by Joe Weber
Before Palmer could answer, Hank Murray stepped through the door. His wet utilities were plastered to his overweight body.
Cap Spencer glanced at him. "How's the MiG?"
"I'm afraid it's going to be down for a few days." He slid a chair out and sank into it. "We've found the problem with the cannons, but we're going to have to repair or replace the attach points for the nose-gear strut.
Murray turned his attention to Palmer. "Lieutenant, you're lucky to be here."
Appearing to be unfazed by the remark, Nick remained quiet. He was not about to ask why.
"We've got five holes to patch," Murray continued, "and one of them is less than two inches above a fuel line."
Palmer shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but kept his poise and remained silent.
Spencer evaluated the situation, knowing that if Langley approved the plan to strike the airfields, he wanted to move swiftly. "Do you have the necessary equipment to repair the nose gear?"
"No," Murray answered glumly. "We can jury-rig it, but a hard landing would collapse the strut and damage the cannons . . . beyond what we could repair here. I need to send the strut to Vientiane so a brace can be fabricated. In the meantime, we can patch the MiG and do some preventive maintenance."
Spencer rose and walked to the front entrance. He looked at the rain and low overcast for a moment before turning to Murray. "I'll contact Vientiane and have an aircraft standing by," he fumed impatiently. "As soon as this goddamn weather clears, we'll get a one-twenty-three in here." Spencer had already decided to request that a C-123 Provider be stationed at Alpha-29.
Rudy Jimenez could not resist the opportunity. "Cap, since the MiG is going to be down, how about if we--"
Spencer interrupted him with an understanding smile and a wave of his hand. "All of you, including Allison, could use some time of Just be damn sure that you're ready to leave Vientiane the minute the strut is fixed.
No one tried to conceal their excitement.
Chapter THIRTY-ONE
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Dennis Tipton hurried toward the office of the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Tipton, recently promoted to the position of director for operations, sometimes called the "Department of Dirty Tricks," was a highly respected intelligence analyst who had a reputation for gleaning critical information from the most unlikely sources.
He had the responsibility for overseeing the Agency's various clandestine operations, such as counterintelligence, recruitment of defectors, political intervention, espionage missions, and covert actions like Operation Achilles. He was the primary link to the Agency's wide array of field officers.
Conservative by nature, Dennis Tipton was dressed in a dark-gray suit and plain black shoes. Of average stature, he wore bow ties and wire-rimmed bifocals. The thick lenses made his sensitive blue eyes look out of proportion to his gaunt face. An avid tennis player, Tipton maintained a trim physique for a man in his late forties. His graying hair and receding hairline were the only obvious clues to his age.
The son of a wealthy attorney from Topeka, Kansas, Tipton had attended Culver Military Academy, and later graduated from Harvard. After serving a stint as an intelligence officer in the army, Tipton was hooked by the intrigue of research and analysis in the intelligence community.
Upon leaving the army, he applied to the CIA and was accepted as an apprentice analyst. Tipton quickly distinguished himself by displaying an uncanny ability to dissect a plethora of seemingly unrelated data and draw accurate conclusions. His rise through the ranks in the CIA had been a textbook case of how to balance an eccentric personality with patient diplomacy. Dennis Tipton was one of the few people who had worked in both the analysis and operations sides of the Agency.
When Tipton reached the office suite of Drexel McCormick, he had time for only a glance at the Potomac River before McCormick's secretary announced his arrival and ushered Tipton into the spacious office.
The deputy director of the CIA motioned for Tipton to have a seat while he concluded his telephone conversation.
Drexel McCormick was a tough-talking, back-room politician who had bulldozed his way to his present position. Short and pugnacious, the bald-headed McCormick was fiercely competitive and hated losing. Raised by his no-nonsense Irish grandmother, McCormick had been a barroom brawler who had come up the hard way.
"Morning," Drex McCormick said gruffly as he dropped the telephone receiver into its cradle.
