Targets of Opportunity (1993) (27 page)

"Your call sign is Tabasco," he read while he seated himself next to Allison.

"The strike leader is Rock Crusher." Spencer adjusted the patch over his eye. "The west F-4s are Montana, and the F-8s east of Phu Ly are Sugarloaf "

Austin circled Tabasco and hurriedly wrote the other call signs on his dented kneeboard.

Spencer looked at Mitchell and Jimenez. "The SAR flight is Sandy Five Seven. If you have to contact them, call the flight leader on Guard." Guard was the military emergency frequency, 243.0, which was monitored by a separate radio receiver in each aircraft, including helicopters.

"Brad," Spencer handed him the radio frequency for the strike group, "write that down."

Austin would use his number-one radio to monitor the strike aircraft, while the second radio would be tuned to the discrete frequency selected by Spencer. The frequency and MiG call sign would be changed for each mission.

"We'll do a radio check before takeoff " Spencer advised Brad, "and another as soon as you're airborne."

Brad gave him a dubious look, but remained quiet. If I get airborne. "Any questions?" Spencer asked, anxious to commence the covert operation. His nerves were beginning to fray.

"Yes," Brad answered with a calmness that belied the churning in his stomach. "What's the weather like?"

Chagrined, Spencer covered the oversight with a quiet laugh. "Sorry. The guessers said that you can anticipate cumulus buildups around the target area."

Brad exchanged a brief glance with Allison. Her soft brown eyes reflected her concern.

"Well," Brad shoved himself back from the table, "it's almost show-time. "

The surface of the MiG's skin was blistering hot when Brad peered into the bifurcated engine-air intake. He continued the preflight as he walked around the fighter and climbed into the cockpit. The metal on the canopy rail burned his hands, causing him to flinch. Next time, h e t hought, I'm going to have Murray keep the plane under the shelter until I'm ready to start the engine.

Palmer climbed the boarding ladder to help strap Brad into the ejection seat. "I was going to ride in the helo, but Cap gave me an emphatic no."

Brad looked up, wide-eyed. "Holy Christ, you're crazier than I am." Perspiring profusely, he donned his reconfigured helmet and checked his watch. Four minutes to go. Brad strapped on his knee-board and ran through the prestart checklist. He glanced at the hand-lettered asterisk at the bottom of the list, then felt the Russian identification papers in his breast pocket. The documents identified him as Kapitan Sergey K. Yefimov.

Nick patted him on the helmet. "Don't do anything stupid."

Brad gave him an incredulous look. "Do you think what I'm about to do is intelligent?"

"Put some Marine Corps on 'em," Nick said with gusto as he dismounted the ladder.

Brad rolled his eyes and energized the starter. He carefully watched the engine gauges while Nick carried the ladder to the MiG shelter. After a systems and flight-controls check, Hank Murray gave him a thumbs-up.

Brad taxied to the runway and turned toward the grass overrun. He wanted to have as much speed as possible before he reached the macadam.

He turned the MiG around and saw Jimenez and Mitchell climbing up the fuselage of the helicopter. Elvin Crowder, their scruffy-looking crew chief/gunner, was shutting the clamshell doors around the engine.

A crowd of curious onlookers had gathered in front of the Quonset hut. Brad watched the security troops crawl out of their foxholes. Most of them were eating their C-ration lunches. The big event was about to take place. The unexpected audience served only to heighten Brad's anxiety.

Switching the number-two radio to Alpha-29's discrete frequency, Brad keyed his microphone. "Alpha Base, Tabasco One, radio check.

"Tabasco," Spencer replied in a clear voice, "Alpha Bravo reads you loud and clear."

"Roger," Austin responded, rechecking his trim and flap settings. He looked through the armored-glass windscreen at the runway, noting the shimmering heat waves rising from the macadam. This was going to be a maximum-effort takeoff Brad smoothly advanced the throttle to the stop, waited until the engine spooled up to maximum power, checked the gauges, then released the brakes. "I'm on the roll."

