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.
1000 hours, 19 January
A Warehouse, Bangkok
“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