Targets of Opportunity (1993) (34 page)

Tipton quietly nodded. He and Hollis Spencer had worked together for over a year in the Agency's Directorate for Plans.

"The White House," McCormick said at last, "has issued a press statement to the effect that we categorically deny the unfounded allegations. The United States has not breached any rules. Period."

Tipton was already thinking about contingency planning. "What has been decided in regard to Spencer's request?"

"The Man believes it's a good idea, if we can pull it off without getting caught." McCormick stared over his steaming mug at Tipton. "What do you think? Can Spencer keep the Agency from getting shit splattered on it?"

Tipton grew cautious, knowing what McCormick was suggesting without actually saying the words. "It's a pretty ambitious plan, but I'm confident that he can keep the situation under control." Tipton was not that confident, but he was not going to reveal that to McCormick.

"That's good," McCormick forced a smile, "because the White House sent word that they thought the strafing idea had merit, if we make damn sure that we can get away clean."

"Well," Tipton replied matter-of-factly, "it certainly will have a profound effect on the enemy's morale and fighting effectiveness."

"That it will, Dennis." McCormick looked at the huge brass clock mounted on the far wall. "Get in touch with Spencer and pass the word to get on with his idea."

Tipton started to remind McCormick that Spencer had made it clea
r t
hat one of the pilots had originated the strafing idea. Instead, he decided to remain silent.

You make sure," McCormick's voice cut through the quiet office, that Spencer understands the gravity of this situation."

"I will."

If Hanoi gets ahold of one of our MiG pilots," McCormick scowled and leaned forward, "the White House is going to disavow any knowledge of the operation . . . and then blow our asses right out the door."

"I understand," Tipton answered in a hollow voice, aware of the burning in the pit of his stomach. Between the Agency's clandestine war being waged in Laos, the continuing buildup of Air America, and the secret MiG operation, Dennis Tipton had developed a peptic ulcer.

"Another thing," McCormick said dryly. "The people over on Capitol Hill are starting to shake the administration's trees . . . with the hope that something will fall out."

"Or someone," Tipton ventured, "like SECDEF" He was referring to the ongoing turf battle between the secretary of defense and congressional leaders. The festering issue was the conduct of the air war.

Military leaders and key political leadership wanted to greatly expand the air war, while the secretary of defense wanted to use a piecemeal approach.

"If they convene a Senate Committee to question the air war," McCormick said with a touch of contempt, "and SECDEF has to testify under oath, the Agency could be in for a thorough housecleaning."

Tipton's stomach was beginning to feel more uncomfortable. The secretary of defense was aware of the CIA's activities, and he was also aware that Congress was being hoodwinked.

"That's why," McCormick continued, "we can't afford any mistakes--none." He let the message sink in. "You've got to plug every hole--airtight."

"I fully understand," Tipton muttered, feeling a sudden revulsion. He was going to have to do something that he had never done before.

WATTAY AIRPORT, VIENTIANE

When the C-123 taxied to a stop at the Air America maintenanc
e f
acility, three of Hank Murray's technicians unloaded the MiG's nos e s trut. They carried the bulky strut into the hangar while Allison and the four pilots accepted a ride to the Constellation Hotel in an Air America van.

Allison made reservations for the maintenance men while Brad inquired about his mail.

The shy Laotian woman apologetically informed Austin that she was unaware of any mail for him.

Disappointment showed on Brad's face as he and Nick carried their bags to the room they would share.

Palmer cast a look at his friend when Brad closed the door. "Nothing from Leigh Ann?"

"No," he replied listlessly. "Maybe she didn't get my letter." Or, Brad thought as he crossed to the window, she is still upset with me.

After Austin and Palmer each had a leisurely hot bath and changed into fresh clothes, they made arrangements to have their laundry sent out, then went to the noisy bar.

Chase Mitchell and Rudy Jimenez were engrossed in a lively conversation with three other Air America pilots. The reunion promised to be both drunken and boisterous.

"Let's sit at the bar," Palmer suggested, noting Austin's glum expression, "and play some liars' dice."

"Okay," Brad replied without his usual enthusiasm.

Nick ordered drinks and asked for one of the dice cups behind the counter.

The bartender returned with their drinks as Allison entered the smoky room.

Palmer saw her first. "Here's Allison," he announced.

Brad turned to see her wave at the inebriated helicopter pilots. They returned the greeting while she approached Palmer and Austin.

Dressed in a simple khaki skirt and powder-blue blouse, Allison looked radiant. Her blond hair, which had been pulled back in a French braid since her arrival at Alpha-29, flowed loosely across her shoulders.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked with a perky smile.

Brad slid off his bar stool so Allison could sit between them. He stood next to her.

"Please do," Nick replied, letting a smile crease his face. He shoved the dice cup away. "What would you like?"

"I think I'll be adventuresome," she said innocently, "and have a martini."

"A real one?" Brad chuckled.

Allison laughed softly. "Yes, a real one."

The din of noise steadily increased as the late-afternoon crowd gathered at the popular watering hole. Brad was about to excuse himself when Lex Blackwell sauntered into the smoke-filled room.

"Lex," Austin shouted over the bedlam, "over here."

Blackwell spied Brad, then worked his way toward the packed bar.

His civilian clothes were wrinkled and his left arm was in a sling. "It's good to see you," Palmer said, slapping Lex on the back while Brad shook Blackwell's right hand.

"What happened to your arm?" Austin asked while he motioned for the bartender. "Did one of your feisty girlfriends break it?"

"No." Lex saw Allison's subtle smile. "I broke my wrist at the 0 club," Blackwell answered sheepishly, -carrier-qualin' some air-force jocks."

