Tombstone wondered what was being planned as he stopped to clear the Huey's turning blades and hurried across the deck toward the island.
'Stoney! Ho… Stoney!'
He turned, his eyes widening in surprise at the familiar voice. 'Batman!
You son of a… Where did you come from?'
'CATCC. CAG let me come down to play official greeter.'
'No, you idiot! When did you get back? Where's Malibu? What happened…?'
Batman grinned. 'Malibu and I both got back aboard yesterday evening, courtesy of the Tai army and some… some rather remarkable people out in the jungle.' He sobered for a moment, then continued. 'Malibu's in sick bay.
Nothing worse than a sprained ankle. And I think other questions had better wait.'
'Why? What's going on?'
'Only about a million people on this tub want to question you, Tombstone.
Starting with your uncle and his entire intelligence staff.' He jerked his head toward the island. 'They're waiting for you topside, in CVIC.'
'Then I guess I'd better get up there.' He'd been looking forward to a shower and a clean uniform, but it looked like he'd have to settle for a change to his flightsuit. Wearily, he started to climb to the 0–9 level.
They'd pulled off the road at first light. Pamela and Bayerly were kept waiting in the truck until Pamela wondered if they were going to be shot.
Then their guards bullied them out of the back of the truck and led them at gunpoint along a path to a spot well away from the road. The area was heavily wooded. Pamela saw soldiers everywhere, some resting in small groups underneath the trees along the path, others coming and going along the trail.
The main encampment was a group of canvas tents heavily camouflaged with branches and palm fronds.
This, she realized, was a major rebel base. She could only guess at the location, but its presence so far from either Bangkok or the northern border suggested that the communist insurrection was far more widespread and better organized than anyone had realized. The soldiers around her were teenagers for the most part, armed with a motley collection of American weapons and the ubiquitous AK-47s. They did not look particularly formidable. Some swaggered or joked, but most looked simply scared. All, though, possessed an air of grim expectancy.
They were led to a cage, a narrow box of bamboo poles large enough for the two of them to sit side by side, but not large enough for them to stand or move around. A grinning That fastened the crude door shut with a length of chain and a padlock, said something incomprehensible with a harsh cackle of laughter, then left them alone. No one in the camp seemed to be paying them any attention, but Pamela was sure that any attempt to escape would bring them plenty of notice.
She was worried about Bayerly. He'd seemed withdrawn, almost shrunken in upon himself since her captors had thrust her in next to him back in Klong Toey. Each attempt to speak with him during the long, bumpy drive had been interrupted by a harsh word or gesture from one of the soldiers in the back with them.
'Commander Bayerly?' she asked when they were alone. What was his running name? She remembered. 'Made It? Are you okay?'
The look he gave her was a mingling of horror and some inner pain.
'Listen, Commander,' she said when he didn't answer. 'Don't you go freaking out on me now. We're in a hell of a jam, and I'd like to think I'm not in it all by myself!'
'There's not much we can do about it,' he said. He sounded distant, defeated.
'Maybe not. At least we could discuss our options.'
'Options,' he repeated. The word was bitter.
'What's with you, anyway?' she asked, exasperated. 'Look, we should be trying to figure out how to get out of here while we can.'
'Be my guest.' He nodded toward the bamboo door with its padlocked chain. 'It's not more than a couple hundred miles back to your hotel.'
In this mood, Bayerly was going to be useless. Pamela had a special talent, though, an ability to draw people out in conversation even when they didn't want to talk. She'd used it to good effect for years during her career as a television interviewer. The key was first to get the subject comfortable with the interviewer, feeling that she was on his side, then to get the subject talking about himself. It was simple in theory, but this seemed to be a rather difficult situation in which to test it. 'How long have you known Tombstone?' she asked.
Bayerly shrugged. 'Maybe a year.' He sounded totally disinterested.
'Since I joined the Jefferson.'
'Is he a friend of yours?'
'That hotdog? No way.'
'Hotdog? I heard him use that word once. What's it mean?'
He gave a wan smile, and Pamela knew she'd broken through his outer defenses. 'A show-off,' he said. 'Someone who's always pushing the outside of the envelope… and wants people to know it.'
'That doesn't sound like the Tombstone I know. He struck me as rather reserved.' She smiled. 'For a fighter pilot, anyway.'
He didn't reply immediately, and for a moment Pamela thought she'd lost him again.
'Yeah, Tombstone's okay, I guess,' he said at last. 'Some of the guys give him a pretty rough time about his uncle and everything, but he doesn't flaunt it. Not really.'
'Why do you dislike him so much then?'
Bayerly studied her for a long moment. 'Ah… I don't know.' He looked away, and appeared to be studying the surrounding forest. 'I know this is going to sound pretty damned cruddy, but I guess a lot of it is all the attention he was getting after Wonsan.'
'What's cruddy about that?'
'Oh, you know. It's like I'm jealous about his Navy Cross. The hero treatment, and all that.'
'Are you?'
'I don't know.' He sighed. 'Not really jealous, I guess. Tombstone was the one who got the shot at flying CAP for our forces ashore at Wonsan, though. And I was stuck flying CAP over the Jefferson.'
'He got the glory and you didn't. Is that it?'
'Shit. He didn't do a thing that any other man in the wing couldn't have done.'
'Granted. So what's the problem?'
Again, he didn't answer for a long time. 'I guess to be honest, the problem is with me, Miss Drake,' he said. 'Not with him.'
'You want to tell me about it?'
He regarded her through narrowed eyes for a long time. He shrugged.
'Why not? But if you're looking for a story, I don't think much of your chances for getting it on the air.'
She rested one hand on his knee. 'I'd like to know, Made It. Really.'
'Well.' He looked away, as though unable to meet her eyes. He seemed to be having difficulty knowing how to begin. 'A year ago I was stationed in Washington, D.C. I'd just finished a tour of sea duty aboard the America. CO of one of her Tomcat squadrons.' He gave an ironic smile. 'Lady, I was on my way up. A tour as squadron skipper… and now a hitch at the Pentagon. Know what that means to an aviator?'
She shook her head.
'It means that the powers that be are grooming him for command. Command!
After a tour in Washington, I'd have a crack at a CAG slot. Then another tour in D.C. maybe… all leading up to a carrier of my own some day.'
'Sounds good.'
'It was good. I was on Admiral Fitzroy's staff. God, that guy's only about four jumps down the pyramid from the CNO himself!' He gave a wan smile.
'My career, to say the least, was off to a promising start.'
Pamela read the pain behind the words. 'What happened?'
