Targets of Opportunity (1993) (7 page)

"Did you find anything?" Nick asked, lighting her cigarette with her jeweled lighter.

"Yes." She smiled. "I was on my way to look at it again," she paused, "when I decided it was past the cocktail hour . . . and I saw this place." She gazed around the austere environment. "It's rather quaint, in its own special way."

"Yes," Nick chuckled, "it certainly is different."

Allison gave Palmer a radiant smile. "I don't know about the two of you, but I'm famished."

Palmer tried to hide his glee.

"Would you, both of you," Allison asked before Nick could say anything, "care to join me for dinner? Perhaps you could tell me all about San Diego?"

Brad started to reply, then hesitated.

Showing his surprise, Nick shoved his glass across the bar. "Sure. I know a nice place overlooking the bay."

Brad and Allison's eyes met for a moment.

"Thanks," Brad said, "but I'll let Nick give you the tour. He has spent more time here than I have."

"Won't you join us? Safety in numbers." She laughed, then added, "Besides, my father is paying for the evening."

Brad was captivated by her soft brown eyes. "Okay, I'll go--if you'll let us pay for everything," he said, without noticing the hit the road signal Palmer was giving him.

"Well, how nice of you to offer," she replied with a coy glance at Brad.

Chapter
SIX

Brad gently raised his head from the pillow and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head throbbed and his mouth tasted like sawdust. The night on the town with Allison van Ingen had been a nonstop drinking marathon. The former debutante from a Philadelphia Main Line family could more than hold her own with the two fighter pilots.

Reaching for his watch, Austin remembered the message that had been taped to his BOQ door. Palmer had received the same instructions. They were to report to Hollis Spencer at 0800 in the VF-121 training squadron hangar.

After quickly shaving and showering, Brad dressed in tan slacks and a polo shirt, then walked to Nick Palmer's room.

"Are you alive?" Brad asked after loudly knocking on Palmer's door. Nick opened the door, then slumped on his bed. "Barely," he groaned. "If I last until noon, I may pull through."

Brad looked at Palmer's bloodshot eyes before turning to gaze at his own in the mirror over the washbasin. "What the shit were we drinking--at the time of our last conscious thoughts?"

"Cocktails from hell," Palmer slowly whispered, "and they tasted like pelican piss."

Brad noticed that his friend's hair had not been combed. "We better get a move on, 'cause we're due at the hangar in fifteen minutes."

Palmer heaved himself off the rumpled bed and walked unsteadily toward the bathroom. "Don't ever let me do that again . . . even with Allison."

"I thought you Ivy Leaguers," Brad chuckled, "would have th
e c
ommon sense not to drink something that had been set on fire."

"It was your idea," Nick snorted, "to introduce her to Flaming Hookers."

Dehydrated, Brad walked to the sink and filled a glass with water. "Get it together. We can't afford to be late."

"Don't talk so loud. It echoes in here."

The drive to the hangar had been quiet. An early-morning rain had left the air cool and damp. The low gray clouds provided Austin and Palmer with a welcome shield from the blazing California sun. After parking the rental car, Brad and Nick entered the large building and approached a senior officer in the passageway.

"Excuse me, sir," Brad said, catching the curious look from the commander. "Do you happen to know where we can find Mister Hollis Spencer?"

The executive officer of VF-121 gave them clear directions, then continued down the hallway. He glanced back once, curious about the strange people in his hangar. He and the commanding officer had been ordered to provide a secure space for a group of government employees, but he had been taken aback by Hollis Spencer's air of authority. No one knew his real function . . . but he certainly had the power to command whatever he wanted.

Brad looked at Nick and laughed. "Did you notice the look that he gave us?"

"I sure did . . . like we're some kind of slimy reptiles."

"Well," Brad paused while a group of sailors walked by, "we do look a little strange . . . stumbling around in civilian clothes."

"And," Nick chimed in, "without a clue as to what in the hell is in store for us."

"Well, let's go for it."

They walked to the training room that had been assigned to Hollis Spencer.

The space was well-lighted and uncluttered. Sitting in the middle of the front row of chairs sat a tall man in a red and white shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. Like Austin and Palmer, the stranger had the short, neat haircut of a fighter pilot.

"Howdy," the cowboy said as he stood to shake hands. "Lex Blackwell."

Austin and Palmer introduced themselves, then surveyed the room and podium.

Brad grinned. "Are you in the test-pilot business, too?" "Well," Blackwell nodded, "that's what I've been told." From Waxahachie, Texas, Layton "Lex" Blackwell looked like
a l ean bull rider. All he needed to complete the picture was a cowbo y h at.

"Lex," Nick asked, "have you been through Pax River?" "Nope, can't say as I have."

"That," Brad commented, "makes three of us who are unqualified to be test pilots."

"Yeah," Blackwell replied as he sat down, "two weeks ago I was on the Oriskany, driving Crusaders. Next thing I know, my ass was yanked to Alameda."

"Let me guess," Palmer said as he and Brad took their seats. "You have at least one MiG to your credit, and you were recruited by a civilian adjunct to the military."

"That's right," Lex responded. "Special mission; do-or-die-type thing."

Brad leaned back. "Did he have a patch over his right eye?"

Blackwell gave Austin a suspicious look. "What's going on here?"

"We don't know any more than you know," Palmer interjected, "but we--Brad's a marine--were independently approached by this fellow in civilian clothes who was wearing an eye patch."

Blackwell rotated the class ring on his left hand and glanced at Brad. "You're a marine?"

Austin smiled. "That I am, but I bathe every day."

"Brad," Palmer explained, "graduated from Canoe U., but he had a mental lapse and accepted a commission in the Corps."

