Targets of Opportunity (1993) (23 page)

Spencer stared through the small window on the opposite side of the cargo compartment. He could see trees and thick foliage flash past, but he could not detect anything that resembled a runway. Water droplets were flowing over the small round window.

The four turboprop engines suddenly became quiet while the flaps were lowered to the landing position. Seconds later, the engines surged and the aircraft climbed at a steep angle, banking sharply over the end of the runway. The flaps transitioned to the approach setting, while the wheels remained down and locked.

Spencer could see what happened. "Hank," he said to the pale-faced engineer, "they saw the runway too late, and tried to salvage the approach."

Murray silently nodded.

"They're flying a tight pattern," Spencer advised, feeling more confident, "so everything should come together this pass." He could see Murray was not convinced.

The Hercules again banked steeply as the crew selected full flaps. Spencer could feel his chest tighten as the engines became quiet.

The captain raised the nose and gently eased the aircraft onto the wet runway.

Spencer let out a quick sigh as the four powerful engines went into full reverse pitch. He looked at the relieved navy officer. "Hank, welcome to our new home."

Brad walked into the bar at the Constellation Hotel. The room was crowded with an odd assortment of pilots, CIA personnel, and journalists. Two different dice games were in progress at the far end of the bar. The place reminded Brad of a scene from a smoke-filled saloon in a B-grade movie.

He had no stomach for lighthearted banter. His concern for his relationship with Leigh Ann and anxiety about Operation Achilles--and his survival--weighed too heavily. He stayed just long enough to greet Allison and learn that Spencer had them, along with Nick Palmer, scheduled to fly to Alpha-29 on a C-123 at 7 A. M.

As Brad stood and turned to leave the table, he came face-to-face with two grinning, somewhat inebriated pilots. Allison put a hand on Brad's arm to detain him while she made the introductions. Chase Mitchell and Rudy Jimenez were going to be Operation Achilles' two rescue-helicopter pilots.

Chase Mitchell, a former army Huey pilot, was prematurely bald. He was a small man who wore flight boots with extra-thick soles to compensate for his lack of height. Brad noticed the end of a handgun protruding from a pocket sewn onto the side of Mitchell's trousers.

The other SAR pilot, Rudy Jimenez, was a former air force HH-3E Jolly Green pilot. The highly decorated rescue specialist had become a legendary figure before joining Air America. Quiet and soft-spoken by nature, Jimenez turned into a tiger when he was confronted with a dangerous mission. On the ground, he fueled himself with liberal amounts of tequila, and applied cayenne pepper sauce to everythin g h e ate. He claimed that the combination of liquids eradicated germs from his body.

Even though both pilots were obviously drunk, Brad felt their strength and could see that they and Allison held each other in high regard. He acknowledged the introductions and excused himself.

Austin stopped in the lobby to mail a letter to Leigh Ann. He had not been able to contact her by telephone from Hong Kong, so he had included the address of the Constellation Hotel. The general manager assured him that he would keep Brad's mail in a safe place.

Chapter
TWENTY-TWO

The C-123 banked gently as the pilot lined up with the runway at Alpha-29. Brad opened his eyes when the landing gear was lowered. He turned sideways and looked out the window next to him, then unstrapped and went to the other side of the weather-scarred aircraft.

"Hey," Brad tapped Nick on the shoulder, "take a look at this place. You won't believe it."

Suffering from an acute hangover, Palmer yawned and flopped his head to one side. "Just let me die in peace."

"This strip," Brad craned his neck, watching the trees and thick foliage flash by, "is in the center of a narrow valley." He went back to his seat and glanced at Allison.

She and two of Hank Murray's men were peacefully asleep.

A moment later, the Provider touched down firmly and the pilot stood on the brakes. The passengers were awake by the time the twin-engine cargo plane turned around.

After the aircraft taxied to a small clearing at the end of the runway, Brad stepped out and helped Allison to the macadam ramp. They lifted their canvas bags and walked clear of the C-123.

Brad gazed around the runway, mentally storing a picture of the high terrain on each side of the valley. He noted a mountain peak to the northwest, guessing its elevation to be close to 6,000 feet. Alpha-29 was strictly a daylight, clear-weather type of strip, he thought. A safe takeoff could be made under the cover of darkness, but a landing attempt at night would be suicidal.

"Look." Allison pointed across the runway. "We've got our own stream."

Brad nodded and inspected the steadily flowing channel of water. "This would be an ideal place to film a Tarzan movie."

Allison gave him a thin smile. "It's definitely in the outback, but I've seen worse."

Brad looked at the MiG, which was in the final stages of being reassembled. The fighter sat on a strip of macadam that extended directly to the end of the narrow runway.

Four tall posts surrounded the MiG. The wooden supports were capped by a slanting tin roof The simple, open-air structure had been painted to match the surrounding foliage.

A camouflaged Quonset but sat on concrete blocks next to the aircraft shelter. A large round fuel tank had been partially buried on the opposite side of the MiG shelter. Behind the operations center was a congested area consisting of tents, a cookshack, and two generators. Off to the side was a gravity-fed, single-nozzle shower, two portable water containers, and a stack of C-ration cartons. The entire compound was covered by trees and camouflage.

Palmer joined Allison and Brad, then dropped his overnight bag on the pavement. "I noticed that we've got marines surrounding the perimeter."

"Most of them are former marines," Allison advised him. "They're our own security specialists."

Brad studied the sandbag-reinforced foxholes with a critical eye. "If we come under attack from both sides, those guys are going to be run over in short order."

Allison's response was interrupted when Hollis Spencer emerged from the Quonset hut. Brad glanced at the Colt .45 hanging from his web belt.

"Welcome aboard," Spencer greeted the trio. "Allison, your quarters are in the Quonset but . . . back by the radios."

