Targets of Opportunity (1993) Read online

  A smile creased the corner of her mouth. "Not if it's a MiG. No one in that country is going to question anything about what a MiG pilot does . . . or how low he flies."

  Unconvinced, Nick shrugged and sat back.

  "You will monitor preselected U. S. radio frequencies, then zoom into the fray when MiGs are sighted." Allison looked at each pilot, her glance lingering on Brad. "Obviously, you will have to improvise, and make decisions based on what you think you can get away with."

  Brad addressed a question to Spencer. "Cap, what if the gomers catch on to our scheme?"

  "It would be very difficult for them," Spencer assured him, "to figure out what we are doing, unless you give it away. If you shoot down a flight leader while his wingmen are watching you, that is not good. "

  "Brad," Allison resumed, "our MiG will be repainted and renumbered after every flight."

  That part satisfied him, but he remained skeptical about the entire operation.

  "We will constantly change the appearance of the MiG," Allison swept her blond hair back, "from basic camouflage to silver, to dull gray, to a different camouflage. The North Vietnamese use a wide variety of colors and paint schemes. That makes our job easier."

  "So," Brad said smoothly, "we are going to be wreaking havoc with the gomers, while F-4s, and a host of other aircraft, are hunting us."

  A pause hung in the small room.

  "Cold feet?" Allison taunted with a hint of a smile.

  Blackwell laughed out loud.

  Brad ignored the laugh, focusing his direct gaze on Allison. "No." He arched his eyebrows. "We'll do our jobs, and I trust that you will do yours." Brad hesitated for a moment. "Our lives may depend on it."

  "Touche," Allison replied with her throaty laugh.

  Lex turned to Nick. "We better get a bucket of cold water for these two."

  Spencer started to intervene, then decided to remain silent. He had seen Allison take care of herself in other difficult situations.

  -I do understand," she said seriously, "and appreciate your concerns. All of us have a lot at stake, and we are going to do everything in our power to ensure your safety and fulfill the objective of the operation."

  Spencer cleared his throat. "We have been cut short on time, so we're going to fly as much as possible before Friday."

  Hank Murray stopped by the door. "Cap, we've got the gun sight mounted." He had removed the MiG's sight and installed an optical sight unit from an A-4 Skyhawk.

  "Good." Spencer nodded. "How soon will you have the cannons harmonized?"

  Murray wiped his hands on a rag. "We're towing the MiG to the firing range now. We'll have it ready in an hour and a half . . . two hours at the outside."

  "Okay," Spencer replied, facing the pilots. "We will plan on flying the MiG in two hours."

  Spencer waited until Murray had left, then reached for the three packets on the table. "These are detailed backgrounds of three fictitious Soviet fighter pilots. You will memorize every detail about your particular pilot. If you have to eject over North Vietnam, you had better have an A-plus on this homework assignment."

  The pilots mechanically reached for their assigned packet. The seriousness of the dangerous operation was hitting home.

  "In the meantime, Allison," Spencer suggested with a smile, "how about setting up the Russian language tape."

  After a quiet dinner, Brad entered his cramped quarters and listened to the repetitiously dull language tape. He stopped the reel and ran it back a number of times, imitating the monotonous instructor.

  Palmer and Blackwell were flying the last hop of the day. Spencer had asked Blackwell to evaluate the MiG's cannons, since Lex had more experience using guns. The F-8 Crusaders he had flown were equipped with four 20-millimeter cannons, while the Navy and Marine Corps Phantoms carried only missiles.

  Each of the three pilots was becoming more comfortable with the MiG and its idiosyncrasies. Brad looked forward to testing the drop tanks and smoke canister.

  He also wanted an opportunity to fire the newly installed cannons.

  Lex and Hank Murray had been having difficulty getting the weapons harmonized. Murray had corrected the optimum firing angle three times during the afternoon. Each time, Blackwell had gone aloft to make strafing runs at the firing range. On the first or second pass of each flight, the vibration and recoil had knocked the cannons out of alignment.

  Brad stopped the tape. "Gde blizhayshaya--" He paused, hearing a sound in the quiet hallway.

  "Hi," Allison greeted, investigating the small room.

