Targets of Opportunity (1993) (16 page)

"You did a real nice job," Brad declared, nodding his head. "They should give you a raise."

"Brad, that's hardly fair," Allison protested in earnest. "I had hoped we could put things in their proper perspective, and work together as professionals who have a job to do. You have yours . . . and I have mine."

Brad gazed at Allison without any visible emotion or hostility. "You have missed your calling," he deadpanned, fixing his hazel eyes on her. "You should have been an actress. They make a hell of a lot more money than a CIA employee."

Allison returned his gaze, unsure if he was being sarcastic or if he had complimented her in a backhanded way. Inside, she felt a stinging pain. Allison knew he had a reason to be angry.

She studied Brad, realizing how much she had come to respect him. "Would you mind if we take a walk later--after the briefing--and see if we can clear the air?"

Brad hesitated for a moment while he considered Allison's offer. He knew that she had only been doing her job.

"You mean," Brad answered-with a faint grin, "mend some fences, as Lex would say?"

"Yes." Allison risked a thin smile. "I would like to mend fences, and start with a fresh slate."
,
"That sounds reasonable to me." Brad eyed her skeptically. "No more cloak-and-dagger stuff?"

She beamed her radiant smile. "Promise."

"Okay," he declared, and started to walk away, then stopped and turned to Allison. One question that keeps going around in my mind."

She laughed quietly. "I'm sure you have more than one question."

Brad nodded and looked into her eyes. "When did you start following us," he smiled slowly, "the night you tracked us to the lounge .. . and we went on the tour of the city?"

"From the time you and Nick left the 0 club," she answered without a trace of embarrassment, and smiled like a Cheshire cat. "You two fighter pilots weren't checking your six."

Brad chuckled and gave her a long look. "You don't take any prisoners, do you?"

"Occasionally."

Instinctively, Austin knew not to respond to the remark. "When is Cap going to talk to us?"

"You have time for a shower," she informed him with a twinkle in her eye

Turning to leave, Brad again paused to look back. "Would you mind using your influence to see if Cap will use the secure line to find out how Grady is doing?"

"That's already been taken care of," Allison assured him. Her expression grew serious. "His condition has improved to critical but stable."

"Thank God," Brad exclaimed, feeling the tension drain from his neck muscles.

"Our people are checking on Grady every hour," Allison explained as the ground crew maneuvered the lumbering F-4 into the hangar.

Brad searched deep into her eyes, curious about the nature of the real Allison van Ingen. "Thank you."

She smiled warmly, then returned to her neatly written notes.

Chapter
FIFTEEN

Toweling himself dry, Brad reviewed the questions he intended to ask Hollis Spencer. A kaleidoscope of thoughts ran through his mind, with Stanfield's tragic crash and Allison's involvement in the secret operation dominating the others.

Dressed in a clean flight suit, Brad walked across the hangar to the small meeting room. Hollis Spencer and Hank Murray were huddled under the tail of the MiG, discussing a modification to the empennage of the fighter.

When Spencer noticed Brad, he rose and walked toward the briefing room. Nick Palmer and Lex Blackwell, absorbed in an animated conversation next to the Phantom, followed Spencer into the crowded space.

After an awkward silence, the project officer closed the door and sat down. "Before we get into specifics, I want to let you know that Grady's condition is improving."

The pilots silently acknowledged the update and glanced at Allison. Her face remained expressionless.

Spencer hesitated a moment, then addressed the three men. "As you are aware, Miss van Ingen is part of the nucleus of this operation. We have worked together for the past three and a half years."

Spencer stared at each pilot a brief second. "Don't let her looks fool you. I can assure you that she knows her job, and knows it well."

"I can attest to that," Lex agreed, and lowered his head.

The CIA agent paused. "It will serve you well," Spencer warned them, "to remember that."

Brad darted a look at Allison. She appeared composed and confident, as if she had heard it all before.

There was a hint of impatience in Spencer's voice. "Besides being an excellent security specialist," Spencer continued steadily, "Allison serves as my adjutant. She handles all logistical and administrative tasks associated with the operation."

Brad and Lex momentarily shifted their gaze to Allison. It was impossible not to be attracted to the vivacious blonde. Brad noticed that Nick could not take his eyes off her.

"She is intimately familiar with our destination," Spencer informed them, "having worked with me on an Air America project in Vientiane, Laos."

Spencer observed the looks of respect forming on the faces of the pilots. They were coming to grips with the fact that Allison was more than an attractive showpiece. She was an extremely intelligent and efficient woman.

"Everyone in this room," Spencer glanced at Blackwell, "along with a half-dozen maintenance people, will eventually be going to Laos."

Although elated about still being a part of the operation, Lex showed no emotion after the announcement.

"Excuse me, sir," Brad interrupted, "but it seems to me that we're going to be taking a hell of a risk to basically place a bandage on a hemorrhaging whale."

"Captain Austin," Spencer said in a pleasant tone, "let me explain something to you."

Brad's expression reflected the doubt he felt.

"The Vietnam situation--our undeclared war--is not going well . . . particularly the air war."

"How well I know," Brad agreed, refraining, for once, from expressing his contempt for the rules of engagement the administration in the White House had forced on the aircrews.

"Politically," Spencer declared, "this war has created a wide distrust of our government and its leadership. Our failure to win the war, combined with the ever-growing casualty list, have consumed an inordinate amount of public trust."

"Cap," Brad ventured, "with the growing resentment that is eroding the confidence in the military and the government, why aren't we using our full capability to end the conflict? We certainly have the means to win, and win quickly and decisively."

