BAT-21 (15 page)

Then he saw the thick carpet of gray unrolling
toward him, spreading across the paddies. He swore as he watched the
early morning ground fog moving in briskly from the east.

There went visibility, and with it the Specters,
the Sandys, and the jets. There went protection.

And there went the ball game.

His head fell on his arms. Drugged by lack of
sleep, emotionally drained, he could not even think straight
anymore. He didn't care what happened. No more. No more playing the
Kewpie prize at the carnival. To hell with it.

How much was an old poop expected to take, anyway?
Every man had his breaking point. His point had just broken. So they
lost the ball game. They had played the game damned hard but they had
been defeated. So what? Screw it. Quit fighting the problem.

Painfully, he crawled back to his hole and fell
in. Before he could even finish pulling the ground cover over
himself, his mind was totally engulfed by the dreamless sleep of
utter exhaustion. Even the sporadic detonation of land mines couldn't
penetrate it.

"Hey, roomie," said Jake Campbell.
"That's a white-knuckle grip on the controls if ever I saw one.
I thought you pilots were dashing, carefree, and relaxed."

Clark glanced across the cockpit. "You wanted
to come along as observer. Now observe. Dispense with the funny
sayings or I'll take you back and drop you at your finance office."

"We're getting a bit testy! Uptight—uptight?"

Clark banked the 0-2 over into a split S and
screamed for the ground. "I am uptight, Jake. Uptight as hell. I
will be until I know what's going on under that fogbank down there."

Heading down in a howling dive, Clark buzzed
Hambleton's position, or the position as best he could determine it,
beneath the thinning layer of fog. He jazzed the throttle, then
whipped up into a tight climb.

"Do you have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Acrobatics. I just swallowed my Adam's
apple."

Clark shot him a look of disdain. "Finance
officers! What did you expect, a seat at a piano bar?"

"I notice you don't say those nasty things to
me on payday."

Clark punched his transmitter button. "Bat
Twenty-one. Bat Twenty-one. This is Birddog. Come in, Bat. Come in!"

There was no response.

"Jake," said Clark, winging over and
slicing off altitude. "I'm worried. Only once before has
Hambleton failed to acknowledge. He sleeps with his radio. I'm going
down low over the mine fields. Look closely and see if you spot any
sign of gooks."

"Must we?"

"We must." Clark dove for the ground,
leveling off just as his wheels touched the low-hugging fog. The prop
wash sent the wispy vapor to roiling, uncovering parts of the ground.

Looking behind as the plane roared over, Campbell
let out a squawk. "I see them! The prop wash ripped the fog
away. Got a glimpse of several soldiers."

"Were they working minesweepers?"

"Couldn't tell."

"We'll make another pass." The mist,
being rapidly dissipated by the sun and rolled back by the prop
blast, lay bare a large section of the mined area. On the second pass
the ground was even more discernible.

"Banzai!" yelled Campbell. "I saw
them. Working their minesweepers. I guess that's what they were—a
long-forked gadget—"

"That's it! Outstanding! That means they
haven't gotten through to Hambleton yet. How close to that line of
trees were they?"

"Couldn't tell." For the moment,
Campbell's discomfiture with the roller coaster ride took a backseat
to the thrill of the adventure. "Let's go down again." The
plane wheeled over and came down again, and this time it was evident
the soldiers were very near the tree line. "See them?"
shouted Campbell.

"Roger," said Clark. "The fog must
have slowed the gooks up too. Thank God we're not too—"

"Hey, Clark!" A small hole had appeared
in the windshield. "Those bastards are shooting at us!"

"Do tell."

"Let's get our asses outta here!"

"We're just starting to work. Get a grip on
your hemorrhoids and hang on." Clark rechanneled his radio and
clicked his transmitter. "Birddog to Gumshoe. Over."

"Roger, Birddog. Gumshoe here," came
back the voice of the Sandy element leader.

"The gooks haven't gotten to Hambleton, not
yet. But they're about to. I'm going to paint a target. It's just at
the edge of that thinning fog patch. Come in ASAR Over."

"Roger, Birddog. You mark, we'll bark."

