Viper Strike c-2, page 18
part #2 of Carrier Series
Much later, she disentangled herself enough to murmur, "You'll stay tonight, won't you?"
He looked into her eyes for a time, until she was afraid he would answer no. But he nodded, smiled, and then they kissed again.
After a long time, he pulled back and, rather unromantically, checked his watch. "Can I use your phone?"
"Sure." She got up so that he could move. "Over there, by the window."
He picked up the receiver and spoke briefly to the hotel operator.
"Calling your ship?" she asked.
"I'm square with them," he replied, holding the receiver to his ear as he waited for the call to go through. "Long as I'm back on board by 0800 tomorrow. No, someone else I saw tonight was going to arrange for a place for me to stay in Bangkok. If I don't let him know, we'll be interrupted by…
yes? Hello? You speak English? Good. This is Lieutenant Commander Magruder, U.S. Navy. Put me through to Colonel Kriangsak, please. He gave me this number. Yes, I'll wait."
Pamela left Tombstone to finish his phone call and went into the suite's bedroom. She was ready for him by the time he entered.
2325 hours, 18 January
Dusit Thani Hotel, Bangkok
It was the noise that woke him.
At least, he thought it had been a noise, one of those sharp, metallic clicks one hears in a strange room in the middle of the night and can never identify. He lay there in the darkness for a long moment, listening.
Nothing. Or perhaps someone had dropped something, upstairs or in the hallway outside the suite.
No matter. He needed to use the bathroom anyway. Taking care not to waken Pamela, he disentangled his arm from beneath her pillow, then swung his bare legs over the side of the bed. The air in the room, though stirred by the large ceiling fan, still retained the musky scent of their lovemaking.
Pamela. He could just make out her sleeping form on the bed by his side, see the rise and fall of her breasts by the hint of reflected moonlight spilling through the open door from the next room.
Tombstone felt a twinge of guilt as he realized that their relationship had changed again. He'd not told her everything. He couldn't. The word that a Navy aviator and his RIO had been lost over northern Thailand was still classified, and any officer leaking that tidbit to the news media would be roasted over a slow fire by Admiral Magruder, nephew or no nephew.
And the pain he'd been feeling that evening was due at least as much to the fact that Malibu and Batman were missing as to Bayerly or anything else.
If it had just been Bayerly's accusations, well… Tombstone could live with those.
But Batman and Malibu had gone down while flying his mission… while he had been assigned to look pretty for the camera and answer Pamela Drake's questions. He'd never been one to claim that the universe was fair, but this put a new twist to the way God seemed to be running things that left a distinctly bitter taste in his mouth.
Part of the change in his relationship with Pamela was a new desire to tell her about his friends, about his feelings at their loss. It would have made facing that loss… easier somehow.
But the secret would have to remain secret.
Swearing under his breath, Tombstone rose from the bed and padded naked across plush carpeting to the bathroom. When he returned, he stopped, staring at the still form of Pamela, masked by shadows. There was something…
different.
A new smell, a presence which hadn't been there before…
Before he could piece together his impressions, shadows moved in the darkness. "Who's there…!"
Something hit Tombstone a glancing blow across the side of his head. He went down, groping for a shoe, a chair, anything he could use as a weapon.
"Rah vang!" a harsh voice barked to his left. Tombstone pivoted in that direction.
Then the room exploded in light.
As his vision cleared, Tombstone was engulfed in a swirl of rapid-fire impressions. There were three men in the bedroom, wearing close-fitting black clothing and carrying silenced automatic pistols. Pamela, sitting up naked in bed, still had one hand on the bedside light switch as she opened her mouth to scream.
A hard, metallic something collided with the back of Tombstone's head and he pitched forward to his hands and knees, the room whirling around him. He tried to rise, to get his legs beneath him.
He was struck again, much harder, from behind. His face ground into the carpet as his vision dimmed in blood and blackness. Desperately, Tombstone fought back against the waves of pain-shot darkness that threatened to engulf him. He fought… fought…
And failed.
CHAPTER 16
0945 hours, 19 January
Near U Feng
The camp had awakened at four in the morning and begun moving south, traveling through night-shrouded jungle with a confident certainty that Batman found astonishing. It was so dark that he could barely make out the shape of Phya walking a few feet in front of him. Somehow the Karens at the head of the long, snakelike column picked their way along forest trails that were all but invisible, and the rest trailed after, walking in touching distance of the person ahead.
