Targets of Opportunity (1993)

by Joe Weber

  Coasting into formation with the Skyhawk, Brad glanced at the observer in the rear cockpit. He was gesturing for Austin and Wyatt to look down.

  Directing his attention below the right wing, Brad was relieved to see the Huey gunship racing from under the low clouds. "Randy, they made it."

  "Yeah, they'll be feet-wet in a couple of minutes." Wyatt flexed his fingers to relieve the tension. "That guy won't have to buy any drinks for a long time."

  A moment later, Stew Robinett glided into position off Brad's wing. Vic Lowenstein looked Rhino One over, then gave Wyatt a thumbs-up signal.

  Pulling his power back, Austin tapped his helmet and pointed to Robinett. Dash Two, who was now the leader, had the responsibility of guiding the flight home.

  The Skyhawk pilot waved, then banked and climbed away as the F-4s departed for Da Nang.

  The two Phantoms skimmed through the tops of the clouds while Brad prepared for the instrument letdown. He selected the approach plate for the runway that they had departed from. Robinett would fly the approach for both pilots, but Brad had always monitored the instrument procedures when he flew as a wingman.

  "All set back there?" Brad asked Wyatt as the lead Phantom started the descent.

  "Yeah," Randy replied with a nervous chuckle. "I'm ready for a cold beer."

  "That makes two of us." Brad laughed as the fighters entered the gloomy overcast. He raised his helmet visor in order to see better.

  When the Phantoms began bouncing around in the rain and turbulence, Brad increased the separation to twenty-five feet. After leveling off for a short period, Stew Robinett turned south and again descended.

  "I think," Brad said as he concentrated on keeping his leader in sight, "that our TACAN is out, too. It's frozen." The tactical air navigation system provided distance and azimuth between the aircraft and the airfield.

  Wyatt keyed his intercom. "Do you have any idea where the hell we are?"

  Brad paused a moment, trying to reestablish his situational awareness. His soiled flight gloves were damp with salty perspiration. "No . . . we may be too low to get a lock on the TACAN. Just relax."

  "I'll relax when you get this sonuvabitch on the ground."

  Robinett banked to a new heading, then commenced a slow descent. The rain increased and the clouds grew darker as the Phantoms continued their approach. Both aircraft yawed as the turbulence increased.

  "Jesus Christ!" Wyatt swore as he darted looks out of both sides of the cockpit.

  "What?" Brad asked, feeling a constriction in his chest.

  "We're almost in the trees!" Wyatt snapped his head to the other side of the canopy, then glanced at the altimeter. "We're letting down over a mountain. We gotta climb!" .

  "Oh!" Brad cried out, yanking the stick back at the instant a bright flash blinded him. His heart pounded as he slammed the throttles into afterburner and waited for the impact.

  Wyatt's voice reflected panic. "What happened? Where's--"

  "They went in--hit something!" Brad was fighting his own overpowering fear. "Keep broadcasting on guard. We're nordo and declaring an emergency.''

  "What are you going to do?"

  The Phantom shot out of the clouds while Brad rapidly considered their choices. He pulled the throttles back to conserve fuel, then headed for the coastline. "If we can find Casper, he can lead us down."

  Feeling a surge of adrenaline, Wyatt searched for any aircraft. "What if we can't? We're almost out of fuel . . . and we can't fly back north."

  "Then we'll drop down and follow the coast--see if we can locate the runway."

  "I can't believe it," Wyatt said anxiously. "Are you sure they hit something?"

  "Positive. They exploded right in front of us." Brad's pulse was racing. "They midaired, or hit the ground."

  Wyatt remained quiet a moment, then spoke in a hesitant voice. "Maybe we should think about jumping out."

  Brad scanned the empty sky. "Goddamnit, we aren't getting out while we still have gas."

  They remained silent while Brad descended to 200 feet above the water. Slowing the F-4 to 180 knots, he hugged the shoreline under the thick clouds and stared at the coastline. If they did locate the runway, Brad planned to land in the opposite direction from their takeoff. He could not risk a dual flameout while he maneuvered to the other end of the airfield.

