by Joe Weber
The operation, he decided after thinking about the miraculous escape by the pilot, was becoming more of a liability than an asset for the Agency--one that was exposing their own Achilles' heel. "In my estimation," he said cautiously but with resolve, "it's time to cancel the operation."
McCormick tapped his cigar on the edge of an ashtray and fixed Tipton in his stare. "That's what The Man thinks, too. But he wants some straight answers before he makes the decision to pull the plug, because the White House wants to get everything they can out of the MiG operation."
"What kind of answers?"
"The entire complexion of Achilles has changed," McCormick said curtly, "and The Man wants you to assess the viability of continuing the operation . . . or shutting it down before the lid blows of "
"Me?" Tipton's color faded.
McCormick glared at him and absently flicked ashes from his cigar. "You're the goddamn director for ops," McCormick snapped, then continued very slowly. "It's that simple, Dennis . . . or would you rather tender your resignation?"
The question stunned Tipton, and it was obvious. He felt his stomach twist into a knot while he contemplated his answer. Were they--the director and McCormick--using this crisis to force him out of the Agency before he reached his normal retirement date? After all the years of politically savvy moves and fostering the right connections, was he being shoved out of the CIA?
Throwing caution to the wind, Tipton gritted his teeth and gathered his strength. "What is it--precisely--that I am expected to do?"
"Get your ass over there," McCormick insisted impatiently, "and eyeball the operation--make a goddamned decision to continue the ops or slam the lid."
Tipton's mouth sagged open. "You want me to go to Alpha-29?"
"That's right," the deputy director glowered. "There's a jet, which the President authorized, standing by at Andrews. They'll take you to Honolulu, then you'll catch a commercial flight to Hong Kong. From there, our people will fly you to the site."
They remained silent for a long moment.
"I'll need to pack some things," Tipton protested in vain. "I can't just race off to--"
"Everything you'll need, including work khakis, is being loaded on the plane." McCormick shoved himself up from his wide chair and handed Tipton a sealed manila envelope. "There's a car waiting for you at the main entrance."
Tipton silently reached for the thick packet. In all the years he had been with the Agency, no one at his level had ever been dispatched to a field operation. A premonition of bad fortune crossed his mind.
"Dennis, I expect to hear from you," McCormick declared in an openly belligerent manner, "as soon as you step foot on Alpha-29."
Tipton turned and walked out of the office. Everything was going too fast, and he was caught in what he considered to be a no-win situation. Operation Achilles was spinning out of control, and no one seemed to have the guts to end the operation before it exploded in their faces. If he recommended that Achilles be canceled, what type of repercussions could he expect? He had to find a way to distance himself from the approaching debacle.
When Tipton reached the main entrance, he paused to look at the spectacular yellow-orange and pink glow on the horizon. The pale light filtered evenly into the dark-blue and purple sky. The striking sunrise marked the beginning of a day that Dennis Tipton would never forget.
Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN
ALPHA-29
The time had passed slowly while Hank Murray's team repaired the severely damaged MiG. When the holes in the fuselage had been patched, the men painstakingly inspected the turbojet engine and stripped off the camouflage paint. After restoring the airplane to a dull-silver finish, Murray completed an engine run-up, checked all the systems and controls, then pronounced the MiG airworthy.
Nick Palmer had flown the refurbished airplane on a mission to coincide with a strike by Task Force 77 aircraft from Yankee Station. The targets had been a series of truck convoys traveling between Phu Ly and Ninh Binh. The "truck busting" operation had been canceled at the last minute because of low ceilings and limited visibility in the target area.
The flight leader, who temporarily ignored the targeting restrictions, had led the sixteen aircraft along the coastline in search of targets of opportunity. After expending their ordnance, the navy pilots and their fighter escorts had returned unscathed to the aircraft carrier.
Nick had followed the action over the radio while he tried to find a hole in the clouds near the airfield at Bai Thuong. He never found an opening in the swollen clouds, or saw any MiGs above the overcast, so he returned to Alpha-29 and made an uneventful landing.
