Targets of Opportunity

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

The C-123 banked gently as the pilot lined up with the runway at Alpha-29. Brad opened his eyes when the landing gear was lowered. He turned sideways and looked out the window next to him, then unstrapped and went to the other side of the weather-scarred aircraft.

"Hey," Brad tapped Nick on the shoulder, "take a look at this place. You won't believe it."

Suffering from an acute hangover, Palmer yawned and flopped his head to one side. "Just let me die in peace."

"This strip," Brad craned his neck, watching the trees and thick foliage flash by, "is in the center of a narrow valley." He went back to his seat and glanced at Allison.

She and two of Hank Murray's men were peacefully asleep.

A moment later, the Provider touched down firmly and the pilot stood on the brakes. The passengers were awake by the time the twin-engine cargo plane turned around.

After the aircraft taxied to a small clearing at the end of the runway, Brad stepped out and helped Allison to the macadam ramp. They lifted their canvas bags and walked clear of the C-123.

Brad gazed around the runway, mentally storing a picture of the high terrain on each side of the valley. He noted a mountain peak to the northwest, guessing its elevation to be close to 6,000 feet. Alpha-29 was strictly a daylight, clear-weather type of strip, he thought. A safe takeoff could be made under the cover of darkness, but a landing attempt at night would be suicidal.

"Look." Allison pointed across the runway. "We've got our own stream."

Brad nodded and inspected the steadily flowing channel of water. "This would be an ideal place to film a Tarzan movie."

Allison gave him a thin smile. "It's definitely in the outback, but I've seen worse."

Brad looked at the MiG, which was in the final stages of being reassembled. The fighter sat on a strip of macadam that extended directly to the end of the narrow runway.

Four tall posts surrounded the MiG. The wooden supports were capped by a slanting tin roof The simple, open-air structure had been painted to match the surrounding foliage.

A camouflaged Quonset but sat on concrete blocks next to the aircraft shelter. A large round fuel tank had been partially buried on the opposite side of the MiG shelter. Behind the operations center was a congested area consisting of tents, a cookshack, and two generators. Off to the side was a gravity-fed, single-nozzle shower, two portable water containers, and a stack of C-ration cartons. The entire compound was covered by trees and camouflage.

Palmer joined Allison and Brad, then dropped his overnight bag on the pavement. "I noticed that we've got marines surrounding the perimeter."

"Most of them are former marines," Allison advised him. "They're our own security specialists."

Brad studied the sandbag-reinforced foxholes with a critical eye. "If we come under attack from both sides, those guys are going to be run over in short order."

Allison's response was interrupted when Hollis Spencer emerged from the Quonset hut. Brad glanced at the Colt .45 hanging from his web belt.

"Welcome aboard," Spencer greeted the trio. "Allison, your quarters are in the Quonset but… back by the radios."

She examined the small building and nodded. "I won't have far to go to work."

"The two of you," Spencer gestured toward the aircraft shelter, "will share the tent next to the MiG. Your flight gear is inside."

The conversation was halted while the C-123 roared down the runway and gracefully lifted off the pavement. The Provider climbed steeply, entered a tight turn to reverse course, then climbed directly over the runway to a safe altitude.

"It looks to me," Brad observed, "like we are going to have to take off in the same direction he did, and land in the opposite direction."

"That's right," Spencer acknowledged with a look of concern on his face. "This is one short strip. We've only got forty-seven hundred feet, plus a little bit of grass overrun at each end. In the MiG," he glanced at each pilot, "if you screw up your approach, you might as well punch out, because you won't clear that ridge line." Spencer pointed at the steep, rugged mountain. He thought about how close the Southern Air Transport C-130 had been to the side of the sharply rising hills.

Palmer noticed some of the security team rush out to place large sections of camouflage on the runway.

Spencer anticipated his question. "From the air," he smiled, "you can't see the runway, or anything else. We can't afford to have someone stumble over this operation… from either side."

"Cap," Brad glanced at the nearest foxhole, "I don't mean to tell you how to run your business, but these troops are spread too far apart. "

Spencer observed the men. "You're only seeing half of them," he said out of the corner of his mouth.

