Targets of Opportunity (1993) (19 page)

Spencer consulted the paper lying in front of him. "From that point, the navy is going to fly you from carrier to carrier, then drop you in Da Nang. After that, the air force wants you to make a tour. When you are finished with the briefs, you are to report, in civilian clothes, to the Air America headquarters in Vientiane."

Spencer paused while Blackwell jotted the instructions on a legal pad. "Use your false identification at this point, and simply ask for me. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Nick and Brad," Spencer said as he looked at the two pilots, "will fly commercially to Hong Kong. You will leave on separate flights .. . Nick on Sunday and Brad on Monday. Allison has all the details."

Brad gave her a brief look.

"You'll have a layover in Hong Kong," Spencer continued, "before you catch an Air America flight to our base in Vientiane. Any questions?"

"Yes, sir," Brad replied. "What about the apartment?"

"Turn in the keys and lock the doors," Spencer advised, looking at Allison. "Are the leases being taken care of?"

"Everything has been arranged," she answered, then added, "And you can turn in your rental cars at Los Angeles International--where your flights depart. Your tickets will be at the Pan Am counter."

"I have some additional intel while we're here." Spencer opened his tattered manila folder. "Our observers close to the MiG bases are compiling a thorough log that describes the MiGs you will be hunting."

Palmer clicked his ballpoint pen. "Is there anything in particular--anything that distinguishes their best pilots' aircraft from the rank and file?"

"Yeah," Blackwell advised in an unusually serious tone, "the bright red stars painted on the sides of their fuselages."

Nick shot Lex a look of annoyance. "Lexter, in deference to Allison, I'm going to save my remarks for later."

Allison smiled while Spencer shuffled through his folder. "There i
s a
n element of truth in what Lex pointed out." He found the series of attached photographs.

"Here," Spencer spread the pictures on the table, "you can see that the MiGs vary in color, side number, markings, and configuration .. . as far as weapons are concerned."

Brad noticed particularly one MiG-17 with seven red stars forward of the canopy. "Do they know who the pilot is . . . who flies this one?" he said, pointing.

Spencer glanced at the black-and-white photograph. "We believe it is flown by Colonel Tomb, their red-hot ace."

Brad nodded and made a mental note of the MiG's side number. "Cap, I still think that we're making a mistake by trying to identify and selectively kill individual pilots, instead of taking any target of opportunity. The concept is too haphazard."

"We are confident in your ability," Spencer retorted impatiently, "and we are confident that our people can pass the information about individual pilots to you. That's what Langley wants, and that's what we're going to attempt to accomplish."

Austin reacted calmly. "Cap, you've flown fighters. Do you really believe it's going to be so cut-and-dried?"

"What I think," Spencer countered stiffly, "is that we're going to make every effort to accomplish our objective."

Spencer turned to his assistant. "Allison has some additional info for you."

"You may want to take notes," Allison suggested, noting Brad's jaw muscles tighten, "but you will be thoroughly briefed when we get to our destination . . . Alpha-29."

The pilots dutifully prepared to write notes.

"The only armament you will carry," she reminded them, "will be the two Mark-12 cannons that have been adapted to fit the gun pods." Brad caught the quick glance from Allison.

"Your missions," she confided, "will be coordinated with massive U
. S
. air strikes. The powers in Washington want as many MiGs in the air, and as much confusion as possible, so you can do as much damage as possible . . . without being detected by the North Vietnamese."

That's great, Brad thought while he watched Spencer. Dozens of aircraft going in every direction, while we try to locate selected pilots and watch our asses at the same time.

He shifted his gaze to Allison. She was all business, but Brad found her completely alluring. Allison definitely was not window dressing.

She was obviously an expert in handling covert military missions, even if the planning had been done by others.

"You will take off," she underlined a paragraph on the operations order, "prior to daylight, remain low to avoid radar, infiltrate North Vietnam, and orbit over sparsely populated areas."

"Excuse me," Palmer interrupted. "Isn't it going to look a little strange--to the farmers and so forth--to see an aircraft roaring around a hundred feet above the ground?"

A smile creased the corner of her mouth. "Not if it's a MiG. No one in that country is going to question anything about what a MiG pilot does . . . or how low he flies."

Unconvinced, Nick shrugged and sat back.

"You will monitor preselected U
. S
. radio frequencies, then zoom into the fray when MiGs are sighted." Allison looked at each pilot, her glance lingering on Brad. "Obviously, you will have to improvise, and make decisions based on what you think you can get away with."

Brad addressed a question to Spencer. "Cap, what if the gomers catch on to our scheme?"

"It would be very difficult for them," Spencer assured him, "to figure out what we are doing, unless you give it away. If you shoot down a flight leader while his wingmen are watching you, that is not good. "

"Brad," Allison resumed, "our MiG will be repainted and renumbered after every flight."

That part satisfied him, but he remained skeptical about the entire operation.

"We will constantly change the appearance of the MiG," Allison swept her blond hair back, "from basic camouflage to silver, to dull gray, to a different camouflage. The North Vietnamese use a wide variety of colors and paint schemes. That makes our job easier."

"So," Brad said smoothly, "we are going to be wreaking havoc with the gomers, while F-4s, and a host of other aircraft, are hunting us."

A pause hung in the small room.

"Cold feet?" Allison taunted with a hint of a smile.

Blackwell laughed out loud.

Brad ignored the laugh, focusing his direct gaze on Allison. "No." He arched his eyebrows. "We'll do our jobs, and I trust that you will do yours." Brad hesitated for a moment. "Our lives may depend on it."

