Targets of Opportunity (1993) (5 page)

Spencer noted the guarded manner as he placed his briefcase on the table. "It's cocktail hour." He smiled as he reached for the chair across from Brad. "How about a beer."

"That sounds good," Brad replied, motioning for a waiter. He suddenly felt surprisingly relaxed with this stranger, but curious as to why a civilian was meeting him.

After ordering for both of them, Spencer glanced at the vessels on the river before turning his head to Brad. "Well, Captain, I know you have many questions, and I won't keep you in suspense."

Brad nodded, but remained quiet.

"I am a liaison between the military and certain civilian agencies in charge of special operations." Anticipating a reaction from the marine, Spencer was pleased to see that Austin was quietly digesting the information. "You have been sent to meet me through all the proper channels.

"The fact that I have your service records here," Spencer tapped his briefcase, "and your future orders, if we come to an agreement, should reassure you as to the legitimacy of my offer."

Although his curiosity was thoroughly aroused, Brad showed no emotion.

"However," Spencer continued in a low voice, "if you need more proof, more credentials--"

Brad waved his hand to indicate that it was all right. He trusted Spencer, so far. The man had a military bearing, though dressed as a civilian. Could he be an aviator? With an eye patch? In any case, Spencer was right; Brad had been sent through all the proper channels.

"I've got an interesting assignment for you." Spencer paused while the beers were delivered. "But you are at liberty to refuse it .. . without any questions asked."

Oh, shit, Brad thought to himself, here it comes. Chief file clerk in the bowels of some civilian agency. Is the Marine Corps behind this? Are they putting me
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n ice and out of sight because of the incident at Phuc Yen?

After the waiter left, Spencer turned casually, but slowly and carefully scanned the occupants of the other outdoor tables. He looked Brad in the eye. "How would you like to become a test pilot?"

Caught off guard, Brad forgot about his beer. "A test pilot? That's it?"

Spencer sipped his beer slowly. "That's right. To start with." He could see the relief on Austin's face as a grin appeared at one corner of the captain's mouth. "The project is top secret, strictly voluntary."

Brad's eyes questioned the agent. Is this on the level?

"I cannot say much about the project at this point," Spencer smiled. reassuringly, "but we believe that you're the Marine Corps representative we need. You'll learn more at the right time. For now you'll just have to trust me."

Trying to start at the beginning, Brad carefully formed his reply. "Mister Spencer, I haven't been through Pax River." He was referring to the Test Pilot School at the Patuxent Naval Air Test Center in Maryland.

"That doesn't matter, son." Spencer smiled. "You know how to fly an airplane . . . mighty well, according to your records. Besides, we will have a Pax River grad who will be flying the aircraft before you take your shot."

"Well," Brad said slowly, still feeling that something strange was going on and wishing he could ask for the real story, "I really appreciate the compliment, but you're not giving me very much information on which to make a reasonable decision."

Spencer raised his glass. "I know, and I wish I could say more, but you will just have to trust me." He really liked this young man; his intelligence, his caution. "Brad, it is sometimes a little hard to categorize things in special projects, but let's say for now that the job will be as a test pilot. At least in the beginning."

And in the end? Brad thought to himself But he knew better than to ask. The end of any operation in war is unpredictable. Like in life

"If you come aboard, you'll be reporting to me in San Diego, California." Spencer paused a long moment. "You'll have a thorough briefing as soon as you check in."

Brad still wondered why Spencer had traveled all the way to Bangkok to recruit him to be a test pilot. The Marine Corps certainly had hundreds of highly qualified pilots, some with extensive backgrounds as test pilots. He decided to try one more approach.

"Sir, can you tell me what I'll be flying?"

"I'm afraid not." Spencer chuckled. "If you volunteer, I can tell you when you arrive in California."

"What's the alternative," Brad tentatively asked, "if I don't volunteer?"

Placing his forearms on the table, Spencer cast a look around. "You'll be reassigned to a different squadron at Da Nang . . . and we will never have had this conversation."

Austin smiled and shook his head. It sounded intriguing. And if it meant going stateside for a while and not getting shot at every day, he would be stupid not to volunteer.

Brad slowly reached for his beer and gave Spencer a long look. "Count me in."

"Good. " Spencer smiled. "I don't think you'll find it boring, to say the least."

The afternoon heat had slowly dissipated after the sun had dropped below the horizon.

Brad watched the delicate Thai dancers perform their traditional rituals on the lawn adjacent to his hotel. The blazing torches around the perimeter of the courtyard cast a cheerful glow on the evening river traffic.

"Would you care for another drink?" the slender young man asked Brad.

"Oh, I don't think so," Brad answered, swirling his tall scotch and soda. "I'll go ahead and order."

When the waiter had gone, Brad tried again to unravel the puzzling situation posed by Hollis Spencer. The Marine Corps did not function in riddles like this. He felt as if he were a character in a spy novel, or an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Brad reached for the vinyl packet Spencer had given him. It contained all manner of instructions and an indication that at some point Brad would be assuming another identity. He was to send his uniforms and identification papers to Hollis Spencer at the Miramar Naval Air Station's Personal Property Shipping Office.

There were four hundred dollars in cash and a travel voucher to fly on an airliner leased to the Department of Defense. He was to wear civilian clothes, return to Da Nang Air Base in three days, and board a World Airways jetliner bound for Travis Air Force Base, California. Brad's meal arrived, and he absently dabbled with a few bites of the Panang red curry with chicken and prawns. Losing interest in the meal, he looked at the packet as if it were a snake. What am I getting into?

The essence of the most significant memorandum in the packet--something Hollis Spencer had only hinted at in their last moments of conversation--was that though Brad was still in the Marine Corps, he would not be so recognized until the project was terminated. His service record, which Spencer had taken with him, would be in a secure place. Brad would be paid in cash, and, if he was killed, he would be listed as missing in action en route to Bangkok.

