Targets of Opportunity

Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

Due to a lack of sleep, exhaustion was beginning to sap Brad's energy. He found it hard to maintain interest even in his own recommendations for strafing enemy air bases. The excessive humidity and sweltering heat had made sleeping almost impossible. He had also lost his appetite.

Brad watched a small spider crawl across the top of the tent. He wondered what Leigh Ann was thinking about their relationship. Brad hoped to have some mail from her waiting for him at the Constellation Hotel in Vientiane when he returned.

Outside the sagging tent, Hank Murray supervised the replacement of the right main-gear tire on the MiG. It had been flat-spotted when the brake locked several times during Austin's landing incident.

The MiG's camouflage paint scheme had been repainted and the last two of the four numbers on the nose had been changed. The fighter now appeared to be silver-gray.

During the wait for a replacement tire to be flown to the airfield, Nick and Brad had played gin rummy for hours, discussing the strafing tactics they were going to employ. Palmer had agreed with Brad's theory and was looking forward to flying a mission.

Allison and Hollis Spencer had spent a number of hours arranging the change in strategy, then forwarding the request to Langley. Everyone was waiting impatiently for a response to the request to strike the enemy airfields with the MiG.

Brad turned on his side and propped his head in the palm of his hand. Nick was lying on his stomach with his arms and head hanging over the end of the cot. He was carefully examining a photograph of the Playmate of the Month.

"Nick."

Palmer turned the page. "Don't bother me when I'm trying to solve Einstein's unified field theory."

"If you could be anywhere right now," Brad covered his mouth to conceal a yawn, "where would you pick?"

Nick pondered the question. "At Mustin Beach, Friday-afternoon happy hour, holding a chilled martini, and surrounded by a half-dozen women." The Mustin Beach Officers' Club in Pensacola, Florida, is a naval aviation landmark.

Austin heard Spencer's voice and sat upright while Palmer flipped his magazine aside.

"We haven't got the word to strafe the fields yet," Spencer informed them when he entered the cluttered tent, "but we've got a mission laid on for tomorrow."

Brad and Nick remained quiet, silently guessing the details of the next flight.

"Nick, I want you to fly this one."

Palmer nodded his acknowledgment.

Spencer gave each pilot a brief look. "As soon as you get dressed, come on over and we'll go over the latest information we have. From what we know right now, tomorrow is going to be an eventful day."

When the project officer left, Brad and Nick slipped into their self-tailored flight suits.

"Brad," Palmer pulled the edge of the tent flap open and looked at the Quonset hut, "have you noticed a recent change in Spencer?" "Yes," Austin answered, zipping the front of his flight suit closed. "It's the pressure, and I suspect there is more to this operation than he has told us."

Palmer looked puzzled. "What do you mean?" he asked with a hasty look. "Do you know something that I don't?"

"No, not really," Brad confided while he thought about Spencer's subtle but steady personality change. "I can only guess at the various strategies that have been discussed for using the MiG, but I suspect this operation is a make-or-break point in Cap's career."

Nick placed his revolver in his shoulder holster. "What do you really think they — the CIA people — are going to do with the MiGs they acquire?"

"Probably the same thing I suggested," Brad chuckled softly, "but on a larger scale."

"How so?"

Brad bent to tie his boots. "If they can get their hands on a number of MiGs, why not use them to raise hell with the enemy's air force?" Austin continued before Palmer could answer. "Especially if the pilots don't carry identification… and the chances of their long-term survival are nil."

"Yeah," Palmer agreed with a wry grin. "The goners — out of desperation at some point — would end up shooting down each other." "Let me tell you something," Brad lowered his voice, "that Allison told me on the flight from Hong Kong."

Palmer's eyes narrowed. "This should be juicy."

"She said that U. S. Air Force pilots are flying T-28s for the CIA on missions over Laos."

Nick looked at him with a degree of skepticism. "You're shitting me?"

"No, I'm not kidding," Brad countered. "Apparently, the CIA can't find enough qualified pilots to support their secret war against the Communists, so they're dipping into the military… just like our situation. "

"Unbelievable," Palmer uttered.

"Allison explained," Austin said clearly, "that the pilots' air force records are placed in some type of limbo file while they are on loan to the CIA… and they're paid in cash — same as us. If they get shot down, they will be carried as missing in action over Vietnam."

Nick was speechless for a moment. "How in the hell is the CIA keeping their war from the public? And why would she tell you about it?"

"According to Allison," Brad answered with a shrug, "The New York Times has stumbled onto the operation, and the Washington Post is hot on the trail."

Austin reached for his M-16. "I suppose she told me… because that's her way of showing me that she trusts me."

"Well, it's going to get interesting," Nick replied with a straight face, then glanced at his watch. "We better get over to the briefing."

They went to the water cistern and had a long drink before entering the Quonset hut.

Allison greeted them with a faint smile and lighted a cigarette. Brad noticed that her fingers trembled with an unusual clumsiness.

