Two-oh-three, RTB. Please confirm.”
“Negative, Homeplate. I have fuel to orbit until a SAR can arrive.”
They would need help from a Texaco if they stayed up that long, but they
could extend their stay over the border by two or three hours at least.
“Tomcat Two-oh-three, Homeplate. Negative on SAR. You are directed to
RTB. That is, Romeo-Tango-Bravo, execute immediate. Do you confirm,
over?”
Taggart sighed. If he circled long enough, he might pick up their
radio, but the terrain here was so rugged they would have to be mighty
lucky to fly over the right spot at the right time. Another possibility
was to spot the flyers’ chutes from the air, but with so much jungle,
that was an even longer shot than the radio.
Homeplate was right. No doubt they’d be coordinating a rescue with the
Thais. “Affirmative, Homeplate. We copy. Two-oh-three, coming home.”
He brought the stick over, swinging Tomcat 203 onto a southern heading.
1254 hours, 17 January
Over the That-Burmese border
Batman remembered reading once about British SAS tree jumpers, an elite
airborne unit trained to parachute into the jungles of Malaysia. The
idea had finally been abandoned. There was simply no way that jumping
into a jungle canopy could be made safe.
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!