by Joe Weber
"Don't get me wrong," Spencer declared, sitting upright. "Whatever the relationship is . . . is none of my business, unless it affects our mission."
Spencer pulled out his pipe.
Brad started to tell Cap about his walk on the runway with Allison and their discussion about Leigh Ann, but he decided not to. He waited impatiently while Spencer lighted his pipe.
"Brad, I can't monitor your feelings or your actions," he paused to exhale the smoke, "but, believe me, the more you can keep your total concentration on our work, the better your chance of survival."
"Sir," Brad said, wishing there was an easier way to extract himself from the conversation, "I get the message."
"I'm relieved, Brad." Spencer smiled warmly. "Get some rest."
In the damp stillness of the early morning, Brad listened to Nick's uneven breathing. Believing his tentmate was having a nightmare, Brad reached across the aisle and prodded Palmer. Nick rolled onto his side and his breathing smoothed.
Brad listened to the buzzing sounds of the insects and reviewed the events of the last four days. The CIA reinforcements had arrived and the replacement helicopter had been flown to the field. The ferry pilots had remained overnight and flown back on the C-123.
Unable to sleep, Brad gazed at the top of the darkened tent. Spencer had finally been given permission to launch the MiG. Before midday, or shortly thereafter, Brad would be airborne in a MiG-17 over North Vietnam. This was going to be the first testing of the feasibility of Operation Achilles.
He let his mind drift to Leigh Ann, but could not afford to let himself dwell on her. Brad hoped that she would receive his letter and address at the Constellation Hotel in the next few days.
From Leigh Ann, his thoughts shifted to Allison. After his conversation with Spencer, Brad had purposely avoided Allison. He had spent most of his time around the MiG, except for a brief visit to the security command post. He had left feeling a renewed confidence in the combat-experienced ground officer and the men under his command. Over sixty percent of the security detail were former marine infantrymen.
"Ah, shit," Brad swore as he swatted a mosquito on his forearm. He checked the mosquito netting and pulled the drawstring tighter.
Clad only in his shorts, Brad felt sweaty and irritable. He heard Nick stir. "Are you awake?"
"Barely," Palmer uttered, then sneezed. "I hope I'm not coming down with malaria or some shit like that."
"You don't sound like a happy camper."
"This is ridiculous," Nick snorted.
"What?"
Palmer sat up and slapped a mosquito. "I joined the navy to fly from carriers, and I'm sitting in a goddamn mosquito-infested tent in the middle of shitville." He swatted his ankle. "Surrounded by thousands of gooks who would like nothing better than to kill me."
Brad reached up and cupped his hands behind his head. "Look at the bright side."
"Don't piss me off," Nick said curtly.
"You're not damaging your liver at the 0 club bar," Austin stated emphatically. "You'll probably live an extra ten years . . . if someone doesn't shoot you."
Brad heard Nick thrashing through his belongings. "What are you doing?"
"I'm trying to find my gun," he sneezed again, "so I can blow your worthless brains out."
Brad extended his arm. "Let me bum one of your cigarettes." "Since when did you start smoking?"
"Just give me the cigarette," Brad insisted. "Maybe, if we can create enough smoke, it'll drive these goddamn bloodsuckers out of here."
Nick lighted two cigarettes, handing one to Brad. "Are you nervous about today?"
"Naw," Austin replied, puffing steadily. "I normally stay awake all night."
Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
Alpha-29 sweltered in the soaring heat of midmorning when Brad stepped out of his tent. His flight suit, tailored to resemble a Russian flying garment, clung damply to his torso. He checked the security of his revolver and patted the pocket containing extra .38 rounds.
Brad paused to watch Hank Murray direct his men as they pulled the MiG out of the makeshift shelter. The aircraft had been painted in camouflage similar to that of MiG-17s stationed at Gia Lam, the highly active air base on the northeastern edge of downtown Hanoi.
Walking toward the Quonset hut, Brad glanced at his watch. The longer he waited to take off, the higher the air temperature would be. Each degree of heat would increase his takeoff distance. Another four degrees would place the MiG at the maximum limit for the altitude and length of the runway at Alpha-29. Weight was the critical factor, and Brad did not want to dump fuel before his takeoff roll. He would need every ounce of jet fuel Murray could squeeze into the tanks.
