vest. "Hell,
no. All wars should be outlawed. But all I'm saying is, if war is
inevitable and we are committed, let's go in full bore and stamp out
the fire. Not just fan the flames. If it's stupid for a country to
commit itself to war, then it's the height of stupidity, once
committed, not to win it."

"I must remember that."

"You do that." Clark checked his .38,
holstered it, and picked up his helmet. "In the meantime, I've
got a date with a nice old duck who's a victim of your cruddy war."
He picked up his flight

bag. As he headed for the door, the phone rang.
Campbell answered it, then held it toward Clark.

Clark crossed to the phone, picked it up.

"Clark, Colonel Walker. Glad I got you before
you took off. Can you come to the command post on your way to the
flight line?"

"Yes, sir. Problems?"

"Problems. An intelligence report. Brief you
on it when you get here."

"Yes, sir. On my way."

"A sticky wicket?" asked Campbell.

"A problem. Don't know how bad. I'll find out
at the CP."

The command post was a flurry of excitement.
Operations orders and contingency plans were being worked on in
preparation for the much-discussed blockade, in the event the
President now decided to impose it.

Clark walked over to a harried Colonel Walker. As
he approached, Walker gave him a glance and said, "Be right
with you, Clark." Clark nodded and leaned against a desk while
Walker concluded a conference with several staff officers. Then
Walker motioned for the FAC pilot. "Clark, we just got some
photos taken of a reconnaissance drone that flew over Hambleton's
area. The intelligence types have spotted half a dozen armored
personnel carriers in it. Their guess is that the Charleys have made
it through the mine field, searched for Hambleton, and found him
missing. That's why they've brought in the additional troops. They
probably plan to make a fan-out search. It's going to get very hairy.
So the sooner we can get him to the river, the better."

"Very well, sir. I'll get him started as soon
as it's dark."

"You have to. I know he's just about had it,
and it's going to be tough pushing him like this. But it's our only
chance."

"One question, Colonel. All of this planning
for the executive order? There's no chance that Colonel Hambleton's
rescue will sort of get lost in the shuffle? Take a backseat?"

"Clark, that's a stupid question. I think you
know our priorities."

"I'm glad that's a stupid question, sir. But
I had to ask it to find out."

"We're going to recover those two men if I
have to go AWOL and go in and get them personally."

"Kind of talk I like to hear."

"But we are going to be committing a lot of
men and equipment if the blockade goes into effect. The staffs going
to be working around the clock, so the sooner we get Hambleton and
Clark out of there, the better."

"Now aren't you glad I stuck around? Nice to
have an extra hand at harvest time."

"I'll be grateful to you if you just saddle
up and get your ass into the blue."

"Yes, sir. On my way. Just one last thought.
All this planning and midnight-oil burning is purely academic. The
war will soon be over."

"That's nice to know. How do you figure?"

"I just heard that Jane Fonda's going to
North Vietnam. You know she'll soon have this whole sordid mess
straightened out."

"Out!"

"Yes, sir."

It was slow going through the banana grove as
Hambleton traversed the first half of his ninth hole. Checking his
compass, he could see that he would soon be out of the small
plantation and into a heavy undergrowth. At least he would have
protection on this hole. And it was a good thing; his problems had
been underscored by the sound of voices in the distance. Had they
picked up his trail? Entirely possible.

Ah, there was the edge of the grove just up ahead.
Another hundred yards and he should be on the green. He paused at the
last banana plant to rest and assess the terrain in front of him. It
looked quiet. The only drawback was a narrow road separating him from
the undergrowth. Probably used to harvest the bananas. He would have
to move quickly across that bare area.

He took a deep breath and leaped. The next thing
he knew, he was flipping end over end.

He landed with an agonizing grunt. He blinked the
stars from his eyes and looked around. A barbed-wire fence was the
culprit. Missing it in the dark, he had tripped over it, going
tailbone over appetite. He swore, replaced his glasses—which were
riding sidesaddle on his face—and crawled over to the
protection of the grove line.

He frisked himself, checking for injuries. Lucky
he had hit on his head, or he might have hurt something. He checked
the pocket for his radio, and then a terrible fear surged through
him. His radio! It was gone! It had popped out of his pocket during
the fall. Oh, dear God, not the radio! Not his only link to his
rescuers; not his only hope for survival!

Frantically he fell to his knees and started
searching the ground around him. Hindered by the darkness, he dug
around in the fallen banana leaves, wildly pawing the ground. The
coppery taste of terror began to sour his mouth. He grubbed around,
skinning his hands on the rough ground, straining to see, straining
to find it in the darkness.

Then he stopped abruptly in his tracks. Not panic
again. Once was too much! He'd play it cozy, just sit down, relax,
and think. Radio had to be around somewhere. Bouncing around like a
spastic jumping jack, making lots of noise, would draw the gomers.

He sat down on his haunches, taking deep breaths.
Then the moon flashed through a passing cloud long enough to throw
back a dim reflection. It was the antenna. The radio was out in the
middle of the narrow road. He exhaled, murmuring a short prayer of
thanks.

His feeling of gratitude was quickly replaced by a
sickening thought: What if the radio had been broken when he flipped
and it hit the ground? It was sturdy, but not built to withstand this
kind of treatment.

