Targets of Opportunity (1993)

by Joe Weber

  A sense of foreboding swept over the wary pilots.

  "We have had a breach in security," Spencer bluntly announced, then focused on Blackwell and Austin. "Lieutenant Blackwell, you are one phone call away from being the laundry officer in Adak, Alaska."

  Stunned by the denunciation, Blackwell slumped in his chair. "Sir, I'm afraid I'rn not following you."

  Brad cautiously looked at Lex, wondering if Hollis Spencer knew about Leigh Ann's visit. Something told him that Spencer knew everything.

  With his jaw firmly clenched, Spencer gave Blackwell a look that would freeze water. "You told a civilian about this operation," he seethed. "A top-secret, White House--approved, covert operation! Do you know what you compromised?"

  Mouth agape, Lex sat back in shock. His mind raced before he realized that Allison van Ingen was the only person he had spoken to about the MiG operation.

  Before Lex could answer, Spencer turned to Brad. "And you violated my orders by inviting a lady friend to visit you in San Diego." Spencer hesitated a moment. "You were instructed not to contact anyone, were you not?"

  Paralyzed, Brad glanced at Blackwell, wondering what Lex had revealed, and if he had said anything about Leigh Ann. Nothing made sense. "Yes, sir."

  Ignoring their coffee, Nick Palmer and Grady Stanfield sat quietly, staring at the top of the table.

  "However," Brad replied, suddenly growing angry, "I would like to make a statement. My 'lady friend' is not a threat to national security, and I have not compromised this operation by divulging what I am doing here."

  Spencer's good eye narrowed. "The point is," he glared impatiently, "when you are told not to contact anyone, that's exactly what I mean. The words hissed from his mouth. "Do you read me?

  "Yes, I read you," Brad replied tightly.

  Spencer swung around to face Blackwell. "Lex, you're in the bullpen for now . . . until I decide if you'll remain a part of this operation or go back to a squadron."

  Chagrined, Lex remained quiet, mentally kicking himself for getting plastered and shooting off his mouth. He wondered who in hell Allison had told about the MiG, and how it had reached Hollis Spencer so quickly.

  "I want to explain something," Spencer declared as he reached to refill his mug. "We--the CIA--have an ongoing turf battle with the military intelligence empires. The navy, as I've previously mentioned, wants to take custody of our MiG."

  "Sir," Brad interjected, "what difference does it make who controls the MiG, as long as we get the evaluation info to the pilots who are flying against it?"

  Hollis Spencer stiffened as an awkward silence hung in the air. Finally, the project officer calmly folded his hands together. "Captain Austin, you do not understand the magnitude of Operation Achilles."

  Everyone looked intently at Spencer, waiting to find out what the CIA agent had up his sleeve.

  "I have received permission," Spencer continued patiently, "straight from Langley, to carry out the final phase of Operation Achilles."

  The sounds of the hangar doors being opened momentarily interrupted him.

  "Lex," Spencer said dryly, and paused. "Because of the time constraints of the mission, I'm going to keep you on the team . . . for now. - He watched the sudden relief sweep across Blackwell's face. "One little peep--one more cranial-rectal inversion, and you'll wish that you'd joined the Foreign Legion."

  Spencer's single eye probed Lex for a long moment. "Any questions, Mister Blackwell?"

  "No, sir."

  Hollis shifted to view the entire group. "We are going to take the MiG to a well-concealed base in Laos," he paused, studying their eyes, "to fly clandestine fighter sweeps over North Vietnam."

  Each pilot reacted in the same way. A look of shock was followed by almost wide-eyed excitement.

  "You are going to fly the MiG in the back door," Spencer announced in a low, controlled voice, "and go after North Vietnam's best pilots."

  Nick Palmer found his voice. "Jesus Christ, that will be like shooting fish in a barrel."

  "Not quite," Spencer replied, glancing at the MiG as it was being towed out of the hangar. "Your air force and navy friends in the Phantoms and Crusaders won't know that an American pilot is flyin g o ur MiG. Except for the few of us involved in this operation, no one will have any idea who you are."

  The significance of this disclosure stunned Brad. "We won't have any identification, in case we're shot down."

