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save his own skin
that he had completely ignored the intelligence report. Sure, there
was a good chance that the Air Force had already taken reconnaissance
photos of the area and was even now briefing crews on the targets of
opportunity.
    But what if they hadn't? Much of the traveling was
probably done at night or under the fog cover, and the equipment was
heavily camouflaged. A pang of fear slammed him. Those big guns being
pulled south were antiaircraft guns! Big-bore and sophisticated,
probably 85- or 100-mm. The enemy had undoubtedly set some up to
guard the highway intersection—a vital supply lifeline. Maybe they
were just waiting for the first Jolly Green to hover into their
sights...
    Jesus Christ! He was a fool! A selfish,
self-centered fool! Sitting around in a foxhole on his dead ass
feeling sorry for himself. He just might be the bait in a lethal trap
being set for the Jolly Greens. Goddamnit, he was supposed to be a
professional soldier! He had to get off his butt and warn them.
    He pulled out his radio, switched it on, and
whispered into it. "Birddog from Bat Twenty-one."
    The response was instantaneous. "Come in Bat
Twenty-one. Birddog here."
    "Nearby intersection. Where Hollywood Freeway
joins the Santa Monica Freeway. Like Friday night rush hour. Many
drunks on the highway. Very dangerous. Advise Jolly Greens."
    There was a pause then, "Roger, Bat. Your
report confirms big eye in the sky. Sending in the black and whites
in five minutes."
    Hambleton breathed a sigh of relief. So the Air
Force reconnaissance photos had picked up the mass movement. And
now they were sending in Sandys to pave the way for the Jolly Greens.
"Roger, Birddog. I'll help you direct traffic."
    "Understand, Bat. But keep your tail down."
    Hambleton almost laughed. In a few minutes his
presence would be the least of the enemy's concern. He crawled out of
his hole and started furtively through the undergrowth. In a matter
of minutes he had reached a little knoll, the highest ground in the
confines of his sanctuary. From here, lying on his belly, he had a
clear view of the intersection.
    Peeking from his grandstand seat he pulled out his
map and watched intently, studying the bumper-to-bumper traffic
coming down from the north. When they hit the east-west highway the
vehicles fanned out in both directions. There was no doubt this
intersection was one of the major staging areas of the big Communist
push.
    He heard the drone of the FAC airplane coming in
low. Small- arms fire from the ground began banging as the little
Birddog came in on a zigzag course at treetop level. As it passed
overhead Hambleton saw the tail cones of two small rockets belch from
under its wings as the 0-2 pulled up, grabbing altitude. The two
missiles exploded smack in the center of the highways' intersection,
sending a bloom of white smoke blossoming over the converging
traffic.
    Birddog had marked the target precisely.
    Hambleton turned on his radio, adjusting the
volume down to a whisper so he could monitor the conversation going
upstairs. Since search and air-rescue (SAR) pilots tended speak a
jargon all their own, he supposed some of it would be unintelligible
to him, but it would at least give him a clue as to how the attack
was progressing.
    "Birddog to all pilots. I've just marked the
target. Come in, Gumshoe."
    "Roger," replied a low-pitched voice.
"We're overhead your position for pylon turn in forty seconds.
We have five hundred GPs retarded and twenty mike mike."
    "Roger, Gumshoe," said Birddog. "Do
you have the target in sight?"
    "Affirmative."
    "Clobber that area. Be on alert for
explosives and secondaries. Maybe ammo trucks. Remember, we've got a
friendly down there. He'd probably appreciate it if you didn't blow
up his foxhole. Pinpoint your targets."
    "Always do, Birddog. Area clear?"
    "The ante's right. Put something in the pot."
    "Coming down in trail formation. We'll
scramble our eggs first."
    "Kindly keep an eye out for your friendly
FAC. I'm