BAT-21 (7 page)

He called the FAC. The pilot responded
immediately. "Come in, Bat Twenty-one."

"Don't you ever sleep?"

"Sleep is bad for my insomnia. What can I do
for you?"

"Hungry. Little garden nearby. Going
shopping."

There was a pause as this information was
considered. When he came back there was a note of concern in his
voice. "Roger, Bat. I'll alert the Sandys. We'll fly top cap.
Any trouble, click your transmitter at three-second intervals."

"Wilco."

"And Bat, be careful. Make like Tiny Tim.
Check in when you return."

"Wilco. Bat Twenty-one out." Hambleton
thought for a moment. Make like Tiny Tim? And then he
understood. Have to tiptoe through the tulips. The mine field.

He could feel his heart hammering as he crawled
out of his hole. He was willing to leave his sanctuary, his safe
haven. Still, although it was a dark night, with scudding clouds that
mostly blocked out the wisp of a moon, he would be exposed. He began
to have second thoughts. And then another low growl from his midriff
confirmed his decision.

He removed his heavy survival vest. He shouldn't
need it and it would only weigh him down. He took his knife and his
radio, placed his other belongings in his hole, and carefully covered
them with branches.

Compass in hand, he crawled to the edge of his
cover. Then, crouching low, he started stalking his objective. Since
he not only had to reach the garden but find the hole upon his
return, he started counting his steps. One... two... three... Compass
heading exactly one hundred and fifty-eight degrees.

Nervous sweat plastered his flying suit to his
skin. The garden plot should be just inside the land-mined strip, but
it was marginal at best, and there was no telling where some of the
mines had rolled to upon impact. His eyes stinging with perspiration,
he stared intently at the dark ground before each footfall...
checking his compass...counting his steps. He pulled up short,
spotting what might be a land mine—couldn't really tell in the
dark—but giving it a wide berth.

He paused from time to time, listening,
reconnoitering the area. To the southwest, over a little rise, was
another small village. Straight west beyond the rice paddies was a
group of three or four gray buildings he had not seen before. There
was a large stone gate entry to the area, probably a place of
worship. From the rise he could get a different view of the main
arterial road. He could distinguish the outlines of several
camouflaged tanks parked under a tree, and he made a mental note of
their position. Birddog would be interested.

Skirting along the ditch he came across a berry
patch. Quickly he frisked one of the larger bushes, and his hands
yielded several red berries. Remembering the rule of survival school,
he squeezed the juice in the palm of his hand and touched it with his
tongue. He didn't recognize the taste, but it was sweet, meaning it
should be edible. Delighted, he stripped the nearest bushes,
gathering several handfuls of the fruit, which he stuffed into his
pockets.

After another thirty yards he found himself at the
edge of the garden and made a dash for the spindly cornfield at its
far corner. Ducking into the protection of the stalks he squatted,
caught his breath, and listened. No gooks! No mines! So far so good.
Only the comforting drone of the aircraft overhead permeated the
predawn stillness.

Quietly he moved from one stalk to another,
snapping the largest ear from each stalk. Three ears, he told
himself. That's all. From different stalks so as not to indicate he'd
been there. With his limit stuffed into the pockets of his flight
suit, he started creeping back toward the corner of the garden, the
point of his directional bearing.

As he did so, he tripped over a little mound.
Cursing silently, he picked himself up, discovering in the process a
small row of pineapples. Reaching down he plucked one, about the size
of a hand grenade, and stuffed in into his pocket. Then, compass in
hand, he prepared to retrace his steps. Let's see—the reciprocal of
the heading that had brought him to the corner of the garden would be
three three-eight degrees. He sighted this heading, then started off,
counting his steps.

Stealthily, crouched almost doubled over,
squatting occasionally to listen, he made his way back to the
wooded area. Now, if he had stayed precisely on his compass course,
had properly counted his steps, his hole should be about... here. He
poked around with his hands in the dark.

No hole.

My God! If he couldn't find his hole he was in
deep trouble. All his materials of survival—flares, gun, and
everything—were in that hole. He felt the hairs on his neck rise.
Stop it! He mustn't panic.