"Touche," Allison replied with her throaty laugh.

Lex turned to Nick. "We better get a bucket of cold water for these two."

Spencer started to intervene, then decided to remain silent. He had seen Allison take care of herself in other difficult situations.

-I do understand," she said seriously, "and appreciate your concerns. All of us have a lot at stake, and we are going to do everything in our power to ensure your safety and fulfill the objective of the operation."

Spencer cleared his throat. "We have been cut short on time, so we're going to fly as much as possible before Friday."

Hank Murray stopped by the door. "Cap, we've got the gun sight mounted." He had removed the MiG's sight and installed an optical sight unit from an A-4 Skyhawk.

"Good." Spencer nodded. "How soon will you have the cannons harmonized?"

Murray wiped his hands on a rag. "We're towing the MiG to the firing range now. We'll have it ready in an hour and a half . . . two hours at the outside."

"Okay," Spencer replied, facing the pilots. "We will plan on flying the MiG in two hours."

Spencer waited until Murray had left, then reached for the three packets on the table. "These are detailed backgrounds of three fictitious Soviet fighter pilots. You will memorize every detail about your particular pilot. If you have to eject over North Vietnam, you had better have an A-plus on this homework assignment."

The pilots mechanically reached for their assigned packet. The seriousness of the dangerous operation was hitting home.

"In the meantime, Allison," Spencer suggested with a smile, "how about setting up the Russian language tape."

After a quiet dinner, Brad entered his cramped quarters and listened to the repetitiously dull language tape. He stopped the reel and ran it back a number of times, imitating the monotonous instructor.

Palmer and Blackwell were flying the last hop of the day. Spencer had asked Blackwell to evaluate the MiG's cannons, since Lex had more experience using guns. The F-8 Crusaders he had flown were equipped with four 20-millimeter cannons, while the Navy and Marine Corps Phantoms carried only missiles.

Each of the three pilots was becoming more comfortable with the MiG and its idiosyncrasies. Brad looked forward to testing the drop tanks and smoke canister.

He also wanted an opportunity to fire the newly installed cannons.

Lex and Hank Murray had been having difficulty getting the weapons harmonized. Murray had corrected the optimum firing angle three times during the afternoon. Each time, Blackwell had gone aloft to make strafing runs at the firing range. On the first or second pass of each flight, the vibration and recoil had knocked the cannons out of alignment.

Brad stopped the tape. "Gde blizhayshaya--" He paused, hearing a sound in the quiet hallway.

"Hi," Allison greeted, investigating the small room.

"Hello." Brad turned off the tape and looked up. "I mean, dobriy vecher"

She crossed her arms and casually leaned against the door casing. "It is a good evening, especially since it's the last one we have to spend here."

Brad nodded in agreement. "If I left this minute, it wouldn't be soon enough."

Allison glanced at Brad's hazel eyes. There was a rakish, devil-may-care gleam that excited her. "How is your homework coming along?"

Brad cast a glance at the tape recorder and packet of Russian material. "So far, so good. I'm going to concentrate on five or six sentences." He smiled wanly. "If I get shot down, I'll probably forget every single word I've memorized."

"Let's hope that doesn't happen," she said with a touch of concern. "If it does, we're prepared to get a helicopter to you as quickly as possible."

"How is that going to work?" he inquired with a trace of confusion written on his face. "What is the master plan . . . if I have to jettison the airplane over North Vietnam?"

Allison stared into his eyes. "We will have two Air America helicopters to cover each flight." She shifted her position next to the door casing. "One will be airborne at all times. They will orbit close to the border and monitor our preselected frequencies, which will change for each mission."

Brad did not appear convinced. "Will I be able to talk to the pilots if things come unglued?"

"Yes," she declared emphatically. "You'll have two of the standard survival radios that you have been using. If you get in trouble, or have to eject, you will use a call sign and talk directly to the helo pilots."

"Will the call sign change on each flight?"

Allison observed Brad for a moment. "That's right," she said at last.

"We want the confusion factor as high as we can get it . . . so nothing is predictable."

"Good," Brad said firmly. "I like that."

"You'll get to know the Air America pilots," Allison explained, "because they'll be based at our airfield."

"That's even better news." Brad nodded. "I'm anxious to meet them."

"How would you like . . ." Allison winked in a suggestive manner, "a tall scotch and water?"

Brad was dubious.

"In an air-conditioned room," she coaxed, then added with a coy smile, "As friends?"

"Allison," Brad chuckled, "may I ask you a question, at the risk of crossing swords again?"

She showed her usual spirit. "Only if it's personal."

"Do you ever have real relationships with men," he grinned, "or do you just conquer them and then toss them away?"

Allison tilted her head to one side, as if she were pondering a very complex question. "Now that you mention it, I can recall a few times when the hunt was more exciting than the kill."

Brad shook his head. "Well, I guess I've studied long enough. Lead the way."

They walked out of the light trap at the back of the hangar, then crossed the narrow strip of pavement to a small wooden storage shed.

Inside, Brad was surprised to find only a cot, portable shower, miniature refrigerator, and a card table with two chairs. An air conditioner had been mounted in the side of the windowless structure.

"Rather austere," Brad observed after Allison closed the door and switched on the light.

"Yes," she remarked, opening the refrigerator, "but it affords privacy and cool air. Have a seat."

Brad sat at the card table and watched Allison pour two glasses of scotch, adding ice as a final touch.

"Have you heard any more about Grady?" he inquired.

Allison closed the refrigerator and took a seat. "Yes." She handed Brad his drink.