  "Hello." Brad turned off the tape and looked up. "I mean, dobriy vecher"

  She crossed her arms and casually leaned against the door casing. "It is a good evening, especially since it's the last one we have to spend here."

  Brad nodded in agreement. "If I left this minute, it wouldn't be soon enough."

  Allison glanced at Brad's hazel eyes. There was a rakish, devil-may-care gleam that excited her. "How is your homework coming along?"

  Brad cast a glance at the tape recorder and packet of Russian material. "So far, so good. I'm going to concentrate on five or six sentences." He smiled wanly. "If I get shot down, I'll probably forget every single word I've memorized."

  "Let's hope that doesn't happen," she said with a touch of concern. "If it does, we're prepared to get a helicopter to you as quickly as possible."

  "How is that going to work?" he inquired with a trace of confusion written on his face. "What is the master plan . . . if I have to jettison the airplane over North Vietnam?"

  Allison stared into his eyes. "We will have two Air America helicopters to cover each flight." She shifted her position next to the door casing. "One will be airborne at all times. They will orbit close to the border and monitor our preselected frequencies, which will change for each mission."

  Brad did not appear convinced. "Will I be able to talk to the pilots if things come unglued?"

  "Yes," she declared emphatically. "You'll have two of the standard survival radios that you have been using. If you get in trouble, or have to eject, you will use a call sign and talk directly to the helo pilots."

  "Will the call sign change on each flight?"

  Allison observed Brad for a moment. "That's right," she said at last.

  "We want the confusion factor as high as we can get it . . . so nothing is predictable."

  "Good," Brad said firmly. "I like that."

  "You'll get to know the Air America pilots," Allison explained, "because they'll be based at our airfield."

  "That's even better news." Brad nodded. "I'm anxious to meet them."

  "How would you like . . ." Allison winked in a suggestive manner, "a tall scotch and water?"

  Brad was dubious.

  "In an air-conditioned room," she coaxed, then added with a coy smile, "As friends?"

  "Allison," Brad chuckled, "may I ask you a question, at the risk of crossing swords again?"

  She showed her usual spirit. "Only if it's personal."

  "Do you ever have real relationships with men," he grinned, "or do you just conquer them and then toss them away?"

  Allison tilted her head to one side, as if she were pondering a very complex question. "Now that you mention it, I can recall a few times when the hunt was more exciting than the kill."

  Brad shook his head. "Well, I guess I've studied long enough. Lead the way."

  They walked out of the light trap at the back of the hangar, then crossed the narrow strip of pavement to a small wooden storage shed.

  Inside, Brad was surprised to find only a cot, portable shower, miniature refrigerator, and a card table with two chairs. An air conditioner had been mounted in the side of the windowless structure.

  "Rather austere," Brad observed after Allison closed the door and switched on the light.

  "Yes," she remarked, opening the refrigerator, "but it affords privacy and cool air. Have a seat."

  Brad sat at the card table and watched Allison pour two glasses of scot
ch, adding ice as a final touch.

  "Have you heard any more about Grady?" he inquired.

  Allison closed the refrigerator and took a seat. "Yes." She handed Brad his drink.

  "Thanks."

  "You're welcome." She eyed him for a moment. "This afternoon, according to the doctor I spoke with, Grady was doing extremely well."

  Brad sipped his drink. "That's good."

  Allison lighted a cigarette. "Yes, it is," she inhaled, "and I have another bit of news for you."

  "I can hardly wait," Brad teased.

  Allison looked at Brad out of the corner of her eye. "Cap has decided that you will be the primary pilot, and Nick will be your alternate."

  Brad stared at the ice in his glass before he looked at Allison. "Am I going to fly all the missions?"

  "No," she assured him. "Nick will fly some of the time, but Cap wants you to become intimately knowledgeable with the area . . . and how the MiGs operate."

  "What about Lex?"

  "He will be the backup," she admitted, "if anything happens to you or Nick."

  "Thanks for letting me know."

  "Cap will talk to you later, but I thought you would like to know." Brad sat quietly, aware of Allison's gaze.

  "I had hoped," she began tentatively, "that you would be the reserve pilot."

  Brad slowly turned to Allison. "Why?"