He looked around, listening for any signs of
activity. There were still voices in the distance. Were they sounding
a little closer? As far as he could see ahead and up and down the
road, there was nothing but stillness. He had to cross that road to
continue the hole anyway. He would make a dash for it and pick up the
radio on the run.

He tensed unwilling muscles and leaped. In a flash
he was across the road, the radio in his hand. Quickly he slipped
into the undergrowth that bordered the far side of the road and
squatted down. He waited for his heart to stop thumping as he
listened again for any signs of detection. None.

His hands shaking, he turned the radio over in his
palms. Examining more by feel than by sight, he determined that the
hard casing was undamaged. But was it still working on the inside? He
had to call Birddog and find out. He punched the transmitter button
and whispered into the mike. "Birddog from Bat Twenty- one.
Birddog from Bat Twenty-one. Come in."

He sat down, wiped the sweat from his brow and
waited. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Was he transmitting? Or was he
transmitting but something had happened to the receiver?
"Birddog, this is Bat Twenty-one. Come in.
Please!
”

No response. Birddog always responded immediately
whenever he was in the air. Something had to be wrong with his
radio. He fiddled with the small telescopic antenna. It appeared to
be OK. He rechanneled the selector. It seemed to be working. He
banged the case several times against the palm of his hand. Sweat was
now pouring down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. He'd try
another channel. Maybe it was just the discrete frequency that wasn't
working. He punched Guard channel and called again. "Birddog
from Bat Twenty-one. Do you read on Guard channel?"

"Bat Twenty-one, this is Birddog. Get the
hell off Guard frequency!"

Hambleton slumped with relief. Never in his whole
life had a voice sounded so good. He rechanneled to Charlie channel.
"Roger, Birddog. Testing my radio. I fell. Thought I might have
broken something."

"Coming in loud and clear, Bat. You caught me
pouring a cup of coffee."

"Would you make that two? With a large brandy
on the side. I got the shivering fits."

"Later, Bat. Right now you gotta get moving.
How's your progress?"

"Calculate another hundred yards to the
green."

"Then use your five iron. Get there in a
hurry. You got foursomes behind you. Carrying large clubs."

"Understand." So he was right. Those
were searchers he had heard talking to one another, beating the
brush. "I'll shoot now."

"Roger, Bat. Check in at the green."

"Wilco."

Again Hambleton started off. The dense undergrowth
was a mixed blessing. It offered good protection, but it was slow and
tough going, hard to stay on the fairway. He stopped often, checking
his compass, counting his paces.

In his physical state, it took him nearly an hour
to cover the yardage that should have positioned the ninth-hole
green. As he counted off his last stride, he stopped and looked
around. He was at the east edge of the undergrowth. There was a large
tree nearby. He inched over to it slowly and sat down.

It was difficult to bring his tired eyes into
focus. He took off his glasses, cleaned them with his handkerchief,
and replaced them. Either his eyes were playing tricks on him or his
thinking had turned fuzzy. It looked like a big sandbar out there
just past the border of the undergrowth. He stared at it intently,
trying to make sense out of the big light place that might be a rice
paddy, yet wasn't a rice paddy. It looked more like sand. He cursed
himself for not being able to bring it in more clearly.

Maybe if he lay down, shut his eyes, and relaxed a
minute, his fatigued brain would register a better impression. He
did. Lying on his stomach, he closed his eyes for a moment, then
opened them. It was coming in a little clearer. Then the moonlight
broke through for a brief instant; he slowly raised on one elbow,
then up on his hands and knees and muttered softly. What an idiot he
was! That wasn't a paddy, that was the river, the by-God, ever-lovin'
river!

He rose to his feet and stood, back to the tree,
just staring at it.

And then he committed a grave tactical error.
Without thinking he began to move as rapidly as he could toward
the beckoning Lorelei of the water. On he blundered, faster and
faster, his head bent forward like a charging bull. And suddenly his
left foot came down where there wasn't any ground.

In survival school he had been warned of the
abrupt drop-offs and cliffs in this part of the country. But when he
saw the water before him, his mind had donned blinders. In an instant
he was rolling, tumbling, bouncing down a steep embankment. Too late
to prevent him from stepping into midair, his survival training at
least prompted him to clasp his arms around his head, buffering his
fall as he logrolled down the cliff.

He banged to a painful stop against a tree.

His wind knocked out of him, he fought dizziness.
Don't go under now, Hambone. Just because you're stupid enough to
walk off a cliff, don't go under now. It could be fatal. He lay there
stunned for several minutes. Feeling more outrage for his stupidity
than actual pain from the fall, he cursed himself unmercifully.

Gingerly he tested his extremities: his fingers,
hands, then arms and legs. Although reluctantly, everything seemed to
respond. Finally he rolled over on his stomach and his eyes fell
on the river. He was seeing it, but not quite believing it. Only one
way to find out. Ignoring the pain from his fall, like a snake he
wriggled on his belly down to the river's edge and put his hands into
the dark water. It was no mirage. In spite of his stupidity, he had
achieved his objective. With perfect sincerity he said, "Thank
you, sweet Jesus. Thank you."