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."
The Fourth Day
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.
He hoped it would be a lot better than yesterday.
During the daylight hours he had done little but monitor the hourly
reports from Birddog, receiving the latest weather sequences. All day
the ceiling had remained lower than a midget's ass. The Jolly Greens
didn't even get airborne, let alone attempt a rescue. But according
to the weather prophets, today was supposed to be better. The front
was supposed to move out.
At least he had accomplished something. He hadn't
just sat on his hands all day and soured himself with more self-pity.
In the best traditions of survival he had busied himself with an
objective. Maybe his project would not seem much of an accomplishment
to a lot of people, but again, not many people had spent three days
sitting in a hole, deep in enemy territory.
He reached out for his project and picked it up.
He removed the little thatched roof and checked on Chester. The
caterpillar seemed to be enjoying the little house Hambleton had
patiently woven for him from strips of corn husks. About the size of
a strawberry box, it had turned out quite well. At least its occupant
seemed to be thriving, not only protected from the elements, but also
from the gimlet-eyed birds.
Hambleton put in several fresh leaves and replaced
the roof. Yes, both he and Chester were going to survive. Make the
best of an unfortunate situation.
In the distance he heard again the clank-clank of
heavy tanks. It was going to be another busy day at the office. He
emerged from his hole and groped his way through the undergrowth to
his vantage point on the little knoll that overlooked the
intersection. The ground fog was thinning fast; being dissipated by
the morning sun. Hot damn! Maybe today would be rescue day.
Lying on his belly, he watched
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."
The Fourth Day
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.
He hoped it would be a lot better than yesterday.
During the daylight hours he had done little but monitor the hourly
reports from Birddog, receiving the latest weather sequences. All day
the ceiling had remained lower than a midget's ass. The Jolly Greens
didn't even get airborne, let alone attempt a rescue. But according
to the weather prophets, today was supposed to be better. The front
was supposed to move out.
At least he had accomplished something. He hadn't
just sat on his hands all day and soured himself with more self-pity.
In the best traditions of survival he had busied himself with an
objective. Maybe his project would not seem much of an accomplishment
to a lot of people, but again, not many people had spent three days
sitting in a hole, deep in enemy territory.
He reached out for his project and picked it up.
He removed the little thatched roof and checked on Chester. The
caterpillar seemed to be enjoying the little house Hambleton had
patiently woven for him from strips of corn husks. About the size of
a strawberry box, it had turned out quite well. At least its occupant
seemed to be thriving, not only protected from the elements, but also
from the gimlet-eyed birds.
Hambleton put in several fresh leaves and replaced
the roof. Yes, both he and Chester were going to survive. Make the
best of an unfortunate situation.
In the distance he heard again the clank-clank of
heavy tanks. It was going to be another busy day at the office. He
emerged from his hole and groped his way through the undergrowth to
his vantage point on the little knoll that overlooked the
intersection. The ground fog was thinning fast; being dissipated by
the morning sun. Hot damn! Maybe today would be rescue day.
Lying on his belly, he watched
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