Burdened with a heavy fuel load, the MiG accelerated slowly. The fighter bounced over the edge of the macadam and continued to gain speed at a sluggish rate.

After rolling 3,000 feet, Brad knew he was committed to attempt the takeoff If he tried to abort at this point, the MiG would overrun the grassy area and slam into the. trees near the winding stream. The resultant conflagration would consume the aircraft and pilot.

Brad watched the airspeed indicator as he neared the end of the runway. 80 . . . 85 . . . 90 . . . He stopped glancing at the airspeed as he prepared to time his rotation.

A half second from the end of the macadam, Brad snapped the control stick back. The fighter staggered into the air and wobbled twice. Brad gently eased the stick forward as the MiG mushed through the air. He slowly let out his breath. Holy Mother of Jesus .. .

Brad went through the procedure to raise the landing gear, then retracted the flaps. He kept the MiG in a shallow climb to allow it to accelerate to normal climb speed. Brad keyed the radio that was tuned to the discrete frequency.

"Tabasco One up."

"Five by five," Spencer replied briskly.

Brad would be able to monitor both the discrete and strike-group radio frequencies.

Keeping his climb profile shallow, Brad raced low over the tops of the trees. As his speed increased, Brad reduced the power setting to conserve fuel. Flying low used more fuel than climbing to a higher altitude, but he could not risk being discovered by radar.

Reaching the border of Laos, Brad topped a 5,850-foot mountain at an altitude of 6,000 feet. He smoothly lowered the nose and eased the throttle back. Brad intently scanned the skies as he entered the airspace over North Vietnam.

Edmund Graham-Rawlings, a career CIA officer, adjusted the tripo
d u
nder his Strobel binoculars. His identification card stated that he wa s a correspondent for the British Broadcasting Corporation. The CIA had, in fact, arranged to have an occasional story published in Britain to substantiate his role as a journalist.

The North Vietnamese officials had thoroughly checked the Englishman's background, finding that his published articles were unbiased and well-written. The Hanoi censors closely examined Graham-Rawlings's work, but found that he did not report anything objectionable. The officials were quite pleased that he portrayed the North Vietnamese government in a favorable light.

At three inches over six feet, with tousled snow-white hair, Graham-Rawlings looked the part of a distinguished journalist. Wire-framed glasses and an unfashionable sports coat, which he wore every day, capped the disguise.

He leaned down and looked at the aircraft ramp at the Gia Lam air base. His second-story apartment near the MiG field had taken a year and a half to acquire. After convincing the press corps officials that he needed to be close to the action, they offered him the apartment.

Although his view was partially blocked by another building, Graham-Rawlings could see over half of the flight line. Most important, he could watch for red stars on the fuselages of the MiGs as they taxied for takeoff.

The dimly lighted living room was sparsely furnished. A cluttered table with a manual typewriter was the centerpiece of the room.

Graham-Rawlings turned the binoculars' range-finding reticle to focus on the MiGs as they scrambled for the runway. He wrote down the side number of the MiG-17 with three red stars on the nose, then continued his inspection of the fighters.

He scribbled another four-digit number when an aircraft sporting two stars turned onto the runway. After scrutinizing the last MiG in the procession, Graham-Rawlings placed the binoculars in the bedroom closet.

He walked into the kitchen, emptied the contents of the refrigerator onto the cabinet, then tilted the appliance forty-five degrees against the wall. Enclosed in the false bottom was a radio with the capability to scramble his message to the EC-121 high over northern Laos.

Lieutenant (junior grade) Gary Lawson heard the scrambler activate.

He yanked a government-issue pen from his flight-suit pocket an
d p
atiently waited.

After the garbled message was translated back to English, the junior officer transmitted it to the new listening post in northeast Laos. MiGs were scrambling from the base at Gia Lam. He was curious why the side numbers of two MiGs were being sent to a listening post in Laos.

A moment later, Lawson received a message confirming that MiGs had taken off from Phuc Yen. Again, the side number of a particular aircraft was sent. This is a new twist, Lawson thought as he relayed the information.