"Good morning," Tipton replied, carefully charting his course. The deputy director was not in a pleasant mood this morning, Tipton thought, but then again, he never was in the best of spirits at this early hour.
McCormick stabbed at his intercom button. "Betty, hold all my calls, unless The Man calls." McCormick always referred to the director of the CIA as The Man.
"Yes, sir," the faint voice immediately responded.
McCormick leaned back from his oversize walnut desk. "Dennis, we've got a hell of a storm brewing on the horizon."
Tipton had not had time for his morning brief by the watch officer. "The Achilles Operation?"
"That's right," McCormick answered, shoving a pile of paperwork and messages aside. "The North Vietnamese, through their Information Ministry, have lodged a complaint to the international press, charging the U. S. with breaching the rules of engagement to gain an unfair advantage in the air war."
He saw the pained expression on Tipton's face. "They haven't actually accused us of using a MiG yet," he squinted, testing the resilience of the politically adept director, "but you can wager your last goddam n n ickel that they're going to try to knock our MiG down . . . and make us look like fools."
McCormick spun his chair around and grabbed his coffee urn. "The word from the White House is that we better not have another U-2 incident," he said brusquely while he filled his mug, "and cause a political embarrassment. "
The American reconnaissance plane that was shot down deep inside the Soviet Union in May 1960 had been the catalyst for Nikita Khrushchev to cancel a joint summit conference with the United States, Great Britain, and France. The CIA received a major blow when the downed pilot admitted that he was flying for the Agency.
"I understand," Tipton replied with no show of emotion. He felt a sense of foreboding settle over him as his mind raced to sort through the consequences if the MiG fell into enemy hands.
"You," McCormick let the word hang in the air, "are charged with the responsibility to ensure that Cap Spencer keeps the lid on this operation . . . at all costs."
Tipton quietly nodded. He and Hollis Spencer had worked together for over a year in the Agency's Directorate for Plans.
"The White House," McCormick said at last, "has issued a press statement to the effect that we categorically deny the unfounded allegations. The United States has not breached any rules. Period."
Tipton was already thinking about contingency planning. "What has been decided in regard to Spencer's request?"
"The Man believes it's a good idea, if we can pull it off without getting caught." McCormick stared over his steaming mug at Tipton. "What do you think? Can Spencer keep the Agency from getting shit splattered on it?"
Tipton grew cautious, knowing what McCormick was suggesting without actually saying the words. "It's a pretty ambitious plan, but I'm confident that he can keep the situation under control." Tipton was not that confident, but he was not going to reveal that to McCormick.
"That's good," McCormick forced a smile, "because the White House sent word that they thought the strafing idea had merit, if we make damn sure that we can get away clean."
"Well," Tipton replied matter-of-factly, "it certainly will have a profound effect on the enemy's morale and fighting effectiveness."
"That it will, Dennis." McCormick looked at the huge brass clock mounted on the far wall. "Get in touch with Spencer and pass the word to get on with his idea."
Tipton started to remind McCormick that Spencer had made it clear th
at one of the pilots had originated the strafing idea. Instead, he decided to remain silent.
You make sure," McCormick's voice cut through the quiet office, that Spencer understands the gravity of this situation."
"I will."
If Hanoi gets ahold of one of our MiG pilots," McCormick scowled and leaned forward, "the White House is going to disavow any knowledge of the operation . . . and then blow our asses right out the door."
"I understand," Tipton answered in a hollow voice, aware of the burning in the pit of his stomach. Between the Agency's clandestine war being waged in Laos, the continuing buildup of Air America, and the secret MiG operation, Dennis Tipton had developed a peptic ulcer.
"Another thing," McCormick said dryly. "The people over on Capitol Hill are starting to shake the administration's trees . . . with the hope that something will fall out."
"Or someone," Tipton ventured, "like SECDEF" He was referring to the ongoing turf battle between the secretary of defense and congressional leaders. The festering issue was the conduct of the air war.