It was a quiet group that sat around the foxhole in front of the tent that Austin and Palmer shared. Brad mechanically curled his rifle to strengthen his right arm while Nick swapped stories with Lex Blackwell and Rudy Jimenez. Chase Mitchell was in the helicopter, ready to start the engine at the first sign of another Pathet Lao assault. Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez had viewed the dead bodies from the previous attack and identified them as Pathet Lao.
Jimenez, Mitchell, and Elvin Crowder were sharing the responsibility of having at least one crew member in the U H-34 twenty-four hours a day. The cumulative effects of the fatigue and strain were beginning to weaken their camaraderie.
The sun was slipping below the mountaintops when a loud boom echoed across the valley.
"Sonuvabitch!" Blackwell exclaimed while he and Jimenez scrambled into their foxhole.
Nick and Brad collided when they rolled into their shelter. They raised their eyes above the dirt embankment a second before a mortar round exploded next to the Quonset hut. They ducked as the concussion blasted over their heads.
The entire compound security force opened fire in the general direction of the initial booming sound. People were yelling back and forth while everyone tried to pinpoint the location of the Communist mortar team.
Brad leaped out of his fighting hole at the same time Jimenez raced for the helicopter.
"What are you doing?" Palmer shouted as Austin ran toward the Quonset hut.
The helicopter engine was revving to full power when Brad reached the entrance to the building. He abruptly stopped when Allison stumbled through the open door in a daze. Spencer was close behind her. Wide-eyed and deafened by the explosion, they followed Brad back to the foxholes. Spencer dove into Blackwell's shelter while Brad pulled Allison into his.
The steady rain of rifle and machine-gun fire slowly subsided when Gunny Rodriguez passed the word to cease fire.
Moments later, as the UH-34 became airborne, another loud bang announced a second incoming mortar round.
"Get down!" Austin shouted as he huddled in the corner with Allison and Nick.
The ground shook from the explosion next to the MiG hangar. A tremendous volume of machine-gun fire erupted as dirt and debris shot over the tents and foxholes.
"Come on, Crowder," Brad encouraged as he cautiously . Peeked over the dirt mound. He saw a steady stream of muzzle flashes coming from the open hatch of the helicopter. "Pour it on 'em!"
The crew chief raked the trees on the hillside with a devastating volume of fire. After three passes, Mitchell maneuvered the UH-34 to a position over the end of the runway and waited for the mortar to fire again.
Alpha-29 had come under intermittent sniper fire for days, but this was the first time a mortar attack had been launched at the compound.
The temporary lull in the action was shattered by a sudden burst of automatic-weapons fire halfway up the hill. Two explosions reverberated across the narrow valley as the security forces fired M-79 grenade launchers at the mortar position. The seasoned men, led by a former platoon sergeant, had worked their way to a forward position in hopes of catching the Pathet Lao off guard.
After four minutes passed without any further shelling, Chase Mitchell gently sat the helicopter down and everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief
"Allison," Spencer said as he crawled out of his shelter, "you stay there unt
il it's completely dark."
"No argument from me," she responded boldly.
Spencer went to the Quonset but while Lex Blackwell made his way to the other foxhole.
"I love it," Nick grumbled while he brushed the loose dirt from his hair.
Lex squatted on the parapet. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'd say it's past time to close shop and get back to civilization."
"I agree with you," Brad replied evenly, "because I've got a feeling they're preparing for a full-blown frontal assault."
Palmer cast Brad a worried glance. "Great."
Brad turned to see Hank Murray rush by with one of his men. The technician was holding the side of his head and muttering unintelligibly.
"Oh, Jesus," Blackwell exclaimed, "he's bleedin' like a stuck hog." They watched the two men approach the damaged building while Murray yelled for a corpsman.
Nick hesitated for a moment, then turned with a false calm to face Austin. "Well, your last prediction was right. When do you think they'll hit us again?"
