Targets of Opportunity (1993)

by Joe Weber

  Chase mumbled and leaned toward the cockpit entrance. Brad noticed a bullet hole in the shattered sliding window, then tugged Mitchell free of his seat. Palmer grabbed the pilot's legs and helped Brad carry him clear of the smoldering wreckage. Rudy Jimenez blazed a trail for them until the foursome was well clear of the helicopter.

  Exhausted by the heat and humidity, Brad and Nick gently lowered Chase to the ground and sagged to the grass with Rudy Jimenez. Brad noticed that both helo pilots had various scratches and cuts on their faces and arms.

  "Chase," Brad began slowly, catching his breath, "are you okay? Can you talk?"

  Mitchell moved his arms and legs, then inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly. "Nice landing, huh?"

  A slanted smile crossed Rudy's face. "Yeah, the lucky bastard is okay, as usual."

  Brad and Nick gave the copilot a curious look.

  "We've gone about . . ." Jimenez paused to count, "five weeks since the last crash."

  Palmer laughed nervously and rolled on his back. "That certainly bolsters my confidence."

  They rested for a minute while their initial shock subsided. Mitchell propped himself up and leaned against a tree. He had a steady trickle of blood from his nose, but otherwise appeared to be okay.

  Nick looked at Brad. "Should we get the machine gun out of the helo?"

  "No," Mitchell cautioned, glancing up through the jungle canopy. The telltale smoke from the crashed helicopter was rising straight into the sky. "The bastards who shot us down are on their way here . . . you can count on it."

  Brad patted the .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver in his shoulder holster. "We need to get the hell out of here, and our little cap pistols are all we've got."

  Austin moved closer to the helicopter pilots. "How far are we from the runway?"

  Mitchell rubbed his neck muscles. "About two miles--maybe a little farther," he responded, shifting his gaze to Jimenez, "wouldn't you say, Rodeo?"

  "At least, from my perspective."

  The helicopter suddenly burst into flames, sending black clouds of smoke rising through the dense foliage.

  "Let's move out," Brad ordered, glancing at the flattened and burning UH-34, "before we have company."

  Austin swiftly rose to his feet. "Chase, you and Rudy take the lead. We don't have any idea what you were seeing when you went down."

  Brad handed Jimenez his survival knife and the copilot began the arduous task of chopping his way through the undergrowth. After negotiating two hundred yards of jungle, the pilots were exhausted.

  "Shit," Palmer swore under his breath as they again moved forward through the dense growth. "I wish I hadn't cut the legs off my goddamn flight suit."

  Brad suddenly stopped. "Rudy, hold it! Stop!"

  Ashen-faced, Jimenez stopped in his tracks and turned. "What's wrong?"

  "I just remembered what Cap told me," Brad said evenly. "The airfield is surrounded by mines. Take it real easy and slow . . . and maybe we can make voice contact with the security troops.

  "I feel a lot better now," Jimenez replied with a touch of sarcasm. "You're the goddamn marine, so why don't you come up here and lead us to the runway?"

  "I'll be happy to," Brad answered firmly, "since we've got the general direction established."

  After twenty-five minutes, Palmer heard a sound. "Brad," he whispered loudly. "Stop!"

  Austin motioned for everyone to hit the ground. He sheathed the survival knife and drew his revolver.

  Belly-crawling through the thick tangle, Austin reached a small clearing on slightly higher ground from which he could scan the immediate area. Nothing.

  Brad's scratched legs were beginning to bleed, and he could feel the sting of a mosquito bite. A ground beetle crawled across his neck, but he forced himself to ignore it.

  Austin stiffened at the sound of voices. The conversation was muffled, but clearly audible and growing closer. He waited, clutching the Smith & Wesson while he strained to hear the words.

  With a growing sense of apprehension, Brad caught a slight movement to his right. He cautiously looked and froze in terror. A dark snake, three feet in length, slithered toward him.

  Brad involuntarily recoiled and started crawling backward. He instinctively pointed the revolver at the reptile, then stopped himself from pulling the trigger. He felt a knot in his chest as he reached for the survival knife.

