Targets of Opportunity (1993) (4 page)

"Why don't you draft a missive to the commandant," Wyatt said with a straight face, "and tell him this stinking hole he sent us to is lacking in certain amenities?"

Austin ignored the remark and returned to the table. "You know, Randy, I can't get over Stew and Vic hitting the mountain . . . nine feet from the top."

Wyatt looked down, sharing the same frustration about the tragic accident. "Stew was a damn good pilot, no doubt about that." He paused, observing his friend. "Brad, you need to put it behind you and think about the present. We'll never know what they were thinking."

"I know," Brad frowned, "but there has to be a plausible reason for Stew's actions. I would have flown his wing anywhere. He was a bright guy, and a good stick."

Wyatt noticed that their wingman's RIO was listening to the conversation.

"Brad," Randy said quietly, "at least they didn't know what hit them."

Austin sighed. "True, but that's little consolation for their families."

They flinched at the dull buzz from the Hot Pad phone. Everyone leaped to their feet while Wyatt yanked the receiver from its cradle.

As Brad and the other crew headed for the door, Randy Wyatt waved for them to stop. "No scramble," he mouthed, covering the mouthpiece, then thanked the controller. "Twenty-three is on the way back with extensive damage."

Brad looked at the tattered flight schedule. "Chitwood and Davey Perkins."

The four men hurried outside to watch the arrival of Rhino 23. Brad asked his plane captain to man the Hot Pad phone until the aircrews returned to the trailer.

Walking parallel to the runway, Austin and Wyatt passed a crushed water buffalo. The portable water cistern, with the wheels angled gut forty-five degrees, was mangled beyond repair. Twenty-five minutes after Brad and Randy had reported to the Hot Pad trailer, a CH-46 helicopter had inadvertently dropped the water container from a height of 200 feet.

"I'm sure as hell glad," Wyatt laughed, "that that mother didn't land on our shack."

"Yeah." Brad grimaced. "We'd have been about three feet shorter." They both saw the black smoke from Rhino 23 as the Phantom turned on a two-mile final approach.

Brad shielded his eyes as Captain Alec Chitwood lowered the F-4's landing gear. "It looks like they've got . . . there's something burning."

"Look at the left wing." Randy pointed. "The ejector rack and pylon are gone."

Brad waited until the howling Phantom was closer. "You're right. The left wing has taken a hit."

Paralyzed, they watched the stricken fighter-bomber cross the runway threshold and touch down in a puff of tire smoke. A fraction of a second later, the left main landing gear sheared off, causing the drop tank to separate from the wing.

"Oh, shit," Austin exclaimed as the air base crash equipment started chasing the Phantom.

The fuel tank burst into yellow-orange flames before it slid off the runway, tumbling end over end.

The heavily damaged F-4 continued to slide as the left wing ground along the pavement. Slowly, the aircraft slewed around and stopped sideways next to the edge of the runway. A small fire erupted under the fuselage, then flashed into billowing black-and-orange flames.

Motionless, Brad stared at the conflagration, then yelled in futility. "Get some foam on 'em, for Christ's sake."

Austin and Wyatt were stunned when the ejection seats fired. Brad watched Perkins and Chitwood arc through the air, separate from their seats, then drift to a landing next to a fire truck.

think," Brad paused to take a deep breath, "they'll be debriefing over a couple of stiff drinks."

The recent rain had left the air heavy with humidity. Dark clouds surrounded the base, carrying the threat of another torrential downpour. The rumbling sound of thunder rolled across the flight line.

Fuel and ordnance handlers, along with maintenance and support personnel, continued their duties in defiance of the miserable weather.

Four of the squadron's F-4s, assigned to barrier combat air patrol for the ships at Yankee Station, continued to cycle back and forth in around-the-clock operations. The rest of the Phantoms, with the exception of the Hot Pad aircraft, were tasked with interdiction and close air support missions.