Blackwell's reply was interrupted when Hollis Spencer and Grady Stanfield entered the room and closed the door. Spencer was wearing his usual utilities, complete with starched cap and black eye patch, while Stanfield was dressed in a sage-green flight suit. The test pilot carried a bundle of manuals under his left arm.

The junior pilots were surprised, and it showed. Brad and Nick exchanged a brief look before Hollis Spencer stepped behind the lectern.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Spencer began, then added boldly, "and welcome to the Central Intelligence Agency." The blunt statement had the exact effect Spencer had wanted to achieve. "Now that I have your attention, I want to explain the seriousness of the operation you are about to join.

"Since we have met before, I'll get right to the point." Spencer smiled warmly. "To refresh you, my name is Hollis Spencer . . . and I am the CIA project officer for Operation Achilles."

The three pilots sat transfixed, waiting to hear the rest.

"Lieutenant Commander Stanfield," Spencer continued, nodding toward the senior pilot, "will be your officer-in-charge while we are in the field. This is a top-secret operation, and I must impress upon you the gravity of any breaches of confidence."

Spencer paused, studying the reactions of the men. A look almost of relief, now that their questions were being answered, registered on each pilot's face.

"You are not to discuss anything that is said in this room, or at our field site, with anyone . . . and I mean anyone." He briefly stared at each pilot. "Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Austin and Palmer replied, while Blackwell dipped his head.

Brad found his voice. "Mister Spencer, I don't know about Nick and Lex, but I'm a little confused."

Spencer stepped to the right side of the podium and rested his forearm on top. "Brad, I like to work on a first-name basis, and most everyone calls me Cap."

Grady Stanfield displayed his infectious smile. "Cap is a member of the brotherhood. He's a tailhooker who flew Cougars in Korea."

The tension immediately eased, replaced by a growing feeling of trust--Spencer was, or had been, a naval aviator.

"I'll clear the confusion," Spencer continued, "and then turn the brief over to Grady, our resident test jockey."

Brad could feel the rapport between the two men.

"Sorry about all the secrecy, but that is the nature of this business. You will understand the need for anonymity when I explain what you will be doing."

Spencer watched for a reaction from the recruits. No one moved or made a sound.

"We are not going to hold you hostage during the course of this project. As a general routine, you can expect to work from early Monday morning--three A. M.-to early Friday afternoon. If you care to live off base, and I'm going to leave that to Grady's discretion, you will rent an apartment. But you are not to tell anyone the nature of your work."

Spencer saw the relief on the pilots' faces.

"The Agency has been directed to keep all information strictly confidential," the CIA agent hesitated, "for reasons that will be disclosed if we receive permission to carry the project to its conclusion."

Spencer gave each man a brief look. "You will maintain very low profiles, and not frequent places where you might encounter people you know . . . like the officers' club, or other aviator haunts. Any questions?"

"Yes, sir," Brad answered, wondering about Leigh Ann's visit. "How long can we expect to be here?"

"Three to four weeks, depending on the decisions being made in Washington."

Spencer gave Stanfield a casual look before turning his attention back to the men. "Now, the four of you, including Grady, are going to have an opportunity that few fighter pilots ever get. An opportunity to share invaluable information with your fellow aviators." Spencer paused for effect. "You are going to fly one of the enemy's airplanes .. . a MiG-17."

The collective looks from the three pilots reflected their shock and disbelief.

Austin and Palmer sat on the balcony of their apartment, studying the intricacies of the aircraft they had flown against in combat. The stubby Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-17F, known to NATO as "Fresco-C," was over 20 feet shorter than an F-4 Phantom and weighed approximately 40,000 pounds less than the twin-engine warplane. Known as an aerial hot rod, the smaller fighter had superior wing loading, which made it extremely agile. The compact size of the aircraft, combined with its maneuverability, made the Soviet-built fighter a formidable opponent for any adversary.

While Nick and Brad absorbed the English version of the aircraft performance and systems operations manual, the MiG technicians were busy converting the airspeed readings from kilometers to nautical miles per hour. They had also changed the instructions and placards in the cockpit to English.

The MiG-17, manufactured by State Industries in the Soviet Union, had been obtained from Czechoslovakia in a complex exchange of military technology. The information that the United States had provided was outdated and essentially useless, but served the purpose.

While Operation Achilles was getting underway, diplomatic efforts to acquire the highly touted MiG-21 were continuing.

With their lawn chairs tilted back and their feet propped on the railing, Brad and Nick had a commanding view of Mission Bay and the Pacific Ocean.

Grady Stanfield, who had opted to remain in his BOQ, had granted his three charges permission to live off base. Lex Blackwell had elected to rent an apartment in the same complex. The three men had studied the MiG information together during the previous three days, then confined themselves to their apartment grounds during the evenings.

"Can you believe," Palmer asked with a grin, "that we're actually going to blast off in a Russian-manufactured flying machine?"

"After I've got it up and down in one piece," Brad looked over the top of his sunglasses, "I'll believe it."

Brad dropped his feet to the deck and closed his systems manual. "This is a jerry-built Spam can . . . something like Spanky and Alfalfa would have designed."

"That's true," Nick replied, marking his place in the MiG folder, "but it's a very effective fighter if it's flown by a competent pilot."

Acknowledging the remark, Brad opened his manual and leaned toward Nick. "Look at this Mickey Mouse pump. It activates the flaps and landing gear?"

Palmer suppressed a laugh. "Hell, I've seen washing machines that were more sophisticated than this bag of trash."

"According to my calculations," Austin grumbled, "it's going to take about a minute to lower the landing gear. You have to lift a toggle switch, flip the pump on, wait until the pressure comes up, then lower the gear. If you're fortunate enough to have the rollers lock in place, you turn the pump off and cover the toggle switch." Brad looked at the blue sea and watched the swells roll toward shore. "Nothing but the best."