She examined the small building and nodded. "I won't have far to go to work."

"The two of you," Spencer gestured toward the aircraft shelter, "will share the tent next to the MiG. Your flight gear is inside."

The conversation was halted while the C-123 roared down the runway and gracefully lifted off the pavement. The Provider climbed steeply, entered a tight turn to reverse course, then climbed directly over the runway to a safe altitude.

"It looks to me," Brad observed, "like we are going to have to take off in the same direction he did, and land in the opposite direction."

"That's right," Spencer acknowledged with a look of concern on his face. "This is one short strip. We've only got forty-seven hundred feet, plus a little bit of grass overrun at each end. In the MiG," he glanced at each pilot, "if you screw up your approach, you might as well punch out, because you won't clear that ridge line." Spencer pointed at the steep, rugged mountain. He thought about how close the Southern Air Transport C-130 had been to the side of the sharply rising hills.

Palmer noticed some of the security team rush out to place large sections of camouflage on the runway.

Spencer anticipated his question. "From the air," he smiled, "you can't see the runway, or anything else. We can't afford to have someone stumble over this operation . . . from either side."

"Cap," Brad glanced at the nearest foxhole, "I don't mean to tell you how to run your business, but these troops are spread too far apart. "

Spencer observed the men. "You're only seeing half of them," he said out of the corner of his mouth.

Brad looked around. "You've got 'em up on each side of the ridges?" "That's right, and we've got charges and mines buried around the entire perimeter."

The beating rotor blades of an Air America UH-34 helicopter caught their attention. They turned to watch the former Marine Corps workhorse approach the airstrip.

"There's Mitchell and Jimenez," Allison announced, shielding the sun from her eyes. "The other helo will be here as soon as they replace a tail rotor. "

Brad watched the bulbous-nosed Sikorsky swing over the ridge line and drop precariously toward the airstrip. At the last second, the helicopter flared before touching down lightly at the intersection of the taxiway and runway.

The battle-scarred helicopter sat on two fat tires connected to struts on each side of the fuselage. The engine was mounted in the nose behind two clamshell doors, while the cockpit was perched above and behind the huge nose.

When Chase Mitchell killed the rumbling engine, Spencer turned to the trio. "After you get squared away, I'll give you an update on the operation."

"Cap," Brad said, darting a look at the helicopter. "I think Nick and I should take an aerial tour and get the lay of the land."

Spencer smiled. "That's already on the agenda."

Brad and Nick sat in the sweltering tent, contemplating their flight suits.

"To hell with it," Brad suddenly blurted, holding the garment at arm's length. "Hand me that survival knife."

Nick gave him a curious look and silently reached for the knife hanging on the end of his cot.

Brad placed his flight suit on the ground and sawed off the legs just above the knees.

"Very stylish." Nick laughed, watching Austin slice through the sleeves above the elbow.

"You can roast if you want," Brad slipped out of his unmodified flight suit, "but I'm not going to croak from heat prostration."

Nick remodeled his gear while Brad donned his creation.

When Palmer was similarly attired, Brad glanced at Nick's boots. "What the hell is that?" Austin laughed, staring at the exposed tops of Palmer's socks.

Nick looked down at his legs. "Haven't you ever seen argyle socks?" "In the Princeton colors, no less." Brad shook his head. "We better get over to the hut."

They left the entrance flaps open and walked to the operations center. When Brad and Nick entered the screen door, Jimenez and Mitchell burst out laughing.

Spencer and Allison looked up, then gave each other a disbelieving glance.

"Dashing," Allison declared. "Especially your fashion statement, Nick."

"Thank you," Palmer replied without a trace of embarrassment.

Mitchell examined the two pilots while they seated themselves at the planning table. He elbowed his copilot. "They certainly look like fighter jocks to me."

Allison and Cap Spencer joined the foursome.

"Gentlemen," Spencer began with a concerned look, "we originally planned to have you take off under the cover of darkness, but we're going to have to adapt to the timing of the strikes." He paused, displaying a small amount of irritation.

Brad tried to temper his sarcasm. "More politics from the hard-chargers in Washington?"

Spencer looked at the disgusted pilot for a long moment. "It's a combination of politics and secrecy. We're going to have to adhere to normal strike planning, so you'll have to stay low until you can pop up into the action."

"Cap," Austin continued, unable to conceal his worry, "there's a certain amount of lunacy in all this. If the warriors in Washington would let us flatten the MiG bases, we wouldn't have any MiGs to contend with . . . and we wouldn't be sitting out here."

Mitchell and Jimenez glanced in awe at the marine aviator.

Brad's impassioned statement prompted Spencer to sit back and fold his arms across his chest. "Captain Austin, you are free to leave at any time."

No one made a sound.

"No," Brad said firmly. "I want to be the first one up to bat." His jaw muscles were rigid. "But I want to know if I have full authority to operate anywhere I choose, including over the MiG sanctuaries."

Spencer appeared calm and collected. "When you depart from here, you are on your own."

"Good," Austin replied with a flat voice. "No rules of engagement--free to use our own ingenuity?"

"That's right."

Allison gave Brad a look of caution, then glanced at the chart in front of her.

"We've been given the go-ahead," Spencer informed the group, "to begin operations as soon as the MiG is ready, which Hank tells me will be tomorrow morning."

Spencer explained that Allison would coordinate their missions with the operations center in Vientiane. Ops would supply her with the coded times and Route Pack information for the air force and naval strike groups. The details of the missions would be transmitted to Alpha-29 two hours before the scheduled strikes.

Allison would know the exact route the air force F-105 Thunder-chiefs would fly, along with the points of land the navy aircraft would cross. She would trace the routes and times on an enlarged chart of northern Laos and North Vietnam. Brad and Nick would use the charts to position themselves close to the strike aircraft.