Targets of Opportunity (1993) (38 page)

Palmer lighted a cigarette and kept it cupped in his hand. "And you think they'll come back en masse?"

"Nick, I don't know any more than you know, but I think we'd better dig in and be prepared for the worst."

Palmer looked around the compound. "How did we get ourselves into this mess?"

"We," Brad forced a thin smile, "volunteered to be test pilots . . remember?"

Nick quietly cursed himself and stared at the drifting clouds. "Oh, yes. The roar of the crowd and smell of the greasepaint."

Austin handed Palmer the shovel. "Would you care to take over as excavation engineer?"

"Sure. As soon as I finish this cigarette."

The conversation ceased when Allison approached from out of the darkness. She carried her M-16 in one hand and clutched a C-ration container in her other hand. "Do you mind having a guest for dinner?"

"Have a seat," Brad encouraged, patting the soft dirt around the foxhole. "It's time for a break."

"Where's Lex?" Nick asked, pushing himself up to a sitting position.

"He's still working with Cap." Allison carefully placed her rifle on the ground, then crossed her feet and plopped onto the embankment surrounding the hole.

Palmer slowly ground his cigarette into the soft dirt and wearily struggled to his feet. "Guess I'll go see what they're up to."

Austin watched his friend walk toward the Quonset but before turning to Allison. "I don't want to sound pushy, but I firmly believe that you should be on the next flight out of here . . . wouldn't you agree?"

She avoided his gaze and opened the C-ration container. "No, I don't agree."

"Allison, be reasonable, for Christ's sake."

"Brad, we've been through this before. I have a job to do, just like you."

"I'm telling you," he insisted with a look of exasperation, "this is no place for a woman. Do you have any idea what they would do to you if we were overrun?"

Allison shoved the C-ration carton aside. "I can hold my own .. . and I can fire a rifle about as well as most of the men around here."

Brad exhaled sharply. "I suppose, with proper training, you could fly the MiG, too?"

"That's right," she asserted, "and you could probably type as well as I can, with proper training."

In frustration, Brad grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into the foxhole. "Allison, if you really do care about me, then you'll--"

"I'll leave," she smiled and cupped his face in her hands, "if you'll go with me."

Brad slowly pulled away from her. "I can't leave . . . and you know that." He remained silent for a moment, preparing himself for what he had to tell her about Leigh Ann. "The whole operation revolves around the MiG."

Allison studied his eyes in the pale moonlight. "It's your decision, but I'm not going to leave without you."

He looked away for a moment, then stared into her eyes. "Allison, I had a letter from Leigh Ann."

Sensing a threat, she tilted her head and gave him a quizzical look. "When?"

"The hotel manager gave it to me when we checked out." Brad maintained eye contact with her and steeled himself "He had been saving it for me, and I didn't know it was there when I checked in."

Allison concealed the sudden pain and anger that welled inside of her. She had convinced herself that she and Brad had a future together. "What are you telling me--where does that leave us?"

"I'm going to ask Leigh Ann to marry me," Brad answered more calmly than he felt, "and I want to be honest with you . . . so there are no surprises."

They locked glances while an awkward silence settled over them. The message was clear to both of them.

"You bastard!" Allison hissed, and slapped him across the mouth, splitting the inside of his lower lip.

She scrambled out of the foxhole while Brad recoiled from the blow. He tasted the warm, salty blood on his tongue and wiped a trickle off his chin.

"Allison," he said steadily, "will you sit down and talk with me for a minute?"

She kicked the C-ration carton at Brad, showering him with dirt and food. "There's nothing to talk about, you son of a bitch!" Allison leaned over and yanked her M-16 off the ground, then angrily walked away.

After spitting a mouthful of blood in the dirt, Brad slumped against the edge of the foxhole and closed his eyes. "You're doing just great. . . ."

Lex Blackwell, who had commandeered his own tent, was busy setting up his shelter when Brad awakened with a groan. Nick Palmer was supplying the raw muscle, while Lex steadied the sagging tent.

Brad touched his tender lip and stiffly sat up on his cot. Allison's rage rushed back to linger in his mind. It was his own fault for letting himself get into the embarrassing position in the first place.

Feeling groggy from his restless sleep, Austin grabbed a clean flight suit and his dopp kit, mumbled "Good morning" to Lex and Nick, then walked to the shower stall.

Fifteen minutes later, Brad returned freshly shaved and showered. Using the water from his canteen, he gently brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth.

All activity on the field came to an abrupt halt when the sound of the C-123 reverberated across the valley. Brad shielded his eyes an
d s
earched the sky above the morning haze layer. He spotted the Provider as the pilot commenced a steep approach to Alpha-29.

Nick and Lex joined Brad, and they watched the transport plane briefly flare, then smoothly touch down with a chirp from the tires.

"Not bad for a 'trash hauler,' " Blackwell said lightly, then caught a glimpse of Austin's swollen lip.

"What happened to you?"

Uneasy with his sense of guilt, Brad hid his feelings with a careless smile. "I forgot to duck."

When the C-123 taxied to a stop, twenty-three CIA employees in fresh jungle utilities leaped out and reported to Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez. The second-to-last man out of the aircraft sported a new uniform that was at least three sizes too large.

"Well," Blackwell ventured dryly, "they must've shanghaied the mess cook."

Brad gave Lex a sidelong glance. "At least we've got more firepower," he observed, then walked over to inspect the MiG.

Chapter
THIRTY-FIVE

Brad felt the perspiration on his forehead as he preflighted the venerable fighter that he had come to respect. The mission briefing, with Allison sitting across from him, had been difficult for both of them. He was certain that everyone in attendance was aware of the strained relationship between the two of them.

