Targets of Opportunity (1993) (40 page)

Austin gave him a feeble grin. "This is the worst hangover I've ever had." He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision. "How bad is it?"

"You've got a couple of deep cuts," Spencer explained warmly, "and a small hole where the doc removed a piece of metal. He cleaned and sutured your wounds, but we need to medevac you to Vientiane in the morning to have a real doctor check you over."

Before Brad could respond, Allison returned, followed by Lex and Nick. She poured a cupful of water while Palmer and Blackwell stepped next to the table.

"Ah, yes," Nick said with a haughty smirk, "now we have two goldbricks in the outfit."

Brad thanked Allison and thirstily sipped the cool water. He handed the cup back to her and gazed at Spencer.

"Cap, I don't want to go to Vientiane and lie around on my ass." The challenge was underscored by the determined look in Brad's eyes. "I'll be okay in a few days."

Blackwell, who had not wanted to return to Vientiane and be viewed as a shirker, jumped to Austin's defense. "He's right, Cap. Hell, I've seen the clodhopper hurt himself worse fallin' off a bar stool."

Brad smothered a laugh. Lex Blackwell, the garrulous fighter pilot from Texas, would never change.

"Have it your way." Spencer chuckled, then rose from the chair. He clearly understood the guiding principles of a naval aviator. "But you've got to rest and have the dressing changed every morning. That," he said emphatically, "is an order, Brad."

"Yes, sir," Austin replied, and again accepted the cup of water from Allison.

"Yeah," Palmer smiled at Brad, "all of us can rest, since you thoroughly trashed the airplane."

"Okay, everyone out except Allison," Spencer insisted. "We'll get together in the morning."

Nick turned serious and clutched Brad's left arm. "Glad you're okay."

"Thanks."

When the pilots left and Spencer returned to his cubicle, Allison sat down next to Brad. There was a pronounced awkwardness until she initiated the conversation.

"Nurse van Ingen," she said offhandedly, "at your service."

Tension hung in the air while Brad tried to assess her mood. Still dulled from the anesthetic, Brad was having a difficult time formulating a reasonable response.

"Allison, I really appreciate your consideration," he said somewhat indistinctly, "but I'll be okay as soon as my head clears."

She nodded somberly and crossed her arms. "Nick brought your cot in, if you feel like moving to it."

"That's okay," he replied, and raised his left hand to plump the pillow under his head. "I'll just stay here for a while . . . until the grogginess wears off. "

"Suit yourself," she countered, and rose from the chair. After a few steps, Allison paused and turned, then walked back to his side.

"Brad," she began in a hushed voice, and gently gripped his left hand, "I apologize for what I said to you."

He rolled his head to look at her gloomy face. She blinked back the tears that filled her eyes.

"You don't need to apologize. I deserved it."

"Brad," her voice shook from pain and frustration, "I will always love you."

He had never felt such deep moral anguish in his life. He squeezed her hand. "Allison, I--"

"Please," she said emotionally, and pulled her hand away, "don't make it more difficult than it is."

Allison silently accepted for the first time that all the promise of their future would never be.

Dennis Tipton stared blankly through the smudged windshield of his car as he turned into the basement parking garage. His stomach felt as if he were on a pitching and rolling fishing schooner in a North Atlantic storm. The deputy director of the CIA had been unusually agitated when he called to rouse Tipton out of bed.

He parked in his designated spot and quickly walked to th
e e
ntrance. The early-morning dampness made him shiver as he greeted the security guard.

When Tipton reached the top floor of the building, he hurried to Drexel McCormick's office. He slowed when he saw the open door. McCormick, who was loudly berating someone on the telephone, abruptly hung up when he spotted the director for operations.

"Dennis, have a seat."

Tipton nodded silently while he unbuttoned his topcoat and slipped into one of the chairs facing McCormick's desk. He could feel his neck muscles stiffen while he mentally prepared himself for one of McCormick's verbal onslaughts.

"The President called The Man on the carpet a few hours ago," he growled, and furrowed his brow. "Our MiG was almost shot down and the pilot was wounded."

Dennis Tipton looked confused. "This is the first that I've heard about it. "

"That's because Cap Spencer didn't tell us about it, goddamnit!" McCormick was beet-red.

Tipton cast his eyes down and remained silent. He knew from experience that it was not in his best interest to say anything until his boss had vented his initial anger.

"Damnit, the White House had the information before we knew anything about it," McCormick snorted. "Do you know what that makes us look like?"

"Yes, sir." Tipton inwardly cringed, wishing that he had never placed his stamp of approval on the operation.

"It makes us look like a bunch of half-witted, knuckle-dragging amateurs," the deputy director bellowed. "The Man didn't like that," he snarled in a harsh whisper, "and he knocked fire from my ass!"

"What's the current situation?" Tipton ventured, concealing his growing contempt for McCormick.

"The situation is this," he said while he lighted a cigar. "The White House wants us to get a handle on this Chinese fire drill, or get the hell out and make everything vanish."

The red-faced deputy director, for the first time Dennis Tipton could remember, looked genuinely scared. The White House was rolling the dice, trying to get an edge in the air war while they maintained an appearance of unwavering integrity.

Tipton was aware of the devastating Communist attack on Alpha-29, but the news of the narrow escape of the wounded pilot was a majo
r b
low. He decided to change the subject slightly. "Have we got the damage assessment--what the pilot destroyed, if anything?"

McCormick squinted and chewed on his cigar. "Reconnaissance photographs have confirmed that five enemy fighter planes have either been destroyed or damaged at Bai Thuong, but we came close to losing the MiG . . . and that goddamned Spencer didn't even inform us!"

