Targets of Opportunity (1993) (3 page)

The project officer, a lanky man in his early forties, approached the sentry at the entrance to the blacked-out hangar. After Spencer presented his identification badge, the guard switched off his flashlight and stepped aside. The young sentry knew the affable CIA officer well, as did the rest of the security specialists, but the identification routine was not taken for granted.

Entering the light trap, Spencer strode into the huge building an
d w
alked toward his office. The red-tinted floodlights cast soft shadow s o n the faces of the technicians and engineers who were waiting for th e p rized airplane to arrive. Each had been handpicked for the operation.

"Morning, Cap," the senior military adviser said, stirring his steaming coffee.

"Good morning," Spencer replied, thinking about how many days had commenced at two o'clock in the morning. "This is going to be a special day. "

"You bet," the portly naval officer replied. "I haven't been able to sleep for three nights. My wife thinks I'm seeing another woman."

Spencer chuckled as he reached for the doorknob, then paused. "Hank, give me a holler when the Herc is on final."

"I'll do that." Captain Henry Murray raised his mug. "They should be on time."

Spencer flipped the light switch, opened his leather briefcase, then tossed four file folders onto his cluttered desk. He sat down and opened the top personnel record. Three navy pilots, along with one marine aviator, had been selected to participate in the first step of Operation Achilles.

Each of the four fighter pilots had distinguished himself in aerial combat. Two of the navy pilots, with one MiG kill each, had already been approached. Each had enthusiastically accepted the offer without knowing any of the specifics.

Now Spencer had to interview the last two aviators and offer them the chance to volunteer.

He studied the material in the folder, noting that marine Captain Bradley Carlyle Austin was an alumnus of the Naval Academy. He had been a member of the swimming team, and competed as a diver. Graduating with honors, Austin had selected a commission in the Marine Corps. After a tour of duty at Quantico, Virginia, he had reported for flight training at Pensacola, Florida.

He looked carefully at the black-and-white photograph and read the brief description in the file. At five feet ten and 165 pounds, Austin appeared to be trim and athletic. Spencer noted the tanned face, the direct look in the hazel eyes, the modest, faint smile. Like the other three pilots, Brad Austin was a bachelor.

Spencer remembered his own first visit to the Marine Corps base at Quantico. That eventful trip had changed the course of his life.

It was after his F9F Cougar had been struck by flak during the Korean War that Lieutenant (junior grade) Hollis Spencer had crash-landed the jet near Seoul.

The accident had cost him his right eye and left a long, jagged scar across the top of his head. From that time forward, Spencer had worn a patch over his blind eye and a hat to cover the wide gap of wrinkled skin The navy had medically retired him at the age of twenty-six. Afterward, Spencer had traveled to Washington, D
. C
., hoping to join the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Turned down because of the lost eye, he had driven to Quantico to visit his brother, a second lieutenant who was going through Basic School.

His brother had consoled him, suggesting that he apply to the Central Intelligence Agency. He was especially qualified since he had a degree in psychology, and had been a highly decorated navy combat pilot.

The rest--Spencer smiled to himself--was history: a rewarding career that had budded at Quantico, Virginia.

Spencer glanced back to Brad Austin's folder. The young aviator had performed extremely well in the advanced jet strike syllabus, graduating first in his class. Skimming the fitness reports, Spencer was impressed by the comments from Austin's senior officers. His previous commanding officer had written that Austin was a mature, professional young officer with a straightforward personality and excellent flying skills. Another CO called him a gregarious officer who fulfilled his responsibilities while maintaining a sense of humor. Spencer also read a brief note explaining that Austin's father, Vice Admiral Carlyle Whitney Austin, had recently retired.

"Cap," Henry Murray bellowed, "the aluminum overcast is on final." "Thanks," Spencer replied, slipping Brad Austin's file to the bottom of the stack. "Be right there."

He turned of the lights and walked to the entrance of the hangar. Trying to contain his excitement, Hollis grinned when he passed the sentry.

"Mister Spencer," the guard said enthusiastically, "is that the bird bringing in the secret plane?"

"It sure is," Spencer answered, smiling to himself He searched the sky as he walked across the ramp to join Hank Murray and the other men.

"I hear it," Spencer said to Murray, "but my eye hasn't adjusted to the darkness."

The navy captain pointed toward the end of the dry lake. "He's just coming over the runway . . . made a wide, flat approach."

Spencer spotted the four-engined turboprop in the bright moonlight.

The C-130, flying with the external lights extinguished, had started to flare. The pilot snapped on the landing lights a few seconds before the cargo plane smoothly touched down. The lights went out as the pilot placed the propellers in reverse pitch.

Hollis Spencer watched the lumbering plane roll to the end of th
e w
ide runway, then awkwardly turn and follow the flight-line jeep. Spencer and Murray stepped away from the group of men. "Hank," the CIA officer said as the Hercules approached the hangar , "how soon do you think you can have the aircraft ready to fly, withou t c utting any corners?"

The noisy C-130 taxied past, turning ninety degrees to point the tail at the closed hangar doors.

"We should have it," Murray paused, bracing himself against the gale-force propwash, "ready for the first hop in ten days . . . fifteen at the outside."

"That'll fit just right," Spencer responded, turning away from the pungent odor of burned jet fuel.

They looked at the back of the plane when the cargo ramp was lowered. The engines wound down, then mercifully spun to a stop as the hangar doors opened. Shielded red floodlights illuminated the aircraft parking area as the men hurried to unload the airplane components.

"I'm going to take a walk," Spencer said, rubbing his hands for warmth, "and see if I can work off some of my anxiety."

"I know what you mean," Murray responded, glancing at the gray forklift approaching the airplane. "We'll all breathe a sigh of relief when the parts are in the hangar."

