to the VF-97 Ready Room. Chuck “Slick” Connelly had the Alert Fifteen
and was using his time in the ready room to go over his rosters for the
next day.
“Hello, Slick.”
VF-97’s Executive Officer looked up from the paperwork on his desk.
“Tombstone! How’s it hanging’?”
“Fine. Mind if I come in?”
“Grab a chair. Java’s hot.”
“Thanks.” Tombstone helped himself to the Ready Room’s coffee mess.
Lieutenant Commander Connelly had not been formally named skipper of the
War Eagles yet, but as the squadron’s XO he’d been running VF-97 since
CAG had grounded Bayerly a week before.
“So the Doc gave you a clean bill of health,” Connelly said. “Glad to
hear it.”
“Me too.” He sipped the strong, black coffee to cover what he was
feeling. Both he and Batman had nearly been down-checked by Jefferson’s
senior flight surgeon. Batman because of his three-day bout in the
jungle, Tombstone because of what the doctor had termed “possible
psychological trauma.” Tombstone had suffered no serious physical
injury, but there was still a very real chance that he’d suffered mental
damage, something that might not reveal itself until he was again put
under stress.
Stress such as what he might endure during a dogfight in the seat of his
F-14.
Well, sure. Go after a guy with a cattle prod and he was going to show
definite signs of stress. But the cure wasn’t to leave him at home when
he had a chance of striking back. The burns still hurt, especially on
his underarms, stomach, and groin where his flight suit chafed, but they
wouldn’t stop him from flying.
He was going on this mission. He owed it to Pamela.
And to Bayerly.
He’d argued the point with the doctor, demanding at last that CAG be
brought into it. It had taken some doing, but in the end, and at CAG’s
urging, the doctor had agreed.
Batman would be flying today too. Malibu Blake had a down chit, of
course, and would be in sick bay for another few days with his sprained
ankle, but the rest of them would be going. Tombstone checked his
watch. In less than four hours now.
“Look. Slick …” Tombstone hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “About
the assignments for today …”
Connelly grinned. “Don’t sweat it, hotdog. Sure, I’m jealous as hell
… but no hard feelings. You’ve been point on an alpha strike before.
That’s probably why they picked you.”
Tombstone chuckled. “Well, they didn’t choose me for my boyish good
looks.” He tried to make a joke of it. “I figure my uncle has it in
for me, is all.”
The final details for Bright Lightning had been posted only that
evening.
VF-95 would be leading the way into U Feng, supporting the That air
group called Trapdoor. VF-97 would fly CAP over the Jefferson … just
as they had at Wonsan.
Once, Tombstone would have been upset at that. He wasn’t certain what
had changed. Possibly, he reasoned, he had a more realistic image of
himself since his capture and escape. If there was anything special
about him, it wasn’t who he was related to.
And Slick’s reaction told him that the other men in the air wing weren’t
holding his relatives against him either. At this point, though, what
the other people thought didn’t concern Tombstone. He was going on the
mission, and that was all that mattered.
That, and the fact that Hsiao still held Pamela and Bayerly out there
somewhere.
He would lead the Vipers to U Feng. But God help Hsiao if Tombstone
ever met with that bastard again.
0430 hours, 21 January
Americana Hotel, Bangkok
The 1st Special Forces Group (Airborne) of the Royal That Army was
organized along the same lines as the American Green Berets, concerned
primarily with anti-guerrilla ops, intelligence gathering, and missions
behind the lines. They trained extensively with their American
counterparts, as well as with the elite troops of other nations. Though
they normally wore two-piece jungle camouflage uniforms in the field,
for special operations they wore the all-black combat suits and
balaclavas of other elite units.
The men who rappelled from the hovering That UH-1s, then, were almost
invisible against the night. They dropped from the helos in teams of