CHAPTER 10

1252 hours, 17 January
Tomcat 203

"Homeplate, Homeplate, this is Tomcat Two-oh-three."

"Go ahead, Two-oh-three."

"Homeplate, we are declaring an emergency," Taggart said. He continued to scan the hills and jungle below as he sent in the message. "Tomcat Two-three-two is down, repeat, down."

"Copy, Two-oh-three. Do you have chutes in sight? Over."

"Negative chutes, Homeplate. We didn't even see where they went down.

They were out of visual when they were hit. Over."

There was a long, static-filled silence. Finally, the voice of Jefferson's Air Ops controller came on the air again. "Tomcat Two-oh-three, RTB. Please confirm."

"Negative, Homeplate. I have fuel to orbit until a SAR can arrive."

They would need help from a Texaco if they stayed up that long, but they could extend their stay over the border by two or three hours at least.

"Tomcat Two-oh-three, Homeplate. Negative on SAR. You are directed to RTB. That is, Romeo-Tango-Bravo, execute immediate. Do you confirm, over?"

Taggart sighed. If he circled long enough, he might pick up their radio, but the terrain here was so rugged they would have to be mighty lucky to fly over the right spot at the right time. Another possibility was to spot the flyers' chutes from the air, but with so much jungle, that was an even longer shot than the radio.

Homeplate was right. No doubt they'd be coordinating a rescue with the Thais. "Affirmative, Homeplate. We copy. Two-oh-three, coming home."

He brought the stick over, swinging Tomcat 203 onto a southern heading.

1254 hours, 17 January
Over the That-Burmese border

Batman remembered reading once about British SAS tree jumpers, an elite airborne unit trained to parachute into the jungles of Malaysia. The idea had finally been abandoned. There was simply no way that jumping into a jungle canopy could be made safe.

He watched the treetops growing closer, reaching for him. The gruesome image of hitting an up-thrust branch inserted itself in his mind and would not go away; he could be skewered as neatly as a shish kebob.

As he lost altitude, though, he realized that he was being blown sideways. The risers on his parachute were not designed for aerobatics, but they did give him some control. He began tugging at them to spill some of the chute's captured air, letting him slip sideways at a faster rate. The sun-glint from a river at the bottom of the valley beckoned to him. Landing in the river or in the mud along its bank seemed far more attractive to Batman at the moment than crashing down through that solid-looking deck of treetops.

The last of the forest giants whipped past his boots, and then he was over water. The river looked shallow, more mud flat than water, with steep clay banks to either side.

Then the river too was passing beneath him. He was being blown across the river's cut and into the opposite bank. Trees rushed at him like a gray-green wall.

He struck, smashing full-length into a sheer dirt wall. The blow stunned him and he slid helplessly down the bank, landing in a heap in the mud at the bottom. After what felt like a long time, he managed to unhook his parachute harness and slowly stand up on legs suddenly gone shaky. Leaning against the embankment, he began stripping off his life preserver, then decided to keep it. The vest was designed to carry his survival gear ― knife, first-aid kit, compass, SAR radio ― and its bright yellow color might attract attention from the rescue boys.

And there would be a rescue, he was certain. Price and Zig-Zag would be looking for him. Hurriedly, he pulled the SAR radio from his vest and thumbed it on.

"Mayday! Mayday! This is Batman, Tomcat Two-three-two, requesting assistance. Does anybody read me? Over!" He waited, then repeated the message.

And again.

And again.

There was no answer but static, and Batman wondered if the jungle-covered slopes around him were blocking the signal. He wasn't certain of his exact location, but U Feng was at least thirty miles to the southeast, well out of range.

Shifting tactics, he held the radio to his mouth again. "Malibu, Malibu, this is Batman! Do you copy? Over?"

Again there was only the whisper of static, harsh above the softer sounds of the jungle around him. Batman felt a stab of worry. Malibu should certainly be in the same valley and well within range. Helplessly, he shook the SAR unit, wondering if it was the transmitter which was damaged, or Malibu who was unconscious, hurt… or worse.

And there were the people who had fired those SAMs. He wondered if they might have the equipment to pick up his SAR broadcast and home on it. Now there was a pleasant thought!

The jungle seemed to close in on Batman then, an ominous green shroud which threatened to smother him. He was alone, lost, on his own without even a pistol to defend himself. Malibu might need him, and he didn't know which way to go.

Somewhere close by, a monkey or bird cut loose with a shrill, hooting screech that sounded eerily like human laughter.

To Batman, it seemed as though the hostile jungle was laughing at him.