  "You'll have identification," Spencer explained, "but it won't be your own. That's the reason for the heightened security. You were never here; the MiG does not exist, and the White House does not want any culpability if you vanish."

  Enjoying a light breakfast, Leigh Ann gazed serenely at the swooping seagulls and thought about Allison van Ingen. The woman piqued her curiosity. There was something not quite right about her, and Leigh Ann wanted to get to know her better. Perhaps they could have lunch before Leigh Ann had to go to the airport.

  After Leigh Ann returned to her room, she sat by the window and stared at the ocean. She had second thoughts about calling Allison, then made a decision. She would contact Allison and attempt to befriend her.

  "Yes, it's the right thing to do," Leigh Ann said to herself as she reached for the telephone. Remembering that Allison had only recently arrived, Leigh Ann called information and jotted the number on the small desk pad.

  She dialed Allison's number, but no one answered. Probably at her father's yacht, Leigh Ann thought as she replaced the receiver.

  With little else to do before her afternoon flight, Leigh Ann decided to explore San Diego and the yacht basins. If she happened to see Bellwether, fine. If not, there were plenty of other interesting things to see.

  Leigh Ann packed her belongings and carried her bags to the front desk. She rented a car and got a map, then marked the routes to the largest marinas and other boat basins.

  Minutes later, she was breathing in the invigorating air as she approached San Diego. The trip was relaxing, prompting her to drive to the most distant yacht basin.

  After a lengthy and fruitless search for Allison's yacht, Leigh Ann drove to a second group of docks. San Diego, as she had discovered, was an endless stretch of sand, palm trees, and sailboat masts.

  The morning had become hot when Leigh Ann stopped at the lush grounds of the yacht club. The foliage surrounding the clubhouse was dotted with hibiscus, bougainvillea, poinsettias, and geraniums. She parked the car and studied the interesting array of boats along the docks.

  She strolled down the main pier, which provided access to the graceful vessels. Leigh Ann came to an abrupt halt when she spotted Bellwether. An elderly man wearing dungarees was working on the fantail.

  Leigh Ann looked at the other yachts while she watched the wizened man from the corner of her eye. Apparently a crew member or caretaker, she thought as he polished Bellwether's brass ornaments.

  Mustering her courage, Leigh Ann walked to the afterdeck. "Good morning."

  The old man turned to meet her gaze. "Morning," he replied while he continued to polish. His voice sounded gravelly. "What can I do for you?"

  "I was wondering if Allison van Ingen is on board."

  He gave her a curious look, then stopped polishing. "There ain't nobody on here, 'cept me and my cat."

  "Do you know Miss van Ingen?"

  "Never heard of her," he stated as he continued with his weekly chore.

  Leigh Ann's curiosity was aroused. "Is this boat for sale, or did someone recently buy it?"

  The man gave her a long, questioning look. "It's a yacht, ma'am, and it ain't for sale . . . as far as I know."

  Leigh Ann could see that she was testing his patience. "Do you know who owns this yacht?"

  "I wouldn't be workin' on it," he growled, "if I didn't know who owned it. This here yacht is leased to the government." He wiped the perspiration from his brow. "That's who pays me to keep her shipshape."

  "I see," Leigh Ann absently replied. Warning bells were sounding in her mind. Brad, what have
you gotten yourself into?

  "Thanks," she said, turning to retrace her steps. Leigh Ann was fully convinced that Bellwether was leased to the Central Intelligence Agency. She walked to the shiny convertible, wondering what role Allison played in the operation.

  Leigh Ann knew for a certainty that Brad had told her the truth--as much as he could. She had to inform Brad about Bellwether as soon as possible.

  "Damn," Leigh Ann swore, suddenly remembering what Brad had told her about the remote test site. The only means of communication were secure lines, which the pilots were not allowed to use. She would have to wait until Friday afternoon to call Brad at his apartment.

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  "Who in the hell did you talk to?" Brad asked Lex while they waited for Palmer to take off in the MiG. He kept his voice low, even though the sound of the jet engine drowned their conversation.

  Blackwell glanced at Hollis Spencer. The project officer was seventy feet away, standing inside the hangar next to the aircraft radio.

