Targets of Opportunity (1993) (29 page)

The cannons emitted a stream of molten lead as the shells ripped into the fuselage and tore through the cockpit and canopy. Debris flew off the stricken fighter and flashed past Austin's aircraft.

Brad released the trigger and watched the MiG trail black smoke, nose over and roll inverted, then fly straight into the ground. The explosion and blinding fireball mesmerized him while he yanked the stick over.

Banking steeply, Brad dove and hugged the ground as he raced for the Laotian border.

He switched to the discrete frequency for Alpha-29, resisting the temptation to talk to someone. The more he thought about the cold-blooded killing, the more it twisted his insides. Brad tried to rationalize the act by persuading himself that the MiG pilot would have killed him under the same circumstances. Besides, many former fighter aces gained many of their kills by approaching from behind and below their adversaries. The victims never knew what hit them.

Thundering along the jagged mountaintops, Brad attempted to concentrate on flying the airplane. He finally faced the reality of his act. He had been trained to kill the enemy in any manner possible, and he had vanquished another MiG. Brad would not receive credit for the kill, but he felt the satisfaction of knowing the North Vietnamese pilot would not be adding a fourth red star to his airplane.

Threading his way through the cumulonimbus buildups, Brad ran through his landing checklist. After establishing his position on the chart, he commenced a shallow descent, then lowered his flaps and landing gear.

The visibility between the towering clouds was becoming a concern as he neared the base. Brad wondered if the UH-34 was still orbiting
Muong Lat. Unsure of the location of the helicopter, Brad decided to break radio silence. The last thing he needed was a midair collision with the UH-34.

"Sleepy Two Five, say posit."

A long pause followed, tempting Brad to call again.

"About twenty due east of the field," Rudy Jimenez finally responded.

"Copy," Brad replied with relief "No factor." He needed to talk with Spencer about coordinating his return with that of the helicopter. A simple one-word call, with an acknowledgment from the UH-34 pilots, would suffice.

Two miles from the runway, Austin reduced power and stabilized his approach speed. He remembered what Spencer had said about trying to go around after he committed himself to land. If he overshot the runway, Brad would have to eject before the MiG plowed into the steep mountainside at the far end of the field.

Brad deployed the speed brakes and settled into a low, flat approach to the runway, aiming for the grass overrun. He knew the MiG would float in ground-effect when he flared to land. The cushion of air would carry him to the runway.

Passing through thirty feet, Brad reduced the throttle to idle and gently walked the rudder pedals in an attempt to slow the fighter.

The MiG touched the macadam sixty feet from the end and Brad quickly lowered the nose. He stepped firmly on the brakes.

What the shit is wrong?

The left brake was soft. Hurtling down the short runway, Brad pressed hard against the right brake until the MiG slewed toward the right side of the narrow strip.

"Easy," Austin said to himself, letting off the pressure to correct the heading.

Brad rapidly thumbed the air valve on the stick while he pressed and released the right brake. The tire began to skid intermittently as the MiG rapidly neared the end of the landing strip.

Correcting far to the left, Brad stood on the right brake and skidded into the grass overrun.

The MiG bounced, swung to the right, and ground to a halt.

"Beautiful," Brad said disgustedly as he added power to complete the turn. Standing on the right brake, he noticed the audience that had gathered to watch the landing. That must have impressed them.

When he reached the macadam, Brad was surprised to hear Hank Murray's voice over the radio.

"Austin, the right brake is smoking," Murray said excitedly. "Taxi slowly to the end and turn around and taxi back. I don't want that brake to seize.
"

What an ignominious arrival. "I'll taxi to the end, but you can tow it back. The left brake isn't working."

Chapter
TWENTY-SEVEN

Brad left his helmet in the steamy cockpit and clambered onto the wing. He slid off and inspected the smoking brake, then walked to the other wheel.

Finding nothing obvious, Brad turned toward the Quonset hut. He saw Allison and Nick hurrying down the runway.

Austin unzipped his Soviet-style flight suit, slipped his arms out, and tied the sleeves around his waist.

"How'd it go?" Palmer asked, glancing at the helicopter as it passed over the MiG. "Did you have any luck?"

"I got one, but it isn't as easy as everyone thought it was going to be," Brad replied in a tired voice. "We're going to have to discuss strategy."

"We were relieved," Allison said with a tightness in her throat, "to hear your voice."

Brad looked at her for a second, then smiled. "We had better huddle with Cap and sort through a few miscalculations on our part."

The steady hum of the fan masked the conversation between Spencer and Murray when Austin held the screen door open for Allison and Nick. Brad tossed a casual wave to the helicopter crewmen.

The debrief was already in progress when the trio sat down.

"Did you have any success?" Spencer nervously asked. He was unusually hesitant.

"Yes," Brad answered mechanically. "The People's Army of Vietnam Air Force is shy one pilot with three kills to his credit."

"No shit?" Chase Mitchell blurted with undisguised excitement. "You got a gomer?"

"Yes," Brad said stiffly, "but not without a close call," he paused to catch Spencer's eye, "that may have jeopardized our operation."

A long silence followed.

Spencer's face was devoid of expression. "What happened?"

Brad explained what had happened, including the last resort tactic that he had been forced to use to get the Phantoms off his tail.

Murray gave Austin a grave look and challenged him. "Why didn't you use the smoke canister? We spent a helluva lot of time engineering it to give you a way out if . . ." He trailed off, seeing Brad's features harden.

"Captain," Austin began patiently, as if explaining something to a child, "it isn't very convincing--turning on smoke--when no one has shot anything at you."

Murray's chubby face flushed as an uneasy quiet settled over the room.