He forced himself to relax until his panting
stopped. Then he marked his spot and started walking around it in
ever-increasing circles.

Three minutes later he stepped into his hole.

He stripped away the brush cover, saw with relief
that his belongings were just as he had left them, then crawled back
into his haven. Even his caterpillar was safe. He gave a moment of
thanks. He had successfully debarked from his sanctuary, and by
virtue of cunning and his navigational skills he had returned safe
and sound. He grinned to himself as he recalled the old saw fliers
used on returning from a mission: "Once again science and skill
have triumphed over ignorance and superstition." No one ever
mentioned luck.

He checked in on the radio. There was obvious
relief in the voice of the pilot as he acknowledged. "Good show,
Bat Twenty-one. We were worried."

"No sweat. Now if you'll excuse me, dinner's
waiting."

"Bon appetit, Bat. Listening, out."

Gently Hambleton removed the berries from the
pockets of his flying suit and placed them in his helmet. Then he
took one ear of corn and put the other two in a pocket of his
survival vest for safekeeping. With the care of a man restoring an
old painting, he delicately peeled the husks off the ear of corn, and
picked off each silk. Then, after carefully burying the leavings, he
settled back in his hole, picked up the ear of corn in his grimy
hands, and began nibbling down the rows, a kernel at a time, reveling
in the pleasant taste of the sweet milk. When he had finished with
the corn, he solemnly proceeded to eat the cob, grinding it down to a
pulp fine enough to swallow.

Then came the fruit. One by one he consumed the
berries, first savoring them in his mouth, then crushing them with
his tongue, delighting in the squirting juice that bathed his mouth
and provided much-needed liquid to his body.

But the pineapple was something else. It was as
green and hard as the hand grenade it resembled. It defied all of his
efforts to cut it with the knife, so it went into the hole along with
the corn husks and silk.

He lay back and patted his stomach. He longed for
a cigarette to top off his repast. God, would a Marlboro taste good.
But he had to knock it off. He didn't need a cigarette. He had food
in his stomach. Look at the bright side! Count his blessings! Relax!
Perhaps a little after-dinner nap would put everything back into
proper perspective.

He shut his eyes and starting composing a military
letter to the Surgeon General about cigarettes.

But sleep still would not come. The sullen booming
of far-off guns was scarcely a lullaby, and the introduction of food
to his shrunken stomach had given him an unpleasant cramp.

This damned war! He wished he could pull the
switch. No man had any business being in this ridiculous position,
least of all a guy who was on the threshold of his golden years. It
wasn't fair.

He tried to switch mental channels. Here he was, a
fifty- three-year—old poop, homesick and feeling sorry for himself
like some kid. Idiotic... But why not? Stuck in this dark, grubby,
hole. He hadn't shaved for three days and his beard itched. His
flying suit was so filthy he could have planted rice in it. He
smelled like a goat and his teeth felt furry. Above all, he was weak,
hungry and genuinely frightened.

Why had he been singled out to be put through this
terrifying, nerve-jangling, miserable wringer? There was nothing he
had done to God, or anyone else, that merited this kind of
punishment. Oh sure, he could have gone to church more. But he wasn't
an atheist. Or even an agnostic. He did believe in God. And he
subscribed to the Ten Commandments. And the Golden Rule.

Foolishly, he began to enumerate his sins and the
shortcomings of his character. He rehearsed adolescent escapades
and the pecadillos of young manhood, assuring himself at each step
along the way that he had never done anything to deserve this kind of
retribution.

Even as a husband he hadn't strayed too far. His
fondness for gambling seldom exceeded quarter-limit poker, his
craving for Manhattans seldom got him into trouble, he paid bills on
time and he worked hard at his job. He liked the military
life—especially the flying. When he had graduated as a smart-assed
second lieutenant in the Army Air Corps in 1945, he had boasted that
he would stay in for five years or five stars, whichever came first.
He had later lowered his sights to staying in and merely becoming the
best goddamn navigator in the Air Force. He may not have become the
best, but he felt he was right up among them. And evidently the Air
Force felt the same way, for his hard work and sense of
professionalism had merited him not only a regular commission,
but commendable progression through the ranks.

