kept the injured knee rigid he could limp along. He checked the compass and started out.
After some painful hobbling, Jake paused. What if he passed Cole in the darkness?
“Tiger?” Jake whispered into the radio. it had occurred to him that they were probably not alone in this jungle.
A soft-voiced reply: “Yes?”
“If you hear me thrashing around, you tell me. Okay? I’m going to get you out of this mess.”
“Yes.” That was all he said. Jake listened, holding the radio against his ear, hoping for more. That one word was the entire message. He left the radio set to receive, stowed it in his pocket, and zipped the pocket shut. A glance at the compass and he began to move again.
The going was slow and hard. He tripped over roots and vines, and limbs and branches stung his face. He fell repeatedly, but each time he forced himself to rise. After a while he looked at his watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed. How far had he traveled? Two hundred yards? He knew hunters and hikers tended to overestimate the distance they had traveled. He was in agony from the pain in his side; he must have broken several ribs, He cast around his small beam of light, a a wilderness of dripping vegetation met his eyes.
He estimated another fifteen minutes had passed and he spoke into the radio: “Tiger?”
No answer. He waited almost a minute, then tri again. He held the small speaker against his ear.
“Yes.” A weak whisper.
“Heard anything? I’ve really been thrashing around.
“No.” Why hadn’t Cole answered when he was asked about his injuries? “How badly are you hurt?” Jake waited Perhaps Tiger had not heard the question. But of course he had. Why didn’t he answer?
“I think my back is broken.”
Frank Allen pounded his fist on his thigh. A broken back! A badly injured man could not evade the enemy or hook himself to the rescue hoist. The chopper would have to lower a crewman, maybe two, to pack them in a litter. A lot of lives would be at risk as the chopper hovered.
Allen spoke to the airborne controller about the bombardier’s injuries over his primary radio on discrete tactical frequency. The controller, for his part, gave Allen the names of the downed men. The nickname “Tiger” had sounded familiar, but now Allen remembered who the men were and was able to connect faces with names. How long had it been since he was on the Shilo? Three or four weeks? After several more conversations, the controller directed Allen and his wingman to return to Nakhon Phano their base. Allen was scheduled to lead the next search and rescue mission, or SAR. His call sign would be Sandy One.
Frank Allen had much to do before the sun rose.
He jotted down some notes to himself on his kneeboard. At least two Jolly Green helicopters should be on the scene. They would actually lift the men out. But Allen and his flight of Skyraiders would have to locate the downed crewmen and do whatever was necessary to make the area safe for helicopters. If need be, jets could be diverted from all over Southeast Asia to attack enemy positions.
Consulting the chart again, he rechecked the lines he had drawn from the A D F readings, and his TACAN bearing and range plots from Nakhon Phantom. The two A D F cuts intersected at a position only four miles from Devil 500’s last known position, as reported. by the airborne controller. But given the distances involved and the sensitivity of the equipment, he decided the agreement was merely coincidence. The two crewmen might be anywhere within ten miles of the two locations. He drew a ten-mile circle around both points and studied the chart under his red flashlight. Peaks up to 5800 feet and the villages of Sam Neua and Ban Na Yeung lay within the circle. He hoped the airmen had not gone down near the villages, for if the villagers had heard the crash they would be out in force at daylight, looking for parachutes and beating every bush.
The chart showed a road running west through Sam Neua toward the upper reaches of the Mekong and the Plain of Jars. One of the northern feeders to Ho’s Trail, the dirt track wound through a valley that Frank Allen knew would be covered with dense vegetation and flanked with limestone karst ridges. A road meant men. Men and trucks and guns. He wrote the word “napalm” and underlined it.
Jake made the 2300 check-in call, but Tiger did not. Although the airborne controller had tried to encourage Grafton, when they had each signed off, Jake remained alone with his despair. Not only did he feel the danger of his and Cole’s position, but he was completely exhausted from the exertions of the last hour.
The desire for water and a cigarette roused him.
Water would have to wait, he decided, but he would have a smoke. He wiped his dirty hands on his thighs and felt his pockets for cigarettes. The half-full pack in his sleeve pocket was soggy and crushed. He discarded it, then thought it might dry out later and retrieved the pack. He found a new pack and a lighter in the lower left pocket of his G-suit. With trembling hands, he tore off the cellophane.
The smoke felt good filling his lungs, but when he exhaled, it sent needle-sharp pains through his nose He blew the smoke out through his mouth, then greedily dragged in another lungful.
The smoke! What if the gooks smelled it? He almost stubbed out the cigarette before he decided his fears were exaggerated. He did, though, take out his revolver and hold it with his finger on the trigger, the muzzle pointing off into the total darkness that surrounded him. The only light came from the glow of his cigarette tip.
The heft and shape of the weapon helped to settle his nerves. The cool steel of the barrel, the gentle curve the butt, the roughness of the wooden grips, the serrations on the hammer-all spoke of power an security. But against a squad armed with assault rifle this was merely a popgun. It was nevertheless reassuring to hold.
He remembered the ring he had bought for Callie. He patted his left sleeve pocket and felt it there, thick and hard. He brought it out and fingered it to ensure that the stone was still in its setting. Returning the ring to his pocket, he pulled the zipper completely shut.
He smoked the cigarette and held the revolver an listened to the night sounds of the jungle. He tried to think. He had to hook up with Tiger and make him as comfortable as possible. At dawn when the Sandys came, he could direct them in. After the Sandys had pinpointed their position, they would wait for the Jolly Greens to arrive and pull them up to safety. Tiger would go up first in a litter while he waited on the ground.
Then the chopper crew would lower a jungle penetrator for him, a bright-orange, projectile-shaped weight designed to pass through thick foliage. Okay, that is what has to be done. Now to make it happen.
With his penlight, he searched about him for a walking stick. He saw a likely looking sapling and hacked it off near the ground with his knife. Then he cut a length about six feet long. He heaved himself upright, supporting himself with the stick. After checking the compass under the penlight, he tottered off to the east.
He fell often. Lifting his foot for the next step was a labor. He held on to the stick with both hands, bracing the penlight between the stick and his right hand. He pulled himself over uneven ground, picking his way through thick, resistant jungle. He forgot about the compass and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other. Leaden with fatigue, he took longer and longer to rise after -each stumble. The penlight slipped to the jungle floor, but he didn’t notice. He had only one thought in a mind encased in fatigue and pain: Find Tiger Cole.
After an eternity of wandering, Jake tripped and fell into a small brook, striking his broken nose on a stone. The pain cut through the fatigue, and the cold rushing water revived him. He drank in short gulps, taking deep breaths in between. When he was satiated, he rolled over on his back, still in the stream.
He had to go on. Find Tiger Cole. That was the only reason for his existence. He groped for the stick but could not put his hand on it. Summoning all his strength, he rolled over onto his stomach and began crawling. His nose seemed to bump up against every low-lying branch, and his knee found every rock.
Finally he could go no further. Exhaustion and pain overtook him, and he fell into a deep sleep.
The rain ceased two hours before dawn as the storm drifted across the mountains and down the valley of the Red River toward the sea. The saturated air continue to give up moisture. Drops of water condensed on leaves and branches and formed rivulets that channele through the layers of vegetation, eventually descending to the jungle floor where the moisture soaked further into the rotting carpet. Of this Jake Grafton knew nothing. He lay where his body had failed him.
TWENTY-FIVE
At the SAR Command Post at NKP, Frank Allen learned at 0015 that neither A-6 crewman had responded to the airborne controller’s midnight call.
