Targets of Opportunity (1993)

by Joe Weber

  Brad shook his head in amusement. "Shall we continue our walk?" "Yes," she answered eagerly.

  They walked quietly, absorbed in their own thoughts, until they reached the end of the runway. After a short pause, they turned to retrace their steps.

  "Tell me," Brad questioned, "how did a woman like you get involved with the CIA?"

  "It's a long story, but if you really want to know .. .

  "I Brad responded, more curious than ever.

  I come from a very wealthy family--not Main Line, as I told you--but wealthy."

  "So the Mercedes, the yacht, and all the trappings of wealth weren't really an act for you."

  "No." She laughed softly. "My life, before I joined the Agency, was a series of beauty pageants, debutante balls, and dating only the right people from the right families."

  Brad detected a tone of rebellion in her voice.

  "When I finished college," Allison looked at Brad, "all my friends were marrying into the right families . . . or buying vans, painting flowers on them, and joining communes."

  Allison paused, unsure if Brad really wanted to hear this, or if he was just being courteous.

  "Please," Brad said enthusiastically, "don't leave me hanging."

  "Well," she continued, "to make a long story short, I inherited a trust fund from my grandfather. With my future financially secure, I practiced my own kind of rebellion and joined the CIA."

  "Just like that," Brad questioned, "you gave up the good life . . . for this?"

  "That's right," Allison declared, feeling the need to explain further.

  "I could be Mrs. Something-or-other the Third right now," she confided in a haughty voice, "but I have never respected men who had it all handed to them, with their parents ensuring their future."

  Allison hesitated, expecting some response. When he remained quiet, she continued.

  "Brad, people like you are real. You did it on your own, like the vast majority of people I work with in the Agency. Mom and Dad didn't buy your bars or wings for you. Men like you are exciting and alive."

  "Well," Brad acknowledged, "I will say that my job is certainly different."

  "Then you understand what I mean."

  "Yes, I think so."

  "I guess I have always had a bit of a rebellious streak," she admitted, "but I worked hard for my degree in international affairs, and the work I have done for the CIA has been very challenging. I had my first, falling-out with my family when I got a job--against my parents wishes--during college."

  "What do your parents think about your profession now?" Brad inquired and tossed her a quick glance.

  "As you might imagine," Allison conceded, "they never have approved of my choice of careers."

  "I'm not surprised," Brad replied as they approached the darkened hangar.

  "Thanks for the opportunity to talk," Allison said as they stopped on the ramp, just out of earshot of the sentry.

  "My pleasure."

  "Brad Austin," Allison kissed him lightly on the cheek, "you're really a nice guy."

  "Thank you," Brad replied awkwardly, aware that the guard was probably watching them.

  Strapped into the cockpit of the MiG, Brad waved at Nick Palmer in the Phantom next to his left wing. He checked the instrument panel and clicked the microphone. "You there, in the clear-air converter, ready to go?"

  "Shoot it the juice, Bruce," Palmer goaded him.

  Brad could see the cluster of people on the hangar ramp. They would be closely monitoring the conversations between Nick and himself

  Allison's smile flashed in his mind's eye as he advanced the throttle. Every time he saw her, or talked to her, he had a pang of guilt. Leigh Ann would definitely not have approved of their evening walk.

  The MiG lifted from the runway, and Brad went through the exercise to raise the landing gear. A minute later, Palmer rendezvoused on his wing and inspected the MiG.

  "All the parts are still in place," Nick observed, sliding under the fighter, "and I don't see any leaks."

  Brad examined his engine instruments. "It looks like the fire is still lighted."

  "I'm coming out at your three o'clock."

  Brad looked past his right wingtip. "Nick, let's set up for a horizontal turning engagement, and see if I can get away."

  "What altitude do you want?"

  Brad banked right to remain in the restricted airspace. "Fourteen thou," he answered.

  Fourteen thousand feet would give Palmer an opportunity to maximize the Phantom's turning capability.

  "Roger, fourteen."

  They remained quiet until the jets leveled at altitude and accelerated to 370 knots. Both pilots scanned the clear skies, searching for intruders in the restricted airspace.