Eventually, the sky grew lighter, but there was no true dawn. By the time Batman could clearly see his surroundings it was raining, a misty, intermittent drizzle that turned the ground to soup and soaked the Americans through to the skin in minutes.
By Batman's calculations, they'd been traveling south long enough that they must be in Thailand by now, but there was no sign of a border, no challenge by either That or Burmese patrols. For some time he'd been aware of the sounds of jet aircraft overhead, though the planes were hidden by the low overcast. They were passing on what might have been a regular schedule, one following another at intervals of three or four minutes. No doubt the Royal That Air Force was up in force searching for the two of them. The engine sounds weren't right for Tomcats or Hornets. Possibly, he decided, they were That F-5 Freedom Fighters.
At last, the column halted. Batman crouched at Malibu's side just off the trail, as Karen tribesmen moved silently through the thick vegetation on all sides.
Suddenly, all were gone.
Malibu, still lying on his stretcher, propped himself up on his elbows.
"What's going' on, buddy?"
"Beats me," Batman replied. "No one's told me anything." Even Phya had vanished into the bush, and for several long minutes it felt as though the two Americans were completely alone. Insects Reeked and chirped among the branches as rain continued to drizzle through the leaf canopies overhead and drip to the wet ground. Once more, the wilderness seclusion was shattered by the jet-thunder noise of an airplane flying low overhead, traveling north to south.
Two camo-fatigued shapes materialized at his side so suddenly Batman started. He wasn't yet used to how silently these people could move in the forest and how well they made themselves blend in.
"Phya!" he hissed, recognizing the girl. "What in the hell is-"
She laid one slim hand across his mouth. "No talk," she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "Leave friend. You come."
Batman's mouth tightened. "Look, lady. I don't know what the hell your game is. But I'm not going anywhere until you' tell me what the score is.
And I'm not leaving my RIO."
Phya shook her head, though whether in exasperation or because she didn't understand, Batman couldn't tell. She plucked at his sleeve. "Come! Colonel Htai want!" She indicated her companion, a heavyset Karen warrior with an M-16. "Van stay friend! You come!"
Impasse. Batman patted Malibu's shoulder. "I'll be back."
"Hey, take your time, dude. I'll just, like, commune with nature…"
"Silence, please!" Phya's eyes were on the surrounding jungle.
Leaving Malibu and the soldier called Van, Batman allowed the girl to lead him farther along the path. He followed her up a slope, winding back and forth until they approached a clearing at the top of a broad, flat hill.
Other Karens were there, crouched motionless and nearly invisible among the leaves.
Htai acknowledged his arrival with a curt nod. "We've arrived," the Karen leader said.
"But?" Batman said. He'd heard the warning… and the uncertainty in Htai's voice, heard the urgency and worry in Phya's. Something was wrong.
For answer, Htai passed Batman a pair of travel-worn German 7x60 binoculars. The American lay on his belly at the edge of the forest and looked into the clearing.
U Feng! They'd made it after all! The relief was palpable as Batman steadied the binoculars in his hands and swept the compound. He could see the tower easily, as well as the rows of low barracks and storage buildings beyond the airstrip. Barbed wire was strung along the perimeter twenty yards from the treeline.
"What's the problem?" Batman asked Htai. "You did it! This is U Feng!"
"Soldiers wrong," Phya said. She was studying the compound without the aid of binoculars. What had she seen…
Batman brought the field of the binoculars onto a group of men and held it steady. There were twenty or thirty men, more a mob than a military unit, making their way through the drizzle among the barracks buildings.
And then the reality hit Batman like a blow between the eyes. Soldiers wrong indeed! In the whole time he'd been in Thailand, never once had he seen a sloppily dressed or slovenly-looking That soldier. The Thais seemed to be universally fastidious about their uniform and equipment. But these troops…
Their uniforms were as mismatched as those worn by the Karens. A few wore helmets, others straw hats or ball caps, while most preferred boonie hats or berets. Their weapons too were an unlikely mix from various countries, but the AK-47 predominated. Even across five hundred yards, Batman could recognize the Soviet bloc weapon with its curved, thirty-round banana magazine.