Brad sat alone in the mess hall, tuning out the ever-present sound of jet engines and helicopter rotors. He reached for his wallet and carefully removed a picture of Leigh Ann Ladasau. Brad studied the blackand-white photograph, thinking about the first time he had seen her. Vacationing in Hawaii, he had been mesmerized by the petite brunette with the sparkling blue eyes and radiant smile.

Closing his eyes, Brad remembered her pleasant laughter and beautifully sculptured face. They had shared one night of passion in San Francisco, and Brad would never forget it. He reread Leigh Ann's latest letter, savoring every word, especially the part where she wrote that she dearly missed him and could not wait to see him again.

"Hey, guy," Randy Wyatt said as he placed his tray down across from Brad. "We've been rescheduled for the nineteen-hundred launch."

"Good," Brad replied, folding the letter. "I'll have time to drop my girl a note."

Wyatt reached for the black-and-white photograph. "No doubt about it . . . for sure. "

Brad gave Randy a wry grin. "What?"

Handing the picture back, Wyatt shook his head. "She is definitely a knockout.
"

Randy tasted a bite of the ham and beans, chewed slowly and thoughtfully, then plopped his fork on the tray. A look of contempt crossed his ruddy face. "I wouldn't feed this shit to the Cong."

"Yeah, I agree." Brad chuckled. "The navy spoiled me while I was aboard the carrier."

Wyatt's response was cut off when he noticed their commanding officer entering the mess hall.

Lieutenant Colonel Bud Parnell was an enigma to most everyone. Short and barrel-chested, Parnell, nicknamed "The Bulldog," was a tenacious and cocky fighter pilot from the old school. But Parnell was also kind and considerate. Shifting from one phase of his personality to the other, he never allowed anyone to know the whole of the real man behind the facade.

Parnell walked straight to Brad's side, taking the seat next to him. "Austin," the CO said as he unfolded a message form, "do you know anything about this directive?"

Brad accepted the piece of paper, scanned the contents, then reread the message slowly. The instructions, from the commanding general of the air wing, ordered Brad to report to Marine Colonel Charles Thornton, U
. S
. Military Liaison Office, Bangkok, Thailand. He was to report no later than 1600 hours, two days hence.

Confused, Brad handed Parnell the message. "Sir, this is a total surprise to me. I don't have any idea," he paused while Wyatt hastily excused himself and left the table, "what this is about. . . "

"Well," Parnell scratched his earlobe, "I don't either. I made a couple of inquiries, and no one seems to know diddly-shit . . . including the general's aide."

Brad started to reply, then decided to remain quiet when he saw the crimson streak creep up Parnell's neck.

"What's strange," the CO said with a hint of anger, "is that this isn't temporary duty. You are checking out of the squadron, lock, stock, and personnel record."

Parnell jammed the message in the breast pocket of his damp utilities. "We're short of pilots and RIOs, so some staff puke decides to take an experienced aviator and turn him into a paper pusher."

Brad's mind raced, trying to think of a reason for the unexpected orders. He had only recently suppressed his fears that his breach of the rules of engagement over Phuc Yen would not return to haunt him.

"You can stand down from any further duties," Parnell said as h
e r
ose. "You better get to humpin', if you plan to get out of here today." "Yes, sir," Brad replied, rising out of respect. "I'm sorry, Skipper." "Hell," Parnell spat, "it isn't your fault. Stop by and see me," the CO
somberly continued, "last thing before you leave."

A warning bell sounded in Brad's mind. "Yes, sir."

Lieutenant Colonel Bud Parnell's dusty hootch was indistinguishable from the quarters of his pilots and radar-intercept officers. One side of the CO's temporary shelter had been severely damaged during a midnight mortar and rocket attack.

Brad dropped his two custom-made canvas bags by the entrance and smartly rapped on the screen door. In the Marine Corps, Austin had learned as a newly minted second lieutenant, one did not tap lightly on a door. Marines were expected boldly to announce their arrival.

"Come in, Brad," Parnell greeted while the squadron safety officer excused himself and left the hootch.