  The snake momentarily stopped, eyeing Brad before continuing to advance toward him. Austin forced himself to be patient, waiting until the black snake was almost within his reach. Brad lunged forward, driving the sharp blade through the snake and into the soil. Pinned to the ground, the reptile violently thrashed back and forth while Brad crawled away.

  The voices he had heard were closer now, and the men were moving rapidly. Austin could hear the sound of a machete as it sliced through the vegetation.

  Brad cautiously rose and saw a shadowy form wearing a camouflaged helmet. Brad hesitated, thinking the small man was walking the point for a CIA security squad. Surely they had seen the black smoke and were heading toward the downed helicopter.

  Austin started to hail the soldier at the same moment that he recognized the AK-47 assault rifle. The man was a scout for a Pathet Lao or NVA patrol.

  Paralyzed for the moment, Brad searched for an escape route, then realized there was no way to avoid the scout.

  With his legs spread out awkwardly, Austin gripped his revolver in both hands and aimed for the man's chest. With his heart pounding, Brad waited for a clear shot. How many soldiers were in the patrol?

  He inhaled slowly, held his breath, and gently squeezed the trigger twice. The soldier stumbled backward in wide-eyed astonishment, twisted around, and staggered against a tree.

  The two gunshots set off a scene of mass confusion. Amid the screaming and yelling, Brad jumped up and raced back to the other pilots.

  "This way!" Austin pointed as a dozen shots rang through the air. "Head straight through there and keep moving!"

  Petrified, Nick paused. "What are you going to do?"

  "Move it!" Brad ordered as Jimenez and Mitchell thrashed into the deep foliage. "I'll catch up!"

  Austin turned to fire another round and heard shooting in the distance. He could distinguish sporadic rifle fire between the bursts from at least two machine guns.

  When four soldiers reached their fallen comrade, Brad braced himself and fired two rounds at the group. Not waiting to see the results, Austin chased after the other pilots.

  With his lungs heaving, Brad plunged through the tangled jungle. He tried to estimate the distance to the airfield, but his mind kept focusing on the fact that they had to traverse a mine field to reach the runway.

  Fighting an insidious feeling of panic, Brad stumbled and fell. He yanked his spare rounds of .38-caliber ammunition out of his chest pocket, reloaded his revolver, and scrambled to his feet.

  Brad could hear the thrashing and yelling behind him as he lunged forward. Cut and bleeding, Austin smashed his way through the foliage. His eyes burned from salty perspiration and his lungs were on fire.

  A stream of gunfire erupted, ripping through the trees next to him. Fragments of leaves fell on Brad as he tripped over Rudy Jimenez and sprawled on his stomach.

  "We're going to stick together!" Nick shouted, firing in unison with Chase Mitchell. Jimenez boldly went to his knees and fired at the enemy.

  Unable to speak, Brad crawled around and aimed at their pursuers. Time seemed to slow while Austin carefully made each round count. His instinct for survival won out over the growing panic.

  Brad saw three brown faces maneuvering to flank the outnumbered and outgunned pilots. The staccato sound of machine-gun fire startled Austin. Recognizing the familiar sound of an M-60, Brad squeezed off two rounds at the advancing men. One of the soldiers jerked backward and started screaming.

  A fusillade of gunfire erupted as Brad again pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He frantically reached for the last few rounds in his pocket whi
le Nick and Chase fired at the main cluster of men.

  "They're retreating!" Jimenez exclaimed, firing the last of his ammunition. "They're--"

  His statement was interrupted by a burst of gunfire that shredded the trees and foliage next to them.

  "Those are our guys!" Brad shouted, and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Cease fire! Cease fire!"

  Another short burst slammed into the trees, showering debris over them.

  "Goddamnit, we're Americans!" Austin yelled at the top of his lungs. "Cease fire!"

  The pilots heard the same order in the distance.

  Chase twisted around to face Brad and Nick. "That's Spencer . . thank God."

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  A combined feeling of relief and tension permeated the air in the Quonset hut. The pilots were as grateful for their safety as they were alarmed at the factors that caused the crash.

