Targets of Opportunity (1993) (35 page)

Brad had a question written on his face. "Are you saying that the State Department backed a Communist faction?"

"They didn't intend to," Allison gazed into his eyes for a moment, "but the end result was that two Laotian princes--they were actually half brothers--sided against each other, and one backed the Communist opposition forces."

"I see," Brad replied slowly.

Allison glanced at the river traffic. "That resulted in both sides deciding to make Vientiane a neutral zone."

"What a mess." Brad said in wonderment. "Two sides at war . . . and they shop together."

"It's total confusion most of the time," she declared with a shake of her head. "The leaders on both fronts are in constant flux, which only fuels the confusion. It has become a way of life here."

Brad finished his cognac and studied Allison's face. "And Air America continues to grow?"

"That's true," she answered, and slipped her fingers over Brad's hand, "but I would rather talk about you."

"You would, huh?" he replied, beginning to feel the warm inner glow of the cognac.

Allison's consuming passion for Brad caused her to cast aside her caution. She had tried to be patient, but that effort had its limits.

"Brad, I'm going to be candid. My feelings for you are not going to go away, and they are real."

He tried to suppress the physical desire he felt for Allison. "Let's both be candid.."

She gently squeezed his hand. "We're alike--the two of us--and I think you do care about me." There was a tone of defiance in her voice. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Brad was, at that moment, confused and unsure of his feelings. Indeed, he was attracted to Allison. What man, in his right mind, would not be drawn to her? The disappointment and hurt he felt over not receiving any mail from Leigh Ann caused him to doubt her commitment.

"No, you're not wrong," Brad said boldly, and slid his chair back. "Let's talk about this in private," he smiled broadly, "if you don't mind."

Allison was at first stunned, then beamed and kissed him lightly near his ear. "I know just the place," she murmured.

Hollis Spencer accompanied the company commander of the securit
y f
orces to the posts surrounding Alpha-29. Both men sensed the need t o b egin rotating the weary soldiers to Vientiane for rest and relaxation.

Preoccupied by the disturbing message from Dennis Tipton, Spencer suggested that the former marine officer select a few men to board the C-123 on the next flight to the Air America base. Now that the Provider he had requested was at his disposal, Spencer could operate a steady R & R shuttle to the Laotian capital.

Unable to concentrate on the conversation, Cap Spencer politely excused himself and returned to the Quonset hut. After opening a fresh bottle of bourbon, he again read the urgent, top-secret message.

The usual dry language had been replaced with words such as "imperative" and "plausible deniability." Spencer had known Dennis Tipton long enough to know that he was operating under a tremendous amount of stress. The normally amiable director for operations, fro m t he text of the message, had suddenly become demanding and openly hostile.

Spencer lighted his pipe and reread Tipton's decoded communication.

FM: DIR OPS CIA

TO: ACHILLES PROJECT OFFICER INFO: DEP DIR CIA

1. YOU ARE HEREBY AUTHORIZED TO CONDUCT STRAFING SORTIES IN ACCORDANCE WITH YOUR REQUEST

2. IMPERATIVE THAT PILOT IS UNIDENTIFIED AT ALL COSTS. NO PLAUSIBLE DENIABILITY FOR WHITE HOUSE IF PILOT IS TAKEN PRISONER AND CONFESSES.

3. YOU ARE DIRECTED TO ENSURE THAT OPERATION ACHILLES IS NOT EXPOSED.

"Goddamnit," Spencer said to himself as he filled his coffee mug with bourbon. He stared blankly at the top of his desk. It was obvious, he thought, that the existing powers in the CIA were getting the we don't know anything about it, but go ahead message loud and clear from the White House. The chiefs at Langley, in turn, wanted to continue the covert MiG operation but did not want to jeopardize their careers.

He sipped the warm bourbon and tried to make sense out of the current state of affairs. The situation, at least in his mind, was getting out of control. He had seen similar situations many times in government service--everyone scrambling to cover their asses, while the ultimate responsibility for an operation flowed down to the lowest person in the chain of command.

Spencer let his mind explore the hidden message under the surface of Tipton's communication. There was a sense of desperation in the text. Hollis Spencer knew without a doubt that his career was on the line, and now it was obvious that Dennis Tipton's future was also at stake if Operation Achilles was discovered.

There was a strong message disguised in the wording of Tipton's priority dispatch. The subliminal directive was obvious to Spencer. If a pilot went down and could not be rescued, he should commit suicide.

There would be a loud cry from the North Vietnamese Information Ministry, but there would be no way to positively identify the body. The State Department would call the charges fabricated and unsubstantiated. If Hanoi transferred the body to an international organization for identification, the CIA would have possession of the corpse within minutes.

Yes, Spencer thought while he poured more bourbon, it was an ugly business. He stared at his watch for a moment, then rose unsteadily and went in search of Hank Murray. Hollis Spencer needed to talk with someone he trusted before responding to Dennis Tipton's message.

Brad prepared fresh drinks and surveyed the small, softly lighted room, noting a small bottle of perfume and other personal articles sitting on the dresser. He opened the window and stared at the star-studded sky while he listened to the muffled sounds from the hotel bar downstairs. Turning, he looked at the bed before carrying their glasses to the single nightstand.

Slipping off his shoes, Brad settled comfortably on the bedspread and propped himself against the wooden headboard. The gentle breeze from the ceiling fan cooled his face while he tasted his drink. Strangely detached, Brad let the chilled scotch trickle down his throat while he tried to dispel thoughts of Leigh Ann.

The bathroom door opened and Allison appeared in a beige dressing gown made of pure silk.

"I see that you've made yourself at home," she said with a provocative smile. "Mind if I join you?"