ALPHA-29

Hollis Spencer wrote as fast and legibly as he could, then turned down the volume on the radio and hurriedly finished his notes. He checked the code twice to make sure that he had not made any mistakes.

Allison, nervously smoking a cigarette and chatting with Nick Palmer, continually checked her watch. Her gaze became fixed on the helicopter as the rotor blades developed a crescendo of noise.

The UH-34, delayed with a starter problem, clattered into the air and passed over the Quonset hut.

Spencer moved to another radio and adjusted the headset for that transmitter.

"Tabasco One. Tabasco One, stand by." He looked at the code and spoke slowly. "Kilo . . . Foxtrot . . . Papa . . . Zulu . . . Papa .. . Quebec . . . Mike . . ."

Allison walked to the door and stared across the stream while Spencer sent the rest of the message.

Nick walked to her side. "Don't worry, he'll be all right."

She turned and exchanged a smile with him. "I wish I could believe that."

Chapter
TWENTY-SIX

Too low to take his eyes off the terrain and look down at his knee-board, Brad printed the first letter of each word in the phonetic alphabet. When Spencer finished, Austin keyed his mike. "Tabasco copy."

He raised the nose slightly, climbing to 300 feet above the rugged mountains. Brad quickly read the coded information. Two MiG-17s from Gia Lam with side numbers 3014 and 3022. One MiG-17 from Phuc Yen bearing the number 2531. They had one thing in common: red stars on their fuselages.

Monitoring both the discrete frequency and the strike frequency, Brad carefully scanned the horizon to the southeast. If the strike leader was on time, the A-4 Skyhawks would be crossing the shoreline. The radios remained eerily quiet.

When Brad neared Chi Ne, he heard the strike leader call the fighter cover.

"Montana, Rock Crusher Three Oh Three is feet-dry."

"Copy," the F-4 flight leader drawled. "We're orbiting at fifteen thousand."

"Sugarloaf," the Crusader leader called, "is over the Red River at sixteen."

"Roger," the Skyhawk pilot acknowledged, then talked to his flight. "Crushers, arm 'em up."

"Two."

"Three's hot."

"Four."

Craning his neck, Brad searched the cloudy sky for the Phantoms at 15,000 feet. The Target Combat Air Patrol (TARCAP) fighters would be circling in loose combat spread.

Austin armed his cannons and entered the valley west of Nam Dinh. Concentrating on flying low over the river in the valley, Brad listened to the radio calls.

"Rock Crusher, Montana Two Zero Seven has a visual on you." "Copy."

Austin blasted over a group of boats and rocketed out over the foothills. He noticed a smokestack in the distance as he racked the MiG around in a punishing turn.

"Montana and Sugarloaf, Red Crown on Guard. You have MiG activity, Hanoi one seven zero for thirteen miles."

Red Crown was the U
. S
. early-warning radar stationed aboard a navy cruiser in the Gulf of Tonkin. The MiGs from Phuc Yen and Gia Lam had remained low to avoid radar detection. The North Vietnamese pilots had popped onto the radar screen when they commenced a zooming climb.

"Sugarloaf, switches hot."

"Two."

Brad felt his pulse quicken as he hurtled back up the narrow valley. He was anxious to intercept the MiGs now that Operation Achilles was underway.

"Montana, switch 'em."

"Two's hot."

Flashing over the boats, Brad saw a number of people wave. They think they're getting a private air show.

"Skeeter Four Fifty-three is in," a calm, low voice announced. Skeeter 453 and his wingman were the Crusader pilots assigned to flak suppression. Their job was to pound the air defenses around the target before the bombers commenced their attack.

"Rock Crusher's in hot," the A-4 leader called, rolling into his strike on the supply center.

Raising the nose, Brad flew above the ridge line and looked toward Phu Ly. He saw concentrated streams of red tracers slashing through the sky. A barrage of white, puffy-looking antiaircraft fire saturated the air over the target.