Again Clark rolled over into a steep bank and
headed down. He took a bead on the soldiers, barely visible in the
wispy condensation, and fired two marking rockets. No sooner had he
pulled up in a sharp climb than the Sandys were coming in, their
20-mm cannon chattering. As Clark Immelmanned out of his climb, he
could see the soldiers fleeing back toward the village. They were not
doing too well. The withering fire from above was lashing them.

Clark wiped the sweat from his forehead with a
gloved hand. "That was too goddamn close. Another half hour and
the gomers would have been through."

"Jeezus, Clark! Look out!"

Clark turned to his roommate, who was pointing
wildly out the window. The Sandys, having completed their first
strafing pass, had pulled up to wheel over for another run. They
passed so close to the banking Birddog that for a split second their
flashing image filled the windshield. Hitting their prop wash, the
0-2 almost flipped over on its back.

"What's the problem?" asked Clark,
righting the airplane.

"Problem! Good Christ, those wild men missed
us by inches! What the hell..."

"That's Speedy Gonzales. Element lead.
Doesn't think he's made a good strafing pass unless he flies through
my antenna. Good man."

"Jeezus, is every mission like this?"

"No. Not all. Sometimes it gets hairy out
here." Clark put his finger to his lips as he turned up the
volume on his radio. He spoke into his transmitter. "Bat
Twenty-one, that you? This is Birddog. Come in."

Hambleton's sleepy voice came in clear. "Bat
Twenty-one here. Birddog. What's all the commotion?"

"Damn, Bat! You're gonna be the death of me.
I couldn't raise you."

"Guess I really conked out. Too many parties
at night. It caught up with me."

"Understand. We're mending your fence now.
Have all the refugees cleared out?"

"Stand by. Will take a look."

Clark turned to his roommate and slapped him on
the back. "He's okay. You hear that?"

"I'm delighted. I really am. Wish I could say
the same. I think I'm going to be sick."

"No time for that. We're going to make some
low passes over the villages. See if you can spot any civilians."
"We gotta go down there again?"

"We do." Clark winged over, poured the
coal to the little 0-2, and headed for the deck. They skimmed over
the villages, one by one hugging the main roads so low they could see
into the hooches, their prop wash dusting the thatched roofs.

Except for the soldiers, the villages appeared to
be deserted. Not so much as a pig or a chicken was in evidence. After
the first pass they drew scattered rifle fire from the soldiers.

Clark pulled up, reaching for altitude. "See
anything?" "My life flashing before me." "Any
refugees? Civilians?" "No."

"Good. Did you notice the big guns? Dug in
that village to the north?" "No."

"There's also a battery in that old temple."
"Were they shooting at us?" "Not the big ones. Just
the little ones." "That's mighty comforting. Let's go
home." "Birddog from Bat Twenty-one. Over." Clark
thumbed his transmitter. "Come in, Bat."

"From where I'm sitting I couldn't see any
refugees or war watchers. Seems they've all pulled out."

"Affirmative, Bat. We didn't spot any
soldiers either."

"Glad to know the gomers have pulled back.
According to where they dropped the mine detectors, they got in
pretty close. Expected to wake up this morning with my throat cut."

"Too damned close. Fog must have slowed them
up. Great duty trying to clear a mine field in the fog. Anyway, the
Sandys just put a burr in their tail. With the villages clear we can
start bringing in the heavy stuff. See if we can't silence the
ack-ack once and for all."

"I'll drink to that."

"Roger, Bat. Stay in the basement. Birddog
out." Clark rechan- neled his radio and again talked into his
mike. "Birddog to all flight leaders. The area is clear of
civilians. Anything moves down there it's Charley. No change on
assigned targets. Prepare to rally around the flagpole. Heavy stuff
first. Bilk Fourteen, you read?"

"Five square, Birddog," came in the
leader of the F-4's.

"Roger. State your position."

"In orbit over target at sixteen grand."

"Armament?"

"Twenty-four hundred rounds of twenty mike
mike. Forty- eight CBU-fifty-twos."

"CBU-fifty-twos? Outstanding. Only friendly
in area is me, orbiting at four grand southwest of target. Use
caution. I know you don't care about me, but I got our finance
officer aboard."

