by Joe Weber
The left brake was soft. Hurtling down the short runway, Brad pressed hard against the right brake until the MiG slewed toward the right side of the narrow strip.
"Easy," Austin said to himself, letting off the pressure to correct the heading.
Brad rapidly thumbed the air valve on the stick while he pressed and released the right brake. The tire began to skid intermittently as the MiG rapidly neared the end of the landing strip.
Correcting far to the left, Brad stood on the right brake and skidded into the grass overrun.
The MiG bounced, swung to the right, and ground to a halt.
"Beautiful," Brad said disgustedly as he added power to complete the turn. Standing on the right brake, he noticed the audience that had gathered to watch the landing. That must have impressed them.
When he reached the macadam, Brad was surprised to hear Hank Murray's voice over the radio.
"Austin, the right brake is smoking," Murray said excitedly. "Taxi slowly to the end and turn around and taxi back. I don't want that brake to seize."
What an ignominious arrival. "I'll taxi to the end, but you can tow it back. The left brake isn't working."
Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
Brad left his helmet in the steamy cockpit and clambered onto the wing. He slid off and inspected the smoking brake, then walked to the other wheel.
Finding nothing obvious, Brad turned toward the Quonset hut. He saw Allison and Nick hurrying down the runway.
Austin unzipped his Soviet-style flight suit, slipped his arms out, and tied the sleeves around his waist.
"How'd it go?" Palmer asked, glancing at the helicopter as it passed over the MiG. "Did you have any luck?"
"I got one, but it isn't as easy as everyone thought it was going to be," Brad replied in a tired voice. "We're going to have to discuss strategy."
"We were relieved," Allison said with a tightness in her throat, "to hear your voice."
Brad looked at her for a second, then smiled. "We had better huddle with Cap and sort through a few miscalculations on our part."
The steady hum of the fan masked the conversation between Spencer and Murray when Austin held the screen door open for Allison and Nick. Brad tossed a casual wave to the helicopter crewmen.
The debrief was already in progress when the trio sat down.
"Did you have any success?" Spencer nervously asked. He was unusually hesitant.
"Yes," Brad answered mechanically. "The People's Army of Vietnam Air Force is shy one pilot with three kills to his credit."
"No shit?" Chase Mitchell blurted with undisguised excitement. "You got a gomer?"
"Yes," Brad said stiffly, "but not without a close call," he paused to catch Spencer's eye, "that may have jeopardized our operation."
A long silence followed.
Spencer's face was devoid of expression. "What happened?"
Brad explained what had happened, including the last resort tactic that he had been forced to use to get the Phantoms off his tail.
Murray gave Austin a grave look and challenged him. "Why didn't you use the smoke canister? We spent a helluva lot of time engineering it to give you a way out if . . ." He trailed off, seeing Brad's features harden.
"Captain," Austin began patiently, as if explaining something to a child, "it isn't very convincing--turning on smoke--when no one has shot anything at you."
Murray's chubby face flushed as an uneasy quiet settled over the room.
Spencer broke the silence, erasing the tiny smile etched in the corner of his mouth. "Brad, we didn't hear you say anything over the strike frequency."
Having vented his ire, Austin's expression softened. "I was too low . . . right on the deck. If I had been at ten or fifteen thousand, you would have been able to hear me."
Brad shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in the flight suit. "I know Red Crown and Disco have it on tape, because Disco told the F-4 leader."
Spencer rested his elbows on the table and pressed his fingertips against each other. "Well, it may or may not be a problem. We'll have to see what develops."
"Cap, I'm not kidding," Brad declared in an attempt to convince him of the seriousness of the incident. "The F-4 pilot was a second away from hosing me when I yelled for his flight to break. He was madder than a Tasmanian devil."
Spencer showed no emotion.
"Also," Brad continued uneasily, "the North Vietnamese radar controllers know that an aircraft they could not communicate with," he hesitated as Nick nodded in understanding, "flew next to one that crashed. I dropped off their radar at the same time the other MiG hit the ground."