Spencer broke the silence, erasing the tiny smile etched in the corner of his mouth. "Brad, we didn't hear you say anything over the strike frequency."

Having vented his ire, Austin's expression softened. "I was too low . . . right on the deck. If I had been at ten or fifteen thousand, you would have been able to hear me."

Brad shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in the flight suit. "I know Red Crown and Disco have it on tape, because Disco told the F-4 leader."

Spencer rested his elbows on the table and pressed his fingertips against each other. "Well, it may or may not be a problem. We'll have to see what develops."

"Cap, I'm not kidding," Brad declared in an attempt to convince him of the seriousness of the incident. "The F-4 pilot was a second away from hosing me when I yelled for his flight to break. He was madder than a Tasmanian devil."

Spencer showed no emotion.

"Also," Brad continued uneasily, "the North Vietnamese radar controllers know that an aircraft they could not communicate with," he hesitated as Nick nodded in understanding, "flew next to one that crashed. I dropped off their radar at the same time the other MiG hit the ground."

"Well," Hank Murray ventured, clearly irritated by the pilot, "they may believe that both of you were shot down."

Brad calmed himself in an effort to be respectful. "Perhaps I didn't point out one important factor."

Murray glared at him.

"The North Vietnamese controllers," Brad said evenly, "could see that the American planes were going in the opposite direction."

Brad felt the stares from around the table. "The people in those radar shacks were communicating with the pilot after I joined on his wing to see the side number." He stopped and turned to Murray. "What do you suppose he told them . . . Captain?"

Murray was flustered. "That was pretty stupid on your part, along with talking on the radio."

Spencer started to speak, but Brad waved him off. Everyone sat in stunned silence, waiting for the explosion.

"Captain Murray," Brad said evenly, "I yelled for the Phantoms on my ass to break because of a primal instinct. I wanted to live."

Brad's voice dropped as he fixed Murray in his gaze. 'After that experience, maybe I wasn't thinking clearly . . . and I offer no excuse. But, with your wealth of combat flying experience, you would naturally have done something else . . . right?"

Murray turned beet-red. "You're flirting with insubordination." Spencer rose from his chair. "We're going to take a break, so I'll see all of you after dinner."

The tension in the room slowly dissipated as chairs were pushed back. Allison and the three pilots gave Austin and Spencer quiet glances while Murray flashed Brad a warning look.

"Brad," Spencer said firmly, "I need to go over an operational question with you."

"Yes, sir," he answered, concealing his anger. Why is that son of a bitch sitting in on the operational briefings? His job is simply to oversee the airworthiness of the fighter.

Allison knew Hollis Spencer well enough to follow the group out of the building.

"Pull a chair over," Spencer said as he slipped behind his desk and placed his pipe on top.

Brad complied, feeling drained from the emotional strain of aerial combat.

Spencer reached into a bottom drawer and extracted a half-empty bottle of bourbon. He placed it on the top of the desk and put an empty coffee mug in front of Brad.

"Help yourself " Spencer forced a smile, then reached for his pipe. Brad looked skeptical. "Cap, I don't need any booze."

"Relax," Spencer encouraged, "and have a drink." He lighted his pipe and reached for a paper cup on the counter behind him. "In fact, I'll have one with you."

Reaching for the bottle, Brad hesitated before pouring a few ounces of the bourbon in the mug.

"Tell me something," Spencer leaned forward for the bottle, "what do you really think about this operation . . . after what you experienced today?"

Brad looked at the mug for a moment before shifting his gaze to Spencer. "It has merit, but I believe we are going about it in the wrong way.

"How so?"

"The idea of trying to be selective in our pursuit, in my judgment, isn't feasible."

The project officer took that criticism in stride. "Do you think the operation has been compromised?"

"No question," Brad replied, forgetting the bourbon. "I made a mistake, and I'm sure there are going to be a number of questions raised when our folks listen to the tapes."

Spencer glanced through the screen door at the MiG as it was towed past the Quonset hut. "What would you suggest we do?"

Brad thought about the situation. If the administration wanted to keep the operation secret, Spencer was going to have to be cautious and more conservative.

"Cap, I would stand down for a couple of days, and see what filters down the pipeline."

"I agree." Spencer tasted the warm bourbon. "If this operation is exposed, heads are going to roll in Langley.. . and I might as well kiss my ass good-bye."

"In my estimation," Brad advised in a respectful manner, "the best we can do is disrupt and confuse the MiG pilots, and take them out if the opportunity presents itself . . . without compromising the operation."

Spencer nodded in agreement. "Trying to selectively kill their aces is too ambitious, huh?"

"I know you spooks work in mysterious ways," Brad ventured a smile, "but this is stretching it fairly thin."

Spencer leaned back and studied the ceiling for a period of time.

"What would you suggest we change?" he asked without taking his eye off the overhead light.

"I would keep the MiG low, to keep from being detected by radar, and pick off any stragglers," Austin paused, "or targets of opportunity that I could find . . . regardless of their side number."

"Keep it simple?" Spencer turned the statement into a question. "Well," Brad responded cautiously, "I wouldn't call sneaking around North Vietnam in a MiG a simple project."

"That's true." Spencer swirled the amber liquid in his cup and tossed back the entire contents.

"Brad, let me pose a question to you," Spencer mused while the bourbon warmed his throat.

"Yes, sir."

Austin watched Spencer's expression. He looked tired and worried. The project officer had somehow changed since his arrival in Laos. There was a tenseness and reserve that Brad had not seen before.

"Hypothetically," Spencer began with a hint of apprehension, "what would you do with the MiG," he turned to Brad, "if you had the final decision?"