Targets of Opportunity (1993)

by Joe Weber

"Because," Spencer calmly replied, "we have been instructed to carry out the project. Operation Achilles, as I mentioned before, originated in the White House. They make the decisions, and we implement them . . . whether we agree with the concept or not."

  Allison turned to Brad. "From what we have been told, off the record, there is a growing concern about the overall kill ratio in the air campaign. We are losing one of our aircraft for almost every four MiGs downed."

  Her gaze briefly met Spencer's eyes. "The Pentagon believes we can increase the kill ratio from the current three point seven to one," she glanced at her notes, "to possibly four or five to one, using the MiGs that we acquire."

  Spencer balled his right fist and squeezed it with his other hand. "Are you aware that the navy is preparing to start a postgraduate course in fighter weapons tactics?"

  "We've heard scuttlebutt," Austin admitted.

  "The school," Spencer said with an air of knowledge, "is going to be a part of VF-121 at Miramar. They've already nicknamed it Top Gun."

  Allison looked at Brad. "The entire focus of Top Gun is to dramatically increase the kill ratios. The navy brass behind the new school believe we can, in the near future, be destroying nine or ten MiGs for every American aircraft lost." She paused to glance at Lex and Nick. "The three of you, at least in my estimation, would be prime candidates for Top Gun instructors . . . after you complete this operation."

  Spencer reached into his breast pocket and withdrew his well-chewed pipe. "Gentlemen," he confided, "I'm going to tell you something that had better never go beyond this room . . . never in your lifetime."

  The gravity of his words was not lost on the pilots.

  "The bottom line of what we have been asked to do is this." He reached for his tobacco pouch. "Until the effects of Top Gun can begin making a difference in the fleet kill ratios, certain individuals want us to use other means to gradually increase the number of MiGs downed."

  Brad tapped the table. "If we go after North Vietnam's best pilots using our deceptive MiG, then there will be less competition in the future . . . and more MiGs downed now?"

  "That's how they see it in Washington," Spencer admitted. "We'll be turning out more and more finely tuned front-line fighter pilots, while the North Vietnamese will be losing their best pilots."

  "Well," Brad replied, assessing the impact of the mission, "that does make sense, and I suppose the axiom about not having a rule book for war is true." His face was expressionless as he focused on Spencer. "In this business, as you well know, you win any way you can. If you finish second in this arena, you seldom get a rematch."

  The room became as quiet as a tomb.

  "That's absolutely true," Spencer agreed. "The days of chivalry in aerial warfare are long gone."

  Brad thought about the risky assignment. "Before we charge the hill, I would like to make one statement." He met Allison's gaze, then stared at Spencer. "The North Vietnamese don't have any restrictions placed on their pilots. If our administration would lift the rules of engagement imposed on our aircrews, I guarantee you we would be kicking their asses all over the sky . . . even without Top Gun."

  Brad again felt Palmer tap his boot.

  "I understand what you're saying." Spencer nodded, concealing the same frustration that haunted Austin. "However, we are going to abide by our instructions, and deal with the situation that prevails at the moment. We're going to take advantage of the deception provided by the MiG."

  Brad indicated that he had a question.

  "Yes."

  "I have a couple of questions," Brad paused, "that have been bothering me. First, how are we going to know when their best pilots are flying . . . and where to look for them?"

  "A good question." Spencer thought for a moment. "I'm not going to expose all the details, but I can tell you how our intelligence sources will affect you."

  Brad silently wondered why they could not be trusted with the intricacies of how the Agency gathered information.

  "We have people," Spencer continued, "who pose as journalists, media representatives, foreign correspondents, et cetera, who closely observe the MiG bases."

  The men were tensely attentive.

  "They use binoculars, and other devices, to observe the pilots and their aircraft."

  Brad was intrigued. "Cap, how do they get the information out? How will we know soon enough to do anything?"

  "I'll get to that in a minute," Spencer assured him. "I want you to know what our people see, so you will have more confidence in our abilities."

  Spencer furrowed his brow. "Our observers see the same pilots--the guys with the red stars painted on their fuselages--climb into the same aircraft time after time."