Out of habit, Spencer looked at his watch. "Let's hope the other Herc is on time."

"It will be," Murray assured him, then walked toward the cargo plane. "You know CIA Air better than anyone."

"You're probably right," Hollis laughed, then turned and set off toward the runway.

He had worked with the CIA airlines before, including Civil Air Transport, Air Asia, Intermountain, Southern Air Transport, and Air America. His most recent assignment had been in the Agency's Directorate for Plans. The department engaged in covert operations throughout the world.

The activities of the Directorate for Plans were handled with the utmost secrecy. The department was exempt from the CIA's interna
l r
eview procedures, a step many senior CIA officials continued to question. The answer was standard. A review might compromise national security, or place key agents in life-threatening situations.

Spencer had worked for an extended period of time with Air America, the agency's largest airline. Incorporated in Delaware, the CIA airline operated as a civilian organization. The company was able to bypass the bureaucracy and endless red tape of the military, fly international routes with a minimum of interference, and break rules and restrictions if a mission called for it.

Spencer stopped, concerned that a nervous sentry might mistake him for an infiltrator. He scanned the star-studded sky, then looked back toward the hangar. The huge cargo plane was barely discernible in the gentle red glow.

Turning, Spencer retraced his steps. He smiled to himself, remembering the days and nights of frustration spent tracking the operations of the Air America fleet. The organization, functioning behind a smoke screen of secrecy, constantly shuffled planes around to other companies in the network. Engine serial numbers were routinely changed, along with the aircraft registration numbers on the tails.

Spencer remembered seeing a classified photograph showing three Curtiss C-46 Commandos with the same tail number. During certain clandestine operations, one C-46 was left in plain sight at a major airport, for the purpose of having witnesses view it, while the other two aircraft were involved in their assigned activities.

Damaged aircraft were cannibalized to keep other planes flying. Many Air America pilots laughed about flying airplanes that were composed of major parts from a half-dozen other aircraft.

Spencer angled across the aircraft parking ramp, reviewing the various elements in the top-secret project. Time had somehow telescoped, and it seemed that it was only yesterday when he had learned about the operation. From the beginning, Spencer had hungered to see the covert plan come to fruition. It was the type of venture that quickened his pulse, and, knowing that it would have a significant impact on the war effort, gave him satisfaction. Cap Spencer would never admit it, but high-risk operations were an indispensable source of vitality in his life.

He had been working with Air America in Vientiane, Laos, when the Agency had rushed him to Langley. Though he did not realize it at the time, his experience with the clandestinely operated airline would prove invaluable to Operation Achilles.

Stopping seventy yards from the transport plane, Spencer watched while the crew started the engines and raised the aft ramp. When the C-130 taxied away, Spencer continued toward the darkened hangar. The large doors were sliding closed when Hank Murray stepped through to the ramp.

Spencer noticed the smile on his face. "Well, what do you think about our prize?"

"It's in mint condition," Murray answered, giving Spencer the okay sign, "at least what I've seen so far."

Both men turned when the second cargo plane's landing lights caught their attention. Like the first C-130, the lights came on a moment before touchdown, then flickered off when the pilot selected reverse thrust. The secret weapon, plus a large quantity of spare parts, was now safely in the hands of the CIA project officer.

"What's your next step?" Murray asked, watching the first Hercules taxi for takeoff.

"I'm flying to Alameda this morning to meet another navy pilot, our third candidate. Then I'm off to Bangkok to interview the marine pilot."

Murray nodded, then beamed. "Let's take a look at our baby while they unload the rest of the parts."

Chapter
THREE

Brad Austin and Randy Wyatt played acey-deucey at a battered card table in the Hot Pad trailer. Their wingman and his RIO were reading at the opposite end of the narrow room. The sound of shrieking engines filled the trailer as a continuous stream of jets thundered into the air, punctuated by the whop-whop of helicopter rotor blades.

A dented air conditioner, set for maximum cooling on its high blower, occasionally rattled and spit drops of water on the floor. Brad had set a bucket under the dilapidated machine in order to catch the water.

Outside on the Hot Pad at the north end of Da Nang, two armed and fueled F-4 Phantoms sat in the searing heat. The fighter-bombers, each carrying twelve 250-pound fragmentation bombs and sixteen five-inch zuni rockets, had been configured for close air support. If army or marine ground units needed emergency air cover, the Hot Pad crews could be airborne in five minutes.

Both aircraft were connected to ground power units to expedite starting the General Electric J-79 engines. Support crews, sweltering in the shimmering heat and damp humidity, lounged near the fierce-looking Phantoms.

The waiting went on around the clock, wearing nerves thin and sapping everyone's strength. The oppressive heat combined with the underlying tension made Hot Pad duty an exercise in personal discipline.

Randy Wyatt tossed the dice through the homemade chute, watching them tumble across the stained game board. -Bird balls," he said listlessly as the two cubes presented him with a pair of aces.

Wyatt's close-cropped red hair was thinning at the temples. His aqua-blue eyes stood out in a sea of freckles on his angular face. An inch over six feet, the country-western aficionado had been a star pitcher on the Oklahoma State University baseball team.

-Let's take a short break," Brad suggested, unzipping his torso harness and flight suit. "It's so goddamn hot in here, I can't think." He walked to the chattering air conditioner and stuck his face next to the grille. "I can't believe that the same company that made this piece of shit manufactured the engines in our Fox-4."

Wyatt feigned a look through the window. "Yeah, they've got a bucket under the plane, too."

Brad closed his eyes and inhaled the semi-cool air. "What I wouldn't give for a swimming pool . . . even a kiddie pool."