BAT-21 (11 page)

By monitoring the Birddog's transmissions he knew
that Lieutenant Mark Clark was about four miles east of him, being
worked by another FAC plane. At one point he had mustered the courage
to break radio silence and call Clark direct, but the VHF
line-of-sight survival radio had been unable to pick him up. He had
only wanted to give Clark a few words of encouragement.

Sitting in his hole waiting and trying to keep his
nerves steady, Hambleton tried to keep busy. He spent some time with
Chester, letting him romp around on his knee while he mended his
cage. But this didn't take long. After berating the worm for being
such a wretched housekeeper and replenishing its larder with fresh
leaves, he had no choice but to sit back and wait for the call from
Birddog.

Strange, he mused, how one's emotions were tied to
a yo-yo string in a situation like this. At times his morale was
lower than a snake's belly, at other times almost dangerously
euphoric. Like this morning. He had started out the day feeling
downright cocky. But now, as the morning was turning into noon, with
still no word from his FAC pilot, his spirits were beginning to
plummet.

After all, he had gone through enough to make a
confirmed pessimist out of Pollyanna. In his five days he had seen
nothing but a glimpse of a rescue chopper. He had heard them trying
to come in, but as far as getting close, let alone land—it hadn't
happened. There was no need to kid himself. It was wise to face
reality. Some of the antiaircraft guns were well hidden, buried so
deep it would take a sewer rat to find them.

If the Jolly Greens couldn't get in, would he be
smart to find a way out on his own? Try walking out? Even if he could
get through the mine field, would it be possible to get past all
those people who had been searching for him every night, undoubtedly
monitoring his every move? There was a slim but possible chance. It
was even within the realm of possibility that some of the villagers
might help him. No, scrub that thought. With the price on his head,
he would be too valuable a property to hoard.

He had spent hours studying his map and
considering the possibilities of escape in every direction. If he
went west he would have to travel some ninety miles to the Laotian
border. Then he would have to cross the Mekong River—tantamount, in
his condition, to crossing the Gulf of Mexico. And no telling
what he'd find on the opposite bank.

By going south he would eventually meet friendly
people, providing he could pass through the vanguard of the enemy
soldiers pushing south. With his luck he would probably end up in the
front lines all the way to Saigon. That thought brought back an old
memory of a childhood incident. He and an ornery cousin were digging
in the backyard, having decided to dig their way to China. Suddenly
his cousin threw down his spoon and proclaimed, "This is a lousy
idea. I ain't diggin' through hell just to get to China."
Hambleton felt the same way about going south.

Of course, traveling to the north was out. That
way lay the Hanoi Hilton.

The only remaining possibility would be to go
east, toward the sea. But even that direction was uncertain. He would
still be behind enemy lines and there was no way of knowing what he'd
find if and when he reached the coast. Any way you sliced it, there
was no direction he could go that looked very appealing.

And so the alternative was... eat your corn, pray
a lot, keep your mind occupied with positive thoughts, achieve a
small goal each day, and leave the rescuing to the Air Force. They
knew exactly where he was, his physical condition, and that he had
all his faculties. Well, most of them, anyway. So he would just use
these faculties, wait patiently, and let the lads do their job. He
wasn't going to make it any tougher for them by hiking off across
country and playing hide and seek with both the enemy and the best
friends he had.

All eminently reasonable, but by noon his spirits
had nevertheless reached a kind of nadir. No sign of the
choppers; no word from Birddog; couldn't even reach him on the radio.
The weather was beautiful, the whole area was quiet. What the hell
could the problem be this time?

He tried to think of plausible explanations.
Another plane shot down, perhaps. Or bad weather at the base. But he
couldn't prevent the unspeakable thought from materializing in his
brain.

Dear God, had he been abandoned?

In the briefing room of the Air Force command
post, Colonel Walker faced the flying crews seated before him. The
men were in sweat-stained flying clothes. Fatigue showed in their
faces. Walker's voice was low.