Brad looked around. "You've got 'em up on each side of the ridges?" "That's right, and we've got charges and mines buried around the entire perimeter."

The beating rotor blades of an Air America UH-34 helicopter caught their attention. They turned to watch the former Marine Corps workhorse approach the airstrip.

"There's Mitchell and Jimenez," Allison announced, shielding the sun from her eyes. "The other helo will be here as soon as they replace a tail rotor. "

Brad watched the bulbous-nosed Sikorsky swing over the ridge line and drop precariously toward the airstrip. At the last second, the helicopter flared before touching down lightly at the intersection of the taxiway and runway.

The battle-scarred helicopter sat on two fat tires connected to struts on each side of the fuselage. The engine was mounted in the nose behind two clamshell doors, while the cockpit was perched above and behind the huge nose.

When Chase Mitchell killed the rumbling engine, Spencer turned to the trio. "After you get squared away, I'll give you an update on the operation."

"Cap," Brad said, darting a look at the helicopter. "I think Nick and I should take an aerial tour and get the lay of the land."

Spencer smiled. "That's already on the agenda."

Brad and Nick sat in the sweltering tent, contemplating their flight suits.

"To hell with it," Brad suddenly blurted, holding the garment at arm's length. "Hand me that survival knife."

Nick gave him a curious look and silently reached for the knife hanging on the end of his cot.

Brad placed his flight suit on the ground and sawed off the legs just above the knees.

"Very stylish." Nick laughed, watching Austin slice through the sleeves above the elbow.

"You can roast if you want," Brad slipped out of his unmodified flight suit, "but I'm not going to croak from heat prostration."

Nick remodeled his gear while Brad donned his creation.

When Palmer was similarly attired, Brad glanced at Nick's boots. "What the hell is that?" Austin laughed, staring at the exposed tops of Palmer's socks.

Nick looked down at his legs. "Haven't you ever seen argyle socks?" "In the Princeton colors, no less." Brad shook his head. "We better get over to the hut."

They left the entrance flaps open and walked to the operations center. When Brad and Nick entered the screen door, Jimenez and Mitchell burst out laughing.

Spencer and Allison looked up, then gave each other a disbelieving glance.

"Dashing," Allison declared. "Especially your fashion statement, Nick."

"Thank you," Palmer replied without a trace of embarrassment.

Mitchell examined the two pilots while they seated themselves at the planning table. He elbowed his copilot. "They certainly look like fighter jocks to me."

Allison and Cap Spencer joined the foursome.

"Gentlemen," Spencer began with a concerned look, "we originally planned to have you take off under the cover of darkness, but we're going to have to adapt to the timing of the strikes." He paused, displaying a small amount of irritation.

Brad tried to temper his sarcasm. "More politics from the hard-chargers in Washington?"

Spencer looked at the disgusted pilot for a long moment. "It's a combination of politics and secrecy. We're going to have to adhere to normal strike planning, so you'll have to stay low until you can pop up into the action."

"Cap," Austin continued, unable to conceal his worry, "there's a certain amount of lunacy in all this. If the warriors in Washington would let us flatten the MiG bases, we wouldn't have any MiGs to contend with… and we wouldn't be sitting out here."

Mitchell and Jimenez glanced in awe at the marine aviator.

Brad's impassioned statement prompted Spencer to sit back and fold his arms across his chest. "Captain Austin, you are free to leave at any time."

No one made a sound.

"No," Brad said firmly. "I want to be the first one up to bat." His jaw muscles were rigid. "But I want to know if I have full authority to operate anywhere I choose, including over the MiG sanctuaries."

Spencer appeared calm and collected. "When you depart from here, you are on your own."

"Good," Austin replied with a flat voice. "No rules of engagement — free to use our own ingenuity?"

"That's right."

Allison gave Brad a look of caution, then glanced at the chart in front of her.

"We've been given the go-ahead," Spencer informed the group, "to begin operations as soon as the MiG is ready, which Hank tells me will be tomorrow morning."

