Free BAT-21 by William C. Anderson

informed him
of the reason for the aborted rescue attempt. If not cheered,
Hambleton was at least relieved. It was one thing to think his
rescuers had abandoned him. It was another to learn that they had
been given an alternate, priority mission in an attempt to aid a
downed fellow airman.
    "Hang in, Bat," said Birddog. "We're
lining up our ducks at the head shed. A plan is being worked out.
Weather's supposed to hold good. It won't be long now."
    "Roger, Birddog. And thanks." Feeling
much better, Hambleton clicked off his radio. Best he return to his
hole and condense his enemy-movement report to transmit to Birddog.
He rolled over on his back to tuck his radio into the front pocket of
his flying suit. Then, the sun feeling warm on his face, he relaxed
for a moment in preparation for his journey back to the hole.
    Suddenly he froze. What in hell was that?
Cautiously he turned his head in the direction of the noise.
    His blood turned to ice.
    Standing not fifteen feet away was a little
Vietnamese boy!
    Hambleton blinked in shock. The kid looked about
ten years of age, dirty, gaunt, shabbily dressed—his eyes the size
of sake cups.
    Jesus Christ! Where did that kid come from? What
the hell should he do? Make a break and run like hell? No. Not in
bright daylight. The smart thing to do was just lie there and play
dead. He shut his eyes and tried to look like a convincing corpse.
    The boy must have detected some motion in the
underbrush and come over to investigate. But how did he get through
the mine field? Just luck, making like Tiny Tim? Or because God rides
in the hip pockets of children?
    Hambleton cracked his lids. God, the kid wasn't
alone! A large black dog was bounding around near him. Now he not
only had a kid watching him, but also a dog that was going to start
barking and bring every gomer in Vietnam.
    Sighting Hambleton, the dog stopped short. His
tail came almost to a point, stiff as a poker. He sniffed the wind,
then looked curiously up at his master. Talking low to the dog, the
boy approached, stepping softly through the brush.
    Hambleton did his best to simulate rigor mortis.
He tried to ignore an insect crossing his cheek, praying that not a
muscle would twitch. He knew he had to play dead damn well, or soon
he might be.
    Then the two were upon him. The lad, carrying a
stick, gingerly poked Hambleton's chest. The dog started sniffing at
his heels, slowly working up his body. Hambleton watched the boy
through slitted lids. He did not dare breathe as the lad reached for
the zipper of his pocket that contained his radio.
    His radio!
    Dear God, he couldn't part with that! Not his
lifeline to the FAC pilot and survival. If the boy started to take
it, what should he do? Attack the kid? Throttle him? Impossible. Take
him hostage? Also impossible. He had enough trouble trying to take
care of himself. Then, what?
    Sniffing Hambleton's head, the dog suddenly
started to growl. A low, ominous rale issued from his throat, and he
bared his fangs inches above Hambleton's face. Hambleton felt a
splatter of drool drop on his cheek. Sweet Jesus! Was he about to be
attacked?
    The boy muttered a low Vietnamese command to the
mongrel. Reproached, the dog pulled back, but his fangs did not
retract. Had the beast detected life in the corpse and was warning
his master? Or was the canine just hankering for fresh meat? Whatever
it was, the dog's actions had caused the boy to pull back his hand.
Then, strangely, the boy straightened up and turned around, issuing
orders to the dog. Reluctantly, mongrel heeded master, and the two
started off at a lively clip to disappear in the tall brush.
    Hambleton lay still, immobile, waiting for the
tremors of shock to subside. What had all that been about? Had the
kid sensed he was alive? Would he report him? Send the soldiers
looking for him? Or would the boy—no stranger to dead bodies in the
war zone— merely pass him off as an uninteresting incident? After
three days in a stinking flying suit he