  "I got drunk Friday night," Lex confessed self-consciously, "and told Allison we're testing a MiG for the CIA."

  Brad was astonished. "For God's sake, Lex. Have you lost your mind?" He tossed a look at Spencer, who was speaking to Hank Murray. "You actually told her that we're testing a MiG for the Central Intelligence Agency?"

  Blackwell exhaled softly. "Are you hard of hearing?"

  "Jesus H. Christ," Brad answered, shaking his head. He thought about the beautiful blonde, especially remembering all the questions she had asked him. Allison van Ingen, besides Lex and Nick, was the only person who knew Leigh Ann was visiting him.

  "I'll tell you something about our friend, Allison," Brad muttered, "that we should have figured out up front."

  "I think I know what you're gonna say."

  Brad caught Blackwell's eye. "She reports to Hollis Spencer, and we've been had."

  "I wouldn't bet against you," Blackwell declared as he watched the howling MiG hurtle down the runway. "Think about it, Brad," Lex snorted, mad at himself. "She really bored in, innocently asking a lot of personal questions after I was completely shit-faced."

  Grady Stanfield thundered across the landing strip, rendezvousing with Palmer as the MiG climbed straight ahead.

  "You're right," Brad agreed at last. He felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Her entire act was a test to see if we would disclose what we're doing."

  "And I sure as hell did," Lex flared in disgust. "Like a drunken sailor in a Tijuana whorehouse."

  "Well, that's water under the stern."

  Blackwell gave Brad a quick glance. "Yeah, that's another classic to add to my reputation."

  Brad listened to the pilots' voices blare from the loudspeaker and watched the two jets while he spoke to Blackwell. "You might want to consider talking to Spencer, and let him know she was the only one you said a word to."

  "Yeah," Lex replied disgustedly. "After he cools down."

  They remained quiet, watching the fighters claw for altitude. Spencer had moved the schedule forward, insisting that the air combat maneuvering evaluation be completed by Friday. They would fly back-to-back flights until they knew the MiG like their own fighters.

  Stanfield and Palmer were preparing for the first round of fighter engagements. The object of the simulated aerial battles was to explore the MiG's weaknesses and strengths.

  After the series of dogfights, Grady and Nick would land, have the planes fueled, debrief in minute detail, switch planes, then repeat the process.

  Moving closer to the speaker, Austin and Blackwell paid close attention to the two straining pilots. They were about to reengage for the second battle. Nick Palmer, as talented as Stanfield in equal fighter aircraft, was getting the worse end of the aerial duel.

  "Fight's on!" Grady called as the two jets passed nose to nose seventy feet apart.

  Brad shielded his eyes and watched both aircraft pull into the vertical. Palmer was trying to use the MiG's slow-speed, tight-turning capability to outmaneuver the F-8 Crusader.

  The struggle lasted almost a minute before Stanfield again gained the advantage. Palmer had been forced to lower the MiG's nose when the airspeed decayed. With an altitude and speed advantage, Grady rolled in on Nick's tail.

  "Check six," Stanfield radioed in triumph. "Let's go for separation and try again."

  "Roger," Palmer replied, breathing heavily. "Have you had enough humiliation yet?"

  "Bring it on." Grady laughed.

  "Why don't you jump me," Nick suggested stiffly, "and we'll go from there."

  "You've got it," Stanfield agreed while he reefed the agile Crusader around. "Heads up. I'm high, coming in from your eight o'clock."

  Brad and Lex watched the two aircraft converge. Nick pulled up into an Immelmann as Grady committed the Crusader's nose up. Coming over the top of a displacement roll, Stanfield appeared to have the advantage.

  "I think," Brad laughed softly, "that Grady is about to receive a major surprise."

  Blackwell gave him a curious glance, but remained quiet while he watched Palmer snap into a tight turn.

  Stanfield was pulling inside of the MiG when Nick chopped his power and violently cross-controlled the nimble fighter. Grady tried to react to the ploy by snapping his throttle back and deploying his speed brake.

  A second later, Stanfield recognized his mistake. In desperation, Grady simultaneously slammed the throttle into afterburner and retracted the speed brake. He hauled the sleek F-8 around in a last-ditch effort to extract himself from the stressful fight.

