Targets of Opportunity (1993)

by Joe Weber

  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 f
or 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.

  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."

  VIENTIANE

  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 notic
ed 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. "