BAT-21 (6 page)

"I'll be go to hell."

"Undoubtedly. Now will you come with me? You
wouldn't believe the redhead I've got staked out that's panting for
your ugly frame."

Clark unzipped a pocket of his flight suit and
pulled out a cigarette. "So I've actually completed a tour in
this ball-crunchin' madhouse."

"That you have, m'lad. You can kiss your
little Birddog goodbye forever. It's back to the land of milk
and honey. Where all the women have round eyes and big boobs."

"Where am I going?"

"Nellis. Flying F-one-elevens. How does that
grab ya?"

"You're kidding!"

"Sex-mad I am. A kidder I ain't."

Clark smacked his leg with the palm of his hand.
"God damn!"

"Ain't too shabby."

He pulled out his lighter and lit his cigarette.
"F-one-elevens. The switchblade. Must be some mistake. How did
the Air Force screw up? That's what I requested."

"And Nellis Air Patch, Nevada. Right in the
backyard of Lost Wages. With acres of show girls with legs that go
clear up to their assets."

Clark grinned at his roommate and took a deep drag
from his cigarette. "But you'll have to cancel my plane
reservation, Jake. Can't leave quite yet."

Campbell cocked his head. "Say again your
message. You're coming in garbled."

"I appreciate it, Jake. But not just yet. I'm
still on a job."

"But your orders—"

"I've got leave coming. I'll take it here
until I've finished what I'm doing."

"My God, man, you're exasperating! Just what
the hell is so bloody important to keep you in this Black Hole of
Calcutta?"

"A gent by the name of Iceal E. Hambleton.
Lieutenant Colonel, United States Air Force."

"Hambleton. He's the nav who was shot down?"

"Affirmative."

"You know him?"

"Never met him."

Campbell looked intently into the face of his
roommate. "I don't think I understand."

"Nothing to understand. There's a
fifty-three-year-old man holed up in the hottest spot in Vietnam. And
the old geezer's got lots of guts. As long as he can hang on, I'm
hanging in there with him."

"Look, ole buddy. You ain't the only FAC
pilot in Vietnam. We got a squadron full of them. Some have been out
there keeping an eye on Hambleton whenever you had to come back for a
refill."

Clark stopped him with a raised palm. "I know
that, Jake. But humility aside, you and I know that I'm the most
experienced 0-2 throttle jock over here. Plus I know the sector that
Hambleton's down in like the back of my hand. What's more, I've
worked with about every fighter flight leader over here and know them
on a first-name basis. I know what they can do, and they know how I
operate. A team effort like this can make a lot of difference in a
ticklish rescue operation. Agreed?"

"Agreed. But you got a head full of large
agates. If I had a reprieve of sentence from this cruddy war...."

"Tell the gals I'm sorry to miss the party."
Clark rose, snuffed out his cigarette, and picked up his clipboard.
"The bird should be refueled by now."

Campbell shook his head. "All right, you
bullheaded bastard. No use arguing with a fireplug. But I think this
screwy war's gotten to you. You need a shrink."

Clark grinned. "No doubt about it."

"I'll see ya later. You don't mind if I go
back and continue celebrating your farewell party?"

"Be my guest."

"Too bad you ain't going somewhere."

It was well past midnight. Hambleton was lying in
his hole wide awake. He had tried to sleep, but he couldn't help
licking his dry lips, and the perspiration salt only made him
thirstier. Further, there was a discontented lion growling around in
his empty stomach.

But at best, his sleep would have been fitful.
With the advent of darkness the night-bombing capability of the
bombers and fighters became effective, and from time to time a strike
would come in. The whistling shrill of the Phantoms was easy to
recognize, but he could only guess at some of the others.

Whenever he heard one of the friendlies thundering
in on a strike he automatically braced himself, for he knew he would
have to abide the frightening fire of the antiaircraft batteries
surrounding him. After each firing he would sit there gritting
his teeth, waiting for the pieces of pot metal from the exploding
flak to rain down upon him. He had learned to burrow down into his
hole leaving only his helmet sticking above the ground, with an
alacrity that would send a mole looking to its laurels.