When he entered the Quonset hut, Hollis Spencer was hunched over a radio at the far end of the room. Nick Palmer was sitting at the briefing table with the helicopter pilots. Allison glanced up at him and smiled as she retrieved a piece of paper from her desk and sat down with the group of pilots.
"We've just received permission," she informed them in a steady voice, "to launch the MiG in coordination with a carrier-based strike at Phu Ly. The target is a major shipping and storage facility."
She handed Brad a chart with a line from the strike group coast-in point to the target.
Austin studied the map, noting that the attack pilots would cross the shoreline at Quan Phuong Ha on their way northwest to Phu Ly. He looked at a circle over the foothills west of Nam Dinh, then saw one to the east of Phu Ly.
"What do these circles represent?" Brad asked Allison.
Nick leaned closer, examining the circles and target area.
"That's where the fighter cover will orbit," Allison explained, pointing to the foothills. "Another group of fighters will be circling east of Phu Ly, over the Red River at Phu Vat."
Brad rose and looked at the relief map on the wall. "Nick, take a look at this."
Nick joined Austin and looked at the valley above Brad's finger. The valley and the river were ten miles west of the fighter escort near Nam Dinh.
"I'm going to stay below the ridge line," Brad explained as he examined the terrain near Nam Dinh, "because I can turn at each end . . . and stay on the deck until the right moment."
Nick measured the distance from Alpha-29 to the valley. He calculated the time to cover the ninety-five nautical miles at a fuel-saving speed. "If you don't have to deviate, you'll be there in twenty-five minutes."
The helicopter pilots stepped to the detailed map. Jimenez looked at the area around their holding point at Thiet Tra. "If you can stay in this area, we'll only be thirty-five to forty miles from you."
Brad gave him a thin smile. "That's easier said than done. If I get jumped by a couple of Fox-4s, or Crusaders, I'll be all over the place."
"If you'll have a seat," Allison suggested, "we can finish this before Cap joins us."
Everyone returned to the table while Brad spread his chart in front of him.
"The strike is planned for twelve forty-five," Allison looked at Brad, "so you'll have to take off at fifteen after the hour."
Brad computed the probable temperature and corresponding distance needed for the MiG to get safely airborne. "I'm going to be on the ragged edge, as far as the heat goes."
"You're the pilot," Allison asserted, "so it's your call."
Austin cracked a smile and looked her in the eye. "That's correct .. . fortunately."
Spencer placed his headset down and stepped through the entrance to the radio shack. "It's a twelve-fifteen go, Brad," he said excitedly. "Jot down these call signs," he instructed, glancing at his hastily written notes.
"Your call sign is Tabasco," he read while he seated himself next to Allison.
"The strike leader is Rock Crusher." Spencer adjusted the patch over his eye. "The west F-4s are Montana, and the F-8s east of Phu Ly are Sugarloaf "
Austin circled Tabasco and hurriedly wrote the other call signs on his dented kneeboard.
Spencer looked at Mitchell and Jimenez. "The SAR flight is Sa
ndy Five Seven. If you have to contact them, call the flight leader on Guard." Guard was the military emergency frequency, 243.0, which was monitored by a separate radio receiver in each aircraft, including helicopters.
"Brad," Spencer handed him the radio frequency for the strike group, "write that down."
Austin would use his number-one radio to monitor the strike aircraft, while the second radio would be tuned to the discrete frequency selected by Spencer. The frequency and MiG call sign would be changed for each mission.
"We'll do a radio check before takeoff " Spencer advised Brad, "and another as soon as you're airborne."
Brad gave him a dubious look, but remained quiet. If I get airborne. "Any questions?" Spencer asked, anxious to commence the covert operation. His nerves were beginning to fray.
"Yes," Brad answered with a calmness that belied the churning in his stomach. "What's the weather like?"
Chagrined, Spencer covered the oversight with a quiet laugh. "Sorry. The guessers said that you can anticipate cumulus buildups around the target area."
Brad exchanged a brief glance with Allison. Her soft brown eyes reflected her concern.