"Payday's coming up. Tell him he's safe. Bilk
Fourteen coming in."

"Roger, Bilk. You got the ball."

Clark fire-walled the throttle to get into
position. As he started to climb he noticed his roommate looking at
him quizzically. "Got a problem, old-timer?"

Campbell shook his head dumbly. "No problem.
I got no problem. Airplane drivers got problems. What the hell you
guys got against speaking English? What's going on?"

"You're about to find out. See that village
to the east? There. A flash is coming from the center of it."

“I see it.”

"That's the gun that shot down the Jolly
Green chopper. We're about to put it out of business. Here come the
F-fours now."

Campbell watched in awe as the four
fighter-bombers came flashing down out of the sun in elements of
two, hurtling toward the village in a steep descent. "And
there's one thing more that came out of the fighter jock
conversation," Clark added as the air war opened up around them.
"It was decided that after this mission the finance officer was
buying the drinks for all hands."

Campbell met Clark's eyes. "Get me out of
this in one piece, roomie, and I'll buy drinks for the whole bloody
South Vietnamese Army."

Major General Daniel O'Hearn, the husky,
white-haired deputy commander of the Seventh Air Force, was
seated in front of the desk of Colonel John Walker. The two officers
were studying the latest reconnaissance photos of the morning's
mission. Major Sam Piccard looked over their shoulders.

"I'll say this," said O'Hearn, "the
boys did one hell of a job on those villages."

"A very successful strike," said
Piccard. "Leveled nearly every primary target."

O'Hearn bent closer, peering through the
magnifying glass at one of the photos. "These positions you
circled on these hills around the village, Major, you're sure they're
gun emplacements?"

"Yes, sir. According to our photo experts. As
well as those others there in the banana grove just north of the
river."

"Why didn't we clobber them on this morning's
mission?"

"They weren't listed on the target charts,
General. They're brand new.sProbably established within the last
twenty-four hours."

"How the hell can they get into position like
this without our seeing them?"

"It's the fog, sir. Charley loves it. When it
socks in they scurry around like moles. Digging in, bringing in
replacements faster than we can knock them out."

"From the looks of things we still haven't
sanitized the area. In spite of today's all-out operation."

"No, sir. Because of this road here, coming
down from the DMZ. They bring supplies down this main arterial from
the north in a never-ending stream."

"And we're prohibited from flying north of
the DMZ to hit their source of supply. Great way to run a war!"

"Hambleton couldn't have picked a worse spot
in the whole Asian theater to chute into," said Walker.

O'Hearn bent low over one of the photos, squinting
through the glass. "Major, what's this? Looks like something
stacked up here near the wooded area where Hambleton's holed up."

Piccard looked at the spot where the general was
pointing. "That, General, is a stack of coffins. Wooden
coffins."

O'Hearn looked up at the intelligence officer.
"Coffins? A stack that size?"

"Yes, sir. Coffins are a great morale booster
to the North Vietnamese. If they think they're going to go to their
eternal Kamavachara in a nice new wooden box, they will literally die
fighting. And they've already expended quiet a few troops in the
operation to get Hambleton."

"From the looks of things they're prepared to
expend more. They must want him damned bad."

"I don't know about the North Viets,
General," said Piccard, "but their friends the Russians do.
As you know, we're spending millions trying to retrieve a Russian
missile sub sunk in deep ocean water, just to get the Russian
targeting information. I'm sure they have urged their Viet buddies to
go for broke to get hold of this live Colonel of ours with SAC
targeting information locked in his head."

"The Pentagon confirms that the North
Vietnamese probably know who Hambleton is."

"I don't doubt that for a moment, General,"
said Piccard. "With the help of their Russian friends, I'd be
very surprised if they didn't have his complete dossier. They
certainly keep tabs on our key officers. Especially those in the SAC
missile business."

O'Hearn sighed. "Holy Christ, what a bag of
worms!"

Walker leaned back in his chair. "I'm glad
you're here, General. It will expedite our coordination with higher
headquarters. We've got the Jolly Green crews standing by. Ops
orders are being drawn up now. Give the word and we'll go in."