Targets of Opportunity (1993) (22 page)

Shortly before noon, Brad stepped out of the small wooden line shack at Kai Tak airport. Carrying his rumpled overnight bag, he proceeded to the C-47 parked at the edge of the ramp. The battered workhorse showed the scars of thousands of landings on rough, short airstrips.

Clad in civilian attire, Brad approached the aging aircraft and was met by a brash young man with a clipboard.

"Name?" the man said curtly.

"Austin," Brad replied firmly, wondering if Allison was already on board. "Are we going to leave on time?"

"Who knows?" came the abrupt reply. "We're waiting for some broad to show up."

Brad flared at the derogatory remark, but let it pass. He walked under the left wing, studying the oil drippings from the big radial engine. He was about to cross to the right wing when he got a glimpse of Allison stepping out of the line shack.

Brad walked briskly toward her, wondering if she would be her usual self or coldly aloof. "Hi, Allison."

"Hello," she responded with a pleasant smile while he grabbed her two bags.

"Are you all set?" she asked the copilot when they reached the airplane.

Brad looked at the copilot, noting the cocky smile on the man's pockmarked face.

"I believe we are, ma'am," he said with obvious effort to be polite. "The captain is ready to crank the engines."

After boarding the aircraft, Allison and Brad selected seats behind the other passengers. The three disheveled men who reeked of alcoho
l w
ere pilots for Air America. Two had already gone to sleep, while the third man stared vacantly out the window.

After takeoff, the pilot executed a steep turn and began a shallow climb toward the South China Sea. When they had reached the desired cruising altitude, the crew reduced power and trimmed the aircraft for level flight.

Allison leaned close to Brad. "We have another MiG-17, and a twenty-one is on the way," she confided with a gleam in her eye. "That's why I was late."

"Interesting," Brad replied, inclining his head toward her. "Why did you arrange to have me wait for you?"

"You get right to the point." Allison smiled ingenuously. "So I'll do the same."

Brad stared into her deep brown eyes. It was impossible to resist her charm and beauty.

Allison met his stare. "I wanted to talk to you."

Unable to conceal a small chuckle, Brad looked at his watch for a few seconds. "Well, I'm certainly a captive audience for the next few hours."

"I've been thinking about us," she said simply. "I know you were upset with me the night before we left . . . all the questions about your personal life."

He started to protest, but decided to listen to her obviously well-thought-out feelings.

"I just wanted to tell you that I understand how you feel, but I have my responsibilities." She paused and smiled suggestively. "I hope we can still be friends."

Brad nodded attentively, but the warning lights were flashing in his mind.

Allison lowered her eyes without looking directly at him. "We could be friends--close friends--can't we?" Her voice was a soft whisper.

Brad's resistance faded. He reached over and gingerly pulled her head to his shoulder.

"Yes," he answered evenly, knowing full well how difficult a "close friend" relationship would be.

Chapter
TWENTY-ONE

WATTAY AIRPORT, VIENTIANE, LAOS

Vientiane, the capital of Laos, was a quiet town on the banks of the Menam Khong River where the cultures of France and the Far East blended smoothly. The waterway, better known as the Mekong River, was full of traffic both day and night. Housing in the town was inexpensive and the restaurants were excellent, which prompted many of the Air America pilots to have their wives move to Vientiane.

Hollis Spencer surveyed the muddy airfield while he waited for the two Southern Air Transport C-130s to arrive. He walked to a bench under the trees next to the Air America operations building and studied the variety of aircraft sitting on the parking ramp.

A Curtiss C-46 Commando caught his attention when the propeller on the left engine began slowly to rotate. A few seconds later the eighteen-cylinder radial engine coughed gray smoke, then rumbled to life and settled to a rough idle. Spencer watched a small, single-engine Helio-Courier taxi past while the C-46 captain started his right engine.

Spencer's normally starched and pressed utilities hung from his frame like wet towels. There was no relief from the oppressive humidity. He wiped a rivulet of perspiration from his temple and flicked the moisture away with his finger.

He glanced at the Air 'America slogan above the entrance to the building: "Anything, Anywhere, Anytime--Professionally."

Spencer felt at home, having helped organize the air support for the
CIA-hacked secret army in Laos. Air America had been described by The New York Times as a shadowy air subsidiary of the Central Intelligence Agency.

The media had begun investigating the vague and remote operations of Air America after two journalists had stumbled over a covert operation. They had witnessed the CIA airline fly hundreds of Thai soldiers into Laos to bolster the secret army of General Vang Pao. The general's troops were supported by the CIA. Deceiving the United States Congress was standard policy. The Agency did not want the American public to become aware of the clandestine war.

The CIA mercenary army in Laos had been formed at the same time the Pentagon had committed U
. S
. military forces to fight North Vietnam. The objectives were similar: to oppose Communism and in this region to assist Meo guerrillas in fighting the various Communist factions, including the Pathet Lao. Air America had grown into the largest airline in the world during the prolonged struggle, using fixed-wing aircraft and helicopters to fly supplies and troops while moving masses of refugees to safety.

Millions of dollars in humanitarian foreign aid that Congress thought it was appropriating for the refugees were being used to support this army. The covert operation had expanded on a daily basis and continued to grow as quickly as the money arrived.

Laotian Army General Vang Pao was the driving force. He was not completely trustworthy, but he was a courageous man and a tough warrior, the kind of man the CIA needed to help thwart the Communist insurgency.

Spencer felt a great sense of accomplishment when he thought about the airline. His tireless efforts had resulted in a far-flung, well-organized operation.

Spencer breathed lightly in the suffocating stillness, wishing the monsoon season would end. He glanced at Hank Murray as the navy captain approached the shaded bench.