"Well," Brad shoved himself back from the table, "it's almost show-time. "
The surface of the MiG's skin was blistering hot when Brad peered into the bifurcated engine-air intake. He continued the preflight as he walked around the fighter and climbed into the cockpit. The metal on the canopy rail burned his hands, causing him to flinch. Next time, h e t hought, I'm going to have Murray keep the plane under the shelter until I'm ready to start the engine.
Palmer climbed the boarding ladder to help strap Brad into the ejection seat. "I was going to ride in the helo, but Cap gave me an emphatic no."
Brad looked up, wide-eyed. "Holy Christ, you're crazier than I am." Perspiring profusely, he donned his reconfigured helmet and checked his watch. Four minutes to go. Brad strapped on his knee-board and ran through the prestart checklist. He glanced at the hand-lettered asterisk at the bottom of the list, then felt the Russian identification papers in his breast pocket. The documents identified him as Kapitan Sergey K. Yefimov.
Nick patted him on the helmet. "Don't do anything stupid."
Brad gave him an incredulous look. "Do you think what I'm about to do is intelligent?"
"Put some Marine Corps on 'em," Nick said with gusto as he dismounted the ladder.
Brad rolled his eyes and energized the starter. He carefully watched the engine gauges while Nick carried the ladder to the MiG shelter. After a systems and flight-controls check, Hank Murray gave him a thumbs-up.
Brad taxied to the runway and turned toward the grass overrun. He wanted to have as much speed as possible before he reached the macadam.
He turned the MiG around and saw Jimenez and Mitchell climbing up the fuselage of the helicopter. Elvin Crowder, their scruffy-looking crew chief/gunner, was shutting the clamshell doors around the engine.
A crowd of curious onlookers had gathered in front of the Quonset hut. Brad watched the security troops crawl out of their foxholes. Most of them were eating their C-ration lunches. The big event was about to take place. The unexpected audience served only to heighten Brad's anxiety.
Switching the number-two radio to Alpha-29's discrete frequency, Brad keyed his microphone. "Alpha Base, Tabasco One, radio check.
"Tabasco," Spencer replied in a clear voice, "Alpha Bravo reads you loud and clear."
"Roger," Austin responded, rechecking his trim and flap settings. He looked through the armored-glass windscreen at the runway, noting the shimmering heat waves rising from the macadam. This was going to be a maximum-effort takeoff Brad smoothly advanced the throttle to the stop, waited until the engine spooled up to maximum power, checked the gauges, then released the brakes. "I'm on the roll."
Burdened with a heavy fuel load, the MiG accelerated slowly. The fighter bounced over the edge of the macadam and continued to gain speed at a sluggish rate.
After rolling 3,000 feet, Brad knew he was committed to attempt the takeoff If he tried to abort at this point, the MiG would overrun the grassy area and slam into the. trees near the winding stream. The resultant conflagration would consume the aircraft and pilot.
Brad watched the airspeed indicator as he neared the end of the runway. 80 . . . 85 . . . 90 . . . He stopped glancing at the airspeed as he prepared to time his rotation.
A half second from the end of the macadam, Brad snapped the control stick back. The fighter staggered into the air and wobbled twice. Brad gently eased the stick forward as the MiG mushed through the air. He slowly let out his breath. Holy Mother of Jesus .. .
Brad went through the procedure to raise the landing gear, then retracted the flaps. He kept the MiG in a shallow climb to allow it to accelerate to normal climb speed. Brad keyed the radio that was tuned to the discrete frequency.
"Tabasco One up."
"Five by five," Spencer replied briskly.
Brad would be able to monitor both the discrete and strike-group radio frequencies.
Keeping his climb profile shallow, Brad raced low over the tops of the trees. As his speed increased, Brad reduced the power setting to conserve fuel. Flying low used more fuel than climbing to a higher altitude, but he could not risk being discovered by radar.
Reaching the border of Laos, Brad topped a 5,850-foot mountain at an altitude of 6,000 feet. He smoothly lowered the nose and eased the throttle back. Brad intently scanned the skies as he entered the airspace over North Vietnam.