The aircraft technicians had repainted the airplane in a standard terrain camouflage of black, white, and gray with North Vietnamese national markings on the fuselage and outboard on the wings. They had also repaired a small fuel leak in the left drop tank and tightened the bolts that held the right tank to the wing.

Reaching the tail pipe, Brad inspected the smoke canister and paused. Thoughts of Allison entered his mind. The last thing he had wanted to do was hurt anyone, but he had had to be straightforward with her. Brad hoped that after the flight she would give him a chance to talk with her. At the moment, though, he had to concentrate on the immediate future.

The navy strike force would launch from the carriers at 1600. Accompanied by F-4 Phantom and F-8 Crusader fighter aircraft, the A-6 Intruders and A-4 Skyhawks would strike the Thanh Hoa Bridge and the supporting antiaircraft sites at approximately 1635.

Although Operation Achilles was ancillary to the air-force and navy strike forces, Austin felt confident that he could contribute to the air-war effort in a meaningful way.

Climbing into the cockpit, Brad started the engine and ran throug
h h
is pretakeoff checklist, then taxied to the runway. He avoided looking at Allison and the other spectators near the Quonset hut, but noticed that Nick and Lex had positioned themselves near the middle of the airstrip.

After a quick radio check with Cap Spencer, Brad made a maximum-performance takeoff and headed for his holding point south of Bai Thuong.

The weather was partly cloudy with good visibility underneath the clouds. The extended forecast had indicated no change in the next twelve hours. When the airborne radio check had been completed, Brad tuned one radio to the strike-group frequency and the other to Sleepy Two Five.

Austin glanced at his watch when he passed his first checkpoint. It was time for Mitchell and Jimenez to lift off the ramp. The rescue helicopter would be over the border between Laos and North Vietnam five minutes before Brad was expected to strafe the MiG base.

Bright sunshine filled the MiG's cockpit, causing the temperature to climb in the cramped space. Brad looked out along the forty-five-degree swept wings and checked both slipper-type drop tanks. They appeared to be secure and showed no signs of fuel leakage.

Austin carefully followed his progress on his operational navigation chart. He had cut the map down to a fraction of its normal size, eliminating everything more than twenty-five nautical miles on either side of his route.

Passing Ban Na Mang, Brad hugged the tops of the rugged mountains and slipped into North Vietnamese airspace. He had another sixty miles to travel before he would be on station south of Bai Thuong.

Brad continued to monitor his speed, time, and fuel as the sun gradually disappeared above the clouds, leaving only faint holes in the overcast. The MiG's pale camouflage would blend perfectly into the grayish clouds.

Waiting for the fighter activity call from the UH-34, Brad tightened his chest harness and seat strap. He decided to arm his cannons early so he would not forget the important step in the heat of battle.

Squinting through the thick, armored-glass windshield, Austin began to distinguish the runway at Bai Thuong from the surrounding terrain.

Brad altered course to the right and again glanced at his watch. When was he going to hear the strip-alert call? The strike group should be nearing the coast-in point. After passing the last mountai n s ummit, Brad eased the throttle forward and kept his rate of descent shallow as he let down toward Bai Thuong. Better to be early than late. "Tidewater One, Rock Crusher. Weather check."

Tidewater was the call sign for the navy F-4 target combat air-patrol fighters. They had previously crossed the shoreline and were in a position to view the target area.

"Crusher," the Phantom flight leader replied, "no problem with weather. We'll be on station in about two minutes."

"Roger," the strike group leader answered, then added, "Crushers will be feet dry in three minutes."

"Copy."

A moment later, the other TARCAP flight came up strike frequency. "Ragtime copies," the F-8 Crusader leader chimed in. "We're on station and anchored at eleven thou."

Brad looked high in the sky north of Bai Thuong. "Come on, Spencer . . . time's running out." A minute and a half later, he heard the flak suppressor flight leader check in on strike frequency.

"Ah, Skeeter Four Fifty-one is crossing the beach--starting our run-in."

"Roger," the strike leader said in a controlled voice. "I've got you in sight."

Searching for the F-4 Phantoms, Austin was startled when Rudy Jimenez suddenly called on the other radio.

"Top Cat, Sleepy Two Five. Activity."

Brad thumbed his radio switch. "Top Cat--copy."

"Go get 'em."

Banking toward the MiG base, Austin lowered the nose and let the airspeed increase to 410 knots. He
. C
ould feel the airplane tremble as it approached 425 knots.

"SAMs," someone called. "We've got SAMs up!"

"Watch it, Tony!"

"I've got 'em," an emotionless voice answered.

Brad managed a look toward Thanh Hoa before he turned his attention to the MiG runway.

"Well, shit," Austin swore when he saw a MiG-17 lifting off the runway. "I'm going to be late."

The urgent radio calls from the strike group became impossible to understand, forcing Brad to mentally tune out the incessant chatter.

Another North Vietnamese fighter was commencing his takeoff when Austin lined up with the runway. He saw a string of MiGs bunched together for takeoff as he flattened his dive.

"Keep it together," Brad coached himself as he placed the gun sight on' the first of the MiGs. Squeezing the trigger gently, Austin felt his fighter vibrate as a stream of white-hot shells ripped through the line of MiGs.

He let the incandescent tracers walk the length of the field, then made a snap decision. Releasing the trigger, Brad whipped the thundering jet into knife-edge flight and executed a punishing 6-g, 360-degree turn to again align himself with the runway.

"MiGs! We've got MiGs airborne!" a voice shouted. "On the deckcomin' from the north."

"Tidewater has a tally. We're engaging."

Focusing his attention on the airfield, Brad was surprised to see two columns of black smoke rising into the gray sky. Three more fighters had reached the runway, with, two of the aircraft rolling for takeoff. The rest of the MiGs waiting for takeoff were scattered like bowling pins. People were running in every conceivable direction.