  Palmer and Austin had had a lengthy conversation about the close proximity of the Communist troops. Both felt they had been deceived by Spencer, or at least had not been told the whole truth. No one had mentioned that Alpha-29 was located in the heart of Pathet Lao territory.

  Jimenez and Mitchell, familiar with the region, obviously had known about the risks, but no one had explained the situation to the MiG pilots.

  "Cap," Austin's glance strayed to Allison, "we need more troops and firepower here. We're sitting in the middle of a potential massacre, and the Pathet Lao don't operate in compliance with the Geneva Accords. "

  Spencer heard the message loud and clear. "That's why we have the security people spread around the compound. Your job," he said without any visible sign of belligerence, "is to fly the MiG, nothing else."

  The only sound in the room came from the fan.

  Brad's eyes narrowed. "We just got blown out of the sky less than three miles from here. It certainly got my attention, and I think we should reconsider our security options . . . while we still have them."

  "I understand your concern," Spencer replied slowly, and this is a dangerous mission, but you knew that when you volunteered. You're not here in an advisory capacity," he informed Brad, adding, "and you would do well to remember that. Just fly the MiG."

  Austin bristled. "May I at least make some suggestions? Just between us?"

  "We'll be right back," Spencer announced, sliding his chair back. He followed Austin out the door, and they walked halfway to the camouflaged runway.

  Brad was aware that Hank Murray and his men had stopped working, curious about what was happening. When he cast a look in their direction, they pretended to continue with their maintenance chores.

  "Captain Austin," Spencer snapped, "you're about a heartbeat away from a one-way ticket out of here."

  "I don't really give a shit," Brad flared. "I'm going to tell you what I think, then you can make any goddamn decision you want.

  "First," Austin began boldly, "we need at least double the number of troops you've got out here, and a couple of gunships would be nice, if we come under attack.

  "Secondly," he continued in a lower tone, "why in the hell do you have a woman out here in the middle of a war zone? Christ, any of us could operate the radios."

  Spencer gave him a challenging look. "Allison has a lot of experience with these types of operations, and the two of us are the only ones who have a clearance to receive the strike messages. We're CIA--you're on loan."

  Brad paused, then laughed curtly. "Yeah, that makes sense. The rest of us are certainly security risks."

  Placing his hands on his hips, Spencer gazed down the runway before facing Brad.

  "Austin, I'm going to tell you this just one goddamn time. I'm in charge of this operation, and you are going to get into compliance, or I'm going to ship your ass back to Da Nang."

  "I don't think you want to do that," Brad retorted, staring into Spencer's eyes, "because you need me more than I need you, for the time being."

  "Don't bet on it," Spencer bridled, then turned for the Quonset hut.

  "You must've really hit his hot button," Nick commented while he sat on his cot.

  Brad rolled on his back and let his legs dangle from the end of his collapsible bed. "I hope I did. It doesn't take an intellectual giant to figure out that we're sitting ducks if we're attacked . . . and this is the last place he should have brought Allison."

  Palmer's eyebrows lifted. "Do I detect that your budding 'friendship' with Allison is growing into something more than a friendship?"

  Hearing a clanking noise, Brad swung his legs around and pushed himself to a sitting position.

  "May I come in?" Allison asked, holding two loaded M-16 rifles and two magazines.

  "Sure," Nick answered enthusiastically, then slid to the end of his cot. "Have a seat."

  "Cap wanted you to have these," she declared, handing each pilot a rifle and an extra magazine.

  "Thanks," Brad said, propping his weapon in the corner. "I'll feel more secure," he said with genuine appreciation, "having something other than my six-shooter with which to defend myself"

  "That's what Cap thought."

  Brad gave Palmer a crooked smile. "Nick, do you know which end to point?"

  Palmer laughed amiably and checked the safety. "I'll probably figure it out, smart-ass."

  Allison reached into the pocket of her khaki blouse and extracted two containers of first-aid cream. "I got these from our corpsman. He said to apply a liberal amount on your cuts and scratches."

  "Thanks," Brad replied, "and hadn't we better give one of these to Rudy and Chase?"