HANOI
Edmund Graham-Rawlings, a career CIA officer, adjusted the tripod under his Strobel binoculars. His identification card stated that he wa s a correspondent for the British Broadcasting Corporation. The CIA had, in fact, arranged to have an occasional story published in Britain to substantiate his role as a journalist.
The North Vietnamese officials had thoroughly checked the Englishman's background, finding that his published articles were unbiased and well-written. The Hanoi censors closely examined Graham-Rawlings's work, but found that he did not report anything objectionable. The officials were quite pleased that he portrayed the North Vietnamese government in a favorable light.
At three inches over six feet, with tousled snow-white hair, Graham-Rawlings looked the part of a distinguished journalist. Wire-framed glasses and an unfashionable sports coat, which he wore every day, capped the disguise.
He leaned down and looked at the aircraft ramp at the Gia Lam air base. His second-story apartment near the MiG field had taken a year and a half to acquire. After convincing the press corps officials that he needed to be close to the action, they offered him the apartment.
Although his view was partially blocked by another building, Graham-Rawlings could see over half of the flight line. Most important, he could watch for red stars on the fuselages of the MiGs as they taxied for takeoff.
The dimly lighted living room was sparsely furnished. A cluttered table with a manual typewriter was the centerpiece of the room.
Graham-Rawlings turned the binoculars' range-finding reticle to focus on the MiGs as they scrambled for the runway. He wrote down the side number of the MiG-17 with three red stars on the nose, then continued his inspection of the fighters.
He scribbled another four-digit number when an aircraft sporting two stars turned onto the runway. After scrutinizing the last MiG in the procession, Graham-Rawlings placed the binoculars in the bedroom closet.
He walked into the kitchen, emptied the contents of the refrigerator onto the cabinet, then tilted the appliance forty-five degrees against the wall. Enclosed in the false bottom was a radio with the capability to scramble his message to the EC-121 high over northern Laos.
ABOARD THE WARNING STAR
Lieutenant (junior grade) Gary Lawson heard the scrambler activate.
He yanked a government-issue pen from his flight-suit pocket and patiently waited.
After the garbled message was translated back to English, the junior officer transmitted it to
the new listening post in northeast Laos. MiGs were scrambling from the base at Gia Lam. He was curious why the side numbers of two MiGs were being sent to a listening post in Laos.
A moment later, Lawson received a message confirming that MiGs had taken off from Phuc Yen. Again, the side number of a particular aircraft was sent. This is a new twist, Lawson thought as he relayed the information.
ALPHA-29
Hollis Spencer wrote as fast and legibly as he could, then turned down the volume on the radio and hurriedly finished his notes. He checked the code twice to make sure that he had not made any mistakes.
Allison, nervously smoking a cigarette and chatting with Nick Palmer, continually checked her watch. Her gaze became fixed on the helicopter as the rotor blades developed a crescendo of noise.
The UH-34, delayed with a starter problem, clattered into the air and passed over the Quonset hut.
Spencer moved to another radio and adjusted the headset for that transmitter.
"Tabasco One. Tabasco One, stand by." He looked at the code and spoke slowly. "Kilo . . . Foxtrot . . . Papa . . . Zulu . . . Papa .. . Quebec . . . Mike . . ."
Allison walked to the door and stared across the stream while Spencer sent the rest of the message.
Nick walked to her side. "Don't worry, he'll be all right."
She turned and exchanged a smile with him. "I wish I could believe that."
Chapter TWENTY-SIX
Too low to take his eyes off the terrain and look down at his knee-board, Brad printed the first letter of each word in the phonetic alphabet. When Spencer finished, Austin keyed his mike. "Tabasco copy."
He raised the nose slightly, climbing to 300 feet above the rugged mountains. Brad quickly read the coded information. Two MiG-17s from Gia Lam with side numbers 3014 and 3022. One MiG-17 from Phuc Yen bearing the number 2531. They had one thing in common: red stars on their fuselages.
Monitoring both the discrete frequency and the strike frequency, Brad carefully scanned the horizon to the southeast. If the strike leader was on time, the A-4 Skyhawks would be crossing the shoreline. The radios remained eerily quiet.
