BAT-21 (16 page)

O'Hearn looked up at Walker, then to Piccard.
"Major, give me your intelligence estimate. We know there are
several guns surrounding Hambleton's position that we can
actually see in the reccy photos. Is it not true there could be any
number dug in and camouflaged? Guns we couldn't detect in these
photos? Guns we've never even targeted? For that matter, guns that
could have been brought into position even after these photos were
made?"

Piccard puffed on his pipe and shot a look at
Walker. "That's true, sir. Especially being so close to the
resupply area."

"And the enemy very much wants our downed
airman, will go all out to get him, and will try like hell to stop us
from getting to him first."

"True, yes, sir."

O'Hearn went on. "Then, gentlemen, I'm afraid
we'll have to rule out another Jolly Green rescue attempt.

Colonel Walker blinked. "Dan, did you just
say what I thought you said?"

"I'm afraid I did, John. Another rescue
attempt by Jolly Green is out."

Walker's eyes narrowed. "Now just a minute.
Hambleton's been living in that hole a damned week. Very little food
or water. And he's no young kid, Dan. He's damned near as old as we
are. He's probably near the limit of his endurance. The uncertainty,
the constant worry must be gnawing him to death. On top of that we've
been raising hell all around him. How much more do you think that man
can stand?"

"You don't have to tell me all this, John.
We've kept right on top of this thing at headquarters. Not to mention
the Pentagon breathing down our necks. One of the reasons I'm here
now."

"Then surely you realize that we can't just
sit around on our butts and—"

"Now hold on, John. I don't call losing a
rescue chopper and launching a B-52 strike exactly sitting around on
our butts. For your information, using B-52's to support a rescue
mission took one hell of a lot of convincing. General Abrams himself
bulled that operation through."

"I appreciate that, sir. But what you don't
seem to realize is that one of my men is down. Never in Air Force
history have we written off a flyer still breathing behind enemy
lines."

"Damnit, we're not writing Hambleton off! But
you've got to measure the odds. You're a good commander, John. One of
our best. You know we can't let personal feelings dictate what we
do."

"All I'm asking is one more rescue attempt.
While we've got Charleys reeling from a terrific pounding. They
damned near got to Hambleton last night, working in the fog. If the
scud hadn't cleared when it did so the Sandys could go in, this whole
conversation would be academic. With their mine detectors
they're sweeping our gravel faster than we can sow it. Time is
running out.

There's a volunteer Jolly Green rescue crew eager
to make another try. All we need is your okay. How about it,
General?"

"No dice, John."

Walker stared, then slammed his fist down hard on
the desk. "But, General ... why? ... why?"

O'Hearn rose. "Because yesterday I wrote five
sympathy letters to next of kin. How do you justify to five widows or
sweethearts that their men traded their lives for a chance to save
one man?"

"But that's the name of the game! That's what
the air-rescue service is all about. They're hot to trot. Goddamn,
General, that's their mission!"

"I don't need you to brief me on the
air-rescue mission. If this were a normal situation the Jolly Greens
would have yanked Hambleton out of there long ago. But this is not a
normal situation. You're asking rescue choppers to go into one of the
hottest areas in Vietnam. You know how vulnerable a chopper is.
Hell's fire, you can knock one down with a rock. I've got a mission
too, Colonel. And it's to make a very careful assessment of a
military situation before commiting men and equipment. I have
assessed this situation, and I don't like the odds. I will not
authorize another rescue mission into that firefight zone. Especially
since we've already tried it once and failed."

"And in making your assessment, General, did
you crank in the factor that our downed airman is a former SAC staff
officer? That the Commies won't give up until they get him? And with
their torture they'll crack him like a walnut?"

"I did, yes. I realize we've got to get
Hambleton out of there. And fast. But I don't believe authorizing
another suicide mission is going to help matters a damn bit. And I
sincerely believe, based on our latest intelligence, another suicide
mission is exactly what I'd be authorizing."

Walker slumped back in his chair, trying to digest
the decision. "Very well, General. I take it that's final."