1320 hours, 17 January
Control Tower, U Feng Airfield

Major Lin Thuribhopal of the Royal That Air Force looked up from the map spread across the table, meeting the eyes of the helicopter pilots facing him.

All wore olive-drab flight suits and carried their helmets. Their helos, UH-1 Huey "Slicks" purchased from the Americans during the final days of the war in Vietnam, were warming up on the tarmac outside.

"The Americans have agreed to pull out and leave search-and-rescue operations to us," he told them. "It is important to find the crew of the downed plane quickly, if they are still alive. There are reports of guerrilla activity throughout the region."

"Will we have fighter cover?" one of the pilots asked.

"Yes. we are already diverting six F-5s into the area. It is unlikely that the Burmese will risk such odds to cross the border again." His finger traced along a region South of the That-Burmese border, well beyond the north-south course of the Nam Mae Taeng Valley from U Feng. "Here," he said.

Sector one-seven. Reports from the second American plane suggest that the first aircraft went down here."

"Rugged country," one of the pilots commented.

"Then you'd better get started," Major Lin said. "We have only another five hours or so before dark."

The pilots departed, leaving Lin alone to contemplate the map. The ghost of a smile played at his lips. Sector one-seven… that was at least fifty miles from where the plane had actually gone down. If the Americans had survived, they would not be walking out of that jungle soon.

And if they didn't make it by tonight, they would be too late. He rolled up the map and returned it to its metal tube. outside, the chatter of helicopter rotors rose in pitch as the SAR choppers prepared to depart.

General Hsiao would be pleased that there would be no interference from the Americans on this critical day. The general's coded radio message moments ago had been most insistent about that. If the Americans were found and rescued, it would be difficult to keep their comrades from coming to U Feng to pick them up, to search the area where they'd been shot down.

That could not be allowed. Not now.

Major Lin put the map container in its storage rack and returned to his duties in the air operations tower.

1830 hours, 17 January
Fantail, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

Jefferson's liberty boat was kept in almost constant operation, especially during the weekend when duty schedules were adjusted to allow more of her crew to go ashore. It was a forty-minute round trip from ship to shore to ship, with the stubby-looking, open landing craft ― called a mike boat ― tying up at a Sattahip dock only long enough to put another liberty party ashore and to take aboard any officers and men waiting to get back to the ship.

Tombstone had caught the gray government shuttle bus out of Bangkok for the ride back to Sattahip, arriving at the wharf well after dark. At the waterfront, he could clearly see the Jefferson riding at anchor out in the bay. The elevator doors were open, and light from the hangar deck spilled out into the night, casting long shimmers of reflected light into the water below the ship. The island too was brightly lit, and from this angle, Tombstone could even make out the lights on the carrier's drop-line, the string of lights hanging down her stern from the flight deck roundoff as a perspective aid for night traps.

The dark waters of the bay were crowded with other vessels. He could make out the anticollision lights of Vicksburg and Gridley, swinging on their hooks almost a mile astern. The other ships of the CVBG were still at sea but would have their chance at Sattahip's facilities later. Elsewhere, civilian craft motored back and forth closer inshore, respecting the moored warning marker buoys which preserved Jefferson's close-in security zone.

This early in the evening, there was no one waiting at the pier for a ride back to the carrier. Tombstone accepted a life jacket from the chief boatswain's mate in charge of the craft and stepped aboard as the man at the wheel gunned the diesel engines as if he were revving up a motorcycle. Line handlers cast off from the bollards, and the mike boat pulled away from the pier, angling out across the dark water toward the Jefferson.

Tombstone was in a decidedly confused state of mind. He'd gone into Bangkok the afternoon before, convinced that Pamela Drake would prove to be an enemy, someone determined to twist his words in such a way that he ― and the Navy ― would look foolish. The interview had been a surprise in that Pamela had gone out of her way to make him feel comfortable… and she'd been far more interested in his role as a hero than in the waste and mismanagement of the United States Navy.

And then there'd been dinner… and this morning's stroll in Thonburi.

It was strange. If he was any judge of women at all, she'd been as reluctant to part as he.

There was a stiff breeze over the water, and by the time the mike boat approached the Jefferson, his uniform shirt was damp where it wasn't covered by the life jacket. A float had been rigged at the ship's stern, a temporary pier resting on the water and secured to the ship's hull lines. The boat's coxswain steered the craft alongside with practiced ease as a sailor in dungarees caught the line tossed by a man standing in the bows. The diesels throttled back to a low, rumbling idle, and the mike boat bumped gently against the float.

