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.
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.
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