O'Hearn spoke softly. "That's final, John. I
know you think I'm taking a hard line. And I guess I am. I just don't
want to needlessly throw away any more lives in this dunghill of a
war with its ridiculous ground rules."

"But at least we agree we've got to get
Hambleton out," said Walker. "But how? Any ideas?"

"We've got the staff at headquarters working
on several ideas. Some of them are pretty far out. I suggest you get
your staff together too. Have a brainstorm session."

"Right away. We'll go back to the drawing
board. We'll come up with something. We have to."

"I'll also prod the Pentagon. Maybe some of
the brain trusters up there can come up with some ideas."
O'Hearn rose, moved to the window, and stared out of it. Finally he
said, "I know exactly how you feel, John. Believe me, I know."

Walker did not answer. Piccard stoked his
meerschaum with a kitchen match, squinted through the smoke, and
said, "Sherman was right. Wars just aren't a lot of yuks
anymore."

It was shortly after midnight. In the command post
briefing room Colonel Walker was addressing his staff.

"Gentlemen, that's the situation. Colonel
Hambleton confirms that more mobile guns have been brought into the
area since we plastered it yesterday. Charley's already back to work,
and it's business as usual. That's why higher headquarters ruled out
another Jolly Green rescue attempt. That area's too hot. We've got to
get Hambleton out some other way.

"Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen.
Sandwiches and coffee will be brought in. We're not leaving this
command post until we've come up with a plan to get him out of there
without using choppers. So let's get on it." He turned to the
intelligence officer. "Sam, kick it off."

Piccard crossed over to the wall map showing
Hambleton's position, and tapped it with the stem of his pipe. "The
Song Cam Lo River here is about two miles south of Hambleton's
position. If we could get him to that river, he'd be away from the
main roads the enemy is using. If he could float down it a dozen
clicks, it turns east out of the firefight zone. There we'd have a
much better chance of effecting a rescue. Choppers should be able to
get in there with no sweat."

Walker studied the map. "Makes sense. Only
one problem— between Hambleton and the river there are land mines,
unfriendly villages, and entrenched guns. Not to mention a lot of
Vietnamese soldiers. Just how do you propose to get him to the river?
And without tipping off Charley?"

"That's the problem."

Walker turned to the assembled officers. "All
right, gentlemen, that's our assignment. We have to come up with
a plan to get Hambleton to the river. And we've got to do it fast.
Let's get with it."

Hambleton sat in his hole listening to the drone
of equipment moving down the highway cloaked by the protection of the
forming fog.

His mind turned over the events of the past
twenty-four hours. It had been a long day. For the most part it had
been fairly quiet after the blistering attack brought in by Birddog.

He had been sure the attack was going to be
followed by the Jolly Greens coming in to get him. But as the morning
wore on with no word from Birddog and no sign of the rescue choppers,
he knew they would not be coming. His optimism had slowly turned to
depression. Even with the villagers gone so the planes could attack
and all but level the villages, the echoes of the last bomb dropped
by the F-4's had hardly died in the hills before the gomers again
started hauling in mobile guns to replace those that had been knocked
out. It was obvious there would be no cooling off. This would be a
hot spot as long as he was in it; no way was this area ever going to
become sanitized enough to bring in rescue choppers. No way.

He had probably signed his own death warrant; he
had reported to Birddog on the new mobile guns being dug in
immediately following the attack. If headquarters had been weighing
the odds of risking the rescue helicopters on another mission, he had
really tipped the scales of the decision-making process against
himself. Sure enough, in midafternoon Birddog appeared to inform him
that the Jolly Greens were not coming. But a new plan was being
worked out.

A new plan. What the hell kind of a new plan? What
could anyone do in a situation like this? Dreamers. And now to
compound his problems, he had finished the last of his water.
That was the bad part about being run back and forth through this
wringer; it literally squeezed a man dry. He was also down to his
last ear of corn. And the final ignominy, some bastardly F-4 pilot
had put some eggs in too close and blown up his cornfield. That
wasn't up to usual standards. He meant to talk to Birddog about that.