Spencer explained that Allison would coordinate their missions with the operations center in Vientiane. Ops would supply her with the coded times and Route Pack information for the air force and naval strike groups. The details of the missions would be transmitted to Alpha-29 two hours before the scheduled strikes.

Allison would know the exact route the air force F-105 Thunder-chiefs would fly, along with the points of land the navy aircraft would cross. She would trace the routes and times on an enlarged chart of northern Laos and North Vietnam. Brad and Nick would use the charts to position themselves close to the strike aircraft.

Spencer clarified how he would gather the information from the observers close to the MiG fields. When they transmitted their scrambled messages to the EC-121 Warning Star, the airborne radio operator would transmit the information to Alpha-29 in the same form. After the scrambled message was received by Spencer, he would transmit the data, in code, to the MiG.

The MiG call sign would be changed for each flight. Spencer would use a simple code for relaying the type of MiG and side number to Brad or Nick. Only the North Vietnamese MiGs sporting red stars on the nose would be reported to the orbiting Warning Star.

Allison handed the laminated code cards to Palmer and Austin. They studied it, admiring the simplicity. The random alphabetical letters corresponded to numbers from zero to nine,

while the MiG airfields had a letter to designate them:

Spencer waited a few seconds. "If I have a MiG-17, side number two five two eight, from Phuc Yen, you'll hear it transmitted like this."

He glanced at his code. "I'll first give you the side number, then the type of MiG, followed by the field of origin. Bravo, Delta, Bravo, Tango… Papa, Quebec… Hotel."

Brad followed the explanation. "Will we reply?"

"Yes, with your call sign," Spencer advised. "The only contact that you'll have, other than that, is a radio check before takeoff, and another shortly after you're airborne. Don't transmit anything else, unless it's an emergency."

Spencer looked at the Air America pilots. "Your call sign, Sleepy Two Five, will remain the same for every mission. I don't want these guys," he gestured toward Austin and Palmer, "to be confused if they have to abandon the aircraft. We'll have you airborne ten minutes after the MiG takes off "

Jimenez remembered a number of risky search-and-rescue missions he had flown. "Where are we supposed to orbit?"

Spencer slid his chart in front of the SAR pilots. "Right here," he pointed at a spot northeast of Muong Lat, "if the mission is around Hanoi or Hai Phong."

The pilots' eyes gave away their feelings.

"Or here," Spencer moved his finger, "over Thiet Tra, if they're going down by Thanh Hoa."

"Cap," Mitchell said with a pained expression, "we'll be over North Vietnam without any air support."

Austin gave Palmer a fleeting glance. Both questioned whether these guys were the red-hot, hard-charging helicopter pilots they appeared to be.

"You'll have air cover if you need it," Spencer assured them. "Allison will give you the call signs and radio frequencies of the SAR people. If you feel you need air cover, use your normal call sign to communicate with the SAR pilots. Operate just like any other Air America flight that needs assistance."

Allison gave them a reassuring look. "I'll have the frequencies and call signs for you before the first mission."

Mitchell considered the information. "Cap, it wouldn't be a problem if we had two choppers. At least we would have a way out if one of them went down."

Spencer gave him a distant look. "Chase, you've been in this business a long time. We never get everything we're promised," he said with resignation. "We're going to operate with one helo until the other one gets here."

"Okay." Mitchell shrugged, accepting the inevitable.

"Right now," Spencer slid his chair back, "I'd like for you and Rudy to take Brad and Nick for a familiarization ride around the local area." Mitchell and Jimenez exchanged concerned glances.

"Cap," Chase ground a cigarette in an ashtray, "the Pathet Lao have a stronghold about fifteen miles south of here. They're all over San Neua Province… and they've got a lot of firepower."

The message was not lost on Brad and Nick. They paid close attention to Spencer's reply.

"Chase," Cap responded with a look of understanding, "I'm not going to pretend there aren't risks, but I want Nick and Brad to know the details of the area. It could save their lives if they have to come in under the weather."

"Okay," Mitchell said with a skeptical look, and turned to Brad and Nick. "I hope you boys brought your flak jackets.'