didn't explain the Soviet equipment.
Thunder boomed in the north.
'Those aren't That soldiers,' Batman said. 'I don't understand.'
'Neither do we,' Htai said. 'But it is not good.'
As if on cue, an incoming jet aircraft dropped beneath the clouds half a mile north of the runway. Batman did not need to turn his binoculars on the sleek, delta-winged jet as it descended toward the base, its wheels unfolding for a landing. He'd seen plenty of airplanes like that one… though usually the sightings had been made from the cockpit of his Tomcat.
A MiG-21. Through the binoculars, he could make out the silver-gray paint scheme, with red accents on rudders and control surfaces. Strangely, though, the usual red stars or other national emblems were missing. The plane touched down on the runway and slowed, its tiny, circular drogue chute popping and fluttering behind the tail. He had several long seconds to study the aircraft through his binoculars. Yes… he could see a spot on the tail where something had been painted out. Someone had covered up the markings, making the aircraft anonymous.
Just like the MiGs that had attacked them over the border two days earlier.
Whose were they? MiG-21s were common enough in this part of the world.
Vietnam had one hundred fifty of them in her air force, while India flew over seven hundred. Little Bangladesh operated perhaps twelve. The People's Republic of China flew their license-built J-7s. At this range and angle, he couldn't quite see enough detail to be sure which of several possible variants this one might be.
One thing was certain. That MiG was not part of the Western-stocked Royal That Air Force. Hell, it wasn't even Burmese; as far as Batman knew, the Burmese Union used American-made aircraft. He remembered Htai's expression as they'd discussed the United States supplying Burma with arms and equipment, and felt his face flush.
He continued to study the air base. Far across the compound, near the low, flat buildings utilized as hangars, he could make out a number of aircraft parked close together, their outlines broken by layer upon layer of heavy camouflage netting. He studied the group for a long time until he was sure. There were more MiGs there, at least a dozen of them. Moments later, a fresh peal of thunder marked the arrival of another, coming in low from the north.
Who was occupying U Feng… and where were these MiGs coming from?
Whoever was behind this was no friend of Thailand, that was certain. He wondered if the soldiers he was looking at now had simply stormed out of the jungle and overrun the base, or if some trickery had been involved.
Certainly, that mob didn't look disciplined enough to take on the Thais, not on even terms anyway.
'Damn right it's not good, Htai,' he said at last. 'Who the hell are they?'
'I don't know,' Htai said softly. He pointed. 'That group over there is wearing Burmese uniforms. So are the sentries in front of the tower. Those over by the barracks might be militia… or the army of some warlord.'
'What Burmese do here?' Phya said. 'This far from nearest Burmese base!'
Batman shook his head. 'I don't know what the hell's going on,' he said.
'But Malibu and I can't go in there.'
'Agreed,' Htai replied. 'You'll have to stay with us awhile longer.'
'We kill Burmese?' the girl asked.
'No.' Htai was firm. 'Our scouts have already counted at least a thousand men in that compound, and others are stationed in the forest around us. But perhaps our American friends would like to go in and give them a good word for us?'
He smiled at his own black humor, but Batman didn't respond. He had just sighted something else, something guaranteed to turn any aviator's heart cold.
At the far southern end of the airfield, nearly a mile away, he could make out a tracked vehicle. Three missiles ? three large missiles ? were resting on launch rails on the vehicle's back. Batman recognized it at once, the mobile launcher for SA-6 missiles, code named 'Gainful' by NATO. He could see the incessant circling of a nearby radar tracking dish.
He remembered the tracks he'd seen by the riverbank. Someone was bringing these things into Thailand in numbers, driving them along the river valley, then cross-country through the jungle.
That someone was invading Thailand, and Batman didn't even know who the invader was. And with SAMs, MiGs, and a thousand troops, they were going to be damned hard to stop.
'Awake now, Commander?' a voice asked from behind the light. It was a cultured, educated voice but carried an accent. That? Tombstone didn't have enough experience with Oriental languages to be able to tell. 'I see you are.
I'll give you a moment to… adjust to your surroundings, yes?'
The voice added a few sharp words in an Oriental tongue. Tombstone heard water splash, and then something cold and moist rubbed against his face, a wet cloth. He blinked. He could see faces now, several of them a few feet from his own. Several portable lights had been set up, and he was bathed in their glare.
Slowly, Tombstone became aware of a universe of pains and discomforts.
The back of his head was throbbing, a crack-skulled agony where he'd been clubbed at least twice by a pistol butt. His arms were stretched above his head and supporting his entire weight. Pain burned in his back, arms, and hands. Looking up, he could see the handcuffs on his Wrists, the chain linking them draped across a meat hook suspended from the ceiling. His ankles had been tied, then secured to an iron pin embedded in a steel bucket full of concrete. He could twist against his bonds, but he could move very little.
This was a warehouse of some kind. Stacked crates and boxes created a labyrinth of walls within a large, high-ceilinged storeroom. A clock just visible on the nearest wall read ten o'clock.
He was two hours overdue at the ship, but that didn't mean very much, not here, not now. No one could possibly know where he was.
As Tombstone's head slowly cleared, he was able to focus on the ring of men surrounding him, just inside the circle of light from the tripod-mounted lamps. He was still naked. That and his helplessness contributed to a growing and overwhelming sense of vulnerability.
'So! If you are ready, Commander Magruder, we will begin. I fear I am in something of a hurry, so our methods will be, of necessity, somewhat brutal and direct.'
The speaker stepped into the circle of light. He looked Chinese.
Glasses and gray hair gave him the look of a mild-mannered professor, but there was a hard glitter in those black eyes which chilled. He wore civilian clothing, a flower-print sports shirt and slacks. In his hand he carried a black tube, something like a policeman's billy club, but made of metal and plastic instead of wood.
Tombstone licked his lips. His tongue felt thick and swollen, and his mouth and lips were dry. He had difficulty forcing words out. 'Who… who th'hell are you?'
'My name is Hsiao Kuoping, though that is not important now. What is important is this.'
Hsiao's hand snapped up, smacking the end of the club he held into the American's belly. There was a crackling sound, and liquid fire seared between Tombstone's navel and his groin. Muscles spasmed, and he jerked and twisted against the handcuff chain and the rope on his ankles. His knees tried to flex, to curl his body into a tight ball, but the cement-filled bucket kept him stretched rigid against the hook overhead. Tombstone's scream was as completely involuntary as it was unexpected, yanked from his throat in an explosion of raw pain.
Hsiao withdrew the rod, fingering it. Tombstone, blinking back the tears and the red-tinged haze which threatened to cloud his vision, could see the electrodes in the thing's business end, the red button on the other. A cattle prod.
'Pain, Commander,' Hsiao continued. 'Pain is soon going to become the single most important aspect of your existence.' With deliberate slowness, Hsiao reached out again, sliding the end of the prod between Tombstone's knees. Tombstone gasped at the touch… but the current was off, the head of the prod only slightly warm. His interrogator dragged the rod up… up…
up between his thighs until the electrodes nestled beneath his scrotum.
The terror Tombstone felt at that moment was far worse than anything he'd ever known in his life. He could look into Hsiao's eyes two feet below his own and know, without a shadow of a doubt, that the man's thumb was