"Well," Hank Murray ventured, clearly irritated by the pilot, "they may believe that both of you were shot down."
Brad calmed himself in an effort to be respectful. "Perhaps I didn't point out one important factor."
Murray glared at him.
"The North Vietnamese controllers," Brad said evenly, "could see that the American planes were going in the opposite direction."
Brad felt the stares from around the table. "The people in those radar shacks were communicating with the pilot after I joined on his wing to see the side number." He stopped and turned to Murray. "What do you suppose he told them . . . Captain?"
Murray was flustered. "That was pretty stupid on your part, along with talking on the radio."
Spencer started to speak, but Brad waved him off. Everyone sat in stunned silence, waiting for the explosion.
"Captain Murray," Brad said evenly, "I yelled for the Phantoms on my ass to break because of a primal instinct. I wanted to live."
Brad's voice dropped as he fixed Murray in his gaze. 'After that experience, maybe I wasn't thinking clearly . . . and I offer no excuse. But, with your wealth of combat flying experience, you would naturally have done something else . . . right?"
Murray turned beet-red. "You're flirting with insubordination." Spencer rose from his chair. "We're going to take a break, so I'll see all of you after dinner."
The tension in the room slowly dissipated as chairs were pushed back. Allison and the three pilots gave Austin and Spencer quiet glances while Murray flashed Brad a warning look.
"Brad," Spencer said firmly, "I need to go over an operational question with you."
"Yes, sir," he answered, concealing his anger. Why is that son of a bitch sitting in on the operational briefings? His job is simply to oversee the airworthiness of the fighter.
Allison knew Hollis Spencer well enough to follow the group out of the building.
"Pull a chair over," Spencer said as he slipped behind his desk and placed his pipe on top.
Brad complied, feeling drained from the emotional strain of aerial combat.
Spencer reached into a bottom drawer and extracted a half-empty bottle of bourbon. He placed it on the top of the desk and put an empty coffee mug in front of Brad.
"Help yourself " Spencer forced a smile, then reached for his pipe. Brad looked skeptical. "Cap, I don't need any booze."
"Relax," Spencer encouraged, "and have a drink." He lighted his pipe and reached for a paper cup on the counter behind him. "In fact, I'll have one with you."
Reaching for the bottle, Brad hesitated before pouring a few ounces of the bourbon in the mug.
"Tell me something," Spencer leaned forward for the bottle, "what do you really think about this operation . . . after what you experienced today?"
Brad looked at the mug for a moment before shifting his gaze to Spencer. "It has merit, but I believe we are going about it in the wrong way.
"How so?"
"The idea of trying to be selective in our pursuit, in my judgment, isn't feasible."
The project officer took that criticism in stride. "Do you think the operation has been compromised?"
"No question," Brad replied, forgetting the bourbon. "I made a mistake, and I'm sure there are going to be a number of questions raised when our folks listen to the tapes."
Spencer glanced through the screen door at the MiG as it was towe
d past the Quonset hut. "What would you suggest we do?"
Brad thought about the situation. If the administration wanted to keep the operation secret, Spencer was going to have to be cautious and more conservative.
"Cap, I would stand down for a couple of days, and see what filters down the pipeline."
"I agree." Spencer tasted the warm bourbon. "If this operation is exposed, heads are going to roll in Langley.. . and I might as well kiss my ass good-bye."
"In my estimation," Brad advised in a respectful manner, "the best we can do is disrupt and confuse the MiG pilots, and take them out if the opportunity presents itself . . . without compromising the operation."
Spencer nodded in agreement. "Trying to selectively kill their aces is too ambitious, huh?"
"I know you spooks work in mysterious ways," Brad ventured a smile, "but this is stretching it fairly thin."
Spencer leaned back and studied the ceiling for a period of time.
"What would you suggest we change?" he asked without taking his eye off the overhead light.