During a night strike the ground fire opened up
unmercifully. Guns exploded everywhere, lighting the sky with an
orange brilliance that snatched at the darkness. It would appear the
Communists were just shooting blind, that whenever they heard the
sound of aircraft they rose up and flailed their ammunition in every
direction just on the off chance of hitting something. But Hambleton
knew better. The Communists did not have to take random potshots,
they had sophisticated radar guidance and they knew exactly at what
altitude the AF planes were flying. Their Russian equipment was in
some cases superior to that of the Americans. It was undoubtedly some
new technological achievement that had enabled them to bring
their SAMs so far south so quickly, thus destroying his own airplane.

It was this more than anything else that caused
Hambleton deep concern for the FAC pilots, one or another of whom had
been droning overhead virtually all night. It was as if the North
Vietnamese were bent on eliminating the cocky little FACs, the sole
link between the downed flyer and the deadly fighter-bombers.

The FAC pilots were something else, Hambleton
mused. It was well known that you had to be slightly demented to be
one. No sane man would think of spending most of his time over enemy
territory, mostly deep behind their lines, in an unarmed,
unprotected prop-driven airplane. No way. In pursuit of their
duties of calling and marking enemy targets for the Air Force and the
Infantry, FACs had to run the risk of being the target for everything
from slingshots to SAM missiles. Their only protection was coming in
low under the enemy radar and surveillance nets—often below treetop
level—to mark the targets, then to skedaddle like spit on a hot
stove. Their stock in trade was a fearless, reckless cunning combined
with the element of surprise. Not only were they a foolhardy group of
pilots, but at the liar's dice table they were to be avoided at all
costs.

Shortly after two a.m. things quieted down. It was
almost peaceful. Hambleton was just about to drop off when through
the silence loomed a different noise. It was the sound of voices!

He stirred to a sitting position, listening hard.
He could faintly hear people talking excitedly. The noise seemed to
be coming from the villages, and he took careful note of the lights
that pinpointed three hamlets within his range of vision, one to the
east, one to the south, and one barely visible in the southwest.

The voices were becoming louder. He crawled out of
his hole for a better vantage point. Then he saw them, dimly visible
in the glow of flashlights—a group of people fanning out from the
villages to congregate at the edge of the rice paddies. He could just
make out the uniforms of North Vietnamese regulars interspersed among
the villagers. They seemed to be conducting some type of meeting.

As he watched nervously the gathering started
spreading out into the paddies. Good God! Were they going to search
for him? At this ungodly hour? They came toward him, sweeping away
the darkness with swinging beams of their lights. He began to
perspire. His palm, holding the butt of his snub-nosed revolver,
became slippery. He wiped it off on his flying suit and regripped the
.38, ready to shoot.

The searchers continued their exploration for over
an hour. They would come up to—but never cross—an invisible line
out in the middle of the paddies—his land-mined "Maginot
Line." At last they gathered in a large group, talked briefly,
then began splitting up and heading back to the villages.

Hambleton mopped the sweat from his face.
Obviously they knew roughly where he was holed up. The gravel mining
by the Sandys had marked the circular perimeter of the area in which
he was hiding. The enemy knew about gravel, and had it spotted now.
That had probably been the purpose of this exercise. The soldiers had
pressed the villagers into service to help them define the gravel
area and make sure it surrounded their prey. But what they intended
to do next Hambleton could only guess.

He ducked back into his hole and checked in with
the FAC pilot on station. Upon being informed that another rescue
attempt would be made at dawn, he signed off. Yet somehow even this
news failed to cheer him up. In a somber mood, he curled into a fetal
position and tried to go to sleep.

Hambleton slept fitfully for almost an hour. Then
again he was awakened by the grumble of heavy machinery. He sat for a
moment listening and mustering his senses. A strange light seemed to
be flickering in the distance, to the north, toward the
intersection. He wiped the sleep from his eyes, then crawled out
of his hole to investigate.