  Brad checked his fuel quantity and thought about a controlled ejection. Minutes seemed to turn into hours as the Phantom gulped fuel and the rain increased.

  "Randy," Brad ordered in a calm voice, "keep talking on guard. Someone may hear-- There it is!"

  "You see the runway?"

  "No," Brad shot back, "but there's Hai Van . . . and that little island off the tip."

  "Hon Son Tra?"

  "Yes," Brad answered while he pointed at the islet. "Right below us. See it?"

  "I've got it!"

  Banking steeply over the small island, Brad lowered the landing gear and flaps. "That's it. We just need to turn south--be lined up for a straight in."

  "I hope," Wyatt replied, straining to see the base, "that they're painting us on radar."

  "We're probably too low."

  Slowing to approach speed as they crossed the bay, Austin went through his landing checklist and looked at the gear indicators. Satisfied, he glanced out at the runway. Brad was startled to see two F-4s accelerating toward them. The dull-gray fighters were almost obscure against the rain clouds.

  Snapping into a tight turn, Brad shoved the throttles forward as the two Phantoms roared past. He could feel his heart pound.

  "Get this thing on the ground," Wyatt uttered in shock.

  Brad continued in a complete circle, yanking the power back as he rolled on final. Stabilizing at 130 knots, he touched down in a spray of water, popped his drag chute, then rolled to the end of the runway.

  After entering the dearming area, Austin noticed a vehicle racing toward their Phantom. The unannounced landing would certainly cause a major flap.

  Brad also noticed that his hands were shaking.

  Chapter TWO

  SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

  Hollis Spencer, CIA agent, tugged his utility cap over his forehead as the navy helicopter flared over the darkened hangar. He checked his watch when the wheels touched the moonlit ramp, then grasped his briefcase and jumped to the pavement. The Southern Air Transport C-130 Hercules, operating under government contract, was expected to land in twelve minutes.

  Spencer, a former naval aviator, lowered his head and held a firm hand on his cap. He quickly walked away from the beating rotor blades as the pilot added power to begin his return trip to Miramar Naval Air Station.

  Hollis Spencer, known as "Cap" to his colleagues in the Agency, had been selected as the project officer for Operation Achilles. The months of delicate negotiations and in-depth logistical planning were over. The United States Navy was about to add a unique asset to its airplane inventory.

  The project officer, a lanky man in his early forties, approached the sentry at the entrance to the blacked-out hangar. After Spencer presented his identification badge, the guard switched off his flashlight and stepped aside. The young sentry knew the affable CIA officer well, as did the rest of the security specialists, but the identification routine was not taken for granted.

  Entering the light trap, Spencer strode into the huge building and walked toward his office. The red-tinted floodlights cast soft shadow s o n the faces of the technicians and engineers who were waiting for th e p rized airplane to arrive. Each had been handpicked for the operation.

  "Morning, Cap," the senior military adviser said, stirring his steaming coffee.

  "Good morning," Spencer replied, thinking about how many days had commenced at two o'clock in the morning. "This is going to be a special day. "

  "You bet," the portly naval officer replied. "I haven't been able to sleep for three nights. My wife thinks I'm seeing another woman."

  Spencer chuckled as he reached for the doorknob, then paused. "Hank,
give me a holler when the Herc is on final."

  "I'll do that." Captain Henry Murray raised his mug. "They should be on time."

  Spencer flipped the light switch, opened his leather briefcase, then tossed four file folders onto his cluttered desk. He sat down and opened the top personnel record. Three navy pilots, along with one marine aviator, had been selected to participate in the first step of Operation Achilles.

  Each of the four fighter pilots had distinguished himself in aerial combat. Two of the navy pilots, with one MiG kill each, had already been approached. Each had enthusiastically accepted the offer without knowing any of the specifics.

  Now Spencer had to interview the last two aviators and offer them the chance to volunteer.

  He studied the material in the folder, noting that marine Captain Bradley Carlyle Austin was an alumnus of the Naval Academy. He had been a member of the swimming team, and competed as a diver. Graduating with honors, Austin had selected a commission in the Marine Corps. After a tour of duty at Quantico, Virginia, he had reported for flight training at Pensacola, Florida.