  The project officer was unable to conceal the satisfaction he felt. "We know that a few Soviet pilots are flying with the North Vietnamese," Spencer shared a look with Allison, "and we'll get to that topic in a few minutes."

  That announcement brought a surprised look from the pilots.

  "When our observers see a particular pilot--one of the top jocks--climb into his aircraft," Spencer studied the intent faces, "they relay the side number and description of the MiG to an EC-121 flying over Laos.

  "After the Warning Star receives the scrambled message, they will relay the data to our radio post, which they will believe is a new military intelligence operation."

  Spencer anticipated Brad's next question.

  "We can't have the surveillance aircraft talk directly to you," Spencer continued, "because that would jeopardize our cover. Remember, we don't exist, and never did exist."

  Brad acknowledged with a nod. "Since our MiG doesn't have the capability to receive scrambled messages, I assume we will use some type of code."

  "That's correct," Spencer sighed with weariness, "but we'll cover that in detail later."

  The room remained quiet while Spencer packed and lighted his pipe. "The White House has instructed the Agency to keep this operation off the record. It never happened," he emphasized, blowing a ring of smoke toward the ceiling, "and you will never discuss it with anyone. The official line is that the information we gather from our MiG evaluation came from a MiG-17 pilot who defected from an Eastern bloc country."

  Spencer studied each pilot. "Remember that bit of info."

  "Why aren't you using Air America pilots?" Brad asked. "I know there are a number of former fighter pilots flying for the airlines backed by the CIA."

  "You're right," Spencer grinned, "but they're all World War Two and Korean vintage, like me. The Pentagon agreed that we should use current military fighter pilots who have recent combat experience .. . and MiG kills to their credit."

  Spencer looked at the pilot from Texas. "Lex, do we have any soft drinks in the refrigerator?"

  Blackwell twisted around, then opened the door and reached for a Coke. "Yes, sir."

  "Folks, help yourselves to whatever you want," Spencer declared, opening his soft drink. "Then we'll get down to the details of the operation."

  "This is off the subject," Palmer said, "but I was wondering if the navy is going to send an accident team out here."

  "They'll be sending an investigation team," Spencer answered, "after the MiG is gone. They are aware that a bird strike downed the F-8."

  Spencer shoved his folding notepad to the center of the table. "For the rest of this week, we will fly the MiG against the Phantom." His gaze narrowed on Blackwell. "Lex, since you're not checked out in the F-4, you'll fly the MiG while Brad and Nick debrief their one-on-ones. Friday, you'll be included in the engagements."

  "Yes, sir."

  "When the rest of us depart for Laos," Spencer announced, "Lex will be making a whirlwind tour around the carriers and air bases, before he joins us at Wattay. While we're here, we'll meet each evening after dinner to debrief," he looked at Blackwell, "so Lex will have every detail about the MiG etched into his mind."

  Nick and Brad exchanged furtive glances.

  "That doesn't sound like such a great idea to me," Pal
mer admitted. "Since Lex will be giving the gouge to the same people we will be trying to evade."

  Spencer finally smiled. "Obviously," he pointed the stem of his pipe at Blackwell, "if you breathe a word about the MiG being in Laos, I'll have your ass hung from the yardarm."

  Blackwell flushed but remained calm, even though his embarrassment was doubled by Allison's presence. "We got our MiG information from a defector. "

  Spencer nodded. "This weekend the MiG will be disassembled and flown to Wattay Airport."

  "Where is Wattay located?" Brad asked, looking at Allison.

  "It's located in Vientiane," she responded. "Wattay is our primary Air America base."

  "From there," Spencer disclosed, "an Air America crew will fly the MiG to our isolated landing strip in northeastern Laos, where it will be reassembled." His chair creaked when he reached for a detailed map. He opened the well-worn paper and spread it out on the table. "Right here, next to the border.- He tapped his index finger on the map.

  "Hot damn," Blackwell exclaimed. "You weren't kiddin' when you said back door."