"Okay, gentlemen, that's the briefing. Just
one more thing. I know you've been flying your butts off ever since
the invasion started. We've set some kind of record for planes downed
during this past week, and you've done a hell of a job. But remember,
especially you Jolly Greens, the place is crawling with unfriendlies.
Throwing up everything from ack-ack to sake bottles. So watch
yourselves. Any questions?"

There were none.

"OK. As briefed, Captain Clark will execute
his brainstorm plan and give you the word if it's safe enough to go
in. Good luck, gentlemen." The crews gathered their gear and
started filing out the door. "Oh, Capitain Clark."

The Birddog pilot turned to face the colonel.
"Sir?"

"I want to talk to you."

"Roger."

After all the crew members had filed out of the
briefing room, Walker stuck his face close to Clark's. "When was
the last time you had a good night's sleep?"

"Sir, I told you. I'm getting my rest."

"Like hell you are. I'm going to let you take
this one mission. Hopefully it will be the last. Then I'm confining
you to quarters for twelve hours."

"But, sir, I'm on leave. It's not Air Force
policy for a commander to dictate what a—"

"It is not Air Force policy for a smart-assed
captain to lip off to a superior officer."

"No, sir."

Walker studied the tired pilot. "Do you know
Hambleton?"

"We've talked, sir."

"I mean personally?"

"Never met him, sir."

"Interesting. Would you mind telling me why
you want to stay on this mission? You've received your PCS orders!
Why are you volunteering? You know as well as I do that someone else
can take over."

Clark shrugged. "Everybody seems to be trying
to make it into a big thing, Colonel. Like I was some kinda nut. I'm
not. I don't know, maybe it's because I spend a lot of time behind
the enemy lines and know what it's like out there. Maybe it's because
I've been in on several rescue missions, know the ropes, and get a
kick when we pull someone out. Don't ask me to explain. All I know is
there's a fifty-three—year—old man down there and he's hanging in
like a tiger. And maybe I just sort of put myself in his shoes and
hope someone would do the same for me. Hell, I don't know. I just
want to stay on and see it through. Ain't no big thing."

Walker grunted. "Clark, I don't know whether
to put you in for an Air Medal or a psychiatric discharge. Maybe you
deserve both. While I think it over, get your butt out of here."

"Yes, sir." Clark started for the door.

Walker called after him. "On this mission. Be
careful, Denny."

The revving of the Birddog's engines brought
Hambleton scrambling up out of his hole. He flipped on his radio.

"How goes it, Bat Twenty-one?"

"One of those dog days, Birddog. Quiet."

"We're gonna liven it up a little. I'm
dropping a CARE package."

Hambleton looked in disbelief at his radio. A CARE
package! What the hell for? He was supposed to be getting out of
there. "You did say a CARE package?"

"Rog. Sustain your spirits 'til Jolly Greens
get in. Stand by. Birddog out."

For Christ's sake! What the hell was going on?
This must mean another delay. What the bloody—oh, hell, at least a
CARE package would have food in it. Some of it palatable. And water.
And cigarettes. And fresh radio batteries...

He heard the buzzing of the little FAC plane. It
came in low and slow, flying directly toward his position. As it
neared, he could see the plane's door open, then a canister came
tumbling out. Its chute barely opened before it hit the ground.

Hambleton swore. The canister had landed on the
enemy's side of the Maginot Line.

Immediately Birddog came on. "How was the
drop, Bat?"

Hambleton watched as several soldiers headed for
the canister. "Piss poor."

"No matter. It was a dummy."

"A what?"

"Explain later. Was there much ground fire
when I flew over? Any big stuff?"

"Didn't see any. Some small-arms stuff."

"Outstanding. Stand by. Birddog listening
out."

Hambleton shook his head numbly. Was he crazy, or
were they?

"Birddog to Bat Twenty-one. Come in."

"Bat listening, Birddog."

"Roger. Get ready to pop smoke. Jolly Greens
on the way."

Hambleton's heart leaped into his throat. He
couldn't believe his ears. "Say again, Birddog."

"Jolly Greens are coming in. Prepare to pop
smoke."

Glory be to God! It was true! They're coming.
They're finally coming!
he sprang into action, checking his
flares, gathering the belongings he was going to take.

