BAT-21 (12 page)

"Jolly Green's hit!" yelled the Birddog
pilot. "Going down... going down..."

Hambleton stared, muted by fear, watching as the
chopper dropped from view, leaving a mushroom of smoke in the sky. He
felt as well as heard the explosion as it plummeted into the village.
His empty stomach retched as he watched the accompanying helicopter
turn, and with wheeling, evasive maneuvers hightail it back across
the river.

The shocking silence that followed was broken by
the leaden voice from Birddog. "Bat Twenty-one, we'll have to
back off."

"Understand." Hambleton could barely
manage the word as he stared in disbelief at the funeral pyre rising
from the village.

He sank back into his hole, indescribable misery
and abandonment written on his face. "Whole crew.. .wiped
out," he whispered. "Five men.. .trying to save me."
He sagged, hopelessly. "Five men... five men..."

It was thirty minutes past midnight. In the
command post of the Korat Royal Thai Air Base several officers were
engaged in a heated session with Colonel Walker. A red-eyed, angry
Captain Clark was popping off. "Goddamnit, Colonel—"

"Cool it, Captain," snapped Walker.
"Just cool it. For the last time. I didn't say we're going to
abandon Hambleton. You're punch-drunk tired."

Clark eased off a little. "I thought you
said, sir—

Walker leaned into the young officer. "I said
it's got to look like we've abandoned him. There's a big difference.
Is that clear?"

"No, sir."

Exasperated, Walker looked around the group. "One
more time. The enemy is going to keep it hot in Hambleton's sector as
long as they know he's alive. Now, you agree with that, Clark?"

"It appears so. Especially after today's—"
he checked his watch, "yesterday's mission."

"Especially after yesterday's mission, we
can't go in again with choppers as long as they keep it so hot.
Agreed?"

"Not necessarily, sir—"

"Believe me. Necessarily. Therefore, the wing
staff has come up with a new wrinkle. I'm about to brief you on it,
if you give me the chance. It may or may not work. But headquarters
thinks it's worth a try. Now if it's all right with you I'll get on
with it."

Clark relaxed, looking a little sheepish. "Sorry,
sir. I misunderstood. When you said abandonment I thought—"

"I know what you thought. Believe it or not,
Clark, the Air Force is just as eager to get back that man as you
are. Now as soon as you're briefed, go out and tuck Hambleton in for
the night. And don't mention anything to him about this plan. It's
top secret. For reasons you'll understand, we don't want to risk any
chance of the Charleys getting onto this one."

"Yes, sir."

"And then I want you to report back to your
BOQ. And stay there for at least eight hours. And that's an order!"

"Yes, sir."

"Now here's the plan."

Hambleton glanced at his watch. According to the
luminous dial it was nearly two a.m. And still sleep had not been
able to overpower the thoughts churning in his brain. No matter what
he did, he could not erase the image of that black cloud of
pulverized metal hanging in the sky; nor could he blot out those
words from Birddog. They kept echoing in his brain.

He tried to rationalize the whole unbelievable
scene. He knew he should not feel any guilt. Those men were merely
doing the job they had been trained to do. Like policemen or firemen,
the SAR Jolly Green crews accepted the chances they were taking when
they signed on for the job. They had the best training in the world.
They were a dedicated gang of men who understood that what they did
bolstered the morale of everyone connected with the Air Force.
Throughout their history they had never been known to shy away from
danger or give up on a downed airman as long as he was alive. Even
what had happened today would not stop them. They would be back, one
way—some way—or another. And they'd do it again and again as long
as it took to finish the job. No regrets, Hambleton. What's done is
done.

Yet, goddamnit! If it wasn't for him, five gallant
guys would not have been scythed down in the prime of life. Five men
paying the supreme price for one. Five men who...

Hold it, get off it, Hambone! Thinking like that
won't help anyone. Knock it off. Dwell on something else. Like sex.
Or do something constructive. You can't let this gnaw at your
innards. Now stir it!

He was about to do something—exactly what, he
wasn't sure— when he heard Birddog jazzing overhead. The noise
surprised him. It had been so unusually quiet.

