Targets of Opportunity (1993) (30 page)

The question aroused Brad's suspicion. "You've already told me that when I leave here, I'm on my own." He noticed the strain in Spencer's taut neck muscles.

"What would you most like to do," Spencer asked, pouring another liberal shot of bourbon, "since you're in a MiG without any identification to link you to the United States?"

Brad listened to the whirring blades of the fan while he separated the whole into sections and analyzed each. Hollis Spencer, he thought, wanted him to commit to something without directly asking him.

"From what information I know," Brad declared, "body counts and kill ratios are very important to the administration."

"You're not answering my question."

Brad's mouth felt dry. "I want to get everything into the proper perspective, since I'm not privy to the intel you receive on a regular basis."

"Fair enough."

"If it were left to me," Brad glanced at a relief map of North Vietnam, "I'd use the MiG as a psychological weapon, and increase the kill ratio at the same time."

Spencer nodded.

"What we're trying to do now sounded implausible in California,"

Brad said stiffly, "but I went along because I figured the CIA knew what they were doing."

The project officer shrugged. "A lot of things that are developed in the classroom don't work on the battlefield."

"That's true," Brad agreed, then countered, "but I suspect that you--the Agency--had a broader scheme in mind anyway."

Spencer accepted the statement as a compliment. "Tell me what you have in mind, since we have almost one hundred percent impunity."

Brad did not feel comfortable with Spencer's statement. If he had to eject over enemy territory and the helicopter could not rescue him, it would not take the North Vietnamese long to figure out that he was an impostor.

"Cap, we can have a tremendous effect on their emotions and behavior by shocking the hell out of them."

"I'm listening."

There was an awkward moment of silence while Brad decided to say exactly what he thought.

"I've got an idea that will give us the advantage," Brad confided, "but the Hanoi regime will howl in protest."

Spencer's eyes narrowed as he responded with a taunting inquiry. "What's the culpability factor?"

"Low, if we do it right."

"It better be," Spencer asserted, "because that is the bottom line in the White House. This has to be a covert operation, with no ties to the administration."

A low rumble of thunder distracted Brad for a brief moment. "Cap, if I go in prior to a strike, keeping low to avoid radar, I could strafe at least two airfields while the pilots are manning their aircraft."

Spencer's face brightened. "Or while they're taxiing for takeoff There would be total surprise."

"That's right," Brad agreed. "You can bet that they will get a major dose of total confusion and distrust . . . and it won't be the last one, if we're careful.

Spencer grabbed the bottle of bourbon. "After I hear from the Warning Star which airfields are active, we can use the helicopter to relay my message to you.

"We'll have to use the helo relay, since I'll be too low to pick up a direct transmission from you."

Feeling a degree of concern, Brad observed Spencer fill the cup to the brim.

"The one thing we have to have," Austin continued, "is instant communications in regard to when the MiG pilots scramble. I damn sure don't want to strafe a field if they already have fighters in the air."

"No, that wouldn't be good."

"It will work, Cap." Brad paused when a flash of lightning and an accompanying thunderclap announced the arrival of a torrential rainstorm.

"They can complain to the world," Brad suggested with a taut smile, "but it's still a MiG-17 that is causing chaos and confusion. The MiG will have to be in a different paint scheme for each flight. We'll strike from different directions, and we'll vary the times between raids .. . from days between attacks to twice in one day."

Spencer beamed with pleasure. "If you happen to shoot someone down who has time to report that he's being attacked by a MiG, it would create even more confusion."

Brad nodded. "They'll experience the entire gamut of emotions--from hostility to confusion, to betrayal, to knowing they're being had--and can't do much about it, unless they maintain a combat air patrol from daylight to dusk."

"I like the idea." Spencer took a swig of bourbon and sighed. "A MiG shooting up MiG bases, and no one can prove who is doing it."

"Unless I get shot down," Brad added, glancing at the deluge of water cascading off the small roof over the door. "Cap, when pilots are confused and forced to constantly look over their shoulder, they aren't as sharp and focused as they would like to be."

"Which means," Spencer suggested, "that our pilots can take advantage of the confusion to increase the kill ratios."

Without blinking his eyes, Brad stared at Spencer while the rain pounded the Quonset hut. "Precisely."

Chapter
TWENTY-EIGHT

Due to a lack of sleep, exhaustion was beginning to sap Brad's energy. He found it hard to maintain interest even in his own recommendations for strafing enemy air bases. The excessive humidity and sweltering heat had made sleeping almost impossible. He had also lost his appetite.

Brad watched a small spider crawl across the top of the tent. He wondered what Leigh Ann was thinking about their relationship. Brad hoped to have some mail from her waiting for him at the Constellation Hotel in Vientiane when he returned.

Outside the sagging tent, Hank Murray supervised the replacement of the right main-gear tire on the MiG. It had been flat-spotted when the brake locked several times during Austin's landing incident.

The MiG's camouflage paint scheme had been repainted and the last two of the four numbers on the nose had been changed. The fighter now appeared to be silver-gray.

During the wait for a replacement tire to be flown to the airfield, Nick and Brad had played gin rummy for hours, discussing the strafing tactics they were going to employ. Palmer had agreed with Brad's theory and was looking forward to flying a mission.

Allison and Hollis Spencer had spent a number of hours arranging the change in strategy, then forwarding the request to Langley. Everyone was waiting impatiently for a response to the request to strike the enemy airfields with the MiG.

Brad turned on his side and propped his head in the palm of hi
s h
and. Nick was lying on his stomach with his arms and head hanging over the end of the cot. He was carefully examining a photograph of the Playmate of the Month.