Then, as he did so, the pieces began fitting
together in his mind. Of course! Those crazy characters had reasons.
They wanted to make the gomers think they were abandoning plans to
pick him up. By dropping supplies ostensibly to tide him over they
hoped to put the enemy off his guard when the Jolly Greens came in.
And to top that the Birddog plane had served as a decoy to see how
hot the area was. That Birddog pilot! That crazy son of a bitch had
actually flown as low and slow as possible over the enemy camp,
trolling for antiaircraft fire, testing to see if it were safe enough
to bring in the Jolly Greens. If that didn't take the rag off the
bush!

Thank God the little plane had only drawn a
smattering of small-arms fire. The SAR unit probably figured the
accompanying gunship chopper could handle that. Thus they had made
the decision to come in. Hot damn! He was gonna run up one helluva
bar bill repaying all his debts.

For a moment he debated about taking Chester.
Strange, the affinity he had developed with the insect. But it
wouldn't be right to take him along, to take him away from his home,
out of his environment. Besides, there was a good chance of his
getting squashed during the pickup. Anyway, Chester would soon be
getting his wings too, and would be taking off on his own.

He reached over, opened the tiny enclosure, and
gently removed the furry worm from its nest. As it crawled along his
palm he felt a ridiculous sense of sadness. He was saying good-bye to
a friend. In the order of living things, few could be much lower than
the worm he held in his hand. But it had been a friend. The two of
them had been through dark hours together.

Gently he picked up the insect and placed it back
into its house, leaving the roof off. He plucked several tender
leaves from a bush and put them in with the caterpillar.

"So long, Chester," he whispered. "
Vaya
con Dios.
"

He heard the unmistakable
chuff-chuff
of
chopper rotors. And then he could see them. Two tiny flyspecks in the
east. Coming fast. A rescue chopper and its escort gunship.

Birddog came on the air. "Do you have the
Jolly Greens in sight, Bat Twenty-one?"

"Affirmative, Birddog."

"Outstanding. QSY to Guard channel. You'll be
able to monitor the Jolly Greens as well as myself."

"Roger." Hambleton switched his radio to
the common frequency. "Bat Twenty-one testing on Guard."

A deep, businesslike voice came booming in.
"Roger, Bat Twenty-one. Jolly Green here. Reading you five
square. How me, over?"

"Five by five," answered Hambleton.

"Roger. Will be coming over your spot on a
northerly heading. Can you make it to the clearing just east of your
position?"

"You better believe it."

"Good. Will effect pickup thirty yards due
east your position. Pop smoke and start toward us as soon as we hover
into position."

"Wilco, Jolly Green."

Great news! The rescue chopper was going to come
in and squat. Hambleton hadn't been all that excited about being
winched into a hovering chopper. A winch pickup could take longer,
meaning more exposure to enemy fire. He grabbed up his flares, ready
to ignite the first one.

Hambleton watched the helicopters fly toward the
river. On reaching it they turned north in a diversionary maneuver.
Then they suddenly swung directly toward his position, coming in low
at full throttle, the prop wash from their rotors leaving a trail of
broiling dust.

Hambleton ripped off the flare's striker, poised
for his dash to the clearing. Closer and closer they came. Sporadic
gunfire started opening up from nearby positions. He could see the
flash of machine guns and the trail of smoke from the gunship in the
lead, paving the way for the rescue chopper behind, answering fire
with fire.

Suddenly his radio crackled. It was the urgent
voice of the Birddog pilot. "Jolly Green! Jolly Green! Turn
left! Big gun activity in the village twelve o'clock to you. Turn
left!" The urgent voice suddenly switched to a yell of anguish.
"Left, goddamn it, Jolly Green! LEFT! STAY AWAY FROM THAT
VILLAGE! IT'S HOT!"

Hambleton, transfixed, watched as the choppers
started to break in a sharp bank away from the village. And then,
before his horrified eyes, the reserve chopper was suddenly replaced
by a blinding ball of fire. A delayed boom of the antiaircraft gun
banged his eardrums.

"Oh, no!"
Hambleton shook his
head in unbelieving horror.
"Oh, sweet Jesus, NO!"