Tipton was afraid that the North Vietnamese were setting up an ambush for the lone MiG, and was deeply concerned that the pilot might be captured alive and tortured to the point of making a confession.

The operation, he decided after thinking about the miraculous escape by the pilot, was becoming more of a liability than an asset for the Agency--one that was exposing their own Achilles' heel. "In my estimation," he said cautiously but with resolve, "it's time to cancel the operation."

McCormick tapped his cigar on the edge of an ashtray and fixed Tipton in his stare. "That's what The Man thinks, too. But he wants some straight answers before he makes the decision to pull the plug, because the White House wants to get everything they can out of the MiG operation."

"What kind of answers?"

"The entire complexion of Achilles has changed," McCormick said curtly, "and The Man wants you to assess the viability of continuing the operation . . . or shutting it down before the lid blows of "

"Me?" Tipton's color faded.

McCormick glared at him and absently flicked ashes from his cigar. "You're the goddamn director for ops," McCormick snapped, then continued very slowly. "It's that simple, Dennis . . . or would you rather tender your resignation?"

The question stunned Tipton, and it was obvious. He felt his stomach twist into a knot while he contemplated his answer. Were they--the director and McCormick--using this crisis to force him out of the Agency before he reached his normal retirement date? After all the years of politically savvy moves and fostering the right connections, was he being shoved out of the CIA?

Throwing caution to the wind, Tipton gritted his teeth and gathered his strength. "What is it--precisely--that I am expected to do?"

"Get your ass over there," McCormick insisted impatiently, "and eyeball the operation--make a goddamned decision to continue the ops or slam the lid."

Tipton's mouth sagged open. "You want me to go to Alpha-29?"

"That's right," the deputy director glowered. "There's a jet, which the President authorized, standing by at Andrews. They'll take you to Honolulu, then you'll catch a commercial flight to Hong Kong. From there, our people will fly you to the site."

They remained silent for a long moment.

"I'll need to pack some things," Tipton protested in vain. "I can't just race off to--"

"Everything you'll need, including work khakis, is being loaded on the plane." McCormick shoved himself up from his wide chair and handed Tipton a sealed manila envelope. "There's a car waiting for you at the main entrance."

Tipton silently reached for the thick packet. In all the years he had been with the Agency, no one at his level had ever been dispatched to a field operation. A premonition of bad fortune crossed his mind.

"Dennis, I expect to hear from you," McCormick declared in an openly belligerent manner, "as soon as you step foot on Alpha-29."

Tipton turned and walked out of the office. Everything was going too fast, and he was caught in what he considered to be a no-win situation. Operation Achilles was spinning out of control, and no one seemed to have the guts to end the operation before it exploded in their faces. If he recommended that Achilles be canceled, what type of repercussions could he expect? He had to find a way to distance himself from the approaching debacle.

When Tipton reached the main entrance, he paused to look at the spectacular yellow-orange and pink glow on the horizon. The pale light filtered evenly into the dark-blue and purple sky. The striking sunrise marked the beginning of a day that Dennis Tipton would never forget.

Chapter
THIRTY-SEVEN

ALPHA-29

The time had passed slowly while Hank Murray's team repaired the severely damaged MiG. When the holes in the fuselage had been patched, the men painstakingly inspected the turbojet engine and stripped off the camouflage paint. After restoring the airplane to a dull-silver finish, Murray completed an engine run-up, checked all the systems and controls, then pronounced the MiG airworthy.

Nick Palmer had flown the refurbished airplane on a mission to coincide with a strike by Task Force 77 aircraft from Yankee Station. The targets had been a series of truck convoys traveling between Phu Ly and Ninh Binh. The "truck busting" operation had been canceled at the last minute because of low ceilings and limited visibility in the target area.

The flight leader, who temporarily ignored the targeting restrictions, had led the sixteen aircraft along the coastline in search of targets of opportunity. After expending their ordnance, the navy pilots and their fighter escorts had returned unscathed to the aircraft carrier.

Nick had followed the action over the radio while he tried to find a hole in the clouds near the airfield at Bai Thuong. He never found an opening in the swollen clouds, or saw any MiGs above the overcast, so he returned to Alpha-29 and made an uneventful landing.

It was a quiet group that sat around the foxhole in front of the tent that Austin and Palmer shared. Brad mechanically curled his rifle t
o s
trengthen his right arm while Nick swapped stories with Lex Blackwell and Rudy Jimenez. Chase Mitchell was in the helicopter, ready to start the engine at the first sign of another Pathet Lao assault. Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez had viewed the dead bodies from the previous attack and identified them as Pathet Lao.

Jimenez, Mitchell, and Elvin Crowder were sharing the responsibility of having at least one crew member in the U H-34 twenty-four hours a day. The cumulative effects of the fatigue and strain were beginning to weaken their camaraderie.

The sun was slipping below the mountaintops when a loud boom echoed across the valley.

"Sonuvabitch!" Blackwell exclaimed while he and Jimenez scrambled into their foxhole.

Nick and Brad collided when they rolled into their shelter. They raised their eyes above the dirt embankment a second before a mortar round exploded next to the Quonset hut. They ducked as the concussion blasted over their heads.

The entire compound security force opened fire in the general direction of the initial booming sound. People were yelling back and forth while everyone tried to pinpoint the location of the Communist mortar team.

Brad leaped out of his fighting hole at the same time Jimenez raced for the helicopter.

"What are you doing?" Palmer shouted as Austin ran toward the Quonset hut.

The helicopter engine was revving to full power when Brad reached the entrance to the building. He abruptly stopped when Allison stumbled through the open door in a daze. Spencer was close behind her. Wide-eyed and deafened by the explosion, they followed Brad back to the foxholes. Spencer dove into Blackwell's shelter while Brad pulled Allison into his.