"I would keep the MiG low, to keep from being detected by radar, and pick off any stragglers," Austin paused, "or targets of opportunity that I could find . . . regardless of their side number."
"Keep it simple?" Spencer turned the statement into a question. "Well," Brad responded cautiously, "I wouldn't call sneaking around North Vietnam in a MiG a simple project."
"That's true." Spencer swirled the amber liquid in his cup and tossed back the entire contents.
"Brad, let me pose a question to you," Spencer mused while the bourbon warmed his throat.
"Yes, sir."
Austin watched Spencer's expression. He looked tired and worried. The project officer had somehow changed since his arrival in Laos. There was a tenseness and reserve that Brad had not seen before.
"Hypothetically," Spencer began with a hint of apprehension, "what would you do with the MiG," he turned to Brad, "if you had the final decision?"
The question aroused Brad's suspicion. "You've already told me that when I leave here, I'm on my own." He noticed the strain in Spencer's taut neck muscles.
"What would you most like to do," Spencer asked, pouring another liberal shot of bourbon, "since you're in a MiG without any identification to link you to the United States?"
Brad listened to the whirring blades of the fan while he separated the whole into sections and analyzed each. Hollis Spencer, he thought, wanted him to commit to something without directly asking him.
"From what information I know," Brad declared, "body counts and kill ratios are very important to the administration."
"You're not answering my question."
Brad's mouth felt dry. "I want to get everything into the proper perspective, since I'm not privy to the intel you receive on a regular basis."
"Fair enough."
"If it were left to me," Brad glanced at a relief map of North Vietnam, "I'd use the MiG as a psychological weapon, and increase the kill ratio at the same time."
Spencer nodded.
"What we're trying to do now sounded implausible in California,"
Brad said stiffly, "but I went along because I figured the CIA knew what they were doing."
The project officer shrugged. "A lot of things that are developed in the classroom don't work on the battlefield."
"That's true," Brad agreed, then countered, "but I suspect that you--the Agency--had a broader scheme in mind anyway."
Spencer accepted the statement as a compliment. "Tell me what you have in mind, since we have almost one hundred percent impunity."
Brad did not feel comfortable with Spencer's statement. If he had to eject over enemy territory and the helicopter could not rescue him, it would not take the North Vietnamese long to figure out that he was an impostor.
"Cap, we can have a tremendous effect on their emotions and behavior by shocking the hell out of them."
"I'm listening."
There was an awkward moment of silence while Brad decided to say exactly what he thought.
"I've got an idea that will give us the advantage," Brad confided, "but the Hanoi regime will howl in protest."
Spencer's eyes narrowed as he responded with a taunting inquiry. "What's the culpability factor?"
"Low, if we do it right."
"It better be," Spencer asserted, "because that is the bottom line in the White House. This has to be a covert operation, with no ties to the administration."
A low rumble of thunder distracted Brad for a brief moment. "Cap, if I go in prior to a strike, keeping low to avoid radar, I could strafe at least two airfields while the pilots are manning their aircraft."
Spencer's face brightened. "Or while they're taxiing for takeoff There would be total surprise."
"That's right," Brad agreed. "You can bet that they will get a major dose of total confusion and distrust . . . and it won't be the last one, if we're careful.
Spencer grabbed the bottle of bourbon. "After I hear from the Warning Star which airfields are active, we can use the helicopter to relay my message to you.
"We'll have to use the helo relay, since I'll be too low to pick up a direct transmission from you."
Feeling a degree of concern, Brad observed Spencer fill the cup to the brim.
"The one thing we have to have," Austin continued, "is instant communications in regard to when the MiG pilots scramble. I damn sure don't want to strafe a field if they already have fighters in the air."
"No, that wouldn't be good."
"It will work, Cap." Brad paused when a flash of lightning and an accompanying thunderclap announced the arrival of a torrential rainstorm.
"They can complain to the world," Brad suggested with a taut smile, "but it's still a MiG-17 that is causing chaos and confusion. The MiG will have to be in a different paint scheme for each flight. We'll strike from different directions, and we'll vary the times between raids .. . from days between attacks to twice in one day."