"Nick."

Palmer turned the page. "Don't bother me when I'm trying to solve Einstein's unified field theory."

"If you could be anywhere right now," Brad covered his mouth to conceal a yawn, "where would you pick?"

Nick pondered the question. "At Mustin Beach, Friday-afternoon happy hour, holding a chilled martini, and surrounded by a half-dozen women." The Mustin Beach Officers' Club in Pensacola, Florida, is a naval aviation landmark.

Austin heard Spencer's voice and sat upright while Palmer flipped his magazine aside.

"We haven't got the word to strafe the fields yet," Spencer informed them when he entered the cluttered tent, "but we've got a mission laid on for tomorrow."

Brad and Nick remained quiet, silently guessing the details of the next flight.

"Nick, I want you to fly this one."

Palmer nodded his acknowledgment.

Spencer gave each pilot a brief look. "As soon as you get dressed, come on over and we'll go over the latest information we have. From what we know right now, tomorrow is going to be an eventful day."

When the project officer left, Brad and Nick slipped into their self-tailored flight suits.

"Brad," Palmer pulled the edge of the tent flap open and looked at the Quonset hut, "have you noticed a recent change in Spencer?" "Yes," Austin answered, zipping the front of his flight suit closed. "It's the pressure, and I suspect there is more to this operation than he has told us."

Palmer looked puzzled. "What do you mean?" he asked with a hasty look. "Do you know something that I don't?"

"No, not really," Brad confided while he thought about Spencer's subtle but steady personality change. "I can only guess at the various strategies that have been discussed for using the MiG, but I suspect this operation is a make-or-break point in Cap's career."

Nick placed his revolver in his shoulder holster. "What do you really think they--the CIA people--are going to do with the MiGs they acquire?"

"Probably the same thing I suggested," Brad chuckled softly, "but on a larger scale."

"How so?"

Brad bent to tie his boots. "If they can get their hands on a number of MiGs, why not use them to raise hell with the enemy's air force?" Austin continued before Palmer could answer. "Especially if the pilots don't carry identification . . . and the chances of their long-term survival are nil."

"Yeah," Palmer agreed with a wry grin. "The goners--out of desperation at some point--would end up shooting down each other." "Let me tell you something," Brad lowered his voice, "that Allison told me on the flight from Hong Kong."

Palmer's eyes narrowed. "This should be juicy."

"She said that U
. S
. Air Force pilots are flying T-28s for the CIA on missions over Laos."

Nick looked at him with a degree of skepticism. "You're shitting me?"

"No, I'm not kidding," Brad countered. "Apparently, the CIA can't find enough qualified pilots to support their secret war against the Communists, so they're dipping into the military . . . just like our situation. "

"Unbelievable," Palmer uttered.

"Allison explained," Austin said clearly, "that the pilots' air force records are placed in some type of limbo file while they are on loan to the CIA . . . and they're paid in cash--same as us. If they get shot down, they will be carried as missing in action over Vietnam."

Nick was speechless for a moment. "How in the hell is the CIA keeping their war from the public? And why would she tell you about it?"

"According to Allison," Brad answered with a shrug, "The New York Times has stumbled onto the operation, and the Washington Post is hot on the trail."

Austin reached for his M-16. "I suppose she told me . . . because that's her way of showing me that she trusts me." *

"Well, it's going to get interesting," Nick replied with a straight face, then glanced at his watch. "We better get over to the briefing."

They went to the water cistern and had a long drink before entering the Quonset hut.

Allison greeted them with a faint smile and lighted a cigarette. Brad noticed that her fingers trembled with an unusual clumsiness.

"Gentlemen," Spencer began hastily, "we're going to do the same thing on this trip." He looked at Palmer. "Stay low and see if you can pick off a MiG or two."

Spencer turned his attention to Austin. "Your plan is still being reviewed at Langley, so all we can do is wait and see what they decide."

A radio call prompted Allison to go into the small communications room.

"The air force," Spencer advised, pointing to the chart Allison had prepared, "is going to hit a target right here, halfway between Thai Nguyen and Hanoi."

Brad studied the map. "It looks like they're going after the railroad that parallels the road north of Phuc Yen."

"That may be true," Spencer agreed, "but we don't know the exact target. We know the time of the strike, along with the route the F-105s will follow to the target area." The F-105 Thunderchief, affectionately known as the Thud, was a supersonic fighter-bomber.

"Right down Thud Ridge," Palmer observed as he traced the line of flight north of Yen Bai, then down to the target area. "They're probably coming out of Takhli. "

Spencer gave the chart a fleeting look. "I don't know if they're from Takhli or the Avis Wing at Korat, and it doesn't make any difference."

Both pilots sensed the growing impatience in Spencer. His behavior was definitely changing.

"Nick," Spencer explained, tapping the map with a pen, "you're going to orbit along the west side of the Black River near Song Huan." Palmer examined the terrain.

"Cap," Brad said with a look of concern, "we better have the helicopter stationed farther north if Nick is going over by Thud Ridge."

"I agree." He hesitated, straining to hear Allison as her voice rose. "After talking with Chase and Rudy, I've decided to have them orbit near Chieng Pan."

Allison appeared from behind the partition. "Langley sent the word that we'll have an answer about strafing within twenty-four hours."

The carrier was steaming in an elongated pattern around Yankee
Station when Lex Blackwell arrived in the COD. He had bee
n i nformed by the copilot that the air-wing commander had the pilots standing by on the hangar deck.

Blackwell went belowdeck and walked forward in the hangar bay. He was greeted enthusiastically and delivered his MiG brief, then answered questions for fifteen minutes.