  "Because I care about you," she confided with a warm smile, then shrugged her shoulders. "At least I'm honest about my feelings for you."

  He met Allison's eyes, but kept his real thoughts about her to himself "You should have been a fighter pilot, as tenacious as you are."

  "Women would be," she replied with a touch of sarcasm, "if you chauvinistic hot dogs weren't afraid of the competition."

  "Ouch," Brad said, and winced. "I believe I hit a nerve."

  "Think about it, hot shot." Allison forced a smile. "Women could fly fighters . . . if we were given an opportunity to prove ourselves." "We just hit the hard deck." Brad laughed pleasantly. "Could we cal l o ff the fight?"

  Allison cocked her head to one side and gave him a beguiling smile. "Whatever you say, Captain:"

  Brad heard the sound of the jets taxiing toward the hangar. "I guess we better go to the debrief "

  Allison extinguished her cigarette. "Yes, I suppose so."

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  The morning was warm and dry when Brad and Lex Blackwell walked across the hot ramp to the waiting fighter planes. A lone hawk circled high overhead, prompting Austin to look at the blackened wreckage of the F-8 Crusader. He forced himself to concentrate on the present and not dwell on the crash.

  "Hey, Lex," Brad said with a serious look, "Aviatsiya protivovozdushnoi oborony strany."

  Blackwell laughed aloud. "What the hell was that? 'Let's kick the tires, and light the fires' in Russian?"

  "Something about the Soviet Air Force for home defense, I think." Brad observed Nick Palmer speak to Hollis Spencer, then walk toward them. "Anyway, I thought it sounded good when I listened to the tape."

  When Nick reached the Phantom, Brad smartly saluted him. "Zdrastvuytye, comrade. Kak pozhivayete?"

  Palmer gave him a flashy smile and slung his helmet bag over the cockpit boarding steps. "I am fine, comrade . . . and good morning. You must be a fighter pilot in the Voenno Vozdushniye Sily."

  "Nyet." Brad squinted into the sun. "Aviatsiya voenno morskovo flota."

  "Oh," Nick replied, remembering the words on the language tape. "You're a fleet pilot in the naval air force."

  "Da, comrade." Brad grinned confidently. "Aviatsiya osobovo naznacheniya." Special-purpose air arm.

  "You guys are killing me," Blackwell protested. "I'm sick of hearing your butchered Russian."

  "Partner," Nick mimicked Lex, "ya dang sure better learn your Russian, 'cause your Hopalong Cassidy act ain't gonna whack it."

  "Let's get on with this," Brad said impatiently, "so we can get the hell out of here."

  "I've got an idea," Lex suddenly blurted. "How about an off-to-Laos blowout this evening . . . at the apartment?"

  Palmer had started preflighting the Phantom. "Sounds good to me, since we're basically confined to quarters."

  "Brad?" Lex asked.

  "Sure," Brad declared with a mischievous grin.

  "We'll invite Allison," Blackwell suggested, "and throw her ass in the pool."

  "I'm not sure she's ready for our animal act," Brad replied with reluctance in his voice.

  "I'll invite her." Nick smiled, and looked at Lex. "And we aren't going to throw her in the pool."

  Lex started up the side of the F-4, pausing by the rear cockpit. "Brad," he grinned, "are you going to tell your 'lady friend' that Allison is going to Laos with us?"

  Brad looked up at Blackwell. "Yes," he laughed, "when the time is right."

  Lex belly-laughed. "You mean when you muster up enough courage to tell her."

  "You're right," Brad admitted. "It's going to be dicey, to say the least."

  Blackwell set his helmet on the canopy rail. "Like spraying a wasps' nest with a garden hose."

  Brad nodded his head and walked to the MiG. He placed his helmet on the wing and carefully checked the drop tanks, smoke canister, and cannons. After a thorough preflight of the MiG, Brad mounted the ladder propped against the fuselage and settled into the now familiar cockpit.

  The plane captain climbed the ladder, then assisted Brad with his harness straps, g suit, and helmet.

  "Have a good flight, Captain," the man said as he backed down the ladder.

  "Thanks."