Brad caught his breath and extended his arm. She sat on the edge of the bed and folded herself into his arms.

She nuzzled his chest and teased him with a smile. "What are you thinking?"

He pulled her next to him and tilted her chin up. "Allison, I have to be honest with you."

She kissed him lightly on the lips and looked searchingly into his eyes. "I expect you to be honest, and I know you're experiencing some guilt."

"That's true," he conceded, "and I'm not sure this is such a good idea."

"Brad," she purred while she began to unbutton his shirt, "we'r
e r
isk takers . . . you and I. For us, each tomorrow is a precious gift."

He groaned when she ran her tongue slowly down to his navel. H
e u
ntied the thin belt to Allison's dressing gown and slipped the garment off her shoulders.

"Don't deny your feelings," she whispered soothingly as he slowly undressed her. "Let's enjoy the moment, because we can't predict the future."

Prolonging their mutual hunger, Brad caressed and tasted Allison's skin as he uncovered each new area of her body.

The temporary maintenance hangar had wide sheets of waterproof canvas draped over the sides to conceal the lights. Spencer listened to the electric generators while he lighted his pipe, then pulled a section of the tarpaulin aside and entered the MiG shelter.

Hank Murray concluded his conversation with two of his men and walked over to talk with Spencer. He could tell by the downbeat look on the project officer's face that something was wrong. Very wrong.

"Cap, are you okay?"

"Yeah . . . physically. Have you got a few minutes?"

"Sure. What's on your mind?"

"Let's go over to ops."

Spencer and Murray walked to the blacked-out Quonset but in silence. After Cap poured himself another bourbon, he turned to Murray.

"Hank, can you afford to take the rest of the night off?"

"No problem," he answered hastily. "We're ready when the strut gets here."

Spencer nodded and fixed Murray a drink.

"Hank, I know this isn't your area of expertise, but I need a sounding board."

Murray accepted the cup and studied his friend. He had never seen Hollis Spencer so glum. "I'll give you the best shot I can."

"Take a look at this," Spencer said tautly as he handed Murray the priority message, "and tell me what you make of it. I have to respond soon, and I would like someone else's opinion. How do you view it?"

The dimly lighted room forced Murray to put on his glasses. He read the contents of Dennis Tipton's harsh communication, then let out a low whistle.

"Well, you finally have permission to conduct the strafing missions." He looked at the message again and slowly removed his glasses. "I'
d s
ay, from what I'm reading," Murray grew cautious, "they're telling you to terminate the pilot . . . if he's shot down and the helo crew can't get him aboard the helicopter."

Spencer looked over the rim of his mug at the maintenance director. "That, or ask him to kill himself "

Cap watched Murray's eyes widen.

"But there are two major problems, as I see it," Spencer continued after a pause.

Murray remained quiet, unsure if he should be discussing the contents of a CIA directive with the project officer. Hank Murray had attained his present rank by avoiding complicated decisions. He was a clever officer who always left himself a way out of any controversial situations.

"First," Spencer said scornfully, "I've never asked anyone to commit suicide, and these men would think I was insane. They aren't the type of people who would take their own lives. These guys would fight to the bitter end."

Murray looked at his cup and continued to keep his thoughts to himself He knew, from what Spencer had said in previous conversations, that the CIA had no qualms. about killing expendable field personnel in the interest of secrecy. The Agency referred to the slayings as "terminations with extreme prejudice."

"And secondly," Spencer swallowed deeply, "I seriously doubt if Mitchell or Jimenez would carry out an order to have their gunner shoot Austin or Palmer if they couldn't get them into the helicopter."

"Cap," Murray paused to measure his words, "I don't know anything about the politics involved in the CIA, but isn't there a way out . . . for you?"

Spencer rubbed his shoulder. "Hank, if I can manage, somehow, to get through this operation unscathed, I have no doubt about my future. I'm in line," he continued, letting his pent-up emotions surface, "for a cushy desk job at Langley, while someone else moves up to take over my shit details."

Murray was taken aback by the open contempt Spencer displayed toward the CIA. He had never expressed any negative feelings about the Agency before.

"If we get through this," Spencer confided while he tried to regain his composure, "I'd like to see you retire from the navy and join me at Langley."

"I'd be honored," Murray beamed, excited at the prospect o
f s
upplementing his retirement pay. "You say the word, and I'll submit my papers."

Spencer gave Murray an appreciative smile. "I'm happy to know that, Hank. For now, we've--or more to the point--I've got to take every precaution to make sure this operation doesn't blow up in our faces."

Murray nodded his understanding. "Cap, let's look at all the options and see if there isn't some way to pull this off without endangering your future."

"Hank, this operation could go on for a long time." Spencer lifted his mug, then placed it back on his desk when he noticed his hand shake. "Even if we lost the MiG and got the pilot out safely, they'll probably send over another MiG."

After a short hesitation, Murray spoke in a slow, deliberate manner. "As I see it, the only worry we have is the pilot--the weak link."

Spencer gave him a curious look. "What are you suggesting?"

"Cap, if you instructed Elvin Crowder to . . . eliminate the pilot if they couldn't get him into the helo, you wouldn't have to discuss it with Jimenez and Mitchell. Crowder is the kind of sea slug who would carry out the order. There wouldn't be anything the rotorheads could do about it, after the fact."

The idea had already occurred to Spencer, but he had discarded the thought. If the helicopter was close enough to allow the gunner to shoot a downed pilot, eight out of ten times the crew would be able to safely extract the man. Besides, Spencer had known Crowder a number of years and had learned to not trust him.

"The problem with Crowder," Spencer sighed and ran a finger under his eye patch, "is that he and the pilots have no secrets. He'd go straight to them, and I'd probably have an open rebellion on my hands."