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had any problems."
    "Gooks bound to know you got a ringside seat
observing their activities. They're going to double their efforts to
get to you."
    "Then I suggest we double our efforts to get
me the hell out of here."
    "Exactly our plan. Rescue choppers are
airborne. Have your flares ready. But don't pop smoke until you hear
from Jolly Green. You can monitor them on this frequency."
    "Roger!" His nausea eclipsed by suddenly
soaring spirits. Hambleton dug out his flares. There was an open area
not far away in which a chopper could land. When he got the word he
would dash out there and ignite his flares.
    Hugging the ground, he listened for the familiar
clattering sound of helicopter rotors. There would be two coming
in—one for rescue, the other a gunship for its protection. And of
course there would be his Birddog above the scene to call in the jets
or the Sandys to shoot up anything that moved while he sprinted for
the pickup point. Hot damn! He would soon be ordering a tall, frosty
beer....
    In the distance he heard them coming. Hambleton
poised, ready to sprint. He had his radio volume turned up so as not
to miss any transmissions from the rescue-chopper pilot. Closer and
closer the sound came, and then, craning his neck up over the
foliage, he could see them. Coming in low and fast. He flexed his leg
muscles, ready to go....
    Suddenly hades erupted. Antiaircraft opened up in
front of him, 23-mm, 37-mm, and 57-mm automatic guns spraying a wall
of iron into the air. Small-arms fire began banging like popcorn.
    "What the bloody hell!" Hambleton
shouted. He spun around, dazed. Where in God's name had those guns
come from? Nothing could have survived the aerial attack just
delivered on the intersection. Yet here were guns sending up a
curtain of fire he could barely see through....
    From the villages to the east! Guns dug in among
the villages that had been spared by the fighters to avoid killing
civilians; guns heavily entrenched and camouflaged, out of sight of
fighters or the FAC.
    There was absolutely no way for the choppers to
get through the barrier of lead being thrown up. Yet on they came,
chuffing toward him! He could see the gray smoke from the machine
guns firing in the lead gunship.
    Summoned by Birddog, a gaggle of F-4's came
wheeling down out of the sun, trying to pinpoint the guns, firing at
flashes, frustrated and unable to deliver a full-fledged attack on
the off- limits villages.
    The choppers were less than a mile away when
Hambleton heard a crisp transmission that froze his blood.
    "Birddog from Jolly Green. Sorry. Picked up a
round in my engine. Aborting."
    Despair hung like lead on Birddog's
acknowledgment. "Roger, Jolly Green."
    Hambleton watched, the emotion draining from him.
The choppers banked over sharply and clattered back in the direction
from which they had come. The rescue chopper was trailing a wisp of
blue smoke. As the Jolly Greens disappeared from view, the F-4's
broke off their attack to escort the helicopters back to their base.
    Several minutes passed before Birddog broke radio
silence. "Bat Twenty-one from Birddog. Sorry as hell, Bat. But
we'll get you out. Can you dig in for the night?"
    Hambleton tried to muster a cheerfulness that died
aborning. "Roger, Birddog."
    "Good man. Keep in touch. Birddog out."
    Feeling nothing, Hambleton unconsciously stuffed
his flares back into his survival vest. He could only return to his
hole and dig in. As he prepared to sneak back through the brush, he
took one last look at the desolation of the highway intersection.
    But it was desolate no longer. Incredibly, the
place was teeming with activity. Like a busy anthill that had had its
top kicked off, the whole area was swarming with parties of soldiers.
To accommodate the incoming traffic from the north, the roads were
already being cleared. Burning and bombed-out trucks and weapons
carriers were being shoved to the side of the road, the injured and
dead thrown into trucks, and a new stream of traffic