  "I already gave a tube to each of them." Allison looked around the disheveled tent, taking in the wrinkled Playboy magazine on the empty ammunition box. The olive-drab canvas tent was army surplus and well-worn. A pair of jeans and three flight suits hung from a line tied along the roof of the shelter. "Who's your interior decorator?"

  "We share the responsibility." Brad smiled, applying the cream. "It's a special talent we have."

  "Brad," Allison said with a serious look, "do you have a few minutes? I would like to talk to you."

  "Sure."

  Palmer quietly coughed and got to his feet. "I know when I'm not wanted."

  "You don't have to leave," she assured him.

  "Actually," Nick confided, "I'm going to see if I can gag down some of the C-rats."

  Allison waited until she and Brad were alone, then gazed at him for a long period of time.

  "Brad," she said at last, "I know you had a falling-out with Cap . . . and I've been concerned about it."

  Austin silently nodded and placed the top on the ointment container.

  "Yes," he responded glumly, "and I suppose I'll have to apologize to him. I've had a lot on my mind, and the crash triggered my pent-up emotions."

  Allison sensed that Brad was not going to volunteer much more of his real feelings to her.

  "I appreciate your concern for me," she admitted, wanting to touch Brad and confide in him.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Cap told me about your concern for my safety." Allison waited for a reaction, but Brad remained impassive.

  Brad sat back. "And?"

  "I told him I want to do my job with the rest of you," she declared, "but I agree with you. We need more security."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Did you tell him that?"

  "No," she conceded, "but he did confer with the security commander. He's a former marine company commander."

  Brad held his response in deference to the experienced ground officer. Although Austin had the fundamental training to be a platoon commander, he had never actually commanded troops in the field.

  "Well," he said stiffly, "I'm confident they'll make the right decisions."

  Allison studied Brad for a moment. "You mentioned that you've had a lot on your mind. Do you want to talk about it?"

  "Not particularly." Brad chuckled. "It's just been one of those days." "It's Leigh Ann, isn't it?" she inquired coolly.

  "Yes," Brad answered truthfully, "and yo
u."

  Allison felt an underlying excitement. "What about me?"

  Brad grew cautious. "Allison, I appreciate your efforts to smooth things over." He rose from his cot. "I'm going to see Cap and apologize." "Okay," she replied, concealing her disappointment. "Perhaps w e c an talk later."

  He felt a compelling desire to speak freely to her, but he resisted. "Sure."

  The fan was humming at full blast when Brad entered the warm Quonset hut. Hollis Spencer was seated at one of the four radios, hiving a brisk conversation. He motioned for Austin to have a seat.

  Brad sat down next to the long table that dominated the middle of the room. He felt conspicuous as he waited for Spencer to conclude his conversation. Brad idly inspected the relief maps on the wall until Spencer signed off and removed his headset.

  Austin rose from his chair. "Cap, I want to apologize." He extended his hand. "I have no excuse for my behavior this afternoon."

  Spencer shook Brad's hand. "Let's put it behind us. Have a seat, and I'll fill you in on the latest."

  After Spencer sat at his desk, he opened a lower drawer and propped his boots on it. "We've got another thirty troops arriving tomorrow afternoon."

  "Great." Brad could not suppress his grin. "I really think we'll need them . . . if anything happens."

  "However, the UH-34s--they're scrambling to get another one--will be the only air cover we'll have."

  "Cap, I appreciate your efforts," Brad responded, adding wryly, "and we'll do the best we can with what we've got."

  Spencer observed Austin, then picked up a pencil and absently tapped the eraser on his desk.

  "Brad, I know you've had one hell of a day--all of you--but I'd like to discuss a personal matter," he paused, "if you don't mind."

  Austin tensed in anticipation. "What is it?"

  "Allison hasn't said anything to me." Spencer said, and smiled politely. "Hell, she doesn't have to. I've known her for a long time, and it is obvious to me, and probably everyone else, that she has fallen for you."

  Maintaining his composure, Brad searched for a response. "I recognize that, Cap, but she knows that I have a relationship with someone else."