Blackwell nervously cleared his throat.

"Sir," Brad asked respectfully, "why are we pitting one American-flown MiG, with all the associated risks, against the entire North Vietnamese Air Force? I understand the unique concept, but I could probably be doing more damage flying a Phantom against the enemy.

Brad felt Nick tap his toe in a silent warning.

"Because," Spencer calmly replied, "we have been instructed to carry out the project. Operation Achilles, as I mentioned before, originated in the White House. They make the decisions, and we implement them . . . whether we agree with the concept or not."

Allison turned to Brad. "From what we have been told, off the record, there is a growing concern about the overall kill ratio in the air campaign. We are losing one of our aircraft for almost every four MiGs downed."

Her gaze briefly met Spencer's eyes. "The Pentagon believes we can increase the kill ratio from the current three point seven to one," she glanced at her notes, "to possibly four or five to one, using the MiGs that we acquire."

Spencer balled his right fist and squeezed it with his other hand. "Are you aware that the navy is preparing to start a postgraduate course in fighter weapons tactics?"

"We've heard scuttlebutt," Austin admitted.

"The school," Spencer said with an air of knowledge, "is going to be a part of VF-121 at Miramar. They've already nicknamed it Top Gun."

Allison looked at Brad. "The entire focus of Top Gun is to dramatically increase the kill ratios. The navy brass behind the new school believe we can, in the near future, be destroying nine or ten MiGs for every American aircraft lost." She paused to glance at Lex and Nick. "The three of you, at least in my estimation, would be prime candidates for Top Gun instructors . . . after you complete this operation."

Spencer reached into his breast pocket and withdrew his well-chewed pipe. "Gentlemen," he confided, "I'm going to tell you something that had better never go beyond this room . . . never in your lifetime."

The gravity of his words was not lost on the pilots.

"The bottom line of what we have been asked to do is this." He reached for his tobacco pouch. "Until the effects of Top Gun can begin making a difference in the fleet kill ratios, certain individuals want us to use other means to gradually increase the number of MiGs downed."

Brad tapped the table. "If we go after North Vietnam's best pilot
s u
sing our deceptive MiG, then there will be less competition in the future . . . and more MiGs downed now?"

"That's how they see it in Washington," Spencer admitted. "We'll be turning out more and more finely tuned front-line fighter pilots, while the North Vietnamese will be losing their best pilots."

"Well," Brad replied, assessing the impact of the mission, "that does make sense, and I suppose the axiom about not having a rule book for war is true." His face was expressionless as he focused on Spencer. "In this business, as you well know, you win any way you can. If you finish second in this arena, you seldom get a rematch."

The room became as quiet as a tomb.

"That's absolutely true," Spencer agreed. "The days of chivalry in aerial warfare are long gone."

Brad thought about the risky assignment. "Before we charge the hill, I would like to make one statement." He met Allison's gaze, then stared at Spencer. "The North Vietnamese don't have any restrictions placed on their pilots. If our administration would lift the rules of engagement imposed on our aircrews, I guarantee you we would be kicking their asses all over the sky . . . even without Top Gun."

Brad again felt Palmer tap his boot.

"I understand what you're saying." Spencer nodded, concealing the same frustration that haunted Austin. "However, we are going to abide by our instructions, and deal with the situation that prevails at the moment. We're going to take advantage of the deception provided by the MiG."

Brad indicated that he had a question.

"Yes."

"I have a couple of questions," Brad paused, "that have been bothering me. First, how are we going to know when their best pilots are flying . . . and where to look for them?"

"A good question." Spencer thought for a moment. "I'm not going to expose all the details, but I can tell you how our intelligence sources will affect you."

Brad silently wondered why they could not be trusted with the intricacies of how the Agency gathered information.

"We have people," Spencer continued, "who pose as journalists, media representatives, foreign correspondents, et cetera, who closely observe the MiG bases."

The men were tensely attentive.

"They use binoculars, and other devices, to observe the pilots and their aircraft."

Brad was intrigued. "Cap, how do they get the information out? How will we know soon enough to do anything?"

"I'll get to that in a minute," Spencer assured him. "I want you to know what our people see, so you will have more confidence in our abilities."

Spencer furrowed his brow. "Our observers see the same pilots--the guys with the red stars painted on their fuselages--climb into the same aircraft time after time."

The project officer was unable to conceal the satisfaction he felt. "We know that a few Soviet pilots are flying with the North Vietnamese," Spencer shared a look with Allison, "and we'll get to that topic in a few minutes."

That announcement brought a surprised look from the pilots.

"When our observers see a particular pilot--one of the top jocks--climb into his aircraft," Spencer studied the intent faces, "they relay the side number and description of the MiG to an EC-121 flying over Laos.

"After the Warning Star receives the scrambled message, they will relay the data to our radio post, which they will believe is a new military intelligence operation."

Spencer anticipated Brad's next question.

"We can't have the surveillance aircraft talk directly to you," Spencer continued, "because that would jeopardize our cover. Remember, we don't exist, and never did exist."

Brad acknowledged with a nod. "Since our MiG doesn't have the capability to receive scrambled messages, I assume we will use some type of code."

"That's correct," Spencer sighed with weariness, "but we'll cover that in detail later."

The room remained quiet while Spencer packed and lighted his pipe. "The White House has instructed the Agency to keep this operation off the record. It never happened," he emphasized, blowing a ring of smoke toward the ceiling, "and you will never discuss it with anyone. The official line is that the information we gather from our MiG evaluation came from a MiG-17 pilot who defected from an Eastern bloc country."