Military leaders and key political leadership wanted to greatly expand the air war, while the secretary of defense wanted to use a piecemeal approach.
"If they convene a Senate Committee to question the air war," McCormick said with a touch of contempt, "and SECDEF has to testify under oath, the Agency could be in for a thorough housecleaning."
Tipton's stomach was beginning to feel more uncomfortable. The secretary of defense was aware of the CIA's activities, and he was also aware that Congress was being hoodwinked.
"That's why," McCormick continued, "we can't afford any mistakes--none." He let the message sink in. "You've got to plug every hole--airtight."
"I fully understand," Tipton muttered, feeling a sudden revulsion. He was going to have to do something that he had never done before.
WATTAY AIRPORT, VIENTIANE
When the C-123 taxied to a stop at the Air America maintenance facility, three of Hank Murray's technicians unloaded the MiG's nos e s trut. They carried the bulky strut into the hangar while Allison and the four pilots accepted a ride to the Constellation Hotel in an Air America van.
Allison made reservations for the maintenance men while Brad inquired about his mail.
The shy Laotian woman apologetically informed Austin that she was unaware of any mail for him.
Disappointment showed on Brad's face as he and Nick carried their bags to the room they would share.
Palmer cast a look at his friend when Brad closed the door. "Nothing from Leigh Ann?"
"No," he replied listlessly. "Maybe she didn't get my letter." Or, Brad thought as he crossed to the window, she is still upset with me.
After Austin and Palmer each had a leisurely hot bath and changed into fresh clothes, they made arrangements to have their laundry sent out, then went to the noisy bar.
Chase Mitchell and Rudy Jimenez were engrossed in a lively conversation with three other Air America pilots. The reunion promised to be both drunken and boisterous.
"Let's sit at the bar," Palmer suggested, noting Austin's glum expression, "and play some liars' dice."
"Okay," Brad replied without his usual enthusiasm.
Nick ordered drinks and asked for one of the dice cups behind the counter.
The bartender returned with their drinks as Allison entered the smoky room.
Palmer saw her first. "Here's Allison," he announced.
Brad turned to see her wave at the inebriated helicopter pilots. They returned the greeting while she approached Palmer and Austin.
Dressed in a simple khaki skirt and powder-blue blouse, Allison looked radiant. Her blond hair, which had been pulled back in a French braid since her arrival at Alpha-29, flowed loosely across her shoulders.
"Mind if I join you?" she asked with a perky smile.
Brad slid off his bar stool so Allison could sit between them. He stood next to her.
"Please do," Nick replied, letting a smile crease his face. He shoved the dice cup away. "What would you like?"
"I think I'll be adventuresome," she said innocently, "and have a martini."
"A real one?" Brad chuckled.
Allison laughed softly. "Yes, a real one."
The din of noise steadily increased as the late-afternoon crowd gathered at the popular watering hole. Brad was about to excuse himself when Lex Blackwell sauntered into the smoke-filled room.
"Lex," Austin shouted over the bedlam, "over here."
Blackwell spied Brad, then worked his way toward the packed bar.
His civilian clothes were wrinkled and his left arm was in a sling. "It's good to see you," Palmer said, slapping Lex on the back while Brad shook Blackwell's right hand.
"What happened to your arm?" Austin asked while he motioned for the bartender. "Did one of your feisty girlfriends break it?"
"No." Lex saw Allison's subtle smile. "I broke my wrist at the 0 club," Blackwell answered sheepishly, -carrier-qualin' some air-force jocks."
Naval aviators traditionally carrier-qualify at officers' clubs by heaving each other down long tables placed end to end. The object is to slide down the beer-soaked "deck" and catch the wire (tablecloth or rope) before you fly off the end of the table. The fun is multiplied when the carrier aviators have the opportunity to "qual" air-force pilots.
"Must have been impressive." Brad laughed while Lex ordered a beer.
After a toast and catching up on lighthearted events, Lex surveyed the bar and stepped closer to Brad and Allison. Nick leaned around her to hear Blackwell.