It certainly wasn't a question of other women.
Unlike some of the younger officers, he just didn't see any sense in
going out for a hot dog when he had filet mignon waiting for him at
home. He had tried to be a good husband over the years, and it hadn't
been difficult. Gwen had more than done her share to make the
marriage work. He still found her as charming and desirable as she
had been when they were first married. There had been no children,
but that apart, theirs had been a near-perfect marriage.

Gwen. God, how he missed her! How he would love
to...

Hambleton! You bloody, weeping bastard! Get hold
of yourself!

With an effort he pulled himself upright. He would
do something constructive. He sat on the edge of his hole and
stretched his muscles. Then he dug out his first-aid kit, opened it,
and stripped the mosquito netting gauntlet from his left hand. He
took off the old bandage and inspected the wound. It was a nasty gash
that should have had stitches, but at least it wasn't infected. He
put on a fresh bandage and taped it up.

He replaced the contents of the first-aid kit and
tucked it away in its niche in his hole. In the faintly gathering
light he could see the early-morning fog rolling across the paddies
toward him. It was going to be damp. Probably damp enough to deposit
some dew on the leaves. Maybe even a few raindrops. He rummaged in
his hole and produced the rubber map. After spreading it out on the
leaves of a nearby bush, he got his empty plastic water container and
put it where it would be handy. Then he crawled back into his hole,
covered himself up, shut his eyes, and murmured a short prayer.

Colonel John Walker was heavyset, brusque,
efficient, and the Commander of the 355th TAC Fighter
Wing—Hambleton's outfit. At the moment he was with several of his
staff officers who were in the wing briefing room at the Korat Royal
Thai Air Force Base. The men were gathered around a wall-sized
terrain map of the area in which Hambleton had been shot down.

As the officers talked, Major Sam Piccard, the
wing intelligence officer, walked into the briefing room.
Carrying a classified intelligence folder, he approached Walker. "May
I have a moment, Colonel?" he asked, removing the stem of an
old, stained meerschaum from his mouth.

Walker nodded, and separated from the group with
Piccard. "What is it, Sam?"

"We've just received some bad news, about
Hambleton, Colonel."

Walker grunted. "Let's have it."

"An intelligence report just came in. Apache
Control monitored a North Vietnamese radio broadcast. The Communists
know who Hambleton is."

"Oh, Christ!"

"They found the wreckage of the plane."

"I know." Walker exhaled loudly. "So
now they know our downed flyer's name and rank. And the fact that he
punched out of an EB-sixty-six. Which would naturally make him an
electronic counter-measure expert. That's bad enough. Do they know
the rest?"

"That he was in the Strategic Air Command?"

"That he was assistant DCO of a SAC Missile
Wing before he went back to the cockpit."

"That's hard to say, sir. North Vietnamese
intelligence is spotty, but as you know, they come up with some
surprises."

"Being a missile man, the Russians will
probably have a dossier on him an inch thick." Walker mulled it
over. "So this opens up a whole new keg of worms. We've not only
got a downed flyer in the enemy camp, which is bad enough, but a man
walking around with a head full of top-secret war plans."

"If they find out they'll damn near stop the
war to get him."

"You better believe it." Deep in
thought, Walker moved across the room to join his staff gathered
around the map. "Gentlemen," he said flatly, "we've
got to get Hambleton the hell out of there. The fit has just hit the
shan."

Hambleton was awakened by a languid sun poking its
way through the veil of fog. He looked around, rubbing burning eyes,
and swore. Damn weather! Was it going to be a repetition of
yesterday, when the visibility was restricted to less than a quarter
of a mile?

He smacked his lips, trying to get saliva pumping
into his dry mouth, then reached out and checked the rubber map
spread out on the bush. It was beaded with the morning's dew, as were
the leaves on the bush. He mopped the moisture up with his
handkerchief, sucked out as much as he could, then rubbed the
damp cloth over his face and the back of his neck. Finally, he ran
his finger in a circular motion over his teeth. His toilet complete,
he was ready for the new day.