  He looked carefully at the black-and-white photograph and read the brief description in the file. At five feet ten and 165 pounds, Austin appeared to be trim and athletic. Spencer noted the tanned face, the direct look in the hazel eyes, the modest, faint smile. Like the other three pilots, Brad Austin was a bachelor.

  Spencer remembered his own first visit to the Marine Corps base at Quantico. That eventful trip had changed the course of his life.

  It was after his F9F Cougar had been struck by flak during the Korean War that Lieutenant (junior grade) Hollis Spencer had crash-landed the jet near Seoul.

  The accident had cost him his right eye and left a long, jagged scar across the top of his head. From that time forward, Spencer had worn a patch over his blind eye and a hat to cover the wide gap of wrinkled skin The navy had medically retired him at the age of twenty-six. Afterward, Spencer had traveled to Washington, D. C., hoping to join the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Turned down because of the lost eye, he had driven to Quantico to visit his brother, a second lieutenant who was going through Basic School.

  His brother had consoled him, suggesting that he apply to the Central Intelligence Agency. He was especially qualified since he had a degree in psychology, and had been a highly decorated navy combat pilot.

  The rest--Spencer smiled to himself--was history: a rewarding career that had budded at Quantico, Virginia.

  Spencer glanced back to Brad Austin's folder. The young aviator had performed extremely well in the advanced jet strike syllabus, graduating first in his class. Skimming the fitness reports, Spencer was impressed by the comments from Austin's senior officers. His previous commanding officer had written that Austin was a mature, professional young officer with a straightforward personality and excellent flying skills. Another CO called him a gregarious officer who fulfilled his responsibilities while maintaining a sense of humor. Spencer also read a brief note explaining that Austin's father, Vice Admiral Carlyle Whitney Austin, had recently retired.

  "Cap," Henry Murray bellowed, "the aluminum overcast is on final." "Thanks," Spencer replied, slipping Brad Austin's file to the bottom of the stack. "Be right there."

  He turned of the lights and walked to the entrance of the hangar. Trying to contain his excitement, Hollis grinned when he passed the sentry.

  "Mister Spencer," the guard said enthusiastically, "is that the bird bringing in the secret plane?"

  "It sure is," Spencer answered, smiling to himself He searched the sky as he walked across the ramp to join Hank Murray and the other men.

  "I hear it," Spencer said to Murray, "but my eye hasn't adjusted to the darkness."

  The navy captain pointed toward the end of the dry lake. "He's just coming over the runway . . . made a wide, flat approach."

  Spencer spotted the four-engined turboprop in the bright moonlight.

  The C-130, flying with the external lights extinguished, had started to flare. The pilot snapped on the landing lights a few seconds before the cargo plane smoothly touched down. The lights went out as the pilot placed the propellers in reverse pitch.

  Hollis Spencer watched the lumbering plane roll to the end of the wide runway, then awkwardly turn and follow the flight-line jeep. Spencer and Murray stepped away from the group of men. "Hank," the CIA officer said as the Hercules approached the hangar , "how soon do you think you can have the aircraft ready to fly, withou t c utting any corners?"

  The noisy C-130 taxied past, turning ninety degrees to point the tail at the closed hangar doors.

  "We should have it," Murray paused, bracing himself against the gale-force propwash, "ready for the first hop in ten days . . . fifteen at the outside."

  "That'll fit just right," Spencer responded, turning away from the pungent odor of burned jet fuel.

  They looked at the back of the plane when the cargo ramp was lowered. The engines wound down, then mercifully spun to a stop as the hangar doors opened. Shielded red floodlights illuminated the aircraft parking area as the men hurried to unload the airplane components.

  "I'm going to take a walk," Spencer said, rubbing his hands for warmth, "and see if I can work off some of my anxiety."

  "I know what you mean," Murray responded, glancing at the gray forklift approaching the airplane. "We'll all breathe a sigh of relief when the parts are in the hangar."

  Out of habit, Spencer looked at his watch. "Let's hope the other Herc is on time."