  Spencer adjusted his eye patch. "The runway at Alpha-29, which is still under construction, is one hundred twenty miles from downtown Hanoi."

  Brad studied the map, mentally calculating the fuel endurance of the MiG-17. "Cap, we aren't going to be able to loiter very long."

  Spencer shifted in his chair and pointed out to the hangar floor. "See those crates behind the MiG?"

  The pilots rose to look out the window in the door.

  "Those," Spencer informed them, "are drop tanks. You'll have one under each wing, like most other MiG-17s."

  "So," Brad replied as he sat down, "depending on our altitude and power setting, we'll have basically another fifteen to thirty minutes of fuel?"

  "That's right," Spencer confirmed, and knocked the spent ashes out of his pipe. "We've got another shipment of tanks on the way to Laos, but we prefer that you not punch them off . . . unless you get jumped by someone."

  "Someone," Brad asked, "as in Phantom or Crusader?"

  "That's right," Spencer cautioned. "Then you had better start steaming for the border."

  Spencer looked at the drawings Hank Murray had given him. "Our resident engineering genius has a pet project in the works." He smiled. "One that I am sure you will be interested in hearing about."

  Chewing on his pipe, Spencer silently wondered how he would have managed without the brilliant navy captain.

  "Nick," Spencer pointed to Palmer, "if a bogey you were engaged with suddenly spewed dense smoke and went into a steep, nose-down spiral, what would you assume, and what would you do next?"

  "I would assume that I had a positive kill," Nick hesitated, "and if the sky happened to be saturated with MiGs, I would be looking for other bogies."

  "Brad?" Spencer asked.

  "Probably the same thing. You can't fixate on one gomer too long, or someone else is going to be on your six . . . pumping cannon shells up your tail."

  "Well," Spencer chuckled, "Hank may be a little rough around the edges, but he is sure trying to look out for his flock."

  Spencer enjoyed a pull on his pipe. "Hank is fashioning a smoke canister, just like in an airshow airplane, to use as cover in case of emergency. " Watching the three wide grins, Spencer took satisfaction in what Hank Murray and his men had accomplished under the rushed time schedule.

  "Is Captain Murray going with us?" Lex asked.

  "Yes, fortunately," Spencer answered with a sense of relief "However, he may have to return if the Agency gets another MiG. In fact, we're going to leave the F-4 here, since two more pilots have been recruited for the project."

  "One other item," Allison said. "Leave all of your flight gear here. Southern Air Transport will take it with the MiG."

  Brad leaned back in his chair. "I've got a few more questions, if you don't mind."

  "That's what we're here for," Spencer assured him. "This is a new adventure for all of us."

  Brad noticed that Allison was looking at him.

  "From what you said," Brad glanced at Allison, "about the administration not wanting this covert operation to backfire on them, I get the sense that we're going to be abandoned--on our own--if we get into trouble and have to eject."

  Spencer drew a breath and adjusted the ever-present utility cap. "I'll try to allay some of your concerns."

  The pilots' eyes were riveted to the project officer. Allison quietly slid a sheet of paper to Spencer.

  "First," Spencer glanced at the meticulous notes, "I want to assure you that we do not abandon our own, even though you are on loan from the military." He had intended to inject a degree of levity, but no one smiled.

  "We can't enlist the military in any search-and-rescue effort," Spencer explained patiently, "because the operation would be exposed."

  He saw the look of concern on Palmer's face.

  "We are going to use Air America helicopters," Spencer confided, "to get you out . . . if you go down."

  Spencer watched their guarded reactions. "I told you we would get back to this subject.- He swiveled his chair. "Allison.

  "You are going to learn enough Russian," Allison assured them, "to be able to convince the North Vietnamese that you are Soviet advisers, if you land among the troops or civilians."

  The pilots glanced at each other with open suspicion.

  Brad spoke first. "I would assume, then . . . we're going to be flying around dressed as Russian pilots?"

  "That's right," Spencer declared.

  "Why are we taking our flight gear?" Brad asked.