"Sit down," Parnell gestured toward a worn folding chair. "I know you've got to hurry to catch the trash hauler, so I'll just take a minute."

Don't bullshit me, Skipper. You'll take as long as you want.

Parnell propped his boots on his wooden footlocker and clasped his hands behind his head. "Brad, do you think your sudden departure has anything to do with the rumors I've heard about Phuc Yen . . . and the purported cover-up?"

I knew this was coming.

The CO was referring to an incident that Austin had initiated while he had been an exchange pilot on an aircraft carrier. Variations of the story had traveled throughout the naval aviation community, expanding with each telling. The yarn had the earmark of a classic aviation anecdote.

"Sir," Brad cautiously answered, "as I said before, I honestly don't know."

Parnell leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, then gave Austin a thin smile. "Out of curiosity, what really happened at Phuc Yen?"

You're going to nail me to the wall, aren't you . . . ?

"Skipper," Brad squirmed, "I've been ordered not to say anything about Phuc Yen."

Phuc Yen, at the time of Austin's breach of the rules of engagement, had been an off-limits MiG airfield twelve miles north of Hanoi. The base had become a sanctuary for Communist fighter pilots who happened to be getting the worst end of an aerial engagement. At the first sign of trouble, the MiG pilots would race for the protection of Phuc Yen.

"Well, let me tell you what I've heard," Parnell shifted his feet, "an
d i
f my info is in the ballpark, you can nod your head as you go out the door."

Come on, Skipper, give me a break.

"With one MiG to your credit," Parnell reached for his cigar, "you went after North Vietnam's second-leading ace."

Out of the corner of his eye, Parnell caught the quick frown that creased Brad's forehead.

The CO maintained his poker face. "Major Nguyen Thanh Dao shot down your flight leader, you chased Dao to Phuc Yen, made up your own rules, then blew his ass out of the air and blasted another MiG on the taxiway."

Parnell hesitated a moment. "Is that about on target?"

"Bull's-eye," Brad answered, and rose from the chair. "Skipper, I've got to get underway."

Bud Parnell smiled, then stood and shook hands with Austin. "Brad, if they're trying to pigeonhole you, or give you any grief, le
t m
e know. I've got a couple of friends who are wearing stars." Brad pumped Parnell's hand. "Thank you, sir."

"That's a great story." The CO laughed, and slapped Brad on the back. "Someday, you'll have to tell me how you got away with it .. . without shitting in your mess kit."

Chapter
FOUR

Brad had checked into the New Thai Hotel, showered, changed into a fresh uniform, then called the Military Liaison Office. He had been surprised when the duty officer had asked for his telephone number and explained that a Hollis Spencer would contact him.

Twenty minutes later, Spencer had called and instructed Brad to meet him at 5 P. M. on the deck of the restaurant facing his hotel. Brad was tempted to ask for the secret password, but decided that would be too frivolous. If the Marine Corps had found it necessary to send him all the way to Bangkok under unexplained circumstances, the matter must be serious.

Brad sat at the ornate table, wanting a beer but ordering a glass of iced tea instead. He looked out over the sprawling city that was the capital of Thailand. He had been astonished at his first sight of Bangkok's elaborate temples. They looked to him as if they had been formed from gold and marzipan. The major hindrance both to travel and sightseeing, he had learned in his fifty-five-minute taxi ride from the airport, was the impenetrable congestion in the streets.

Brad checked his watch: one minute to five. He looked up to see a man in a crisp tan suit approaching him. Mister Hollis Spencer, he presumed. Slightly taller than Brad, the man was trim and wore a patch over his right eye. He walked directly toward Austin's table.

Rising, Brad came to attention before he realized that he didn't have to salute. "Good afternoon, sir."

"Afternoon," Spencer pleasantly responded. "You are Captain Austin?"

"Yes, sir," Brad answered with a trace of caution in his response. The project officer extended his hand. "Hollis Spencer."

Brad shook hands with the agent and avoided glancing at the dar
k e
ye patch.