Hollis Spencer had explained that Brad's name had been deleted from the passenger manifest of the cargo plane that had flown him to Bangkok. He would return to Da Nang using a fictitious identity. The whereabouts of marine Captain Brad Austin, from the time he had checked out of his fighter squadron at Da Nang, would remain unknown.

Brad had been instructed to rent an automobile after his arrival at Travis, drive to San Diego, check into a prearranged room at the Miramar Bachelor Officers' Quarters, and wait to be contacted.

Spencer had also made it clear that Brad would not be restricted to the base. However, he was not to communicate with his family, or let friends or acquaintances know that he had returned to the United States.

Lifting his glass, Brad tossed back the last of his drink. He realized that it had been assumed that he had no close attachments, but he was determined to find a way to see Leigh Ann.

Chapter
FIVE

A high-pitched shriek and accompanying sonic boom announced the arrival of Lieutenant Commander Grady Stanfield. Hollis Spencer flinched from the explosive sound, then casually raised his arm from a wingtip and walked out to the aircraft ramp.

Spencer shielded his eye from the dazzling glare of the early-morning sunshine. He smiled inwardly as the sleek F-8 Crusader snapped upright from knife-edge flight. The large speed brake protruding from the belly rapidly slowed the aircraft while Stanfield lowered the landing gear and raised the wing-incidence handle.

Every time Spencer watched a jet blast over the runway and snap into a ninety-degree break, he longed to be at the controls of a fighter plane again.

Spencer caught a glance of Hank Murray as he walked out of the hangar. The chubby navy captain had a scowl on his face.

"Quite an arrival." Spencer smiled.

"I ought to ream that sonuvabitch's ass out," Murray growled. An engineer by profession, he had never appreciated the mind-set of fighter pilots. "I almost dropped the goddamned altimeter on the cockpit floor."

"Well," Spencer calmly said, "you know the old cliche."

"I sure as hell do." Murray shook his head in disgust. "You can always tell a fighter pilot, but you can't tell him much."

"I'll talk to him," Spencer replied in an attempt to placate Murray, then. turned and walked back to the hangar. Although Hank Murra
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utranked the Crusader pilot, Hollis Spencer had jurisdiction over everyone at the secret base.

Spencer paused in the shade near the hangar entrance and watched Stanfield land and taxi to the ramp. After the engine spooled down, Spencer walked out to greet the senior aviator assigned to the operation.

Grady Stanfield was a small man with a perpetual smile and a gleam in his brown eyes. Young for his rank, Stanfield had finished college in three years. Highly motivated, he had learned to fly in high school and had obtained his commercial pilot's license in college.

Five weeks after graduating from Notre Dame, Stanfield had reported to Pensacola Naval Air Station for flight training. Graduating with honors, he spent a tour of duty as a fleet fighter pilot, attended graduate school, then reported to the Naval Test Pilot School.

After completing the rigorous course at Patuxent River, Stanfield had been sent to a squadron preparing to deploy for a cruise to Southeast Asia. Four and a half months later, flying an F-8E Crusader, Grady Stanfield had shot down his first and only MiG.

"Welcome aboard," Spencer greeted while Stanfield climbed down from the cockpit.

"Thank you, sir," the pilot replied, beaming, and then reached for Spencer's outstretched hand. "It's a privilege to be here.
"

Unlike the other three pilots who had been selected for the highly classified project, Stanfield had known from their first meeting that Hollis Spencer was a senior CIA agent. Grady Stanfield, the ranking officer among the four pilots, would be the officer-in-charge of the aviators.

"Come on in," Spencer motioned as he grasped the pilot's helme
t b
ag, "and I'll show you where the flight-gear locker is located." "Great," Stanfield said, spotting the almost assembled airplane.

"Sir, may I take a look . . . ? I can't believe it's actually here." "Sure." Spencer chuckled. "I can't believe it either."

They slowly walked around the aircraft, stopping occasionally to inspect the wings and fuselage. Stanfield looked at the leading edge of the wing, pausing at the point where it attached to the fuselage. He ran his hand along the top and bottom of the metal wing, frowning at the wrinkles in the skin. "It looks like this was manufactured in a machine shop."

"That's probably right," Spencer replied dryly, "but I don't have any complaints."

"Amazing," Stanfield said as he approached the nose of the airplane. He examined the split air intake and gun camera opening before dropping to one knee to study the gun pods and blast-protection panel. He noticed that two rivets were missing from under the engine air intake. "When will the Mark-12s be installed?"

Spencer knelt down and looked at the gun pods. "I expect it will take three or four days to install the cannons."

Spencer's right knee popped when he rose. "We want to complete the aerial gunnery testing as soon as possible."

Stanfield nodded and removed his sunglasses. "Is it okay if I look in the cockpit?"

"Be my guest," Spencer answered as the test pilot mounted the narrow steps on the makeshift platform next to the smooth fuselage.

Hank Murray stood on an elevated bench on the opposite side of the canopy. Attired in work khakis, Murray grudgingly shook hands when Grady Stanfield introduced himself.

A technician sat in the pilot's seat, adjusting the flight instruments and checking the controls. He leaned back to allow the test pilot to have a better view.

Stanfield thoroughly inspected the cramped cockpit and glanced at . Spencer. "It looks like they stuffed things wherever they could find a spot."

"Yeah," Cap Spencer chuckled, "but it sure goes like a bat out of hell."

Grady smiled and looked at the navy captain. "Do you have any manuals or technical info I could borrow?"

Unsmiling, Murray gave Hollis Spencer a hasty look before addressing Stanfield. "Briefing folders are being prepared, to include the aircraft performance and systems operations manual. The information should be available Monday morning."