The ladder between the float and the fantail twenty feet above had wheels which allowed its lower end to roll freely with the movements of the water.

Waves generated by passing boats in Sattahip Bay set the wheels to squeaking madly from time to time, the sound interspersed with the hollow thump of the tires secured to the floating pier as bumpers colliding with Jefferson's hull.

Tombstone trotted up the nearly vertical ladder and swung onto the fantail.

He saluted the colors, then turned and saluted the officer of the deck.

"Request permission to come aboard."

"Granted," the OOD replied, returning the salute. "Welcome aboard, sir."

The head of a line of men in civilian clothing and orange life jackets stood nearby, the line itself extending back into the long passageway which connected the fantail with the hangar deck. A chief was addressing them in fatherly tones, warning them that the district known as Klong Toey, famous as a rough waterfront strip in Bangkok, was strictly off-limits to all Navy personnel. Tombstone started to move past them and into the passageway when someone called him.

"Stoney! Hey, Tombstone!"

He turned and saw Fred Garrison. The aviator had been off to one side of the fantail deck, apparently chatting with the camo-clad Marine at the.50 caliber machine gun which was mounted on the railing as a security measure when the Jefferson was in port. "Army!" Tombstone said, using Garrison's running name. "How's it going?"

Garrison removed his aviator's sunglasses and jerked his head toward the passageway. "C'mon inside, Skipper. I gotta talk to you."

Past the machine shops, the passageway opened into the hangar deck. A number of Jefferson's boats and small craft were stored on cradles at the aft end of the tWO-acre cavern. Garrison led Tombstone to an out-of-the-way corner of clear deck space next to the Captain's launch.

"I had to talk to you before you heard it on the bush," he said. The bush telegraph was slang for the unofficial lines of shipboard rumor and information and was widely regarded as faster and more authoritative than official channels.

"What is it?" Tombstone didn't like the expression on Garrison's face.

That look, mingled worry and sadness, generally meant bad news.

"It's Batman and Malibu," Garrison said. "They're down. Shot down by MiGs."

Tombstone's eyes widened. "Oh, God! Were there chutes?"

He shrugged. "Price and Zig-Zag made it back and trapped a few hours ago. They're still getting debriefed. The word is that the Batman and Malibu were out of sight when they went in. No sign of chutes, no SAR radio contact… but that could just mean they were too far away." He hesitated before adding, "There's a hold on SAR ops up there. Something about problems coordinating with the Thais. I'm sorry, Tombstone. But I thought you'd want to hear it straight."

"Yeah." Tombstone nodded. "Yeah, thanks."

Batman and Malibu down… attacked while flying the mission Tombstone was supposed to have been on.

"You okay, Skipper?" Army was watching him closely.

"I'm fine." Tombstone kept his voice level. "No problem. Where's CAG?"

"Ashore."

"What? Where, Sattahip?"

"Better than that. Bangkok. With the admiral and most of both staffs.

They flew in by helo with their war paint on."

Coordinating with the That military over what to do about the incident, no doubt. Would there be a rescue effort, he wondered, or were Batman and Malibu going to be left on their own?

Garrison seemed to sense the fire in Tombstone's eye. "Look," he added.

"I'm sure everything possible's being done for our guys…"

"Yeah," Tombstone said. He turned to leave. "Right. I'll grab CAG when he's back aboard."

"Where you heading, Skipper?"

"Up to the ready room. After that I'll be in my quarters if you need me."

He walked away without another word.

1900 hours, 17 January
Kiong Toey, Bangkok

General Hsiao entered the warehouse as his chauffeur held the door wide.

The building was located in a run-down section of Bangkok's waterfront district, a dilapidated, rust-streaked collection of warehouses and storage sheds off At Narang Road. Hsiao strode down passageways formed by stacked crates and wooden pallets. A That shipping company, itself owned by Hsiao's agents, had bought the warehouse the year before, and it served well as headquarters and meeting place, out of the public eye.

His office was a plasterboard cubicle in the back, equipped with desk, telephone, and a single chair. It was illuminated by a single bulb hanging on its cord from the ceiling. A teenager armed with an AK-47 performed a crude approximation of snapping to attention as Hsiao opened the door and went inside.

"Phreng!" Hsiao called. "Phreng, where are you?"

A dark-skinned That civilian with a jagged white scar down the left side of his face appeared in the doorway moments later. "General Hsiao," he said without expression, "We were not expecting you to return so soon."