  "Okay," Brad radioed, "angle off, and come back into me. Hard deck is ten thousand."

  They would break off at 10,000 feet, terminating the engagement for reasons of safety.

  Nick clicked his microphone switch twice and racked the F-4 over ninety degrees.

  Brad started a slow turn away, then saw Palmer snap-roll the Phantom back into the MiG.

  "Fight's on!" Nick announced.

  Watching the airspeed build while he lowered the MiG's nose, Brad waited until he saw 420 knots before pulling into the vertical. Although everyone had agreed not to exceed 400 knots, Brad knew he had a little cushion before the MiG went uncontrollable. He would need every possible advantage if he was going to defeat the Phantom. Nick Palmer was heralded as one of the most talented fighter pilots in the fleet.

  Palmer came up with him, canopy to canopy. The fight developed into a rolling scissors as Brad tried to muscle the MiG behind the F-4. As the two aircraft slowed, Brad used the rudders to nibble away at Palmer's advantage. He slow-rolled the MiG to counter the maneuvers of the powerful F-4.

  Nick suddenly snapped the nose of the Phantom down, allowing him to disengage and gain speed and separation.

  Floating weightlessly, Brad waited until the last possible moment, then performed a hammerhead turn and shot straight down toward the parched desert below.

  "Not bad," Palmer groaned, horsing the Phantom's nose up again, "for a tank driver with two left feet."

  "Yeah," Brad countered, "I've got a tally on you. Better check six."

  Using the stick extender, Brad pulled steadily until he was in the pure vertical. A second later, Nick popped his speed brakes and went to idle, hoping his adversary would overshoot.

  Anticipating the stratagem, Brad rolled the MiG ninety degrees and pulled into the F-4 with all his strength. Without the help of hydraulically boosted controls, Austin was feeling the physical strain. The earth and sky rotated as he performed an aileron roll.

  "Jesus!" Palmer gasped, fearing an imminent midair collision. He violently shoved the stick forward as Brad passed over the top of the Phantom. "Yeah," Nick sucked oxygen, "I think that'll work . . . you crazy bastard."

  "This is not a contest," Spencer broadcast. "We want to evaluate the MiG . . . not crash it."

  Two clicks sounded over the hangar loudspeaker.

  The fight continued with each pilot gaining a small advantage, then losing it when the other countered each maneuver. Their instincts and dexterity were finely honed by hundreds of hours of training and experience. In their three-dimensional world, the pilots did not relate to the sky or ground. Each man concentrated solely on his opponent, anticipating the pilot's next move.

  On the fourth engagement the aircraft met nose-to-nose. The two fighters flashed past each other with a combined closure rate of 1,100 miles per hour.

  Austin placed his feet on the lower instrument panel and pulled with both hands. He heard a loud pop, but the MiG responded to his inputs. A flicker of sunlight glinted from Palmer's Phantom as he forced the F-4 into a punishing turn.

  Brad rolled the MiG 120 degrees, then yanked on the stick with all of his strength. Slowly the MiG gained a turning advantage on the heavier American fighter. Austin was within seconds of being in a tracking and
firing position when Palmer departed the Phantom.

  Watching the F-4 tumble end-over-end, Brad released the pressure on the stick and placed his feet on the rudders. He let the MiG zoom skyward while he rolled inverted to see if Palmer would be able to recover the Phantom.

  Brad watched Nick regain control of the fighter as he snatched the nose of the MiG down, diving at the F-4.

  "Nice move," Brad panted, feeling the perspiration soak his forehead, "but now you don't know where I am."

  "Knock it offl. Knock it of Palmer radioed when he reached 10,000 feet.

  "Roger," Brad acknowledged, glancing at his altimeter. "Let's try twenty thousand."

  The radio remained quiet for a brief moment.

  "Negative," Palmer replied excitedly. "I've just lost my PC-1. The hydraulic system is going south on me."

  "Okay," Brad calmly replied, "let's get it on the ground."

  Spencer remained silent, listening to the pilots as Allison and Hank Murray moved closer to the loudspeaker.