Batman blinked as he lowered the binoculars. "Civilians?" he said, half to himself. "Some kind of militia?" That didn't explain the Soviet equipment.
Thunder boomed in the north.
"Those aren't That soldiers," Batman said. "I don't understand."
"Neither do we," Htai said. "But it is not good."
As if on cue, an incoming jet aircraft dropped beneath the clouds half a mile north of the runway. Batman did not need to turn his binoculars on the sleek, delta-winged jet as it descended toward the base, its wheels unfolding for a landing. He'd seen plenty of airplanes like that one… though usually the sightings had been made from the cockpit of his Tomcat.
A MiG-21. Through the binoculars, he could make out the silver-gray paint scheme, with red accents on rudders and control surfaces. Strangely, though, the usual red stars or other national emblems were missing. The plane touched down on the runway and slowed, its tiny, circular drogue chute popping and fluttering behind the tail. He had several long seconds to study the aircraft through his binoculars. Yes… he could see a spot on the tail where something had been painted out. Someone had covered up the markings, making the aircraft anonymous.
Just like the MiGs that had attacked them over the border two days earlier.
Whose were they? MiG-21s were common enough in this part of the world.
Vietnam had one hundred fifty of them in her air force, while India flew over seven hundred. Little Bangladesh operated perhaps twelve. The 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 Wrists, the chain linking them draped across a meat hook suspended from the ceiling. His ankles had been tied, then secured to an iron pin embedded in a steel bucket full of concrete. He could twist against his bonds, but he could move very little.
This was a warehouse of some kind. Stacked crates and boxes created a labyrinth of walls within a large, high-ceilinged storeroom. A clock just visible on the nearest wall read ten o'clock.
He was two hours overdue at the ship, but that didn't mean very much, not here, not now. No one could possibly know where he was.
As Tombstone's head slowly cleared, he was able to focus on the ring of men surrounding him, just inside the circle of light from the tripod-mounted lamps. He was still naked. That and his helplessness contributed to a growing and overwhelming sense of vulnerability.
"So! If you are ready, Commander Magruder, we will begin. I fear I am in something of a hurry, so our methods will be, of necessity, somewhat brutal and direct."
The speaker stepped into the circle of light. He looked Chinese.
Glasses and gray hair gave him the look of a mild-mannered professor, but there was a hard glitter in those black eyes which chilled. He wore civilian clothing, a flower-print sports shirt and slacks. In his hand he carried a black tube, something like a policeman's billy club, but made of metal and plastic instead of wood.
Tombstone licked his lips. His tongue felt thick and swollen, and his mouth and lips were dry. He had difficulty forcing words out. "Who… who th'hell are you?"
"My name is Hsiao Kuoping, though that is not important now. What is important is this."
Hsiao's hand snapped up, smacking the end of the club he held into the American's belly. There was a crackling sound, and liquid fire seared between Tombstone's navel and his groin. Muscles spasmed, and he jerked and twisted against the handcuff chain and the rope on his ankles. His knees tried to flex, to curl his body into a tight ball, but the cement-filled bucket kept him stretched rigid against the hook overhead. Tombstone's scream was as completely involuntary as it was unexpected, yanked from his throat in an explosion of raw pain.
Hsiao withdrew the rod, fingering it. Tombstone, blinking back the tears and the red-tinged haze which threatened to cloud his vision, could see the electrodes in the thing's business end, the red button on the other. A cattle prod.
"Pain, Commander," Hsiao continued. "Pain is soon going to become the single most important aspect of your existence." With deliberate slowness, Hsiao reached out again, sliding the end of the prod between Tombstone's knees. Tombstone gasped at the touch… but the current was off, the head of the prod only slightly warm. His interrogator dragged the rod up… up…
up between his thighs until the electrodes nestled beneath his scrotum.
The terror Tombstone felt at that moment was far worse than anything he'd ever known in his life. He could look into Hsiao's eyes two feet below his own and know, without a shadow of a doubt, that the man's thumb was about to come down on that red button set in the prod's plastic base. Anticipation and the searing memory of the pain he'd just experienced made Tombstone's stomach twist, and he was afraid he was about to be sick.