Peering from his observation knoll, he was
surprised to see that burning flares were responsible for the
light—small flares, little larger than the fireball of a Roman
candle, firing one at a time and at irregular intervals. His hand
went instinctively to his .38. Were they searching for him again?

No. No one was heading his way. There were
soldiers, but they were concerned only with the busy highway. They
were moving equipment and supplies along the main arterial, taking
advantage of the darkness. He blinked, accustoming his eyes to the
faint light, and then slowly, he began to understand what was going
on. It was a long convoy of trucks bumper to bumper, their headlights
off, groping through the dark. The small flares were being lighted by
men in the lead vehicle. Each flare would burn for several minutes
while the convoy moved, then the men in the front truck would light
another and repeat the process. It was a good plan. Any pilot looking
for this truck convoy would never find it. If the truck drivers heard
a plane coming, they simply would not light the next flare. As simple
as that. They were in business.

He studied the operation until he was sure of the
modus operandi, then he called the FAC. Within minutes came the
ominous thunder of approaching Phantoms.

Hambleton hightailed it back to his hole, not
wanting to be any closer to the target area than necessary. The
fighters' night- bombing capability was pretty accurate, but this was
no time to take chances. He burrowed down into his lair, put on his
helmet, and steeled himself for the fallout from exploding ack-ack
overhead.

Down roared the Phantoms, making several passes,
triggering the god-awful firing of the big guns nearby. It all
combined to make a heaving, rocking, crashing inferno that lit up the
sky like a million star shells.

Abruptly the attack ceased. When Hambleton's ears
quit ringing he could tell the throaty growl of slow-moving trucks
had been silenced. He shook the debris from his helmet and once again
lay back.

Goddamn, wars were noisy.

Again Hambleton awoke from his catnap with a
start.

It was still dark. He checked the radium dial of
his watch. Four-twenty. God, how time flew when you were having a
ball! He sat up, working his jaws, trying to bring saliva to his dry
mouth.

He had been dreaming of a chocolate milkshake. Not
that he was all that crazy about chocolate milkshakes, but the cold,
creamy liquid gliding down his parched throat had been pure ambrosia.
Now he was awake with cracked lips and a tongue furred like an old
army blanket.

His stomach let out a plaintive rumble. He had to
do something. Even if it was wrong, he had to find something to
eat. He had to get nourishment into his body, or when the chopper
came in he wouldn't have the strength to run for it.

He made a decision.

During the day he had memorized the surrounding
landscape. To the west of his wooded area the land stretched
out, looking not unlike the plowed fields of Illinois or Indiana.
Instead of cornfields there were rice paddies with ditches around
them. Raised paths maybe a foot and a half wide separated the ditches
and paddies. Beyond was a good-sized village. Beyond the village were
more rice paddies, probably extending as far as the Song Mien Giang
River.

In a rice paddy just a short distance from his
location, very near the inside perimeter of the gravel, he had
spotted a little garden. He had been told in survival training that
the Vietnamese families often planted a garden in one corner of their
rice paddies. Not large, but big enough to provide for the family
table between harvests. The one nearby had a corn patch, and he
thought he had recognized other native plants—taro, watermelon,
pineapple, and red pepper.

Taro, the starchy, tuberous root which was a main
staple of the Vietnamese diet, didn't really turn him on. He had
tasted poi at a Hawaiian luau, and had swiftly categorized it as
having the same tantalizing flavor as denture cement. But now, in his
condition, even the thought of poi set his gastric juices flowing.

Lying there, scrutinizing the little plot, he
lamented the season. It was not the best time of year to go groveling
around in a garden. The corn silks had looked slightly tan and the
corn appeared to be the only thing that was anywhere near mature. But
ripe or not, it did look appetizing.

But he had made the decision; he would go
foraging. He knew how. He had done it in his childhood days in
Illinois when he and his buddies had gone watermelon stealing in the
same kind of feeble moonlight. Only one difference. Instead of a
farmer with a pepper-loaded shotgun, there was antiaircraft fire
coming out of the center of the nearby village. That battery had been
largely responsible for the choppers turning back. And those guns
weren't loaded with pepper.