"Come in, Birddog. Bat Twenty-one here."

"Roger, Bat. Got some bad news. You'll have
no baby-sitter tonight. Anything you need?"

Hambleton stared mutely at his radio. No
baby-sitter tonight? What was this all about? It would be the first
full night he'd been completely alone. He tried to cover up his
dejection with a levity he didn't feel. "Wish you'd call the
newspaper. Paper boy didn't show again this morning. How in hell can
I keep up with Peanuts?"

"Will check on it, Bat. Just remember.
Whatever happens, keep the faith. Birddog out.
Adios
."

"
Adios
." Ham clicked off his
radio, deep in thought. Adios. Was he truly being abandoned? Had the
Air Force finally decided it was ridiculous to risk more lives to
save one? They would be correct if they did. Somewhere they had to
draw the line.

He looked up at the clear sky. Since he had been
in his hole he had watched the new moon turn into nearly a quarter.
He shut his eyes. And then in spite of his best efforts, he felt the
warmth of tears on his cheeks.

Captain Dennis Clark tried to be quiet as he
entered his BOQ room so he wouldn't wake his roommate. Not that he
was overly concerned about Jake Campbell getting his sleep. He was
just anxious to prevent any unnecessary conversation. He was bone
tired, and since he had to stand down flying activities for the rest
of the night, and since he had been ordered to the sack by the wing
commander, he intended to make the best of it.

To hell with the shower. He'd take it in the
morning. As he skinned out of his flying suit and slid between his
sheets, the bed lamp of his roommate snapped on. A sleepy voice
intoned, "That you, Denny?"

"Who the hell did you think it was?"

"Dunno. Didn't think you lived here anymore.
How come you ain't flying?" He looked at his watch. "Hell,
it's only three in the morning."

"All the local birds are grounded for the
next eight hours."

"Oh?" Campbell reached for a cigarette.
"What's the deal?"

"Classified. Top secret. Tell you about it
later. Go to sleep."

"Heard about the Jolly Green crew getting
shot down. Real bummer."

"Yeah."

"How's Hambleton taking it?"

"Hangin' in. He's a gutsy old bastard."

"Too bad they couldn't yank him out. Tonight
you could have been pinchin' stewardi on that chartered seven oh
seven going to the States."

"Yeah. Go to sleep."

"How much longer, pray tell, do you plan to
go on acting as if you are indispensable to this conflict here in
Southeast Asia?"

"Till we yank Hambleton out of there."

"Way things are going that could mean another
tour."

"So be it."

"I've seen fruit bars in this man's air
farce, but you, my friend, win the cut-glass flyswatter."

"We've already established that. Go to
sleep."

"You look beat, man. Can I get you a cold
beer? Warm body? There's a couple of nurses down the hall that just
checked in on an air evac. I'll bet they're horny—"

"You can get me one thing. A large hunk of
absolute quiet. And a little solitude wouldn't go too bad."

"OK, spoilsport. Something tells me you don't
want to chat." Campbell butted his cigarette, turned out his
lamp, and crawled back under his sheet. "So something big's
brewing. Big enough to ground the local air war. Should I put on my
embroidered flak suit?"

"Won't be necessary. But I sure as hell wish
I had one for Hambleton."

"Oh? Why, pray tell?"

"Because in about one hour that poor devil is
going to go through Armaggedon and Custer's last stand, all rolled
into one."

Hambleton flopped into his hole, his heart beating
like a trip-hammer in his chest. This was it. No matter what, he was
not going to risk another foraging trip to the garden.

At best it was a hairy trip. This time, it had
been hairy as an ape. Just after picking several ears of corn, he had
had the daylights scared out of him. A Vietcong patrol with
flashlights had stopped not far from where he lay hidden in the
cornfield. At least a dozen in the patrol, the soldiers had squatted
on their haunches and lit up cigarettes as they chatted, the red tips
of their smokes glowing brightly as they drew on them.

