Part 42 (1/2)

”Yes. Hurry up. What do you want to talk about?”

Flak walked as casually as he could to the small table and put his eyes back on the Embajada Sueca as he slowly poured some more soda. He started a circular search pattern. The streets were small, the Spanish writing cramped. He had just spotted the word britfinica when Ceballos snapped at him.

”Get over here. What about mathematics ?”

Flak walked back. ”One equals two,” he said to Ceballos.

”What? You are a crazy man today.”

”One equals two. Let me have some paper and a pencil.”

”What do you mean?” He handed Flak a pencil and tore a page from a large yellow notepad.

Flak wrote some letters and figures. ”See, 'a' equals W equals one. You go along with that?”

Ceballos nodded, still frowning.

”Now,” Flak said, ”multiply 'a' equals 'b' by 'a' on each side of the equation and what do you have?”

”You have'a'squared equals'a'times'b',” Ceballos said, no longer frowning.

”Very good.” Flak could see he was getting interested.

”Now subtract W squared from each side, then factor each side. What do you have?” He pushed the paper to Ceballos and walked back to the soda tray. He found the Embajada Britdnica and began mentally tracing the route back to the Hoa Lo prison, which he discovered was on avenida Hoa Lo.

Ceballos spoke in a proud voice. ”Here. Look at this.”

Flak walked to the desk. He needed more time to imprint the map and exact route from the prison through the myriad of twisting routes and small streets. The general direction was north if the map was oriented to the north. Ceballos spun the yellow paper for Flak to see his equation.

a = b = I a' = ab a'-bl = ab-bl (a + b) (a b) b (a b) ”That is very, very good, Mister Ceballos. You are an educated man. Now let's divide each side by 'a' minus W and what do we have?” When Ceballos slid the paper back under his pen, Flak walked back to the tray. He noted the map was oriented to the north. By now he was slos.h.i.+ng in soda, so he started filling his s.h.i.+rt pockets with peanuts as he memorized the streets and alleyways.

”Hey, man,” Ceballos said. ”This is no good.” Flak stayed at the wall.

He almost had what he needed. Just a few more seconds. ”What is this?”

Ceballos said in a louder voice. ”Come here. You did something wrong.

Come here.”

As Flak walked back to the table, he kept repeating in his mind which street was which, what direction they should turn after how many blocks.

Ceballos tapped the yellow paper. ”Come on now, what is this nonsense?”

”We agreed 'a' equals W equals 'one,' didn't we?” Flak said. Under the factored remainder of ”a” plus ”b” equals ”b,” he wrote ”one” plus ”one”

equals ”one.” Under that he wrote ”two” equals ”one,” then casually put the pencil in his s.h.i.+rt pocket.

(a + b) (a - b) b (a - b) a+b b 1+1 I.

2 = I He pushed the paper to Ceballos and prayed Ceballos would react as he wanted. Ceballos did. He studied the equation, went over the points with his pencil, muttering about something being wrong. ”Bah,” he said, sat back, and flipped the paper to Flak, who casually put his hand on it.

”This is nonsense. Get on with it. What did you want to talk about? It can't be this.” He waved his hand at the paper, which Flak desperately wanted.

”Yes, actually,” Flak said after a pause, during which he ran over the streets and turns one more time in his mind.

”Actually I wanted to talk to you about the Geneva Convention. North Vietnam signed it, you know. So did Cuba.”

”What about the Geneva Convention?” Ceballos said, nearly grinding his teeth.

”I think you should be treating all of us in accordance with the Geneva Convention.” As Ceballos erupted, Flak abstractedly folded the yellow paper into squares.

”Geneva Convention?” Ceballos yelled in puzzlement.

”You dare talk of Geneva Convention?”

”Yes. Treat us as prisoners of war are supposed to be treated under the Geneva Convention. You have our cards.”

Flak almost smiled. All USAF crews flew with their blue USAF ID cards and a small white card that said the bearer should be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention if captured. The card was a source of great cynical merriment to all. Flak casually pocketed the folded paper.

Ceballos burst out from behind his desk and slapped Flak across the mouth.

”You are insane!” he yelled. ”You are not a prisoner of war. Your El Presidente Lyndon s.h.i.+t Johnson never DECLARED war. You are a CRIMINAL.

You have committed crimes against the peace-loving people of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam.” He slapped Flak twice more. ”Back to your cell,” he bellowed. ”Think about your crimes.”

He pounded on his desk. ”Guard,” he yelled. ”Take this criminal away.”

8th Tactical Fighter Wing UDORN ROYAL AIR FORCE BASE KINGDOM OF THAILAND When Court and Howie Joseph had debriefed the location of the big gun that had fired at them, Hostettler had transferred the coordinates to a larger map, then checked his foreign-weapons book made up by the specialized Foreign Technologies Division at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio.

”About like this,” he said as he drew a circle around the point. ”This circle represents the maximum range the gun could be from the bursts at 15,000 feet. There are certain areas within that circle we can discount because of terrain features. It couldn't fire from the backside of a mountain, for example.” He pointed to a karst peak at WE84524475. ”This is where I think it is. This peak is 4,900 feet high, and see here, just under the northwest tip, would be a perfect spot for a gun platform. It's level, firm, and big enough for a gun of that size.”

Court and Toby examined the spot. ”Okay, Toby,” Court said, ”here's your chance to show me what you know about the Trail.” He pointed to the 1:50,000 map Hostettler had made up for them. He put his finger on the WE coordinate Hostettler had marked. It was at the southwest tip of a high karst outcropping called Rho Magna.

”h.e.l.l of a name for a hunk of karst,” Toby said. He stepped back. ”If we get there early enough we'll have light fog. We will be able to see through it well enough to avoid smacking into anything, but the gunners won't yet be able to see us until it burns off.”

”Sounds good. Gives us a chance to get oriented.” Court traced the name Rho Magna on the map. ”Strange,” he said.

He felt a strange tickle at the base of his spine. ”Rho is the funny 'p' letter of the Greek alphabet and magna means 'great' in Latin. No comparable meanings in Lao. Pha or phu means mountain.”

They gathered their gear and headed for the door. ”I've never seen it in the daytime,” Court said. ”Just flew around it at night. Flew down the river, past those bends that look like a hatchet, and there it was.

Howie Joseph and I are positive the big gun is there. All I want to do today is make sure of its location, then we'll see about putting it down.”

”Ah, Court, just how do you plan to make sure of its location?” Toby asked as they rode in the crew van to the airplane.

”We'll have to drag it a few times to make it come up.”

”That's what I thought,” Toby said with a sigh. ”You know, in O-2s all we dragged was the home drorne before we landed. Anything more than that and we'd get sawed in half.”

”That's not what I hear about you, Tobes old buddy. You dragged that SF detachment in South Vietnam with an O-1, and then you dragged Mu Gia with an O-2 last November when the PJs were fis.h.i.+ng me out.”