  Allison fielded the question. "You are going to use your own torso harnesses and g suits, since Hank's crew modified the fittings. Your helmets will be painted to resemble the Soviet headgear." She smiled. "No problem with your boots, and you can use your flight suits to lounge in."

  "You'll have Soviet-style flight suits," Spencer informed them, "and Russian documents to help convince the people on the ground that you are Soviet instructor pilots."

  "Holy shit . . . Lex muttered.

  Brad and Nick shook their heads.

  "It's a last-gasp measure," Allison added, "to give you time to get to a remote place, so we can get in to rescue you."

  Austin caught Spencer's eye. "Cap, I'd like to go back to the subject of selectively stalking their best pilots."

  "Sure," Spencer encouraged. "Now is the time to ask questions, before we're neck deep in it."

  "Even if we have the descriptions of individual aircraft," Brad looked at Nick and Lex, "it's going to be a complete clusterfu--almost impossible to identify them in the turmoil of battle . . . unless we rendezvous on their wing."

  "That's right," Nick added. "It may look easy in theory, but in the real world, at least in my opinion, we'd be better off to take any MiG we can shoot."

  "Cap," Austin suggested politely, "if we can't locate and identify specific pilots quickly, I recommend that we go after any target of opportunity."

  Spencer pondered the advice. "I have the flexibility to do whatever is necessary to accomplish the mission, but for now, let's stick to the plan as Langley sees it."

  Brad shook his head, but remained quiet.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Brad followed Allison through the hangar light trap and stopped next to the sentry. The young man wore a .45-caliber handgun around his waist, and carried a small radio transmitter and receiver strapped over his shoulder.

  "Any problem," Brad politely asked, "if we take a walk out to the runway?"

  "No, sir," the guard assured him, and raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth. "Unit one to all posts. Captain Austin and Miss van Ingen will be walking the runway for . . ." He paused, looking to Brad.

  "Twenty minutes."

  ,,

  . . . approximately twenty minutes. Unit one will confirm when they return to the hangar. Copy?"

  When the posts had acknowledged, the sentry nodded his head. "You're all set, sir."

  "Thanks."


  Allison placed her hands in the pockets of her windbreaker and fell into step with Austin's leisurely pace.

  "Brad, I do want to apologize," she offered in a serious vein, "for having to deceive you and your friends. It's standard procedure when we recruit people who are not members of the Agency."

  "Apology accepted," Brad said flatly, "but I would like to know one thing."

  "What's that?" she said cautiously.

  "How did you manage to drink so many martinis and not fall flat on your . . . face?"

  Allison gave him a sly smile, then laughed. "I was drinking water. Throw in an olive, and the illusion is complete."

  "Very clever," Brad admitted. "Is Allison van Ingen your real name, or does everyone around here have false identities and phony backgrounds?"

  "Yes, it's my real name," she conceded, "and I am from Philadelphia. However, my family is not Main Line."

  "That's nice to know." Brad looked up at the bright moon and twinkling stars. "I mean, that your name is really Allison."

  A pause followed before she stopped and faced Brad. She smiled soothingly. "Is the girl who visited you--Leigh Ann--a steady girlfriend?"

  "I guess you could say so," Brad answered with a feeling of pride. "I'm planning to ask her to marry me when I rotate back to the States."

  Disappointment showed on Allison's face, but she managed a brave smile. "Congratulations."

  "Thank you."

  She cast a look at the sky. "I had hoped to have the opportunity to know you better myself "

  "Let's not spoil our newfound friendship," Brad suggested, giving Allison a brotherly hug around her shoulders.

  She smiled. "I don't give up easily, you know." There was a tone of warning in her voice.

  Brad looked down at her smooth, beautiful face. "I don't imagine you do," he replied with a lazy smile. "I'll bet you're a lady who is accustomed to getting her man."

  "Well," Allison said, acknowledging the compliment, "I'll have to admit that 'getting my man,' as you call it, has never been a problem for me."

  "Look, Allison," Brad said, taking her gently by the shoulders. "Let's keep our relationship on a friendly basis."

  "Oops," she teased. "I think I've just been jilted."