  Brad watched Nick slide inside the diving Crusader, then heard his voice over the speaker.

  "Gotcha!"

  "You got lucky."

  "The more creative one is," Palmer laughed enthusiastically, "the better one's luck gets."

  "I won't fall for that again."

  "That's what they all say."

  The fighter engagements continued until Nick called low fuel. The score was Grady four wins and Nick two. When Palmer entered the break and turned downwind, Stanfield blasted across the center of the runway and yanked the screeching Crusader up into a victory roll. Suddenly, as the F-8 reached the inverted position, a puff of black smoke erupted from the tail pipe.

  Horrified, Brad watched the Crusader's nose drop as the roll rate decreased. He also saw a flock of birds scattering behind the jet. "Bird strike!"

  "Eject! Eject!" Spencer shouted over the radio.

  Two seconds later, as the Crusader's wings were perpendicular to the runway, Stanfield ejected.

  "Oh, Jesus," Brad exclaimed as Grady rocketed sideways through the air. Stanfield's parachute opened a split second before he slammed into the ground and bounced to a stop.

  The flash and explosion from the crashing jet shocked Brad into action. "Call a medevac!" he ordered the man standing next to the direct line to Miramar. "Get 'em out here on the double!"

  Trailed by Blackwell and Spencer, Austin raced for the nearby jeep.

  He clambered into the driver's seat while Hollis and Lex leaped into their seats. He started the engine and floorboarded the throttle. "Hang on!"

  Careening down the taxiway, Brad skidded onto the runway behind the crash truck. Overhead, Nick Palmer climbed to reenter the landing pattern. Austin turned off the runway and lurched across the ground.

  Brad's heart raced as the fire truck slowed to let a crewman jump off. The man tumbled, then leaped to his feet and ran toward Stanfield, arriving at the same time as the jeep.

  Sliding to an abrupt halt, Brad leaped out and rushed to the inert form. "Son of a bitch," he said to himself as he knelt next to Grady. The pilot was battered and barely conscious.

  The crash crewman, along with Spencer and Blackwell, joined Brad. Their faces reflected the anguish they felt. They could see the remnants of at least one bird on the side of Stanfield's scratched crash helmet.

  "Don't move him," Austin said emphatically, "or touch him until the medevac gets here."

&n
bsp; The burly man from the crash crew looked puzzled. He had been trained to pull pilots out of crashes.

  "His neck may be broken," Brad explained as he glanced at Stan-field's contorted legs, "so we don't want to risk doing more damage. We'll leave his helmet on."

  Lying on his side, Grady had one arm and one leg twisted under him. His helmet visor was shattered and his mouth was slightly open.

  Hollis Spencer all too vividly recalled his own crash in Korea as he leaped up and ran to the jeep. Grabbing the radio microphone, he called the hangar to check on the status of the medevac helicopter.

  Lex rose in stunned silence. He walked to the jeep, placed his hands on the hood, and let his head sag. "He took a bird through the canopy . . . and probably some down the intake."

  Brad looked up at Blackwell. "You're right. Did you see that black puff of smoke fly out of the tail pipe?"

  "Yes."

  "That's what shelled the engine." Brad glanced at Stanfield. "Who knows how many birds went through the compressor."

  Detecting a faint sound, Brad leaned next to Stanfield's face. "Grady, can you hear me?" The ear-splitting whine of the MiG taxiing to the hangar made hearing difficult. "Can you hear me?"

  Stanfield's eyelids fluttered twice and his lips moved, allowing a trickle of blood to escape. "Brad, I . . . can't breathe. . . ."

  "Grady," Brad comforted, "you've probably got some cracked ribs." Brad knew Stanfield's injuries were much more severe than broken ribs. "We've got a medevac on the way, so keep the faith."

  Austin gently unhooked the parachute release fittings from Stan-field's torso harness. "Grady, we're going to use your chute to protect you from the sun."

  Stanfield moved his lips, but no sound emerged.

  Brad handed the fittings to the crash crewman, who gathered the parachute. He and Blackwell worked together to shelter Stanfield from the blazing sun.

  "Brad . . . " Grady burbled in excruciating pain, "what . . . did I I. . . what hit . . ."