"I probably shouldn't say anything in here," Lex said just loudly enough to be heard over the unrestrained conversations, "but the horse is outta the barn."
"What are you talking about?" Allison asked, aware that no one was paying any attention to them.
"I had a guy--at one of the briefin's I gave--play a tape of an engagement he had with a MiG."
Blackwell looked at Brad for a moment.
"And my voice was on it," Austin said evenly, then added, "and his call sign is Montana."
Blackwell's eyes widened. "That's right, so what the hell's goin' on? I heard that Washington flat denied that the U. S. has broken any rules . . . but the scuttlebutt on the carriers is that we have MiGs."
"Lex," Palmer responded in a hushed voice, "Hanoi knows that we've got at least one MiG-17 roving around in their backyard, and they've obviously lodged a complaint."
Allison nodded. "I'm sure Hanoi--at some point--will accuse us of using MiGs against them."
Blackwell looked down the bar, then to Brad and Allison. "What's that mean to us--the operation?"
"We don't know yet," she answered patiently, careful to keep her voice low. "We're waiting for permission to use the airplane to strafe their airfields while the MiGs are scrambling for takeoff "
Lex paused while a drunken patron next to Austin turned to order a drink. "How'd we go from the plan of takin' out their ace pilots to strafing airfields?"
"Well, partner," Nick drawled in his best Lex Blackwell impersonation, "buy me a drink, and I'll set you in step with the times."
"That sounds like a great idea," Allison said hastily, "because Brad is going to take me to dinner, aren't you, Captain?"
Austin slowly turned to her and arched an eyebrow. "I was just about to ask."
FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA
"Ouch!" Dennis Tipton glanced at the portable television, then examined the nick above his upper lip. Tired from a sleepless night, Tipton listened to the newscaster and finished shaving. He had sent a coded message to Hollis Spencer and expected a reply before the end of the day.
Reaching for a bottle of mouthwash, Tipton paused when he heard the word "MiG."
"Administration officials have denied that the U. S. military or CIA has access to any MiG fighters." The anchorman waited for his cue. "Our White House correspondent, Susan Forrester, has an update."
The well-dressed, serious-looking woman pursed her lips. "A White House spokesman
has admitted that military sources have obtained operational data about the Communist fighters, but disclaim that they have possession of a MiG.
"In related news, the North Vietnamese Information Ministry has made new claims of repeated attacks on Hanoi by American-flown MiG fighters." The distracted woman paused to listen to a voice off camera.
"I'm being told that key congressional leaders are asking for an investigation into the MiG allegations. This latest development comes on the heels of continued questions concerning the effectiveness of the air war."
Tipton turned the television off and sat on the edge of the bathtub. He had a premonition of impending disaster. Yielding to his burning stomach, Tipton went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Hollis Spencer would have to take the necessary steps to protect the Agency and preserve their jobs and reputations.
Chapter THIRTY-TWO
Allison and Brad left the small restaurant and walked along the bustling waterfront. The shops along the river were crammed with evening shoppers, many of whom were American wives.
"Well," Allison finally broke the silence, "what did you think about dinner?"
"The sour-pork salad was good," he answered with his usual candor, "but the steamed duck was . . . certainly exotic."
Allison gave him a breathy laugh and slid her hand under his upper arm. "Are you aware that a good number of these shoppers are Communist soldiers?"
Brad found himself responding to her gentle squeeze. "You're kidding me."
Tilting her head slightly, she smiled evenly. "No, I'm not kidding. It's crazy, but true."
More curious than cautious, Brad nonchalantly looked at the shops and open-air markets.
"I can't believe this," he said lightly as two soldiers in tattered field clothes purchased vegetables. "We're walking through the middle of hundreds of Communist troops while they're doing their shopping."
Allison hugged his arm and smothered a laugh. "That's right, and they know who you are--actually, they think you're another Air America pilot."