  Nick closely watched his secondary and utility hydraulic systems while he slowed the malfunctioning Phantom. He waited until he was a mile and a half from the runway to lower the flaps and landing gear.

  "Looking good," Brad encouraged, flying next to the F-4. "You've got it made."

  "I hope."

  When the Phantom slammed into the runway, Brad added power and turned downwind.

  He went through the time-consuming process of lowering the landing gear. His thoughts drifted to Allison and the fact that she would be going to Laos with them. If he did not mention it to Leigh Ann, would she find out? Could he innocently neglect to tell her . . . because Allison was not important to him?

  Brad completed his landing checklist as he turned on final. Why was he consumed by Allison? Was he refusing to acknowledge that he was attracted to her?

  "Concentrate on what you're doing," Brad admonished himself as he flared the MiG, "before you bust your ass."

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  The temperature in the hangar was becoming unbearable. Engrossed in a detailed map of northeastern Laos, Brad sat across from Nick Palmer. He had memorized the topography of the region, paying special attention to the preferred routes from the clandestine airfield into North Vietnam. Alpha-29, Brad had noticed, was in a remote section of mountainous terrain.

  Palmer was examining aerial photographs of the airfields at Kep, Gia Lam, Bai Thuong, Kien An, Hoa Lac, and Phuc Yen. The intelligence brief attached to the photographs stated that the most experienced MiG pilots were stationed at Kep and Phuc Yen. The CIA document, compiled during the previous month, reported that an increasing number of experienced Russian fighter pilots were augmenting the North Vietnamese Air Force.

  "Brad," Nick said, looking around to make sure they were alone. "Could I ask you a personal question?"

  "Sure," Brad responded, narrowing his eyes. "What's on your mind?"

  "I know you and Allison went for a walk on the runway last night .. . and I was wondering--"

  Brad laughed, then looked through the open door. "Nick, there's nothing going on, believe me. Allison is a friend--that's all."

  Palmer gave Brad a questioning look. "She sure seems to be attracted to you."

  "Nick," Brad reassured him, "Allison knows how I feel about Leigh Ann. I consider Allison a friend--there's nothing else to it, as far as I'm concerned."

  "You're sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure," Brad responded emphatically. "Why the third degree about Allison?"

  "Well," Nick declared, "if she's fair game, I'm going to make a play for her."

  "That's your decision," Brad replied. "I sure as hell don't want to screw up my relationship with Leigh Ann."

  "I wouldn't either, if I were in your shoes." Nick smiled broadly. "Allison will be a challenge."

  "I'm sure it will be an interesting experience."

  Brad looked up when he heard Hollis Spencer call Lex Blackwell. A moment later, Spencer and Allison walked into the briefing room, followed by Blackwell.

  "Before we get started," Spencer happily announced, "I want to let you know that Grady is doing well. He is in good spirits, and able to converse with the doctors. They are concerned about his lower right leg, but confident they won't have to amputate."

  "Would it be okay," Brad replied, "if we stop by Friday afternoon and visit with Grady?"

  "I'm afraid not," Spencer grimaced. "We can't risk the chance of even the most innocent questions by his parents or hospital staff. Evasive answers can be as damaging as a real leak. I think you can understand."

  "You don't trust us, and I don't blame you," Brad admitted, "but will you tell him that we're thinking about him . . . that we haven't abandoned him?"

  "Sure," Spencer assured them, adding, "You could send him a card--he'll understand."

  Brad darted a look at his friends. "We'll do that."

  Palmer seated Allison, who replied with a pleasant "Thank you, Nick."

  "Gentlemen," Spencer said as he took his seat, "I want to give you an update, so we can prepare for our departure."

  Brad noticed the message form Allison placed on the table.

  "We have been instructed," Spencer informed them, "to expedite Operation Achilles. As I explained before, the MiG will be disassembled this weekend."

  Allison gave Austin a hint of a smile, which no one detected except Brad.

  "Lex, you will be going out on a military transport on Sunday. Plan to revert to being in the navy at that point."

  Blackwell appeared relieved.

  "We're going to fly you to Travis early Sunday morning. From there, you'll take the red-eye to Okinawa, where you will catch a hop to Cubi Point, then out to Coral Sea."