Brad gave his dressing a cursory inspection. "If I were their honcho," he glanced at the crest of the opposing mountain, "I'd wait until the helo and the MiG were gone."
Blackwell swung his legs over the side of the hole and adjusted his arm sling. "Yeah, 'cause they've been watchin' us, and they know that when they're both gone . . . we're a bunch of satin' ducks."
Hollis Spencer hurried out of the Quonset but as the corpsman rushed around the corner of the building.
"I think it's time to talk with Spencer," Palmer suggested, and looked at Allison. "What do you think?"
She shrugged and cast a look at her boss. "You know that I'm very loyal to him, but I have to agree with you."
The security forces were still jogging from post to post around the field when Spencer knelt by the foxhole. He had a piece of paper rolled in his hand and he looked pensive.
"The director for ops is on his way here," he declared with a pained expression. "The word just came in."
"Dennis Tipton," Allison tilted her head, "is coming to Alpha-29?" "That's what the message says."
Brad studied Spencer with a curious interest. "Would you mind filling us in?"
He looked at Austin and spoke in a subdued voice. "You know as much as I do, but it's highly unusual for a director to go to the field."
Searching for the right words, Brad decided to form his thoughts into a question. "Cap, do you think we're pushing our luck beyond a reasonable limit?"
Spencer sighed heavily and examined the MiG for a long moment. "Probably. "
"You're the boss," Austin said warily, "but I think it would be in everyone's best interest to consider the gain from this operation . . . for the risk involved."
Spencer suddenly felt the built-up pressure and unending tension. Had his personal ambition to make Operation Achilles a success clouded his decision making? Was Dennis Tipton on his way to Alpha-29 to relieve him of command?
"For the moment," Spencer replied in an effort to convince himself as well as the others, "we'll go ahead with tomorrow's mission, then we'll stand down until the director for ops gets here."
Brad and Allison exchanged a cautious glance, but kept their thoughts to themselves.
*
The C-123 Provider had been used to transport the seriously wounded aircraft technician to Vientiane. The airplane was due back at sunrise with supplies and ammunition.
After darkness had enveloped the airfield, Allison returned to the Quonset but while Nick, Brad, and Lex slipped into the hangar to inspect the MiG. The fighter had sustained only superficial damage from the mortar-shell explosion. After leaving the blacked-out hangar, the three pilots selected a variety of C-rations and then congregated in front of their foxholes.
When the trio had finished their unappetizing meals, Spencer approached and asked them to join him inside, then walked to the helicopter to get Mitchell and Jimenez.
"I know you're tired," Spencer said patiently as the pilots entered the building and slumped into their chairs, "so I won't keep you long.
"Allison just received our preliminary ops instructions for the strikes tomorrow." He tugged on his eye patch and scanned the wrinkled document. "The air force has been tasked to hit a number of targets in Route Pack Six . . . around the Thai Nguyen area near Thud Ridge."
Spencer paused to point to the target area on the wall-mounted chart.
"And the carrier groups are launching an Alpha Strike aimed at targets around Haiphong." A weary smile creased the corner of his mouth. "Their primary target is the airfield at Kien An, so we can expect a lot of MiG activity."
Brad rested his chin on the top of his knuckles and examined the map with a critical eye. The enemy air base was located five miles southwest of the bustling port city of Haiphong. "Who's scheduled for tomorrow?"
"You are," Spencer answered without hesitation, "if your arm isn't bothering you."
Brad looked at the small dressing he still wore. The wounds were not completely healed, but they would not prevent him from flying. "I'm fine, as long as I keep the dressing in place."
"Good, because we need to make this mission a big success."
Austin slowly rose and walked to the chart. "Cap, I have a suggestion--actually, it's an idea that I've been hashing around since my last flight."
"It's your mission, Brad," Spencer conceded with a slight nod, "so you'll be calling the shots."
"The air force is obviously going to have a number of Wild Weasels trolling around Thud Ridge," Austin explained while he surveyed the area north of Phuc Yen, "so there's going to be a lot of confusion between Phuc Yen and the target area."