"Gentlemen," Spencer began hastily, "we're going to do the same thing on this trip." He looked at Palmer. "Stay low and see if you can pick off a MiG or two."

Spencer turned his attention to Austin. "Your plan is still being reviewed at Langley, so all we can do is wait and see what they decide."

A radio call prompted Allison to go into the small communications room.

"The air force," Spencer advised, pointing to the chart Allison had prepared, "is going to hit a target right here, halfway between Thai Nguyen and Hanoi."

Brad studied the map. "It looks like they're going after the railroad that parallels the road north of Phuc Yen."

"That may be true," Spencer agreed, "but we don't know the exact target. We know the time of the strike, along with the route the F-105s will follow to the target area." The F-105 Thunderchief, affectionately known as the Thud, was a supersonic fighter-bomber.

"Right down Thud Ridge," Palmer observed as he traced the line of flight north of Yen Bai, then down to the target area. "They're probably coming out of Takhli. "

Spencer gave the chart a fleeting look. "I don't know if they're from Takhli or the Avis Wing at Korat, and it doesn't make any difference."

Both pilots sensed the growing impatience in Spencer. His behavior was definitely changing.

"Nick," Spencer explained, tapping the map with a pen, "you're going to orbit along the west side of the Black River near Song Huan." Palmer examined the terrain.

"Cap," Brad said with a look of concern, "we better have the helicopter stationed farther north if Nick is going over by Thud Ridge."

"I agree." He hesitated, straining to hear Allison as her voice rose. "After talking with Chase and Rudy, I've decided to have them orbit near Chieng Pan."

Allison appeared from behind the partition. "Langley sent the word that we'll have an answer about strafing within twenty-four hours."

The carrier was steaming in an elongated pattern around Yankee Station when Lex Blackwell arrived in the COD. He had been i nformed by the copilot that the air-wing commander had the pilots standing by on the hangar deck.

Blackwell went belowdeck and walked forward in the hangar bay. He was greeted enthusiastically and delivered his MiG brief, then answered questions for fifteen minutes.

After the brief was completed, a thin, long-limbed fighter pilot approached Blackwell and introduced himself

"Lex, I'm Ev Wetherbee," drawled the lieutenant commander. Blackwell instinctively looked at the rectangular insignia on the left side of the pilot's flight suit. Below the gold wings, Lex read:

"Have you got a minute?" the Phantom pilot inquired with a friendly smile.

"Yes, sir," Blackwell replied politely.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions," Wetherbee declared, "if you don't mind going to my stateroom."

"Sure thing," Lex said with a look of confusion.

The rangy pilot caught Blackwell's expression. "I'll explain when we get to my stateroom."

"Okay," Lex responded, and followed Wetherbee down a ladder and through a maze of passageways to his room.

"Have a seat," the Phantom pilot offered, gesturing toward the bottom bunk.

Blackwell sat down while Wetherbee sat at his desk.

"For the past few weeks," Wetherbee began with a sense of wariness, "we've heard rumors that the CIA — actually, Air America — has an operational MiG."

Lex was caught off guard, but kept from showing any sign of surprise. It was virtually impossible to keep anything secret in naval aviation. The small community had always been tight-knit and open with each other.

"Is that true?" Wetherbee asked bluntly.

Blackwell guarded his answer. "Well," he drawled, "I don't know anything about that. All I know is that the operational and technical information came from a MiG-17 pilot who defected from an Eastern bloc country."

Wetherbee stared at Lex for a moment. "I had an interesting experience a few days ago," he reached for a tape recorder, "that I'd like to share with you. By the way, my call sign is Montana."

Lex nodded reluctantly. What the hell does this guy know, if anything?

"I was about to stuff a Sidewinder up a MiG-17," he punched on the play button, "when my wingman and I heard this."

"Montana flight, break right! Break right! MiGs! MiGs! Ten south, cutting you off!"

Lex attempted to conceal his initial shock at hearing Brad Austin's voice.

"Say again, Red Crown."

"Red Crown did not broadcast a MiG

"This is Montana Lead. Who called MiGs?"

The tape remained silent for a moment before the rest of the recording confirmed that no one had admitted to making the frantic call.

Wetherbee snapped the recorder off and gave Blackwell a cold look. "You seem surprised."

"Well," Lex said innocently, "I am surprised, but I'd have to speculate that the gomers have at least one English-speakin' pilot… probably educated in the States."

Wetherbee gave him a dubious look. "Or the CIA is screwing around with a MiG flown by an American pilot."

"I guess that's always a possibility," Lex countered, thinking about a way to contact Hollis Spencer and tell him the truth. They're onto you, and I'm being forced to lie about it. "But I don't work for the CIA, so I wouldn't know the answer to that. My job is to pass along the gouge about the capabilities of the MiG-17."

Ev Wetherbee was unconvinced, and it showed in his suspicious smile and unblinking stare.