Read Online BAT-21 by William C. Anderson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William C. Anderson
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the tanks—T-54
heavies and PT-76 amphibious lights—coming down from the DMZ in a
long line. On reaching the intersection the monsters separated, some
going east, others west. He crawled back to his hole to notify
Birddog.
In a low voice he relayed the information to the
FAC. Then in a matter of minutes the F-4's came howling in overhead.
Very businesslike, he crossed his arms and waited for the surrounding
antiaircraft batteries to open up on the attacking jets. Now, almost
without thinking, he put on his helmet before the shrapnel from the
exploding AA shells rained down around him.
After the fighter attack had silenced the grumble
of the tanks, he again whispered to Birddog: "There ought to be
an easier way to make a living."
"What's the matter, Bat? Getting tired of
being the number- one duck in our shooting gallery?"
"Some of the fun has gone out of it."
"Why didn't you say so? We'll yank you out of
there."
"Wonderful idea."
"Get out your flares. The Jolly Greens are
coming. But first duck your head. We're gonna play you a little
tune."
"Roger." Hambleton knew what was coming.
They were going to bring in all the air power they could muster to
neutralize the area before the choppers came in. He dug into his hole
as far as he could and pulled Chester in after him.
Down they thundered. For fifteen minutes the air
around him sounded like the climax of the 1812 Overture gone amok.
Birddog was the conductor, leading the overture of death from the
podium of his tiny 0-2. Hambleton shut his eyes, clenched his jaws,
and placed his hands over his ears. But the thundering, earth-shaking
symphony of bombardment came in loud and clear. The whining F-105's
were the wind instruments, the C-130 gunships the snare drums, the
hurtling F-4's climaxing the overture with the cymbal crash of their
cluster bombs.
For a quarter of an hour that seemed like an
eternity Hambleton rolled with the shock waves, jumped with the
concussions, and spat dirt. Then it ended as quickly as it had
begun.
He shook the dust out of his hair, wiped the grit
from his eyes, and blinked. He was still in one piece. He looked
around him. All he could see was the dust and smoke of the aftermath.
He waited for things to settle and his ears to quit buzzing, then he
checked in with the orbiting FAC pilot.
"You play quite a tune, Birddog."
"It grows on you. You're gonna have to pull
in your welcome mat for a bit, Bat. Complications. Will get back to
you within the hour."
Frowning, Hambleton clicked an acknowledgment.
Complications? He hadn't liked the worried tone of Birddog's
usually upbeat voice. What the hell could be the complication? He
rose up and looked around him. There were several crackling fires but
nothing seemed to be moving. Nothing. As far as the eye could see.
Even the villages were quiescent.
He looked up and scanned the sky. The ground fog
had completely burned off and there were only a few puffy altocumulus
off to the east. Weather was perfect. If ever the Jolly Greens could
come in, this was the time. What was the holdup? Knowing the
blood-and-guts courage of the SAR rescue teams, it had to be
something serious. The guns dug into the villages? Even most of these
had been pinpointed and neutralized by the fighters. The weather was
CAVU and the opposition was hanging on the ropes. What were the
complications?
Damn, what he wouldn't give for a cigarette!
In the briefing room of the Korat Command Post
several wing staff officers were gathered around a table on which
were spread a series of aerial reconnaissance photos. Colonel Walker
looked up as Captain Dennis Clark walked in, wearing a flying suit
wet with perspiration.
"How's it going, Clark?"
"Hot, sir," said Clark.
"It's been one of those days. How was
Hambleton when you left him?"
"Confused and dejected."
Walker looked grim. "Hell of a note! We might
have yanked him out of there by this time if it hadn't happened. Does
he know about the OV-IO FAC that was shot down near his
heavies and PT-76 amphibious lights—coming down from the DMZ in a
long line. On reaching the intersection the monsters separated, some
going east, others west. He crawled back to his hole to notify
Birddog.
In a low voice he relayed the information to the
FAC. Then in a matter of minutes the F-4's came howling in overhead.
Very businesslike, he crossed his arms and waited for the surrounding
antiaircraft batteries to open up on the attacking jets. Now, almost
without thinking, he put on his helmet before the shrapnel from the
exploding AA shells rained down around him.
After the fighter attack had silenced the grumble
of the tanks, he again whispered to Birddog: "There ought to be
an easier way to make a living."
"What's the matter, Bat? Getting tired of
being the number- one duck in our shooting gallery?"
"Some of the fun has gone out of it."
"Why didn't you say so? We'll yank you out of
there."
"Wonderful idea."
"Get out your flares. The Jolly Greens are
coming. But first duck your head. We're gonna play you a little
tune."
"Roger." Hambleton knew what was coming.
They were going to bring in all the air power they could muster to
neutralize the area before the choppers came in. He dug into his hole
as far as he could and pulled Chester in after him.
Down they thundered. For fifteen minutes the air
around him sounded like the climax of the 1812 Overture gone amok.
Birddog was the conductor, leading the overture of death from the
podium of his tiny 0-2. Hambleton shut his eyes, clenched his jaws,
and placed his hands over his ears. But the thundering, earth-shaking
symphony of bombardment came in loud and clear. The whining F-105's
were the wind instruments, the C-130 gunships the snare drums, the
hurtling F-4's climaxing the overture with the cymbal crash of their
cluster bombs.
For a quarter of an hour that seemed like an
eternity Hambleton rolled with the shock waves, jumped with the
concussions, and spat dirt. Then it ended as quickly as it had
begun.
He shook the dust out of his hair, wiped the grit
from his eyes, and blinked. He was still in one piece. He looked
around him. All he could see was the dust and smoke of the aftermath.
He waited for things to settle and his ears to quit buzzing, then he
checked in with the orbiting FAC pilot.
"You play quite a tune, Birddog."
"It grows on you. You're gonna have to pull
in your welcome mat for a bit, Bat. Complications. Will get back to
you within the hour."
Frowning, Hambleton clicked an acknowledgment.
Complications? He hadn't liked the worried tone of Birddog's
usually upbeat voice. What the hell could be the complication? He
rose up and looked around him. There were several crackling fires but
nothing seemed to be moving. Nothing. As far as the eye could see.
Even the villages were quiescent.
He looked up and scanned the sky. The ground fog
had completely burned off and there were only a few puffy altocumulus
off to the east. Weather was perfect. If ever the Jolly Greens could
come in, this was the time. What was the holdup? Knowing the
blood-and-guts courage of the SAR rescue teams, it had to be
something serious. The guns dug into the villages? Even most of these
had been pinpointed and neutralized by the fighters. The weather was
CAVU and the opposition was hanging on the ropes. What were the
complications?
Damn, what he wouldn't give for a cigarette!
In the briefing room of the Korat Command Post
several wing staff officers were gathered around a table on which
were spread a series of aerial reconnaissance photos. Colonel Walker
looked up as Captain Dennis Clark walked in, wearing a flying suit
wet with perspiration.
"How's it going, Clark?"
"Hot, sir," said Clark.
"It's been one of those days. How was
Hambleton when you left him?"
"Confused and dejected."
Walker looked grim. "Hell of a note! We might
have yanked him out of there by this time if it hadn't happened. Does
he know about the OV-IO FAC that was shot down near his
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