He had lain deathly still in the furrow, watching
their faces leap into bright relief like Halloween masks as one by
one they took a last drag, crushed their butts with the heels of
their boots, and moved on cautiously. They had checked bushes,
scouted the ditches. He had stayed prostrate, frozen, for half an
hour. Thank God for that band of gravel. The land mines had prevented
them from coming his way. But even when they had gone, it had been a
struggle to muster the strength and courage to beat it back to his
hole.

Never again. Not even if his stomach started
gnawing on his backbone. But now at least he had several ears of corn
to sustain him. He removed them from the pockets of his flight suit
and started to shuck one, trying to force himself not to think. But
as he bit into the sweet kernels he could not help doing it.

Birddog had not been kidding. Hambleton had tried
to call just before going to the garden, and there had been no
answer. And now it was so quiet it was eerie. Generally there was the
sound of aircraft somewhere in the distance, even if it were just his
Birddog, or "Blue Chip," the C-130 Airborne Command Post
that was always on station directing the air war from on high.

But tonight—nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was
Twilight Zone. So vacuum-still he could hear the breath rattling in
his lungs. What the hell was going on?

Wait a minute. There's a noise. He quit chewing to
listen. It was a strange, far-off, indefinable discord. A sound he
had not heard since he'd been out in this hole. He felt that in his
environment he had developed his hearing sense to a fine pitch,
relying on it so often when his other senses had been thwarted. Now
he tried to tune in the noise, bring it into focus. It was getting
louder.

At first it sounded like a distant freight train.
Now it was developing into a sort of rhythmic whump-whump-whump, and
it was coming nearer. Fast!

His first instinct was to reach for his radio and
call the FAC. Then he remembered: no baby-sitter tonight. The earth
was beginning to tremble. And the faraway whump-whump was turning
into whump-
whump
-WHUMP!

He rose up out of his hole.

And then he saw it, huge brown-yellow balls of
flame, as high explosives detonated. They advanced in a long line,
like giant footsteps heading straight for his hole. And then he
understood.

"Jesus H. Christ! It's B-52's!
Bombing
this place!"
He flopped into his hole.
"What the
hell are they doing?"
He slapped his helmet on his head, dug
in, and held on.

BAROOOOM!
The earthshaking crescendo peaked
as a crater opened up several hundred yards south of him, the
concusssion all but knocking him out of his hole.
"Son of a
bitch!"
he roared. He huddled, his teeth clenched so hard
his jaws ached, his eyes squeezed shut, his arms over his head
waiting for the bomb that would hit his hole and blast him to
smithereens.

But it did not come. The shock waves began to
diminish as the giant craters marched off into the distance.

He straightened up, trembling, wiping the dirt
from his eyes and wagging his jaw open and shut to relieve the
concussion pressure that blocked his ears. He ran his hands over his
body. Except for the loud ringing in his ears, he seemed to be OK. He
had weathered the ungodly inferno.

Cursing, he started to rise up out of his hole to
look around. Then he heard it again. The far off whump-whump coming
from a different direction. "Oh, God!" His mind spun back
like the reel on a high-speed tape recorder. So this was it. This was
why Birddog's voice had had the note of finality in it when he said
"Adios." That last message was the kiss of death. That was
the Air Force's way of saying good-bye.

Were things really deteriorating so badly they had
to expend him to bomb troops and equipment coming down from the
north? Was this the only way they could stem the invasion? If so,
goddamn if he was about to stay put, to play patsy and get splattered
all over the landscape! He'd grab his .38 and make a break for it. He
was not going to die at the hands of his own comrades. Even if they
had forsaken him. He had to make a decision. Either he was going to
pack up his automatic and head out at a high lope, or he was going to
be a sniveling coward who hid in a hole and...

He made the decision. He threw himself back into
his hole and hugged the earth.

Again came the unbearable noise as the explosions
came nearer and nearer, this time to the northwest of him. The earth
crawled and humped, bucking him around and showering him with debris
as another crater opened up barely a thousand yards to the west.

The shock wave knocked his helmet off, sending his
glasses skittering sideways on his face. He balled his fists over his
ears, stuck his face between his legs and, like some cowpoke grimly
trying to hang on, rode the thundering earth. Finally the blasts
again marched off into the distance.