Hsiao stared back at the man, assessing him. Phreng Kitikachom had been a minor gangster, one of Bangkok's medium-level providers of heroin and raw opium, until Hsiao had taken him into his growing organization ― Never much more than a petty thug, Phreng and the criminal contacts he maintained throughout the city nonetheless had proven useful as Hsiao assembled the intricacies of Sheng li. There were times when Hsiao needed such contacts, times such as this, which was why he'd kept Phreng on the payroll.

"Things are moving more quickly than we anticipated," Hsiao said. "It appears that the Americans will soon be involved."

"Yes, sir."

"I need several American sailors, men off the carrier now at Sattahip.

Bangkok should be full of them tonight… especially Patpong."

"Yes, sir." There was the faintest tug at the corner of the That's mouth. "My girls have been busy already."

"Yes." Among his other enterprises, Hsiao knew, Phreng ran a string of girls in the sex and sin district called Patpong. He shifted to English, which Phreng understood. "Perhaps you can put them to good use tonight. I need two or three men from that carrier. They should work in radar, in flight operations, or in the carrier's air traffic control center." He pronounced the words carefully, and made Phreng repeat them back before shifting back to That. "Tell your people, quickly."

"There is urgency in this, sir?"

Hsiao nodded. "There is. I am not sure what the Americans' reaction to the loss of one of their planes will be. It is possible that they will recall their people in Bangkok back to the ship. We must capture the men I need before that happens."

"It will be done, sir. Where do you want them?"

"Here. We will use the rooms downstairs. Go, now."

Phreng gave a perfunctory wai and departed.

Hsiao thought for a moment. It was late, well past normal office hours, but Sword might well be at his desk despite the hour. With things about to break at U Feng, the agent would be working to prepare things for his role in the coming drama. Hsiao picked up the phone. Dialing a number, he asked to be connected with a particular extension. "Is Den Phitsanuk there, please?"

he asked when a familiar voice answered.

There was a long silence. "Den is visiting family in Chiang Mai," the man at the other end replied. Question and response were code phrases, identifying each speaker to the other and verifying that there were no eavesdroppers on either end.

"Perhaps I can reach him there," Hsiao said. "In one hour."

He was about to hang up the phone. The message, that he needed to meet personally with the agent known as Sword at a particular rendezvous in an hour, had been delivered. But he heard Sword's sharp intake of breath over the phone. "Please! Wait," the man said. "This line is clean. We can talk."

Hsiao frowned. This was a flagrant violation of the security rules he'd laid down at the very beginning of this operation. Sword should have known better. "We will talk," he said sharply. "In an hour."

"No. Now." Sword was persistent. "There is trouble… an American naval aircraft lost near U Feng. The Americans have scheduled a meeting with members of the government. They are demanding permission to mount search-and-rescue operations in the area. I may not be able to put them off much longer."

Hsiao glanced at his watch. "It is already past seven," he said. "It is rather a late hour for government meetings, is it not?"

"The Americans are… upset."

"You will be at this meeting?"

"Of course, sir. General… our people fear what the Americans may do!"

The voice sounded desperate. "We could lose everything!"

Hsiao forced himself to remain calm. Sword could jeopardize much more than the Americans would if the man lost his nerve now.

"We have lost nothing," Hsiao said gently. Now, he judged, was the time for soft words and assurances. He needed Sword to guide upcoming events within the government, especially once word of U Feng reached Bangkok sometime later this night. "We shall use the Americans, not avoid them."

"Are you saying we will confront the Americans directly? Your MiGs will never get within a hundred miles of their carrier!"

Hsiao laughed. "You talk about the Jefferson as though it were magic!

She is a large warship, to be sure, but she is not invulnerable!"

"You have a battleship or two hidden in reserve, perhaps? Or a cruise missile?"

"We have something much better, my friend. Surprise… and the Americans' own feelings of safety within a friendly port!"

"I fail to see how that can help us."

"You, my friend, are the key. You can make everything work. Remember!

I chose you because you can make the bureaucracy work for us! Reports can be mislaid, orders delayed, decisions postponed or deferred."

"That doesn't help us with the Yankee carrier. If they should decide to openly side with the government-"

"They will have other things to worry about."

"What, General?" The voice carried almost open scorn. "Suicide motor boats? An armada of hang gliders? This is a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier we face!"

"A nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, yes. A ship which is enormously vulnerable." He chuckled. "You know many today claim that the aircraft carrier is already obsolete. That its vulnerability, its total dependence on the other ships of its battle group, would actually make it a liability in a war."

"You have an idea." It was a statement of fact, not a question. "What is it?"

Hsiao laughed gently. "Not over the phone, Sword. Attend the meeting and report to me afterward. Then I will tell you what I have in mind."

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