"How was breakfast?" Spencer asked, lighting his pipe.

Murray sat down next to the project officer. "Pretty good. This place has the best American-style food in Southeast Asia."

Spencer watched an Air America C-123 Provider take off then heard the distinct, low drone of a Lockheed C-130. "Here they come, he triumphantly announced, pointing to the arriving Hercules.

The men rose and walked to the compound Spencer had set aside for Operation Achilles.

"I only see one," Spencer muttered as he scanned the sky for the second transport.

The C-130 made a long, low approach, touched down, bounced back into the air, then gently settled on the runway.

Spencer and Murray waited patiently while the lumbering Hercules taxied to the restricted area. As soon as the engines were shut down, Spencer walked to the crew entrance door, while Murray went to the cargo ramp.

The project officer mounted the airstair door and climbed the ladder to the cockpit.

"Where's the other airplane?" Spencer asked with a trace of anxiety. The pilot, a rugged-looking veteran, turned in his seat. "They had to cage an engine. . . . Should be here in a few minutes."

Relieved, Spencer thanked the crew and ducked out of the entrance. He walked to the back of the C-130 and joined Murray and the loadmaster on the lowered cargo ramp.

"How's she look, Hank?"

"Not bad," Murray answered, concealing his irritation. "We've got some minor hangar rash on the right wingtip, but nothing else significant."

Spencer looked at the two wings standing side by side in the cargo bay. The Hercules was packed with the MiG's major components and support equipment.

"Hank, the other flight is due to arrive in a few minutes," Spencer paused to search the sky, "so round up the troops, and let's get ready to move out."

"Will do," Murray replied, glancing at the loadmaster. "I understand the other plane lost an engine."

"That's right," Spencer said at the same time he spotted the second Hercules. "Here it comes."

Both men, along with the loadmaster, watched the C-130 descend toward the runway. The propeller on the outboard engine on the left wing was feathered. The motionless blades were turned sideways, slicing cleanly through the air.

The pilot made a smooth landing, then reversed the two inboard engines as the big turboprop rocked from side to side.

When the Hercules slowed to taxi speed, Spencer turned to Murray. "Hank, if it's going to take long to repair the second plane, we'll go up to Alpha-29, unload, and send the first Herc back for the rest."

Murray looked at the taxiing C-130. "I'll talk to the flight engineer, then we'll know whether to unload it."

The Southern Air Transport C-130 cruised serenely high above the mountainous Laotian countryside. Hollis Spencer viewed the chains of mountains and plateaus that were intersected by deep, narrow valleys.

Much of the remote land was covered by thick jungle, which was traversed by footpaths. Few roads crossed the landlocked country, forcing the extensive use of airplanes and helicopters to transport people and supplies to remote sites.

Spencer noted that it was an unusually clear day for Laos. The weather patterns of the monsoon season and the windy, dusty summers made flying hazardous and challenging. Depending on the time of the year, pilots had to contend with heavy rain, thick fog, dangerous wind conditions, and the acrid smoke from the farmers' fires.

Standing on the flight deck behind the captain, Spencer looked out toward the runway at the CIA airfield located at Long Tieng. Spencer had helped finalize the initial plans to use Long Tieng as a launching point for clandestine bombing raids into North Vietnam and Laos.

He had a commanding view of the Plain of Jars and the rugged terrain surrounding the luxuriant vegetation. Spencer watched two Royal Lao T-28 fighter-bombers approach, then pass under the left wing. Looking out of the copilot's window, he studied a mountain that reached nearly 9,000 feet.

Spencer let his gaze travel over the nose of the aircraft. He could see a low layer of clouds on the horizon as they flew northeast toward their destination. The crew, who had been instructed not to ask a single question about the MiG, had performed flawlessly.

He glanced at the copilot. The former marine aviator had an operational navigation chart spread across his lap. Spencer had circled the site of Alpha-29 for the pilots.

The highly experienced crew would have to visually acquire the secret base, since the airfield was not equipped with a navigational homing device.

Spencer relaxed for the rest of the fifty-minute flight. He knew that the lengthy repairs to the second C-130 would mean a change in plans, but just what changes he could not tell yet. He thought about Austin and Palmer. Spencer admired and sincerely liked them. He was also concerned for their welfare.

When the captain began his descent, Spencer turned to Murray, who was standing behind the flight engineer.

"Hank," he said in a hushed voice, "I hope we can get under those clouds up ahead."

Murray peered at the horizon. "They do look a bit low, don't they?" "I'm afraid so."

The flight deck remained quiet while the two pilots conversed over their intercoms.

Spencer closely watched the copilot as the captain banked the Hercules to slip under the overcast. His face reflected a growing concern as the overcast dropped lower the farther north they flew.

Thirty miles from the recently completed airfield, the captain slowed the airplane and descended to 400 feet above the jagged mountaintops. Visibility was becoming a problem as the thick clouds obscured the sun.

Spencer searched ahead and to the right, catching a fleeting glimpse of the outskirts of San Neua. He let his eyes drift across the terrain but could not see any identifiable signs of Alpha-29.

"You better strap in," the captain suggested while he and the copilot went through their checklist litany.

"On our way," Spencer replied, trying not to sound nervous.

He and Murray stepped down into the cargo compartment and settled into the nearest seats.

"Cap," Murray darted a look out the window, "do you think they can find it . . . under these conditions?"

Spencer nodded. "If anyone can, these guys will get it done." But Spencer was not as confident as he sounded. As a pilot, he had faced similar situations many times and knew that finding the airstrip would not be easy.

The Hercules banked steeply while the crew lowered the flaps and extended the landing gear.