But there was one bright spot—if it could really
be called bright. The attack had kept the gomers busy: Burying their
dead, taking care of their wounded, reactivating their gun positions,
and digging in again had kept them so occupied they hadn't gotten
around to resuming their minesweeping operations. Still, they would,
in spite of the fact they would have to start all over again. The
Sandys had obliged, meanwhile, laying in several more loads of
gravel, to fill in the weak spots in his protective barrier.

But now, almost one o'clock in the morning,
Hambleton was feeling very sorry for himself. He was thirsty and
hungry, so he decided to eat his last piece of corn. He shucked it,
ate it very slowly, almost kernel by kernel, popping the juicy yellow
buds with his teeth, relishing the liquid that slid down his throat.

So they were going to come up with a new plan. Why
didn't they just give up? He was tying up half the Air Force, besides
risking the lives of his fellow crewmen. Why didn't they just go
home, leave him to pull the top over his hole, and forget the whole
thing. More damned trouble than he was worth. And he was so tired...

The buzzing of the Birddog snapped him out of his
reverie. He switched on his radio. "Come in, Birddog. Bat
Twenty-one."

"Roger, Bat. I've got a deal for you."

"Any deal I'll accept. I'm not in the world's
greatest bargaining position."

"We're going to try something different."

"Anything is bound to be an improvement."

"You know exactly where you are, mapwise. Is
that Roger?"

"Affirmative."

"Outstanding. The head shed has decided that
you're going to have to make like Charley Tuna."

Hambleton's eyeballs rolled toward the heavens.
This was gibberish.

"Acknowledge my transmission, Bat."

"Received your transmission. Trying to figure
it out. You did say Charley Tuna."

"Roger."

"Give me a minute."

"You've got it."

Hambleton tried to clutch his sputtering brain
into high gear. Charley Tuna? Charley Tuna? A code name for
something? But what? What the hell? Then it came! The television
commercial! He stroked his whiskers. Let's see. Charley Tuna and
Star-Kist. That was it. Charley was the fish that wasn't good enough
to make Star-Kist, and he never got caught in spite of his best
efforts. Fish. A fish that stayed in the water. What water? The
river! That had to be it. They wanted him to get to the river. "I
think I've got your message," he transmitted. "I think I
follow you."

"Good. But just to be sure," the Birddog
pilot launched into nasal but recognizable song. "Suwannneee,
how I love ya, how I love ya, my dear ole Suwannneeee..."

Hambleton winced at the terrible rendition, but
its meaning came through clear. Suwannee River. OK, he had to get to
the river! And the Charley Tuna TV commercial. They wanted him to get
into the river. The screwy code would throw off any gomers who were
listening in. "Roger, Birddog. Understand."

"Outstanding."

"Stand by." As Birddog clicked
compliance, Hambleton rummaged for his rubber map. He spread it
out on his lap. As close as he could tell the river was a good two
miles to the south of his position. He peeked over the top of his
entrenchment. He could see a cluster of soldiers around a campfire in
the remains of one of the villages. During the attack he had seen
rifle fire coming from the copse of trees on his right, in the
direction of the river. He knew the approximate location of at least
three new guns that had been brought in and camouflaged. No telling
what else would booby- trap him before he made it to the river. God,
it wasn't going to be easy!

"This has to be your decision," said
Birddog. "You can stay in place and we'll do our best to get you
out of there eventually. But it'll be faster if you can get to where
things are cooler."

"Understand."

"It's gonna be a sporty course. I don't need
to tell you that."

"No, you don't."

"Think on it. Take your time making your
decision."

"Wilco." Hambleton's head spun. He
checked the notches he had made on his calendar stick. Seven. For a
full week now he had been living in a hole. Five men had been lost
trying for a rescue, aircraft had been tied up in an all-out effort
to save him. The enemy would soon be returning to the land-mine
sweepers. In another fog they could well get through to him. Time was
on their side; the gomers called the shots. His food and water were
gone. There was little likelihood of clearing out the guns for a
chopper rescue, and he didn't want any more attempts made unless the
odds were shifted considerably. He wasn't feeling all that great now,
and his physical and mental strength would deteriorate the longer he
stayed there. He made his decision.