  Spencer consulted the paper lying in front of him. "From that point, the navy is going to fly you from carrier to carrier, then drop you in Da Nang. After that, the air force wants you to make a tour. When you are finished with the briefs, you are to report, in civilian clothes, to the Air America headquarters in Vientiane."

  Spencer paused while Blackwell jotted the instructions on a legal pad. "Use your false identification at this point, and simply ask for me. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Nick and Brad," Spencer said as he looked at the two pilots, "will fly commercially to Hong Kong. You will leave on separate flights .. . Nick on Sunday and Brad on Monday. Allison has all the details."

  Brad gave her a brief look.

  "You'll have a layover in Hong Kong," Spencer continued, "before you catch an Air America flight to our base in Vientiane. Any questions?"

  "Yes, sir," Brad replied. "What about the apartment?"

  "Turn in the keys and lock the doors," Spencer advised, looking at Allison. "Are the leases being taken care of?"

  "Everything has been arranged," she answered, then added, "And you can turn in your rental cars at Los Angeles International--where your flights depart. Your tickets will be at the Pan Am counter."

  "I have some additional intel while we're here." Spencer opened his tattered manila folder. "Our observers close to the MiG bases are compiling a thorough log that describes the MiGs you will be hunting."

  Palmer clicked his ballpoint pen. "Is there anything in particular--anything that distinguishes their best pilots' aircraft from the rank and file?"

  "Yeah," Blackwell advised in an unusually serious tone, "the bright red stars painted on the sides of their fuselages."

  Nick shot Lex a look of annoyance. "Lexter, in deference to Allison, I'm going to save my remarks for later."

  Allison smiled while Spencer shuffled through his folder. "There is an element of truth in what Lex pointed out." He found the series of attached photographs.

  "Here," Spencer spread the pictures on the table, "you can see that the MiGs vary in color, side number, markings, and configuration .. . as far as weapons are concerned."

  Brad noticed particularly one MiG-17 with seven red stars forward of the canopy. "Do they know who the pilot is . . . who flies th
is one?" he said, pointing.

  Spencer glanced at the black-and-white photograph. "We believe it is flown by Colonel Tomb, their red-hot ace."

  Brad nodded and made a mental note of the MiG's side number. "Cap, I still think that we're making a mistake by trying to identify and selectively kill individual pilots, instead of taking any target of opportunity. The concept is too haphazard."

  "We are confident in your ability," Spencer retorted impatiently, "and we are confident that our people can pass the information about individual pilots to you. That's what Langley wants, and that's what we're going to attempt to accomplish."

  Austin reacted calmly. "Cap, you've flown fighters. Do you really believe it's going to be so cut-and-dried?"

  "What I think," Spencer countered stiffly, "is that we're going to make every effort to accomplish our objective."

  Spencer turned to his assistant. "Allison has some additional info for you."

  "You may want to take notes," Allison suggested, noting Brad's jaw muscles tighten, "but you will be thoroughly briefed when we get to our destination . . . Alpha-29."

  The pilots dutifully prepared to write notes.

  "The only armament you will carry," she reminded them, "will be the two Mark-12 cannons that have been adapted to fit the gun pods." Brad caught the quick glance from Allison.

  "Your missions," she confided, "will be coordinated with massive U. S. air strikes. The powers in Washington want as many MiGs in the air, and as much confusion as possible, so you can do as much damage as possible . . . without being detected by the North Vietnamese."

  That's great, Brad thought while he watched Spencer. Dozens of aircraft going in every direction, while we try to locate selected pilots and watch our asses at the same time.

  He shifted his gaze to Allison. She was all business, but Brad found her completely alluring. Allison definitely was not window dressing.

  She was obviously an expert in handling covert military missions, even if the planning had been done by others.

  "You will take off," she underlined a paragraph on the operations order, "prior to daylight, remain low to avoid radar, infiltrate North Vietnam, and orbit over sparsely populated areas."

  "Excuse me," Palmer interrupted. "Isn't it going to look a little strange--to the farmers and so forth--to see an aircraft roaring around a hundred feet above the ground?"