Wild Weasels were F-4 Phantoms that had been highly modified to act as surface-to-air missile-suppression and electronic-countermeasure aircraft. They had the unenvied responsibility for jamming enemy search or fire control radar sites.
"In my estimation," Brad continued almost soothingly, "we might as well go for a grand slam . . . when we get up to bat."
No one said a word while they waited for his explanation. Blackwell and Palmer never blinked an eye.
Spencer reasoned that Austin sensed the mission would be their last one. "Brad, let's do the best we can, without unnecessarily endangering the operation."
Austin fell silent for a moment. Spencer noticed that Brad was absently flexing his fingers.
"Cap, let me throw my idea on the table," Brad countered in a low, even voice, "and if you don't agree with it, I'll be happy to listen to whatever you have in mind."
"You have the floor," Spencer replied with marked apprehension.
Austin caught Palmer's pained expression, but decided to say what he thought in spite of the subtle warning. If he was going to risk flying the mission, he might as well do as much damage as possible.
"What I have in mind is going in low and fast--as usual." He traced his proposed route on the chart. "Hit Hoa Lac, continue straight over downtown Hanoi, strafe Gia Lam, turn hard northwest to strike Phuc Yen, then pack it out of there down in the trees."
With the North Vietnamese ground units and air force alerted to watch for suspicious MiGs, Austin would be extremely lucky if he managed to attack all three airfields and survive.
Lex Blackwell let out a low whistle. "You're gonna give Uncle Ho's boys a bad case of the runs," he drawled with a straight face, "but they're liable to jump on you like buzzards on a gut wagon.
-Cap," Brad said in an impassioned plea, "if I can hit Hoa Lac seven minutes before the first air strikes, I'll be off the last target when they roll in. The gomers will be in shock, which should help keep our losses to a minimum."
Spencer thought about the proposal while the other pilots quietly talked among themselves. The odds were against Austin's being able to successfully strafe three airfields and get away clean.
"I'm not comfortable with your idea," Spencer said at last, "but I'll go along with it, if you feel confident that you can pull it of"
"Cap, I don't have
any doubt. I know I can make it work." He hesitated, listening to Allison's faint voice as she talked on the radio. "I want to create an atmosphere of pure pandemonium . . . and let them think about it every time they crawl into their cockpits."
Spencer gazed thoughtfully at Brad, his eye questioning what the pilot was really thinking. There was an intense determination in Austin's stare.
"Okay, Brad," Spencer said at last, "we'll go over the details in the morning." He glanced at the other men. "Get some rest."
When the pilots had left, Spencer poured a coffee mug full of bourbon and sat in silence. He quietly prayed that the director for operations would arrive in the morning and call off the operation, before it was exposed, or someone died.
The air force Special Air Missions . Jet cruised serenely at 39,000 feet over the tranquil Pacific Ocean. Dennis Tipton sat quietly, gazing vacantly out the window at the tops of the moonlit clouds. He had made an agonizing decision over the past few hours.
To hell with McCormick, Tipton thought bitterly, and to hell with the internal politics of the Agency, and his precious retirement. He had a documented medical problem; a peptic ulcer that could easily lead to perforation and peritonitis of his abdominal cavity.
"May I get you anything, sir?" the male air-force flight steward asked.
Startled, Tipton looked up at the smiling staff sergeant. "Sure. I'll have a Bloody Mary, and make it extra hot."
"A rocket Bloody Mary it is," the soft-spoken man replied, then added, "We'll be on the ground at Hickam in an hour and twenty minutes."
"Thank you," Tipton replied with a calming sense of relief
Having made his decision, Dennis Tipton looked forward to his first drink in weeks. The spicy concoction would certainly inflame his ulcer and exacerbate his already delicate medical condition. No one could possibly deny the seriousness of his stomach problem.
When the steward returned with his drink, Tipton took a small sip and finalized his plan. He would ask the pilot to contact Hickam Air Force Base and demand that a physician be standing by when the VIP transport landed.