Naval aviators traditionally carrier-qualify at officers' clubs by heaving each other down long tables placed end to end. The object is to slide down the beer-soaked "deck" and catch the wire (tablecloth or rope) before you fly off the end of the table. The fun is multiplied when the carrier aviators have the opportunity to "qual" air-force pilots.

"Must have been impressive." Brad laughed while Lex ordered a beer.

After a toast and catching up on lighthearted events, Lex surveyed the bar and stepped closer to Brad and Allison. Nick leaned around her to hear Blackwell.

"I probably shouldn't say anything in here," Lex said just loudly enough to be heard over the unrestrained conversations, "but the horse is outta the barn."

"What are you talking about?" Allison asked, aware that no one was paying any attention to them.

"I had a guy--at one of the briefin's I gave--play a tape of an engagement he had with a MiG."

Blackwell looked at Brad for a moment.

"And my voice was on it," Austin said evenly, then added, "and his call sign is Montana."

Blackwell's eyes widened. "That's right, so what the hell's goin' on? I heard that Washington flat denied that the U
. S
. has broken any rules . . . but the scuttlebutt on the carriers is that we have MiGs."

"Lex," Palmer responded in a hushed voice, "Hanoi knows that we've got at least one MiG-17 roving around in their backyard, and they've obviously lodged a complaint."

Allison nodded. "I'm sure Hanoi--at some point--will accuse us of using MiGs against them."

Blackwell looked down the bar, then to Brad and Allison. "What's that mean to us--the operation?"

"We don't know yet," she answered patiently, careful to keep her voice low. "We're waiting for permission to use the airplane to strafe their airfields while the MiGs are scrambling for takeoff "

Lex paused while a drunken patron next to Austin turned to order a drink. "How'd we go from the plan of takin' out their ace pilots to strafing airfields?"

"Well, partner," Nick drawled in his best Lex Blackwell impersonation, "buy me a drink, and I'll set you in step with the times."

"That sounds like a great idea," Allison said hastily, "because Brad is going to take me to dinner, aren't you, Captain?"

Austin slowly turned to her and arched an eyebrow. "I was just about to ask."

FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

"Ouch!" Dennis Tipton glanced at the portable television, then examined the nick above his upper lip. Tired from a sleepless night, Tipton listened to the newscaster and finished shaving. He had sent a coded message to Hollis Spencer and expected a reply before the end of the day.

Reaching for a bottle of mouthwash, Tipton paused when he heard the word "MiG."

"Administration officials have denied that the U
. S
. military or CIA has access to any MiG fighters." The anchorman waited for his cue. "Our White House correspondent, Susan Forrester, has an update."

The well-dressed, serious-looking woman pursed her lips. "A White House spokesman has admitted that military sources have obtained operational data about the Communist fighters, but disclaim that they have possession of a MiG.

"In related news, the North Vietnamese Information Ministry has made new claims of repeated attacks on Hanoi by American-flown MiG fighters." The distracted woman paused to listen to a voice off camera.

"I'm being told that key congressional leaders are asking for an investigation into the MiG allegations. This latest development comes on the heels of continued questions concerning the effectiveness of the air war."

Tipton turned the television off and sat on the edge of the bathtub. He had a premonition of impending disaster. Yielding to his burning stomach, Tipton went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Hollis Spencer would have to take the necessary steps to protect the Agency and preserve their jobs and reputations.

Chapter
THIRTY-TWO

Allison and Brad left the small restaurant and walked along the bustling waterfront. The shops along the river were crammed with evening shoppers, many of whom were American wives.

"Well," Allison finally broke the silence, "what did you think about dinner?"

"The sour-pork salad was good," he answered with his usual candor, "but the steamed duck was . . . certainly exotic."

Allison gave him a breathy laugh and slid her hand under his upper arm. "Are you aware that a good number of these shoppers are Communist soldiers?"

Brad found himself responding to her gentle squeeze. "You're kidding me."

Tilting her head slightly, she smiled evenly. "No, I'm not kidding. It's crazy, but true."

More curious than cautious, Brad nonchalantly looked at the shops and open-air markets.

"I can't believe this," he said lightly as two soldiers in tattered field clothes purchased vegetables. "We're walking through the middle of hundreds of Communist troops while they're doing their shopping."

Allison hugged his arm and smothered a laugh. "That's right, and they know who you are--actually, they think you're another Air America pilot."

"Holy Christ," Brad replied under his breath. "How did this come about?"

She steered him toward a popular night spot that overlooked the Menam Khong River. "I'll tell you all about it over our after-dinner drinks."

"I can't wait," he replied as they turned to enter the darkly lighted establishment. After they had been seated at the outdoor bar, Allison moved her chair closer to Brad. He could smell the fresh scent of her perfume.

"The CIA-originally rigged an election," she said in a voice just above a whisper, "to place a right-wing puppet government in Laos. When the arrangement didn't work to the satisfaction of the State Department, the CIA removed the Laotian leaders in a quiet coup."

Austin paused for a moment. "I had no idea."

"Few people know the real story," she continued, "including the members on Capitol Hill."

Brad shook his head. "Incredible."

"Part of the reason that I'm here," Allison said quietly, "is because of the contacts I made when Cap and I were here before. I have a number of sources who supply us with information about what is going on in the enemy camp." She glanced around, then smiled. "The Agency pays the informers very well."

"Interesting."

"At any rate," she went on in a hushed voice, "after the coup, the State Department and the CIA really butted heads, which resulted in each backing different political leaders."