  "It will be," Murray assured him, then walked toward the cargo plane. "You know CIA Air better than anyone."

  "You're probably right," Hollis laughed, then turned and set off toward the runway.

  He had worked with the CIA airlines before, including Civil Air Transport, Air Asia, Intermountain, Southern Air Transport, and Air America. His most recent assignment had been in the Agency's Directorate for Plans. The department engaged in covert operations throughout the world.

  The activities of the Directorate for Plans were handled with the utmost secrecy. The department was exempt from the CIA's internal review procedures, a step many senior CIA officials continued to question. The answer was standard. A review might compromise national security, or place key agents in life-threatening situations.

  Spencer had worked for an extended period of time with Air America, the agency's largest airline. Incorporated in Delaware, the CIA airline operated as a civilian organization. The company was able to bypass the bureaucracy and endless red tape of the military, fly international routes with a minimum of interference, and break rules and restrictions if a mission called for it.

  Spencer stopped, concerned that a nervous sentry might mistake him for an infiltrator. He scanned the star-studded sky, then looked back toward the hangar. The huge cargo plane was barely discernible in the gentle red glow.

  Turning, Spencer retraced his steps. He smiled to himself, remembering the days and nights of frustration spent tracking the operations of the Air America fleet. The organization, functioning behind a smoke screen of secrecy, constantly shuffled planes around to other companies in the network. Engine serial numbers were routinely changed, along with the aircraft registration numbers on the tails.

  Spencer remembered seeing a classified photograph showing three Curtiss C-46 Commandos with the same tail number. During certain clandestine operations, one C-46 was left in plain sight at a major airport, for the purpose of having witnesses view it, while the other two aircraft were involved in their assigned activities.

  Damaged aircraft were cannibalized to keep other planes flying. Many Air America pilots laughed about flying airplanes that were composed of major parts from a half-dozen other aircraft.

  Spencer angled across the aircraft parking ramp, reviewing the various elements in the top-secret project. Time had somehow telescoped, and it seemed that it was only yesterday when he had learned about the operation. From the beginning, Spencer had hungered to see the covert plan come to fruition. It was the type
of venture that quickened his pulse, and, knowing that it would have a significant impact on the war effort, gave him satisfaction. Cap Spencer would never admit it, but high-risk operations were an indispensable source of vitality in his life.

  He had been working with Air America in Vientiane, Laos, when the Agency had rushed him to Langley. Though he did not realize it at the time, his experience with the clandestinely operated airline would prove invaluable to Operation Achilles.

  Stopping seventy yards from the transport plane, Spencer watched while the crew started the engines and raised the aft ramp. When the C-130 taxied away, Spencer continued toward the darkened hangar. The large doors were sliding closed when Hank Murray stepped through to the ramp.

  Spencer noticed the smile on his face. "Well, what do you think about our prize?"

  "It's in mint condition," Murray answered, giving Spencer the okay sign, "at least what I've seen so far."

  Both men turned when the second cargo plane's landing lights caught their attention. Like the first C-130, the lights came on a moment before touchdown, then flickered off when the pilot selected reverse thrust. The secret weapon, plus a large quantity of spare parts, was now safely in the hands of the CIA project officer.

  "What's your next step?" Murray asked, watching the first Hercules taxi for takeoff.

  "I'm flying to Alameda this morning to meet another navy pilot, our third candidate. Then I'm off to Bangkok to interview the marine pilot."

  Murray nodded, then beamed. "Let's take a look at our baby while they unload the rest of the parts."

  Chapter THREE

  DA NANG AIR BASE

  Brad Austin and Randy Wyatt played acey-deucey at a battered card table in the Hot Pad trailer. Their wingman and his RIO were reading at the opposite end of the narrow room. The sound of shrieking engines filled the trailer as a continuous stream of jets thundered into the air, punctuated by the whop-whop of helicopter rotor blades.

  A dented air conditioner, set for maximum cooling on its high blower, occasionally rattled and spit drops of water on the floor. Brad had set a bucket under the dilapidated machine in order to catch the water.