Spencer beamed with pleasure. "If you happen to shoot someone down who has time to report that he's being attacked by a MiG, it would create even more confusion."
Brad nodded. "They'll experience the entire gamut of emotions--from hostility to confusion, to betrayal, to knowing they're being had--and can't do much about it, unless they maintain a combat air patrol from daylight to dusk."
"I like the idea." Spencer took a swig of bourbon and sighed. "A MiG shooting up MiG bases, and no one can prove who is doing it."
"Unless I get shot down," Brad added, glancing at the deluge of water cascading off the small roof over the door. "Cap, when pilots are confused and forced to constantly look over their shoulder, they aren't as sharp and focused as they would like to be."
"Which means," Spencer suggested, "that our pilots can take advantage of the confusion to increase the kill ratios."
Without blinking his eyes, Brad stared at Spencer while the rain pounded the Quonset hut. "Precisely."
Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
Due to a lack of sleep, exhaustion was beginning to sap Brad's energy. He found it hard to maintain interest even in his own recommendations for strafing enemy air bases. The excessive humidity and sweltering heat had made sleeping almost impossible. He had also lost his appetite.
Brad watched a small spider crawl across the top of the tent. He wondered what Leigh Ann was thinking about their relationship. Brad hoped to have some mail from her waiting for him at the Constellation Hotel in Vientiane when he returned.
Outside the sagging tent, Hank Murray supervised the replacement of the right main-gear tire on the MiG. It had been flat-spotted when the brake locked several times during Austin's landing incident.
The MiG's camouflage paint scheme had been repainted and the last two of the four numbers on the nose had been changed. The fighter now appeared to be silver-gray.
During the wait for a replacement tire to be flown to the airfield, Nick and Brad had played gin rummy for hours, discussing the strafing tactics they wer
e going to employ. Palmer had agreed with Brad's theory and was looking forward to flying a mission.
Allison and Hollis Spencer had spent a number of hours arranging the change in strategy, then forwarding the request to Langley. Everyone was waiting impatiently for a response to the request to strike the enemy airfields with the MiG.
Brad turned on his side and propped his head in the palm of his hand. Nick was lying on his stomach with his arms and head hanging over the end of the cot. He was carefully examining a photograph of the Playmate of the Month.
"Nick."
Palmer turned the page. "Don't bother me when I'm trying to solve Einstein's unified field theory."
"If you could be anywhere right now," Brad covered his mouth to conceal a yawn, "where would you pick?"
Nick pondered the question. "At Mustin Beach, Friday-afternoon happy hour, holding a chilled martini, and surrounded by a half-dozen women." The Mustin Beach Officers' Club in Pensacola, Florida, is a naval aviation landmark.
Austin heard Spencer's voice and sat upright while Palmer flipped his magazine aside.
"We haven't got the word to strafe the fields yet," Spencer informed them when he entered the cluttered tent, "but we've got a mission laid on for tomorrow."
Brad and Nick remained quiet, silently guessing the details of the next flight.
"Nick, I want you to fly this one."
Palmer nodded his acknowledgment.
Spencer gave each pilot a brief look. "As soon as you get dressed, come on over and we'll go over the latest information we have. From what we know right now, tomorrow is going to be an eventful day."
When the project officer left, Brad and Nick slipped into their self-tailored flight suits.
"Brad," Palmer pulled the edge of the tent flap open and looked at the Quonset hut, "have you noticed a recent change in Spencer?" "Yes," Austin answered, zipping the front of his flight suit closed. "It's the pressure, and I suspect there is more to this operation than he has told us."
Palmer looked puzzled. "What do you mean?" he asked with a hasty look. "Do you know something that I don't?"
"No, not really," Brad confided while he thought about Spencer's subtle but steady personality change. "I can only guess at the various strategies that have been discussed for using the MiG, but I suspect this operation is a make-or-break point in Cap's career."