  Brad studied the blue sky and puffy clouds leisurely floating overhead. The hawk was still making lazy circles high above the hangar. I'm going to call Leigh Ann on Saturday and tell her that Allison is a member of this project, and will be going overseas with us.

  The sound of Palmer bringing the Phantom to life brought Austin back to the moment. He ran through the prestart checklist and looked at the plane captain. Holding a fire extinguisher, the man gave Brad a thumbs-up signal.

  Austin energized the starter. His adrenaline was as high as it had been prior to his first carrier qualification at night. It was time to become a real test pilot.

  Leveling off at 15,000 feet, Brad glanced over his shoulder at Palmer and Blackwell. Their Phantom was stabilized in a standard loose-deuce formation off the MiG's right wing.

  Austin meticulously checked his cockpit instruments and switches, paying special attention to the release actuator for the drop tanks. After examining the smoke-canister toggle switch, Brad verified that the armament panel for the cannons was in the off position.

  Brad scanned the empty sky, looking for any stray aircraft that might have wandered into the confined airspace. He looked out at the fuel-laden drop tanks. The extra weight of the jet fuel had made his takeoff run much longer than usual. He checked his airspeed at 380 knots.

  "Nick," Brad radioed, "drop back in trail, and we'll see if the tanks will stay with me."

  "Wilco. "

  "Here we go," Brad announced, and pulled the nose up fifteen degrees. He executed an aileron roll, followed by a barrel roll, leveled the wings momentarily, then snapped into a knife-edge 360-degree turn. He held 4 g's, increasing the pull to 5 g's during the last quarter of the turn.

  "They feel solid," Brad advised Hollis Spencer and the F-4 crew on his tail.

  "Copy," Spencer acknowledged. "Put it in a dive and pull out at four hundred knots."

  "Roger," Brad replied as he eased the nose up slightly, rolled inverted, then pulled the nose down in a split-S.

  "You still with me?" Austin asked Palmer.

  "Glued to your ass."

  Watching the airspeed indicator spin toward 400 knots, Brad began easing back on the stick. "Coming up," he groaned. Five g's, then 6 g's registered on the g meter.

  Austin leveled out and checked the tip tanks. "They'll take at least six g's."

  "Okay, Brad," Spencer broadcast, "try the smoke, and then make a
couple of firing passes."

  "Wilco," Austin answered, and reached for the safety cover over the smoke toggle switch. "Lex, you ready to time this?"

  "Go for it," Blackwell shot back.

  Brad rolled the MiG and toggled the switch. He let the nose fall through the horizon and continued the spiral. The bleak desert spun around and around in front of his canopy.

  "That's it," Blackwell informed everyone when the grayish-black smoke stopped spewing from the tail-mounted canister.

  "Eleven seconds flat," Lex reported with a note of disappointment.

  "The smoke really pours out, but we need to make it darker." "Copy," Spencer responded, tossing a glance at Hank Murray. Brad eased back the throttle and turned toward the airfield. "I'm i nbound for the firing runs."

  "The range is clear," Spencer announced, looking across the runway at the fifteen-foot-high mound of sand.

  Murray's men had bulldozed another two feet of sand and dirt on the firing range. The target was over 3,000 feet from the hangar, which afforded a margin of safety for the curious onlookers.

  Watching the target sleeve grow larger in his windshield, Brad selected the armed position for the cannons. They would fire simultaneously, causing the shells to appear to converge in the distance.

  Brad glanced at the hangar. "I'm in hot."

  "Roger," Spencer drawled.

  Waiting until the colorful sleeve filled his gun sight, Brad gently squeezed the trigger. The MiG vibrated while a three-second burst of fiery shells erupted from the twin cannons.

  "Jesus," Brad said to himself as the tracers ripped across the sand and tore through the middle of the large white and red sleeve.

  He yanked the stick back and shoved the throttle to the stop. "They're firing as straight as an arrow, but a little low on the pipper."

  "Copy that," Spencer radioed curtly. "Make three passes--all the same airspeed and angle=to see if it changes."

  "Wilco:"

  Brad flew the second pass with the same results. He wished they had an aircraft to tow a sleeve for actual air-to-air gunnery practice, but they were restricted by time. Spencer had vetoed the idea of using the Phantom as a tow aircraft.